Fluentes stared at him, then his lips parted in a thin smile. “You are a wise man, Señor Winslow. I appreciate your manners. Not all gringos are so well-spoken.”
Dan grinned. “Well, Señor Fluentes, when I see myself outgunned as badly as I am here, I am likely to use my very best manners.”
The Mexican laughed aloud at that. “An honest man, too! That is even more rare than manners in a gringo.” He took a sip of the wine and said, “I will speak with you frankly, Señor Winslow. You know nothing about the marriage?”
“Not a thing.”
“Mann married my daughter Delores against my will. She ran away with him, knowing I would never consent. It was a bad marriage for her, as she soon realized. She came home and I took her back, her and the child. I allowed Mann to come for visits, but Delores wanted no more of him. She married again, a fine man, one of our own people. They have five children.” His eyes showed sorrow, and he said softly, “She died last month, giving birth to the sixth.”
“I am sorry, señor,” Winslow said honestly. He could see the grief in the old man’s eyes. He was also trying to understand how to approach the problem. “How old is the child, señor?”
Fluentes’ mouth suddenly grew tight. “She is not a child, Señor Winslow. She is fifteen years of age.”
Winslow blinked in surprise. “I—I thought she’d be six or seven, though Mann never gave me any reason for thinking that.” He’d just assumed that Mann had gotten married after the war. Now he knew that it was something that had taken place before the Civil War.
“That’s not what I expected,” he said frankly. “I could take a child—though it’d be a hard trip. But I can’t take a young lady.”
Fluentes sipped his wine, and Winslow could see that he was caught in some sort of conflict. Finally the old man said, “I think it would be best if you did take her—best for me and my family.” He shook his head sadly, adding, “I do not know what would be best for Rosa.”
“Surely she’d be better off with her own people.”
“That is the problem, señor—she is not with her own people!” When Fluentes saw the surprise in Winslow’s eyes, he calmed himself and explained. “She feels that she is a stranger. She is half-gringo, and she is very touchy, very quick to blame anything bad that happens on that. If any of us say a word to her, she says we are mistreating her because she has white blood. And that may be so, I’m afraid.”
“But it’ll be the same, won’t it, if she goes to live with her father? Some Americans will taunt her about being half-Mexican.”
“That is probably true,” Fluentes sighed. “But she will not stay here long in any case. She hates the country life, and I’m afraid—”
When Fluentes broke off suddenly, Winslow stared at him, asking, “What are you afraid of, señor?”
“It is my shame, but I will tell you. I cannot let you decide without knowing the worst.” Fluentes drummed the table with his fingers for a moment. “She is a beautiful girl—or woman—señor. Men are drawn to her. She likes this, and very soon she will leave to go into town. She will become a common woman, you understand? I can do nothing! I cannot keep her here against her will, not for long. But if I let her go to the town, she is doomed!”
“What does your daughter’s husband say about the girl?”
“Ah, he loved my daughter Delores very much—but he has never cared for the girl. She has been very difficult, a bad influence, Juan feels, on his other children.”
The two men quietly talked, sipping the wine and cool water for over an hour. The old woman came once to bring fresh water, then passed through the doorway again, making no more noise than a ghost. The sunlight streamed through the open window, a strong white shaft of light, filled with millions of dancing motes.
Winslow finally shook his head. “I cannot decide what is best. If the girl doesn’t want to go, I can’t force her.”
Señor Fluentes sat still in his chair. Age had passed over him—in the shadows his face looked almost sphinxlike—his eyes sunken into deep sockets, yet still they glowed with intelligence. “Let us ask the girl,” he said heavily. “If she agrees, I think it would be best if you took her with you. She might have some chance there. She has none here.”
“Is she here?”
“No, she is at the house of Juan Cordoba. He is her stepfather, my Delores’ husband. Come, I will take you there.”
Winslow followed the old man outside, where at his command two horses were brought, his own and another. They mounted, and on the way to Cordoba’s house, Fluentes said very little, except to ask about the ranch in the north. “I could not stand that cold,” he commented finally. “Only you gringos can stand those winters.”
