The Bear: The Rising 53471y

The Bear The Rising

John Kerr

THE BEAR THE RISING

Copyright © 2017 John Zavesky.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The author would like to acknowledge that while certain events like the war against Mexico, the Native American Holocaust and the Irish famine did occur, all incidents, characters and situations depicted in this tale are a figment of the author’s imagination and purely fictitious. The author encourages all to study and know their history so charlatans can not rewrite it and sell back to you as fact.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-1668-4 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-5320-1670-7 (hc) ISBN: 978-1-5320-1669-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017902063

iUniverse rev. date: 02/14/2017

Contents

New Spain

Ireland

California Territory

The Uprising

Gum Saan

Rancho Oso Negro

Preparations

The Journey

Forty Years Later

Diplomacy - 1863

The Ball

Bushwhacked - 1863

William McGrath

Escape - 1863

Ill Winds

The Letter - 1863

The Debt

The Proposal - 1864

Business

England – 1865

John Bear

The Challenge - 1865

The Tong

The Athena - 1865

The Press

The Tong

Kathleen

The Visit

Winter Winds

A Promise

The Storm

Saint Patrick’s Day

Thanksgiving

A Meeting

Jenny

The Message

The Funeral

Justice

San Francisco

The Pursuit

New Spain

The sun hung high. Its scorching heat beat down on the trail of men and animals that stretched for nearly a quarter mile. The desert sand was thick as molasses and slowed the marchers. Captain Juan Diego de La Vega stopped his horse and looked at the faces of his weary men as they tramped past him. The captain sat tall in his saddle and tried to look undisturbed by the blazing heat for his men. They had been marching for fifty-six days. The expedition had set out from Sinaloa in the spring of 1789 with fifty soldiers; two junior officers, Lieutenant Rodriguez and Lieutenant Alvarez; a cook; a blacksmith; two padres; six mules; thirty head of cattle; a dozen horses; and four pigs. The governor had commissioned Captain de La Vega to take command of the presidio in San Diego. Cholera had ravaged the garrison and mission, claiming the ranking officer, Captain Luis Miguel Cortez, among its victims. The presidio had been without a commanding officer for six months. Brother Timothy, the younger of the two padres traveling with the group, stopped and stared out at the vast desert that lay before them. “Dios mío.” Captain de La Vega looked down at the cleric, whose face was burnt from the sun. “Dios, indeed,” the captain chuckled, amusement shining in his brilliant blue eyes. He nodded toward the retreating column. “You better grow some wings, Padre.” The captain took off at a gallop. The horse was a Madrid-bred black stallion and a present from his father. Juan Diego had named the stallion Tornado. The captain glanced over his shoulder. Brother Timothy rushed to catch up. The captain had little use for the clergy. He was twenty-eight and a free thinker. His father, Alfredo de La Vega, had sent him to the Sorbonne. Alfredo owned a fleet of merchant ships and traded from Africa and the Orient and back to Europe. He hoped his son would take over the family business. When Juan Diego had expressed a desire to the army and travel to New Spain, Alfredo had not stood in his way. Alfredo was unique among the burgeoning Spanish middle class. He eschewed

the use of slaves. He felt no man had the right to own another and had instilled that belief in his son. He paid greater shares to his sailors and those who worked in his warehouse. Alfredo believed in the dignity of man. He viewed the church as a plague on the people, keeping the majority in poverty in order to control them through fear. Captain de La Vega swung the caravan south of the Gila River to avoid possible with Apache marauders. So far four men had perished from fever and the heat. They were buried in sandy graves with no markers, and the troops moved on. Three more soldiers suffered from the fever. Too sick to march, they were borne on litters. The captain and his men rested and replenished their water and food supplies at the outpost in Yuma before crossing the Colorado. Lieutenant Alvarez volunteered to remain behind with the sick men. He vowed to continue on as soon as the soldiers were healthy. Once across the Colorado, Captain de La Vega led the contingent north to avoid having to cross the deadly Algodones Dunes that lay just west of Yuma. Once past the region, the captain turned his troops west and marched straight for the coast some two hundred miles beyond. The ocean beckoned like a siren. When the men finally saw the Pacific, they dropped their swords and lances, shed their uniforms, and raced toward the cool green waters. Captain de La Vega rode Tornado into the foaming surf. The horse whinnied as the waves broke upon his legs. The captain patted the stallion’s neck. Lieutenant Luis Rodriguez rode up. He was twenty-four and had served under the captain for five years. He was lean with dark brown hair and was an excellent swordsman and scholar. Captain de La Vega had chosen Lieutenant Rodriguez to accompany him on this new command not for his scholarship but rather for his loyalty. Rodriguez would march into the bowels of hell if Captain de La Vega requested it. “We’ve made it,” Lieutenant Rodriguez said. “So far,” the captain cautioned. “We don’t know what awaits us.” The troops camped on the beach that night. The men ate fish they had caught and cooked over an open fire. The following day the column marched up the coast. Within an hour Captain de La Vega was able to see the presidio with his eyeglass. The fort sat high on a promontory with an excellent view of north,

south, east, and west. The base of the hill was primarily scrub, but the rise was lush with trees. The fact that no one from the fort came to greet them did not bode well. The captain had better than three dozen soldiers and plenty of livestock. Even if the fort had been decimated by the epidemic, he had enough men to hold on until Mexico City could send additional troops. Captain de La Vega left four men with the livestock on the beach. He and Lieutenant Rodriguez marched at the head of the troop as they wound their way up the steep road to the presidio. There was no sentry at the gate. As Captain de La Vega and the troops marched into the courtyard, the few soldiers that remained at the presidio paid them little heed. They were too busy engaged in games of cards and dice and just plain general laziness to give the visitors any real bother at first. All the soldiers were out of uniform, preferring pants or long johns and open tunics. Slowly the soldiers became aware that an officer was present and ceased their activities. They stared silently at Captain de La Vega and his troops as if the contingent were a mirage. Captain de La Vega got off his horse. He and Lieutenant Rodriguez made a quick reconnaissance of the presidio. The presidio soldiers stood stone still. The barracks were unkempt, the stables needed turning, and the officers’ quarters hadn’t been cleaned. Captain de La Vega and Lieutenant Rodriguez looked out from the presidio’s promontory. The fort had an excellent command of the entire coast. A lush valley lay just below to the north. A river flowed lazily through the valley, finally emptying into the Pacific. The captain and lieutenant descended the stairs. “Bugler, sound general quarters,” the captain ordered. A young, fresh-faced soldier blew the call. The presidio soldiers scrambled to get in formation. Captain de La Vega’s troops stood facing them. The captain walked down the line of presidio soldiers, eyeing the bedraggled bunch. Some of the men nervously attempted to tuck in their tunics and button their jackets. “I am Captain Juan Diego de La Vega. I am your new commander. Where are the rest of the men assigned to this fort?” A short soldier whose face was hollowed from hunger raised his arm.

Captain de La Vega set his sights on the man, who looked like a decent wind would knock him over. “Yes, soldier?” “Sergeant Acuna, Captain. Many have died from the fever. Some went to the beaches where food is more plentiful. Some …” The sergeant shrugged his shoulders. “This is what remains of your command.” Captain de La Vega nodded. “Who is in command?” “I am the highest-ranking man left, Captain,” Sergeant Acuna replied. “Father Montoya from the mission has assumed control of the food and water.” The captain glanced at the two priests who had traveled with the caravan. They both stood silent. Captain de La Vega looked at the sergeant. “And where is Father Montoya?” Sergeant Acuna shifted his weight uneasily. “The priest took three men and went to hunt Indians.” The captain kept a stone countenance. “Why is Father Montoya hunting Indians? I was under the impression most of the local Natives were friendly. Have they suddenly turned hostile?” “No, Captain. The Indians, they run away from the mission. Father Montoya needs soldiers to recapture them.” Captain de La Vega fixed the troops with a hard look. “From here on no soldier is to assist Father Montoya. Sergeant, I want a man to take four of my soldiers and find those who have deserted this post. If the men are here and ready for review at sunrise, there will be no reprisals. Any who refuse or fail to return by the prescribed hour will be considered deserters and dealt with as such. The rest of you men will get this fort into shape immediately. As of now, any man out of uniform will be fined a week’s wages and draw sentry duty for a month. Understand?” “Yes, Captain,” the soldiers answered in unison. “Dismissed.”

The men scattered in a dozen different directions, all looking to show their new commander they were worthy and able. “Sergeant Acuna,” the captain said. “Yes, Captain?” “Take two of my men and bring back the soldiers Father Montoya borrowed.” Sergeant Acuna shifted his gaze. “Yes, Captain. What should I tell him?” Captain de La Vega smiled. “You can tell Father Montoya that I am now in command of the presidio.” The sergeant saluted and raced away. Captain de La Vega looked at Lieutenant Rodriguez. “It appears the good priest fashions himself the pope, Luis.” Lieutenant Luis Rodriguez noticed the two priests staring at the captain. He leaned close and whispered, “I would be circumspect in your speech, sir.” Captain de La Vega smiled. “Come, let’s go and find our quarters.” By sundown the soldiers sent to search for men along the beach had returned. All but five soldiers from the presidio were ed for. Captain de La Vega now had a command of sixty men, more than enough to run the fort efficiently. Sergeant Acuna returned with the soldiers Father Montoya had taken. He informed the captain that Father Montoya expected him at the mission for morning mass. “It is a sixteen-mile ride to the mission,” the captain remarked after Sergeant Acuna exited the officers’ quarters. “I’ll be damned if I’ll make that ride that early.” Lieutenant Rodriguez nodded and took a drink of wine from his tankard. “Hopefully the padre’s vintage will be better than this swill.” The two men laughed and toasted each other on a job well done.

The following morning the captain and five of his men, including Sergeant Acuna, rode out of the presidio for the mission. Lieutenant Rodriguez was now in charge. He immediately set about inspecting the men’s quarters and holding close order drills. The lieutenant was determined to whip the troops into shape in short order. After three hours of drilling the lieutenant had the men gather in a large circle. He selected Corporal Vargas, and they proceeded to fence. Miguel Vargas was a young man of twenty who had crossed the desert with Captain de La Vega. Rodriguez enjoyed fencing with the young man, who was proving to be quite skilled with a sword. Jorge Escobar, a private who had abandoned the fort for a life on the beach, shuffled through the presidio’s gates. He had been reluctant to return with the rest of the men, but when he didn’t hear the gunfire of an execution squad, he’d decided to return. The other soldiers whispered at the sight of the bedraggled man. His face and arms were dark from the sun, and he wore no boots. The fencing exhibition came to a halt. Lieutenant Rodriguez stepped out of the ring and faced the AWOL soldier. The man stopped and saluted his superior. The lieutenant didn’t return the salute. “What is your name?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked. “Private Escobar, sir.” “Corporal Vargas, you will place this man under arrest,” the lieutenant ordered. The private gave the lieutenant a pleading look. “But, sir, the men said if I returned there would be no—” Lieutenant Rodriguez held up his hand, silencing the soldier. “You were told to return to the fort by sunrise. You failed to do so. You are now a deserter.” “But, sir, I did return.” Rodriguez knew the soldiers were waiting to see how he would react. He was faced with a dilemma. Private Escobar was one of the presidio soldiers. He hadn’t crossed the desert with Captain de La Vega. The lieutenant knew that the captain needed all the troops working together. If Rodriguez mishandled this situation, it could split the two factions and prove disastrous for the presidio’s command.

“Corporal Torres, what were the captain’s orders concerning the men absent from the fort?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked. Torres was one of the soldiers who had left the fort for the beach and returned when informed of the new command. “The captain’s orders were that any man not ed for at morning roll call would be considered a deserter, sir,” the corporal replied. “Is this man in uniform, Corporal Torres?” “No, sir.” “You and Corporal Vargas will escort the prisoner to his cell immediately,” the lieutenant ordered. The soldiers watched silently as the two corporals placed Private Escobar in the hold. “Corporal Torres, you and Corporal Vargas are in charge. One more hour of drills.” Corporal Torres saluted. “Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Rodriguez marched up the stairs to the officers’ quarters. He made sure the men didn’t see his hands shaking. He poured himself a glass of wine and took a long drink. The wine steadied his nerves. He sat down in a chair. This was the first time he had been in charge of a fort. He had ordered men in the field, but that was different. A hot pit formed in his stomach. He drank more wine. Lieutenant Rodriguez realized he did not enjoy being the man in charge.

The mission sat in a valley surrounded by hills filled with olive trees and brown scrub. A shallow stream ran nearby. Captain de La Vega and the soldiers rode into the mission courtyard. Father Montoya was flogging an Indian whose arms were tied to two posts. Dozens of other Natives stood silently watching. The cleric didn’t bother to stop when the soldiers arrived. He only laid the lash harder on the Indian’s back as a means to impress the captain. This did not achieve the desired effect. Captain de La Vega slid off his horse, marched over to the priest, and grabbed

the whip from the fat man’s hand. “What is the meaning of this?” the priest demanded. “I should ask you the same question, Father.” Father Montoya lowered his arm and smiled. “You must be Captain de La Vega.” The captain gave a nod. “Might I inquire why you are flogging this man?” “It is a church matter,” Father Montoya replied. “Ahhh, so this man sinned?” “He has,” the priest replied. The captain pulled a dagger and cut the ropes binding the Indian. The man collapsed to the ground. “What are you doing?” Father Montoya demanded. Captain de La Vega ignored the cleric. He motioned to the group of Indians. Two young men stepped forward. They took their bloodied companion and quickly carried him away. “This is the mission. I am in charge here,” Father Montoya said. The captain turned and faced the priest. “Lucky, that you wear the robes of a priest.” “That savage deserted the mission. He must be punished.” Captain de La Vega nodded. “You are indeed in charge of the mission, Father. But I am the presidio’s captain. No man shall be a slave in San Diego as long as I am in command.” The priest’s cold gray eyes met the captain’s. “These heathens are not men like you and me, Captain.” Captain de La Vega offered the priest a smile. “All creatures are the children of God, Father, or did you Franciscans forget that when you burned the Jesuits at

the stake?” “Careful, Captain—one might think you a heretic,” Father Montoya replied coldly. Captain de La Vega chuckled. “The Inquisition is dead, priest.” A cold expression filled his tanned face. “If you whip another Indian, rest assured you will not appreciate the consequences, Father.” The captain got on his horse. “The devil rode a black steed,” Father Montoya said. Captain de La Vega reined the horse and gazed down at the cleric. “Your old wives’ tales are boring, priest.” The captain clicked his tongue and gave the stallion his way. Tornado raced from the mission. Father Montoya was covered in dust as the troopers galloped off following the captain. Captain de La Vega created an enemy in Father Montoya that day. The priest was enraged with De La Vega’s interference in the running of the mission. Father Montoya had to be careful and not challenge the captain directly, so he began a letter campaign. He wrote to the viceroy in Spain, to the bishop of Madrid, and even to the pope. He did not write to Mexico City. The governor had appointed De La Vega to the post and would not take kindly to a priest complaining about his choice for command. Father Montoya wrote his letters, and then he waited patiently.

The sentry on the presidio tower called out, “A ship! A ship!” It had been sixteen months since the last Spanish galleon had docked in the harbor. Private Mendez hastened to Lieutenant Rodriguez’s door and informed him of the vessel’s appearance. The lieutenant grabbed his spyglass and dashed from his quarters. He climbed the presidio’s tower, where the sentry stood. There was virtually no wind. The sun beat down on the white walls of the fort. Rodriguez shielded his eyes and looked out at the calm Pacific. The sentry pointed in the direction of the ship. “South on the horizon, sir.”

The lieutenant peered through his glass. The ship was still too far to make out its colors. With no wind it would take hours for the ship to reach the harbor. Rodriguez closed the glass and climbed down. He walked over to Sergeant Acuna, who stood at the wall, and said, “She won’t make harbor until nightfall.” “The captain is with the Natives at the river,” the sergeant replied. Rodriguez nodded. “Get my horse, Sergeant. I will go and find the captain.” Sergeant Acuna saluted the lieutenant and hurried off. Rodriguez returned to his room, retrieved a canteen, and headed toward the stables. Sergeant Acuna was waiting, holding the lieutenant’s horse. The white stallion snorted as the lieutenant swung up into the saddle. “You are in charge, Sergeant.” Sergeant Acuna saluted his superior officer. Lieutenant Rodriguez clicked his tongue, and the stallion galloped out of the gates.

The San Diego presidio was Spain’s primary fort in Alta California. There wasn’t another until Los Angeles, and that was nothing compared to the San Diego presidio. The missions were the primary manner by which Spain established its foothold in the region. The missions grew crops, which were sold in Spain and essential to the Spanish economy, and were involved in commerce. Commerce meant money. The San Diego mission was the largest and most prosperous of Padre Serra’s religious fiefdom. It had nearly eight hundred Natives working under the tutelage of Father Montoya and his monks. Captain de La Vega had upset the paradigm. Many Indians ran off. Father Montoya and his monks were able to coerce some to return with threats of excommunication and eternal damnation. The Luiseño Natives resisted Father Montoya’s demands to the other mission Indians. They preferred to utilize the abundant natural resources in the area rather than depend on the mission for their sustenance. Captain de La Vega had exacerbated the issue when he’d outlawed the imprisoning of Indians within the walls of the mission at night. Previously the priests had chained runaways at sunset. If an Indian ran a second time they were flogged. A third escape and the offender’s Achilles tendon was cut. Burdened by a near-useless leg, the offender

had little chance of escaping again. This was the will of Father Montoya’s God. He had appeared to the priest in his dreams and instructed him in converting the savages, or so Father Montoya told any who would listen. Captain de La Vega did not listen. He did not actually free the Indians, but he stood between Father Montoya and the lash. The successful operation of the mission required that the Natives plant and harvest the crops. The presidio received a share of the crops for the upkeep of the soldiers. It would be complete disaster if all the Natives ran away. The captain made sure no Native was flogged and prohibited his soldiers from hunting runaways. Over the year and a half the captain presided as the presidio commander, many Indians abandoned the mission. Many also remained. They knew no other way of life. The captain took a liking to the Luiseño. Tu-chai-pai was the man De La Vega had saved from flogging. The captain called him Toochi. The Luiseño would occasionally trade fish and game for brass buttons or knives with some of the soldiers outside of the presidio. The Natives were intimidated by the large edifice with its high walls and bell tower. Captain de La Vega believed he and the soldiers could learn from the Luiseño. The Natives had survived for centuries without armor, guns, or horses. The winters were relatively mild but could be wet, causing the river in the valley below the presidio to rise and overflow. The summers were hot, and water could be scarce when the river shrank to a trickle. The ocean was nearby, but the men were soldiers, not fishermen. Captain de La Vega would ride to the Native village north of the river. He wanted to show them that the soldiers posed no threat. At first the Luiseño were wary of the captain. He had saved Toochi, but their history with the Spanish was not a positive one. Over time Captain de La Vega built up Toochi’s trust. Still, many Luiseño continued to have no more than minimal with the soldiers. Toochi sought the captain’s company, though. Toochi was certain the man who wore an iron chest and rode the four-legged beast had magic. The Luiseño might learn magic from such a man. De La Vega rode through the scrub. He had traded with the Luiseño and had four ducks slung across his saddle along with a basket of fish. Even with Father Montoya being a thorn in his rear, the captain loved New Spain. He and Lieutenant Rodriguez had gotten the men into shape, and the fort now ran

smoothly. Because of the captain’s relationship with the Luiseño, the attacks on patrols had all but ceased. Lieutenant Alvarez and the men who had stayed behind in Yuma never made it to the presidio. After a month the captain had sent out a patrol in search of Alvarez and the others. Sergeant Acuna and his men returned three weeks later empty-handed. Lieutenant Alvarez and the other soldiers were never found. Captain de La Vega had sent word to Mexico with a request for reinforcements. The governor’s reply was brief and to the point. The captain would have to make do. The captain saw Lieutenant Rodriguez riding toward him. De La Vega held up the lines of fowl he had traded with the Natives. “We’ll eat well tonight, Luis,” he chuckled. “There is a ship, Captain.” “The first in ten months. What is the country of origin?” “I do not know, sir. She most likely won’t make landing till evening.” The captain reattached the ducks to his saddle and sighed. “Let us get back then. Pity, it was such a nice day.” The sun sat high in the clear blue sky. A flock of birds suddenly sailed from a large pepper tree and took flight. The horses snorted as the two officers rode toward the presidio.

The Paloma arrived after sundown as Lieutenant Rodriguez had predicted and spent the night anchored outside the harbor. The ship’s commander, Captain Petro Vasquez, sent a boat ashore with a message for Captain de La Vega. He conveyed his greetings and requested the captain to remain at the presidio and send a carriage to the harbor the following morning. The viceroy’s adjutant was on board and wanted to remain anonymous since his visit regarded matters of state. Corporal Torres, who had delivered the message to Captain de La Vega, asked if he cared to reply. “Tell them a carriage will be waiting.”

The corporal saluted and exited the captain’s quarters. Lieutenant Rodriguez entered the room a few moments later. De La Vega handed Rodriguez the message penned by the ship’s captain. The lieutenant read the parchment and looked at his commander. “What do you think this means?” Rodriguez asked. Captain de La Vega took a cigar from the humidor on the mantel and offered one to the lieutenant, who declined. “Who knows? It’s been ten months since the last ship docked here, and that was a French merchant ship. We haven’t heard anything from Mexico in over a year.” “It will be nice to get news from Spain,” the lieutenant said. De La Vega picked up the oil lamp and lit his cigar. “Yes.” The captain gazed out the window and exhaled a cloud of smoke. The stars hung heavy in the sky. A hawk called out to its mate. De La Vega turned back to the junior officer. “Do you ever get the feeling that this might be home?” “What, here?” Rodriguez replied. “We’re surrounded by Natives, and there isn’t a decent tavern let alone an opera house within a thousand miles.” “Don’t you ever get the feeling that we’re building something here?” “We have the fort, and yes, the town has grown … some. But it is a wilderness, a vast wilderness. Don’t you the trail we crossed to get here?” Captain de La Vega smiled. “That was a march.” “No, Captain, I long for Madrid and home.” Captain de La Vega puffed on his cigar and gave his friend a pat on the shoulder. “I am glad you have been with me on our little adventure, Luis. Tomorrow we will see the viceroy’s adjutant.” Lieutenant Rodriguez started out the door, and then turned. “You like it here, don’t you?” The captain smiled, a cloud of smoke circling his head. “Yes.”

The Paloma slipped into the calm-water harbor at sunrise. A few of the settlement’s residents came down to the beach. The soldiers from the presidio shooed them away. Two rowboats, each carrying a dozen soldiers, were lowered and rowed to shore. A thin, effeminate-looking man with a powdered white face stepped from one of the boats onto land. He was dressed in the grandest fashion that Spanish tailors could design, complete with ruffled cuffs and a bright-red vest. Behind him was a large man with a thick black moustache. The large man was dressed in high boots with a long leather coat and a tricorne hat. A cutlass hung from his side in a shiny brass scabbard held by a dark blue sash. Sergeant Acuna stepped forward and met the two men. “I am Sergeant Acuna—” The finely dressed man gave Acuna a look that froze the sergeant’s blood. The dandy and the big man boarded the carriage without a word. The big man slapped his hand on the side of the carriage, signaling the driver to take off. The team jolted, and the carriage took off, barely giving Sergeant Acuna time to get seated in his saddle. He signaled his men to follow. The soldiers from the two longboats remained on shore as the troopers rode off after the carriage. Captain de La Vega and Lieutenant Rodriguez stood with an honor guard in the presidio courtyard waiting to greet the carriage. The two officers wore their dress uniforms. A sentry called out the vehicle’s progress to the fort as it approached. The carriage came through the gates and stopped. Sergeant Acuna and his troopers dismounted. They were dusty from riding in the carriage’s wake. The carriage door opened, and the fancily dressed man stepped out and gazed about the presidio. “Quaint.” The big man followed. He saw the number of soldiers and frowned. Captain de La Vega stepped forward. “I am Captain de La Vega, commander of the presidio. This is my junior officer, Lieutenant Rodriguez.” The fop glanced at the two officers. “I do not care to conduct business in the courtyard, Captain.” The captain gave a nod. “Of course.” He gestured toward his office. “Please.”

Captain de La Vega escorted the two visitors across the courtyard and to his office. He was surprised when the dandy took a seat behind his own desk. Lieutenant Rodriguez gave the captain a look, but De La Vega’s expression told him to hold his tongue. The large man entered last and closed the door behind him. “Sir, might I ask the purpose of your visit?” Captain de La Vega asked. “I assume you are the viceroy’s adjutant.” He glanced at the man standing by the door. “And you must be Captain Vasquez of the Paloma.” The adjutant removed a leather packet from his jacket and slid it across the desk. “That should explain everything, Captain.” De La Vega opened up the packet, removed the parchment inside, and read it. The document was an official edict from the viceroy of Spain to immediately transfer power of command to Alfonso Gabriel De Soto, adjutant to the viceroy, complete with the viceroy’s seal. De La Vega handed the document to Lieutenant Rodriguez. “What does this mean?” the lieutenant asked after reading the document. Alfonso sat up in the chair and looked at the two officers. “I know you both have been in New Spain for some time, so let me bring you up to date. The mob has overthrown King Louis in . At the moment Catholic Spain does not have problems with .” He shrugged his shoulders. “But who can tell. War with England will be inevitable. Which brings us to our colony of New Spain, whose primary purpose for existing is to bring profit to the mother country. Since taking command of the presidio, Captain de La Vega has allowed Natives to escape from the mission. This has resulted in a twelve percent drop in revenue over the previous year. This type of loss is unacceptable.” Alfonso stopped for a moment. He glanced at the ship’s captain, who remained standing by the door. Captain de La Vega looked at the short man in the silk suit and lace and smiled. “So Father Montoya has finally gotten somebody’s ear.” “The Natives have all but ceased their attacks on the settlers since the captain has taken command,” Lieutenant Rodriguez blurted out in defense of his superior. Captain de La Vega signaled Rodriguez not to protest.

A slight smile slipped across Alfonso’s lips. “Loyalty in the ranks, that is good.” The smile fell, and the adjutant’s expression turned cold. “What this means, Lieutenant Rodriguez, is that Captain de La Vega is no longer the commander of this presidio. I am. When the captain’s father died three years ago and Juan Diego chose to stay in New Spain instead of returning home to manage his father’s affairs, the lawyers and creditors did so. De La Vega Merchants is no more. How can such a man command this presidio?” Captain de La Vega slowly sank down into a chair. The news was like a punch to the gut. Alfonso had died while Juan Diego had been fighting the Natives in Vera Cruz. He’d never told his son of his failing health. By the time Juan Diego had gotten the news, Alfredo had been buried four months. Juan Diego hadn’t been interested in the family business. He enjoyed being a soldier and had seen no need to return to Spain. Salvadore de Gazi, the family attorney, had assured him he would look after business matters. He had. Three years later he’d owned the company. De Gazi had done what all good lawyers do—steal within the boundaries of the law. Lieutenant Rodriguez took a step toward Alfonso. A dagger instantly appeared in Captain Vasquez’s hand, and he held it to the lieutenant’s throat. Captain de La Vega jumped to his feet. Alfonso held up his hand. “Captain Vasquez, I don’t believe that will be necessary,” Alfonso said. “There is no need for an incident. Wouldn’t you agree, Juan Diego?” The captain knew if he attempted to pull his sword, Vasquez would slice the lieutenant’s throat. He could call for soldiers, but Vasquez would most likely kill Rodriguez anyway. Juan Diego de La Vega was no longer in command of the presidio. The captain held up his hands. “Please, no violence. I will turn over my command.” Alfonso smiled. “That is wise.” He gave a look to Vasquez. Reluctantly the captain lowered the weapon but kept it handy. “You and the lieutenant are to relinquish your positions,” Alfonso said. “You are welcome to—” Lieutenant Rodriguez went for his sword. Vasquez thrust his dagger into the

lieutenant’s heart. Rodriguez was dead before he hit the floor. The helpless De La Vega stared down at his slain friend. “As I was saying, Captain, before your lieutenant rudely interrupted me, you are welcome to travel back to Madrid on the Paloma, or you may remain in New Spain, but you will not be allowed within fifty miles of the presidio or the mission.” “Do you think the men will merely step aside and allow you to command this presidio?” De La Vega asked. “The viceroy’s seal and sixty soldiers on the Paloma say I am now commander of the presidio. Those who refuse to obey my orders will be executed.” De La Vega hung his head. He knew there was little he could do. Alfonso was correct; the soldiers would follow his orders. Juan Diego knelt next to his friend’s body and brushed back Lieutenant Rodriguez’s hair. “He wanted to return to Spain. I will remain here.” “He had his chance,” Alfonso replied coldly. “You have one hour to vacate the fort. You may take a horse and two days’ rations.” De La Vega stood and silently exited the room. Alfonso smiled at Vasquez. “I told you this would be easy. Signal the ship for the rest of the troops to come ashore.” Vasquez reached down and pulled his dagger from the dead man. He wiped it off on the lieutenant’s tunic, slipped it in its scabbard, and looked at Alfonso. “I will never understand why the viceroy gave you command, but he did, and he gave me four hundred gold sovereigns to deliver you here safely, which I have done. You may command the presidio, but you do not command me, sodomite. I am returning to my ship and will send the soldiers to the fort. The Paloma sails at first tide. You are on your own then.” The burly man snorted. Alfonso’s sword appeared in his hand, and in a blur it sliced a two-inch gash on Vasquez’s cheek. “I do prefer the company of men, Petro. Something you’ll never be.” The silver blade flashed through the air, stopping just short of slicing Vasquez’s balls. “It would do you well to that.”

Vasquez glanced down at the sword that was centimeters from his manhood. He broke out in a cold sweat, looked up at the small man, and nodded. Alfonso’s sword flashed through the air once more as it returned to its scabbard. “You are dismissed, Petro.” Vasquez silently exited the office. The troops from the ship arrived. Lieutenant Rodriguez’s body was removed, and Alfonso Gabriel De Soto assumed command of the presidio, all before morning tea. Sergeant Acuna and the other soldiers might not have cared for their new commander, but they were soldiers and obeyed orders. Alfonso stood on the parapet and observed Juan Diego leaving the fort. As soon as De La Vega reached the riverbed below, Alfonso sent three of his men to follow the captain with orders to kill him if he attempted to double back. De La Vega stayed close to the river. He would travel north. He had heard stories of great forests with trees so tall and dense they blocked out the sky. If that was true, there would be plenty of lumber to build a home. Losing his father’s company was not the tragedy most would believe it to be. On the contrary, De La Vega was relieved. Now there was no reason to ever return to Spain. He would make his stand in the New World. The wind blew a soft breeze. De La Vega no longer wore his armor or helmet. He was dressed in high boots, leather pants, a cotton tunic, and loose-fitting jacket, which he had taken off and tied behind his saddle. He watched the Paloma sail out of the harbor and head north, hugging the coast. As the captain rode, he got the feeling he was being followed. He and Tornado continued along the Camino Real for a number of miles. Something caught De La Vega’s eye, a glint of belt buckle, and he guided Tornado into an area of tall reeds. The captain patted the horse’s neck and listened. A flock of gulls flew overhead. A horse neighed. De La Vega dismounted and led the horse through the high reeds, then stopped and waited silently. He heard approaching horses. “Where did he go?” a man asked. “I’m telling you he went into the reeds,” another man said. “I’ll be damned if I’m going in there,” a third man said. “The adjutant didn’t pay

me enough money to get my throat slit.” Leading Tornado, De La Vega worked his way around to flank the area from where the voices came. He stopped and crouched low among the reeds and observed three troopers on horseback about thirty yards away. He did not recognize any of the men. All three wore armor and helmets. One was a large man with a thick beard astride a gray steed. He rode over to a shorter, cleanshaven man riding a brown mare. The third man was the youngest. He looked to be no more than sixteen or seventeen and rode a white stallion. “I’m not about to go in there,” the man with the beard said. “What will we tell the adjutant?” the man on the brown mare asked. “Our orders were to make sure De La Vega never returns,” the young man on the white stallion said. “You two can tell the adjutant what you want. I’m going to carry out his orders.” The young man dug his spurs into the flanks of his horse, and the stallion barreled into the patch of reeds. The two troopers waited for a moment and then reluctantly followed. Juan Diego silently led Tornado out of the reeds. When they were a good distance away, he mounted and rode off. He would have only a few minutes’ lead and wanted to make the most of the opportunity. He rode toward the beach and then doubled back, making sure to travel in the rocky area off the main road. That evening De La Vega set up a cold camp. He hobbled Tornado and made his way south on foot. It didn’t take him long to see the fire where the troopers made camp. By the size of their campfire, he figured they must be over a mile due south. De La Vega crept back to his camp and bedded down for the night. He was up before sunrise and on his way. De La Vega had lost one of his canteens in the reeds the day before and needed to make for the river, which lay due east. He made it shortly after sunrise. He crouched by the riverbank and filled his canteen. He took a tortilla from his saddlebag and ate it. He would need to replace the canteen. His food stores would only last him another day or two. He hoped to make the pueblo of Los Angeles that day. A group of Luiseño was at the river. They paid the captain little heed. He cut a

brass button from his jacket and walked over to where the Natives were catching fish. He traded the button for a gourd, which would act as a second canteen, and three fish. He built a small fire and cooked one of the fish. He cleaned the other two and set them out to dry in the sun. The captain ate his meal and watched as the Native children attempted to catch fish like the elders. He wrapped his remaining fish in palm fronds and put them in the saddlebag. It was nearing midmorning when he mounted Tornado and started north again. He hadn’t gone more than a mile when he heard gunfire and the screams of terrified children. He turned Tornado and started back for the river. The three troopers who had been pursuing De La Vega had come upon the Natives fishing and opened fire on them. Those they didn’t kill would be taken back and handed over to Father Montoya. “Get the women,” the young soldier on the white stallion shouted. The bearded trooper and his companion chased down a group that was attempting to flee. A number of bodies lay floating in the river. The bearded trooper speared a young male with his lance and rode two children down, crushing them under the hooves of his horse. Juan Diego rode with his sword held high. With a single slash he beheaded the bearded soldier. The large man’s torso slid from the saddle as his horse galloped away. The young trooper fired his pistol. The shot went wild and missed De La Vega. The captain turned and rode toward the young man on the white stallion. Tornado collided into the horse. Juan Diego knocked the trooper from his saddle, and they both fell to the ground. The young trooper scrabbled to his feet, but De La Vega was faster. He spun and sliced the air with his sword. The blade came down on the soldier’s head, splitting his skull. De La Vega turned his sword ready. The clean-shaven trooper was astride his horse, his eyes filled with fear as he looked at De La Vega. He dug his spurs into the mare and raced away. De La Vega checked on Tornado and found the horse unharmed. He looked in the direction of the fleeing trooper. A cloud of dust was all that could be seen as the soldier fled the scene of carnage and death. Children cried. Women wept. De La Vega helped the Natives gather their dead. He made a litter and placed three of the dead braves upon it. He knew he should

have pursued the trooper and killed him, but he hadn’t. The man had seen him kill two soldiers of Spain. Juan Diego was now an outlaw. The Natives marched away from the river heading east toward their camp. De La Vega followed with Tornado, carrying their dead home.

Ireland

A pall hung over Erin. The blight had struck a few weeks ago. Both Protestant and Catholic potato crops turned fetid. There wasn’t a family left untouched when the taxes were due. The August sky was gray. Dark rain clouds gathered above Tarlington Hall, the estate of Lord Henry Tarlington, the Earl of Strathearn. The earl was Queen Victoria’s cousin and the leading landlord in the region, albeit an absent one. The earl’s tenants had gathered in line that morning to pay their taxes. Some who had neither cart nor horse had walked miles in order to reach the estate. They were a sorry group, farmers whose crops had failed and now had to pay the landlord. They would have to face the coming winter with little to nothing. Those that had livestock had a chance of making it until the next planting season. Those that didn’t would starve. Sean McGuire stood in line with his father, Michael. Sean was fifteen, with a muscular build. He had a head of shaggy brown hair, a winning smile, and a quick temper. They had arrived at the earl’s estate that morning in their cart just as the sun had crept over the horizon. A dozen farmers had already been standing in line. Michael and Sean had gotten in line and kept to themselves. Some of the farmers carried thatched crates containing chickens, and one had a pig on a rope, no doubt to trade in place of giving gold to their landlord. At exactly seven o’clock two soldiers opened the gates to Tarlington Estate. A third soldier motioned the group, which had now grown to a sizable number, to file down a walkway that ran adjacent to the stone wall surrounding the estate. The group followed the soldier to a small stone cottage sitting at the estate’s perimeter. This was a new procedure, but none of the farmers said a word. One by one they entered the cottage. Once a farmer entered the cottage, he did not reappear, exiting instead through another door. The entrance was flanked by two soldiers, but they were mostly for appearance. If the group had a mind to rush the cottage, it would take more than two British soldiers to deal with a host of outraged Irishmen. The irony was that there were no outraged Irishmen standing in the line that day. They were compliant men. They were frightened men. They were beaten men. The blight had taken its toll. When the potato crops had failed,

many had left their farms, fleeing to cities that were already overflowing with the destitute and desperate. Those who could scrape together age fled Erin Isle, many perishing on English coffin ships crossing the Atlantic. The McGuires were slightly more prosperous then some of their neighbors. They had a cow, two pigs, a dozen sheep, a goat, and a dozen chickens, in addition to the mule and cart. While the potato was king in Ireland, Michael always made sure he left enough land to plant beets, radishes, and cabbage. That had been his mother’s idea. It had saved the McGuires that year. Between the livestock and the sale of their produce they would be able to see the winter through and hope for a better spring. One of the soldiers standing near the cottage entrance motioned for Michael and Sean to enter. Isaac Dryden sat behind a weathered-looking desk with a large ledger open in front of him. A Dryden had served as the earl’s chamberlain for two generations, and Isaac Dryden was now grooming his son, Jacob, to assume his position. Isaac looked up. He was a frail-looking, middle-aged man with a thin wisp of hair on his head. His complexion was pale and spotted. His cheeks were sunk and his lips thin. He wore a black suit with a high collar that was frayed at the sleeves. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses sat upon a slender nose that came to a point. He had the distinct appearance of a vulture. A draft blew through the cottage, and he rubbed his hands together over the fire burning in the brazier. A young man a few years older than Sean entered the room. He walked over to Isaac and whispered something to him, then took his place behind Isaac’s highback chair. Though the young man was a good thirty years younger, there was no mistaking the resemblance between father and son. Jacob Dryden was much more fashionably attired than his father and wore the smug smile of a voracious predator. “Name,” the chamberlain brayed. “Michael McGuire, Your Honor.” Isaac ran a finger down the ledger. “Ahhh, yes, here it is. I can tell you now that the earl is not interested in barter. He has no need of chickens, pigs, or other such nonsense. Pay your tax or get out.” Michael realized this was why Isaac had set the tax collection up here instead of

at the big house like normal. In the past tenants had been able to barter for some of their payment. It was rare when a man could pay the entire tax on his property with coin. Even the McGuires had bartered from time to time in the past. Michael knew it would be futile for any of the farmers to ask for forgiveness. The blight was the biggest boon to the English landlords since William of Orange had defeated King James at the Battle of Boyne. The landlords might not get their money from their tenants—you couldn’t squeeze blood from a stone— but they could toss the tenants from their land if the taxes were not paid. Dozens of absent landlords had already evicted their tenants by the hundreds. This cleared the land for the grazing of beef. The English wanted cattle to live on the land, not the Irish. Michael opened his pouch and dropped a dozen coins on the table. Isaac Dryden scooped up the coins, biting each one to make sure it was not lead. “Hmm,” he said as he dumped the coins into a large chest that sat on a table behind him. He looked up directly at Michael. “What will you do next year should the crops fail?” “I’ll worry about that next year,” Michael replied. “That could be too late,” Isaac said. “If the potato fails again, you won’t be able to pay your taxes. I know. You sold your cow to make this year’s fees.” Michael’s expression hardened, but he remained silent. Isaac gave a nod toward Jacob. “This is my son, Jacob. He will be taking over from me one day. I am presently training him in the finer points of being the earl’s agent.” Isaac glanced up at Michael. “You see, farmer McGuire, there is very little that goes on hereabouts that I am not privy to. Now if you choose to sign over your leases today, I can give you and your family age to America and possibly even convince the earl to throw in a crown or two, so you won’t land there without two pence in your pocket.” Sean looked at his father. Michael tipped his cap. “I thank you for your offer, Your Honor, but my family will take our chances. The good Lord will provide for us.” Isaac chuckled and rocked back on his chair, looking at his son. “You see, Jacob, you can lead a horse to water, but if it is an Irish horse, it does not have the good

sense to drink.” “What do you expect of monkeys?” Jacob replied as he adjusted his necktie. Michael McGuire kept his temper checked and nodded knowingly. “We are simple people, Your Honor. We are farmers and don’t know any other trade.” Isaac waved Michael off. “Don’t forget I tried to help your family. If you are too ignorant to see that, I can’t help you. Next!” Michael tipped his cap. “A good day to you, Mr. Dryden. And a good day to your son.” Michael put his hand on Sean’s shoulder and guided him toward the rear door, which deposited them outside the walls of the earl’s estate. Outside the estate farmers who had gone before Michael and Sean were making the trek back home. Some had just given up and sat down in the ditches, crying. Michael and Sean got in their cart. Sean didn’t say anything as they rode past those he knew were evicted. He could not understand why his father hadn’t spoken up to the chamberlain. “What will we do if the crops fail next year?” Sean asked, finally breaking the silence. “We will continue to work the farm,” Michael replied. Sean was silent again for a long while. God certainly hadn’t provided for the thousands of Irish now facing eviction and starvation. “Da, why didn’t you speak up to the earl’s agent? You could have knocked him all the way to Dublin with a single blow.” Michael chuckled. “Of course I could, but what would that have accomplished?” “Dado fought the British,” Sean said, using his grandfather’s nickname. Michael tousled Sean’s hair and laughed. “Yes, he did, and Dado nearly lost his family in the process.” Sean knew well the story of his grandfather, Thomas “Dado” McGuire. Thomas had been nineteen when he’d ed the Peep o’ Day Boys and fought the king’s

army during Wolf Tone’s uprising against the crown. He’d escaped the king’s men after the French fleet was defeated and the Irish cause lost. He returned to his family home in Strabane only to discover it toppled and his parents among those slain during the uprising. He found his two younger brothers, Patrick and Colin, and the three young men journeyed to Ballymoney. The brothers took out leases with Lord Tarlington and farmed land that until then had been fallow. The McGuires worked long and hard and prospered. Patrick’s heart wasn’t into farming, and after three years he sold his interests to his brothers and went off to Derry to sail the seven seas. Colin, his wife, and their two young children succumbed to the fever a few years later. That left Thomas with the entire farm. Being the oldest, Thomas had never taken the time to marry. He had been too busy working the farm. Now Dado McGuire held three leases and was a catch for any woman. Anne Dillon was eighteen and the eldest of five children. She was not homely but would never be called a looker. She had plain features that included small hands and feet. She was practical and knew that she would never win a man with her beauty, but she thought that she might win one with her knowledge of farming. She was a tenant farmer’s daughter and had followed her father in the fields from the time she’d been able to toddle after him. She knew farming better than her three brothers put together. Anne Dillon set her sights on Thomas McGuire. Thomas was awkward with women. Anne approached him at the church social and simply asked if he had ever thought of growing beets on some of his land. That got Thomas talking. They spent the entire evening discussing crops, weather, and livestock. Three months later Thomas and Anne married. Michael was born the following year. Eileen was born two years later. She was a sickly child who died before her second birthday. Joseph came the next spring. Anne died giving life to the boy. Thomas could not look Joseph in the eye without seeing Anne’s face. He provided for Joseph, but he never showed the boy love. His love was reserved for Michael. Michael was built tall and sturdy with thick brown hair. He possessed a smile and a way that could charm a snake out of its skin. He never used his size to bully. Thomas saw to it that Michael was educated. The boy took to books like a rabbit to a cabbage patch. When Michael turned eighteen, he married Jennifer Callen, a tenant famer’s daughter. By this time Michael and Thomas were the

largest tenant farmers in the region. Sean was born on Michael’s twentieth birthday. Dado gave his grandson a gold guinea as a christening present. Sean loved the farm as a young boy. He enjoyed the way farming marked the seasons. Spring they would plant. Summer meant taking the sheep and goats to the high country to graze. August was the beginning of the harvest. Winter was cold, but Sean could sleep snug in his bed until nearly seven without having to worry about attending to chores. Sometimes during the latter part of summer Sean would spend a few weeks visiting his uncle in Derry. Patrick had retired from a life at sea after an accident had cost him his left hand. A sailor might get by with a peg leg on board a ship, but both hands were needed to work the ropes and sails. Patrick would take his grandnephew down to the docks, and he and his sailor friends would regale Sean with wondrous tales of distant islands and the strange and exotic people who lived there. When Sean returned home from the first of such trips and told his grandfather about Patrick’s friends, Dado frowned. “Fillin’ your head with nonsense,” he grumbled. Sean had learned to compartmentalize early. He’d never told his grandfather about his visits with Patrick again. He knew Dado lived a hard life and had taken care of the family since before he was born. Sean idolized his grandfather. Sean looked at his father as they rode in the cart. “Jacob called us monkeys.” “And what would you call someone that dances for the earl’s gold?” Michael asked. “The Drydens are an accursed bunch. Benjamin Dryden was the earl’s chamberlain back in Dado’s day. His son, Isaac, has been the thorn in your Da’s ass, and from the looks of it, his bastard son will be squeezing your bollocks if you stay here.” “I like it here,” Sean said. “You’re here. Mum’s here. Dado …” He trailed off. Michael gave Sean a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I know, but that’s why I want you to get an education, so you don’t have to deal with that bastard Dryden.” Sean nodded. England had rescinded some of the exclusionary laws from the

Cromwell era. As a result Catholic children could now attend public schools. Michael had made sure his son was well read. Sean could even speak Latin, a skill that had eluded his father, and had taught himself a bit of French with the aid of Robert Fradet, his teacher at the school in Ballymoney. Michael had been taught by shanachies, teachers who risked life to instruct their students. Now that the British allowed Catholics to attend public school, Sean was the first in the family to go. Father Shannon did not approve of Sean attending a Protestant school. Thomas gave little heed to the priest’s complaints that Sean would lose his soul. “Better to be an educated man condemned to hell than an idiot consigned to heaven,” Dado had told Father Shannon when the priest had professed his disapproval. The priest had said no more. The McGuires held sway with many of the farmers in the parish. Except for a small stipend from the order, Father Shannon lived off the tithes of his parishioners. A hash word from Dado McGuire could certainly affect the priest’s income.

Sean and his uncle Joseph took the mule and cart after Sunday mass to see the fair that had set up outside of the village. As a boy Joseph had not received a father’s love, but he had received Dado’s blows. When Joseph was twelve, he’d forgotten to latch the pen, and the chickens had gotten out. Thomas had backhanded Joseph, sending him careening down the wooden stairs of the root cellar and knocking him out. After that Joseph’s speech had been slurred, and he’d had trouble understanding the books his older brother, Michael, gave him. Joseph was a hard worker, and that was his value as far as Thomas was concerned. The fact that Joseph had the mental capacity of a possum didn’t bother Dado. Joseph never resisted his father and worked the land harder than any two men. Sean had taken to his uncle as a young child. This vexed Dado, but he said nothing against it. He loved his grandson and would lay down his life for Sean if necessary. Joseph and Sean worked together in the fields, and that was fine with Thomas. His outlook on life was simple. The land gave sustenance. You had to work the land in order to survive. An education was wasted on all but the eldest son. The eldest would inherit the family farm and needed knowledge to on to his firstborn son, so he was the only one who need be educated. This was not a belief that Sean held. He enjoyed books and learning and thought everyone should have the opportunity to be educated. Sean kept these ideas to himself. He

knew his free thinking would upset Dado. Joseph smiled as they approached the fair. Sean checked his pocket. The coins his father had given him that morning were secure. Even though many a farmer had failed, the full brunt of the blight was yet to be felt. For those who had made it through the year, the carnival provided a small respite from the daily trials that engulfed them. Joseph jumped off the cart and hobbled the mule. Sean got off and checked his pocket again. The money was still there. He had enough for a bag of candy and something for his mother. Sean thought he would like to buy her a bow for her hair. Jennifer McGuire was a farmer’s wife and as such practical. Whatever Sean decided to get his mother, it could not be frivolous. Sean and Joseph crossed the road. Sean was nearly as tall as his uncle and had the same broad shoulders. They walked down the row of booths festooned with brightly colored flags. A man held out the small figurine of a horse he had just carved. Sean smiled and tipped his hat. “Sean McGuire,” a voice called out. Sean turned. It was Maggie Callahan, the daughter of the village pub owner, Seamus Callahan. Maggie was a year younger than Sean. She had thick blonde hair and deep-green eyes the color of the sea. She was not shy about her interest in Sean. “Oh, hi.” Sean shifted nervously and stuffed his hands in his pockets because his palms were already sweating. Maggie held out her hand. Sean tried to rub all the sweat off as he extracted his hand from his pocket and then shook Maggie’s hand. Maggie glanced at Joseph. “You know my uncle Joe,” Sean said, embarrassed he had let his manners slip. “Good day, Joseph,” Maggie said. Joseph smiled. He liked the fact she called him by his Christian name. He held out his hand and shook Maggie’s hand. “She is pretty,” he announced with a big smile. Sean dug the toe of his boot into the ground, embarrassed. He didn’t know what

to say. His face turned red. Maggie gave Sean a friendly nudge. “Your uncle is a very smart man.” Suddenly there was a clamor of people shouting and racing to get out of the main promenade. Sean turned. A horse and its rider raced toward them. Sean shoved Maggie out of the way. Dust flew in the air. The horse whinnied and reared up. “Get out of the way, you damn fool,” the rider shouted and brought his crop down on Joseph’s head, knocking him to the ground. Blood streamed from a large gash on his face as he lay in the dirt. Without a word Sean raced toward the rider, bounding up and off an overturned cask. He flew through the air and knocked the rider from the horse. The rider landed squarely in the mud. Excited by all the commotion, the horse evacuated a pile of dung, right on top of the rider. Sean hit the ground, rolled, and was on his feet, fists ready. The rider got up and wiped the dung from his face. It was Jacob Dryden. The chamberlain’s son glared at Sean. “You!” Jacob pulled a dagger from his vest and charged. Sean was ready. He dodged Jacob’s thrust and caught his arm. In a single swift move Sean brought his knee up and slammed Jacob’s arm down, breaking it. Jacob dropped the dagger. He fell to his knees and screamed in pain. “Kill this bastard!” A crowd had gathered. They stood and watched in silence. The Drydens were not known for their benevolence, so the peasants were not prone to move swiftly. Seamus Callahan dashed up and saw Sean with his daughter, Maggie. Jacob Dryden brayed like a gut-shot mule and pointed a finger at Sean. “Kill that man! Do you people know who I am? Shoot that man, and someone get me a doctor!” Seamus didn’t stand around to see if the villagers responded to Jacob’s demands. The chamberlain’s son had been injured, and payment would be exacted. The tavern owner grabbed Maggie. “Come, girl!” Before Maggie could utter a word of protest, Seamus dragged her away.

Sean hurried over to his uncle. “Are you okay, Joe?” The gash on the left side of Joseph’s face where the crop had come down was still bleeding profusely. Sean took the kerchief tied around Joseph’s neck and used it to stop the bleeding. “My head hurts, Sean.” Sean helped Joseph to his feet. “You’re letting a killer escape,” Jacob shouted hoarsely. “You all saw he tried to kill me!” Sean and Joseph got on the cart and rode away. The crowd dispersed as the chamberlain’s son screamed epithets and threats to a deaf and dumb world. Michael knew something was amiss when he heard the cart drive up. He dashed out of the house. “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph,” Michael said when he saw Sean and Joseph getting out of the cart. Michael helped his son and brother into the cottage. “Jenny, fetch some water and rags.” Jennifer McGuire looked up from the large pot that hung over the fireplace where she was stirring the family’s dinner. Without a word she hurriedly got a bowl of water and clean rags. Joseph sat down on a stool, and Jennifer cleaned her brother-in-law’s wound. “What in the name of God happened?” Michael asked. Sean told his parents how Jacob Dryden had hit Joseph and how he had defended his uncle. Michael and Jennifer stared at their son in disbelief. “Jaysus, Sean, do you know what you have done?” Michael asked when Sean finished his story. Tears welled in Jennifer’s eyes, but she held her tongue. The door opened, and Thomas entered. “Sean, you have got to go, son.”

Michael looked at the older McGuire. “Angus Haggerty told me,” Thomas said. “He saw Sean beat the daylights out of Jacob Dryden. The bastard came at Sean with a knife.” “Sean could tell the earl what happened,” Jennifer said. Thomas gave Michael a hard look. “Angus won’t testify. Nobody will. The earl’s men will come for Sean.” Michael held his son’s hands and looked him in the eye. “You were right to deal with Jacob, but he’s the earl’s man. Once his father discovers what you’ve done, he’ll send the earl’s soldiers to arrest you. Dado’s right; you must leave.” Jennifer grabbed her husband’s arm. Tears streamed down her face. “Where will he go? Sean’s only a boy. Where will my son go? Can you tell me that, Michael McGuire?” Thomas looked at his daughter-in-law. “Sean will go to Derry. Patrick will get him out of the country.” “Out of the country?” Jennifer wailed in disbelief. “What about you and Ma?” Sean asked his father. “What about the farm? You will need me for the planting next year. Couldn’t I just stay with Uncle Patrick?” Michael stood silent. Thomas shook his head. His piercing eyes met Sean’s. “I’m sorry, Sean.” Sean nodded in resignation. “Quick, boy,” Thomas said. Sean hurriedly gathered up an extra shirt and a few other belongings and tied them in a bindle. “Can I say good-bye to Connor and Kate?” Sean asked, referring to his younger brother and sister. Jennifer took Sean’s jacket from the peg hanging near the door and put it on him.

“You must go now, Sean.” She hugged her son close. Thomas put his hand on Sean’s shoulder. The young man pulled away from his mother. He fought back the tears that were threatening to stream from his eyes. “I’ll take him,” Dado said. Michael was going to say something, but Thomas cut him off. “Your place is here. When the earl’s men come, tell them I took Sean to see Dian Cecht, the healer. Understand?” Michael nodded and hugged Sean. “Take care, son.” “We must go,” Dado said. Joseph looked at his nephew. “I won’t forget you, Sean.” “Nor I you.” Thomas and Sean exited the cottage. Sean instinctively went over to the cart. “Leave it,” Thomas said, already setting a steady pace across the field. Sean hurried after his grandfather. “Why didn’t we take the cart, Dado?” “The cart only travels on the road, where the earl’s men would be sure to catch us. We will do better by foot. I know a fisherman, Kevin Leahy, who will take you to Derry and deliver you to Patrick.” “You’re not coming with me to Derry?” Sean asked, surprised to hear his grandfather’s plan. Thomas marched quickly, belying his sixty-seven years. “Derry is too far to go by land. Kevin is a hard man, Sean. You can trust him to get you to your uncle.” Sean nodded and maintained the pace Thomas set. He walked in silence for a long time, now understanding the gravity of the morning’s events. It had happened so quickly, talking with Maggie, seeing the horse race toward them, hearing Joseph’s cry, leaping up and knocking Jacob from the horse. “What will happen if the earl’s men don’t find me?” Sean asked, finally breaking

the silence. “Your father will tell them what I told him to. My guess, the earl’s men will head south to Newtownabbey. They’ll think you’ll try to skip out from Belfast. That would be the fastest way.” Sean wondered how Dado knew this but didn’t question him. “What about Da and Ma and everybody else?” Thomas continued to walk at a brisk pace. “With the blight hitting every farmer, the earl has bigger worries than you. No doubt when they don’t find you after week’s end that will be the end of it.” “The earl’s men won’t arrest Da?” Thomas stopped and turned to look at his grandson. “Jacob Dryden is the chamberlain’s son, not the earl’s. Arresting your father would not be in the earl’s best interest, seeing that he is one of His Lordship’s few tenants who paid his taxes in coin. The chamberlain will not imprison a tenant that is able to pay the earl.” Thomas turned and set out on a brisk march again. Sean kept pace with his grandfather and remained silent for the remainder of their journey. Thomas and Sean skirted the village, finally stopping at a small cottage that was no bigger than a root cellar. The cottage sat some forty yards from the water. A small skiff sat on the beach. A man who looked to be nearly as old as Thomas sat on the edge of the boat mending a net. The man stood up as soon as he saw Thomas and Sean. The two old men shook hands. “Kevin, this is my grandson, Sean. He needs to go to Derry. Take him to Patrick.” Without saying a word Kevin tossed the net into the skiff and pushed the boat into the water. Sean glanced at the boat and then looked at his grandfather with pleading eyes. Thomas handed Sean two gold coins and gave a nod toward the water. “Do exactly as Kevin tells you.”

Sean took the coins. He slipped them inside his boot and hugged his grandfather. “I’ll miss you, Dado.” “Go,” Thomas said. Sean turned and raced into the water. The first wave splashed, and he was chilled. Kevin held out his hand and pulled Sean into the skiff. The older man already had the sail up. The wind caught the sail, and the small boat skimmed across the water. Sean turned and looked back at the rapidly retreating shore. Dado was nowhere to be seen.

California Territory

Thaddeus Parker stood at the helm of his ship the Falcon as it approached Monterey Bay. The Falcon was a swift clipper that had taken Thaddeus twice around the world. Thaddeus was a close friend of Patrick McGuire’s and had taken Sean on board the Falcon to help him escape the earl’s men. Thaddeus had been in a similar situation himself some years back. Thaddeus had been a fifteen-year-old ship’s mate on a whaler out of New Bedford in 1814 when it had been commandeered by a British frigate. Half of the crew had been impounded into the British navy. For the next year Thaddeus and the others were forced to fight against American ships. Those that refused were hung. When the warship returned to British waters and docked in Derry, Thaddeus made his escape. He spent two nights hiding under a dory. Patrick spotted Thaddeus emerging from under the boat early in the morning. Knowing the docks had its share of ship jumpers, Patrick stopped Thaddeus. The American was hesitant at first, but Patrick explained that Thaddeus could tell him his story over a bowl of soup away from the prying eyes of the English overlords. Thaddeus quickly agreed. The two men adjourned to Patrick’s house. Upon hearing the young man’s story, Patrick hid Thaddeus until he could get him on a ship to . From there Thaddeus eventually landed in New Orleans. He never left the sea and eventually became the captain of the Falcon. Thaddeus sailed from America to Europe dozens of times over the years. Thaddeus never forgot the kindness Patrick McGuire had shown him. Every time he sailed for Europe, Thaddeus made sure he paid Patrick a visit. It was fortuitous timing that Thaddeus sailed into Derry the day after Kevin Leahy had deposited Sean at his Uncle Patrick’s house. Thaddeus instantly agreed to Patrick’s request to spirit Sean out of the country. He took the young man aboard the Falcon that night and set sail on the first tide. Sean was a quick learner, and Thaddeus taught the young man everything he knew about sailing and the sea. They sailed to Spain. Sean marveled at the colorful clothes and the architecture with its many domes and minarets. The sights, sounds, people, and food were all foreign and exotic. Sean had never been farther from home than Derry.

