Jubilee Trail (47 page)

One of the sailors pushed a coin toward her. “How much do I get for this?”

Florinda picked up the coin, rang it on the counter, and looked at it carefully. It was a French two-franc piece. “Thirty-six cents,” she said.

“I mean, how much in whiskey?”

Glancing at the bottle, she made a mark on it with her thumb. “Down to there.”

“That all? Damn cheat, this place.”

“This liquor came around the Horn, boy. You know what a long way that is.” She gave the two of them a friendly smile. “This your first time in California?”

“Yes, why?”

“Ever try aguardiente?”

“What’s that?”

She took another bottle from the shelf. “Agua, water; ardiente, fiery. In short, firewater. Costs only one-tenth as much as the American stuff and gets you drunk twice as fast.”

The two sailors grinned at each other and agreed to try it. “How much firewater do we get for that French money?”

“Want it all at once?”

“Sure, why not?”

Florinda took two larger cups from the shelf and filled them both. “There it is.”

The sailors tasted the aguardiente and whistled. “Not bad.”

“No, very good.” She smiled at them brilliantly. Florinda tried to save the whiskey for the traders, who were her steady customers. She dropped the French coin into a box with a slit cover, which stood safely on a shelf behind the bar, and turned to greet a young Californio who had just come in. “¿Vino rojo? Sí, señor, pronto.”

As she gave him his wine, the two sailors leaned over the bar. “What’s your name, miss?”

“Florinda.”

“How’d you get away out here?”

“Santa Claus brought me.” Another man tapped his cup on the bar, and she went to wait on him. A moment later the sailors called her again.

“How much do we get for this?” one of them asked, handing her a Peruvian dollar.

“It’s worth a hundred cents. Want it in aguardiente?”

“Sure, that’s good stuff. Just keep pouring till you use up the dollar.”

Florinda laughed and set the bottle on the bar. “For a dollar,” she said, “you can pour it yourself.” She turned to wait on several men who had come in from the gambling room. Silky, who had followed them, beckoned to her when she had poured their drinks. “How’s it going?” he asked in an undertone.

“Fine.”

“No trouble?”

“Not a bit. Those two brave mariners are putting down aguardiente like it was milk, but they’re all right so far.”

“Texas hasn’t been in again, has he?”

“I don’t imagine he can walk this far. But Texas never makes trouble, Silky.”

“Well, let me know if you need any help,” said Silky. He slipped back into the other room. The sailors were tapping again. “No, no,” they protested when José approached them. “We want the lady. Nice Yankee lady. Miss Florinda, you come over here.”

“Yes, gents, I’ll be right there. Just getting a cloth to wipe up that splash of liquor.”

The sailors felt fine. As she wiped up the splash on the bar they looked her over with hazy adoration and one of them mumbled in her ear. Smiling, Florinda shook her head.

“Sorry, fellow. Six doors west. Ask for Estelle.” Devilbug was knocking on the counter, and she went back to the traders. “What’ll it be this time, gents?”

“The same. How much credit have we got left?”

“I’ll look it up. Wait a minute.”

She took a ledger from the shelf and riffled the leaves. “Devilbug, six hides; Ticktock, three hides and a half. That’s counting off the drinks you’ve just had.” She jotted the scores on the two pages.

“That won’t hold us till we leave,” said Devilbug. “I’ll bring you a credit paper from Abbott’s tomorrow.”

“Better bring a good big one. It’s your last chance to cut capers between here and Santa Fe.”

They laughed. Laughing back at them, Florinda turned to answer a knock from the other end of the counter, where some Californios wanted a bottle of wine. She set the bottle before them as the door opened again, letting in a gust of wind and rain.

Florinda glanced up and waved joyfully. “Well, I’ll be a pink-eyed mackerel if it’s not John Ives. How are you, Johnny?”

The other Americans called greetings. John did not answer. He came and leaned both elbows on the bar, resting his head on his hands. John’s clothes were drenched, and spattered with mud. The rain was running out of his hair. He had not shaved for days, and his face was lined with fatigue. Behind him came his boy Pablo Gomez, who sat down on the floor in a corner. Pausing in front of John, Florinda exclaimed with concern,

“For pity’s sake, Johnny, what’s the matter? You look dead and dug up.”

“I feel like it,” John said wearily. He did not lift his head. “Give me a big drink. Whiskey. And a bottle of red wine for Pablo.”

