The Two Devils (27 page)

It wasn't any horse. It was Paul.

I climbed out the window and locked my arms around him. “Where have you been?” He even had his saddle on.

"I sure wish he could tell us where Ah Puch is?” Angel said. She was now standing behind me.

"Horses don't talk,” I said.

"Mr. O'Malley, I know horses don't talk.” She was holding one of those yellow telegram papers. “I have to leave. I'm glad you got your horse back."

"He got himself back. Paul's always escaping. There's not a corral or stable that can hold him.” I tied him to the hitching post in front of the hotel. “The only thing I wonder on, is how he knew I was in the hotel."

"Maybe he saw you from wherever they kept him.” She looked at the telegram for a moment. “Are you going back to San Francisco?"

"I reckon.” Even though I was afraid of becoming a city slicker, I still liked barbering a lot better than mining.

She asked, “Are you going on the train?"

"No, I guess we'll go overland. It'll take weeks to get back, but sending Paul on the train is way too expensive,” I explained.

"Well, I've been ordered to Kansas City. I may not be back for a while,” Angel explained.

"Is Ah Puch headed that way?"

"No, Mr. O'Malley, I do not know where he has gone. There are other criminals beside him to contend with.” She kissed me on the cheek, then trotted off in the direction of the stage depot.

"See, I told you she's not really crazy,” I whispered to my horse.

My horse snorted.

I had my revolver back. I had my horse. I was me again. Paul and I headed out for Carson City, then on over to California.

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I'd planned on heading out near Mono Lake, then back up north to San Francisco. This would let me avoid the high Sierra with winter coming on.

Somehow, going through Donner Pass during an early blizzard sounded like a good way for me and Paul to have to decide on who was going to eat whom. I'd checked once before. It would cost a lot of money to take Paul by train. The railroad boys always said to send him on a freight train. He was considered baggage on a passenger train, and I would have to pay very substantial overage charges to put a horse in the baggage car. So, this trek back to California was all I could afford, but it also had the benefit of letting me and my horse get reacquainted.

I wondered what they'd done to him, but doubted I'd ever know. He seemed unfazed, acting just like he always had. So, we moseyed along as we'd done many times before. The fall colors in the trees that ran up into the mountains reminded me of Kansas. That was one thing about California, they never seemed to have any noticeable seasons. Winter and summer seemed pretty much interchangeable.

About three days into our trip, we were out somewhere in the wilderness. I figured we were just barely inside California. It was a pleasant enough day. For some reason, Paul abruptly turned off the main road, and we went up what amounted to an animal trail. We traversed this for about a mile, then came out alongside a small creek. I figured Paul must have a reason for this detour, so I had not been concerned. Trees and shrubs lined the creek, so I was thinking this might not be a bad place to make camp, even though it was a little early.

We soon discovered someone else had already made camp. There were horses and tents for eight to ten men set up, though I did not see anybody.

Paul followed the creek for a few hundred yards and we came out at a wide calm pool area. Men dressed in brown robes were busily tending a sluice box they had set up. They were shoveling dirt into it as diverted stream water ran the dirt though a series of screens. The dirt washed out, larger flakes of gold remained.

What was unusual was the fact that all of these men had the back part of their heads shaved and all wore identical brown robes.

"Hello,” I said, as the men seemed so involved in their work they did not seem to notice me.

The shortest of the eight men looked up first. “Bandits!” he yelled.

I'd been called a lot of things—bandit was not one of them. I held up my hands, as if that somehow proved something. “No, I'm just passing through. I was looking for a place to make camp. I didn't know you fellows were back here."

The others looked me over for a minute. “He seems to be alone,” the tall, lanky blonde man said. “Seems harmless."

"I think he's a claim jumper,” the short one said as he glared at me.

"He looks pretty sneaky to me."

"We don't have a claim to jump, Brother Franklin,” the tall one explained.

"Well, we ought to have,” the short one argued.

I coaxed Paul to move over to the bank and out of the stream. “Miles O'Malley,” I introduced myself. “From San Francisco."

