Dutchman and the Devil : The Lost Story (9781456612887) Page B

played for a fool, Waltz stalked away, leaving Roberts to speculate on Waltz’s seeming lack of concern for his partner.
    The next morning, Weiser went in search of a ride, his charred eyebrows lending such a pitiful appearance the Spengler family made room for him. Propped comfortably on Spengler’s pillows, Weiser made himself such agreeable company they insisted he ride with them all the way to Los Angeles.
    Eleven weeks after leaving Fort Hondo, the wagon train pulled into the small city of Los Angeles. It was the end of the trail for the farmers and a one-night stop for the prospectors, who traded their mules for horses, packed their loads with the barest essentials, and prepared to ride north the next morning.
    Weiser, however, was ready for a night on the town, and his grin reminded Waltz of his partner’s ability to make acquaintances and gather information. “While you’re out there having a good time, keep your ears open for any information about the gold fields,” Waltz ordered his partner.
    Waltz’s high-handed attitude made Weiser feel like telling his partner to go fly a kite, but again he held his tongue. After all, each day was bringing them closer to getting rich.
    Vine Street was the center of Los Angeles, a beehive of vendors selling everything from fresh oranges to fighting roosters. Weiser followed it to the plaza in front of the mission church, admiring gracious Spanish-style homes that lined the cobbled street and picturing himself living in one them. Clusters of dark-eyed beauties strolled the edge of the plaza, accompanied by their dueñas. All were elegantly dressed and wore lace mantillas that covered their shining black hair and soft white shoulders.
    Weiser sat down beside a dapper gentleman wearing a well-tailored, grey, double-breasted frock coat that Weiser knew cost a lot of money. Pretending he wanted to practice his limited English, the gentleman, Don Pedro Santiago, drew Weiser into conversation. With a good deal of gesturing, the two men were soon chatting amiably and Don Pedro invited Weiser to dinner.
    Weiser accepted the invitation with alacrity and was treated to a sumptuous meal, during which he flirted shamelessly with Don Pedro’s wife while the Don’s daughters flashed their dark eyes and kept his glass full of tequila. Enthralled by the sight of their luscious bosoms, Weiser lost track of how much he was drinking.
    Following a desert of creamy caramel flan, the ladies left the room, and a butler served cups of the strongest coffee Weiser had ever sipped and a box of Cuban cigars. After an interval of contented silence, Don Pedro tapped the ash from his cigar and said, “Do you enjoy to play at cards, Mr. Weiser?”
    Weiser chuckled and replied modestly, “Si, Don Pedro, I enjoy playing cards.”
    “As it happens,” Don Pedro said with a little smile, “this is my — how do you say it? — evening for games of poker. Will you join us?”
    Ordinarily, Weiser would have noticed the Don’s little smile, but the excellent meal and abundant shots of tequila had taken the edge off his customary caution. “Si, Don Pedro, I will play poker with you and your amigos. But I have no money, only gold for my ante,” Weiser replied, mentally filling his pockets with the dinero he expected to win.
    “That is no problem,” Don Pedro replied with another little smile.
    Don Pedro’s friends arrived, cards were dealt, and at first Weiser raked in most of the chips. But Weiser was not much of a drinker, and the flow of tequila caused him to miss sidelong glances and winks exchanged by Don Pedro and his amigos.
    It wasn’t long before Weiser found himself back in the plaza with empty pockets, unsteadily propped against a lamppost. And he had no idea how to find Waltz and their camp.
    At the break of dawn when Waltz arose, there was no sign of Weiser. For a moment, Waltz was concerned for his partner’s safety, but that quickly turned to anger. The group was about to leave, and he