Chapter 1

Bong-bong! Bong-bong! Bong-bong! Bong-bong! The alarm from the large brass church bell summoning all on-duty Northern California Rangers to dress and saddle awakened Horace Bell.

The first double-bong roused him, and then he counted two more, knowing that meant general quarters. Sliding on his boots, he cursed his six-foot three-inch frame as he hit the top of the tent pole. Looking out at the darkness, he remarked to the ranger next to him, "Damn, Davis, it must be four in the morning." Only a fool would like police work.

"Sure enough, Horace, and it's about thirty degrees," Davis said as he frowned.

Horace laughed at Davis's hate of the cold.

"Maybe, Horace, this is that damnable Juan Flores that we need to hang."

If so, he'd be dead. Payback time!

Mounting up, Horace noticed a full complement of two ten-man squads ready to ride full saddle under Captain Harry Love. Love had been given permission by the State of California to annihilate as many criminals and gangs as he could with the newly organized California rangers, a volunteer mounted police group in the Northern California mining area. The permission came after-the-fact that the State of California Legislature made into law.

The armed men kicked their horses into a gallop down toward Sutter Creek, where the murders happened hours before. The road was still half-frozen from the nightfall. The hooves crunched into the unmelted water.

Wind side drafts cut into his skin. His ears must be bright red. He threw a dark woolen scarf around his neck. Wow, and he thought the Midwest to be a cold son of a bitch.

He mulled leaving Indiana two years before with Paul, his boyhood friend. At nineteen they escaped farm life for gold and adventure. They spoke of how rich they would become. Sure, right? Now living near aptly named Hangtown, California, his gold diggings' net worth amounted to three hundred dollars after two years in the streams rubbing elbows and sweating with the rot-gut of humanity. Criminals from the four corners of the earth worked the same streams at the same time. Anyway, it was more fun hunting them down than working with them. These rangers were straight guys.

Riding twenty miles with the platoon gave him time to think. His massive horse, Pal, carried his one hundred and eighty pounds as if it were a sack of feathers.

"Corporal Bell I wish Paul were riding with us," a trooper said.

"Yup, I do too," Horace remarked.

"He's gonna miss a good fight."

"Paul loved a good fight almost as much as I do."

A recent offer kept tripping him up. Okay, so he knew he was directionless, but hell, he was only twenty-one. Uncle Alex Bell's letter from small Los Angeles offered him room and board for three years giving him the time to study and pass the Bar as an attorney. He needed to answer the letter soon. Uncle Alex loved a fight too.

Uncle Alex was a ship's captain importing and exporting items to Los Angeles's small harbor. He was very successful, having built one of only three two-story homes in the pueblo. With many rooms, the letter said. As a boy in Indiana, Horace had been home-schooled by his father, who had a Harvard Degree in ministry and law. Horace, being a rebel, decided the gold fields offered more fun than getting behind a plow. California had beckoned like a magnet.

Alex also encouraged Horace to start a newspaper. Horace bit his lower lip. He'd mentioned to his uncle once in passing his desires to be both a lawyer and journalist. Uncle Alex didn't miss a lick.

His wise uncle didn't forget to mention Horace's additional need to study the Spanish culture for his "political good," playing into Horace's proclivity toward outspokenness.

How could he give up the northern California rangers? He loved the excitement and thrill of matching wits and strength in a gunfight. And what about his ranger buddies? The volunteer job fit him like a glove with his mix of humor and courage.

Alex's letter briefly mentioned Los Angeles had the only other group of rangers in the state. With the possibility of working into the Southern California group, Horace decided.

"Yup, Pal, it's off to the Pueblo de Los Angeles when I get back from evening up the score," he said to his horse.

Riding hard, the rangers made Sutter Creek in an hour and a half. The town mayor, James Bentley, dressed in local miner's garb, met them.

"About four hours ago, a small gang of nine no-good Mexicans raided a camp of Chinese miners, kilt three of 'em, wounded two," the mayor said. "One understood English. He pointed south -- toward Jackson City."

"Oh, yeah," the mayor continued, stroking his two-day-old beard stubble. "Apparently the leader rode a big, sixteen-hand black stallion with a saddle full of silver trappings."

Captain Harry Love rubbed his grey-brown beard and said, "Guess we'll know that fellow when we see him, right, men?" They nodded.

"Let's find 'em," Horace said.

"Corporal Bell, you take Jimmy the Tracker. Williams, Davis, and Thompson, go to the camp and track them out so they don't double-back on us."

"Bell makes corporal and we lose rangers," a trooper grumbled.

Horace ignored the remark. He knew he'd saved other lives by his actions.

"Right, sir," Horace answered.

Sergeant Pete Johnson raised up his beefy arm. "Listen up, Bell. If'n ya hear shootin', watch out fer

an ambush."

"Sure enough, Sergeant," Horace answered.

"Onward, men!" the captain shouted.

Horace and his four men assisted Jimmy the Tracker. First the men found the Chinese camp. The Chinese miners also pointed toward Jackson City. The Mexican and White miners didn't care much for the Chinese. They pegged the Mongolians as inferior with their pagan religious beliefs. Besides, the Chinese took the Caucasians' part of the gold from the hills. Posses never overexerted themselves capturing criminals when the victims were Chinese. But by God, they'd chase them to Mexico if they killed White settlers.

