In the stillness Grandma Sarah felt for her hand and patted it. Laura Lee hadn’t realized, but she was crying. She felt in Lone’s words the loneliness of the outlaw; the bitterness of broken dreams and futile hopes; the ache of loved ones lost. She knew then what the heart of the implacable Indian squaw had always known, that true warriors are fierce... and tender... and lonely men.
It was early when she wakened. The sun was striking the top of the canyon rim, turning it red and moving its rays down the wall like a sundial. Little Moonlight was rolling blankets and packing gear into the wagons. Grandma Sarah, on her hands and knees over a big paper map spread on the ground, was pointing out to Josey and Lone, who squatted beside, different parts of the map. “It’s in this valley, got a clear creek. See the mountains that’s marked?” she was saying. Josey looked at Lone, “What do ye say?”
Lone studied the map, “I say were here,” and he placed his finger on the map. “Here is the ranch she speaks of and the swayback mountain to its north.” “How fer?” Josey asked.
Lone shrugged, “Maybe sixty ... maybe a hunnerd mile. I cain’t tell. It’s to the southwest ... but we are goin’ that way anyhow ... to the border.”
Josey was chewing on tobacco, and Laura Lee noticed his buckskins were clean and he was cleanshaven. He spat, “Reckin we’ll take ya’ll and the wag-gins, ma’am. Iff’n there’s nobody there ... we’ll jest have to git ye up some riders ... some’eres. Ye cain’t stay, two womenfolk, by yerselves in this country.” “Look,” Grandma Sarah said eagerly, “there’s a town marked, called Eagle Pass ... it’s on this river ... Rye-oh Grandee.”
“That’s Rio Grande, ma’am,” Lone said, “and thet Eagle Pass is a long ways from yore ranch ... this town here, Santo Rio, is closer ... maybe some riders there.”
As they talked, Laura Lee helped Little Moonlight load the wagons. She felt refreshed and strong, and the boot moccasins were soft on her feet. Little Moonlight was kneeling to gather utensils and smiled up at Laura Lee ... the smile froze on her face, “Koh-manch,” she said softly ... then louder, so that Josey and Lone heard, “Koh-manch!”
Lone pushed Grandma Sarah roughly to the ground and fell on her. Josey took two swift strides and jerked Laura Lee backward as his body fell, full length, on hers. Little Moonlight was already stretched full length and head down.
The Comanche made no attempt to conceal himself. He was astride a white pony with the half-slump grace of the natural horseman. A rifle lay across his knees, and his black, plaited hair carried a single feather that waved in the wind. He was a half mile from them, silhouetted against the morning sun, but it was obvious that he saw and watched them.
Laura Lee felt the heavy breathing and the heartbeat of Josey. “He ... has seen us,” she whispered.
“I know,” Josey said grimly, “but maybe he ain’t been there long enough to count three women ... and jest two men.”
Suddenly the Comanche jerked his horse into a tight, two-footed spin and disappeared over the rim.
Lone ran for the mules and hitched them to the wagons. Josey pulled Laura Lee to her feet, “There’s Comanchero clothes in the waggins ... ye’ll have to wear ’em ... like menfolks,” he said.
They put them on, big sombreros, flared chaparral pants. Laura Lee put on the largest shirt she could find; it was V’d at the neck, without buttons, and her large breasts seemed about to split the cloth. She blushed red ... and still redder when she saw Little Moonlight changing clothes in the open.
“I reckin,” Josey said hesitantly, “they’ll have to do.” There was a hint of awe in his voice. Grandma Sarah looked like a leprechaun under a toadstool, as the big sombrero flopped despairingly around her shoulders.
“Looks like a family of hawgs moved out’n the seat of these britches,” she complained.
In spite of their predicament, Josey couldn’t contain his laughter at the sight, and from a distance, Lone joined in, at the bunched, sagging trousers on the tiny figure.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Josey said and burst into laughter again, “it’s jest... thet ye’re so little.”
Grandma Sarah lifted the sombrero with both hands so she could better see her tormentors. “T’ain’t the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog,” she said fiercely.
“Reckin thet’s right as rain, ma’am,” Josey said soberly ... and then, “Little Moonlight can drive one of the waggins,” he said.
