Desert Crossing

by Short, Luke;

  From his place he could see through the door into the outside kitchen, where there was only a stove and a table under four posts roofed by peeled cottonwood poles. An Indian woman, Layton’s wife, was dishing food onto tin plates held by Layton’s fourteen-year-old half-breed daughter, whom the teamsters knew as Sissie. She was small, clean, and cheerful, and was dressed in only a formless cotton shift. She had the good manners to put the big bowl of dried beef in cream gravy first before Juliana.

  “Where’s your Pa, Sissie?” Dave asked.

  “Out looking over your wagons,” Sissie said shyly.

  Thornton said, “Layton wanted some supplies. No sense in hauling this grub past his door when it will just have to be freighted back to him.”

  Dave said nothing.

  “Don’t you approve?” Juliana asked, almost sharply.

  “I do if my men don’t have to unload the wagons,” Dave said mildly.

  Thornton sat up straighter. “Look here, Harmon. Those goods were consigned to Edwards. We bought Edwards out and I’ll do anything I want with them!”

  Dave looked up at him levelly. “Then you’ll unload them, too.”

  Thornton flushed. “That’s part of your freighting job.”

  “My freighting job ends when these wagons are pulled up to your warehouse, Thornton. Read your contract.” Thornton’s face got redder, and he was about to speak when Dave said mildly, “Sometimes my teamsters pick up some extra money by helping Edwards unload. It’s up to them.”

  Thornton nodded coldly, and as the beef was passed he helped himself. Perhaps to relieve the tension, Lieutenant Overman pointed to Juliana’s plate and said, “Miss Juliana, you’ll never get through the day on that little dab of food.”

  “I think this heat has killed my appetite.” She looked over at the table where the teamsters and troopers were shoveling down food. “Apparently it hasn’t for anybody else.”

  Dave said, “Dick is right, Miss Juliana. We won’t reach the next water until about dark.”

  Juliana gave a half laugh and said resignedly, “All right then, pass back the platter.”

  She helped herself to more of the beef and Dave watched her with a sidelong glance. She looked tired and was tired, he knew. Now she passed the food to Dave, who filled his plate, loaded on some bread, poured coffee into his tin cup, and then rose. He was picking up his plate and coffee when Juliana said, “You don’t like our company, Dave?”

  “No, this is for my hurt teamster,” Dave answered.

  Thornton, who had been driving the supply wagon, looked surprised and then embarrassed. He had driven with the hurt man all morning and talked with him most of it, and yet he had somehow managed to forget that the man might be hungry. As Dave turned and went out with the food, Thornton gave him a look that held cold fury.

  The supply wagon was pulled up in the shade of the cottonwoods, and Everts was half reclining against the side.

  “Thought we’d forgotten you, Rich?” Dave asked.

  Everts grinned. “I figured no work no eats.” He accepted the food thankfully and began eating.

  Dave glanced over at one of the wagons and saw old Pappa-Jack Layton and his hostler wrestling out a barrel of flour from the cargo. Cases of food and a keg of horseshoe nails were on the ground beside Layton. Pappa-Jack Layton was a spare, dry man in his sixties whose white beard reached below his Adam’s apple. He had, Dave knew, fought more Indians from this place than many a senior cavalry officer had ever seen.

  Now a movement out on the desert beyond Layton attracted Dave’s attention. He made out a single rider in the distance approaching the station from the south.

  Going over to Layton, Dave said, “You’ve got a visitor coming, Pappa-Jack.”

  Without even turning to look, Layton said, “I seen him. He ain’t used up quite all his luck, has he?”

  In ten minutes the visitor, Kirby, leading a pack horse, rode into the shade, reined in, and nodded. To Dave he said, “You Mister Layton?”

  Dave gestured with his thumb to Pappa-Jack, meanwhile regarding Kirby, who was looking around him at the loaded wagons. Kirby said, “I rode over to see if you can spare some grub. Kind of looks like you might could.”

  Pappa-Jack gave a snort of laughter. “Yes, sir. Which wagonload do you want?”

  Kirby grinned and dismounted, and now Pappa-Jack’s curiosity got the better of his good manners. “Where in tarnation did you come from?”

