Free California Gold by John Jakes Page A

of a machine, replaced without a second thought. Does that make them killers? I don’t know. I do know they are men like no others. In this state they are gods. And they didn’t build their line as a sweet, altruistic gesture. They were little shopkeepers in Sacramento when they hired poor Theodore Judah, who was a fine, visionary railway engineer. They didn’t care about Judah’s beautiful patriotic dreams of a country united by steel rails; they merely wanted to control the freight traffic to the Nevada mines. Judah exhausted himself before the scheme was even well started—he, too, died in their behalf. In the course of their magnificent undertaking, for which they took enormous moral credit, the four of them acquired huge land holdings, and repeatedly tricked and cheated the United States and California governments. At the same time, each of the four amassed one of the greatest personal fortunes on the planet. Does that make them criminals, or merely successful businessmen?”
    Marquez shook the reins, turned the wagon left into the crossroads, and there reined the mule for a moment. “I know my answer. One day, those four will be found guilty at the bar of history. I am impatient for it. Meanwhile, I’ll tell you something a prudent man should keep in mind while in California. There is some doubt as to who wields more power here, Almighty God or the railroad.”
    Mack stared up at the priest’s sunlit face. Only the takers … and those they take from. He had to keep hoping that wasn’t really how it was. He had to keep hoping the gold wasn’t the kind his pa found—pyrites, fool’s gold.
    He raised his hand. “Father Marquez, you’ve been kind.”
    The priest’s handshake was vigorous and strong. “I hope you find what you are looking for, Señor Chance, and that when you do, it will not disappoint you. Thank you for your assistance back there. I won’t forget. Go with God.”
    He clucked to the mule and the wagon creaked off in a dust cloud. As Mack watched, he heard barking. O’Malley’s dog was limping along the dusty road in pursuit of the wagon. The collie fell but got up and kept coming.
    Mack whistled to Marquez. The priest turned, saw the dog, and slowed the wagon to a crawl. With a brief smile and a wave, Mack turned west on the crossroad.

6
    A WEEK LATER MACK stood on the mole at Oakland.
    It was shortly past noon on a brilliant, cool day. He flung his arms out and his head back and laughed, heedless of the properly dressed passengers hurrying down the wharf in back of him.
    God, he was here. Finally here. He smelled the sea, sweetly perfumed by salt and fish. Little bright sails of pleasure craft brightened the Bay, and a stiff Pacific breeze put curls of white on the water.
    And there it was on the other side, rising in patterns of light and shade on the steep hills: a city of substantial commercial buildings and pastel-and-white residences, pretty as decorations on a cake. On his right, the Bay swept around the land and kissed the sea. In the channel a rusty old steamer equipped with side-wheels as well as masts plowed outward between scurrying fishing boats. That part of the peninsula revealed golden hilltops with a few trees, open spaces not yet heavily built upon.
    He lowered his arms, but the intoxication remained. He had no job, no money, and no prospects for either. But he had hope, boundless hope, on this sunny afternoon by the Bay. It banished the doubts and bad memories that had piled up on his journey.
    Farther down the two-mile-long wharf, a steam whistle announced the departure of the next Southern Pacific ferry boat, a white floating castle crowded with gentlemen in suits and cravats, ladies with parasols, and a number of shabby poor people who kept to themselves.
    Mack strolled down toward a white booth. People eager to catch the boat rushed by, careful not to touch him, for his beard was very long, and he’d last bathed on Wednesday, coming over the coastal hills that were