Heaven Is a Long Way Off by Win Blevins Page A

and saw that the black was tickled at the modest white boy. Inside Sam’s robe was folded Father Enrique’s map of El Camino Real, its towns, and its missions. Grumble carried another copy in his coat.
    Now Sam spotted the first place marked on the map, Montalban’s rancho. “Be watchful,” Father Enrique had warned him. “Don Joaquin is vengeful.”
    Actually, the rancho looked like nothing much.
    The grounds were handsome, a fine lay of land on the far side of the Salinas River. The don had planted fields, orchards, and a vineyard visible from the road. Probably herds of horses, cattle, and sheep grazed the hills beyond. These hills were brocaded with grasses that looked too rich and tall to be real. They were bright as brass, thick as hair, and stood as high as a horse’s withers. Sam had never seen such grass. But he was no herdsman.
    The house, on the other hand, was unimpressive, an ordinary-looking adobe of modest size, without a courtyard or other beautification.
    Coy drank out of the creek that ran through the property as though nothing was amiss.
    â€œFather Enrique told me,” said Grumble, “that the don complained greatly about having to build his house of mud. But there’s not enough timber around here.”
    â€œHe’s rich,” said Sam irritably.
    â€œBut he doesn’t enjoy it,” said the cherub. “The old man was a great landowner in Mexico. Montalban was one of the younger sons. When his wife died and his daughters were married off, he accepted exile to this miserable province to make his son what he could never be, the master of a grand estate.” Grumble gave Sam and Flat Dog a look.
    â€œThe son of a bitch was trying to steal my wife,” said Flat Dog.
    â€œThe pistol was his, and it went off accidentally,” said Sam.
    â€œWhat a comfort that must be to Don Joaquin,” said Grumble.
    Sam couldn’t see any sign of life around the place. There must be Indians working the fields, but he saw no one.
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    â€œW HO ARE YOU and where are you going?”
    From Paladin’s saddle alongside the wagon, Sam had watched the four riders coming from the south, growing in his field of vision and on his nerves.
    Immediately Sumner picked up the scattergun from the wagon seat. No one of either party misunderstood the threat. At that range it would be a devastating weapon.
    Coy walked in front of Sam, growling, his spine hair sticking up.
    Rising next to Hannibal, Sumner said in his fanciest English, “My master wishes to know who dares to ask such questions.” When they just stared at him, he repeated it in good Spanish.
    From behind, Grumble spoke in plummy tones, and Sumner translated. “Good sir, I present this letter of safe passage from Father Enrique Hidalgo, head of all the Franciscan missions of California.”
    He gave it to Sumner, who held it out. The lead rider had to dismount and look at it. Sumner kept the paper in his grip.
    Sam knew damn well who this was, one of the ruffians from the time the young don tried to abduct Julia, the man Sam had slit from collarbone to balls. Too bad he’d lived. Sam kept his head down, his features hidden by his cowl.
    Flat Dog recognized the fellow too. Sam could feel the anger radiating from Flat Dog’s body. The two mounts minced nervously.
    â€œI represent Don Joaquin Montalban y Alvarado. On the authority of the commandante of the Presidio of Monterey we are searching for two criminals who have escaped from Mission San Carlos Borromeo de Carmelo.”
    Sam got enough of the Spanish to be offended at this arrogant ass.
    â€œWe have every desire,” Grumble said, Sumner still translating, “to cooperate with the authorities. I am Edward Muddleforth, second son of the Viscount of Piddleston.”
    Sam was surprised Sumner could translate this foolishness without a grin.
    â€œThese men comprise my retinue.”
    â€œWhere are you going?”