The Old Spanish Trail Page 11

  “Bueno,” said Dominique and Roberto.

  Don noted with approval that Rose and Sarah were testing Jim and Arch for fever at regular intervals. After supper, Dominique and Roberto left one coffee pot on the coals as the riders on the first watch saddled their horses.

  “Some of us on watch can see to Arch and Jim during the night,” Don said, mostly for the benefit of Rose and Sarah.

  “No,” said Rose. “It’s the least we can do. Those of you on watch have more than enough responsibility. Sarah and me will place our blankets next to them, and when they become feverish, we’ll give them whiskey, just as Mike told us to.”

  “We’re obliged,” Don said. In an odd sort of way he was pleased that these women had seemed to respond to the confidence Mike Horton had in them. He silently promised himself that when the opportunity presented itself, he would talk to Mike about these strange females. But tonight they were short-handed.

  “Jim and Arch are feverish,” Mike said. It was near midnight, as he and Don saddled their horses for the second watch.

  Don didn’t ask whether or not they had been given whiskey, for that would have implied a lack of confidence in Rose and Sarah.

  “Rose is twenty-three, one year younger than me,” Mike volunteered.

  “That’s not too old,” said Don.

  “It is for a woman,” Mike said. “Sarah’s a year older than that.”

  “I notice it hasn’t discouraged you all that much,” said Don.

  “They’ve been through hell, since they was young girls,” Mike said. “I’m considerin’ that. Once they’ve had a chance to clean up, and are dressed up, I think any man would be proud of them.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a minute,” said Don. “I think I know of at least one that will be.”

  *The Green River.

  7

  The second watch circled the herd for two hours before stopping to rest their horses. “I’m almighty tired of the saddle,” Bob said. “I think I’ll see how Arch and Jim are gettin’ along.”

  Bob found the two awake. Rose had just given Arch whiskey, and Sarah was trying to get Jim Roussel to down some of the brew.

  “No . . . more,” said Jim, coughing. “I . . . I’m not a drinking man.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that,” Sarah said, “but you must become one, until that fever lets you go.”

  Dutifully he swallowed another dose, and within minutes he was snoring.

  “If he lives through this,” said Bob, “we’ll never have to worry with him hanging out in saloons.”

  “My sympathy is with him,” Sarah said. “The stuff smells terrible.”

  “Him and Arch will be all right in a day or two,” said Bob. “I wanted to see how they were getting along, but mostly I wanted to be free of that saddle for a while.”

  “Try riding without one, with only the ragged end of a skirt between your behind and the backbone of an Indian pony. Those poor beasts are just skin and bones.”

  “Sorry,” Bob said. “I’d forgotten you’re so poorly mounted. We can’t find saddles for you and the others, but we can fold some extra blankets and maybe that will help some. I think we’ll have to begin feeding those Indian horses a ration of grain, even if it runs us short. They won’t make it to California on the kind of graze we’ve had.”

  “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, after all you’ve done for us,” said Sarah, “but when I think of returning to California . . .”

  “All I know is what I learned from Mike after he talked to Rose,” Bob said. “I reckon there’s not much for you to go back to.”

  “Oh God,” she said, trailing off into a sob.

  “If you’d like to talk, I’m a good listener,” said Bob. “We need to know somethin’ of your life there, and what you aim to do once we reach Los Angeles.”

  “I don’t know,” Sarah said. “I truly don’t know. I’d as soon go back to the Indians as to return to the . . . the mission.”

  “Is it a real mission, the kind the Spanish established in California?”

  “My God, no,” said Sarah. “Perhaps it once was, but now it’s no more than a prison. The sisters—Agatha, Birdie, Elvira, and Mert—aren’t sisters at all. We were forced to endure their preaching on Sunday, and they used God as a threat of eternal damnation.”

  “If it’s not a real mission, what purpose does it serve? How does it survive?”

