Page 1 of Sure as Shooting

CHAPTER ONE

October 1850

San Francisco

“All right, gentlemen! Step right up!”

It was difficult to get anyone’s attention in the grog shop that was packed like tinned sardines with smelly men. Huntley Ashbury gestured at the three Indians who guarded what looked like a harmless barrel of tobacco. As they rolled it to the middle of the room, Huntley clambered onto a table, kicking whiskey cups and playing cards to the slimy floor. Several gamblers swore and made swipes for his legs, screaming like all possessed.

“You goddamned chowderhead!”

“Out, you bloody double-dealer!”

“Go shit in your hat and pull it down over your ears!”

These San Franciscan miners could do all the swearing for their army in Mexico and still have a surplus left over. They quieted when Huntley bellowed, “Come, boys, let’s all take a drink!”

Soon the barkeep was surrounded by a score of eager fellows waiting for their favorite drink. Brandy smashes and hot whiskey punches were passed out while they toasted their newfound compañero, Huntley Ashbury.

No one knew who he was at the Plaza Hotel. Huntley would have to do something tomfool to get their attention—and to impress the soaked brain of José Juarez, the Digger Indian chief he had brought here. They were termed Diggers since they tended to dig for roots. Juarez looked on expressionless, drinking whiskey straight from his bottle as though it were water.

After his fellow Californians cheered, Huntley raised his own cup and shouted, “Here’s all the hair off your head! And now, boys. See this barrel that I have transported from my empire in the Sierra foothills? Well, it doesn’t contain tobacco—no sirree, boys, it contains nothing but gold dust and nuggets straight from the mines. Gold dust in exactly one-fourth the weight of my own body. Forty-five pounds of the finest color ever taken from the icy streams of the Sierra!”

As expected, a collective gasp rose from the crowd that was now undivided in their fixation on Huntley Ashbury, the most prosperous trader in the San Joaquin Valley. He continued, “You manifest destiny men appreciate a good game of chance. You’re not representatives from the shores of fogydom like those watery geezers from back east! Sure as shooting, I’m no romancer. I will bet that barrel of color against the first fellow at a hand of poker!”

Yes, Huntley and his group from Agua Fria were on one of the biggest sprees San Francisco had ever seen. A little bad brandy and a big purse made every miner vastly important and friendly. Huntley had come to San Francisco by stage to secure the storage of his gold dust, to purchase supplies for the Digger Indians that Huntley had until recently considered his friends and subjects, but mainly to impress upon José Juarez the futility of rising up against Californians.

For lately Juarez had been grumbling, and had said nothing against the Diggers who had sacked a couple of Huntley’s trading posts, and had been very troublesome to miners in general. A few of Huntley’s many squaws had informed him there were more murderous attacks in the making. Huntley’s object was to display to Juarez the grandness of the white man’s most splendid city—the vast harbor of many masts, the tall hotels, and the superiority of their numbers. But so far, Juarez had only invested heavily in his favorite beverage.

Huntley jumped from the table. Of course many San Franciscans wanted to view the contents of the barrel to ensure they weren’t being bamboozled into getting overly excited over five pounds of sawdust. Huntley waved a magnanimous arm, saying, “Step right up, boys!” The Indians lifted the lid of the barrel enough so that various faces could peer inside and satisfy themselves that Huntley was indeed telling the truth—and even if he had merely layered a couple inches of gold dust on top of dozens of sardine tins, it was good enough to induce many wagers. “Who will be first?” Huntley asked the crowd. “Let’s celebrate the entry of California into the Union in big style!”

Huntley leaned back on his bootheels and crossed his arms with satisfaction as the San Franciscans argued among themselves as to who would be the first to play a hand with him. So it was with complete surprise that he found a lit cigarrito being shoved in his face. Backing up, Huntley stepped squarely on the toes of another gambler, and his hand instinctively went for his hip holster.

