by Paul Lederer
‘That’s Canoga, Giles,’ Trish said, turning to stand next to my saddle, her eyes looking up hopefully. ‘Now everything will be all right.’
Would it? I couldn’t see how, but I looked into her searching eyes and manufactured a smile for her benefit.
Then we started on down toward the long valley where hard-working people were going about their daily lives, unaware of the war fire hovering over them. I glanced skyward. A dozen other vultures had joined the slowly circling watchers.
FIVE
There was a cluster of a dozen white-faced cattle standing scattered across an unfenced meadow. They looked up with bovine uninterest as we rode along the lane toward the small unpainted house ahead of us. Behind me on the bay, her arms around my waist again, Trish said with an air of apology:
‘We were going to whitewash the cabin next week.’
I didn’t comment. The house was small, cozy, shaded by a trio of live-oak trees. It was finer than any home I had ever had. Behind the house some fifty feet or so was a barn, also unpainted. I asked hopefully, ‘Do you have other horses, Trish?’
‘Two, but they’ll have to be caught up. We couldn’t leave them in the barn while we were gone.’
‘No. I’ll see to the bay and do what I can do about catching up the other horses. We’ll be needing them.’
‘What can I do?’ Trish asked.
‘Spread the word. Can you walk to your nearest neighbor? We’ve got to get the word out and hold a meeting to figure out what we can do. Trish,’ I said, ‘they have to be made to understand that it is a choice between fighting or running. If they run they lose everything they have worked for over the past five years. There is no middle ground, no other way.’
By the time I had stabled up the weary bay horse and forked well-deserved hay for it, pumped water into his trough, cooled myself off with the water and returned to the house I found a new Trish Connely there. She was wearing a dark blue dress with tiny dots of white on it and had managed to brush and pin up her frizzy hair using one of those secrets known only to women. It was arranged in a sleek, drawn-back sort of arrangement that flattered her face.
‘Did you manage to get the horses caught?’ she asked, not turning from the mirror as I entered the small front room of the comfortable-appearing house.
‘Not yet. I saw them, though. They looked interested in coming back to see what was happening at the barn. A red roan and a big buckskin – that them?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
I had seated myself in a deep red-cushioned chair, and she must have known that I was studying her slender back, for she turned sharply, her cheeks slightly flushed. ‘I thought it was a good idea to clean up a little so that I didn’t look like a wild-eyed maniac when I went to ask the Webbs for help.’
‘They’re the nearest neighbors? Is that the Barney Webb you mentioned?’
‘Yes, he, his wife and three sons. I don’t know if I should tell them what happened on the trail to Camp Grant, about—’ She was remembering her father, I knew. His death seemed pointless in a way, but there was something heroic in the man’s attempt to rescue them all from a bad situation.
‘I think you should tell them,’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘Maybe you could embellish a little, tell them that your father wanted them to know that his fears were well-founded.’
‘How—?’
‘If you’re not above a small white lie, you can say that you and your father talked to me before he died. I corroborated Brad Champion’s story.’ She listened, mulled it over and nodded with determination.
‘That’s the way to do it, I suppose. And then—?’
‘Tell them that I want to meet with them all. Here, or at Barney Webb’s house – it doesn’t matter. But convince them that it must be done hastily. There is no time to wait. The soldiers could arrive at any time, even as early as this afternoon from what I overheard.’
‘And what would happen then?’ Trish asked uneasily.
I shrugged, I did not really know, but I guessed, ‘They declare martial law. Everyone confined to his own home, meetings banned. I don’t know, Trish. I just know the settlers have no time to waste if they mean to save their homes.’ I paused. ‘Maybe I can catch up one of the horses quickly. I hate to see you walk.’
‘That would take time, wouldn’t it? It’s no more than half a mile to the Webb ranch. I can be there before you can rope and saddle one of the ponies.’ She tilted her head back and instructed me, ‘There is lye soap in the kitchen. You could stand a little slicking-up, too, Giles. I’ll be gone. You can wash yourself. Father … Father might have a clean shirt in his dresser that will fit you.’
