Santa Fe Woman

by Gilbert, Morris

  Eddie Plank, a big man with an overflowing stomach, was eating his steak as if it were the best thing in the world. “Better enjoy this. It may be scarce down the way.”

  Grat Herendeen had been quiet for the most part. Now he shook his shoulders in a dissatisfied manner. “We should have been further along the way than this. Rocklin’s not much of a wagon master.”

  Brodie Donahue laughed shortly. “Better not let him hear you say that.”

  “He can hear it if he wants to,” Herendeen said.

  Brodie Donahue, alone among the mule skinners, had no fear of Grat Herendeen. His face was scarred with battles in the past, and although not as large as Herendeen, he was fast and almost as strong. “If you don’t let Callie alone, you may find yourself sent back.”

  “Nobody’s sending me back,” Herendeen said. He stared across the fire at Brodie and gave him stare for stare. “Rocklin makes lots of rules about us stayin’ away from the women,” Herendeen grunted. “But I notice he stays pretty close to the old man’s daughter and to Callie, too. I guess he thinks he’s a ladies’ man.”

  Jess Burkett shook his head. “He’s a good man.”

  “He’s pretty tough, too. I knew him in the mountains,” Wiley Pratt said.

  “Tough enough,” Brodie said. “You’d better stay clear of him. Rocklin will cut you off at the knees, Grat.”

  “No, he’s soft.” Herendeen fell into a morose silence, and the rest of the men began talking about what lay ahead.

  “We’ll hit the Arkansas pretty soon,” Charlie Reuschel said. He pulled his hat off, and his bald head shone in the darkness. He was the best shot on the wagon train and had been over the trail, part way at least, once. “When we get there, we’ll have to decide what to do.”

  “What are our choices?” Stuffy asked, chewing vigorously on the tough steak.

  “We can either take the Cimarron Cutoff or go straight on across until we hit the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.”

  “Which way’s the easiest?” Stuffy asked. “That’s what I want.”

  “Well, I’ve never made the whole trip,” Jesse said, “but a friend of mine did. He said the Cimarron Cutoff is the quickest, but it’s bad desert most of the way and not much water.”

  “I heard about that cutoff,” Herendeen grunted. “It’s bad. We’d be fools to take it. I say we go onto the mountains.”

  “It’ll be Rocklin’s say,” Brodie commented. He looked with some sadness at the steak and threw it out into the darkness. “Antelope’s a poor thing for a man to feed himself on.”

  * * *

  ROCKLIN HAD STOPPED BY before the train started up the next morning. He met Paul Molitor and saw that the man was practically helpless. His hands were trembling, and Rocklin finally said, “I think you’d better ride in the wagon with Kate today, Molitor.”

  “I—I could use a drink.” It had cost Molitor whatever shreds of his pride was left, but he knew before he spoke that it was hopeless.

  “That’s not what you need. You’re going to have to dry out. You drink a lot, don’t you?”

  “All I can get.”

  “Poor way to live.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that.” Molitor pulled himself up and climbed aboard the wagon. He sat there until Kate got up beside him and picked up the lines. She said nothing until she heard the customary call for starting.

  Rocklin yelled, “Stretch out!” and the wagons lurched forward, the wheels making a whining noise on their dry axles as the schooners lurched, moving forward.

  Kate said quickly, “If you get to feeling too bad, you can lie down on the bed in the back.”

  “I’m all right,” Molitor said. He tried to smile although his nerves were screaming out for liquor. “I’m sorry to be such a bother.”

  “Don’t be foolish.” Kate studied the man. He had shaved early that morning, which made his face look even more cavernous. He had crisp, brown hair that had not been cut, and his eyes were sunk deep into their sockets. He was thin, and there was a twitch at the side of his mouth. Still Kate thought, He’s seen better days than this. I don’t know what his story is, but it’s probably not a good one. “We’ll be getting to the Arkansas soon. There should be some wagons on the way back east. You can get on with one of them.”

