Page 19 of A Good Prospect

Chapter Eight

They were going to hold a rodeo.

Sal was jubilant, having found the ideal location for his stamp mill, with the help of the Sonorans and the assayer from San Francisco. There was a spot on the Merced River just north of Bear Valley where he could control the surface water for placer mining, as well as the underground water for hard rock mining. The assayer told him placers would soon be exhausted, and gold-bearing quartz would produce infinitely more treasure. He would bring Ophir there to oversee the building of the mill, while he himself could build a hacienda and office building to house the assayers, surveyors, Sonoran miners, faro dealers who would no doubt follow, and perhaps Knut, if he did a good job in San José and brought them back some investors.

In the meantime, Sal planned a rodeo. It had been a couple of years since they’d hosted one of those rip-roaring, tumultuous events. This would involve many confabs with José, Prospero, and Román to organize the events and cattle, but Salvador’s immediate interest was in hold a boxing match, with Ophir as the main attraction. Now that he knew his partner was a professional pugilist, he thought it would make for an exciting event to pair Ophir up with any contender tomfool enough to challenge him—fish, they were known as, blockheads who imagined themselves invincible after a few mugs of aguardiente.

Sal had not felt this enlivened in…well, since a youth, perhaps. Perhaps horse racing with his brother, yes, that had been the last time he had actually looked forward to something.

“Este será el mejor rodeo,” Sal babbled as Ophir swung his long legs out of his bed.

Ophir stretched, unfurling the undulating muscles of his impressive back. Sun bore down on him through the window, shimmering his skin a gold-dusted bronze. Sal’s breath hitched—he would never cease to be amazed by, and profoundly admire the athletic beauty of Ophir’s body. He slumped back against the adobe wall with arms crossed, trying to focus on the candle on the table.

“This will be the best rodeo?” Ophir attempted to translate as he pulled on his long-sleeved undershirt.

Sal smiled. “Very good. Let’s go down to the barn right now, and have a practice match.”

Ophir spun to face him, linen shirt dangling from his hands. “You?” he gasped in awe, before correcting himself and forcing all emotion from his face.

“Yes, me! And don’t put on that linen—don’t prizefighters just wrangle in their pants?”

Ophir draped the shirt over the back of a chair. “Yes, but…All right. I’ll fight you. For practice. Have you ever done any bare-knuckle boxing before?”

Salvador pursed his lips. “Well…not exactly.” Brightening, he added, “But I’ve been in dozens of fights, that’s for certain. Sí, señor, I’ve whacked and walloped many a caballero in my time.”

Ophir spread out explanatory hands, palms to the floor. “Sal. It’s not just about whacking and walloping. If we fight under the London Prize Ring Rules, for example, butting with your head is deemed foul, and you’re automatically the loser.”

Sal scoffed. “Who said anything about butting with my head?”

Ophir grinned. “Something tells me, it’s probably the hardest part of you cowmen.”

“Cowmen have hard heads?” Tamasin stood in the doorway tentatively, smiling shyly. She had filled out a bit since arriving at Las Oliveras, and of course her bruises had subsided so as to be almost invisible. Her skin bloomed with an Irish refulgence, as though she’d just stepped from a stream of melted ice, her skin so white she sometimes frightened Salvador, when he momentarily thought she was a passing specter.

Ophir was the first to recover. He’d developed quite a rapport with the woman, perhaps because he’d been the one to shield her with his body, while Salvador was the villain who had picked off her husband with such impassive cool. “Why yes, niña. Didn’t you know that? Cowboys are as hardheaded as they come.”

Niña! Already Ophir had an affectionate nickname for her! A flash of jealousy shot through Salvador’s chest, actually paining him and shortening his breath. It all came to him in a brief burst of envy—Tamasin was beautiful, a very hard worker, and she would want another husband. Of course she would choose Ophir, with his easy manner, ready smile, and affectionate nature. In California, it was no stain on an immigrant’s already dubious reputation to wed a Negro, especially not a stunning half-caste like Ophir. Well, perhaps he’d heard of some folks getting into trouble in big cities like San Francisco. But out here? Especially if Ophir was to manage the gold mill and become a rich man. Nary a squeak.

It was the first realization Salvador had that he even imagined Tamasin as a potential wife. Up until now, he’d only thought of her as a broken-down wraith they’d saved from certain death. She was simply too ill to think of in that manner. She seemed to only possess two emotions—the strained expressionless mask of pain, which was understandable given her history. This was her regular face that she wore when no one was looking. The other emotion was the bland sort of regulated happiness she expressed now. That appeared to be her social face, the face she thought would please people.

He brushed off his shock at his own imaginings, and tried to charm the girl. “We’re staging a practice boxing match, in preparation for the rodeo.”

Her face lit up a bit more. “Ooh, prizefighting! Can I be the umpire? Or is it called the ‘second’?”

Ophir regarded her skeptically. “We’d need another second. Why don’t you just be the umpire?”

Salvador was irritated that Ophir had taken charge of the conversation. “Let’s use the barn, where all the plows and hoes are.” Californio farming was still stuck in the age of Cortez, when everything was done manually, although Salvador had tried to introduce a few newfangled hay rakes and a horse-drawn reaper he’d had sent out from San José. These implements baffled his farmers, so they sat unused in the barn.

“What will the prize be?” Tamasin asked in her mellifluous lilt as they made their way to the barn. “I mean, during the rodeo. Obviously there’s no prize today.”

Ophir slapped Sal’s chest with the back of his hand. “Sure, why shouldn’t there be a prize today?”

Sal thought. “What do we have to bet, other than gold dust?”

Ophir said, “You have plenty of hides, California bank notes. I’d like a new rug and a new coverlet for my bed.”

“All right. If you win, I’ll give you some California bank notes. What if I win?”

Ophir guffawed, throwing his head back and displaying his full, muscular throat. Sal felt like spitting on him out of spite. “You? Win?”