by Tony Masero
Chapter Thirteen
Gringo could not miss how fine she looked as they rode, even dressed in a spare wool shirt and buckskin pants someone had found for her. Something in Ellen had blossomed after her dangerous experiences and she appeared to glow in the early morning light. Gringo, despite himself, could not stop his eyes from straying away from the girl for too long. Each few moments he would look in her direction, his face a picture of confusion.
Both Judas and Allumette noticed his constant glances and grinned knowingly at each other behind the scout’s back.
“I think I see a little dart from Cupid’s bow had struck its mark,” whispered Allumette.
Judas harrumphed in his dour way but even so, a slight smile quirked his lip. “He’d best attend to the likelihood of some wild savage lifting that golden hair than going all goose eyed over it,” he growled.
“Ach!” spat Allumette, tugging the bandana down over his missing eye more tightly and twirling his moustache ends vigorously. “You have no heart, you merciless beast. Can you not wonder at romance blossoming in our midst. Surely, it is like flowers in the desert, is it not?”
“Bah! You are all folderols and food, you French.”
“And, you, my friend. You are the iceberg in the desert. So cold and hard.”
Judas only growled vaguely in response, muttering something about one-eyed men seeing only half of everything and then he turned his attention to the depths of the long purple shadows around them cast by the rising sun.
“You see something?” asked Allumette.
“No but I feel something.”
“I see nothing,” said Allumette as he quartered the sandy dunes around them.
“There is something out there,” growled Judas.
“It is an animal perhaps?”
“Maybe, maybe,” agreed Judas doubtfully. He felt uncomfortably as if something had a hold of his shirt collar, it was an instinct that told him they were being watched.
“Keep looking and your musket ready,” he advised the little Frenchman.
Ellen meanwhile was not unaware of Gringo’s interest and although she did not know if his glances were appreciative or merely protective, it pleased her that he paid her the attention.
They had ridden out whilst still dark as the camp was awakening and the early cook fires were being lit. A few cries of complaint from the mountain men had followed Allumette’s departure but as they rode through the scudding smoke of the fires, Allumette had waved apologetically with the promise he would be back to prepare some well cooked quail on his return.
They rode west with Gringo in the lead and Ellen keeping pace behind him then came Judas and Allumette, with the Frenchman leading a mule carrying their supplies. Gringo in front, following his intuition and with an instinctive sense of direction, trusted he would lead them to a point where they would strike across the trail of the wagon train.
It dismayed him that their journey was somewhat deceitful and that they would approach the train with the secret intention of stalling delivery of the great gun but he could see no alternative and ultimately approved of Le Touquet’s purpose. Still though, he feared it would be no easy task and that there would be some form of trouble with his own countrymen and the accompanying Mexican military.
“How do you fare today, Mister Wade?” asked Ellen, pulling up alongside him.
“Well enough, mistress,” he answered with an air of discomfort, for he could not help but feel that she saw through his secret admiration.
“Please, will you call me Ellen? We are to be together a while and I already think of you as a dear friend.”
Gringo twisted his lip uncomfortably, “As you wish, mistress.”
She grinned at his awkwardness. “You have been in the mountains as a hunter for long?” she asked.
Gringo nodded. “A long time.”
“Do you miss them, the mountains?”
“I do indeed,” he confessed. “The air is crystal there and everything green, not like here.”
“It must be very beautiful.”
“Indeed so. Alone in the mountains one sees far, it is as if one owns the world.”
“You do not fear the loneliness?”
He shrugged his shoulder, “Sometimes, but up there alone there is always much to do. One is always busy and then, when you do hear a human voice after such a long time it is a strange occurrence.”
“How so?” she asked.
“After living in silence with only the wind in the pines, the call of birds and the rush of water the human tongue jars after those natural sounds.”
“It must be like listening to tranquil music.”
“It is like nothing else I know.”
He looked across at her then, his eyes drawn magnetically it seemed to the softness of her voice. The sun had risen enough to cast a strong light over her features and it glinted in a cascading sheen on her hair. Gringo felt the heart stop in his chest. He thought she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.
“Why do you stare so?” she asked, frowning.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he gulped. “It is just…. forgive me, I am not used to the company of young ladies.”
“You must meet other women on your travels, surely.”
“None like you,” he admitted coyly.
“Am I so odd then?” she pouted. She was teasing him and she knew it, flirting with his simple admiration.
Gringo caught the gist of her girlish play and breathed deeply. “Excuse me,” he said. “I must scout ahead. Stay with the others.” Before she could answer, he urged his pony on and was away at the gallop, soon disappearing into the still present shadows.
Ellen felt embarrassed at her playfulness, she was not now in a courtly ballroom surrounded by witty young men who expected the to and fro of such idle chatter. Here was a man, who was her protector in a wild and savage environment, an environment she knew little of and would not survive in without his help. He deserved better from her. She reprimanded herself for such childish behavior and promised she would treat the scout with more respect the next time they spoke.
