“Now,” said Van, “let’s get away from here.”
But it would be a while before moonrise, and they couldn’t see where they were going. Finally they came upon a windblown pine, and the upended root mass had left a hole as big as a buffalo wallow. It was waist deep and full of dried leaves. A light wind had risen, and Rosa’s teeth chattered.
“God knows what may be in among those leaves,” said Van, “but we can’t see standin’ here jaybird naked, with our teeth chattering, while we wait for the moon to rise.”
Van fumbled around in the dark for a stick, a limb, something with which to probe the mass of dry leaves. He eventually found a stone by smashing his big toe into it. When he dropped the stone into the hole, there was no evidence of any animal or reptile that might object to their company. The naked pair sank gratefully into the dry leaves and out of the chilling wind.
“Por Dios,” sighed Rosa, “I have never been so tired, so sore, or so hungry. How far are we from the spring where our camp was?”
“God knows,” said Van. “That big bastard that grabbed me almost bashed my brains out. I don’t know how far we had ridden when I finally came to my senses. I’m afraid we’re far enough away that we won’t make it tonight, and that forces us to go the rest of the way in daylight. From all the shooting, I reckon Gil and the outfit got out alive, and I look for them to come back after the horses sometime tonight.”
“All they can do is stampede the horses,” said Rosa, “and that means they must round them up in the daylight. Could we not just stay here and wait for them to find us?”
“Rosa, these damn Apaches will still be here, and they may be hunting horses too. Knowin’ Gil, he’ll stampede every horse in camp, leavin’ these war whoops afoot. They may be out here beatin’ the bushes too, and what do you reckon they’ll do to us if they find us?”
“I am sorry,” she said. “I am so tired, I am not thinking.”
“I know how you feel,” he said, more sympathetic. “I just believe Gil will expect us to try and make it back to the spring, to our old camp. He won’t expect us this near the Indian camp, and he can’t risk coming to look for us.”
“Van, what do you think of me? Be honest with me, and do not spare my feelings.”
“Now that I’ve seen you stripped to the bare hide,” he said, “I think you’re a hell of a lot older than Gil believes you are.”
“Had you felt that way before . . . today?”
“I’ve suspected it for at least a year,” he said, “and I was sure of it . . .”
“Today,” she finished.
He said no more. Irritated, Rosa again took up the conversation.
“Damn it, Van, why will you not talk to me? Just because you have seen me without my clothes, does that make me less a person? Are you going to pretend I do not exist?”
“Rosa, I’m a married man with a child. How am I supposed to feel, the two of us together possum naked? Besides, I’m not sure how Gil’s goin’ to take this.”
“He will be satisfied that we are alive,” said Rosa. “Do you fear he is going to think you took advantage of me while we were half frozen, tired, and hungry, with the Apaches after us?”
“No,” he said wearily, “it’s not that. I . . . damn it, Rosa, I don’t know what I’m afraid of, what I think. I was sittin’ there in that tepee, hogtied, not knowin’ if I’d live or die. I should have been praying, but when that Indian brought you in . . . like that . . . stark naked, I . . .”
“You forgot the wife and child,” said Rosa. “You have been on the trail many weeks, and you wanted me. As a woman. Your conscience hurts you.”
“My God, yes,” he said, his voice breaking. “I wouldn’t have, couldn’t have, but God help me, I wanted you. What would Dorinda say if . . . she knew?”
“I think she would say she is proud of her husband,” said Rosa. “It is no sin to be tempted. The sin comes with the yielding. You are a bueno hombre, Van, and I could be tempted of you as you are tempted of me, but I think your feelings for Dorinda are my feelings for Gil.”
“Thank you,” said Van. “I needed to hear you say that, and I don’t regret my feelings for you. I don’t understand Gil, but if he ever lets you down or hurts you, I’ll personally kill him.”