  Kirby tilted his head toward the distant mountains to the south. “Me and a couple of other fellows been prospecting over yonder.”

  “Where?” Pappa-Jack asked.

  Kirby shook his head. “Mister, I can take you there, but I don’t know the name of nothing around here, not even the mountains. They told me about your place, though, so when we run out of grub I headed for here.”

  “You’re in the Harquahala Mountains. Found anything?” Pappa-Jack asked.

  “Not till day before yesterday,” Kirby answered. “We was about to go back when we run into this color. Looks like we might have something. Leastways if we can get some grub we’ll stay and see.”

  While they were talking Dave listened and watched Kirby, assessing the man’s story. The troopers, among them Sergeant Noonan, had drifted over, curious as to the identity of the visitor.

  “See any Injun sign?” the trooper standing beside Noonan asked.

  Kirby regarded the trooper and did not even bother to look at Noonan. “Some, all old though,” Kirby said.

  Then Dave said, “How come you picked those particular mountains?” There was no challenge in his voice, only curiosity.

  “I didn’t,” Kirby said mildly. “One of my partners did. He used to work in the placers at La Paz. When he saved up enough money he’d prospect around the country. He always figured there was ore there, so that’s why we come back.”

  It was conceivable to Dave that three men, leaning heavily on luck and caution, and not moving around, could avoid being seen by the Apaches. Still, a man would have to be either foolhardy or very brave to stay on for long.

  Now Pappa-Jack said, “What you using for water, mister?”

  “We found some, enough to keep us and the horses alive. It ain’t good, but you can choke it down.”

  Pappa-Jack said drily, “If you’ve found water, don’t hang around it long. Them Injuns’ll smell it out. Now, what sort of grub you want?”

  As Kirby countered with, “What you got?” Dave turned and went back to Everts. As he took Everts’ plate and cup he glanced back at Kirby. He seemed in pleasant conversation with Sergeant Noonan. Dave did not give it another thought.

  Dave entered the stage station through the outdoor kitchen, where he left Everts’ plate with Sissie and received his own food. Going into the eating room, he saw that the troopers and teamsters had finished and that their table was empty. Thornton and Juliana were in conversation at the other table. Dave put his plate down on the teamsters’ table, slacked onto the bench, and began eating. In a few moments Thornton, who was smoking a cigar, got up and went out. After his exit, Juliana came over to Dave’s table and sat down on the bench opposite him.

  “How is the hurt man?” she asked.

  “I didn’t look at his wound. I figured I wouldn’t spoil your work. But he ate all I brought him, so I don’t reckon he has a fever.”

  Juliana hesitated a moment. “I’m ashamed that none of us remembered him,” she said.

  Dave’s loaded fork paused in midair. “Why, he’s my responsibility, not yours or Overman’s or Thornton’s. You doctored him and the Army’s transporting him. Seems as if I should see he’s fed.”

  Juliana hesitated a moment as if debating with herself the wisdom of saying what she wanted to say. Then she blurted out, “You don’t like John, do you?”

  Dave chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “I don’t feel one way or the other about him.”

  “But I’d think you would,” Juliana insisted.

  Dave scowled. “Why is that?”


  “Because he’ll be a good customer of yours in the future. Isn’t it just plain good business to accommodate him? Couldn’t you have asked a couple of your men to help Mister Layton unload?”

  “Is that what Thornton said to you?” Dave asked drily.

  Juliana’s glance fell away from his. He could see the color mount in her face.

  “Well—yes, as a matter of fact. He thinks you embarrassed him unnecessarily. I don’t think he’ll be anxious to give you his business.”

  “I think he will, as soon as he’s tried some of the other outfits.”

  “You’re best, you mean?” It was Juliana’s turn to use a dry manner of speaking.

  “I am,” Dave said calmly. “My teamsters don’t steal and I keep them reasonably sober.”

  “That’s rare in your business?”

  “Very rare. Edwards learned how rare it is, and Thornton will learn too.”

  “But can you afford to lose John’s business?”

  Dave smiled. “I haven’t lost it yet, Miss Juliana; and if I do, it will be my decision, not his.”

