California Bloodstock (13 page)

Pregnant women always spook people so, make them so uneasy, make them ask so many questions. Especially old men.

Boy or girl?

Who's the lucky daddy?

And behind Taya's back when she ignored them: I wonder what got into her, ha, ha, ha. Cream's fattening, ha, ha, ha. And seriously: women aren't no good once they get knocked up; you can't fuck 'em anymore and they get uppity.

She wanted out. Oh, how she wanted out.

Do something, she told T. D. Jr.

Fast, she told Buckdown.

Anything, she told herself.

But all three of them were still the property of Sutter. Technically speaking, he owned them. Not that
he had any use for them as far as he could see, it was just that nothing in this world was free. Their freedom had cost him. They were bought and paid for. He pointed this out and asked what they thought would be fair.

He had to be kidding.

Hardly, Sutter told them, let's make a deal.

He finally settled for a series of daguerreotypes T. D. Jr. executed over the next week. Sutter chose the subject matter and dominated the tone of each composition with an astounding lack of taste. The man definitely had a vision, a self-concept with flying colors. Poor T. D. Jr. bristled under each of the theatrical little playlets Sutter insisted he record: Sutter in a rabbit-pelt cape, standing in front of the fireplace in his hot, airless office; Sutter at the gate of his fort, surrounded by kneeling Worm Eaters; Sutter gesturing toward the distant mountains with a ceremonial sabre; Sutter naked, contemplating an apple, rejecting it.

T. D. Jr. was especially bitter about having to use the last of his plates on such an obviously bloated ego when the winter sky in the west was carving hard and elegant edges on the horizon.

What difference does it make? Taya asked him. He could see as much high art as he wanted. So what? When she looked she saw vanishing points closing beyond the world like the tips of a scissors.

Swarms of life waited for them in the delta, like atmospheres of invisible teeth. Traveling on foot now, leading the one mangy pack mule that Buckdown had managed to steal from Sutter, they were at the mercy of even the most evanescent of creatures. But such life forms are not indiscriminate. They ignored Taya, Buckdown, and even the mule, and went straight for T. D. Jr. They hit him like a storm, a horde, a flying army of insect mongrels ravaging his sweet body like a decadent civilization. And he couldn't see them, couldn't even feel their bites.

Half a day into the marsh country that seeps like a soggy fringe north and east from the Bay of San Francisco, T. D. Jr. was a swollen caricature of his former self. He was a balloon boy, his skin puffed tight, bloated pink. He itched all over. His fingers and toes throbbed like fat little sausages sizzling on a dry griddle. He fainted.

They dragged him onto the driest spot available. While Taya covered T. D. Jr. with blankets, Buckdown built a fire.

T. D. Jr. came to, convinced he was dying, being looted of all his strength and will, he was sure of it. He opened his eyes, blinking watery forget-me-not pleas toward heaven, and there was Taya.

She was sad and caring, he thought, but then all of a sudden she was fanning smoke at him with his
own hat. And Buckdown, he was smearing T. D. Jr.'s face with wet, sticky mud.

No See'ums, Buckdown explained. Act like they don't exist.

T. D. Jr. tried, but it was like trying to ignore the hiccups. From then on they were lucky to make five miles a day. They had to stop constantly to repack T. D. Jr. with fresh mud and resmoke him against the merciless No See'ums.

Awkward and irritating days raked like fingernails on slate into damp, almost sleepless nights.

Taya had water-snake nightmares, or dreamed that she was sitting on a rock in the middle of a draining lake. The child sucked inside her. T. D. Jr. fished at her for sympathy. Buckdown tried to comfort her. She hated all three of them.

It was getting pretty hysterical there among the dripping tules and the misleading sloughs, when who should overtake them but Lansford Hastings, riding poker-faced with new deals and the latest news from Sutter's Fort.

Another brand-new city, Hastings told them, I'm founding another one. Who needs a corner lot?

He jumped gingerly from his horse and unrolled a map, babbling about prime locations and growth potentials. Taya noticed that Hastings had lost weight. Indeed, he explained, in a survival bout with the wilderness.

