Some of the longhorns had started back toward the river, and that ended their moment of jubilation.
“Come on,” said Gil. “They still have to be watered, and they can’t all go at once. Long John, Van, Manuel, Pedro, and Bola, you come with me. We will cut out maybe a third of them and let them drink. The rest of you, hold the others back until these are done.”
Mariposa and Estanzio had the horse remuda under control. The horses would drink when the longhorns were out of the way. The outfit was two hours into darkness when the last horse and the last longhorn had drunk its fill.
“What of supper?” Rosa asked.
“Jerked beef and Pecos tea,” said Gil. “I know it’s been a long, hard day, but the night will be even tougher if we have to spend it fightin’ the Comanches. So no fire. We’ll have to wait till first light for our coffee. Two watches, as usual, and since I’m odd man, I’ll work the second.”
“There is no odd man,” said Rosa. “There are fourteen of us. I will take the first watch and do the cooking.”
“You cook,” said Juan Padillo. “We watch.”
“That’s fair,” said Van. “The watch we can handle, but we can’t none of us cook worth a damn.”
“No,” said Rosa, “I am part of this trail drive, and I do not wish to be treated as a child. I will take my watch, and I will also cook.”
Nobody objected to that. As long as Rosa did the cooking, they didn’t care what liberties she took. They would be at Gil’s expense, of course, but he said nothing. They would be together on the trail for months, and he might as well make the best of it. Since he had taken the second watch, he almost insisted she take the first, but that would only aggravate an already touchy situation. She would raise hell, and after a fight, he’d end up with her on his watch anyway. He had little doubt the outfit already knew the perilous position he was in, but he vowed not to fight with Rosa in their presence. Juan Alamonte, Manuel Armijo, Domingo Chavez, Juan Padillo, and Bola joined Gil and Rosa on the first watch. Riders seldom spoke while they were on watch, but it was a tradition that Rosa didn’t intend to observe. “You did not want me to ride with you,” she said.
“I said nothing against you,” he said defensively.
“You said nothing for me either.”
“Why should I? Rosa, you’re trying to force me into a position where I will have to prove something to you, or where you can prove something to yourself. Which is it, and what do you hope to prove?”
“Perhaps I wish to know if you feel anything more for me than the sympathy you expressed when you found me in Mexico.”
“Rosa, I am thirty-six years old, and I have no right to any feelings toward you beyond what a father feels for a daughter.”
“You are not being honest with me. You say that you have no right to any feelings for me, but you do not say if the feelings are there. Do you feel nothing more for me than the pity you would bestow on any little bastardo, or do you have the feeling for me that a man should have for a woman?”
She had a way of shredding his logic, of forcing him into a corner where only a brutal yes or no would suffice. He considered simply lying to her, telling her that above and beyond his sympathy, he didn’t care. But something he had done or failed to do had convinced her otherwise, and the fact that she was so much aware of his thoughts and his feelings made him all the more uncomfortable. He had reached the point where the truth could hurt him no more than an unconvincing lie that she would see through immediately.
“Yes,” he said, “I felt sorry for you, Rosa. I’d have felt the same toward any child so young and so alone. But you’ve asked for an honest answer, and I’m going to give you one, although both of us are going to be sorry for it. While you’re young in years, you are very much a woman, and I am drawn to you. But that doesn’t make it right, and it can never be right as long as I feel guilty for my very thoughts.”
For a long time she said nothing, and when she finally spoke, it was in almost a whisper, as though she would be sure nobody heard but him.
“I believe you,” she said, “and I understand a little, I think. I wanted only to know your feelings for me. I asked for nothing more. Someday, you will turn to me, and the years and the guilt will fall away. Until then, I only need to know that you care.”
By dawn the Pecos River had overflowed its banks and continued to rise. Limbs, stumps, and even young trees were swept before the surging brown water. Attempting to cross, even by a rider on horseback, would have been sheer madness. Long John looked at the violent river, then at Mariposa.
“Hombre,” said Long John, “nex’ time ye say water’s acomin’, I swear t’ take it as gospel.”
