“The hardest part will be after we cross the river. From the river to the mountains is a long way, all of it desert. There are bare ridges, lava beds, some cinder cones, and-“ “What’s a cinder cone?”
“Easiest way to explain it is, it’s a small volcano. Most of ‘em are a couple of hundred feet high, or less, cone-shaped, with a crater inside.” “Is there water in the desert?”
“Here and there, if you know where to look. There’s a river, too. Water’s not too good, and it isn’t much of a river, only a few feet across, and some places no more than an inch deep.”
“Where will I live?”
My father was silent for a few minutes and then said, “Your grandfather is a very rich man. He has thousands of cattle, sheep, and horses. He has a big ranch, and then he has a house in town, too.
“Most of the men who work on the ranch are Indians, those in town are Mexicans.
Good men, most of them.”
I wanted to ask him about Felipe, and what he might have known that he was not wanted to know, but I did not. I could not let my father realize that his private conversations had been overheard, even though I only listened when they spoke about the past or about my grandfather.
We dozed, awakened, then dozed again. Fletcher paced irritably. He was a difficult, impatient man, one accustomed to having his own way, I thought, and he did not like being just one of a group, nor did he like my father. I did not like Fletcher, nor did he like me.
“What’s the matter with him?” he demanded once. “He doesn’t talk like any boy I know.”
My father’s expression was bland. “He has spent much more time with adults, so he talks like one, even thinks like one. We’ve been in few places where there were other children, a fact I regret.”
Later, when I had gone to get a drink from the pool, I heard Farley talking to Kelso. “He’s trouble, and I don’t want trouble. I’m not worried about Verne. He can take care of himself, but I don’t want shooting.” “There’s been no trouble so far.”
“No, and I want to keep it that way. Fletcher looks like a tough man, but he doesn’t know anything about Verne, and I don’t think he knows much about the West.”
There was a pause. “I want to get these people through safely and with as little trouble as possible. I nearly refused Fletcher on sight. I am sorry I didn’t.” Fletcher finally seated himself against a tree, removed his hat, and closed his eyes. I watched him curiously, wondering why he was going to California in such a hurry. Yet I had no idea why any of them were going except for my father. So far, neither of the two women had tried to talk to me, which seemed strange, as women traveling always seemed to fuss over youngsters, and I had been wary of them for that reason.
Miss Nesselrode was a slender, graceful woman who might have been thirty and was probably younger. She wore high lace collars that were always immaculate, no matter how dusty the trail. Her gray traveling dress was much worn and there were signs of raveling at the cuffs. She was rather pretty in a fluttery way, but I did notice that with each day we were on the trail she fluttered less and her eyelashes were steadier. If she had a first name, I had never heard it. Mrs. Weber was a stout lady in black satin-or what looked like it. I felt sorry for her in that old stiff black dress she wore that seemed to have so many layers. She held a small handkerchief to her nose most of the time, and sniffed a good deal. Sometimes I tried to imagine why they were all going west, but could not.
It was very still. Not a breath of air stirred. Occasionally one of the horses would stamp a hoof to drive away flies. Jacob Finney, who had been lying under the wagon, got up, and taking his rifle, went out to relieve Kelso. Farley walked over and dropped to the sand beside my father. “Verne? Did you ever make the crossing this high up?”
“My first time was in Mohave country, but I never crossed in here.”
“You know the country west of the river?”
“Some of it. There’s some water holes at the west end of the Chocolates.” He paused, then abruptly he asked, “Farley? Do you know Peg-Leg Smith?” “No. I heard of him, but who hasn’t? Trapper, isn’t he? Mountain man?” “He’s that, but he’s more. He’s a horse thief, too. He’s a mean, dangerous man, and he runs with a bunch of renegades, both Indian and white. He steals horses in Arizona and sells them in California, then he steals horses in California and sells them in Arizona.
“When they take after him, he hides out somewhere in the desert. Vanishes. Just drops off the end of the world and leaves no trail. Nobody’s been able to catch him. Obviously he has a hideout somewhere in the desert north of here, a place even the Indians can’t find-or don’t want to find.” “What has that to do with us?”
“Peg-Leg will steal any horses or mules he can lay hands on. He’s attacked at least one of the Spanish gold trains coming down from northern California. He wasn’t even thinking of the gold, didn’t know there was any, I expect, and just wanted the mules. He got them, too. Wiped out every man, he thought, but two of the mule drivers got away.
“Funny part of it was, they say he didn’t take the gold, just dumped out the ore and went away with the sacks and the mules.”
“He probably didn’t know it was gold. I’ve seen only two or three pieces of gold ore in my life and wouldn’t have bothered to pick up either piece. How many people know gold when they see it in the rock?” Farley was silent; then after a moment he said, “You mean that whole mule train of ore was dumped out somewhere and is just lyin’ there?”
“That’s the story.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“The point I’m making has nothing to do with gold, but a whole lot to do with Peg-Leg. You’ve got some fine stock here, and what looks like a wagonload of something valuable, so be careful.”
“We’re watchin’.”
“For Indians. But are you watching for what seems to be a friendly white man?”
Three
There was another time when Finney had taken me up on the saddle. “My pa used to ride with me like this. He taught me about cows. More’n I needed to know, I suspect.”
He indicated the hills around. “Mighty bare, you’d say. Not much but cedar, but there’s always more’n a body would suspect. You’ve got to look close to see an Injun, if you ever do. Watch out of the corners of your eyes. You pick up movement quicker that way. An Injun never looks over the top of a rock or a bush, always around the base. They don’t skyline theirselves. You best learn to do the same.
“Don’t wear nothin’ bright, nothin’ to catch the sun. Shining things can be seen for miles. Buckskin, that’s a good color. Stay away from white. Some damn fools want all that fancy, jingly stuff on their horses. Surest way to get killed. “Your pa, now, he knows an uncommon lot about Injuns. I’d never have figured it of him, either. He looks more like a schoolteacher.” “He was one, for a while.”
“You don’t say? Well, what d’you know? I wonder if any of them youngsters knowed what a ring-tailed catamount they had for a teacher?” “A what?”
He drew up to study a wide stretch of country opening before us. “Maybe you don’t know about your pa, son. Farley told me, but I’d heard a few stories before that. Seems like somebody didn’t want him alive, so they sent some outlaws after him. He killed two of them, wounded another, and got away-wounded himself.
“When he run off with your mother, they took in after him, the old man and about forty tough vaqueros. He played hide-an’-seek with ‘em in the desert and got plumb away, and him with a woman with him. There’s a lot of folks know about Zachary Verne.
“Farley was thinkin’ of that when he taken him on. Just knowin’ how to shoot is one thing, knowin’ when to shoot is something else again, an’ your pa has savvy.”
That had been days ago, and now we were waiting, waiting for the last long hours to pass-and then we had the river to cross. This was the most dangerous moment so far, perhaps the most dangerous we would encounter. Yet the Indians were a danger of which we thought little. They might attack, and the men in the wagon would fight back. Even the women would, for both of them knew how to shoot. Or they might just reload guns for the men to fire. The Indians were a present danger, but it was that fierce old man who was my grandfather that I feared the most.