Then she turned, hoisted her skirts and walked out on to the porch, down the steps and out into the sunlight, her back rigidly held, moving determinedly up the road. I watched her until she was lost among the shadows of the oak trees and then went out to try to catch the two horses before cleaning up.
Within half an hour I was standing over the zinc tub in the corner of the kitchen, washing the alkali, dust and dried blood from my body. The horses had been curious about events, as I had told Trish. Having grazed on rough forage for the past few days, drinking little water, they followed me back into the barn as I waved a handful of alfalfa hay under their noses. The roan was friendlier, but the old, stocky buckskin offered no real objection either as I placed them into their stalls, gave each a bucket of water and a forkful of hay and left them to introduce themselves to the bay.
By the time Trish returned, riding on the seat of a surrey driven by a competent-looking ranch woman, I had scrubbed, dressed myself in one of her father’s white shirts and brushed most of the tangles out of my hair. I stood on the porch, hands on my hips, watching them arrive in a swirl of light dust. The women were grim-appearing, and well they should be. A choice had to be made: fight for your land, and watch friends or family possibly die, or flee into the wasteland beyond the Canoga Valley without provisions or a promising destination.
I tied up the buggy horse and helped Trish down. The older woman, whom I took to be Mrs. Webb, alighted on her own and stood watching me with a suspicious, frozen expression, as if I were to blame for all of their troubles. They say that that is always the way with a messenger of bad tidings.
We trooped into the house, the women holding their skirts up. Trish talked to me as we entered the small house. ‘Grace has sent her three boys out to the other ranches. Barney Webb was plowing his fields and insisted on finishing what he was doing before rushing over here.’
‘I understand,’ I said, as the two women seated themselves. And I did. A man busy at work, concentrating on his task, is not eager to store his plow, unhitch his mules and rush over to a hastily called meeting arriving from out of the blue.
‘We may as well have coffee – or tea, Mrs Webb – while we are waiting,’ Beth said and she went into the kitchen, leaving me alone with the dour Grace Webb.
‘We have heard all of this before, you know,’ she said to me. ‘Warnings, rumors.’
I nodded. ‘They’re all too true, Mrs. Webb. I can assure you of that. We didn’t summon all of you on a whim.’
‘It had better not be,’ she warned me. ‘I left my sugar-cookie dough in a bowl. It’ll be hard as a rock if I don’t get back to it soon.’
If you ever do, I thought but did not say. Emergencies do not arrive at convenient times.
After one cup of tea hastily sipped, Mrs. Webb rose and announced that she had to be on her way. None of the men had arrived yet, and I wondered if any of those summoned would come at all.
Trish served coffee at the tiny kitchen table and buttered some thickly sliced bread for me. It was a little stale, I suppose, but it was more than I had had in a long time. While we dined, Trish asked me again how I had come to get caught up in all of this.
‘I was working on a small ranch near Mesa Grande, the Doubletree, by name. I was yard man and wrangler combined. One day the boss, Jeff Farrel asked me to take his prized black into town to get it re
-shod. It seemed like a pleasant way to spend a day away from my chores. I’d just have to drop the horse at the farrier’s and while I was waiting, there would be time to drink a beer or two. I was looking forward to the day off.’
‘What happened?’ Trish asked.
‘I took a shortcut up the wrong alley,’ I told her and continued on through the long story. When I was finished, Trish asked:
‘Why are your risking it – staying here? You know that Hammond Cole will be angry with you. You know that Jake Shockley would not mind having a second chance at hanging you. Why didn’t you just take one of my horses and ride away?’
It was a good question. I didn’t know. I had no real answer. Perhaps it was that I wanted to see Shockley again when he didn’t have the upper hand. Maybe I still hoped to take him back to Mesa Grande to clear my name. Maybe, I considered, the real reason was sitting across the table from me, blue eyes wondering at my actions. I never answered Trish’s question. From the front of the house we heard horses arriving in the yard, and we rose to meet the inriders.
Trish introduced the three men as they stepped up on to the porch and entered the small front room. None of them smiled at me, and only the narrowly-built Harold Kendrick shook my hand, and that briefly.
