Down on Gila River Page 2

  Hannah felt a tug on her skirt.

  “Is it Pa?” her daughter asked, her brown eyes wide and as round as copper coins.

  A pang of something akin to sadness stabbed at Hannah Stewart’s heart. “No, Lori,” she said, “it’s not Pa.” She took the child’s hand. “We’re going inside,” she said.

  “Let me carry the eggs,” Lori said.

  “I think they’re too heavy for you, honey.”

  “No, they’re not. I’m a big girl now. I’m four.”

  “Three.”

  “Nearly four.”

  Hannah smiled. “All right, carry the basket, but be careful.”

  She opened the door wide for the child, and then glanced back at the man on the trail.

  A white man. Big hat, knee-high boots, a gun on his hip.

  A cowboy, then. Or an outlaw.

  Hannah helped Lori put the eggs on the table. Then she took the shotgun from above the fireplace. She crossed the floor to a cupboard, opened the drawer, and took two bright red shells from a box.

  She loaded the Greener and turned to Lori. “Shh,” she said, forefinger to her lips. “Be a little mouse until I come back.”

  The girl looked at her mother in alarm and Hannah smiled.

  “It’s only a cowboy searching for his lost horse,” she said. “I’ll go talk to him, is all.”

  “Be careful, Mommy,” Lori said, her voice trembling a little.

  “I will,” Hannah said. “Now, remember, be a quiet little mouse.”

  She stepped outside—just as Sam Sawyer reached the well. Hannah saw the man’s eyes move over her, from her face to her breasts to the swell of her hips under her plain gray work dress.

  She found nothing offensive in the man’s gaze. He’d looked at her without heat, as a man will look at any attractive woman.

  Sam touched the brim of his battered black hat. “Howdy, ma’am,” he said. “I wonder if I can trouble you for a drink of water.”

  Hannah nodded. “Yes, please help yourself.”

  She watched as the man dropped the bucket into the well, heard the splash and then saw him raise it again.

  “There’s a dipper on a nail beside you,” she said.

  “Obliged, ma’am,” Sam said.

  He drank deep, drank again, and when Hannah figured the worst of his thirst had been quenched, she said, “Have you come far?”

  “Yes, ma’am, from the mountains back there. Apaches made off with my hoss and nearly my hair.”

  He drank again, then said, “Afore that, I was working fer the Rafter-T, up in the Spur Lake Basin country.”

  Anticipating the woman’s next question, he said, “Name’s Sam Sawyer, an’ I’m headed fer Silver City.” He smiled, showing his teeth. “I figured I might prosper there in the restaurant profession.”

  “My name is Hannah Stewart,” the woman said. “This is my place.”

  She was not yet sure she could trust this man and didn’t mention Lori. But she had dropped the shotgun barrels so the muzzles pointed at the ground.

  Sam’s eyes swept over the cabin, the outbuildings, and then lingered on the barn. “Live here by yourself, ma’am?” Sam asked.

  Hannah hesitated a moment. “Yes. My husband rode away three months ago and I haven’t seen him since. I expect he’ll be back at any time now.”

  She saw Sam nod, but he didn’t comment.

  As he had studied her, now the woman sized up her visitor.

  He was a stocky man, about average height. His face was deeply lined and weathered, his eyebrows untrimmed and craggy, as was his great dragoon mustache. His teeth when he smiled were white, unusual for the high desert country where dentists were few and far between, and his blue eyes were bright and good-humored, as though he found everything in the world around him amusing.

  He wore scuffed, work-worn jeans and wide canvas suspenders over a faded blue shirt. His cartridge belt and the holster that carried a walnut-handled Colt were much worn but of obvious good quality.

  Hannah put the man’s age at sixty, but figured he could be older, or younger. She decided to take a chance on the man named Sam Sawyer.

  “Are you hungry?” she said. “I was about to cook supper for my daughter and me.”

  “Little blond gal with big brown eyes, huh?” Sam said.

