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Joaquin's Gold
by Robert Walton (USA)
Evening wind bent long grass to the east. Golden light washed over the gentle slopes of the Gabilans. Across the valley mountain shadows grasped dusty ranches with silent fingers of night. Even Soledad was now folded in blue dusk.
Miguel turned his eyes back to his charges, one hundred and nineteen sheep. They were clustered at the bottom of a grassy arroyo. His three dogs would keep them there for the remainder of the night. He knelt beside his fire and picked up the steaming coffeepot.
Chico, his smallest dog, growled softly from the other side of the fire. Miguel looked up. A man stood on the knoll above with his back to the setting sun.
Suddenly, the sun was gone. As if he had been waiting for twilight, the man walked down to the edge of the fire.
Miguel asked, “Would you like coffee? I have plenty.”
The man said nothing. He looked down at Miguel from beneath his black, wide-brimmed hat. His hands and upper body were concealed beneath a brown poncho, but Miguel could see that he was slender and not young. His face was seamed with deep lines and his beard and moustache were frosted white. His eyes were black, deep, still.
The man nodded. “Yes, I will drink your coffee.” Smoothly, with no hint of age, he knelt.
Miguel poured coffee into a spare tin cup and held it out. The old man took it with his left hand. His eyes rested steadily on Miguel as he raised the cup to his lips. He sipped. “Bien, I like strong coffee.” He sipped again.
Miguel offered, “My name is Miguel Gonzalez. I’m watching that flock back in the arroyo. I’ll take them down to my uncle’s rancho tomorrow. It’s past shearing time for them.” He paused and looked up. “May I ask your name, Senor?”
The old man ignored this question. “You are alone?”
“Yes, except for my dogs.”
“Good. Tonight you will come with me and help me with something I must do. Tomorrow I will pay you well.”
Miguel shook his head. “I can’t leave the sheep. Something could scatter them. I’m sorry.”
“You asked my name?” The old man’s right hand moved from beneath the poncho. Miguel looked down. The black, empty eye of a forty-four-caliber pistol stared at him. The old man continued, “It is Joaquin. I am a very bad man.”
Miguel stared at the heavy pistol for a moment and then looked up. “Joaquin Murrieta? El Famoso? But the rangers killed him thirty years ago! His head is in a jar up in San Francisco. My grandfather told me so.”
Joaquin smiled. “My head is not in a jar.” He leaned forward. “I have killed two hundred men.” He cocked the pistol. Miguel watched its cylinder turn, lock into place. “I’m in a hurry and my business must remain a secret. Come with me now, or I will make a large hole in your heart.”
Shadows deepened behind the old man. Firelight made his beard shine like angel’s hair on a Christmas tree. A breeze stroked Miguel’s neck. He shivered and said, “I have no horse."
“I have burros. You can ride one of them.”
Miguel shrugged. "Where?"
“Come.” He rose, holstering his pistol, and walked back up the grassy knoll. Miguel followed him.
* * * * *
They rode in silence. They followed an arroyo at first and then their path led up to ridges. Oaks loomed and faded. Miguel felt spaces, seas of air before him. A sail of stars spread wide overhead. At last, Joaquin paused.
The moon rose between distant peaks, full and yellow, its pale light flowing over a wilderness of standing rocks. Miguel saw the humped shoulder of Chalone Peak to his right. Jagged summits stood before him, towers and spires of ancient stone. He looked at Joaquin.
Joaquin nodded, “Yes, the Pinnacles – all the men who stood here with me long ago are now dead. But these stones are the same.”
Miguel murmured, “You really are him.”
“Can you guess why we’re here?”
“Gold?”
“Gold.” Joaquin smiled. “Gold.”
Miguel looked at the old bandit. “I’ve heard stories about you. Are they true?”
Joaquin stared out over moonlit spires. “Some are true.”
“You robbed miners of their gold and killed them.”
“I did.”
Miguel scratched the soft place between his burro’s ears.
“I knew great rage then.”
Miguel shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“My brother, my wife and I came from Sonora to mine the gold. We were professionals and soon had many sacks of gold. The English, Irish, Americans - they did not have so much success. They hated us.
“One evening they came to our camp. There were twenty of them, three of us. They beat us with clubs until they thought we were dead. My brother was dead. I was nearly so. My wife was inside our cabin. They took her with them when they went.” Joaquin fell silent.
Miguel watched the moon swell.
At last, Joaquin continued. “Maricela killed herself later. When I recovered, I picked up a gun. I have never put it down.”
Miguel sighed. “Do you hate them now, the Americans and the others?"
Joaquin shook his head. “No, they are bad and good just as all men are. Some helped me even then.”
Miguel stirred.
Joaquin turned and his eyes flashed in the moonlight like a silver blade. “I killed the men who killed my brother. I killed others in battle. I did not murder for pleasure. Those stories are not true.”
Miguel looked at him. “You would not have shot me back at my camp?”
Joaquin grinned. “What sane man will argue when a gun is pointed at his heart?" He twitched his reins. “Vamos.”
Joaquin’s horse stepped onto the ridge. Miguel sat still atop his burro. Joaquin looked back. There was a long silence.
Joaquin shrugged. “Go back, if you must. I will not force you to help me."
Miguel grinned suddenly. “I will come with you, old man. The sheep are safe.” He touched the burro’s sides with his heels. They rode together along the spine of the ridge and then into shadow below the first towers.
Miguel asked, “Why do want this gold now, after all these years?”
“Life is hard in Sonora. It always has been. I have grandchildren. The gold is for them.”
“El Famoso has grandchildren?”
“Fourteen.” Joaquin held up his hand. He said, “We will leave the horse here and lead the burros. It is a steep path.”
They dismounted. Joaquin opened his saddlebag, rummaged in its depths and pulled out hobbles.
Miguel said, “This would be much easier in daylight. Why can’t we wait until morning?”
“I’m being followed.” Joaquin bent down and attached the hobbles to his horse’s ankles. He rose. “A gang left Los Angeles behind me. They caught me south of Jolon, but they did not mean to catch me there. Now they are two less and more cautious, I think.”