Gringo was worried. He knew he was being distracted by thoughts of the girl and the result could be dangerous for their small group. Confused by the way she troubled him, he rode on into the lightening dawn, pulling up only when he was out of sight of the others. He sat a while silently shedding thoughts of Ellen and concentrating on the desert around him.
Finally, he determined to circle around and backtrack to see that they were clear of any observation. He took a wide path and as he approached the others from far out he glimpsed movement. A flash of lightness.
Dragging his musket from its sock at his saddle, he primed the weapon and leaving the reins of his pony pegged to a bed of bitterbrush he set off on foot to explore the origin of the movement. The motion could easily have been a secretive sand dune resident, a lone Kit Fox returning after a night’s hunt but in this environment every such incident might indicate a danger.
Gringo prowled lightly forward, his moccasins silent on the sand. Ahead of him, Judas’ tall figure was just evident above the crests of sand as they moved forward. Then he saw the small figure scurrying along out of sight, keeping pace with the others.
It was little Lucy. The child was on foot and running as fast as she could.
Gringo shook his head and silently loped up behind her. Unknowing, the child ran on, her little legs working overtime as she raced to keep up.
She squealed loudly as Gringo caught her around the waist and lifted her from the ground.
“What are you up to, child?” asked Gringo as he held her under his arm.
The girl was red faced and panting from her run and Gringo could see her knees were grazed and whiskers of fine prickly pear cactus needles were sticking from her bare leg below the hem of her torn dress. Gringo gently laid her down on the sand and began to pull the needles out as Judas crested the dune above them musket in hand.
“What’s this?” he called
, pulling his pony to a standstill.
“We have a little follower, it appears,” said Gringo removing the last of the insidious needles.
A frowning Lucy looked up at Gringo with downturned lips and complained, “You shouldn’t have left me behind. I want to go with you.”
Gringo was confused. “Why on earth would you want to come with me? It’s going to be dangerous.”
“Ellen is going with you,” the child pouted. “It’s just as dangerous for her.”
“I know, honey, but she’s not a little girl and we‘re taking her back to her ma and pa.”
Lucy’s tone softened. “I want to be with you, Mister Gringo. You saved me.”
Gringo looked at the little creature and his heart melted. “You are something else, miss Lucy Lawrence.” A remembrance of the magazine picture showing his protective alter-image flashed across his mind’s eye and guilt of the recollection did something to persuade him to keep her near.
“What do we do with her now?” asked Judas.
“It would mean one of us taking her back. It’ll be less hardship to carry on and bring her with us.”
Lucy threw her arms around Gringo’s neck and smiled winningly. “Thank you, Mister Gringo. I think I love you lots.” She planted a wet and overlong kiss on his grizzled cheek.
“Why, bless my soul,” laughed Judas. “I do believe you’re blushing, Gringo Wade.”
They camped that night amongst a stand of pinyon-juniper and Gringo moved away from the others and sat alone watching ladder-backed woodpeckers ruffling their feathers amongst the branches above. Thoughts of Ellen and Lucy played simultaneously in his mind, their feminine presence at once a pleasure but also a problem for him. He was unsure of bringing the child along, somehow though he felt close to the little girl and her company had awoken a strange sensation in his breast. He was unsettled and it disturbed him. These new sensations were troubling his usual calm self and they left him restless, he filled the time abstractedly cleaning his Springfield musket.
He had taken the first watch and as he laid aside the smoothbore he turned his attention to the darkness of the night surrounding them whilst the others settled down for sleep around their small campfire. The hobbled ponies snorted and bustled comfortably together as they too made ready for rest. Gringo felt the silence enfold him and in the quiet he stretched out, his back against a juniper, to listen to the sounds of the desert. An owl hooted some way off and he noted the sound, intent on it until he was sure it was natural and not a call of human creation. The silence and the expansive press of the desert spaces washed over him and did something to ease his troubled mind. Alone and surrounded by silence was something he understood, a situation that agreed with him.
He heard her before he saw her.
“I thought you might need this,” she whispered, offering him a blanket. “It will be cold.”
He looked up at her and took the blanket, nodding his thanks.
“May I sit?” she asked.
He nodded again.
“I don’t want to intrude. Tell me if you’d rather be alone.”
Gringo shook his head. “No, it’s alright. I’d be pleased of your company.”
She settled beside him and shared the trunk of the tree, their shoulders touching.
“Do you like me, Gringo?” she asked suddenly and a little coyly.
“I do,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the night.
“When we reach the wagon train we might never see each other again,” she said it wistfully, hoping he would make some positive response.
“It’s possible,” was all he answered.
She drew a deep breath, “I wish it would not be so.”
“It will be awkward,” he admitted, thinking rather of extricating the big gun from her father‘s men than any implication of their separation. “But things will be as they are.”
Ellen toyed with the hem of her woolen shirt. “Why did you bring along Lucy? It was a strange thing to do.”
Gringo sighed. “I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. I hardly understand it myself. I feel I owe her something somehow, me finding her dead mother and such.”
“Will you keep her as your own?”
