Gold (31 page)

She smiled up at him and took his arm.
“You may, sir,” she said. And when he raised her hand
to brush her fingers with his lips she did not
object.

At the Empire, Rhynne locked the gold dust in
his new strong box and made a final entry in his
ledger. The lottery had turned out better than he
had expected. Better than he had hoped, even.
He looked at the figures in the book in front of
him. Income, ninety-nine hundred dollars. Outgo,
sixteen hundred and ten dollars. Profit, eighty-two
hundred and ninety dollars.

By altering the tickets, King Sutton had saved him a five hundred dollar donation to
Colton’s
church and Selena hadn’t gone to bed with the winner
after all, plus Danny O’Lee had come out of the
duel with a scratch and new-found respect.

Rhynne had only one regret. Of what possible
use was a thousand dollar bed?

Upstairs on that bed, Danny O’Lee trailed his fingers along Selena’s cheek to her throat, along
the curve of her bare breast to the nipple, where
he paused, down along her side to the curve of
her hips, to her leg, between her legs and up along
her thighs, parting them.

She shivered in anticipation.

“Danny,” she whispered, “do you think you
should? You’re wounded and you might have a fever.
Do you really think you should?”

“
The first three times didn’t seem to hurt me.”

She smiled.
“You’re right. You know best,
Danny. In fact, Dr. Braithewaite should be
pleased. You seem to be getting better all the time.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY

“Welcome to San Francisco, Captain Fitz
patrick,” William Coleman said. After the two
men shook hands, Coleman motioned the captain
to a chair beside his desk.

While Coleman lit a cigar and Fitzpatrick
rolled a cigarette, the two men studied one an
other. Coleman seemed as thin as his cigar and
slight, almost effete. Dressed in grey with a pale
blue cravat flounced at his neck, he was the epit
ome of the successful San Francisco businessman.

Barry Fitzpatrick was quite different. His buck
skin clothes, sun-bronzed face, and lean hard
body made one think of a mountain man or the leader of a wagon train or a seasoned veteran of
the Mexican War.
He had, in fact, been all three.

“I think you probably know why the Committee
hired you,” Coleman said.

“
I have an idea.”

“
You came well-recommended, captain. Gen
eral Winfield Scott himself communicated with us
praising your services to our country in the Mex
ico City campaign of ‘47. In fact, he said there
were only two other men who fought in that war that he’d recommend as highly. He mentioned a
Captain Robert E. Lee and a Lieutenant Ulysses
Grant.”

“
Both are fine officers.”

“
And then after the War, I understand, you resigned your commission and served with the
Texas Rangers. Again your commanding officer had nothing but praise for you. He mentioned a
month-long pursuit of bandits along the Nueces
in particular.”

“
Anyone would be proud to have served under
Colonel Hays.”

“
You’re not much of a talker, are you, cap
tain?”

“
I’ve noticed that people who talk a lot don’t always do a lot.”

“
Well said. That’s the very reason the Com
mittee of Vigilance hired you. We want a doer,
not a talker. This city’s had its fill of talkers. And
its fill of corrupt politicians and judges more in
terested in enriching themselves than in seeing
justice done. This city’s overrun with the worst
sorts of knaves and cutthroats. We’re awash with Sydney Ducks, con men, gamblers, arsonists, and
prostitutes.”

Coleman went to the window.
“Come here,
captain,” he said, “I’d like to show you some
thing.”

When Barry joined him the other man put one hand on his arm, pointing with the other to city
block after city block where only chimneys stood
amidst the charred rubble.

“
When I rode in last night,” Barry said, “I saw
you’d had
the city’s future.

“
A quarter of the city destroyed. We’ve had
fire after fire ever since the one on Christmas Eve
of ‘49. Arson. They set fire to the city hoping to
steal in the confusion. Or just for the merry hell
of it. What’s more, our streets aren’t safe for
decent folk. Robbery, assault, murder, you name
it and San Francisco has it. In spades. And do
you know how many murderers we’ve hanged
here these last three years?”

Barry shook his head.

“Exactly none, captain. Nary a one. The sher
iff’s helpless; the police are in the pay of the
criminals. They must be. Is that any way to run
a city of 35,000 souls? I ask you, is it?”

“
Not to my way of thinking.”

“None, I’m afraid. That’s your job. Only last
week a man named Kingman Sutton complained to me about a scheme Rhynne enticed him into.
Seems Rhynne issued stock in a mining company,
then salted mines near Hangtown and suckered
a lot of newcomers into buying. Sutton says he lost his shirt.”

“
Know anything about this Sutton?”

“
He impresses me as a gentleman. Owns a cot
ton plantation in Georgia. He has a slave here
in San Francisco with him, as a matter of fact.”

“
I’ll talk to him. Is there anyone else involved
with this Rhynne?”

