The Second Vendetta: The Second Vendetta

By Carl R. Brush

Not again. It's taken Andy Maxwell two years-1908-1910-to recover from the vendetta that nearly killed his mother, burned their Sierra Nevada ranch house, and exhumed some family secrets-including that his father was black. At last Andy thinks he can return to the University of California to finish his PhD. Not so.First, the PhD. program do

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadersMagnet LLC
• Release date: Jun 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781957312484

Carl R. Brush

Carl Brush has been writing since he could write, which is quite a long time now. He grew up and lives in Northern California, close to the roots of the people and action of three of six of his seven historical thrillers, The Maxwell Vendetta, and its sequels, The Second Vendetta, and Swindle in Sawtooth Valley, which take place in 1908-1912 in San Francisco and the high Sierra. Bonita and its sequel, Bonita's Quest, are set in pre-gold-rush San Francisco. For yet another historical tale, The Yellow Rose he made a literary jump from California to Texas, where Carl's co-author, the late Bob Stewart, dwelled. It's a tale of the Texas revolution and an imagined affair between Sam Houston and a legendary mulatto woman, Emily West, who is best remembered as The Yellow Rose of Texas. You can find Carl living with his wife in Oakland, California, where he enjoys the blessings of nearby children and grandchildren.

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The Second Vendetta: Maxwell Family Saga 2

Copyright © 2022 by Carl R. Brush

Published in the United States of America

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of ReadersMagnet, LLC.

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DEDICATED TO

SUSANNE WITH THANKS

FOR HER SUPPORT IN THIS

AS IN ALL THINGS.

CONTENTS

1JAILBREAK

2A FEAST OF FAREWELL

3A LETTER OF CONGRATULATIONS

4DISEMBARCADERO

5IN THE CHAIRMAN’S OFFICE

6TREADING WATER

7THE PRESIDENT’S SCHEDULE

8QUIGLEY COLLECTS HIS BOUNTY

9REUNIONS

10CAROLYN MEETS MANY CLOUDS

11ANDY AND THE PRESIDENT

12DRINKS AT THE KEY ROUTE HOTEL

13MANY CLOUDS STARTS HOME

14ANDY TRACKS DOWN AMBROSE

15HELLFIRE

16AN AFTERNOON AT THE CIRCUS

17BACCHANAL

18MANY CLOUDS MEETS MAGGIE AND WILLY

19BREAKFAST WITH AMBROSE

20HELPLESS

21THE HEARING

22BAD MEDICINE

23BRASS MONKEY

24JUST LIKE THE BIG TOP

25AMBULANCE

26GETTING THE WORD OUT

27MANY CLOUDS SHEDS HER QUILLS

28IN THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE

29RISING WATERS

30ANDY THE FUGITIVE

31HALE GENTRY DROPS BY THE CIRCLE M

32ANDY HEADS HOME

33HEADING OUT

34NIGHT RIDER

35CARRIE IN CAMP

36HOMECOMING

37POLITICS

38AN UNCLE AND NIECE REUNION

39HIRAM JOHNSON COMES TO BREAKFAST

40MISSIVES

41SECRETS

42BREAKDOWN

43ANDY AND MACINTOSH AT THE RAILROAD CAFÉ

44MANY CLOUDS RETURNS

45FRUSTRATION

46CANDIDATE COACHING

47CAMPING OUT IN GREEN CANYON

48THE CANDIDATE’S MAIDEN VOYAGE

49THE PRESS

50HIRAM’S SON RETURNS

51WAR COUNCIL

52MIDNIGHT REUNION

53HOPE VALLEY HOEDOWN

54DOCTORING

55THE PRESS

56LAST MARMOT

57CHANGING OF THE GUARD

58ROOFTOP RENDEZVOUS

59MARKLEEVILLE

60THE PRESS

61HOSPITAL

62ROUNDUP

63FAIR WARNING

64FIRING RANGE

65LING CHU’S KITCHEN

66FLOUTING THE DOCTORS

67ANOTHER BURN

68RIDING INTO TROUBLE

69HUNTING WILLY

70HAY

71VIGIL

72OVER?

