As her husband sat down, Chenoa was suddenly reminded of how handsome he had been when she had first seen him. She had been a mere girl, and to her the young, pure Spaniard with dark eyes and lively features and an aristocratic air had been the finest-looking man she had ever seen.
A bitterness came then as she thought of how good their life had been until Mateo had fallen ill with cholera. He had been in charge of a large property owned by a wealthy citizen of Amarillo. She longingly thought of the fine wood house that came to the Segundo and how she had had a new dress for herself from time to time and how the children, who were very young, had been clothed in finery. Food had been plentiful, and she had thought this life would last forever. Mateo had finally recovered but had become so weak he was unable to work. He had lost his position, and everything from that time had become difficult.
As Chenoa began to heat a pan full of rice, she turned to see Rosa rise from her cot and throw the thin blanket back. She was wearing a thin undergarment, and Chenoa remembered how long ago she had been as shapely as this oldest daughter of hers. She turned back to the boiling rice, stirred it, added salt and a little butter, then put it in a bowl and set it before her husband. “Here. Eat this. You’ve got to keep your strength up.”
Mateo began to eat, but he took only small bites. He did finish the bowl and smiled. “Very good, wife. You were always the best cook in the village.”
Juan coughed, groaned, and rolled out of bed. He wore a pair of worn, patched jeans too small for him and a shirt that had once been colorful but now was faded. “Is there any of that pork left, Mama?” he said, yawning hugely.
“Yes, you can share it with your sisters.”
They ate quickly, and then the children left the room—Juan to go fishing in the river, Raquel to visit her friend Sofia, and Rosa to work in the cool of the morning in the garden behind the house.
Chenoa had made a cup of weak tea and put it down before Mateo.
He looked at it, smiled, and tasted it. “That’s very good,” he said.
They sat silently, and finally Mateo said heavily, “I don’t like the way our children are living.” He made a thin shape as he sat watching Chenoa’s face. “Juan and Raquel, they’ve been running with bad companions.”
“Their friends are not as bad as some.”
“Maybe not, but I don’t like it. And I hate it when Rosario has to work in that hellish cantina.” Rosario was the name given to Rosa, but her nickname had become almost second nature. Only her family used her full name at certain times now.
“I hate that she has to fight the men off. She’s a good girl, Mateo.”
“I know that. But what’s going to happen to them, Chenoa? What in God’s name will become of them? There’s nothing good in this place.” He lowered his head and whispered, “I failed you all.”
Chenoa moved at once to his side, put her arm around him, and held his head. “You have not. You’ve been sick. When you are fully recovered, you will get work and things will be better.” They both understood that such a future was highly unlikely, for his weakened condition grew worse, never better. “Don’t worry,” she said, stroking his hair now streaked with white. “The good God, He will take care of us.” Her words, she saw, gave Mateo no comfort, nor did they make the sadness and hopelessness in her own breast go away.
It was two days after this that the Ramirezes had a visitor. It was late in the afternoon when they heard a knock.
“Who could that be?” Mateo asked.
“One of the neighbors maybe,” Chenoa said. She got up and opened the door. She stood there for a moment in shock. “Is that you, Gray Hawk?”
“Yes, your uncle has come for a visit.” Gray Hawk stepped inside at her invitation. He was full-blooded Crow, a handsome man. The Crows were the most handsome people among the Plains Indians, and he was a good example. He was near fifty but erect as a pine tree, and his muscles were still limber and strong.
“I’m glad to see you. Come in and sit down. We have some food left.”
“I will eat, and then I will talk.”
Gray Hawk sat down, and the family watched him as he ate. When he finished, he sat back, belched loudly, and said, “That was good. Now I’ll talk. You listen.”
“All right, uncle,” Chenoa said. “Why have you come?”
“Your father. He is sick. He wants you to come and live with him.”
The family had heard Chenoa speak of her father, who was, by all her reports, a fighting man admired among all the Indians.
