Read Online California Gold by John Jakes - Free Book Online Page A

your clothes—well, forgive me, but they have a certain, ah, well-traveled look.”
    “You’re exactly right—about them, and me.”
    The priest nodded agreeably. “I addressed you in Spanish out of habit. It is my native language, and spoken widely in California. If you plan to stay here long—”
    “Permanently.”
    “ Excelente. May I humbly suggest that a study of español would be courteous, and to your advantage?”
    Mack scrutinized the forthright priest. He was perhaps twenty-five, with a massive, square-looking head, a low forehead, and broad nose. His suit showed blacker patches where he’d sweated through. His wide dark eyes reminded Mack of the old Indian’s. Mack couldn’t decide whether the priest was Mexican, Indian, or mestizo— both.
    “It’s a hot day for traveling,” the priest went on. “You’re welcome to a drink.”
    “Thanks, I just ran out.” Mack gave a thump to the canteen hanging over his shoulder.
    The priest tapped the barrel nearest the wagon’s dropped tailgate and handed him the dipper. The water was hot, and after a careful sip, Mack emptied the rest on his head. The priest laughed.
    “Thanks very much,” Mack said. “I’m on my way to San Francisco.”
    “From where?”
    “Pennsylvania. My name’s Macklin Chance.”
    “Welcome to California, Mr. Chance. I’m Father Marquez. Diego Marquez. Unlike most of these good men sweating for the Southern Pacific, I was born in this state.”
    Mack started to hand back the dipper, then hesitated. “Wait, I thought this was the Central Pacific.”
    “Originally. Two years ago the owners formed a holding company to control their various assets. The name of the holding company is Southern Pacific, but now they’re calling the railway by that name also. The Big Four, those four outlaws, chartered their holding company in Kentucky because the railway laws are lax there. Almost any outrage against the public or the workingman is permitted.”
    “And you bring water out to these men?”
    “Someone must. The company doesn’t consider it their responsibility.” He whacked the dipper against the barrel, disgusted. The priest seemed to do everything with sharp, vigorous moves.
    “Seems like there isn’t a hell—a lot of water in California,” Mack observed.
    “There is if you search in the right place. Come share what little shade we have.” After he scratched the mule’s ears, Marquez peeled off his heavy coat, leaving only his collar and black dickey tied at his waist. He wore no shirt, and enormous tufts of hair were visible under his thick arms. He looked like a bull, Mack thought.
    Marquez hunkered down on the other side of the wagon, squinting across the simmering plain toward the hazy coast range. Up on the line, picks and tamps chunk-chunked , mauls rang on the heads of new spikes, men swore monotonously, and a stubby foreman wearing a side arm paraded, hectoring the workers.
    “Water is a fascinating California topic, you know,” Marquez said. “One reason is we always have too little because of the short rainy season in the winter. Another is that water’s potential benefits remain largely unappreciated. My first ancestor in California was a Castilian soldier. He marched from the Baja with the expedition of Portolá and Father Junípero Serra in 1769 and ’70, and left a diary that has come down in my family. My ancestor declared this whole place worthless for farming because of its aridity. Most of the original Indians thought the same. But it isn’t worthless. The friars, for all of their other limitations and crimes against freedom, knew that much. With their maize and barley, olives and wine grapes, they saw the miracles water can work in this soil. They taught that lesson to a few Californians who have remembered.”
    “But there still isn’t much water.”
    “Not here. But have you seen the high country of the Sierras? There, the melting snowpack creates waterfalls and in the spring turns ordinary