“They want your gold?”
“They want my gold. They are well back now, but the gold will slow me. We must get it tonight.” He produced a candle and a small glass lantern from the saddlebag. He struck a match, lit the candle and placed it in the lantern. Its yellow glow made the surrounding night even vaster. They set off, Joaquin holding the lantern high and Miguel leading the burros.
They walked down a deer trail and out onto naked rock. A cliff, its base lost in shadow, fell away on the left. Miguel gazed out into the gulf, slipped on loose pebbles and slid toward the cliff’s shadow-mouth. He clutched the halter rope, tugged the burro's neck straight and hung teetering on the edge. The burro, mild reproof in its eyes, did not move. Using the rope to steady himself, he moved his feet back to safe ground and drew a shuddering breath.
Joaquin’s eyes glittered in the candlelight. “Ten cuidado, Miguel, be careful. I might manage without you, but I must have the burros.” He turned and went on. Miguel placed his feet with precision and followed.
They reached an alcove scooped out of rough stone. Two towers leaned down above it like curious giants.
Joaquin pointed. “There are three caves. The first is shallow. It holds ice in winter, dust in summer. The second is la cueva de las cascabelas, the cave of the rattlesnakes. One of my men discovered this fact. He was dead of twenty bites before we reached him. “ Joaquin smiled. “They are still there, the snakes. They do not leave a good home. Tie the burros here.”
Joaquin held the lantern high. They descended into the alcove. Miguel searched the shadows around his feet for snakes. Joaquin said, “The first cave.” Miguel peered down at a cleft, a slice made by some giant’s knife. It faded into darkness. He looked up. Joaquin had moved on with the lantern. Its circle of light was some yards in front of Miguel. He scrambled to catch up.
Joaquin slowed, nodded toward a threatening mouth. “That is where my friends stand guard.” He turned, met Miguel’s eyes with his. He said, “Of course, they do not know that they are my friends. Stay close.” Miguel shivered as he stepped past the entrance.
The alcove widened and ended in a canyon of air. The last cave was on the left, partly hidden by shattered boulders. Joaquin again pointed. “Clear those rocks away.”
Miguel bent to his task. He rolled stone after stone away from the cave’s entrance and hoped fervently that the snakes had not decided to try out a new cave. At last, all of the large rocks were out of the way. He looked up at Joaquin.
Joaquin knelt and swept away a pile of loose pebbles with his hand. “There is a trap door. Ah, here!” He grasped a large iron ring. “Help me.”
Miguel bent down and gripped the ring. Together, they strained against the weight of dirt. A frame of gray wood slowly emerged. With a last heave, they slid it to the side. A square of utter blackness remained.
Joaquin lowered the lantern. “There should be a ladder. Yes, there it is. Come after me, Miguel.” The old man eased himself into the pit. As his head disappeared below its rim, darkness rushed back into the alcove. Miguel moved quickly to follow.
The ladder rested in a narrow passage that sloped steeply down beneath the roots of the rock tower above. Its walls were rough and threw back rose-colored light. Joaquin stepped away from the ladder. Miguel followed. They came to a low chamber.
Joaquin pointed. “There is the treasure so many wish to find.”
Miguel stared at a mound of dirty cloth sacks.
Joaquin moved forward, pushed the brittle sacks aside and revealed a wooden strongbox. From beneath his shirt, he pulled a leather thong. A brass key dangled from the thong. With some effort, he inserted the key in the chest’s lock and turned it. The lock snapped open. Joaquin lifted the heavy lid.
Miguel’s breath caught in his throat. The chest was filled with bars of gold, glimmering like silk in the lantern’s light.
Joaquin grinned. “It is beautiful, is it not?”
Miguel nodded and looked up. Light reflected from the gold shone in the old man’s eyes. Joaquin stared at his treasure for another moment and then looked up. “We’ll take only the bars. The bags of gold-dust must stay.” He lifted a gold bar, offered it to Miguel. “I’ll pass the bars to you. Carry them up to the ladder and come back for more.” Joaquin handed him a second gold bar.
Miguel took a bar in each hand and nearly dropped them. Their weight tugged hard at the muscles of his arms. The metal was smooth and cool against his fingers. He labored up the rough slope and placed the bars at the foot of the ladder. He turned and went back for two more.
The work was hard. Sweat stung his eyes. Pain sawed his back like the blade of a dull knife. The candle burned low and Joaquin replaced it. At last, Miguel bent and placed the last two bars on the castle of gold he’d made. He sighed and rubbed his forehead with his shirtsleeve.
As he straightened, a crash shattered the night and a lash of red flame struck down at him. Needles of rock jabbed his neck. An invisible hand slammed him to the tunnel floor. He smashed against the wall of the passage and rolled down the tunnel.
A voice sounded from the tunnel’s mouth, “Murrieta, that was half a stick of dynamite. I got lots more. You got a minute before I start throwin’ it down this hole. Toss your guns up here and come out.”
Miguel held his head between his hands and rose to his knees. Joaquin knelt beside him. “Are you all right?”
Miguel took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“Good.” The old man looked up at the tunnel’s entrance. “It is Garth, the leader of those who pursue me. I made a mistake, Nino. I did not kill him and he has found us here.”
Garth’s voice echoed down from above, “Thirty seconds, Murrieta. First your guns and then you.”
Fear squeezed Miguel’s chest with hands of stone. Joaquin touched his shoulder and Miguel tensed. The old man smiled, this time a kindly smile. “We are not dead yet, Nino, but that is what the big man plans for us. There will be a fight. You must help me. Can you do it?”
Miguel met the unending calm of Joaquin’s dark eyes. His fear faded. He found that he could answer, that he could even believe his answer. “Yes.”
“Bien. I will throw him my two guns.” He took a heavy Bowie knife from the sheath on his belt. “And my big knife. This” – he pulled a thin sliver of blue steel from within his poncho – “you must hide this knife here, inside your shirt, tucked behind your back. We will have one chance, one moment when they won’t be watching. When it comes, I will move behind you and take the knife. I will kill the big one. You must try to get one of my pistols and cover whoever is left.” He looked hard at Miguel. Miguel met his stare without a quiver. Joaquin smiled, “We have time for nothing more.”