The Falcon wintered in Morocco. Sean never knew the weather could be so warm in December. He swam. He fished. He was almost able to forget that he had left his family and had not heard a word from them. Thaddeus could see the cloud over Sean and sent a message to Patrick. Shortly after the New Year the Falcon set sail for the United States carrying a cargo of dried fruit, salt, and olive oil. They docked in Charleston, unloaded the ship’s goods, and took on engers. The Falcon’s manifest would be only engers on this voyage. The ship sailed next to New Orleans. The colorful lights and sounds beckoned to Sean. Their stay was just long enough to take on more travelers. Sean promised himself that he would one day return to the enchanted city. Galveston was the Falcon’s final stop before continuing to California. Jedidiah McCabe, a mountain man and trapper, boarded the ship there. It seemed to Sean that nearly every enger on the ship was trying to get to the territory, as McCabe called it. “California’s gonna be a republic, just like Texas,” Jedidiah told Sean one evening as they stood on the deck watching the sunset. “That’s why I’m headin’ back. Kit is leadin’ the regulars. Ain’t a man alive knows the territory like Kit. California ain’t nothin’ but open territory. You can’t up an’ tell Americans they can’t go there. We gotta learn them Mexicans whose boss.” McCabe spit a wad of tobacco juice over the rail. The wind blew some back onto his buckskin jacket. He wiped it off with the back of his hand and went on chewing. “Went overland to California three times and nearly lost my scalp twice to the Apaches. Figured this time I’d travel by sea.” Sean looked at the mountain man. He had read James Fenimore Cooper’s novels and was fascinated by the men who traveled America’s frontier, frequently living among the Natives. McCabe wasn’t tall or handsome by any stretch of the imagination. The man was barely five foot eight and had a beard speckled with gray and stained with tobacco juice. He wore a buckskin outfit that was stained with sweat and blood. Sean had to it that Jedidiah McCabe didn’t look anything like the illustrations of Leatherstocking in the books he read in Ireland. “Are the Rockies as big as they say they are?” Sean asked. The mountain man looked at the young ship’s mate. “Bigger. Me an’ Kit went up

them Rockies once that disappeared into the clouds, and we see some feller up there. He’s wearin’ a white robe an’ sittin’ on a high stool looking at some big book restin’ on a big gold pedestal. Kit told the feller we was lost and asked him which way we was headed. The feller pointed down. I wasn’t ’bout to argue with the man and tol’ Kit so. Kit said he weren’t neither, so we scrambled on down that mountain right quick.” Sean knew McCabe was telling a stretcher, but he wasn’t going to call the man a liar. Sean enjoyed listening to Jedidiah’s tall tales. The mountain man told Sean of leading a wagon train of Baptists and Lutherans to Oregon and how the two groups wanted to kill each other almost as bad as the Indians. “Lesson here, son, is never pack a Baptist and a Lutheran together. You might as well put a badger in a sack and jump in with him for all the peace you’ll get from a Biblethumper.” The sea didn’t affect McCabe as it did some of the other engers. The only thing Jedidiah had brought with him on the voyage besides his rifle and pistols was a case of Kentucky bourbon, which he readily shared with Thaddeus. The mountain man was below deck sleeping off a hangover when the Falcon sailed into Monterey. The waters were tranquil, and the sun was just coming up on the horizon as the Falcon cut landward. The ship’s bow cut through the calm green waters like a saber through paper as the ship turned toward the harbor. Thaddeus was alarmed to see four navy ships anchored in the Monterey harbor. He puffed hard on the Havana cigar clenched between his teeth. Even in the early-morning hour, the shore bustled with activity. Just beyond the town stood what seemed to be an endless forest leading up to a massive mountainside. Most of the trees poked up through the layer of fog that hung over the forest. They were the tallest trees Sean had ever seen. The landscape brought images to Sean’s mind of what Valhalla must look like. The town consisted primarily of wooden structures, instead of stone and thatched roofs like in Ireland. Sean stood on the deck next to Thaddeus taking it all in. Thaddeus looked regal standing at the wheel dressed in his blue jacket, white shirt, and black pants with high boots. He had a thick moustache that only added to his character. He seemed uneasy, so Sean asked, “Is everything all right, Captain?”

Thaddeus chomped on his cigar and puffed hard. “I certainly didn’t anticipate this many government ships in these waters.” “Jedidiah says there’s gonna be a fight with the Mexicans,” Sean said excitedly. “Hmmm,” Thaddeus grumbled. “I believe I will anchor on this side of the bay.” He swung the ship about. “But, Captain, we’d be closer to shore if we anchored on the other side,” Sean said. Thaddeus arched an eyebrow. “Best keep our distance from the bluecoats, in case the Mexicans start shooting. Wouldn’t want the Falcon getting damaged in a cross fire.” Sean looked at the captain but didn’t say anything. He knew Thaddeus sometimes skirted the authorities and dropped shipments at night to parties not listed in the ship’s manifest. They had done it in Spain. The money was good, and if the local tax collector didn’t get his share, the better for all. Sean looked at the bustle of activity on shore with excitement in his eyes. Thaddeus called to weigh the anchor. The crew set about getting the boats ready to take the engers to shore. Thaddeus turned to Sean. “Well, Master McGuire, what are your plans?” Sean was surprised at the captain’s query. He hadn’t really thought much about it. The ship and Thaddeus had been his life since leaving Ireland. “I’m not sure. Where are you going next?” “As far away from the navy as possible.” Thaddeus removed a flask from his jacket, uncorked it, and took a long pull. He capped the flask and returned it to its place in his jacket. “I’ve got a manifest for lumber in Oregon. I’ll be heading north on the morning tide. You’re welcome to sail with me, Sean.” Sean had heard tales of California from his Uncle Patrick’s friends. Some had worked on merchant ships that traded in the Sandwich Islands and California. Their tales were filled with wild characters and exotic locales. Sean was perplexed. He didn’t want to be thought disloyal. Thaddeus had saved his life taking him aboard the ship. Thaddeus had taught him how to sail and

how to navigate by the stars. When the Falcon had docked at Galveston, Thaddeus had finally received a reply to his letter to Patrick McGuire.

Dear Thaddeus, It is with a heavy heart I write you. The earl’s chamberlain arrested Thomas, Michael, and Joe and hung them. His soldiers tumbled the house and confiscated the livestock. Jennifer and the children are gone. Typhus took them. The blight has struck Ireland again. I am in now in order to escape the earl’s men. Please tell Sean that his family is lost. It was not his fault. He did the right thing taking on Dryden. Sean must forget Erin and make his way in America. I cannot thank you enough, Thaddeus, for your help. May this letter find you and Sean in good health.

Your friend always, Patrick McGuire

Thaddeus had given Sean the letter before they were to leave Galveston and had offered to pay Sean’s age back to Europe if he so desired. Sean had not cried when he’d read the letter. He’d thanked Thaddeus and asked if he could continue working on the Falcon. Thaddeus had put his arm around the young man and said, “I would be proud to have you as a mate.” That was that. Sean never said a word about his family and home, and Thaddeus never saw the young man shed a tear. Sean kept his feelings and thoughts to himself like a true Irish hard man. He had to, or he would go mad. He was sixteen and an orphan due to the iron heel of British rule. Sean hid Ireland and his family deep in the recesses of his mind. Now he was faced with the dilemma of staying aboard the Falcon or leaving the captain. Thaddeus could see the young man was troubled. “Tell you what,” he said. “Go

on ahead to shore. Take a look around. If you want to return, wave a white flag, and I’ll send a boat for you. If you care to remain ashore, you go right ahead. I’ll not hold it against you.” Sean scratched his head. “I wouldn’t mind going ashore, Captain. California is a place I’d at least like to set my foot upon.” Thaddeus chuckled. He removed a small leather pouch and handed it to Sean. “A sailor never wants to hit a shore empty-handed. Here’s twenty dollars, just in case you do decide to stay. You’ll need some basics.” Sean took the pouch and thanked the captain. “Go on now,” Thaddeus said. “I’ll wait till the morning tide.” Sean gave the captain a salute, which Thaddeus returned. Sean climbed over the side and got into one of the longboats ferrying engers to shore. Thaddeus watched as the boat made its way toward the beach then turned to one of the sailors. “Go wake Mr. McCabe and tell him he better get his ass moving if he doesn’t want to swim to shore.” “Aye, aye, sir,” the sailor replied and rushed off to wake the mountain man. Thaddeus looked back at the shore. The boat had dropped Sean and the other engers and was heading back to the ship. Thaddeus couldn’t see Sean, but he gave a wave anyway before turning back to the business of dealing with his crew and ship. Sean started up the path to the town. The streets were muddy. Dark-skinned men were working on their fishing nets along the shore. They talked as they worked on the nets, speaking a language Sean didn’t understand. One of them said something and pantomimed lighting a canon and farted. The others laughed. Sean continued up the beach to the town. A raised plank sidewalk ran down either side of the main thoroughfare. The most prominent structure in Monterey was the Custom House, which stood at the head of the main street running through the town. A few Mexican soldiers stood near the entrance. Nearby fish merchants sold the day’s catch from their carts. Sean walked down the sidewalk. He had never seen an American town up close, and this one proved to be everything he had imagined. Men wore pistols

strapped to their hips and carried rifles. Some were not much older than Sean. They had weather-beaten faces that told of the hard lives they lived in the open. They wore buckskin outfits much like Jedidiah’s or heavy wool tros and sheepskin coats or furs. All wore wide-brimmed hats. Some had bandoliers. There were few women to be seen. Men with slanted eyes and long black queues dressed in what looked like silk pajamas ed Sean and bowed their heads. They spoke a strange dialect that Sean couldn’t understand. After exploring the town, Sean realized he hadn’t eaten since the previous evening and set out to find someplace where he might purchase a meal. The first establishment he entered turned out to be a saloon. He made a U-turn exit and continued down the street. He spotted a sign hanging over a small adobe structure that simply said “Rosario’s—Food.” The hungry young man hurried toward the restaurant and entered. The room was dark, as there were only two small windows on the eastern side of the adobe. Sean took a minute to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He saw an empty table and sat down. He didn’t notice the two men sitting at a table near the rear, but they took notice of him. A dark-skinned man with a neatly trimmed moustache walked over to Sean. “Buenos días, señor.” “Howdy,” Sean replied. Jedidiah had explained to Sean that this was how Americans greeted each other. “I’m hungrier than a hoot owl on a horny toad,” Sean said in a futile attempt to imitate Jedidiah’s penchant for hyperbole. Sean believed all westerners spoke in the manner Jedidiah did. The waiter nodded and walked away. He returned shortly with a plate of food and a mug of beer and set them down on the table. The food looked foreign. There was some kind of meat, possibly beef, with some beans and flatbread. Sean was too hungry to care and ate the food with relish. The meat was spicy but tasty, and the beans were filling. He used the bread to scoop the meat and beans down. The beer was decidedly weaker than Sean was used to, but it was wet and refreshing. Sean finished his meal. He had no idea the value of American coinage. He stood up and took a gold coin from his pouch and handed it to the man. The man waved Sean off. “Dos pesos, señor. You go banco. Get pesos. Come back, pay, sí?” Sean tried handing the man the coin again.

“Señor, too mucho. You go banco.” “Where’s the banco?” Sean asked. The man guided Sean to the doorway and pointed down the street to a large building near the Custom House. “Banco.” “Oh, bank. Yes. I’ll get pesos and bring them back to you.” The dark-skinned man smiled and nodded. “Sí, señor, gracias.” “That was a very good meal. I’ve never had beans like that, but they were bloody good,” Sean said and exited the adobe. The two men sitting in the rear got up and casually followed Sean. One was short with curly red hair. He wore a tattered plaid suit and a black derby that had also seen better days. His companion had long, greasy brown hair. He was tall and lean and wore brown wool tros that were patched, a soiled shirt, a brown woolen jacket, and a large, floppy hat. Both men wore guns. As Sean was about to cross the muddy thoroughfare to the far sidewalk, the short man started ahead and left his companion. “What cur, aren’t you Jimmy O’Neil from Dublin?” he asked Sean. Sean turned at the sound of an Irish voice. A smile filled his face. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, an Irishman out here in the West,” he exclaimed. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you was me friend, Jim O’Neil,” the short man said, feigning embarrassment. Sean put out his hand. “Sean McGuire.” “Scotty Lonnigan from Dublin.” The two men shook hands. “You new to America?” Sean nodded. “Just got in this morning.” Scotty removed a flask from his coat and offered it to Sean. “Well, we need to toast your arrival then.”

Sean grinned and took a swig. His eyes opened wide. “Aye, that’s good.” Scotty nodded for Sean to take another. “Go ahead. That’s the elixir of the gods, straight from the Emerald Isle.” Sean took another long pull on the bottle. The short man tugged on his earlobe. His companion caught the signal and crossed the street. “May I ask where you are headed?” Scotty asked. “The bank. I’ve got to change my money so I can pay the man at the restaurant.” “Well, have one more pull on the flask for good measure, and I’ll let you be about your business, Master McGuire.” Sean took a final swig from the flask. The whiskey warmed him. He handed the flask back to Scotty. The short man tipped his hat. “A good day to you, Master McGuire.” Sean started to cross the muddy road. Suddenly he felt light-headed. He took another step. It felt like the mud was sucking his feet into the earth. He stood for a moment and swayed. Just as his knees were about to buckle, Scotty grabbed him. “Hey, boyo, easy there,” Scotty said. He helped Sean to the other side of the street. “I think that drink might’ve been a wee strong. Better walk her off.” Scotty kept Sean walking past the bank and down the street. He guided Sean down an alley. “I’ve got a place you can sleep it off.” Suddenly a mean-looking, lean man stepped out in front of Sean and hit him in the temple with the butt of his gun. Sean collapsed to the ground. “Why’d you have to go and do that?” Scotty asked. The tall man bent down and frisked the unconscious Sean. “That poteen of yours was takin’ too long.” Scotty shook his head. “You’re too impatient, Percy.”

The tall man held up the pouch of coins Thaddeus had given Sean. “There’s twenty dollars in gold here.” “Half of that is mine, Percy.” “The fuck you say! Then shut the fuck up.” Percy kicked Sean in the head for good measure and marched out of the alley. Scotty winced when he looked down at Sean, then hurried after his companion.

The Uprising

Sean slowly opened his eyes. The light blinded him. He covered his eyes with his hand. His head felt as if someone had broken a shillelagh over it. He struggled to his feet. He spit into the dirt and patted his pockets. “Damn,” he muttered to himself. The money Thaddeus gave him was gone. Sean brushed himself off and marched back to the street. A large crowd had gathered near the beach, and he walked down to the gathering. He scanned the group for Scotty but did not spot the short man. There were a number of warships in the harbor, but the Falcon was no longer anchored. Sean tapped the shoulder of a man standing at the back of the crowd. “Excuse me, what day is it?” “Tuesday.” The man frowned at Sean’s unkempt appearance. “Tuesday?” Apparently Sean had spent the entire evening in the alley. He hadn’t signaled Thaddeus, and the Falcon had sailed. “What’s all the ballyhoo about?” “Captain Mervin came ashore and demanded that Captain Silva surrender the fort and city to the navy,” the man replied. Sean left the crowd and walked over to a water trough for horses. He did his best to clean off his face and straighten up his appearance. He took his boot off, and two coins fell from it—the two gold pieces Dado had given him. He placed the coins back in the boot and slipped it on. Sean stood by the trough and watched as a contingent of American marines surrounded the Custom House. Another group of soldiers was standing guard on the beach. Suddenly a hand fell upon Sean’s shoulder. “Wahoo! Ain’t it a great day, Sean?” a voice boomed. Sean spun about. Jedidiah McCabe stood before him grinning from ear to ear. The mountain man’s expression changed when he saw Sean’s condition. “What in tarnation happened to you?”

Sean brushed his clothes off. “I ran into a couple of my countrymen.” “Looks like it didn’t go too well.” Sean touched the large bruise on the side of his head and winced. “You’d be right there, Jedidiah,” he chuckled. “Thaddeus has sailed, so looks like I’m here to stay.” Jedidiah slapped Sean on the back. “Well, that’s hell of good news. Come on, we’ll sign up with the militia together.” Sean gave the mountain man a quizzical look. “What militia?” “The California militia. We’re at war with the Mexicans.” Jedidiah pointed to the American flag that was being raised over the Custom House. “We just took Monterey.” The town had been taken without a shot fired. The Mexican soldiers had gone to the pueblo of Los Angeles, and there wasn’t even powder at the fort to fire the cannons. The navy warships fired off a few rounds in acknowledgment of the new government. The British ships sat silent in the harbor, mute observers to the American victory over Mexico. A table was set up on the beach. A Stars and Stripes banner hung between two posts. Jedidiah marched past the long line of men that led up to the table. Sean followed. Two men were seated behind the table. One wore the uniform of a US Army officer. He looked to be in his thirties and was puffing on a cheroot. The man sitting next to him had a weathered, sun-beaten face with a full beard that made it hard to place his age. He was dressed in buckskin pants and red tunic with a blue military-style jacket festooned with ribbons and medals. Both men had the appearance that they were not to be trifled with. They were engaged in conversation with a fresh-faced man who looked to be a farmer. “Have you any military service?” the army officer asked. “Naw, sir, can’t say as I have. But I can shoot,” the young man replied. The buckskin officer stood up. He held a chunk of wood. “You got a rifle?” “Yes, sir,” the farmer said.

The man in buckskin held up the chunk of wood. “Hit this.” He tossed the wood high into the air toward the bay. The man raised his gun, fired, and missed. He looked at the two officers with pleading eyes. “I won the turkey shoot two years running back in Dayton.” The army officer gave a nod to his companion. The buckskinned officer picked up another hunk of wood and tossed it in the air. The farmer aimed. Jedidiah raised his rifle and fired. The wood splintered, scattering in pieces across the water. The man in buckskin looked in the direction of the shot, and a big smile spread across his face. “Hot damn, Jedidiah McCabe! I knew no damn farmer could shoot like that.” “Next,” the army officer said. The Dayton farmer walked away dispirited, his head hung low. The buckskin man marched over and greeted Jedidiah. The two men shook hands and slapped each other on the back. “I was wondering if you were going to make our little war, Jedidiah.” “You know I wouldn’t miss this dustup for nothin’.” Jedidiah nudged Sean forward. “Zack, meet my new partner, Sean McGuire. This here is Zackary Monroe, the orneriest character west of the Mississippi.” “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Monroe.” Sean shook the man’s hand. “Mister?” Zackary laughed. He nodded to the epaulets on his jacket. “They made me a captain, Jedidiah. Can you believe it?” The two men laughed loudly. The army officer was frowning. The line of men had only increased. “You came to up with the militia?” Zackary asked. “Why the hell else would I be here?” Jedidiah replied. “Me and Sean are ready.”

Zackary looked at Sean. “Can you shoot?” Jedidiah gave his friend a nudge in the shoulder. “What kind of question is that? You think I’d bring you some damn farmer?” Zackary smiled. “Come on.” He marched Jedidiah and Sean over to the table and saluted the army officer. “Captain Tremaine, I would like you to meet Jedidiah McCabe. He’s one of the best shots you’ll find, and he can track as good as any Indian.” Captain Garrison Tremaine stood up and gave Jedidiah the once-over. “Who is this?” he asked, gesturing toward Sean. “Sean McGuire, late of Ireland, sir.” Sean held out his hand to the officer. Tremaine eyed Sean and shook his hand. “Can you shoot, son?” Sean hesitated. He had some experience with firearms. Dado had shown him how to load and fire a gun, and Jedidiah had given him real lessons in marksmanship aboard the Falcon. Sean looked up at Captain Tremaine with a dead-serious expression on his face. “I can outshoot any damn farmer.” Captain Tremaine roared with laughter. He slapped Sean on the back. “You might be just another papist mick who washed up on our shore, but I like your style. Sign your name.” He handed Sean a quill. Sean signed his name on the list and handed the quill to Jedidiah. The mountain man hesitated. As if reading his friend’s mind, Sean signed Jedidiah’s name on the list below his. Jedidiah grinned. He took the quill and put an X next to his name. Captain Tremaine saluted the two men. “Welcome to the California militia, men.”

Sean may not have been sure of his marksmanship when he ed the militia, but within weeks he was certain of it. He could shoot a bird in flight from sixty yards. He had yet to fire upon any Mexicans. His primary duty was to catch game for the troops. After six months he hadn’t failed once to provide fowl,

raccoon, possum, and even the occasional deer for the men. Shortly after the raising of the flag in Monterey, John C. Fremont accepted the rank of lieutenant colonel from Commodore Robert F. Stockton, America’s military governor in California. Fremont led his troops, Sean and Jedidiah among them, down the coast to San Luis Obispo. The army didn’t encounter any Mexican resistance along the way. San Luis Obispo offered no resistance to Colonel Fremont and the militia either, as the Mexican general Andrés Pico had moved his troops south to Los Angeles and San Diego. Fremont and his men took over the small garrison left in San Luis Obispo and captured General Jesús Pico, a cousin to Andrés, and the governor, Pío Pico. With San Luis Obispo secured, Fremont left a contingent of soldiers behind and marched down to Santa Barbara, where he split his troops. He left half in the city and took the rest aboard the Cyane to sail for San Diego. Once there, he secured the city and marched north to Los Angeles, meeting up with General Stockton’s army, which had landed in San Pedro. Together the two forces then attacked General Castro and his Mexican troops, which were stationed in Los Angeles. Sean and Jedidiah were among those left behind in Santa Barbara. That did not sit well with McCabe. “Goddamn, there’s a war going on, and we’re sitting here with our thumbs up our butts,” Jedidiah complained as he cut a section of meat from the deer roasting on the spit. Sean had taken the buck down with a single shot earlier that day. Captain Fremont and his men had been gone three weeks. Sean didn’t mind waiting. America had given him a horse and a job and a rifle. He liked his fellow militiamen and enjoyed Jedidiah, when he wasn’t complaining. No Mexicans had tried to kill him. So far the battles had been skirmishes at best. Shots had been fired, but the Americans hadn’t sustained any fatal casualties, unless one counted Jesse Vendor’s death. Jesse Vendor had been a twenty-one-year-old farmer from Ohio whose wife had died two years before from tuberculosis. He hadn’t cared to have anything to do with his two young children, so he’d left them with his in-laws and traveled west. Jesse tried his hand at trapping and failed miserably. He tried panning for gold and wasn’t any more successful than at trapping. When he heard about the rebellion in Monterey, he packed up his kit, headed down the mountain, and signed up with General Fremont’s army.

Jesse was a contrary type who didn’t particularly care for mules. As was frequently the army’s wisdom, Vendor was assigned to handle the pack mules. This put Jesse at the rear of the column. Jesse ate the dirt of four hundred horses and men. He would unpack the mules and set up Captain Fremont’s tent. He then had to feed the mules. Jesse ate last. His rations, whatever was left, were always cold and congealed. Jesse was a very unhappy soldier. One day as the company was marching down to Santa Barbara, one of the mules was not moving fast enough for Jesse. No matter how hard he tugged at the rope, the mule moved at its own speed. The column continued ahead, leaving Jesse behind with the mules. Soon Jesse wasn’t eating dirt. He tugged on the rope. The mule stood there. Jesse whipped the mule’s haunches with his crop. The mule took two steps and stopped. Jesse gave the rope another tug, but the mule didn’t budge. The column of soldiers had disappeared. Jesse stomped his boot. He picked up a broken tree branch and snapped off a long twig. “We’ll see who’s boss, you bitch!” he growled. Then he rammed the stick up the mule’s ass. Those were the last words Jesse Vendor ever spoke. The mule took exception to having a stick shoved up its hindquarters. The animal reared back and planted both hooves firmly on Jesse’s face. His skull was turned into guacamole as brain, bone, and blood splintered and splattered. Jesse Vendor was dead before his scrawny carcass hit the ground. His body tumbled down into a wash by the road. The mules stood there a moment and then continued down the trail after the column. Vendor hadn’t been missed until later that evening when Captain Fremont discovered no one had set up his tent. Since the mules and supplies had arrived with the militia, Captain Fremont listed Jesse Vendor as a deserter and given orders for him to be shot when found. Jedidiah poured coffee into a tin cup. “I just don’t see why Captain Fremont left us here to rot. He and General Stockton were able to take Los Angeles, but they’re gonna need more men to hold it.” Sean set his plate down. “The captain probably has his reasons.” Jedidiah shook his head and spit a wad of tobacco juice on the ground. “Sean, you never split your forces, especially if half of ’em are just gonna be sittin’ on their asses.”

Jedidiah was soon proven correct. Word came two days later that Los Angeles had fallen into the hands of the Mexican army. Shortly after the initial battle in which Generals Stockton and Fremont had taken command of the city, Fremont had sailed for Monterey, and Stockton had set out for San Diego. Lieutenant Archibald Gillespie had been left in command of the pueblo with a contingent of forty-eight militiamen. The irregulars were undisciplined and immediately set about abusing the Mexican citizens. The locals, who easily outnumbered Gillespie and his men took exception to this type of treatment. Confronted with hundreds of angry civilians, the lieutenant attempted to make a stand at the Government House. Realizing their plight was hopeless, Gillespie and his men had retreated to Fort Hill, located a few miles outside of the pueblo. A Mexican officer, José María Flores, led a group of soldiers in pursuit and surrounded the fort. Gillespie and his men had no water and were forced to surrender. They had been put on a ship and told never to return to Los Angeles. Jedidiah didn’t say anything after hearing the news. He and Sean went out hunting as usual and returned with a couple of possums. Just before they were to turn in, Jedidiah nudged Sean. “What would you say to a little reconnoitering?” he whispered. “Where?” Sean replied. “South. I’m thinking we go down the coast. We skirt the pueblo of Los Angeles and continue down to San Diego. We would get a good lay of the land and report it to General Stockton.” Sean gave McCabe a skeptical look. “You want to find Kit Carson.” Jedidiah scratched his beard and spread a devilish grin. “I ain’t sayin’ I wouldn’t mind findin’ Kit. Fremont is a politician and doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground when it comes to fightin’ a war. We’re sittin’ here like a pair of idiots when we could be doing something useful.” Sean pondered his friend’s statement. “If the lieutenant gives his okay, I’m in. I don’t want to be labeled a deserter like Jesse Vendor.” Jedidiah smiled. “You just let me do the talkin’.” The following morning Jedidiah made a beeline for Lieutenant Cranston’s tent. Artimus Cranston was a twenty-two-year-old lieutenant straight out of West

Point. His assignment under General Fremont was his first active duty in the field. He came from a wealthy Philadelphia family whose money was in coal mines. He preferred card games and horse racing to study and had graduated thirty-ninth in a class of forty-one. With that level of ranking, an East Coast posting was out of the question, but family connections had gotten him an appointment under General Stockton, who promptly transferred the novice lieutenant to General Fremont. Cranston had his virtues. The men generally liked him, and no matter how late he played cards or drank, he was always impeccably dressed and ready the following morning. General Fremont had realized quickly that a man like Cranston was best used to keep the men content. The majority were not official soldiers. They came from the mountains and farms and from a dozen different states. Arguments could be frequent in a camp. Rations were often slim, and the accommodations were rustic at best. Lieutenant Cranston kept a lid on the men under his command. He allowed his troops to gamble, drink, and whore all they wanted. He had only two rules: never fight with another soldier and always be present at roll call. Shortly after Fremont and the troops had left Monterey, two irregulars had gotten into a fight over a card game. Lieutenant Cranston hadn’t bothered with formalities. He’d pulled his pistol and shot both men in the left foot. “Since you both are now incapable of fighting, you will dig latrines,” he’d told them. Nobody cared to challenge the lieutenant after that incident. Jedidiah caught Lieutenant Cranston as he was emerging from his tent with two other officers. “Lieutenant, a word please?” Cranston looked the personification of patrician in his uniform. He motioned for the officers to go on ahead. “Yes, Jedidiah?” Jedidiah hesitated. The lieutenant’s openness had caught him off guard. “Well, sir, I was thinkin’ that me an’ Sean might go south and do a little reconnoitering. After that messenger came in yesterday with the news about Lieutenant Gillespie, it might be a good idea to get some intelligence on the situation.” The lieutenant smiled and ran his hand through his perfectly trimmed hair. “And you and the Irishman would provide that intelligence to whom?” The mountain man spread a big smile and looked the lieutenant in the eye. “Whoever you send to collect it, sir.”

“The Irishman can relay messages.” “Sean don’t know the lay of the land, sir. He’s a mean shot, and I aim to take a man who can shoot his way out of a fight if needs be.” Cranston brushed the white feather that adorned his hat and then placed it on his head. “I’ll give you a week.” “Not long enough, sir. I need three weeks minimum, if we’re gonna do you any good.” Lieutenant Cranston studied McCabe. “You don’t plan on running out on me?” Jedidiah shook his head. “Never. You have my word, sir.” “You and the Irishman have three weeks.” Jedidiah thanked the lieutenant and rushed back to inform Sean. They quickly packed their gear and rode out of camp before most of the men finished breakfast that morning. Sean may have been a crack shot, but he wasn’t used to riding for hours. Sean had been fortunate to be issued a horse when the militia had first begun its march. Many of the men hadn’t been so lucky. Sean knew he owed that to Jedidiah. What he hadn’t counted on was saddle sores. The first week Sean’s rear had blistered up so badly he’d had to ride with his bedroll covering the saddle. Even then it had hurt like sin. To help, Jedidiah had made up a poultice and given it to Sean. “I made it for you, but I sure ain’t gonna apply it,” Jedidiah had remarked candidly. Sean had gone off into the bushes and applied the poultice. The following morning the swelling had greatly subsided. After the militia had taken San Luis Obispo, the marches had been relatively short. Once they’d reached Santa Barbara, Sean and Jedidiah had rarely needed to ride more than an hour from the camp to hunt for food, as the local area was lush with game. Jedidiah rode hard, and Sean was determined to keep up. Jedidiah’s plan was to keep to the coast. He figured it was the quickest way south and would allow them to avoid Los Angeles, which sat some sixteen miles inland from the Pacific

Ocean. The first day’s ride was hard. They covered nearly fifty miles. They set up camp that night a few miles from the beach in a cave that Sean found. They camped without a fire. Jedidiah didn’t want to give the Mexicans any chance of locating them. They ate hardtack and drank from their canteens. Jedidiah even forsake his pipe, which he was prone to smoke after his evening meal. Their camp was in an area high above the ocean with many massive boulders and plenty of brush. The position gave them a good view of the coast and concealed them from sight. They hobbled the horses, cut some brush, and placed it in front of the cave. Unless someone knew exactly where to look, they were secure. Sean was roused by the snorting of his horse. He silently crept out of the cave. The brilliant orange rays of the rising sun inched up on the horizon. Sean spotted a group of Mexican soldiers a half mile off on the beach marching in the cave’s direction. He scrambled back to the cave and shook Jedidiah. “Mexicans heading this way,” Sean whispered. McCabe jumped up. The pair silently grabbed their gear and walked their horses away. When they got about a hundred yards from their camp, Jedidiah signaled Sean to mount his horse, and they rode off. The pair continued east for a few miles. Jedidiah slowed his horse. Sean pulled up his brown mare and looked at the mountain man, who was studying the trail they’d just traveled. “I don’t believe they followed us.” Jedidiah gave Sean a smile. “You did well back there.” McCabe looked at the mountains in the distance and then at the coast and finally turned back to Sean. “We’ll have to go inland. We’re too close to Los Angeles. Ol’ General Castro must be sending patrols out.” Jedidiah didn’t wait for Sean to comment. He dug his heels into his horse and sped off toward the massive mountain range that loomed in the distance. Sean shook his head and clicked his tongue. The brown mare took off after Jedidiah’s black stallion. They spotted some Indians in the distance and kept wide of them. “Some of the Natives are friendly. Some will cut your throat for the boots on your feet. Best to stay clear of all Natives,” Jedidiah cautioned. They kept a steady pace, stopping only once to water the horses and refill their

canteens at a spring. The sky became gray, and it drizzled off and on throughout the day. Sean didn’t mind the weather, but Jedidiah did not appreciate the precipitation. He grumbled to himself as they rode. Later on the sprinkles stopped. They could smell smoke. Jedidiah and Sean proceeded with caution. They soon came upon the remnants of a small cabin that had been set on fire. Three white men who looked to be trappers were dead. All three had been shot with arrows as well as bullets. The drizzle had put out the fire, and smoke rose from the skeletal remains of the cabin. Jedidiah studied the layout. “It don’t make sense,” he remarked after getting off his horse and walking the area. “There’s Luiseño arrows and some Cahuilla. These tribes don’t generally cotton to each other, and they certainly don’t fight together. Somebody made this look like Injuns killed these men.” Jedidiah mounted up, and they continued south. Gray clouds hung overhead, but it didn’t rain. Jedidiah didn’t say anything. Sean saw the concern on the mountain man’s face. They were two white men in territory that was obviously still controlled by the Mexican army. If they were caught, they would be considered spies and shot. “Hell of an adventure,” Sean said, breaking the silence. Jedidiah smiled. The boy had grit. When they were a few miles from the base of the mountains, Jedidiah turned south. They continued in that direction until sundown and never spotted a soul. For the second night they had a fireless camp. Sean was glad he’d brought plenty of hardtack. The night was cool, but Sean didn’t mind. The local climate was downright mild compared to Ireland’s. They started out again before first light. Jedidiah estimated they were at least a day behind schedule, and he didn’t want to lose any more time. Sean was tired. They broke camp without even a cup of coffee. Neither man had eaten a warm meal in three days. Sean clicked his tongue, urging his mare on. She continued at her own gait. Sean’s empty stomach caused his mind to drift. He thought about life with Thaddeus aboard the Falcon. The work might be hard, but the crew always enjoyed a dry hammock and a solid breakfast. Sean missed the warm meals. He especially missed the cook’s coffee. Thaddeus knew the way to ensure a man worked hard was through his stomach, so he always made sure his cook

was the finest that could be found. This well-known fact among the sailors gave Thaddeus the choice of crew that sailed on his ship. A hawk sailed down from the sky and caught a sparrow in its talons. There was a loud chirp and then silence. Sean snapped out of his daydream. He pushed the memories of Thaddeus and food from his mind. If he was to keep up with Jedidiah, it would take all his strength and focus. Sean was determined not to fall behind. He dug his heels into his horse, and the mare took off, quickly catching up to the black stallion. Jedidiah raised his arm in the air and pulled up on his horse. He placed his finger to his lips and silently dismounted. Sean followed suit. “There’s death close by,” the mountain man whispered, motioning Sean to follow him. A cloud of smoke rose from the canyon beyond. The trail narrowed. Sean tethered the horses to a tree and continued after Jedidiah. The mountain man motioned for them to crouch low. The pair crept the remaining few yards on their bellies. Jedidiah and Sean peered over a large rock to the valley below. A cool, clear creek ran through the valley. Beyond the creek was a lush green meadow. Much of the meadow was stained crimson with blood and littered with the bodies of slain warriors. A few Natives were searching for survivors among the dead. Jedidiah and Sean slid down behind the rock. “They’re Luiseño. Best skedaddle outta here,” Jedidiah said. The two men headed back for their horses. An arrow sliced the air and pierced the mountain man’s thigh. Jedidiah attempted to stifle his yelp as he went down. Sean froze. He slowly raised his arms high above his head. A dozen Luiseño warriors seemed to materialize from thin air out of the brush and trees right before Sean’s eyes. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He held his breath as the Indians approached. Sean knew Dado had faced the British in overwhelming numbers. Calmness fell over him. He focused on the man standing at the head of the group. The man had dark brown eyes and coppercolored skin. His hair was long and tied in braids. He was older than Sean but much younger than Jedidiah. Sean kept his eyes fixed on the man. The leader stepped forward.

Sean feared Jedidiah might try going for his knife or pistol. “Don’t move,” he whispered to the mountain man, never taking his gaze off the warrior leader. Sean held his arms out and rotated his hands to show the Indian that he had no concealed weapons. He smiled, keeping his eyes fixed on the leader. The leader stopped. “Cómo estás?” “No cómo estás, mate, understand?” Jedidiah looked at Sean bewildered. He was in a world of pain with an arrow sticking out of his leg and didn’t know what the young Irishman was up to. “You speak English?” the leader asked in an accented tongue. Sean kept his eyes trained on the warrior’s. “Yes.” “You are not Californios?” “No, Irish,” Sean calmly replied. “Well I am at least.” The leader turned back to the warriors and said, “Irish?” The warriors talked among themselves and shook their heads. The leader looked at Sean. “What is Irish?” Sean spread a big smile and held up his forefinger. “Please.” He slowly moved toward the horses. The warriors drew their bows. The leader held his arm up and motioned Sean to go ahead. Sean carefully opened the saddlebag. Two of the warriors objected. The leader said something, and they lowered their weapons. Sean reached into the saddlebag and removed a green piece of cloth. He held the corners and allowed the cloth to fall, revealing a green Fenian flag with a gold harp. “Irish,” Sean said, and he began to sing Whiskey in the Jar and do a jig. This amused the warriors. They had never seen a white man dance in this fashion. Sean finished his jig and held the flag out to the leader. “Irish, mate.” The leader was uncertain. “Go on; it’s yours.”

The leader took the flag and held it up for his companions to see. The men whooped it up. Sean grinned. The leader turned and nodded his approval to Sean. He pointed to himself. “Falcon.” Sean took this as a good omen since Thaddeus’s ship was named the Falcon. He extended his hand. “Sean McGuire.” The two men shook. Jedidiah struggled to his feet. “Will somebody get this damn arrow outta me?” Falcon motioned to the warriors. Two men came and held Jedidiah up. A third man snapped the arrow off. Jedidiah cursed loudly, damning the Indian and all his ancestors to the fires of hell. The warriors helped McCabe onto his horse. They took the two scouts to their camp in a canyon a few miles east of the river. As the group rode in, Sean sensed urgency about the camp, as if the people had recently arrived and set up their lodgings. Two of the warriors took Jedidiah over to a makeshift hospital where some Indian women were tending to the injured. The mountain man was in no condition to object. Falcon took Sean to his own lodge. The structure was comprised of pieces of plank and tree limbs with animal skins covering the outside. Sean thought of how his own ancestors had been forced to live in caves and stone hovels during Cromwell’s reign of terror. He gave the Indian a nod of thanks and entered. The area was no more than eight feet in diameter. The dirt floor was covered with reed mats. A weathered-looking, middle-aged Indian lay in the corner. His right arm was bandaged. He had an ugly gash across his right cheek, and one eye was swollen shut. He had long blond hair, and his one good eye was piercing blue. “This is my father, Golden Eagle.” Falcon said something to his father in Spanish and showed him the Fenian flag. Golden Eagle sat up and looked at Sean. “Irish.” Sean removed his hat and nodded. “Irish.” Golden Eagle said something in Spanish to his son. A woman hurried into the lodge. She had long dark hair and the face of an angel. Sean stood up and removed his hat. The woman grabbed Falcon and hugged him. She spoke a

dialect Sean figured was Indian. The warrior replied. The woman nodded and immediately ran off. “That was my wife, Running Deer. She will bring something to eat.” Falcon gestured for Sean to sit on the floor. Sean did as his host bid. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how does your father come to have such blond hair and blue eyes?” Falcon smiled. “He is the son of a Spanish conquistador, Captain Juan Diego de La Vega. My grandfather was a man of many talents and spoke many languages.” “What happened to your grandfather?” “The Luiseño are a free people. We do not care to work for the priests at their mission. My grandfather also did not like the priests or their missions. He was the captain of the presidio in San Diego. He defied the priests and lost his command and was banished from the presidio. He came to live with the Luiseño. Captain Juan Diego de La Vega became Hento. This means ‘blue.’ The Luiseño had never seen eyes as blue as my grandfather’s. The Spanish hunted my grandfather and killed him, and the Californios killed my mother and my uncles many years ago. Golden Eagle and I are the only ones left of my family. The Californios nearly killed him the other night when they attacked our village.” Running Deer returned carrying a wooden platter with two wooden bowls and two gourds. She knelt down and placed a bowl in front of Sean and handed him a gourd. Sean could smell the sweet scent of her hair. The woman had the smoothest skin he had ever seen. It looked like bronze silk. “Thank you,” Sean said. Running Deer placed a bowl in front of Falcon and gave him a gourd. She got up and went over to tend Golden Eagle. Sean glanced down at the bowl. It looked to be some sort of stew with mashed tubers and greasy meat. Sean didn’t care what kind of meat it was. He was hungry. As soon as he saw Falcon scoop a handful of the stew into his mouth, he picked up the bowl and devoured the contents. He drank from the gourd. The stew was a bit gamey, but it filled him up. Sean was content.

“Please tell Running Dear that was very good.” Sean set his gourd down and looked at Falcon. “Why are the Mexicans attacking you?” “Some of the warriors killed two Californio soldiers a few nights ago. They came for revenge. It is always the same. We kill a few soldiers. They kill many Luiseño.” “Where are the Mexicans?” Falcon shrugged his shoulders. “They are not here. They are probably pursuing the American soldiers.” “What American soldiers?” Sean asked, not bothering to hide his surprise. Falcon explained how after the Mexicans had attacked the Luiseño, they’d spotted a patrol of American soldiers and pursued them. The Mexicans outnumbered the Americans and had pinned them down in a canyon a few miles south. Some of the Americans had tried to run, but the Mexicans had shot them. When the warrior finished his tale, Sean asked Falcon to take him to see Jedidiah. An old woman who was at least two hundred pounds was tending the mountain man. She had a friendly face. When she saw Falcon and Sean, she bowed and moved away. The arrow had been removed, and Jedidiah’s leg was wrapped in a poultice. The mountain man smiled when he saw Sean and spit a wad of tobacco on the ground. “How you doin’?” Sean asked. “Been worse. Sure wish I had me a bottle.” Sean quickly related the story Falcon had told him. McCabe propped himself up with his elbow. “We gotta get word to General Kearney. Kit’s probably with him at the presidio in San Diego.” “You aren’t in any shape to ride,” Sean said. Jedidiah stroked his beard and thought for a moment. He removed the bear-claw

necklace that hung around his neck and held it out to Sean. “You show this to Kit Carson. You tell ’em Jedidiah said, ‘Come a-runnin’.’” “I don’t know the way to the fort,” Sean said. “I will show you,” Falcon said. Sean took the necklace. He and the Indian marched away. Falcon offered Sean a fresh horse, but it wouldn’t take a saddle, so Sean took his brown mare. It began to rain again as Falcon and Sean left the camp. Neither allowed the damp weather to bother them. The Indian and the Irishman rode south as if the wind were carrying them. Sean didn’t know why Falcon had offered to help him. He didn’t ask. Sean knew that if the Mexicans had routed the Americans in the canyon, they were in position to take back San Diego. If that happened, the Americans could lose California. The success of the campaign weighed heavily on Sean’s shoulders as he sped south astride his brown mare with the Indian riding alongside.

Gum Saan

Lee Sing awoke. His senses told him something was different. He looked about the cramped hold of the ship that he and dozens of other Chinese had spent weeks on crossing the Pacific. The light was dim, the air fetid. A ship’s bell clanged. Even with the cramped, sweaty bodies lying inches apart in their hammocks, Lee Sing smelled something different in the air. Years of toiling in the kitchens of Canton had made Lee Sing sensitive to the slightest variance in odor. He silently slipped from his hammock and removed the bamboo basket hanging next to it. The basket contained an extra pair of shoes, a quilted jacket, a mortar and pestle, and an iron wok. Four gold coins were sewn inside the jacket. This was Lee Sing’s entire fortune. Lee Sing’s parents had died during a major influenza epidemic in 1838 when he was ten. A group of European missionaries took in Lee Sing and his younger sister, Ah Sing. The following year, another ship of European missionaries arrived. Some of those who had been working at the mission school returned to their homes in Europe. A French couple took Ah Sing with them. Lee never saw his sister again. Lee Sing proved to be an excellent student. By the time he reached secondary level, he could read Latin and was proficient in French, Spanish, and English. He was also a quick study in the kitchen. He was not impressed with European cooking, but he had endeared himself to Mrs. Sally Fulton, the head of the mission kitchen. Sally Fulton was a middle-aged Englishwoman whose husband had died from rich food and fine whiskey. A raging case of the clap had only hastened Major Aubrey Fulton’s untimely demise. After Major Fulton had died, Sally had needed something to occupy her life. China had been the answer. She’d come to the mission the year before Lee Sing’s arrival. Sally knew how to run a house efficiently. She had done so for years as Major Fulton had entertained lords and generals in hopes of further military advancement. The kitchen had been a haphazard situation when Sally had arrived. She’d immediately taken over the entire process, from purchasing food to cooking and serving it. This was fine.

There was now a single captain in the kitchen. Unfortunately Sally wasn’t the best of cooks. She was excellent at boiling meat and vegetables. Soups and porridge were her forte. Shortly after Lee Sing arrived at the mission, he asked to work in the kitchen. Sally had put him to work washing dishes. When classes let out for the day, unlike most of the other children that wanted to play, Lee Sing would come to the kitchen and watch Sally prepare dinner. Lee began to make suggestions to Sally about the meals’ preparation. Sally had lived in Bombay while her husband was stationed there and was accustomed to well-seasoned food. She merely lacked the skill in preparation. Lee Sing had watched his mother cook. She had been an expert with a wok and noodles. Sally finally tired of Lee Sing’s suggestions and told him he should cook. The boy didn’t shy from the task given him. Sally and the entire staff were surprised at the meal of noodles and orange chicken Lee Sing prepared that evening. From that evening on the boy had free rein in the kitchen. Lee Sing graduated with honors from secondary school. Instead of becoming a teacher or minister as most at the mission thought he might, he went to work in a small street kitchen in the city. He toiled there and in a dozen other kitchens for the next six years. As soon as he felt he had learned all he could from a particular cook, Lee Sing would leave the kitchen and move on to another. While at work, Lee Sing began to hear men talk of Gum Saan, Gold Mountain. A few had letters from relatives that told of the riches to be had, the strange people who lived there, and their strange habits. Lee Sing took all these tales in and kept them to himself. Sally Fulton, whom he visited at the mission, was the only one he shared his private thoughts with. With her alone Lee Sing shared his dream of traveling to Gum Saan. It was pure luck that allowed Lee Sing to leave Canton. He and a coworker were walking home when a street urchin approached and asked the two men if they would purchase a lottery ticket from him. Lee bought a ticket and bought the boy a bowl of rice as well. A week later the boy found Lee Sing and told him he had won the lottery. The winnings had been enough to cover age to America, and Lee Sing had purchased a ticket that afternoon. The four gold coins he had now had been a gift from Sally Fulton. Lee Sing came up on deck. He caught his first glimpse of the California coast through a veil of fog and mist. The shoreline was rugged, and beyond stood

massive mountains that vanished into the clouds. Lee Sing sucked in a deep breath of salt air. It was invigorating. A wave sprayed water on Lee Sing’s face. He tasted the salt and smiled. “You’ve made it,” he said to himself. Slowly others came up from the hold. They stood on deck staring at the shore. They were all men in their teens and twenties. It took youth and strength to make the voyage. Lee could see the looks of uncertainty on their faces. They had traveled to an unknown land, and now they would have to face the tall, hairy inhabitants of Gum Saan. The thought of arriving excited Lee Sing, but he kept his emotions in check. Canton had given him what it could. When Lee Sing was eight, his mother had taken him to a fortune teller. The old woman had studied his hand. She’d had him spit into a cup of tea, and then she’d read the tea leaves. The fortune teller had told Lee Sing’s mother that her son would travel to distant lands and achieve great things in his long life. Lee Sing was now thousands of miles from home. He stood on the deck watching as the ship sailed into San Francisco harbor in the spring of 1852. This new country was his destiny. A Chinese man who looked to be the same age as Lee walked up to the deck and said something. Lee caught a few words but wasn’t sure what the man had said, as he was speaking a northern dialect. Lee had spent his entire life in Canton. Eight of those years had been spent living at the mission school where the Chinese language was frowned upon. Even though he was multilingual, he could speak only a single dialect of Chinese, a language comprised of dozens of dialects. He had gotten by fine in the kitchens of Canton because Cantonese was the dominant dialect. Gum Saan would be a different. Lee Sing smiled and bowed to the man. “Gum Saan.” The man spit lychee juice on the deck. “Gum Saan, my ass,” he said in Cantonese. Lee Sing looked at the man, unable to hide his surprise. “My mistake,” the man replied. “I should have noticed the cross.” He gave a nod to the small wooden crucifix hanging from Lee Sing’s neck. “Mission raised, that would be Canton.” He extended his hand. “Quang Chen.” “Lee Sing.” The two men shook hands.

“This is your first trip?” Quang asked. “Yes,” Lee replied. “You have been to Gum Saan before?” Quang chuckled. “There is no Gum Saan.” He gestured to the city that appeared in front of them as the ship broke through the mist and sailed into the San Francisco harbor. “There is California. The gweilo either hate us or ignore us,” he said, using the Cantonese term for white people. “Why do you come back then?” Quang rubbed two fingers together and chuckled. “What do you do?” “I am a cook,” Lee stated proudly. Quang laughed and shook his head. “You should have stayed in Canton. The gweilo won’t eat our food, and unless you have money to pay the tong, you won’t find work.” “I have my own wok. I can cook anywhere,” Lee replied. “Not in San Francisco. The tongs won’t let you.” “This isn’t China. This is California. I will find a kitchen.” Quang was amused by Lee’s determination. “There is money to be had if you know where to look for it.” Lee looked at the man. “What do you mean?” “I mean gold, Gum Saan. Ah Fong, a friend from my village, is watching our claim. My father died, and I had to return to my home. If you would like to us, we could use another hand, especially one who can cook. Ah Fong is not a good cook; neither am I.” Lee Sing shook his head. “Prospecting? I thought you said there is no Gum Saan.” “There isn’t. Finding gold is hard work.” “And you found gold?”

“Some, enough to pay my age home and back to California.” Lee Sing tugged at his ear. The thought of toiling inside a mine did not appeal to him. “Thank you for the offer, but I am going to be a cook.” Quang shrugged his shoulders. “If you change your mind, I will be at the Lotus Blossom on Dupont Street until Friday.” The ship dropped anchor. A bell clanged loudly. The quartermaster called out for the engers to line up for debarkation.

Quang’s words proved correct. Lee Sing spent the next two days being ridiculed and rejected. Many establishments did not speak Cantonese. Determined, Lee Sing set up his own makeshift kitchen. Many merchants wouldn’t sell their goods to him, and he had to settle for second-rate vegetables and fish. A group of fierce-looking men threatened him. This did not deter Lee Sing. He opened his kitchen the following day. The men returned. They smashed the bowls and kicked over the grill. They tore the tent that doubled as Lee Sing’s home. No one interfered. The men were of the Chin Tong, a powerful group that controlled much of Chinatown. When they’d finished, Lee Sing’s kitchen and home had been destroyed. The tong men warned Lee Sing not to reopen his kitchen or the consequences would be worse. One of the men drew his finger across his throat and laughed as the gang marched away. Lee Sing knew the tong men would kill him or sell him into slavery. The only person he knew in the city was Quang. He packed what few items he could salvage from the wreck and went to find Quang Chen. The Lotus Blossom was one of the better crib ts in Chinatown. It was a two story structure complete with two gold lions on either side of the entrance. There were two commodes on the premises, and the women bathed daily. The ground floor consisted of a parlor and a casino. The cribs were on the second floor. Lee Sing entered the house with caution. A middle-aged Chinese woman wearing Western dress and heavy makeup approached him. She smiled, looking him over. “What kind of girl you like?” she asked in English.

Lee Sing bowed. “I do not want a girl. I am looking for a man, Quang Chen,” he replied in perfect English. The madam was surprised to hear such good English coming from a Chinese. She laughed. “Ohh, a perfect Englishman.” Lee Sing placed a coin in the woman’s palm. “I am from Canton. Please, is Quang Chen here?” The madam nodded toward the ceiling. “Number seven.” Lee Sing bowed and thanked the madam and ascended the stairs. The hall was narrow and the light dim. Each door had a paper number nailed to it. Lee Sing knocked on number seven. There was a slight moan. Lee Sing knocked again, louder. He waited and then knocked on the door again even harder. The door flew open. Quang Chen stood wrapped in a towel. “What?” A strange odor floated out of the room. Lee Sing noticed an opium pipe on the stand next to the bed. Two naked women sat in the bed. Lee Sing cast his eyes down. Quang Chen finally recognized Lee. “Ahhh, Lee Sing, come in.” He ushered Lee Sing into the room. The room was small, barely large enough for the bed, a chair, and a small nightstand. Lee Sing attempted to avert his eyes from the naked women. “You want one?” Quang Chen asked, indicating the two women. Lee Sing shook his head. “Oh no, I couldn’t.” Quang slapped Lee Sing on the back and laughed. “Don’t tell me you prefer boys?” Lee Sing looked at Quang shocked. “Oh no, certainly not.” “Good, then you can have your pick.” “It is a sin,” Lee Sing replied barely above a whisper.

Quang roared with laughter. “That is the gweilo god. You are Chinese. It is no sin. Go ahead and fuck one of them. They are paid for.” Lee Sing shifted nervously. “You said you wanted a partner.” Quang smiled and slapped Lee Sing on the back again. “Yes. You should have said that right away.” Quang Chen looked at the two women on the bed and said something to them in a dialect Lee did not understand. The women hurriedly grabbed their clothes and left the room. Quang sat down on the bed and looked at Lee. “What happened?” Lee Sing’s eyes shifted to the floor. “It was as you said. The tong destroyed my kitchen and threatened to kill me.” Quang shook his head. “You work with us, and you’ll make enough so you won’t have to worry about the tongs.” Lee Sing smiled and bowed. “Yes, I work hard.” “How much money do you have?” Lee Sing looked at his new partner for a moment. He dug in his pocket and held out some coins and paper. He had used two of the gold coins Sally Fulton had given him to purchase the tent and supplies to start his kitchen. What he held out to Quang represented the remainder of that money. There were still two coins sewn inside his jacket. Quang counted the money and frowned. “That’s not enough. You need a mule and supplies.” “How much do I need?” “Twelve dollars,” Quang replied. “A good mule isn’t cheap.” “I will get it.” “Fine, meet me at Murphy’s Stables on Market in two hours. You may not want to fuck, but I do. Send those two whores back in here.”

Lee Sing bowed and backed toward the door. “Murphy’s stable, yes.” He opened the door and exited the room. The two whores looked at him and giggled as they scampered into the room and slammed the door shut.

The mountains seemed endless. Lee Sing thought California was vast and everchanging. He and Quang Chen had left San Francisco and were headed to the Bear River, where Quang and Ah Fong had their claim. Quang and Lee had been on the trail for five days. The mules were slow but amiable. That was a good sign according to Quang. Lee Sing had used his third gold coin to outfit himself for the trip. The tong men had broken his mortar, but he still had the iron wok. It was strapped to his mule along with the rest of his gear. Quang Chen was talkative, but that didn’t bother Lee Sing. He let Quang talk; that way he didn’t have to. Quang Chen loved to talk about his whores. That was easily his favorite topic of conversation. His second-favorite topic was talking about what he was going to do with the gold they would find. Quang kept the conversation going pretty much on his own power for most of the trip. Lee Sing listened and would occasionally nod. He enjoyed Quang’s tales and learned much about the country from his new partner. Quang and Ah Fong had been among the first Chinese to arrive in Gum Saan three years ago. “Be careful with gweilo. Some can be trusted. Others will kill you like swatting a fly. Best to stay clear of them, even though you speak the King’s English,” Quang cautioned. Lee Sing nodded. “I was unaware the tongs held control in America.” Quang tugged at the reins of his mule as they traveled the steep trail. “The tongs don’t control the gweilo. They control Chinatown.” “We are often our own worst enemy,” Lee Sing replied. Quang Chen waved his companion off. “When we get the gold, no tong will be able to touch us. We will be our own tong.” “I am not interested in being the head of a tong,” Lee Sing said. Quang took a drink from his canteen and wiped his mouth with the back of his

hand. “What’s wrong with being the head of a tong? He has power.” “Power is something perceived,” Lee Sing replied. “You don’t have to be the leader of a tong to have power.” Lee Sing’s response perplexed Quang. He thought about it for a moment, then asked, “What do you want then?” “I would like to have the finest kitchen where everyone would come to eat.” Quang shook his head and laughed. “With all the gold we are going to have, you want to work in a kitchen? Not me. Once we are rich, I do not plan to work again. I want a big house and a big brass bed and a different woman to screw every night and plenty of whiskey.” As they traveled, Lee Sing noticed the many wild herbs and mushrooms that grew with proliferation throughout the area. Whenever some rosemary, mustard, or sage was close enough, Lee Sing grabbed a handful and stuffed it in the leather saddlebag on his mule. Quang rarely stopped except to occasionally take a sip from his canteen. They marched from sunup until just before sunset. Quang made a much-smaller fire than usual one evening. It was barely more than a few twigs. It was impossible for Lee Sing to cook with such a little fire, so they ate a cold meal of rice balls that night. Quang Chen cupped his hands by the small flame. “Many enemies—whites, Indians—it can be dangerous for Chinese.” Lee Sing nodded and rubbed his aching feet. “We will be there tomorrow,” Quang said. Lee looked up, surprised. “We will finally reach the mine?” Quang chuckled. “No mine. We work the river. Now that you’ve come, we’ll find more gold.” “Good.” They broke camp the following morning just before sunrise and followed the

river south. They kept in that direction until Quang Chen suddenly stopped. He dropped his mule’s harness and raced toward a lean-to near the river. Ah Fong was working a sluice box near the river. He looked up, dropped the sluice box, and raced toward his friend. They greeted each other warmly. Quang nodded toward Lee Sing. “This is Lee Sing. He has come to us. He is a good cook.” Lee Sing and Ah Fong bowed and greeted each other. Ah Fong was in his early twenties like Lee Sing and wore his hair in the traditional long queue. Quang looked at the surroundings. “Why are you here? Our claim is another ten miles downriver.” Ah Fong looked at the ground and didn’t say anything. “It was the white devils, the general and his lawyer, Tilden?” Quang asked. Ah Fong nodded, ashamed. “The general came a few days after you left. He said you abandoned the claim. I told him I was staying and working, but he said it didn’t matter, since you’d abandoned the claim. He and Tilden came with three other men. They had a paper from the court and guns. I left and came here and found gold. Not bad.” Ah Fong removed a small leather pouch from his jacket and held it open for Quang. Quang Chen looked at the gold inside and nodded. Ah Fong tied the pouch and placed it back inside his jacket. Quang looked at the river. The current was steady. Quang nodded to the pouch. “If that is all the gold you’ve found since I left, it will take us years to get enough.” “We can build a dam,” Lee Sing said. Quang laughed. “You have never panned for gold, and you will tell us how it is done? The current is too fast. It carries the gold downstream.” Lee Sing pointed to an area where the bank jutted out into the river, forming a small jetty. “We can build it there.”