“I’ll drive the other,” Laura Lee heard herself saying ... and Grandma Sarah looked at her sharply; she had never handled mules nor a wagon; and Grandma Sarah was tom between puzzle and pleasure at this growing boldness in what had been a shy Laura Lee.
Chapter 17
They brought the wagons down from the walls of the canyon and moved up onto the plain, turning southwest across an endless horizon. Lone, on the black, led the way, far ahead. Little Moonlight and Grandma Sarah sat the seat of the lead wagon, and Laura Lee drove the second, alone. Behind her the Comanchero horses, stretched out in a long line, each roped to the horse ahead, were tethered to the tailgate of her wagon. Huge skin waterbags flopped at their sides like misplaced camel humps.
Lone set the pace at a fast walk, suitable for the big mules. Josey rode at the sides of the wagons and ranged the roan out and back, watching the horizon. He knew in a moment that Laura Lee had never handled mules. She had begun by sawing the reins and alternately slackening and tightening her pull... but she was fast to learn, and he said nothing ... anyway, there was too determined a set to Laura Lee’s jaw to talk about it.
Twice Josey saw small dust clouds over the rise of plain, but they moved out of sight. They night-camped in the purple haze of dusk, placing the wagons in a V and rope-picketing the mules and horses close by on the buffalo grass.
Lone shook his head grimly when Josey spoke of the dust clouds, “No way of tellin’. We know that Co-manch ain’t travelin’ by hisself ... and there’s Apache hereabouts. Don’t know which one I’d ruther tangle with ... both of ’em mean’ern cooter’s hell.”
Josey took the first watch, walking quietly among the horses. Any band of wandering warriors would want the horses first... women second. The moon was bright, bringing out a coyote’s high bark, and from a long way off, the lone call of a buffalo wolf. The moon had tipped toward the west when he shook Lone out of his blankets ... and found Little Moonlight with him. Josey squatted beside them. “Proud to see ya’ll set up homesteadin’,” he said and was rewarded by Lone’s grin and Little Moonlight kicking him on the shin.
As he stretched beneath the wagon bed Josey felt a comfort from the gnawing concern he had felt for the aging Cherokee and the Indian woman. Lone and Lit-de Moonlight had found a home, even if it was just an Indian blanket. Maybe... they would find a place... find a life... on the ranch of Grandma Sarah. He would ride to Mexico, alone.
They broke camp before dawn, and when the first light touched the eastern rim they were ready to roll the wagons.
“Ya’ll had better strap these on,” Josey extended belts and pistols to the women. He helped Grandma Sarah tighten the belt around her little waist and held up the big pistol for her, “Ye’ll have to use two hands, I reckin, ma’am ... but remember, don’t shoot ’til yore target is close in ... and this here weapon’s got six bites in it... jest thumb the hammer.” As he turned to help Laura Lee she wrapped a hand around the handle of the big pistol and pulled it easily from the holster. “Why, them’s natural-born hands for a forty-four,” Josey said admiringly.
Laura Lee looked at her hands as though they were new additions to her arms. Maybe too outsized for teacups and parties. Maybe all of her was ... but seems like she fit this place called Texas. It was a hard ... even mean land ... but it was spacious and honest with its savagery, unlike the places where cruelty hid itself in the hypocrisy of social graces. Now she placed a foot on the hub of the wagon and sprang to the seat; picking up the reins of the mules, she sang out, “Git up, ye lop-eared Arkansas razorbacks.” And
Grandma Sarah, leaning far out to further witness this sudden growth of a lust for life in Laura Lee, nearly fell beneath a wagon wheel.
Steadily southwest. The sun angling on their right, and heat shimmering the distance. They dry-camped that night on the slope of a mesa and pushed early at dawn, walking the mules at a fast pace.
On the fifth day after leaving the canyon, they crossed a straggling stream, half alkali, and after filling their bags, they moved on. “Water brings riders,” Lone said grimly.
Imperceptibly, the land changed. The buffalo grass grew thinner. Here and there a tall spike of the yucca burst a cloud of white balls at its top. Creosote and catclaw bushes were dotted with the yellow petals of the prickly pear and the savagely beautiful scarlet bloom of the cactus. Every plant carried spike or thorn, needle or claw ... necessary for life in a harsh land. Even the buttes that rose in the distance were swept clean of softening lines, and their rock-edged silhouettes looked like gigantic teeth exposed for battle.
