The Old Spanish Trail Page 13

  “But I care,” she said.

  “How much?”

  “Awful much. More than I ever cared for . . . any man,” said Ellie.

  “Oh?” he replied, raising his eyebrows. “There have been other men?”

  “Oh no,” she cried. “I’m just nineteen, and I was taken to the mission when I was six. I’ve never so much as spoken to any man. Until you.”

  Roussel laughed. “Then you don’t know what a unwashed, unsavory gun-totin’ bunch of varmints we are.”

  “But you said you’d change, if I . . . I’d have you.”

  “You never said you’d have me,” Roussel teased.

  “I can’t imagine why you would want me,” she said. “At the mission, they told me I was awful, that I was ugly. Under this dress, I have scars all over me.”

  “Where you were beaten,” said Roussel. “Why?”

  “Because I cried, and I cried because I felt so alone.”

  “There’s nothing ugly about you, even with your scars,” Jim said. “I want you, and I promise you’ll never be alone again.”

  “Then you can have me,” said Ellie, “but I must tell you I’m ignorant in so many ways and I don’t know how to be a woman. I never had anybody to teach me.”

  “I’ll tell you a secret,” Jim said. “I’m a year younger than you, and I . . . I’ve never been with a woman. I reckon there’s a lot to learn. Maybe we can get the hang of it together.”

  She laughed. “I’m willing to try.”

  Don and Charlie soon reached the place where the Indians had begun driving the stolen cattle toward the southeast. There they slowed their horses to a walk, and not until they had ridden almost ten miles was there any sign of the Paiute camp. Then faintly they heard the barking of a dog. Both men dismounted. Lest the horses nicker and give them away, they must continue on foot.

  “Careful,” Don said softly. “The wind’s at our backs.”

  It was a disadvantage, for they were approaching a camp where there were dogs. One of the animals might betray their presence while they were afoot, a great distance from their horses. Suddenly Don stepped on a dead branch and it snapped. Both men froze, for in the still of the night, sound carried. They paused for several minutes, not daring to move, listening. But there was only the wind, and they continued their slow progress. The dog barked again, much closer, and again they paused. It seemed they were at the foot of a slight rise, and as they topped it, there was a pinpoint of light in the canyon below.

  “If they’re expectin’ us,” Charlie whispered, “there’ll be lookouts.”

  “That’s why they have a fire,” said Don softly. “They want to lure us in close enough to capture us, and that’s why we’re not goin’ any closer. Let’s get back to the horses.”

  Reaching their horses, they rode back upriver, neither of them speaking. There would be time enough, once they reached their camp. When they were near, they reined up.

  “Don and Charlie ridin’ in,” Don said.

  Quickly they dismounted and unsaddled their horses. Nobody said anything, waiting, and eventually Don spoke.

  “We found their camp, and it may be even larger than we thought. They have a fire, so that means they’re not afraid of us. In fact, they’re hoping we’ll come close enough for their sentries to take us.”

  “May be a permanent camp,” Charlie added. “They have dogs, so there may be squaws and young ’uns too.”

  “It won’t be easy gettin’ our cows then,” said Mike Horton.

  “No,” Don said. “They’re in a kind of canyon, and you can bet they’ll have lookouts oh the rims. I doubt even another Indian could get in there in the dark. We’ll have to get lots closer than Charlie and me were tonight, and we’ll have to do it in daylight. We’ll have to see where the cattle are before we can figure a way of taking them and getting ourselves out of there alive.”

  “They’ll expect us to follow their tracks and those of the cattle,” said Bob. “We’d best circle around and approach them from another direction. That way, maybe we can take them by surprise.”

  “I aim to be close enough to see that canyon at first light,” Don said. “I reckon they’ll expect all of us to come ridin’ in, and they’ll be waitin’ to wipe us out to the last man, so that’s the one thing we dare not do. Our only chance may be for one of us to get into that canyon and stampede the herd right through that Paiute camp.”