They arrived shortly at a house much like the one they had left, and dismounted. A tall, thin Mexican came to greet them, and Señor Fluentes introduced the two men, then said, “Juan, we must speak with you—inside.” Winslow entered the room, but discovered that Cordoba’s English was very poor. Fluentes spoke rapidly, then paused for Juan’s reply. The two men talked for some time, once seeming to grow angry. Then Fluentes turned to Winslow. “My son-in-law is very bitter just now.”
“Tell him I am sorry to come at such a time,” Winslow said.
Fluentes interpreted, then turned again to Winslow. “He says if the girl will go, he thinks it will be best. But he wants me to make it plain that if she goes, she is no longer his responsibility.”
“I understand. And I know her father will make a good home for her, the best he can.”
After Fluentes repeated this, Cordoba nodded and called, “Maria!” A woman appeared, and Cordoba spoke to her briefly. The three men sat there, all of them ill at ease. Winslow had made up his mind that the girl would have to agree, or he could not take her. And he was hoping that she would not agree, for as he thought about the situation, problems loomed ahead in his mind.
A girl came into the room, and Winslow got to his feet and took off his hat.
“This man wants to take you to your father, Rosa,” Fluentes said.
The girl looked at Winslow directly. She was a beauty, so much so that Dan was startled. Her cheeks were oval and her black hair ran smoothly back on her head. She had large, lustrous eyes and a mouth rounded and soft. Her skin was very light, a smooth olive, and her thin dress revealed well-formed curves.
“Tell me,” she said to Winslow. There was a directness in her gaze that bordered on boldness, and Winslow was somewhat shaken.
“Your father and I are partners. He was on his way to Wyoming—very far north. He asked me to come and see if you would be willing to live with him.” He saw a flicker of humor in the old eyes of Fluentes and knew he was thinking of the telegram. But he saw no use in threatening the girl. He ended by saying, “If you wish to go, and if your people agree, I will take you to him.”
“Is it a big ranch?” she asked suddenly.
“It is a new ranch, Rosa,” he said carefully. “With much work and some luck, it will be a fine ranch. But you must know that it is a hard land. Very cold in winter. And your father and I are not rich. Times will be a little hard for a while.”
Rosa looked at her grandfather, not to her stepfather. “What have you said to him?” she asked.
Fluentes shrugged, a Latin gesture that no North American could imitate. “I told him that you are an unhappy girl—and likely to be more unhappy if you stay here. I think you should go with him.”
Rosa looked at Cordoba, but said nothing to him. She turned to Winslow and said, “I will go with you. I will get my things.”
The suddenness of it startled all three of the men, Winslow the most. He said, “Well—you can think it over, Rosa. It’s a big decision.”
“I have nothing here,” the girl shrugged. She left the room, and Winslow turned to the two men. He sat down, stunned by the girl’s decision.
He ran his hand through his hair, thinking that he had acted too impulsively, but the thing was done. Shaking his head, he said, “I d
on’t know if this thing is right or not.”
“None of us knows, señor,” Fluentes said softly. “All things are in the hands of God. I will choose to think the Lord God will use this to help the girl find her way.”
There was little to say, and when Rosa came out in less than ten minutes, she carried two canvas bags—all of her possessions apparently. “I am ready,” she said firmly.
“I’ll take your things. You can say goodbye to your family.” Winslow took the two bags and walked outside. He tied them with rawhide thongs and waited, but not for long. The two men and the girl came out—and one woman who was weeping. Rosa’s face was set, but she turned suddenly and threw her arms around the elderly woman. Winslow looked off, not wanting to watch, and finally Fluentes said, “We are ready now.”
A horse was tied to the rail, and Cordoba nodded toward it, speaking to Fluentes, who replied, “I will send the horse back.”
Rosa mounted easily, and the trio rode out of the yard. Rosa, Winslow noted, never looked back. Nor did she speak on the return to her grandfather’s house.