Quang stared at the area Lee had indicated and spit lychee juice. “It won’t work. The current is too fast.” “The current slows when it hits the bank. We must build a dam like this.” Lee Sing held his hands up in an L formation. Ah Fong looked at Quang. His eyes were filled with excitement. “He is right.” Quang laughed. “I knew there was a reason the gods told me to bring you along.” The next three days the partners chopped trees, hauled the lumber to the shore, and built the damn. The work was hard. At first the current pulled the posts away, taking them downstream. Lee Sing labored in waist-deep, icy water. He finally got enough posts wedged into the rocks below, and the dam began to take shape. He fashioned a sluice gate for the dam so they could control the flow of water going through the dam and thus control the water level in the small alcove they had created. Quang Chen was pleased with the results. That evening he broke out a bottle of sour mash whiskey he’d purchased in San Francisco and poured some in Ah Fong’s tin cup. Lee Sing politely declined. Quang drank a toast to their new dam. He drank another to the riches they would now have. Quang poured a third cup and began to sing. He got up and danced around the small fire. He sang songs about home, brave warriors, and love. After a fourth cup he got up to dance again only to collapse in a heap. Lee Sing put a blanket over Quang, who was now snoring loudly. Ah Fong ate his bowl of rice and fish that Lee Sing had made. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his jacket sleeve and smiled. “Quang was right. You are a good cook.” The trio worked from sunup to sundown the next two weeks. Ah Fong suggested they use lanterns, but Quang argued against it. Lanterns would attract attention. Lee Sing wasn’t aware that Ah Fong hadn’t filed a new claim. Quang Chen and Ah Fong hadn’t bothered to tell him. Ah Fong had set up camp at that location by mere chance after being run off. He’d found some gold and decided to stay. The two men had decided to wait until the dam was built to file. No reason to attract attention until they saw if their labor would pay off.

The dam worked well. They panned four ounces the first week it was in operation. After three weeks they had sixteen ounces. Quang Chen counseled Ah Fong to remain silent about their lack of a claim. When their labors produced another four ounces, Ah Fong finally brought up the subject as the three men finished their dinner. Quang frowned and remained silent. Lee Sing looked at the two men sitting across the small campfire from him. “If you do not file a claim, the whites will take it away,” he said in a quiet voice. “We had a claim, and the white devils stole it,” Quang Chen replied. Lee Sing set his bowl down. “I know white people. They believe their god and their law is supreme. You must file a claim.” Ah Fong nodded in agreement. Quang grumbled. “Who is this general that stole your claim?” Lee Sing asked. Quang spat into the fire and crossed his arms over his chest and remained silent. Ah Fong looked across the campfire at Lee Sing. “General Grayson. He has money and a lawyer. They use the courts to steal from the Chinese.” Quang spit into the fire again and sneered, “The whites have done that ever since we came to Gum Saan.” “I will go and file. No one knows me,” Lee Sing said. “You can’t,” Ah Fong said. “You are not gweilo. Only Americans can own a claim.” Lee Sing looked at Quang Chen questioningly. Quang nodded. “My father had a white mistress, an American woman who came to China to teach the Chinese about Jesus. As soon as I was born, my father took me and raised me with his family. My mother returned to her home. Before she died, she sent my father my birth certificate. She had ed my birth with the American hospital in Shanghai. That made me an American citizen.” Quang took a drink of whiskey from his tin cup. “Ah Fong and I are both second sons. There was no future for us in our village. We came to Gum Saan.” He gestured

to the lean-to. “You can see how well we’ve done.” Lee Sing and Ah Fong chuckled. Quang Chen picked up a stone and tossed it into the river. He looked at the two men across from him. “I will go into town tomorrow and file the claim.” Lee Sing clapped his hands in approval. Ah Fong sang a song about a wealthy man who discovers he is a cuckold by his cook. Quang took another drink from the tin cup, stood up, and danced by the light of the campfire.

Jackass Junction was a boomtown. It sat directly at a bend where the river narrowed to a width of a few feet. The town had not existed three years previous. It had come into being simply because men had come to search for gold and found it in the river. The town consisted of a blacksmith, a general store, a whorehouse, and two saloons. Warpoole’s, the larger of the two saloons, served as the courthouse and government office. The establishment had a sign outside its doors that read, “Chinks, Mexicans, niggers, and dogs not welcome.” Warpoole’s made an exception to this rule when it came to court cases and the filing of claims. Some Chinese would get a white man to sign up for a claim that they would then work. Business was business as far as Augustus “Gus” Warpoole, the owner of the establishment, was concerned. He didn’t give a damn who worked a claim as long as they paid him the filing fee. They were all cocksuckers as far as Warpoole was concerned. There was no formal law in Jackass Junction. The Chinese worked the river and could not formally own property. They had set up their camp on the opposite side of the river. It consisted of two laundries, two open kitchens, and one gambling house, which had a shack attached to the rear where the proprietor kept a whore he had purchased in Mongolia. Lee Sing and Quang Chen traveled to Jackass Junction that morning, leaving Ah Fong at the camp. Quang wanted to go into town alone, but Lee Sing counseled that two were better than a lone Chinese coming to file a claim. Quang didn’t argue. No one took any special notice of the two men as they entered the town. Most of the inhabitants of Jackass Junction, white and Chinese were busy working. Those who weren’t were sleeping off hangovers. Lee Sing waited outside

Warpoole’s while Quang entered the saloon. Warpoole’s had an actual bar made of finished timber, half dozen tables, a faro table, and another table reserved for poker. Gus Warpoole was seated in the dealer’s chair at the empty faro table. Warpoole was taller than most in the region. He had thick black hair that he kept slicked back and a manicured moustache. He wore his usual black suit and white shirt. A dark red scar he’d gotten in a knife fight in New Orleans ran down his left cheek. A dozen or so patrons stood at the bar. The talk quieted when Quang Chen entered. Gus saw who it was and gestured for Quang Chen to come forward. “Ah, my good friend and American citizen, Quang Chen,” Warpoole said to the rest of the room. “What can I do for you this fine morning?” Quang bowed and remained standing. “I would like to file a claim.” Warpoole smiled congenially. “That was tough—your being gone and losing your claim to the general—but the law is the law.” The proprietor stood up and slapped his chest with both hands. “Well, let’s go over to the plot map and see what we’ve got.” Warpoole walked over to the bar. “Pete, hand me the map.” The short man with bushy sideburns working the bar reached down and retrieved a canister and handed it to Gus. Warpoole walked back to the table, opened the canister, and rolled out the map. “Where exactly did you have in mind, Quang?” Quang Chen studied the map for a moment and then pointed to the area where their camp was. Warpoole scratched his jaw. “That’s pretty far upriver, Quang.” “Yes. That is where I wish to stake my claim,” Quang replied. “Now why do you want to work way up there when I can offer you plenty of good spots right here near town?” Warpoole asked. Quang bowed. “Very sorry, Mr. Warpoole. I had claim close to town and lost it.

Maybe I keep this one.” Warpoole shrugged. “It’s your funeral, Quang. Come next winter you’re gonna be flat broke and wishin’ you listened to me. The current’s too fast to pan, and the snow starts earlier up there. That’ll be fifty dollars.” Quang handed Warpoole a small leather pouch. The proprietor walked over to the bar and poured out gold dust from the sack onto a scale. Satisfied, he handed the pouch back to Quang. He pulled a ledger from under the bar along with quill and ink. He entered the claim and lot number into the ledger, initialed the entry, and handed the pen to Quang, who signed his name in perfect cursive. “It’s official, Quang. You got your claim.” Warpoole handed Quang a deed with the plot number on it and dated 1852. Quang Chen took the deed and bowed. “Thank you, Mr. Warpoole.” He then laid an American dollar on the bar. Gus gave a nod, and the bartender reached under the bar and handed Quang a bottle of whiskey. Quang slipped the deed and whiskey inside his jacket, bowed, and left the bar. Warpoole chuckled, “Either he’s the dumbest Chinaman in these parts, or he knows something.” A pasty man with a pockmarked face standing at the bar raised his glass. “There ain’t a Chinaman born that’s got the brains of a dog. Hell, those heathens eat dog.” The other patrons laughed and chortled. A man standing at the end of the bar finished his drink and silently exited the establishment. He wore a brown suit and a brown derby. The man watched as Quang Chen and his companion rode their mules out of town. He crossed the street and entered a small wooden building. A placard on the door read, “Franklin Tilden, Attorney.”

Ah Fong was happy to see his companions and even happier when he saw the ed claim. Working alone had not been easy. “I am not sure how much longer this area will remain good,” Ah Fong remarked after showing his partners the poor results of his day’s labor.

Quang Chen patted his friend on the shoulder reassuringly. “With what you got today, we now have over twenty ounces.” Ah Fong nodded. “I fear we won’t have enough gold before winter.” Quang laughed. “Winter is a long way off. You worry too much.” He tousled Ah Fong’s hair. The three men laughed. Quang produced the bottle of whiskey he’d purchased. “We celebrate tonight.” Ah Fong laughed and waved his friend off. “You celebrate every night.” “I will cook black pepper fish and rice for dinner tonight,” Lee Sing announced. The work was long, hard, and tedious. They stood waist-deep in ice-cold water to work the sluice and crouched for hours in the cold chill of morning and the hot sun of the day as they searched the sand and sediment that settled at the bottom of their pans. After two months the trio had pulled eight more ounces out of the river. The men had agreed that they would quite the river once they had forty-eight ounces. That would give each of them $1,600, a king’s ransom in China. “We are better than halfway to our goal,” Quang Chen announced that evening as he weighed their day’s work. The men were seated around their campfire. The reflection of the flames danced across Ah Fong’s face. He smiled. “If we are fortunate, we should be out of here by next spring,” Quang said. The smile fell from Ah Fong’s face. “What do you mean?” “In another six weeks it will be fall. In eight weeks the first snow will come. We can either leave now before the snow falls or use some of our gold to get us through the winter. If we stay, we will also need to build a cabin. That means not panning for gold.” Ah Fong shook his head. His expression was one of disappointment. “I do not want to stay. I wish to go back home.” Quang nodded, understanding his friend’s wishes. “I understand. It has been

many years here. If we stay one more year, we can go back to our village rich men. You can have your pick of a wife and even afford two, if you want the headache.” Ah Fong chuckled halfheartedly. Lee Sing remained silent. He had no intention of returning to China. Gum Saan was his destiny. Sixteen hundred dollars would go a long way in building a fine restaurant. Ah Fong looked across the fire at Lee Sing. “Don’t you miss your home?” “No,” Lee Sing replied softly. “My parents died when I was young, and my sister was taken by Europeans. I have no reason to return.” That evening the three men ate their dinner in silence. The following morning found the trio back working the river. Midday Lee Sing stopped. “I saw some mushrooms yesterday. I’m going to collect them for dinner.” “You will make garlic mushroom soup?” Ah Fong asked. “You will have to wait and see,” Lee Sing chided his friend. Lee Sing stowed his pan and took a sack to hold the mushrooms. He waved to his companions as he made his way into the forest. He was glad he had marked the trees so he could find the patch where he’d seen the mushrooms the previous day. Making sure to stay on the path he had marked, he came to a dense grove. The trees were tall, and little sun got through. A wide patch of mushrooms grew at the foot of the trees. Lee Sing knelt down and filled his sack with mushrooms. He would make soup and dry the rest. He was pleased to find some wild berries growing nearby. He would make a special dinner this evening. He would stuff the fish they’d caught that morning with mushrooms and bake it, and they would have the berries for dessert. Lee Sing was returning to the camp when he heard gunshots. He knew Quang Chen and Ah Fong didn’t own guns. Whites didn’t look kindly on armed

Chinese. Most Chinese didn’t bother to purchase firearms. It just gave the gweilo another reason to kill them. Lee Sing picked up his pace. There was another gunshot. Lee Sing ran. He stopped just short of the tree line. Ah Fong lay dead on the ground. A well-dressed man with a dark beard was on horseback. He wore a cream-colored hat with a wide brim. Two men, one of them wearing a brown derby, stood over Quang Chen, who was wounded. Lee Sing could not make out what the men were saying. Suddenly the man wearing a brown derby shot Quang in the head. He searched Quang’s body and removed something, which he handed to the man on the horse. Lee Sing realized it was Quang’s claim. He wasn’t sure what he should do. He was unarmed. The man wearing the derby turned and looked in Lee Sing’s direction. Lee Sing ducked and held his breath. There was a whinny of horses and the sound of hooves galloping away. Lee Sing slowly raised his head. The white men were gone. Lee Sing raced to the camp. He slumped to his knees and cradled Quang Chen’s body and then Ah Fong’, saying a prayer for each of them. The whites had stolen the gold and wrecked their shack. They hadn’t bothered to take the mules. Lee Sing buried his two companions near the river. He gathered what belongings he could salvage and spent the night there without a fire. In the morning he loaded one of the mules with his belongings. He cut the second mule loose and then began his journey south.

Rancho Oso Negro

Sean McGuire walked out of the whitewashed adobe and stood on the long porch with a tin cup of coffee. He wore work tros with a heavy black belt and a long johns shirt. A sweat-stained Stetson sat on his head. The tangerine rays of a rising sun shone on the horizon and lit up the blue-gray sky. Sean took a sip of coffee. His face had darkened from years of working and riding in the California sun. He was twenty-five and the proud owner of the unfinished hacienda and six hundred acres of open land he called Rancho Oso Negro. A creek ran through the property some one hundred yards behind the adobe. A final wing was needed to complete the structure. A scaffold stood next to the unfinished section, and rows of bricks lay out in the sun. A large hole, with a pile of rocks stacked next to it, sat in front of the adobe off to the right. The ranch had a smokehouse, a log bunkhouse, a barn, and a corral that held a dozen horses. The fact that the barn, smokehouse, and corral were completed while the adobe remained unfinished clearly demonstrated that Sean took the practical over the luxury of a finished roof over his head A pair of pigs and two dozen chickens roamed the area. They generally kept close to the adobe because that was where the men tossed their dried biscuits. One of the pigs was eating a dead lizard. The reptile’s size was exaggerated due to the fact that the pig had stomped the reptile into the ground before eating it. Another pig lay snoozing near the trough, oblivious to its companion’s prize meal. Sean watched the pig gnaw on the lizard. “Well, you’ve earned your keep killing that one.” He took another drink of coffee and tossed the remainder on the ground. “This well isn’t going to dig itself,” he called back into the house. Rufus Cobb, a stocky man who stood a half foot taller than Sean, tromped out of the adobe. He wore red long johns and work tros that were held up with suspenders. Rufus was older than Sean by nearly a decade. He had thick, curly brown hair and hadn’t shaved in a week. Charlie Davis brought up the rear. He was about Sean’s age, stood five two, and weighed no more than 110 pounds soaking wet. He wore mud-caked tros, boots, and a dirty shirt.

Rufus looked at the pig eating the lizard. “Jesus, that’s a big ’un.” He kicked dirt at the pig lounging near the trough and asked, “What’s your problem?” The pig snorted but didn’t move. Rufus gave the pig a look. “You’ll be bacon one day.” He stomped his boot on the ground. “Let’s get to it.” Charlie attached a rope harness under his shoulders and picked up a shovel. “I’m ready.” Sean and Rufus picked up the two ropes and slowly lowered Charlie down into the hole. Next they lowered two wooden buckets down to him. Charlie stood some twenty-two feet down in the well. They had braced the sides with timber cut from the pepper trees that grew abundantly in the area. Charlie dug, filled a bucket, and gave the rope a tug. Sean hoisted the bucket, dumped the contents, and lowered it again. Rufus used the dirt to make bricks, which he laid out in the sun to dry. It was assembly-line labor. “Son of a bitch!” Charlie shouted. Sean leaned over the hole. “What?” “I hit a goddamn rock.” Charlie tapped the rock with the edge of the shovel. Sean lowered a pickax and a canteen of water. Charlie took a long drink from the canteen. Then he untied the pickax and began chipping away at the obstruction. Rufus continued making bricks and laying them out to dry. By midday Charlie had only sent up three buckets, which had mainly contained chips of granite. Sean leaned over the hole. “How’s it going?” “Just peachy,” Charlie replied. “Why don’t you come on up?” Sean asked. “This goddamn well ain’t gonna dig itself. You sure there’s water down here?” Charlie shouted back. Sean tugged his ear. He felt water was there. He always had a sense about such things. He had always been able to locate lush pastures for the sheep to graze on

back in Ireland. He could read animals like he was one of them. He had an intuitive sense most men lacked. His father had told him he was blessed because a comet ed overhead the night he’d been born. He wasn’t going to tell that to Rufus or Charlie. He banked on their trusting him. “There’s water there. You’ve just got to keep digging,” Sean called down. “Easy for you to say,” Charlie mumbled to himself as he went at the rock again. Sean left Charlie to his labors. Rufus had dozens of adobe blocks lying out drying in the sun and told Sean, “We have enough to finish the house.” Rufus looked over at the hole. Sean shrugged his shoulders. “Charlie hit granite.” “There is water down there?” Sean gave Rufus a look that said, not you too? Rufus threw up his hands. “Sorry.” “I’m going to head over to Jedidiah’s place. I’ll be back before sunset.” Rufus nodded and went back to making bricks with a wooden mold. Sean saddled up a bay from the corral and swung into the saddle. “You might want to check on Charlie now and then.” Rufus nodded. “Say hi to Jed for me.” Sean clicked his tongue, and the bay took off at a quick trot. The arrow and years of hard living had only slowed Jedidiah McCabe down slightly. He had taken an Indian wife by the name of Bright Owl. She was younger than McCabe by twenty years and didn’t weigh more than ninety pounds. They had a bean farm located a few miles east of Pueblo de Los Ángeles. Jedidiah enjoyed farming about as much as he did wrestling with a grizzly, but he loved Bright Owl. She was a Christian woman and did not care for Kit Carson and the band of reprobates who rode with him. Bright Owl had

had two requirements before she’d agreed to marry Jedidiah. First, he must quit the regulars. Second, he had to build her a home. Jedidiah hadn’t argued. He’d left Kit and the regulars and bought the farm. That worked out fine because Kit was out of the area most of the time chasing Indians for the local constabulary up north or in Arizona Territory. Jedidiah had built Bright Owl a snug two-room adobe with an outdoor privy. Now that he was on the downward side of forty, Jedidiah enjoyed the comfort of a woman and a hot home-cooked meal. He did miss the adventure, though. Sean was welcome in their home, as Bright Owl didn’t consider him one of Kit’s reprobates. He had never made his living hunting and killing Indians. He’d quit the regulars right after California had entered the Union. After what became known as the Bear Flag Revolt, Sean scouted for the military, done some surveying, and tended bar. He’d even tried his luck at theater while living in San Francisco. The management had quickly discovered that he was not the Irish tenor he’d claimed to be and that his acting skills were as stiff as a starched collar. Sean and the theater had quickly parted company. Jedidiah spotted Sean coming up the path. He raised his arm and waved as he walked from his field over to the shade of a large orange tree. Sean rode over to meet him. “Hey, Jedidiah.” “Hey, yourself. How’re things comin’ at the ranch?” asked the mountain man. Sean gave Jedidiah a look. “They’re coming.” “Maybe I shouldn’t ask.” Sean grinned sheepishly. “We hit rock digging the well. If I don’t get some cattle and get the place up and running soon …” His voice faded. “You wanna head down to Mexico and rustle some Mex cattle, you let me know.” “Thanks, Jedidiah.” “Well, I know it wasn’t my good looks that brought you out here.” Jedidiah pulled an orange from the tree and tossed it to Sean.

Sean got off his horse and peeled the orange. “Thaddeus Parker is coming for a visit tomorrow. I thought you and Bright Owl might like to come over for dinner.” He bit into the orange. “Hmmm, damn, that’s sweet.” Jedidiah shook his head, staring at the field of beans in front of them. “Who’da guessed I’d end up a damn sod buster?” Sean grinned and nodded to the orange. “You know these are a delicacy back in Ireland.” “Yeah, well, they get more rain there,” Jedidiah replied. “They do that.” Sean nodded to the tree. “You mind if I take a couple of those back to the boys?” “Help yourself.” Sean grabbed some oranges off the tree and put them in his saddlebag. “Thanks.” “I thought that was you,” a woman said. Sean turned to see Bright Owl walking over with a bucket of water and a ladle. She was small and slender with dark brown eyes. Her hair hung to the small of her back and was as smooth as silk. Sean had never been able to understand what Bright Owl saw in Jedidiah. The fact that a man as old and ornery as Jedidiah could end up with a beautiful woman like Bright Owl gave Sean hope. Sean tipped his hat. “Bright Owl, you’re looking beautiful as ever.” Bright Owl smiled. “You say that to all the women.” She set the bucket down and handed the ladle of water to Sean. He drank the water down. “Thank you,” he said, handing the ladle back. Bright Owl dipped the ladle in the bucket and handed it to Jedidiah. He dumped the water over his head, then scooped up another and drank it down. “Sean here invited us to dinner out at his place tomorrow,” Jedidiah said. Bright Owl cast her eyes downward. “Tomorrow is Good Friday,” she said

quietly and decisively. “Bright Owl, our friend invited us to his house,” Jedidiah said. Bright Owl looked at Sean. “You were raised Catholic?” Sean nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Father Shannon did his best to beat the teachings of Jesus into me.” “And you’re not attending services at the mission?” she asked. “Let’s just say God and I went our separate ways the night I sailed from Ireland.” Bright Owl touched Sean’s arm. “I will pray for you, Sean McGuire, that your road crosses our Lord Father’s. Thank you for the invitation, but we will be at services.” Bright Owl picked up the bucket and walked back to the house. “That is one determined lady,” Sean said. Jedidiah rubbed the back of his neck and gave Sean a grin of embarrassment. “You aren’t married to her. When Bright Owl sets her mind to something … well, by God it’s gonna happen, or there’s sure gonna be hell to pay.” Sean got back up on his horse. “Sorry you rode all the way out here for nothin’,” Jedidiah said. Sean patted the saddlebag. “I got some oranges.” Jedidiah gave Sean a pleading look. “I hope you don’t take offense.” Sean smiled at his friend and tipped his hat. “See you in church, Jedidiah.” He clicked his tongue, and his bay took off at a gallop. Jedidiah watched Sean ride off and then glanced over at the adobe. Bright Owl was weeding their vegetable garden. When Jedidiah looked back, Sean and the bay were gone. Sean didn’t say anything when he returned to the ranch that evening. He put the

bay in the barn and brushed her down. Dinner was quiet. Charlie hadn’t been successful dislodging the rock. Things lightened up a bit when Charlie told Sean how Rufus had nearly gotten stuck in the well when he’d attempted to go down. “We’ve got enough bricks to finish off that wing,” Rufus said attempting to change the subject. “We can have this place done in a couple of weeks if we stop digging that well.” “We need the well,” Sean said. “The well’s for us. The creek is for the cattle. And that is barely enough.” Rufus made a face and scratched his scalp. “We need cattle for a ranch, Sean. We don’t have any cattle. We could, if we stopped digging that well and rustled us some Mex cattle.” Sean rubbed the back of his neck. Charlie and Rufus were not paid hands. They had come along because he’d asked them to. “I know we need cattle,” Sean said. “We’ll get them, and they won’t be Mex cattle. Damn Mex cattle are tougher than leather and damn bony too.” Charlie gave Sean a questioning look. “Don Pico sells Mex cattle, and he’s doing pretty well for himself.” Rufus nodded in agreement. Sean frowned. “If we want a successful ranch, we need a different breed of stock.” “That means shipping stock here,” Rufus said. “Ain’t nothin’ but Mex cattle in these parts.” “We can’t ship cattle. I’m plumb outta money,” Sean replied. “It took nearly everything I had to get this place to the point it is.” Sean took the oranges from his saddlebag and set them on the table. The men ate the fruit in silence. The following morning the three men were up before dawn and working on the well. They worked silently. The previous night’s discussion weighed heavily on

Sean. While he had gotten the land at a bargain, developing it had depleted most of his resources. The lumber for the bunkhouse, barn, and corral hadn’t been cheap. Living on the land for the last year while they built the ranch had taken nearly all the cash that remained. Sean held enough back to purchase cattle, but it was starting to look like he might have to dip into those reserves. The digging was slow. Charlie had cleared most of the dirt from around the single large rock that blocked them from going deeper. He was bent down and using a trowel to dig under the rock and clear away more dirt. Sean leaned over the hole and called down, “Breakfast.” Rufus hoisted Charlie up, and Sean handed him a cup of coffee. Charlie removed the harness and took a sip of coffee. “It’s getting there, fellas.”

A carriage rattled down the long, dusty road. The sun hung like a giant orange in the sky, beating down on the travelers. Patrick McGuire took out a handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. He was seventy-five, and the years had taken their toll. Thaddeus Parker sat across from him. He was a bit heavier and still the captain of the Falcon. The ship had put into port the previous day. Thaddeus had hired the carriage for the journey out to Rancho Oso Negro. The local climate agreed with Thaddeus. He’d enjoyed the ride as they’d journeyed east through the young vineyards of Rancho San Pasqual. Patrick dabbed his brow with his handkerchief again. “The climate is a wee bit warmer than Ireland,” Thaddeus remarked, puffing on a Cuban cigar. Patrick stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “It’s April and hotter than Hades itself.” Thaddeus slapped his knee and grinned. “Sean has certainly adapted.” “You didn’t tell him I was coming, did you?” Thaddeus shook his head. “The boy thinks I’m just paying him a visit.”

“You know, after I left Ireland, I never expected to see anyone from the old country again, least of all family.” “Sean will certainly be surprised. I’m sure you won’t recognize him.” “I am grateful for your help, Thaddeus.” Thaddeus waved his friend off. “When I got the message that you had arrived in New York, there was nothing else to do.” The carriage turned off the main road and headed up the long drive to the Oso Negro. Sean and another man stood over a large hole near the adobe. They were caked with dirt. Patrick chuckled at the sight. “Just like an Irishman, working on Good Friday.” Sean hadn’t noticed the carriage. He was bent over looking in the dry well. “How’s it going, Charlie?” Twenty-two feet down, Charlie had dug out a formidable amount of dirt and stone. The floor was soft with mud. Charlie had driven a wedge into the head of the granite rock that blocked the way. He wiped his brow with a sweat-stained handkerchief and looked up at Sean. “It’s coming. Just be sure you and Rufus haul me up when this baby splits.” “We will.” Rufus tapped Sean on the shoulder. “Somebody is coming. It could be your friend the captain.” Sean turned and saw the approaching carriage with two men riding in it. He raised his hand over his brow to shield his eyes from the sun. A smile slipped across his face. “Uncle Patrick.” Sean dropped the rope and raced for the carriage. Rufus set his rope down and followed Sean. Charlie picked up the sledge and resumed driving the wedge deeper into the stone. The carriage pulled up and stopped. Patrick and Thaddeus got out, and the driver got down and removed the valise strapped to the back of the carriage.

Sean was surprised to see how much his uncle had aged. He could see time and a hard life had taken their toll. He hid his shock with a big smile. “Uncle Patrick!” The two men hugged, both fighting back the tears that threatened to well in their eyes. “It’s good to see you, boy. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you’ve grown, Sean.” Sean turned to Thaddeus and shook his hand. “I’m sure I have you to thank for this.” Thaddeus chuckled and puffed on his cigar. “I was only a bit player.” He leaned close and whispered, “Patrick thinks he’s sailing with me. He can’t.” The captain looked directly at Sean. His expression told Sean all he needed to know. Sean hugged Thaddeus. “Thank you.” He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his soiled shirt. “Where are my manners? Rufus, this is my Uncle Patrick and very good friend Captain Thaddeus Parker.” Rufus wiped his hands off on his pant legs and shook the two men’s hands. There was a loud crack and then a rumbling sound. “Pull me up! Pull me up!” Charlie shouted. Sean and Rufus had forgotten their partner. They rushed over to the well, grabbed the ropes, and pulled. Charlie cackled with glee as the water came gushing up the well. “I told you fellas I was gonna bust that bitch,” he laughed. The water was rising fast and gaining on Charlie. “Goddamn, pull, boys! Pull! I sure don’t want to drown in this damn well.” Rufus gave a hard tug, and Charlie flew out of the hole. He was soaking wet and muddy. Unaware of the visitors, Charlie laughed as he removed the harness. “We did it, boys! Son of a bitch, we did it!” Charlie finally noticed Patrick and Thaddeus. “Oh.” The driver got back on the carriage, and Thaddeus walked over to the man. “Be here tomorrow, first thing in the morning,” he said under his breath and slipped

the driver a five-dollar gold piece. The man tipped his hat and drove off. Sean introduced Charlie to Uncle Patrick and Thaddeus. A geyser of water shot up from the well and then stopped, the water leveling off just a few feet above ground level. Sean, Charlie, and Rufus quickly grabbed the rocks from the pile and made a stone perimeter around the well. The water kept coming. They kept piling rocks with mud until they’d built a three-foot-high perimeter. Rufus looked at the bubbling water now contained by stones. “Looks like we hit a gusher.” Charlie dipped his hand into the water and tasted it. “Ahh, don’t that taste sweet.” “Luck of the Irish,” Rufus joked. The men laughed. Thaddeus produced a bottle of fine bourbon from his jacket, and they ed it around. Sean got Patrick situated in a bedroom and then returned to help Charlie and Rufus stack more rocks and slap mortar between. By sundown they had a fine well built. Rufus took a side of beef from the smokehouse and burnt steaks for everyone that evening. Patrick was unfamiliar with the local fare of steaks, beans, tortillas, and coffee. He picked up the tortilla and stared at it. “Mighty thin. Looks like an oversized Communion wafer.” “It’s called a tortilla,” Sean said. “It’s Mex food. You put your steak and beans in it and wrap it up.” Sean demonstrated for his uncle. “Ahh.” Patrick nodded as he got the hang of it. “’Tis a far cry from cabbage and soda bread.” He took a sip of coffee and made a face. “That’ll certainly take the paint off a cart.” “Tomorrow I’ll give you a tour of the ranch,” Sean said. “What are you growing, son?” Patrick asked. “Nothing much right now, Uncle Pat,” Sean replied. “We have a couple acres of

alfalfa going. Not looking to farm. I plan to be a rancher. Me and the boys, that’s what we’re working on.” Sean gestured to Charlie and Rufus. Both smiled but were too busy eating to be bothered commenting on the conversation. “How many acres do you have, if you don’t mind my asking?” Patrick said. Sean cut a hunk of steak, speared it with his knife, and popped it in his mouth. “I bought a thousand acres from Mr. Wilson. I plan to buy another six thousand once we get this place up and running.” Patrick’s eyes widened. “Bloody hell, that’s more than the Earl of Strathearn’s entire estate.” Sean washed his steak down with a gulp of coffee. He set the cup down and grinned. “Do you think he’d have me over for dinner?” “He’d hang you first, laddie.” Patrick shook his head in disbelief. “How in the world did you ever acquire it?” “Your nephew is a genuine hero,” Rufus said. Charlie nodded. “Saved my and Rufus’s rears—that’s for sure.” Sean smiled sheepishly. “Come on, fellas.” Rufus looked at Sean. “Ain’t bragging. It’s the truth.” Patrick’s eyes shifted from Sean to Charlie to Rufus. “Well, you certainly have my attention.” Sean gave Thaddeus a questioning look. “You didn’t tell him?” Thaddeus poured some bourbon into his coffee and took a sip. “It’s your story.” “Well, are you going to tell me, or am I going to die of old age first?” Patrick asked impatiently. Sean scratched his head and threw his arms up in mock surrender. “Sean saved me and Charlie and a bunch of fellas when the Mexicans had us pinned down in the hills north of Dago,” Rufus blurted out.

Charlie nodded in agreement. “Sean rode and got Kit Carson, the general and his soldiers and they came a-riding, shooting, and a-hollering.” Rufus picked up the narrative again. “Then last year we was workin’ for Benjamin Wilson while he’s on a hunting trip up in the mountains north of Lucerne. Mr. Wilson is the justice of the peace here in Rancho San Pasqual and owns damn near everything out this way. Sean was scouting, and Charlie and me was hired to handle the mules.” “The second night out this bear charges our camp,” Charlie said, cutting Rufus off. “He heads straight for Wilson. Cool as a cucumber, Sean shot that bear dead.” Sean grinned. “So Mr. Wilson made me a very generous offer.” “If it weren’t for Sean, ol’ Ben Wilson would’ve been that bear’s dinner. Instead he’s got a bear rug on his floor,” Rufus said with a laugh. Sean’s face was flush with embarrassment. “It was a lucky shot.” “The hell you say!” Rufus replied. “Hence the name Rancho Oso Negro,” Thaddeus said. “It means ‘black bear’ in Spanish.” Sean looked at Thaddeus. “You think there’s gonna be a war?” “A war? With whom?” Patrick asked. “The southern states are pretty riled California didn’t go slave when we became a state.” Sean noticed his uncle’s perplexed look. “I took the oath and became a Yank when I was in the regulars. It just seemed the right thing to do.” “I’ll it, there was talk of secession when I was in Charleston,” Thaddeus said. Sean slapped his hand on the table. “I figured as much. How much would it be to ship cattle here, Thaddeus?” The captain couldn’t hide his surprise. “Is that what you want to do, ship cattle?”

he asked, dismayed. “If there’s a war, the army is going to need beef. The local stock ain’t nothing to write home about,” Sean said. “If we could get some decent cattle, this would be one hell of a ranch. Texas is the nearest territory to find good stock. We could drive them to Galveston and load them there.” “The cost would be high,” Thaddeus said. Patrick looked at Sean. “Why not just drive the cattle from this Texas?” Rufus attempted to stifle a laugh. Charlie elbowed him. “Texas is hundreds of miles away, Mr. McGuire,” Charlie said. “That’s some real hostile country, not to mention the Rockies. Ain’t no way you’re gonna get a herd over them mountains.” Thaddeus wagged a finger. “I once heard there was a Spanish conquistador who traveled north through Mexico and Texas to San Diego. He was the commandant of the presidio and went Native.” “Did this conquistador have a name?” Sean asked. “I don’t recall. The family supposedly had a fleet of merchant ships at one time,” Thaddeus replied matter-of-factly and then shrugged his shoulders. “It could be an old sailors’ tale. You know how you hear these things.” Sean laughed heartily. “Yes, I do.”

The carriage arrived at sunup. Patrick was still asleep. The trip and the previous night’s festivities had taken their toll. Sean stood on the porch of the adobe and bid Thaddeus good-bye. “Thank you for bringing Patrick to me,” he said. “It was nothing.” “Take care of yourself, Thaddeus.”

The captain patted his chest and smiled. “I’m off to the Sandwich Islands for a shipment of coconuts and wood. The ladies there have dark eyes, scented hair, and skin as soft as silk. They will take ten years off of any man.” The two men hugged. “Please tell Patrick I said good-bye.” “I will.” The captain gestured to the house. “You’ve done well. Good luck with the ranch.” “Don’t be a stranger.” “I promise.” Thaddeus got on the carriage. The driver shook the reins, and the horses took off at a trot. Sean watched the carriage disappear in the distance. Patrick was saddened that he’d missed Thaddeus’s departure, but he didn’t say a word about being left behind. “What can I do to help?” Patrick asked as they all had a breakfast of coffee and biscuits in the adobe’s kitchen. The last thing he wanted was to be a burden on Sean. Rufus glanced over at Sean. “You can give me a hand,” Rufus said. “I’m gonna start on that final wing today.” Patrick gave a nod. “Wonderful.” He took a sip of coffee and made a face. “I do miss my tea.” Rufus chuckled. “It’ll put hair on your chest.” Charlie rolled his eyes. “Rufus does make a heavy brew, Mr. McGuire.” He grinned and glanced over at Sean. “Maybe once we get this place running, we can get ourselves a real cook.” Rufus frowned. “Charlie and I are going to ride out to the reservation. See if that story Thaddeus

heard has any weight,” Sean said. “The Spanish conquistador chap?” Patrick asked. “Yes. That sounded a lot like the grandfather of Falcon, an Indian I know,” Sean replied. Rufus shrugged his shoulders. “Nothin’ lost talkin’ to the man, but Thaddeus could be wrong.” Charlie took a bite of his biscuit. “You’re a pissamystic, Rufus. We ain’t never gonna get this ranch running with that type of thinkin’.” Rufus mouthed the word pissamystic. Sean ate another biscuit and washed it down with his coffee. “We better get a move on, Charlie.”

After the war with Mexico ended and California became a state, war was declared upon the Indians. It was open season on all Native people. While no official decree had been issued by the federal or state governments declaring the war, the US Army and nearly every trapper and farmer in the state engaged in the eradication of the indigenous people, people who had no idea California was now a state. A white man could kill any Indian with damn near complete immunity. California quickly became known as the Murder State. The Natives that weren’t killed were rounded up and sent to one of the reservations that stretched from Fresno Valley down to San Diego. No regard was given to the Natives’ tribes, where they had lived, or who their enemies were. An Indian was an Indian as far as the US Army was concerned. The tribes were at the mercy of the government for their food and housing. The rations were pitiful, usually green beef and moldy corn. The Native population was welcome to hunt all the game they wished to, which amounted to little more than scorpions, rattlesnakes, and the occasional jackrabbit. Sean hated the idea of reservations. It reminded him of what the British had done to the Irish. The persecution of the Natives was one of the reasons he’d quit the regulars. The idea of hunting men and imprisoning them did not sit well with

Sean. Ten years earlier Sean had landed in Monterey on the eve of the Bear Flag Revolt. He hadn’t even owned the dirt in his pockets. Falcon and his people roamed much of the southern part of the state. Sean thought it odd how their fortunes had changed. He had been living in San Francisco when Falcon and the rest of his tribe were sent to the reservation. Golden Eagle had died on the march. When Sean had returned to the area, he’d visited Falcon on the reservation. He’d brought blankets and food. Sean knew the blankets the army issued were threadbare and not fit to cover a horse. Falcon and Running Dear had been grateful for the gifts. Sean had also given Falcon a fine hunting knife. The army had confiscated the Natives’ guns and bows and arrows. They were allowed to possess only whatever spears and knives they could fashion from stone. A steel hunting knife was a highly valued prize. The Fenian flag Sean had given Falcon years before still hung in Falcon and Running Deer’s lodge. It had been nearly a year since Sean last visited the reservation. The work building the ranch had kept him busy. Captain Peter Sheridan was the commander at the reservation. Captain Sheridan had ed the army the day he’d stepped off the boat in Boston twenty-eight years ago and had worked his way up through the ranks. Sheridan did not share Sean’s views toward the Indians, but he liked Sean and gave him great latitude when he visited Falcon. All whites coming on the reservation were supposed to be searched for contraband, but Sean was never searched. He would never allow it, and the commander never enforced the edict upon him. Sean respected the captain for that. Sergeant O’Reilly was on duty at the gate when Sean and Charlie rode up. O’Reilly was thin and had a leathery face that belied his jovial demeanor. “Well, if it ain’t Dead-Eye McGuire, the world-famous bear killer,” O’Reilly joked when he saw Sean. “Haven’t seen you out this way for a while.” “A good day to you, Sergeant.” Sean tipped his hat and nodded toward Charlie. “This is my partner Charlie Davis.” Charlie tipped his hat to the sergeant.

“Come to see Falcon and Running Deer?” O’Reilly asked. “Yep,” Sean replied. Sergeant O’Reilly turned to the private manning the gate and commanded, “Open the gate!” The private, who looked like he couldn’t be much over sixteen, saluted and raised the gate. “Much obliged, Sergeant.” Sean tipped his hat again as he and Charlie rode onto the reservation. Falcon was seated outside his and Running Deer’s shack cleaning squirrels he had trapped. Sean and Charlie rode up and got off their horses. Sean clasped the Indian’s hand, and they hugged. “It is good to see you, my friend,” Falcon said. “And you.” Charlie and Falcon shook hands. Running Deer walked up carrying two pots of water strung on a pole across her shoulders. She set the pots down and gave Sean a hug. “It has been many moons since you have visited us,” she said. Sean removed the sack of potatoes and yams he’d brought and handed it to Running Deer. “I know how you like yams.” Running Deer smiled. “Thank you.” She ran her hand over Sean’s cheek and looked him directly in the eyes. “You’ve come for Falcon. You want him to track for you.” Sean felt unnerved by the woman’s uncanny directness, but he kept a poker face. “Yes.”

Rufus was busy laying brick for the new wing. Patrick was seated on the porch. Suddenly the strangest-looking bird either man had ever seen scrambled up the drive and past the hacienda. The horses in the corral were startled as the creature

raced by heading toward the creek. The bird had a long neck, large body, and long legs. Its wings were short, which kept it earthbound. “What the hell was that?” Rufus asked, jumping down from the scaffold. Patrick watched the creature’s forward progress. “I believe it’s an ostrich.” Rufus brushed his hands off on his tros, his eyes glistening. “I’m gonna catch me that bird.” He raced off to the corral, quickly saddled a horse, and rode off in pursuit of the ostrich. Patrick climbed up the scaffold to get a better view. Rufus made several attempts to lasso the bird, but the creature instinctively dodged the rope. “Son of a bitch, I’m a-gonna get you. You scrawny-neck peckerwood,” Rufus said in frustration as he threw his lariat again. This time the lasso fell neatly over the bird’s head. Rufus pulled, and the rope tightened around the bird’s neck. The giant fowl stood stone still. Rufus chuckled. “Gotcha.” The giant bird remained motionless. Keeping hold of the rope, Rufus got off his horse. “Hoo-wee, ain’t you a big ’un. I bet you taste real good with some potatoes and onions.” The bird eyed Rufus, standing still as if it was stunned. Rufus flashed a big grin as he approached the bird. “Sean and Charlie ain’t gonna believe this.” He glanced over his shoulder. He saw Patrick on the scaffold and gave a wave. Patrick waved back. That was exactly when the large bird took off running, catching Rufus unaware. There wasn’t much slack in the rope. There was a hard tug, and he fell flat on his face. The rope was wound around his right hand, so the large bird ended up dragging him through the brush. He attempted to get purchase and stand only to fall again as the large bird ran faster. He pulled his knife from its sheath with his left hand and cut the rope. He was free. Rufus stood up and brushed himself off as the bird raced away. His ego was more bruised than his body. The bird stopped some twenty yards away and stared at Rufus. Rufus looked at the large bird and waved it off in disgust. He got on his horse, rode back to the ranch, and returned to work.

Patrick came down the scaffold. “Not a word,” Rufus said as he laid a brick and slapped on mortar.

“Why do you want to do this?” Falcon asked. He was seated with Sean and Charlie inside his government-issued shack. Sean grinned sheepishly. “I want the best damn ranch around here.” “But why?” Falcon asked. Sean thought for a minute. “Well, hell, Falcon, ’cause I want to be rich. Ain’t no sin in that.” Falcon smiled. “And you are ready to risk your life for that?” “My parents risked their lives just living. Come with me, Falcon; scout for us. You and Running Deer can live at the ranch.” Running Deer looked at her husband but did not say anything. “It is a very long and dangerous trip,” Falcon cautioned. “I am not sure I all my grandfather told me. You are my friend, Sean McGuire. I will scout for you.” Sean smiled. “Thank you.” “We should leave as soon as possible. The desert is unforgiving,” said Falcon. “Give me two weeks to put together a team.” Falcon gave a nod and extended his hand. Sean shook the Indian’s hand. “I will speak to Captain Sheridan. You and Running Deer pack your things. The Oso Negro is going to be your home from here on.” Sean and Charlie got on their horses and rode off.

Running Deer walked over and gave her husband a hug. “You don’t mind living among the whites?” Falcon asked. “Sean is not like other whites,” Running Deer said. “We will have a better life on his ranch than we can ever have here.” Sean stopped at the officers’ headquarters and spoke to Captain Sheridan. Surprisingly Sheridan readily agreed to Sean’s request. With Falcon and Running Deer gone, it would mean two fewer mouths to feed. The captain promised to have them transported to the Oso Negro by the end of the week. Sean gave Sheridan a bottle of fine Kentucky bourbon he had gotten from Thaddeus. He thanked Sheridan and bid him a good day. “That was easy,” Charlie said as they rode from the reservation. “The hard part is going to be getting those cattle back to California,” Sean replied.

Rufus stood iring his work on the hacienda. Patrick walked over with a bucket of water. “Thanks.” Rufus dumped the bucket over his head and shook off the excess like a dog. “Impressive,” Patrick said. “It is, isn’t it?” Rufus replied proudly. He walked over to the well, tied a rope to the bucket, and dropped it down. He pulled it up, scooped some water out with a ladle, and drank it. “Look,” Patrick said. Rufus turned. Not ten yards away was the large bird. “I could shoot you from here, if I had my rifle,” Rufus said to the bird. The bird charged. Rufus turned to run but tripped and fell. The ostrich stopped. It

regarded the prone man for a moment and then dunked its head in the bucket and took a drink. Rufus got up and brushed himself off. Patrick laughed. “It just wanted a drink.” “I’ll be damned,” Rufus said. “What kinda bird did you say it was?” “An ostrich. They are from Africa I believe.” “Well, what’s some African bird doin’ here in California?” “Must have been on a ship and gotten away somehow.” The ostrich raised its head and looked directly at Rufus. It took a small step and rubbed its head on the big man’s shoulder. Patrick slapped his knee and laughed. “Planning on cooking that bird now?” Rufus frowned at Patrick. He slowly raised his hand and gently stroked the ostrich. The bird cooed and kept its head resting on Rufus’s shoulder. “I hear their eggs are quite tasty,” Patrick said. Rufus gave the bird another pat. The ostrich stood and watched as Rufus scooped water from the bucket and washed himself off. “I better get supper going,” Rufus said. “Sean and Charlie will be back soon.” “Already taken care of,” Patrick said. Rufus gave the Irishman a questioning look. “While you were working, I chopped some potatoes and onions I found in the bin. I threw in the meat from last night and have a nice stew going on the fire.” Rufus stuck his head inside the window and smelled. He smiled at Patrick and clamped his big hand on the Irishman’s shoulder. “I do thank you. Maybe now Charlie will stop his bitching about the cooking. Come on.” The two men started for the house. The ostrich followed.

“What do you plan to do with the bird?” Patrick asked. Rufus thought for a moment. He went to the barn and returned a moment later with a bundle of straw. The big bird watched as Rufus laid the straw on the ground next to the adobe and made a nest. Rufus removed the rope from the bird’s neck. The two men watched as the ostrich nestled down on the straw. “Not a word about this either,” Rufus said. “Oh, I don’t think Sean will notice at all,” Patrick replied dryly. When Charlie and Sean returned and saw the large bird nesting on the straw bed, they exchanged a look. Sean shrugged, and they put the horses up and tramped into the kitchen. “Uncle Patrick’s stew,” Sean said, entering the kitchen. Charlie glanced at Rufus. “See you got yourself a new friend.” He nodded at the window and the ostrich outside. Rufus’s face turned red as he did a slow burn. Sean chuckled and sat down at the table. Patrick ladled out generous portions in the clay bowls and placed them in front of the men. “Here you go.” He took one for himself and sat down at the oak table. “Hmm,” Charlie said, digging into his stew. “Looks like the cooking has improved.” Rufus frowned. “We’ve got our work cut out,” Sean said. “We’ve got to get a team together and be ready to ride to Texas in two weeks.” Rufus and Patrick looked up, surprised. “You’re really going to take a herd across the desert?” Rufus said. Charlie mopped the gravy up with his biscuit. “They ain’t gonna fly here.

Falcon’s gonna scout for us.” “You’re leaving?” Patrick asked Sean. “I’ve got to. We need a herd.” Rufus shook his head. “You’ve lost your mind. That’s over nine hundred miles of sheer hell. If the Indians don’t get you, the desert will.” Sean took a sip of coffee and set his cup down. “Actually it’s eight hundred miles.” “And much of it is Indian country,” Rufus said. “I thought you were joking. I never figured you’d actually take on a fool’s journey.” Sean was unfazed by Rufus’s remarks and shrugged his shoulders. “It is only a fool’s journey if we fail. I don’t plan on failing.” Rufus looked at Patrick. “Maybe you can talk some sense into him.” Patrick chuckled. “They’ll be serving Guinness in hell before that happens.” “You stay and finish the work here,” Sean told Rufus. Rufus was caught off guard “Whaddya mean? If you’re plannin’ on travelin’ through hostile territory, then I’m gonna lend a hand. Don’t want anyone sayin’ Rufus Cobb is a yellowbelly.” “I need you to stay here, Rufus.” Sean’s eyes shifted briefly to Patrick. “You can finish up the wing and start on that waterwheel you’ve been talking about.” Rufus understood. “If that’s what you need, then I’ll stay.” “You are a much-bigger help to me this way,” Sean said. The ostrich stuck its head through the window and looked about. The bird suddenly snatched the biscuit off of Rufus’s plate and gobbled it down. “See, no complaints about my biscuits,” Rufus said. The men roared with laughter.

The region wasn’t lacking in cowboys. As soon as word got out that Sean McGuire was looking for a dozen able-bodied men, every cowpoke within a hundred miles presented himself at the Oso Negro. Most turned right around when they discovered that Sean was planning to pick up a herd in Texas and drive it back. The general consensus was it was a suicide mission. After three days of “yapping to yahoos,” as Charlie put it, Sean had nine men. That made the crew an even dozen counting Sean, Charlie, and Falcon. The only problem was two of the men who signed on had never been on a cattle drive. Another had plenty of experience but was an alcoholic. “The drive will sober him up,” Sean offered. He and Charlie were sitting on the porch going over the list of men signed on for the drive. Patrick was feeding the chickens and remained silent. Charlie rolled his eyes. “Besides you, me, and Falcon, we’ve got four we can count on. That’s seven good men who know what they’re doing. That’s not enough to drive three hundred head. And we ain’t even got a cook yet.” “We’ll pick up another couple of men,” Sean replied. Rufus, who was working on the adobe, shook his head. He knew Sean was right about the cattle. He just didn’t care to see Sean get involved in a venture that was on such shaky ground. They had too few men, too short a time to accomplish their task, and barely enough money to do so. “We should go with the four reliable men and pick up more drovers in Texas,” Charlie said. Sean pushed his Stetson back on his head. “What if we can’t find any cowboys?” “In Texas?” Charlie replied. “There’s plenty of cowboys right here, and look what we’ve got,” Sean said, not bothering to hide his irritation. “It is a chancy venture,” Charlie dryly countered.

Sean frowned. “Goddamn it! I will not be bent over a barrel by some Texican who’s going to bleed me dry because he knows I don’t have enough men to drive a herd.” He kicked the dirt with his boot. “Damn, who would’ve thought it’d be so hard to find a dozen good men.” Patrick laughed as he tossed grain to the chickens. “Your grandfather asked the very same question every time he fought the British, laddie.” Sean was not amused by his uncle’s humor. He took his hat and slapped it against his leg, then placed it back on his head. “I’m going into town.” Sean went to the corral and saddled up the bay. Charlie followed and saddled up a tan mustang. “Where do you think you’re going?” Sean asked. Charlie would not be discouraged by Sean’s sour mood. He looked at his friend as he tightened the cinch. “If you’re going to look for a cook, then I’m comin’.” “Suit yourself.” Sean swung up into the saddle and rode off. Charlie gave the mustang a pat on the flank. “He sure is in a ripe mood today,” he remarked as he got on the horse. Charlie clicked his tongue, and they took off after Sean and the bay. Los Angeles was a dusty, dirty town that boasted a population of some 2,800 souls. The city looked much better from a distance. A large, grassy range lay to its south. Lush citrus orchards stretched for miles to the east and north, filling the air with the scent of oranges. On the eastern outskirts of town there were a number of redwood houses. Many of these had jasmine, roses, and ivy growing, which added to the sweet smell in the air. The air in town was far less rarefied. Garbage was dumped anyplace that was convenient. Pigs and dogs roamed the streets rooting in refuse heaps. Open ditches supplied the water to homes, laundries, and the public latrines. Main Street reeked at times from the greenish-brown muck that flowed through the open gutters. Dead dogs and cats and rotted fruit, fish, and vegetables all ed through the gutters, giving the downtown area an odor of decay and decomposition.

There was little shade along any of the downtown streets. The roads were unpaved. They were dusty in the summer and could instantly turn into vast troughs of mud with the winter rains. Many of the buildings were flimsy and slipshod, and the construction of newer homes was often utilitarian and incomplete. The small plaza that had once been the center of the pueblo was an unsightly affair. Mongrel dogs and cats fed off the rat population that fed off of the garbage left by vendors who sold their produce there. Los Angeles was bare of prettiness and any semblance of aesthetic beauty. It was as if the city had been built upon the flimsiness of functionality without a thought to the putrid decay that lay outside its doors. Sean and Charlie rode down Main Street. It hadn’t rained in a while, and the dust was as perceptible as the odor. A dog ran by carrying a dead rat between its teeth. It was pursued by a dozen other dogs anxious to get a bite of the rodent. Charlie shook his head. “Ain’t city life grand?” The two men hitched their horses outside of the L. W. Wilson Mercantile Store, which sat across the street from Tomlinson’s corral at the three-way intersection of Main, Spring, and Temple Streets. Their first stop was the corral, where they rented a wagon to haul their supplies. They parked the wagon outside of Wilson’s Mercantile Store and entered. Sean purchased flour, cornmeal, rope, and ammunition and asked the clerk to load the goods on the wagon outside. Sean turned to Charlie, who was leaning against a large barrel. “I’ve got some business to attend to. How ’bout I meet you back here in half an hour?” Without waiting for a reply, Sean exited the store. Charlie didn’t care to stand around at the mercantile, so he ambled down to the Silver Slipper Saloon. The saloon was one of the more fashionable downtown establishments. A number of cowboys Charlie knew were standing at the bar. Charlie walked up tossed down a gold piece. “Whiskey.” The bartender produced a glass and filled it. Charlie motioned for the man to leave the bottle. A cowboy named Casey Decker who had a drifting left eye stood at the bar. “Hey, Charlie, is it true McGuire plans on running a herd from Texas?”

“Yep,” Charlie replied. “Suicide,” Decker sneered. “Only a damn fool would sign on to that drive.” Charlie downed his shot. “Well, I guess that makes me a damn fool, but since it’s comin’ from you, Droopy, I’ll take that under consideration.” Decker’s lip twitched, and his left eye rolled. “What did you say?” Charlie kept his cool. He looked straight ahead at the large mirror hanging over the back of the bar. “I said the Oso Negro wouldn’t be taking you on, Droopy.” Decker charged and threw a haymaker. Charlie ducked, grabbed the bottle of whiskey, and broke it across Decker’s skull. Decker fell to the floor out cold. Charlie tossed a dollar on the bar and turned to the other cowboys. “If any of you boys have a pair and wants a job, come on out to the Oso Negro.” Charlie exited the saloon and went back to the mercantile store, where the clerk was finishing loading the supplies. Charlie tossed the young man a dollar when he finished. Charlie leaned against the wagon, took out his sack of tobacco and packet of papers from his vest pocket, and rolled a smoke. He was just about finished with his smoke when Sean returned. “Get everything taken care of?” Charlie asked. “Yeah. Let’s go and find us a cook.” They stopped at a couple of restaurants and open kitchens, but nobody was interested. “You know this trip ain’t gonna get far ’less we have a decent cook,” Charlie said after they received yet another rejection. “Nothin’ makes a man ornerier than ridin’ all day an’ havin’ to eat slop.” “An army marches on its stomach,” Sean said, getting on his bay. “An army marches what?” Charlie asked as they rode down the street. “Something Napoleon said,” Sean replied.

“Oh.” They ambled down Calle de los Negros. Dozens of Chinese displayed their wares in front of their shops, beckoning customers to enter. Many of the shops were festooned with brightly colored banners and flags. A man was cooking in an open kitchen. He stirred and flipped something in a large iron pan. The fragrance of the cooking cut the fetid smell that permeated much of the city. Sean stopped and watched the man cook the peppers and meat that were in the large pot. “Smells good.” Charlie made a face but remained silent. “What kind of pan is that?” Sean asked the cook. “A wok,” the man replied. “Mind if I try some?” The cook smiled, ladled out a portion onto a tin plate, and handed it to Sean. Sean scooped up the food with his fingers and ate it. “Hmmm, that’s pretty good.” Sean handed the plate to Charlie. “Not bad,” Charlie said after tasting the fare. “What is it, if you don’t mind my asking?” Sean said. “Snails with onions, peppers, and garlic,” the cook replied. Charlie looked shocked. Sean chuckled. “Man cooks like this, think what he could do with a side of beef.” “Well, it’s a damn sight better than Rufus’ cooking,” Charlie said. Sean looked at the cook “You speak pretty good English. How’d you like a job rustling food for a bunch of cowboys?” “Is this a permanent job?” the cook asked.

