“He will be tall and carry a pistol, and if anyone messes with me, he’ll shoot ’em.”
Callie was vastly amused by the girl’s vivid and fruitful imagination.
“Why do you always wear man’s clothes?”
“They’re more comfortable on the trail.”
“Did you wear dresses when you were at home?”
“Not much. My papa, he was a mule skinner. I go with him, and dresses are not easy to wear.”
The two were suddenly interrupted, for Grat Herendeen seemed to be waiting in the path before them. The big man said, “Hello, Callie.”
Callie nodded and did not speak. Her eyes were watchful. She had learned about men at a hard school, and she well understood the desire that showed clearly on the big man’s face. “Why don’t you get down and walk with me a spell? Kid, you can ride the horse.”
“I’m working, Herendeen.”
“You can call me Grat, Callie.”
“You can call me Miss Fortier,” Callie said.
Herendeen stepped closer. He reached up and got Callie by the arm. “Don’t be that way,” he said. “Be friendly to a man.”
Callie tried to jerk her arm back, but his grip was immensely strong. She could smell the tobacco and thought she could trace the smell of liquor on his breath. “You’d better get back to your wagon,” she said.
“I will after awhile. Just take a little walk. No harm meant.”
“You let her go!”
Grat turned to look at Carleen, who was staring at him from behind Callie’s back. “Kids should be quiet when grown-ups are talking,” he said. He would have said more, but suddenly there was the sound of an approaching horse. Herendeen and Callie looked up quickly and saw Rocklin coming at a dead run. He pulled his stallion up, and the glance he laid on Herendeen was hard.
“You better get back to your wagon, Grat. Your right wheel is wobbling.”
“I’ll fix it later.”
“You heard what I said. Get back to your wagon.”
Callie suddenly straightened up. There was something charged in the air. Herendeen carried a pistol at his side, and his whip was coiled over his shoulder. She knew from experience that the whip could be as deadly as the pistol. She had seen men cut to pieces by them, and she breathed quicker, sensing the potential for disaster.
Herendeen stood there, a bulky, dangerous shape in the noon sunlight. He was a man who liked trouble as other men liked liquor or women. His brute strength had won him victories, and the thickness of his skull had protected him from defeats. He had a sly look as he turned his head to one side. “You savin’ this girl for yourself, Rocklin?”
Callie’s face grew warm, and her glance shifted to Rocklin. He did not look at her. His eyes were fixed on Grat Herendeen. “I’m not going to argue this matter, Grat. You either get back to your wagon or start walkin’ back toward Franklin.”
Herendeen’s face suddenly flushed. The anger that lay beneath the surface of the big man was evident. “You wouldn’t put me afoot.”
“You bet I would. Just try me.”
The impulse was there. Callie saw it and sensed it. She saw Herendeen’s hand brush against the butt of the gun at his right side. As far as she could tell, Rocklin was, as always, loose and easy in the saddle, but she knew that was all an illusion. Her life had been hard, and she had seen men shot down before. If Herendeen made a wrong move, there would be death on the prairie.
Herendeen passed the moment by. “Just out for a walk,” he said. “No harm in that.” He turned and walked back toward the train. He rolled slightly, the bulk of his body pulling him. Only once did he look back, but there was danger in that look.
“You have made yourself an enemy, Chad,” Callie said.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“He may try to shoot you.”
“He’ll have to get in line. What are you doing back there, Carleen?”
“I got tired of walking. I wanted to ride for a spell. Can I ride with you?”
“No, I’ve got work to do.”
For a moment Callie studied the big man quietly without seeming to. He was like a machine, she decided, made for hard usage. He did not have the bulk of Grat Herendeen, but there was strength in his long body. His chest was deep rather than wide, and there was something of the quality of a mountain lion that she had seen once—smooth and easy but explosive at times.
Chad expelled his breath and pushed his hat back on his forehead. “You’ve been doing good, Callie. A good hand with mules. Not everybody can handle them critters.”
“I’ve done it a long time.”
“What will you do when we get to Santa Fe?”
“Work.”
