Carlota (11 page)

It was the vaqueros who were my friends and on whom I leaned and depended. It was these men who saw us through the worst drought in the memory of anyone then living.

The drought started early in the year, as I have said, and by June the hills were bare. Cattle began to die. Waterholes dried up. The stream shrank and we had to dig holes in the stream bed to tap small quantities of the water that ran beneath it.

In July we began the slaughter. Because everyone, all the ranchers from San Diego in the South to Santa Barbara in the North, were forced to kill their cattle, hides sold for only a few centavos and there was no market for tallow at any price. We stored almost a thousand
botas
against the time when it would bring a few centavos at least. The hides we could not cure or store, so we buried them in pits.

We struggled on through the month of August. We were sad at the sight of our cattle and horses dying. September was the time our first rains usually came, but this year clouds blew up in the afternoon and then disappeared at dusk. We ourselves began to run low on food, not on beef, because our coolhouse was stacked with meat, but on tea and chocolate, flour, sugar, salt, and on beans, which the servants and the vaqueros ate, liking them better than anything else.

Around the middle of September I took four of the vaqueros and extra pack horses and made the long journey to San Diego. Before the drought it was easy to get credit, but I found that the pueblo store now belonged to a gringo. Worried by the drought, I was afraid to buy all the goods we needed. Not knowing when I could pay for them, we packed the horses with only light loads.

When the time came for me to pay for the supplies, I asked the storekeeper, whose name was Caleb Thomas, to charge them to Dos Hermanos.

Mr. Thomas was a thin little man with a friendly smile, gold spectacles, and a pale nose. "You are buying lightly," he said. "Looking at your past account, I would say that you have bought about half of what you usually buy."

"I don't know when we can pay even for what I have," I said.

"The drought will end one of these days," Mr. Thomas said. "Until then, your credit is good. Let me give you a jug of Jamaica molasses. It just came in today."

He led me over to a counter and showed me a length of blue cloth. "Just in from Boston. The newest material. And these shoes; fashionable New York ladies are wearing them."

Mr. Thomas hopped from counter to counter, showing me everything that had arrived that day by ship.

My heart sank as I signed the bill. It was for more money than we usually spent on supplies for the ranch, even in good years. But I did have a big packet of Cuban tobacco for Doña Dolores and a beautiful China shawl for myself as well as a black bombazine dress that had real lace around the collar. As I rode away from the store and Mr. Thomas waved me goodbye, I felt very lightheaded.

September passed and the drought grew worse. Every day a dozen or more cattle died. The working horses we managed to feed by cutting branches from the willow groves along the stream. Our Indians caught rattlesnakes in the heavy brush, carried them across the barren mesa at dawn, and let them loose, telling them to beseech the rain gods. Doña Dolores and I knelt at the altar and prayed. But the rains did not come.

On a hot day early in December, Caleb Thomas rode up to the ranch on a beautiful white gelding. His saddle sparkled with silver and the metal crickets on his bridle chirped as he trotted up to the hitching rack.

"I'm sorry to see everything so dry," he said, after he had taken my hand. "And hundreds of cattle dying and the horses gaunt."

He stood for a while, gazing around at the mesa, the tree-lined streams winding westward, the far blue hills that slanted away toward the sea.

"How many acres do you have here?" he asked. He had a chirpy voice. Any moment I expected him to burst into song, like a bird. "Sixty thousand?"

"Less."

"Have you ever thought of selling part of it?"

"No."

"You have a parcel down by the coast, where the stream meets the ocean. Five hundred acres, more or less. I can make you a good offer."

The parcel he spoke about was near the lagoon where the wreck of the treasure ship lay.

"You will need to talk to my grandmother. But I can tell you now that she will not be interested in selling."

"At a good price?"

"At any price."

"Do you mind if I talk to her?"

I led Mr. Thomas into the patio and sent for Doña Dolores. She took her time but finally came stumping out of the
sala,
swinging her cane. I introduced them and told my grandmother that the Cuban tobacco she liked so much I had bought from Mr. Thomas.

