Tuesday, August 9, 2011, 12:00 a.m. Los Angeles

My mind's racing as I pace in front of Mama's shrine to Santa Muerte. Dust covers the saint's statue shrouded in an alcove of inky darkness. Heavy clouds cover the full moon. A gust of steamy wind rustles the black sagebrush flanking the alcove and fills the night air with a pungent scent.

Behind me, the front door opens. A flashlight beam sweeps round and comes to rest on Santa Muerte's skeletal form.

As I turn toward the light, I'm blinded. "What the hell?"

The flashlight beam swings back to light up Ken's work boots, then travels up his jeans to rest on his crotch. Ken's left hand shoots down to grab his junk. "You need to see this!"

I walk to where Ken stands in the castoff doorway light and elbow him in the ribs. "I'd need a magnifying glass to see your huevos."

Ken puts the flashlight under his chin and flashes a grin. "Eat me."

Martin appears in the open doorway waving a thin paperback titled, "Where to Find GOLD in Southern California."

Curiosity overcomes my desire to punch Ken, and I grab the book from Marty's hands. "Where'd you get this?"

With a frown, he crosses his arms. "I have my sources."

Suddenly, Martin is shoved from behind. I step aside as he stumbles off the threshold and over the conical rock we keep by the front door for boot scraping. The book flies from his hands as he's airborne and looks to splat in a face plant. Fucker disappoints when he twists catlike to land on his feet. The tattooed rattlesnake on his left hand seems to slither as he snatches the book from the dirt.

George erupts in laughter and joins us outside. "Marty has a girlfriend who works at the library."

I shove the paperback in my jeans and grab Martin by the shoulders. "Why haven't I met this so-called girlfriend?"

Marty shoves me off. "She's none of your business."

I'm blinded again as Ken shines the flashlight in my face. "I could give a flying fuck who Marty's banging. Read the chapter he found."

Snatching the flashlight from Ken, I grab the paperback and thumb to the bookmarked chapter titled Santa Susana Treasure.

My eyes widen as I read about a Mexican caballero who fell in love with the daughter of a wealthy rancher in the early 1850s. He was too poor to ask for her hand in marriage, so he robbed the stagecoach as it crossed the Santa Susana Pass. As he made his escape with $100,000 in gold coins, a passenger shot him in the back.

Although mortally wounded, the unnamed caballero galloped away. By the time he reached the valley floor, he'd lost so much blood that he fell from his horse. His mount raced away, only to return minutes later with the rancher's daughter. She leapt from the horse and professed her love. The Mexican bandit died in her embrace.

The breath catches in my throat as I read the closing sentence. "The gold was never found, but clues to its whereabouts are contained in the girl's diary."

Sweet baby Jesus! The story mirrors Salvia lore about our ancestor Fernando, mastermind of the one and only stagecoach robbery in the Santa Susana Pass. Fernando disappeared after the getaway, and the gold was never found.

I shut the book and move south to stand at the cliff's edge for an unobstructed view of the San Inferno Valley. My brothers follow. Below stretches the darkness of the Chatsworth Reservoir. My attention's drawn to a cluster of lights at the northeastern edge, the site of a horse ranch where Marisol Garcia's family has lived since the early 1800s.

Ken shoves the flashlight in a back pocket and walks along the clifftop with his arms outstretched like he's balancing on a tightrope. Leaning over the chasm, he snorts and hocks a loogy.

Marty shakes his head and runs his hand through his hair. "I didn't think anything of the story until last night when Fernando tried to kiss the Garcia girl. Maybe he thinks she's his long-lost love."

George dashes inside the house and returns within moments, carrying a backpack. He opens the pack and we retrieve our night-vision binoculars.

Looking through the lens, I inspect the Garcia property. A lighted sign at the entrance reads Rancho Santa Susana. An empty riding ring and corrals flank an unpaved driveway ending at a single-story Adobe hacienda. Another light shines dimly from above the front door. No sign of Fernando.

A sweep northward brings my line of sight to a two-story barn. The three doors on the ground floor are closed, but the single door on the second floor is open. From the darkened doorway a match flame flares, then recedes to the red embers of a lit cigar.

Ken's voice breaks the silence. "Someone's having a smoke in the barn. Maybe it's Fernando."

With a sigh, I lower my binoculars. "Could be a ranch hand."

Howling erupts from the reservoir and builds to a shrieking crescendo as the coyotes celebrate their nightly hunt.

On a hunch, I train the night-vision binoculars to scan the vast reservoir before coming to rest on the lumpy hill in the center where Fernando taunted Amber McBride. Six-foot boulders crown the hilltop where a demonic baby appeared, followed by a shadowy sorcerer. That skinny redhead's move to Peppergate Ranch sure stirred up a shit storm.

Dark shapes dart from the stone circle and lope to join a line descending the hill. Probably the coyotes. As I move to lower the binoculars, a buzzing sound fills my ears. The jarring noise recedes when I sharpen the focus to zoom in on the pack leader. Not a coyote, but a dog with a blocky head, the black Labrador Graciela Hernandez called "Julano." Dogs of all shapes and sizes follow.

I spot a pair of German Shepherds running side-by-side. My chest tightens with jumbled memories: I'm four and riding Duke like a horse; age six and Duchess sleeps at the foot of my bed with Duke on the floor next to her; I'm ten and Papa digs a grave north of Santa Muerte's shrine. Inseparable, Duke and Duchess died within a week of each other.

My heart's pounding as I remove the binoculars. "Marty, Ken, you two check out the Garcia ranch. George, you come with me."

I hand George my binoculars. He lowers his and stashes both pairs in his backpack. "Why aren't we going to the ranch?"

I ignore his question as I move to the cliff edge. Dropping to my stomach, I shimmy over the side and find footholds. "You gonna stand around all night?"

Ken groans. "Wouldn't the car be faster?"

Martin chuckles. "Maybe, but we don't want to draw attention."

A spray of dust covers my head as my brothers scramble over the cliff. In unison, we descend.

Whoever's reading this, right now you're thinking, "These guys are fucking crazy!" Well, don't get your panties in a wad. Salvias climb as easily and effortlessly as breathing. I can scale any rock face blindfolded.

AUTHOR NOTES:

Excerpt about the Santa Susana Pass stagecoach robbery paraphrased from Klein, James (1994). Where to find GOLD in Southern California, p. 69. Baldwin Park, CA: Gem Guides Book Company.

Banner photo of the Twelve Apostles taken by the Author

Illustration of the pentacle by Cameo Lawrence

Playlist Holy by Mariachi El Bronx

https://youtu.be/nKZbj_DP6Yo