  “Yes. But how did you—”

  “She’s been lookin’ at me out the window since I got here, ma’am,” Sam said, grinning.

  Hannah thought the man had a good smile, friendly and open, as though he had nothing to hide.

  “Her name is Lori,” she said. “She worries about her ma.”

  “And why shouldn’t she, ma’am?” Sam said. “I mean, a right handsome woman like you all alone in this wilderness.”

  Immediately Hannah became defensive again.

  “Not so alone, Mr. Sawyer,” she said. “The local cowboys stop by often, especially if they smell doughnuts in the wind. And Sheriff Moseley visits when he’s in the area.”

  “Sheriff?” Sam said. “You mean he rides all the way up here from Silver City?”

  The woman shook her head. “No. South of here there’s a small cow town on Mogollon Creek called Lost Mine, and Vic Moseley is its sheriff.”

  Sam peered to the south. “Dang, I don’t see it.”

  “If you walk up the rise there, you’ll see it,” Hannah said. “It’s only a couple of miles away.” She hesitated, and then said, “It isn’t much of a town.”

  Sam nodded. “Is the invitation to supper still open, ma’am?” he said. “I’m feelin’ famished, an’ no mistake.”

  Hannah smiled. “Of course it is.”

  Chapter 3

  “He was a great warrior,” the old Apache said. “The bravest of the brave, skilled in war. He had many horses.”

  “And now he is dead, Grandfather,” the boy said.

  “Yes, Goso is dead. Killed by the Mexicans in a great battle.”

  “Then why do we seek him?”

  The old Apache was silent for a while, his deeply wrinkled face still, though he sat his pony and pondered the boy’s question. Finally he said, “His soul has lost its way and does not know how to reach the shadow lands. We will help him, you and I.”

  “But how, Grandfather?” The boy was ten years old that year and had many questions. He rode a spotted pony as old as he was.

  “I will pray to the Great Spirit and ask him to show us the way.”

  “But why here, in this place?” the boy said. “Or any other place?”

  “I had a dream and in my dream I saw this place, the mountains and the plain and amidst it all stood a great tree. Goso sat his pony under the tree and I said to him, ‘You must move on to the land of shadows.’ I said to him, ‘Follow the trail of all the dead buffalo, for it is wide and well marked.’ But Goso did not look at me or speak to me and a hawk flew over the tree and made a loud cry and I became very afraid. When I woke, one of my women said, ‘You cry out in your sleep, husband.’”

  The old warrior was silent for a while. Then he said, “It was the spirit hawk that told me where I would find Goso, and that is why we seek him in this lonely place.”

  “But, Grandfather, why—”

  “Faugh, Nolgee, you wear me out with your questions,” the old man said. “Let us ride from the shadow of the mountains and onto the plain, where we will look for the great tree I saw in my dream.”

  * * *

  The old Apache and his grandson rode out of the Mule Mountains and headed east under a high sun. The day was hot and the sky was blue as far as the eye could see. Insects made their small sounds in the grass, and the air smelled of pine and mountain wildflowers.

  The boy saw the Chiricahua first, three warriors leading a white man
’s horse. When they drew closer, the one who wore the yellow headband of an army scout drew rein and put field glasses to his eyes. Unlike the other two, that man was painted for war.

  Nolgee was much afraid and said, “Grandfather . . .”

  “I see them,” the old man said. “They are Chiricahua and brothers to the Mescalero.”

  “Then why do they look at us through the white man’s seeing glass?”

  “Perhaps they fear us, grandson,” the old man said. But he smiled as he said it.

  “If they fear us, they will run away,” the boy said.

  “Then we will wait here and let them come,” the old man said. “Or run away as the notion takes them.”

  But the three warriors came on and when they were yet at a distance they halted their ponies and stared at the old warrior and the boy, and their gaze lingered on the horses they rode.

  It occurred to the old Apache then that he and his grandson had good spotted ponies, and he himself carried a fine Spencer carbine, had a Colt holstered at his waist, and wore a necklace of silver Mexican pesos. Such great treasures were worth fighting for.