They walked up the passage to the foot of the ladder. Joaquin drew his pistols and tossed them out of the square opening. He pulled his big Bowie knife from its finely tooled sheath and threw it after the pistols. Then he nodded to Miguel and climbed the ladder. Miguel swallowed, placed his hands on the rough boards and climbed.
As his eyes cleared the level of the opening, he saw a pistol pointed at his nose. The hand that held it was steady. The face behind it was thin, dirty and cruel.
A voice spoke from behind him. “So that’s your little helper.”
Joaquin, standing in the light of flickering torches, said, “He’s a boy, Garth, a shepherd. I made him come with me. He knows nothing of this.”
Garth laughed, “Well, that’s hard luck for him.”
Miguel pulled himself out of the hole and looked around. Small red eyes, gleaming in the torchlight, met his and his heart stuttered within his chest. Garth was huge, more like a bear than a man. Black hair covered most of his face and his huge forearms. The pistol he held was nearly lost in his vast paw of a hand.
Joaquin asked, “How did you find us?”
Garth’s laugh rumbled between the rock walls of the cleft. “You shouldn’t go around flashing your little lights, Murrieta. 'Course, you didn’t think I’d be close enough to see them, huh? No, you didn’t. We was here quite awhile waiting for you to come up out of your hole. Now, what’s in that hole?”
Joaquin said nothing.
Garth nodded to the thin-faced man. “Jake, get down there and take a look.”
Jake holstered his gun and climbed down the ladder. Miguel looked away from Garth. He saw a boy, not much older than himself, crouched higher in the cleft.
Joaquin said, “There were five of you. I see only three now.”
Garth grunted, “Yeah, two of my men are on the other side of these hills, over by Bear Gulch. We knew you was coming here, but we didn’t know which way you’d go. I figured it might be over on this side, though. That’s why I’m here.” Garth smiled. The yellow stumps of his teeth shone.
“Boss," came a shout from the tunnel. “Boss, there’s bricks of gold, piles and piles of them!”
Garth raised his pistol. “Well, that’s nice. Now I don’t need you anymore, Murrieta.” He pointed the pistol at Joaquin’s heart and began to squeeze the trigger.
Joaquin laughed, a soft, compelling sound.
Garth paused. “You think dying is funny?”
Joaquin chuckled again. “I am an old man. I do not care about dying. But your stupidity, huge one, I find very funny.”
“What do you mean?” Garth’s voice was flinty with suspicion and anger. “I can think of hard ways for you to die. Tell me what you mean, or I’ll get fancy about killing you.”
Joaquin looked mildly at Garth. “The gold down there is less than half of my treasure. I find it amusing that you would kill me before you’ve found all of the gold.”
Garth stared at Joaquin. An owl hooted far away in the dark canyon. The odors of sage and sun-baked dust mingled sweetly in the still air. At last, Garth lowered the hammer of his pistol. “I think you’re lying, but we’ll see.”
Joaquin said nothing.
Garth motioned to the boy crouched above, “Lonny, bring them burros down here.” The boy shoved his pistol into his belt and scrambled up the cleft to where the burros were tied. The big outlaw looked back at Joaquin and Miguel, “You and this kid just stand here while we load up the gold.” He leaned back against the rock. His pistol barrel swung in a lazy arc between Joaquin and Miguel and seemed to brush them with the long fingers of its bullets. Miguel shivered.
Lonny returned leading the burros. He and the skinny man began moving the gold out of the tunnel and loading it onto the burros. Garth waited silently.
Hooves of burros scraped on stone. Harness creaked as it strained beneath the weight of gold bars. The two sweating outlaws muttered cheerfully as they worked. The bars chinked musically as they dropped into the packs.
Miguel made the smallest of movements, trying to stretch muscles held too long in one position. He glanced at Joaquin. The old man had not moved and seemed almost to be sleeping where he stood. What was he thinking? What had he planned? Miguel turned these questions in his mind, but found no answers for them. Long minutes passed.
At last Jake spoke. “That’s it, Garth. What now?”
Garth looked at Joaquin. “Where’s the rest, Murrieta?”
Joaquin inclined his head up the cleft. “Not far. Look in the second cave. You will find more treasure there.”
Miguel looked at the ground. The snakes. Joaquin was sending them to the snakes.
Garth nodded. “Jake, Lonny, take a look.” He motioned with the pistol. “Move, you two.”
Miguel could guess what Joaquin wanted him to do. He slowed his pace, let the old man move behind him. They were even with the second cave’s entrance when Garth said, “Far enough.”
They stopped. Jake, holding a lantern, hesitated at the cave’s entrance. “Smells funny, boss.”
Garth snorted, “Get in there.”
Jake held the lantern before him and stepped inside the narrow mouth. He walked several steps forward. The cave roof slanted low, becoming a jumble of boulders and black cracks. Jake yelled, “I don’t see nothin’, Boss.”
The buzz of a thousand hornets vibrated in the cave’s still air. Jake turned in surprise. A triangular head flashed from a crack high in the wall, stabbed hollow fangs into his throat. He dropped the lantern and it exploded in an orange flower of flame. He stumbled forward against boulders. Other heads darted out, bit him in ankle and thigh, bit him in cheek and groin. Then Jake screamed.
Miguel had never heard nor imagined such a sound. It tore at the rocks, clawed at the dark air.
Jake burst from the mouth of the cave and knocked Lonny sprawling. Mad fear struggled with death in his eyes. He ran a few steps, uttered a whistling groan, and crumpled. His body slid lifelessly to the floor of the cleft.
Joaquin moved as Jake died. He plucked the hidden knife from Miguel’s belt and pushed him to the floor. Garth’s gun swung toward them. Joaquin paused for an atom of a second and then extended his arm in a fluid cast. The pistol leveled on him and roared. Yellow flame lit the cleft for an instant. Then silence and shadow rushed in.