  “That would get them out of the hands of the Paiutes,” Eli Mills said, “but then they’d be scattered all to hell and gone. It’s a shame we can’t get to the canyon rims with our rifles and gun down the whole bunch, leavin’ the cattle undisturbed.”

  “You’re dreamin’, Eli,” said Charlie. “There may be a hundred or more Paiutes. Enough shootin’ to wipe them out would scatter that herd all over Arizona Territory.”

  “If the shooting didn’t, the smell of blood would,” Don said. “We’ll have to see exactly what we’re up against and plan accordingly, but killing them all isn’t the answer.”

  “I’m glad,” said Rose Delano. “It sounds so . . . brutal and barbaric.”

  “I know,” Don replied, “but no more brutal and barbaric than what they likely have in mind for us. Anyway, all we want is the rest of our cows, and the less killing we have to do, the better off we’ll probably be.”

  “That’s the gospel truth,” said Bob. “Some Indians are vindictive, wanting revenge for their dead. They might trail us for a hundred miles, picking us off one at a time.”

  “I understand your thinking, Don,” Jim Roussel said, “but where is it written that you have to go into that canyon and stampede the herd? Why not me?”

  “The rest of you voted me trail boss,” said Don, “and a lot of responsibility goes with it. Are you bucking for the job?”

  “No,” Jim said, “but as partners, all of us should be willing to share the danger.”

  “I’ve never doubted the willingness of any of you to share the danger,” said Don, “but in this case, there’ll be more than enough danger for everybody. I’m countin’ on that bein’ a box canyon, and after I’ve stampeded the cows, the Paiute horses, or both, I’ll be almost totally depending on the rest of you to see that I get out of there alive.”

  “I reckon we can do that,” Arch said. “If you aim to stampede the horses along with the cows, that leaves the Paiutes afoot.”

  “It all depends on where the horses are,” said Don, “as well as where the herd is. In a box canyon, obviously the camp should be nearest the open end, preventing the livestock from wandering away. If that’s the case here, our only hope is to stampede the herd and the Paiute horses right through the camp. We’ll just have to wait and see where the camp is, in relation to the horses and the herd.”

  “All of us will be ridin’ at first light then,” Jim Roussel said.

  “Every rider except Dominique, Roberto, and the ladies,” said Don. “They’ll remain here with our horse remuda and pack mules. After I’ve had a look at the canyon in daylight, I’ll get back with the rest of you long enough to decide what action we must take. Now it’s well past the time for those of us on the second watch to get what sleep we can.”

  But there would be little sleep for the women. Red, Charlie, and Arch were part of the first watch, and since there was only the horse remuda and the pack mules, the men were afoot, leading their horses. Molly Rivers quietly joined Red, while Wendy Oldham sought out Charlie. Arch was speaking softly to Bonita Holmes. Felton Juneau and Eli Mills kept their distance, allowing their comrades some privacy.

  “Kinda leaves you out, don’t it, Felton?” said Eli.

  “Not as much as you,” Juneau said. “I got me a gal back home.”

  “Got me one,” said Eli, “and I’m countin’ on enough dinero from this drive to take her before a preacher. I’m bettin’ some of these hombres left one behind too. They’re taking advantage of the present company for a little sport.”

  “I’ll make believe you never said that,�
� Juneau replied, “and was I you, I’d not say it too loud or too often. You’ll end up with your ears beat down around your boot tops.”

  But the rest of the cowboys hadn’t heard. While those who would take the second watch slept, Red, Charlie, and Arch were very much occupied.

  “Bonita,” said Arch, “you got nothin’ to worry about. All of us has fought Comanches in Texas since we was old enough to hold and sight a long gun.”

  “I can’t help worrying,” the girl said. “I’ve never had anybody to . . . to worry about, and I’m just so afraid . . . something will happen. I wish you’d just let them have the cows.”

  “No way I’d agree to that, if there’s a thousand Paiutes,” Arch said. “All I own is just a hundred cows, and my share of the loss would cost me every one. It’s the same with Eli, Felton, Red, and Charlie. We all got to have the money from the sale of our few cows because it’s hard times in Texas. I aim to go back in style, not hungry and broke as the day I rode out.”