He threw some coins on the bar. Mickey put a cup in front of him and Florinda poured the whiskey. She took a Mexican dollar from the heap of coins, dropped it into the box with the slit cover, and pushed the rest of the money back toward him. John took the bottle of wine to Pablo and came back to the bar. Swallowing his own drink at a gulp, he pushed the cup toward her. Florinda filled it again. “How long have you been riding in this rain?” she asked him.

“I’ve been riding four days, but the rain only hit me two days ago. Fill it up again, will you?”

Florinda obeyed, picking up another coin from the heap, but she warned,

“Make this one last a little longer, Johnny, or you’ll fall down. You’re too tired to swallow it whole.”

“I suppose you’re right. Can you give me something to eat?”

“Of course. Stay here till I get a free minute. What’s the trouble?”

“Tell you later. Let me catch my breath.”

Florinda was called by another man and went to wait on him. The traders moved up to talk to John. John answered them briefly. He had come in from Hale’s Rancho, he said. He had ridden hard, with little sleep. “I’m looking for Texas,” said John. “Thought I’d find him here.”

“He’s in town,” said Devilbug, “but Florinda says he’s been drunk a week.”

John swore, softly and skillfully. “I thought he’d be sobering up for the trail.”

“No use while it’s raining. I guess he’ll start sobering next week.”

“Next week?” John repeated angrily. “Next week?”

“What do you want with Texas?” asked Ticktock. “Somebody sick?”

“Mrs. Hale. She’s dangerously ill. You remember her, don’t you?”

“Why sure, nice girl. Too bad.”

“John.”

It was Florinda speaking. She had reached across the bar and caught his wrist.

“What did I hear you say about Garnet?” she asked sharply.

“Garnet’s going to die if she doesn’t get some help soon.”

Florinda’s lips tightened. “Stay where you are.”

She turned around and caught Mickey’s arm. “Take over, Mickey.” Pointing to the side door, she said, “I go. Back soon.”

Mickey smiled. “Yes, Miss Flinda.”

A customer was knocking on the bar. Ignoring him, Florinda went through the side door at the end of the bar and came into the main room by the side door in front of it. With a firm grip, she took John’s elbow. “Come with me. Through here.”

John went out with her. The door opened into the little hall with the staircase. Locking the door after her, Florinda led him through the hall and into the kitchen. There was a fireplace here, with a pot hanging over a pile of glowing ashes. In front of the wall-bench was a long table on which were some dishes not yet washed.

“Sit down,” said Florinda. John was so tired that he obeyed without question. Going to the fireplace, Florinda dished up a bowlful of beans from the pot, and brought it to him along with a plate of beef and some cold tortillas. She set the dishes in front of him and put a bottle of whiskey beside them. “There’s liquor. But don’t drink any more until you’ve eaten something. And don’t try to talk either. You’re so tired you’re addled in the head.”

John gave her a weary smile. He began to eat hungrily.

Florinda put a stick of wood on the fire. John’s clothes began to steam. Bringing a square of cloth that might have been a towel or a dishrag, Florinda dried his hair and rubbed the splashes of mud off his stubbly cheeks. As he pushed back the empty bowl she sat on the bench by him and poured a stiff drink of whiskey into a cup. John smiled at her again as she pushed it toward him.

“You’re very good, Florinda. Thank you.”

“Feel better?”

“Much better.”

“Now tell me what’s happened to Garnet.”

John’s hand tightened around the yellow pottery cup she had set before him. “Garnet is going to have a baby,” he said, “and she’s just had a horrible shock.”

“What’s the matter with her?”

“Nausea. I never saw anything so violent, or so frightening. She vomited till she broke a blood vessel, then she started coughing up splashes of blood. She wasn’t even doing that very much when I left, she was too weak.”

Before he was done, Florinda had given a horrified exclamation. As he paused she said, “Tell me what happened, John. Start at the beginning.”

John took a swallow of whiskey and told her the story, beginning with the letter that brought news of Carmelita’s child. After one or two shocked words, Florinda heard him without interruption.

“When I carried her into the house,” said John, “she fainted, and when I brought her around she babbled to me, hardly knowing what she was saying.”

Florinda shut her eyes a minute, with a shiver. “What’s Charles doing now?”

“He’s shut up in his room, pacing. He did love Oliver, if you can call that damned clawing possessiveness by the name of love. Two days after Oliver was killed, when they were getting his body ready for burial, I went to Charles’ room and told him I thought Garnet was going to die. He said, ‘I hope she does,’ and banged the door in my face. I left that day and rode to Los Angeles to look for Texas.”