Miguel looked up. Garth, his eyes wide with surprise, stared at the knife protruding from his chest. The pistol fell from the blunt fingers of his right hand. He reached hesitantly for the haft of the knife. His hand paused, then lowered gently. Red rage blazed from his eyes then. He took a step toward Joaquin, and another. Fury held him up, drove him forward.
Joaquin watched the dying man lurching toward him. Miguel scrambled across to Garth’s fallen pistol. He picked it up, cocked it and raised it.
Garth reached Joaquin. His heavy right hand groped for the old man’s throat. Grinning fiercely, Joaquin grasped the meaty hand and squeezed.
Garth roared. His fury cried out one last time before it drowned in a tide of heart-blood. Red purpose bled from his eyes. They became duller than the stones beneath his boots. His fingers slipped from Joaquin’s and he fell.
Joaquin lowered his hand. “He was a bad one, but he died well. Some men can do only that – die well.”
A boot scraped on rock. Miguel aimed the pistol at the sound. Dazed and bruised, Lonny crawled up from the bottom of the cleft. His eyes took in the mound of Garth’s body and widened when they saw the pistol pointed at him.
Miguel said, “Pull out your gun with your left hand and put it on the ground.”
Lonny did so. Fear made his jaw hang slack, his mouth open. His hands shook and tears started from his eyes.
Miguel felt suddenly ill. He said, “Get out of here. Go.”
Lonny sobbed, but did not move.
“Go,” Miguel repeated, motioning with the pistol.
Looking fearfully at the cave of the snakes, Lonny turned and stumbled away into the night.
“He would have killed you,” Joaquin said simply.
Miguel shook his head. “The fight is over.”
Joaquin nodded. “The fight is over." His voice faltered, "except for one detail."
Miguel stared at the old man.
Joaquin leaned back against the rock, sighed and closed his eyes.
“Joaquin?”
Joaquin glanced up, looked directly at Miguel. “Garth’s last shot, it did not miss.”
The old man’s poncho slipped aside. Miguel saw the dark shine of blood on the white shirt beneath it.
Miguel stepped toward him. “There’s a doctor in Salinas.”
Joaquin held up his left hand. “No. My plans are made.”
“But you are wounded.”
“I have been wounded before. I must go now, alone, but part of this treasure is yours.”
“Mine?”
“Yours. Take the third burro. That gold is yours.”
Miguel looked at the loaded burros waiting patiently beyond the cleft’s entrance and then back at Joaquin.
Joaquin continued, “We won this gold together, so now we share it. May I ask one small favor of you?”
This old man had threatened him, kidnapped him. This old man had pushed him away from Garth’s bullet. He found no anger in his heart. “Of course. What do you need?”
“Only your silence. Tell no one of these caves. The sacks of gold dust are still there. Wait one year. If I have not returned, it is yours. Will you do this?”
Miguel looked into Joaquin’s eyes and nodded. “I shall do as you ask.”
“Bien. I thank you.” Joaquin closed his eyes again.
Miguel noticed the cocked pistol in his hand. He eased the hammer down, looked at it for a moment, and then placed it on a shelf of rock. He rubbed his sweaty hands on his denim trousers.
“Miguel,” Joaquin said, “you are rich.”
Miguel nodded. “Yes, but it does not seem real to me.”
Joaquin smiled. “There is nothing more real than gold. You now have a great deal of gold.”
“I do not need so much.”
“You have earned it. But always remember the men who died here. There are many such. Your life is nothing to them. The gold drives them mad.”
Miguel said nothing.
Joaquin continued, “If you value your life, take my advice. Keep your gold a secret and buy land, buy slowly. Build a great rancho for yourself and your many children.”
Miguel grinned and raised his eyes. He saw the spreading stain on Joaquin’s shirt and his smile crumbled. “Your wound – how will you travel? Sonora is far.”
A breeze, a messenger of dawn, spoke soft words to the great stones above. Joaquin said, “I have been wounded before. This bullet will not kill me, I think. The bleeding has already slowed. Sonora? It is a long road to Sonora. I will not ride it. I have made certain arrangements with a ship’s captain. Monterey is not far. Now, Miguel, get my horse. The way is steep, but he will manage.” Joaquin chuckled. “I do not feel like walking further tonight.”
Miguel nodded and made his way out of the cleft. He soon returned, leading the horse over slick, dusty rock.
Joaquin, still leaning against the dark tower, asked, “Will you help me into the saddle?
Miguel led the horse close to Joaquin. The animal smelled blood and shivered nervously. Speaking soothing words, Miguel snubbed the reins short. He then grasped Joaquin’s arm and his eyes widened briefly in surprise. The old bandit’s arm was thin, almost frail.
Joaquin, braced by Miguel’s young hand, put his left foot in the stirrup and swung his right leg up. Miguel took up the burros’ lead rope. Reins in one hand and rope in the other, he led the animals between high walls. They came out onto a shelf of moonlit stone.
“I will leave you now, Miguel. Hand me the lead rope and the reins. Then untie the third burro.”
Miguel looked up. “Please, Joaquin, come down to my uncle’s rancho. We can dress your wound there. Let me help you.”
“You have already. I need no more help, only a few hours of darkness. Now, untie the burro.”
Miguel did as he was asked. Then he returned to Joaquin’s side. He hesitated for a moment and reaching up, grasped the old man’s hand, holding it hard.
Joaquin grinned. “Do not worry for me. I am a legend, or so they say. Now, I must ride like a legend, no? Adios, Miguel.” Miguel released the delicate hand. Joaquin twitched the reins. The horse’s hooves clattered on edges of rock.
Joaquin rode to the top of a low saddle and halted. He turned, removed his hat with his left hand and raised it high in final farewell. Moon-silver touched his beard, his spurs. The rest was black shadow.
Miguel felt as if he were part of some ancient design, some inevitable harmony of mountain and night. Gentle sadness flowed from the night into his heart. He raised his hand into moonlight and whispered, “Adios, Joaquin.”
Dawn came quietly as it always has to the hills of the Gabilans. A breeze stirred ripened stalks of wild grain. Poppies opened to the warmth of morning sunlight. Miguel walked down gentle slopes toward the town of Soledad.