Horace felt sorry for any victim. He often liked the minorities more than the White mining majority. Even though Mexicans were Caucasians, the White miners considered them inferior. The Mexicans, Chinese, and blacks who worked the mines seemed more humble and gentle than the White miners. The Anglo-Saxons were caustic and bad-tempered. They were just an impatient, angry group.

"Probably just greed and envy," he told Pal, who snorted. White steam came from the horse's flared nostrils. Horace laughed.

Jimmy the Tracker could track anybody over anything except rock and water. The four rangers followed Jimmy out of the Chinese murder scene onto a back trail which led toward the main dirt road to Jackson City. They followed it for about four miles. Then Jimmy jumped off his horse.

"See something, Jimmy?"

"Yup, Corporal. I know something you don't."

"Go ahead, jimmy."

"We thinks they's going that way," he said pointing.

"But, here they did a double-back. Here's where those scallywags jumped off the trail into the light brush." Jimmy's eyes darted back and forth and his voice shook.

"Men, be aware. We might be in the middle of an ambush -- and outnumbered," Horace said. A cold sweat dotted his lineless brow. Were they now the hunted?

Jimmy closely examined every patch of earth, tree, and brush. Horace watched Jimmy getting more reluctant each step. Something must be wrong.

Jimmy to smile after about a quarter mile of tracking off-trail. "Corporal, these men are doing the opposite, tricky bastards. They're going toward Sacramento, not Jackson City!"

Horace thought quickly. He must first follow orders.

"Okay. Will and Thompson, ride and report to the captain as soon as you catch up with him. Davis, Jimmy, and I, we'll go back to Sutter Creek and tell the mayor what we found and that the gang is taking the road to Sacramento. Ride!" Horace said.

"Corporal, ain't this Flores the same scoundrel who got you the stripes?" the tracker asked.

"Yes, Jimmy, I saved the captain and Rogers, but lost my partner Paul with Andrews," Horace said, stroking his day-old stubble.

"Don't worry, Corporal, you'll get another chance," the tracker said, his fists clenched.

His and Jimmy's eyes met. The gang had outsmarted the rangers. Horace needed six more men to pursue them. In Hangtown, Flores' horse had worn silver trappings. His horse made the same track. Yes, This was the same Flores they were tracking. Horace's bullets missed then. Juan Flores would get away again. He didn't like being outnumbered and at the same time have to report per regulations. Frustration filled his soul. He remembered his vow to Paul as he lay dying in his arms.

"I promise you, Paul, I'll kill that damn Flores, I'll get him for you."

Mad both at the outlaws and his situation, pure logic made him respect his enemy.

Chapter 2

As the rangers separated below him, Juan Flores frowned. His beady eyes darted to double-check he could move forward toward Sacramento. Silver trappings lightly jingled on his mounted majestic black horse, a prize possession thanks to highjacked gold. His neck twitched nervously to the right.

"We've saved our asses, amigos. We'd better head south, they got too many damned rangers, and it ain't fun no more," Flores said.

"El Capitan, you're right, those rangers you killed in Hangtown are now haunting us," Francisco Poncho Daniels said, his dark brown eyes glaring back down below.

Flores nodded. Daniels was one true gang member. Flores watched Daniels smile back at him.

"Let's go, they ain't followin' us," Flores said as he led eight men down the steep mountain. The thick short trees made it necessary to follow single file. Flores guided the troupe around the brown, dead ones. Yes, the green ones made it impossible to see eighty feet straight. Decayed yellow-brown pine cones and needles popped and crunched from the horses' hooves. Crisp morning air made the mountain ride refreshing. Flores could see the horses' nostrils blowing out each breath. God how he missed warm southern California.

A cold chill ran through Juan Flores' back. He had to make a change. Four startled deer ran from the nine horsemen crossing their untouched domain. Flores raised his revolver to shoot one for meat, then changed his mind. They would love the meat, but the gunshot might give their position. This was crap always running. Always hungry, and always damn cold. If he saw one pine he saw a thousand. So damn many pines. His neck twitched back to the right. Pine cones, pine needles, pine trees, pine smell, and pine crap.

Juan Flores pulled his big black mare's reins to guide her. His weight was easy for her to handle. Frozen snot formed on his handlebar moustache. He remembered his wife pulling it and teasing him, but that was three years ago. They left Mexico to get rich. Their mining hometown Capala was tapped out, old Capala where his ancestors mined all the way back till sixteen-something. His grandfather taught him about gold. He sure felt the lack of old Papa, his old Papa. His dad ran off at his birth. Guess he didn't love him.

The ride from Mazatlan to northern California had been long and arduous. They'd still had fun. Once in a while he'd been aggravated when she pulled his moustache. Damn it, he wished she could pull it now. Teresa, his dead wife, was the love he missed. He buried her with his unborn son.

He'd flipped and gone crazy afterwards. He wanted to kill everyone. Frustration made his insides feel like a Baja hurricane, everything blowing around inside his head. He lost it all, he had nothing more. The dark side -- revenge -- entertained his soul. He needed to kill back, get even. Who? Who? The Chinese were easy, so easy. The posses gave up quicker when the victims were pagan Mongolians.

So he'd left fifteen dead Chinamen. He'd littered the northern fields with blood revenge. Those two damn rangers. He'd started a gringo ranger war and pissed them off. They had him cornered. He'd just been playing monte at the saloon. There were all them damn rangers in the saloon, and he'd been nailed for card cheating. Ah, all them damn rangers. Must have been six of them. He'd gotten a few, scared a few, and escaped from one.