73LOOKING FORWARD

74PYRE

75THE GREAT DEBATE

76THE PRESS

77SURGERY

78CAMPAIGN FEVER

79CABIN FEVER

80TOTE BOARD

81LEGAL TENDER

82INJUNCTION (1)

83INJUNCTION (2)

84WHAT BIERCE IS UP TO

85A GIANT FAVOR

86WHERE’S VIRGINIA?

About Carl R Brush

Acknowlegements

ONE

JAILBREAK

Michael Yellow Squirrel lay a prisoner below the decks of the Chinese sailing freighter, Heavenly Happiness . His hammock was six inches too short for his six-two frame. He inhaled the sewer stench of bilge water, felt rats skitter over his boots.

He turned over in his hammock, purposely twisted his right arm to revive the pain Even now, a year and a half after Andy Maxwell’s knife speared it, pinned it to the ground, and thwarted his vendetta against him and everything Maxwell, it hurt. The pain was fine with him. It fed his rage. On the hull beside his hammock, he’d tallied exactly five hundred and forty-three days—almost a year and a half—since that 1908 stabbing. His loathing for Andy and the other Maxwells who paraded around like royalty on their huge California ranch, the Maxwells who’d put him in this stinking hold, grew every time he gouged a new mark into the rotting plank.

He heard a hatch cover slide back. Lantern light seeped through the opening, yellow and feeble.

On deck, Squirrel man, growled the mate, a pox-faced little bully by the name of Skelton. You too, Blake, Marley, Simpson.

He waited for the other three prisoners to climb the steep narrow ladder to the deck before he emerged into the fetid air blanketing Bangkok Harbor. Steaming humidity hid the stars. His journey had taken him from San Francisco through Honolulu, Manila, and God knows how many other rotten ports. Harbors where they’d anchored miles out to discourage escape, loading and unloading using lighters and junks and whaleboats. But here on the Chao Piraya River, the lights and shadows of teeming Bangkok appeared close enough to touch.

On deck, the other men gathered around Skelton, who began delivering orders, a Navy Colt cradled at the ready across his huge belly. Skelton would have kept the crew in chains if he could, but a man in manacles can’t scramble around the rigging. Yellow Squirrel knelt to lace his boot, reached into his boot top to retrieve the weapon he’d honed from a stolen spoon. He thumbed the razor edge, thinking of triumphant times to come. He glanced up, waited till the blustering mate looked away to point out some task to the waiting men. He quickly rose, leapt sideways, and jammed his blade between Skelton’s ribs. A raspy gurgling bubbled from Skelton’s lips. He shoved the knife deeper into the mate’s guts, sprinted to the rail, vaulted over it, and dropped into the shadowy, tepid waters among the hundreds of canoes and junks that crowded the waterway.

It may have taken him a year and a half to get to Bangkok, but as a free man, it wouldn’t take anywhere near as long to get back to San Francisco. And when he did, his revenge on Andy and the rest of the Maxwells would be all the sweeter for the delay.

TWO

A FEAST OF FAREWELL

I ’m telling you, son, Andy’s Uncle Cooper was saying, It’s going to be different out there now that you a black man. You better off here on the Circle M than going back to that college. Cooper pointed a finger at Andy, tightened his lips. His complexion se emed a shade darker than its normal deep caramel.

Crystal and china gleamed in the twilight, and the aromas of roast beef and baked sweets floated in the air over the remains of Andy Maxwell’s farewell banquet. With the town guests gone, only his mother, his Aunt Amelia, and Cooper remained at the table.

No one other than his mother had known about Andy’s Negro lineage until Yellow Squirrel’s 1908 rampage revealed a host of Maxwell family secrets. One of those: Andy’s father was not his mother’s often-absent husband, but her Negro-foreman-lover, Shelby McNeal.

Coop, Andy replied, You’re talking like you never heard about emancipation. It’s 1910, and the University of California isn’t a plantation. Ideas are what count there, not race.

Uh huh, his Aunt Amelia said, and just how many of them professors at that university of yours is colored, Andy?