Miguel turned his eyes back to his charges, one hundred and nineteen sheep. They were clustered at the bottom of a grassy arroyo. His three dogs would keep them there for the remainder of the night. He knelt beside his fire and picked up the steaming coffeepot.
Chico, his smallest dog, growled softly from the other side of the fire. Miguel looked up. A man stood on the knoll above with his back to the setting sun.
Suddenly, the sun was gone. As if he had been waiting for twilight, the man walked down to the edge of the fire.
Miguel asked, “Would you like coffee? I have plenty.”
The man said nothing. He looked down at Miguel from beneath his black, wide-brimmed hat. His hands and upper body were concealed beneath a brown poncho, but Miguel could see that he was slender and not young. His face was seamed with deep lines and his beard and moustache were frosted white. His eyes were black, deep, still.
The man nodded. “Yes, I will drink your coffee.” Smoothly, with no hint of age, he knelt.
Miguel poured coffee into a spare tin cup and held it out. The old man took it with his left hand. His eyes rested steadily on Miguel as he raised the cup to his lips. He sipped. “Bien, I like strong coffee.” He sipped again.
Miguel offered, “My name is Miguel Gonzalez. I’m watching that flock back in the arroyo. I’ll take them down to my uncle’s rancho tomorrow. It’s past shearing time for them.” He paused and looked up. “May I ask your name, Senor?”
The old man ignored this question. “You are alone?”
“Yes, except for my dogs.”
“Good. Tonight you will come with me and help me with something I must do. Tomorrow I will pay you well.”
Miguel shook his head. “I can’t leave the sheep. Something could scatter them. I’m sorry.”
“You asked my name?” The old man’s right hand moved from beneath the poncho. Miguel looked down. The black, empty eye of a forty-four-caliber pistol stared at him. The old man continued, “It is Joaquin. I am a very bad man.”
Miguel stared at the heavy pistol for a moment and then looked up. “Joaquin Murrieta? El Famoso? But the rangers killed him thirty years ago! His head is in a jar up in San Francisco. My grandfather told me so.”
Joaquin smiled. “My head is not in a jar.” He leaned forward. “I have killed two hundred men.” He cocked the pistol. Miguel watched its cylinder turn, lock into place. “I’m in a hurry and my business must remain a secret. Come with me now, or I will make a large hole in your heart.”
Shadows deepened behind the old man. Firelight made his beard shine like angel’s hair on a Christmas tree. A breeze stroked Miguel’s neck. He shivered and said, “I have no horse."
“I have burros. You can ride one of them.”
Miguel shrugged. "Where?"
“Come.” He rose, holstering his pistol, and walked back up the grassy knoll. Miguel followed him.
* * * * *
They rode in silence. They followed an arroyo at first and then their path led up to ridges. Oaks loomed and faded. Miguel felt spaces, seas of air before him. A sail of stars spread wide overhead. At last, Joaquin paused.
The moon rose between distant peaks, full and yellow, its pale light flowing over a wilderness of standing rocks. Miguel saw the humped shoulder of Chalone Peak to his right. Jagged summits stood before him, towers and spires of ancient stone. He looked at Joaquin.
Joaquin nodded, “Yes, the Pinnacles – all the men who stood here with me long ago are now dead. But these stones are the same.”
Miguel murmured, “You really are him.”
“Can you guess why we’re here?”
“Gold?”
“Gold.” Joaquin smiled. “Gold.”
Miguel looked at the old bandit. “I’ve heard stories about you. Are they true?”
Joaquin stared out over moonlit spires. “Some are true.”
“You robbed miners of their gold and killed them.”
“I did.”
Miguel scratched the soft place between his burro’s ears.
“I knew great rage then.”
Miguel shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“My brother, my wife and I came from Sonora to mine the gold. We were professionals and soon had many sacks of gold. The English, Irish, Americans - they did not have so much success. They hated us.
“One evening they came to our camp. There were twenty of them, three of us. They beat us with clubs until they thought we were dead. My brother was dead. I was nearly so. My wife was inside our cabin. They took her with them when they went.” Joaquin fell silent.
Miguel watched the moon swell.
At last, Joaquin continued. “Maricela killed herself later. When I recovered, I picked up a gun. I have never put it down.”
Miguel sighed. “Do you hate them now, the Americans and the others?"
Joaquin shook his head. “No, they are bad and good just as all men are. Some helped me even then.”
Miguel stirred.
Joaquin turned and his eyes flashed in the moonlight like a silver blade. “I killed the men who killed my brother. I killed others in battle. I did not murder for pleasure. Those stories are not true.”
Miguel looked at him. “You would not have shot me back at my camp?”
Joaquin grinned. “What sane man will argue when a gun is pointed at his heart?" He twitched his reins. “Vamos.”
Joaquin’s horse stepped onto the ridge. Miguel sat still atop his burro. Joaquin looked back. There was a long silence.
Joaquin shrugged. “Go back, if you must. I will not force you to help me."
Miguel grinned suddenly. “I will come with you, old man. The sheep are safe.” He touched the burro’s sides with his heels. They rode together along the spine of the ridge and then into shadow below the first towers.
Miguel asked, “Why do want this gold now, after all these years?”
“Life is hard in Sonora. It always has been. I have grandchildren. The gold is for them.”
“El Famoso has grandchildren?”
“Fourteen.” Joaquin held up his hand. He said, “We will leave the horse here and lead the burros. It is a steep path.”
They dismounted. Joaquin opened his saddlebag, rummaged in its depths and pulled out hobbles.
Miguel said, “This would be much easier in daylight. Why can’t we wait until morning?”
“I’m being followed.” Joaquin bent down and attached the hobbles to his horse’s ankles. He rose. “A gang left Los Angeles behind me. They caught me south of Jolon, but they did not mean to catch me there. Now they are two less and more cautious, I think.”
“They want your gold?”
“They want my gold. They are well back now, but the gold will slow me. We must get it tonight.” He produced a candle and a small glass lantern from the saddlebag. He struck a match, lit the candle and placed it in the lantern. Its yellow glow made the surrounding night even vaster. They set off, Joaquin holding the lantern high and Miguel leading the burros.
