Page 3 of A Good Prospect
“Four pounds?Why, at the going rate, that’s a thousand dollars! Was that all nuggets, in that sock I pulled from that tree?”
“All nuggets and dust, although you know there’s talk it’s already giving out. Some greasers, expert miners from Sonora in Mexico, told me the future is in underground quartz vein mining. They said the earth around here looks like the Veta Madre—”
“The Mother Lode!”
“—in Mexico. But you need water to run a mill to crush the ore, and already there’s a lack of surface water. You should ask around. You could be sitting on a…a gold mine.” Ophir chuckled.
At this, Salvador became hot. “Yes, if I can run off these squatters who are stealing the very earth from under my feet!”
“Hell. You didn’t even know there was gold till you met me.”
“It’s our very founding principle, Ophir. Californios raise cattle, and serve king, God, and country. Is it right that I lose my patrimony to a crowd of Yankees who believe it’s ‘unused’?”
“Now they’ve found gold, they won’t go away. I presume you’ve got a parcel map, some evidence of ownership? If you survey the boundaries and have a map, I don’t see how anyone can dispute it.”
Salvador became quiet. The rocking motion of his hips under Ophir’s palms became very obvious, and Ophir removed one hand as though to check on his thigh wound. “There are maps. Somewhere. And now that you mention it. There was some mining equipment my father had hauled up the valley a couple of years back, but I…” Salvador faded into mumbles then, and he withdrew his flask to take several long pulls from it. He didn’t offer any to Ophir this time.
With renewed enthusiasm, Salvador spurred the mount to a gallop so suddenly that Ophir’s head was nearly left behind, whooping and a-hollering something that sounded like “¡Madre, estoy en casa!” Mother, I’m home. Ophir clutched Salvador’s back for dear life, his cheek pressed to the sun-warmed shoulders of his embroidered jacket, tasting more than breathing what he knew to be Salvador’s singular essence—cow hides, sweet grass, and whiskey.
He must have been squeezing his eyes shut very tightly, for he only later recalled his teeth jangling, variable patterns of sun flashing on the insides of his eyelids, the horse’s hooves churning up clumps of mud, the piquant odor of cow shit. They stormed to the top of a rise, and Salvador reined in the mount, whooping triumphantly, as though he’d accomplished a great feat with his reckless race.
Uncurling his spine, Ophir tried to breathe normally. He had definite ideas about the need to straightjacket this vaquero. But Salvador’s profile was triumphant, and it relaxed Ophir to see the gleam of his even, white teeth. Salvador looked down at him almost lovingly, but Ophir knew it was the vast herd of cattle below them that elicited such love.
Vast herd?Why, the valley was one sea of bellowing, complaining longhorn cows from one side to the other! They were packed so solidly it looked as though one could walk across the valley on their backs. One, two, three…With his brain for mathematics, Ophir counted off a small grid of cattle, multiplied it by the length and breadth of the valley, and…He sat upright, too.
Salvador sent off such a wreath of beamy smiles, Ophir was caught up in his elation. The lowering sun washed the valley of cows in a buttery light. Salvador grinned, and once again produced the hip flask he had refilled when he had met with José.
“We’re almost there. You don’t drink liquor?”
Ophir shook his head. “Liquor is mellow, but it will lay out a saint just as flat as it will a sinner.”
Salvador nodded in agreement, complacent from looking at his cows. “Ophir, listen. If you agree to help me run off these squatters, I’ll guarantee you the choicest claim you can find. Yours, in ownership. I’ll sign you a deed of sale. Just help me get rid of these squatters. You know where they are, who they are, how best to deal with them.”
The smile evaporated from Ophir’s face. He had never owned anything other than his fiddle and his daguerreotype, and the mule that had been stolen from him.