“What kind of work?”
“I’ll find something.”
“Don’t you have any family at all?”
“Just an uncle and an aunt and some cousins outside of Baton Rouge. I’ll never get to them.”
“I guess you and me are both orphans. Maybe we’ll start a club. The Rocklin and Fortier Orphans Association.”
“I don’t have any mama. I want to join, too,” Carleen demanded.
“You don’t qualify, punkin. You’ve got a daddy and a sister and a brother.”
“I want to join anyway.”
“You can be an honorary member then.” He looked at Callie and turned his head to one side. “If Grat gives you anymore trouble, let me know.”
Callie suddenly laughed. She touched the gun at her side and said, “I will shoot him.”
Rocklin grinned broadly. “Well, like I said, I need him to drive mules. Just let me take care of him.”
* * *
KATE AND JORI HAD been watching the scene from where they sat on the seat of the wagon. Leland was riding Kate’s mare, for he had grown tired of sitting on the hard seat. Kate waited until she saw Rocklin ride off and then shook her head. “He’ll have trouble with Herendeen one day. He’s a bad one.”
“I wish he weren’t here.”
“Hard to find good mule drivers, and Chad says he’s the best.”
Jori was watching Carleen, who was riding behind Callie. “I didn’t want to bring that girl with us.”
“Callie? Why not?”
“It didn’t seem like a good idea.” She continued to watch the two and then said, “I tried to get Chad to leave her there, but he wouldn’t.”
“Was there a place to leave her?”
Reluctantly Jori told the story of how the girl had nowhere to go. “Chad was afraid to leave her there with those two men.”
“Well, I see that as a good thing. He’s hard, but he’s got a soft spot.” She looked up suddenly and said, “I hope it doesn’t start raining. I’m sick to death of it.”
The train swayed forward, and the rain did not come. Instead, the sun came out and shone brilliantly. Rocklin came by to say that Council Grove was only ten miles ahead and they would camp there that night. Carleen had come back and joined the two women on the seat. She was a constant spring of talk, her voice filling in any silence.
Suddenly Carleen jumped up and said, “Look at that!” Before the two women could even turn, she was out of the wagon and running toward a grove of trees.
“Come back here, Carleen!” Jori shouted, but the girl did not stop.
“What does she see?” Kate asked, straining her eyes. “I don’t see a thing.”
“We can’t go off and leave her,” Jori said with exasperation. She pulled the two mules to a halt and jumped out of the wagon. She saw her father on a mare headed toward the grove of trees and ran lightly. The ground was dried up so that her feet did not sink in.
“Carleen, where are you going?” Leland called out.
Jori reached where Carleen was kneeling down, and her heart leaped when she saw an unconscious man lying there. At first she thought he was dead. “Carleen, come here,” she commanded. Her father swung out of the saddle and went over at once. The three of them then looked down at the man.
“He’s not
dead,” Carleen said.
The man was young, Jori saw, and she caught the raw odor of alcohol. Beside him was an empty bottle, and over to his left was a canvas suitcase stuffed with gear.
“You go back to the wagon, Carleen,” Leland said. “We’ve got to help him. I’ll go get Rocklin.”
Carleen sped off, and Jori stared down at the unconscious man. His lips were moving, and she leaned forward but could make no sense out of his words. “He’s dead drunk,” she said in disgust.
“What in the world would anybody be doing drunk out here in the middle of this terrible country?”
Jori looked around and saw no signs of a horse, a wagon, or any means of transportation. She looked back at the man and saw that he was very thin. His clothes were filthy, and he had not shaved in days, it appeared. He had several bruises on his thin face and a raw wound on his forehead.
Rocklin must have been close because he came almost at once. Swinging out of the saddle, he came over and looked down at the unconscious man and shook his head. “He’s taken a beating.” Without saying anything Rocklin walked around and looked at the ground. He walked in ever wider circles, and finally he came back and said, “He was with a wagon. They left him here, I guess, but his gear’s still here.”
“What’ll we do with him?” Jori asked.
“I don’t know.”
