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my name, too. William Tell Sackett, although most call me Tell, and I'm from
the mountains of Tennessee, although a different set of mountains from him.
And we Sacketts don't take kindly to anyone of our name mixing in with
disgraceful conduct. I'll just have to meet this here Nolan Sackett and read
him from the Book."
"Your horses are at Greek George's place," Oliphant said, "out beyond
Cahuenga Pass. The gold is there, too, if you can get it."
"I'll get it."
Backing to the door, I looked over at Dayton. "You stay out of my way," I
said. "I don't like anything about you."
He smiled, but I knew now it was not a nice smile. There was murder in it.
"You'll not live to cross the mountains," he said. "I shall see to that."
"You're too busy," I said, "trying to steal an old man's ranch."
That hit him. It was like he'd been slapped across the mouth, and he came up
out of his chair, white around the lips, but I just stepped outside and pulled
the door to behind me.
Roderigo was waiting for me at the end of the street, and he was worried.
"I was afraid for you," he said. "I did not know what to do."
"First things first. Do you know Greek George's place?"
"Who does not? It is there they captured the outlaw, Tiburcio Vasquez."
"Is it far?"
"Ten miles ... only that. At the foot of the mountains."
"My horses are there. My gold also."
He glanced at me. "And you will go for them? Do you know what you do, señor?
It is the place of the outlaws. And there are outlaws in the canyons all along
the Santa Monica Range. You must have the sheriff, señor, and a posse."
"I carry my own posse." I slapped my holster. "And as for a sheriff-why, we
Sacketts always figured to skin our own skunks, and ask no help of any man."
"I would ride with you, señor."
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Well, I looked at him and figured to myself that this one was pretty much of
a man. "You do that if you feel the urge for it," I said; "only come prepared
for shooting, if need be."
We went for our horses, and I had an idea we'd be late if we did not hurry,
for Oliphant would be sending someone, or riding himself, to warn them.
"There's a man out there name of Nolan Sackett," I said. "If anybody shoots
him, it will be me."
His face paled a mite. "I did not know he was there, amigo," he said. "It is
said that he has killed twenty-two men."
"To have killed men is not a thing of which one can be proud," I said. "A man
uses a gun when necessary, and not too often, or carelessly."
We mounted up and rode up Fort Street and out of town, heading west and north
along the foot of the mountains, with the land sloping off west and south away
from us. We rode past irrigation ditches and orchards, and it gave me
excitement to see oranges growing, for I'd never seen more than a half-dozen
of them in my lifetime.
The railroad had come to Los Angeles with its steam cars, and looking back I
could see a train standing at the depot. Main Street led from the depot
through part of Sonora town where some of the poorer Mexican and Californios
lived, mostly in white-washed adobe houses. The Plaza was set with cypresses;
this side of it was the Pico House and the Baker Block, two of the show places
of the town. Most of the streets where folks lived were lined with pepper
trees, but when we got away from the irrigation ditches it was almighty dry.
Because of the bad drouth the last two years, things were in poor shape. The
grass was sparse, and there was little else but prickly pear.
With Roderigo leading, we cut over to the brea pits road through La
Nopalera-the Cactus Patch*-to a small tavern kept by a Mexican. Roderigo swung
down and went inside, whilst I sat my horse outside and looked the country
over.
*The area now known as Hollywood.
Only the faintest breeze was stirring, and the air was warm and pleasant ...
it was a lazy, easy-going sort of day when a man felt called upon to laze
around and do not much of anything. Only we had something to do.
West of us lay the Rancho Rodeo de las Aguas,** but looking along the edge of
the mountains I saw a faint smudge of blue smoke, indicating where our
destination lay. This was the adobe house of Greek George . . . the very same
place where Tiburcio Vasquez had been shot and wounded as he scrambled out a
window, attempting to escape.
**Now the Beverly Hills area.
Roderigo came out of the tavern, looking serious as all get out. "Señor,
there are five men at the house of the Griego, but the man of your name is not
among them."
Well, I was some relieved. No Sackett had ever shot another, and I wasn't
itching to be the first We'd never had much truck with those Clinch Mountain
Sacketts, for they were a rough lot, having to do with moonshining and
perambulating up and down the Wilderness Trail or the Natchez Trace for no [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]