Chinese gold filled Flores' saddlebags. He would stop in Sacramento and get in a game or two. Plus he could get laid. His scary, dark beady eyes looked forward to the destination. Flores had big plans for his small five-foot eight-inch stature.

Chapter 3

The salt sea spray hit Horace's face. Heading toward Los Angeles, he already missed the rangers but not the cold mountains. With his pouch full of gold, he looked every inch the gallant cowboy trying out a new life.

The Seabird, a fifty-foot steamship, traveled up and down the Pacific Coast. Horace easily made friends on board. Naturally gregarious, without hesitation he assisted Captain Salisbury Haley doing ship chores on the five-day trip down the coast. His friendship with Captain Haley grew by sharing stories and learning about the captain's brother, one of the other four steamer ship's captains. A big stubby fellow with a red face, Captain Haley was full of the gab. He mentioned that it might take a day longer because he wanted to drink "a little" at San Luis Obispo. Horace stopped himself from saying anything. That was a first.

He attentively listened to the passengers talk to one another, having been taught by his mother that listening to others was a wonderful way to learn. His big mouth got him into problems. Being honest simply pissed people off. Nineteen other passengers were on board. Horace made friends with Don Benjamin "Benito" Wilson, the Los Angeles mayor. The mayor seemed to like him. Horace listened as the mayor talked to another man. Wilson mentioned that the rangers in Los Angeles were a cohesive group that fought the criminal element. Horace couldn't understand why he didn't open his big mouth and ask questions. Caution was better than rushing in. He didn't need to screw up his new home.

Passenger Alexander Nelson, with his two Hardy Boys, was talkative. Nelson brought a thoroughbred horse and planned to enter it into a race with Sepulveda's famous big black horse once they reached the Los Angeles Pueblo. Stakes were in the thousands. Seeing the well-groomed, shiny red horse made Horace miss Pal. He became melancholy. He would never sell another horse, ever. Once in the Pueblo de Los Angeles, he would find another Pal.

Horace learned from the mayor about pueblo life. Even the mayor as an American picked up quickly on the pastoral Spanish lifestyle. The culture combined a simple elegance with honor, goodwill, hospitality, and honesty. The mayor had married a Dona, thereby giving him land and title. Now he was a Don, owning a rancho and a pueblo general store. He told Horace the Americans loved the Spanish dances, games, and food. The Spanish possessed a playful heritage against the serious American work ethic. "Horace, my son, the whole damn town is going semi-gringo. It's a hell of a mixture," Don Wilson said.

The travel invigorated Horace, and he watched another steamboat going north. Captain Haley said the ships made up their own schedules. These so-called schedules depended upon where the captains wanted to spend their drinking and gambling nights. Horace also learned many a man fell overboard with fifty pounds of gold, never to be seen again. "The gold took 'em to Davy Jones' locker, ha, ha," Haley chuckled, his barnacled face all cracked. His face showed his darker side; he was glad gold greed got them and not him. Captain Haley wouldn't mind the gold, but he didn't like the drowning.

Poor seamanship or hitting a sandbar sank many a ship. The captain said one went down blowing a newfangled boiler. There were many hazards between San Francisco and the Panama overcrossing. Horace knew the California roads were mere dirt trails. These steamer ships had replaced sailing ships. Horace pondered what would replace the steamers.

Horace and Captain Haley had several things in common, one of which was an interest in law. Captain Haley studied law when he was sober, and on this particular day he was four days sober on their way into the L.A.-San Pedro Harbor. Haley and Horace passed time debating the difference in real estate law between California's community property law and Indiana's title state law.

On the way into San Pedro, a balmy south blowing wind made the day around ninety degrees. Horace found the semi-arid desert climate quite different. Haley put in his anchor and started loading his passengers into the harbor dinghy, an oversized rowboat. The rowboat took ten passengers at a time to the makeshift pier. Wilson pointed out Dead Man's Island where the Los Angelenos had buried the dead Americans in the recent Mexican-American War.

Horace's head still rocked when his legs hit dry land. He wanted to kiss the ground. He now changed his mind regarding sea travel -- the fish could have it, salt spray and all. He remembered an old saying, "After three days in the open air, fish started to really stink."

Once ashore and off the dinghy, all twenty passengers faced a stressful trip by two open-air stages for service into the pueblo. These stages were old army ambulances, hard, flat, and providing no coverings. The backs where the passengers sat were plain, flat boards with ropes to hold onto to keep from being thrown out during the ride. Splinters jutted out from the seats. Attached to each stage, a vicious herd of mules snarled at the passengers. The two drivers looked as though they'd drunk half the ocean. Using every imaginable expletive, both held whiskey quarts and watched who'd be the fastest to guzzle it down. One driver kept pulling up his sailor cap after each swallow. He belched and chided, "You'll not win today, you landlubber son of a bitch!"

The other driver yelled, "Damn you to hell, swaby! Eat my dust!"

Three sweaty Mexicans guided each stage, one at the front and two at the sides. Each front Mexican had a rope on the two lead nasty mules, while the side Mexicans held whips to keep the mules on the twenty-two-mile-plus bumpy race course to the Bella Union Hotel.

"Git aboard, ladies and gents," hollered the stage owner, who introduced himself as Phineas Banning.

A man rode up and saluted Don Benjamin "Benito" Wilson. He wore a badge. "Mayor Don Wilson, caught ourselves four Mexican cutthroats for General Joshua Bean's murder! We'll have our confessions soon. The Vigilance Committee -- they're drillin' 'em night and day. Need your help as soon as you git in." The man turned around and galloped back toward the Pueblo de Los Angeles.

