On the hill behind the ranch buildings were the crosses raised for Santiago and Socorro, and on the far side of the hill in a small grotto were buried the scalps of many Papagos and Mexicans whose hair had been taken by white scalp hunters hungry to collect the bounty that had been offered for Apache scalps by the government of Sonora, the most northwestern state of Mexico, of which the Gadsden Purchase, presently part of the territory of New Mexico, was a portion. Now that civil war had engulfed the country, Apaches might well reclaim the great expanse of mountains, plains, and river valleys.
But not, if Talitha could prevent it, Rancho del Socorro. As Patrick, hair gilded by sun, rode close to Cat, laughingly calling some big-brotherly tease to her, Talitha thought they must look much as their parents had at the same ages. Patrick O’Shea, known as Shea, had left Ireland during the potato famine of 1845 with his twin, Michael, and joined the U.S. Army, which was preparing to go to war with Mexico. Coming to feel more sympathy with the Catholic Mexicans than with the overbearing sergeant who constantly harassed them, the brothers had swum the Rio Grande and joined the famed San Patricio Battalion, formed of deserters from the U.S. Army. The survivors of the battalion had been court-martialed by the conquering U.S. Many were hanged. Shea and Michael were branded and flogged but escaped, heading for California. Michael died of thirst in the desert, and Shea, a parched-leather skeleton whose gashes couldn’t even bleed and whose tongue was shriveled to a hard lump, had been brought back to life by Socorro.
Socorro had been in desperate straits herself, though she’d found a life-giving natural cistern, or tinaja, in the desert rocks. She was traveling to California to marry her cousin when Areneños killed her father and her escort, plundered their wagon, and left her to die. The tinaja saved her, but such a gently reared girl would probably have died a slow death from exposure or hunger, or a swift one from more Areneños, if she hadn’t rescued Shea, who, when he had regained his strength, walked her out of the desolate cinder cones and lava flows to a ranch where they found only Santiago left alive after a scalp hunters’ raid.
When Santiago was able to travel, they’d taken two hundred cattle, loaded mules with whatever they could salvage, and started for an abandoned ranch which Santiago remembered from driving cattle to sell in the presidios of Tubac and Tucson. On the way they’d found Tjúni, intent on avenging the scalp hunters’ slaughter of her family and village.
A chill always shot down Talitha’s spine when she remembered the Place of Skulls. That was where Tjúni and Socorro, picking berries, had come upon the scalpers raping and killing the women of Mangus’s camp. Tjúni had brought down three men with arrows, Socorro killed one, but the fifth escaped.
Judah Frost. Talitha still had nightmares about him, with his silver hair and ice-crystal gaze. She’d been thirteen when he caught her bathing in a hot spring not far below the Place of Skulls. He’d said then he meant to have her when she grew up. Through the years, as he was welcome at the ranch and became Shea’s partner in freighting and mining, Talitha had felt stalked by a giant cat, unable to tell that Frost was one of the scalpers because he was an expert shot who’d surely have killed either Shea or Santiago had they challenged him.
He had killed Santiago only last year, when Santiago returned from years of slave labor in a Mexican mine where Frost had sold him while telling the O’Sheas that their friend had married a wealthy Mexican widow and had stayed in Mexico to manage her holdings. Freed by Yaquis rebelling against the government, Santiago had been nursed and loved by a Yaqui girl he had married when he learned she was with child. He’d come back to confront Frost, who’d shot him, wounded Shea, and taken Talitha hostage. Before he released her near Pete Kitchen’s ranch, he’d done what he’d intended since that first day they met.
She’d thought she’d never be clean of that, but Marc Revier’s tender loving had cleansed her. Marc, the Freiburg-trained engineer, who’d taught her to read and write, brought her books, waited for her to grow up. She thought of him with pain and loss, for she loved him in her own way.
“He’s god to you,” Marc had said bitterly of Shea. She had refused to marry Marc a year ago. Was he still at the Tecolote mine south of Yuma Crossing?