He relaxed a bit when he discovered the smoker was only a corned José Juarez, clad in his mishmash of fashion—a beaver top hat above a shirt with a ruffled bosom, but below that, in a state of nature wearing only a rude breechcloth. Huntley tensed again when it became apparent Juarez was in a serious stew.

The chief yelled, “That gold is meant for our blankets and our whiskey! It’s not yours to gamble away, you double-dealing cheat!”

Huntley held up his hands. “Hey, hey. Calm down there, José. I don’t cheat at poker, murder men, or bribe. This here is my own gold fair and square. The gold for your blankets was deposited—”

José hauled back and took a wobbly swing at Huntley. Huntley dodged to one side so the blow glanced, only throwing José off balance and angering him even further. José twirled like an oiled fandango dancer, and when he shouted, “We’ve been sold! Sold and buffaloed by this murderous cheat!” well, that was about all Huntley could take from the chief. To be called out like that by a red man in a public place was one of the ultimate insults, so Huntley just wound up and walloped José.

Now men paid attention, especially when José went flailing back into a group of them, and they disgustedly tossed him back in Huntley’s direction. Huntley punched him again. It was like a circus game with a clown, punching him down only to have him bounce back up, and the San Franciscans were heartily amused.

But Huntley did not want to continue whaling on such a sorry excuse for a human, so he was not disappointed when a stranger stepped behind him and gripped him by both elbows. “Now, now,” said the stranger in a smooth, placid voice. “Get that Indian out of here, and we can continue our game.”

Still, Huntley did not like being pinioned like that, fair game for anyone who should take it into his mind to wallop him, so he squirmed while a stumbling José was dragged away by a few men. “Release me, you cussed son of a bitch!” he snarled. He was prepared to have to whack this worm too, so when the fellow relaxed his grip and Huntley spun around to face him, he was completely unprepared for what he saw.

He was stunned into silence by the beauty of the man’s face and physique. In a country where most of the devils one ran up against were beaten, worn-out blockheads of the first degree, weathered faces containing gnarled and broken teeth, limbs sticking out every which way, this fellow loomed three heads above everyone. His high-boned cheeks were so fine his face was as though carved from a solid piece of slate. His dark eyes flashed righteously under arched silky eyebrows, and a drooping, well-trimmed moustache marked him as an educated satyr. He was clad in a ready-made frock coat with a dandified silk cravat.

He was awfully muscular, too, and seemed reluctant to release Huntley. Huntley was no weak kitten himself—so tall, some said, that he couldn’t tell when his feet were cold—but he had a similar reluctance to extricate himself. Warmth emanated from this enigmatic stranger, and it was probably only the almost complete absence of women in California that made Huntley’s prick swell up with his crotch plastered to the man’s. That was all—just the unfamiliarity of being touched by a cultivated individual who spoke decent English. Still, there was something eerie in the way he locked his eyes onto Huntley. A vigorous chill shot up Huntley’s spine at the touch, and his nipples stiffened into painful points. It was awkward in the extreme, but Huntley didn’t want to walk away, so he said, “Who are you, and what business is this of yours?”

Still gripping Huntley by the forearms, the fellow said evenly, “I’m a medical doctor. Dr. Whitman Whitney. I’m sorry, but I can’t bear to stand by and watch someone break another’s nose. Even if it is ‘only’ an Indian.”

A doctor? An idea instantly popped into Huntley’s brain. They could use a doctor in Agua Fria. Shaking himself loose at last, he clapped the fellow on the shoulder and said, “Thanks. I’ll stand you to a drink.”

None of the San Franciscans had forgotten the barrel of ore, but Huntley wanted to talk to the doctor, so they took their whiskeys and found an isolated table, letting the Indians guard the barrel. Huntley couldn’t put his finger on it, but he wanted to know more about this exotic-looking physician who had taken him by storm.

Perhaps Dr. Whitney noted the sharp way Huntley looked at him, for his next comment was, “And if you’re wondering, yes, I’m part Cherokee. That doesn’t mean I randomly run around standing up for Indians. I assess the situation first, and that fellow was clearly three sheets to the wind.”