  “It’s called a home for wayward girls and women,” Sarah said. “In truth, its a dumping ground for girls whose families don’t want them. My mother died when I was seven, and a year later, my father left me at the mission. That was sixteen years ago, and I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

  “My God,” said Bob. “Maybe he was in touch with them and they didn’t tell you.”

  Sarah laughed bitterly. “Oh, he was in touch with them. He sent money every month until I was of age. They told me, using that to torture me. They said he didn’t want me, that I was evil, that I was bound for hell.”

  “You believed that?”

  “Of course I did. What else could I believe? My only kin had left me there because I wasn’t wanted. I lay awake wondering what I had done that made me so evil, wondering if I could do anything to redeem myself.”

  “You were beaten, like the others?” Bob asked.

  “Yes. I was beaten because I was full of the devil. That’s why Rose and me. . . . why we whipped the younger girls. We were told that they were afflicted the same as the rest of us, and if we didn’t whip them, we were given their beatings.”

  “Your daddy was paying for your keep and you still were forced to work?”

  “In the fields,” said Sarah. “We worked from the time it was light enough to see until it became so dark we couldn’t see. You can’t imagine how hard that was for those of us who had been beaten the night before. You may not have noticed, but I walk with a limp. My left leg was broken during one of those beatings, and it grew back crooked.”

  “Damn them,” Bob said. “You had no medicine, no doctor?”

  “No. The bone was never set. But I was one of the lucky ones. Some of the younger girls never survived those beatings. Some mornings, after a beating, one of the beds would be empty.”

  “You never saw the girl again?”

  “No,” said Sarah. “The dead ones were buried somewhere near the mission.”

  “How many were there, besides the seven of you?”

  “Nine more,” Sarah said, “and they were all younger. The same renegades who took us took them, but they weren’t brought into the mountains with the rest of us.”

  “What happened to . . . the sisters?”

  “We never found out,” said Sarah. “We were taken away just before dawn, and when I looked back, the mission was burning.”

  “They may have been burned alive then.”

  “Perhaps,” Sarah said, “and if they were, it serves them right.”

  “After all you’ve been through, I can’t understand . . .” At a loss for words, his voice trailed off.

  “Why I’m still sane? I’m not sure that I am.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant to say,” said Bob. “I can’t understand how you can speak of it so calmly, as though you were watching it happen to someone else.”

  Again she laughed bitterly. “You expected wild, hysterical tears?”

  “I reckon,” he conceded. “You’re a woman.”

  “I am now. But it all started when I was a child of eight. Then there were tears, but I learned they were useless. The sisters took savage satisfaction in seeing us cry, because it was proof enough that their discipline was having its effect. I vowed never to cry, whatever they did to me, and I didn’t. Not even when my leg was broken. Now there are no tears left.”

  “The others . . .”

  “The others are just as hard, full of hate, and shy of tears as I am,” Sarah said.

  “Did the Utes . . . abuse any of you?”

  Again she laughed. “Oh, that? There was o
nly one thing they could do to us that had not been done, and they tried it. We fought them like mad dogs, and they gave up on us. Why do you think they were willing to swap us for horses and mules?”

  “Rose didn’t sound all that tough, when she cried for help. We suspected the Utes had pretty well had their way with all of you.”

  “Rose—and all of us, for that matter—feared only one thing. When the Indians were unable to get horses and mules for us, we were afraid they would find us useless and kill us. After all we’ve been through, we wanted to live.”

  “It was hell on us, watching them take all of you away,” Bob said, “but there was no way we could live with such a trade. If we had met their demands, they would have taken our measure and decided we were afraid of them. Then we would have had a battle on our hands.”

  “You don’t think you will now, after killing so many of them and taking back the mules and horses they had stolen?”

  “Maybe,” said Bob, “and maybe not. We gunned some of them down when we rescued you and your friends, and we accounted for ten of the sixteen that had made off with our horses and mules. Indians bein’ superstitious, they sometimes back off from a fight they believe has gone sour. It’s considered bad medicine, and they can give it up without losing face.”

  “So you think they might have done that.”

  “All of us are hoping they have,” Bob said, “but only time will tell. We must be ready to fight if they won’t have it any other way.”