  Juliana eyed him levelly. “You make it sound as if John is working for you rather than you for him.”

  Dave drank the last of his coffee and put down his cup. “In a way he is,” Dave said mildly. “I can leave his goods in my warehouse until they rot. I can have all my wagons out for a month at a time. It’s my decision whether Thornton gets his goods promptly, or even gets them at all.” He paused, seeking an analogy. “It’s the same sort of decision that the captain of the Sprite could have made on his last trip. If he chose to put in at Valparaiso for a cargo of hides he could have done it. If I choose to believe that the sutler’s store at Camp Grant needs goods ahead of the sutler’s store at Whipple, it’s my decision.”

  He rose, drew a silver dollar from his pocket, and laid it on the table. “You can tell Thornton that if you like, Miss Juliana. It may save me from having to tell him.”

  Juliana Frost said quietly, almost with dislike, “I think you’re arrogant.”

  Dave nodded. “When I have to be, yes.”

  “What happened last night?” Kirby was asking Sergeant Noonan.

  “You took the words out of my mouth,” Noonan said drily.

  “There was a mounted rider in that herd. He killed Hallam and drove off Schultz. They were to drive off the horses once they were broke loose.”

  “That was Harmon’s doing,” Noonan said. “I’ll take care of him later. Where are the boys?”

  Kirby tilted his head to the south. “Out of sight.”

  “You got my message, didn’t you?”

  Kirby nodded.

  “There’s a batch of big malpais this side of King’s Wells. You can fort up in that rock. Just don’t let them get to water, Kirby. They can’t make a fight of it if you stay scattered.”

  Kirby only nodded again.

  “If they can’t make it through to water, sooner or later they’ll try to come back here. Just don’t let them,” Noonan said.

  “What about that girl?”

  “She’ll likely bed down in the ambulance, so don’t shoot it up. Buy plenty of grub, Kirby. This may take time.”

  They both fell silent as Pappa-Jack Layton came over. “Want to pick through this stuff, mister?”

  4

  Troopers Reardon and Adams had instructions from Lieutenant Miller to travel by night and sleep by day. After the first day of the shadeless blasting heat, both men knew it wouldn’t work. They dare not try to sleep with their faces uncovered. If they tried to cover them with their blouses, they were close to suffocation. Both men knew that if they were to survive they must travel by day so they could get some sleep at night.

  Since the one drink Reardon had taken on the night they had left camp, the older trooper had been abstemious. But by the middle of this day a series of events had driven Reardon to desperation. To begin with, he had spent a near sleepless night stretched out on the rocky desert floor. His feet were already blistered and his bones ached with the unaccustomed chore of walking all day in the blasting sun. The heat today had seemed to dry out his body, and a dozen times in the night he had roused for a drink of water.

  Thus, at the beginning of this day’s march Reardon was tired, still thirsty, sore-footed, and surly. An hour out of their camp he was stumbling with Adams along the edge of some hardpan which held scant vegetation. Reardon was paying no attention to what was underfoot, so that it was too late when he heard the rattle. The snake struck at his leg just above the boot top. It was Adams who killed the snake while Reardon, in panic, stripped down his trousers to see what the snake’s bite had done. He could see that the marks of the fangs had barely broken the skin. Was it serious enough to bother with or not? Trooper Adams thought it was. Reardon wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t afford to take the chance that it wasn’t.

  Accordingly, Reardon ordered Adams to slash the flesh where the fangs had broken it. Adams, nauseated at the thought of having to cut into human flesh, was even more afraid of not doing a thorough job. He cut deeply and painfully into Reardon’s leg, then sucked at the gushing blood of the wound as Reardon directed him. The trouble was the wound was too deep and it bled freely for half an hour before they could check it. Once the blood stopped flowing, Adams, again on Reardon’s orders, hacked off Reardon’s shirt tail with his knife and made a crude bandage.

  It was then that Reardon thought of the whiskey. Everyone, including Trooper Adams, knew that whiskey was the ancient antidote for snakebite.