It was on the afternoon of this day that the Indian riders appeared. Suddenly they were there, riding single file, paralleling the wagons boldly, less than a hundred yards away. Ten of them; they matched the stride of their horses to the wagons and looked straight ahead as they rode.
Lone brought his horse back at an easy walk and fell in beside Josey. They rode together for a distance in silence, and Josey knew Laura Lee had seen the Indians, but she looked straight ahead, clucking to the mules like a veteran muleskinner.
“Comanches,” Lone said and watched Josey cut a chew of tobacco.
He chewed and spat, “Seen any more of ’em anywheres?”
“Nope,” Lone said, “that’s all there is. Ye’ll notice they got three pack horses packing antelope. They ain’t got paint ... they’re dog soldiers ... that’s what the Comanch and Cheyenne calls their hunters ... them as has to supply the meat. They’ve done all right, and they ain’t a raidin’ party ... but a Comanch might have a little fun anytime. These here hosses look good to ’em ... but they’re checkin’ how much it’ll cost to git ’em.”
They rode on for a while without speaking. “Ye stay close to the waggins,” Josey said, defiling a cactus bloom with a stream of juice. He turned his horse toward the Indians, and Lone saw four holstered .44’s strapped to his saddle, Missouri-guerrilla style. He put the roan at an angle toward them, only slightly increasing the horse’s gait.
During the next quarter mile he edged closer to the Comanches. At first the warriors appeared not to notice, but as he came closer, a rider occasionally turned his head to look at the heavily armed rider on the big horse who looked frankly back at him, apparently eager to do battle.
Suddenly the leader lifted his rifle in the air with one hand ... gave an earsplitting whoop, and cut his horse away from Josey and the wagons in a run. The warriors followed. Raising loud cries and waving their rifles, they disappeared as quickly as they had come.
As he drifted his horse back by the wagons, Grandma Sarah lifted her umbrella sombrero with both hands in salute ... and Laura Lee smiled ... broader than he had ever seen.
Lone wiped the sweat from his forehead, “Thet head Comanch come mighty close when he lifted thet rifle.” “I reckin,” Josey said. “Will they be back?”
“No,” Lone said, a little uncertainly, “they’re packin’ heavy ... means they’re a ways from the main body... and they ain’t travelin’ in our direction. Onli-est reason they won’t be ... it jest ain’t convenient fer ’em ... but they’s plenty of Comanche to go ’round.” It was late afternoon when they raised the swayback mountain, part of a ragged chain of jumbled ridges and buttes that stumbled across the land, leaving wide gaps of desert between them. Grandma Sarah stared ahead at them, and as they camped in the red haze of sunset, she watched the mountain for a long time. By noon the following day they could see the mountain clearly. It was, close up, actually two mountains that peaked at opposite ends and ran their ridges downward parallel to each other, giving the appearance, at a distance, of a single mountain sagged downward in its center. Lone headed the wagons for the end of the near ridge, as it petered out in the desert.
It was not quite sunset when they rounded the ridge and were brought up short at the panorama. A valley ran between the mountains, and sparkling in the rays of late sun, a shallow creek, crystal clear, ran winding down the middle and led away into the desert. They turned up the valley, a contrasting oasis in a desert. Gamma grass was knee high to the horses; cottonwoods and live oak lined the creek banks. Spring flowers dappled the grass and carried their colors all the way to the naked buttes of the mountains that loomed on either side.
Antelope grazing on the far side of the creek lifted their heads as they passed, and coveys of quail scattered from ground nests. The valley alternately widened and narrowed between the mountains; sometimes a mile wide, and again narrowing to a width of fifty yards, creating semicircular parks through which they passed.
Longhorn cattle, big and fat, grazed the deep grass, and Josey, after a couple of hours traveling, guessed there were a thousand... and later, more and more of the huge beasts made him give up his estimate. They were wild, dashing at the sight of the wagons into the narrow arroyos that split the mountains on each side
Josey saw rock partridge, ruff and sharp-tail grouse along the willows of the creek, and a short black bear, eating in a green berry patch, grunted at them and trotted away into the creek, scattering a herd of magnificent black-tailed deer.