“I can guarantee you three months for sure. After that, we’ll have to see.” The cook gave a nod and began dismantling his kitchen. “Whoa, you don’t have to tear down today,” Sean said, surprised at the man’s willingness to go with them. “I go with you now and cook.” Sean looked at Charlie, who had a devilish grin on his face. “Fine, you can come with us,” Sean said. He held out his hand. “Sean McGuire. This here is my partner Charlie Davis.” The man shook Sean and Charlie’s hands. “I am Lee Sing,” he said bowing. “Glad to meet you, Lee Sing. Get your stuff together. We’ve got a wagon in front of Wilson’s. We’ll meet you there in an hour.” Lee Sing bowed again and resumed packing his gear. Sean and Charlie turned their horses and headed off across town. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a cook,” Charlie said. “Looks like we do, Charlie.” The pair rode over to Don Pico’s ranch which lay south of the town. The don had one of the largest ranches in the pueblo stocked with plenty of Mexican cattle. Sean wasn’t interested in the don’s cattle; he was interested in Don Pico’s horses. The don told him he was crazy for attempting such a venture but sold Sean forty head. He promised to have the horses delivered the following day. Sean and Charlie tipped their hats and rode off. “Why do I get the feelin’ that old man ain’t shootin’ straight?” Charlie asked as they rode back to pick up the wagon and Lee Sing. “You’re just a born skeptic, Charlie,” Sean replied with a chuckle.

Preparations

There was a frenzy of activity at the ranch. Five more cowboys had signed on, which bolstered Sean’s mood. A second corral was quickly erected. Don Pico’s men delivered the horses and quickly left. The cowboys roped the horses and brought them over one by one to the second corral to be saddle broke. Charlie and Sean had just begun to inspect the horses when six army troopers rode up the drive with Falcon and Running Deer chained in a wagon. The group halted in the cul-de-sac. Corporal Ewing, a twenty-year-old pimple-faced recruit from Vermont, got off his horse. The corporal introduced himself and handed Sean a document. “You take full responsibility for these two savages,” Corporal Ewing said. “Yes,” Sean said. The corporal produced a bottle of ink and quill from his saddlebag. Sean dipped the pen into the ink and signed the document. He handed it back to Corporal Ewing. The soldier placed the ink and document in his saddlebag and signaled one of the troopers to unlock the shackles on Falcon and Running Deer. Falcon jumped down from the wagon and helped Running Deer off. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing, mister.” Corporal Ewing mounted his horse, raised his arm, and signaled the troopers to follow. Sean greeted Falcon and Running Deer as the soldiers rode away. “I guess they were afraid you might get away,” Sean remarked to Falcon. “You had to sign paper?” Falcon asked. Sean removed his hat and scratched his head. “Yeah, I’m responsible for you and Running Deer, so don’t go taking any scalps.” “We do not have to return to the reservation?” Running Deer asked.

Sean placed his hat back on his head and smiled. “As long as I own this ranch, you and Falcon have a home.” Falcon shook his friend’s hand. Tears welled in Running Deer’s eyes. Patrick walked over to Sean, who quickly introduced the pair to his uncle. “Uncle Patrick, would you help Running Deer get settled in the house?” Patrick smiled. “Certainly.” He turned to Running Deer. “Come along, my dear.” Running Deer looked with uncertainty at Falcon. He nodded. Running Deer turned and followed Patrick into the adobe. “Come on, let’s check those horses,” Sean said. Falcon and Sean walked over to where Charlie was standing by the main corral. Charlie shook his head. The look on his face said everything. “That old rascal sent us a dozen head that aren’t worth a plug nickel,” Charlie said. “We got another dozen might make it, but I wouldn’t wager on it.” “What about the rest?” Sean asked. “They’ll do,” Charlie replied. “We paid for forty good head and got less than half that.” Sean tipped his hat back on his head. “We should probably do something about that, don’t you think?” “Well, yeah?” Charlie said more as a question than a reply. Sean flashed Charlie a big smile.

The moon was a sliver in the sky and cast little light. A dozen riders rode down upon Rancho de Pico driving a dozen horses. They whooped and hollered and fired their guns in the air. The commotion got the horses in the corral agitated. They whinnied. They bucked. They thrashed about. A cowboy rode up and tripped the latch on the gate. It burst open as the horses raced after the now-

departing herd and the riders driving it. Lanterns went on in the hacienda and bunkhouse. Don Pico, an aged man with dark, leathery skin and snow-white hair and a white moustache, hurried from the large manor. A man with dark hair wearing tros and boots but no shirt raced up. “What happened?” the dark-haired man asked. Don Pico gestured to the fading dust left by the escaping horses and looked at the man in disbelief. “My horses are running away, Eduardo. That’s what happened. Get some men and go after them.” “Sí, Don Pico.” Eduardo raced off toward the bunkhouse. Sean and the riders pulled the herd up when they were a good three miles out of town. Charlie glanced back in the direction they’d come. “You think they’ll follow?” Sean gave Charlie a look. “Wouldn’t you?” “Goddamn.” He dug his heels into his mustang and hollered, “Let’s get ’em goin’ boys.” The drovers got the horses going and kept them heading eastward in the cool blue night. After another few miles Sean raised his hand and halted the group. “Charlie, pick two men. Cut out two dozen decent horses from the bunch and take ’em back to the ranch.” “What’re you gonna do?” Charlie asked. “Me and the boys are going to run the rest of these horses south for a while. Old man Pico will be chasing his herd all over hell and gone.” Charlie gave a nod and rode off. He picked Joe and Harry Stratton to give him a hand. The two brothers were novices who had signed on. Harry was nineteen, and Joe was seventeen. Charlie figured driving the horses back to the ranch

would give the boys good practice. It was dark, and Charlie wished he had more time, but he quickly cut two dozen head from the main herd. Far in the distance torches could be seen coming in their direction. Charlie and the Stratton brothers rode off with the two dozen head. Sean and the cowboys took off in the opposite direction driving the remainder of the herd.

The next morning the cowboys were busy making final preparations for the drive when Eduardo Padilla, Don Pico’s foreman, and three other men rode up the long drive to Rancho Oso Negro. Rufus was on the scaffold working on the adobe. “Riders coming—looks like Don Pico’s boy,” he called out and climbed down the ladder. Sean gave a nod and signaled the rest of the men to continue with their preparations. He casually walked down to greet the men riding up to the cul-desac. Charlie signaled one of the men to toss him a rifle. He caught the rifle and took a position behind the smokehouse. Patrick came outside and walked over to Rufus. “Is this the man whose ranch Sean got the horses from?” he whispered. “Yeah. He’s Don Pico’s head boss man,” Rufus replied. Eduardo and the men stopped by the well. Sean walked up and greeted them. “Eduardo, what brings you out this way?” Eduardo’s face and clothes were covered with trail dust. It was obvious that they had been riding for hours. “You wouldn’t have happened to see any of Don Pico’s horses?” Eduardo asked nonchalantly. “No. Just the ones we purchased.” Sean gestured to the corral behind him. “As you can see, we’ve been busy getting ready.” Eduardo grinned. “Yes, you’re planning a cattle drive to Texas.” Sean smiled back. “Yes.” Eduardo got off his horse. “Do you mind?”

“Help yourself,” Sean replied. Eduardo dipped the ladle into the bucket of water sitting on the well and took a drink. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Some men raided Don Pico’s ranch last night and stole some horses.” “Who would do such a thing?” Sean asked in astonishment. “Everyone knows Don Pico wouldn’t let rustlers get away with that. You are welcome to look around. I have a receipt for every horse on this ranch.” Eduardo took another drink and set the ladle back in the bucket. His eyes moved slowly across the ranch. He turned and fixed Sean with a smile. “You have done well here, McGuire. It would be a shame if something happened while you were away.” Eduardo tipped his hat and got back on his horse. “Come work for me,” Sean said. Eduardo looked down at Sean and chuckled. “I have no desire to die. You and the others will never make it across the desert. The Comanche will capture you, and you will wish you had died.” He turned to his men. “Vamonos.” As Eduardo and the others galloped away, Charlie walked over to Sean. “You think they know we were the ones that raided their ranch?” “I’m sure of it.” “What’re we gonna do?” Sean looked at Charlie. “We’re going to Texas.” Sean walked over to the scaffold where Rufus and Patrick were standing. “You might need some extra men here while we’re gone,” Sean said. “Nothing me and Patrick can’t handle,” Rufus replied. “Ain’t that right?” Patrick nodded in agreement. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.” “I’m going to leave a couple of men to help out,” Sean said. “You’ve barely got enough for the drive,” Rufus replied.

“We’ve picked up a few extra hands the last few days.” Sean gazed at the multitude of activity below. A trio of men was bringing the last of the horses to the corral and breaking them. Others were busy outfitting their rigs, and another group of men was digging a second latrine and erecting an outhouse, the first privy having been overwhelmed with the ranch’s recent population surge. A month ago it had been just Sean, Charlie, and Rufus, now they had the makings of a viable ranch. All they needed was cattle. Sean turned back to Rufus. “I’ll leave you four men. I’d rather be short on the drive than get back here and find you two dead and the place burned down.” Rufus arched an eyebrow and looked at Patrick. “A bit of a pessimist, isn’t he?” Patrick shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t help it; he was born that way.” Rufus looked at Sean. “Fine, but make sure they can shoot. They ain’t gonna be worth a tinker’s fart if they can’t shoot.” Later that afternoon Sean lined up some bottles on the far side of the creek and had the drovers take turns shooting them. All were able to hit their targets with a scattergun. Only half were accurate with a rifle, and only half of those could hit anything with a sidearm. Rufus scratched his head and looked at Sean. “We probably should have asked about marksmanship when we signed these fellers on.” Sean gathered the men together. “I know you all signed on for a cattle drive. I need four men to stay behind at the ranch. The pay will be the same.” “You expect Don Pico’s boys will come back?” asked Pete Heller, one of the men who had hit the bottles with his pistol. Sean looked at the lean man with long brown hair. “I won’t mince words, They might. Don Pico has a vested interest in seeing this venture fail. That’s why he sent us those lame and colic horses. Pete, I’d be much obliged if you and Louis remained at the ranch.” Louis Tanner, another drover who had proved his marksmanship with a sidearm, gave a nod in agreement.

“I need two other men to volunteer,” Sean said. Dubb Hastings, a middle-aged man, and Carl Ferguson, a young man who had just started to shave, stepped forward. “If’n you’re payin’ the same wage to remain, I’d just as soon stay, Mr. McGuire,” Dubb said. “These old bones have taken a liking to the bunkhouse.” Some of the men chuckled. Dubb had been able to hit the bottles with his Springfield rifle. Charlie gave Sean a look of concern. They would need men who could handle a gun on the trail. “That’s fine. You and Carl can remain with Pete and Louis,” Sean said. “Rufus will be in charge. His word is final. Any man who remains and shirks his duty will be let go without pay. Any man on the drive who shirks his duty will be left in the nearest town without pay. Those on the drive will be expected to cover at least forty miles a day.” There was a general murmur among the men. “Forty miles?” asked Judd Ryerson, one of the cowboys with trail experience. Judd was in his late twenties. He had dark brown hair and a fine handlebar moustache and wore a brown Stetson. “Yes,” Sean said. “We need to get to Texas in four weeks. Even with that schedule we’ll be crossing the desert in June on the way back.” There was a murmur among the men. “Speak up now,” Sean said. “If you don’t want on this drive, say so. I’ll pay you your wages, and you’re free to go.” There was silence. Sean looked at the men standing before him. “This may seem foolhardy. But if we get those cattle back here, we will have the best stock in the territory. I don’t care how many head Don Pico has, they won’t be able to compete with Oso Negro cattle. You can be a part of what will be the best ranch these parts or not. The choice is yours.”

Harry Stratton stepped forward. He held his hat in his hand and looked directly at Sean. “Me and Joe signed on to ride with you, Mr. McGuire. That’s what we aim to do.” Sean smiled. He was still getting used to the cowboys calling him Mr. McGuire. There was a resounding cheer from the rest of the men. Sean held up his arms to quiet the hands. “Thank you. I suggest you men get some sleep. We leave in ten hours.” The cowboys raced off in a half dozen different directions. Sean turned to Patrick. “Are you going to be all right?” Patrick waved his nephew off. “Me and Rufus will keep this place running smooth as a baby’s ass.” He placed his hand on Sean’s shoulder. “You just go and get those cattle.” Sean smiled. “I will.”

The Journey

The sun was nowhere to be seen. The sky was a dull gray. The ground was hard, flat alkaline soil. The cowboys tramped on, small puffs of dust rising every time they set a boot down. The horses trailed behind each man. Sean, Falcon, Charlie, and the rest of the cowboys had already covered six hundred miles. They rode fast and hard. Even Lee Sing had to ride. Sean promised to purchase a proper cook’s wagon once they reached Texas. Until then the men lived off of rice balls, beans, and coffee. They kept their fires small at night so as not to attract attention. Falcon proved to be an excellent guide. They had avoided any with the Apache and Comanche. The group hadn’t had with anyone since crossing the Colorado. With the sun guiding him, Falcon led the way across the desert. Now the sun had vanished. For the last two days the sky had been a hazy gray with no sun. At night the stars were hidden. Without the sun and stars Falcon was unable navigate. Sean stopped and pulled out his com. He opened the case and blew the dust off the face. The needle twitched back and forth. He closed the com and returned it to his vest pocket. He turned and looked at Charlie, who had stopped next to him. The other men continued past them, marching in single file. “I can’t get a decent reading,” Sean said. “You think we’re still in New Mexico Territory?” Sean looked around. The landscape was flat, hard, and dusty. There had been mountains off in the distance, but with the overcast they could no longer be seen. “I don’t know.” Charlie took off his hat and wiped his brow with a red bandana. “What do you want to do?” Sean gazed out at the beige vastness before them. “Falcon should be returning soon.” Charlie placed the hat on his head and tied the kerchief around his neck. “He

rode east. We don’t even know if we’re heading east.” “If we wait for Falcon, we lose ground. We can’t afford that.” Charlie gave a nod. “I hope you know what you’re doin’.” He continued after the trail of cowboys. “So do I,” Sean said to himself. He gave his bay a pat on the neck and followed after Charlie and the others.

Rufus looked at Agnes as he carried a stack of tile up the ladder to the roof of the adobe. Agnes was the name he had given the ostrich that now made the Oso Negro her home. No one really knew whether the bird was male or female, but Rufus thought of her as female. Charlie and Sean had kidded Rufus about naming the ostrich, but he’d paid them little heed. Rufus and the bird had bonded. Agnes followed the big man around the ranch as he tended to his chores. When he was up on the scaffold, Agnes sat in her nest. Rufus had built a box frame for the nest and made sure it had fresh straw every week. The new hands didn’t say much. They were grateful they had jobs. Rufus set the men to building a waterwheel down at the creek. Most of the year a man could leap from one side of the creek to the other, but when rain came, the creek rose. Rufus saw the wheel as a source of power for the ranch. They could build a mill once the wheel was up and running. Patrick tended to chickens and pigs and cooked the meals, and Rufus continued work on the adobe. The final wall was up. All that was needed was to finish tiling the roof. Rufus set the tiles down and gazed at the large bird. She hadn’t moved all morning. Rufus shrugged his shoulders and began laying the tiles. He stopped his work for a moment and watched as the men attached ropes to the wheel that sat on its side next to the large wooden fork they had constructed. They rigged an A-frame with a pulley. Rufus clambered down from the roof. Patrick poured a pail of slop into the trough for the two pigs. “What is it?” “They’re setting the wheel,” Rufus said, marching toward the creek. Patrick set the pail down and followed.

Ropes had been tied to either side of the waterwheel, slung over the limb of a large tree that sat on shore, and run through the A-frame pulley. The men struggled getting the wheel upright. Rufus marched up and grabbed a rope. “Come on, you muthers. This ain’t gonna get up there by itself.” The men strained against the ropes. The wheel slowly inched off the ground. Patrick picked up the long pole lying nearby and guided the wheel over to the fork. The men groaned as they tugged at the ropes. The wheel rose slowly inch by inch. “All right!” Patrick shouted. He used the pole to push the wheel into place. “Let her down.” As the men lowered the wheel, the ropes made a high-pitched squeal from sliding over the tree limb. Patrick raised his arm. “Hold.” He adjusted the wheel’s position again with the pole. “Go.” The men released more rope. The waterwheel sat down in the wooden fork with a solid thud. It took nearly a minute for the eight-foot wheel to make a complete rotation. When it did, the men leaped and cheered. Rufus noticed Patrick was pale. He rushed over to the old man. “Are you all right?” Patrick sucked in a gulp of air and nodded. “I’m fine.” “Well, you don’t look fine,” Rufus said. “Sean will shoot me for sure if anything happens to you.” Patrick waved Rufus off. “Just a bit winded is all.” Rufus wasn’t going to be brushed off that easy. He put an arm around Patrick’s shoulders and helped him toward the hacienda. “Let me give you a hand.” As the two men approached the house, Agnes stood up. A pair of eggs sat in the nest.

Patrick laughed and patted his friend on the back. “You’re going to be a father.”

Falcon spotted a cloud of dust in the distance and motioned the riders to halt. Sean trotted up on his bay to where Falcon sat on his Appaloosa. “What do you think?” Sean asked. “They ride in single file. Most likely they’re Mexican troopers,” Falcon said. As the cloud took shape, the cowboys saw that it was indeed a column of Mexican soldiers riding in their direction. Charlie moseyed up to Sean and Falcon on his mustang. “Make sure the men keep their hands away from their guns,” Falcon said, urging his Appaloosa forward slowly. Captain Francisco Perez held up his arm and halted the two dozen troopers that rode behind him. The captain was a short man with a moustache and dark, piercing eyes. “Please identify yourself. What are you doing in Mexican territory?” Captain Perez asked in perfect Castilian Spanish. Falcon caught a few words the captain said, but he was unfamiliar with the dialect. “We are from California and on our way to Texas,” Falcon replied in common Spanish. “You are going to Colonel Roberts and that band of outlaws he calls the Texas Rangers. If you have business in the east, I want to see your papers,” the captain replied rapidly. Falcon shook his head. “No Colonel Roberts. We are from California. We go get cattle.” Sean trotted up to Falcon and the captain. He smiled and extended his hand. “Howdy, I’m Sean McGuire.” He nodded back to the cowboys. “These men work for me. We’re just ing through and don’t want any trouble.”

Captain Perez studied Sean. With the exception of Falcon and Lee Sing, all the men were decidedly Americans. Colonel Caleb Roberts and his Texas Rangers had been running raids, stealing horses, shooting up pueblos, and just generally harassing the Mexicans for two years. The raids hadn’t produced any tangible results for the rangers with the exception of letting off some steam, but the men had been successful in eluding Perez and his army. The captain was not about to allow a bunch of American cowboys to up with the Texas Rangers. He turned to his men and ordered them to arrest the group. Lee Sing got off his horse and walked toward the group. “One minute, please, Captain. Let me explain,” Lee Sing said in perfect Castilian. Captain Perez was surprised to hear an Asian speak impeccable Spanish. He held up his arm, stopping the soldiers. “You speak Castilian?” the captain asked. Lee Sing nodded. “Yes. I can also converse in Latin, Italian, or French if you prefer.” Sean, Falcon, and Charlie looked at each other in disbelief. None of them had ever encountered a Chinese who spoke Spanish. They did not interrupt the cook. Lee Sing had a lively conversation with the captain. Falcon picked up bits, but both men talked so fast it was difficult for him to keep up. “What are they saying?” Sean whispered. “Lee Sing told the captain you were a great rancher and said something about fixing dinner,” Falcon replied under his breath. Sean and Charlie gave Falcon a questioning look. Lee Sing walked over to Sean. “We will follow Captain Perez and his men to Nogales.” “We’re in Mexico?” Sean asked. “It appears so, Mr. McGuire,” Lee Sing replied.

“Are we prisoners?” Charlie asked. “I don’t believe so. I am to cook dinner for the captain.” “What?” Charlie said. Lee Sing got on his horse. “Come, we go now.” Captain Perez and his men rode off. Four troopers stayed behind to make sure the cowboys followed. Sean gave an exaggerated sweep of his arm. “Lead the way, Lee Sing.” The cook shook the reins and his horse trotted after the troopers. “What the hell.” Sean clicked his tongue, and his bay took off. Charlie and the others followed. Nogales was a small settlement situated miles from anything. It sat squarely in the middle of the desert. The fort was a single-story structure with a surrounding wall. Tradesmen, such as a blacksmith, tanner, and saddle maker, had shops inside the perimeter of the fort. A row of merchant shops lined the street opposite the fort. Captain Perez and his men rode through the town. They had over a dozen men who obviously weren’t Mexicans riding with them. Brownfaced children laughed and raced after the troopers as they rode down the dusty street and entered the fort. A young private raced up and helped the captain off his horse. The rest of the troopers remained seated. Charlie was about to dismount, but Sean tapped his friend’s shoulder and stayed him. Two guards escorted four men from the stockade. The men were chained together and struggled to keep up as the guards marched them over to Captain Perez. Charlie leaned close to Sean and whispered, “What’s this?” Sean motioned for Lee Sing to come over so he could translate. The cook brought his horse up next to Sean’s bay.

A corporal carrying a sword in a beautiful jeweled scabbard marched up to the captain. The guards motioned for the prisoners to get on their knees. The chained men complied. Captain Perez looked at the prisoners kneeling before him. One was a large man with dark hair. Next to him was a wiry man with wild hair and ferret features. A young man was next. He was chained to a middle-aged man with a mouth full of bad teeth. “You men deserted this fort. You stole food and water,” the captain said. Lee Sing translated quietly for Sean and Charlie. The man with bad teeth began to whimper. “Please forgive me, Captain. I only went along with the others.” Perez looked directly into the man’s eyes. “You stole.” The soldier whimpered and nodded. “Good, I appreciate when a man its his guilt.” Captain Perez drew the sword from the scabbard. The razor-sharp blade gleamed in the sun. The whimpering soldier cried louder at the sight of the sword. In a flash Captain Perez swung the blade and decapitated the weeping man. “Jesus,” Charlie said. The captain glanced at the cowboys. “I can assure you Jesus has nothing to do it.” He turned and looked at the chained men. “You stole water. In the desert that is a capital offense. You knew this.” Perez swung the sword and neatly decapitated the wiry man. The big man and the young man remained. The captain wiped the sword clean with a white cloth the corporal handed him, then slipped it back into the scabbard. He looked at the guards. “Release them.” The guards unlocked the chains on the two remaining prisoners. Both knelt and promised their undying loyalty to the captain. Perez looked at the soldier who held his sword and then nodded toward Sean and Charlie. “Corporal Hernandez, show these two men to Lieutenant Castro’s quarters. The others can billet in the barracks.” He looked at Lee Sing. “Come with me.”

Lee Sing dismounted. “Please inform Señor McGuire and Señor Davis they are my guests for dinner, seven o’clock,” the captain said. Lee Sing quickly translated. “Come, I will show you the kitchen,” the captain said. Captain Perez and Lee Sing entered the main building. The troopers dismounted and showed the cowboys where to stable their horses and store their gear. Corporal Hernandez was young and outgoing. He saluted Sean and Charlie and said in perfect English, “Please follow me, gentlemen.” The corporal escorted them across the plaza to the officers’ quarters. “Won’t Lieutenant Castro need his room?” Charlie asked. “The lieutenant is dead,” Corporal Hernandez replied. “Not one of those?” Charlie pointed over his shoulder at the two bodies lying in the plaza. “No. Lieutenant Castro was killed by Kuruk and his men. The lieutenant and four soldiers were searching for the deserters you just saw executed when that Comanche killer murdered them all.” Once Corporal Hernandez was gone, Charlie said, “I don’t like it.” Sean glanced outside the door to the plaza. Two dozen soldiers were busy going about their duties. He looked back at Charlie with a helpless expression. “I’m not too happy about the situation either, Charlie, but there’s too many of them and too few of us.” Charlie scratched the stubble under his chin. “That captain is one sharp operator. We’re his prisoners without him even having to actually arrest us.” Sean removed his pistol and checked the weapon. “We still have our guns.” “That’s another thing,” Charlie said. “That captain must be pretty damn

confident we aren’t going to try anything.” Sean slipped the pistol back in his holster and gave Charlie a pat on the shoulder. “Maybe we can exploit his confidence.”

That evening at dinner Captain Perez introduced Sean and Charlie to Prince Ali. The prince was tall and slender with a prominent nose and the blackest man Sean and Charlie had ever seen. He was clad in a gold-and-purple outfit that resembled something out of Arabian Nights. A gold hoop earring hung from his left ear. “I would like to present my good friend the Prince of Fezzan, Prince Ali Akmed,” the captain said. The prince bowed. Sean and Charlie extended their hands. Ali said something that sounded like gibberish and shook their hands. Sean glanced over at Lee Sing, who stood near the table. The cook shrugged his shoulders. The captain poured tequila for Sean and Charlie but not the prince. “It’s because of his religion, I believe. We found him wandering in the desert. I don’t understand a word he says, but we have gotten along well.” Perez held up his glass. “Salud.” Sean and Charlie drank the tequila. “I’m sure you must think me a brutal and barbarous man, Mr. McGuire, executing two men in such a manner,” the captain said. Sean kept a poker face and replied, “It is not my affair, Captain.” Perez smiled and refilled the men’s glasses. “I would like to explain. The men you saw in the plaza today deserted their posts and stole water, food, and horses. They were indirectly the cause of one of my officers and four other men being killed by a band of Comanche raiders. A brutal man would have executed all four. I allowed two to live. By so doing I am assured of their loyalty.” The captain threw back his shot of tequila. Sean and Charlie said nothing. Sean got the feeling Prince Ali was watching his every move.

Lee Sing had prepared a dinner of garlic pork, green beans, and potatoes. While they ate, the captain talked, and Sean would occasionally ask a question. Charlie and the prince sat conspicuously silent during the meal. “That was damn peculiar,” Charlie said when he and Sean had returned to their quarters for the night. “The damn captain went on and on about his victory in Vera Cruz over the Spanish and that prince just sat there dumb as a post all night.” “I’m not so sure the prince is as dumb as he appears,” Sean replied. “What?” “The only time Prince Ali said anything was when the captain introduced us and when the captain asked him a question, which wasn’t frequent.” “Yeah, even Lee Sing couldn’t understand the fella.” “I could,” Sean said. Charlie pulled off one of his boots. “What did he say then?” “Nothing—that’s just it. When Thaddeus and I wintered in Morocco, I picked up some of the local dialect. Prince Ali said banana, water, and camel, but not in any order that made sense. Much of what he said was gibberish with those words and some Latin thrown in for good measure.” “Why didn’t you say something?” Sean sat down on his cot. “Prince Ali most likely isn’t who he claims to be. That might work in our favor. Let’s play this hand out.”

The next day Captain Perez and a dozen men left the fort to go on patrol in the morning. Prince Ali accompanied the captain. They returned midafternoon. Sean and Charlie again dined with Perez and Prince Ali, who continued to say very little. Sean and the cowboys were allowed full access to the fort and town. Their horses were stabled at the fort, so they could not leave without the soldiers being alerted. They were the captain’s virtual prisoners. After two days the men were

rested and ready to hit the trail. They still had nearly three hundred miles to cover. Sean used the opportunity of the captain’s absence the following day to reconnoiter the fort and town. He and Charlie watched to see what shops were open, who was doing what, and who might be watching them. “What do you think?” Charlie asked as he and Sean strolled back to the fort. Sean kicked the dirt with the toe of his boot. “It doesn’t appear the captain will release us anytime soon. Escaping will be a might dicey. I don’t think we have to worry about the locals, but dealing with a bunch of soldiers is something else. We have to get enough distance on Perez if we plan to make it to Texas with our heads. And he’ll be looking for us when we return as well.” “You’re a real optimist,” Charlie replied. The two men continued down the street. A narrow alley ran off the right side. Sean was lost in thought as he walked ahead. “We just need to find a chink in the captain’s armor and exploit it,” he said. Charlie didn’t respond. Sean turned. Charlie was gone. Sean walked back to the alley. The age was narrow and dark. Sean recalled the last time he’d gone down such an alley in Monterey. He put his hand on his gun and started down the age. Midway down, the alley split off with another running perpendicular. Sean wasn’t sure whether to continue straight or go down this new alley. He turned and followed the new alley, which opened into a courtyard with a dozen small adobe huts. He noticed two sets of boot prints on the ground and followed them to one of the huts. He pulled his pistol. He took a deep breath and kicked the door with his boot heel. The door burst open, and Sean dashed in with his pistol ready. It was a single room obviously used as a brothel by its occupant, who was conspicuously absent at the moment. Charlie was seated on a chair, and Prince Ali sat on the edge of the bed, his pistol trained on Charlie. “How grand of you to us,” Prince Ali said in perfectly spoken King’s English. “Bloody hell,” Sean said.

“Indeed,” Prince Ali said. Sean looked at Charlie. “I told you something was dicey about this fella. What’s your game, Prince?” Prince Ali smiled and lowered his pistol. “My game is the same as yours—to get out of Nogales and keep my head.” Sean lowered his pistol but did not holster it. “I think an explanation is in order.” Ali nodded in agreement. “I will be brief. Captain Perez will return soon. He believes my horse went lame, which is why I was able to return to the fort.” “You came back to talk to us?” Sean asked. “Precisely,” Prince Ali said. “My name is Aristotle Dunning. I was once the manservant of Roger Carlton, the Earl of Kenmore. The earl came to America to shoot buffalo. While Lord Carlton was quite skilled at killing defenseless beasts, his skills did not include cards. The earl lost me in a bet to one Ellis Tuckerman in New Orleans. Ellis, it turned out, cheated better at cards than the earl. Ellis, or Dr. E. H. Tuckerman, as he preferred to be known, was a confidence man and quite good at it too. Ellis treated me as a partner as opposed to property. We ran scams from Charleston to Saint Louis. In the small towns Ellis sold potions, and I was the cripple who after a single drink would toss aside his crutches and do a jig. In the cities Ellis sold stock in nonexistent foreign companies. That’s how I became Prince Ali. I would talk my gibberish, and Ellis would ‘translate.’ The investors believed they were speaking to the crown prince of Fezzan. Imagine that.” “So how’d you come to be the captain’s guest?” Charlie asked. “An investor became suspicious, and we had to depart El Paso posthaste under the cover of night. We headed west. Ellis thought we might do well in California. We got lost in the desert. I went to search for water. When I returned, Ellis had a dozen arrows in him and his scalp removed. I spent the next two days wandering until the captain and his soldiers found me. Luckily I was wearing my Prince Ali garb when they came upon me. I didn’t know what the Mexican army would do with an escaped slave, so I maintained the ruse. I spoke enough broken French and Latin for Corporal Hernandez to translate to the captain who I was. Since then I have played the prince, and Captain Perez has allowed me to keep my

head. That was a month ago. Now that you know who I am, the question remains, do we work together, or does Prince Ali inform the captain that you plan to escape?” “What do you have in mind?” Sean asked. “Ellis left behind his personal things at the hotel. Among them are papers showing the earl transferred me to Ellis. Without those papers I’m just another runaway slave in your country. You help me get those papers, and I’ll help you and your men escape.” “How?” Sean asked. Aristotle reached inside his tunic and removed a glass vile containing a dark substance. He smiled as he held it out for Sean and Charlie to see. “This should be sufficient to take care of the captain and his men.” “What? Poison?” Charlie exclaimed. Aristotle shook his head. “Opium.” He slipped the vial back into his tunic. “Captain Perez has made your cook the de facto chef for the fort. Lee Sing could put the opium into the food. The captain and his soldiers will slip into a deep slumber, and we make our escape.” “There are fifty soldiers at the fort, not counting the tradesmen,” Sean said. “Do you have a better plan?” Aristotle asked. Sean looked at Charlie, who remained silent. “No,” Sean replied. That evening Lee Sing laced his cooking with the opium. He was careful to keep two plates for Sean and Charlie separate from the rest. The others cowboys were alerted not to eat their dinner. Within an hour of consuming their evening meal, the captain and every soldier, with the exception of two guards who hadn’t eaten, were in a deep slumber. The cowboys dispatched the two guards and quickly made their escape. Aristotle exchanged Prince Ali’s robes for more-suitable riding garb that he liberated from the storeroom. The cowboys rode out of Fort Nogales in the dark of night. They rode fast, putting as much distance between themselves and the Mexican army as possible. Sean and Charlie knew Captain Perez would not allow their actions to go unanswered.

Don Pico’s vaqueros rode down on the Oso Negro in the middle of the day. They rode four abreast and five rows deep, and Don Pico himself was at the head of the column. The riders and horses kicked up a dust cloud that could be seen a mile away. Rufus had built a sturdy roof on the adobe. The front wall rose three feet, offering good protection to anyone on the roof. Rufus took his position there when he spotted Don Pico and his men riding down the road. He gave a loud caw, and Patrick and the others dropped what they were doing and took their positions. All the men had rehearsed what to do in case of an attack. Patrick might move slowly, but he was nearly as good a shot as his nephew. He closed the adobe’s shutters, which each had a niche for a rifle, and Running Deer placed a rifle in each window. This gave the appearance that the adobe was well armed and allowed Patrick to fire from any window without having to reload. Pete Heller and Louis Tanner were the two crack shots of the bunch. Pete climbed up the ladder and took a position at the opposite corner of the roof from Rufus. Louis hid behind the smokehouse with his rifle. Dubb Hastings grabbed his scattergun and took cover behind the well. Carl Ferguson, the youngest of the hands, was great with a horse and rope, but his skills with a firearm left much to be desired. Carl quickly got Agnes and the horses into the barn and closed the doors. He grabbed the shotgun leaning against one of the stalls and took refuge behind the bales of hay. His hands shook as he gripped the gun tightly. The sounds of gunfire erupted and grew louder. As the screams of men became more intense, Carl dropped the shotgun and curled into a ball. He covered his head with his arms and whimpered in fear. Before the vaqueros got twenty feet inside the property, Don Pico lost six men. Rufus and the cowboys had dug a pair of trenches, lined them with wooden stakes, and concealed them with straw and dirt. Anyone not riding directly on the long drive was caught in the trap. Horses snorted and whinnied loudly as they fell. Men cried out as they were impaled upon the stakes. Don Pico urged his men onward to the hacienda sitting at the top of the rise. By the time the vaqueros reached the halfway point, their numbers had dwindled by half. A vaquero rode up and hurled a torch at the adobe. Pete Heller shot the man. The

torch hit the side of the house and fell harmlessly to the ground near the dead vaquero. Another vaquero moved forward and threw a torch. Patrick blew the man right out of the saddle, but not before his torch landed on the roof. Rufus continued to fire on the attacking vaqueros as flames began burning the roof. A vaquero lassoed the wooden crank on the well and rode away, tearing the entire apparatus from the stone base. Two riders raced up the drive. Dubb leaped up from behind the well and fired. One of the riders screamed and covered his face, which was now nothing more than blood and raw meat. The second rider turned. Dubb pulled the trigger, but the shell misfired. He looked down the barrel of the vaquero’s pistol. Suddenly the rider flew out of his saddle as a shot from Running Deer hit him in the chest, the body falling at Dubb’s feet. Dubb didn’t bother to look where the friendly shot had come from. He dove behind what remained of the well and reloaded his shotgun. Two vaqueros had gotten past the adobe and were heading for the barn. One of them leaped from his horse, shoved the large wooden latch away, and kicked open the doors. His body flew into the air as Carl fired both barrels directly into his chest. The second vaquero began firing into the barn. The horses whinnied and snorted loudly in fear. Carl attempted to reload but dropped the shells. The vaquero continued firing. One of the shots caught Carl in the leg and knocked him to the ground. He struggled to reach the shells lying on the ground. The vaquero rode into the barn firing his pistol. Carl grabbed a shell, slammed it into the shotgun, and fired. The blast neatly severed flesh and bone, slicing the vaquero’s arm from his body. The vaquero screamed as he fell from his horse. The hand of his severed arm still grasped the reins, now minus its body. The vaquero raised his remaining arm to fire. Carl grabbed a pitchfork and drove it through his attacker’s chest. The vaquero looked in disbelief at the baby-faced cowboy. His breathing grew labored. A large bubble of blood formed and dribbled down his chin. “You tried to kill me!” Carl shouted angrily and forced the pitchfork deeper. The vaquero spat blood out onto his white tunic. He looked at Carl and gave a wheeze, and then his eyes slowly turned dead and vacant. Eduardo kept on the drive and was nearly up to the adobe when Patrick shot his horse out from under him. He flew into the air. He heard his shoulder break as he hit the ground. He struggled to his feet. A shot hit him in the leg, and he went down. Don Pico rode up firing two pistols. He caught Louis in the shoulder as

the cowboy stepped out from his cover to take a shot. Don Pico grabbed a burning torch from one of the fallen vaqueros. He dug his spurs into his horse and raced toward the adobe. Dubb jumped up from behind the well and fired both barrels. The shots tore the front legs right off of Don Pico’s horse and sent the elderly rancher falling to the ground. The dead horse collapsed on top of Don Pico, pinning him to the ground. The aged rancher struggled to free himself. Dubb pointed the shotgun directly at Don Pico. “Call off your men, or I’ll blow your goddamn head off!”

Sean, Charlie, and the cowboys made El Paso five days after escaping from Fort Nogales. They did not encounter any Comanche raiders or the Mexican army. “Why should Perez waste his efforts on us now when he knows he’s got a good shot at us on the return trip?” Sean asked Charlie. Charlie shrugged. “I’ll be glad when we’re back at the Oso Negro.” El Paso was a border town. The area had once been inhabited by the Comanche. Then the Spanish had arrived. Spain had lost the territory to Mexico, which had later lost it to Sam Houston and his Texican army. The Texas Revolution hadn’t been felt much in El Paso, and the town had escaped many of the ill effects from that war. It hadn’t even been considered a part of Texas until Congress, in its imitable wisdom, decided with the Compromise of 1850 that El Paso would mark the border between New Mexico and Texas. There was El Paso on the US side and El Paso del Norte on the Mexican side. Both towns were nestled at the base of the mountains on the Rio Grande. El Paso had more Mexicans than Anglos. It also had Rancho Concordia, better known as the Stephenson Ranch, a nine-hundred-acre spread just north of the river. Hugh Stephenson had cattle, lots of cattle—the best beef money could buy even by Fort Worth standards. The cowboys stopped at the outskirts of town. Sean gave each of the men five dollars and told them to meet him in front of the mission at seven sharp the following morning. The men were happy to be in a town and didn’t linger after receiving their pay. “You know at least half of them won’t be there,” Charlie said after the cowboys dashed away.

“Now who’s being the pessimist?” Sean chided his friend. He looked at Aristotle and Lee Sing, who had remained behind. “First we get Doc Tuckerman’s personal effects, and then we find us a decent chuck wagon.” Aristotle directed them to the hotel. The others stayed outside while Sean entered the establishment. The hotel clerk, a slight man with spectacles, was more than happy to part with Dr. Tuckerman’s valise when Sean flashed a smile and ed him a ten-dollar gold piece. Sean returned with the valise and the foursome walked over to the Butterfield stage depot. A thorough inspection of the case revealed stock certificates, bonds, and half dozen diplomas from a variety of nonexistent universities. Unfortunately it did not contain Aristotle’s papers. “You are free to go it alone, or you can come with us,” Sean offered. Aristotle kicked the leather trunk and grinned. “I know nothing about ranching. On the other hand, traveling alone in Texas would not be a judicious decision for someone of my persuasion.” “You can ride. I’ve already seen that. How good are you with a gun?” Sean asked. “My marksmanship has never been tested, but the earl trained me to load any weapon faster than you could say, Jack Robinson.” “Fair enough.” Sean turned to Charlie. “What do you think?” Charlie scratched his jaw. “We could use an extra hand.” “I won’t tolerate any flimflams,” Sean said. “You try and pull a fast one on the men or ride off, I will shoot you. California is a free state. Once we reach there, you’ll be paid and free to go your own way if you chose.” Aristotle extended his hand. “You have my word.” The two men shook, and then the group went in search of a cook wagon. The blacksmith had a wagon and a horse to pull it that he sold to Sean for seventy dollars. Lee Sing was very happy. Sean gave him thirty dollars and told him to buy supplies for the trip. Lee Sing and Aristotle got on the wagon and drove away.

“You’re pissin’ gold like you were made of it,” Charlie said as he and Sean got on their horses. “It’s mine to piss.” “Do you mind my asking where you got that kinda cash?” Sean looked at Charlie. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but I mortgaged the ranch.” “What?” Charlie asked. “I went to Lee Packard at the bank before we left. I’m literally betting the house on this venture, Charlie.” “You better hope Rufus doesn’t find out.” The two men didn’t say much as they rode out to the Stephenson Ranch. Hugh Stephenson, a tall, lean Texan with snow-white hair and a thick moustache, was surprised when Sean and Charlie told him they had come all the way from California. He was even more surprised when Sean explained his purpose for coming to Rancho Concordia. “You’re out of your mind, son,” Stephenson said. “If the desert don’t get you, Kuruk will.” “Who is this Kuruk?” Sean asked. Stephenson took a pouch from his shirt pocket and rolled a smoke. “Kuruk is a half-breed. His mother is Lupe Valdez, a Mexican who was unlucky enough to get raped by a Comanche and live. Kuruk is her son, and a murderous bastard he is. He has the scared face to prove it. He travels with a half dozen other outcasts. None of the tribes will have any of them. You and your boys can count yourselves lucky you didn’t run into Kuruk and his men. Colonel Roberts and his rangers have been chasing that killer for nearly two years.” Charlie put his hands in his back pockets and looked at Sean. Sean remained silent. Realizing he might jeopardize a sale with such talk Stephenson flashed a smile and said, “Enough of this talk. Just a Texas rancher running his mouth. Let’s go look at some cattle, gentlemen.”

The Oso Negro had survived Don Pico’s raid. The fire had burned some of the tiles and timber on the adobe’s roof, but the cowboys put it out before it did any major damage to the house. Don Pico’s raid had cost him. He lost a dozen men and was sorely busted up himself. Under the watchful eyes of Rufus and the cowboys, Eduardo and the vaqueros collected the bodies of their companions and constructed litters to haul them home. There weren’t enough horses left to ride and carry the dead, so some of the men had to walk the twenty miles back to the don’s ranch. Rufus had the vaqueros dig a large grave on the other side of the creek and bury the dead horses. Dubb kept a shotgun trained on Don Pico the entire time. Not one man argued. Don Pico was unable to get on a horse due to his injuries and was forced to ride on a litter carrying dead bodies back to his ranch. Louis had his left arm in a sling, and Carl was limping around on a makeshift crutch. Patrick was the one Rufus was most concerned about. Patrick had survived the raid without so much as scratch. Once Don Pico and his vaqueros were gone, Patrick drank a shot of whiskey and set the glass on the table. He took three steps and collapsed. Rufus and Dubb carried Patrick to his bed, where he remained. Rufus made sure they kept a watch that night and the next two nights. It was doubtful Don Pico would send more men, but Rufus wasn’t taking any chances. In the morning Rufus walked outside with a cup of coffee for Carl, who was stationed on the porch. Agnes was resting on her nest, and Rufus gave her a gentle pat on the head as he walked over to Carl. “Careful—it’s hot,” he said as he handed Carl the coffee. “Thanks.” Carl took a sip. Rufus glanced out at the road. “Looks like we’ve got a visitor.” A rider turned his horse off the main trail and rode up the long drive leading to Rancho Oso Negro. The rider took note of the half-filled-in trenches that still had a number of threatening wooden stakes pointing upward. Carl set the cup down and took up his rifle.

“Easy—that’s Jedidiah McCabe. He be a friend,” Rufus said. Carl lowered the rifle and placed it on his lap. Jedidiah rode up and got off his horse. “Mornin’, Rufus.” The two men shook hands. Jedidiah cocked an eye toward Carl. “See you got yourself a right proper guard. Bit of a game leg, though.” “I can shoot,” Carl replied dryly. Jedidiah stroked his thick beard. “I’m sure you can young fella. I heard you boys had a bit of a run-in with ol’ Don Pico a few days back.” Rufus rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah.” Jedidiah walked over to the damaged well and lowered the wooden bucket. “Looks like they did a fair job of tearing up the place.” The mountain man pulled up the bucket. He scooped some water with the ladle and took a long drink. “We stomped those Mexicans so hard I’m surprised they’re still hangin’ around,” Carl said proudly. Rufus chuckled. “This is one of our new hands, Carl Ferguson. The kid’s a damn-good fighter. He saved Agnes.” Jedidiah extended his hand, and the two men shook. “Nice meetin’ ya,” Jedidiah said. Then he pulled a bag of beans from his saddlebag and held it out to Rufus. “Brought these for you boys.” “Thanks.” “Where’s Patrick?” Rufus frowned. “Patrick ain’t doin’ so good.” “Was he shot?” Jedidiah asked. “No, the man fought a hell of a fight. Right after Don Pico and his boys cleared out, Patrick collapsed. He ain’t been outta bed since. I think it’s his heart. I told him I was gonna send for the doc. He threatened to shoot me if I did.”

Jedidiah spit tobacco juice on the ground. “Some of the Mexicans are sayin’ Sean provoked the don. They’re claiming you boys raided the don’s ranch and this was nothing but a little payback.” “Damn pepper bellies! Nothin’ but a bunch of low-down dogs,” Carl said. Rufus patted the young cowboy on the shoulder. He gestured to the ranch. “Does this look like a little payback? Don Pico gave Sean a load of lame horses. We went and got the ones he should’ve brought us.” Jedidiah raised his hands in mock surrender. “I ain’t takin’ sides. I’m just repeatin’ what’s bein’ said in town.” He pulled a small leather pouch from his saddlebag and gave it to Rufus. “Make a tea with this and give it to Patrick.” “What is it?” Rufus asked. Jedidiah shrugged his shoulders and got back on his horse. “Hell if I know. Something Bright Owl made up, guaranteed to cure anything from gunshot to pneumonia. When’s Sean due back?” “Hopefully in another few weeks,” Rufus lied. None of the men knew exactly how long it would take the expedition to reach Texas, secure a herd, and make it back to California. None of the men knew what lay east of the Imperial Valley besides desert and Indians. In order to keep from having to traverse much of the Rockies, Sean planned to keep south and skirt the Mexican border. It was the shortest route but treacherous since much of it lacked water. “You boys might want to stay outta town for a while. If Don Pico dies, you might want to stay away for a long while,” Jedidiah said. Rufus looked up at Jedidiah. “He that bad?” Jedidiah spit another wad of tobacco juice on the ground. “That’s what they say.” He tipped his hat. “I’ll be seeing you.” He got on his horse and rode away. Pete Heller came running up just then. “I think you better come here. You got a few more of them birds.”

Rufus raced around to the side of the adobe. Agnes nuzzled two baby chicks in the nest. Rufus spread a big grin. “Agnes, you just made my day, darlin’.”

Sean purchased three hundred head from Hugh Stephenson. The following morning all the men were waiting outside the mission when Sean and Charlie rode up. There were three additional cowboys, two from Oklahoma Territory and one from Texas that were looking for work. Sean signed them on. He winked at Charlie but didn’t say a word. Charlie scratched his jaw and mumbled something Sean couldn’t make out. The cowboys picked up the herd at the Stephenson ranch and started the long trek back to California. Falcon scouted their route and took them farther north this time, hoping to avoid an encounter with Captain Perez. They had to be careful of going too deep into Comanche country. The drive was hard. The days were scorching hot and the nights cold. It was tough, backbreaking work driving three hundred head. Sean had the Stratton brothers riding tail and picking up the strays. Falcon rode in each day with a report of the terrain and watering holes. There was no water until they reached Tucson. That meant the cattle started to die the moment they began the drive. Lee Sing fed the men bacon and potatoes. Sean had decided to supplement potatoes with the traditional beans. The cook wagon was loaded with russets and carried two large casks of water. Every morning the men were given coffee and a potato. They ate while still in the saddle, which was the only way they were going to make it back to the Oso Negro before August. By the second week on the trail the cowboys were working the herd like a well-oiled machine and were making good time.

While raiding small villages in southern Chihuahua, Kuruk and his men heard about a gringo cowboy taking cattle to California. At first Kuruk dismissed it as nothing more than idle talk, but they kept hearing more rumors. When they raided Cananea, they captured two Mexican soldiers. Kuruk hung one of the soldiers from a tree and slowly peeled a layer of skin from the man with a knife. He sat back on his haunches and stared at the soldier for a moment. Kuruk was medium height with a lean body. He shaved his head except for a single long, braided thatch that hung to his shoulder. His face was badly scarred

from where his mother had flung a pan of hot grease at him just before he’d killed her. Kuruk stood back up and began to pierce the man with dozens of cactus thorns. The second soldier was bound to a tree and forced to watch his comrade being tortured. The tortured soldier screamed for mercy. Kuruk questioned him about the gringo cowboy. The soldier told Kuruk the cowboy had used great magic to put all the men at Fort Nogales to sleep so he could escape. After four days Kuruk grew bored with the man. He built a very small fire under the soldier’s head. The fire was low enough that it did not singe the man’s scalp. Kuruk and his warriors sat and watched as the soldier’s brain literally cooked inside his skull. Witnessing this, the second soldier readily confirmed his companion’s story. He told Kuruk that Captain Perez was setting a trap for Sean, but he did not know where. When the first soldier finally died a few hours later, Kuruk untied the other man. He chopped the first two fingers from the soldier’s right hand. He pulled a piece of wood from the fire and pressed the glowing end to the soldier’s hand, cauterizing the wound. The man ed out. The warriors kicked the soldier until Kuruk ordered them to stop. He dumped water from a canteen on the soldier, who regained consciousness. Kuruk sent the soldier packing back to Captain Perez on foot. “He will never make it,” said Chareba, a squat man with a flat nose and a long scar running down the right side of his face. “Who cares? We will find this cowboy and his cattle,” Kuruk said. “What if we run into the Mexican soldiers? There are many of them and few of us,” Chareba said. Kuruk sneered, “We just killed one of their soldiers and could have killed the other. Kuruk is not afraid of Mexican soldiers.”

The trip to Tucson was long and hard but thankfully uneventful for Sean and the cowboys. Ben Harper broke his arm when his horse stepped into a gopher hole and threw him. Cass Phillips got a cactus thorn stuck in his thumb, and Lee Sing had to cut it out. These were accidents that came with the job. The men worked in scorching heat and ate and slept in the saddle. Lee Sing patched them up, fed them, and even played guitar and sang them songs. When they reached Tucson,

they had lost five head all told. The cowboys stayed in Tucson just long enough to get the cattle watered and fed before continuing their journey to California. The mayor of Tucson was impressed that Sean had accomplished the drive so far. He asked Sean to remain and even offered him a large parcel of land outside of town. Sean thanked the mayor and said he would sleep on it. The following morning the cowboys and their cattle pulled out before first light. They made a straight line for Yuma. This was the worst portion of the drive, 240 miles of desert. Each morning Falcon scouted their route and signaled the cowboys with a mirror. As he’d expected, there was no water. Sean ordered Lee Sing to ration the water to the men. The cattle would have to do without until they reached the Colorado. The fifth day out cattle began to drop, or rather just stand and refuse to move another hoof forward. Sean pressed the herd on and left the Stratton brothers to do their best to round up the stragglers. The evening of the sixth day Falcon came into camp with good news. Yuma was a day’s ride away. “We will cross the Colorado tomorrow,” Sean said. “It will be good to get back home. It will be good to see Running Deer,” Falcon said. Sean gave his friend a pat on the shoulder as they sat by the campfire. “You have done well. We will make the Oso Negro the best ranch in California.”

Kuruk sat staring at the wagon driver he and his men had captured the day before. The driver had been hauling supplies to the fort in Yuma when the raiders had come upon him. They’d shot him with enough arrows to ensure he wouldn’t run. He wouldn’t be dying soon either. Kuruk questioned the driver about the cowboy with a big herd, but the driver couldn’t speak Spanish or Comanche. Kuruk couldn’t speak English, so he decided to torture the driver while Chareba went ahead to scout. Kuruk stripped the man and staked him out on the ground. His fare skin soon burned and blistered under the blazing desert sun. Kuruk then cut hundreds of small slashes into the man’s flesh. The teamster refused to die. It always amazed Kuruk just how long some would hang on. Even when they knew they were

going to die, even when they were in agonizing pain, they would continue to fight. Kuruk poured honey from a gourd onto the man’s crotch. It took less than a minute for the ants to catch the scent. Soon there was a steady stream leading to the man. His crotch became a moving black mass of insects devouring the honey and skin. The man howled in pain. Kuruk poured more honey across the man’s chest and over his face. The ants followed the trail. The man twisted and screamed. Kuruk and the other warriors sat and watched their captive thrash on the ground. The man’s face became completely covered with thousands of ants. The screams grew muffled. The thrashing continued. Chareba rode into camp just as the captive’s thrashing ceased. Kuruk looked up. Chareba jumped off his horse and looked at the captive and then at Kuruk. “He is still alive,” he said. “He is dead,” Kuruk insisted. Chareba picked up a small log from the fire and put the burning tip up to the driver’s face. The ants scattered. The man screamed. Chareba stuffed the burning end into the man’s mouth. His screams were choked, but he continued to thrash about. Chareba shoved the stick harder. The thrashing stopped. “Now he is dead.” Kuruk looked at the dead teamster lying on the ground and nodded. “What did you find?” “I found the white man with the cattle. He has fifteen men,” Chareba replied. “We can take their cattle.” Chareba shook his head. “It is not that easy. The soldier spoke the truth. The Mexican captain and his troops nearly found me. They are west of the cowboy and his cattle, in the white man’s land. I believe the captain wants to capture the cowboy.” Kuruk thought for a moment. “We will let the Mexicans fight the whites. It will weaken both sides. They will decide who we shall attack.” Chareba nodded his approval. He picked up a piece of flatbread sitting on the fire ring and the gourd. He poured honey on the bread and devoured it in a single

bite.

“What in bloody hell are you going to do, Sheriff?” Sean asked. He was standing inside the Yuma sheriff’s office. Theodore Thayer, the sheriff, was seated behind his small wooden desk. He was a middle-aged man with a weak-looking face and a receding hairline. Thayer was sheriff primarily because the job paid forty dollars a month and included a two-room house with an outdoor privy. He held out his arms in mock surrender. “What do you want me to do?” he asked innocently. “The Mexican army is camped in California. If I do something, it could create an international incident. Captain Perez claims you were his prisoner and that you escaped.” “I know what Perez claims,” Sean said. “He’s on American soil, mate, and you mean to tell me you’re not going to do anything about it?” Sheriff Thayer cast his eyes about the room and remained silent. Sean adjusted his Stetson. “I don’t bloody believe this.” Sheriff Thayer looked at Sean. “There’s one of me and two dozen Mexican soldiers across that river. You can call me yellow, but I’m not gonna risk my neck with the Mexican army over some cattle. I won’t turn you over to the captain, but I’m not going to start a shooting war either. It’s a federal matter. Let the US marshal sort this one out.” “The marshal is in El Paso. I can’t keep my stock standing around till he arrives,” Sean said, straining to keep his patience. “Well, then I’d suggest you and your cattle get moving,” Sheriff Thayer said. Sean looked at the meek, balding man seated behind the desk. “I believe I’ll take you up on that, Sheriff. Good day to you.” Falcon and Charlie were seated on the bench in front of the general store. When they saw Sean emerge from the sheriff’s office, they got up and crossed the street.

“Let’s get the rest of the boys and get going,” Sean said. “What’s the sheriff gonna do?” Charlie asked. “Nothing.” “Nothing?” Charlie asked. Sean grinned. “That’s why we’re going to get one of the new boys to masquerade as the sheriff’s deputy and hand me over to Perez.” “Are you outta your mind?” Charlie asked in surprise. Sean pushed his Stetson back on his head. “Perez is a vain man. That’s why he’s sitting in California. He doesn’t want the cattle. He wants me. But we’ll give him the cattle. Perez doesn’t know any of the new boys. We have that one, Ned Tedlow—he looks like a lawman. Ned can negotiate a deal to hand me over in exchange for Perez letting the rest of you go. We’ll do the exchange midstream in the river. As soon as Ned is back on the Yuma side, you and the boys stampede the herd down on the captain and his army.” “What about you?” Charlie asked. “Don’t worry about me. Just make sure you get the cattle across that river to the California side.” Charlie looked at Sean. “I don’t like it.” Sean smiled and gave his friend a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “We’re gonna stomp that Mexican and his army right into the ground.”

Kuruk walked up to the rise where Chareba and the other warriors were watching the Mexican army. He wished he had a white man’s spyglass so he could see better from his vantage point. One of the cowboys seemed to be bartering with the Mexican captain in the middle of the river. The cowboy gave the Mexican one of his own. The whites were weak and disgusted Chareba. He turned away and walked down the rise while the other warriors continued to watch as the cowboy rode back to Yuma. Suddenly the earth rumbled. Hundreds

of cattle stampeded down the bank. The cowboys whooped and hollered, firing their pistols in the air. The cattle crossed the river at its low point and proceeded to overrun the Mexican army on the opposite bank. Kuruk scrambled back to the vantage point. Below pandemonium reigned. The soldiers ran for cover. Dozens were trampled. Some were shot by the cowboys. The white man the Mexicans had taken prisoner shot a soldier from his horse. Another soldier lowered his lance and charged the white man. The man stood his ground and fired two shots. The Mexican flew out of his saddle and fell into the river. The cowboy snatched the reins of his horse, swung himself into the saddle, and took off in the direction of the cattle. Kuruk looked at Chareba, who was crouched down next to him behind the rocks. “The Mexicans will not give us any problem.” “The spirits favor the white one. Maybe we should forget them,” Chareba replied. Kuruk sneered, “You talk like an old woman. The whites were clever—that is all. The spirits do not protect any white. We will attack when they make camp this evening.” Chareba frowned. The other warriors grumbled. Kuruk became disgusted and walked away. He had not seen the cowboy shoot the Mexican captain before shooting the two soldiers. Chareba and the other warriors had. Their tongues wagged with agitation.

As soon as Sean heard the rumbling, he pulled a small pistol he had concealed behind his back and shot Captain Perez. He didn’t wait to see if the captain was dead. Hundreds of cattle were stampeding. Sean killed two more soldiers before riding off on his bay. The horse was adept at dodging the cattle. Sean rode fast. They had to get ahead of the herd and turn it. The cowboys worked in unison. Joe Stratton was riding the right perimeter. A bull caught his horse with its horn. The horsed whinnied loudly and faltered, throwing Joe sideways from the saddle. He scrambled to his feet. He was trapped. A group of steers came trampling the earth in his direction. He went down. Dozens of hooves raced over the ground where he had just stood.