Banning placed on each stage three black bottles containing what he called "refreshment," saying, "Gentlemen, there's no water between here and the pueblo. It gets real hot on the way in."

Horace grabbed the bottle, took a whiff, and said, "Phew! Smells like rotgut, salt water, and homemade whiskey!"

"Just piss 'n shit's all," said one of the drivers, who gave a big-belly drunken-sailor laugh. Horace made a face.

"All ready?" Banning yelled.

"Is there gonna be no bettin'?" grumbled the surly drivers. Horace's driver wore a tattered British naval uniform and a large gold earring, just like a pirate. Maybe he was one? The other driver wore ragged American naval garb. Horace surmised they were fighting the War of 1812 again. They looked that old, too, with their wrinkled sea faces.

Banning laughingly remarked to both sets of passengers the drivers liked to make the ride into town more interesting by betting against one another.

"I'll bet five dollars!" one fellow said.

"I'll see that," another said. "And who'll see me a fifty-dollar gold slug?"

"I'll take that!" Horace said, immediately knowing he'd been suckered. All this trip keeping his mouth shut and now he opened it? Real smart.

Soon all bets were covered. Banning cried out to the drivers, "Watch your helm! Let her drive!"

"Suelto carajo!" screamed the two front Mexican

majordomos, and off the mules went.

They were in for the ride of their lives. The passengers held on for dear life while the Mexicans whipped the mules into tremendous bursts of speed. Splinters pierced their hands holding the open-stage sides so they wouldn't be thrown out. The drivers and their Mexican cohorts looked back and smiled in satisfaction at the scared gringos. Horace's hands were white and bare-knuckled as he held tight. Dust-choked, he became apprehensive. His ass had two splinters already. He didn't want to get thrown out. The pueblo was still a twenty-mile walk.

"Get outta my way, you stinkin', ass-smellin' swabby!" cursed one driver to the other. The cussing continued nonstop.

The men on the stage told the two women not to listen to the stage drivers. The women were shocked.

After a few miles, both stages slowed down. The male passengers encouraged the drivers to egg on the lazy mules and speed up again by offering immediate financial gain. Horace shook his head. What a racket. Then the drivers started to put up a real race.

A perfect set of lines marked the mules' rears from the Mexican vaqueros, who struck the same place each time. Horace liked the Mexican horsemanship and balance displayed.

The passengers, like maniacs, gripped the ropes. As bad as the ride was, it was better than walking. More splinters set into Horace's rear as the stage leapt airborne and then dropped hard four feet back down into the ground. Over and over he contemplated his love of thrills when he hated the pain. He was glad he'd relieved himself at the shoreline.

After thirty minutes, Horace knew his gold piece was history and figured the two drivers would split and drink it. Dust-eaten, sweaty, hot, and sick from the so-called refreshment, he decided to be a good sport and accept his loss. Next time he wouldn't be so patriotic. Then two other words crept in -- damn stupid.

From the road Horace first glimpsed the four-foot-high wild mustard grasses. Acres of their yellow tops forged a path to the pueblo.

An hour later, both stages hit L.A. at San Pedro Street. Horace looked behind and saw a pack of twenty stray dogs, some big blacks, some small browns. They looked underfed as they raced after the stages, their ribs showing their hunger. Horace mused if a stray passenger would become dog food.

These dogs pursued them as they lurched onto First Street. The stages made a sharp left turn and almost lost two passengers. They used the ropes to pull themselves back in and regain their precious seats.

Purplish green grape vines grew around the town. Plentiful vineyard stalks contrasted with the pale desert dirt. Horace saw a hundred white-washed adobes dotting the natural drab landscape. He'd come from the frozen north to hell in five days. Where was the water?

Still neck and neck, the stages raced until the one holding Don Wilson turned right onto Main Street. It hit a huge water ditch and lost a passenger in the process. He rolled across the street. Everyone laughed and pointed at him as the dogs jumped and bit at him, his hands flailing back and forth trying to avoid their teeth and jaws.

"Help me! Help me!" he yelled. The stage passengers then laughed even more. These 1853 pueblo pilgrims were cold-hearted.

Horace submitted and gave up the ghost for his fifty bucks. These drivers really were modern-day pirates. The rest of the passengers, mostly drunk by this time, were still laughing at the hapless, dumped, and drunk man fighting off twenty dogs and wallowing in the dirt and dust.

Don Wilson's stage, lighter by one, came first at the Bella Union Hotel. Horace lost. Probably wouldn't be the first money he'd lose there. He laughed.

The passengers, except Horace, with their bumps, bruises, and splinter cuts, went into the bar at the Bella Union to celebrate their survival.

Horace stepped out of the stage just outside the Bella Union, reached back, pulled at a remaining splinter which had not worked its way out, and looked around. The one-story Bella Union Hotel had a dirt floor, ten rooms to let, nine-by-nine feet, and thousands of fleas, just as described by Don "Benito" Wilson -- "The best hotel in Southern California."

The bar was the only thing which looked good to him. He couldn't drink right then. His stomach was green and his head spinning from the stage ride. He needed solid food. A week on the ocean and losing fifty bucks -- no way Jose.

The Pueblo de Los Angeles wasn't much to look at with its twelve streets that criss-crossed. Only about fifty white, smooth adobes provided stark contrast to the town's few boardwalks. Only three two-storied adobes were visible downtown. One had to be Uncle Alex's casa. He had to be in the money.