At least Frost was dead. Shea and the pursuers had found his horse dead and a man’s corpse dangling head downward over a fire that had split the skill and charred the face past recognition. Talitha forced the thought of him from her, assessing with a practiced eye the cattle grazing along a dry wash or streambed that would become a torrent when the rains started, as they should within a few weeks.
In spite of the weeks of dry heat, the cattle were holding flesh well. Over the years the scrubs had been butchered or sold, the best kept for breeding. The starting herd of “black” Spanish cattle, not necessarily black, had been mixed with curly-haired, beefier animals from Texas and some heifers acquired from an Illinois drover headed for California.
That spring the vaqueros had collected about five hundred senales, the bits of ear cut off while earmarking and branding. For each calf there were probably four older animals, which meant the ranch was running close to twenty-five hundred head.
Not all of these carried the S brand and belonged to the O’Sheas. At the beginning, before there was money to pay the vaqueros, each was allowed to mark every twentieth cow for himself. Shea, marveling at this vast country, so rich with opportunity in spite of its dangers, had wanted those who worked with him to share his good fortune.
Living at El Charco, fifteen miles south of the main ranch, the Sanchezes, who worked for Shea, had, in effect, possessed their own small kingdom. Would Pedro consent to leave it, move to the Socorro? Once before, when he was a boy, Apaches had driven him from this place. Pedro, now fifty, might well decide that this country would never be safe, take his herd and family, and depart with the aim of going far enough south to be out of the way of Apache raids.
No one could blame him. But Talitha, mechanically noting the age of the cattle she passed by the rings around their horns, the wrinkles around their eyes, and the condition of their tails, prayed he would be steadfast.
The Sanchezes were at dinner. Plump, motherly Carmencita scattered grandchildren to make room at the rough table, and soon all were relishing her perfect tortillas, tasty beans, and stewed wild turkey. Carmencita exclaimed over how the twins and Cat had grown and gave thanks to God that Talitha’s brother had returned from the devil Apaches.
James showed his teeth. “Señora, I myself am a devil Apache.”
“Your poor mother was a captive. That is not your blame.”
His hard grin widened. “No blame indeed to be the son of a great warrior and the foster son of Mangus.”
Carmencita crossed herself at the feared name and hastily asked how little Tosalisewa thrived. After the health of all the children had been discussed, Talitha glanced up and down the table. The Sanchezes’ tall, quiet daughter, Juana, beside her mustached husband, Cheno Vasquez, his brother, skinny Francisco, on the other side. Next were the youngest Sanchez son, Natividad, his broad, friendly face looking younger than his thirty years, and his Papago wife, Mársat, a pretty girl with luxuriant black hair who laughed a lot and jingled her shell earrings flirtatiously. Güero, the oldest son, wasn’t there. Talitha didn’t inquire after him; if there’d been good news of the Sanchez black sheep, poor Carmencita would have been bursting with it. Though every man was needed, Talitha was relieved that he wasn’t here to watch her with his hot green eyes.
All the men seemed made of rawhide, weathered and tough. Trained to horses and their woven leather ropes, or reatas, they knew every cañon and wooded thicket on the big ranch, every watering place, and if and when it would go dry. Even if new men could be found, it would take them years to learn the country as these vaqueros knew it. They were part of the place. Yet they must be given their chance to leave it.
She told them the army posts were being abandoned, the troops pulled back to fight in the war between North and South.
/> “Ay,” said Carmencita, shaking her head. “That same war to which Don Patricio felt he must go, may the Virgin protect him!”
Talitha nodded. “The Apaches don’t understand about the war. They just see troops leaving, the overland stage stopped, and think they’ve driven them out. This will look like their chance to get rid of all the settlers. I won’t blame you if you want to take your cattle and look for a safer spot in Mexico.”
Pedro’s dark eyes studied her from his wrinkled, wise-monkey face. “And you, señorita?” His gaze flicked to the O’Shea children sitting on the floor amid Vasquez and Sanchez youngsters. “You will refuge in Tucson with Don Patricio’s family?”
“We stay at Rancho Socorro.”
“Bueno. So do we.” He glanced at his son-in-law. “You, of course, Cheno, must decide for yourself, you and Francisco. Natividad?”