“Thank you,” said Rosa. “I know he wants me, but there are times when he is so distant I cannot reach him. He is searching for something only he can see. Perhaps it is something he wants more than me. I think I shall know by the time we reach the end of this California Trail. . . .
Gil and the outfit returned to the spring that had been their camp when the Apaches had struck. The moon had risen, and they found that during the day, most if not all the longhorns had returned to water. So had the horses the Apaches hadn’t been able to gather.
“We must have hot water,” Gil said, “to cleanse Long John’s wound, and that means a fire. None of us have eaten since last night, so let’s eat while we can. We have a long night ahead of us, and maybe a fight in the morning.”
“Could the Apaches strike again tonight?” Bo asked.
“Maybe,” said Gil, “but I don’t think so. We hurt them, and except for the arrow in Long John’s leg, they didn’t make much of a showing. They’ve had a bad day. No matter how hard they hit us, those of us still able to ride would go after them, but Indians don’t think that way. When things just go to hell for them, like today, they’ll back off. In fact, they’re liable to pack up at first light and move the camp. That’s why we have to go after them tonight, and recover the rest of our horses.”
“Ye’d best git started drivin’ this Apache toothpick outta my leg,” said Long John. “Time the moon sets, we ought t’ be back at that Injun camp.”
“You’re goin’ to be right here,” Gil said, “and Bo will be with you. By morning, you’ll have some fever. I want you to start sweatin’ out that infection, so when we recover the horses, we can get on with this drive. I reckon it’s time to break out that little keg of whiskey we brought along for this occasion.”
It was a sensible solution, and Long John didn’t object. A man could die from a minor wound if he didn’t whip the infection. While the wound would be painful, when the danger of infection was past, Long John could ride. Once the Cajun had downed enough of the whiskey to make the procedure bearable, Gil made preparations to remove the arrow.
“This won’t be a pleasant thing to watch,” Gil said, “but those of you who don’t know how it’s done, ought to know. I think this Indian problem on the frontier may outlive all of us, and every man should know how to treat arrow wounds.”
The procedure was as simple as it was painful. Gil snapped off the feathered shaft of the arrow, leaving just enough of its length to drive it on through the flesh. With the butt of his Colt, by the light of the fire, he drove the shaft far enough for the barbed tip to emerge. Gripping the tip, he drew the rest of the broken shaft through the wound. Long John, in a stupor from the whiskey, still grunted with the pain. Once the arrow had been removed, Gil used plenty of hot water—almost too hot—to cleanse the wound. He then poured a generous amount of the whiskey into the wound. An old shirt became a bandage. Gil bound thick pads over the entrance and exit wounds, soaking each pad with the whiskey.
“Now,” said Gil, “let’s get some grub ready and eat. I want us at that Apache camp by moonset.”
Out of the chill wind, despite her cuts and bruises, Rosa slept. It was an escape from the hunger that gnawed at her empty belly. When she woke, it was to a mournful sound that seemed borne on the wind.
“Por Dios,” she whispered, “it sounds like the wind is crying.”
“I’ve never heard it before,” Van said, “but I’ve heard of it. It’s the Apache death song. Gil and the outfit must have done some real damage. That was a smart move, cutting down on them just as they were about to force us to run the gauntlet.”
“I knew that somehow Gil would help us,” said Rosa. “In many ways, I do not understand your brother, but he
is a fighting man who is quick to do what must be done.”
“I know,” said Van. “That’s how he ended up with you, in the wilds of Mexico, with the Mexican army all around us.”
“You say it as though I were a puta, as though I forced myself on him. It was not that way. The soldados had murdered my madre and padre, and I was afraid. Gil’s hands and face had been browned, like that of a Mejicano, and I feared he was one of the soldados. I tried to kill him with a hay fork. He tied my hands and forced me to look at his blue eyes and the white skin above the tops of his boots. He has told you none of this?”*
“He told us nothing, except that the Mex soldiers had killed your mama and daddy. I’m sorry for what I said . . . the way I said it. I know you were alone and afraid, and there was nowhere for you to go except to our trail drive. Gil only did what any man of us would have done, given the chance.”