  Red had just had a similar conversation with Molly Rivers.

  “Six thousand dollars,” said Holly. “I never dreamed there was that much money in all the world.”

  “There is,” Red assured her, “and it’s waitin’ in California. When we ride home to San Antone, I aim to be somebody, not that poor, ragged bastard, Red Bohannon.”

  “I like the part about riding home,” said Molly. “It’s just that I’ve had so little, for so long, I can’t believe there’s anything more. If anything happens to you, I’ll still be the same ragged Molly Rivers I’ve always been.”

  “Nothin’ will happen to me,” Red said. “Just you don’t worry.”

  But the fear she was about to lose all she seemed to have gained was strong on her mind. But she wasn’t alone. The same fear stalked Wendy Oldham.

  “Charlie . . .” said Wendy.

  “What?” Charlie inquired.

  “I . . . I don’t really know what to say. About tomorrow, I . . . I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t be,” said Charlie, taking both her hands in his. “Some of those are our cows, and we purely can’t afford to lose ’em. They’re the difference between us ridin’ back to Texas flush or broke and hungry.”

  “Wherever you go, I want to go with you, and I want you alive. Even if we are broke and hungry.”

  The second watch took over at midnight, and Don Webb found himself pretty much alone. His four companions were attempting to ease the minds of their worried women.

  “Damn it,” Don said, when he finally had a chance to speak to Bob Vines, “that bunch of females acts like all of us are goin’ to be strung up at dawn. They weren’t as spooked when we were up against more than a hundred Utes.”

  Bob laughed. “There’s been considerable water gone under the bridge since then, pard. These ragged ladies have tied what’s left of their lives to a bunch of Texas cowboys, and they’re not of a mind to lose any of us. Can you blame them, knowing what they’ve been through and the little they’ve had?”

  “I reckon not,” Don said. “It’s just hard to get used to all this doom and gloom on a trail drive. Every man of us knew when we left Santa Fe that this would be hell with the lid off. Now, before we see even a single Paiute, we have this bunch that already has us scalped and shot full of arrows.”

  “Don’t let it get to you,” said Bob. “When the time comes, every one of us will back you till hell freezes. You know that.”

  Feeling guilty about leaving Don alone on watch, Bob had left Sarah long enough to talk to Webb. He returned to Sarah.

  “He’s angry with us, isn’t he?” Sarah said.

  “Not really,” said Bob. “He’s just not used to . . . well . . . this situation on a trail drive.”

  “He’s said very little to any of us,” Sarah said. “Does he have a woman of his own?”

  “Back in Texas,” said Bob. “Most Texans wouldn’t feel that a trail drive is the place for a woman.”

  “Do you feel that way?”

  “Under normal circumstances, yes,” Bob said. “But there’s nothing normal about all of you being held captive by the Utes, and us taking you away from them. There’s not a man in Texas—even a killer or thief—who would have left any of you captive. We could only take you with us, and we did that, but it’s created a situation that’s a mite uncomfortable. Not only do we have to concern ourselves with staying alive, we’re forced to consider what will become of all of you, if something should happen to us.”

  “We’re a burden to you,” Sarah said.

  “I haven’t lied to you,” said Bob, “and I won’t. You—and the others—are a burden only to the extent that we fear something will happen to you when we’re unable to protect you. Every man fears something or somebody may harm his woman when he’s not there to defend her, and that’s not just on a dangerous journey such as this. Many a Texas woman has been taken captive or killed by outlaws or hostile Indians. We would have the same fears for you, if all of us were home in Texas. But here on the trail, the danger is much greater. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Sarah said. “It’s not your fault that we’re with you on this trail drive, no more than it’s ours. But we have much for which we should be thankful. If all of you hadn’t come on this drive, and if we hadn’t been captives of the Utes, then none of us would ever have met. Does that make a difference to you?”

  “Yes,” said Bob, “and hard as this drive is on us all, it’s worth it. I’ve been trying to recall the women I know back in Texas, and I can’t think of a one that measures up to you. If not for this drive, I’d never have found you.”