"Cafe Bovierre" read the small sign which beckoned across the street. Horace entered the small, one-story, four-tabled establishment not expecting too much. He looked around quickly at the exceptionally clean, wooden-floored room with its white lace curtains. The cooking aroma knocked his socks off. The restaurant smelled of baked pork, chicken and beef with spices he'd never smelled before -- hot spices, or maybe French spices he'd heard about. He didn't care. Hearty food would calm his rocky legs and stage-sick stomach.

A stunning woman met him at the door. Five-foot-seven, in her middle twenties, she had beautiful light brown hair and a captivating smile. All of a sudden Los Angeles looked pretty. She twisted her long hair with her slender fingers and eyed him up and down. Who was checking out whom? Gosh she was a dish. He almost blubbered all over himself. He had to keep his demeanor, cold like the local pilgrims but gregarious like himself.

"Hi. I'm Horace Bell. Just risked my life to get here." He put his hat on the white linen table cloth. She laughed, causing her green emerald eyes to sparkle.

"Oui -- I know. I watch when people get off the stages. It's little excitement we have close by," she said in a light French accent. "Oh, I'm sorry, my name is Miss Paulette Bovierre, but you can call me Paulette." Three p.m. and the café was empty. Good, real good.

"Okay. Miss Paulette, is it?" he inquired.

"Merci, oui, my little -- what did you call -- Mr. Horace Bell. Oh. I -- perhaps you're related to Captain Alexander Bell?"

"Yes. He's my uncle," he said, sitting down. "So now that's settled, what's on for early -- hearty supper?"

"My specialty is a local favorite called Chili Colorado." She smiled at him.

He frowned. "What's that exactly?"

Again she laughed, and he laughed with her.

"It is large, fresh pieces of beef with a special Mexican sauce that is delicious. It also comes with my special refried Mexican beans, great rice from chicken broth, and homemade corn tortillas." She stood next to him with her hands on her rounded hips so her slim waist and ample bustline were accentuated. "It will melt in your mouth."

"Serve 'em up, Miss Paulette Bovierre," said Horace. "I could eat one of those wet mules out there right now." He smiled and rubbed his brown hair back.

"On its way."

Horace watched her walk into the kitchen. What a handsome body on the young woman. Looked a lot better than those whores at the camps. Wow.

Since they were getting along well, Horace walked back to her kitchen and asked if she could give him a small background of the city. He didn't want to seem too pushy, but...

"Most of the town has grown from the plaza, which was moved twice because of river flooding, each time to find higher ground away from the river," she explained, gesturing rapidly with her delicate, though capable, hands. "Presently sixteen hundred people now call the pueblo home. Only my place and one other restaurant in town have a wood floor. With the desert heat here, we open opposite doors for ventilation."

He hovered over her narrow shoulders to watch her prepare the food. "Are there any big problems here?"

"Oui, like I mentioned, water is our main problem. Citizens have one water ditch called Zanza Madre, or 'Water Mother' in English. The ditch slows to a trickle in the summer. You crossed it just before your right-hand turn onto Main Street."

He nodded and laughed. "Yes, that bump catapulted the passenger to the dogs!"

She laughed as well, tossing her silky hair. He felt at home already. She rolled her eyes at him. He didn't miss that. He might get lucky.

"Oui, every horse, wagon, person, and barefoot Indian crosses the Zanja Madre. I pay a man to go far upstream to gather clean water in a fifty-gallon, empty wine keg."

"How about crime?" Horace asked, using his hand to rub his unruly hair down.

Paulette picked up a plateful of food and motioned him to follow. "Sit down here, please, Mr. Bell," she said.

Horace took a chair and started eating immediately. The beef had a red hot sauce to die for; sweet yet hot and spicy. The delicious rice and corn tortillas complemented the main dish. The tantalizing aromas quickly made Horace a Bovierre Mexican food lover.

"That is problem number two," she frowned. "About a murder a day occurs on Calle De Los Negros, two blocks away. The Americans call it 'Nigger Alley'," she said matter of fact. Then she rolled her emerald eyes at him again. What pretty eyes. He was in love. Maybe not real love. Call it lust. Love later.

"Whoa, a murder a day? Not even two thousand live here. How can ...."

"Oui. Look, Mr. Bell -- Horace -- into town every day come recent ex-miners, ne'er-do-wells, and riffraff. They are the one murdered, as you say." She smiled.

He nodded. "Gotcha. The men try to make a killing at the card tables and get killed." What a brain. Maybe she'd fall in love.

She ignored his answer and changed the subject.

"Would you like some hot salsa?"

"What's that?" he answered with a question, realizing she'd missed his brain power.

"A hot-type sauce made with tomatoes and chilies. Quite tasty."

"Good, Yup, please. Just city crime?" The marshal at the harbor could handle that.

She poured salsa over his dish. He bit into it and drank water fast. His mouth was on fire. What the hell did these folks eat?

She shook her head, her sunlit hair brushing from one shoulder to the other. Horace noticed its light red tint.

"Use salt from the shaker. It puts the fire out." Fire hell. His mouth felt like blisters were forming and his whole damn mouth would swell shut.

"No, not just city crime. There are many gangs, Indians, and mean men -- rustlers, murderers... the rangers chase them down," she said.

"Interesting," he said. "Do you know any of these rangers?"

"Oui, they come here for meetings. Would you like to meet them?"