They moved slowly up the valley, the weary, sun-heated, dusty desert travelers luxuriating in the cool abundance. The sun set, torching the sky behind the mountain an ember red that faded into purple, like paints spilled and mixing colors.
The coolness of the valley washed in their faces; not the sharp, penetrating cold of the desert, but the close, moist coolness of trees and water that refreshed and satisfied a thirst of weariness. The moon poked a near full face over the canyon and chased shadows under the willows along the creek and against the canyon walls. The night birds came out and chatter-fussed and held long, trilling notes that haunted on the night breeze down the valley.
Lone stopped the wagons, and the horses cropped at the tall grass. “Maybe,” he said almost in hushed tones, “we ought to night-camp.”
Grandma Sarah stood up in the wagon seat. She had laid aside the sombrero and her white hair shone silver.
“It’s jest like Tom writ it was,” she said softly, “the house will be up yonder,” and she pointed farther up the valley, “where the mountains come together. Cain’t ... cain’t we go on?” Lone and Josey looked at each other and nodded ... they moved on.
The moon was two hours higher when they saw the house, low and long, almost invisible from its sameness of adobe color with the buttes rising behind it. It was nestled snugly in a grove of cottonwoods, and as they pulled up beside it, they could see a barn, a low bunk-house, and at the side, an adobe cook shack. Behind the barn there was a rail corral that backgated into what appeared to be a horse pasture circling back, enclosing a clear pool of water into which the creek waterfalled from a narrow arroyo. It was the end of the valley.
They inspected the house; the long, low-ceilinged front room with rawhide chairs and slate rock floor.
The kitchen had no stove, but a huge cooking fireplace with a Dutch oven set into its side. There was a rough comfort about the house; beds were made of timber poles, but stripped with springy rawhide, and long couches of the same material were swung low against the walls.
Unloading the wagons in the yard, in the shadows of the cottonwoods, Laura Lee impulsively squeezed the arm of Josey and whispered, “It’s like a ... a dream.”
“It is that,” Josey said solemnly ... and he wondered how Tom Turner must have felt, stumbling across this mere slit of verdant growth in the middle of a thousand square miles of semiarid land. He judged the valley to be ten ... maybe twelve miles long. With natural grass, water, and the hemming walls of the mountains, two, maybe three riders could h
andle it all, except for branding and trailing time, when extras could be picked up.
He was jarred from his reverie when he saw Lone and Little Moonlight walking close together toward the little house that set back in a grove of red cedars and cottonwood. The place had got hold of him ... hell, fer a minute he was figurin’ like it was home.
Laura Lee and Grandma Sarah were fidgeting about in the house. Nobody would sleep this night. He unhitched the mules and led them with the horses to the corral and pasture. Leaning on the rail of the corral, he watched them circle, kick their heels, and head for the water of the clear pool. The big mules rolled in the high grass. He brought the big roan last, unsaddled him, and lovingly rubbed him down. He turned him loose with the others ... but first he fed him grain.
Laura Lee whipped up biscuits for their breakfast and fried the jerky beef with beans in the tallow of the oxen. The women busied themselves flying dust and dirt out the windows and doors and bustling with all the mysterious doin’s women do in new houses. Little Moonlight had clearly laid claim to the adobe in the cedars and appropriated blankets, pots, and pans, which she industriously trotted from the pile of belongings in the backyard. Lone and Josey carried water from the waterfall and filled the cedar water bins in the house. They patched the corral fences and cleaned the guns, stacking and hanging them in the rooms, in easy reach. Lone set traps on the creek bank, and they suppered on golden bass.
After supper Josey and Lone squatted in the shadows of the trees and watched the moon rise over the canyon rim. The murmur of talk drifted to them from the kitchen where Laura Lee and Grandma Sarah washed up the supper plates, and through the window the flicker of firelight took the edge off a light spring chill. Little Moonlight sat before the door of the ’dobe in the cedars and faintly hummed in an alto voice the haunting, wandering melody of the Cheyenne.
The Outlaw Josey Wales Page 12