T. D. Jr. blinked his swollen eyes at Hastings and started pawing deliriously at the map: what happened to my lake?

Funny you should ask, Hastings said. The fools might have to winter there. It's not my fault though, can't blame me that they didn't keep up. Can't blame me that the snow flew a little early. God knows what they'll find to eat, the lame amateurs. But that's Sutter's worry now. If he wants them he can go and get them, the worthless butt-draggers. I played it smart, traded the miserable lot of them and that minor subdivision we had set up for them back to Sutter; Sutterville he's calling it now. A stinking climate there anyway, too hot. Leave it to the Worm Eaters, I say. What I got now is much better, much bigger. Sutter's involved, of course, and some others, but a sizable chunk is mine and as soon as I check in with Sutter's man on the location, I'll be off to Oregon to round up some worthy emigrants. It's the best spot on the bay, sunny out of the fog, right where the river comes in. It'll be the major port in a year mark my words. We're calling it San Francisca, pretty shrewd don't you think. How about a nice litte parcel right on the water?

No takers. Disgusted with them, Hastings pushed T. D. Jr. aside and rolled up his map. Buckdown asked Hastings if he knew Slant.

Yeah, I know him, Hastings said. He goes by the title of Money Balls. He's one of the worst land pirates on Battery Street. Don't buy anything from him. But don't worry, San Francisca will leave him sitting in the fog. You sure you're not interested in a nice sunny homesite?

Still no takers. Hastings climbed into his saddle and tipped his hat. Oh, by the way, he said, if you run into anybody named Donner, remember it wasn't my fault.

Ah yes, Battery Street, that thoroughfare of the shanghai and the rat fuck, that alley of manifest destiny, that Boardwalk of the dirty-minded monopoly game that brought Slant, Larkin, Brannan, Wild Emma, and a number of other equally civic-minded flimflammers and frontier capitalists together at Cargo West to talk business. Slant got directly to the point.

About this San Francisca, I don't know how far along it is, but it's sitting right next to the best deep-water anchorage in the whole bay. Not good. Then you take the name, San Francisca, pretty close to San Francisco, isn't it? Also not good. Figure that every dumbbell shipmaster, tourist, and settler headed in this direction says he's going to San Francisco. He means the bay, of course; the town he's heading for is Yerba Buena but he doesn't know that. You see the problem? If we don't do something, we could all lose a lot of business, not to mention what might happen to property values. Very bad indeed.

Everybody saw the problem and a notice appeared in the next edition of Brannan's paper.

So Yerba Buena became San Francisco, and, after writing the ordinance, Slant went into seclusion. He took yet another room at Cargo West and converted it into an office. He took all meals alone in his expanded quarters and refused to answer the door, seeing only those he had one of the perfect Worm Eaters fetch for him. He was rumored to be scheming beyond the understanding of ordinary men. His power grew. Larkin didn't like it.

Larkin, you see, held property in San Francisca as well as in San Francisco. In fact, he held substantial property all over the territory, from Monterey to Los Angeles to various mountain lakes. He sent word to his partners that something would have to be done about the name. It had been chosen originally for two reasons. The first was obvious. The second was both shrewd and sentimental. Francisca happened to be the name of Vallejo's wife, so when Sutter had suggested to Larkin that they name the new town Francisco, he had said no, Francisca. Almost the same, but with the added possibility of an enhanced public image among the Californios who might yet have to be dealt with.

Larkin finished reading a letter from Mrs. Vallejo
and returned it to his portable files. It was her original plea for the release of her husband shortly after his capture by the Bear Flaggers. He looked at her signature. Francisca Benicia Felipsa Carrillo Vallejo. What a string of names! He closed his eyes and pointed. His finger fell on Benicia. He sent word to Sutter and moved on to the next problem.