  “I wish we could help you, but at the mission, they never allowed us to get our hands on any kind of weapon. Not even a dull knife. Any of us firing a gun would be out of the question.”

  “That won’t matter,” said Bob, “because we have no extra weapons. Now I reckon I’d better get back to circlin’ the herd.”

  “I feel better having talked to you,” Sarah said. “I’ve been so long without so much as a kind word, a sympathetic voice . . .”

  “I’ve enjoyed talking to you,” said Bob, “even if a lot of it was hard on you, thinking back to those early years. I feel like I know you better, and that under all that rawhide toughness, there’s a flesh-and-blood female just waitin’ to be set free. We’ll talk again, if it suits you.”

  “It suits me, Bob Vines, and I’m flattered. Perhaps I’ll begin feeling and acting like a flesh-and-blood female.”

  There was soft laughter from the darkness, and Bob suspected that Rose had listened to most or all of their conversation. But he didn’t care. There was a lightness to his step and an unfamiliar excitement in his heart as he returned to his waiting horse. His three comrades had long since resumed circling the herd. A rider approached, and from the darkness, Don Webb spoke.

  “We’ve been some worried about Arch and Jim. You’ve been gone long enough to have dug graves, buried ’em, and preached a sermon.”

  “Sorry, daddy. I should have asked your permission. I’ve been talking to Sarah.”

  Don laughed. “You’ve been staking your claim.”

  “Maybe,” said Bob. “Does that bother you?”

  “No,” Don replied, “but she’s nearer my age than yours.”

  “Long as it don’t bother you,” said Bob shortly. “I flat don’t care if she’s old enough to be my granny.”

  He mounted his horse and rode away, Don Webb’s quiet laughter following him in the darkness.

  There was no evidence of the Utes during the night, and among the riders there was some optimism during breakfast.

  “Them Utes may be thinkin’ of us as bad medicine,” said Mike Horton. “We nailed ten of the sixteen that rustled our horse remuda and pack mules.”

  “Maybe,” Don conceded, “or they may just be waiting for the rest of their bunch to find their horses and join the fight. We want another four hundred cows, but I don’t aim to trade anybody’s scalp for them. All of you ride with your guns handy and take care not to get separated.”

  Jim Roussel and Arch Danson were awake and sweating.

  “We ever do another cattle drive,” Roussel vowed, “I’m buyin’ the whiskey for snakebite, arrow, and gunshot wounds. What you been pourin’ down us is the vilest stuff I’ve ever laid tongue to. How much did you spend, twenty-five cents a quart?”

  “A dollar for all eight quarts of it,” said Don with a straight face. “Keeps a man from gettin’ snakebite, arrow, and gunshot wounds too often.”

  “Why don’t we ride along the south fork of this stream?” Les said. “There may be some cows drifted down, lookin’ for better graze. If we don’t find any, we can always ride on up to the north fork and go from there.”

  “It’s worth a try, and not out of our way,” said Don. “We’ll do it.”

  But the effort was wasted, for there were no more cows along the lower fork.

  “Good try,” Mike Horton said. “Now we got to do it the hard way. The varmints have dug into the brush up yonder along the upper fork.”

  Reaching the upper fork, they rode cautiously. Surprisingly, they found no longhorns in the brush, for it was shaded and there was little graze. When the brush diminished and the bank was again clear, they began finding grazing cattle.

  “Praise be,” Don said. “Looks like we’ll find more than we expected.”

  They rode on, until they could see no more cows. Then they started back, gathering as they went, until all the wanderers were in a bunch.

  “I believe we have more than enough,” said Don, “but let’s run some tallies.”

  Each of them began counting, and when they were finished, they reviewed their totals. The highest count was six hundred thirty, and the lowest count six hundred twenty-five.

  “Six hundred twenty-five it is,” Don said. “With what we’ve already gathered, we have five thousand two hundred and twenty-five. We’ve done well.”