At that moment Carleen came near and heard the question. “We can’t leave him here,” she said. “We have to take him with us.”
Rocklin glanced at her and shook his head. “Well, we’ll make camp here. By morning he should be sober enough to talk, and then we’ll see.”
* * *
CARLEEN WAS SITTING BESIDE the unconscious man. A bed had been made in the light wagon, and she had crawled in. She had always taken care of sick or wounded animals and birds, and to her this was just another wounded creature. The man suddenly flung his arm out and then cried out in pain. Carleen reached out and pushed his hair back off his forehead. “It’s OK,” she said. “Don’t be scared.”
The man’s eyes opened, and he stared at her. “Where is this?” he muttered. “Who are you?”
“I’m Carleen Hayden. What’s your name?”
The battered man licked his lips, which were swollen. “Paul.”
“Oh, like in the Bible.” The man looked at her and then struggled to sit up but was groaning with pain.
“My Aunt Kate is cooking some broth for you. You’ll feel better when you eat.”
The man stared at her with incomprehension then slumped back whispering, “I wish I were dead!”
Carleen studied the man and then said, “Don’t be scared, Paul. It’ll be all right.” She sat there for thirty minutes, and when he did not move, she got out of the wagon.
The others looked at her, and Mark asked, “Did he wake up?”
“Yes. His name is Paul.”
“What else did he say?”
For a moment Carleen considered telling them what he had said about wanting to die, but then she shook her head. “Nothing. I’m going to take care of him.”
Rocklin suddenly laughed. He found this amusing. He came over, ruffled her hair, and grinned. “Well, good to have a nursemaid around. You can take care of me when I get sick, punkin.”
Chapter Twelve
TO JUST OPEN HIS eyes was a struggle, and when he tried to move, his body protested violently. Paul Molitor groaned and opened his eyes to slits. He knew he was lying in a wagon, for he saw the canvas over him. The wagon was not moving, and he could hear voices close at hand. His head was splitting, and he had cuts inside his mouth that hurt. The smell of food cooking came to him, but he felt no sense of hunger. The liquor had taken his appetite away, as always.
A rustling at the rear of the wagon toward his feet drew his gaze to a young girl who crawled up beside him. She was dressed in pants rolled up at the cuff and a gray shirt. “You’re awake,” she said.
Molitor struggled to sit up and groaned involuntarily. “Where am I?”
“I told you. Don’t you remember when you woke up?”
“No.”
“I’m Carleen—Carleen Hayden.” She crawled over some sacks and boxes to get at him. She was on her knees and bent over staring directly into his face. “You can’t sleep forever. You’ve got to get up and eat.”
“Where is this place?”
“It’s a wagon, Paul. Come on, get up.”
Molitor’s head seemed to swim, but he was terribly thirsty. “You got any water?”
“Of course we got water. There’s a whole river of it outside there. Get up, and I’ll give you some.”
Molitor moved slowly. He could smell himself, the dried vomit on his shirt, and he had not had a bath in recent memory. Weakness came to him then, and he was tempted simply to lean back and die, but the girl who called herself Carleen pulled at his shirt. “Come on,” she said. “Get out of the wagon.”
With the girl’s encouragement and help, Paul scooted down over the boxes to the end of the wagon. The ground seemed faraway, and when he let himself down and stood up, a dizziness came to him.
“Come on and sit down. You can meet my folks.”
The last thing Molitor wanted was to meet anyone, but he did begin to feel stirrings of hunger. He followed the girl over to where a woman was cooking something over a fire. To her right a younger woman and an older man were standing, their eyes fixed on him.
“Paul’s thirsty,” Carleen said. “Here, Paul, I’ll get you some water.”
The older man nodded and said, “Well, you finally woke up. My name is Leland Hayden. This is my daughter Jori and my sister-in-law Kate.”
Molitor licked his lips and tried to think of a suitable reply, but none came to him. Carleen came back and handed him a cup full of water. He spilled a great deal of it but gulped at it thirstily. When he finally lowered it and gave it back to the girl, he said, “I’m Paul Molitor.”