What to do about Wild Emma? Was she still to be trusted? It was hard to say. Larkin blamed Pierre Wallingsford for the confusion. He had arrived in rags one day claiming to be a famous gambler and duelist from New Orleans. Then, somehow, he had slyly charmed his way into Wild Emma's bed and thus become part of the business. Now it looked like he was trying to take over. He had plans to introduce organized gambling at Cargo West and had also convinced Wild Emma to get rid of the Worm Eaters. Wallingsford would replace them, he said, with French whores from New Orleans who were already on the way. So instead of sending Richardson to pick up a fresh string of Worm Eaters from Hippolyte Weed, Wild Emma had been making do with the ones she had, in spite of numerous pregnancies, while she waited for the arrival of Wallingsford's French whores. The place was going to be much classier, she told Larkin.

Larkin wasn't sure. He thought she was getting a bit too ambitious and discussed the matter with the elegant Greek barman, who agreed totally. The barman had been in love with Wild Emma for some time and would agree with anything that might get rid of Wallingsford. They made a secret pact to eliminate
him at the first opportunity, hopefully before Larkin had to return to Monterey. He wondered vaguely who Wallingsford was working for. Slant probably, but no one was above his suspicion, not even Vallejo.

The freezing effect on wild animals of a bright light, or a snake paralyzing a mouse with a devouring stare, was much like the effect of Sewey's smile on his string of Worm Eaters. As he dragged them south, he amused himself by putting them through his own brutal kama sutra. It always started the same way. He lined them up, naked, and walked up and down the line frowning. When he smiled he had made a choice, and when he smiled at the unfortunate who was to be his pleasure, she froze, hypnotized by his dirty grin. By the time he had gone through the string three times, they were getting close to civilization. Sewey knew. He said he could smell it.

Sure enough, in the distance he saw the white walls of Vallejo's Petaluma Adobe. As he rode closer
he could make out a crowd of mounted men milling around the front gate. The half-breed vaqueros were at play again, hooting and cheering from their saddles in another of their favorite pastimes. They were having a bull/bear dance, a recreation even more popular than a carrero del gallo.

A she-bear had been roped and dragged down from the hills. As Sewey rode up, several of the half-breeds were tying the other end of the rope to the horns of a lean red bull. Bets were made. The animals circled each other, stretching the rope between them. Suddenly, the bull charged. The bear lurched to one side and met the charge with a swipe that raked four shallow lines on the bull's flank. First blood. The half-breeds cheered. Sewey hustled his Worm Eaters inside the gate and hurried back to the action. He bet heavily on the bull.

Several more passes and the bull glistened with a shiny film of sweat, streaked with more lines of blood. The bull pawed the ground, reevaluating strategy. He began to circle the bear once again. The bear stood her ground, turning to face the next charge, waiting.

When it came the bear went for the bull's neck. With one paw she hooked into it like an anchor and grappled with the other for the nose. She tore at the bull's nose until he opened his mouth to let out a great roar and then she seized his tongue and pulled. The effect was remarkable. Sewey had never seen anything like it. The bull gentled, bleating pathetically, and the bear began pulling him about at will.

Dirty fighting, Sewey shouted.

The bear began spinning the bull about and finally
yanked the tongue with a slow whipping motion and the bull fell over on his back, the posture of submission known to all animals, a plea for mercy. The bear snorted. Still pulling mercilessly at the shredded tongue, she made two quick swipes with her other paw and the bull's head fell to one side, barely connected now to the thick neck. The half-breeds shot the bear and the dance was over.

Sewey had lost. Since he had no money to cover his bets, he was forced to make his Worm Eaters available to the half-breeds, and there ensued a long afternoon of payoff fornication in the bright courtyard of Vallejo's Petaluma Adobe.

Vallejo himself observed it from his balcony. He had returned to his former headquarters to rescue his library, planning to spend several days sorting things out. The bear bull dance had filled him with nostalgia. He determined to write a book about the old days. Now as he watched the stunt fucking beneath him in the courtyard, he was struck by a certain irony. Funny, he mused, how the Worm Eaters were probably the only ones who wouldn't lose anything to the Americans.

Sewey spotted Vallejo watching from the balcony and shouted up a question: Hey, you up there, you know any place that might be interested in some slightly used Worm Eaters?

Try Benicia.

