by Win Blevins
Sam was wondering if they could afford to rest, with food running out.
Marechal said under his breath to Sam, “Hardly no water, hardly no meat, no whiskey any, you Americains…”
The next day they trekked across the desert during the day. The heat was awful, but the risk of getting lost seemed worse. Jedediah remembered a shortcut pointed out by last year’s guides, who thought it too stony for horses. Now they took it.
The sun hit them like a club. Every step was a struggle. They trudged, they wandered, they stumbled. Sam and Hannibal took Virgin by the elbows to steady him. All were too parched and too exhausted to utter one word of complaint.
Occasionally men got a little satisfaction by cutting off slices of cabbage pears and chewing on them. The juice was a blessing on the tongue, and when you chewed the fiber, you could pretend you were eating.
The men were disgruntled, discouraged, failing. Jedediah boosted them continually with encouraging words. “It’s not far now,” he would say. Tramp, tramp, tramp on the sand. “There’ll be a spring against the hill.” Tramp, tramp, tramp. They stopped, and the captain glassed. “See the dark spot at the bottom of the hill there? Those are bushes, and bushes mean water.”
Some men lifted their eyes and gazed blearily in the direction of the hill. Maybe someone saw the dark spot. No one mentioned the thousands of footsteps between here and the hill.
Late in the afternoon Virgin collapsed. Seph LaPoint plopped down beside him.
Smith bent over Virgin. “I’m done,” he said. No more words came out.
“Me too,” said LaPoint.
The captain studied them. Sam thought, They don’t have strength even for words…
“Tom,” said the captain, “you’ve soldiered this far. We all admire you.” He looked back and forth from Virgin to LaPoint. “You’ve got grit. You’ll both make it.
“Normally, I’d cover you with sand, keep you cooler, but we don’t have any shovels.” He thought. “Scoot into the shade of the grease-wood here. When you can, dig in the sand with your hands. Make a shallow hole, get in it, and cover up.”
LaPoint snickered.
“Seph, it’s your job to dig for Tom and cover him.”
LaPoint shrugged.
“Do it. Sam saved his own life this way.”
“I will,” rasped LaPoint. His voice sounded like a scrape on a washboard.
“I’ll bring water.”
They walked on. Sam’s heart twisted at leaving, but he resisted looking back. The first time this happened, two months ago, he and Diah and Robert Evans left Silas Gobel behind. Gobel, who was now nothing but bones. The second time, Diah and Gobel had to go off and leave Sam and Evans. Both times Diah had found a spring, both times someone carried a kettle back, and both times the men were saved.
Sam checked the sky for buzzards. I wonder if I’ll have to see them circling over Virgin and LaPoint.
Or these eight figures trudging across the Mojave Desert.
Just after sunset Diah led them to a spring.
“I’ll go back,” said Sam.
“Me too,” said Hannibal.
Two men to carry one kettle, but Sam was glad of the company.
What a world, he thought, where nightmares get to be routine.
THAT NIGHT EVERYONE talked about the Inconstant River. Drank and talked and drank some more and talked about the Inconstant. Their thirst felt so wide and dry they didn’t even miss food.
LaPoint wanted to know why it was called Inconstant.
Sam smiled and answered dryly, “Because the water disappears into the sands and then comes back up and disappears again.”
“In lots of places you can dig for it,” said Jedediah.
Sam held up his bare hands and looked at them. He said good-naturedly, “My hands are begging to dig.”
The men chuckled. Anything for a chuckle, as downhearted as they felt.
“It flows out of the mountains to the west,” Jedediah said. “One way or another, there’s water steady enough up the river.”
Sam added, “Last year there were Indians at the foot of the mountain. We traded with them.”
“We can cross the mountain in two days,” the captain said, “and we’ll see deer.”
Men slunk off to separate boulders and bushes to sleep. They didn’t feel much like talking, didn’t feel like company. Some were slipping off into a private place in their minds where they could die peacefully. Sam wondered whether Virgin would wake up in the morning.