"It is the best I have smoked since some Turkish that I bought from a New Bedford whaler."

"Had I known that you liked it so much," said Mr. Thomas, "I would have brought some along as a gift."

He was making a good impression upon my grandmother, but it didn't last long.

"I spoke to Miss Carlota about a parcel of land on the coast," Mr. Thomas said. "Some five hundred acres of brush and water, mostly brush not fit for cattle. But I'm prepared to offer you twenty-five centavos an acre. The going price for such land is twenty, as you know."

"My land is worth ten times that," Grandmother said sharply.

"Before the drought, maybe," Mr. Thomas said. "Not now. Everything's dried up at this moment—range, pasture, meadows, hills, streams. And the Lord knows when it will be any better. Perhaps never."

Doña Dolores rolled a cigarillo and Rosario brought her a live coal. She puffed away and said nothing.

Mr. Thomas said, "What do you think, señora?"

"I am not thinking," my grandmother answered.

"I can offer you twenty-five centavos an acre," Caleb Thomas repeated.

"Two hundred centavos," said Doña Dolores, "and I will begin to think. Not much, but a little."

"Ridiculous," cried Mr. Thomas. "How about fifty?"

"Two hundred," Doña Dolores said firmly.

Mr. Thomas took off his spectacles and polished them on his sleeve.

"Fifty-five centavos."

Doña Dolores did not bother to answer. She turned to me and asked what we were having for supper, saying that she was becoming very tired of peppers and tough meat.

Mr. Thomas began to walk up and down in front of us, hopping like an angry bird. At last, when Doña Dolores went on talking as if he weren't there, he stopped and pulled a piece of paper from his jacket and held it out in front of my grandmother. He gave the paper a shake and then pointed at it with a long finger.

"Madam," he said, "what do you propose to do with this?"

Doña Dolores puffed on her cigarillo and glanced at the paper through the cigarillo smoke.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It's a bill for the goods and supplies your granddaughter bought some three months ago."

"Bills we pay once a year," Doña Dolores said. "On All Saints' Day."

"This bill," said Mr. Thomas, "must be paid immediately."

Doña Dolores planted her cane, leaned upon it, and lifted herself to her feet. "On All Saints' Day we pay our bills," she said.

Mr. Thomas folded the paper and put it back in his pocket. "Unless I hear from you by next week," he said, "I'll turn the bill over to the sheriff and attach your property."

"I will speak to the
juez de campo,
" Doña Dolores said. She raised her cane as if she had a mind to strike him over the head. "He will attend to you."

"
Juez de campo,
" said Mr. Thomas with a trace of pity in his voice. "Is it possible, señora, that you have not heard that Americans are now in charge of California? That the
juez de campo
has long since departed? Is it possible, I inquire?"

My grandmother tossed her cigarillo on the ground, crushed it out with the tip of her cane, and stumped off to the
sala,
slamming the door behind her.

Mr. Thomas looked startled for a moment, as he settled his long gray riding coat around his shoulders. He reminded me of a little gray sparrow ruffling its feathers. He coughed and took the paper from his pocket and held it under my nose.

"You bought these things, did you not?" he said in a pleasant voice.

"Yes," I answered.

"And you intend to pay for them?"

"Yes."

"Good," Mr. Thomas said. "Bring the money to the store when you come again."

He smiled and got on his horse and tipped his hat.

But as he rode away a sudden suspicion took hold of me. I doubted that he would wait for the money we owed. I had no idea what the American law was, but what if he took the bill straight to the American authorities, whoever they were, and somehow got the right to seize our property? I became certain of it as he paused for a moment on the rim of the mesa and gazed around at the rolling hills of Dos Hermanos.

The next morning I took two extra horses and Rosario and rode down the canyon to the lagoon where the wreck of the galleon lay.

The stream was low but the tides had piled up many logs and heaps of seaweed around the cavelike hole I used to reach the ship. It took us until noon to clear away the debris.