The cowboys finally turned the herd. They put the cattle in an arroyo and set up camp. Cass Phillips brought Joe Stratton’s body back to the camp. There wasn’t much left to see after a hundred head of cattle had raced over the young cowboy. Cass had wrapped Joe’s body in a poncho like a big burrito. Harry was naturally distraught. The cowboys buried Joe in the arroyo. Sean seemed on edge and kept looking at the surroundings. “What’s up?” Charlie asked. He had been with Sean long enough to give heed to his partner’s sensitive nature. “I don’t know. Let’s keep a good lookout tonight,” Sean replied, his eyes scouring the landscape for intruders. “You concerned about the Mexicans returning?” “No, I shot Perez. Just be on your toes,” Sean cautioned as he walked off to check on the horses.

Kuruk and his warriors attacked the cowboys as they slept. Kuruk crept up behind Harry Stratton, who was sitting watch on his horse. In a single silent, swift move, Kuruk leaped and clamped his hand over Harry’s mouth. He pulled the young cowboy from the saddle and slit his throat. Harry was dead before Kuruk laid his body on the ground. The Indian’s eyes darted about. No one had been alerted. Kuruk made a quiet birdcall. The other raiders leaped down and began shooting at the figures under the blankets. The cowboys returned fire. The beds had been made to look like the cowboys were sleeping, but they had actually taken cover in a dozen different locations. Two Comanche raiders went down. Chareba fired in the direction of one of the cowboys. Judd Ryerson jumped up and returned fire. He hit Chareba in the shoulder, sending the Indian’s rifle flying from his hands. A second shot took off part of Chareba’s right ear. Chareba ran. The raid had not gone as planned. Kuruk had assured the warriors that they would be able to ride home with many scalps and enough meat to last the winter. He had been wrong. The spirits favored the whites. They had known there would be an attack and were prepared. The spirits must have warned them.

Chareba found the horses where he and the other Indians had left them. There were more gunshots and cries. Chareba didn’t care what Kuruk said. The spirits favored this white man. Bleeding from his wounds, Chareba pulled himself onto his horse and rode away. The attack was over in less than sixty seconds. A minute could be a lifetime. Sean had the men call out. Harry Stratton and Horace Napier, one of the cowboys who had signed on in El Paso, were dead. Four dead Indians lay on the ground. A quick check of the camp showed that at least one Indian made off with two dozen head of cattle and three horses. Sean saddled his bay. Falcon got his rifle and was astride his Appaloosa when Sean rode up. “It was Kuruk, None of the dead warriors have a scared face,” said Falcon. Sean nodded to the dead Indians lying in the dirt. “He must not have many men. We should be able to catch up within the hour.” Falcon looked at Sean blankly. “This is Kuruk’s home. He knows the canyons. We don’t.” Charlie walked up. “More good news—one of the water barrels got shot. We lost half our water.” Sean’s bay snorted and stepped lively. Sean reined the horse, and she immediately fell under his control. “You’re in charge,” he told Charlie. “Keep the herd moving. With a little luck you should be home in a week.” Charlie gave Sean a questioning look. “Where are you going?” “Two of our men were killed and stock stolen. I’m not going to let that .” Sean’s eyes were cold with the look of death. Charlie had seen that look before. He tipped his hat and rode off to get the herd moving. Sean and Falcon turned their horses and pursued Kuruk, following the tracks of what seemed to be two Indians guiding the cattle. They lost the tracks two hours out. Falcon wasn’t familiar with the terrain but guessed that Kuruk would stay north of Mexico and take the cattle back to his village near El Paso. Sean didn’t argue. Falcon picked up the trail again midday, and they followed it until sunset.

They made camp rather than attempt to track the Indians in the dark. Sean and Falcon were up early the next morning. The trail soon petered out again. “How the hell can do you hide two dozen head?” Sean asked, frustrated. Falcon didn’t reply. He crouched down and studied the ground. He stood and looked up at the canyon walls surrounding them. “This is a great place for an ambush,” Sean said, reading Falcon’s mind. “Kuruk is close.” “I’m going to circle back to that arroyo we ed. There was a trail I spotted. They could’ve taken that,” Sean said. “That trail would put them into Mexican territory.” “It’s worth a try. I’ll be back in a few hours. Wait for me here.” Sean clicked his tongue, and his bay took off in the direction they had just come. It took him an hour to reach the arroyo and another hour to pick up the trail of what now looked to be two riders and a man on foot. He had his Colt and Sharps rifle. At three to one Sean figured it would be a fair fight. He smiled, thinking of the look on Falcon’s face when he rode up with the stolen cattle. Sean scanned the surroundings. He tied the bay to a tree and took the Sharps. He gave the horse a pat and then silently slipped away. Crouched low, he made his way toward the edge of the rise. As he got closer, he fell to his belly, crept silently forward, and stopped. Twenty feet below was a camp. The livestock were corralled off to the side in a large makeshift ring of tumbleweed. A Comanche was tied to a tree, and a second Indian sat eating in the shade of a lean-to constructed out of sticks and a blue scarf. This Indian called the bound man Chareba and laughed at him. Sean’s eyes scoured the landscape. He could not see a third Indian. The tracks had indicated three riders, and why would one Comanche take another as prisoner? Sean could shoot and kill both the Indians from his present position, but if the third Comanche was around, he would be warned by the first shot. Sean decided to take a closer look and carefully backed away from his vantage point.

Falcon watched the sun’s shadow move across the canyon. Sean had been gone hours. Falcon knew it had been foolish to split up. It had been even more foolish for Sean to ride off alone. He was a white, and the whites were no match for the Comanche. It was said the Comanche could smell an adversary coming ten miles away. Falcon had nothing to refute such a claim. He had primarily fought Mexicans. Falcon removed the canteen from his saddle horn and took a small sip. He replaced the canteen and looked in the direction Sean had ridden. Sky met the horizon. There wasn’t a speck of dust being kicked up by a grasshopper. Falcon hobbled his horse, removed a second pistol from his saddlebag, and then started down the trail on foot.

Sean silently climbed down the rise and hid behind a rock. From his vantage point he could see the Indian tied to the tree had been tortured. His face was beaten and bloodied, and his body was covered with hundreds of tiny slashes from head to foot. He also had a gunshot wound to the shoulder. The second Indian lay resting under the small lean-to. The third Comanche was still nowhere to be seen, which concerned Sean. The Indian tied to the tree presented no real problem. The one lying on the ground could be trouble. Fifteen yards of open area stretched between Sean and the Comanche camp. He would have to kill both men quickly. An eagle flew high overhead. Sean pulled his Bowie knife and hatchet from his belt. He left the pistol and Sharps behind the rock. A shot could spook the herd. It would also warn anyone else in the area. Sean crouched low and scurried like a crab toward the camp. The bound Indian slowly raised his head and tried to focus on the object moving toward the dozing Comanche. Sean saw the battered Indian look up. There were still twelve feet between him and the camp. Sean hurled his hatchet. The weapon sailed true. Its blade sank deep into the tethered Indian’s chest, piercing his heart. He gave a slight cry, enough to rouse the dozing Comanche. The Indian scrambled to his feet. Sean leaped and came down on the Indian. He sank his Bowie knife deep into the Comanche’s gut. The two men fell to the

ground with a hard thud. Sean was on top. He clamped a hand over the Indian’s mouth and jerked the Bowie downward. The Indian struggled. Sean dragged the knife horizontally. The Comanche’s eyes widened. He soiled himself and finally ceased struggling. Sean stood up and pulled his knife from the dead man. The Comanche raiders had made their camp on the east side of a rocky bluff. Their horses were tethered to a line, and the cattle were grazing on scrub a few yards away. Sean’s eyes scoured the camp. Neither of the dead Indians had a scared face. “Where are you …?” Sean stared at the Indian tied to the tree. He walked over and pulled the hatchet from the man’s chest and inspected the many cuts on the dead Indian’s body. Some had begun to scab. Sean glanced over at the Indian he stabbed. “You were left here to guard this other fella.” Sean suddenly race over and grabbed his rifle and pistol. He slipped the rifle into its scabbard and mounted his horse. Sean got the herd started and rode back to Falcon as fast as he could.

Falcon proceeded through the canyon with caution, his pistol ready. He spotted a set of footprints that went for a quarter mile and then disappeared. Try as he might, Falcon could find no trace of the Comanche. It was as if the man had ascended straight into the heavens. Falcon turned and began making his way back to his horse. A painful sounding yelp came from the direction of the canyon’s entrance. Falcon picked up his pace. Sean might be in trouble. Falcon raced over the sandy canyon floor. They should not have split up. That was Falcon’s last thought. He was racing hard and did not notice the thin wire strung between two trees. As Falcon approached, Kuruk drew hard on the line of wire. It cut deep into Falcon’ throat, severing his windpipe. Blood sprayed from his mouth. His eyes hemorrhaged. Kuruk tied the wire off. He walked over and stared at Falcon, who was still standing. The wire had cut deep into the Indian’s neck and was literally holding him up. “Where is the cowboy?” Kuruk asked. Falcon’s body went into convulsions. “The cowboy is afraid. He sent you to find me instead. I will find him.” Kuruk jumped on his horse and rode out of the canyon.

Sean arrived back at the canyon where he’d left Falcon. He got the herd settled and went to find his friend, following the trail through the canyon. His bay stopped. Falcon was standing motionless. Sean jumped off his horse and raced toward his friend. He suddenly skidded to a halt and stared in disbelief at Falcon’s body, the wire still holding him up. Sean forced back tears and carefully placed Falcon’s body on the ground. “How did this happen, my friend?” Sean stood up and studied the area. There were distinct moccasin tracks in the sand. This was the work of Kuruk. He hadn’t bothered to cover his tracks or those of his horse. Sean had no idea how the Comanche could have gotten the drop on Falcon, but he didn’t dwell on the matter. If Kuruk was headed back to his camp, he would discover his companion and captive dead and the livestock gone. Sean figured he had four hours tops on the Indian. He quickly dug a shallow grave for Falcon and buried his friend. Sean figured he might have four hours tops on Kuruk and knew he was at least three days’ journey behind Charlie and the other cowboys. If Sean was lucky, he might pick up an extra hour on the renegade by driving the herd through the night.

The day after Sean and Falcon rode off, a fierce sandstorm blew down on the cowboys and their cattle. It was like Satan himself was controlling the wind. The sky turned black. The wind howled. Sand beat against the cowboys’ faces. They pulled their kerchiefs up and their hats down. The sand blinded the cattle and frightened them. The livestock couldn’t see, but they ran. The only thing the cowboys could do was to hunker down with their horses and wait the storm out. They formed a circle, covering themselves and their horses’ heads as best as possible. The storm blew for most of an hour, then vanished as fast as it had come. Charlie stood up, brushed himself off, and called a count of the men. Everyone was dusty and present. It took the men hours to round up the cattle. Charlie was concerned about the loss of time and the fact that their water rations were low. The men would have to do with no coffee and a single cup of water a day until they either found water or made the Oso Negro. Taking the herd west to San

Diego and then north would put them at the mercy of raiders and unscrupulous city managers who could charge them a tariff for traveling through their real estate. If they stayed well east of the coast and continued north, they would miss most of the cities. Once word got out it was the Oso Negro cowboys driving a herd, rustlers could start popping from behind every rock, looking to pick off cattle from the herd. Charlie feared that Don Pico might even send some of his men to steal their cattle. Sean had mortgaged the ranch. He had entrusted Charlie to get the cattle and cowboys back safely. Charlie felt heavy with responsibility and wished Sean and Falcon hadn’t left. Ben Harper rode up. His face was covered with dirt and grime. “We got the cattle rounded up, Mr. Davis.” Charlie looked in the direction they had come. The heat shimmered on the horizon, not a rider to be seen. Charlie turned and gave a nod. “Let’s head ’em home.”

Sean sat upright in the saddle as his bay plodded forward. He was barely alert. He had driven the herd all night and far into the following day. He was certain he was in California. He just wasn’t sure where. He had given Charlie the com. He’d figured he would have Falcon to guide him. A few hours before sunset, he came across a small stream. He stopped and allowed the cattle to drink, and he refilled the canteens. He took off his kerchief, wet it, and wrapped it around his neck. He looked in the direction he’d traveled. His gaze stayed long on the horizon. He removed the spyglass from his saddlebag and peered through it. A bare speck on the horizon kicked up just enough dust to be seen. It had to be Kuruk. Sean got back on the bay and headed the herd north. A few miles later Sean spotted a ravine that was fairly well concealed by trees and scrub. He drove the cattle into the ravine and then rode back up to the main trail. He took out his spyglass. There were two riders. They were following his trail dead-on. He rode up a trail leading into the rocky hills. The trail reached a dead end a half mile up, blocked by huge boulders. Sean cursed and turned the bay around. He was losing time. It was only a matter of hours before Kuruk and the other rider caught up. Sean decided to make his stand here. Better to fight where it was defensible than get caught on the open range. He rode back to the wash where he’d left the livestock and got off the bay.

He hobbled the horse and took the Sharps and a box of ammunition. He slung the two canteens over his shoulder and hurried up the trail. There were some mesquite and pepper trees growing nearby. Sean cut a dozen branches and quickly carved a number of good spears with the Bowie knife. He placed these at various areas, behind rocks and underneath scrub, and then took a position behind some rocks. He cursed when he discovered he’d left the spyglass in the saddlebag. It would be too risky going back for it. His movement could expose his position. He took off his hat and ran his hand through his dark hair. He placed the Stetson back on and stared at the horizon. Silence. The riders had vanished. Sean uncorked one of the canteens and took a small sip of water and settled back. It was going to be a long night. The air was cool, and the moon was a sliver in the sky. Sean scanned the inkblack surroundings. He kept alert by chewing coffee beans and thinking about his home in Ireland. His family had been dead eleven years. Sean wondered what had happened to Maggie Callahan, the pub owner’s daughter. A twig snapped. Sean focused his attention in the direction of the sound. Suddenly there was a loud yelp and the sound of an approaching horse. Sean turned, aiming the Sharps in the direction of the yelp. He took a deep breath. It had begun. Sean heard the sound of a horse approaching. Then it suddenly stopped. Silence. There was a war cry to his right, followed a minute later by a war cry to his left. Sean waited patiently. He knew the Comanche were attempting to spook him into revealing his position. An eerie silence followed. There was a light some sixty yards out, a torch. Suddenly there was a loud yelp and the sound of hooves racing in his direction. Sean held his aim. There were more loud yelps. The hoof-beats became louder. A rider atop a black stallion burst out of the ink-black night. He was holding a torch in one hand and a spear in another. He was less than twenty feet away. Sean waited. The rider continued forward. Sean fired. The rider kept coming and then raced by. Sean realized that it was the body of the Indian he gutted with his Bowie knife and that he had just given up his position. He scrambled to his feet and started up the trail. Kuruk jumped from a ledge and blocked Sean’s ascent. The Comanche raised his tomahawk and charged, uttering a loud war cry. Sean hadn’t reloaded the Sharps. He quickly dropped the rifle and drew his pistol. The gun misfired. Sean tossed the pistol aside and pulled his Bowie knife. Kuruk swung the tomahawk. Sean dodged. The Comanche swung again. The tomahawk’s edge sliced Sean’s shirt

and skimmed across his belly. Kuruk flung himself upon Sean. The two men slid down the bluff, hitting the sandy floor with a thud. Sean lost his knife in the fall. Kuruk gripped Sean by the throat with one hand and squeezed. He brought the tomahawk up. Sean grabbed that arm and slammed it down on a rock. Kuruk released the tomahawk. The Indian was not a big man, but his strength was amazing. He squeezed Sean’s throat with both hands, cutting off his air. Sean thrashed. He dug his hand into the sand and flung some at his attacker. Kuruk’s grip loosened briefly. Sean grasped the Indian’s wrists and drove his knee upward, connecting with Kuruk’s testicles. Kuruk groaned but kept his fingers wrapped around Sean’s throat. Sean slammed his knee upward again and succeeded in flipping the Indian. Kuruk was now on the bottom. Sean drove a fist into the Indian’s face and then landed a second solid blow. Kuruk’s grip loosened. Sean broke free. He staggered to his feet and ran toward a rock. Kuruk spotted the Bowie knife. He snatched it up and charged, yelling a bloodcurdling war cry. Sean dove for the rock. Kuruk leaped toward him. Sean spun, and Kuruk came down on the spear Sean gripped tightly. The Comanche stared in shock. He swung the Bowie, but Sean easily dodged the weapon and jammed the spear harder. The knife fell from Kuruk’s hand. “How does it feel to know you’re dying?” Sean asked through clenched teeth. Kuruk began to sing his death chant. Sean soon tired of the Comanche’s song. He jammed the spear deeper. Kuruk jerked, spit up blood and stopped singing. Sean watched the Comanche’s life slip away until the renegade stared ahead with dead eyes. Sean let the spear go. Kuruk’s body collapsed to the ground. Sean picked up the Bowie knife and returned it to its sheath. He retrieved the Sharps and his pistol. He was moving on pure instinct. He saddled his bay and got the herd together. It would be another long night’s drive, but Sean wouldn’t have to look over his shoulder this time. The clouds were gray the next morning. As Sean took the herd through a dry river bottom, the skies opened, and it began to pour. Sean didn’t bother to put on his slicker. He kept moving the cattle and hoped the thunder wouldn’t spook the herd. The rain felt good on his face. He tilted his head back and drank as the drops fell. Suddenly his bay snorted and took off at a gallop. Sean had learned to heed the bay’s moods, so he whooped and hollered and got the herd moving as well. The bay began to outrun the herd. Sean pulled back on the reins, but the

bay fought. Sean let her have her head, and she raced like a bat out of hell. Sean heard a low rumble in the distance behind him. He drew his pistol and fired a series of shots in the air, whooping and hollering. The herd stampeded. Two hundred feet ahead was a rise. The bay instinctively headed up the rise. Most of the cattle followed. The rumbling grew louder. Sean turned the bay once they made the rise. A wall of water a hundred yards behind them crashed through the riverbed. Four head of cattle remained down below. The raging water crashed down upon them and swept them away. Sean patted the bay on the neck. “Thanks, old girl.” The horse snorted. Sean gathered the remaining cattle and started north again. Five days later, Sean saw the Oso Negro on the horizon. Carl Ferguson rode out to greet him when he was still a mile from the ranch. Charlie had put a twentyfour-hour watch out. Carl was riding so fast he overshot Sean and had to turn around and double back. “Howdy, Mr. McGuire,” Carl said excitedly. He pulled his pistol and fired a round in the air then handed Sean a canteen of cool well water. Sean took a long drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thanks. Did Charlie and the rest make it back all right?” “Yes, sir, they got back four days ago. We’ve got the cattle grazing over on the northern pasture.” Two men rode like a whirlwind out of the ranch. Charlie was the first to ride up. He reined in his horse in a cloud of dust. Rufus was right behind him. “You made it,” Charlie shouted gleefully. Then he realized. “Where’s Falcon?” “Kuruk,” Sean replied quietly. Rufus threw his beefy arm around Sean and gave him a bear hug. “Good to have you back, Sean.”

Charlie looked at Carl. “Get this stock over to the corral. You and the boys can take them out to pasture tomorrow.” Carl gave a nod and guided the herd to the ranch as Sean continued leisurely along the trail with Rufus and Charlie. “You did some work on the roof,” Sean said. Rufus glanced down at the ground and then looked at his friend. “Don Pico and his men raided the ranch while you were gone. There was some damage.” He shrugged his shoulders. “We won.” “Good.” Rufus glanced over at Charlie, who remained silent. “Don Pico got hurt,” Rufus continued. “He can’t walk anymore. There’s bad blood with some of the folks in town. They’re saying we’re to blame.” “It is a shame Don Pico was injured,” Sean said. “As far as those in town, they can kiss my royal Irish ass. How’s Patrick?” Rufus was silent. He glanced over at Charlie. “Tell the man,” Charlie barked. “Patrick is dead, Sean.” Sean stopped his bay in her tracks. He looked at his two friends. “What happened?” Rufus coughed and cleared his throat. “It was the raid. Patrick fought like a wild man. He shot two of Don Pico’s men for sure. It was just too much for him. After the fighting he just collapsed. I sent for the doctor, but there wasn’t anything he could do. We buried him under the pepper tree by the creek. He liked to sit there.” Sean nodded. The three men continued up the drive to the ranch. Dubb Hastings had a hot bath waiting for Sean. The first thing Sean did was go

see Running Deer. She was grinding corn, and Lee Sing was making dough for biscuits. Running Deer looked up. Sean didn’t have to say a word. She read his eyes and stood silent. Sean walked over and put his arms around her. “Falcon saved my life,” he said softly. Running Deer composed herself and looked at Sean. “Did you kill the man who took my husband?” “Yes.” “Thank you.” She went back to grinding the corn. “This is your home,” Sean said. Running Deer did not answer. She continued grinding the corn in silence. Sean left the kitchen and had his bath. Later when he was clean and had changed clothes, he walked down to the creek. There was a grave marker with Patrick’s name on it. “I wasn’t sure when he was born, so I left off the date,” said a voice. Sean turned. Rufus walked up and put his hand on Sean’s shoulder. “He didn’t suffer any if you’re worried about that.” “That’s good. I can’t believe he’s gone. Patrick was all the family I had.” “It ain’t the same, but you got me and Charlie.” Sean fought back his tears. The two men hugged. Sean wiped his eyes. “Must be the dust.” “Yeah,” Rufus replied. “We lost cattle on the trail. Hell, I lost four head on my own.” “We did fine, Sean,” Rufus replied. “There’s nearly three hundred head of beef that’ll beat anything local. In a year that number will be double. The Oso Negro

is going to be the finest ranch these parts have ever seen.” Sean took in the ranch. “How many men did we lose?” Rufus pulled a pint from his pocket and offered the bottle to Sean. “We didn’t. Carl and Louis got banged up a bit, but they’re fine.” “What about Prince Ali?” Rufus gave Sean a questioning look. “You mean the colored fella that came in with Charlie? He wasn’t too interested in cowboying. Charlie paid him off. Last we heard he was heading to Frisco.” Sean smiled and scratched his jaw. “Running Deer is going to have a kid,” Rufus said. This stopped Sean. He took a long swig from the bottle and ed it to Rufus. “You should be damn proud of what you done, Sean. Ain’t no other cowboy ever done what you did.” Sean stared blankly out at the ranch. “I got Falcon killed. And the Stratton brothers and some fella from Oklahoma as well.” Rufus took a pull on the bottle and gave Sean a friendly punch on the shoulder. “That’s liar talk. I ain’t gonna listen to it. Falcon knew what he was doing, just like every man who signed on to ride with you.” “If it hadn’t been for Falcon, I wouldn’t have found Kit and the general and brought the army to save you and Charlie. Now Running Deer is going to have a kid.” “Aw hell …” Rufus kicked the dirt with his boot. The silence was broken when Lee Sing began clanging a large metal triangle that hung from the corner of the hacienda. “We better get back. That Chinaman don’t take kindly to folks showing up late for dinner.” He offered the bottle to Sean.

“I’m good.” The two men walked back up the rise to the adobe. The rest of the hands were already heading into the house. Rufus patted Sean’s shoulder. “You did just fine. Patrick would be proud of you.”

Forty Years Later

The March wind blew warm that year. Sean got up early and rode out to the Oso Negro. Even though he was now sixty-six, Sean enjoyed the morning ride from town out to the ranch. The cook already had the pits going for the barbeque and was stoking the embers of the coals. Sean tipped his head as he rode by and continued down to the creek where three gravestones stood under a large pepper tree. The original headstone was Patrick’s. The markings were now faded. The second belonged to Running Deer. She had died peacefully in her sleep six years previous. The final headstone was marked, “Kathleen McGuire June 21, 1842– March 17, 1880.” It had been another year. The anniversary of his wife’s death was the only time Sean came out to the ranch anymore. The Oso Negro was a faint glimmer of the operation it once had been. The city of Los Angeles had once been king of cattle in California. Sean had played a part in making it so. Selling beef to the Union Army during the Civil War had made Sean rich. The Oso Negro had grown and encomed over ten thousand acres by the time Lee surrendered. After the war beef prices stayed high, due in part by the railroad and the demand in the east. Then the railroads adjusted their rates. The price of beef might be high but what it cost to get the cattle to market was something else again. Los Angeles remained a sleepy town with less than five thousand residents until 1880. The railroad brought farmers, merchants, and immigrants west. You could buy a ticket from Kansas to California for a dollar. Cattle ranchers had to pay a much higher price to ship their stock. The influx of settlers had begun slowly, but the trickle soon turned into a stream, and the stream became a river. It was predicted the city would top one hundred thousand by the turn of the century. Land was now king in Los Angeles. Those who had it controlled the future. Early on Sean recognized that the stream of newcomers would mean a rush for land. These people weren’t interested in cattle ranching. They were farmers and working folk, many fresh off the boat from the old country. Sean knew the days of the Oso Negro’s big ranching were numbered. Big ranches required vast stretches of open land. Eventually that land would become more valuable than the steers gazing on it. Five years after the war ended Sean began to consolidate

his cattle operation. He put his money into real estate west of downtown and south in Long Beach. Most of that was open land Sean planned to develop. The unending tide of newcomers meant the land would become valuable. Sean had no idea how valuable. In 1892 Edward Doheny discovered oil east of downtown. Just like the discovery of gold at Sutter’s Mill, Doheny’s find set off wild speculation and a new influx of arrivals. Fortunes were made. Fortunes were lost. Wildcatting was now the name of the game. Some of Sean’s real estate holdings lay in a hilly district known as Signal Hill, an area where he had originally planned to build homes. His oil operation on Signal Hill was currently pumping forty barrels a day. Sean got off his horse and looked down at his wife’s grave. “You were right as usual, Kathleen,” he said quietly. “Los Angeles is no longer the sleepy little town I brought you to from Ireland. The traffic and the noise … You were always better at seeing the future than I was. You were the one who told me to buy that property in Long Beach, and now look at me.” Sean caught himself before his emotions got the better of him. He swallowed hard and stood silent for a moment. There was no one around. The ranch had reduced in size to just sixteen hundred acres. Rufus was gone. He had tired of keeping the place running while Sean and Charlie were away with the cattle. He’d purchased seven acres south of Santa Monica, taken the ostriches, and built a park at the beach for them. There were plenty of locals and tourists willing to pay a nickel to pet and feed the birds birdseed that Rufus sold for a nickel a bag. Nearly every person that ed through the turnstile was good for at least ten cents. Those with kids were a gold mine. Rufus had also built a half-mile oval racetrack and raced the birds. The ostrich ran on the track pulling a jockey in a small leather cart, similar to harness racing. Rufus allowed betting on the birds and took his cut from the gamblers operating at the track. He also supplied a local milliner with feathers for his hats. Charlie remained foreman at the Oso Negro. Other than fighting the Mexicans to liberate the territory, ranching was the only thing Charlie knew or was happy doing. Sean knew that Charlie was away riding the northern ridge that morning. He had planned it that way. He wanted time alone with Kathleen.

Sean put his hand on Kathleen’s headstone. “You would be so proud of Jenny. She is the spitting image of you and becoming quite the young lady. Don’t ask about Thomas. He’s as useful as tits on a boar. He does have a wife who thankfully has a head on her. Olivia is the only thing Thomas did right. I know you always thought I was hard on the boy …” His voice trailed off. Sean turned and looked up at the hacienda. Rufus had been gone twenty-four years, and the house looked the worse for wear. The roof needed repair, and the entire exterior was in need of a good whitewashing. Charlie was busy with the cattle. His skills were in horses and livestock. Rufus could repair anything and frequently made things operate better than before. Sean and Kathleen had moved to their big house on Hill Street seven years after Lee’s surrender at Appomattox. Thomas was born in the house the following year. Sean didn’t want Kathleen to deal with the difficulties of raising a child so far from the city. Kathleen had loved the beautiful Victorian Sean built for her, but she’d always returned to the Oso Negro whenever opportunity arose. Their son, Thomas, was a disappointment to Sean. He had no desire to learn about cattle. The only reason he even bothered to ride a horse was so he could prance around with his Ivy League friends in Central Park on Sundays. Sean took the red rose from his lapel and placed it on Kathleen’s gravestone. A cowboy dressed in black rode up. He looked to be in his mid-twenties and had a muscular build, a moustache, and piercing blue eyes. He sat atop a brown-andwhite mustang and wore an expensive Remington rig. “You lost, mister? This here is private property,” the cowboy said. Sean looked up. “I am aware of that.” The cowboy fixed Sean with a steely gaze. “I’d suggest you get on that horse then and skedaddle on outta here.” “And if I don’t?” Sean asked. The cowboy didn’t flinch. He kept his cold gaze fixed on Sean. “You will not appreciate the outcome.” A second cowboy rode up. He was much older and had a familiar-looking face.

“Mr. McGuire?” he asked. “Carl? Carl Ferguson?” Sean said. The older cowboy got off his horse and shook Sean’s hand. “It’s been …” “Since last year, Carl.” “Yeah, but I ain’t seen you in person in nigh on to ten years.” “You know this fella, Mr. Ferguson?” the younger cowboy asked. Carl looked up at the cowboy astride the mustang. “This here is Mr. McGuire, Willy. He’s your employer. Now get down off that horse and show the man some respect.” The younger cowboy literally flew off of his saddle and stood in front of Sean with his hand extended. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. McGuire.” Carl grinned sheepishly. “This here is one of last season’s hires. We decided to keep him on. Mr. McGuire, meet Willy McGrath.” Sean shook the cowboy’s hand. His grip was solid. McGrath leaned close and whispered, “Please excuse that business before.” “No offense taken.” Carl realized the purpose of Sean’s visit. “We best be getting back to work, Willy. It was good seeing you, Mr. McGuire.” Carl gave his younger companion a look. McGrath jumped back on the mustang, tipped his hat, and rode off. “Sorry for the interruption, Mr. McGuire,” Carl said. Sean nodded toward the retreating cowboy. “He any good with that gun?” “The best,” Carl replied. “Willy’s the only person I ever seen could shoot like you, Mr. McGuire. He’s fast as greased lightning. I wouldn’t want to go up against him.”

Sean didn’t say anything. Carl got on his horse, gave a tip of his hat, and rode away. Sean took out his pocket watch. It was nearly seven. He’d have just enough time to get home and change before having to give a speech at the new city hall building. Sean hated giving speeches. He looked down at the grave. “There isn’t a day I don’t miss you, Kathleen.” Sean bent and kissed the gravestone. He got on his bay and rode back to town.

“Oh my Lord, where is Father?” asked an impatient Jennifer McGuire pacing the floor of the sitting room. Jenny was sixteen going on sixty. She had inherited the best of both her parents. She was intelligent, independent, and beautiful. Kathleen had died giving birth to Jenny. Sean had little time to grieve for his wife, as he’d had a young son and an infant to raise. Sean doted on Jenny. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for her. Jenny had the best tutors and could speak Gaelic, French, Latin, Spanish, and Italian. She harbored a desire to go to Stanford and study business. She wasn’t going to be some man’s wife and live in a gilded cage like the girls she knew. She could ride a horse and rope and brand a steer as well as any cowboy working the Oso Negro. Jenny was the apple of her father’s eye and his constant concern as well. Jenny saw little potential in any of the sons of the city’s wealthy families. That didn’t bother Sean much. It was the fact that Jenny found little value in any man. She either compared them to her brother, Thomas, or to her father. No mere mortal man stood a chance when compared to Sean McGuire in her eyes. Jennifer Ann McGuire was a determined young woman who had no patience for the frivolities of her female peers. She disdained gossip and believed fliting was a waste of time. Jenny had no time for such silliness. The death of her mother had taught Jenny that life was short, so you should go after what you want. Jenny wanted to work for her father and run the Oso Negro. “Don’t you worry yourself none,” Beatty, the household’s head maid, said. She had been with the family since Jenny was a young girl and was well aware of her charge’s impatient demeanor. Beatty inspected the mantel with a white-gloved hand as a young maid continued to dust the room. Beatty glanced at the glove then looked at the young cleaning woman. “When you’ve finished, Abigail, please check with the cook. I believe he needs you to run to the market.”

The young maid curtsied. “Yes, ma’am.” Beatty turned to Jenny. “Your father went to see your mum, dear.” Jenny stopped pacing and looked at Beatty. “He didn’t say anything to me,” she replied quietly. Beatty smiled. “I think he wanted some alone time, dear.” Jenny plopped herself on the green velvet divan and folded her arms across her chest. Beatty smiled at the young woman. “You are wrinkling your dress. What is wrong, dear?” Jenny sat up and smoothed her dress. “Father asked me to write the speech he’s giving today at the dedication ceremonies. It needs work. By the time he gets home, there won’t be any time left.” Beatty gave Jenny a gentle pat on the head. “Oh, child, I wouldn’t worry about a thing. Your father wouldn’t have asked you to write the speech if he didn’t think you could do so. If there is one thing I know about your daddy, he can spot the real deal and a phony a mile away.” “Only a mile?” Sean asked, walking into the room. Beatty blushed with embarrassment. “Oh, Father, you’re home,” Jenny exclaimed as she rushed to hug Sean. “You went to see Mother.” “Yes, dear. Happy birthday.” Sean hugged Jenny close. She looked up at her father. “Thank you. We don’t have much time for you to practice the speech.” Sean kissed his daughter on the top of her head. He reached into his jacket and removed a piece of paper. “Do you mean this speech?” Jenny looked at her father. “You copied it, so I’d think you left it behind. You are

so mean.” She smiled coyly. “I did take out the part about General Grayson fomenting the Chinatown riots.” “Otis Grayson is a tyrant. You’ve said so yourself a hundred times,” Jenny replied. Sean removed his hat and set it on the table. “I know, my dear, but I don’t think the dedication ceremonies are the appropriate place to bring up ancient history.” “Ancient? Lee Sing was nearly killed. Grayson and his bloody newspaper spent days whipping the public up—” Sean put his arms around Jenny and gave her a hug. “That all happened before you were even born. Now don’t worry; I’ve got your speech memorized. It’s a dandy.” Sean reached into his pocket and removed a small gift box. “Happy birthday, dear.” Jenny pulled the bright-red ribbon and opened the box. Inside was a beautiful comb with inlaid mother-of-pearl. “Oh, Father, it’s beautiful.” Jenny gave her father a kiss on the cheek. Sean chuckled, “I’ve got road on me. Let me clean up.” Jenny dashed over to the mirror and put the comb in her hair as Sean went upstairs to change.

Diplomacy - 1863

President Lincoln issued his Emancipation Proclamation in January 1863. Sean and Thaddeus Parker sailed to England that March on a diplomatic mission. They carried letters from General Howard and General Grant to England’s war department. These were secret communiqués. England, which had a formal policy of neutrality but in reality was sympathetic to the Confederacy, now believed that America would be engulfed in a race war in addition to its Civil War. The letters Sean and Thaddeus carried were meant to dispel British fears of such events and sought to maintain England’s neutrality in America’s affairs. The president had taken General Grant’s advice to go behind channels with Prime Minister Palmerston and not use Charles Adams, the American ambassador to England. Grant knew Thaddeus, and General Howard knew Sean from the war with Mexico. They were the perfect pair to handle such a mission. Sean was more than happy to accommodate the president. The diplomatic aspects offered a cover for him. Outwardly Sean articulated that the trip would allow him to purchase a half dozen English Herefords and have them shipped to the Oso Negro for breeding purposes. His real motivation was to travel to Ireland. Sean wanted to visit his former home. Thaddeus agreed to the voyage out of friendship for Sean and his love of adventure. He was getting old and knew this would most likely be his last chance to captain such a voyage. He put his foot down on transporting cattle. “The Falcon is a cargo clipper,” Thaddeus told Sean. “There’s never been a beast aboard her besides humans and fowl. Both were messy and a pain in the ass. Put shipping bovines on my ship out of your head.” Sean assured his friend that any cattle he purchased would be sent on another vessel. Sean and Thaddeus conveyed the letters to the British prime minister and reassured him that the United States faced no imminent threat of a race war. President Lincoln was secure and successfully waging war against the secessionists. Thaddeus explained to the prime minister that the president would look very kindly on Her Majesty’s government if Laird & Sons ceased building ships for the Confederacy. Lord Palmerston reassured the two Americans he

would look into the matter. Sean inquired where he might find a good cattleman, and Lord Palmerston arranged a meeting with Lord Campbell for that afternoon. The following day Sean purchased a bull and four Hereford cows and arranged to have them shipped to the Oso Negro. Sean and Thaddeus ed Lord Campbell in his study for scotch to close the business deal. Lord Campbell invited them to him at his country estate that weekend, but Sean politely declined. He leaned close and whispered to His Lordship that he and Thaddeus were on a diplomatic mission and needed to return to America as soon as possible. Lord Campbell was well versed in the intrigues of Parliament and nodded. He then said, “I was hoping to hear how you drove three hundred head from Texas to California.” Sean looked surprised. “Your exploits precede you, Mr. McGuire.” “By wagon, Your Lordship,” Sean replied dryly. Thaddeus held his breath. Lord Campbell sat for a moment and then suddenly burst out laughing. “By wagon. By Jove, that is a good one. You Americans have such a sense of humor.” Sean and Thaddeus glanced at each other. They finished their drinks, thanked His Lordship, and took a cab back to the docks. The Falcon sailed for Ireland. The weather was gray, but it didn’t rain. The winds were favorable, and they made good time. Thaddeus left the helm and retired to his cabin. He signaled Sean to follow. Sean wanted Thaddeus to dock in Derry, but Thaddeus would not hear of it. “I have a fair idea of what you’re planning,” Thaddeus said when they were in the security of his quarters. “You might’ve put one over on Grant, but don’t yank my rope, Sean. You’re looking for Jacob Dryden. I understand, but I want a fighting chance to make for open sea. Ballycastle affords us that. Derry doesn’t. If we have to make a run for it, the Brits can box us in at Derry.”

Sean knew Thaddeus was correct and nodded in agreement. The Falcon anchored in Ballycastle. Thaddeus introduced Sean as his partner, William Olson, when they came ashore. Thaddeus invited the sailors to step into the pub for a pint. Thaddeus chatted it up while Sean quietly slipped away and set off for Ballymoney. The village looked much smaller than Sean ed it. He was a stranger and knew eyes would be upon him. The natural place to go for information was Seamus Callahan’s pub. It was also the most likely spot where someone might recognize him. It had been seventeen years and a lifetime ago since he’d left. Sean decided to walk through the village as if he were a gombeen-man. He was dressed for the part in his tailored suit and certainly didn’t look anything like the scrappy kid who had escaped the earl’s men. Sean strolled through the village then se t off on the path leading to the tenant farms. Most were gone. Cattle now grazed where Sean’s neighbors had once lived. Many of the homes had all but vanished, only a chimney, the skeletal frame of a barn, or a stone foundation left behind. The main beam of Sean’s former home had been tumbled. A corn-doll talisman was tied to the front door. Sean pushed the door open and entered. The few pieces of furniture left in the place were weathered and rotted. His mother’s dishes were stacked on the sideboard. Some had fallen on the floor and were broken. It was as if none of the other villagers had wanted to defile the home by looting it. A nest of birds now made their home in the loft where Sean once slept. A middle-aged man wearing a brown suit and a bowler and carrying a shillelagh walked up as Sean exited the house. “What business do you have with His Lordship?” the man asked. Sean tipped his new Stetson and smiled. “Just having a look.” “This is private land. You best be movin’ along.” “And if I have business with His Lordship?” Sean asked. The man looked at Sean. “You’re a Yank, and a dandy too, from the looks of it. Well, His Lordship is away at present, so you best move it along.” Sean tipped his hat and started back up the path to the village. He knew that by

sundown the Yankee gombeen-man would be the talk at Callahan’s pub.

The Ball

Sean gave his speech at the city hall dedication ceremonies that morning. A brass band played marches and waltzes. The Ladies’ Auxiliary served cake and ice cream under a large blue tent. The festivities continued at Central Park, where Arthur Camden’s touring theatrical troupe staged scenes from Macbeth and Romeo and Juliet. Otis Grayson was hosting a ball that evening at his mansion atop Bunker Hill. Grayson had arrived in Los Angeles in 1871 as a man of some means, having made his money “up north.” This was a bit like saying California had dirt— obvious but ambiguous as hell. Not that it mattered to Grayson what the local laborer thought. He planned to tell that laborer what to think. Grayson had purchased a controlling interest in one of the town’s newspapers, the Los Angeles Tribune, from its owner, Andrew Thackeray. The following year Grayson had married Winifred Thackeray, his partner’s daughter. Six years later the Tribune was rivaled by only the Los Angeles Herald as the city’s most-read newspaper. Otis Grayson was a booster. He sunk much of his money into local real estate and consistently extolled the good life of southern California in his newspaper. Grayson hated unions, Mexicans, Chinese, Indians, Catholics, Irishmen, Italians, Poles, Germans, and Negroes. To him they represented what was wrong with California. The only people Otis Grayson thought fit to associate with were white and wealthy. He aspired to be a Brahmin, a status he could never achieve in the East. His manner was too coarse. In California such things didn’t matter. “General” Grayson graced himself with a military title despite never having served. That didn’t matter in Los Angeles. He had money and the prestige of a publisher and was embraced by the city’s elite. Sean was a wealthy man. He did not subscribe to Grayson’s insider politics or his stance against the Irish and Indian and just about everyone else who wasn’t white and wealthy. Sean found Grayson’s use of fear and hatred in his newspaper distasteful. Sean knew in his heart the land belonged to the Indians. The Spanish took the land from the Indian. The Mexicans took it from the Spanish, and the

Americans grabbed it from the Mexicans. Falcon had helped Sean fight the Mexicans and had scouted for him. A Negro had helped Sean and his men escape a crazed Mexican captain. A Chinese had cooked for him. Sean understood that the Oso Negro would not be what it was had it not been for the work of many men, some of whom were neither white nor Christian. That didn’t matter. It was what was in a man’s heart that counted as far as Sean was concerned. Sean had initially planned to skip the ball, but at breakfast the week before the dedication ceremonies Jenny pointed out that if he spurned the “general,” the morning newspapers would be sure to mention it. They would bring up the issue that Sean was backing the designation of Long Beach as the city’s harbor, while Grayson and his business associates favored Santa Monica. “It is also on my birthday, and I would like you to accompany me to my first ball, Father,” Jenny told her father. Sean chuckled. “You would make a sensational attorney, my dear.” Jenny made a face. “We shall attend the general’s ball on a single condition.” “What is that?” Jenny asked. “That you promise me your first dance.” Jenny jumped up and kissed her father on the cheek and said, “Who else would I give it to?” Sean had good reason for wanting Long Beach to be named the city’s harbor. With Long Beach as the harbor, he would be able to load his oil on a private track and deliver it directly to the harbor eight miles away. If the city chose Santa Monica, the job would cost more and take longer. Grayson was pragmatic as well with his preference for Santa Monica. His good friend Nevada senator John Jones owned half of Santa Monica and the railway that connected it to downtown Los Angeles, and Grayson owned the Aurora Hotel. The Aurora was a 130-room study of Victorian opulence. It was located on Ocean Avenue overlooking the Pacific. Shortly after the hotel had opened, Colonel Griffith had shot out his wife’s eye in a jealous rage in their suite, giving the hotel instant

notoriety. It was said that more deals were done at the Aurora Hotel than in the state capitol. Sean viewed Grayson as a predator. Grayson saw Sean as an upstart Irishman who didn’t know his place. Neither man agreed upon much, except their dislike for the other. Society dictated that, as one of the city’s wealthy men, Sean McGuire was to be invited to such a social occasion as Grayson’s ball. Otis Grayson wasn’t going to buck convention, so he had invited McGuire’s entire family. Sean and Jenny arrived fashionably late to the ball. They came in a grand black carriage that sported two brass lanterns and a team of grays Sean had purchased from Lord Campbell. Sean knew Grayson’s newspaper wielded great power, and any misstep would surely be reported in its pages. He still endured bad feelings from some in the community due to his run-in with Don Pico. The old man had never fully recovered from his injuries and had died four years later. The fact that Don Pico died on the eve of the Civil War and Sean made his first fortune selling beef to the military only rubbed salt into his dissenters’ wounds. Sean had Chinese, Negroes, Mexicans and Indians working alongside white men which did not endear him to some. Certain of the city’s elite felt Sean was disrupting the natural order. Sean had never given a damn what people thought. Now the stakes were different. The industrial age was upon them. The American frontier was gone. Frederick Jackson Turner had declared it officially closed three years previous. Gone were the days of land for the taking. Gone were the days when business could be handled with a Colt. Sean wanted the city to approve Long Beach as its official harbor. If it meant putting on a smile and glad-handing some folk, then that was just part of the job of getting business done. Sean and Jenny were standing near the French doors leading out to the veranda when Grayson approached them with the genial smile of a politician on Election Day. He was tall with a thick head of hair. He was wearing a dark suit and smoking a cigar. He extended his hand to Sean, and the two men shook. “Sean, Miss McGuire, how good of you to come tonight.” The newspaperman gave a faux glance about the room. “Your son, Thomas, seems to be absent.” Sean didn’t miss a beat. He smiled and replied, “My grandson, Michael, is a bit under the weather. Thomas remained at home with Olivia to help out.”

Grayson puffed on his cigar and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I guess my man must’ve gotten it wrong then.” “How’s that?” Sean asked. “One of my reporters mentioned seeing Thomas at the cockfights on Calle Negros earlier this evening. Apparently he mistook Thomas for someone who was losing heavily at the time.” Grayson looked at Jenny and smiled like a reptile after devouring its prey. “If I may have the pleasure of this dance?” Jenny rose up to her full height of five foot two and looked Grayson directly in the eye. “I am sorry, but I will have to decline, Mr. Grayson. I promised this dance to my father.” Jenny McGuire took her father’s hand and adeptly moved him out onto the dance floor. “I really loathe that man,” Jenny said as they waltzed. “This is the limit,” Sean said through clenched teeth. “Your brother is entirely irresponsible. He lied to me. He embarrasses me without even being present to open his bloody mouth. Someone needs to teach that boy a lesson.” Jenny patted her father’s shoulder. “Father, Thomas is twenty-three. That hardly qualifies as a boy.” “He needs to grow up, not older.” Sean was grateful the orchestra was playing a lively waltz. The music forced him to move spritely on his feet instead of complaining to his daughter. When the dance was over, Sean made his way out to the veranda for a smoke. He snatched a whiskey from a ing waiter’s tray. Mayor Frank Rader spotted Sean and walked over to greet him. Rader was a stocky man with a thick handlebar moustache. His brown hair was parted in the middle. “Otis certainly throws some party,” the mayor said, puffing on his cigar. “He does know how to put on a spectacle,” Sean replied with a laconic Irish lilt. “Show doesn’t make a harbor, Mayor.”

Mayor Rader looked at Sean and chuckled. “You get right to the point. That’s what I like about you, McGuire; you shoot straight.” Sean puffed on his cigar. “Always have, Mayor.” The mayor took a sip of his bourbon. “I’ll be straight with you, Sean. Long Beach is a lot farther from the city than Santa Monica.” Sean remained cool and waved the mayor off. “Ahh, hell, Mayor, Long Beach is a larger harbor. It isn’t as prone to squalls like Santa Monica. You’ll have to dredge and build a jetty to make that beach a decent harbor. You don’t with Long Beach; Mother Nature took care of that. The Spanish used it as their primary harbor for years.” The mayor took another long drink. He smiled and gave Sean a pat on the shoulder. “You put up a persuasive argument, McGuire. The board and I will certainly take it under consideration.” He turned. “If you’ll excuse me, I must pay my respects to the Huntingtons.” The mayor walked off to glad-hand Henry Huntington and his wife. Sean was happy to be rid of him. He had little use for politicians and often compared them to mosquitoes due to their annoying qualities and ability to “suck blood.” Rufus’s daughter, Hadley Cobb, walked up. Hadley was twenty-one, beautiful, and smart as a whip. She’d inherited her good looks from her mother and her sense of hard work and fairness from her father. Her brunette hair was fashionably curled atop her head. Her deep-green eyes accented the gold gown she wore. “Weasel,” Hadley whispered as she sidled up to Sean and produced a cigar for him to light. “Hadley,” Sean replied, happy to see the young woman. He struck a match and lit the cigar. “You really are the limit—you do know that? Of course you do. That’s what makes you so lovable. You love to tweak the bull.” “And I bet you could teach me something about tweaking bulls,” Hadley replied in a whiskey voice with a sly smile. Sean grinned. Hadley was embarrassing him. “Please don’t take this the wrong

way, but—” “I own seven acres of prime beach real estate,” Hadley replied cutting Sean off. “These bloodsuckers want my backing on their harbor.” She exhaled a cloud of smoke. “You haven’t been down in a while.” Sean tugged at his ear. “No, I haven’t.” “Last time you were at the farm was just after Mom and Dad died. It’s been four years now.” “Has it been that long?” Sean asked, his voice drifting off for a moment. Hadley smiled. “You should come down. We have monkeys and seals that perform in addition to the ostriches. We also have a House of Wonders. That’s mostly snakes, bats, and horny toads in cages.” “Sounds exciting. I will. By the way, if you don’t mind my asking—” Hadley leaned close and whispered, “I’m against the Santa Monica harbor. My place is just down the beach from the Aurora. If the harbor goes in, they’ll come after me and the farm.” She took a puff on her cigar and exhaled. “Besides, the general is an ass. I wouldn’t believe the man if he told me water was wet.” She noticed her glass was empty. “Speaking of dry …” “I’ll be right back.” Sean went to the bar and returned posthaste with a fresh drink. “Whiskey, I believe, with a lemon twist.” Hadley’s eyes widened. “You do have a good memory.” Sean lifted his glass. “It’s important to what a lady likes.” Hadley laughed and gave Sean’s arm a faux slap. “I bet you say that to all the ladies. And what do you think this lady likes?” Sean was silent. He realized he’d walked right into Hadley’s trap. “Independence,” Sean finally answered, ending the awkward moment of silence. Hadley put her arm through Sean’s. “You are a smart man, Sean McGuire.”

“Father.” Sean turned. Jenny stood on the veranda. “Oh, hello, Hadley,” Jenny said. Hadley gave Jenny a demure nod of her head. “Jenny, how nice to see you.” “Father, I have a splitting headache.” “I have some cocaine that should take care of it for you,” Hadley offered. “No thank you. Father, I would like to go home,” Jenny replied emphatically. Sean smiled, a bit embarrassed at the position he found himself in with his daughter and the daughter of one of his best friends. “Now,” Jenny added. Sean shrugged. “If you will please excuse us, Miss Cobb, but I must see Jenny home. It was good to see you.” Jenny turned and headed for the door. “Don’t be a stranger, Mr. McGuire,” Hadley said and gave Sean’s hand a pat. Sean bowed to Hadley and exited the veranda.

Bushwhacked - 1863

Sean got to Callahan’s pub before most of the locals arrived and took a seat at the end of the bar. The banter was the usual about the weather, crops, and of course the church. Sean only recognized a few faces. Most were unfamiliar. No one recognized him. It had been nearly twenty years since the famine. The village had changed. Most of the families from Sean’s day had either died or immigrated on the coffin ships. Two things remained constant for the Irish: English rule and Catholic Church dominance over the parishioners. Maggie Callahan worked the bar now. She had put on weight and lost her girlish charm. Her face couldn’t hide the years of drudgery and work. She didn’t recognize Sean. He’d grown a beard during the voyage to England in order to better disguise his looks. He was also dressed in American attire—a dark suit, matching vest, crisp white shirt, and a tie. He wore a Stetson, black boots, and a black duster. He carried a Colt in a shoulder holster concealed under his coat. Sean ordered whiskey and nursed his drink, observing the locals. No one engaged him in conversation. It was obvious Sean was above their station and a Yank. Sean took out his pocket watch. He was surprised at the hour. He hadn’t bothered to arrange for lodgings. Jacob Dryden hadn’t come. Sean dropped a coin on the table and exited the pub. A full moon was coming up as Sean made his way back to Ballycastle. He could have made it with his eyes closed. He knew the way that well. When he reached the outskirts of the village, a man standing in the shadows said, “Good evening, Mr. McGuire.” Sean stopped and turned toward the man. Then all went black.

William McGrath

Sean exited the elevator and entered his office in the Bradbury Building. The brass plaque on the door simply read, “McGuire Enterprises Ltd.” “Good morning, Effie,” Sean said as he hung his jacket on the mahogany rack. Effie Dancer was Sean’s secretary. She was thirty and unmarried. It wasn’t that Effie was plain looking. She didn’t suffer fools, and most men were fools, so she remained contentedly single and devoted to her boss and job. She wore her blonde hair short and was known to swear like a sailor when the occasion arose. “Good morning, Mr. McGuire. I hope you and Jenny had a nice weekend.” “Thank you. It was an interesting one. And you?” “The bees’ knees. My friend Eileen and I went out to the Venice pier. It was a real pip.” “Good to hear it, Effie. By the way, there is a man from the Oso Negro coming in this morning, a William McGrath. Please send him in as soon as he arrives.” “Yes, Mr. McGuire.” Sean entered his office and closed the door. It had been a trying weekend. He had gone to his son’s house unannounced and confronted Thomas about his absence from the ball. It was Sunday and nearly noon when Sean arrived. Thomas was still in his silk robe and pajamas. His brown hair was tousled, and his eyes were bloodshot. A glass of whiskey sat next to his plate of eggs and bacon. Olivia greeted Sean with a kiss. She was of slight build and barely stood five feet. Her dark hair was neatly pinned, and she wore a fine green dress. Thomas looked up from the copy of the Tribune he was reading. “Hello, Father.” Sean set his hat on the table and looked at his son. “You were missed at the ball.”

Thomas feigned a smile. “I explained we couldn’t make it. Michael was sick.” Sean glanced down at the infant in the crib. Michael looked up at his grandfather with bright eyes and giggled. “Michael’s had a miraculous recovery, I see.” Thomas nodded. “Isn’t that grand?” “And you weren’t at Calle Negros gambling.” Thomas glanced at Olivia, who remained silent, then shifted his gaze to his father. “What would I be doing there? You don’t give me enough to live on as it is.” Sean reached into his coat pocket and took out a wallet. He removed three $100 bills and handed them to Olivia. “This is for you to take care of the household.” Thomas grabbed his crystal tumbler and threw back the whiskey. Sean looked at his son. “Impressive, you can drink. Its midday and you’re lounging around like some bloody British lord. Get dressed and take your wife and son to the park. If I hear that you’re gambling again—” “What will you do, Father? Will you send me away? Make me shovel the shit out of the barn? What are you going to do?” Sean dropped fifty dollars on the floor in front of Thomas. He put on his hat and exited the house. Sean had other issues on his mind that morning. After their dance at Grayson’s ball Jenny had gone into the sitting room to lie down on the sofa. Otis Grayson, John Jones, and Edward Harriman had entered without realizing Jenny was present. She overheard Grayson tell the two men that Santa Monica was a “done deal.” “I certainly hope so,” Jones replied. “I built a railroad and received your assurance the city would name Santa Monica as its official port.” Grayson gave Jones a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “John, you aren’t the only one who has sunk hard cash into the area. The Aurora is there. Our business associates and I have built a pier, at no small cost I might add, and named it Los Angeles Port.”

“Just because you call it something doesn’t make it so,” Harriman replied. “McGuire is leaning hard on the council. That’s not good, Otis.” Grayson smiled congenially. “Edward, don’t worry about Sean McGuire. I’ll take care of him. Something happened when he went to England for Lincoln. I’ve got a man looking into it.” “Lincoln? That’s thirty years ago,” Jones said. “Don’t worry, gentlemen; when my newspaper is finished with Sean McGuire, he’ll be lucky to have a pot to piss in.” “ its business not personal, Otis,” Harriman said. The three men exited the sitting room without ever being the wiser of Jenny’s presence. She waited a few minutes and then quietly exited the room and went in search of her father. She found him talking to Hadley Cobb on the veranda and insisted they leave. Once they were home, Jenny told Sean of the conversation she had overheard. Sean thanked Jenny. He had not commented on Grayson’s remarks concerning the incident in Europe, and Jenny hadn’t asked. She was aware her father held dark secrets regarding his past. That was not her business. Jenny knew her father loved her. That was all that mattered. After leaving Thomas’s house Sean went to the Western Union office and sent a telegraph to the Oso Negro requesting that William McGrath report to his office Monday morning. The veteran cowboys knew that a call into town generally meant you were fired. The only elaboration Sean put in the message was for McGrath to come dressed professionally. William McGrath appeared nine sharp at the office of McGuire Enterprises Ltd. that Monday. Effie showed him into Sean’s office and closed the door. McGrath was dressed in a dark blue suit. He wore a Stetson on his head and a Remington on his hip. If he was nervous, he didn’t display it. “Mr. McGrath, good of you to come.” Sean extended his hand, and the two men shook. Sean gestured toward a stuffed chair. “Please have a seat, William. I hope you don’t mind me calling you by your first name?” “I prefer that to Willy.” McGrath removed his hat and took a seat.

“I understand you are handy with both your fists and that pistol,” Sean said. “I can take care of myself,” McGrath replied. “I also understand you scouted for the army.” “Yes, sir. I scouted for General Gatewood. I was stationed at Wounded Knee. It was not our proudest moment, sir.” “I didn’t ask you here to talk about the past. I need a man with certain skills, William. You seem to possess those skills.” “What skills are those?” Sean took a photograph of Thomas out of the top drawer on his desk and held it out to McGrath. “That is my son. I need someone to follow him and report directly to me.” The cowboy studied the photograph and set it down on the desk. “There are people that do this as a profession, sir.” “Yes, there are. There are also parties that would exploit the fact I hired a detective to spy on my son if they had knowledge of the fact. You already work for me and don’t strike me as the gabby type. I will pay you fifty dollars a week and throw in a room at the U.S. Hotel.” McGrath sat silent for a long moment. “Why do you want me to tail your son?” he finally asked. Sean gave a nod of approval. “Fair question. I love Thomas, but he is a wastrel. I believe some of his friends are not so friendly. I believe he is in debt—to whom, I don’t know. That is why I am hiring you. Do you accept, William?” “Yes.” Sean stood. McGrath got up, and the two men shook again. “Meet me here at nine each morning and give me a report of Thomas’s activities of the previous day.”

“I know some people and could ask around about your son.” “Questions breed more questions. Be careful.” “And if Thomas gets into any trouble?” “Short of someone attempting to kill him, do not interfere.” “I understand.” “Good. My secretary, Effie, will give you a week’s advance and set you up at the hotel. I will see you tomorrow.” McGrath walked toward the door. “William.” McGrath turned. Sean held up Thomas’s photograph. “Don’t you want this?” “I know what your son looks like. If somebody searches my room and finds that photograph, it would raise questions.” Sean smiled. “I knew you were the right man.” William McGrath tipped his hat and exited the office.