“Live with him?” Chenoa said. “How could that be? He has another wife now, not my mother.”
“She is dead. He has a woman to keep house for him, and he needs you he says. He has a fine ranch, a big house.”
“Well, why don’t you help him, Gray Hawk?” Mateo asked.
“Ah, I’m a wild hawk. I do not always keep the law. I sometimes buy whiskey and sell it.” He laughed then slapped his chest. “The Choctaw Light Horse is after me.”
“What is that?” Chenoa asked.
“Indian police.”
For a time he talked about the house, the ranch, and what was there.
Finally Mateo, who had remained silent, said, “You are not telling us everything, Gray Hawk.”
“No, I am not. Your father’s ranch is in Indian Territory, which has more outlaws there than there are fleas on a dog. Evil men everywhere! Your father fought them off while he was well, but he can’t fight now.”
“What’s wrong with him, Gray Hawk?”
“Bad heart. If you come,” he said, “you will have to fight for what you have.”
For a while they talked about going, but it was obvious to Rosa that they really had no other choice. “There’s nothing for us here.”
“Yes,” Mateo said, “I can do nothing, but perhaps you can help the old man.”
“But how will we get there?” Chenoa said.
“Your father has given me money. He told me if you will come to buy a team and a wagon. Some of you will ride in the wagon with your goods, and I will buy horses for the others.”
“You will take us there?” Rosa said quickly.
“Yes. I must say this, though. In the mission school they talked about heaven where everybody is happy and there’s plenty of food.” He paused, and a grim look swept across his face. His obsidian eyes seemed to glitter. “This place where you’re going, it’s not heaven.”
CHAPTER 8
I’m worn down to the bone,” Mateo groaned.
It was late afternoon. The sun had been beating down on them all day long, draining the strength from the horses and riders alike. They had started early in the day and had paused only an hour or so at noon to eat a quick meal. Now the party had stopped beside a small stream that gurgled over smooth stones and made a pleasant sound in the ears of the thirsty travelers.
Chenoa stood up and arched her back. She had driven the wagon all the way, and Mateo had lain down, for the most part, on the bed they had made for him in the wagon. Now she went over and dipped a small pail in the stream. As she did, she saw a group of minnows flashing silver. They all darted away then broke and made a left turn. I wonder how they all know to turn at the same time? The thought had occurred to her before.
She straightened up, ignoring the ache in her back, walked over, and reached down into a box in the rear of the wagon. Taking out a quart bottle, she handed him the water then picked up another glass and carefully poured brown liquid into it. “Drink this,” she said.
“I hate that stuff.”
“I don’t want you to drink it because you like it, but it helps you to feel better, to feel stronger.”
Mateo shook his head, making a face. He swallowed the painkiller then quickly downed the entire contents of the glass. He handed it back to Chenoa and looked around at their surroundings. “This is bad country,” he muttered. “I don’t like it.”
Indeed, this part of Texas was not known for its beauty. The land stretched away endlessly, so it s
eemed, flat, dull, and without any interesting hills or mountains. The strange mesquite trees that twisted their branches looked like black ghosts reaching to heaven.
Chenoa sat down beside him, put her hand on his shoulder, and kneaded his thin, wasted muscles. “It will be better when we get to Oklahoma.”
“I don’t think so. From what I remember of that place, it’s just about as stark as this.”
“It’s been a long time since we’ve been there, and Gray Hawk says my father’s ranch is much better country than this.”
“I don’t think that Indian would know good country if he saw it.”
The two fell silent and watched as the three young people were laughing and splashing water on one another. They had taken their clothes down to the creek and were washing them, working up what soap they could from the yellow bars they had bought before they left their home.
Gray Hawk had been given enough money by Chenoa’s father to buy them clothes. He must have known, she thought, that we had nothing to wear except rags. They had all outfitted themselves, and she felt better wearing a respectable dress and good shoes.
“Maybe I should try to get some firewood and build a fire for supper,” Mateo said.