"No good ever came out of Frisco,” the short one stated.

"Please, Brother Franklin,” another man said. He left the group, came over to me and extended his hand. “I'm Brother John,” he said. “We're monks from Mission San Andreas."

I'd heard of monks, but never actually met any. They were the male version of nuns. I certainly hoped these guys were more honest. “I'm not familiar with your mission, brother."

"It's about fifty miles from here,” Brother John said. “Due west."

"Out for a little panning?"

"Yes, something like that.” He looked around. “You must be hungry, Mr. O'Malley. Please, join us. We were just going to return to our camp and prepare our supper."

The other monks seemed pleased with the invite, except for Brother Franklin, who still eyed me suspiciously. “Thank you, I'd very much appreciate that."

We followed them back to their camp. I put Paul with their horses and joined the monks. Lacking any duties of mine, I sat on a log next to the campfire.

Brother John was stoking the coals and soon had a nice fire crackling away. He rubbed his hands over it, though it was not particularly cold.

"What line of work are you in, Mr. O'Malley?"

"I'm a barber."

"Oh? That's interesting. There much call for barbers out here?"

"Not really,” I replied. “Some fool run off with my horse. He turned up over in Virginia City. I had to take the train to fetch him."

"You went all that way for a horse?” Brother John asked.

"Yes, brother, I did.” I pointed with my thumb in Paul's general direction. “He's the finest horse a man could want."

"He is a splendid looking animal,” the monk decided.

The tall monk came over and placed a Dutch kettle oven on coals next to the fire. “Mr. O'Malley, would you care to sample our wine?"

"This is Brother Thomas,” John said. “Yes, we make wine back home. It's quite good."

"I'd love some.” I soon had a cup of red liquid. There was talk that California could someday rival places like France in wine production, but I knew little about the product. I took a sip. It was smooth and had an excellent taste. “This is very good."

"We're very proud of it,” John said. He poured himself a cup out of a wooden cask that I would estimate as holding about five gallons. “It's better in a crystal glass, but they do not travel all that well."

"No, I guess they wouldn't,” I agreed.

"They serve our wine in some of the restaurants in San Francisco,” Thomas told me.

"I'll keep an eye out for it,” I agreed. Most restaurants charged more than my earnings could allow for.

In no time at all, the meal was prepared. “This is venison stew,” Thomas explained. “There was one near here."

The stew was delicious. The meat quite tender. The wine went very well to make this one of the nicest trailside meals I'd ever eaten.

As we sat by the fire watching the sun fade below the horizon, I asked, “Brother, this is strictly your concern, but a band of monks was about the last thing I expected to come across today."

"I would suppose so,” John agreed. “We decided to try our hand at panning. I'm afraid the gold rush is over these days, but we just need a little to tide us over. You'd be amazed at the expenses of running a mission, Mr. O'Malley. And wine, well it takes a while to age and such."

It seemed anybody can find themselves tight on funds. I certainly had. “Well, I hope you do well. There's still gold turning up here and there. In San Francisco, they still prefer gold dust to money. Probably always will."

"I had heard that,” Thomas said.

They didn't have any room in their tents, but I was welcome to sleep alongside the fire, which I did. As the fire faded to coals, I faded off to sleep. I slept well, until I woke up.

There is something
really
unnerving about waking up with the Angel of Death standing over you. People who are alive don't usually win this honor. I'd lost count of how many times it had happened to me. And it was still the sort of sight that made my heart skip a few beats. “Uh ... Hello Death.” I sat up and looked around. The sun was just sneaking above the hills. The monks all seemed to be gone. “Where are the monks?"

"All down at the river, panning.” Death wandered over to the wine and filled a cup. “These monks make really excellent wine. It's some of the best I've ever had.” He took a sip, savored the taste for a moment, then downed the rest of the cup. “You know, Miles, I should go and reveal myself to them. Seeing me—that would make their day."

"I'm sure it would.” By then I was up. I wanted to wash up, but that seemed to require a trip to the creek. I noticed my horse was standing in the creek, eating something growing on the bank.

