California Bloodstock (12 page)

Buckdown was wise to T. D. Jr.'s intentions, had been since they met, but he didn't know how to handle the situation. You see, Buckdown also knew Taya's secret, another thing he knew right off.

One day they made an early camp along some bright unnamed stream and Buckdown went fishing. Actually, he poised himself on the bank with Taya's saddle gun and waited to blast the first trout that happened to slide across his aim. T. D. Jr. found this strange enough to sit close by and attempt a fast study in his sketchbook as had become his custom since running low on everything necessary to make daguerreotypes.

Taya had walked upstream. It was assumed that she had gone to bathe in a large smooth eddy they had passed shortly before stopping.

T. D. Jr. finished the sketch just as Buckdown decided that it was a shade too early for the fish to come feeding to the surface. He set down the rifle and tried to peek at T. D. Jr.'s sketch. T. D. Jr. didn't mind. He wanted to talk, maybe brag a little. When Buckdown said he liked the sketch, T. D. Jr. decided to test the murkier waters where art meets life.

I plan to marry Taya, you know.

I know. What about the baby?

Baby?

The one she's carrying around with her. The one that sure as hell ain't yours.

This was the real-life factor that T. D. Jr. had refused to think about since he had figured out what had happened to her. He hated it.

Shit, he said.

See for yourself, Buckdown said.

T. D. Jr. had to, of course, so he followed Buckdown, sneaking upstream like an indignant colt made to follow an old mule. Taya wasn't far. They slid up a wooded little rise on their bellies and peeked down at her. She was naked, thigh deep in the still water, and sure enough….

If there is music for the way T. D. Jr. felt, it should be played on a silver flute with large agates of soft quartz scraping against each other in the background.

Yerba Buena was careening into a strange and violent period by the time the child started kicking in Taya's womb. Almost overnight, street life became rash, dangerous. Rain, like sheets of mucus, drenched the ground into sticky, boot-sucking mud. In the cold twilight, tentative men with coats pulled up around their faces scurried back and forth doing business. Everything stayed open late. Assaults were common.

Old T. D. Money Balls Slant would spot a Worm Eater lurking ineptly around the pockets of the waterfront and be unable to resist sending him on a fetch. Over one especially cold and foggy weekend, two particular Worm Eaters had successfully delivered into Slant's hands a gull egg, a wild strawberry, an abalone shell suitable for use as an ashtray, and
six sets of elegant fish eyes swimming in a tiny glass jar.

These Worm Eaters seldom spoke, and if they ever slept no one knew where. Yet their energy seemed boundless. They were said to know their place in life. They asked nothing in return and were willing to fetch for anyone except other Worm Eaters, although they occasionally fetched one of them. Their fetches for Money Balls were always the most eclectic and they loved them, but they also seemed to enjoy more mundane assignments. A toothpick for Brannan, say, or a container of grease for Wild Emma. And although not everyone rewarded them for their efforts, they always appeared animated and cheerful, as if wagging invisible tails.

Perfect Worm Eaters!

Josiah Sewey took careful aim and blew one of those giant birds out of the sky. The Worm Eaters worshipped them, so Sewey couldn't resist. In fact, they were his favorite targets for sport shooting, and sport shooting was his favorite diversion now that he was an established businessman. After splitting up with the Burgett brothers, Sewey had followed a brand-new career in an industry that had been pioneered in northern California by Hippolyte Weed. The business was slaving.

Over the years, Weed had developed an aggressive yet subtle word-of-mouth marketing network. By
1846 he was selling comely little Worm Eaters from what were considered the cleaner northern bands not only to Wild Emma through the Cargo West connection, but also to bureaucrats in Mexico and various ranchos up and down the coast. He had even founded a small settlement close to the Oregon border which he named after himself and used as a base of operations.

He employed several half-breeds and Mexicans as assistants and was becoming a wealthy man. Then, shortly after hiring Josiah Sewey, whom he had known from the old days on the Platt, Hippolyte Weed mysteriously disappeared.

Some said he had drowned in the Klamath River. Others said the Worm Eaters got him. Sewey said it was a shame either way.

And guess who took over the business?

Always curious, the perfumes in California's meadows, but Sewey caught a stranger scent, one that had no business in these parts. He was sitting on his horse watching an assistant repair one of his holding pens when suddenly he smelled buffalo. At first he thought it was just the musk of the two pretty little Worm Eaters inside the pen, but no, it was definitely buffalo. Then suddenly a familiar voice:

Long time no see, Josiah, you mother-fucker.