“So do I,” said Gil. “Might take three or four days for that to subside.”
They watered the herd and the horse remuda, and then made up for the hot supper they had missed the night before. Mariposa and Estanzio already had the horse remuda moving out, and the longhorns were following, when Rosa looked back across the river.
“Look,” cried the girl. “Indians!”
On the farthest bank of the swollen river, a large band of Indians sat their horses, viewing the high water with evident frustration. Van laughed.
“It’s a mite early for that,” said Gil. “That water level will drop, and that pack of war whoops can ride seventy miles a day. Our best day—and that was yesterday—has been fifteen, and our average is ten.”
It was a sobering thought, and they pushed on, twenty miles away from the next water, unless the violent storm to the northwest had provided something closer. Only Rosa suggested the possibility.
“No,” said Gil, “we can’t count on anything as a result of yesterday’s thunderstorm. Where there might be water this morning, there’ll be only mud when we get there. Wet weather streams are good only for a few hours. We’ll be able to depend only on the water we know is there.”
On the government map Big Foot Wallace had provided, there were alarming stretches of plains where no water was indicated. Here, they must depend on their own scouting, and providential springs. These were dependable, year-round water sources where the runoff might continue for only a mile or two before being swallowed by the sandy plain. It was to just such a spring that Gil was taking his thirsty horses and longhorns, with full awareness of the risk. In dry country, where streams were few and far between, all living things were drawn to what water there was. And that included hostile Indians. A spring, with its limited runoff, was especially hazardous, because all who came for water were concentrated in that one small area.
“Ramon,” said Gil, “I’m ridin’ ahead to scout the spring for Indian sign. There’s a short runoff, so we’ll have to pitch camp right at the spring for the herd to have room enough to drink. Remind every rider, especially the drag, to keep their eyes open for possible attack. Remember that bunch of Indians at the river. The water level won’t have to drop much before they’ll be after us. I just hope we can reach the spring in time to dig in and be ready for them. Push the herd as hard as you can.”
The Indians would know of the spring, and they would be aware that it was the destination of the trail drive. At best, Gil hoped they could make it to the spring. At worst, the Indians would cross the Pecos and force them to make a stand on the dry plain. Thirsty horses and cattle would be impossible to control, and the Indians would count on that as a distraction. Such an attack, miles from water, would force Gil and his riders to abandon the herd and fight for their lives. The sun was noon high when Gil reached the spring. There were deer and turkey tracks, a few coyote tracks, but no Indian sign. Gil allowed his horse to drink from the runoff. Then Gil, with caution, went belly down to satisfy his own thirst from the clear pool that surrounded the spring. The frightened nicker of his horse was all that saved him. Gil rolled to his left, drawing his Colt as an arrow plowed into the water where he had been drinking. He fired twice before the Indian could loose another arrow, but the brave wasn’t alone. There were angry shouts from his comrad
es, and Gil could see them coming through the brush beyond the spring. His horse was already running when Gil hit the saddle. He could see Indians riding hard to cut him off, to trap him in a deadly cross fire. On he rode, kicking the valiant black horse into a fast gallop.
But their horses were fresher than his, and Gil’s horse could stand only a few minutes of hard running. His pursuers were within range, and the arrows were coming fearfully close. One tore through Gil’s shirt, cutting a gash across his ribs. Suddenly the horse screamed and stumbled, and Gil knew the animal had been hit. Despite his danger, he slowed the faithful black, allowing it to recover as best it could. He drew his Colt, reloading the two empty chambers as he rode. At best, he had but a few more minutes. . . .
