Legend With a Six-gun (9781101601839) (17 page)

Justine shook her head and said, “No. Mexico gave away vast tracts of land in hopes of filling up this part of the continent before we got around to claiming it as our manifest destiny. The Russians were moving down the West Coast from Alaska, too, and the Hudson Bay trappers must have worried Mexico City. I know the Vallejo grant. It was one of the big ones. But the family obtained it from Mexico, not Spain.”

“Ain't we sort of picking nits, ma'am? I understand the conceit your California Mexicans have about being called Spanish. But I don't see how it matters all that much.”

Justine sniffed and said, “It's rather pathetic, but most of the early settlers were Spanish or Mexican
soldados
. Male, of course. The distaff half of the old grandees tended to be Indian squaws. The last Mexican governor of California was a Negro.”

“That's what I just said.” He frowned. He wondered if she was so precise in bed, and if it would be worth finding out. The girl explained, “The treaty of '48 between our government and Mexico recognized the holdings of former Mexican nationals. A real Spanish-grant would be meaningless unless it had been confirmed by Mexico before the Mexican War and the resultant treaty. Most of the mission lands, for instance, were taken from the Church by Mexico before we got here. So the missions are simply empty shells today.”

“What happened to the mission Indians?”

“They, ah, lost out in the shuffle. People like the Vallejos, Irvines, and Castros had sense enough to hire good lawyers.”

“I heard about the Irvine Ranch, down past Pueblo Los Angeles. They didn't lose so much as a quarter section, did they?”

“The Irvine holdings are huge, even by land grant standards,” she averred. “The Scotsman who married into that family had a good lawyer.”

“He was white, too. The way I hear it, how much land you got to keep depended a little on your complexion.”

Justine looked pained and said, “That's not fair. Poor Sutter lost his mill and everything else, and he was as white as you or me. The land office is not prejudiced, as some Mexicans seem to think.”

Longarm smiled crookedly and said, “Sure it ain't. I've no doubt that all the land that was grabbed was grabbed fair and square. But it's the Vallejo holdings I'm interested in. The Lost Chinaman mine sits smack-dab on land the Vallejos used to own. I'd like to know how come.”

Justine said, “I can tell you that without looking it up. Old land grants have priority over homestead claims. Mining claims come before agriculture.”

“You mean if I was to find a gold mine on any land at all—even if it was occupied—I could just up and
take
it?”

“Of course. You wouldn't need to strike gold. Copper, silver, or mercury would do as well. Once you'd staked out the limits of your find and registered it with the California Mining Commission, it would be all yours.”

Longarm's eyebrows rose. “Back up, ma'am! You mean I could start a mine anywhere at all? Suppose someone had a house already built over it?”

She shrugged and said, “It's happened. It's led to messy gunfights, too. Few old land titles include the mineral rights, as poor old Sutter found out when they panned the soil out from under his mill and general store.”

Longarm frowned and said, “That hardly seems fair, ma'am.”

“I never said it was. But the men who wrote the California laws were mining men, and the law is the law.”

Longarm whistled softly under his breath as he mulled her words over in his head. Then he said, “I can see how the Vallejos lost the land the Lost Chinaman sets on. Is there any legal way they can get it back?”

“Not as long as there's a viable mine site up there. The owner of a mine is the landlord of record. He can transfer the property, hold it for land speculation, or do just about anything he likes. The original owners have no say. The only way they could hope to recover the property would be by buying out the mineral rights. This happens too, occasionally.”

Longarm shook his head and said, “Felicidad Vallejo ain't got the wherewithal to buy a going gold mine. But what if the mine was to play out and be abandoned?”

Justine pursed her lips. Longarm noticed that they pursed nicely. She said, “As I recall, the mine you speak of did pinch but a few years ago. But the owners hung on and sold it recently. I could look the new owners up for you, if you like.”

“I know Kevin MacLeod and his wife, ma'am. The cud I'm chewing is the final outcome of the mess. Am I right in figuring that the Mexicans who used to own the property could get it back if the Lost Chinaman went out of business for keeps?”

