Each fall the mine manager, Don Elizario Carvajal, bastard of Narciso Cantú, big and bearlike except for his thin waxed mustache and bleak eyes, came to the ranch, heavily escorted, to pay the agreed half of mine profits after the Mimbreño tenth was deducted.
He also brought news garnered from messages from his father and the men of the conductas. There had been a plague of cholera in Sonora last year. Over a thousand people died in a month in the province of Altar alone. But that was over now. A new plague was approaching. The Yanquis.
Since the end of the war, Mexico had been trying to strengthen its northern frontier and keep it from slipping into American hands. In 1848 Sonora had decreed that military soldier-colonists would take the place of garrisons at Bavispe, Fronteras, Santa Cruz, Tucson and Altar, and though most of these were more on paper than actual, a Captain Gomez from Fronteras had settled in Tubac with a small group of soldiers and civilians and was hoping to build it to a point where it could withstand both Apaches and U.S. soldiers.
A group of Southern Mormons had wintered at Tubac last year and Gomez had tried to induce them to stay, but though they’d done some planting and irrigating, they evidently decided opportunities were better elsewhere and had gone their way that spring.
In the summer of 1851 the commandant general of Sonora himself had led a combined force of military colonists and presidial soldiers as far as the Gila, fighting Apaches when they could find them. But Apaches never fought large numbers when they could avoid it, which they usually could. As soon as the expedition dispersed, scattering to the far-flung presidios, the Apaches flowed back like a river momentarily diverted by a fragile earthen dam.
In a desperate hope of colonizing its northern region, Sonora granted to a group of land and mining speculators all vacant lands and mines from the thirtieth parallel to the Gila. Sixty thousand square miles to the French Compania Restauradora de las Minas de Arizona! The national government declared the grant unconstitutional, but there was no end to the plans of foreigners trying to make a fortune out of Sonora’s unhappy plight. In order to get settlers, the province was willing to make almost any concession to French, Swiss or Germans—any entrepreneurs so long as they weren’t Americans.
Meanwhile, the Joint Boundary Commission, set up in the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo to establish the southern boundary of the United States, had surveyed one that the United States refused to ratify because it left a strip west of El Paso, vital to a future transcontinental railroad, as a part of Mexico.
“If the Americans want the land west of El Paso for their railroad,” Shea said, “they must surely prefer the route marked by Cooke’s Battalion. That passed through Tucson.”
“But of course,” shrugged Don Elizario. “The Yanquis desire much when one remembers that they haven’t been able to stop the Indians, on what is now their territory, from raiding into Mexico. They agreed to that in Article Eleven of the Treaty, but they haven’t done any better with Apaches than did Spain or Mexico.”
“Do you think there’ll be another war?”
“Who knows? The people of Mesilla, which is in part of the disputed area, moved west of the Rio Grande in 1850 exactly in order to escape American rule.” He settled more deeply into a chair and accepted more coffee. “Mexico cannot win a war with the Yanquis, my friend, not now. The Yanquis will have what they want.”
Boundary commissions and quarreling governments seemed far away from the ranch which sold its beef in Tubac and Tucson after that one drive with the Texans. Men couldn’t be spared for the long drive and besides, according to travelers drifting back from the gold fields, prices had dropped by 1851 to fifty to one hundred fifty dollars per head, and were going lower.
Returned from selling cattle in Tucson that fall of 1852, Shea said the place was full of riffraff, drifters who had either not found their gold in California, or who’d been run out of even the rough mining communities. And the bandits of Sonora preferred the frontier so long as there were enough travelers to pluck.
But a different kind of people were beginning to appear along the Santa Cruz. Army officers, often topographical engineers with the Boundary Survey; mining engineers, some of them educated at prestigious German mining schools; and a new kind of settler.
Calabazas, the old visita just south of where Sonoita Creek joined the Santa Cruz, had been taken over by some Europeans under a contract made with the former governor of Sonora, Manuel Gándara, who claimed the land, having bought it at auction in 1844 after Santa Anna’s decree that all temporal church lands should be sold. That spring of 1853, Gándara began to stock the hacienda with six thousand sheep and goats, a hundred cows with calves, a hundred brood mares, oxen, mules, and horses for riding.