They walked down a deer trail and out onto naked rock. A cliff, its base lost in shadow, fell away on the left. Miguel gazed out into the gulf, slipped on loose pebbles and slid toward the cliff’s shadow-mouth. He clutched the halter rope, tugged the burro's neck straight and hung teetering on the edge. The burro, mild reproof in its eyes, did not move. Using the rope to steady himself, he moved his feet back to safe ground and drew a shuddering breath.
Joaquin’s eyes glittered in the candlelight. “Ten cuidado, Miguel, be careful. I might manage without you, but I must have the burros.” He turned and went on. Miguel placed his feet with precision and followed.
They reached an alcove scooped out of rough stone. Two towers leaned down above it like curious giants.
Joaquin pointed. “There are three caves. The first is shallow. It holds ice in winter, dust in summer. The second is la cueva de las cascabelas, the cave of the rattlesnakes. One of my men discovered this fact. He was dead of twenty bites before we reached him. “ Joaquin smiled. “They are still there, the snakes. They do not leave a good home. Tie the burros here.”
Joaquin held the lantern high. They descended into the alcove. Miguel searched the shadows around his feet for snakes. Joaquin said, “The first cave.” Miguel peered down at a cleft, a slice made by some giant’s knife. It faded into darkness. He looked up. Joaquin had moved on with the lantern. Its circle of light was some yards in front of Miguel. He scrambled to catch up.
Joaquin slowed, nodded toward a threatening mouth. “That is where my friends stand guard.” He turned, met Miguel’s eyes with his. He said, “Of course, they do not know that they are my friends. Stay close.” Miguel shivered as he stepped past the entrance.
The alcove widened and ended in a canyon of air. The last cave was on the left, partly hidden by shattered boulders. Joaquin again pointed. “Clear those rocks away.”
Miguel bent to his task. He rolled stone after stone away from the cave’s entrance and hoped fervently that the snakes had not decided to try out a new cave. At last, all of the large rocks were out of the way. He looked up at Joaquin.
Joaquin knelt and swept away a pile of loose pebbles with his hand. “There is a trap door. Ah, here!” He grasped a large iron ring. “Help me.”
Miguel bent down and gripped the ring. Together, they strained against the weight of dirt. A frame of gray wood slowly emerged. With a last heave, they slid it to the side. A square of utter blackness remained.
Joaquin lowered the lantern. “There should be a ladder. Yes, there it is. Come after me, Miguel.” The old man eased himself into the pit. As his head disappeared below its rim, darkness rushed back into the alcove. Miguel moved quickly to follow.
The ladder rested in a narrow passage that sloped steeply down beneath the roots of the rock tower above. Its walls were rough and threw back rose-colored light. Joaquin stepped away from the ladder. Miguel followed. They came to a low chamber.
Joaquin pointed. “There is the treasure so many wish to find.”
Miguel stared at a mound of dirty cloth sacks.
Joaquin moved forward, pushed the brittle sacks aside and revealed a wooden strongbox. From beneath his shirt, he pulled a leather thong. A brass key dangled from the thong. With some effort, he inserted the key in the chest’s lock and turned it. The lock snapped open. Joaquin lifted the heavy lid.
Miguel’s breath caught in his throat. The chest was filled with bars of gold, glimmering like silk in the lantern’s light.
Joaquin grinned. “It is beautiful, is it not?”
Miguel nodded and looked up. Light reflected from the gold shone in the old man’s eyes. Joaquin stared at his treasure for another moment and then looked up. “We’ll take only the bars. The bags of gold-dust must stay.” He lifted a gold bar, offered it to Miguel. “I’ll pass the bars to you. Carry them up to the ladder and come back for more.” Joaquin handed him a second gold bar.
Miguel took a bar in each hand and nearly dropped them. Their weight tugged hard at the muscles of his arms. The metal was smooth and cool against his fingers. He labored up the rough slope and placed the bars at the foot of the ladder. He turned and went back for two more.
The work was hard. Sweat stung his eyes. Pain sawed his back like the blade of a dull knife. The candle burned low and Joaquin replaced it. At last, Miguel bent and placed the last two bars on the castle of gold he’d made. He sighed and rubbed his forehead with his shirtsleeve.
As he straightened, a crash shattered the night and a lash of red flame struck down at him. Needles of rock jabbed his neck. An invisible hand slammed him to the tunnel floor. He smashed against the wall of the passage and rolled down the tunnel.
A voice sounded from the tunnel’s mouth, “Murrieta, that was half a stick of dynamite. I got lots more. You got a minute before I start throwin’ it down this hole. Toss your guns up here and come out.”
Miguel held his head between his hands and rose to his knees. Joaquin knelt beside him. “Are you all right?”
Miguel took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“Good.” The old man looked up at the tunnel’s entrance. “It is Garth, the leader of those who pursue me. I made a mistake, Nino. I did not kill him and he has found us here.”
Garth’s voice echoed down from above, “Thirty seconds, Murrieta. First your guns and then you.”
Fear squeezed Miguel’s chest with hands of stone. Joaquin touched his shoulder and Miguel tensed. The old man smiled, this time a kindly smile. “We are not dead yet, Nino, but that is what the big man plans for us. There will be a fight. You must help me. Can you do it?”
Miguel met the unending calm of Joaquin’s dark eyes. His fear faded. He found that he could answer, that he could even believe his answer. “Yes.”
“Bien. I will throw him my two guns.” He took a heavy Bowie knife from the sheath on his belt. “And my big knife. This” – he pulled a thin sliver of blue steel from within his poncho – “you must hide this knife here, inside your shirt, tucked behind your back. We will have one chance, one moment when they won’t be watching. When it comes, I will move behind you and take the knife. I will kill the big one. You must try to get one of my pistols and cover whoever is left.” He looked hard at Miguel. Miguel met his stare without a quiver. Joaquin smiled, “We have time for nothing more.”
They walked up the passage to the foot of the ladder. Joaquin drew his pistols and tossed them out of the square opening. He pulled his big Bowie knife from its finely tooled sheath and threw it after the pistols. Then he nodded to Miguel and climbed the ladder. Miguel swallowed, placed his hands on the rough boards and climbed.
