“Mister?” It was Kelso. “You all right?”
“Yes, yes, thank you. A little unsteady, is all. Will we be here long?” “We’re changin’ horses here. Our stock’s about played out, an’ Farley had planned to get a fresh team for the long pull through the pass.” He pointed off into the darkness. “There’s the Indian well that gives the place its name, but maybe you know all that.
“You have to go down steps to get to the water, but it’s good water. Cold.”
“I could use a drink. So could my son.”
There was a pause while Kelso removed his hat and wiped the sweatband. “Lunger?” he asked gently.
“I’m afraid so. I’ve been coughing less since I reached the desert, though.” “Whyn’t you stay over at Agua Caliente for a few days? Folks say that hot, dry air is good for lungers.”
“I haven’t much time, Kelso. I am taking my son to his grandparents in Los Angeles.”
Mr. Kelso walked away in the night and my father put his hand on my shoulder. “Hannes? See that big old palm tree over there? The Indians say one of their wise men, when he was growing old, turned himself into that tree so he could continue to serve his people.”
“How could he do that?”
“He willed it. He stood very straight and very still and willed himself to become a tree, and slowly he began to change until he became that tree.” “Do you believe it, Papa?”
“I have never seen such a thing happen, Hannes. My reason tells me it could not happen, but my reason can only judge by what I know, and I do not know everything.
“Indians are different from us. They have other beliefs, and other reasons for believing. It is best not to dispute what the Indians say, but to listen and learn, making your judgments later.”
He glanced toward the small building where the light shone from a window and an open door. “Stay by the stage, son. I shall be back in a minute.” No one else had left the stage. All were asleep or trying to sleep. Mr. Kelso and my father had both forgotten the cold water, and I was thirsty. The men who had taken the horses away had not returned with the fresh team. Edging closer to the rift in the earth where the well was, I peered down. Far below I could see the gleam of water.
Carefully I tried the first step, then another. One by one I descended. When I stood on the square of earth near the water’s edge, I looked up. All I could see was a rectangle of sky and two stars. When I looked around, straining to see in the darkness, I saw a huge olla or jar, and hanging beside it, a gourd dipper. Dipping it into the cold water, I drank and drank. Nothing had ever tasted so good. I filled the dipper again, and then realized somebody was watching me. It was an Indian, a very, very old Indian wearing a loose cotton shirt. His hair was thin and gray, bound with a band around his head and hanging to his shoulders. Suspended from a cord around his neck was a triangle of blue stone with markings on it “Oh? I am sorry, sir. I did not see you at first.” I dipped the gourd into the water and held it out to the Indian, who merely looked at me. Then my father called, and I put the gourd dipper down and hurried up the steps. “I am sorry, sir. Please forgive me,” I said over my shoulder. My father was beside the wagon and he turned at the footsteps. “You had me worried. I was afraid you’d wandered off.”
“I was getting a drink.”
When the wagon was moving again, I said to my father, “I saw an Indian.” Fletcher was sitting up. “Ain’t likely. They tell me Injuns don’t come to the well no more. Not at night, anyway.”
“He was very old,” I said, “and he had a piece of blue stone hanging from his neck.”
“Turquoise,” Fletcher said. “They set store by it. More than gold.” He glanced at me. ‘Turquoise is a kind of rock,” he said.
The new team moved off at a good gait, Finney driving. Farley had crawled back into the wagon and found a place where he could recline on the blanket rolls. “Next stop is Agua Caliente. You’ve been there before, Verne?” “Yes, several times. It’s right at the door of the San Jacintos. Some of the Anglos are beginning to call it Palm Springs. There’s nobody there except three or four white men and some Cahuilla Indians.”
He paused. “I am expecting some mail there.”
He leaned back against the baggage, and after a while I did also. I was tired, tired for want of sleep and tired of the wagon. I just wanted to be someplace and not to have to go on, day after day.
Lying awake in the dark, I thought of that lost ship, trapped in an inland sea from which it could not escape, sailing around and around forever until someday it ran aground and could sail no more. I dreamed of finding that ship and going aboard and finding chests of gold and chests of pearls. Or chests of turquoise like the old Indian wore.
The horses were trotting now, hurrying. We would soon be in Agua Caliente, and then on to Los Angeles. How many more stops? Five, six, a dozen? I did not know. The wagon rumbled along in the night and my father sat up, bringing his holster around to a better position. He took his rifle and placed it beside him also. Was there to be trouble, then?
A long time later, when I had slept, awakened, and slept again, the wagon rumbled to a stop. Peering out past Mr. Finney’s head, I could see a lighted window and a door opening to let light stream out. A man came from the door and hurried toward the wagon.
My father moved to the back of the stage and slid to the ground. He had straightened up when the man came around the wagon. “Verne? Are you there? Is it you?”
“How are you, Peter? It’s been a long time.”
“Let’s go inside and have some coffee.” The man was as tall as my father and had a handlebar mustache of golden brown, and a goatee. He glanced at me. “This is your son?”
“Johannes? This is Peter Burkin. He’s an old friend.”
“We’ve got to talk, Zack. Serious talk. Let’s all go inside.” “We’ve only a minute. We’re just changing teams again. Farley’s in a hurry to get in.”
“That’s just it, Verne. You mustn’t go any further. If you go into Los Angeles, you will be killed. You and the boy as well.”
“What?”
“They’re waiting for you, Zack.”
Ten
They went inside, and I followed. It was a small store with a bar along one side and three tables. Behind the bar were a few bottles; behind the counter on the other side, were some packages, cans, and boxes of groceries or supplies. My father dropped into a chair. His face was gray and his eyes hollow. He looked worse than I had ever seen him.
“Peter, I’ve got to see them! I have to convince them! My son will need a home and he has no other kin.
“I’m not worried about dying. I’ve accepted that and I expect I’m as ready as a man ever gets. If they kill me, it will only lessen the suffering, but it is Johannes who matters.”
“You don’t understand, Zack. The way they see it, you disgraced the family by marrying their daughter, and your son is living evidence of their shame. They want him dead, Zack.”
Peter went behind the counter and returned with two cups and the coffeepot, filling both cups. I sat on a bench against the wall and almost behind my father, although I could see the side of his face. His appearance frightened me. He looked so haggard, so exhausted, so drawn. When he glanced around, his eyes unseeing, I was shocked by the desperation in his eyes.
“My God, Peter, what will I do? I’ve no home for the lad! I’ve come all this way, hoping desperately they’d take him in. The Californios I’ve known were kind to their children, and I hoped … Peter, we’ve no place to go! No place at all! The last time I saw a doctor, he gave me four or five months, and that’s been over three months ago!”
“Zack? Let me get your gear off that wagon. They know you’re coming, and they’re waiting. There will be four or five of them at the Bella Union and just as many down by the wagon yard. They’ve men posted on the trails into town. “You were always handy with a gun, but in your best days you couldn’t handle that many at close range. Nobody could.”