CHAPTER ONE I'm supposed to be afraid . . . of this?" Andrew Pierce Buchanan looked at the orange a moment longer, then squeezed it in his big bare hand. The rind gave easily and pulp and juice oozed around his fingers. He opened his palm, turned his hand over, and let the fruit drop to the rusty red dirt. Then his dark brown eyes returned to Chester Jacob, the man who had given him the fruit. "You proved absolutely nothing except that you're a stubborn man-a good man, don't mistake my meaning, but one without a good head for business." The speaker, Chester Jacob, pulled the drawstrings on the canvas sack. He threw it back over the shoulder of his brown suit. "And you, my friend, are like my kid brother used to be," Buchanan said. "Always impressed with things that are new." Buchanan's young, devoted Australian shepherd, King, came romping over, following the strange scent. The six-foot-three rancher lowered his hand to where the dog could lick it. "He don't seem so fond," Buchanan said as the dog turned elsewhere. "They're for people," Jacob replied with frustration. "Oranges are not just new, Andy. They're vital, alive." "Not so alive," Will Fremont chuckled. The foreman of the AB Ranch was standing beside Buchanan. Each laugh caused his outsized chest to expand and contract like a blacksmith's bellows. "That was one," said the disgusted Jacob. "Imagine thousands." "That's what I'll have to, friend," Buchanan said. "Imagine them. They're not coming. Not to my land, anyway." "Like Indians, they will surround you before you know you're in danger," Jacob said. "Then you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you warned me and I didn't listen." "Besides, boss needs something to rope," Fremont said. "He loves throwin' a lariat. Can't do that with an orange." The agent for Widmark Shipping sighed and hoisted the sack over his shoulder. The man was a fit, bronzed statue in a brown suit that had been battered about the seams by constant travel and too-little darning. At least he doesn't have to worry about being stopped by the hands-up crowd and robbed of his clothes, Buchanan thought. There were still outlaws, renegade Rebels among them, who dogged the routes he took. Fremont was watching the dog and chewing on a dead cigar. "Boss, you remember that hailstorm that smacked us about, oh-four, five years ago?" "Summer of '65, right after the war. What about it?" "Yes, what does that have to do with anything?" asked Jacob, taking out his impatience on the shorter man. Fremont puffed on the cigar, with no success. He was glaring at Jacob and did not seem to notice. "Those hailstones tore heck out of the silo, the barn, and the house Andy had built. Even worse than the quake that came right before. Roof of the sod shed looked like Old Greyback turned a scatter gun on it." He had pointed at the distant mountain, then looked down at the mash even the dog had abandoned. "If this 'dangerous' orange of yours fell from the sky, this is what woulda happened." Buchanan and Jacob both looked at the speaker with confusion, Jacob with impatience as well. "I am pretty sure, Fremont, that Chester meant a different kind of fearsome when he showed us the orange." "I know that. I was making a metaphor for the purpose of educatin'." Buchanan grinned. "Next time I see Miss Sally, I will report to her that you can both read and philosophize." "Among my other attributes." Fremont inflated and winked. "For the love of Pete," Jacob complained. The three men were standing under a charitable spring sun at the strong oak gate that stood below the sign of the AB Ranch, a five-hundred-acre spread established by Buchanan in 1852. That was the year the U.S. government drew up the San Bernardino meridian, a survey that had helped to divide public and private parcels. Then just twenty, he was working as a cowboy up north, in the San Joaquin Valley. He had paid $1.01 an acre using money he had inherited when his mother, Rachel, died. The shipping agent looked down at the sweet remains where flies were now beginning to cluster. "I did not mean, Mr. Fremont, that you should fear this as some kind of . . . of celestial thunderbolt. What I meant is that this fruit can either be an instrument of your financial ruin or your salvation." "We're doing okay, ain't we?" Fremont asked his employer. "We're not starving." "What about your herd?" Jacob pressed. "They're eating, too," Buchanan replied. "But farther out than before. Double-D hands say they saw Reb Mitchell making his rounds wider than before." "Grasses grow on their own time, not mine." Fremont said, "Double-D hands and rustlers were also ridin' wider than before. Dawson tries every way he can to hurt every small ranch he can." "Then, for