As his eyes cleared the level of the opening, he saw a pistol pointed at his nose. The hand that held it was steady. The face behind it was thin, dirty and cruel.
A voice spoke from behind him. “So that’s your little helper.”
Joaquin, standing in the light of flickering torches, said, “He’s a boy, Garth, a shepherd. I made him come with me. He knows nothing of this.”
Garth laughed, “Well, that’s hard luck for him.”
Miguel pulled himself out of the hole and looked around. Small red eyes, gleaming in the torchlight, met his and his heart stuttered within his chest. Garth was huge, more like a bear than a man. Black hair covered most of his face and his huge forearms. The pistol he held was nearly lost in his vast paw of a hand.
Joaquin asked, “How did you find us?”
Garth’s laugh rumbled between the rock walls of the cleft. “You shouldn’t go around flashing your little lights, Murrieta. 'Course, you didn’t think I’d be close enough to see them, huh? No, you didn’t. We was here quite awhile waiting for you to come up out of your hole. Now, what’s in that hole?”
Joaquin said nothing.
Garth nodded to the thin-faced man. “Jake, get down there and take a look.”
Jake holstered his gun and climbed down the ladder. Miguel looked away from Garth. He saw a boy, not much older than himself, crouched higher in the cleft.
Joaquin said, “There were five of you. I see only three now.”
Garth grunted, “Yeah, two of my men are on the other side of these hills, over by Bear Gulch. We knew you was coming here, but we didn’t know which way you’d go. I figured it might be over on this side, though. That’s why I’m here.” Garth smiled. The yellow stumps of his teeth shone.
“Boss," came a shout from the tunnel. “Boss, there’s bricks of gold, piles and piles of them!”
Garth raised his pistol. “Well, that’s nice. Now I don’t need you anymore, Murrieta.” He pointed the pistol at Joaquin’s heart and began to squeeze the trigger.
Joaquin laughed, a soft, compelling sound.
Garth paused. “You think dying is funny?”
Joaquin chuckled again. “I am an old man. I do not care about dying. But your stupidity, huge one, I find very funny.”
“What do you mean?” Garth’s voice was flinty with suspicion and anger. “I can think of hard ways for you to die. Tell me what you mean, or I’ll get fancy about killing you.”
Joaquin looked mildly at Garth. “The gold down there is less than half of my treasure. I find it amusing that you would kill me before you’ve found all of the gold.”
Garth stared at Joaquin. An owl hooted far away in the dark canyon. The odors of sage and sun-baked dust mingled sweetly in the still air. At last, Garth lowered the hammer of his pistol. “I think you’re lying, but we’ll see.”
Joaquin said nothing.
Garth motioned to the boy crouched above, “Lonny, bring them burros down here.” The boy shoved his pistol into his belt and scrambled up the cleft to where the burros were tied. The big outlaw looked back at Joaquin and Miguel, “You and this kid just stand here while we load up the gold.” He leaned back against the rock. His pistol barrel swung in a lazy arc between Joaquin and Miguel and seemed to brush them with the long fingers of its bullets. Miguel shivered.
Lonny returned leading the burros. He and the skinny man began moving the gold out of the tunnel and loading it onto the burros. Garth waited silently.
Hooves of burros scraped on stone. Harness creaked as it strained beneath the weight of gold bars. The two sweating outlaws muttered cheerfully as they worked. The bars chinked musically as they dropped into the packs.
Miguel made the smallest of movements, trying to stretch muscles held too long in one position. He glanced at Joaquin. The old man had not moved and seemed almost to be sleeping where he stood. What was he thinking? What had he planned? Miguel turned these questions in his mind, but found no answers for them. Long minutes passed.
At last Jake spoke. “That’s it, Garth. What now?”
Garth looked at Joaquin. “Where’s the rest, Murrieta?”
Joaquin inclined his head up the cleft. “Not far. Look in the second cave. You will find more treasure there.”
Miguel looked at the ground. The snakes. Joaquin was sending them to the snakes.
Garth nodded. “Jake, Lonny, take a look.” He motioned with the pistol. “Move, you two.”
Miguel could guess what Joaquin wanted him to do. He slowed his pace, let the old man move behind him. They were even with the second cave’s entrance when Garth said, “Far enough.”
They stopped. Jake, holding a lantern, hesitated at the cave’s entrance. “Smells funny, boss.”
Garth snorted, “Get in there.”
Jake held the lantern before him and stepped inside the narrow mouth. He walked several steps forward. The cave roof slanted low, becoming a jumble of boulders and black cracks. Jake yelled, “I don’t see nothin’, Boss.”
The buzz of a thousand hornets vibrated in the cave’s still air. Jake turned in surprise. A triangular head flashed from a crack high in the wall, stabbed hollow fangs into his throat. He dropped the lantern and it exploded in an orange flower of flame. He stumbled forward against boulders. Other heads darted out, bit him in ankle and thigh, bit him in cheek and groin. Then Jake screamed.
Miguel had never heard nor imagined such a sound. It tore at the rocks, clawed at the dark air.
Jake burst from the mouth of the cave and knocked Lonny sprawling. Mad fear struggled with death in his eyes. He ran a few steps, uttered a whistling groan, and crumpled. His body slid lifelessly to the floor of the cleft.
Joaquin moved as Jake died. He plucked the hidden knife from Miguel’s belt and pushed him to the floor. Garth’s gun swung toward them. Joaquin paused for an atom of a second and then extended his arm in a fluid cast. The pistol leveled on him and roared. Yellow flame lit the cleft for an instant. Then silence and shadow rushed in.
Miguel looked up. Garth, his eyes wide with surprise, stared at the knife protruding from his chest. The pistol fell from the blunt fingers of his right hand. He reached hesitantly for the haft of the knife. His hand paused, then lowered gently. Red rage blazed from his eyes then. He took a step toward Joaquin, and another. Fury held him up, drove him forward.
Joaquin watched the dying man lurching toward him. Miguel scrambled across to Garth’s fallen pistol. He picked it up, cocked it and raised it.