“The hour is late,” Fluentes said as they dismounted. “You will stay the night.” When Winslow tried to protest, the old man shook his head. “You need food and rest. You can leave at dawn.”
Dan said, “Thank you, señor. I am tired and the way back is rough.”
He went into the house and later ate a simple meal. The table was crowded, and afterwards, Fluentes said, “You need to sleep. Come with me.” He led Winslow to a small room with a single window and a simple bed. “Good-night, my friend. Sleep well.”
Fatigue caught up with Winslow, striking him almost like a blow. He undressed, fell into the bed, and knew nothing until a tapping at his door and a voice pulled him from sleep. He rose and dressed, then went to the table where he’d eaten supper. Rosa was there, but she didn’t speak to him. He ate the food the old woman put before him, then rose, saying to Fluentes, “Thank you for your hospitality, señor.”
“It was nothing.” Fluentes led the way outside. It was still dark, but dawn was not far away. Two of the young men had saddled two horses and put the spares on lengths of rope.
Winslow mounted, then saw the old man take the girl’s shoulders. He spoke to her gently in Spanish, kissed her, then stepped back. “Vaya con Dios, Señor Winslow,” he said.
Winslow nodded, repeating the phrase, then looked steadily at the girl. “Are you sure this is what you want, Rosa?”
The girl stared back at him, her eyes enormous. “It is not what I want. It is the only thing I can do.”
Winslow shrugged, touched his spurs to Duke, and they rode away. Again he noted that the girl never looked back . . . not once. But Winslow did look back and saw the old man lift his hand in a gesture that was somehow sad and final. Then the dust swirled, blotting him out, and the two continued on without a word.
CHAPTER TEN
DAN MAKES A RULE
The journey back to the herd from San Saba was very uncomfortable for Rosa, who was not accustomed to riding long distances. Winslow kept up a steady pace all day, stopping at noon to swap saddles and change mounts beside a small stream. “Better give the horses a rest,” he said to Rosa, who had not volunteered a word all morning. Twice he had tried to start a conversation, but she had answered in brief monosyllables. Dan decided that she was naturally silent.
He filled the canteens, then opened a sack of food that the older woman at Fluentes’ ranch had given him as he had left the house. Finding some dried beef and canned fruit, he said, “Let’s eat.” Sitting down beneath the shade of some skinny alders, he took out his knife, divided the beef, then cut off some slices of the bread. When he held out the food to Rosa, she took it but began to eat standing up. The long ride had tired her, and the skirt was not made for riding. She had been riding astride—which was only possible because her skirt was very full—but now her legs were chafed and painful, and she knew there was a long way to go.
She ate the bread and beef slowly, then took the can of fruit he’d opened with his knife and ate some of the peaches. They were sweet and delicious to her, and she wished there were more.
“We’ll cook up something tonight,” he promised when they were finished. A thought came to him, and he said, “We better get you one of those riding skirts, the divided kind. Be more comfortable for you on the trail.” She nodded but made no answer. He rolled a cigarette, not looking at her, then got up and removed a blanket from behind his saddle.
Rosa watched carefully as he walked over to her, her eyes alert. He handed her the blanket, saying, “Better rest for a little. I’ll take a walk and see where this stream goes.”
“You don’t have to stop for me,” she said.
“Horses need a rest. Reckon I do, too. You can wash up some in the creek.”
Rosa watched as he walked downstream, not looking back. When he was far down the stream, she quickly went to the horse she was riding and removed one of the sacks filled with her possessions. She rummaged inside, then brought out a small tin box, painted bright red and yellow. Opening it, she found a small jar of ointment. Pulling up her skirt, she gently applied the ointment to her raw and irritated thighs. The salve was a remedy her grandmother, the wife of Fluentes, had taught her to make from the pulp of cactus and some herbs. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as the cooling sensation spread over the raw spots. Quickly she took an old undergarment and made two bandages, which she then tied in place. There! That would make the ride easier. She replaced the salve, closed the tin box, and put it in the sack.