He knew the men were bothered by a lot of things. They were starving. They were half-thirsting. Their bodies were wasting. If they traveled like this for long, they’d die, no question.
“I can tell you this,” said Hannibal. “Death hath dominion here.”
Sam shook off that thought. Something else was bothering him.
MOUNTAIN LUCK, THEY called it. Desert luck too, Sam supposed. Like mountain luck, it could be very good and very bad.
The river was drier than the year before. At first Sam was worried about water. But in the middle of that first day walking up the Inconstant, Hannibal spotted two horses.
The captain stopped the outfit and circled the mounts, looking for their owners. He found two lodges and eased up to them gently enough that the Indians didn’t have a chance to run away. Paiutes, they said they were. He made them presents of some beads.
Then he brought the men up. The Paiutes trembled visibly, men, women, and children. Sam could see that every impulse was to run like hell, but they stayed. Slowly, Jedediah began to trade with them. He offered more beads, which pleased the women. He put out cloth, which thrilled them. He laid down a double handful of knives. In an hour or two he’d traded for both horses, some water pots, and big loaves of candy made from cane grass.
The brigade had this candy last fall. It was funny stuff, a loaf of sugar hard as a rock. You knocked off pieces with a tomahawk or your knife. Strange food, but the sweet tasted great and any nourishment helped.
The Paiutes told the trappers that the lodges of the Serranos were still at the foot of the mountain, where the river came out. All the beaver men were sitting in front of the Paiute lodges, sucking on chunks of candy.
“We’ll be able to trade for food and horses there,” Jedediah said with satisfaction. “The closer to the Spanish settlements, the easier to get horses.”
Last year, Sam remembered, the Serranos made a rabbit drive through the desert, many hunters marching, and put on a feast for the trappers.
They loaded the horses, took their leave of the Paiutes, and resumed their march. The Serrano lodges were about three days ahead, and the horses, not the men, were the beasts of burden.
Sam looked carefully at the captain. Jedediah would never say it, but he was proud. His brigade had blundered into a disaster at the Mojave villages. Without water, without food, and without horses, he had brought them across the worst desert anyone had seen.
That night when they bedded down, they knew they were going to live.
First day up the Inconstant—the river was almost completely dry—but they had water in the pots. They found a standing pool to camp by. The men stripped and dunked their entire bodies in the liquid.
Second day, there was water enough in occasional places in the riverbed—they would have been fine even without the pots.
On the third day they walked into the cluster of lodges that made up the Serrano village. Their guides from last autumn weren’t here, but the chiefs remembered the fur men well. Jedediah gave them presents, they gave the trappers dried rabbit meat.
The men fell on the meat like vultures. While the captain traded for two more horses, they gorged themselves. Then they napped and gorged themselves again. They lay down, slept, woke in the middle of the night, and filled their bellies once more. They acted ravenous and uproarious.
Sam ate as big as any man, and spent the night churning his mind about what he had to do. Every day this journey, going to California, bothered him. The only h
ome he had, it wasn’t here. And now things were about to get worse.
In the morning, while the captain was making sure of the hitches that held the gear and newfound food on the horses, Sam touched Jedediah on the shoulder. Smith turned to him.
“Diah, I have to go back.”
“YOU WHAT?” THE captain’s voice crackled.
Men were craning their necks to hear this conversation. Jedediah took Sam’s elbow and moved off. Hannibal followed. Jedediah looked at him, hesitated, and then nodded.
“What are you talking about?”
“Paladin is back there. My father’s rifle is back there. I can’t walk away.”
“You are second in command here. You have a responsibility.”
Sam poked the dirt with a moccasin. “One to myself too.”
“Sam, you can’t do this.”
“If I have to, I’ll quit.” He paused and added, “Sir,” the first time he’d spoken that word to Jedediah in several years.
“It’s too dangerous.”
“It’s risky.”
“Water, food, you can’t do it.”