God's sake, get out before there's bloodshed," Jacob said. He shook his head. "Mark me, one way or the other, the Valencia orange is coming to this region, and soon." "The appetite for beef ain't goin' anywhere either," Fremont said. "But there's still a glut-" "I am just gonna have to ride that out." "-and you're farther west than Wyoming and Texas, so you still have to walk your herd in. How many pounds do they lose each drive? That's cash they're shedding." "Train'll be here someday soon." "Another wait you have to 'ride out.'" "Maybe not. I got another notion in the meantime, one that may cure the problem entirely." "Involving cattle?" Buchanan shrugged. "That's what we raise here." "That's my point. I have an option for you, too, Andy. The state is going to subsidize orchards and there will be more and more of them. They'll come in and then go out on Mr. Widmark's boats. Even now he's up north commissioning a ship with one of those fancy screw propellers so he can scoot across the Pacific. If not for cleaning and feeding beef, I'd say the Far East was a market for you-but it isn't." "And you'd need more ice than cow to ship carcasses, I know. I talked to the clipper captains along the Golden West's route. Asked me if I could get them guano. Big demand for that, too." "There is?" Fremont said. "Fertilizer," Jacob informed him without turning from Buchanan. "You're always ahead of me, and you're always thinking. Which is why I've come to you, to give you a chance to become part of something else before everyone else." "Including Dawson?" Fremont asked. "He's a different case," Jacob said. "Some ranchers do that as a means to empire building." "Thank you," Buchanan said. "I mean that, Chester. But groves and vineyards are a little tame for me. And for my men, too, I think. We're family." "I bet it wouldn't take much to convince Joe to switch to whittling," Fremont said. "Give him more time for Bible studies." The foreman made a fist and swung it up and down. "What do you call those sticks on ships?" "Belaying pins?" Buchanan said. "If you say so. Or a big longhorn steer scowlin' out at the water." "Figureheads," Buchanan said. "That's it," Fremont said. Jacob's bony fingers tightened around the neck of the canvas. "This is not a joke, gentlemen. By my soul, change is coming." Fremont snorted. "It always does. Miss Sally says that a lot, but she thinks it's good for us. Keeps us educated, like this next drive. And change'll show your oranges the saloon door when the next paying customer rolls in. Maybe wild turkey meat or snake hide." Buchanan, however, was silent. He turned his eyes east, toward the stable where over a dozen horses were being fed and groomed in preparation for the next drive-the most dangerous one any man had ever taken. His gaze drifted south to the sky-scraping peaks beyond, their sharp edges and snowy crags bright against the rich, blue heavens. "Like I said, we've been doing okay here," Buchanan said, more to himself than to the others. "We'll keep on doing okay. I feel it." The rancher raised the brim of his off-white Stetson and let the noon sun shine on his forehead. He had possessed that sense for weeks now, like something was coming. He squinted now to the west, where small shadows fell from the occasional oak and cactus, to the posts and sign a short walk away at the front of his property. He watched as King, who had been fighting the rind like it was a dead bird, suddenly dropped it and took off after a gopher. Both animals scrambled into a gully that had been created when an earthquake rearranged the landscape on a very hot July morning the summer previous. He thought back. Everyone knew then that something was coming. It wasn't like a puma stalking just beyond a campfire and the horses tugged at their ropes, or a black bear foraging in the compost mound, making all the cattle restless. For days before the tremblor happened, every animal-domestic, flying, crawling, or burrowing-was still. Buzzing was nowhere to be heard. The twilight bats stayed in their caves. Even King stuck to lying beside the well. Then the quake hit and everything was in motion. The house and barn twisted one way, then the other, like when his daughters made up their little dances. Fence posts swayed, trees groaned, dirt danced, and rocks shifted. Only the mighty San Bernardino range anchored by San Gorgonio Mountain, Old Greyback, paid the thing no attention. He saw later upon exploring that they'd shook off a few rocks but nothing more. Then, as soon as the rumbling was over, the animals returned to life. They didn't even pay heed to the little tremors that followed. Buchanan wondered if his own sense was like that-something animal. "What about