“No, Juan’s already done that. I’ll go light it. Gray Hawk ought to be back, but if he’s not, he said to eat without him.”
Going over, she piled small sticks into a pyramid, took a match she had brought from the wagon, struck it, and held it steady. The smoke began to rise, and as the flame caught, yellow flames leaped upward. She added larger sticks, and the fire began to crackle with almost a malevolent sound in the silence of this deserted country.
When the fire was going, she built a small base out of bricks that they moved each night. On top of it she put a steel piece of grill. It made a passable stove, and now she put water on to boil for the coffee, and right on the grill itself she put chunks of beef. Almost at once the fat began to sizzle, and the smoke billowed upward almost furiously.
“It’s about time for Gray Hawk to shoot another cow,” Mateo said. “This last one is almost gone.”
He had no sooner spoken when Gray Hawk came in riding a small pony. He used no saddle. He slipped to the ground, tied the halter to a mesquite tree, and came over. He looked down at the meat and nodded, “I’m hungry.”
“It’s about time for you to shoot another cow,” Mateo said.
“You better not shoot one that belongs to someone,” Chenoa warned. “We’d be in a bad way if we didn’t have you to lead us home.”
“These cattle are wild. They’re not branded. I’ll shoot another one at noon tomorrow.” They were pretty tough, but the beef was a welcome addition to the meat-starved diet of the Ramirez family.
“It was thoughtful of Father to send money to buy food,” Chenoa said. “He must have known we were struggling.”
“I think he did,” Gray Hawk said. “Did you write and tell him?”
“No, I haven’t written him for years.”
“We left under pretty bad circumstances, Gray Hawk, if you remember,” Mateo said. “He didn’t want me to marry Chenoa. I thought he was going to take a gun to me.”
“It was unpleasant,” Chenoa said, “but evidently he’s mellowed.”
“I think he has,” Gray Hawk muttered. He squatted beside the fire until finally the meal was ready.
Chenoa hacked off a big chunk of the beef, put it on a tin plate, and handed it to him. He dipped into the pot containing beans and scooped out a heaping spoonful. “Good,” he said. “Lots of pepper. A white man don’t know how to do that.”
Chenoa called, “Children, come and eat.”
The three came at once, bringing the wet clothes.
“I’ll have to tie a line up and hang them out to dry,” Rosa said. “But we’ll eat first.”
They all sat down and filled their plates with the spicy beans and chunks of beef.
“How much farther is it?” Mateo asked.
“A few more days. It’s not too far. Not too close either.” Gray Hawk looked up in the sky. “It will rain tonight. Cover everything up in the wagon with that canvas we brought.” He walked over to his horse and began rummaging through the pack on the animal.
“Do you believe him, Chenoa?” Mateo asked.
“Yes, he never was a liar unless he had to be.”
They all ate hungrily, dipping beans out of the pot that was boiling hot.
“These beans need more pepper,” Juan said. He reached into the pocket of his new shirt and pulled out a large red pepper. Taking out his pocketknife, he cut off some small round fragments and dropped them into the beans. His eyes widened with the heat, and he said, “That’s better.”
Gray Hawk came back shortly with a bottle. He sat down, took a long drink from the bottle, and said, “You want some whiskey, Mateo?”
“No, it burns my gut.”
“How about you, Juan?”
“Don’t offer him whiskey,” Rosa said. “He doesn’t need it.”
“Don’t be foolish, woman. Every man needs a drink. What about you, Rosa?”
“What do you mean what about me?”
“You look lonesome.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, a woman needs a man. That’s what you need. I’ll find you a good one when we get to the Territory.”
Rosa gave Gray Hawk a look of disgust. “I can find my own man.”
“She doesn’t have to go hunting men,” Juan said. “They come hunting her. I think she had to take a knife to one or two of them.”
“Well, a knife wouldn’t discourage a good man,” Gray Hawk said. He continued to drink, and quickly the alcohol made him sleepy. He went over close to the wagon, stretched out flat on his bed, and soon was snoring.