Amelia’s question stopped him for a moment. Her normally soft features had turned rigid, and her dark freckles stood out. He took a sip of cognac and let his gaze wander over his unique family, smiled at the good fortune that had brought them together from the far corners of chaos. His mother smiled back, but Amelia and Cooper remained grim. Andy turned back to his aunt.

You know, Amelia. I can’t think of a single Negro faculty member. Amelia and Cooper shared a look of satisfaction.

So why don’t I… He executed a mock drum roll on the table. …become the first?"

Amelia rolled her eyes. Lord have mercy, she said.

A chorus of dogs sounded from the ranch yard. All heads turned toward the front door.

Hello the house, called a rumbling bass voice.

Who the hell? Cooper said. He stood.

Ain’t no call to go cursing, now, Amelia said.

I know, woman. But it’s Saturday night and all the hands is in town and they’s no call to bother a man at suppertime.

Andy rose. I’ll get it, Uncle.

I’m most there already. Cooper dug into his shirt pocket for cigarette makings as he pulled the door open. Probably drifters looking for work. He closed the door behind him.

Through the lace curtains Andy glimpsed two horsemen slouched in their saddles near the porch rail. He saw Cooper dribbling Bull Durham from its drawstring bag into the paper curled around his forefinger, heard low murmurs of conversation from outside. He sipped his cognac, waited. A match flared as Cooper lit up. The front porch murmurs escalated to shouts.

Now see here, boy, if you don’t bring out the boss man, we’ll have your hide on a fencepost right here and now.

Lord help us, Amelia said, rising to her feet.

His mother started toward the front door, but Andy got there first, threw it open and stepped onto the porch.

About time we got a white man out here, the rider snarled. This fool—

Whoa. Andy pointed a finger. You don’t—

Cooper blocked Andy’s path without taking his eyes off the talker. Ain’t none of your concern, professor. You only a dinner guest, after all. Now, friend, you say you want the boss man? You looking at him.

That’s right, Andy said.

Cooper threw Andy a look. Stay back. He drew on his cigarette, exhaled.

You gents want to work roundup, come back next month. I got nothing right now.

Daylight had dimmed to twilight. The cowboys twisted in their saddles. Their horses scuffed nervously, raised some dust. Neither of them wore a sidearm, but the talker’s bearded companion carried a rifle in his saddle scabbard. It was he who finally broke the silence. Let’s go, Slade, he said. I hear a bottle of whisky calling my name all the way from that saloon in Sawtooth Wells. The man called Slade didn’t move.

I heard about you in town, boy, but I didn’t believe it, he said. We ride all the way out here just to have some smart-ass nigger—

The man was trying to be sly about it, but Andy saw his offside knee easing up toward the saddle crown as he spoke, and it was obvious what would happen next. He glanced at Cooper, who saw it too. Sure enough, the big man launched himself from the saddle and flew over the porch rail straight toward Cooper. Cooper dodged quickly, and Slade would have missed him, but his boot toe hooked on the railing and threw him in the direction Cooper had stepped. The two landed in a bundle, and Slade drew back a fist aimed at Cooper’s face.

Andy stepped in before the punch got underway, grabbed Slade’s cocked arm at the elbow, and used the leverage to turn him on his back. He took a short leap and drove both knees into the man’s solar plexus. Slade issued a strangled cry, fell back, sprawling, limp on the deck.

Leave it, Andy heard Cooper say in a soft, menacing tone he knew well. He turned to see the other rider slowly lifting a hand off the butt of his carbine. The knife Cooper always carried in his boot scabbard he now held high and ready to throw.

Carrie and Amelia joined them on the porch. Carrie held a pistol, its barrel pointed in the air. We’ve shed no blood yet, she said. And don’t plan to. Why don’t you just ride on out, and we’ll say no more about it.

What about Slade?

He’s not quite ready to leave yet, Andy said. Still the rider didn’t move. Go on, now. At last the reluctant cowboy spurred his horse toward the archway that marked the entrance to the Circle M.

Carrie lowered her pistol and handed Andy a few feet of clothesline.

Thought you might need a piggin’ string, she said.

"Thanks, Mom. He trussed up Slade, heels to wrists, like a rodeo calf. The Maxwells formed a shadowy semi-circle around Slade, who was beginning to groan and twist.