Justine nodded and said, “If the mine shut down and nobody else put in a mineral claim.”

He stroked his mustache pensively for a moment, then asked, “What if the mine went broke, but some other outfit was to buy it?”

“They'd own it, of course. As long as anyone is working a mine, or even sitting tight over a hole in the ground, the original property owners are simply out of luck.”

He swore under his breath and said, “I can see I'm chasing my fool self smack down another blind alley, most likely. But I thank you kindly for lighting the way.”

She smiled rather warmly, considering the severe way she wore her hair, and asked, “I take it you're working on a process of elimination, sir?”

“You can call me Longarm, ma'am, and I've eliminated myself out onto another durned limb. I've got maybe one more arrow in my fool quiver, and if that doesn't work, I've met up with some cuss who's too durned smart for me.”

He started to rise. Then he thought better of it, since he faced a lonely night ride back to the county seat in the first place, and wasn't in all that great a hurry in the second.

He said, “I can see you're anxious to close, ma'am, since it's creeping up on four-thirty. Do you, uh, live around here?”

Justine nodded and said, “Just a few blocks over.” Then she added, “With a very possessive gentleman.”

He said, “Do tell? I didn't notice a wedding band, ma'am.”

Her smile was smug when she nodded and told him, “I never said I was married. I suppose you might call me an emancipated woman.”

He shot a wry, wistful grin at her and rose to his feet, saying, “I won't keep you from enjoying your constitutional rights, ma'am.”

As he let himself out with a slightly mocking bow, she grinned up at him and said, “Nice try, cowboy.”

He left, frowning. He didn't think he looked very much like a cowboy, and his “try” hadn't been much more than common courtesy. He'd seen no need to twist the knife like that.

Then, as he walked out into the sunlight, he began to laugh. It sure beat all how women kept surprising him, but wouldn't life get tedious if a man was right every time? He headed for a café across the street to put away some chili and maybe some apple pie, telling himself,
What the hell, old son, you can't win 'em all!

*   *   *

The next twenty-four hours were enjoyable, but had little to do with the case, since he spent as many of them as he could with Pru Sawyer. By the time he said goodbye a second time, she'd gotten over any inhibitions she'd ever had about nudity or anything else. She told him she'd read all the books about such matters that were in the library, but that he'd shown her a few tricks they hadn't mentioned. It was good to know he'd helped a young lady's education; she obviously intended to put it to good use. He almost felt sorry for the next gent she snared with her downcast eyes and shy little smile.

Nobody shot at him as he rode back toward Manzanita. His smoke signals seemed to have left the roads in a deserted condition and nobody was expecting him.

He circled up through the trees behind the Lost Chinaman, tethered his mount in a brushy draw, and eased up to a ridge that offered him a clear view of the diggings.

He'd timed his arrival well. The ore cars had been hauled away.

MacLeod and Lovejoy's deputies were well on their way to the mill with the latest shipment. He watched, chewing an unlit cheroot. He wasn't sure just what he expected to see. But until now, everyone had been watching the ore shipments. That train pulling out was the misdirection the book had been talking about. He was watching the stage instead of the magician's flashing hands.

Nothing much seemed to be going on. Some workmen brought a car of ore up out of the mine. Lottie MacLeod walked over from the cabin and he could see that she was directing them to put it on the lift and load it in the tipple. He could have figured out where the ore should go, but MacLeod had said they were using unskilled help.

The woman went back to the cabin and the men walked slowly back to the mine entrance and disappeared. It was pretty uninteresting. A jay sassed Longarm from an overhead branch for a while. Then, getting no answer, it lost interest too, and flew off to bother someone else.

Lottie came out of the cabin again and began hanging up some wash to dry. Longarm scanned the treeline all around. There wasn't any movement. Nothing worth thinking about was happening down there. But Longarm kept watching. He had no idea what the magician's assistants might be up to as everyone watched where they were supposed to. But if he knew what he was supposed to be looking for, he wouldn't have to look.