Death handed me his reaper thing. “Here, hold this.” He picked up the little barrel of wine and chugged a good pint directly out of the container.

He sat it back down. “I don't like those cups, Miles. And there aren't any glasses. I'm not a barbarian, Miles."

"Never said you were."

"Good man, Miles. We'll see you. Should I go push one of them in the stream? Could be fun.” He paused for a moment, considering. “Guess not. We'll see you, Miles. Glad you got your horse back."

I looked away for a second. Then, I noticed Death was gone. I liked Death, though I really wished he'd stop standing over me when I haven't had a chance to wake up. Frankly, he seemed a little too fond of alcoholic beverages, but who am I to tell an angel how to conduct his affairs?

The cold water from the creek cleared my head. I sauntered down to see how the brothers were faring. I knew a thing or two about mining, but I had not really dealt with the panning aspect of man's quest for gold.

"Good morning, gentlemen.” I noticed Franklin hurriedly hid a small sack in wooden box.

"Good morning, Mr. O'Malley,” John greeted. “Sleep well, I trust?"

Except for a visit from the Angel of Death. I saw little point in mentioning that. “Yes, quite well, brother."

"We wanted to get just a little more panning in. We're heading back this morning,” John explained. “Perhaps you'd like to ride along with us?"

The invite seemed like a good idea. “It's on my way. Certainly."

It took about an hour to strike camp, then we were off. The monks didn't talk much. We mostly rode along in silence. I gave Brother Franklin a wide berth, as he seemed convinced I was some sort of bushwhacker.

When we arrived at the mission, I was struck with the tranquil setting. The Spanish adobe buildings were surrounded by vineyards. Something else struck me as well. I asked John, “The eight of you run all this yourselves?"

John had a troubled expression on his face. “No, Mr. O'Malley. At least we did not."

"What John is having trouble explaining,” Thomas said, “is that we used to have Indians help out with things. In exchange for an education and room and board, they did some of the farming tasks."

"You speak in the past tense,” I observed.

"They're gone now,” said John. “I doubt they will return."

"That's why we were panning,” Thomas explained. “We are going to have to hire laborers to help us with the upcoming harvest. We needed some means to pay them."

"They just up and left?” I asked.

"Mr. O'Malley, this is most difficult,” John said. “Some criticize the way the missions work. They accuse us of being slave barons. The Indians always seemed happy here. We educated them, a mutually beneficial arrangement. Then, some crackpot decided to raise up an army and take over California. We haven't seen any of them since."

"We've queried the army. They won't talk to us. We're worried about what has become of them,” Thomas said. “It's as if they all floated off into the sky."

"The gray army is pretty fragmented. They had some problems up near Sacramento,” I said.

"You know about them?” Franklin asked. “There's never been a mention in the papers."

"Yes, brother, I know about them. They're the one's that stole my horse. They've even tried to kill me,” I replied. “I know them too well."

"I thought you were a barber?"

"I am a barber,” I insisted. “I don't know why I warrant such attention."

We entered the center of the mission. There was a stable where I could park Paul. They had a chapel and a building that had a few chimneys for cooking. I made my way there.

Thomas was already busily whipping up something. He placed a fried object on a plate and handed it to me. I looked it over and saw nothing precarious about it, so I took a bite. It was delicious.

"The Indians learn from us; we learn from then. What you're eating is called Indian fry bread. I am forming the theory that all Indian tribes claim to have invented it."

"Pretty good.” It was all I could think of to say.

The other brothers soon joined us. After the meal, they sang a form of chants I'd never heard before. These Gregorian chants were incredibly soothing to listen to. I was even offered a real bed to sleep on.

Morning brought a delicious breakfast of ham and eggs prepared by Brother Thomas. They raised eggs and a few animals in the complex. I'd been planning on getting underway that morning. I still had quite a ways to go, but I had eaten enough of their food that I thought I should offer to help out.

I found Brother John in the chapel. He was praying at the front pew. I waited quietly in back for him to finish. Even though he never looked back at me, he made the sign of the cross and picked himself up. He came back to the rear of the chapel.