“The moon is rising,” Rosa said. “I know we must go, but I wish we did not have to. I am warm here, and the wind is so cold.”
“We’ll have to take advantage of the moonlight,” said Van, “and get as far from these Apaches as we can. I just wish I knew where we are in relation to that spring where we camped last night.”
“We could just go north,” said Rosa.
“We could, but we don’t know if we’re east or west of our old camp. Maybe we ought to circle the Apache camp to the west, and then travel north. We might even strike the trail the Apaches left, returning after their attack.”
“When the longhorns and the horse remuda stampeded, they would have left a trail,” said Rosa. “Perhaps we could find the path of the stampede, and it would tell us the direction we should go.”
“The longhorns wouldn’t run this far,” said Van. “Once they get thirsty, they’ll head for the nearest water they remember. If we’re goin’ to backtrack horses, I aim to look for the trail of the Apaches after their attack on us.”
“Suppose they scattered, and all returned by different ways?”
“I’m sure they separated right after the attack,” said Van, “but if you can remember, when we reached their camp, all of them had come together. I don’t need a trail all the way back to our spring. Just enough to establish a direction, so we don’t pass up our camp by bein’ too far east or west.”
Once the moon was high enough to afford them some light, Van and Rosa left their comfortable sanctuary, again braving the chill night wind.
“We’ll go north three or four miles,” said Van, “and then west about the same distance. From there, we’ll head north. We’re lucky we’re downwind from the Apache camp, and we want to stay well away from them. All we need is for another of their dogs to discover us.”
“There must be a hundred dogs. Why do they keep so many?”
“For hard times,” Van said. “When the hunting is poor and meat becomes scarce, they’ll drop a dog or two in the cook pot.”
“Por Dios!” said Rosa. “I would starve first.”
Van and Rosa, east of the Apaches, trudged north until there was no sound from the Indian camp. Even the multitude of dogs had become silent.
“Here is where we turn to the west,” said Van, “and once we’re far enough beyond the camp, we’ll turn back to the north. By then it’ll be daylight, and maybe we can start lookin’ for a trail that’ll lead us back to our old camp.”
“Perhaps we will meet Gil and our riders when they come to take back our horses,” said Rosa.
“Not likely,” Van said. “Gil will want this to be a surprise attack, so I look for him to hit the Apaches from the south. That means our outfit will ride far to the east or west. Too far for them to find us.”
“An attack from the south would stampede the horses to the north,” Rosa said.
Van chuckled. “Now you’re thinkin’ like a Texan. Hit them directly from the north, and our horse remuda would end up in Mexico. If I know Gil, he’ll stampede every damn horse in the camp. I think that bunch of Apaches will be glad to see us go. If there’s any with revenge on their minds, they won’t get far without horses.”
“Bo,” said Gil, “I don’t look for you and Long John to have any trouble while we’re gone. We’re going to deal those Apaches enough misery that they’ll leave us be. I aim to hit them from the south and stampede all the horses this way, so we shouldn’t be away too long. If you hear something, don’t be too quick to shoot. I look for Van and Rosa to find their way here.”
Long John was still out of it, sleeping off the whiskey he’d taken prior to having the arrow removed. Bo had found a place away from the spring, where it was unlikely he and Long John would be discovered. From there, Bo could see the remainder of the horse remuda. When the outfit was mounted and ready to ride, Gil had some final words.
“Bo, if there is trouble—any kind of trouble—stay where you are. If Long John comes around and is in pain, or if he has fever, give him another slug of the whiskey. There’s nothing more we can do for him.”