* Trail Drive #1, The Goodnight Trail
5
Gil began looking for some cover, but there was nothing in sight that looked promising. He wasn’t sure how many Indians were in pursuit, but there were more than enough to surround him, wherever he had to make a stand. He drew his Colt, turned in the saddle and fired three shots. While he’d hit none of his pursuers, and hadn’t expected to, he had spaced his shots. It was a distress signal his outfit had used before. The wind was at his back, and he judged he was close enough for the sound to carry. He leaned forward on his horse’s neck, praying he wouldn’t hear the black heaving for air. Instead, faint but distinct, he heard a shot. A second later there was another, and finally a third. They knew he was in trouble! If only his horse could last a little longer. But time had run out. He felt the black horse falter, and riding it to death wouldn’t save him. He could see a spire of rock ahead, and when the horse was near enough, Gil left the saddle. He rolled with the fall, scrambling behind the rock, which was only about waist high. He had hoped for a rock cluster, but it wasn’t there. He had cover only from one side, and the Indians would quickly circle his position, pinning him down in a cross fire. He reloaded the empty chambers in his Colt, preparing to defend himself as best he could. There were eight Indians, shouting at one another, and he could see them splitting up to circle him.
Then, above the excited shouts of his pursuers, Gil heard something else. It at first seemed like the faraway rush of wind, perhaps the roar of an approaching storm. Or a stampede! The herd was coming, running hard! Within seconds, through rising clouds of dust, he could see them, fanned out like a vengeful horned avalanche. The Indians were now shouting in alarm, and those who had begun to circle his precarious position turned their horses and rode for their lives. Now Gil was facing a new danger, with only a slender finger of rock between him and sixteen thousand thundering hooves! If the herd failed to split around him, he was done. Then his heart leaped. A rider galloped madly alongside the stampeding longhorns, seeking to get ahead of them. The rider was hatless, his long hair streaming in the wind, a scarlet sash about his waist. Estanzio! Into the path of the herd he rode, and it seemed horse and rider couldn’t possibly avoid the hooves and horns of the oncoming longhorns. Estanzio rode like he was part of the horse, and when he leaned forward on the black’s neck, he might have been speaking in a language the horse understood. The black surged ahead, seeming to double its speed. They were forty yards ahead of the longhorns, then sixty, and finally a hundred! When Gil waved his hat, horse and rider swept across the plain toward him. Gil caught Estanzio’s hand with the horse on the run, but with the black carrying double, they began losing ground to the stampede. But the longhorns had begun to tire. Flank riders had caught up to the lead steers, and when the herd began to slow, Estanzio slowed the black to a walk. Gil slid off Estanzio’s horse, and the first rider he saw was Rosa. She had caught his horse, and he could see the fear in her eyes. It was no time for a show of concern from her, so he turned back to Estanzio, who was tending the arrow wound on the left flank of Gil’s horse. Gil slapped Estanzio on the shoulder in affection and appreciation.
“Thanks, pard,” he said.
Estanzio didn’t acknowledge the thanks or change his expression. He had taken a tin of sulfur salve from a knotted bandanna and was applying the salve to the horse’s wound. Mariposa, Juan Padillo, and Bola had the horse remuda under control. The horses had been behind the longhorn herd, which meant the stampede had been for Gil’s benefit.
“They’ve stopped the stampede!” Rosa cried.
The longhorns appeared to be moving at their usual gait. Van, Long John, and Ramon rode back to see how Gil was.
“We didn’t know you was afoot when we started the stampede,” said Van.
“Ye come outta it wi’ yer hair an’ yer hide,” said Long John. “Cain’t do no better’n that, when yer dealin’ wi’ Injuns.”
“Speaking of Indians,” said Gil, “is anybody botherin’ to see where that bunch went that was after me?”
“Scattered seven ways from Sunday,” said Van.
“They caught me at the spring,” said Gil, “and they know damn well that’s where we’re headed now. With our luck, that bunch waitin’ to cross the Pecos will show up before mornin’. No fire tonight, and there’ll be just one watch. It’ll begin at dusk, and it’ll involve us all. Now let’s ride.”
They reached the spring without incident, and the body of the Indian Gil had shot was gone.
“Maybe we ought to just water the stock and keep the drive goin’,” said Van. “Might confuse that bunch if we don’t spend the night here.”
“Not near as much as it’ll confuse us,” said Gil. “There won’t be much of a moon tonight, and it’ll rise late. Comanches kill as readily at night as they do in broad daylight, and us strung out with the herd, they’d pick us off in the dark, one at a time. Besides, I haven’t had a chance to scout for the next water.”