“You think he’s telling the truth about these cows that wander around?” Juan said. “I thought all cattle belonged to somebody.”
“It’s always been that way he told me,” Rosa said. “They’re just wild steers. Sometimes ranchers round some up, but there are so many of them and not many ranchers. And he’s telling the truth. None of these cows have brands, so they’re just wild.”
Soon the rain started, just a drizzle at first, and then the tiny drops began to form fat ones pattering down on the earth, settling the dust. They covered the wagon up with the canvas, and then all of them got under the wagon, out of the rain as much as possible. They had brought slickers, and each had put one on. Now they sat, waiting.
“You know, it’s kind of nice sitting here with the rain falling down. I always did like that sound,” Rosa said.
“It was nice of grandfather to send money for clothes,” Raquel said. “Maybe he’ll buy me some pretty dresses when I get there.”
Chenoa’s face turned sour. “He didn’t buy me any when I was your age. He’s stingy.”
“But Mama, he’s giving us a place to live. He bought these clothes for us.”
“He needs us, Raquel.”
“Look at Gray Hawk,” Juan said.
They all looked to see the Indian lying flat on his back. His mouth was open, and the rain was falling in.
“He’s going to drown.”
“You better go pull him in, Juan,” Chenoa said. “We couldn’t do without him.”
Rosa and Juan went out and dragged the drunken man under the shelter of the wagon. He coughed and snorted then went back to sleep.
Mateo began to cough, and Chenoa put a blanket over him. “We’ll get you a good doctor when we get to the Territory.”
“I doubt if your father will pay for that. He never cared much for me.”
“I think he’s probably changed. People do when they get older.”
“Or when they get sick,” he said.
The rain continued. It had a soporific effect. Finally Mateo dozed off. Chenoa felt her eyelids closing as sleep was coming on. She saw her younger daughter move to her older one through her half-closed eyes.
Raquel tugged at Rosa’s sleeve. “Are you glad to be
going, Rosa?”
“Yes, it’s better than what we had.” She paused for a moment and then laughed bitterly. “It couldn’t be worse,” she said. “Now go to sleep.”
Chenoa prayed Rosa was correct as she drifted into sleep.
“How long before we get to grandfather’s place, Gray Hawk?” Rosa asked. They had been traveling steadily all day, and she was tired. Riding a horse for long hours was a new experience for her. She had no split skirts, and at first the saddle had chaffed the insides of her legs, but she had taken one of her old dresses, cut it down the middle, and sewed it so that it had, in effect, legs. She had put ointment on the raw places and bound them up with underwear so that it was bearable.
Gray Hawk was riding along in front with Rosa at his side. “We’ve been on his land for the last hour.”
“This?”
“Yes, this is all his.”
“The land looks better than I expected.” She had expected it would look much like the barren, sandy plains near her home, but here there were rolling hills, none of them large, but at least they broke the monotony. Some trees were scattered around, not tall, but at least they added color.
They had crossed one wide creek. Gray Hawk had told her, “That creek is spring fed. Ain’t a very big creek, but it never goes dry. Got fish in it, too.”
Rosa looked eagerly forward as they moved up a hill, noting the cattle running free. “Look, they’ve got a brand. What is it?”
“That’s an anchor. I didn’t know what an anchor was. He told me sailors used them to stop a ship. Don’t know why he chose that.” They crested the hill, and Gray Hawk motioned with his hand. “There’s the ranch.”
Rosa’s eyes swept the vista. It made a pretty sight, at least to her. She was used to the squalid village, and here was space with trees and grass. There on a rise was a house and outbuildings. The house was wide and had tall windows. A veranda stretched all the way across the front. The roof was made of some sort of metal, for it caught the glint of the sun. “What’s the roof made out of, Gray Hawk?”
“Tin. Makes an awful racket when it rains.”
“I’ve always liked that.”
Rosa's Land: Western Justice - book 1 Page 8