“
He had a partner in his Hangtown gambling
hall. A woman, believe it or not. She’s back in
the city too. I believe her name is Pamela Butler Jones.”

Captain Fitzpatrick jerked to attention.
“Not Pamela Buttle-Jones? A woman in her late thir
ties? A beauty?”

“
That sounds right. Do you know her?”

“
I did years ago.” Barry Fitzpatrick watched
the smoke from his cigarette curl toward the ceil
ing. “She was in a wagon train I led west before
the gold rush. An English gentlewoman. Only
there was a lot more to her once you came to know her. And, as I said, a beauty.”

William Coleman looked thoughtfully at Fitzpatrick, who had a deeply reflective look on his
face. “To the best of my knowledge,” he said, “she’s not involved with Rhynne now. If this
woman is a friend of yours, I suggest you see she
has nothing to do with him in the future.”

“
I intend to.”

“
As for Rhynne, you’re to get rid of the
son of a bitch any way you can. This is war, cap
tain, just as the conflict with Mexico was war.
It’s the good people of this city warring on the
criminals. No holds are barred; our only concern
is to win. Do I make myself clear?”

“
Perfectly.”

“
Good. When you have something to report,
come here to my office or go to the Committee’s
rooms on Battery Street near Pine. The first re
port I expect from you is one telling me that
Wordsworth Rhynne is no longer among us.”

Captain Fitzpatrick rode out of Market Street,
reined his horse to the right and climbed one of
the higher hills overlooking the city and bay. The
house, which he had no trouble finding—it was
half a mile from any other—was unfinished, with
only the frame rising skeleton-like against the
sky. As Barry drew near he heard the pounding
of hammers and the rasp of saws.

He dismounted and tied his horse to a post in
front. He drew in his breath. She stood in one
of the unfinished rooms on the first floor, her
back to him, a furled yellow parasol in her hand. She was wearing a gown of golden brown and a large feathered hat. Her figure was just as youth
ful as he remembered, if not more so; her hair
just as lovely as he remembered, perhaps lovelier.

Unexpectedly, he felt a tightening in his chest.
After all these years, he thought.

Stepping lightly across the littered floor, he
came up behind her and leaned down and kissed
her on the neck. She started in surprise, spinning
around to face him. He stared in amazement. It
wasn’t Pamela after all. This girl was much
younger,
couldn’t be more than twenty. How
could he have been mistaken?”

“
Why, it’s Barry Fitzpatrick,” she said. “You
haven’t changed a whit.”

And then he knew.
“You must be Selena,” he
said.

She felt the color flood her face as she re
membered all that had happened on the trail
west. But she raised her eyes to his defiantly,
determined not to let this meeting reduce her to
the awkward girl he had once known.

“
You’re every bit as handsome as I remember,”
she said. She walked around him as though to
examine him from every side. “We were just wild
about you. All the young girls and most of the
older women as well. Or don’t you remember our
wagon train?”

“
How could I ever forget that hellish journey?
Though I’d like to.”

“
Mr. Fitzpatrick, so would I.” She looked into
his bright blue eyes. “So would I.”

“
Then forgotten it is. We’ll not mention the
past again. Most people call me captain now, but
it’s still Barry to my friends.”

“
Oh, Barry.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed
his cheek. “Ah, you’re turning red. Perhaps
you’ve been away from women too long.”

“
I’ve been to Texas and Mexico. Oregon before
that.”

“
And you’ve just arrived in San Francisco?
You must find this the biggest, noisiest city in all the west. I went to a costume ball last night where
I met a newspaperman from the East. Do you know what he said about San Francisco? Wait,
let me be sure I have it right.” She struck a pose.

“
He said, I’ve seen purer liquors, better cigars,
truer guns, larger Bowie knives and prettier cour
tesans here than in any other place I have ever visited. San Francisco can and does furnish the
best bad things available in all of America.’ And,
Barry, I love it.”

“
You can’t mean what you’re saying.”

“
Oh, but I do. Everywhere else people work
from dawn to dusk. All day long men sit in their
stuffy offices making money while their wives are
home cooking meals and scrubbing floors and washing clothes. Here in San Francisco everyone
lives just to live.”

“
And to make money?”

“
Why, good heavens, you have to have money
to live.” She danced away from him with her
skirts swirling. “Do you like our new house,
Barry?” she asked. “On a clear day you can see
almost to Sacramento.”

“
It’s a grand house.”

“
Sixteen rooms. It will seem huge after our
one-room cabin in Hangtown. I can hardly wait
till it’s finished.”

“
Your mother must have done well.”

“
She did. When we returned to San Francisco she found her land more valuable than she ever dreamed possible. Men clamored to buy. They
actually lined up in the sitting room of our house
on Rincon Hill waiting to offer her money.”