You ready to listen to us about what’s waiting for you out there now, Andy? Cooper said.

Those two, Andy said, they’re not the university.

Cooper threw up his hands. Boy, you’re more hard-headed than your daddy, Lord rest his soul.

"Uncle, join the celebration. The vendetta’s over. Mother’s back to her old caballera, gun-slinging self. Thanks to the great job you’ve done of taking over for Shelby—for father—the Circle M is in tip-top shape. You don’t need me here."

His mother gestured toward the bound man at their feet. And the next time something like this happens?

You had your revolver. Cooper had his knife. It was under control.

Hmpf, Amelia said.

People, I wish you’d just be happy for me.

Okay, then, Cooper said. You’ll be fine till you find out you ain’t nobody’s fair-haired boy no more, then you’ll be right back here on this porch.

Slade was jerking around now and cursing.

What are we going to do with him? Carrie said.

I got a plan, Cooper said.

Always do, Amelia said.

Cooper called, Ling Chu?

Yes, Mr. Cooper. The Maxwell family cook and factotum was almost at Cooper’s elbow when he answered.

Lord, you do spook a man sometimes, Ling, sneaking up like that, Cooper said. How about you fire up that Model T of yours?

Now? Ling Chu displayed a smile they seldom saw. You bet, Mr. Cooper. The introduction of the four-seat Model T to the ranch—largely at his instigation—had breached Ling Chu’s natural reserve. He now took pride, joy, and a proprietary interest in driving and maintaining it. It was an extravagance, of course, but Carolyn had spent the money because it helped serve notice that the Maxwells were still the premiere family in the valley despite their recent calamities, and that they intended to maintain founder Carter Maxwell’s reputation for forward thinking and modern ways. Whether it was scientific cattle breeding or their Pelton Water Wheel-driven sawmill.

Cooper said, You and me, we gonna drop Mr. Slade here off at Marshal Halstad’s hotel.

Ling Chu hurried off in the direction of the shed where the automobile was stored.

A splendid idea, Coop, his mother said as they watched him go.

Bastard Sons of Bitches, Slade snarled, heaving against his bonds.

"You shut your face, boy, Cooper said, Or we gonna stuff your mouth full of your own stinkin’ socks."

And you shouldn’t be palming yourself off as a cowboy if you don’t know that the more you struggle, the tighter those knots are going to get, Andy said. The man silenced himself and calmed down.

His mother reached out, led them away from Slade, though Cooper continued to keep a sharp eye, humming The Battle Hymn of the Republic, the tune that was always with him.

A cough and sputter came from the Ford’s shed. Another. Finally, the motor caught, and moments later, the car pulled up in front of the house, its acetylene gas headlights casting a faint beam before it. Andy and Cooper each grabbed an end of Slade and tossed him, bucking and still cursing, into the rear seat, tied him down with another length of clothesline.

See you all in about an hour, Cooper said, and they departed, Slade’s horse tied to the rear bumper and no happier about his own situation than his owner was about his.

Andy leaned against the railing. It was dark now. Amelia and his mother were silhouettes against the living room light, shadows so deep even the gray at the temples of his mother’s raven black hair had disappeared. He didn’t need to see her, though, to know that she was still beautiful, despite a long line of disasters that have befallen her over the years. They began at age three, when Yellow Squirrel’s father kidnapped her and her mother from their Wyoming wagon train in 1864. Carter Maxwell had avenged that deed. But Yellow Squirrel couldn’t let it stop at that, and his bullet had nearly finished her two years ago. Now, it seemed, she would count Andy’s departure as another item on the list.

She crossed to him, smiled, took his hands, tipped her head back and lifted her eyes toward his.

You know it’s only that we’re so dreadfully concerned about you, Andy, she said.

Believe me, Mother, I understand. But I have to. Just have to… have to finish packing, He hugged her, stepped toward the front door.

THREE

A LETTER OF CONGRATULATIONS

Monday morning, angry and grimy, Andy heaved his foot locker up the stairs to his old room in the boarding house where he’d spent his undergraduate days. A delay of the train in Sacramento had brought him to Berkeley a full twelve hours later than scheduled. Twelve hours stuck in his railcar—no whisky available—to smart over his family’s attitude. Was his leaving the Circle M hurting them all so badly they needed to hurt him back?