“Did you leave anybody with her?”

“A couple of native women. They’re kindly souls, but they don’t know what to do for her, any more than I do. And now Texas is swamped in liquor.” John swore under his breath. He threw the cup across the room and it smashed on the wall.

“Here’s another, Johnny. Break several if it makes you feel any better.”

“That blasted rumhead. Why do they have to do it?”

“Oh John, they don’t know why they have to do it! You wouldn’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like.” Florinda got up. She walked to the window, opening the shutters a trifle. “The rain’s letting up,” she said over her shoulder. “If you got a good night’s sleep, could you start back to the rancho in the morning?”

“Of course. But what can I do when I get there?”

“I’ll go with you.”

“You? Do you know what to do for her?”

“Maybe.” She turned around from the window, smiling at him in cool irony. “You’re a bright boy, Johnny, and you’ve been around, but I don’t think you know much about the New York slums. Women get shocked plenty down there. And I’ll tell you something, bright boy. Half the shock is that awful feeling that nobody gives a damn what becomes of you.”

“Then you’ll take care of her?”

“I’ll do my best.” Florinda came back to where he sat. “Now come upstairs and I’ll give you a place to sleep. We’ll start as soon as you wake up in the morning.”

She patted his whiskery cheek. The kitchen door opened and Silky came in.

“Say, Florinda, what are you doing away from the bar so long? Don’t you know—why, how do you do, John. Come on back, Florinda.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I’ve shown John the way upstairs. He’s staying here tonight.”

“Hurry, won’t you? José is mixing up the credit book and everybody’s getting mad.”

“Let her alone, Silky,” said John.

He was sitting on the bench. Florinda stroked his damp hair. “Don’t mind him, Silky, he’s been drinking too much. I’ll be there, and I’ll sing ’em a nice bawdy song to get the house in good humor again.”

Silky had put his hand on the door. “You’ll be right out?”

“Certainly. But first I’d better tell you, I won’t be here tomorrow. I’ve got to go away for a bit.”

Silky turned around with a start. “What the hell are you talking about?” Silky’s manners were not always elegant in private.

Florinda explained about Garnet. Silky was angry. He wanted to know how she expected him to run the bar and the gambling room all at once. John started to answer, but Florinda gave his shoulder a warning squeeze, so he let Silky rage.

“Sorry, Silky,” Florinda said at last. “I wouldn’t leave you for anything less than a matter of life and death. But that’s what this is.”

Silky scowled. He hesitated. He pulled one end of his mustache. “John, is that kid really very sick?”

“I’m hoping she’ll still be alive when we get there,” said John.

“Damn you to hell,” said Silky. “Do you need anything?”

“Fresh horses,” said John.

“You’ll find those in the corral behind the house. Anything else?”

“I threw the saddlebags on the porch. Have somebody bring them in. And give Pablo something to eat and a place to sleep. Oh yes, I was to meet my friend here, the one Florinda calls the Handsome Brute. When he turns up, tell him where to find me.”

“All right. I hope Mrs. Hale gets well. Florinda, if you ever do this to me again I’ll kill you.”

“Oh, fine. Then you’ll have to look for another beautiful girl who speaks English and doesn’t drink and never cheats the customers. Come on, John.”

Florinda picked up a lamp. John followed her up the rickety stairs. As they reached the top he said,

“Silky behaved quite decently, for him. I have a pouch full of silver in one of the bags. Tell him I’ll leave it to help make up the losses while you’re away.”

Florinda gave him a cynical smile. “Hell for breakfast, Johnny, if a man has one good impulse every ten years, can’t you let him have it?”

“I don’t know how long the impulse will last. But there’s one universal language, and it’s not music.”

“Very smart of you, Johnny. This is my room. You can stay here.”

She opened a door and went inside with the lamp. John stopped on the threshold. This was not the sort of room he had expected to find in Silky’s Place.

It was a small room with rough adobe walls. But around the walls Florinda had hung curtains of blue checked gingham; and there were blue checked curtains over the window shutters, and a cover to match them on the bed. Several blue cushions were piled on the wall-bench. On the floor were black-and-white woolen rugs from Santa Fe. At one side was a rough wardrobe, painted white. There was a washstand with a bowl and pitcher and slop-jar, and a big mirror on the wall, and across a corner of the room was a blue gingham screen. The place was a little palace of bright clean comfort.