Sam just looked at him. They both knew the outfit had just done it.
“You giving up on Esperanza, Flat Dog, and Julia?”
Sam’s daughter, Meadowlark’s brother, and his wife. “Not a bit. I’ll be along.”
“Late.”
“Yes.”
Jedediah looked toward the horizon to the east, where they’d just walked, and said, “Let’s sit.”
They did. Sam barged ahead. “I’m going to trade my pistol.” Sam pulled it out of his belt and put it in his lap. “The Serranos will give me what I need for it. I’ll have more than we did coming across.”
Jedediah huffed out a big breath. “You mean it.”
“Yes.”
So they worked it out. The captain and Sam would make the trade together, so the Serranos wouldn’t know Sam was going off alone. Even friendly Indians could be tempted by the vulnerability of a lone man.
They got their choice of the herd for the pistol, several of Sam’s .50-caliber balls, and a little powder. Hannibal picked out a brown gelding for Sam. “This is a hell of an animal,” he said, “an athlete.”
The men grinned at each other. The Serranos had owned horses, but probably not firearms. Not that one pistol would do much good. With these balls a man might learn to shoot, but he’d play the devil getting more ammunition.
Jedediah provided a couple of knives and some beads to get Sam a stack of dried meat. He gave Sam a pot to carry water.
“I mean to steal some vegetables from the Mojaves too,” said Sam.
All three of them chuckled.
“You’ll be two weeks behind,” said Jedediah. They’d spent seven days crossing from the Mojave villages to here.
“Or less,” said Sam.
“I’ll have to go in to see the governor at Monterey,” said Diah.
“If they don’t arrest your ass at San Gabriel.”
The Mexicans thought Americans were their enemies. Sam chuckled. What a laugh. Twenty fur men against the entire Mexican army.
“While I’m gone, I’ll leave the brigade on the Appelaminy, right where they are.”
“I’ll catch up.”
Jedediah twisted his straight, thin mouth and thought. Finally he said, “I’m going to lend you something.” He slipped the lanyard over his head and handed Sam the field glass. “You’ll need it more than me.”
Sam’s heart pinged a little. The glass was a big item to Jedediah, not only useful but a symbol of command. He thought of handing it back, but then thought of scouting the Mojaves. It would come in handy.
He said, “Thank you, Diah.”
By midmorning the brigade was ready to go west, Sam itching to get started east. They parted ways well outside the village, so the Serranos wouldn’t know.
There Hannibal sprang his surprise. “I’m going with you.”
“No. No way. This is my job.”
“Two are safer than one,” said Hannibal.
“A lot safer,” said Jedediah, who was known for his lone journeys in the wilderness.
“I want to go,” said Hannibal.
“Nothing in it for you.”
“You’re my friend.”
Sam slid up onto the unfamiliar brown gelding. “He was my father.”
Off he rode, alone.
Three
AT FIRST LIGHT Sam lay in the shallows and dunked his face in the water. The Colorado. Hallelujah, praise be, the river. He drank when he felt like it. He craned his face back out of the water. He rolled over and wet his back side. He lolled and soaked himself.
Coy lapped at the edge and stayed back. Standing between man and coyote, the brown gelding slurped and slobbered and stamped and splashed all three of them. Sam had named the pony Brownie.
Sam had managed the return trip in five days, two less than coming over. Knowing the route and the springs, and having a waxing moon, he’d traveled long and hard every night. Resting during the day, neither he nor the horse sweated away so much water. Half the time he rode, and half he walked. Sometimes he felt like loping alongside the horse, but he resisted. He needed all his strength, and the mount’s. He thought he was a good plainsman, a good man in the mountains, and he was getting to be a good man in the desert.
He had about ten pounds of dried meat, and he ate a pound or so every day. Coy hunted mice and pack rats and devoured them. The grass near the springs was plenty for a single horse. The trip seemed easy, actually. Sam told himself it was easy because it was the right thing.