“I like him, that Federico Hulsemann,” reported Santiago, who had ridden over to see what was happening. “He’s German, has traveled the world, and came here from California. He and his helpers are making the church into a ranch house and building a barracks. Gándara has sent up workers and they’re making it into quite a place.”
“Can they hold off Apaches?” Shea demanded.
Santiago grinned. “No doubt they’ll get a chance to try.”
That chance came sooner than anyone expected. Not long after Santiago’s visit in mid-April, a group of Americans led by a dark-haired man named Andrew Gray, who were surveying a possible railroad route, stopped overnight at Rancho del Socorro, sleeping outside but elated at being offered tasty, well-prepared food. One, an artist, Charles Schuchard, made a sketch of the house and gave it as thanks to the O’Sheas who wouldn’t accept pay for their hospitality.
Socorro gazed after the eleven men, proudly holding the picture. “Yanquis,” she said softly, lifting her hand to Shea’s grim face. “But they were nice, querido!”
He seemed to give himself a shake, forced a smile. “Not all can be bad. Since it seems we’re to have them here in spite of Mexico and Apaches, I guess we may as well get used to them. But I don’t like it!”
“Of course not!” She raised herself on tiptoe to kiss him, laughing softly, looking very young though she was expecting again. “You are my redheaded burro, after all! But let us find a place for this beautiful drawing!”
“Better put it in the chest,” he said. “Then it won’t get rained on when the roof leaks.”
She frowned. “I want it on the wall. Where I can see it!”
“When you can see the real thing just by stepping outside?” But he smiled indulgently and helped her find a wall that seemed not to trickle during the rainy times.
It was late that morning when the artist came riding back, brought his horse to a trembling halt by the corral where Belen was accustoming an especially fine young horse to the bit while the men watched and gave advice.
Everyone whirled at the horseman’s approach. Shea caught the horse’s headstall and soothed it. “Anything amiss, Mr. Schuchard?”
“Apaches!” cried the artist. “We met a couple hundred of them making for Calabazas!”
Shea’s mouth pinched tight. “They killed your friends?”
Schuchard shook his head. “They had only bows and arrows and you know we’ve got Sharps carbines and dragoon six-shooters. Besides, they said they weren’t bothering with Americans. One of them named Romero spoke Spanish which our Peter Brady understands. Romero says they intend to destroy Calabazas, kill the Mexican men, and take captive their women and children. The Apaches don’t want Mexicans starting to settle again in what they call their own country.”
“So what’s your party going to do?” Shea asked quietly.
Schuchard gave him an astonished look. “Why, ride on and help Calabazas if we can! Will you come, too? You have rifles.”
Socorro, Anita following, had come out in time to hear what was happening. Her gaze met her husband’s. “Of course you must go,” she said.
“It may cost us Mangus’s protection.”
Her chin came up. This pregnancy was weighing on her early, though she carried her full sha
re of the work. “We can’t let others be slaughtered.”
Shea brought her hands to his lips. “Bless you, love!” He turned to the men. “Will you come?”
Anita gasped and caught Chuey’s arm. With a shake of his head, he put her from him. Santiago was already catching up Noche. “Ride fast as you can to El Charco,” Shea told Talitha. “Get the Sanchezes to come here and fort up till we’re back, just in case any Apaches stray over this direction. Then you’d better warn them at San Manuel.”
So Talitha, skirts kilted, rode south while the men went west.
El Charco had gained two men in spite of Güero’s continued absence. Last Christmas all the Sanchezes came to Socorro so that Shea could, in a measure, solemnize the marriage of Juana to Cheno Vasquez, a vaquero of Don Narciso’s who’d come north because he couldn’t forget the tall quiet girl with the tender eyes and mouth. Francisco, his younger brother, had traveled with him and had been welcomed to help work the increasing herds.
The whole family was working on the young married couple’s house when Talitha reined up Ladorada and gasped out her news. Pedro Sanchez pushed back his sombrero and his monkey face wrinkled even more deeply.
“Ay, señorita, we come at once. Shall I send someone to San Manuel?”
