California Bloodstock (2 page)

Her mother had planned to call her Melting-Snow-of-Winter-That-Chases-Despair, but it had not worked out. Old T. D. Slant and everybody else around Monterey in 1846 called her Taya. Only Slant knew why. She was a quick, breezy child with rich black hair and eyes that reminded Slant of wet grey stones. And there was a bounce to her, a rhythm in her small tight body that made men notice her. She was fifteen and had been noticing them back for some time.

She passed the customhouse with its Mexican flag snapping in the morning wind and trotted her big gelding across the sandy street, heading up the hill to a place where she could see far out over the Pacific. She liked to sit in a certain little grove of cypress and watch the whales spouting playfully south. When
there were no whales she would watch the wide blue flatness for ships. But most of all, she liked to be alone and think about bodies, her body and how other bodies might fit with it. She fell back in the dune grass and swung her feet toward the grey clouds forming over the bay. She turned her ankles in small circles and moved her hands slowly over her small breasts. Fine. She was fine if anyone wanted to know.

If she had felt like it she could have turned back down the hill and maybe caught a glimpse of old T. D. leaving the office for his morning drink. Instead she rode down to the beach to dig clams.

When she climbed to the top of the hill again it was late in the afternoon. Still no whales, but looking down into town she saw three men ride up in front of where she lived. They seemed to argue over something, pointing at the sign over the door that old T. D. was so proud of. She didn't recognize them but could see that they were dressed like Americans, mostly in skins. She wondered how old they were.

Most of the Americans showing up in Monterey lately were a lot more pleased with old T. D.'s sign and what it told the Mexicans and Californios than they were with old T. D. himself. The sign said that there was an American newspaper in California.

Old T. D. Slant was the founder, editor, and publisher of the
California American
and had been since he showed up and bought the only printing press in the territory from Vallejo back in 1838 when the Russians were still making everybody nervous. His readers generally believed what they read but they sure as hell didn't trust Slant personally. The principle
of
it takes one to know one
explains why. After all, Slant had wandered west with the rest of them, and they knew who they were. So Slant was said to cheat brilliantly at monte, to have shot three men from ambush, and to be looking for a free lunch. He claimed to be the same age as the century but was lying by twenty years. He was especially vain about the curly auburn beard which he kept as sweetly perfumed as a French whore's twat. Or so he said.

Why Taya lived with him was a minor local mystery. He told folks that she was his mistress, his child, or both, depending on how he felt like playing it at the time. He was considered shrewd and eccentric.

If anyone wanted to know what had brought him to California, he would snort smugly into his sweet-smelling whiskers and start whispering like a conspirator about spreading civilization. There were some, however, who claimed that on one especially tropical night on the plaza, when he had been lushing up large quantities of mission wine with Freemont's topographical engineers, he had suddenly blurted out something a good deal closer to the truth.

I came to California to retire and fuck around, he had shouted.

And in this he was not alone.

Even for 1846 the men that Taya saw from the hill were a trinity of bad examples. Galon Burgett, his
brother Millard, and Josiah Sewey were three old scoundrels who had been knocking around west of the Missouri River since they deserted together from the War of 1812.

Galon was small but well formed, smart as a weasel and rather handsome. Woman usually liked him until they got to know him. His younger brother Millard was smaller yet, barely over five feet tall, and simpleminded. Colicky tufts of white hair sprouted from his empty skull just above each ear, making him appear even dumber than he was, which was difficult. Once, when they were kids, one of their ma's cousins made a joke about Millard and the whole family sleeping together in the same bed and their pa had shot the cousin in the foot. Galon and Millard held hands and giggled while the cousin bled to death. They grew up close. Another time, years later, Galon had used his skinning knife to make a Santa Fe whore give Millard a tongue bath.