He cleared his throat and rubbed his head. His hair was still a mess, his clothes looked like he'd taken a bath in dirt, and he was on the make? Wonderful.

"Gosh. Could you set that up?"

"Oui, sure, Mr. Horace Bell. Come back tonight around seven p.m., and I will personally introduce you to Mr. Hope, the captain."

"You're as pretty as the small red roses that adorn your tables. I'll be back. And thanks," he said smiling, then flashing his lady-killer eyes at her. He was sure she'd missed the effect.

"Oui, it is nothing for such a large, tall man," she said, flirting back. Maybe not? She was sure pert, and pretty. Gosh, he was in love -- or lust again. He finished and paid.

"Miss Paulette, tonight seven p.m. sharp."

So she was a year or two older, maybe a little more. No matter. He was sure the town didn't have much to offer her in the way of men. Maybe he was the hottest thing going. He doubted it.

Chapter 4

Horace walked out onto the dirt street. The pueblo's streets were full of old, sun-cracked animal bones. Five stray dogs fought over them. A block away an old Indian was carving up a dead horse. Horace walked by and grabbed his nose. Phew! By its putrid stink and the squirming maggots, he could tell the horse had been dead a week. Gosh, eating decomposed horsemeat, worms and all. Horace prayed the Indian would cook it. Sorry life being poor. Just what he needed after an ocean trip.

People walked up and down this main dirt street, Calle Principal, or Main Street. Everything was in Spanish. Everything which looked good was French. The city newspaper at the café was in Spanish. Everyone talked in Spanish on the street. Horace was in semi-gringo culture shock. He had to learn the language. His uncle forgot to mention -- perhaps conveniently left out -- the necessity of learning Spanish. Maybe Uncle Alex wanted Horace to be the son he'd never possessed. That was fine. Besides, the weather in the pueblo was good.

The city reportedly had the best weather in America, with the temperature about seventy degrees all year. That didn't mean it stayed that way every day, his Uncle Alex had written. Rare days it got as low as thirty-five, and few summer days it topped one hundred. But the weather sure beat the freezing cold mountains up north.

His uncle's letter said: "Day in and day out this little city is starting into a dramatic growth cycle," and he'd wanted the younger Bell to grow with the city. Horace grinned. The Los Angeles Pueblo looked like his kind of place. Location, location, location.

As he walked to the Bella Union Hotel to pick up his traveling bag, Miss Paulette's emerald green eyes and her slim waist popped into his mind. Wasn't love grand?

He walked the three quick blocks to his uncle's home. "Casa Bell," a small tile, hand-painted sign read, each letter surrounded by flowers. This would be his home for years. He knocked, and a beautiful lady with her dark hair up in a Spanish bun answered with a tall man behind her. The man looked just like Horace's preacher father.

"Uncle Alex? Aunt Bell?" Horace inquired.

"Haven't seen you in ten years, lad! My, you're even taller than I," his uncle said, hugging him hard and shaking his hand. Good. This was the welcome he wanted.

"This, my dear nephew, is your Aunt, Mrs. Teresa Bell." She was forty-something with black hair, short and petite, with warm brown eyes that welcomed him.

Horace stuck out his hand. "Glad to meet you."

"Come in, mi son. Bring your things. This is your home now," she said with a Spanish accent.

The home, three thousand square feet, had three-foot walls on the outside; two-foot-thick walls in each room, three bedrooms; a dining room; a study; the sala, or great room; the storage area; a kitchen; and outside, a large barn for the horses. Deep orange-, green-, and rust-colored decorations abounded among the dark, sizeable Spanish furniture. The sala contained a heavy Spanish piano, couches and tables, and huge tapestries hanging from the walls. Horace found it quite different than Indiana. The smell had to come from the cattle lard burning in the lamps. All furnishings were imported from Europe. Home looked like heaven compared to the cold, damp, muddy tents which had been his domain.

His uncle told him he'd built the home eight years prior. General Fremont confiscated it as his headquarters during the recent war. After the treaty was signed, Uncle Alex told him to "git the hell out." Horace could see he came from strong character -- the Bell heritage.

His room upstairs came with feather bed and book shelves. Five law books were neatly arranged on one shelf, with four empty shelves for growth, and in the corner was a desk complete with candles and oil lamps. Perfect. The best feature was a balcony with a chair that overlooked the infamous Nigger Alley. Uncle Alex told him to "Git used to the noise!"

He looked down at the Nigger Alley businesses. The vice establishments were flat-topped with overhangs that covered the wooden sidewalk. Twenty-four doors opened into the twelve businesses. Two saloons beckoned customers inside the swinging half-bar doors. The entire Alley with its weather-beaten wood stood in contrast with its white adobe neighbors. The Alley's gambling, drinking, and whoring carried on just two blocks from the tall white steeple of the Catholic Church. Both the Alley and the church were near the same age.

The exciting street sounds were music to Horace's restless soul. Now he possessed a front row, upstairs seat. Soon he'd be ready to walk into those twelve vice dens. Maybe the whores were good-lookin'.

His uncle told him he could borrow any horse he liked. That word "borrow" meant something to him. He'd never been a freeloader. He picked a large brown mare who could handle his weight. He put on a saddle and bridled her, then started a city tour.

He wondered how Nelson was coming with his horse race. Uncle Alex said Judge Sepulveda's black stallion was undefeated. Taking his horse south on Los Angeles Street, he passed over the Madre Zanja, the dirty water ditch. Horace vowed to at least do one thing for the family -- get some clean water upstream, way upstream far and away from the filth.