  In the broiling sun then, Reardon gulped down a generous portion of the raw, blood-warm whiskey, following it with a minute gulp of water. He did not want to dilute the sheer pleasure of the raw whiskey churning in his belly.

  Hauled to his feet by Adams, he tried walking. Not only did his swollen feet hurt now, but his leg ached and throbbed with every movement. Still he had no choice but to slog onward. Behind his pain, of course, were unanswered questions. Had Adams doctored the bite in time? How long did it take for the venom to work? How did a man die of snake bite? After fifteen minutes pondering these questions Reardon took stock of his state of physical and mental health, found them both bad, halted, and took another drink of whiskey. He observed Trooper Adams watching him dispassionately in the blinding heat.

  After gagging down the warm whiskey and catching his breath, Reardon said, “That eases it a little, sonny.”

  “If it does, then you’d better save it for later,” Adams said. There was nothing save disapproval in his tone—no force, no attempt to dominate the situation, and no pity. He had spoken as if to record his disapproval with his conscience.

  Reardon knew that his wound had slowed their pace to a crawl, but whiskey made him indifferent to the fact. He was doing the best he could and the whiskey helped. He could feel the slow ooze of blood down into his boot, and still it did not greatly concern him. He was simply doing the best he could.

  All through the morning at their hourly stops Trooper Adams would gnaw on a piece of bread or bacon, then lie flat out with his hat over his face as if he were gathering strength from the earth. At each of these stops Trooper Reardon, eating nothing, had another drink of whiskey. By midday he was drunk and hurting.

  It was at one of these stops that Trooper Adams, again sprawled out, lifted his hat off his face to regard Reardon, who had just finished a drink. Even sitting down, Reardon swayed as he muttered to himself something that was unintelligible to Adams. It was then the thought came to Trooper Adams: I’m going to have to leave him. But when and how? With food and water? What good would they do, Trooper Adams thought coldly. With both of them moving toward help perhaps they had enough food and water, but if they stayed in one place waiting for Trooper Reardon to sober up and his leg to heal, they would surely die. This afternoon would tell whether Reardon could pull himself together, stop his drinking, and labor on, or whether he would simply give up.

  It was an afternoon of exquisite hell for Trooper Adams. He not only
had the memory of the snake incident with its possible aftermath riding him, but he had to come to some decision about Reardon. The older man, now that he could openly claim his drinking was medicinal, managed to put away more than half the contents of his whiskey canteen. The oven-hot sunlight was hard enough for Trooper Adams to bear, but Trooper Reardon’s drunken reactions to it were almost unbearable to watch. He was, Trooper Adams knew, in a kind of crazy delirium. He kept imagining they were approaching Camp McDowell, and apparently he could see it in his mind. For once, in spite of his condition, he started to run with great staggering, lurching steps until he fell to the desert floor. At times he knew Trooper Adams, and at other times he would ask Adams his name, as if he had no memory of him.

  At their hourly rest period Reardon went to sleep and Trooper Adams used up fifteen minutes slapping him, punching him, and pinching him before he would open his eyes. It was probably a combination of drink and heat that caused it, but his broad face had turned an alarming shade of flaming red. Trooper Adams had no idea whether this resulted from drink or from the remains of the snake venom, and as he hauled Reardon to his feet, he knew real despair. They had made only half a mile in the last hour and now Reardon could scarcely stand upright.

  Backing away from him, Trooper Adams said coldly, “Get going, Reardon.”

  Reardon looked at him blankly. “Where we going?”

  For answer, Adams only lifted his arm and pointed north.

  Reardon lurched into motion and then his legs collapsed. He fell on his knees among the low mesquite and stared at the ground. Trooper Adams came over to him and stood before him, hands on hips.

  “Get up or I’ll leave you, Reardon,” he said in an almost gentle voice.

  Reardon appeared not to hear him. He hoarsely mumbled something that Adams could not make out. Adams now went up to him, knelt before him, put a hand on either shoulder, and shook the older man savagely. Reardon’s head rolled loosely and his hat fell off. Adams retrieved it, slapped it on Reardon’s head and then, still kneeling, said angrily, “Do you understand me? I’m leaving. Come along if you want.”