“With you, Father,” returned his younger son, grinning as happily as if he’d just been invited to a dance.
Cheno caressed his mustache, then exchanged look with his brother Francisco, whose prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Cheno shrugged, speaking for both of them. “What’s the difference? When one gets far enough south to be out of reach of Apaches, there are rebelling Yaquis and usually the last governor of Sonora is leading armies to unseat the present one. I can’t see that the Yanqui soldiers gave much protection anyway. Don Pedro Kitchen has the right idea. Fortify a ranch and have enough men to fight off attacks.”
“If you’re agreed to stay, that’s what we must do,” Talitha said. She explained that she wanted them to move to the main ranch.
After Pedro’s first dismay, he made a gesture of assent. “Behind walls and with provisions and water, all of us could stand off a raiding party that could overwhelm either group taken separately.” He puffed out his cheeks. “A good plan, señorita. You should have been a general.”
Every one laughed at that, though Carmencita looked with sad resignation about the adobe that had been her home for thirteen years. “We’ll build you another house,” Talitha promised as they embraced in farewell. “Maybe it won’t be too long till you can come back here.” Till Shea comes back from that wretched war.…
Carmencita smiled and patted Talitha’s cheek and then kissed Cat in a way that made Talitha sure she was remembering that horrible day eight years ago when Shea, Santiago, and Talitha rode in with Cat, born that dawning, and Socorro, dead from that birth.
“If one has life, health, and love, a house doesn’t matter,” the older woman said. “Besides, it will be good to be near my Anita and her children. They grow past all knowing between one visit and the next.” Carmencita’s glow faded, and she gave Talitha a sharp, look. “You’ll take the news to Tjúni?”
“Yes.” Talitha gave a rueful chuckle. “Though the last time I took her a warning, she let me know plainly that her ranchería is prepared to look after itself.”
It still was. Tjúni herself came to meet them, followed by three little boys, the two smallest dark and naked. The oldest, perhaps six, paler of skin and with a cast of red to his long hair, wore loose white cotton trousers.
He was Shea’s son Cinco, born the fifth day of the fifth month of 1855. Tjúni had always loved Shea. After Socorro died, she had hoped to be his wife. When he refused this, the Papago woman had angrily taken her infant son back to the Papago settlement at San Manuel, her part of the ranch, and vowed to give him a Papago father. She had, returning gifts Shea sent to the boy. Probably it was better that Cinco be reared purely Papago, but Talitha felt stabbing pain as she looked from Shea’s sons to their half brother, who was ignoring them to stare in fascination at Cat.
She smiled bewitchingly at him. “Who are you, little boy?”
He stared at her, eyes wide with puzzled worship. “My son no speak Spanish,” Tjúni cut in. She gave Talitha a hostile look. “Why you come? With these?” And she stared at the children of the man she’d adored and the woman she’d envied.
The twins remembered Tjúni, of course; and they had been seven when Cinco was born and knew, with a vague knowledge, never discussed, who had fathered him. Flustered, their usual outgoing friendliness withered under Tjúni’s cold gaze, they reined back with James. Cat’s eager smile faded. Never in all her life had anyone watched her like that, with dislike and bitterness.
“It’s hot,” Talitha said. “Surely you’ll offer us some water?”
Grudgingly, Tjúni led them to an adobe-plastered hut with a thatched roof supported on poles protruding from the front of it. They tied their horses to several mesquite trees and sat on the hard earth while Tjúni poured water from a clay jar into gourd dippers. She was nearing thirty but moved as lithely as a girl and her short-nosed catlike face had a sullen beauty.
“Now,” Tjúni said with the air of one who had been wronged. “Why you come?”
Her face changed only once, when Talitha said Shea had gone off to fight. For a moment the firm-set lips softened, looked vulnerable. Only for a flash. When Talitha finished, the Papago woman made a scornful sound.
“Before I tell you. We have always a watchman. Our cave in the mountain has supplies and water. We go there if Apaches come.”
“But—”
“Apaches raid Papagos for three hundred years. We still here.”