He took out his Ingersoll watch and studied it. MacLeod and the others would be on their way back from the refinery by this time. If they came by stage, they'd be back around sundown. If they got the railroad to give them a ride back on the empties, it would be sooner.

The afternoon wore on. Not a damned thing happened. He waited a good two hours, made himself sit there for one more, then grunted, “All right. Either that magic book was wrong, or the pea is under some other shell.”

He crawled back to his horse and mounted up. He circled wide of the diggings and rode slowly into Manzanita. He tied the gelding in front of the saloon and went in. He bought a bottle of Maryland rye and took it to a corner table, where he sat with his back wedged in the corner. When a cowhand came in and started to walk over to the music box, Longarm asked him not to play “Garryowen.” The cowhand shrugged and settled for a beer at the bar.

After a while Ralph Baxter came in. He sat down across from Longarm and said, “I saw your horse outside. I thought you were leaving.”

Longarm said, “I did leave. Now I'm back. My office wants me to look into a few more angles before I'm relieved.”

Baxter said, “Our rooms were searched while we were in Sacramento.”

Longarm said, “I figured as much. Mine was, too.”

“The desk clerk told me. What on earth do you suppose they were looking for?”

“Don't know. What was taken?”

“Nothing. Nothing important. What are you missing?”

“The same. They were likely barking up the wrong tree. You say you went to Sacramento?”

“Yes. I've been authorized to offer two million for the Lost Chinaman, but that's the end of it. If they won't sell at that price, they're welcome to any gold they can get out of there. Frankly, I'd have broken off negotiations at a hundred thousand. That fool hasn't made that much since he reopened the mine.”

Longarm poured himself a drink, holding the bottle out to Baxter. The Bostonian sniffed and shook his head. So Longarm sipped at his own drink and said, “So far, nobody seems to want to let him. The bank draft you're offering MacLeod is from the Crocker Trust, right?”

Baxter nodded with a frown and said, “As a matter of fact, it is. How did you know?”

“I rode into Sacramento myself to discuss high finances yesterday afternoon. They tell me your outfit's been known to play rough, but their checks don't bounce. By the way, did you bring your, uh, sister or whatever back to Manzanita this time?”

Baxter flushed and snapped, “Don't be crude, God damn it. We both know what Sylvia is. She tends to gloat about it. The only reason I don't beat the tar out of you is simply that there's a long line ahead of you. I'd have time for little else if I intended to thrash every yokel she's known in the Biblical sense.”

Longarm stared down at his glass and said, “Yeah. She is sort of Biblical, but you didn't say where she was at.”

“I'm afraid you'll just have to make do with your little Mexican thing tonight. We heard there was Indian trouble up this way, so I left Sylvia in Sacramento. I assume she'll find something to occupy her time while I settle this more important matter.”

Longarm didn't ask how the jasper knew about Felicidad. That was the trouble with small towns. He said, “You ain't scared of Indians, huh?”

Baxter grimaced and replied, “I simply want to buy the damned property and get out of this stupid country. I have no intention of riding out into the hills where they can get at my scalp.”

Longarm nodded, fished out a smoke, and lit up before he said, “There's one thing I don't understand about your offer or your outfit, Baxter. We both know there's more to worry about out here than a few Indians. That mine's been hit high and low and sideways by high-graders. Three men and a dog have been murdered and nobody has an educated guess as to who's behind it all. Yet you're willing to lay out good money for MacLeod's claim. Do you know something I might not, or were you just born foolish?”

Baxter said in a low voice, “If you haven't guessed, Sylvia and I are working on commission.”

“You mean it's not your worry whether your syndicate can make money on the mine or not?”

“I've confirmed that the ore is worth digging. How they dig it out and get it to market is their worry. I assume, once a real mining outfit takes over, these high-graders will find it less easy to do whatever it is they have been doing.”

“You have no idea how they've pulled it off?”

“Longarm, I don't even
care
. Every grain of the gold they've stolen so far belongs to Kevin MacLeod. It's none of my business. Once the mine changes ownership, it won't be my business either. I'll have collected my commission and been long gone from here before it can possibly happen again.”