Turns out that Sutter's man at Benicia was Joaquin Peach. In one short month he had constructed a two-story wooden house for himself that also served as a real-estate office and hotel. So far, it was the town's only building, but it was full of fine furnishings. When Peach saw Taya, Buckdown, and T. D. Jr. staggering up to his front door, he laughed and started showing off.

The world turns, he said, grinning at Taya, and poked playfully at T. D. Jr.'s swollenness. He invited them into his large dining room, apologizing for the poor accommodations. He said he was sorry for his bad manners, his incompetence when it came to entertaining such esteemed guests. He pleaded with them to excuse his disgusting poverty, his wretched heritage, his weak bloodlines, his lack of formal education.

He mocked them until Taya could no longer stand it. She turned her back on him and his food and his linen sheets and rushed from the house. Buckdown and T. D. Jr. were too hungry to be proud. They fell gratefully on the food Peach laid out on the long table, while Taya walked alone on the flat beach. Peach watched her through the window. He liked her. The way she acted. He told Buckdown and T. D. Jr. to take whatever they wanted and headed for the beach to apologize.

Taya had walked out on the point and stood staring out over the grey water. Peach came up behind her.

She did not turn around.

It is a fine world, he said. It will be fine for you and fine for your child.

She turned suddenly to face him. She bit her lip.

Children are for men, she said.

Yes, he said, and turned away.

Taya crossed the bay the next afternoon in Richardson's launch. It was a stroke of luck that the boatman had put in at Benicia. His backers had told him to stay clear of the place, but he was curious and wanted to take a short peek at the new city, maybe even pick up a little extra business. What Slant and the rest of them didn't know, Richardson figured, couldn't hurt him. So his Worm Eaters had rowed him past for a quick look and Peach had hailed him from the shore.

Buckdown sat in the stern listening to Richardson talk about the weather. T. D. Jr looked back toward the delta, haunted by the No See'ums. Taya pressed herself into the bow. She stared straight ahead, toward San Francisco emerging slowly before her, poking out of a dirty fog. The bay was flat and slick, smooth enough to scratch.

Shaboom and the Burgetts stood on the ridge high above Rancho Sausalito and looked out over the bay.
Galon was exhausted. Their trip down the coast from Fort Ross had been difficult. Millard was also a little beat, but Shaboom seemed charged with energy. He scurried back and forth on the ridge searching for the best view. Galon sat down on a flat rock and wondered where the Rancho Sausalito was.

It wasn't really a rancho at all, but a steepness of willow-and-brush-covered hillside that climbed up from a nicely sheltered little cove seven miles across the bay from Yerba Buena. Millard had heard of it. He explained that it was the home of a jack Catholic named Richardson, who had jumped an English whaler more than twenty years ago and obtained Californio status and the cove by marrying one of Vallejo's cousins. Richardson was known to be crafty, Millard said. His business was the ferrying of what-have-you about the bay by means of a launch in which he visited the various embarcaderos, making pickups and deliveries. He was also known to pirate pilot fees from any ship nosing into the bay. He called himself captain of the Port of San Francisco Bay and was active in many local schemes. He was also known to whoop it up several times a month at Cargo West.

Shaboom shouted for their attention and pointed toward Yerba Buena. A launch was pulling across the water in their direction. It had to be Richardson. Shaboom insisted that they take cover.

Peeking out from the brush on the ridge, Shaboom studied the launch. It was propelled by two rows of Worm Eaters who pulled rhythmically on long heavy oars. High in the stern sat a man in a dark blue cape. Occasionally he strung out a long whip to crack one
of the Worm Eaters into a more enthusiastic approach to his oar. Shaboom shuddered and insisted that they make camp on the ridge, avoiding Richardson and his hovel below them on the lip of the cove.

They spent the next fortnight on the ridge while Shaboom studied the patterns of movement on the bay. Each morning, Worm Eaters in crude reed canoes could be seen poking tentatively out of the bay's tule fringes like water insects, and larger bargelike craft leap-frogged from cove to cove on the far shore, but only Richardson's launch crossed the bay with any regularity.

What they need here is a bridge, said Millard, who studied the bay at Shaboom's side.