Free Novel 1974 - The Californios (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour Page A

satisfaction.”
    Tomas glanced at Machado. “Be careful, Señor. He is very strong, a good fighter. If I were you, I would shoot him…from far off. When he falls I would shoot into him five more times, just to be sure.”
    Machado snorted, and reached into the pan for a strip of bacon.
    Tomas went on. “In my cantina one night…it was only last year…five men from another ship decided to rob him. Mulkerin was coming up from the shore with the money from the sale of a cargo. These were bad men. And they started a fight with him.”
    “I remember somethin’ about that,” Wooston said. “Killed a couple of them, didn’t he?”
    “I cannot afford to have killings at my cantina,” Tomas replied gravely, “so bodies are never found there. However, two bodies were found on the road near the cienaga…and there were two other men who became somehow disabled.”
    “And the other?”
    “He ran, Señor. He had less courage but greater wisdom. Captain Mulkerin had a few scratches, I think, and skinned knuckles.”
    “Knives,” Machado said. “They should have used knives.”
    “Two of them tried, Señor Machado. Two of them tried very hard with knives. One died with his own knife in his ribs, the other had a broken arm and collarbone.”
    It was a somber day. Low gray clouds lay upon the mountains, shrouding the peaks and the higher ridges. The canyons were silent, awesome, haunted.
    When they started out again, Fernandez led off. But he had gone only a short distance when he drew up sharply.
    “What is it?” Machado demanded impatiently.
    Fernandez pointed.
    Two crossed sticks lay in the trail.
    “Well? What of it?” Wooston demanded, as they bunched around.
    “I do not like it,” Fernandez said. “It is a sign.”
    “Bah!” Machado said contemptuously. “We waste time!” He rode over the sticks and on down the trail, and the others followed.
    From high in the rocks above them there came a weird, lonely howl, a howl that sent chills up their spines. Once more they drew up, guns in hand. The howl rose, died away, then lifted again.
    Their eyes searched the rocks above them, but they saw nothing.
    “Coyote,” Russell said.
    “That?” Tomas stared at him. “That was no coyote. It was a soul of the dead, a lost soul.”
    Wooston laughed. “Well, I ain’t afraid of no ghosts. Let’s go.”
    One of Machado’s men was in the lead. Suddenly, they saw his horse rear wildly, and the man drew his pistol and fired.
    Rushing up, they saw nothing.
    “What’s the matter?” Wooston demanded. “You gone crazy?”
    “There was a snake, a big rattler, right in the trail.”
    “Well? Where is he now?”
    There was no snake, no winding trail in the dust, nothing.
    Tomas glanced uneasily at Silva, who shrugged.
    “There was a snake!” The man repeated stubbornly. “I saw it. So did my horse.”
    “So? Ain’t you never seen a snake before? Let’s go!” Russell was impatient.
    With a glance of contempt, Machado rode past into the lead. The trail wound down a long, shallow draw, dusty and dry, with scattered rocks and cacti. Suddenly Machado stopped, waiting for Silva. “The trail is gone,” he said. “Find it.”
    Silva rode on past and began casting back and forth for the lost trail.
    “Be dark soon,” Russell muttered.
    The way grew increasingly rugged. Now the junipers were giving way to scattered pines, and along the streams the sycamores were larger, older, and in greater number.
    “Looks like an open place up ahead,” Wooston said. “We’d better camp.”
    Silva had picked up the trail, then lost it again. He led them now down into a flat place near a stream where there were several large sycamores. He glanced around uneasily.
    “What place is this?” Machado asked.
    Silva shrugged. “The stream, I think, is the Sespe. This place, I have heard of it before. It is a bad place.”
    “Looks good to me,” Wooston swung down.
    “There has been death here,” Silva said. “I was told of this