Garth reached Joaquin. His heavy right hand groped for the old man’s throat. Grinning fiercely, Joaquin grasped the meaty hand and squeezed.
Garth roared. His fury cried out one last time before it drowned in a tide of heart-blood. Red purpose bled from his eyes. They became duller than the stones beneath his boots. His fingers slipped from Joaquin’s and he fell.
Joaquin lowered his hand. “He was a bad one, but he died well. Some men can do only that – die well.”
A boot scraped on rock. Miguel aimed the pistol at the sound. Dazed and bruised, Lonny crawled up from the bottom of the cleft. His eyes took in the mound of Garth’s body and widened when they saw the pistol pointed at him.
Miguel said, “Pull out your gun with your left hand and put it on the ground.”
Lonny did so. Fear made his jaw hang slack, his mouth open. His hands shook and tears started from his eyes.
Miguel felt suddenly ill. He said, “Get out of here. Go.”
Lonny sobbed, but did not move.
“Go,” Miguel repeated, motioning with the pistol.
Looking fearfully at the cave of the snakes, Lonny turned and stumbled away into the night.
“He would have killed you,” Joaquin said simply.
Miguel shook his head. “The fight is over.”
Joaquin nodded. “The fight is over." His voice faltered, "except for one detail."
Miguel stared at the old man.
Joaquin leaned back against the rock, sighed and closed his eyes.
“Joaquin?”
Joaquin glanced up, looked directly at Miguel. “Garth’s last shot, it did not miss.”
The old man’s poncho slipped aside. Miguel saw the dark shine of blood on the white shirt beneath it.
Miguel stepped toward him. “There’s a doctor in Salinas.”
Joaquin held up his left hand. “No. My plans are made.”
“But you are wounded.”
“I have been wounded before. I must go now, alone, but part of this treasure is yours.”
“Mine?”
“Yours. Take the third burro. That gold is yours.”
Miguel looked at the loaded burros waiting patiently beyond the cleft’s entrance and then back at Joaquin.
Joaquin continued, “We won this gold together, so now we share it. May I ask one small favor of you?”
This old man had threatened him, kidnapped him. This old man had pushed him away from Garth’s bullet. He found no anger in his heart. “Of course. What do you need?”
“Only your silence. Tell no one of these caves. The sacks of gold dust are still there. Wait one year. If I have not returned, it is yours. Will you do this?”
Miguel looked into Joaquin’s eyes and nodded. “I shall do as you ask.”
“Bien. I thank you.” Joaquin closed his eyes again.
Miguel noticed the cocked pistol in his hand. He eased the hammer down, looked at it for a moment, and then placed it on a shelf of rock. He rubbed his sweaty hands on his denim trousers.
“Miguel,” Joaquin said, “you are rich.”
Miguel nodded. “Yes, but it does not seem real to me.”
Joaquin smiled. “There is nothing more real than gold. You now have a great deal of gold.”
“I do not need so much.”
“You have earned it. But always remember the men who died here. There are many such. Your life is nothing to them. The gold drives them mad.”
Miguel said nothing.
Joaquin continued, “If you value your life, take my advice. Keep your gold a secret and buy land, buy slowly. Build a great rancho for yourself and your many children.”
Miguel grinned and raised his eyes. He saw the spreading stain on Joaquin’s shirt and his smile crumbled. “Your wound – how will you travel? Sonora is far.”
A breeze, a messenger of dawn, spoke soft words to the great stones above. Joaquin said, “I have been wounded before. This bullet will not kill me, I think. The bleeding has already slowed. Sonora? It is a long road to Sonora. I will not ride it. I have made certain arrangements with a ship’s captain. Monterey is not far. Now, Miguel, get my horse. The way is steep, but he will manage.” Joaquin chuckled. “I do not feel like walking further tonight.”
Miguel nodded and made his way out of the cleft. He soon returned, leading the horse over slick, dusty rock.
Joaquin, still leaning against the dark tower, asked, “Will you help me into the saddle?
Miguel led the horse close to Joaquin. The animal smelled blood and shivered nervously. Speaking soothing words, Miguel snubbed the reins short. He then grasped Joaquin’s arm and his eyes widened briefly in surprise. The old bandit’s arm was thin, almost frail.
Joaquin, braced by Miguel’s young hand, put his left foot in the stirrup and swung his right leg up. Miguel took up the burros’ lead rope. Reins in one hand and rope in the other, he led the animals between high walls. They came out onto a shelf of moonlit stone.
“I will leave you now, Miguel. Hand me the lead rope and the reins. Then untie the third burro.”
Miguel looked up. “Please, Joaquin, come down to my uncle’s rancho. We can dress your wound there. Let me help you.”
“You have already. I need no more help, only a few hours of darkness. Now, untie the burro.”
Miguel did as he was asked. Then he returned to Joaquin’s side. He hesitated for a moment and reaching up, grasped the old man’s hand, holding it hard.
Joaquin grinned. “Do not worry for me. I am a legend, or so they say. Now, I must ride like a legend, no? Adios, Miguel.” Miguel released the delicate hand. Joaquin twitched the reins. The horse’s hooves clattered on edges of rock.
Joaquin rode to the top of a low saddle and halted. He turned, removed his hat with his left hand and raised it high in final farewell. Moon-silver touched his beard, his spurs. The rest was black shadow.
Miguel felt as if he were part of some ancient design, some inevitable harmony of mountain and night. Gentle sadness flowed from the night into his heart. He raised his hand into moonlight and whispered, “Adios, Joaquin.”
Dawn came quietly as it always has to the hills of the Gabilans. A breeze stirred ripened stalks of wild grain. Poppies opened to the warmth of morning sunlight. Miguel walked down gentle slopes toward the town of Soledad.
Activities link for use in the classroom:
http://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Product/Joaquins-Gold-a-common-core-short-story-unit-for-substitutes-1211123
http://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Product/Joaquins-Gold-a-common-core-short-story-unit-for-substitutes-1211123
Carl Christensen (USA): Great story. I will savor future visits to the Pinnacles just a bit more!