‘Now what is all of this?’ Barney Webb asked. He sat heavily on the sofa, his weight bowing the yellow cushion. He was irritable, balding and missing two front teeth. ‘Trish, so help me, if this is more of the same spook story that that Brad Champion was going on about—’
‘I’m afraid it is, Barney,’ Trish said. He sighed deeply, muttering, ‘Wes King was right to keep to his work.’
‘This man,’ Trish said, indicating me, ‘was with the phony army of land grabbers that Brad Champion was trying to warn us all about. He can tell you what he saw, what he heard. Please! Take a minute to listen. It’s dreadfully important.’
‘Is it?’ the blustering rancher asked.
I replied, ‘Only if you want to keep your house and your land.’
Gus Staley, a nervous, ineffectual-looking man with pale watery eyes spoke up, ‘We can at least listen, Barney.’
‘We’ve ridden over here,’ Kendrick agreed. ‘Let’s at least hear what he has to say.’
I told them. Told them how I knew that the soldiers were not real cavalrymen, that Cole could not be much more than a day behind us, maybe not that much. I told them about the Shockley gang and their intention to hold the land. Barney Webb seemed only bored by this repetition of Brad Champion’s warnings. Harold Kendrick listened thoughtfully, nodding his head now and then, his eyes turned to the carpet. Gus Staley’s face was intent, his watery eyes reflecting uncertainty and fear.
‘Are you positive they are not the real army?’ he asked without lifting his eyes.
‘Yes.’
‘You couldn’t know that, unless you were among them – but you say that you were,’ Webb said with suspicion.
‘Not voluntarily.’
‘So you say. Look here, men,’ Barney Webb went on. ‘If this is a regular cavalry force riding this way, we can’t take up arms against them. If they are impostors – how many men, Clanahan?’
‘Twenty, thirty.’
‘Then I don’t see how we could do anything to stop them either. There’s not more than a dozen able-bodied men on the Canoga, and for the most part we’re farmers, poor ranchers, not soldiers.’
‘Maybe we should just pull out until they’ve come and gone,’ Kendrick suggested wealdy. ‘They can’t stay here forever, can they?’
‘Weren’t you listening!’ big Barney Webb said, nearly shouting. ‘If Clanahan’s story is true – which I doubt – there is already another band of men set to arrive once we’ve been driven off. Then the so-called army splits up, loses their uniforms and returns to divvy up the rest of our land. Isn’t that what you claim, Clanahan?’
‘That’s it, yes.’
‘We don’t have a chance,’ Gus Staley said.
‘We wouldn’t, no – not if any of what he’s saying is true. I just don’t happen to believe that it is. For myself,’ Webb said, rising heavily, putting his hat on, ‘I’m going to sit it out and wait. No ghosts are going to run me off of my land. If the time comes when I have to fight – well, then I will.’
‘It will be too late by then,’ I said.
‘If any of what you’re saying is true,’ Webb said, ‘it’s already too late, isn’t it.’ Then he deliberately turned his back on us and stalked out the door, leaving it open so that the harsh afternoon sunlight glared in, painting a yellow rectangle on the floor of the small house. The other two men had risen, but their movements were more indefinite.
‘What was it that you had in mind, Clanahan,’ Gus Staley asked, turning his hat in his hands, ‘about fighting these men off?’
‘That is the thing,’ I told him honestly. ‘I don’t know this area at all. I wanted to have a meeting to see who was able, who was willing and who would help me devise a plan of action.’
‘You must have had a lot of experience as a soldier sometime,’ Staley said. There was no point in lying.
‘I never served a day.’
His eyes which had begun to grow hopeful as we spoke now seemed to darken. He put his hat on and gestured to Kendrick. The two walked slowly toward the door. Staley paused to say, ‘We’ll have to consider this further, Clanahan. Talk among ourselves. It’s a risky thing you’re proposing.’
‘It’s riskier to wait,’ I said.