Gringo shook his head. “She is not mine to keep, she has a father. A trader on the Gila. I shall see she gets back to him when I am done with Le Touquet.”
“You are contracted to the captain?”
“Le Touquet? Yes, I and the others have agreed to stay with him until our course is done.”
“Then you are back to the mountains?”
Idly, Gringo rubbed the stock of his musket, feeling the smoothness of the wood beneath his palm and remembering a soft slope of green foothills covered with forest as they ran down to a mirrored lake. “I don’t know. I believe the trapping days are over now, I must need to find another means of existence. But…” he paused.
“But what?” she prodded.
“I like it there, it will be hard not to be amongst the valleys and lakes.”
“Could you not farm there, perhaps build a home?”
“A home is for a family. I am a sour old mountain man, and who would have such a crusty soul whose only knowledge of the world is gutting deer and hand fishing for river trout.”
She turned her head to him then and their closeness meant that whispers of her loosened hair brushed against his cheek. Her lips were close to his ear and she spoke softly. “I would be happy with such a man.”
He turned to face her and without thought or consideration their lips met. A soft lingering kiss, warm and full of languor. Ellen sighed as they parted, her eyes were closed, the lids peaceful. “So long,” she whispered. “So long I have waited for that.”
Their next embrace was more fervent and as Ellen was enclosed in his arms she felt as if she fitted there perfectly and that was where she was meant to belong. For his part, as he enfolded her, Gringo knew that the decision was made and all that had troubled him before slipped away. Ellen and he would never be parted. In his heart he promised that whatever might come, from this moment they would be as one.
The night was long and the two forgot the change of watch, they forgot all else except each other as they lay together under the blanket. It was Judas who watched over them and the sleeping camp. Silently rising from his bed and after only a brief look to ascertain their safe presence he turned away, his solemn features marked by a solitary tear that trickled from the corner of his eye and glinted sorrowfully in the dying firelight. He remembered when he too had shared such company and enjoyed the promise of a loving family and home. As he done so often before he hardened his heart at the thought. Savagely he suppressed the warm emotion and replaced it with a bitter glow of vengeance that marked out any man with a red skin for death.
Chapter Fourteen
Caleb Brewster had not forgotten vengeance either.
It was hard for him not to, his back still bore the scars. Even though they were healing, they itched and irritated him, a constant reminder of the shame he had suffered at the hands of their commander, the Master of Ordnance, mister Darby.
Their journey continued on at a steady pace and he noted the sad aspect of Darby and his wife constantly watching the trail behind in hopes of seeing the returning lancers bringing their daughter back to them.
Whilst his wounds healed, his anger festered and he had spent much of his recuperation time bringing the rest of the gun crew around to his way of thinking. None of them liked the sight of one of their men being shamed before the Mexican troops and it had done little to endear Darby to them.
The heavily built sailor, Kirby, who felt some element of guilt at having been ordered to deliver the punishment had developed a closer relationship with Brewster as a result. He was an active loader on the gun team and was responsible for placing the bagged powder charge and heavy ball into the cannon’s mouth.
Darby himself acted as commander and aimer and, of the three other crewmen, one was a spongeman, who’s job it was to spong
e out the cannon with water after firing to make sure no embers remained to set the new charge alight. The other, the ventsman, kept the vent covered against accidental firing and finally pricked the bagged charge within and released powder into the vent.
Finally, Brewster would apply a slowmatch against the vent and fire the cannon.
They were all confident of the great gun, the Standalone, knowing that although its famous predecessor had been a failure this weapon had already passed its ‘proof by powder’ test and been fired three times successfully. As double reassurance, pressurized water had been forced into the great cannon in search of leaks and none found.
Each night as they rested, Brewster did his best to stir discord amongst the crewmembers and this night was no different. As they sat around their campfire beside the long cannon’s carriage, Brewster eyed the Darby family wagon with enmity.
“They promised us much money for this task,” he whispered. “But theirs is the greater portion. Darby and Stockton stand to make great fortunes by its sale, whilst we get the leavings.”
“Ain’t it always so,” agreed the ventsman, the diminutive sailor called Bowley.
“True enough,” said Brewster. “Always is, always has been. They get the pleasure whilst we get the blame.”
“And who says them pissant Mexicans won’t use her to make more,” said Kirby, taking up the tail end of the complaint. “I’ve heard tell there’s fortunes made in the goldmines out here. Nuggets like fists to be found lying about plain as day and ready for the taking. With a gun like that the greasers can hold any mines they like to ransom.”
“Well, that’ll be it, won’t it?” agreed Brewster. “Just think though, what we could do if we were so minded.”
“What do you mean?” asked the bald headed spongeman, Jinks, a tall and somewhat gormless soul.
“We’re the ones with the skill,” Brewster explained. “These little monkeys here,” he jabbed a thumb in the direction of grouped Cazadores sitting around their own fire. “They just about know enough to fire their own muskets, then they’d only squeeze the trigger and run off. This monster here, the Standalone, why, they couldn’t even lift the ball to put inside her.”