It was Buckdown, riding out into the open. Taya
and T. D. Jr. stayed in the woods and started making noise. The idea was to make Sewey think there was half an army waiting for him in the trees.

I hear you been wanting to kick my ass, Josiah. Is that a fact?

The assistant went for his gun and Buckdown put a bullet through his eye. Another dead Mexican.

I don't want to kick nobody's ass, Sewey said.

Sewey was thinking that Buckdown could probably still kick his ass, as he had done on several previous occasions, and he wanted very much to get it lost before he got it kicked again. Or worse.

Buckdown rode closer and said: Well in that case, Josiah, you shit-sucker, would you happen to know where I might find Galon and the half-wit? I hear they've been wanting to kick my ass and I sure do want to get it kicked. You sure you don't want to kick it for me?

Ah, come on, Sewey said, I got a nice little business going here. I don't care about kicking ass anymore.

Well then, Josiah, how about if I just beat you to death?

Sewey realized he had no choice. Eat it raw, he yelled, and spurred his horse. He was desperate. He was also very lucky, for at that exact moment Taya was squeezing the trigger of her saddle gun with his desperate old face balanced in the sight. As it was, she almost killed Buckdown.

When Sewey jumped his horse, Buckdown jumped his own in pursuit, crossing directly into the line of Taya's fire. Thus, the day did not work out
the way any of them had planned. Buckdown got his ear shot off and Sewey got away.

And things were about to get even worse.

The Worm Eaters that Sewey left in the holding pen turned out not to be Worm Eaters at all. They were Walla Walla, children of that unusually belligerent tribe that hung around the California edge of the Oregon Territory. Some among them, most notably the sons of old Chief Yellow Serpent, had been educated at a missionary school in the Willamette Valley, where they had acquired a ragged proficiency in the English language and a taste for white-man baiting.

The Walla Walla band that swooped out of the trees and captured Taya, Buckdown, and T. D. Jr. right after Sewey got away had three things on their collective pagan mind. They wanted their women and children back, especially the virgins. They wanted to do a bit of stealing. And, if the opportunity presented itself, they wanted to repair a little justice for the death of one of Yellow Serpent's sons, a young prince named Leicer, who had been killed the year before on the first Walla Walla expedition to Sutter's Fort.

It seems that Leicer had become involved in an argument with a Kentuckian named Grahm, who was at the fort to help Sutter design a distillery. Leicer was known as a great rascal even among his own people, but it remains unclear whether or not Grahm
had been justified in blowing his head off. Leicer's buddies certainly hadn't thought so. They had hurriedly set off for home, claiming that they would return to make everybody sorry.

Now they were on their way back, and at the head of the party was old Yellow Serpent himself. It was his inclination to summarily croak the prisoners like toads underfoot and be done with them, but luckily Buckdown had an old friend traveling with the raiding party. It was that old keeper of the secret buckskins and stimulating medicinal flora, His Own Ghost. He pointed at Buckdown.

He's not one of the Animal People, His Own Ghost told the chief, but he's not bad.

The shaman went on to explain that Yellow Serpent's interests would be better served by using the captives as hostages than as torture toys. He went so far as to claim that they were valuable. Reluctantly, Yellow Serpent agreed to wait and see, and no sooner had His Own Ghost saved Buckdown's life then he realized that he would have to do it again. Buckdown was bleeding to death.

Remember tolache, that smoking weed that had changed Buckdown's life some years before? Well, His Own Ghost once again had some handy. The shaman fired up a pipe, handed it to Buckdown, and started cooking up some buffalo fat. Yellow Serpent's band had been rich in buffalo fat since their exceptional good luck traveling through Big Meadow—where the beasts had seemed confused, leaderless.

When the fat began to boil, His Own Ghost stirred the tolache into it, forming a heavy paste the color of pus. Next, he packed it into the flat hole where Buckdown's
ear had been and poked a flower into it. He also covered Buckdown's remaining ear with the stuff.

Maybe, if you have shaped up, the tolache will help you, His Own Ghost told Buckdown. But remember it might kill you, and if it does it's not my fault.

Apparently the tolache thought that Buckdown was shaping up. Although he never grew a new ear, the wound was completely healed by the time the Walla Walla unloaded him.

The appearance of the Walla Walla at the northern tip of the San Joaquin panicked the few settlers in the region, and they fled south to Sutter's Fort, spreading exaggerated reports as to the strength of the war party, predicting massacres and bloodbaths.

Sutter didn't like it. The only men who enjoyed Indian fighting were all on their way south with Fremont to fight the Californios at Cahuenga. If the reports were even half true he would be hard pressed to defend his holdings. The spineless settlers would be worthless if the Walla Walla were as crazed as he had heard. Maybe he could buy them off.