  Molitor did not answer. He was holding onto the seat, and his stomach was crying out. He had eaten a little of the mush Kate had fixed for him for breakfast, but all he could think of was getting a drink. He knew that was impossible, and despair settled over him like a heavy, dark mist.

  * * *

  FOR TWO DAYS MOLITOR had endured the ride. The initial craving for drink had gone away although he still had moments when he wanted to scream and at times blow his brains out. On the second day he had joined Mark, who was still condemned to filling the wood boxes. It was late afternoon as he tried to pick up a heavy chunk of wood and felt a weakness. His head seemed to swim, and he slumped to his knees trying not to pass out.

  “Here, let me give you a hand with that.”

  Molitor looked to see a young woman dressed in male attire who had brought her horse close beside him. She stepped out of the saddle and said, “I’m Callie Fortier.”

  “My name’s Paul—Paul Molitor.”

  The girl reached down, picked up the chunk easily and dumped it in the back of the wagon. “Are you sick?” she asked.

  “No, just a drunk,” Paul said bitterly. “You don’t have any whiskey, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Molitor looked down at his hands, which were trembling. Callie said, “How long has it been since you had a drink?”

  “Three days, maybe four. I don’t know. I lost track.”

  “You’ll feel better soon. This doesn’t last forever.”

  “It seems like it’s going to,” he said.

  Callie saw that he was still unsteady. “Tell you what. Why don’t you ride on my horse awhile. You can ride, can’t you?”

  “No, I don’t think I could even get on.”

  “Well, you get in the wagon then. I’ll pick the wood up.”

  Molitor stared at her. “Why are you doing this?”

  The girl did not answer. She had large eyes, expressive, and there was a firmness about her lips. But at the same time there was a gentleness as she said, “Because I know what it is to be alone and scared.”

  Her remark went right to Molitor’s spirit. He had long ago lost his pride, and now when this girl who came, apparently, from nowhere showed a gentleness, it was almost like getting hit in the face. “Thanks,” he said briefly. “Don’t waste your sympathy on me. I’m not worth it.”

  The girl did not answer. She watched him as he went to the wagon and crawled in and fell on his back. He was shocked as tears suddenly rolled down the sides of his face. “I’m no good,” he whispered. “Be better off to blow my brains out.”

  * * *

  CALLIE TOSSED A CHUNK of wood into the wood box and turned to see Jori, who had ridden up and was watching her.

  “Why are you doing that?”

  “That man’s not able to work. He’s in poor shape, him.”

  “You have your own work to do.”

  Callie had said very little to Jori Hayden. She was intimidated by her. There was something about her that spoke of pride, and she had been a good, fine lady in Little Rock. This much Callie had found out. Now, however, anger touched Callie’s eyes and she said, “You have no gentleness.”

  Jori’s head went up, and an angry reply leaped to her lips. It was the same thing that Rocklin had once said when she had wanted to leave the girl back in Missouri. Without a word she turned her horse and drove her heels into his side. Callie watched her speed away and smiled. “That got to her, it did,” she said with a glow of satisfaction.

  * * *

  “THAT FELLOW MOLITOR, HE ever say where he came from?” Good News was putting an ointment on one of the mules that had rubbed a raw spot in his tough hide.

  “No, he doesn’t t
alk about himself much, but he’s had a better place at one time,” Kate replied.

  “So I figured,” Good News said. “You know, I like that verse in the Bible. It’s the one that says, ‘As a bird that wandered from her nest so was a man that wandered from his place.’”

  “That’s the lonesome verse,” Kate said. “You ready for another lesson tonight?”

  “If you’re ready to waste your time.”

  “It’s not a waste of time,” Kate said. The two of them had spent several evenings together by the light of the fire going over letters and words. Good News did have some sense of reading and writing, and he was highly intelligent despite his rough look.

  “Where’s your place, Good News?”

  “Don’t guess I have one. I’m like that wandering bird.”

  “Well,” Kate smiled at him, “the Scripture says the steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord. That means you, doesn’t it?”