“No, I’ll go,” said Talitha, slipping down and leading the golden mare toward the watering tank.
Even in her anxiety and rush, Carmencita, Pedro’s wife, brought Talitha a gourd of water, thrust some pumpkin candy into her hand. “Your legs are shaking, child! Eat this while you ride!”
Talitha hadn’t seen Tjúni in the two and a half years since the Papago woman had left the main ranch, but there was no change in that handsome face with its short nose that gave it an almost catlike look. With the several Papago families that had settled at San Manuel, she was roasting agave in a large pit at the base of the mountain that lay south of the huts, ramadas and circular granaries of the ranchería.
“Calabazas?” Tjúni’s eyes widened. In the sunlight they looked dark amber. “Don Patricio thought he must aid them?”
“Of course he had to!” said Talitha hotly.
Tjúni gave her a glance of vast scorn, then shrugged. “I think Apache not come this way, but we set watch, hide in mountain cave if we see them. Cave good and big, spring right beside it.” With pride, she went on to explain that everyone knew what do to do in case of alarm—snatch up food and weapons and make for the natural fortress.
She didn’t offer refreshment and turned back to the pit, helping spread on a layer of bear grass. At a few words from her, a boy of about Talitha’s age ran to position himself on a hill facing the Santa Cruz Valley.
The sun was slanting toward the mountain peaks. It would be dark before Talitha could get home since she’d need to keep to trails running from San Manuel to El Charco and thence to Socorro. But Tjúni didn’t suggest sending someone with Talitha, and she wouldn’t ask what the woman wouldn’t offer.
Returning to El Charco in the twilight, Talitha watered Ladorada and got herself a drink from the bucket inside, also appropriating a piece of jerky. As she started on in the increasing darkness, the thoughts she’d kept at bay crowded up and tormented her.
What had happened at Calabazas? Was Shea all right? Belen, Santiago, Chuey? Had the Apaches been beaten off so that they were now hunting a new target? Were those at Socorro safe?
The darkness seemed full of terrible questions. Sobbing with exhaustion and fear, Talitha urged Ladorada onward. When, after what seemed an endless time, she saw soft light shining from what had to be the ranch house, she cried even harder, this time in relief.
XIX
The men rode in that night long after the Sanchez family had shared itself out between the vaqueros’ quarters and Chuey and Anita’s house. “You should rest,” Talitha urged Socorro after things from the evening meal had been cleared away.
Socorro put an arm around Talitha who was now the taller of the two. For an unsettling moment, the older woman seemed almost to lean on the girl before she kissed her and straightened. “Perhaps I will lie down for a while after I get the twins to bed. You’re not too tired to watch?”
“I don’t think I can sleep till they come home,” Talitha whispered, trying not to cry. Socorro certainly felt as bad as she did; it wasn’t fair to worry her.
“If they’re forted up inside the church, the fight could go on till the Apaches give up,” Socorro pointed out, never admitting that it might not be Apaches who lost. “We can’t stay up all night or we’ll be useless tomorrow.”
She went to her bedroom with the twins. James had already collapsed on his pallet near Talitha’s; Chacho nestled against him. Chusma leaped into Talitha’s lap, purred and yawned.
“You don’t have to wait for me, cat,” Talitha murmured, scratching behind the ears, but she was grateful for the comfort of the soft warm body. She was starting to drowse, jerking her head up each time she nodded off, when Socorro came back and said gently, “I’ve slept all I can. Lie down, Tally. I’ll call you the minute I hear horses.”
“I’ll wait just a little longer.” Talitha, holding Chusma, went to stand in the door, feel the cool night breeze drive away some of the sleep.
A distant sound made her stiffen before it faded; she couldn’t be sure she’d really heard anything unusual. Stepping outside, she listened with her breath held. In a moment she detected it again, the far-off rhythm of hoofs.
“Horses,” she told Socorro. “Shall I wake up the Sanchezes? Apaches never travel at night if they can help it, but—”
“Better they get up and not be needed than die in their sleep.”
