boy-o, we could have ourselves an Irish-Russian castle atop a California hill!”
Jeb paused for breath, tossing back the whiskey, his bright blue eyes gleaming with excitement beneath the strong straight dark brows. “And just wait till you see some of those Mexican girls, my friend—all lustrous dark hair and laughing brown eyes and skin the color of summer peaches.” His eyes creased with merriment as he drank up and ordered another for each of them.
Nikolai didn’t know whether it was the vision of the rolling acres dotted with cattle and sheep, or the adobe mansion with the grand piano—or even the beauteous dark-eyed girls—but somehow Jeb’s ability to conjure up pictures in words made their future together seem a reality and his suspicions disappeared like the chill Bay fog under a hot sun. “How?” he demanded excitedly. “How you get land?” The barman had placed another drink in front of him and he downed it almost without noticing.
Jeb met his eyes with a sigh.
“That
, Nikolai, is a problem. You see, I know the rancher over there has land to sell, but I’m afraid I don’t have enough to buy it. Not without a partner, that is.”
“I be your partner,” declared Nikolai. “I have money saved … one hundred and fifty dollars. Is enough for my share?”
Jeb’s eyes narrowed as Nikolai began unstrapping the money belt from under his shirt. The sum was less than he had hoped, but it would have to do. “Boy-o, I couldn’t possibly take your hard-earned money,” he said solemnly, “it just wouldn’t be right.”
“But we be partners,” stammered Nikolai, “this land—it will be ours …”
“Well, then, if you insist,” agreed Jeb reluctantly, “but let’s make that
equal
partners now, I wouldn’t dream of having you take less.”
“Equal partners,” beamed Nikolai, his broad face flushed from the drink.
“Now wait just a moment,” said Jeb, taking a pen from his breast pocket, “we’d better put this in writing so you’ll be sure it’s all aboveboard.”
Taking a cardboard sign from the counter that proclaimed CLANCEY’S IRISH SALOON, KEARNEY STREET, SAN FRANCISCO, AMERICAN AND IMPORTED BEERS AND ALES … A DOZEN DIFFERENT WHISKEYS … FREE LUNCH COUNTER FROM NOON TILL TWO DAILY , he turned it over and began to write …
Jeb Mallory and
… Hepaused, frowning. “It’s no good you know,” he muttered, “no good at all.”
Nikolai choked on his whiskey as his dreams suddenly threatened to disappear. “What you mean is no good?” he demanded anxiously.
“Your name. It’s too foreign-sounding, too confusing. You can’t be a rancher with a name like Konstantinov!” Jeb thought for a while and then said, “Nikolas Konstant—Nik Konstant! Now that’s a good solid-sounding name. An
American
name! How do you like it?”
“Nik Konstant,” agreed Nikolai, his own voice sounding suddenly strange, ringing in his ears as if it were a million miles away.
“Agreed, then.”
Jeb Mallory and Nik Konstant are equal partners in the Rancho Santa Vittoria and all its lands and livestock. Dated this tenth day of April, 1856.
Signing his name with a flourish, Jeb handed the pen to Nik. “Sign right here, boy-o,” he urged, watching as Nikolai, still unused to the American alphabet, signed his new name slowly, forming each letter with care. Then Jeb handed the barman a dollar and asked him to sign as witness.
“There, that’s settled,” he declared, handing Nik the card. “You keep this document and meet me at Marco’s Livery Stables tomorrow morning—at dawn. Order two horses to be ready and waiting and we’ll make an early start.” He glanced at Nik, whose face looked pale and spiked with sweat. “You’re looking a bit worse for the drink, boy-o,” he commented, “better get yourself back to your room and catch some sleep.”
“Marco’s Livery Stables,” murmured Nik, stumbling from the table, his thick corn-blond hair falling over his eyes.
“At
Jeb paused for breath, tossing back the whiskey, his bright blue eyes gleaming with excitement beneath the strong straight dark brows. “And just wait till you see some of those Mexican girls, my friend—all lustrous dark hair and laughing brown eyes and skin the color of summer peaches.” His eyes creased with merriment as he drank up and ordered another for each of them.
Nikolai didn’t know whether it was the vision of the rolling acres dotted with cattle and sheep, or the adobe mansion with the grand piano—or even the beauteous dark-eyed girls—but somehow Jeb’s ability to conjure up pictures in words made their future together seem a reality and his suspicions disappeared like the chill Bay fog under a hot sun. “How?” he demanded excitedly. “How you get land?” The barman had placed another drink in front of him and he downed it almost without noticing.
Jeb met his eyes with a sigh.
“That
, Nikolai, is a problem. You see, I know the rancher over there has land to sell, but I’m afraid I don’t have enough to buy it. Not without a partner, that is.”
“I be your partner,” declared Nikolai. “I have money saved … one hundred and fifty dollars. Is enough for my share?”
Jeb’s eyes narrowed as Nikolai began unstrapping the money belt from under his shirt. The sum was less than he had hoped, but it would have to do. “Boy-o, I couldn’t possibly take your hard-earned money,” he said solemnly, “it just wouldn’t be right.”
“But we be partners,” stammered Nikolai, “this land—it will be ours …”
“Well, then, if you insist,” agreed Jeb reluctantly, “but let’s make that
equal
partners now, I wouldn’t dream of having you take less.”
“Equal partners,” beamed Nikolai, his broad face flushed from the drink.
“Now wait just a moment,” said Jeb, taking a pen from his breast pocket, “we’d better put this in writing so you’ll be sure it’s all aboveboard.”
Taking a cardboard sign from the counter that proclaimed CLANCEY’S IRISH SALOON, KEARNEY STREET, SAN FRANCISCO, AMERICAN AND IMPORTED BEERS AND ALES … A DOZEN DIFFERENT WHISKEYS … FREE LUNCH COUNTER FROM NOON TILL TWO DAILY , he turned it over and began to write …
Jeb Mallory and
… Hepaused, frowning. “It’s no good you know,” he muttered, “no good at all.”
Nikolai choked on his whiskey as his dreams suddenly threatened to disappear. “What you mean is no good?” he demanded anxiously.
“Your name. It’s too foreign-sounding, too confusing. You can’t be a rancher with a name like Konstantinov!” Jeb thought for a while and then said, “Nikolas Konstant—Nik Konstant! Now that’s a good solid-sounding name. An
American
name! How do you like it?”
“Nik Konstant,” agreed Nikolai, his own voice sounding suddenly strange, ringing in his ears as if it were a million miles away.
“Agreed, then.”
Jeb Mallory and Nik Konstant are equal partners in the Rancho Santa Vittoria and all its lands and livestock. Dated this tenth day of April, 1856.
Signing his name with a flourish, Jeb handed the pen to Nik. “Sign right here, boy-o,” he urged, watching as Nikolai, still unused to the American alphabet, signed his new name slowly, forming each letter with care. Then Jeb handed the barman a dollar and asked him to sign as witness.
“There, that’s settled,” he declared, handing Nik the card. “You keep this document and meet me at Marco’s Livery Stables tomorrow morning—at dawn. Order two horses to be ready and waiting and we’ll make an early start.” He glanced at Nik, whose face looked pale and spiked with sweat. “You’re looking a bit worse for the drink, boy-o,” he commented, “better get yourself back to your room and catch some sleep.”
“Marco’s Livery Stables,” murmured Nik, stumbling from the table, his thick corn-blond hair falling over his eyes.
“At
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