By Second Street the pueblo was pretty rural. To the south only five homes were visible for miles, a flat land unsettled, beautiful, and quiet. Then he heard loud cheers. A hundred souls converged at the race to his right at Second and Main streets. In one group were maybe thirty well-dressed male and female citizens, in another twenty decked-out gamblers, and thirty worked-out miners in another area. Twenty Mexican and Indian vaqueros yelled and clapped. Some men still were taking bets, probably hedging on their wrong guess to begin with. One fancy gambler yelled out, "Make it ten in a row, ye Old Sepulveda, ye black bastard!"

The Hardy boys' heads hung low and Nelson kept wiping his eyes. Nelson looked worried and said, "Looks like you boys might have to work to git us passage home."

Well, they'd made their bed, and they'd have to sleep in it. Yup, they'd brought in that horse and hadn't even given him a chance to get his sea legs back to the ground. Poor Pal. It broke his heart to have to sell him. Pal's shipping price was ten times his passage. He'd sold Pal for fifty dollars to a fellow who loved the gelding. "Sorry, old Pal," he said looking at his borrowed mare.

Judge Sepulveda's monster black horse outdistanced the red thoroughbred even more. It was well behind the big black. The dark stallion extended his lead by another hundred feet and thundered toward the certain finish.

After nine miles, Nelson's red thoroughbred was four hundred feet behind the native Californio mustang. Horace watched as Old Sepulveda crossed the finish line first. What a champion.

The celebrating winners were screaming, the Don judge was jumping up and down, and Nelson and the Hardys were crying in the dirt. Poor Mr. Nelson. How proud he'd been aboard the ship. Horace wondered how many thousands of dollars were lost betting on the thoroughbred.

To avoid the crowd, Horace returned uptown. A couple blocks from the Bella Union sat a hill structure, a one-story building with a fence around it. That had to be the fort, about half as big as Alex's home. He chuckled. Nothing much was that big in the little pueblo yet.

Nearby, a wooden sign read "Thompson's," a corral and wagon rental place. He dismounted. A fantastic black horse stood tall in a corral. Eyeball to eyeball they made contact. He wondered if this unbelievable sixteen-hand coal-colored stallion was for sale. "Darn thing is as big as Old Sepulveda," Horace said out loud.

"Right you are, son. Old Sepulveda was the black's daddy," said a man, approaching Horace from behind.

"What a beauty!" Horace turned, startled, to see a kind-looking, older gentleman. "What's his price?" He wished he could have kept more of a poker face.

"First things first, young man. I'm James Thompson, the corral master. Who're you?" The man's hands looked like meat hooks as he extended one. His face was aged to forty-year-old leather left in the sun to dry.

"I'm sorry, sir. Name's Horace Bell. Alexander Bell's nephew. In from Calaveras County."

"Calaveras County. I rode with a hard man named Captain Love" he said, looking up at Horace, who stood a good six inches taller. Thompson's eyes moved up and down checking him out.

"Captain Love was my superior on the rangers. As a matter of fact, here's a letter he wrote to introduce me to your Los Angeles Ranger Commander." He handed the letter to Mr. Thompson. Horace took off his hat and rubbed his hair back. He didn't want to open his big mouth to change feet.

Mr. Thompson took his time reading the letter word for word. At the end, which seemed like an hour, Mr. Thompson quickly asked, "Are you going to try for a commission as an L.A. Ranger?"

"I'm to meet Captain Hope seven p.m. sharp at Miss Bovierre's Café to see if there's an opening."

"There is, my son. I'm sure they'd be glad to have you on the police force. As for price, Don Tomas Sanchez wanted only a first-class ranger to have the black stallion. I think you qualify. How about only fifty dollars -- special?" What a deal, a perfect trade, Pal for him. Maybe he'd feel better transferring his feelings to a new horse.

Horace slapped a fifty-dollar gold slug into the man's huge palm, rubbed his head with the other hand, and said, "A deal is a deal. Thank you. And Don Sanchez."

"Yup, he's a real winner. His former owner was a city marshal who took a .45 in the chest. Be careful. Oh, by the way, I'm with the rangers too."

Nice old guy. These Los Angelenos were pretty decent people. Too many lawmen were killed. He had to be mighty careful.

Horace took the saddle off his borrowed mare and placed it on the big black. Riding the three blocks back was a snap. He placed the borrowed mare in its stall, put in the night feed, and closed the barn door against the chilly night air.

Quickly remounting his new horse, he said, "I'm naming you Pal. Got a habit of talking to my horse. Never be afraid. Always be brave, Pal." The horse snorted.

Walking into Miss Bovierre's at six fifty-five p.m., he said hello to Miss Bovierre as she came out of the kitchen with a chair. How timely. The smoke was so thick you could cut it. Everyone smoked a cigar after dinner. A full house, all four tables were taken. Miss Bovierre even had an extra Mexican gal who ran from table to table. Paulette still looked attractive. More like exquisitely fine.

Horace looked closely at the four wooden tables. Four gamblers sat at the first one; four miners at the second; four businessmen in suits at the third; and the furthest away had four Dons, who wore formal black suits with fancy white lace shirts and red sashes. With the Dons sat an older white-headed American. He wore a businesslike black suit and smoked a long cigar. His eyes squinted from the clouds of gray smoke. The smell of a cheap cigar burned the air.

Horace wanted to sit down and get out of the fog. He prayed for fresh air. Miss Bovierre placed the empty chair by the white-haired gentleman and motioned for Horace. He sprang toward it.