  “In more ways than one,” said Bob. “It looks like the Utes have decided we’re all bad medicine. This would have been an ideal time for them to strike.”

  “I’ve been listening for shots,” Les said. “With only four men in camp, and two of them wounded, I thought they might go after the mules and the horse remuda again.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Don. “They’ve learned what these Henry rifles can do, and the cover is a mite skimpy. Four men with repeating rifles could cut down a tribe of Utes.”

  Elated over their good fortune, they headed the newly gathered herd south. There all the cattle were bunched along the river.

  “You found enough then,” Red Bohannon said.

  “Yes,” said Don. “We have five thousand two hundred and twenty-five.”

  “Then we can move out anytime,” Mike said.

  “Not until Jim and Arch are able to ride,” said Don.

  “Jim and Arch are ready to ride,” two eager voices shouted.

  “Then we’ll take the trail at first light tomorrow,” said Don. “All of you get what rest you can.”

  While Jim and Arch still limped, they were on their feet, if for no other reason than to prove their trail worthiness. But they had much more than that in mind. Life on the trail being highly unpredictable, the pair used their daylight hours wisely. Roussel devoted his time to Ellie Andrews, while Arch Danson made a play for Bonita Holmes.

  “Don,” said Red, “you’d better get busy. There’s not enough of these gals for us all to have one.”

  “Thanks,” Don said, “but I have one waitin’ for me in San Antone. The rest of you ugly varmints had better move in while you can. When this bunch reaches California and gets all fancied up, you might not have a chance.”

  “That’s the God’s truth,” said Red. He started by tipping his hat to Molly Rivers and flashing her a Texas grin. He then hunkered down beside her, and as only a Texas cowboy can, soon had her laughing.

  “Mike,” Felton Juneau said, “what have you been sayin’ to Rose Delano? When we took her from the Utes, she looked like she’d been dragged by the heels through a briar patch. With nothin’ to do with but river water, she’s do
ne somethin’ to her hair. It looks like polished copper.”

  “I believe that’s called washing,” said Horton. “You might try it with yours.”

  “Hell, I ain’t woman hungry,” Juneau said. “I got me a gal in San Antone that don’t mind the smell of horse and cow sweat.”

  It prompted Horton to look closer at Rose Delano. She definitely had done something to her copper hair, and Mike wasted no time complimenting her.

  “My God,” said Bob Vines, “this looks more like a Sunday school picnic than a trail drive.”

  Sarah Miles laughed. “What’s wrong with that? You’re sitting here with me. It’s as new to the others as it is to me, having a man just sit and talk. Look at Rose. This is the first time I’ve ever seen her hair looking like that. What do you suppose happened?”

  “I reckon Mike Horton grinnin’ at her had something to do with it,” Bob said. “All of us are taking advantage of this time, and it may be what Don had in mind. Something tells me the worst part of this trail drive is ahead of us. We may not have time to sit and talk like this again.”

  “I truly hope we do,” said Sarah. “For the sake of the others, as well as my own.”

  “Whatever happens along the way,” Bob said, “none of you should worry about reaching California. I don’t mean to seem . . . forward. I just want you to know . . .”

  Words failed him. Leaning forward to look into his eyes, she spoke softly.

  “I do know, and I thank you.”

  Millie Nettles was talking earnestly to Les Brown, while Wendy Oldham laughed at something Charlie had said. Bob Vines grinned in appreciation. If all these women lived to reach California, their days of captivity and fear were over.

  Southern Utah. June 3, 1862.

  “Head ’em up, move ’em out,” Don shouted.

  The herd again took the trail, with Don scouting ahead. The women, while they had no saddles, had learned to assist the drag riders in heading bunch-quitters. The horse remuda and pack mules followed, with Dominique and Roberto keeping them as near the drag as they could. Once the herd had settled down, Don galloped his horse ahead, anxious to see how much farther the trail would follow the lower fork of this unknown river. Despite the fact they had seen nothing more of the Utes, he looked for any sign. After a little more than twelve miles, the trail turned southwest, away from the river.