Page 32 of Working the Lode

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Bowmaker

“Valenzuela. You can assure us we’re not jumping any of your mens’ claims?” asked Bowmaker

“Yes,” added Zelnora, leaning forward from her spot sitting between Bowmaker’s spread thighs. The cook fire still crackled, but no one wanted to sit too close to it. Even after sundown the shimmering air was hot enough to bake one’s skin. “I fear it would be dangerous, crossing some of those men. They aren’t overly savory.”

“Besides that,” Bowmaker felt compelled to insert. “This child isn’t too comfortable claim-jumping another man’s property. It’s just not seemly.”

While Valenzuela had been showing signs of humanity since Bowmaker had doctored his daughter, Bowmaker was still convinced he’d not hesitate to betray or even murder the first henchman who gave him hell. Bowmaker had been a mountain man for a decade, and Valenzuela a bandit for only two years, both steeped in their traditions. Perhaps murder formed your current personality more decisively than skinning beavers. Bowmaker had already ceased to skin beavers and wrestle with grizzlies. But he’d not be surprised if Valenzuela shot the next tortilla seller who wandered their way.

Valenzuela reposed on the dried grass. He had even divested himself of his multihued serape and was clad in an expensive gente de razon white cotton shirt with gold buttons. “We’ll not replace anyone if we can avoid it, but the richest stretch of river so far is claimed by one of my men, a greaser from Hermosillo. He’s going to Stockton tomorrow for provisions,” the bandit said ambiguously.

“We’ll just prospect the neighborhood.” Zelnora said. “I’ve heard there are several other Joaquins in California, and you are blam—get credit for all of their actions.”

Valenzuela grinned, removing his slouch hat and running his fingers through his thick, lustrous hair. He wore many silver and gold rings of Spanish workmanship, stolen from corpses, no doubt. Not that Bowmaker was above all of that. He’d been known to loot a man missing his topknot. In the mountains, there was no excuse not to take what otherwise would’ve gone to waste.

“There are a few other Joaquins,” he admitted. “I don’t mind taking credit for their actions. It adds to the… glamor y mística.”

“Glamour and mystique,” both Bowmaker and Zelnora echoed at once.

Quartus repeated with shining eyes, “Glamour and mystique!”

Zelnora stood, taking their tin plates to a nearby barrel for washing. “Quartus,” she called. “Can you be a dear and get more water from the creek?”

Bouncing to his feet, Quartus slung the bucket onto his arm and toddled off, his ankles collapsing every few steps under the weight of the enormous California spurs he’d taken to wearing. Past the creek and down the ridge, the Sonoran campfires were strung out along the road to Stockton, close enough to light the way for any traveler entering the camp.

Valenzuela lit his pipe and stood. “Don’t you think you should give him at least a small pistol?” he asked, also heading toward the creek bed. “How idiotic can he be, with a tiny pea-shooter that wouldn’t scare anyone?”

Bowmaker felt shamed, as he’d been considering obtaining a larger caliber revolver for Zelnora. Her pocket pistol, while ladylike, wasn’t of much assistance against robbers with Colts. “I still think it’s best to leave him unarmed,” he called after the departing desperado. “He’ll just wind up shooting the rocks, or the bottles of liquor off a bar.”

Once Valenzuela was out of sight, Bowmaker came up behind Zelnora under a giant aromatic redwood. The canvas-roofed cabin Valenzuela had loaned them had been hewn from these trees. In this town of roughnecks and hard cases, a man and woman sharing a cabin didn’t disconcert anyone, although by necessity Bowmaker had built Quartus his own little lean-to where he could watch the stars with his students’ telescope.

Cupping her breasts in his hands as she rinsed a plate, Bowmaker nibbled on the side of her throat. Her eyes slid shut, and the plate dropped into the water barrel. “Once we’ve worked out this claim, we’ll go back to our new house in San Francisco. Too many folks have been swarming these mountains. A child can’t even turn around without some greaser or keskydee squatting on your territory. It’ll be cold doings soon, snow on the ground, and everyone’ll pile back to the settlements, so if we get there before them—“

Zelnora stood stock still. “What house in San Francisco?”

Bowmaker smiled secretively. He whispered into her ear, “The lot Erskine bid on for me in San Francisco. I received a note from him that he won the auction.”

“What about Brannagh? Did he not drive your price up with his outlandish bids?”

It was true, Brannagh had done so, although Erskine had been pretending to bid on the lot on behalf of Captain Sutter. To change the subject, Bowmaker yanked down her chemise and exposed her full, bouncing breasts to the warm evening air. He pinched her nipples, causing her to cradle her head back into the pit of his throat and purr like a large cat.

“I sent the house drawings down to Erskine with the messenger. Four bedrooms,” he bragged. “The artisans should be able to throw it up in about a month.”

The idea of the house with four bedrooms, the thick adobe walls, and the grand river rock fireplace inspired Bowmaker. He’d specified a hand-hammered cast iron chandelier for the dining room, such as those crafted for the Spanish missions. The lot was large enough for many fruit trees, so Quartus could have his precious juice.

“That sounds…lovely,” Zelnora gasped, displaying her ample breasts to the forest.

Clutching her thigh between both of his, Bowmaker rocked his erection against her ass. “Four bedrooms…” He seduced her with his vision of a stationary future. “One for us, one for Erskine, one for Quartus…”

As he said the name “Quartus,” that worthy was heard nearby returning from the creek, marveling, ostensibly to Valenzuela, how Bowmaker had killed a hundred pound salmon and found specks of gold at the bottom of the cooking pot.

“You should stop,” Zelnora said unconvincingly.

“It’s all right,” Bowmaker whispered, leaning harder into her so that she placed her palms against the shaggy redwood tree. Quartus became terminally appalled at the sight of anyone touching another. Bowmaker heard Valenzuela say,

“Why don’t you go back to the river and look for more salmon?”