Escape - 1863

Sean felt a sharp pain in his side. Someone called his name, a man. He heard voices, a man and woman having a conversation. He couldn’t make out what they were saying and drifted off again. Sometime later he opened his eyes. The room slowly came into focus. A dark-haired woman sat by the window. She was a beauty. Her brown hair cascaded down her shoulders, framing her moonshaped face. She had a flawless complexion and dark brown eyes. “You’re awake.” The woman poured some tea into a cup from the pot sitting on the table. “Here, drink this.” Sean sat up and took the cup. “Thank you. Could please tell me where I am?” “You’re in Ballycastle,” the woman replied in a soft voice. She dampened a cloth and placed it on Sean’s forehead. “You have been unconscious for hours.” Sean pushed the woman’s arm away and attempted to get out of bed. The pain in his side intensified. He forced it back and sat on the side of the bed. “Please, explain.” “You were beaten badly by the earl’s men and left in a ditch. When you didn’t arrive back, Thaddeus went to find you. You’re lucky he did. The earl’s chamberlain is keen to catch you. He sent soldiers to find you. That’s why Thaddeus brought you here.” “Where is Thaddeus?” “He had to return to the Falcon. The earl’s men came with some soldiers and demanded Thaddeus allow them inspect his ship.” “And Thaddeus let them?” Sean asked, surprised. “Yes. It kept them from going house to house. When Thaddeus returns, we will have to move you. It is getting too dangerous for you to remain here.”

“What is going on?” The woman looked at Sean with soft eyes filled with fire. “Jacob Dryden has charged you with assault and issued a warrant for your arrest. He is the earl’s chamberlain. That is the same as attacking the earl.” Sean scanned the room. “My gun?” “You had no gun when Thaddeus found you,” the woman said. “You were barely breathing. They worked you over well. You have a cracked rib, and your shoulder was dislocated, not to mention assorted cuts and bruises. I was able to take care of your shoulder. You must watch yourself for the next few weeks.” “Why?” The woman gave Sean a questioning look. “Why what?” “Why did you do this? You put yourself at great risk for me.” “My father and Thaddeus are friends. We don’t care for the earl or his chamberlain. Besides, you’re easy on the eyes.” Sean blushed. “What’s your name?” “Kathleen.” She smiled and then left the room. Sean took a deep breath and forced himself to stand up. The pain was intense. He gritted his teeth. He hobbled over to the rack where his shirt, tros, and coat hung. They had been cleaned. Sean got dressed. He almost ed out from the pain when he bent down to put on his boots. The door opened. Thaddeus walked in. “Excellent, you’re up. We must leave at once. Dryden didn’t think his men did a good enough job and is looking to finish you off.” “I want you to know I never laid a hand on Dryden,” Sean said. Thaddeus cocked an eyebrow. “From the looks of your face I’d have to agree.” He waved his friend off. “It doesn’t matter. It’s his word against yours, and over

here his word counts. Now we best get back to the ship.” Sean winced as he slipped his jacket on. “The woman … Kathleen, she said you allowed Dryden to inspect the Falcon.” “I did,” Thaddeus replied matter-of-factly. “It kept suspicion off of her father, Connor O’Neil and I go back a ways, like your uncle. Dryden knows you’re in Ireland, Sean. He just doesn’t know where.” Thaddeus opened the door and exited the room. Sean followed. Kathleen stood next to her father in the sitting room. Connor O’Neil looked to be in his fifties. He wore gray wool tros, a clean white shirt, and a heavy gray sweater. His eyes held a thousand-mile stare. Sean knew Connor was a hard man. His grandfather Dado had that same stare at times. Connor moved a china cabinet aside and opened a hidden door behind it. He looked at Sean and gave him a pat. “Good luck, son. ’Tis a pity we couldn’t have shared a pint.” Sean smiled. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. O’Neil.” He looked at Kathleen. “May I write you?” Kathleen was caught off guard by the request. “Answer the man, Kathleen,” Connor said. “He must be on his way.” Kathleen beamed with happiness. “Oh yes, please do.” “Come on,” Thaddeus said impatiently. “I promise I will write,” Sean said as Thaddeus nudged him through the hidden doorway. “I promise to reply,” Kathleen called as the two men disappeared into the darkness of the ageway. Connor closed the door and moved the china cabinet back into place. The room looked completely undisturbed, as if the Americans had never set foot in the home.

Ill Winds

William McGrath was waiting in the outer office when Sean entered that morning. The cowboy was dressed in the same dark suit but with a clean white shirt. Sean took off his overcoat and hat and hung them on the rack. “Good morning, Mr. McGrath. I hope the hotel accommodations are satisfactory.” “Oh yes, sir, quite satisfactory,” McGrath replied. “Good.” Effie held out a file labeled, Leases 1896 to Sean. “These contracts require your signature, Mr. McGuire.” Sean took the file but did not look at it. “Thank you, Effie.” He held out his arm toward his office. “Mr. McGrath.” The cowboy followed Sean into the room. Sean turned to Effie seated behind her desk. “We are not to be disturbed.” Effie gave a nod of her head, and Sean closed the door. McGrath took a seat in one of the stuffed chairs. Sean dropped the file on his desk and sat down. “I approve of your punctuality, William.” “Thank you, sir.” McGrath took off his Stetson and set it on the table near him. Sean opened a humidor and offered McGrath a cigar. “Tell me about my son.” McGrath took a cigar, slipped it into his breast pocket, and removed a small notebook. “Are you sure, sir?” The request stopped Sean for a brief moment. “Yes,” he replied quietly.

McGrath flipped open the notebook. “Thomas, as you probably know, has some income from the trust your wife, Kathleen, left him. He is a regular at the Calle and loves the cockfights. Thomas and two of his friends, a Reginald Winslow, better known as Reggie, and Harry Patton, hold a weekly poker game on Wednesday nights at the Cosmopolitan Hotel. The buy-in is five hundred dollars. “Reggie Winslow is the son of Joseph Winslow, a Federal judge in Hartford, Connecticut. Patton’s father is William Patton, who owns coal mines in Pennsylvania. Both Patton and Winslow come from blue-blood lines and have disgraced their families in some fashion. In the case of Winslow, he got a young lady pregnant. It didn’t help that the girl was the daughter of a New York precinct lieutenant. Patton, on the other hand, has a penchant for beating men senseless. He was kicked out of Harvard for fighting. Apparently he beat a man nearly to death in Boston for booing Harvard’s team. His family sent him west to quiet matters.” “These are the friends Thomas has acquired?” McGrath nodded. “It would appear so. Thomas also owes the Chin Tong. Give me another day, and I’ll have that information for you. Thomas, Patton, and Winslow are doing better than breaking even at their weekly poker game, but nothing spectacular. Thomas has a number of bar tabs at various establishments ranging from twenty-five dollars at Eddie’s Saloon to three hundred dollars recently run up at the Grand Central.” “What is the total of the tabs?” McGrath quickly scanned his notes and tallied up the total. “Thomas owes money to eight different saloons and restaurants for a total of six hundred and eighty dollars.” Sean took a bound stack of cash out of a desk drawer and placed it on the desk in front of McGrath. “There is a thousand. Pay off his debts.” “What about the Chin Tong?” McGrath asked. “Leave Danny Chin to me,” Sean replied with a weary voice. McGrath could sense their meeting was done. He stood and picked up his hat from the table. “There is something else.”

“What?” Sean asked. “I didn’t want to say anything because it’s a matter I was going to handle today.” “What?” Sean asked, surprised. “Bar and gambling debts aren’t enough?” “One of the regulars at the poker game, a Garrett Mitchell, said something about Thomas being in oil like his old man. When I asked him to explain, Mitchell laughed and replied, ‘Not really like Sean McGuire.’ Winslow and Patton have a company, Hartford Oil. It might be worth looking into.” “Carefully. I don’t want this biting me in the ass, if you understand my meaning.” “I do.” “Good.” Sean stood up. “Thank you, William. You did an outstanding job.” McGrath put on his Stetson and grinned. “It comes natural. My father is a Boston police captain, and my older brother is a lieutenant.” “Boston? Where did you learn to ride?” McGrath smiled. “We had all these veterans from the war living by us when I was a kid. They talked about the West. Truth be known, most didn’t get any farther west than Ohio. Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to be a cowboy. I would steal the rag merchant’s horse and ride it in the park at night. The third time I got caught, my father put me on a train to work on my uncle’s farm in Kansas. I was eleven at the time, worked for my uncle Charles until I was seventeen. Then I set out on my own.” “Keep up the good work, William.” William McGrath tipped his hat and exited the office. He was glad Sean had refrained from further questions. McGrath had told half-truths. He wondered how much Sean actually knew about his past.

Hadley Cobb got out of bed and looked out her window. The sky was overcast

and hazy. She sighed. Tourists stayed away when the weather was unpleasant. The house was a small Victorian cottage built at the far end of Cobb’s Ostrich Farm. There were a few early risers walking along the beach. Something caught her eye. The rear section of the House of Wonders tent was on fire. A flame licked the side, working its way up. Hadley threw on a pair of pants and a shirt and sprinted out of the house, pulling one boot on and then the other as she ran toward the tent. John Bear, the foreman, was already working with two other men to pull the section away from the rest of the structure. Hadley grabbed a bucket, ran to the pump, and filled it. She sprinted over and tossed the water on the fire, then raced to refill the bucket. By the time she returned, John Bear and other men had pulled the burning section away. Hadley tossed the water on the canvas, and the men beat out the remaining flames. A large gray cloud of smoke bellowed skyward in the early morning. The ostrich farm sat on the other side of the tent and hadn’t been affected, with the exception of getting the birds excited. “Is everybody okay?” Hadley asked, brushing aside a lock of hair. John Bear was an Indian of medium height with long dark hair. He was nearly forty but looked much younger with his smooth skin and high cheekbones. His pants and shirt were soiled with soot. He nodded. “Yes. The wind must’ve knocked over a lantern. I was lucky that these two came and gave a hand.” Hadley looked at the two young men who had helped John Bear. They both had brown hair and wore lose-fitting tros and shirts. Neither looked voting age. “Thank you.” She scanned the farm. “Other than the canvas there appears to be no damage. John Bear, would you go into town and see how fast we can get a replacement for the canvas? People won’t come if they see one of the attractions burnt up.” “Certainly,” John Bear said. One of the young men stepped forward. “Ma’am, Jerry and me could fix this up for you fine with some bamboo and palm leaves until you get your canvas.” Hadley gave the man a questioning look. He smiled and extended his hand. “Andy Hodges, ma’am. Me and Jerry were heading to the beach when we saw the fire and came over to help.”

Hadley looked at John Bear, who shrugged his shoulders. She turned to the two young men. “Where will you get the bamboo and the rest of your supplies?” Andy smiled. “Up north a piece, there’s plenty of bamboo and palm trees. If we could use your wagon, we could get the materials and fix it today.” “How much?” Hadley asked. “Excuse me?” “How much is it going to cost me?” The two boys conferred for a brief moment. Then Andy said, “Four bits … each.” John Bear raised his eyebrows but didn’t say a word. Hadley smiled. “Okay.” Andy and Jerry grinned. “John Bear will set you up with the wagon. You get any fancy ideas about taking off with it, don’t.” “Don’t worry, ma’am. We’ll build it real nice.” “Mind my asking what you two were doing out here so early?” The young men grinned sheepishly. “We ride waves,” Jerry replied. “You ride the waves?” Hadley asked. Andy grinned and nodded. “We use big wooden boards. We swim out, and when a wave comes along, we get up on the board and ride it.” The description intrigued Hadley. “Maybe you could show me your wave riding, after you have built a suitable entrance for the House of Wonders.” “Come on, you two.” John Bear walked off toward the barn.

The young men hurried after the Indian. The Aurora stood majestically on the beach north of the ostrich farm. Otis Grayson opened the French doors and walked out onto the deck. He clapped his hand on his chest and took in a deep breath of air. A large plume of smoke rose in the air. Grayson went back inside and retrieved a set of binoculars. He trained them on the smoke. A sly, maniacal smile coursed its way across his lips when he saw that it was the Cobb’s Ostrich Farm that had sustained the damage. Grayson set the binoculars down. He reached into his robe, removed a leather case, and took out a cigar. He struck a match against the banister, lit his cigar, and puffed contentedly. He picked up the binoculars and watched as two young men rode off in Hadley’s wagon. Grayson chuckled as he exhaled a perfect smoke ring.

Sean secured his horse to the post in front of the Golden Dragon. The building stood two stories high and was painted bright red. It was the largest and most prestigious restaurant in Chinatown, and it was owned by Lee Sing. Shortly after Sean and Kathleen had moved to the big house on Hill Street, Lee Sing left the Oso Negro and opened his own restaurant, the Canton Palace. Six months after opening, the Canton Palace burned to the ground when some drunken cowboys got into a fight and knocked over a lantern. Nine Chinese, two Negroes, and three Mexicans had died in a blaze that consumed an entire block of Chinatown. No one was arrested since no whites had perished. Lee Sing had escaped injury, but his business was destroyed. Sean had given Lee Sing the money to rebuild. This time Lee Sing named his restaurant the Golden Dragon. It had prospered, and so had he. Sean politely refused when Lee Sing had attempted to pay him back. “Your friendship is worth more to me than the money,” Sean had told Lee Sing.

Sean entered the restaurant. It was before lunch, and the crowds hadn’t arrived yet. Tony Chen, the maître d’, walked up and greeted Sean warmly. “Mr. McGuire, it is good to see you again.” Tony was second-generation Chinese, twenty-five, good-looking and always seemed to wear a smile. He was dressed in a men’s evening suit.

Tony Chen led Sean up the exquisitely ornate staircase to the second floor. They turned down the hall and entered the second doorway. Lee Sing had a modest office that was decorated in stunning simplicity and elegance. He was wearing traditional Chinese silk attire and sat behind a small teakwood desk. There were two chairs and a beautifully crafted coffee table with onyx inlay. A window looked out onto the street below. Lee Sing stood when Sean entered and gestured to one of the chairs. “Please.” Lee Sing looked at Tony Chen. “Thank you, Tony.” The young man bowed and exited the room. Sean took a seat. Lee Sing sat down and clasped his hands together. “It is good to see you, old friend.” “And you.” “I know your time is valuable and you did not come for the wontons, so I ask with the utmost respect, what brings you to Chinatown, Mr. McGuire?” Even after all these years Lee Sing still called Sean, Mr. McGuire. “My son, Thomas, is in debt to the Chin Tong. I need to know how much he owes them.” Lee Sing gave a slight nod. “Finding out the amount of the debt will be easy. Paying it off is another thing.” “What do you mean?” Sean asked. Lee Sing was silent. He glanced down at his desk for a moment then looked directly at Sean. “It is with a heavy heart I must tell you this. Thomas and his friends frequent the cribs. One of his friends, a Mr. Patton, has been barred from the more fashionable houses. He is very hard on the women.” Sean shook his head in disbelief. “Thomas has a six-month-old son at home for Christ’s sake.” “Thomas also chases the dragon. He is a customer at Madam Wong’s. The Chin Tong owns that establishment. It would not be in their interests if Thomas paid his debt.”

Sean sat up in the chair. “I could go to Madam Wong’s and settle the debt today.” Lee Sing sighed and shook his head. He had expected this. Americans settled their disputes directly. This was not the Chinese way. “That would only make matters worse. We must find a way for the tong to accept payment for Thomas’s debts.” Sean frowned. “Danny Chin can take my money or deal with me.” “It is not that simple, my friend,” Lee Sing replied quietly. “The Chin Tong currently controls all the other tongs. They have many men. Danny’s father, Henry Chin, is the real power. He is in San Francisco. If you kill Danny Chin, the tong would send another who would kill you, your son, and your grandson as well. They would leave no male heirs. Do you understand?” Sean sneered skeptically. “That’s an awfully bold statement.” “Are you willing to risk that I am correct?” Lee Sing asked. Sean sat back in the chair and scratched his jaw. “No.” Lee Sing smiled. “Good. Give me a few days. I should have something then.” Sean bowed his head. “Thank you. I may be able to do something for you as well. You told me once how Grayson had your partners killed when you were prospecting.” “Yes, but I have no proof that would stand up in a white man’s court.” “Talk to your friends. Ask if any of them had any run-ins with Grayson, especially before the riot.” Lee Sing looked at Sean. “You want this information to use against him in order to influence the council’s vote for the harbor.” Sean chuckled. “Am I that transparent?” Lee Sing answered with a blank look. “Sometimes the goals of one coincide with those of another. Both can profit if they work together.”

Sean stood, and the two men exited the office and descended the stairs. “How is your family?” “Thank you for asking,” Lee Sing replied. “My eldest son, Walter, is due back from Canton next week. He was there to visit his mother and siblings.” “Do you ever want to move back home?” They had reached the bottom of the stairway. Lee Sing smiled. “This is my home. I only went back to China and married because I was denied the right to have a wife here. I have no desire to live there. I am old and prefer to spend my days without the complaints of an old woman.” Sean laughed and extended his hand. The two men shook, and Sean exited the restaurant.

The Letter - 1863

Sean arrived back in America depressed, discouraged, and disgusted. The diplomatic mission to England had been a success. The trip to Ireland had not. Britain sent word to President Lincoln that the nation would remain neutral. Sean and Thaddeus were wined and dined by General Grant and the army’s elite. Sean was not pleased having to flee Ireland a second time. The Falcon was halfway to America before he talked to Thaddeus. Sean knew going back to his village had been a mistake. He had put Thaddeus in jeopardy. He also knew Jacob Dryden would have to be dealt with. When the Falcon docked in Baltimore, Sean kept up appearances. He smiled, shook hands, and made small talk with the officers and their wives. He sidestepped their questions about Native tribes. Sean told them about the mild weather and the many natural resources California had. The officers got bored. A week later Thaddeus and Sean were back on the Falcon heading for California. Sean was grateful for the time at sea. He could have gone by train and stagecoach, but he needed the time to process what had happened in Ireland. Sean had a simple code that he lived by: “No man shall lay hands on me or curse me. I will treat others in the same manner.” A cowboy had once cursed him during a cattle drive. Sean politely asked the cowboy to apologize. The man had refused and thrown a punch instead. Sean sidestepped the wild swing and then proceeded to beat the cowboy senseless. When he’d finished, the man laid bloodied on the ground. Sean had faced his men and said, “I will not tolerate such behavior. If you have a disagreement, speak your mind. If your intent is bringing a fist to the conversation, have a go.” Few men challenged Sean. Those that did were given no quarter. The ones that were foolish enough to go for a weapon met their maker moments after making that misguided decision. Jacob Dryden had violated Sean’s code. Dryden would have to pay. Sean and Thaddeus parted on good company when they docked at San Pedro harbor. Thaddeus was heading south to San Diego. He had purchased a fine

house in Golden Hills, a hilly district that overlooked downtown, and planned to retire to the seaside city. The trip to England and Ireland was to be his last Atlantic voyage. Thaddeus informed Sean the Falcon would be at his disposal as long as he was able to captain her. Thaddeus promised to visit the Oso Negro, and Sean promised to visit San Diego. The two men shook hands and parted on the beach. That was the last time Sean saw Thaddeus. Six months later the former ship’s captain was walking to the barbershop when a runaway horse and wagon jumped the curb and crushed him against the brick wall of Fisk’s Haberdashery. Thaddeus died unshaven. When Sean arrived back at the Oso Negro, Charlie and the cowboys were gone retrieving the cattle from the high country. Rufus greeted his friend. He could tell something was wrong but didn’t pry. He knew Sean would tell him in good time, or he wouldn’t. “Who’s riding fence?” Sean asked. “No one at the moment,” Rufus replied. They were seated at the long dining table. Sean was enjoying a steak, beans, and coffee. Rufus sat with a cup of coffee, which he topped off with whiskey. Running Deer brought in a fresh pot of coffee and set a platter of fried bread on the table. Her son, John Bear, placed a large bowl of honey next to the platter of flatbread. John Bear was seven and thought Sean could do just about anything. The young boy sat on a stool by the fireplace and watched every move Sean made. Running Deer refilled Sean’s mug with hot coffee. Sean patted his belly and grinned. “I haven’t eaten this well since I left. Are you trying to fatten me up, Running Deer?” “You could use a few extra pounds. And shave that beard. It makes you look like an old man,” Running Deer replied pointedly. Sean chuckled and tousled John Bear’s hair. “It is good to be home.” “What about the war? We keep hearing Sibley is planning to invade California,” Rufus said. Sean speared a slice of fried bread with his fork and spooned some honey on it.

“The war continues. Lincoln has called up the coloreds and formed a Negro division.” Rufus shook his head. “The Union is losing.” “They are hurting, but the South will lose. They have no factories or natural resources besides their men. The North has mines and factories.” Sean sighed. “The Oso Negro will continue to profit with the army contract. That’s what this war is really about, Rufus—profits. Spend a week in DC, and you will quickly learn that lesson.” Rufus took a sip of coffee and waved Sean off. “I’ll leave the politicking to you.” Sean downed the rest of his coffee and set the mug on the table. “Well, if nobody is riding fence, I’ll do it.” Rufus looked at Sean in surprise. “What for? As soon as Charlie and the others return, we’ll send one of the greenhorns to do the job.” Sean stood up. “That’s all right.” He tipped his head to Running Deer. “It was a wonderful dinner.” Running Deer smiled. “Thank you. Lee Sing will be back soon.” “Your cooking was fine, Running Deer.” Running Deer bowed her head. She picked up the empty plates and returned to the kitchen. “What about the mill?” Rufus asked. “We finally got her built.” “What about it?” Sean replied. “Aren’t you going to inspect it?” “I already looked her over before dinner. You and the boys did a fine job. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get some shut-eye. It’s been a long trip.” Sean exited the dining room and headed down the hall to his bedroom.

Rufus looked at John Bear, who sat silently on the stool. “There’s something wrong with the man. You mark my words, John Bear—something happened to Sean while he was away. I can feel it.” The young boy remained seated by the fire when Rufus got up and walked out on the veranda to have a cigar. The following morning Sean shaved his beard and loaded the buckboard with nails, tools and half dozen reels of barbed wire. He slipped his Sharps rifle into the leather scabbard on his bay and tied her to the back of the wagon. He climbed up onto the seat and set off just as the sun came up. Normally riding fence was a job done by the lowest on a ranch’s pecking order, old-timers who could no longer handle a cattle drive or greenhorns. Riding fence meant traveling the perimeter of a ranch and repairing any breaks in the wire. With a ranch the size of the Oso Negro, it could take weeks to do the job properly. Sean didn’t mind. He was not ready to the company of his men. He hadn’t come up with a suitable plan for dealing with Jacob Dryden. Riding fence would allow him time to contemplate his options. In the end serendipity would give Sean what he wanted. Sean rode fence for three weeks. When he returned to the Oso Negro, he still lacked a plan. Thinking about Dryden weighed heavy on his mind. He took his meals alone and avoided socializing with the hands. Charlie and Rufus gave Sean space and counseled the other cowboys to do likewise. Sean began spending more time at Sally Moore’s Gentlemen’s Club in town and away from the Oso Negro. Three months after Sean returned from his voyage, a letter arrived at the ranch. It sat for two days on Sean’s desk while he drank and whored himself at Sally’s place. He returned to the Oso Negro looking like something the cat dragged in. Sean put his bay up in the stable, tramped into his bedroom, and collapsed on the bed. It wasn’t until the following morning that he found the letter sitting on his desk. The return address was listed as Ireland. Sean tore the envelope open and removed the letter.

You haven’t written. Tell me about your ranch and California. Kathleen

The Debt

Sean and Thomas were seated in the dining room of the Hotel Nadeau. Sean had asked his son to him for dinner. It had been a week since Sean’s visit to the Golden Dragon, and Lee Sing had not yet gotten back to him. Sean kept the conversation light, talking about Michael and Olivia. Thomas talked about men’s fashions and who had been seen with whom at the theater. Sean wondered how the dandy sitting across from him could be his son. When they had finished their dinner, Thomas looked across the table and asked, “So are you going to tell me?” Sean gave Thomas a quizzical look. “Tell you what?” Thomas flashed a devilish grin and tossed his napkin on the table. “What it was you did in England when you were Lincoln’s emissary.” Sean was silent for a long moment. “Might I ask what you heard?” he finally asked. Thomas shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, you know, that you were on a mission for the president and something happened and you’ve never returned to England.” “And where did you hear this?” Sean asked. Thomas shifted uneasily in his seat. “Harry mentioned it. He said he heard about it at a card game at the Aurora.” “Harry? Do you mean Harold Patton?” Thomas sat back in his chair. A sly smile slipped across his lips. “You’ve been checking up on my friends, Father.” “And you’ve been listening to rumors. Nothing happened in England. You have my word on it.”

Thomas adjusted his collar and sleeves. “I should hope so. It would be an embarrassment to the family if some skeleton came falling out of the closet.” Sean had enough of Thomas’s airs. He leaned forward and looked his son directly in the eye. “You might care to show the same concern for your debt to the Chin Tong.” Thomas took a sip of his whiskey and chuckled. “Ahh, so Danny Chin is the reason you asked me to dinner.” He dabbed his lips with the linen napkin. “Danny Chin and I have no problems.” “That is not what I heard.” Thomas waved Sean off as if he were shooing away a pesky mosquito. “I’ve paid my debt to Danny Chin. You shouldn’t concern yourself.” He downed the remainder of his drink and stood up. “Thank you for the splendid dinner, Father. We’ll have to do it again soon.” Thomas placed his derby on his head at a jaunty angle, turned, and strode out of the dining room. Sean paid the waiter and took a cab to Chinatown. The driver refused to go any farther than Los Angeles Street. Sean paid the man and walked the remaining distance to the Golden Dragon. Tony Chen greeted Sean and took him to Lee Sing’s office. “Your son’s debt has been taken care of,” Lee Sing informed Sean after the two men shook hands and shared a shot of whiskey. “But how?” “Thomas owed the Chin Tong three thousand dollars. He paid the debt with stock,” Lee Sing replied. “Stock? Do you know the company’s name?” Lee Sing shook his head. “I am sorry. All I know is that Thomas paid Danny Chin five hundred dollars in cash and another four thousand in stock.” “But you said Thomas owed three thousand.” “You forget the interest. That is why it is almost always impossible to pay off the

tong.” “You’re sure Thomas paid Danny Chin four thousand in stocks?” “Yes.” Sean tugged on his ear. “Where did Thomas get the stock?” Lee Sing shrugged. “My source is extremely reliable. I am sorry I cannot offer you more information. The debt was paid. I thought you knew. That was why I have not ed you.” Sean stood up. He thanked Lee Sing and left. Sean hailed a cab and directed the driver to the U.S. Hotel. Upon checking with the front desk, Sean was told McGrath was not in. Sean informed the concierge that he was the one paying for McGrath’s room, and the concierge immediately informed him that Mr. McGrath was a regular at Harriet’s House of Delight. Another cab got Sean to the swank whorehouse. A ten-dollar gold piece got him McGrath’s room number. Sean marched up the stairs and opened the door. McGrath’s wrists were tied to the brass bedposts. A blonde was riding him like a Kentucky Derby champion, and a redhead was massaging his testicles, urging him on. The women jumped up from the bed at the sight of Sean McGuire standing in the doorway. They grabbed their things and hurried out of the room. Sean looked at McGrath. “Thomas paid off Danny Chin. Find out where he got the money and stock to do so. Find out what the company is and how the hell he got four thousand dollars’ worth of stock.” Sean turned and marched out of the room. McGrath struggled with his binds, but eventually got lose. Once free, he jumped up and hastily dressed. He grabbed his hat, and hurried out of the room. William McGrath wondered if he would still have a job come morning.

The Proposal - 1864

Kathleen O’Neil’s letter saved Sean. He could not reconcile the events in Ireland, but here was the woman who had nursed him back to health asking him to tell her about the Oso Negro. Kathleen’s letter gave Sean hope. That evening he wrote her a lengthy letter describing the ranch and what he was attempting to build. She responded asking for more details about the cattle, the Indians working on the ranch, and a full description of Los Angeles. Los Angeles might have been larger than Kathleen’s village, but it was certainly dirtier and far more foul smelling. Sean chose to play down the negatives. Instead, he wrote about the agriculture, the wildlife, and the Natives in the region. He wrote about the mild weather and the long sandy beaches, the majestic mountains and the beauty of the desert. Kathleen always wrote back asking Sean for more information. Over the months they began to slowly reveal themselves to the other. Kathleen harbored no foolish thoughts of romance with her correspondence. Writing to Sean was a wonderful outlet for a woman of intellect and spunk with no prospects. She was direct and felt free telling Sean things she would never discuss with her father or any man in the village. Kathleen O’Neil had cared for herself since she was nine. Her mother died giving birth to her, and her father was a fisherman and gone for long periods. Kathleen was initially placed in the charge of her aunt Ruth. By age six Kathleen and her aunt disagreed on nearly everything, especially on the sanctity of the nuns that taught her. Sister John Michael didn’t appreciate Kathleen’s inquisitive mind. She told Kathleen not to question what God had designed. Kathleen boldly replied that she didn’t believe a God of love would create the British, because they had been nothing but the devil to the Irish. This response had earned Kathleen a caning from Sister John Michael. Aunt Ruth also beat Kathleen for her sharp tongue. When Kathleen was nine, she’d had enough. Sister John Michael was about to cane her for yet another incident of insolence and heresy—this time for questioning how Noah had gotten all the animals on his ark and what he’d done with the mess. Kathleen grabbed the rod from the nun’s chubby hand and broke

it over her knee. She walked to her desk, picked up her books, and left the room. Kathleen never returned to Sister John Michael’s class. When Aunt Ruth was informed of this grievous infraction, she took the strap from the closet and called her niece into the sitting room. Upon seeing the strap and the look in her aunt’s eyes, Kathleen walloped Ruth with a solid right. She marched to her bedroom, packed her things, and walked to her father’s house. It was another week before Connor returned home. Kathleen told her father what had happened. She informed him that she had no intention of returning to her aunt’s house or to the parish school. Connor didn’t argue. He saw too much of his wife, Bridget, in Kathleen and knew it would be a losing battle. Connor had provided books, and Kathleen had educated herself. By the time she was sixteen, she could speak French and Italian and had read all of Plato’s dialogues. The local boys did not fancy an independent-minded girl, so the letters from Sean were a breath of fresh air in her insular community. It was a great shock when Kathleen received the letter from Sean asking her to marry him in the winter of 1864. The war had been profitable for the Oso Negro. The ranch had expanded and was running a thousand head of some of the finest cattle in the state. Kathleen saved Sean from himself. He never talked to Rufus or Charlie about what had happened in Ireland. Once Sean began corresponding with Kathleen, he returned to his old ways of eating and joking with the men. Sean ired Kathleen’s independence and strong will. She made him focus on the ranch and allowed him to put Jacob Dryden in the past. The war was winding down. The North had Lee on the run. Sherman battled his way to Atlanta and put the city to the torch before beginning his march northward. It was only a matter of time before Lee would be forced to surrender. Sean telegraphed General Howard and asked if a naval ship might be available to take him to Ireland after the first of the year. He did not tell the general of his plans to marry. He simply said he required age due to ranch business. Thaddeus was gone, and Sean no longer had the services of the Falcon. General Howard wired back that he had arranged age on a ship departing New York on March 12. Sean mailed a letter to Kathleen letting her know he was coming. Seven weeks after Sean’s departure from the Oso Negro, Lee surrendered at Appomattox.

Business

Otis Grayson, John Jones, Edward Harriman, and a half dozen other wealthy capitalists were seated around a long table in a private suite at the Aurora. The light was dim. The drapes were closed in order to maintain maximum privacy. Cigar smoke hung like a thick fog over the table. “What are you doing about McGuire?” Harriman asked bluntly. Grayson frowned and puffed on his cigar. “We’re working on it. My man in London has gotten nowhere. McGuire made two trips to Europe. The British Prime Minister had nothing to say on the matter. Lord Palmerston is dead, and Gladstone’s office offered no comment. Lord Campbell is dead as well. His nephew, George, did say His Lordship was impressed with the Oso Negro when he visited the ranch some years ago.” “The council vote is in November,” Harriman barked. “You assured us you would have enough dirt on McGuire to bury him.” Grayson nodded. “There is still time. Thomas McGuire is a heavy gambler and a ne’er-do-well. The boy offers wonderful fodder.” “Bah!” Jones waved Grayson off. “We need something better than a spoiled pup.” “I believe you boys are behind the times,” said Isaias Hellman, president of the Union Trust Company. Hellman was in his fifties and had established the Farmers and Merchants Bank of Los Angeles, one of the first banks in the city. “How is that, Isaias?” Grayson asked, slightly annoyed at being interrupted. “Thomas McGuire is the vice president of Hartford Oil and Exploration,” Hellman replied. “He is partners with Harry Patton, and that Winslow fellow.” Grayson chuckled and waved the banker off. “Haven’t heard of this Hartford Oil.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss them,” Hellman cautioned. “The company has already paid its initial investors an eighteen percent return.” “Son of a bitch might’ve hit the jackpot like his old man,” Jones joked. “Then you’d have two bastards to contend with.” The men laughed, sipped their twelve-year-old whiskey, and puffed their cigars. Sean McGuire was a tough nut to get around. He had a violent past but was still ed by many as the “Savior of San Pasqual” for bringing Kit Carson and the army to rescue the regulars fighting Mexico. He’d also saved Ben Wilson from a black bear on a hunting trip. His ranch, the Oso Negro, was a constant reminder of that fact. McGuire contributed to the right charities and had personally funded the construction of a library. It wasn’t that his idea for a harbor in Long Beach was bad. It was simply business. This group had real estate holdings in Santa Monica, not Long Beach. The politics of declaring a commercial bay had nothing to do with the good of the public. It was strictly about profits. Grayson puffed hard on his cigar and cast a sly grin on the group of businessmen. “McGuire’s friendships can be exploited.” Harriman and the others looked at Grayson. The newspaperman had the attention of the room. “Hadley Cobb owns seven acres of prime beach real estate.” Harriman smiled. “What do you propose?” “The city council declares her farm a health hazard and danger to the community. McGuire will get the message. Once he withdraws his proposal, we shut down the farm and pick up the land for peanuts.” Harriman cocked an eye at Grayson. “You can do this?” Grayson nodded. “I believe it can be easily done.” The other men puffed their cigars and nodded. “Fine,” Harriman said.

Hartford Oil & Exploration Ltd. was located in the Franklin Building on Spring Street. It was a good address but not Broadway. Sean entered the office, and the secretary seated at the desk in the lobby looked up. She was in her twenties and was nicely dressed. Sean noted that the lobby was nicely appointed but not ostentatious. “May I help you?” “I would like to speak to Thomas.” “Mr. McGuire is in his office. Let me see—” Sean marched into Thomas’s office. The room was handsomely decorated. There was a large mahogany desk, a beautiful coffee table, and two captain’s chairs, a sharp contrast from Sean’s modest office. Thomas and Harry stood by the window in conversation. They looked up as Sean entered the room. “Father.” “I’m sorry, Mr. McGuire,” the secretary said, entering the room. “This man just barged in.” Thomas smiled. “That’s all right, Alice. My father has a habit of doing that.” Alice meekly exited the room, closing the door behind her. Sean glanced at the surroundings. “Substantial.” Thomas tossed his pen on the desk. “Harry, this is my father, Sean McGuire. Father, Harry Patton.” Harry Patton was Thomas’s age and dressed like an East Coast dandy. He was slightly taller than Sean and had an air of class superiority about him. The two men shook hands. Harry’s grip was harder than it needed to be. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. McGuire.” “Likewise.” Sean looked at his son. “Why didn’t you tell me you started your own company, Thomas?”

Harry gave Thomas a look. Sean caught it. Thomas chuckled nervously. “I wanted to show you I could do something on my own.” “And you have.” Sean glanced at Harry. “Mind if I have a word with Thomas?” “Heavens no,” Harry replied and headed for the door. He turned back to Thomas. “Don’t forget we have that meeting with Mr. Monahan in half an hour.” Sean waited until Harry was out of the office. Then he turned to his son. “Mike Monahan, the manager at Barclay’s Brewery?” “Yes,” Thomas replied. “What’s a guy like Mike Monahan doing getting into the oil game? He can’t be taking home more than fifteen hundred a year, tops.” Thomas took a seat behind his desk and looked at his father. “That’s what’s great about Hartford Oil. We don’t have a minimum buy-in. We take twenty, thirty dollars from a client and combine it with other thirty-dollar investors. Pretty soon you have a big pot.” “I understand the company is doing well.” Thomas smiled proudly. “We try to make our customers money. That’s the name of the game.” “Yes … I don’t mean to pry, but I understand that you paid Danny Chin with stock.” Thomas leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. “Yes. I lost three grand of Danny Chin’s money but only gave him five hundred in cash. He took the rest in stock. Smart. Harry told him he would get at least eighteen percent on his money.” “Eighteen is a bit on the steep side.” “Not with the deal Reggie has us in with the investors back east. We’ve already paid some folks out.” “I’m sorry for doubting you.” Sean stood up and gave a nod of approval. “I only

want what’s best for you. Sometimes being a father can be hard.” Thomas stood up. “I’ve landed on my feet, Father. You can let go of the leash.” “That’s good to hear.” Sean started for the door and then turned. “By the way, where is Reggie Winslow?” Thomas picked up a file from his desk and shuffled through it. “Reggie is back east. He’s the company’s moneyman.” Sean didn’t say anything. He tipped his hat, wished Thomas a good day, and left. Harry walked into Thomas’s office immediately after Sean departed. “What did your father want?” Thomas stood up. “What is best for me.” Harry was momentarily lost for words. “Have you heard from Reggie?” Thomas asked. Harry put his hands in his pockets and shook his head. “No.” Thomas frowned. “Reggie better get on the stick and wire us some cash. We won’t have enough to pay off all the investors the next quarter.” Harry gave Thomas a pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry; Reggie knows what he’s doing.”

England – 1865

When Sean arrived in New York in March, he was surprised to discover General Howard had arranged his age on a Vanderbilt-owned ship. Sean had hoped for a navy frigate. A US naval ship would go a long way in discouraging Jacob Dryden. General Howard explained that in order to justify the trip at such a crucial moment Sean must deliver a presidential communiqué to the prime minister in London. The general did not elaborate. Sean knew the war was winding down and that President Lincoln would be hard-pressed to deal with the country’s reconstruction. The president needed the political assistance of Europe. The Confederacy was watching Ambassador Adams, so any ship carrying him would be a floating target. Sean took the satchel containing the communiqué. General Howard wished Sean a safe journey, and the two men shook hands. Sean did not tell General Howard his true intentions for the trip, letting the general believe he required age for his cattle business. James Auberry was the captain of the Athena, a 650-ton extreme clipper that could make the run from New York to Europe in just over three weeks. Captain Auberry was twenty years older than Sean. He had spent his life at sea, starting as a ship’s mate. He was a strict officer who kept his ship running at high efficiency at all times. He had sailed the ocean through war and peace and knew on the high seas the weather could turn in seconds and send a ship straight to the bottom. Many a ship sank due to the failure on a sailor’s part to be alert and perform his duty properly. The captain made sure this malaise never infected his men. They were paid decent wages and fed well. Sean saw much of Thaddeus in Auberry. He was cautious, choosing not to confide in the captain until they were nearly to England. Sean told his story after dinner one evening, when only Auberry and the quartermaster were present in the officers’ quarters. When Sean finished, Captain Auberry glanced at the quartermaster, Quinn Nolan, a stout man with curly dark hair and mutton-chop whiskers. Quinn coughed and cleared his throat and remained silent. “The commodore’s orders were to take you wherever you required, Mr.

McGuire. We will follow those orders,” Auberry said. “The commodore? I thought General Howard arranged—” Captain Auberry cut Sean off. “Commodore Vanderbilt. You may be sailing with orders from the government, but make no mistake, Mr. McGuire—we take our orders from the commodore. Until I am informed otherwise, the ship is at your disposal.” Sean wanted to make sure the captain understood the potential consequences of the voyage. “I am wanted in the north. The Earl of Strathearn’s chamberlain, Jacob Dryden, issued a warrant on me two years ago. Those who aid me could be considered accomplices and arrested.” Captain Auberry took a long drink of rum. “Well, then I guess we’ll have to make sure this Dryden fellow doesn’t capture you. Right, Quinn?” he chuckled. “This vessel can outrun anything the limeys have,” the quartermaster told Sean. “It is privately owned, and no foreigner comes aboard without permission from the commodore. Understood, Mr. McGuire?” “Yes,” Sean replied, relieved by the captain and quartermaster’s response. Captain Auberry picked up the bottle from the table and filled Sean’s tankard. “Drink up. Quinn and I are beginning to think you’re a Baptist the way you’ve been nursing that rum.” The three men laughed and drank their rum. They traded tales and made plans for their grand adventure, as Quinn called it. Much later Sean stumbled back to his quarters and slept a restful sleep. It was the first real sleep he’d had since leaving New York. The Athena docked in London a day ahead of schedule. Captain Auberry rewarded the crew with a half crown each and gave them a day’s leave. “Will twenty-four hours be enough for you to conclude your business, Mr. McGuire?” the captain asked after the crew was gone. “Yes,” Sean answered confidently.

“Good. We will be ready to sail on the morning tide. If you require the assistance of me or Quartermaster Nolan, we will be at the Royal George Inn.” Sean thanked the captain. He walked down the gangplank and hailed a cab, which took him to 10 Downing. The prime minister received Sean with a grave look and informed him that the president had been shot two days ago. He offered Sean the use of his flat in London. Sean thanked the prime minister but declined his offer. Lincoln’s assassination put an entirely different spin on things. Sean wasn’t sure how long the Athena and Captain Auberry would be at his disposal now that the president was dead. He needed another plan. He departed the prime minister’s office, hailed a cab, and gave the driver the address. Lord Campbell was surprised to see Sean and quickly offered his condolences over the president’s assassination. “An actor,” Lord Campbell remarked as the two took tea. “A damnable actor killed your president. Well, you know bloody well Scotland Yard has doubled the men on the street and tripled them at Buckingham Palace. That sort of thing will not be tolerated in England.” Sean sipped his tea and remained silent. Lord Campbell had always treated Sean cordially, but McGuire knew that His Lordship viewed him as an American and had no idea of his Irish heritage. Sean decided to tackle the bull head-on. “I hope this isn’t being forward. I’m sailing for Ireland to pick up my bride and would love to have you come along for the trip.” Lord Campbell looked at Sean in surprise. “Why didn’t you say something before this?” Sean gave Lord Campbell a serious look. “My trip was on behalf of the president. I didn’t think it a good idea to make a wedding announcement under the circumstances.” Lord Campbell jumped up. “Why of course I’ll accompany you. It would be an honor. How soon does your ship leave?” “The captain will sail on the morning tide.” “Splendid.”

“It’s the Athena. You can’t miss her. She is the fastest clipper in London and flying the Stars and Stripes.” Sean picked up his hat. “Where do you think you’re going?” Lord Campbell asked. “I was planning on returning to the ship.” Lord Campbell shook his head. “I will not have you getting married without the proper attire” He grabbed his hat and placed his arm around Sean’s shoulders, guiding him toward the door. “Come, we’re going to my tailor and having him make you a proper English suit.”

John Bear

John Bear made sure the ostriches and other animals were fed and secured for the night before locking up and walking home. Usually Hadley would help, but she had been called away that afternoon on a court hearing and had not returned. The city was threatening to close the ostrich farm, and Hadley had to appear in front of the judge. The council wanted the farm closed due to health issues. Hadley owned the acreage, but the farm was her livelihood. Without the ostriches she had no income. The farm had operated for over twenty years, mostly ignored by the city fathers. This was the dawning of a new century. Los Angeles had grown since the sleepy days when Rufus had first built his farm and Victorian cottage on the beach. The ostrich farm was now viewed as an eyesore. Grayson played up the farm’s health hazard in his newspaper. The oligarchy wanted Hadley and her birds out. Venice Beach was meant to be respectable, not a destination for sideshow freaks and bohemians. Hadley had gone to court to plead her case. She had no intention of going down without a fight. This had been her parents’ home and their business. As a child John Bear had loved the big birds. When Rufus left the Oso Negro to strike out on his own, John Bear asked his mother if he could go with him. He was fifteen and still a boy, but Running Deer knew her son’s devotion to Rufus and the birds and agreed. The local schools would not take John Bear since he was an Indian, so Sean made sure the boy had a good library when he left the ranch. Rufus and John Bear laid out the farm and built the cages and enclosures. Surprisingly Cobb’s Ostrich Farm was a success from the start. People were curious to see the strange animals. The year after the farm opened, Rufus met Lillian Bradshaw. She and her sister, Caroline, were visiting from Ohio. They had come to the beach to see the ocean. When Lillian saw a billboard advertising the farm with an illustration of an ostrich, she talked her sister into walking the mile down the beach to the farm. Rufus was taken by the twenty-four-year-old schoolteacher and asked her out to dinner. When it came time for the two sisters to board the train, Lillian remained.

She and Rufus were married a month later. Rufus built Lillian the Victorian cottage on the beach. Hadley was born the following year. John Bear continued to live with the couple. Lillian taught him mathematics, literature and how to play the guitar. John Bear remained with the family until Hadley was seven. He married a young Mexican girl, Angelina. Her family lived in Chavez Ravine, a neighborhood just west of downtown. John Bear and Angelina were prohibited from buying property, so Rufus purchased a lot a few blocks from the beach, built a house, and leased it to John Bear for twelve dollars a year. This didn’t sit well with many, but John Bear was friends with Rufus Cobb, and both were good friends of Sean McGuire. Other than Otis Grayson and a few staunch Democrats, there were few that dared to cross Sean McGuire. He was wealthy and wasn’t afraid of using a gun. Some could still recall Sean shooting two white men dead in the middle of Spring Street when they had attempted to lynch Lee Sing during the Chinatown massacre of 1871. Sean McGuire was not a man many cared to trifle with. The ostriches had been acting up, and it took John Bear longer than usual to get them in their enclosure that evening. After the fire, Hadley had installed a twelve-foot iron fence that surrounded the entire enclosure. John Bear closed the gate behind him, locked it, and placed the key in his pocket. It was a warm evening, so he decided to walk the six blocks to his house instead of taking the trolley. The boardwalk and pier were still busy. Most of the tourists paid the Indian little heed as he ed them. John Bear was dressed in his usual attire of dungarees, a red-and-white checkered shirt, and work boots. A black Stetson rested on his head. The pedestrian traffic thinned out as John Bear continued down the street. A man coming in the opposite direction stopped and looked at his watch. He tapped it and then held it up to his ear. He shook his head and placed the watch in his vest pocket. As John Bear ed, the man asked, “Excuse me, could you please tell me the time?” John Bear looked at the white man. He had a thick moustache and wore a plaid suit. A bowler rested at a cocky angle on his head. John Bear didn’t carry a pocket watch, but he didn’t want to seem impolite, so he stopped. “I’m sorry—” Suddenly John Bear felt a sharp pain in the back of his skull, and he fell to his knees. A second man had come from behind with a sap. He stood over John Bear

and hit him again. John Bear collapsed to the ground with a painful groan. The two men kicked and beat the Indian. John Bear attempted to protect himself, but the blows kept coming down. He heard a woman say, “Someone should call the police.” The blows stopped. Through his swollen eyes, John Bear saw that the man with the sap now held a gun. The man wore a dark suit and a skimmer. John Bear could not make out the faces of his assailants in the dim light. “Get the hell outta here! This ain’t your affair!” the man with the gun snarled. John Bear lay perfectly still and hoped his attackers would believe he was unconscious. The man with the gun knelt down and ran the barrel gently over John Bear’s face, finally stopping at the Indian’s temple. “Tell the bitch with the birds to get the hell out of here if she knows what’s good for her.” John Bear could just make out a tattoo of a cross piercing a heart encased in a crown of thorns on the man’s wrist. The man stood up and stuffed the pistol in his belt. He and his companion casually walked away. John Bear ached all over. A couple came down the street. John Bear called out weakly. The couple crossed the street and continued on their way toward the boardwalk. John Bear was a beaten and bloodied Indian. No respectable white person would give him a hand. He struggled to his feet, his vision blurry. He spit out a wad of blood and limped the remaining four blocks to his house. John Bear had been beaten bad. It took weeks before he was even able to get around on crutches. He had two broken ribs, a broken wrist, and a broken ankle. No hospital would take an Indian, so Sean paid for a private physician to attend to John Bear. Sean also sent two men from the ranch to keep an eye on Hadley. As soon as John Bear was able to get around, he and his wife, Angelina, moved in with her family in Chavez Ravine. He promised Hadley he would return to work when he recovered. After three weeks the sheriff was no closer to capturing John Bear’s assailants than he was to winning the White House. Sean knew Otis Grayson was behind John Bear’s beating; he just couldn’t prove it. Grayson had used the same methods of intimidation and violence with the Chinese. An Indian was no different in Grayson’s eyes, a heathen impeding his path to financial gain. Thomas, Charlie, McGrath, and Hadley were having whiskey and cigars in Sean’s library. Sean sat at his desk, and Jenny sat in a stuffed chair behind her

father sipping a glass of sherry. Ever since John Bear’s attack Sean had insisted his inner circle come to the big house for dinner on Sundays. Jenny liked playing hostess and enjoyed the fact that Hadley was infatuated with her father and didn’t bother to hide it. Jenny relished the fact that Sean was gathering his forces. She loved being a part of his world. “The sheriff hasn’t done a damn thing. How long are we going to stand for this?” Thomas asked, not bothering to hide his impatience as he paced the floor. Sean glanced at McGrath, who was perusing a shelf of books, and asked, “Are we any closer?” McGrath turned and looked at Sean. “Not unless John Bear can recall some detail he hasn’t told us about.” Thomas made a face. “This is crazy, having one of your cowboys follow me around day and night.” “It’s a precaution,” Sean replied. Thomas frowned. “But for how long? The man looks like a hick, and his presence impedes my ability to work. People need to have faith in someone handling their investments. Your cowboy sitting in my office doesn’t instill that faith.” Sean glanced over at McGrath, who shrugged his shoulders. “Eddie Canton is window dressing.” “We could use Canton at the Oso Negro,” Charlie offered. “Fine. Eddie can ride back to the ranch with you tonight, Charlie, but Pike Bishop remains in town watching Olivia and Michael,” Sean replied. Charlie sipped his whiskey and gave a nod of agreement. Thomas waved his hand in the air. “Bishop is a Neanderthal. I sincerely doubt the ruffians who attacked John Bear are brave enough to try anything with the wife of one of this city’s finest families.” He adjusted his sleeve cuffs. “Now if you all would excuse me.” Thomas bowed and exited the room.

Hadley watched as Sean quietly sipped his whiskey. As soon as the door closed, she stood up. “My God, Sean, I know he’s your son—” Sean held up his hand, cutting Hadley off. “Thomas is my burden, not yours.” The room was silent. “How is John Bear doing?” Sean asked. “He is making progress,” Hadley replied. “Do you need any more help at the farm?” Sean asked. Hadley shook her head. “No, thank you, Sean. The men you sent have been a big help. In fact I don’t need them. Ever since the Tribune ran the article suggesting fleas from ostriches were responsible for the small pox outbreak and influenza, the crowds have disappeared.” “The council vote is still a few months off. Hang on. If we prevail, Grayson and his cohorts won’t be interested in your land.” “That doesn’t solve my problem of dwindling customers,” Hadley replied. Sean puffed his cigar. A cloud of smoke rose above his head. “Please, have faith.” Hadley forced a smile and nodded. “Now if you and Charlie will please excuse us, I need to discuss some private matters with Mr. McGrath. Jenny, would you please get our guests some coffee, dear?” Jenny stood and smiled at her father. “Certainly.” Charlie chuckled. A year ago Mr. McGrath had just been Willy. Charlie shook Sean’s hand and thanked him for dinner. “Oh, by the way, what do you want to do with Jedidiah’s old place? The taxes are coming due. We should sell off that old farm. It ain’t but a few acres.” Jedidiah McCabe had gone off and ed the army before the cannons had

barely cooled at Fort Sumter. Being a farmer had not agreed with the mountain man, and Jedidiah had foolishly gotten himself killed six months after ing up. He’d died along with hundreds of others on a field in Pennsylvania that had held little strategic value to either side. Bright Owl could not own the land their farm sat on, so Sean had purchased the property at public auction with the intent of giving it to her. The day of the auction Bright Owl left the house Jedidiah had built for her and gone back to her people. Sean had kept the farm in case Bright Owl returned. “It’s been a while,” Charlie said quietly. Sean nodded and sighed. “Let’s hold it one more year, Charlie.” Charlie tipped his hat and left the room. Hadley walked to the door and turned. “Thank you.” “It will work out,” Sean said. “It always does, one way or another,” Hadley replied and exited the room. “Call if you need anything,” Jenny said and closed the door behind her. Sean puffed on his cigar and looked at McGrath. “What is the state of Hartford Oil?” “The company has paid dividends to the early investors but is leaving some folks waiting.” “How long has this been going on?” “Three months.” “The Chin Tong took stock in lieu of cash. If Hartford Oil goes south, Thomas will be on the hook for what he owes,” Sean said. “The company looks real. At least on paper,” McGrath offered. “That’s what frightens me. I know my son.” McGrath sipped his whiskey and remained silent.

“What about John Bear’s assailants?” Sean asked. McGrath looked at his employer. “Frankie Dougherty and Danny Hagen did the deed. They’re both Fenians who hire themselves out.” “Who hired them?” “I haven’t been able to find that out yet. The police chief is as useless as tits on a boar.” Sean arched an eyebrow. “Where are Hagen and Dougherty now?” “Santa Monica. They run a joy house on Sixth Street.” “I will pay Mr. Dougherty and Mr. Hagen a visit.” “They’re Fenians. They’re protected,” McGrath replied in a dead-serious tone. Sean exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Fuck the brotherhood. These bastards beat John Bear. That requires a response.” William McGrath fixed Sean with a sincere look. “It was never a question of my not going with you, Mr. McGuire. I merely wanted you to know what you’re up against.” Sean removed a Colt revolver from his desk drawer and set it on the desk. “I know what I’m up against—a couple of fuckin’ Paddies playing at being hard men.”

The Challenge - 1865

The Athena docked in Ballycastle. Sean and Lord Campbell disembarked along with Quartermaster Nolan. The village was quiet as the trio marched up the road to Connor O’Neil’s house. Children whispered. The women stared silently from their windows. Kathleen stood in front of her house holding a large carpetbag. As soon as she saw Sean, she dashed to him. She was weeping. “Dryden took my Da.” Kathleen dropped the carpetbag and clung to Sean sobbing. He put his arm around her and held her close. This was not the way Sean had expected to greet his bride. “When?” Sean asked, comforting Kathleen. “Yesterday.” “My word, what is going on?” Lord Campbell asked. Sean glanced at Quinn, who remained silent. Seeing the other villagers staring, Kathleen fought to regain her composure. Sean held out a white handkerchief. Kathleen thanked him and wiped her eyes. “I must look a horror.” “Would somebody please explain what is going on?” Lord Campbell asked, this time a bit more forcefully. “The Earl of Strathearn’s chamberlain, Jacob Dryden, arrested Kathleen’s father,” Sean replied. “Well, he must have a reason,” Lord Campbell replied matter-of-factly. Sean ignored Lord Campbell and looked at Kathleen. “Are you ready to leave this place?”

“Yes,” Kathleen replied without hesitation. “Good.” “Why was this woman’s father arrested?” Lord Campbell asked. Sean looked at the aristocrat. “Because of me.” “I don’t understand.” “Jacob Dryden wants to punish me. He obviously discovered I was coming and arrested Connor O’Neil in order to lure me to Tarlington Hall.” “Why would he do that?” Lord Campbell asked, obviously bewildered at the turn the conversation had taken. “Because twenty years ago I beat Dryden into the dirt at the autumn festival. My grandfather, da, and uncle were executed. My mother, sister, and brother were turned out of their home and died.” Lord Campbell stared silently at Sean. This was the man he had entertained in his home, and Sean was now telling him he was nothing more than a wanted Irish brigand. “I believe we should return to the ship,” Lord Campbell said. He turned and marched down the road. Sean picked up Kathleen’s bag. He took her hand, and they walked to the shore together. Quinn spit a squirt of tobacco juice, scratched his chin, and followed. Lord Campbell conferred briefly with Captain Auberry, and then they set sail for the return to England. What was supposed to be a joyous occasion was now anything but. Sean was concerned for Kathleen. He took her below and had the cook give her coffee with a shot of rum. Little was said during the voyage back to London. Lord Campbell spent his time in the officers’ quarters engaged in a game of chess with Captain Auberry. Jacob Dryden was waiting for them on the docks in London. Two soldiers stood behind him. As soon as the Athena docked, Dryden marched up the gangplank.

Captain Auberry blocked his advance. “This is a private American vessel, sir, and I am its captain. If you attempt to come aboard, I will have you shot.” A smirk rolled across Jacob Dryden’s face. He spotted Lord Campbell on deck. “Is that what you say, Lord Campbell?” He thrust a finger toward Sean, who stood next to Kathleen. “There is a warrant out on that man. It is your duty as a lord to uphold the law.” Lord Campbell gave Dryden a cool look, then glanced at Sean and Captain Auberry. “I believe we should retire to my home and settle this issue like gentlemen.” Sean and the captain nodded in agreement. Dryden’s face was flush with anger. He hadn’t expected to be checkmated in this fashion. He forced a smile. “That will be acceptable, Your Lordship.” The four men departed the docks. Auberry and Dryden took a cab with Sean and Lord Campbell riding in a second hansom. Sean left Kathleen on the Athena under Quinn’s protection. He wasn’t sure how this would play out and wanted Kathleen safe on what amounted to American territory. Sean decided being candid with Lord Campbell would be best. He quickly explained his history as the carriage made its way through the London streets. Lord Campbell remained silent. Sean was an American liaison to 10 Downing Street, obviously the president trusted him. Sean had purchased Lord Campbell’s cattle. They were business partners. Lord Campbell was well aware that if the situation got out of hand, the results could be most unpleasant. The prime minister would be embarrassed, and the press would have a field day. Lord Campbell needed to keep the situation contained; 10 Downing should never be aware of the issue. An hour later the quartet was seated in Lord Campbell’s study. He had dismissed the servants so they could have privacy. Lord Campbell looked at the three seated men and said, “As I understand it, Mr. Dryden your complaint stems from an altercation with Mr. McGuire.” “The man is a wanted criminal. As the earl’s chamberlain I demand—” “A simply yes or no will do, Mr. Dryden,” Lord Campbell interrupted. Jacob Dryden pursed his lips and frowned. “Yes.”