Gil led out, the outfit following. The wind was from the west, and they rode ten miles eastward before turning south. That would keep them downwind from the Apaches until they were far enough south to double back for their attack. They rode in silence. Gil’s thoughts were of Van and Rosa. The Apache camp was a good thirty miles south of the spring where Bo and Long John waited, and it was to there that Gil expected Van and Rosa to return. But even if they had escaped uninjured, they couldn’t cover thirty miles from moon-rise to moonset, so they would have to continue their journey in daylight. If the attack on the Apaches came off as planned, the Indians would have no horses, but Van and Rosa would have no way of knowing that. He concluded that he had to depend heavily on Van’s savvy and intuition. His brother had too much Austin in him to hole up and depend on somebody to come looking for him, and from a purely practical standpoint, he should know that recovery of the horse remuda couldn’t wait. At dawn the Apaches might pull up stakes and move on, taking the horses with them. Gil hoped that after the attack, when they returned to the spring, Van and Rosa would be there. What bothered him most was that he couldn’t be sure they were still alive. Perhaps they had been recaptured. If they had, and were yet alive after tonight’s attack, their deaths would be swift and sure. Gil rode on, uncertain, but knowing what he must do.
“I reckon we’d better be lookin’ for a place to hole up until daylight,” Van said. “If we don’t, once the moon’s down, we’ll have a long, uncomfortable night ahead of us.”
“My hands have no feeling in them,” Rosa said, “and my feet are so dead, they could be full of cactus thorns and I would never know. I fear that when I get warm, the pain will be terrible.”
“Come mornin’,” said Van, “you’ll be wishing you had some of this cool night air. This is still early summer, and the sun will be hot. You ever had all-over sunburn?”
“Once,” said Rosa, “and por Dios, I could not sit, lie down, or bear having clothes touch my body. But then I was very young, and madre covered me with bacon grease.”
“You’ve filled out some since then,” said Van, “and we don’t have that much bacon. Besides, I’m almost certain Gil wouldn’t like it, you wearin’ nothing but bacon grease. We need to get as far as we can tonight, before the sun has a chance to work on us.”
Wearily they went on, until they came to what seemed the runoff from a spring.
“Let’s follow it,” said Van. “The spring’s likely at the foot of a ridge, or the water may be out of a rock crevice higher up. We need somethin’ to keep the wind off us, even if it’s a bunch of boulders or the lee side of a ridge.”
It was a small spring on the side of a hill, and above it they found a ledge of rock that faced the east. While there wasn’t much room, it kept the west wind from their half-frozen bodies. Their crevice was too shallow to have gathered any windblown leaves, and they had to settle for the bare ground.
“At least we are out of the wind,” said Rosa, “and that is enough.”
* Trail Drive Series #4, T
he Bandera Trail
14
Though they had ridden far to the east of the Apache camp, Gil had no trouble knowing when they were even with it. The wind was still from the west, and it brought the distant yipping of a camp dog. Gil led out, and they rode on, reining up when he judged they were half a dozen miles south of the camp.
“Now we ride west a ways,” he said, “but before we hit the camp, we need to know where the horses are. We also need to eliminate their sentries. This is a tricky piece of work for Mariposa, Estanzio, and their Bowies. Ready, hombres?”
“We ready,” said Mariposa. “Kill all?”
“All that’s in the way of us gettin’ to the horses,” said Gil, “and that’ll likely just be the sentries. When you’ve cleared the way, slip back and join us, and then we’ll hit them all together.”
The moon had set. Mariposa and Estanzio slipped away like shadows. Despite anything Gil had said, the intrepid pair still regarded the loss of most of the horse remuda as their personal disgrace. They were eager to redeem themselves, at least in their own eyes. But the camp was full of dogs, and within a matter of minutes one of them yipped a question. His answer came with a fifteen-inch blade, and his first yip became his last. Mariposa and Estanzio finished what they had been sent to do and made their report.
“Apach’ watch horse,” said Estanzio, “them die.”
“Where are the horses?” Gil asked. “This side of the camp, or the far side?”
“Tepee,” said Mariposa, “then horse. No picket. Them loose.”
The California Trail Page 18
