Read Online California Gold by John Jakes - Free Book Online

to be out of the rain. The Indian lit a small fire and shared some purple berries and a tasty root that took a long time to chew. Mack helped him wash the bleeding abrasion with water from his canteen.
    “Three of the blanket men fell on me to rob me,” the Indian said, his black eyes watery. “They found I had nothing and beat me anyway. They would do the same if I were Chinese.”
    “Why don’t you leave? Or is this your home?”
    “I am Chumash, from the south. I have no home any longer. I work the fields, up and down. Wherever the white men will allow it,” he added for clarification. After studying Mack a moment, the Indian said, “You like California?”
    “Yes, I do. I’ve not been here long, but I’m going to get rich here.”
    “Hah,” said the old man. The joyless laugh showed his brown teeth and ruined gums. “There is a dark side to your dream. My people know. One ancestor, in the mission of San Luis Rey de Francia, was no better than a slave. The friars rented him to the rancheros for a profit, and if he protested or disobeyed, they flogged him with knotted ropes ‘for the good of his soul.’ My father, as a young man, free in the pueblo of Los Angeles after Mexico took back the mission lands, was not much better off. He worked as a ranch hand. He was paid every Friday, with brandy. By Saturday he was drunk, which was the point. He spent Sunday in jail and on Monday morning he was herded out with others of his kind, and his services were auctioned to the ranchers for one more week. By Friday he had worked off his fine and was a few cents ahead. Once more he was paid with brandy…” The Indian shrugged. “In California there are only two kinds. Those who take, and those they take from.”
    “You mean that when I have money, I’ll be one of the takers?”
    The Indian replied with a grave nod. “You are a good man to help an old Indian beaten and cast aside. But even for you the answer is yes. It is the only way. It is California.”
    First Hellman and that lawyer tried to darken his dream, now this tragic old man, huddled in this shack with his bitter memories. Silently, with fervor and a little desperation, Mack swore he’d prove them wrong.
    In the morning he started off again, following the main line of the railway. Soon the scorching sun dried the countryside, and about midday, he saw through the heat haze a line of forty or fifty men working on the roadbed with picks, shovels, mauls, and tamps.
    Mack drank from the canteen, which by now contained just one tepid swallow, then slung it over his shoulder and approached the section gang. Most of the men were bare to the waist and sweating so hard their bodies looked oiled. The work gang included about a dozen Chinese, smaller and more wiry than the whites. He noticed that the two groups didn’t speak to each other.
    A collie ran up and down the roadbed, frisking and barking. A burly worker swung at it with his pick. “Get outa here, Ruff. O’Malley, control your damn dog or I’ll kill him.”
    Another worker whistled and yelled and the collie lay down in the shade of a flatcar on a spur track. The dog panted for a few seconds, then jumped up and ran off again.
    “ Ruffo , ven aquí !” a man shouted. Mack looked in his direction. Dressed in a heavy black suit, the man was standing beside a mule-drawn wagon. The collie chased over to him and lapped at a pan of water he’d set out. Mack noticed now that the man had a clerical collar, which explained his unusual dress.
    The wagon was full of barrels, and Mack guessed they contained water. He walked toward the man, ignoring hostile stares from the track gang. “ Buenos días , desconocido ,” the priest said.
    “I don’t speak Spanish. Do I look like I should?”
    The priest folded his hands. “On the contrary. My assumption is that you’re a newcomer.”
    “What makes you say so?”
    With a disarming smile, the man replied, “Your nose. Your cheeks. Pink, and peeling away. Also,