  Good News wiped his hands on his handkerchief and smiled at her. “I guess so.” He liked the way she was able to quote Scripture, and it humbled him to think that she would take the time to work with him. He had nothing to do with women, at least her kind of woman, and he said, “I’d like to spell a little while tonight.”

  * * *

  JORI HAD GONE DOWN to the creek for water. She had been thinking about what the girl Callie had said about her needing to be more gentle. The remark had galled her, but she was honest enough to know that there was truth in it. The creek whispered a sibilant song as she scooped down and got a bucket full of water, and when she straightened up she was startled, for Rocklin had come up behind her so silently she had not heard him.

  “I wouldn’t go down that way,” Rocklin said.

  “Why not?” Jori resented his presence, and Callie’s reminder that she had no gentleness was fresh on her mind.

  “Been some Indian signs the last two days.”

  His words startled Jori, and she looked quickly down the creek.

  “Oh, they’re mostly just Cherokee, no danger, but I wouldn’t wander off if I were you. Here, let me take that bucket.”

  She surrendered the bucket, and asked, “What about Molitor?”

  “Seen a lot like him. He’s his own worst enemy.”

  “He needs to change.”

  “Sometimes a man can’t change without help.”

  Whether it was so or not, she felt that his remark was critical of her. “You think I’m hard, don’t you?”

  “On the outside. I’d like to see what’s on the inside.”

  Jori could make nothing of his remark for a moment and finally said, “Tell me about the Indians.”

  “Well, they’re like us. A young Indian woman has the same dreams, probably, that you do.”

  Jori was resentful of the man and knew that it was foolish. “When will we get to the Arkansas?” she asked.

  “Probably two days.”

  “How far have we come?”

  “About two hundred and sixty miles,” he said. “That’s a third of the way.” Suddenly he reached out and took her arm. “Quiet,” he whispered.

  Jori did not know what he meant, but the remark about Indians frightened her, and she stood absolutely still and was aware of his strong hand on her arm holding her in place. He did not move for what seemed like a long time then he expelled his breath. “Nothing there,” he said. He suddenly put the water down and without warning reached out and pulled her into his arms. Before she could react, he kissed her on the lips then released her.

  “You—you let me alone!” she said.

  “Sure would like to know what’s on the inside,” Rocklin said. He saw she was struggling with anger and laughed. “The outside looks mighty good. Maybe I’ll find out more what the real Jori Hayden’s like before we get to Santa Fe.”

  “Don’t you touch me again!”

  Rocklin shook his head, as if puzzled by his own behavior. His voice was summer-soft as he said, “Beauty is a funny thing, Jori. Men see it in different things—some in the desert nights, some in the sea. But I think all men look for beauty in a woman. Those fellows who find it in a certain woman and are lucky enough to win her—why, they’ve got everything.”

  Jori stood absolutely still, her breast softly rising and falling to her breathing. She had a temper that could charm a man or chill him to the bone. She had listened to the strange falling cadence of Rocklin’s voice, and faint color stained her cheeks. His kiss had caught her off guard, but it had stirred her in a way no man’s caress ever had—and this shamed her.

  “Don’t you ever touch me again!” she whispered.

  Rocklin picked up the bucket and looked at her as if deliberating some problem. “I probably will,” he remarked, dryness rustling in his voice. “Come on, let’s get back.”

  PART THREE

  Along the Arkansas

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE LEFT FRONT WHEEL of the wagon dropped into a pothole, and the motion sent an exquisite pain through Jori and almost made her drop the reins. The day had been long, and her father had chosen to ride instead of driving the wagon, so she had accepted the chore—one that she was beginning to hate. Shifting around trying to find a comfortable position, she looked to her right and took in the country which, except for its lack of mountains and sea, actually was quite beautiful. The late spring flowers had sprinkled the prairie profusely with many-hued flowers. The crab apple thickets sometimes carpeted many acres in the pink blossoms as delicate as anything that she had ever seen. She could see a group of wild grapes that she had learned to recognize, for the hands all wanted to stop and pick them. She saw beyond them a specie of mimosa, flowers like purple globes dotting the landscape.