“And this altercation occurred when?” “Two years ago this reprobate slipped into the country and attempted to attack me—” “Hmm, I was to understand that your men beat Mr. McGuire and left him in a ditch at that time. The altercation I was speaking of happened some years ago. Isn’t that why Mr. McGuire fled Ireland?” Dryden leaned forward in his chair. “The McGuire family was traitors to the crown.” “When did this alleged attack occur?” Lord Campbell asked pointedly. “Alleged? That man nearly killed me,” Dryden replied. “You were not the earl’s chamberlain at that time. Your father was,” Lord Campbell said. “What difference does that make?” Dryden asked incredulously. “I am the earl’s man now.” “Yes.” There was a moment of silence. Lord Campbell turned and looked at Sean. “Do you have any questions?” “Yes, your Lordship. I would like to know what Mr. Dryden has done with Connor O’Neil.” Lord Campbell gave Dryden a questioning look. A smile slipped across Dryden’s thin lips. “Mr. O’Neil met with an unfortunate accident while en route to Tarlington Hall. He slipped and hit his head. Sergeant Owens attempted to revive him, but apparently the wound was fatal.” Sean gripped the armrest of his chair and held himself in check. Thaddeus’s words echoed in his head. It’s his word against yours, and over here his word counts.

Lord Campbell saw the fire in Sean’s eyes. “Did you have a doctor write a report?” he asked. “There was no doctor around. We buried the man where he fell. Cost us an hour of sunlight,” Dryden replied, not bothering to hide the cynicism in his voice. Sean had heard enough. “You bastard, your mother mated with a jackal!” Dryden flew out of his chair and slapped Sean. Sean jumped up but stayed himself. “I demand satisfaction from this bog Irish guttersnipe,” Dryden sneered. Lord Campbell cleared his throat. “Gentlemen.” He looked directly at Dryden “Dueling is illegal in England.” Dryden was well aware dueling was outlawed. Sean whispered something to Captain Auberry. “The Athena,” Captain Auberry said. Lord Campbell forced back the smile that threatened to flash across his face. “What do you mean?” he asked innocently. “The Athena is a privately owned American vessel, not England,” Captain Auberry replied. “I’ll even sail out beyond three miles to ensure compliance with British law.” Lord Campbell turned and looked at Dryden. “What say you, Mr. Dryden?” Dryden was caught off guard. His anger had gotten the better of him. He hadn’t expected Lord Campbell to agree to a duel. Now that he was being given the opportunity, Dryden tried to process it. His mouth went dry. He looked at Sean and saw an inferior. His eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips. “That is perfectly acceptable. Shall we say tomorrow morning at five? That way the captain will still have the tide when he returns me to London.” Sean held a poker face.

Lord Campbell turned to Sean. “As the party challenged, you have the choice of weapons.” Sean looked at Dryden. “As I recall, your man took my Colt. I’ve got another. Bring the one that was stolen.” Dryden bristled at Sean’s insolence and gave a nod. Lord Campbell was satisfied with the turn of events. The duel would not be in England. “Gentlemen, this is rather extraordinary to say the least, but if both parties are agreed to the , then who am I to stand in the way of a duel upon an American vessel?” He looked at Auberry. “Captain, how many men do you need to get your ship under way and back to dock?” “Besides myself and Quartermaster Nolan, two men, your Lordship.” “Fine. We shall meet at the Athena at five on the morrow,” Lord Campbell said. “There will be no seconds. I will inspect both weapons and act as second.” Lord Campbell stood, indicating the meeting was over. “I would council all parties not to say a word about this to anyone.” Sean and Captain Auberry took a cab back to the Athena. Neither man spoke. Captain Auberry knew accusations would only be a distraction to Sean. When they got to the ship, Sean immediately took Kathleen to his cabin. Holding her in his arms, he told her, “I won’t beat about it. Your Da’s dead.” Kathleen had known Dryden would do something like this; now Sean had confirmed it. She wept hard. Sean held her tight. When Kathleen’s weeping finally stopped, Sean looked her directly in the eye. “I’m going to kill Dryden tomorrow. Captain Auberry and Lord Campbell have given me the opportunity.” Kathleen pushed away and gave Sean a questioning look. “What do you mean?” “Dryden challenged me to a duel. I aim to kill him on the deck of this ship tomorrow morning.”

“Are you mad? You could be killed.” “It’s possible but unlikely.” Kathleen wiped the tears from her eyes. She saw Sean was dead serious. “I only wish it was me pulling the trigger.” Sean made sure Kathleen had a double dose of rum and put her to bed. Captain Auberry had given the men liberty with the exception of two. The ship was silent except for the lapping of the water and the usual creaks all vessels carry in their souls. The night air was cool as the fog slowly rolled in toward the docks. Sean went up on deck, where Captain Auberry stood smoking a cigar. Captain Auberry noticed Sean was wearing his rig. “You any good with that?” Sean shrugged his shoulders. “Fair.” “You should know, the man you’re going up against won the British Rifle Association Award three times running for best marksmanship.” “Dryden shot at a paper target?” “No, clay pigeons.” “Oh.” “All the same, the British don’t hand out that award for missing. They take their marksmanship very seriously.” “So do I, captain. Out west, you miss, that could get you dead.” Captain Auberry puffed on his cigar, sending clouds of smoke floating over the water. “Where do you come from? I know the commodore gave us orders, but under the circumstances it really has muddied up the works a bit.” “I came to America when I was fifteen. You already know what happened to my family. I fought to liberate California from Mexico. I was the first California rancher to bring a herd from Texas, not to mention breed English stock. And for the last four years I’ve been feeding Union soldiers with my beef. Is that Yank enough?”

Captain Auberry chuckled. “Just be sure your aim is true, McGuire. I don’t want to have to explain to General Howard you were killed in a duel.” “Thank you. I promise to do my best.” Sean bid Auberry good night and went below to his cabin. He removed his holster and checked the gun again. It was well oiled and felt perfect in his hand. He laid the rig on the table. Kathleen was asleep in the lower bunk. Sean climbed to the upper berth and soon fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

The Tong

Ah Loo raced down the street. He had information that Lee Sing needed immediately. Ah Loo was twelve, small, and ambitious. Lee Sing had given the young boy the task of sitting at the Western Union telegraph office every day. Lee Sing had counseled him to observe, listen, and, above all, have patience. For months Ah Loo had dutifully gone to the office and sat in the corner. There had been little to report. Ah Loo soon had become adept at Morse code and knew what was coming in on the wire as fast as the receiving operator. That morning Ah Loo heard a message from San Francisco. He was looking out the window but paying very close attention to the clicks coming over the wire. He didn’t want the operator to know he understood Morse code. When the message ended, Ah Loo quietly walked to the door. As soon as he was outside, he took off running. The operator placed the telegraph in an envelope. The message was a Chinatown address, so he asked, “Hey, Chop Suey, you want to make two bits?” He turned around. The seat Ah Loo normally occupied was vacant. The operator shrugged his shoulders, dropped the telegram in the outgoing basket, and went back to reading his copy of the Police Gazette. Ah Loo raced into the Golden Dragon and bounded up the stairs. Without bothering to knock, the young boy burst into Lee Sing’s office. The restaurateur was in a meeting with two other Chinese gentlemen. Ah Loo hurried over and whispered in Lee Sing’s ear. Lee Sing nodded and motioned for the boy to remain. He looked at the two men seated before him. “I am sorry, gentlemen. Something has come up. We will have to continue our meeting at a later time.” He stood and bowed. The two men stood and returned the bow and left the office. As soon as they were gone, Lee Sing looked at Ah Loo. “You are positive?” The young boy nodded. “Yes.”

“And you came right here?” “Yes, Uncle.” “You did very well.” There was a knock and Walter Sing entered. He was twenty-two and slender and looked very continental in his tailor-made suit. “What happened, Father? I just saw Chee Wing and Ty Chow leave. They seemed upset.” Lee Sing looked at his son. “Never mind them.” He turned to Ah Loo. “Tell him.” “Henry Chin is dead,” the young boy said. Walter looked at his father. “Danny Chin will demand to be the head of the Chin Tong.” “That is not good,” Lee Sing said.

The Athena - 1865

The Athena sailed out of the London harbor. The fog lay like a blanket upon the sea, but Captain Auberry was very familiar with the waters. The ship glided silently into the mist. London quickly disappeared behind them. Quartermaster Nolan and the other two men lit a line of torches on both sides of the deck then retired below per the captain’s orders. Kathleen refused to remain in her cabin. She stood next to Captain Auberry, who manned the helm. Lord Campbell inspected both revolvers and ammunition then handed the pistols to Dryden and Sean. Dryden noticed Sean was wearing a holster and remarked sarcastically, “This is a gentlemen’s duel, not some western street fight between common outlaws.” Sean loaded his Colt. “Make no mistake—no gentlemen are involved in what is about to happen.” Dryden sneered. He nodded toward Kathleen. “I see your whore is here to watch you die.” Sean remained silent and continued to load his revolver. He snapped the barrel into place with a flick of his wrist. The sound made Dryden jump. Dryden looked at Captain Auberry and asked, “Are you going to allow this Irish harlot to remain on deck?” Lord Campbell gave Dryden an icy look and replied, “I’d suggest you load your weapon.” Dryden loaded the Colt. Captain Auberry spun the wheel and brought the ship around. The sea was as calm as a corpse. “Miss O’Neil, I would suggest you go below,” he said. “Thank you, sir, but my place is here.”

Lord Campbell turned to Kathleen. “Are you sure?” Kathleen glanced over at Sean. He stood at the rail staring at the black water lapping against the ship. She looked at Lord Campbell and nodded. “Yes.” “As you wish,” Lord Campbell said. Sean turned and looked at Jacob Dryden. “Let’s get to it.” Captain Auberry was surprised at Sean’s casual attitude. He stepped away from the wheel. “Each man shall take a position fore and aft on the main deck. Lord Campbell will drop his handkerchief. That will be the signal to fire.” Lord Campbell took up a position mid-ship at the rail. “Your Lordship, if you wouldn’t mind, would you take a position with Captain Auberry and Miss O’Neil by the wheel?” Sean asked. “But you won’t be able to see when I drop the handkerchief.” “That is all right,” Sean replied. Lord Campbell looked at Captain Auberry. The captain shrugged his shoulders. Jacob Dryden smiled as Lord Campbell walked over to the wheel. The position was to Sean’s left. There was no way he would be able to see when Lord Campbell dropped the handkerchief. Sean and Dryden faced each other some twenty feet apart on the ship’s deck. Kathleen held her breath but did not close her eyes. Lord Campbell removed a white silk handkerchief from his vest pocket. Sean focused on Dryden. The chamberlain held the Colt upward in his right hand like a dueling pistol. Though it was cool, beads of sweat broke out on Dryden’s forehead. His palms became clammy. Lord Campbell raised the handkerchief high. “Ready.” Jacob Dryden saw the handkerchief in Lord Campbell’s black leather–gloved hand. He exhaled. The handkerchief fell. Sean saw it in Dryden’s eyes as sure as if he had been looking directly at Lord Campbell. His Colt cleared its holster

before Dryden had his arm lowered. A single shot echoed across the waters. Kathleen’s eyes flashed from Sean to Dryden and back. Time stood still. A shocked look rolled across Jacob Dryden’s face. He glanced down at the crimson stain spreading across his white silk shirt. He collapsed to his knees. The Colt slipped from his fingers and fell onto the deck. “Mother of mercy, you killed me.” Dryden swayed on his knees for a moment and then fell face-first on the deck, dead. “My word, I’ve never seen shooting like that in my life,” Lord Campbell exclaimed, stunned by the swiftness of Sean’s draw. “How did you bloody know when I dropped the handkerchief?” Sean slipped his Colt back in its holster. He walked over and picked up the gun Dryden had dropped and stuck it in his belt. Sean looked at Lord Campbell and pointed to his eye with his forefinger. “His eyes.” “And I thought you had lost your bloody mind,” Lord Campbell remarked. “Most men will hesitate before they shoot. I don’t.’ Kathleen raced over and hugged Sean. “What now, Your Lordship?” Sean asked. Lord Campbell looked at Dryden’s body and sighed. “Now, Captain, if you will be so kind as to return me to London.” Captain Auberry gave a nod. “What about Dryden?” Sean asked. Lord Campbell cocked an eyebrow. “Mr. Dryden met with a tragic accident cleaning his pistol and was buried at sea.” Captain Auberry called Quinn and the two crew up on deck. They tossed Dryden’s body over the side, and Captain Auberry set a course back to

London’s docks. The crew was waiting when the ship returned, none the wiser of what had transpired on the Athena. Lord Campbell walked to the gangplank, turned to Sean, and extended his hand. “I hope British and American ranching interests continue to prosper.” Sean shook Lord Campbell’s hand. “I’m sure they will, Your Lordship.” “All the same, it might be wise for you and Miss O’Neil to remain in America.” Kathleen, who was standing next to Sean, smiled and said, “Then Your Lordship will have to come visit us and see what Sean has accomplished.” Lord Campbell was caught off guard by Kathleen’s response. He glanced at Sean and flashed a smile. “She is a sly one.” Sean grinned sheepishly. “The ranch isn’t much yet, but when the time is right, we would be very happy to have you visit the Oso Negro.” Lord Campbell gave Sean a look of respect. The California cattleman and the British aristocrat were equals in their respective worlds. “I look forward to that day.” Lord Campbell leaned close and whispered, “That was a bloody fine shooting.” He wished the couple a happy marriage and a safe trip home, tipped his hat, and marched down the gangplank. He got into a cab, and it soon disappeared into the throng of traffic. The crew quickly boarded. Captain Auberry gave the command to ready the Athena for sail, and the clipper pulled out of the London harbor for the second time that morning. This time it was bound for open waters and America.

The Press

Sean sat in his office perusing the Los Angeles Tribune. A small article on page 10 caught his eye:

Hooligans Found Dead

Two men, Frank Dougherty and Daniel Hagen, were found murdered at 3600 Sixth St., Santa Monica. Both men had been shot in the back of the head. Dougherty had also been shot in the knee. “This is the work of the Fenians,” said Captain Brown. “Dougherty and Hagen were known of the Brotherhood. They were executed Fenian style. Case closed.” Both men had been previously questioned by police for receiving stolen property, pandering, and extortion. No charges were filed.

William McGrath entered the office and closed the door behind him. Sean folded the newspaper and set it on the desk with the article clearly visible. “The Examiner had even less coverage,” McGrath said, nodding toward the newspaper as he sat down. Sean smiled. “You didn’t think the papers would pay attention to a couple of dead mick hoodlums, did you?” “You know the Fenians will be sniffing around,” McGrath said. “Fuck ’em. This is America. There are only four people who know what happened in that house, and two of them are dead.” There was a knock on the door, and Effie stuck her head inside. “There’s a

reporter from the Tribune, a Mr. P. B. Bennett, here to see you.” “Send him in,” Sean said. Peter Bartholomew Bennett walked into the office. The short reporter had a leather briefcase slung over his shoulder and was wearing an expensive suit that looked like it had been slept in. He had brown hair, a moustache, and dark brown eyes. He reached into his vest pocket, removed a business card, and presented it to Sean. “P. B. Bennett, Mr. McGuire. Thank you for taking the time to see me.” Sean gestured to a chair. “Please. This is my associate Mr. McGrath.” Bennett gave a nod to McGrath and sat down. “Now, how can I help you, Mr. Bennett.?” “P. B., please.” The reporter removed a notebook and pencil from his bag. “I was hoping you would allow me to ask you a few questions?” Sean flashed an amicable smile. “Certainly, although I may decline to answer. Your publisher is not one to shower me with magnanimous editorial.” Bennett flipped open the notebook. “That is why I am here today, to get your side of the story. With the council vote is there anything you would like to tell our readers about why you are against Santa Monica being named as Los Angeles’ harbor?” Sean was unmoved by the obviously biased question. He was as cool as a penguin in winter. “I believe Long Beach to be a better harbor. The Spaniards believed so as well. Long Beach is a natural harbor. Santa Monica is not.” The reporter wrote in his notepad. “Santa Monica is closer to the city.” Sean waved Bennett off. “With the railroad the distance is negligible, but then Mr. Jones and Mr. Harriman don’t own the railway from Long Beach to Los Angeles.” “You own oil fields in Long Beach, and it would be simpler to ship that oil from

Long Beach.” “Yes.” There was an awkward silence. Sean’s straightforward and taciturn response caught the reporter off guard. “That is all? Yes?” Bennett asked. “What more would you like me to say?” Sean replied. “Yes, I currently own a half dozen oil rigs in Long Beach. Yes, it would be easier to ship from Long Beach. I have never denied this. That doesn’t change the fact that Long Beach is the better harbor.” “So you it that it is financial interests that motivate your for naming Long Beach as the city’s harbor?” Bennett asked. “Just the same as Mr. Grayson and his friends Ed Harriman and Governor Jones want Santa Monica named as the city’s harbor because it is in their financial interests.” The reporter jotted more notes and dramatically flipped the page in his notebook. “Well, let’s change the subject. Would you care to explain what happened on board the Athena in April 1865?” Sean’s jaw clenched slightly, but he kept his composure. “I was sent to England by General Howard on a diplomatic mission. The war was ending. President Lincoln had employed my services earlier as an emissary to the prime minister. While in Europe I met the woman who eventually became my wife. The voyage you refer to, the president was assassinated two days before we reached England. After I concluded my business with Her Majesty’s government, we sailed to Ireland and picked up Miss O’Neil. Captain Auberry married us on the deck of the Athena.” Bennett jotted down a few notes and looked up at Sean. “Does the name Jacob Dryden mean anything to you?” Sean sat back in his chair and replied matter-of-factly, “His father was the tax collector in the village I came from.”

“Why did you flee your home in Ireland?” “It was the height of the famine. I was the oldest male. My Da sent me to America. I came to this country and fought to liberate California from Mexico. I fed the Union Army during the Civil War and have been feeding the U.S. Army since the war’s end. My oil heats American homes and drives American machinery. I may have been born in Ireland, but I’m an American. My record speaks for itself.” “Quite. Did you and Mr. Dryden engage in a duel aboard the Athena?” Sean chuckled. “My goodness, where on earth did you hear that story?” “Does the name Quinn Nolan mean anything to you?” “I believe he was the quartermaster on the Athena.” “Then you do know the man?” Sean stood up. “Mr. Bennett, I am a very busy man. It stands to reason if I had engaged in a duel the British authorities would have arrested me long ago.” Bennett saw that the interview was over. He flipped his notebook closed, stuffed the pencil in his vest pocket, and looked at Sean. “Possibly they weren’t aware one had taken place. You know there is no statute of limitations for murder in Britain.” McGrath took a step toward the reporter. Sean touched his shoulder and stopped him. “You’re treading on libel, Mr. Bennett. First you say I was involved in a duel. Now you are accusing me of murder. Which is it?” The reporter smiled, tipped his hat, and exited the office. McGrath closed the door and looked at Sean. “You want me to deal with this?” “Yes, but not in the manner you think. Don’t lay a hand on Bennett. That’s exactly what Grayson is hoping for. Captain Auberry is dead, so we know he isn’t a source. They obviously spoke to Quinn Nolan. Find Nolan. I rely on your

powers of persuasion, William.” McGrath picked up his hat and exited the office.

The Tong

Dozens of Chinese men gathered at the western gate of Tomlinson’s corral. The men were abuzz and chattering to each other in a half dozen different dialects. They pointed to a handbill affixed to the post of the gate written in Chinese characters. Lee Sing stood next to his friend Yo Quang, an herbalist who had a shop just down from the Golden Dragon. Yo Quang was a respected merchant in Chinatown who had survived the massacre of 1871 and, like Lee Sing, had done well. The stocky man wore a black silk changshan and black pants. His hair was in the traditional queue. Yo Quang stepped forward and faced the gathered crowd. “This is unacceptable,” he said in Cantonese, pointing at the broadsheet bulletin tacked to the corral gate. “The Chin Tong demands twenty percent. We have always paid six percent. That has been the way forever. Henry Chin is dead, and now his son believes he can bleed us. We must refuse to pay. If we stand together, Danny Chin will see the error of his ways and accept the arrangement that has existed for generations.” The Chinese cheered the rebellious speech. Lee Sing stood silent. He was aware that Danny Chin was violating a long-standing tradition between the tong and merchants, but he also knew that his friend was putting himself in grave danger. Danny Chin would never allow such a challenge to go unanswered. Suddenly dozens of tong men raced toward the group and began pelting them with rocks and bamboo sticks. The crowd surged in order to avoid the attackers. Lee Sing lost his balance and fell. A hand reached out and pulled him up. There was shouting and screaming. The attackers were vicious, pulling men from the retreating mob and beating them savagely with bamboo sticks. Lee Sing lost track of Yo Quang in the melee as he raced away from the attackers. Lee Sing did not see the slight man with a black scarf covering his face slip up behind Yo Quang and slice his throat. The assassin quickly concealed the knife in his long sleeves and disappeared into the crowd on Spring Street.

William McGrath had emerged from the L. W. Wilson Mercantile Store as the Celestials began to gather around Tomlinson’s corral. McGrath, like many Anglos, didn’t understand the Chinese. He knew his employer was on good with some of them, but Sean McGuire also employed Indians, Mexicans, and Negroes. McGrath could understand them. They worked the ranch. The Chinese were different. That was why he and much of Anglo Los Angeles referred to the Chinese as Celestials. Some of the pedestrians stopped to watch the impromptu demonstration. The Celestials were always something to wonder at, especially when they spoke their foreign tongue, as Yo Quang was doing now. Many simply ignored the Chinese. The Chinese were not a part of their world and so were an invisible people. A clerk from the mercantile was sweeping the entrance and stopped to watch the demonstration. “You know what’s going on?” McGrath asked. The clerk was a middle-aged man who wore spectacles. He leaned on his broom and spit in the dirt. “Something about their boss man raising the tariff. That’s what one of the monkeys working in the stockroom said.” The clerk chuckled when Chin’s men began attacking the group. “Damn monkeys.” He shook his head and walked back inside the store. McGrath kept his gaze on Yo Quang. He had been the one to step up and speak. McGrath saw a man, his face covered with a black scarf, come up behind Yo Quang and cut his throat. The assassin slipped the knife in his sleeve and dashed away. None of Chin’s men impeded his progress. McGrath waited a moment and then took off after the man. As the assassin headed up Spring Street, he removed the scarf and wrapped it around his waist. Five blocks later the man turned and doubled back, then turned down Temple. He never looked back. He stopped once on Temple and appeared to tie his shoe. McGrath recognized it as an old trick to see if you were being followed. He turned and gazed into a bakery shop and watched the assassin in the window’s reflection. When the man seemed satisfied he wasn’t being followed, he stood up and retraced his steps. McGrath waited until the man ed him and then picked up his pursuit again. The assassin turned down Spring Street and headed into a laundry.

McGrath waited a moment and then entered. A young Chinese woman stood at the counter. McGrath quickly scanned the premises. The assassin was nowhere to be seen. McGrath tipped his hat and hurried out. He raced down an alley behind the laundry. An elderly Chinese man stood behind the shop where lines and lines of clothes and linens were hanging. McGrath watched from the corner of the alley as the assassin handed the elderly man his knife. The elderly man took it and said something to the assassin. The assassin bowed and walked off in the direction of Temple Street. McGrath turned and quickly retraced his steps. He nearly knocked a businessman over as he ran down the block and turned up Temple. He spotted the assassin walking casually up the street a block ahead and slowed his pace. McGrath wasn’t exactly sure why he was pursuing the man. The fact that he had killed a Celestial was of no great matter. The Celestials were always killing each other in Chinatown. It was an area that was deemed unsafe by respectable Los Angeles. Gambling, prostitution, and opium dens were in operation seven days a week in Chinatown. It was not a place frequented by society. Yet something told McGrath to pursue this man. The assassin sat down on a bench. McGrath took the opportunity. He pulled out a pack of Bull Durham and quickly rolled a smoke as he continued up the street and took a seat next to the assassin. The young man jumped up. Celestials were not accustomed to sharing benches with white men. McGrath smiled and patted the bench, indicating the man should sit down. He pantomimed striking a match and pointed to his cigarette. The Chinese man bowed and reached into his pocket. McGrath kept his hand close to the pistol inside his jacket. The assassin removed a match and struck it. McGrath grabbed the man’s wrist and held it steady as he lit the cigarette. His eyes were fixed to a tattoo on the inside of the man’s left wrist. It was a small tattoo of a scorpion with a Chinese character and the Roman numeral III. McGrath released his grip on the assassin’s wrist, stood, tipped his hat, and walked away. That evening Danny Chin’s men paid visits to Chinatown’s most prominent businessmen, rousting them from bed, from the mah-jongg gambling halls, and from the cribs. The message was simple: pay up or else. Danny Chin did not care about agreements that had existed since before his grandfather’s time. Danny Chin did not care about tradition. He wore custom-tailored Western suits. He had two mistresses, both dressed in Western fashion. Immediately after learning of his father’s death Danny Chin named himself head of the Chin Tong. He hadn’t

bothered to consult the elders in China or San Francisco. Danny Chin’s singular goal was to extort as much money as he could from his fellow countrymen. He knew the local authorities rarely involved themselves in Chinese matters. The tong’s power had lain in San Francisco for nearly fifty years. Now it would rest in Los Angeles, where Danny Chin would rule his kingdom. The graybeards in China would have to accept the fact that he was now the head in Gum Saan. Two of Danny Chin’s men slipped into the Golden Dragon and overpowered Tony Chen. Lee Sing looked up from his desk in surprise when Danny Chin entered his office. Chin was dressed in a navy-blue wool suit with a white rose in the lapel. A straw boater rested on his head. “Good evening,” Chin said as he sat down across from the restaurateur. Lee Sing stood and bowed. “Good evening, Master Chin.” Danny Chin waved Lee Sing off. “We do not require formalities. It is a simple matter that I come about.” Lee Sing sat down. “How may I be of help?” Danny Chin smiled. “You can convince your fellow business associates that my demands must be met.” “With all due respect, many cannot pay twenty percent. They will lose their businesses,” Lee Sing replied. Danny Chin was silent. He appeared to be in deep thought. He looked up and chuckled. “I thought you might respond in such a fashion.” He turned his head and called out, “Come.” An assassin entered. His face was hidden behind a black scarf with only his eyes visible. He held a knife to Walter’s throat. The assassin directed Walter to a chair and motioned for him to sit down. Lee Sing took in every detail of the man who held a blade to his son’s throat. He noted the scorpion tattoo on the assassin’s left wrist and the fact that he was left-handed. Lee Sing turned to Danny Chin and bowed his head. “I did not mean to offend. I was merely attempting to inform you of the realities, Master Chin.”

Danny Chin grabbed an apple sitting on a nearby tray and took a bite. “The realities are what I say they are. If I say you and the others will pay me twenty percent that is the reality. Those that do not pay will find themselves on the street.” Danny Chin dropped the apple on Lee Sing’s desk. “Oh, you thought I was going to kill your son.” He motioned to the man holding the knife, and the masked assassin slipped the knife into his sleeve. “I merely wanted to make my point.” Danny Chin smacked Walter’s cheek in a friendly fashion. The assassin backed toward the door, checked the hallway, then turned to Danny Chin and gave a nod. Danny Chin tipped his hat. “Good evening. I’m sure we will meet again.” Danny Chin and the assassin exited the room as silently as they had entered. As soon as they were gone, Lee Sing jumped up and ran to Walter. “Are you all right?” “Yes, Father.” Lee Sing’s eyes quickly scanned Walter to be assured his son spoke the truth. “I never expected Danny Chin would go this far.” “What are we going to do, Father? We should tell the sheriff.” “This is Chinese business.” “But the sheriff might be able to help.” “You will not talk to the whites about our problems.” “You know Mr. McGuire. He is a powerful man.” Lee Sing frowned at his son. “I will not impose our problems on him. Get me some paper. I will write to the elders.” Walter bowed his head. “Yes, Father.”

Kathleen

The first time Kathleen stepped off the coach and saw the Oso Negro, she fell in love. The heat of that first summer caught her by surprise, as she was accustomed to Ireland’s damp climate. Kathleen eschewed dresses and wore men’s pants while she worked at the ranch. Sean ordered her a Singer sewing machine, and from that point on she made her own outfits. The men got a kick out of seeing her wearing tailored pants and blouse, complete with vest, boots, and a fine-looking Stetson. Kathleen discouraged the hands from referring to her as Mrs. McGuire, except in the most formal of occasions. This is not to say Kathleen allowed informality to make her soft. Sean and the cowboys both felt the lash of Kathleen’s tongue when she got her Irish up. By the second year Kathleen could ride as well as any man. Her roping skills weren’t the best, but once the calf was down, Kathleen could brand it in the blink of an eye. She rode the ranch with Sean and loved when they spent nights out under the stars herding the cattle to a new grazing area. She was a sight to behold racing her horse across the open range, her dark hair blowing behind her. Her laughter and her love of practical jokes won the hearts of the hands. The cowboys loved Kathleen McGuire. Kathleen was smart enough to know that her husband had a long history with men like Charlie and Rufus. She gave them space and would involve herself in a project like making a rug or a blanket. She’d learned to work a loom and sew as a child. It had been rare to see a store-bought outfit on anyone in her village. Running Deer showed her some Native designs, which she incorporated with Celtic symbols in her work. Kathleen had never been keen on cooking. The diet in her village had consisted primarily of mussels, seaweed, and potatoes. The fish her father caught were too valuable to eat and had been sold at market. She had grown up hearing stories of the famine from her father and others in her village. She had never seen an orange until Sean picked one from a tree and gave it to her. The fact that she could step outside and pick a tomato or an ear of corn was a marvel to Kathleen. She knew the kitchen was Lee Sing’s domain and rarely intruded. Lee Sing

loved Mrs. K, as he referred to her, for this. Running Deer was the only other female on the Oso Negro. She and Kathleen became fast friends. It was Running Deer who told Kathleen of Sean’s expedition to Texas to bring a herd to California. Sean rarely spoke of his past. It was a violent one, and he did not want Kathleen to think him a murderous man. She had witnessed him shoot Jacob Dryden, but that had been different. Sean had killed Mexicans, Indians, and white men alike. He was good at it. It was a trait that Sean preferred to keep from his wife. Kathleen was good at math and quickly assumed care of the ranch’s books. Rufus had been handling them in a haphazard fashion and was more than happy to relinquish his position. Within two years Kathleen increased the ranch’s profits by 25 percent. Often on Sundays she and Sean would go riding. Kathleen was amazed at the wide-open territory and the rich farmland. She began to advise Sean on the purchase of various properties. Kathleen possessed an innate sense for business. Sean worshipped the ground she walked on. Kathleen was the woman he was meant to be with. She was Sean’s equal and his better on occasion. The first five years at the Oso Negro went by quickly. There was much for Kathleen to learn about the ranch. She took to every aspect with the hunger of a starving woman. By the end of her first year a rhythm was established at the Oso Negro. Sean and Charlie tended the cattle. They were frequently gone long periods running a herd to market, taking the cattle to summer grazing pastures, and handling a dozen other jobs that came with dealing with a thousand head herd. Rufus handled the heavy maintenance at the ranch. He built another wing onto the hacienda and maintained the mill. Kathleen took care of the finances. Running Deer and Lee Sing dealt with the domestic duties of the hacienda. John Bear spent much of his time with Rufus and tending to the ostriches. The ranch operated like a well-greased engine.

The Visit

Lord Campbell finally paid a visit to the Oso Negro in the spring of 1870. He had shipped a dozen head to the Oso Negro by then and was curious to see what Sean had accomplished. Sean and Charlie took Lord Campbell out for a ride the day after his arrival. They had ridden for nearly three hours straight when Lord Campbell pulled up his horse and stopped to take a drink from his canteen. He took a lace handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped his brow. Charlie glanced at Sean and grinned. “Would you care to rest?” Sean asked. Lord Campbell took another sip of water and capped the canteen. “No, I’m fine. I do say your weather is a bit warmer than England’s.” He looked out at the vast expanse before them that led straight to the base of the mountains. “I can understand why you built your ranch here, Sean. It is beautiful.” “That it is,” Charlie replied. “Thank you, but I couldn’t have done it without Charlie, Rufus, and Falcon,” Sean said. “The Indian woman at your ranch?” “That’s Running Deer. She was Falcon’s wife. John Bear is their son,” Sean said. “And Falcon was killed by a Comanche, whom you then hunted and killed?” Charlie looked at Sean. This was not a topic generally discussed. “The Comanche was Kuruk. Yes, I killed him,” Sean replied dryly. “My God, man, you should write a book. Fighting Mexicans and Indians, bringing cattle from Texas, it would be a smashing success.”

Sean gave Lord Campbell a friendly grin. “Just living, your Lordship. Besides, Charlie and I are too busy running a ranch for me to have the time to put pen to paper.” Charlie could see Sean felt uncomfortable with the discussion. “We best be heading back,” he interjected. “Lee Sing is burning a side of beef for dinner, and you know how he gets if we show up late.” “Lee Sing does get his knickers in a twist,” Sean said, thankful that Charlie had changed the subject. The three men turned their horses and rode back to the Oso Negro. No one spoke of the past during the remainder of His Lordship’s visit. Talk was about the future. Lord Campbell ired Sean’s ability to see beyond the obvious horizon. After two weeks Lord Campbell returned to England, satisfied he had made the correct decision five years previous when he’d allowed the duel to take place on the Athena.

Winter Winds

An icy wind came down from the north and blew through the Cahuenga like a locomotive. It was an unrelenting wind that chilled to the bone. Men in long coats drew them close. Women held on to their hats and stepped inside shops to get out of its path. A week later the wind vanished, retreating to the Rockies. Sunshine once again soaked southern California’s winter wonderland. The city council voted to continue their study of the two competing harbors. They proposed hiring an independent firm to write a report. The matter was officially tabled for the next two years with a unanimous vote. The Los Angeles council now breathed easier and could focus on important matters as the holidays approached. The Tribune claimed victory, even though Grayson and the oligarchy were no closer to being awarded the designation. The Tribune printed an article accusing Sean of engaging in a duel upon the Athena. Sean didn’t sue. Instead he wrote a letter to the editor politely requesting the paper provide evidence that the alleged event had taken place. William McGrath had located former quartermaster Quinn Nolan. The old man had been living in a tenement home in San Diego. McGrath had invited Nolan for a drink. After a couple of shots of whiskey, it didn’t take long before the former quartermaster talked. He regaled McGrath with the tale of Sean’s duel, adding his own flourishes. McGrath laughed and was surprised at all the right places. After leaving the bar, McGrath hailed a cab and had the driver take them to the train station. Nolan was just drunk enough not to care but sober enough to walk. McGrath bought a one-way ticket to Saint Louis. He gave Nolan an envelope containing $1,000 and advised him to never return to California. Quinn Nolan happily boarded the train believing fortune had smiled upon him. McGrath telegraphed the Saint Louis police and informed them that Quinn Nolan was a con man who had fleeced a prominent Los Angeles businessman of $1,000. The following afternoon the captain of the Saint Louis police wired McGrath that they had Quinn in custody. They had charged him with vagrancy and attacking a

police officer. The captain wanted to know if they should send Nolan back to Los Angeles. McGrath wired back and said that an assault upon a police officer took priority over a con job and explained that the swindled businessman preferred to remain anonymous. He’d encouraged the SLPD to prosecute Quinn to the fullest extent of the law. The captain had wired McGrath that Saint Louis would be happy to do so. Unable to locate the quartermaster, the Tribune was forced to print a retraction. The publicity was vindication, but Sean was no closer to getting Long Beach designated the city’s harbor than before. Hadley struggled to keep the ostrich farm open. John Bear returned, but there was little to do besides tend the birds. A few came, but the crowds stayed away. Hadley suspended the ostrich races due to low attendance, so the money from the wagering was gone. Sean succeeded in persuading the council to drop the issue of the farm’s health hazard. While helpful, it didn’t bring people through the turnstile. Grayson’s paper had hurt her business. Hadley was barely making ends meet. Sean slipped John Bear money for feed and supplies. He knew Hadley would never accept a handout. He needed to find another way of making sure Hadley and the ostriches were secure. He knew she would soon suspect something was amiss when the bills continued to be paid. Sean was at a loss.

Investors in Hartford Oil & Exploration arrived at the company office shortly after opening the week after the council’s harbor vote and demanded their dividends. People gossiped and whispered in the financial district that the company was unstable. By noon shares in Hartford Oil were down 15 percent. When the market closed that day, they were down 30 percent. Thomas did his best to reassure the investors their money was safe. Some were not swayed and sold their shares. They took the loss and took their money. The firm’s two other partners were conveniently out of town. Thomas wired Harry, who was in Sacramento, and Reggie, who seemed to remain eternally in New York raising funds. Thomas informed his partners of the run and urged them to reply as soon as possible. Between the McGuire name and his power of persuasion, Thomas was able to keep the majority of investors at bay. He knew they would not stay quiet for long. During its ten months of operation the company paid out dividends in a haphazard fashion. Those who invested first

were paid. Those who followed took their chances. Now just about every investor, with the exception of Danny Chin, was threatening to sell their stock. Thomas breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that Danny Chin was not coming to the office demanding his money. Danny Chin was smart. He would retain his shares and make a profit. Sean stopped by the Hartford Oil office just before closing Friday, and he and Thomas went to get drinks at the Grand Hotel’s bar. It had been a busy day for Sean. He’d met with William McGrath for breakfast and then ridden out to the Oso Negro to discuss the year’s breeding plan with Charlie. He then had ridden to Hadley’s farm to give John Bear enough cash to keep them running for the month. Sean was surprised when Thomas informed him of Hartford Oil’s recent downturn. “Do you need help?” he asked. Thomas gave his father a look of surprise. “Heavens no. I am certainly capable of dealing with the company’s financial matters. If investors discovered you were helping me, my credibility would vanish. They would think you were trying to take over Hartford Oil.” Sean sat back in his chair, surprised at his son’s reaction. “That might not be such a bad idea. Shamrock Oil is doing fairly well the last I looked.” Thomas frowned. “That is exactly the point, Father.” “Where are Hartford’s wells, if you don’t mind my asking?” Thomas sipped his whiskey and set the crystal tumbler on the table. “Most of them are in Oklahoma and Kansas, I believe.” “Have you seen any of these wells?” Thomas played with his napkin. “No. I’m the West Coast vice president of operations. Harry handles acquisitions; he would know where the wells are. Reggie is the moneyman.” He looked up at his father and smiled. “We each have our own duties. It’s worked fine so far.” “What are you going to do, Son?”

Thomas chuckled and waved Sean off. “I’m sure Harry and Reggie will get in touch with me over the weekend.” “For your sake I hope they do.” The two men parted company shortly after. Sean promised himself he wouldn’t meddle. He had to allow Thomas to handle his own affairs. The night air was chilly, so Sean hailed a cab. The big house was quiet when he got home. Jenny was out that evening with some friends to see Maurice Barrymore and Leslie Carter in The Heart of Maryland at the Palace Theater. Sean had dinner alone. He sat and read Mark Twain’s latest, Pudd’nhead Wilson, while he sipped his whiskey. After a while he set the book aside. The vast house seemed empty. He wondered if he should sell the grand old place. He finished his whiskey and went up to bed. He would leave that decision for another day.

A Promise

The Oso Negro prospered under Kathleen’s management. Between the Stephenson cattle and the stock imported from Lord Campbell, Sean built a herd that few ranches could compare to in the region. Hard work and a war made it possible. The Indian wars brought more soldiers and a renewal of army contracts for beef. Life on the Oso Negro was good. It is often hard to see around a bend. Little did Sean, Kathleen, and the others realize that soon the ranch and their lives would change forever. It was a beautiful spring day when Sean and Kathleen decided to go for a ride. Charlie and the hands had taken the herd north. The cattle were grazing on tall grass that grew for miles. Lord Campbell had sent Kathleen a mare that was now due to deliver. Kathleen was hesitant to leave the horse. Sean had been busy for weeks and Kathleen hated to miss an opportunity to spend the day with her husband. They left in the morning and rode east. It never ceased to amaze Kathleen how rapidly the geography would change in her new home, from meadow to mountain to desert all in a day’s ride. The trail they rode was mostly flat with a small climb here or there. Kathleen had packed a loaf of bread Lee Sing had baked that morning, and they stopped at a stand outside of Pomona and purchased oranges. They ate their oranges and bread sitting under a large pepper tree. “I love this land, Sean.” “It does get into your blood.” “Everywhere you look it is beautiful.” Sean chuckled as he peeled an orange. “Some might beg to differ when it comes to the desert.” Kathleen laughed and shook her head. “Even the desert.” She looked up. “This tree is beautiful.”

Sean smiled. “You’re prejudiced. Your dashing husband swept you away from that cold, dreary village and brought you to the land of sunshine.” Kathleen leaned over and kissed Sean. “You bet I am prejudiced. I still think this tree is beautiful.” “That tree was brought over by the Spanish monks. It is not indigenous to this area.” “Good for the Spanish monks then.” Sean gave Kathleen a look. “You best keep those sentiments to yourself. John Bear’s great-grandfather was a conquistador. He went up against the monks and lost his command and was banished from the army.” “I didn’t know,” Kathleen replied. Sean pushed his hat back on his head. “One thing you can be certain of, dear, here in California most people are not what they appear to be.” Kathleen gave Sean a quizzical look. “You’re real.” Sean laughed loudly. “I’m the son of an Irish potato farmer who got lucky. People look at me and see a cattleman. That’s not who I am.” “Who are you, Sean McGuire?” Kathleen asked with a bemused smile on her lips. Sean realized he had gotten serious and grinned. He put his arm around Kathleen, kissed her, and held her close. “I’m the man who was lucky enough to have found you.” “And smart enough to recognize that fact, Mr. McGuire,” Kathleen kidded. They finished their meal and then started back to the ranch. It was midafternoon when they arrived at the Oso Negro. Rufus came out to greet them as they rode up. “The mare, she’s been having trouble.”

Kathleen dismounted, handed Sean the reins, and rushed into the barn. The mare was breathing heavily. Kathleen removed her gloves and tossed them aside. She gently stroked the horse, speaking softly to the animal. Sean entered and put the horses in a stall, then went up to the hacienda. Kathleen remained with the mare. Sundown approached, and the mare still hadn’t given birth. Sean took a blanket and a plate of food out to Kathleen. “You must be hungry,” he said as he crouched down next to Kathleen and the horse. Kathleen took the blanket and wrapped it around herself. “Thank you.” Sean handed her the plate of food. Kathleen consumed the stew like a famished stevedore. “Why don’t you go inside? I’ll stay with her.” Kathleen looked at Sean. “It’s her first. I should be with her.” Sean smiled. “Yes.” He stood up. “I’ll be back in a little bit.” Kathleen shooed Sean with a flick of her wrist. “I’m fine.” When Sean returned a few minutes later, Kathleen’s arm was halfway up inside the mare. “The foal is twisted,” she explained. She grimaced and gave a hard tug, and the foal came out. The brown colt was covered in blood, as was Kathleen. The mare licked the colt. It struggled to stand. Kathleen looked up at Sean, and he handed her a towel. She finally realized how messy she was and laughed as she wiped her hands. “You did well,” Sean said. Kathleen made sure the colt was up and scampering about the stall before she left the barn. She and Sean walked to the rear of the hacienda where the rise overlooked the creek and the mountains beyond. The last rays of the sun were fading. The hills were dark golden brown. The creek shimmered like silver in the setting sun. Kathleen put her arm around Sean’s waist. “Promise me you will bury me here.” Sean looked at Kathleen, surprised. “What kind of talk is that?”

Kathleen looked at her husband. “It’s so beautiful.” “That it is, and you just helped give birth to a strapping little colt. I don’t want to hear such talk. I plan to live a very long life, and I expect you to be there with me, Kathleen.” Kathleen was silent for a moment. She looked deep into Sean’s eyes. “Just promise me you will do that for me. Bury me under the pepper tree next to your uncle.” Sean hugged Kathleen close. “I promise.” He had never loved her as much as he did in that moment. They stood and watched the sun disappear behind the mountains. When the fading purple shadows turned black, they returned to the barn to check on the colt and mare. Sean picked up the lantern and started out the door, but Kathleen remained. Sean turned. “Aren’t you coming?” A sly smile slipped across Kathleen’s lips. She spread the blanket on fresh straw and gave Sean a look. Sean grinned sheepishly, like a schoolboy caught looking at a dirty book. “Kathleen McGuire, you are something.” He walked over and took Kathleen in his arms. “Don’t you ever forget that, or your promise to me,” Kathleen replied. “I never will.” Sean doused the light, and the couple slowly fell onto the blanket in a ionate embrace.

The Storm

Sean and Kathleen rode into Los Angeles early Saturday morning. After Sean completed his business, the couple took a stroll and watched the train pull into Central Station. Dozens of engers got off. Some had cardboard suitcases or sacks, and others had merely the clothes on their back. Many spoke German. Some looked lost. Some looked frightened. Some looked curious. They all looked decidedly out of place in their manner and dress. Kathleen turned to Sean and said, “All those people are going to need homes.” Sean smiled at his wife. “So you think maybe we should move some assets from beef into real estate?” he asked coyly. Kathleen put her arm through her husband’s. “No maybe about it, Mr. McGuire.” Sean knew whenever Kathleen referred to him as Mr. McGuire he should take notice. He had been running cattle and ranching for sixteen years. It was a laborintensive job, backbreaking work from sunup till long after sundown. Sean and Kathleen had talked about having a family, but Sean was always away on a cattle drive or heading off to purchase or sell cattle. Real estate would offer them an income that would not require Sean to be away as much. Sean didn’t say anything more. They returned to the Oso Negro, and life continued. A few weeks later Sean took Kathleen into town and showed her a large empty lot that sat on a street that rose up a steep hill. “This will be where we shall have our house,” Sean announced. Kathleen was taken aback. It was a prime property that overlooked downtown. “What about the ranch?” “It is time that you have a proper house. I aim to see that it is the finest.” Kathleen embraced her husband and whispered, “I love you.”

The property on became known as “the big house,” even before it was completed. Sean hired a Chicago architect and told him to build the best house money could buy. He knew Kathleen was right about the new arrivals needing homes. Sean approached scaling back the ranch conservatively. It had taken years of hard labor to build the Oso Negro. Sean didn’t take that lightly. If they were going to move the bulk of their wealth out of cattle, Sean wanted to be sure he and Kathleen didn’t wind up with the shite end of the stick. Their new home would be a statement. While the Oso Negro was certainly remarkable in its own right, it was still a ranch and miles from town. The property had two wells, a pump, and a creek but lacked indoor plumbing. The house would be a proper home with fine mahogany wainscoting, stained glass windows, and plumbing that included two indoor water closets. Sean threw himself into the construction of the home and the acquisition of additional property. Kathleen had given him a new goal. He attacked it like everything else—with a focus that didn’t allow for failure. Sean traveled to the quarries in Indiana and to the lumber mills of Seattle to select the right stone and wood for the house. He spent much time away from the ranch looking at properties south of Los Angeles. Charlie quietly assumed the job of managing the day-to-day ranch operations. He had always been at Sean’s side; now he was making the decisions. The balance at the Oso Negro was off. The winter of 1872 was cold and wet. Sean was in Sacramento working on behalf of Anti-Monopolist Newton Booth, who was running for state governor. The Anti-Monopoly Party opposed the use of tariffs and the granting of public lands to railroads and corporations, an issue that held great importance for Sean. Kathleen was left to supervise the construction of the Hill Street residence. Charlie and the hands were gone driving the cattle to the yards in Stockton. The ostriches now numbered twelve. Agnes, the original bird, and her offspring were a prolific bunch. So much so that the only way Rufus could keep the birds from literally overrunning the ranch was to take their eggs. Lee Sing made omelets that the ranch hands consumed greedily whenever they appeared on the table. Sean wasn’t happy with the birds, but he knew they meant the world to Rufus and John Bear. Rufus built a pen and a barn for the birds. It had been one thing when there had just been Agnes. It was entirely different when Betty and Bud, her first two offspring, started sticking their long necks through the kitchen window and stealing food from Lee Sing’s domain. The cook reached his limit when Betty and Bud gobbled down an entire apple pie he had set on the sill to

cool. John Bear had taken to the ostriches as soon as he could walk. The young boy had waited patiently in the barn three nights in a row in order to witness the hatching of one of Betty’s eggs. John Bear had named the baby bird Peaches after his favorite food. There was rarely a day when the boy and bird weren’t together. Kathleen sent John Bear to town for supplies. The skies were clear that morning, and John Bear hitched up the team and left right after breakfast. By midmorning the weather changed. The sky turned slate gray, and the wind picked up. It was an icy wind that came down from the east. Kathleen and Running Deer quickly herded the chickens into their coops and latched the doors shut. Running Deer glanced west. She didn’t say a word, but her eyes expressed concern for John Bear. Rufus came up from the mill. “Looks like a big one coming.” He looked at Running Deer. “I wouldn’t worry. John Bear is in town by now. He’s a smart kid and will stay put.” Running Deer forced a smile and walked back to the hacienda. “The weather certainly changes quickly here,” Kathleen said. “That it does, ma’am,” Rufus replied. A sudden icy gust blew across the ranch. Rufus was chilled to the bone. He was surprised to see Kathleen barely reacted to the wind. “We best be getting inside, ma’am,” Rufus said. Rufus and Kathleen retreated inside the hacienda and shut the door just as another icy gust of wind blew. The sky grew darker. The winds raged. The rain came. John Bear did not return that night. Kathleen sat at the long dining table, unable to sleep. Shortly before midnight it began to hail. Balls of ice fell like bullets, ricocheting off the adobe’s roof. It was a cacophonous roar that sounded as if the gods were beating down on the hacienda. The hail stopped as suddenly as it had started, and there was an eerie silence. The storm seemed to have ed. The tranquility lulled Kathleen into an exhausted sleep.

Suddenly there was a flash of lightning followed by a clap of thunder like a cannon roar. Kathleen sat up. She had fallen asleep at the dining table. The candle had burned to a stub. It was raining, hard again. Kathleen got up and took a candle from the credenza, lighting it with the stub. She held the candle high as she walked to the front window, where Rufus was standing. The rain was coming down in a torrent. “How long has it been raining like this?” Kathleen asked. “Just started again. She’s a corker, this storm is.” There was another bright flash. This one was much closer. The gnarled fingers of electricity broke across the sky and struck a tree on the far side of the ranch’s gate. The clap of thunder shook the hacienda. There was a loud crack as a large limb fell from the tree and lay burning on the ground. Lee Sing entered the room and gazed out at the rain. “Not good.” “What do you mean?” Kathleen asked. “Too much rain—the creek will flood,” Lee Sing said. “Lee Sing’s right, ma’am. Not much we can do except wait it out,” Rufus said. There was another brilliant flash. A bolt streaked through the black sky and hit the ostrich barn. “God’s holy tros! Agnes!” Rufus threw open the door and dashed out without a thought to the raging storm. He raced through the mud over to the ostrich pen. One of the barn doors was hanging open and on fire. Terrified, the birds raced around the pen. A bolt of lightning crackled and hit a rock on the far side of the creek, lighting up the sky as the rain beat down harder. The river was rising fast. Kathleen ran up to Rufus, who was desperately trying to herd the birds back into the barn while the door was still aflame. She grabbed a tarp and beat the flames down. Between her efforts and the downpour, the fire was quickly smothered. She tossed the tarp down and helped Rufus get the remaining birds into the barn. Kathleen and Rufus were soaked, but they got the ostriches inside.

Rufus noticed one was missing. “Agnes.” He ran out of the barn and saw that the pen’s gate was open. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Agnes!” There was a flash of lightning, and Rufus saw Agnes racing toward the mill. He took off in pursuit. Kathleen struggled against the wind and finally secured the damaged barn door well enough to keep the ostriches inside. She could not see Rufus and called out his name. Lightning lit up the sky again, and she saw Rufus racing toward the mill. She started after him, but the light vanished as fast as it had come. The ground was slick and gooey. Kathleen slipped. The rain pelted her furiously. She cursed and scrambled to her feet. Rufus stopped a few feet from the mill. The creek was now a fast-moving river. Agnes raced along the bank. Rufus ran inside the mill, grabbed a length of rope, and slung it over his shoulder. He could barely make the ostrich out in the dark, but he kept his eyes focused on Agnes, who was now very close to the creek. “Easy, girl,” Rufus cooed softly to the bird. He made a lasso and slowly approached the ostrich, never taking his eyes off of her. Another few feet and he would be close enough to drop the lasso over her neck. “Just stay there, girl.” Rufus inched closer, the lasso held high. Suddenly he was knocked to the ground. Kathleen grabbed his arm and pulled. A moment later a wall of water washed away the earth where he had been standing. The normally placid creek was now a raging river. Rufus and Kathleen rapidly scrambled for higher ground. Rufus turned and looked, but Agnes was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly there was a loud groan. The mill’s waterwheel spun crazily for a moment and then snapped from its axle under the force of the racing water. The timber cracked, and the wheel was swept away downstream. Rufus grabbed Kathleen by the arm. They struggled against the pounding elements to reach the safety of the hacienda. Rufus could not get the horror of Agnes being swept away out of his head. Running Deer feared for John Bear. Kathleen wondered what damages the storm had wrought that she hadn’t yet seen. The inhabitants of the hacienda spent a

cold, sleepless night as the storm raged, finally vanishing just before sunrise. Lee Sing put on a pot of coffee. Running Deer busied herself straightening up the hacienda, and Rufus and Kathleen went outside to inspect the damages. Surprisingly the ranch was in relatively good shape considering the intensity of the storm. The ground was rutted from the water, but there was little debris to be picked up. The ostrich barn was in need of repair, but the corrals and horse barn were in good shape. The mill was the sole casualty. The waterwheel was gone, and a section of the mill had been ripped away. The structure stood open and exposed. The horses and chickens were safe, and the ostriches, except for Agnes, had survived the night. Rufus and Kathleen tended to the animals before stopping for breakfast. Kathleen caught herself as she ed the hacienda’s front window and saw her reflection. She was covered in mud. She laughed. She turned and saw that Rufus’s face was filled with pain. She stopped laughing. She wanted to say something but didn’t know what. She had never had a pet as a child. She remained silent. She walked to the well and washed her face and hands. She turned to Rufus. “Come along when you are ready. I’m sure Lee Sing will have prepared a fine breakfast.” Kathleen entered the hacienda. Rufus stayed with the ostriches a long time, petting them and talking to them. He sat by the gate and cried like a little child. John Bear drove up in the wagon full of supplies a few hours later. He was none the worse for the wear. He had spent the evening with the horses in Tomlinson’s livery stable. Running Deer was overjoyed to see her son had returned safely. John Bear hugged Running Deer and told her she had nothing to be worried about. The boy was heartbroken when Rufus informed him Agnes was gone. John Bear sat in the ostrich barn with Rufus until it got dark. Sean returned from Sacramento the following week. The mill was torn down. It had never been a very profitable enterprise. Sean focused on finishing the big house. Sean and Kathleen moved into the house just after the New Year. Thomas was born that fall. Charlie officially became ranch foreman. The week before Washington’s Birthday Rufus moved his ostriches to Santa Monica, taking John Bear with him. Then Lee Sing departed to open his restaurant in Chinatown. The Oso Negro had changed forever.

Saint Patrick’s Day

Sean arose early. He dressed and rode out to the Oso Negro. Charlie and the boys had brought in a new batch of mustangs, and they needed to be broken. Sean loved watching the men work the horses and get them saddle ready. The army was purchasing horses, and there were plenty of wild mustangs around. Horses were now more profitable than cattle. They could be sold as soon as they were saddle broke. Cattle were a long-term investment that took a minimum of a year, frequently longer, to fatten before they were considered prime. The sun was just coming up as Sean arrived at the ranch. He grabbed a cup of the cook’s coffee with the men. The cowboys joked about who would get thrown first as they wolfed down hot corn bread, bacon, and buckets of coffee. Sean had originally planned to remain in town. Kathleen was pregnant and had sevenyear-old Thomas to contend with. She had insisted that Sean go to the ranch, though.

Kathleen got up a few hours after Sean left. The baby was kicking. Kathleen gasped as she was hit with a sharp pain as she relieved herself in the water closet. Thomas hadn’t been half the trouble to carry as this child. Once born, though, the boy demanded all of his mother’s attention. He was precocious, petulant, and pugnacious. The previous week Thomas had tied a string of firecrackers to the tail of the neighbor’s cat and lit them. Mrs. Newsome had not been amused when her cat had returned home muddy and tattered from racing through the fields attempting to flee from the explosions. Beads of sweat lined Kathleen’s forehead. She washed her face with cold water. Even after seven years in the big house Kathleen marveled at the indoor plumbing, something even the Earl of Strathearn lacked. The baby kicked again. Kathleen gasped and held her stomach. “You certainly want out,” she said to the infant and patted her stomach. “Well, you aren’t the only one, love.” Kathleen dressed and had a light breakfast of tea and toast. Once finished she picked up a small bundle and headed out the door. The trolley was ing.

Kathleen got on and took it to Saint Vibiana’s. The cathedral was hosting a Saint Patrick’s Day celebration. Kathleen wanted to drop off a quilt she had made for the raffle. Mrs. Finley, the rectory caretaker, greeted Kathleen when she knocked on the door. Mrs. Finley was an elderly woman. Her gray hair was pinned high, and she was dressed in a black frock she’d worn ever since her husband had died sixteen years ago. Mrs. Finley took the quilt Kathleen had wrapped in butcher paper. “Oh, my dear, do come in and rest a moment.” Kathleen entered the rectory. “My goodness, you shouldn’t be out in your condition,” Mrs. Finley said. Kathleen smiled and said, “It does me good to be out and about. Being cooped up in that big house is enough to make one go mad. Besides, I wanted to get this quilt to you for the bazaar.” “Why thank you. Would you like a cup of tea?” “No thank you. I have a few more errands to run before Thomas arrives from school.” “Oh yes, I heard what he did to poor Mrs. Newsome’s cat.” “Yes,” Kathleen replied quietly. “Oh well, boys will be boys.” Kathleen bid the elderly woman a good day and left the rectory. She took the trolley to the bakery and picked up a cake and bread. Kathleen missed the trolley as she left the bakery so decided to walk to the next stop. As she crossed Broadway, Kathleen felt a sharp pain in her side. She gasped and continued on. She made it across the street and walked up the block. She was hit with another searing pain. She broke out in a cold sweat. She removed a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her forehead. She didn’t want to draw attention any more than her condition already had, so she continued up the street. With each step the pain intensified. She made it to a bench and sat down. The pain was unbearable. She forced a smile at the pedestrians. A white-hot shot of pain hit her like a haymaker. She felt dizzy.

