Chapter One

1

The ranch house on Malibu was a low-roofed adobe with a porch across the front from corner to corner. A door and two windows opened on the porch, both windows showing evidence of being enlarged at some time in the past.

The two large ollas that hung from the porch beams contained water kept cool by wind and shade. A gourd dipper was next to them.

To the left of the house, about a hundred and fifty feet away, was a pole corral. Near the corral there was a long watering trough made of rough planks and a lean-to stable.

Shading part of the dooryard was a valley syca-more, a huge old tree with mottled bark, and nearby stood several cottonwoods and another sycamore. Behind the house were several pin oaks. Cottonwoods grew near the door.

The hills around were brush-covered and scattered with huge boulders or sandstone outcroppings. From the porch there was a good view down the winding trail and a glimpse of the blue sea beyond.

Eileen Mulkerin came to the door. The mother of two grown sons, she looked young enough to be their sister, a strikingly beautiful woman, as Irish as her name. "Are they coming, Michael?"

"Not yet."

"They'll not be long, you can be sure of that. It's the day Zeke Wooston has been waiting for ever since your father gave him that whipping for beating his horse."

"He's shrewd . . . and dangerous."

"He is that. It was the Valdez note that surprised me. When he bought it I knew we were in trouble," she said.

"You must not blame Valdez. He did not know Wooston as we know him, and times are hard. He needed the money."

"I do no