The stream made a pleasant gurgling sound, and she went to kneel by it and take a long, cool drink. The land was flat, and she could see the man far away, still walking along the stream. Taking her handkerchief from her pocket, she began to bathe her face and neck, enjoying the coolness of the water. Finally, she mopped her face with her skirt, then picked up the blanket and spread it in the shade. As she lay down, she relaxed and was asleep almost at once, lulled by the coolness of the shade and the musical voice of the water that bubbled in the small stream. . . .
“Time to go, Rosa—”
The girl awoke at once, striking out blindly at the touch she felt on her arm. Her hand struck Winslow’s arm, and he jumped back, watching as Rosa scrambled to her feet. Her eyes were wide with alarm, and she drew back from him as if he were some sort of dangerous animal.
“Don’t you ever put your hands on me!” she said hotly.
Winslow shook his head, half-angry at the girl. He’d done his best to make the trip easy, and had spoken to her twice before touching her, but she’d been in such a deep sleep that she had not awakened.
“Look, Rosa,” he said, trying not to show his irritation. “I know this is a hard time for you. I’m a stranger, and I don’t doubt you’ve been taught to mistrust strangers. But we’ve got a long way to go, and it’s going to be pretty miserable for you if you don’t settle down.”
“You are right, Señor Winslow. I don’t trust strangers.” Rosa held her head high, and her dark eyes were flashing as she spoke. “I have learned that lesson very well!”
Winslow had an impulse to spank the girl, but she was not a child—not this one. He stood there, perplexed, then shrugged his shoulders. “Well, Rosa, all I can say is that you don’t have anything to worry about from me.”
“I have heard that before!”
He shifted, the scorn in her voice a disturbing thing to him. But he tried again. “I guess maybe you have,” he nodded, “but you haven’t heard it from me. Your father asked me to bring you to him, and that’s what I intend to do.” It was difficult for him to speak, for the suspicion in the girl’s eyes did not waver, but he added, “I know it’s tough, losing your mother and then getting dragged all over the country to a place you’ve never been—and with a stranger. But I’ll do the best I can for you, and if you’ll just relax a little, it’ll be better for both of us.”
Rosa was tense—she had been afraid since she’d left San Saba�
�but she would have died rather than let the big man who stood in front of her know it. Her life had been unpleasant at home, but it had at least been familiar. Here alone with this man she didn’t know, she felt she had to keep a wall between the two of them.
“I will give you no trouble,” she said finally. “But never put your hands on me again.”
“I can promise you that, Rosa,” Winslow said. He picked up the blanket, put all the gear back on the horse, and mounted. He led out, heading north, and she followed him. The ointment and the bandages helped, and she thought of his suggestion about the divided skirt. None of her people wore such things. If women rode at all, it was sidesaddle, but most of them were poor riders. She could see that such a garment would be much more sensible, and she looked forward to wearing one.
They traveled at an even pace, sparing the horses. Late that afternoon, Winslow yanked his rifle from his boot and got off a shot. He knocked down a big rabbit and went to retrieve it. Later, when they camped at another small creek, he skinned the rabbit and made a small fire. When he started to cook it, Rosa said suddenly, “I can do that.”
He gave her the rabbit and the frying pan, and soon the smell of cooking meat filled the air. They ate the rabbit and what was left of the bread, washing it down with coffee that Rosa found too bitter but drank anyway. Winslow hacked open another tin of peaches and divided them with her.
After he ate, he put more wood on the fire, pulled the blankets off the horses, then said, “I’ll look around before I hit the sack.” He strolled away, and she quickly washed her face, then spread her blanket out far back from the fire. She lay there wide awake until, after what seemed a long time, he returned. She watched as he sat down by the fire and poured more coffee from the pot. As he sat there, idly staring at the fire, she noted that he was a big man. He had a very deep chest and wide shoulders, and his hands around the cup were thick and strong. His hair was black and he had a deep tan. It was his eyes she watched, for they were the most startling shade of blue, light as one of the delicate desert flowers she had often collected and put in small vessels. Against his tanned skin they seemed to leap out when he turned them on her.
House of Winslow 14 The Valiant Gunman Page 13