As I tied the riata around Rosario's waist, I remembered the day when I had nearly drowned in the jaws of the burro clam. And I remembered it as I let myself down into the hole. The water was cold and murky. I kept the end of the riata wrapped around my hand. I had told Rosario to keep tight hold of the other end and his mind on what he was doing.

Everything looked the same—the thick layers of silt, the big rocks, the floating strands of seaweed, the chest. Nearby stood the gray burro clam, its jaws half-open to embrace anything that strayed near. A film of river mud concealed the gold coins. When I had scraped it off, my lungs were hurting and it was time for me to go above. A small shark followed me.

The sun was overhead but it gave off little heat. I stood on the riverbank and swung my arms, trying to get warm, but I was really trying to get up my nerve to go back again. Rosario wasn't interested in the coins but he wanted to explore the wreck. I had a good notion to let him.

A shark trailed me down, floating off as I raised the hand that held my knife, but turning just out of reach to watch me. I could see its gills opening and closing. It was only half my size but it had mean little eyes set close together and flecked with red, and three rows of teeth, one row set back of the other.

Small fish were swimming around the chest. They darted away as I pried the first handful of coins loose. I put the coins in the sack that was tied to my waist, carried them up, and laid them out on a log.

On the third trip below, I reached the bottom of the chest and saw that it was now empty. I put the coins in the pouch, stepped wide of the burro clam, and made my way up for the last time. I was very glad that it would be the last time.

We rubbed the coins bright, using the river sand, and took them back to the ranch. In the morning I set off for San Diego and traded the coins for American dollars, enough to pay Mr. Thomas, with a bagful to spare.

Mr. Thomas, I am sure, was disappointed that I was able to pay my bill but he didn't let on. He smiled and patted my arm, and tried to sell me a coat with a band of otter fur on the collar.

Rains came with the New Year and they lasted for more than a month. We had managed to save half our cattle, all of our working horses, and some of the
mesteños.
But most of these wild horses in our part of the country Don Roberto had rounded up, because there wasn't food for them, and had driven over the high cliffs at Punta de Laguna.

When the spring grass was just beginning to show, Mr. Thomas rode up to the ranch and announced that he had come for beef cattle. He bought seventy tough steers, paying us ninety centavos a head, and drove them off the same day to San Diego. About a month later I found out why he had bought the cattle. Juan Diaz, our
mayordomo,
came back from San Diego with a wild tale.

"Early in the morning," the
mayordomo
told us, "that was three months ago in January, a man named Marshall, who was a carpenter, was building a grist mill for a man named Sutter. He had just finished building a flume from the river to the mill. One morning he went down to the flume to shut off the water. There at the bottom of the flume he saw a piece of what he thought might be gold. He pounded it between rocks and when it changed its shape but did not break in two he was certain it was gold. Almost certain, that is.

"A few days later he went to Sutter's and showed him the pieces he had found in the flume. They tested them and proved they were gold. Right then the two men decided to keep what they found a big secret. But shortly afterward a man named Brannon found some gold and he galloped to San Francisco and rode down the streets, shaking a bottle of gold dust over his head and shouting, 'Gold! Gold! Gold from the American River.'

"Within a week all the sailors in San Francisco harbor deserted their ships. Carpenters dropped their hammers. A nearby town opened its jail. Thousands flocked to the mill and clawed it to pieces, looking for gold. Three Frenchmen pulled up a tree stump and found a fortune in gold hanging on to its roots. Imagine, if you are able, a fortune from a tree stump."

Two days after he had told us this tale, Juan Diaz took six horses from our corral and rode off at a gallop for the North.

We all thought Juan was crazy but he was not crazy. The story he told us was true. Before the month of May was gone, a steady line of men on horses began to troop up the King's Highway, along the western boundary of Dos Hermanos. They were on their way to the gold fields.

When I went to San Diego, I learned that these men, about four hundred of them, had crossed the Isthmus of Panama and there bought passage to San Francisco. But the crooked captain of the ship carried them only as far as San Diego. He told them they were in San Francisco, and then sailed back to Panama to pick up another cargo, leaving the men stranded two hundred leagues south of the gold fields.