He dragged his trunk to the foot of the bed. Objections, obligations, distractions. He couldn’t afford them. After two years away from the books, he felt like a man who’d been lost at sea and washed up on his home shore at last. Except that even after two years, the very sight of the Bay Area reminded him of the night Yellow Squirrel had stabbed Julian—his blond and flamboyant younger brother—to death on a San Francisco sidewalk. Sliced him open right in front of Andy. Even now, he could hear Yellow Squirrel’s laughter. He hadn’t realized how strongly his return would affect him. Maybe he should chuck it all and go somewhere else. No, the pull of the familiar, the proximity of the Circle M, was still the most powerful force at work in his heart.

He flung open the trunk. He’d need to change his shirt to make himself presentable to the civilized world. He found a piece of paper taped to the inside of the lid. Maybe a good luck wish from Mother. But no. It was from his grandmother. How had she managed that? Years and years ago, as the Circle M grew in size and prestige, she’d given up her high society station as Julia Maxwell, mistress of the Circle M manor and gone native, and taken to living as an itinerant squaw. She seldom approached the ranch at all, let alone entered the house.

Dearest Andrew,

I am writing to wish you Godspeed but to warn you that you must not dally too long in the halls of academe. She is on her way from Wyoming. She does not yet know it is you she seeks, but both your hearts will know it soon. She. Many Clouds. He shifted, felt a dark shiver. The vendetta had drawn him to Yellow Squirrel’s niece, a fetching Arapaho princess who had disowned her murderous uncle. She and Andy had been thrown together for a time. A short, intense time, but a time long past. I appreciate the tip, my matchmaking Grandmother, but any future relationship between Many Clouds and me is a matter purely for your own fantasies.

He started to crumple the note, then folded it and retaped it to the lid. He lifted a shirt from the trunk and walked toward the bedside wash basin. As he passed his study table, a letter caught his eye. It was from the university. He’d expected to receive it at the ranch the previous week, details, doubtless regarding his first week orientation into the Ph.D. program.

He ripped open the envelope. Department of History, University of California, August 15, 1910. He read the letter. Read it again as he settled on his bed. He was beginning to understand what Coop had meant.

We herein offer our best wishes and inform you that you have been granted an indefinite extension of your leave of absence from our doctoral studies program.

Considering the burdens your family circumstances would put on your academic pursuits, we feel sure that this decision is in the best interests both of yourself and of the University.

Yours Truly,

John McNulty, Chairman

Hypocrites. Spit on them. McNulty and every last one of them. He’d never asked for an extension of his leave, and all the concern they felt for the burdens of his family circumstances wouldn’t fill a shot glass. They hadn’t even spent the postage to send it to the ranch. Why didn’t these charlatans say it straight out? Now that we know your true heritage, we’ve determined that your miscegenated self is no longer eligible for our esteemed program.

He crushed the letter in his fist until his knuckles ached, imagined he was squeezing Chairman John McNulty’s neck. He threw the wad across the room. He pulled a hefty silver watch, memento of his grandfather, from his pocket. Nine a.m. His clothes were rumpled. But he no longer cared about a fresh shirt. He splashed some water from the pitcher into its basin, gave his sooty face and messy hair a once-over, and headed out the door. He didn’t look great and probably smelled bad. But that might be just fine, might give him advantage by putting McNulty off balance the moment he entered the man’s office.

FOUR

DISEMBARCADERO

Michael Yellow Squirrel collected his pay from the purser of the steam freighter Tripoli and headed for the gangplank at Pier 25, Port of San Francisco. High noon. A year and a half it had taken that sailing tub Heavenly Happiness to get to Asia at its snail’s pace between myriad stops. Six months was all he’d needed for the return voyage aboard this westbound steam freighter, Golden Gate II.

He didn’t acknowledge the comments he overheard from his shipmates as he worked his way toward the gangplank. Arrogant bastard. Rather tangle with a grizzly. Face like it was smashed with a brick. He enjoyed the contempt and fear that trailed in his wake.