your wife and the girls, A.B.?" Jacob asked. The rancher was startled out of his thoughts like a sleeper suddenly woken. "I don't get your meaning." "Maybe you should talk to them. You met your wife while planting crops, did you not?" "That was very different." "Yes, but maybe it was a sign. Someone who's been to war and back-I would have thought such a man would want to stay home, count his many blessings, enjoy his family instead of crisscrossing half a country for half a year." "Two countries." "Pardon?" "Nothing. And what is your solution, Chester. To watch orchards grow?" Buchanan shook his head. "I'd be so ornery each and every day, my girls'd throw me out. You can only fix thatching so many times, replace a few warped floorboards once every spring." "What are you, thirty-eight?" "Bordering on thirty-nine." "Aren't there other things you want to do?" "What man would say there aren't?" Buchanan turned a thumb south. "Never been to the top of Old Greyback to see if Saint Gorgonius actually lives there, like the missionaries say. Never crossed the Inland Empire to the sea down there." "Y'mean Big Salt Creek," Fremont said. "Miss Sally calls that a misnomer, seeing as how it's much larger than that, according to books she's got." "What about something bigger than a sea?" Jacob pressed. "You can plant orchards and let your men tend them, come and see a blue ocean, not like the dreary one you grew up on. I tell you, there are sunsets that light a fire in the soul. I can arrange that-" "You just told me to stay home and count my blessings." "Mr. Widmark has short runs up and down the coast and is looking for deck officers. In fact, if you want, you can bring some cattle." "What's 'some'?" "Maybe twenty head? There's a market in Guaymas on the Gulf of California. We already sail there to swap woven goods for shrimp." "From steer to those shellfish?" Buchanan shook his head. "Chester, I don't think so." "Don't think of your job as beef. You command men. Why does it matter where?" "Because I know this," Buchanan said. "Men are born to learn, to grow." "I saw balloons that can carry men to the sky, too," Buchanan said. "When you're ready for that, we'll talk." "I'm sorry?" "I would like to try that, flying among the clouds. Imagine meeting Old Greyback as an equal. Imagine hitching balloons to cattle to move 'em." Jacob frowned. "Now you're just wasting my time." "Oh, no he ain't," Fremont jumped in, his chest inflating again to announce knowledge. "Did you know that a coupla French boys figgered it all out back in the 1780s? Miss Sally told me all about them. I forget their names but they were paper makers who watched ashes rise-" "Thank you, Fremont," Buchanan said. "I think you do need to get back to work, help Griswold with the table grub. He's been a little held back since he hurt his arm." "I am on the hoof," Fremont said, nodding at both men in turn and walking off, bowlegged and rolling the dead cigar around his mouth. Jacob regarded the rancher. "You don't get hurt picking oranges, you know." Buchanan turned his bronzed forehead toward the mush on the ground. "Except if you're an orange. How're you going to fight them?" "They don't sail to the West Coast or Asia." Buchanan grinned. "Come on, I'll see ya off." "Thanks, but fair warning: I won't stop asking." "Doggedness is one of the things I admire about you," the rancher slapped the man's bony shoulder. CHAPTER TWO Buchanan and Jacob walked through the still, warm air to the agent's buckboard. The dirt of the AB Ranch glowed golden under a cloudless sky. It did not seem arable to the rancher, since nature had not by its mighty self produced anything here. But the well had never gone dry even in the worst of any drought, and the state had men and equipment enough to irrigate a desert. He had seen that up Los Angeles way. For a passing moment, the idea had some appeal for the reasons Jacob had said. But it was here and gone like one of those fast-flitting, guano-laying bats that flew from the Bernardino caves. This trade, these men, were as much a part of his life as his family. Not as dear, but more plentiful. The agent's wagon sat by the trough near the well. The two-horse team was peaceful, broken in a way his own horses were not. Maybe in a way that horses should never be, Buchanan thought. The Connecticut-born Jacob had his own thoughts, too. He liked the rancher, a fellow New Englander. But like most men from the shipping centers in Connecticut, Rhode Island, and Massachusetts, he did not understand men who were deaf to the bass and far-reaching voice of the sea. Excerpted from Ralph Compton the Empire Trail by Jeff Rovin, Ralph Compton All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.