Without another word the two men went out, swung into their saddles and turned their horses from the yard. Trish touched my elbow as I stood watching them go, and I looked down at her.
‘They’re not cowards, Giles. They’re just confused.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘I wish you’d have lied and told them what a great career you’d had as a solider.’
‘It wouldn’t have done any good. They’ll believe me only when it’s too late.’
We went back into the house. I helped Trish clean up the mess in the kitchen, performing the task in silence. I was placing the last dried dish up on the shelf when we heard horses arriving. Trish bolted toward the door and I followed, my hand on my pistol butt.
‘Who is it?’ I asked, peering at the new arrivals through the swirl of dust they had sent skyward as they reined up.
‘Barney Webb’s sons,’ Trish told me and we stood back to allow the three blond young men, all alike as to features and build, enter the house. Each removed his hat as he came in. I guessed their ages at between sixteen and nineteen. The youngest, the one his brother called Ned, might have been even younger. There was a sense of urgency about them and they refused a seat and instead stood standing in a half-circle, hats in hand.
‘I’m Charles Webb,’ the oldest boy said. ‘These are my brothers – Oliver and Ned. We’ve come to help.’
I looked at the three eager, grim faces and shook my head, glancing at Trish. ‘Thanks, men, but—’
‘But we’re too young!’ Charles Webb said with some antagonism. He tossed his hat on the sofa and seated himself. Folding his hands between his knees he looked up at me and said, ‘If something isn’t done, we’ve had it, isn’t that right? Look, Brad Champion was a friend to all of us. He wasn’t here long, but we all talked to him and knew he was dead serious even if the old men didn’t think so.’ He held up a hand to keep me from interrupting. ‘There’s more. We passed Gus Staley and Harold Kendrick on our way over. They were still talking. I think they’re leaning toward helping too, but they want to talk to the others, those who couldn’t make it over here today. Our father and Wes King won’t do anything until their land is pulled out from under them. There’s a couple other young guys around who might want to help – I can’t speak for everybody, but my brothers and I are here, and we won’t wait for the other men to make up their minds,’ he finished, his eyes hot with the impetuousness of youth.
‘What can we do?’ Ollie Webb asked. The same determination was in his eyes.
I sighed, r
ubbed my forehead. Shrugged. What could I tell them after pleading urgency to their father and his friends? Things were urgent, I knew that, and it seemed that they realized it as well. ‘Let’s sit down to the kitchen table,’ I said finally. ‘I need to know something about the lay of the land, maybe you can put together a rough sketch for me so that I can have some understanding of it. Charles, I want you to ride to Camp Grant and tell them—’
‘No sir!’ the eldest brother said firmly. ‘Send the kid.’ He nodded at his brother who was no more than two or three years younger than he.
‘All right,’ I agreed. ‘This is no time to argue. Ned, then: take two horses so you can switch off from time to time, and make sure to carry waterbags.’ Trish interrupted to make sure that Ned knew about the poison waterhole. Then she asked me a question: ‘Giles, you said that the army would delay forever making up their minds.’
‘That was when we had only a warning of attack. Ned,’ I said, speaking carefully to the youngest Webb boy. ‘You are to tell them that we are under attack by raiders and things are desperate. Nothing more. Do you understand me?’
‘I do,’ Ned replied with the same determination his older brothers showed.
‘How long do you think it will take you to reach the camp?’
‘If I leave now and ride hard, I can make it by midnight,’ Ned thought.
‘Then scoot! We’re all depending on you.’
He was out the door without another word, turning his pony sharply on its heels as he spurred it out of the yard. To the two older boys I said, ‘Now, then. I want you to help me with a battle plan. After that’s done, I want you to ride to the outlying ranches and see if anyone else is willing to join us. We won’t count on Staley, Kendrick, and their hands to join us until we see them coming.’
Half an hour later both of the Webb boys had left the ranch as well, heading in opposite directions. I watched them until the dust settled.
Trish had said not a word for the last fifteen minutes as the Webbs sat drawing a map of the Canoga for me to study. Now, bringing me a mug of steaming coffee, she said, ‘What are you thinking, Giles?’