It was raining three days later when Yellow Serpent and his band came hooting up to the front gate. Sutter met them with a box of beads, but Yellow Serpent wasn't interested in trinkets. He signaled for his prisoners to be brought forward and made Sutter an offer he couldn't refuse.

I'll give you the crazy one, the pregnant one, and the other one for twenty rifles and as many barrels of whisky, the chief said. And I won't burn your fort and kill everybody.

Done, Sutter said.

Greatly relieved, he led the chief to his new still. Toasts were in order and pretty soon Sutter and Yellow Serpent were acting like old drinking pals. By morning, the silver-tongued Sutter had persuaded the chief to enlist his band in the struggle against the greasers, promising that the Walla Walla would be compensated handsomely for services rendered and could raise whatever hell they wanted with any and all Mexicans and Californios without retribution.

Done, Yellow Serpent said.

The Walla Walla Irregulars rode south to join Fremont that afternoon, but without the spiritual guidance of His Own Ghost, who had mysteriously disappeared during the drinking.

Another windy night at Fort Ross. Galon woke coughing from a sweaty sleep and staggered out into the darkness. But rather than prowling silently off to die like an old cat, he picked his way to Shaboom's cave. He was anxious to talk again about immortality, to listen as Shaboom explained about the high mountains north of Yedo where large white dogs rolled playfully among miniature trees. A place where men who had the courage of no regrets could slide gracefully into forever. And the best part: how there was gambling and sex and fierce hawks to watch in combat in the sky. And even grass-stuffed pandas for target practice. Oh boy!

Galon felt better. If he could just get there, fitting in would be a snap. He'd samurai it up with the best
of them; all he wanted was a chance. He smiled, tentatively, across the flickering fire at Shaboom.

Shadows jumped in spasms across the rough walls of the cave. The cave was a womb, a stone womb, vibrating in the skittish light. Galon gathered himself into the fetus crouch, anticipating his future, waiting to be spurted into a new life, born again.

Tell me more, Galon whispered. Tell me about the hawks again, and the women.

Shaboom giggled and took it from the top, ad-libbing flurries of metaphors. Paradise was a safe jungle. Immortality, a peacock plume to wear in your hat, a rhapsody of shimmering colors. Yours for a sack of gold.

The Main Chance as understood by Shaboom was in five simple steps:

So far it was working out. The healthy one kept returning every few days with new nuggets for the growing stash, while the sick one fell deeper and deeper into the fancy net of promises Shaboom strung together each night. And even the logistics appeared to be falling into place.

The last time the healthy one came he had brought a newspaper. The sick one read it aloud. On page three, surrounded by an account of a band of Walla Wallas (whatever they were) joining a politician named Fremont, there was a very promising advertisement.

That's where we been talking about, the sick one exclaimed. Ain't it?

Shaboom nodded and watched, smiling as the two brothers danced a little jog. The sick one sang and babbled to the healthy one about how jealous somebody named Sewey would be if he found out that they were going to live forever.

Where the hell was Sewey?

He knew where he was. Where the hell was Wild Emma is what he wanted to know. He sensed a double cross. Here he was at the agreed upon rendezvous with the promised string of comely Worm Eaters and not a sign of his contact. He hadn't expected Wild Emma to show up in person, but she had promised to send a launch with someone in her stead if she couldn't make it.

Sewey scuffed up and down the cove, muttering to himself about trying to do business with a woman. He told his Worm Eaters to find themselves something to eat and climbed up the cliff again for a long look south. Not a sign. He cursed the curve of the earth for shortening his view. Below him his Worm Eaters waded in the shallow surf, digging up clams with their toes. What was he supposed to do, swim them to Yerba Buena? And what about the money?

He'd been waiting almost a week. Maybe Wild Emma was dead. She sure as hell was going to be if this was a double cross. He pulled out his pistol and fired into the sky. The Worm Eaters looked up from their clam digging and he waved them up the cliff. He'd be damned if he was going to wait around this shit hole of a rendezvous any longer. He tied the Worm Eaters single file behind his horse and took off at a trot for Yerba Buena. Their feet didn't matter; you don't screw with your feet.

Meanwhile, at Sutter's Fort, Taya decided that the world could shove it. She had dealt with dread a long time and now she was mad. She terrified the Worm Eaters, striding among them, insisting on secret abortive herbs. Buckdown, and even Sutter, found it impossible to meet her stare. She told T. D. Jr. to grow up.