In English and Spanish she said, "Gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to Horace Bell, who would like to be a ranger."

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Horace Bell. I'm Tomas Sanchez," the Don said, extending his hand to Horace.

He looked only a couple years older than Horace and was a dapper dresser.

"This is Don Coronel, Don Benito Wilson -- who mentioned your acquaintance -- Don Abel Stearns, and the Captain of the Rangers, Dr. A.W. Hope," Sanchez said.

Wow. All the Dons were dressed to kill. Red sashes and lace shirts. Even the American, Don Wilson, who owned the store that sold them the clothes, was in a nice suit. Horace would have to dress the part.

"Thank you, gentlemen. I'm overwhelmed with your courtesy," Horace answered. "Captain Hope, I have a letter of introduction from Captain Harry Love of Calaveras County up north." He hoped he'd pass muster.

"Why thank you, young man. That's cutting to the game quick, I'd say, huh, gentlemen?" Dr. Hope smiled as he put down his wet, stinky cigar. Horace smiled, realizing who had the cheap cigar.

Quickly reading the letter, Hope passed it around to the three who could read English. Tomas Sanchez translated it to Don Coronel.

In came a five-foot Don who walked with a leader's confidence.

"Horace Bell, please meet Don Andreas Pico, mi general and hero at San Pasqual, the only battle we Californios won!" Tomas said. Pico had even a fancier shirt on. His red sash was fringed to stand out.

"Captain Tomas, the Americans could have used big Horace here at San Pasqual," Don Pico said, laughing.

"Now, General, let's all get along. Those were different times and too long ago to remember," Tomas said.

Horace respected peacemaker Tomas right away.

After some discussion, Tomas Sanchez said, "Gentlemen, we have a quorum here now with five members of nine. I, Tomas Sanchez, hereby make a motion that Horace Bell of Los Angeles County is hereby granted the appointment as a Volunteer Mounted Police Ranger for the City and the County of Los Angeles. All in favor, aye. All against, nay. Your votes, please?"

By unanimous agreement, they voted Horace into the L.A. Rangers. Horace was elated. He tightened his fist and then rubbed his hair back.

"That settles it, Mr. Bell. Report tomorrow to Lieutenant David Brevoort across the street at the two-room adobe next to the Sheriff and Marshal's offices," Tomas A. Sanchez said with a smile. "Mr. Bell, that was a fine letter. We are proud to have you."

"Thank you, gentlemen," Horace said. "Thank you." He turned to Miss Bovierre. "Thanks for all your help." She grabbed Horace's arm and walked him to the café door. "You're welcome," she whispered.

Horace looked at her directly. "You've really been a friend since I first came to town. I saw the way you did things tonight." The chair, the timing, her shapely body, all of it.

"I'll get you to make up for it," she said and winked. She loved him! She was coming on!

"How about a Sunday picnic next week?" he asked, almost stammering. Fifty-fifty chance, but what the hell.

"That would be a grand idea," she said. He'd played it right. He was in like a bandit.

"Three o'clock," Horace said, his pulse quickening.

Gosh, he wished he had more experience.

"Oui. I'll pack the lunch, and we can both take our horses," she said with a smile.

He couldn't believe it; a picnic date and an appointment to the southern California rangers! What a great beginning! She was even bringing the food.

The candle lights were still burning at the adjacent barber shop. Standing in front of it, he glanced back into the café to see Miss Bovierre again, but she had already left for the kitchen. He turned.

Wham! The door hit him in the knee, and a striking, young black woman in a satin, low-cut purplish dress and matching hat walked out the door. She didn't linger to acknowledge him or say a word. In her hurry, the heel of her spiked boot stepped into his foot.

"Owe!" Horace said.

She looked at him and smiled. Her bright brown eyes caught him off guard. They were sexy and full of the devil. Great figure. His knee hurt like hell and his foot stung. He needed to sit down and get a haircut.

Inside the barber shop, a stocky, round black man pulled up his pants. Sweat beaded on his broad face, and his shirt was in disarray. A hand-carved sign propped up behind the man's barber chair against the adobe wall read "Peter Biggs, Barber and Proprietor."

"We's closed, young man. My God, must be seven o'clock," Biggs stammered.

"No problem. Who was that little Negro gal that just ran over me?" Horace asked, seeing that Biggs was caught with his pants down.

"Now, that's a diff'rent business. Her name's Lilly Brown, the wildest lil' gal in the pueblo. She do everything to you in abouts an hour for only twenty-five dollars payable here in advance. She got nothing yet for ten 'n eleven. What's your desire, Mr....?"

"Mr. Horace Bell. Nothing right now. Just curious." Horace scanned the shop with its dirt floor, half-dirty shaving knives, filthy and stained water basin, and Biggs himself still buttoning his pants.

As he rubbed his hands with a filthy white towel black from old bear grease, Biggs said, "Well, when yer pecker need a real home, gimme a call here. Usual barber hours." What a character. The place hadn't been cleaned in years.

The prices on the wall quoted one buck for a haircut and half a buck for a shave. With the money for the prostitute, a haircut, and a shave, he could almost buy a horse. What a screw. He laughed at the pun. A haircut should only be a quarter dollar. And Don Wilson had remarked the whores on Nigger Alley only charged two to three bucks. Every couple of screws was a horse with Biggs' prices. He could do twelve whores on Nigger Alley for the price of Lilly. He pondered if she was worth it. Probably.