“You better sit down here, Molitor,” Leland said. “You’re not in too good a shape.”
“I’ve got some broth brewin’ here. It ought to do you good,” Kate said. “Sit down and eat.”
Molitor sat down, shakily, leaning back against the wheel of a wagon. He saw that one of his shoes was gone and could not remember where he had lost it. He took the bowl of soup that the woman handed him and took a spoonful. The hot broth hurt the cuts in his mouth and inside his lips, but he ate it hungrily.
“Thanks,” he said. “That was very good.” He handed the bowl back to Kate and looked around. “I don’t know where I am exactly.”
“This train’s going to Santa Fe. We just crossed Diamond Springs.” Leland saw that the name meant nothing and said, “You’re past Council Grove. We’ll be to the Little Arkansas in a few days.”
Jori spoke then. Her voice was crisp. “What were you doing out here in such poor condition?”
Molitor cleared his throat and tried to arrange his thoughts. He had been drunk for so long that it was difficult. “I left St. Louis awhile back headed for Franklin. When I got there I worked at a stable.”
“Why’d you go to Franklin?” Leland asked curiously. “There’s nothing much there except the businesses that fit out wagon trains.”
“I heard there was a friend of mine there, but he was dead when I got there so I got a job in a stable. That was about three weeks ago. I met a man there named Fenton, a trader. He said he was going to take a train to Taos in New Mexico and he needed a cook.”
“You’re a cook?” Jori said. It was in her mind as it was in the minds of the others that he had a frail look about him, not likely to be a good bet for a wagon train cook.
“No, I’m not a cook and I told him. But the night before he left, I guess I drank too much and when I woke up I was in a wagon on the way.”
“What happened? Why’d you leave the train?” Leland asked.
“I—I didn’t. Fenton put me out.”
“Why would he do that?” Jori demanded. “He just left you, you mean?”
They all saw that Molitor was searching for an answer. “I guess it was because I couldn’t cook and I stayed drunk.” He looked at Leland and cleared his throat. “I need to get back to St. Louis.”
“Well, we can’t leave you. There’s no way for you to get there that I know of unless we meet a train headed east.”
A silence fell over the group, and Kate said quickly, “You can travel with us, Paul. We’re sure to meet a train headed back to Franklin. Until then you can make yourself useful.”
Paul Molitor looked down at his hands that were thin and trembling. He already was dying for a drink and saw nothing in the future but a grim dark way.
“I don’t guess I’m very useful,” he said and dropped his head.
The others looked at him, and Leland said as cheerfully as he could, “Well, you’ll feel better after awhile.”
* * *
A GROUP OF THE mule skinners had gathered around a fire and were cooking steaks. Pedro Marichal had shot an antelope and sold it to them and brought it by. “I hate antelope,” Wiley Pratt said. “It’s like eatin’ shoe leather.” He shoved his hair back, and his hazel eyes were filled with disgust. “Shoe leather might be better.”
Grat Herendeen dominated the group as usual. “Eat it and shut up, Wiley. I’m tired of your bellyachin’.”
Wiley was a hot-tempered man, but he knew better than to cross Herendeen. Sullenly he took out his knife and cut off a piece of the tough meat and began chewing it.
Stuffy McGinnis was working on his own steak. “I’m gonna get me a job as a cook on a river boat when I go back,” he announced.
“What makes you think you can cook?” Brodie Donahue squatted on the other side of the fire from Stuffy. Except for Herendeen he was the largest of the drovers. He had wide shoulders and a solid neck. His hair and eyes were black, and he was as tired as the rest of them.
“I’ll learn how. Them river boats, now, that’s the life. I took a trip on one. There was fancy women, gamblin’, liquor flowin’ like the river itself. Yep, maybe I’ll become a river boat gambler.”
Jesse Burkett grunted and took a swallow of black coffee. He was a tall man, lanky, with brown hair and blue eyes. He had lost his wife and three children to cholera two years earlier and had not smiled since then. “You’re not much of a gambler, Stuffy. Even I can beat you.”
Santa Fe Woman Page 13
