"No ... thank God!"
The roar of flames all but drowned the reply, and Jean watched his wheat go up in flames, the black smoke shutting out the stars and sending the dark banners of its anger streaking across the bay, shrouding the silent ship in sudden clouds, then whisking away to leave the ship standing, amazed at the sight before it.
There was no wind. Had there been wind the whole of the waterfront would have gone, and nothing could have saved Sydney Town or any part of the city back of dark's Point. Yet no wind blew, and there was only the crackling flames beating their great red palms together above the bay's black water. His first impulse was to find Zinnovy for a showdown, but this would lead to nothing and might close all doors to Russian America. Wheat was the answer. The importation of wheat into Sitka was obviously something Zinnovy wished to prevent, but it was also his own open sesame to the northern fur trade. Staring at the fire, he began to think.
Sutler had grown wheat but had none now. How about Oregon? Many farmers had settled in those fertile valleys and they would need bread. Despite its proximity less news reached California from Oregon than from Hawaii; still there was a chance. The settlers of Oregon were a more substantial lot than most Californians. There would be wheat there, there had to be wheat. Swiftly, he pushed through the crowd, searching for Barney Kohl. When he found him Kohl was standing with the new second mate. "Tomorrow night," Jean said. "You sail tomorrow night."
"Without a cargo?"
"Fitzpatrick has some goods for Portland and has been looking for a vessel for a month. I don't care how you do it, but be loaded and under way by five tomorrow afternoon."
"If you say so," Kohl said. "Damn it, man. I was ready for Alaska. I was all ready."
"You'll go ... but meet me in Portland first."
Oregon ... Jean watched the wall of the warehouse fall in, saw the flames and the smoke puff up, saw the great smoldering ball of his wheat. Sparks showered upward. No need to think of that. What was done was done. He went swiftly to his horse and swung into the saddle. "Helena"--he turned the gelding--"I'm taking you home. Tell Count Rotcheff he'll have his wheat in Sitka as promised. Tell him not to worry."
"But how?"
"Leave that to me." They were walking their horses away from the fire. "I wish I knew I'd see you again. I wish--" "So do I," she said simply. "Oh, Jean! I do, I do!"
At the door of the house on Rincon Hill he helped her from the saddle and watched the boy lead the horse away. For a moment they stood together before the empty eyes of the dark building. He could hear her breathing, smell of the faint perfume she wore and which he would never forget. Together they looked back at the red glow of the dying fire. "It's been a good day," he said at last, "a good, good day."
"Even with that?" she gestured.
"Even with that."
He gathered the reins. If he looked into her eyes he knew he would take her into his arms, so hastily he stepped into the saddle. She took his hand briefly. "What is it they say here, Jean? Vaya con dios?" He felt the quick pressure of her fingers before she released them. "I say it now, Jean. Go with God. Go with God, Jean."
At his rooms he paused only a moment, throwing things into his saddlebags, packing some small bags of gold, filling a money belt. He took his rifle and his spare pistol, then for a long moment he stared at the map. He would not see that map for a long time.
There was a rush of feet on the stairs. Hand on his gun, he swung wide the door.
It was Ben Turk.
"I knew it!" Ben was ready for the trail. "You're riding! I'm comin' along." "I'll travel faster alone. You go to the schooner." He stuffed extra ammunition into the saddlebags.
"Nothing doing. I ride along or I quit. There's nowhere you can go that I can't."
Turk was a good man, a very good man, but ... "All right. We leave our horses at the river landing. We're taking the first boat for Sacramento, and if you can't ride a thousand miles you'd best head for the schooner." Ben Turk stared at him. "Mister LaBarge ... Cap'n, you ... you ain't goin' to ride to Portland?"
"It worries you?"
"There ain't no trail, Cap'n! The Modocs will kill a man as fast as look at him!
That's outlaw country. Why, man--I'm comin' with you!"
"You're inviting yourself. You're a damn fool."
"Why, now." Ben chuckled. "I just figure we're a couple of damn fools."
The riverboat was already moving when they raced their horses onto the dock. Jean swung his horse alongside and tossed his saddlebags. Then, rifle in hand, he sprang for the boat's deck and lit, sprawling. It was a bare four feet of jump, but both horse and boat were moving. Ben Turk hit the bulwark, caught it with his hands and swung himself over to the deck. Together they looked back. The fire was only a sullen red glow now. McCellan yelled at them from the pilothouse. "Law after you, is it? I been expectin' it for years!"
"Shut up!" Jean yelled genially. "Get a move on this crate! I've business in Knight's Landing!"
"Turn in," he yelled. "I'll call you!"
The last thing Jean LaBarge recalled as sleep took possession was the pressure of Helena's hand, the expression on her face. He remembered how she had ridden beside him through the dark streets, how she had waited to be with him after he realized his wheat was destroyed, his hopes ruined. She had waited for him as a man's woman would, only she was another man's woman. He opened his eyes. "Don't forget, Mac. Knight's Landing."
Chapter 13
A rough hand on his shoulder awakened him. Mac's florid face and blond hande-bar mustache bent over him. "Rise an' shine, boy. We're comin' up to the Landing now."
Ben was already on his feet rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Through the murky light the Landing was visible, right ahead.
Jean LaBarge got to his feet and hitched his gun belt into position on his lean hips, then threw the saddlebags over his shoulder and took up his rifle. McClellan peered over his shoulder at him. "I hope you don't need those guns, boy."
"We'll have to be lucky."
If anyone had ridden the route they were to follow La Barge was unaware of it. There would be settlers here and there and a trail of sorts, but it would be sheer luck if they got through without fighting. Thirty minutes later they rode out of Knight's Landing headed north. The day was bright and clear, the horses eager. A few hours from now they would be less eager, Jean reflected, yet the horses proved gamer than he expected and it was almost midnight when they sighted a fire ahead of them. As was the custom of the country they drew up and hailed before approaching. A shadow moved but for an instant there was silence, then a cautious voice called, "What do you want?"
"Name's LaBarge. We're hunting a couple of fast horses. Can you help us?" Walking their horses into the firelight they waited. There was a wagon here, and a small camp, such a camp and wagon no outlaw would be expected to have. Six head of mules were in sight and some good-looking saddle stock. Two men, both armed and spread wide apart, emerged from the shadows. At the edge of the brush LaBarge could see two women who no doubt believed themselves concealed in shadows.
"You ridin' from the law?"
"No." LaBarge got down on the far side of his horse. A man could shoot better from the ground and there was no telling what might happen. "But we need horses mighty bad."
The bearded man was a thin, high-shouldered fellow in torn shirt and homespun jeans, but he looked like a man who could use the rifle he carried. He sized up their horses with shrewd, appraising eyes. "Reckon I'll swap. You got boot to offer?"
"Look, friend," Jean smiled, "we want horses, but not that bad. I'll trade our horses for that Roman-nosed buckskin and the gray. You can throw in a couple of sandwiches and some coffee."