No arguing with that. “The El Charco people are moving to the main ranch,” Talitha said, rising. “Would you like to set up your ranchería there?”
Suddenly Tjúni’s face changed. Lowering her voice, she sounded almost fearful. “You see her? She still watch rancho?”
A primeval chill ran through Talitha before she sternly told herself that even if Socorro could come back, she would protect, not harm. “I’ve seen nothing,” Talitha said matter-of-factly.
Sometimes, though, she’d felt an almost palpable presence, a steadying reassurance. And, at the very least, Socorro had left an example that inspired while it discouraged, for who could hope to equal her?
“She there,” Tjúni insisted.
“You saw her?”
“Plain as you stand there.” Tjúni shivered in spite of the heat. “Night, but much moon. Black hair move in wind. Beautiful. Smile like always.”
And where had Tjúni been? In bed with Shea?
“Did she say anything?”
“Not words.” Tjúni frowned, puzzled. She went on gropingly. “At first I was afraid—think her angry. But she—somehow she make me know she not.” Old resentment and humiliation tinged the Papago woman’s voice. “She want me to be good to Shea, help raise children. She want all happy.”
“But you left,” Talitha said. She didn’t mean it as an accusation, but it sounded like one.
Tjúni’s eyes flashed. “Shea no marry, I no stay! Let ghost cook for him, sleep with him!” With a curl of her lip as she looked at James, who was standing out by his horse, Tjúni said, “You keep tigres at the ranch, too, now you pet Apaches?”
Angered past speech at this slur on her brother, Talitha shot a furious glance at the woman and said in a choked voice to the children, “Let’s go!”
Cinco had slipped away but now came back, running. He reached Cat as she was clambering into the saddle and pressed something into her hand.
Tjúni spoke harshly to him in Papago, but he paid no heed, eagerly watching Cat, who smiled in delight at a little wooden blue bird.
“Thank you,” she told him. Impulsively, she unfastened the gold crucifix Shea had given her one Christmas and handed it to this darker-skinned half brother. “For you.”
With a smothered sound of rage Tjúni snatched for the keepsake, but Cinco eluded her. It was clear that he had no fear of his formidable mother who doted on him.
Pulling back beside Talitha, Cat pressed the bird to her cheek. “Isn’t it dear? I’ll have it above my bed.” She handed it to Talitha; who balanced it in her fingers.
“It’s so light it must be made of yucca root.”
That was all she could think of to say. She was troubl
ed by Cinco’s immediate and rapt devotion to Cat. Had he sensed his true father’s blood in her? If that kinship was the answer, why hadn’t he fixed on Patrick or Miguel?
“I wish he could come to live with us,” Cat murmured. “After all, he’s father’s son.”
“Tjúni doesn’t want that,” Talitha said. “She has the right to raise the boy as Papago if that’s her choice.”
James rode close to examine the small azure bird. “I can make you a hawk or eagle,” he said disdainfully. “Much better than this.”
Cat made a face at him. “I won’t let them get my pretty little blue bird!” She turned to wave at the small figure that stood alone at the edge of the settlement.
James’s young mouth hardened. Again Talitha felt a flash of warning. Cat had always been loved by everyone around her and had loved freely in return. What would happen if her loves conflicted?
Talitha shrugged her foreboding aside and began planning where and how to best accommodate the El Charco folk. She felt weighted down, totally unfitted for the responsibilities that were now hers; but she must not show that to the ranch people who had so bravely chosen to stay and help her.
Socorro would have …
Oh, would the day ever come when she could stop that fatal measuring? In the years since Socorro’s death, she had become almost a saint among the vaquero families. Sometimes they prayed to her for a sick child or other woe. Swiftly it was being forgotten by Anita, Carmencita, those who’d known her, that she’d never learned to make properly thin tortillas and sometimes stormed at Shea for a redheaded burro. Human she had been. Which made it harder for Talitha, who knew better than to attribute supernatural powers to the vibrant, compassionate woman whose children she must mother, whose husband she longed to have for her own.
The Valiant Women Page 48
