Read Online California Gold by John Jakes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Jakes
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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streams into torrents.”
“I wasn’t doing much sightseeing when I came through the mountains. There was a blizzard.”
Marquez’s eyes flickered at the callow sarcasm. “I’ll tell you this, my young friend. If that water could somehow flow down to this great Central Valley, this earth would bloom like a garden.” His frown sculpted deep lines beside his nose, making him less benign—fierce, even. “But it would be a garden watered with the sweat and blood of those forced to toil for others—for starvation wages.”
Without thinking, Mack shook his head, and Marquez reacted quickly. “What do you disagree with, my views about water or those about labor and capital?”
“You took me wrong, Father. I don’t know enough to disagree with either one. I shook my head because…well, back east, among Irish miners, I saw priests all right. But none like you. Here you are, out in the wilderness alone, serving water like a slave…it’s kind of puzzling.”
“Not at all. I’m from San Francisco, with a roving commission to minister to workingmen. Pope Leo the Thirteenth has been publishing numerous letters to address the concerns of workers around the world and encourage ministries like mine. He even suggests a limited approval of trade unions. The Holy Father does not go far enough, in my opinion, but then my opinions are those of a minority. A tiny minority,” he emphasized, smiling. “Tell me,” he said after pausing to look at Mack more closely, “why did you come all the way from Pennsylvania?”
Mack didn’t want to be taken for greedy. After a moment’s thought about phrasing, he said, “To better myself.”
“How? With wealth?”
The challenge annoyed him. “Yes.”
“Perfectly understandable. This state is blessed by wealth in many forms. Great natural beauty. Tillable land. Even this sunshine, which seems such a curse in the summer. It helps the real estate men sell building lots to shivering tourists. Still, many who search for wealth here never find it.” His brown eyes stayed on Mack’s. “And some who do are quickly corrupted if the search becomes obsessive.”
All at once Mack didn’t like the young priest. He knew what he wanted and what he didn’t. He didn’t want anyone trying to be his conscience. He didn’t want the Hellmans, the old Indian, or some Catholic father with strange radical ideas throwing dirt on his dreams.
He was thinking up a suitable reply when a long screaming whistle ripped from the east. Up on the line, the stumpy foreman dragged out a big silver watch. “There she is, there she is, stop everything,” he shouted.
The men rushed to form a military line beside the track, hoisting tools to their shoulders as if they were rifles. The train sounded like an avalanche as it approached, churning up towering dust clouds. The whistle blew again and the bell rang. The noise agitated the collie, which raced back and forth yapping.
“Who’s on that train, the President?” Mack asked Marquez.
“You would think so. Anywhere on the line in California, men at work have orders to stand at attention when that train passes.” To show what he thought of this he spat on the ground between his dusty rope sandals.
Tremors rose from the ground; Mack felt them in the bones of his legs. The collie jumped high in the air, barking. The train was less than half a mile away. It consisted of a single passenger car shimmering with varnish and gilt, a tender, and a Stevens 4-4-0 locomotive with a huge headlight box and balloon smokestack. Eighty-eight tons of wood-fired power, it was a black behemoth, whose passage shook the earth and whipped up a cyclonic cloud of dust and debris.
Ever afterward, Mack saw a series of flashing images.
A jackrabbit, hopping high on the other side of the track. The collie barking and dashing to chase it. The burly man, the one bothered before, angrily swinging his pick down as the dog passed by—a mean-tempered swipe that deeply gashed the
“I wasn’t doing much sightseeing when I came through the mountains. There was a blizzard.”
Marquez’s eyes flickered at the callow sarcasm. “I’ll tell you this, my young friend. If that water could somehow flow down to this great Central Valley, this earth would bloom like a garden.” His frown sculpted deep lines beside his nose, making him less benign—fierce, even. “But it would be a garden watered with the sweat and blood of those forced to toil for others—for starvation wages.”
Without thinking, Mack shook his head, and Marquez reacted quickly. “What do you disagree with, my views about water or those about labor and capital?”
“You took me wrong, Father. I don’t know enough to disagree with either one. I shook my head because…well, back east, among Irish miners, I saw priests all right. But none like you. Here you are, out in the wilderness alone, serving water like a slave…it’s kind of puzzling.”
“Not at all. I’m from San Francisco, with a roving commission to minister to workingmen. Pope Leo the Thirteenth has been publishing numerous letters to address the concerns of workers around the world and encourage ministries like mine. He even suggests a limited approval of trade unions. The Holy Father does not go far enough, in my opinion, but then my opinions are those of a minority. A tiny minority,” he emphasized, smiling. “Tell me,” he said after pausing to look at Mack more closely, “why did you come all the way from Pennsylvania?”
Mack didn’t want to be taken for greedy. After a moment’s thought about phrasing, he said, “To better myself.”
“How? With wealth?”
The challenge annoyed him. “Yes.”
“Perfectly understandable. This state is blessed by wealth in many forms. Great natural beauty. Tillable land. Even this sunshine, which seems such a curse in the summer. It helps the real estate men sell building lots to shivering tourists. Still, many who search for wealth here never find it.” His brown eyes stayed on Mack’s. “And some who do are quickly corrupted if the search becomes obsessive.”
All at once Mack didn’t like the young priest. He knew what he wanted and what he didn’t. He didn’t want anyone trying to be his conscience. He didn’t want the Hellmans, the old Indian, or some Catholic father with strange radical ideas throwing dirt on his dreams.
He was thinking up a suitable reply when a long screaming whistle ripped from the east. Up on the line, the stumpy foreman dragged out a big silver watch. “There she is, there she is, stop everything,” he shouted.
The men rushed to form a military line beside the track, hoisting tools to their shoulders as if they were rifles. The train sounded like an avalanche as it approached, churning up towering dust clouds. The whistle blew again and the bell rang. The noise agitated the collie, which raced back and forth yapping.
“Who’s on that train, the President?” Mack asked Marquez.
“You would think so. Anywhere on the line in California, men at work have orders to stand at attention when that train passes.” To show what he thought of this he spat on the ground between his dusty rope sandals.
Tremors rose from the ground; Mack felt them in the bones of his legs. The collie jumped high in the air, barking. The train was less than half a mile away. It consisted of a single passenger car shimmering with varnish and gilt, a tender, and a Stevens 4-4-0 locomotive with a huge headlight box and balloon smokestack. Eighty-eight tons of wood-fired power, it was a black behemoth, whose passage shook the earth and whipped up a cyclonic cloud of dust and debris.
Ever afterward, Mack saw a series of flashing images.
A jackrabbit, hopping high on the other side of the track. The collie barking and dashing to chase it. The burly man, the one bothered before, angrily swinging his pick down as the dog passed by—a mean-tempered swipe that deeply gashed the
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