  Mike Horton had been trying unsuccessfully to calm the fears of Rose Delano.

  “Suppose all of you are killed when you raid that Indian camp,” Rose said.

  “We’re Texans,” said Mike. “We won’t be.”

  “But suppose you are?” Rose insisted.

  “Then you’ll have to make do with a Paiute brave,” said Mike angrily.

  Rose said no more, and the silence grew long and painful.

  “I’m sorry,” Mike said. “That was uncalled for.”

  “Not really,” said Rose. “I wanted you to promise me something that would take all the worry from me, and you couldn’t. It’s me that should be sorry, because I only fear what will happen to me, if something should happen to you. I am so selfish.”

  “With good reason,” Mike said, “and I can’t blame you for that. I only wish I could tell you that nothing will go wrong, that we’ll take back our cows and all of us will come through it with our hair still in place. I can only tell you that all of us have been through the fire more than once, and that we expect to come through it this time. But I can’t go any farther. Only God can get beyond that.”

  “You’ve said and done all I have any right to expect,” said Rose. “Instead of unloading all my fears on you, perhaps I should get back in touch with God and say some prayers for all you.”

  “Bueno,” Mike replied. “That’ll do more good than all the worry.”

  The night passed uneventfully, and the outfit gathered for breakfast before first light. While they were saddling their horses, Don told them what he had in mind.

  “Instead of riding in from the southeast, as they’ll expect, we’ll circle around and ride in from the west. I’ll find the way to reach the box end of that canyon, study the situation, and get back to you. Any questions?”

  There were none, and they rode south along the river. They passed up the beaten path where the cattle had been driven away to the southeast, and when they were five miles to the south, Don led them eastward. Frequently they reined up, listening. There was no wind and eventually they heard the distant bark of a dog.

  “All of you remain here with the horses,” Don said quietly. “I won’t make any moves until I’ve come back and told you what I have in mind. Then we’ll all work together to get our herd and get out of here alive.”

  Carrying his Henry, Don was soon lost in the brush and pinnacles o
f rock that thrust up from the rugged terrain. He paused often, listening, and once he heard the dog bark again. He moved on, careful to avoid any dead branches, loose rock, or dried-out pine cones. Eventually he could see what he believed was the box end of the canyon, for there was an outcropping of rock that rose out of the earth like the prow of a ship. Carefully, looking to left and right, Don crept forward. Reaching the stone parapet, he dropped to hands and knees. A rock that had looked solid suddenly rolled away, causing a clatter. Don paused, holding his breath. Hearing nothing, he continued, removing his hat as he neared the crest of the rock. Reaching it, he peered into the canyon below.

  “My God,” Don breathed aloud.

  The cattle were near the box end of the canyon, just as he had hoped. Beyond them, next to the Paiute camp, were the horses. Don estimated there were close to two hundred. The Paiutes had their cook fires nearest the entrance to the canyon, along a stream. There was sandy floor from one end of the canyon to the other, with virtually no graze, and Don sighed with satisfaction. He had seen enough. Quickly he retraced his steps, making his way back to his comrades. He spoke quickly, allowing them no time to ask questions.

  “There’s nearly two hundred horses, and they’re between our herd and the Paiute camp. There’s water in the canyon, but no graze. Before the sun is noon-high, those longhorns will be hungry, ornery, and hard to hold. We have time on our side.”

  “They’ll have to take their horses out to graze,” said Bob.

  “That’s exactly what we’re goin’ to be waiting for,” Don said. “Then we’ll scatter them from here to yonder. That should draw the rest of them out of that canyon and allow us enough time to go after our herd.”

  9

  “Those Paiutes must have expected us yesterday or last night,” Bob Vines said. “They’ll know they can’t hold the longhorns much longer, and I can’t imagine them driving all that bunch of ornery critters out to graze and then driving ’em back.”

  “You bet they won’t,” said Don. “That’s too much like hard work. They herded them into that canyon to start with only because they expected us to come after them. We just complicated things for ’em by not showing up soon enough.”