  The warrior with the yellow headband took time to look at all those things, then said, “Where do you go, Grandfather?” And to make his companions laugh, which they did, he said, “Do you take the war trail?”

  “I seek a troubled spirit,” the old man said. He did not look directly at the warrior because that is not the Apache way. “My grandson rides with me to learn the way of such things.”

  The warrior’s eyes flicked to Nolgee, dismissed him, then said to the old man again, “What is this spirit you speak of?”

  “The spirit of a great man of our people, the warrior named Goso. He must be shown the trail to the shadow lands.”

  “Faugh,” the man with the yellow headband said, “Goso was killed by Mexican lancers in a great battle in the foothills of the Sierra Madres. His spirit does not roam the land of the Chiricahua.”

  The old man sat straighter on his pony and he said, “My name is Tsisnah, and I say it does. Goso sits his pony under a broad tree because he is lost and knows not whether he lives or is dead. I know these things because I saw them in a terrible dream.”

  The young warrior’s face changed, showed surprise. “You are Tsisnah, the brave Mescalero war chief grown old?”

  “Not old enough to run from a fight.”

  Now the two warriors behind the one with the yellow headband whispered one to the other and told of the fierce battles Tsisnah had won and of the many scalps he had taken.

  They were very much in fear of him because it was said he could command the lightning and halt the course of the sun so that the day for the battle grew longer.

  Speech fled from the man with the yellow headband’s mouth, but Tsisnah said, “Will you let us pass? We mean no harm to the Chiricahua or to anyone else. We are travelers.”

  The young warrior bowed his head, then looked up again and said, “I am a poor man, but I do not envy the things Tsisnah possesses.”

  “Then you do me great honor.”

  The warrior reached into the pocket of the white man’s black vest he wore and took out a brass compass, the kind the horse soldiers used to find their way because they are poor scouts. But it was a gift worthy of Tsisnah. He extended the compass to the old man.

  “This will help you in your search for Goso,” he said. “Night or day, the needle always points to that place in the sky where the North Star dwells. It is a great wonder.”

  The old man took the compass, stared at it long, then smiled and said, “And again you do me honor.” He reached down, unbuckled his cartridge belt, and passed it and the holstered Colt to the warrior.

  “This is a small thing, not to be compared with the fine gift you gave me, but take it and remember Tsisnah,” he said. “At night when you sit by the fire, tell the people, ‘Once I met Tsisnah when he was grown old and he gave me this revolver.’”

  The young warrior was very affected by this talk and he showed the blue Colt to his companions and their eyes grew large because Tsisnah had so freely parted with such a valuable weapon.

  “May you find the soul of Goso and help him find his way to the shadow lands,” the warrior with the yellow headband said. “I will think of you often and pray to Great Spirit for your success.”

  Then, since the Apache have no word for good-bye, he and his companions rode away until they faded into the shimmering heat and were lost in the distance.

  Chapter 4

  “That was a right elegant meal, ma’am,” Sam Sawyer said, laying his fork on the plate.

  “I rather fancy that fried salt pork and beans is far from elegant,” the woman said. “But thank you for a most singular compliment.”

  “Ma,” Lori said, openly speaking her thoughts as children do, “why does the man smell so bad?”

  Sam saw Hannah flush and he smiled. “I guess I do, little girl,” he said. “Three weeks on the trail will do that to a man.”

  “Why doesn’t he take a bath?” Lori said, as loud as before.

  She looked at her mother, careful to avoid Sam’s amused eyes.

  Hannah was flustered, at a loss for words, but Sam supplied them.

  “I reckon I’ll take a bath and a shave real soon,” he said. “How does that set with you, Lori?”

  The girl buried her face in her mother’s side and said nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” Hannah said. “Children do speak out of turn.”

  “No need to apologize,” Sam said. “I’ve been smelling my own sweat for the past week.”