  She had grown used to the monotony of the wide prairie that was broken only by deep ravines or at times a very gentle slope. The woods at this point were sometimes thick with tall, stately walnuts and the towering oaks and graceful limbs. Tall cottonwoods sometimes lined the creeks, and at this point there was plenty of cool, sweet water for the stock and for all of them. The sound of a popping whip like a rifle shot drew Jori’s eyes toward the wagon over to the far left. They were traveling now five abreast instead of in a single line so that no one actually had to ride in the rear. She watched now without curiosity as Herendeen, walking alongside his team, cracked the whip. It nipped the ear of the leader, and the animal at once quickened the pace. One of the other men called out something to Herendeen, and she heard his husky laughter. She had learned to dislike the man and kept waiting for him to say something that she could use to pull him up short, but he was crafty and sly and kept barely within the boundaries.

  “You want me to spell you, Jori?”

  Turning to face her father who had ridden up, Jori shook her head. “No, I expect we’ll be nooning pretty soon. Maybe then.”

  “Kind of rough on the body sitting on that hard seat. Why don’t you take a quilt or something and make a cushion.”

  “I’ll be all right, Papa.”

  Leland rode alongside the wagon for a moment, studying his daughter’s face. He saw the fatigue etched there and knew that his own face was no different. “Pretty tough going, isn’t it?”

  “We’ll be all right.” She found a smile, and he returned it and then turned and rode forward.

  It was past noon, and when Jori’s stomach growled, she was aware that she was hungry. She reached down into the bag under her feet, mined around inside of it, and fished out a piece of hard rock candy that she popped in her mouth.

  The train usually halted at about ten or eleven o’clock, depending on the weather. The routine bored her in all truth, for every day was pretty much the same—they’d pause, the animals would rest, and the men had a light meal. Jori thought it was amusing that they called it breakfast though sometimes it did not come until after twelve o’clock. The men sometimes carried out chores or repaired their gear. The meal was pretty much the same for everyone and included cooked meat and freshly baked skillet bread.

 
A shout to her right caught Jori’s attention. She turned to look and saw something moving into a grove of trees.

  “It’s a bear—it’s a bear!” one of the men called out. Wiley Pratt grabbed a rifle and started after it, but Rocklin’s voice brought him up short. “Leave that bear alone, Wiley!”

  “Bear meat would go mighty fine.”

  “I’ll take care of the hunting. You take care of your mules.”

  Wiley Pratt, a tough, short, muscular man with tow hair and hot-tempered hazel eyes, glared at Rocklin, who sat on his horse and met his gaze evenly. Jori drew her breath in, for these were violent men. There was always the chance of something happening. Nothing had so far, but she knew it was the iron control of Rocklin that kept them in line. She expelled her breath as the mule skinner sullenly turned and walked back to the wagon trudging along beside it.

  Rocklin turned and found Jori watching him and guided his horse over. “How’s it goin’, Jori?”

  “Why wouldn’t you let him go after that bear?”

  “Because she had cubs.”

  Jori stared at Rocklin. “I didn’t see any cubs.”

  “I did. Two little ones. Not able to take care of themselves yet. You shoot their mother, they’d die.”

  It was a side of Rocklin that Jori had seen little of. “But that’s always the chance when you’re hunting, isn’t it, that you’ll shoot a mother?”

  “Yes, it is,” Rocklin admitted. “I guess I’m too tenderhearted.” He rode easily in the saddle, and his eyes were always moving from point to point. Jori studied him carefully. There wasn’t any fat on the man. He had long arms and legs, and the edge of his jaws were sharp against the heavily tanned skin. She noticed something she had missed before, that his nose had a small break at the bridge. He looked solid and tall in the sunlight. He suddenly turned and caught her watching him and smiled at her. She flushed, for since he had kissed her there had been a restraint between the two of them.