Their pal Josiah Sewey had wolf eyes and big scarred hands. He looked like the strong, mean old man that he was. He made a real good bully when he felt like it, which was often. There were even times when he felt like shoving Galon around a little, but for one reason or another he never did. Once, Sewey shot one of his own fingers off by accident and was embarrassed about it until Galon made up a story for him to tell. The story went that Sewey had shot it off on purpose, on a bet. Sewey thought the story was perfect and loved to tell it. He liked to hang around with Galon because he admired his mind.

Galon was the idea man, the leader. He pulled a grimy wolfskin pouch from his saddle and led Millard
and Sewey into the office of California's American newspaper. It was the same year that Alexander Cartwright designed the first official baseball diamond and the very same day that the Knickerbocker Club in New York held its first bowling tournament. East is east and west is west, as old T. D. Slant was fond of suggesting at the time. Even the sports were different.

You ever hear of Galon Burgett?

It was a real sly question coming as it did from Galon himself. Slant wasn't sure. He snorted ostentatiously into his beard and searched his memory. Yes, he had heard of a Galon Burgett but he couldn't ferret out just where or how.

We come about the book, Galon told him.

A pack of lies, hissed Sewey.

Before Slant could respond, Galon had the evidence out of the pouch. With a flourish, he tossed it on the desk in front of Slant. The coverless, chewed-up volume fell obediently open to the passage Galon wanted. Something about cowardly and unscrupulous dealings with the Shoshone, and a general pettifogging dishonesty on the part of the two varlet brothers named Burgett. The passage went for three pages without a break, ending finally with an explanation of how one Francis Buckdown had been forced on numerous occasions to publicly box the Burgetts' riffraff ears.

Slant noticed that someone, probably Galon Burgett, had been engaging the book in cryptic debates. The words
bullshit
and
goddamn lie
were scrawled here and there in the margins with such bold strokes that the blotches of dried animal blood and other grit that covered the pages passed here and there for punctuation.

Slant was not happy. Tentatively he allowed that he recognized the book as one that he might have had something to do with.

I wouldn't be bragging, Galon told him.

Sewey snarled like a dog.

Millard started to pant.

Blow it the other way. Slant popped the book shut and insisted that it wasn't his work in any true literary sense. Any fool could see that.

Oh yeah, Galon argued. Then what about Hippolyte Weed who had given him the book and who was also plenty pissed off on account of certain lies about him? And what about the picture of Indian fighting that was supposed to be on the cover that Weed had traded to Counsel for some rope? Wasn't Slant's name on it? And what about a lot of other things?

Slant chortled self-consciously. So maybe they had never seen the cover. Slant hoped not. That might explain the misunderstanding.

It was getting sticky. Sewey had pulled a nasty-looking knife out of his boot and was waving it in the air, demanding that Slant get to the parts about him. And indeed, there were several passages in the book suggesting dark venalities on the part of a certain ticket-of-leave cur named Sewey. Slant finessed Sewey and his knife with an adroit snort and pulled
a crisp new copy of the book from the shelf behind him. Galon grabbed it.

The cover depicted a large man, sporting much fringe, in the act of dispatching a pack of obviously wild but rather puny savages. Their dead bodies heaped around him as they fell under his tomahawk and noble purpose. It was Buckdown all right. The Burgetts and Sewey studied the cover, fascinated. It was him for sure but he never…

Slant concentrated on Galon, pointing to a line of small type under the title.

See here, he said. See here where it says
As Written from His Own Dictation by T. D. Slant, Esq.
That means that I simply wrote down what Buckdown told me. What he told me to write down.

Galon was not impressed. He insisted that Slant still wrote it.

But not in the pure literary sense, Slant argued.

Thus they were discussing literary sense when Taya walked in with a sack of clams.

What a disappointment. Taya's smile dropped to a low curve of disdain as she sized them up. Three smelly old farts. Not at all what she had in mind.

Shy, Slant explained as Taya walked past them without a word and disappeared out the door to the patio. Sewey and the Burgetts stared after her, grunting to each other, sizing her up. Young blood?

Some kind of breed, from Sewey.

Crow or Shoshone, from Galon.

Pretty, from Millard.