  He took the makings from his shirt pocket and held them where the woman could see them. “May I beg your indulgence, ma’am?”

  “Of course,” Hannah said. “My husband was a smoking man, though he favored a pipe.”

  As he built his cigarette, Sam said, “I learned this from Mexican vaqueros down Texas way. They’re much addicted to the habit, as I am.” He smiled. “Now I don’t know whether to thank them or shoot them on sight.”

  “I heard a doctor say that tobacco smoke is good for the lungs,” Hannah said.

  “Heard that my own self,” Sam said. “I guess them doctors know what they’re talking about.”

  He studied Hannah through a haze of blue smoke. Miz Stewart was a fine-looking woman, in her late-thirties, Sam reckoned, and the sun had not yet browned and wrinkled her. She was tall, slim-boned with corn-silk hair, and large, expressive brown eyes. She seemed more suited to be a drawing room ornament in an eastern city than a pioneer woman in the high desert country of the New Mexico Territory.

  Yet, despite her seeming delicacy, Sam sensed there was iron in Hannah Stewart, tempered to flexible steel by a harsh land and the daily struggle to survive.

  Following up on his drawing room notion, he said, “Are you planning to stay on here, ma’am, now your man is gone?”

  Hannah hesitated. “I don’t know that Tom is gone forever. Maybe he . . . maybe . . .” Her voice trailed off into a near whisper. “Well, maybe a lot of things.”

  Sam said nothing, watching the woman, the sudden lost look in her eyes.

  After a few moments, Hannah said, “To answer your question, we, Lori and me, will be out of here before winter.”

  “You have a place to go?”

  “No.”

  “Money? You’ll need money.”

  “Tom left fifty dollars on the kitchen table the morning he left. It’s mostly gone now, but we’ll manage.”

  “I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn, ma’am, but I’m a questioning man by nature,” Sam said. “It’s a fault of old age, I guess.”

  Hannah smiled. “You’re not old, Mr. Sawyer.”

  “I’m fifty.”

  “Oh, I thought you were—” Hannah stopped
herself, horrified.

  “Older?” Sam said. “I take no offense, ma’am. Cowboyin’ can surely put years on a man.”

  “I . . . I meant . . .” Hannah began. She realized she was digging a deeper hole and gave up. “I’d better take the dishes to the sink,” she said. The woman stood and picked up Sam’s plate. She glanced out the cabin window and froze in place, her eyes searching outside.

  “He’s there again,” she said.

  Sam rose. “Who’s there, ma’am?”

  “The Apache.”

  Alarmed, Sam drew his Colt.

  “Where is he?” he said.

  “Look,” Hannah said. “Out there, by the cottonwoods.”

  Sam stepped to the window. The day was shading into evening, and the red-streaked sky tinted the dusty air with amber light.

  He made out the cottonwoods but failed to spot the Indian.

  “I don’t see him,” he said. “My eyes ain’t what they once was.”

  “Between the two cottonwoods to the left of the rock pile,” Hannah said. “He sits a gray pony and just . . . waits.”

  “You’ve seen him before?” Sam said.

  “Many times, and always by the cottonwoods.”

  “If you see one Injun, that means a passel of them are nearby. Does he ever come closer to the cabin?”

  “No, never. He doesn’t even look this way, as though the cabin doesn’t exist.”

  “I don’t see him,” Sam said again. He again felt the need to apologize. “I never was a farsighted man, ma’am.” He gave Hannah a wan smile. “Come to that, I’m not a close-sighted man either.”

  “He won’t do us any harm,” Hannah said. “He never has.”

  Lori tugged on her mother’s skirt. “Is it the Indian, Mommy?”

  “Yes,” Hannah said. “It’s the Indian.” She turned and bent over the child. “Go get Dolly. It’s time she was in bed.”

  “Dolly doesn’t want to go to bed.”

  “Then take her on your knee and tell her a story.”

  “No. Pick me up. I want to see the Indian.”