“Oh my Lord, that woman is bleeding,” a ing pedestrian exclaimed. Kathleen looked down and saw a red pool forming at her feet. The world spun, and all went black.

Two cowboys led a horse into the corral. Sean was talking to Charlie just outside the fence when the jughead mustang reared back and kicked Caleb Munger square in the head. Munger went down like a wet rag. The other cowboy in the corral jumped the fence and escaped the wild horse. The mustang hawed and kicked wildly, bucking this way and that until it got its left leg caught in the fence. Sean marched over to the mustang, pulled his Colt, and put a bullet in the horse’s head. Charlie ran over to where Munger lay on the ground. Sean looked at the men who had gathered in the corral. Charlie shook his head. “Let’s get Caleb in the barn,” Charlie said. “I need two men to deal with the horse.” Four cowboys picked up their dead comrade and carried him into the barn. Two men immediately lassoed the dead mustang about the neck, got on their horses, and dragged the carcass away. “Damn jughead,” Charlie said as he walked over to Sean. “The man, Caleb, he have any kin?” Charlie scratched his jaw. “I believe he had a cousin in Kansas.” “Get word to the cousin. I’ll pay to have his body shipped if they care to bury him there.” Charlie nodded and rubbed the back of his neck “Hell of a thing to be here one minute and dead the next.” “The box awaits us all, Charlie.” “Still, it’s a hell of a thing. Damn jughead.”

Sean gave Charlie a pat on the shoulder. “Just damn luck.” Sean remained at the ranch longer than he’d planned. Caleb’s death had been unexpected, and he felt the need to stay. It was late afternoon before Sean got under way. He missed the rider delivering a telegraph to the ranch. By the time Sean returned home, it was well after sunset. He was surprised to see Dr. Walters when he entered the big house. The physician’s face immediately alerted Sean. “Kathleen?” “She’s had an accident, Sean. The baby came early.” Sean didn’t wait to hear any more. He raced up the hand-tooled mahogany stairway to their room. Kathleen was in bed. The infant, a girl, lay next to her. “Oh, Sean, you’re home,” Kathleen said in a weak voice barely above a whisper. “This is our daughter.” Sean knelt down next to the bed. Even in the dim light Sean could see Kathleen’s normal rosy complexion had turned an ashen gray. “How are you, Kathleen?” “Our daughter is healthy, even if she came a wee bit early,” Kathleen whispered. Sean looked at the sleeping infant and forced a smile. “She’s a beauty, just like her mother.” “I’m sorry,” Kathleen whispered. Sean shook his head and placed his finger on Kathleen’s lips. “No.” Kathleen closed her eyes. Sean sat by the bedside and kept watch. Kathleen died just before dawn. It was Saint Patrick’s Day.

Thanksgiving

Reggie didn’t telegraph; neither did Harry. Monday morning Thomas opened the offices of Hartford Oil & Exploration. The investors descended. Thomas sent more cables. They went unanswered as well. By Tuesday Hartford Oil & Exploration was no more. Many of the investors lost all their money. Rumors flew. Talk was cheap, but Hartford Oil’s failure was the talk in the business district. The company had appeared out of nowhere, paid great dividends for the first three months, and then sputtered and collapsed after another seven. Ill funded and ill run was the word. No one dared say that to Sean McGuire. No one had to. Sean was well aware of his son’s grand failure. Thanksgiving was a somber affair at the big house. Thomas and Olivia made their appearance along with baby Michael. Jenny loved her infant nephew and doted on him as if he were the Prince of Wales. Olivia was happy to finally be able to leave her house. Since Hartford Oil’s failure Olivia had not cared to face the stares of the merchants and the women whose husbands had lost money in Thomas’s company. She had remained a self-imposed prisoner in her home. Thomas had been aloof, angry, and unrepentant. What soon became apparent in the aftermath of Hartford Oil’s demise was the simple fact the company had had no real assets. It had been a firm on paper only that had paid its investors with other investors’ money. Reggie had raised the initial capital from friends back east. Everybody wanted in on the California oil game, and Reggie had used the money from subsequent investors to pay off the first group. Word had quickly spread that Hartford Oil was a hot company. That had attracted more investors and more money. In its ten months of operation the company had acquired over $1 million in capital. Some of that had gone to pay the bigger investors. Reggie and Harry had pocketed the rest and departed California, leaving Thomas holding the bag. In addition, Charlie, Hadley, John Bear and Angelina and their two children, Helen, and Samuel had come to the big house for the holiday. Dinner progressed without mention of Hartford Oil. were present. Everyone kept the conversation light and breezy. The fact that children were present made it easier. Thomas kept quiet and drank his father’s twenty-year-old scotch. The meal was a success. It

was later in the library over cigars and whiskey that the day’s celebrations came to a halt. Sean inquired of Hadley how she and the ostrich farm were doing. “We are doing all right,” Hadley replied. Sean knew Hadley was lying. John Bear, who neither drank nor smoked had ed the others in the room. He sat silent in his chair. Thomas looked at his father with a smirk. “Why are you so concerned about some birds?” Sean ignored Thomas. “I may have a solution to your problem, Hadley.” Hadley smiled. “I’m not going to sell out.” “I’m not suggesting you do,” Sean replied. “Are you going to wave your magic wand of dollars?” Thomas cracked. Sean looked at his son. “If you are unable to hold you liquor, I suggest you stop.” Thomas remained silent. There was an uneasy moment, then a knock on the door. Angelina stood in the doorway. “I’m sorry; the children are getting restless.” John Bear nodded. He turned to Sean. “Helen and Samuel, they want to see their cousins. It is a long ride.” “I understand.” John Bear thanked Sean for dinner and exited the room. The conversation stuck to small talk. Sean discussed cattle with Charlie briefly. Hadley and McGrath discussed horses and cards. After a short while the group broke up. “Please remain,” Sean told his son as the rest of the guests left the study. Thomas realized that under his present circumstances it was prudent not to argue

with his father. He sat in his chair looking contrite. “What is your problem?” Sean asked. “I am sorry,” Thomas replied flatly. “I would hope you are,” Sean said without missing a beat. “You and your company of thieves hurt a good number of people. I’m surprised that the city attorney hasn’t filed charges against you.” “It wasn’t my fault. Reggie and Harry both told me—” Sean held up his hand, cutting Thomas off. “You were the vice president. The company failed on your watch.” Thomas sat silent, looking bewildered. “It was your job to know what was going on. Instead you took the word of two blue blood thieves, and you see where it got you.” “What do you want me to do?” Thomas asked. “I want you to act like a man,” Sean replied coolly. “You are going to work for me. I will pay you a half salary. The other half will go into a fund so you can pay off the investors who lost their money.” Thomas sat up and adjusted his coat sleeves. “I am capable of finding employment—” “Not in this city,” Sean interrupted. “Who is going to give you a job besides shoveling horse shit at Tomlinson’s? How do you expect to pay people back?” “I don’t expect to pay them back. It was an investment. People lose money every day in the market. It’s called risk, Father.” “Your partners stole that money.” “Then Reggie and Harry should be the ones to make restitution.” “What do you plan to do about Danny Chin?”

“Nothing.” “Nothing?” “That’s right, Father. Why should I show Danny Chin preference over any other investor in Hartford Oil? He could have taken his dividend. He wanted more stock instead. We gave him what he wanted. He will have to live with that decision.” “I hope you’re right, Thomas.” Thomas stood up. “All of this talk has given me a headache. Good evening, Father.” Sean sipped his scotch as his son walked out of the library.

A Meeting

Sean paid a call to the Golden Dragon the Friday after Thanksgiving. Walter Sing greeted him cordially at the entrance. The younger man was dressed in a fashionable English tailored suit. “I would like to speak to your father.” Walter Sing bowed his head. “I am sorry, Mr. McGuire, but my father is not here at the moment.” “I can wait.” “It may be some time.” “I understand.” Sean thanked Walter Sing and was about to leave. “Is there anything you wish me to relay to my father?” Walter Sing asked. “No.” Sean studied the man for a moment. “Pardon my curiosity—what is it like to exist between two cultures?” Walter Sing smiled. “One adapts.” Sean chuckled. “That we do … or die. Please tell your father I stopped by.” Walter Sing bowed. “I will.” Sean stopped by his office long enough to read his mail and collect a large leather wallet and William McGrath, who had become his right-hand man. Sean rarely took a meeting without McGrath at his side. The two men rode a cab to the offices of the Tribune. They took the elevator up to the building’s fourth floor and the offices of Otis Grayson. Grayson shooed the paper’s editor out of his office when he saw Sean McGuire. “Please come in, Sean … And your man.” Grayson gestured to two chairs as he closed the door. He opened a beautiful wooden box sitting on his desk and

offered the men cigars. Both declined. Grayson shrugged his shoulders and took a seat behind his large mahogany desk. “What can I do for you?” “I thought you might be interested in a deal, Otis,” Sean said. “Oh, how is that?” “It’s no secret that you and your business partners would like to see Hadley Cobb and her ostrich farm go.” Grayson kept a poker face and replied in a bored tone of voice, “Is Miss Cobb interested in selling her property?” “I’m suggesting a trade.” “I understand business has been down. If Hadley Cobb doesn’t make her tax payment, the property will be auctioned, and I could pick it up for half its worth.” “Yes.” Sean fixed Grayson with a cool look. “And you know Hadley Cobb’s taxes will be paid.” Grayson grinned and nodded. “Yes, we could both continue this way. What do you have in mind?” “You have ten acres of undeveloped land in Lincoln Heights. I suggest you trade Hadley properties.” Grayson arched a bushy eyebrow. “Ten acres for seven?” “That’s right. I would also like you to throw in an additional five thousand dollars. I will match that. As far as Hadley Cobb is concerned, the entire amount came from you.” “That is a rather bold request, Sean.” “It’s not a request.” Grayson looked confused for a moment. “Are you threatening me?” “No. I would never threaten you, Otis,” Sean replied in a calm tone of voice.

“You know that Hadley’s property is worth at least twice what your Lincoln Heights acreage would get.” Sean removed a large leather wallet from his coat pocket and placed it on Grayson’s desk. “You can call this incentive.” Grayson opened the wallet. Inside were clippings and statements. “Those are sworn testimonies, news articles, and tract deeds, all showing how you obtained your wealth up north before you came to Los Angeles. You had Chinese run off and killed. You took their claims and then resold them to white prospectors, usually greenhorns who didn’t know their asses from a hole in the ground. This isn’t enough to stop you, but it sure will take the steam out of your engines.” Grayson began to rise. “Now just—” William McGrath stood up. Grayson sat back down. He opened his palms in mock surrender. “Making a profit is the American way. Don’t tell me you didn’t kill men and cause others to die building the Oso Negro.” “I’m not here to talk about the Oso Negro, Otis. Take the deal. You know it’s fair and the best for all concerned.” Grayson sighed. “Fine, but have your man wait outside.” Sean gave McGrath a nod, and the cowboy exited the office. Grayson got up and went over to the large safe standing against the wall. He opened it and retrieved the deed and $5,000. Sean placed the deed for Hadley’s property on the publisher’s desk. Grayson signed the Lincoln Heights deed and held it out to Sean. “There will be repercussions,” Grayson said. “There generally are.” Sean gave Grayson a cold look. “I know it was you who hired Dougherty and Hagen. Lightning has been known to strike more than once, General.” Sean took the deed and money, stuffed them in his coat pocket, and tipped his hat. “A good day to you.” Grayson reached for the leather wallet containing the damning evidence. Sean

grabbed the publisher’s wrist. “This stays with me. It will remain safe as long as there are no repercussions upon Miss Cobb or John Bear.” Grayson nodded. Sean took the wallet and marched out of the office.

Thomas McGuire was about to enter Madam Wong’s when Danny Chin tapped him on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Mr. McGuire,” Danny Chin said. Thomas turned. He forced a smile. “Yes.” Danny Chin nodded toward the entrance. “I guess you have plenty of time since your business failed, which brings up the issue of payment. You owe us, Thomas.” Thomas laughed nervously. “Danny, Hartford Oil offered to pay you. You chose to take shares instead. Until this gets through the courts and is settled, you’ll have to wait like the other investors.” “Courts?” “Yes, it was my partners who bankrupted the company. I’m as much a victim as you are.” “I see. And who are these partners?” “Reggie Winslow and Harry Patton. Their names have been in the papers. They have left the state, but I promise you that my attorney is pursuing their extradition.” “Extradition?” “Why yes, to try them in California. They must be prosecuted in this state. If I knew where they were, I would thrash them both and drag them back to stand trial.” Danny Chin smiled and slapped Thomas gently on the cheek. “I bet you would.

You have a fine evening, Thomas. Please tell Madam Wong I will stop by later.” Danny Chin walked away. Thomas entered the opium den in search of a peace that he would never find.

Many businesses in Chinatown were closing for the day. No one took notice as various shopkeepers surreptitiously slipped inside the Golden Dragon through the rear entrance off the alley. Tony Chen escorted the men to a back room, where Lee Sing was seated on a straw mat. Walter Sing stood watch at the door. A dozen merchants entered and sat down on straw mats spread across the floor. Lee Sing nodded to Walter, who closed the door. “We all know the reason we have come today,” Lee Sing said. “Danny Chin has violated the pact we have had with the Chin Tong for generations.” The voices of the shopkeepers rang out. “What are we to do?” “Where can we go for justice?” Lee Sing held up his hand. The men quieted. “If we are to go up against Danny Chin, we must be united.” There were murmurs among the men. “The Chin Tong is powerful. They killed Yo Quang, and no one has been arrested,” said Sam Wing, one of the merchants. He was a middle-aged man with specks of gray in his hair. Lee Sing nodded in agreement. “I have failed to locate Yo Quang’s murderer. He has to be one of Danny Chin’s yin xing triad. We must be patient.” There were more grumblings and murmurs among the men. “How long can we wait?” asked Lay Za, another shop owner. “Many of our friends and brothers have been forced to sign over their shops to the tong and now work as slaves. Most of us can’t hold out much longer.”

“I understand, but we must not act hastily. The elders must welcome Danny’s Chin’s removal.” “When will that be?” Lay Za asked. “I do not know, Lay Za. I do know that Danny Chin will go too far. All despots do. When he does, we must be ready,” Lee Sing replied. There were murmurs among the men, then silence. All the men nodded their acceptance of Lee Sing’s plan. One by one in intervals of five minutes the shopkeepers were escorted to the rear entrance, where they departed into the inky darkness of the alley.

Jenny

Sean had no time to grieve after Kathleen’s death. He had a seven-year-old son and an infant to care for. Sean took single parenting on as he had building the ranch. He was shocked to discover just how headstrong and willful Thomas was. Sean and his son butted heads immediately. Sean decided that Thomas’s sense of entitlement would best be dealt with at a military academy, so he packed the young boy off to a school in Massachusetts, where Thomas remained until he was fourteen. Upon graduation Thomas transferred to a Jesuit-run prep school in New York. The estrangement of father and son was now set in stone. The prep school only exacerbated Thomas’s sense of entitlement. Those who came from poorer homes received the full brunt of the clerics’ wrath, but the priests were hesitant to discipline the sons of wealthy families. Thomas was content that he was the son of a wealthy California rancher. His teachers gave him a wide berth. Thomas never wanted to be anything but wealthy. The rules didn’t apply when you had money. Jenny was the opposite of her brother. She was seven years younger and had inherited her father’s heart. She excelled in school and loved to go to the Oso Negro. When Jenny was twelve, she rode with Charlie and the men on a cattle drive up to Stockton. The second day out a dense fog set in. Jenny could barely make out her mare’s head. When the fog finally lifted Jenny realized she had become separated from the cowboys and the herd. She was unfazed by this fact. Charlie sent two men out looking for Jenny as soon as he discovered she was missing. He did not care to contemplate returning to the Oso Negro and reporting to Sean that Jenny was lost. The two cowboys returned near sunset empty-handed. Charlie spent a sleepless night under the stars. Once Jenny realized she was separated from the cowboys, she attempted to take her bearings. The sky was gray, and there was no sun to be seen. Jenny decided to travel in the direction she had been going. A few miles farther she found a snug cave. She tied her horse and set up camp. She built a small fire and had a dinner of corn dodgers and jerky. The evening sky was clear, and Jenny was able

to locate Orion. She realized that she had gone too far east. The following morning Jenny saddled her mare and was on her way just as the first rays peeked over the mountains. She caught up with Charlie and the herd midday. The cowboys gave a big cheer when Jenny rode up. “You scared the hell out of me,” Charlie informed her. Jenny gave Charlie a quizzical look. “Didn’t you think I could take care of myself?” The foreman scratched the week-old stubble on his jaw. “Well, hell yes I knew you could take care of yourself. I was just concerned that you might’ve thought we was lost.” Jenny grinned. “You are the worst liar, Charlie.” Jenny headed over to the cook’s wagon, and he gave her an extra helping of bacon and biscuits. Jenny continued on with the herd to Stockton. After that drive nobody questioned her ability. She was one of the cowboys. Sean was troubled. Thomas was a ne’er-do-well with few skills beyond his gift of gab. Jenny could ride and rope as well as any of the cowboys. Well-heeled gentlemen did not pursue such girls. Sean wanted the best for both of his children but especially for Jenny. She was the living embodiment of Kathleen. Sean could not say no to his daughter. “You seem to spend more time with the cowboys at the Oso Negro than you do with the gentlemen in town,” Sean observed one night over dinner. Jenny looked at her father. “The cowboys are far more interesting than the flashy johns whose company Thomas enjoys.” “I don’t mean to tell you who to see—” “Yes you do, Father. it it. You would rather see me on the arm of one of those Broadway businessmen than riding with one of your cowboys.” Sean stared down at his plate. Jenny was exactly like her mother. She cut straight to the point and made an argument that damned you before you even got out of

the gate. “How is the mare handling?” Sean asked, changing the subject. “She’s fine, and thank you, Father.” “For what?” “For not being a meddlesome parent like Charlotte Tuttle’s father.” “Judge Tuttle is meddlesome?” “Yes. And you aren’t, and I love you for that. Don’t worry; I will never fail you, Father.” “I never thought you would, dear.” “Good.” Sean had had no idea being a single parent could be so damned confusing.

The Message

Hadley was upset when Sean presented her with the deed for the Lincoln Heights acreage. She had come to the big house that evening at Sean’s request. “How could you give my property away?” Hadley demanded. They were in the library. Sean held out a whiskey. “You were going under. Grayson and his cronies would have snatched up your property and sold your birds for dog food.” Hadley took the whiskey. It was hard to argue against Sean’s logic. She had confronted John Bear, and he’d confirmed that Sean had been keeping the farm afloat. “You certainly are direct.” Sean grinned. “When have you known me not to be?” He poured himself a shot. “It would have been nice to be consulted.” “I it it was a bit underhanded, but your father never took me off the deed for a reason. He knew I would never allow you to fail. You have more than enough land and capital to get you set up.” Hadley smiled. “You’re right, and I do thank you.” She kissed Sean on the cheek. Sean was surprised by Hadley’s gesture, but he certainly didn’t mind it. Jenny entered the library. She saw her father and Hadley together but did not comment. “It’s Olivia. Thomas has gone after Reggie and Harry.” “What?” Sean asked. Sean and the two women went to the large living room, where Olivia was seated on a green velvet sofa. “What is going on, my dear?” Sean asked.

Olivia stood up and greeted her father-in-law. “I should have come to you right away, but Thomas made me promise not to tell you. I haven’t heard from him in two days. He promised to wire me as soon as he arrived.” Sean put his arm around Olivia and consoled her. “Tell me what, my dear?” “Thomas received a telegram that Reggie and Harry were in Monterey. He went to confront them.” The news hit Sean like a sucker punch. “What telegram?” Olivia shook her head. “I don’t know. Thomas only told me he received a telegram from someone in Monterey that said Reggie and Harry were there. He should have ed me by now.” Sean looked at Jenny. “Did you know anything about this?” Jenny shook her head. “No.” “I am sorry, Hadley,” Sean said. “We’ll have to postpone our dinner.” “If you don’t mind, I’ll stay with Jenny and Olivia,” Hadley replied. “You’re a peach.” Sean grabbed his coat and hat and hurried out of the house. Outside, he hailed a cab. “Western Union,” Sean told the driver. Five minutes later Sean was sending a telegram to the sheriff in Monterey. The reply was swift: DID NOT SEND TELEGRAM. NO KNOWLEDGE OF WINSLOW OR PATTON BEING IN REGION. UNIDENTIFIED BODY FOUND. DESCRIBE THOMAS. Sean quickly dashed off a description of his son to the operator, who sent the message to the sheriff. The sheriff’s reply was brief: PLEASE ADVISE WHEN YOU CAN IDENTIFY THE BODY. It was as if he had been kicked in the chest by a mule. Sean gripped the counter and fought to maintain his composure. “Please wire the sheriff that I will leave on the next train.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. McGuire. I am sorry,” the operator replied. Sean placed a ten-dollar gold piece on the counter. “I would appreciate it if you would keep this to yourself.” “No need for that, Mr. McGuire.” The operator imitated zipping his lips. Sean left the gold piece on the counter and exited the Western Union office.

Sean arrived in Monterey the following day and went straight to the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Clay Bodean was a tall, soft-spoken man with lean features. He took Sean to view the body. It was indeed Thomas. His throat had been neatly cut. Sean clenched his jaw and kept his composure. “What happened?” Sean asked when they returned to Sheriff Bodean’s office. “That’s what we were hoping you might help us out with,” Sheriff Bodean said. “Your son’s body was found two days ago near the outskirts of town. I’ve talked to the Western Union operator. A blond kid with curly hair delivered the message that was sent to Thomas. My guess is that’s Johnny Guthrie. I’ve got my deputy out looking for him now. I did get a copy of the telegram that was sent to Thomas.” Sheriff Bodean removed a slip of paper from his desk and handed it to Sean. “WINSLOW AND PATTON IN MONTEREY. DOO NOT KNOW HOW LONG THEY WILL STAY. A FRIEND. Sean pocketed the telegram. The door opened, and the deputy came in with a young boy in tow. The boy couldn’t have been any older than ten. His clothes were tattered, and he looked like he hadn’t seen a bathtub since his last birthday. Sheriff Bodean smiled. “Mr. McGuire, my deputy, Cody Jerret. And this here is Johnny Guthrie.”

Sean and the deputy shook hands. The young boy had his arms folded defiantly across his chest and cast a wary eye at Sean and the two lawmen. Sean offered his hand. “Hello, Master Guthrie.” Johnny frowned at Sean. “Whaddya want with me?” Deputy Jerret boxed the boy’s head. “Answer the man, if you know what’s good for you, you little mick scum.” Sheriff Bodean raised his eyebrows and gave the deputy a look. “You did a fine job, Cody. I think Mr. McGuire and I will take it from here.” Deputy Jerret gave a reluctant nod. “You’ve got to be hard on that little mick. All any of ’em monkeys understand is a big stick.” He tipped his hat and exited the office. “I’m sorry,” Sheriff Bodean said. “You can’t help it if your deputy is an ignorant gobshite, Sheriff.” Sean looked at the young boy. “You delivered a message to the Western Union office three days ago.” “Yeah, so? It ain’t a crime,” Johnny cracked. Sean took out a ten-dollar gold piece and held it out to the boy. “Who gave you the message to deliver?” “I don’t know,” the boy replied in a dejected tone of voice. “Can you describe him?” “He was a Chink. He gave me two bits to deliver the telegram.” The news of a Chinese man confirmed Sean’s suspicions. “What did he look like?” Johnny shrugged his shoulders. “A Chink. They all look alike.” The boy used his fingers to slant his eyes. “He had a tattoo on his wrist. It was a bug and had Chink words under it.”

Sean grabbed a pencil and piece of paper from the sheriff’s desk and quickly drew a scorpion. He held the drawing up for Johnny to see. “Did it look like this?” Johnny looked at the drawing and shook his head. “No, his was like a spider.” “Is there anything else you can tell me about the man?” Johnny thought for a moment. “He had a funny eye.” He pointed to his left eye. “It kept drifting.” Sean handed the gold piece to the boy. “You’re going to give him that?” Sheriff Bodean asked. “Yes.” Sean patted Johnny on the head. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” Johnny Guthrie didn’t stick around to see if Sean would take the coin back. He jumped up and tipped his cap. “A good day to you, Master McGuire.” He scrambled out the door and was gone. Sheriff Bodean shook his head. “It’s your money.” “I knew a boy like that once, full of piss and vinegar.” Sean took out his wallet and laid some bills on the sheriff’s desk. “I must return home. If you would please arrange to have my son’s body sent to Los Angeles, I would appreciate it.” Sean wrote the address down on a slip of paper and gave it to the sheriff. “Don’t worry, Mr. McGuire; I’ll take care of it.” Sean shook the sheriff’s hand. “Thank you.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “I can just make the next train.” Sean walked out of Sheriff Bodean’s office. Sheriff Bodean sat at his desk for a while. He had been a lawman over a dozen years and had never seen anyone maintain their composure the way Sean McGuire had when he’d seen his son’s body. Bodean had lost a son to cholera four years ago and would have lost his mind had it not been for his wife’s love and her reminding him that he still had two daughters who loved him. Sheriff Bodean picked up the money and went to arrange for Thomas to travel home.

Sean sat alone at the rear of the train car and stared out the window. When the train pulled into Central Station, he got out and took a cab home. Jenny was still up when he arrived at the big house. She took his hat and coat. Sean hugged her. “Thomas is gone,” he whispered. Jenny’s body stiffened. “What happened?” “I believe Danny Chin had your brother murdered.” Jenny gave her father a surprised look. “Danny Chin? No Chinese would dare. Can you prove this?” “Probably not.” Jenny looked directly at Sean. “But you’re going to deal with this?” “Yes.” Jenny frowned. “Thomas was a dandy. He squandered what was given to him and treated Olivia shabbily. He was an opium .” “He was my son!” Sean exploded, cutting Jenny off. “So your great plan is to go after the Chin Tong? They will kill you. What will that prove? Let it go, Father. We will bury Thomas and mourn him, and then we will move on.” Sean looked at Jenny in disbelief. He had not expected such a response from her. “He was your brother.” “And you are my father. I don’t have any more relatives to spare.” Sean held his arms open. Jenny embraced him. They clung to each other and sobbed.

The Funeral

Funerals generally bring out the best in humanity. Men who were ignored in life often have praise heaped upon them once they stop breathing. Such was the case with Thomas McGuire. Hundreds turned out for his funeral service. The eulogies were many. Had a stranger happened to enter the church, he or she would have thought a captain of industry had ed. In reality Thomas McGuire had inherited his money and position and spent his time gambling, drinking, and being the front man for a stock scam. That was not the story told in the press, though. Even the Tribune gave Thomas a worthy obituary. Such are the ironies of life versus death. Sean kept to himself after the funeral. The mayor suggested naming a park after Thomas. Sean was apathetic. The idea quickly died. Sean handled his business affairs, but they were no longer his focus. That was reserved for finding Thomas’s killer. Sean knew Danny Chin was the one behind the telegram sent to Thomas, but without concrete evidence he could do little. Sean waited. Sooner or later Danny Chin would slip, and then Sean would exact his justice. He didn’t have to wait long.

Justice

One wouldn’t know it was winter from the sunshine that bathed southern California. It was the type of weather that got people from the east moving west. It was also the type of weather that allowed real estate hustlers to glue oranges on oak trees and sell rubes a piece of the American dream in the sunshine. It was the grandest of times for some and the poorest of times for others, like the American worker laboring twelve hours, seven days a week. The industrial age was now in full swing. The frontier was closed. Fredrick Jackson Turner had officially declared it so four years earlier. A few motorcars had appeared in Los Angeles. The horse and buggy was still king, but its days were numbered. The first week in February Lee Sing received a message from China. It came by a personal courier, a mute coolie. Lee Sing opened the small slip of paper. Inside was the character . Lee Sing folded the paper, gave the messenger a gold piece, and thanked him. Lee Sing instructed Walter to have the merchants assemble in the restaurant later that evening. He then put on his hat and coat and walked the distance to the Bradbury Building since no cab would carry a Chinese, especially to the downtown business district. While it was common to see whites frequent Chinatown, it was rare to see a Chinese enter the white business district. Eyes turned when Lee Sing entered the building and took the elevator up to Sean’s office. Effie showed Lee Sing into Sean’s office and then brought in a tray with cups and a pot of hot jasmine tea and excused herself. Sean poured a cup for Lee Sing. He didn’t bother to pour one for William McGrath, who stood in the corner by the door. McGrath liked tea about as much as a cat liked cabbage. Sean handed the cup to Lee Sing and then took a seat behind his desk. “Thank you,” Lee Sing said. Sean smiled. “It is good to see an old friend.” “We have common interests that should allow us to make necessary changes in

the New Year and prosper.” “You are speaking of Danny Chin,” Sean replied matter-of-factly. Normally Lee Sing would engage in the protocol of the tea ceremony before discussing business, but he had long ago become accustomed to Sean’s directness and preference for brevity and action. Lee Sing bowed his head. “Yes.” “Then you are aware that Danny Chin was the one who had Thomas murdered?” “Yes.” Sean glanced over at McGrath, who wore the expression of a marble statue. “If you knew, then why did you wait to come and see me?” “Why have you not pursued Danny Chin?” Lee Sing asked. Sean tapped his forefinger on the desk. “I was waiting.” “So was I. The Chin Tong is powerful. I am here to tell you that you cannot take your revenge upon Danny Chin.” Sean sat up in his chair. “What do you mean? I could’ve gone to the Tribune a month ago. Before the morning edition was out, Chinatown would have been in flames.” Lee Sing nodded. “You could have, but that is not who you are. It would not have guaranteed Danny Chin would be eliminated. It certainly wouldn’t have gotten you Thomas’s murderer.” Sean sank back in the chair and sighed. “You are right. Do you know who murdered my son?” Lee Sing shook his head. “I am sorry, no.” McGrath fixed Lee Sing with a cold look. “A few months back a bunch of you boys meet at Tomlinson’s corral. One of Chin’s men slit the throat of one of your buddies while they beat the daylights outta the rest of you.”

Lee Sing cast his eyes downward in shame. “Yes. My friend Yo Quang was murdered. I did not see his assassin.” “I did,” McGrath said. Lee Sing looked up. “Danny Chin is protected by a trio of yin xing, invisible assassins. Each has a distinctive tattoo—a scorpion, a spider, and a snake. No one knows for sure who these men are. Others in the tong have similar tattoos. These assassins live among us, but their identities are known only to the tong leader.” “It was the scorpion fella that killed your buddy,” McGrath said. “You saw his face?” Lee Sing asked, surprised. “Yes.” “The boy in Monterey who delivered the message to the telegraph office told me it was a Chinese man with a tattoo of a spider on his wrist who paid him to deliver the message,” Sean said. “He said the man had a wandering eye.” Lee Sing looked at Sean. “If you go against the tong, it could be dangerous for your family. If you kill Danny Chin, it will mean certain death.” Sean sat back and chuckled. McGrath slapped his thigh and laughed. “The tong is hundreds of generations old with thousands under its command. One, two, three dead Chinese…” Lee Sing shrugged his shoulders. “They will send as many as necessary to kill you if you kill Danny Chin.” McGrath stopped laughing and fixed Lee Sing with a cold stare. “How about I go down to Chinatown and put sixty Celestials in the ground today?” Lee Sing held his arms open in mock surrender. “It would not matter.” Sean put his fingertips together. “What do you propose?” Lee Sing bowed his head. “I will take care of Danny Chin.” “Fine. I want the bastard who killed Thomas,” Sean replied in almost a whisper.

“I will identify the men responsible.” Lee Sing held up a finger for emphasis. “I must caution you: killing even one of the yin xing will be difficult. These men have trained and devoted their lives to one thing—killing at the tong leader’s request.” McGrath patted his holster. “I’m not concerned.” Lee Sing smiled. “Thank you for your time, Mr. McGuire. You have my word Danny Chin will be punished accordingly for his deeds.” Lee Sing stood and bowed and exited the office. “Why do I get the feeling that fella is yanking your chain?” McGrath asked. “Lee Sing has always been a good friend.” “I beg your pardon, Mr. McGuire, but your Celestial buddy ain’t showing all his cards. He didn’t come here just to tell you to lay off Danny Chin.” Sean sat back and thought a moment. “I agree it is strange for Lee Sing to initiate . I have always gone to his establishment. I’m going to give him his head. Hopefully he will identify the assassins for us.” “Fuck the Chinaman and sittin’ on our duffs.” Without waiting for a response, William McGrath marched out of the office. McGrath went to Fong’s Laundry on Spring Street. A young woman stood at the counter. McGrath pushed past the woman and marched to the rear of the shop. He spotted the older man he had seen talking to Yo Quang’s assassin. The man was berating one of the workers, a man in his twenties. A teenage boy labored over a tub of steaming water nearby. McGrath walked over and produced a badge. It was his father’s old badge, but the men didn’t know that. “You three, come with me,” he ordered. The three men quickly obeyed. The sight of a white man with a badge was not something any Chinese took lightly. They followed McGrath as he marched down the alley and then cut over to a second alley before coming to the rear of a building. McGrath opened the door and gestured for the men to enter. The three Chinese

hesitated and then entered the building. It had once been a dry goods store. The owner had died some years ago, and the building had remained empty. Besides a few dusty shelves and a counter the shop was empty. McGrath lifted the door to the shop’s cellar and indicated for the men to enter. The Celestials hesitated. “One of you monkeys died down there. I need you three to go and get your buddy. You don’t, you go back to China, comprende?” McGrath barked. The three men spoke Chinese in hushed tones. McGrath frowned. “Fuck this. I don’t have time.” He grabbed the older man and shoved him down the cellar. He grabbed the second man and did the same. The teenager ran for the door. There was a loud click as McGrath cocked his Remington. “Stop!” he shouted. The young man froze. He turned slowly. McGrath indicated to the cellar with his pistol. The boy shuffled over and descended the steps. McGrath followed. The room was black, but McGrath knew his way. Sean had purchased the shop shortly after the previous owner had died. Shamrock Oil paid the taxes on the property, but kept the shop unoccupied. It was a place where Sean and now McGrath could carry out discreet interrogations. McGrath lit a lantern. The amber glow surrounded him like a halo as he carried the lantern over to a post and hung it on a peg. The three Chinese looked about the cellar. “There is nobody here,” the Chinese man in his twenties said. “You’re a smart monkey. That’s good you can speak English. I’ll make this real simple. A fella by the name of Yo Quang got his throat slit. The monkey that did it gave that monkey the knife.” McGrath pointed the pistol at the older man. “I want the name of the monkey that killed Yo Quang.” The three Chinese stood silent. The two younger men looked with pleading eyes at the older man. Finally the older man shouted something in Chinese at the two workers. “What did he say?” McGrath demanded.

The man in his twenties looked at McGrath with downcast eyes. “I am sorry. We know nothing.” “The fuck you do.” McGrath pistol-whipped the older man across the face. The man collapsed to the floor. McGrath pointed the pistol at the two younger men. “Don’t even think about it.” He nodded at two pairs of cuffs hanging from a pipe that ran overhead. “Go on and cuff yourself.” The man in his twenties complied. The teenager stood frozen and pissed his pants. McGrath cuffed the kid to the pipe. He shoved wads of cloth into the men’s mouths, gagging them. McGrath walked over to the older man, who lay on the dirt floor. “Tell me the name of Danny Chin’s yin xing with the scorpion tattoo.” A look of shock filled the older man’s face. McGrath chuckled. “Didn’t think I knew about that. You’ve got no idea who you are dealing with.” He fixed the old man with a cold stare. “The name.” The two cuffed men made sounds, but McGrath couldn’t understand them. He kicked the old man. “The name.” The old man spit at McGrath. McGrath calmly walked over and picked up an ax that was leaning against the wall and returned. “The name.” The old man stared hatefully at McGrath. McGrath brought the ax down on the man’s left wrist, cleanly severing the hand. The old man screamed in pain. “The name.” The old man cursed McGrath. The ax came down on the old man’s right ankle, severing the foot. Blood streamed onto the dirt floor, turning it a brackish brown. The old man wailed in agony.

McGrath looked down at the man. “You’re bleeding out, old man. Give me the name, and I’ll stop the bleeding.” The two cuffed men struggled against their bonds and made sounds. McGrath didn’t care. They were fifteen feet belowground. Neither of the adjacent buildings was occupied. McGrath took out his watch and glanced at it. “Fuck it.” He put the watch back in his vest and brought the ax down on the old man’s other ankle. The man howled. Blood formed a pool around the old man. Surprisingly McGrath’s clothes were not stained. “I’m gonna start working up that arm of yours. I won’t even leave you a hand to wipe your ass. The name.” The old man groaned and bled. The ax came down on his elbow. His body jerked upward and then fell back. “What was that?” McGrath cupped his ear. He looked down at the old man and watched as the man’s life slipped away like a shadow vanishing. The old man jerked and then stared up at McGrath with dead eyes. McGrath marched over to the two cuffed men. The teenager had defecated in his pants before suffocating on the rag stuffed in his mouth. “Tough luck,” McGrath remarked when he discovered the dead teenager. He pulled the rag from the remaining man’s mouth. “Are you going to give me the name?”

The twelve Chinatown merchants that Walter had summoned earlier were gathered at the Golden Dragon that evening. Lee Sing showed them the message he’d received that morning. A messenger was sent to retrieve Danny Chin. He arrived with two of his men. The merchants descended upon the trio as soon as they set foot in the restaurant and bound them. Danny Chin was outraged at this treatment. He and his two men were led to a small room in the rear of the restaurant. Lee Sing showed Danny Chin the message he’d received from the elders in China. Danny Chin grew silent. He had violated long-standing agreements. The elders would not tolerate such a leader.

“I would ask that you reveal the names of your assassins,” Lee Sing said. Danny Chin spit on Lee Sing. “I will tell you nothing.” Lee Sing gave a nod. The merchants fell upon Danny Chin like the Roman Senate attacking Caesar. Lee Sing saw one of prisoners had a scorpion tattoo on his wrist. The man had hidden his face when he’d held a knife to Walter Sing’s throat, but Lee Sing recognized the man’s eyes. The assassin realized he was discovered. Like a cobra striking, Lee Sing picked up a cleaver and sank it into the man’s head. He fell to the floor dead, the cleaver embedded in his skull. Lee Sing turned to the final man. “Tell us the names of the two remaining men, and you may live.” The frightened man sang. He told Lee Sing the man with the spider tattoo was named Long Chew and his companion was Yip See. Both were currently in San Francisco. Lee Sing gave a nod, and the men released their captive. The frightened man fled out the back door and ran down the alley. Lee Sing rushed out the front door and was waiting for the man at the end of the alley. He slit the man’s throat. Danny Chin and his bodyguards were put on carts and taken to Ah Piu’s pig corral. Their bodies were chopped and fed to the hungry hogs. The merchants thanked Lee Sing and vowed their allegiance. When Lee Sing and Walter returned to the restaurant, they found Sean and McGrath waiting. “We know the identity of one of the assassins,” Sean said. Lee Sing nodded and escorted Sean and McGrath to his office. “The man you seek is in San Francisco,” Lee Sing said. “What about Yip Pi? He was the man who killed your friend,” Sean said. “Yip Pi has been dealt with. So has Danny Chin.” Sean noticed the cuff of Lee Sing’s shirt was stained with blood. He fixed Lee Sing with a hard look. “What are you not telling me?”

Lee Sing bowed his head. “I will tell you everything, my friend.” Over the next fifteen minutes Lee Sing explained how he had dispatched letters to the tong elders in China and San Francisco shortly after Danny Chin had assumed the role as head of the tong. The tong would now elect a new leader. The tong also considered Long Chew and Yip See outcasts. Lee Sing folded his hands and looked at Sean. “Do you understand what I have just told you?” Sean pushed his hat back. “I believe so.” “You are free to go after them. I would council patience. These are not men to trifle with,” Lee Sing said. Sean leaned forward in his chair and smiled at his friend. “Somehow I don’t believe you were patient tonight, Lee Sing.” A slight smile slipped across Lee Sing’s lips. “I had the backing of Chinatown. If you fail to kill these men, they will come for revenge. Your family will not be safe.” Sean stood up. “I guess I’ll just have to kill the bastards.” Lee Sing wrote an address on a slip of paper and handed it to Sean. “This is most likely where you will find them.” Sean took the paper and tipped his hat. “Much obliged, Lee Sing.”

San Francisco

Sean could not go to the sheriff and request protection for his family. The sheriff would want to know why, and Sean couldn’t tell him he was knee-deep in the middle of a tong war. He had to locate Yip See and Long Chew before they vanished into one of the dozen Chinatowns in the state. He sent Jenny, Olivia, and little Michael with McGrath to the Oso Negro. His family would be safe at the ranch. Sean instructed McGrath to remain there and never allow Jenny, Olivia, or Michael out of his sight. McGrath argued that Sean needed a good gun going up against the assassins. Sean placed his hand on McGrath’s shoulder. “I know what I am up against. I cannot be focused if I am concerned for my family. You help me best by remaining with them. I know they will be safe with you.” McGrath was unable to argue. “You have nothing to worry about,” he replied. Sean bid Jenny farewell. He did not explain why they’d moved to the ranch, but Jenny knew it was somehow connected to Thomas’s death. “How long will you be gone?” Jenny asked, fighting back her tears. Sean gently stroked his daughter’s cheek. “A while.” Jenny reached up and kissed her father on the cheek. “Be well. We will wait for your return.” “You will be safe with William.” Sean swung up into the saddle, tipped his hat, and rode back to Los Angeles. He made certain Effie had all his business affairs in order. Effie did not inquire into the matters of her employer. She assured Sean things would run smoothly until he returned. Sean kissed Effie’s hand when he left the office. He had never done that before. That evening Effie went to Saint Vibiana’s and lit a candle in Sean’s name.

The following morning, just before sunrise, Sean arrived at Tomlinson’s corral to pick up his horse and gear. Charlie Davis was waiting. “You didn’t think you were going to do this thing alone, did you?” he asked with a chuckle. Sean was thankful for his friend’s company. He smiled and saddled his horse. “Why not take the train? It’s a hell of a lot faster,” Charlie said. Sean checked his guns. He slipped two into his saddlebag and put the other in his holster. “Stations can be staked out. Trains have schedules. That’s what got Thomas killed. I’ve yet to see the Chinaman who could dog either of us, Charlie.” Charlie pushed his Stetson back and grinned. “You’re right there. It’s just we’re gettin’ a wee bit gray to be doing this kind of thing.” Sean mounted his horse, a beautiful brown bay. “The hell we are.” The two men rode out of the city, heading north up the coast. They kept to the lowlands whenever possible and avoided the towns. Once Danny Chin’s men discovered he was no longer the tong leader, they would be on their guard. Strangers riding into a town would be noticed. Sean kept a steady but unhurried pace. He and Charlie trapped and fished for their food and slept out under the stars. If Long Chew and Yip See had spies in Los Angeles, they would only be able to report that Sean was not in the city. Sean had instructed Effie to tell anyone who might inquire that he was back east on business. It rained twice while the two men traveled north. Charlie laughed at how soft he had gotten over the years. “Rufus and me once made the trip from San Francisco to Los Angeles in a week and without slickers.” The two men had set up camp for the night and were finishing their coffee. Sean poked at the fire with a stick. “Yeah, Jedidiah and I covered a fair amount of real estate coming down the coast with Lieutenant Cranston.” He looked over at his friend. “I’m glad you came, Charlie. I don’t mean because I need another gun.”

“It’s kind of like getting some of the old days back.” “Yes it is, Charlie. Yes it is.” Sean poured a shot of whiskey into his tin cup and handed Charlie the bottle. “How come you never married?” Charlie thought for a minute as he poured a shot into his coffee. He corked the bottle and handed it back to Sean. “Guess I was just too busy. There was always something to do at the ranch. Besides, after you brought Kathleen to the Oso Negro, I figured you got the best, so why bother?” The two men sat silently drinking their coffee as the fire burned. Sean and Charlie arrived in San Francisco two days later. They boarded their horses at the stable and checked into the Palace Hotel. After a hot bath and a hot meal the two men took the trolley to the Chinatown address Lee Sing had given Sean. It was a ramshackle old building that was being used as a crib. Sean wanted to march right in, but Charlie suggested caution. Sean gave in to Charlie’s reasoning, and they staked out the house. Sean knew their presence was being noted. By midday, with no sign of the two men they were hunting, Sean decided they’d waited long enough and marched into the crib. The proprietor, a short Asian man wearing a Western tailored suit, looked up. Sean grabbed him and jammed the barrel of his Colt against the man’s head. “Normally I’d sit down and discuss business amiably. I don’t have time. Yip See and Long Chew, where are they?” The proprietor stammered. An Asian man in his thirties appeared at the top of the stairs. Charlie drew his Colt. The man put his hands up and slowly descended the stairs. “Yip See, Long Chew, where are they?” Sean asked the pimp again. The proprietor said something in Chinese. “Sean,” Charlie croaked weakly. Sean turned. They were surrounded by a dozen Chinese armed with lethallooking knives and cleavers. One of the men held a knife to Charlie’s throat. Sean kept his revolver in his hand but pointed it skyward. The group of Chinese

moved aside, and a tall, slender man in traditional robes walked forward. He looked to be Sean’s age and wore his gray hair in a long queue. “You can release Fu Young,” the man said. “He is but a simple pimp and knows nothing of your business, Mr. McGuire.” Sean was surprised that the man knew who he was. He released his grip on the pimp and holstered his Colt. “You have me at a disadvantage,” Sean said. The man smiled. “Wah Hing.” He held out his hand, and the two men shook. Wah Hing and his warriors escorted Sean and Charlie to his office, which sat on the second floor of a teahouse. Wah Hing offered the cowboys seats and served them lotus tea. “We have been expecting you, Mr. McGuire. Lee Sing telegraphed me a week ago.” “Then there was a new tong election,” Sean said. Wah Hing sipped his tea and remained silent. “The men I seek—” “The men you seek are outcasts,” Wah Hing said, cutting Sean off. Sean gave Wah Hing a questioning look. “Long Chew is the man who killed your son. Yip See …” Wah Hing trailed off. He stood and walked over to a cupboard. He removed a large glass jar and placed it on the desk. Floating in alcohol inside the vat were Yip See’s head and his hand with the snake tattoo. “Yip See is no longer a problem to anyone.” “And Long Chew?” Wah Hing resumed his seat behind the beautiful teakwood desk and shrugged his shoulders. “Long Chew fled the city. What happens to him is of no concern to us, Mr. McGuire. I do know that he left Sacramento yesterday afternoon and was traveling southeast.”

Sean had the information he needed. He stood and thanked Wah Hing. Charlie was happy to leave. Being around that many knife-wielding Chinese made him uneasy. He quietly exited the office. Sean stopped at the door and turned. “Why are you helping me, if you don’t mind my asking?” Wah Hing looked at the rancher. “Why did you help Lee Sing?” Sean tipped his hat and followed after Charlie. Sean wanted Charlie to take the train back to Los Angeles, but Charlie wouldn’t hear of it. “I came this far. You think I’m gonna let you go off chasing some renegade Chinaman alone? Jenny would have my scalp if I came back without you.” In the end the two friends put their horses on the train and purchased two tickets to Sacramento. Long Chew only had a day’s head start. Sean and Charlie had traversed the state many times over the years. Both men were confident they could pick up Long Chew’s trail and catch him within a couple of days. It was raining when the train pulled into Sacramento. Sean and Charlie had no choice but to put up for the night. They stayed with the horses at the livery. Sean paid the proprietor and explained that he and Charlie needed to get on the road as soon as the weather permitted. The livery manager took the money and told them to be sure the barn was latched properly when they left. He gave them a pot of coffee and some corn bread his wife had made the previous day. Two hours later the rain let up. Sean and Charlie saddled their horses and headed southeast out of town. The ground was wet, and the moon hung high and glowed brightly.

The Pursuit

The following morning Sean and Charlie came upon a small farm. Caldwell Harkem; his wife, Lillian; and their young son worked the beet-and-cabbage farm. From the looks of it they were living hand to mouth. Sean and Charlie stopped long enough to fill their canteens and inquire about Long Chew. “Haven’t seen any Chinese ’round here lately,” Caldwell said. They were standing in front of the family’s small stone cabin. Sean and Charlie wore their rigs and were dressed for tracking. The small boy tugged at his father’s shirttail. Caldwell looked down, and the boy whispered something to him. Caldwell smiled and looked back up at Sean and Charlie. “My son, Ben, wants to know which one of you is Wild Bill Hickok.” Sean chuckled and looked at the boy. “Neither of us, son. We’re just a pair of old cowboys looking for killer.” The boy looked up at Sean. “I saw a Chinese man,” he said in a near whisper. Sean glanced over at Charlie and then crouched down to look Ben in the eye. “You ain’t joshing, are you?” The boy shook his head. “Where’d you see him?” “Down by the creek. Me and Jimmy Cartwright saw him fishing there yesterday. Jimmy threw rocks at him and told him to get outta here.” “This man, what did he look like?” Sean asked. The little boy thought for a minute and then shrugged his shoulders. “Chinese. He had a funny eye.” Ben pointed to his eye and rolled it. Sean patted the boy on the head and gave him a gold piece. “Thanks. Where’s

the creek you saw this Chinaman fishing?” “That’d be Goose Creek,” Caldwell said. “It’s down ’bout three miles due south of here.” Sean and Charlie thanked the farmer and his son. They got on their horses and rode off. They easily found the creek. After a few minutes of reconnoitering Charlie spotted the former campsite. He got off his horse and studied the surroundings. “He was here all right. I’d say he’s got a good day on us. The rain didn’t help. We’ll pick up his trail. My guess he’s heading south for the valley. Maybe hide out among the farmhands.” Sean looked at the campsite and shook his head. “He’s going up in the hills. Long Chew knows he can’t go anywhere the tong holds power. There’s Chinese working on those farms, and the tong holds sway there.” Charlie rubbed his jaw. He looked south down the creek and then glanced at the formidable mountains that stood just a few miles away. “Damn, I hate when you’re right.” Sean and Charlie headed into the Sierras. Many of the old mining camps were gone. The gold had long played out or never was. The real strikes were now corporate operations. The region hadn’t changed much over the last forty years with the singular exception being that laborers, not wildcat prospectors, now worked the mines. Most Chinese who worked in the mines did so because they couldn’t find work in the city. There were dozens of camp towns where Long Chew could hide out. Sean and Charlie picked up his trail that afternoon. “One man, one horse, he’s traveling light and fast.” Charlie reached down and picked up a chunk of manure. He sniffed it and felt its texture. “He’s a day ahead.” They pursued Long Chew though the mining camps. Somehow he was able to elude them. They tracked him through Hangtown, No Name, and Red Dog. Whenever it looked like they were about to catch their quarry, Long Chew slipped away.

“I’m beginning to believe that invisible warrior stuff. That son of a bitch sure can vanish like a ghost,” Charlie remarked. They were camped by a creek. Charlie filled the canteens. The horses were hobbled and drank from the cool flowing water. Sean sat on a rock soaking his feet. He removed his Stetson and scratched his head. “We’ll catch him, and we’ll kill him, Charlie.” “Yeah, I suppose so.” Charlie finished with the canteens. He walked over and hung them on the saddles. Sean remained seated with his feet in the river. The cool water felt good running between his toes. Charlie picked up the tin coffeepot and dumped the contents onto their small fire, dousing the flame. He picked the griddle up and tossed out the bacon grease from their breakfast into a batch of bramble bushes. The spatula flew into the bushes with the grease. “Son of a bitch,” Charlie said, annoyed he hadn’t held on to the spatula. Charlie crouched down and reached into the bushes. He was unaware that a nest of rattlers had made their home in a large piece of driftwood sitting in the bushes. The hot grease had angered them. The first snake flew out and struck Charlie on the cheek. A second sunk its fangs into his neck. Then a third and fourth struck. “Jesus, God, get ’em off a me!” Charlie screamed. Sean turned. His friend was flaying about on the ground. Sean jumped up and raced over to Charlie. More than a dozen snakes clung to the cowboy. Sean was still barefoot. He grabbed one and flung it as far as he could and then went after another. He had to dodge some of the snakes that were slithering about. He grabbed another and threw it into the bushes. He pulled his Bowie knife and cut another. It took less than ten seconds for Sean to get rid of the snakes, but it was not enough. Charlie lay on the ground shaking and shivering. Sean peeled away his friend’s shirt. He counted over a dozen bites on Charlie’s chest and abdomen alone. Sean cradled his friend’s head in his arm.

“I’m gonna die, aren’t I?” Charlie asked in a weak voice. Sean fought back the tears. “I’m afraid so.” “Son of a bitch,” Charlie wheezed. His body shook in spasms. His eyes rolled back, and he expired in Sean’s arms. Sean held his friend for a long time. After a while he got up and dug a grave on the bank near the creek. The area was shaded by a tall pine tree. Sean dragged Charlie over and placed him in the grave. “You were the best partner a man could ever have. I couldn’t have done it without you, Charlie. Fair travels, my friend.” Sean tossed Charlie’s hat in the grave and shoveled in the dirt. When he was done, he got back on his bay. With Charlie’s horse in tow Sean set off in pursuit of Long Chew. He was more determined than ever now to run the killer into the ground. Sean tracked Long Chew for five days. Long Chew somehow kept one step ahead. He went east one day, then would switch up and travel south. Somewhere near Bakersfield Sean came to an open area with mostly scrub and spotted Long Chew’s tracks. He got off his bay and inspected the tracks more closely. Long Chew’s horse had cracked a hoof. Long Chew would have to slow down. The horse couldn’t be ridden for long and only over soft ground. Sean was closing in on his quarry. A few miles farther on, Sean found the horse. Long Chew had abandoned the mustang and fled on foot. The horse was used up and looked like it would expire before the vultures flying overhead landed. Sean got off his bay, eased the mustang down, and slit its jugular with his Bowie knife. Sean patted the horse on the head and got back on his bay. He knew Long Chew was close. There was the crack of gunfire. Then a second shot sounded, followed by a third. Sean clicked his tongue, and the bay took off in the direction of the gunshots. They raced through the brush, coming up in a dead-end wash on a pair of white men. The two men were kneeling over Long Chew’s body and going through his pockets. One of the men jumped up and leveled his rifle at Sean. “Hold it right there.”

Sean pulled up the bay. In his haste to catch Long Chew, he had foolishly allowed himself to be ambushed by a pair of yokels. The man with the rifle looked to be in his twenties. He was thin with the face of a rodent. His clothes were tattered, but his rifle was well kept. His partner was younger and had a pasty complexion and a bad case of mange on his scalp. He held a revolver that looked to be Civil War issue. It was obvious that these two bushwhackers had been living off the land and whatever prey came their way. Long Chew had accidently crossed their path in his haste to escape the man tracking him and run into a bullet. There wasn’t much of Long Chew’s face left, but Sean could see the spider tattoo on the dead man’s wrist. “Looky what we got here, Horace,” laughed the man with the rifle. “Two for the price of one.” “I sure hope he got more than this Chink. This boy ain’t got but three dollars on him,” Horace brayed. The man with the rifle gestured for Sean to get off the horse. Sean complied, keeping his arms out as he got off the bay. “What you got on you, mister?” asked the man with the rifle. Sean slowly reached into his jacket and tossed a leather wallet on the ground. Horace scurried over, snatched up the wallet, and opened it. “Holy Jesus, there must be six hundred dollars here,” he said excitedly. “Seven hundred and eighty to be exact,” Sean replied. The man with the rifle frowned. “What else you got?” Sean reached inside his coat and tossed a small pouch of gold on the ground. Horace grabbed it and opened the pouch. “It’s gold, Jeremy! It’s gold!” “Go on, Horace; search him. He might have more,” Jeremy said. Horace raced over and reached inside Sean’s jacket. He carelessly allowed his revolver to dangle downward. Sean pulled his Bowie and sank the blade deep into the young man’s gut. Horace wheezed and looked at Sean with shocked

eyes. Jeremy fired. The shot hit his partner in the back. Sean threw Horace to the ground, pulled his Colt, and fired. Jeremy got off another shot. The bullet caught Sean in the thigh. Jeremy fell to his knees, his rifle slipping from his hands. Sean’s shot had caught him square in the chest. Jeremy attempted to say something. Bubbles of blood formed on his lips, and then he pitched forward into the dirt. “Son of a bitch,” Sean said, looking at his wound. He took off his kerchief and tied off the bleeding. Luckily the bullet had traveled right through his thigh. Sean hobbled over to retrieve his Bowie knife from the younger thief. He found the man was still alive. “Kill me,” the thief whispered. A large pool of blood had formed around his body. The thief cried in pain when Sean pulled out the knife. Sean used the robber’s shirt to wipe the blood off the blade. “It is clear you and your partner’s intention was to harm me and rob me. Looks like you boys chose the wrong profession.” Sean knew he had to cauterize his wound. He made a fire and heated the Bowie knife. The young thief continued to wheeze and bleed out. Sean dropped his pants. He poured gunpowder from a rifle cartridge into the wound and set the hot blade on his flesh. The powder exploded. Sean dropped the knife, nearly ing out from the pain. He looked over at the thief. The young man’s eyes stared lifelessly at him. Sean poured whiskey on the wound and bandaged it with his bandana. He gritted his teeth as he stood and pulled up his pants. He finished the pint of whiskey. Three bodies lay on the ground. Sean retrieved his money and gold. He limped over to the bay, slowly got on, and reached for the reins. A white-hot pain shot through his leg. Sean bit his lip and forced the pain back. He clicked his tongue. Sensing her rider was weak, the bay started off at a slow trot. They headed west. They had a long way to travel before they would reach home.

The End

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank my wife, Laurel, for all the years of and encouragement. This book would not have happened without her. She gave me the courage to carry on and the love to sustain me. She is my life.

I would also like to thank Sharon Lake for the artwork and my editor, Sarah Disbrow who made me rewrite until I got it right. Every author should have such a guide. I am grateful to Jeff Brent for the suggested edits on the manuscript, and to Tom Clift and Roni Silver for wading through the early drafts. Thanks also to Roxanne Cobbs and Merilyn Dean for their on this project.

This one is for you, Mom …