Now he had to get the job done.
For watering man and beasts, he’d carefully picked a spot blocked from the village by a river bend. Now he tied Brownie to a tree, crept through the willows, and glassed the collection of huts downstream. He sat and watched until the sun cleared the eastern horizon. He didn’t want the sun to reflect off the lens and give him away. Keeping low, he walked back to his horse, scrunching up his mouth. He hadn’t learned anything new.
Sam knew he could find the horses, which would be kept herded somewhere beside the river. He didn’t know where The Celt was. That would take some scouting.
He pulled the horse’s stake and walked upstream. Somewhere above and on this side he would sleep all morning. Later he would swim the river, drifting down with the current, and take a look around. He’d find the horses and scout the village. He’d look for Red Shirt too. Ten of Sam’s friends had been murdered here, and Red Shirt was the chief.
SAM HAD TO laugh.
He lay on a ridge watching the horse herd. He was so close he didn’t even need the glass. Today the horses were south of the village, between two hills that sloped to the river, where the critters could get to water. They were loose-herded now and would be close-herded at night. Every week or so they’d be moved because the desert grass was so scanty.
The Mojaves kept the horses well guarded because they were enemies of the Yuma tribe, which lived downstream at the mouth of the Gila River.
Right now, Sam thought, you boys got your eyes on the wrong enemy.
He hadn’t been worried about finding the horses, just his rifle. There were four or five hundred Mojave warriors. They’d stolen a baker’s dozen rifles, but just one Celt. How would Sam ever find it?
Now he was grinning because the problem had just solved itself.
The Mojaves must be big on show.
Two guards were keeping an eye on the horses today, one tall and skinny like a reed, the other stocky, with a limp. And for no earthly reason those guards were carrying rifles. It made no sense. They wore no shot pouches, no powder horns. Which meant they couldn’t actually fire the rifles. Probably they hadn’t even figured out how yet. Still, they carried the weapons, probably proud of their symbols of thunder-striking.
Sam didn’t recognize one rifle, might be anyone’s. The other one was The Celt, and it was in the hands of the reedy fellow. That gave Sam a tingle.
He watc
hed Paladin. Her white coat and black markings gleamed in the strong sunlight, black cap around the ears, black shield on the chest, and black mane and tail. “Hello, gorgeous,” Sam whispered.
He watched her move around, grazing. She looked fit, her hip healed.
Suddenly he thought, I hope she’s carrying Ellie’s foal.
Sam and Hannibal had put Paladin together with the stallion, and had seen Ellie cover her.
Damn. If she wasn’t in foal, she would be after a couple of weeks in this herd.
He decided he better check that The Celt hadn’t been damaged. A man who didn’t know how to fire a rifle wouldn’t know how to take care of one.
He made sure the sun was behind him and trained the field glass on The Celt. The rifle looked fine. Hammer intact and not cocked, triggers still there, stock all right, butt looking normal. This glass was something. He felt like he could almost make out the name on the engraved butt plate, THE CELT. Celt was one of the few written words he knew. He inspected the rifle one more time. He’d have to make sure that Reed hadn’t stood it on its muzzle instead of its butt and clogged the barrel with dirt. He’d also have to check that the ball, patch, and powder he kept in The Celt were still seated in the barrel. He wouldn’t want to have a need, lift his rifle, and find out he was just pointing a stick at someone.
He smiled to himself. As things were, he could walk right up to Reed in broad daylight. Reed would aim The Celt at the intruder, intending to unleash lightning. The flint would go click! against the pan, and nothing would happen. While Reed was puzzling things out, Sam would drive a blade into his innards.
Sam considered that thought. Yes, he wanted to kill someone. These Mojaves murdered ten of his friends. And not in an honest fight—through treachery. No, he didn’t mind his heat for revenge. But when it came to the actual killing, his stomach would churn.
It was midday. Probably the guards would be changed at dusk. Reed and Limp would go back to the village, and The Celt would go with them.