“All right!” said Van irritably. “All right!”
Rosa had been about to say something, but thought better of it. Instead, Long John asked the question.
“No fire tonight,” he said, “but it ain’t night yit. How ’bout supper?”
“Supper fire, then,” said Gil, “but see that it’s out before dark.”
“Won’t matter,” said Van, “since they know we’re here.”
“By God,” snapped Gil, “I said put out the fire before dark!”
“Is it not better,” Rosa asked, “that we spend our anger on the Indians instead of each other?”
Long John laughed first, and the others joined in, relieving the tension. They built a cook fire, and Rosa hurried the supper. They all felt better after they had eaten, even with a sleepless night ahead of them.
“Tonight,” said Gil, “listen for anything that doesn’t sound right. Pay particular attention to the coyotes. Listen for the echo.”
“Echo of what?” Rosa asked.
They all laughed except Gil, and Rosa thought he was about to lose patience with her. But he recovered and spoke calmly.
“There’s no echo to an animal’s cry, Rosa. When you hear a coyote with an echo, you know it’s the two-legged kind.”
When darkness came, Gil spread the riders out around the horse remuda and the longhorns in a huge circle, not to ride, but to watch.
“Keep your horses saddled and close by,” said Gil, “but unless the herd gets restless, stay out of the saddle. Even in starlight they can pick us off from cover, so we’ll find us a place and keep out of sight.”
Far to the northwest there was lightning and the faint rumbling of thunder. The wind rose slightly, bringing a spring freshness that said rain was falling not too many miles distant. Rosa had settled down near Gil, and he had made no attempt to discourage her. But the girl had said little, either because she was aware of the need for silence or perhaps she hadn’t forgotten his earlier flare of temper. When she eventually spoke, she did so quietly.
“There is more rain. Perhaps the river will continue to flood, and that other band of Indians will not be able to follow us.”
“Maybe,” said Gil, “but we can’t depend on that. Anyway, I shot one of that bunch that jumped me at the spring. I look for the other
s to get even, if they can.”
“What are we going to do if they come?”
“They can’t attack the camp,” said Gil, “because the way we’re spread out, there is no camp. The way we’re circlin’ the herd, they can’t come near the horses or cattle without bein’ caught by some of us. So we wait for them to come to us, if they’re fool enough to do it.”
With the first cry of a coyote, Rosa caught her breath. She thought there was a slight echo, and when the cry came again, she was sure of it. Gil hadn’t moved, but even in the starlight she could see he’d drawn his Colt. Rosa drew her own pistol, holding it with both hands to steady their trembling. Gil had gotten silently to his feet, and in a moment she knew why. A shadow had separated itself from the surrounding darkness. While Rosa thought it was Mariposa or Estanzio, she couldn’t be sure. After an inaudible conversation with Gil, the shadow faded into the night. Rosa remained silent, waiting until Gil finally spoke.
“Mariposa killed a two-legged coyote,” Gil said, “and Estanzio’s on the trail of a second one. They’ve been sent to scout the camp, to find out just where we are. We’ll sit tight for a while. If Estanzio gets another, the rest may decide we’re bad medicine and ride on.”
Rosa remained with Gil until Estanzio arrived. He still carried the big Bowie in his hand, and the starlight reflected off its long blade.
“Coyote dead,” said Estanzio. “Others run.”
“Then we have nothing more to fear?” Rosa asked.
“Depends on that bunch of Indians we left at the Pecos,” said Gil. “But I think we’ll continue this watch, with the entire outfit, at least for tonight.”
Gil made the rounds, talking to each of the riders. When he returned, Rosa said nothing more. For the past several days their relationship had become strained, and each of them had been painfully polite to the other. Rosa was sure Gil’s sharp tongue and short temper were a result of his frustration toward her.
“Rosa,” Gil said, “you can get some sleep, if you like. I’ll wake you, if there’s any need.”
The California Trail Page 7