He descended the gangplank to scan the hills rising from the wharf and inundate himself in sun and freedom. A joy he hadn’t known since he began his hunt for the Maxwells.

Hey, Mike. Mike. The call came from atop a crate near the bottom of the gangplank. The caller leapt to the dock and rolled his short, fat body toward Michael as quickly as he could manage.

Well, well, Quigley, Yellow Squirrel said. You would be the first guy I meet coming off the boat. Yellow Squirrel was disappointed that his new slouch hat had proved such a flimsy disguise. Jonah Quigley was a rum sot and a dock gossip. Yellow Squirrel wasn’t ready to let his return be known as widely as Jonah Quigley was sure to spread it.

Let me be the first to welcome you home, Mike, old friend. He thrust his hand forward. Word was you was gone for good.

Some people wanted it that way, Yellow Squirrel said. He ignored Quigley’s hand.

Well, you know I didn’t want that, and if I knew you was coming, I’da rounded up a welcoming committee. Ask anybody, you don’t believe me. Where you been, anyway? Musta been at least a year.

Two. You Wobblie president yet?

Quigley looked startled, checked around frantically. Whispered, You know you can’t talk unions out loud, Mike. Jesus Christ, man, ask anybody. You could get us killed.

Yellow Squirrel smiled. Quigley was scared now. Good. He liked people to be frightened of him, nervous about what he might do or say.

But listen. Quigley glanced around again. I’m glad to see you. How’d you like to get together for a drink? Give you a chance to pay back that hundred bucks you owe me.

Yellow Squirrel smiled again. You think I owe you a hundred bucks?

Sure, Quigley said. Ask anybody. You was sucker enough to bet I didn’t have that ace in the hole.

That ace in the hole was an ace up your sleeve, Quigley, is the reason I didn’t pay.

Look, I’m not a cheater. Ask anybody. Straight shooter. And I could really use that money right now, on account of my kids, and you just got paid, so how about it?

Yellow Squirrel looked at Quigley as if he was considering the proposition, which he was not. He even riffled through the bills from his pay envelope. Quigley was leaning forward, his hand all but turned up to receive payment. Yellow Squirrel began to change his mind about him. Someone with an ear to the ground, probably knew a useful thing or two, and he needed information to set up the first surprise he had in mind for the Maxwells.

Tell you what, Quigley. It’s been quite a while since lunch. Your shift’s over at four? Quigley nodded. Just a couple of hours now.

When you get off, meet me at The Trident. That place still open?

Quigley nodded. Smiled broadly. No poker face on this guy. He had something in the hole.

We’ll go one hand of showdown, Yellow Squirrel said. Double or nothing. Except with our sleeves rolled up.

Sure, Mike, sure. Sounds fair. He reached up, clapped Yellow Squirrel on the shoulder.

Hey, Quigley. Move your blubber ass back on top of that crate. A dark-bearded man in a red watch cap loped toward them, a man as big as Yellow Squirrel, waving a belaying pin and ready to use it. One more warning, you can join the next crew to Manila.

Quigley’s smile changed to panic. He whirled and tried his best imitation of a run back to his station, calling as he went. Yes, Mr. Santini. Sorry, sir. Halfway to the box, he tripped, tumbled to all fours, rose quickly, and hauled himself aboard. Santini watched Quigley’s antics, laughing. Yellow Squirrel turned his back and walked in the opposite direction.

Yellow Squirrel found a shaded platform on the fire escape of a nearby warehouse and watched Quigley, determined to discover the meaning of that big smile. He did not consider himself a patient man, but he could wait when he had to. He’d been waiting since he turned six during that 1864 summer of horrors. The summer his own father had tried to use the little Maxwell girl and her mother as bargaining chips to restore the Arapaho treaty rights. Yellow Squirrel and his brother had finished off the old man, Carter, in 1894. A long wait.. He’d nursed his hatred, not knowing what to do with it. Then a tribesman returned from working roundup in California and finding out about the Maxwell ranch gave him a target. There’d been his father’s objections. Then the struggle to persuade his brother to join