It always surprised Talitha when Socorro showed grim humor, but then neither could she imagine her shooting a scalp hunter. Putting Chusma down, Talitha hurried to the vaqueros’ house to wake Pedro and the younger men, then called the women who were at Anita’s.
Socorro had extinguished the lamp but she had carbines ready for the Vasquez brothers who had none. She, Anita and Talitha took their weapons. The doors were shut. Each window and niche was guarded.
It was very still in the house as they listened to the nearing sound of horses. Pedro Sanchez sighed with relief.
“Not many horses. No more than three or four. I think it is Don Patricio.”
Socorro gave a soft glad cry but added swiftly, “Let us wait, all the same, till we’re sure.”
Squinting through her rifle niche, in the pale light of the waning moon, Talitha could discern looming shapes. Then she separated them into three distinct forms and, as her heart pounded with joy, she recognized the way each man rode.
Shea. Santiago. Belen. They were safe!
Just as she started to call out to them, Shea hailed the house. In a twinkling, rifles were leaned on the wall, the door was opened, and everyone went out to welcome the men who had returned.
Relaxing with coffee and food, minor wounds anointed and dressed, Shea and his companions told what had happened. “By the time we got there, the fight was on,” said Shea. “We really weren’t needed. Seems a captive of the raiders had managed to escape and get to Tucson. Captain Hilarión García and Antonio Comaduran had brought sixty lancers and forty Apaches de paz and were waiting for the attack. Must have been at least two hundred on the raid, Pinal and Coyotero most likely.”
“García’s men charged while the raiders were still a mile from Calabazas,” put in Santiago. “The lancers brought down scores of them and the tame Apaches finished them off. Don Federico Hulsemann and his partner were muy valiente, coming outside the walls to fight.”
“And the ears!” Belen exulted. “A string almost three feet long to go to the capital at Ures!”
Santiago chuckled. “One of Señor Gray’s men thought they were dried apples till he noticed the copper and shell earrings that were still fastened to some of them!”
Socorro stifled a sound of protest. Shea drew her to him, leaning his head against her breast. “I think my wife has heard enough. We�
��d better all get to sleep.” He said to the Sanchezes, “I appreciate your coming.”
“It was for our safety also,” demurred Pedro.
Shea glanced at Talitha. “You warned Tjúni?”
“Yes. She sent a boy to stand guard. They have a cave in the mountain. She thinks they can stand off any raiders that come that way.”
Shea looked startled, but his mouth firmed and he said no more, leading Socorro off to their room. The others lingered for a few minutes, Belen whispering how the head of Romero, the interpreter who’d talked with Gray’s party, was fastened to a spike near the door of a room used as a mess hall.
Seeing Talitha’s face, Santiago gave her cheek a comforting touch. “And Señor Hulsemann gave us some excellent mescal! But it’s over, God be praised, the Apaches have had a stiff lesson—and now let’s all sleep for what’s left of the night!”
The Apaches left Calabazas alone for the rest of that summer, but in June they attacked La Canoa, a ranch ten miles north of Tubac, killed four post-riders and another man, took captives and slaughtered oxen.
Tubac’s new commanding officer, Andrés Zenteno, managed to wangle thirty-eight muskets and ammunition for the thirty-six peaceful Apaches who, with eighty-two of their women and children, volunteered to settle down at Tubac in mid-July. Because four yoke of Tubac’s oxen had been killed the month before, leaving only two yoke for all the colonists, and because there were no extra plows and it was getting late to plant, Zenteno had to supply his Apaches de paz with wheat while his distant superiors exhorted him to see that no supplies were wasted and to make his allies self-supporting as soon as possible.
“Commander Zenteno wants to lead an expedition against the hostiles,” reported Santiago who seemed to have found something at Tubac to engage his attention, for he visited the presidio every week or two, sometimes accompanied by Belen. Talitha wrinkled her nose at the way they smelled when they returned, of tobacco and some heavier, muskier scent. “He asked the Tucson garrison for men but was told no one could be spared because everyone was busy in the fields and provisions were short.” Santiago chuckled. “You could hear Zenteno all over the presidio! He wrote at once to the governor. You can be sure the very paper smoked!”
The Valiant Women Page 26