Yes, said Slant, herding them toward the front door, my mistress and not the local worm-eating variety. A princess, in fact, among her own people and developing into a real fine civilized lady here under my wing, shall we say. But to the business at hand. Shall we adjourn to a more appropriate setting?

Millard thought this meant that they would all go out in the street and have a gunfight, but Slant led them instead to his local cantina.

La Cantina del Futuro Proximo was the most popular cantina in Monterey and was thus usually crowded with mental-health problems. Sewey and the Burgetts felt right at home. Slant sat them down at a corner table and went to the bar for a bottle of brandy. At the next table, four men and an old woman were playing monte, a game similar to blackjack but easier to cheat at. Millard was captivated. The old woman noticed and winked at him. He didn't understand.

What's that they're playing? Millard whispered to Galon.

Never mind, we got business.

You can handle it, Galon.

Millard, Galon scolded, is that all you care about them lies? You crackbrain!

Millard hung his head. He was ashamed. He tried to make it up to Galon by squinting as mean as he could at Slant, who was returning to the table with a bottle and four small glasses. But Slant just smiled and dealt out the glasses.

Over the first two drinks, Slant conceded that, yes,
the boys might have a legitimate grievance. With Buckdown, however, not with him.

Well, Galon said, we just want it fixed.

We want all them books fixed, Sewey added.

Over the third and fourth drinks, Slant explained the difficulties. Harper & Brothers back in New York couldn't possibly track down and call back all the copies, even if they could be convinced of such an obligation, which, given the nature of the publishing business, was unlikely at best.

Balls, Sewey grumbled and started fingering the knife in his boot.

I wouldn't be bragging, said Millard.

Galon coughed but didn't speak. He watched Slant like a cat toying with a flower, considering the possibilities.

Over the fifth and sixth drinks, Slant insisted that their argument was with Buckdown. After all, it was Buckdown who had initiated the misunderstanding in the first place. Any and all gnawing bones should be picked with him.

Look here, Slant, Galon said softly, we don't give a shit about any Harper or how many brothers he's got and we'll take care of Buckdown after we fix the literature side of it. I've got it all figured out and you don't even have to pay us.

Yeah, Sewey said, sticking his knife in the table for emphasis, Counsel says that asshole probably got rich off them lies.

Over the seventh and eighth drinks, Slant launched a buoyant explanation of the economics of publishing. Nobody makes any money, etc….

Balls, Sewey growled, now fondling his knife.

Galon was more reasonable. All you got to do, he told Slant, is write a book about us.

About you three?

Slant's mind churned. A moon-brain scam eclipsed his reason. He reached slowly for the bottle, and over the ninth and tenth drinks outlined the amount of time and effort such a book would require and then, after an appropriate pause, snuck in the necessity of a small advance.

Forget it!

It was determined that Galon, Millard, and Sewey would give Slant a quick outline of the basic truth and he could fill in around the edges while they saw to other business. Galon had it all worked out.

Yeah, said Millard, inspired into his first complete sentence of the day, while we're gone you can fill in around the edges with literature.

Right. And the bottle was empty.

Back on the patio, Taya sat in the shade shelling clams. She wondered if old T. D. was lying about sleeping with her again. Probably. She wondered if anyone ever believed him. She ate a raw clam. It died going down.

The boys had never been to a bar-b-que before. All they knew was that they were always eating outside anyway and didn't think it was so hot, especially
when they were in civilization. But when Slant explained it as a local custom, they figured what the hell and wound up sitting out on the patio.

The tan ground was raked smooth with clean little rake lines all running in one orderly direction. Pale geraniums, soft magenta and dusty pink, flushed along the whitewashed adobe walls. A spreading cypress, with fading blue and white lupin peeking from its roots, shaded a redwood table set with earthen pots and milky brown platters. The light was soft, dying peacefully, stretching shadows east toward smooth hills bathed in lavender by the sunset. But all was not monotonous pastel. Here and there bright yellow and orange poppies broke loudly through the quiet palette like the weeds they are.