“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go to Los Angeles!”
“Somebody would think you had a girl there,” Monte said, smiling.
“I have,” I said, and then I smiled, too. “Only she doesn’t know it.”
“You never know about a woman,” Monte said. “You never know.”
Thirty-five
How long the green, green valley! How veiled with distant haze the hills beyond! From the back of the dark dapple my eyes searched out the place where the pass was, so narrow a pass, so small an opening, and so much a place where trouble might be.
The horses were tired now, and they had found their places in the pecking order of the herd. The old mare still led and the rest trailed out behind, only my black stallion was aloof, alone, watchful but accepting, too. He was growing accustomed to the long drives, to the night camps, to the presence of men whom he had come to recognize and not to fear.
“Will the Mohaves follow us? Or will they go back?”
Francisco shrugged. “Who knows? They lost men, I think.” Of course. There had been much shooting, and all the shots could not have missed, so they might have turned back, no longer sure of their medicine, even though they had probably won.
At noon I changed horses and took from the herd a sturdy bay with a black mane and tail. He had been ridden but little, and when I hit the saddle he ran forward, stopped suddenly, then, switching ends, spun in a tight circle. I stayed with him, rather enjoying it, and when he quit, I patted him on the neck and said, “Take it easy, boy, it’s going to be a long day.” He was a good horse, a tough horse, and he moved well. He was very quick to pick up any horse that started to cut out from the herd. We saw an old cow and two lean steers coming down a trail from the green hills. I watched them along a narrow trail, wondering how they could make it at all, yet they did, with no more trouble than so many mountain goats. At night we made camp in the open, not liking it very much, but the valley was wide and flat and we were hours from the pass that opened into the hills. From here on we would be climbing slowly. Atop a small rise I studied our back trail and all the country we had left behind. I saw no dust, no sign of movement. We had only a rope corral, but when we had eaten I took a tortilla and walked down to the corral and stood near the black stallion. He tossed his head and watched me from the corners of his eyes, but after a bit I moved closer and held out the tortilla to him.
He showed no interest, so I let my hand fall, waiting. After a bit I edged closer and held it out again. Tentatively he stretched his neck toward me, sniffed, and drew sharply back, shook his head, then reached his neck toward me again, and this time he nibbled cautiously at the tortilla. He got a bit of it, seemed to like it, and reached for more. I let him have it all, then walked away from him and back to the fire.
It had been three days since we had seen Ramon when he rode in from the darkness. “They are behind us, and they need horses.” “Mohaves?” Monte asked.
“The others. The white men. Three were killed, and one Mohave, I think.”
“They need horses?”
“Four men, two horses. Two ride, two walk, then they change.” It was still dark when we moved out, keeping the horses moving at a good gait until the pass opened before us and the trail grew steeper. It was a narrow place between high, grassy hills dotted with clumps of oak. “Further along,” Ramon said, “there is a spring and the burial place of a French trapper, Peter Lebec. There is a carving on a tree which says he was killed by-“ he drew an “X” on the ground with his foot to show us the way it had been carved-“a cross bear.”
Monte chuckled. “You’d be cross too, if a bunch of fur trappers started setting traps around your home!”
“It is the rancho of Jose Antonio Aguirre and Ignacio del Valle,” Ramon explained, “but they are not often here. Too many raids by Indians.” It was a stiff climb up through the pass, and we let the horses take their time, grazing a little as they moved.
Taking my hat from my head, I mopped the sweat from my brow and looked back to where the tall V of the canyon opening looked out upon the vast sweep of the San Joaquin Valley. Far away there seemed to be a tiny plume of dust. Riders? Or a dancing dust devil? Topping out on a small hill, I saw the long line of horses going down the slope before me and around the side of the low hill. Despite the dust on their coats, they were a fine lot of horses. Suddenly, far ahead of us where the pass widened into a valley, I could see a small cloud of dust. Riders! Several of them. Turning in the saddle, I said to Ramon, “Stay with us.
I think we’re going to have trouble.”
Pulling out from the drag end of the herd, I rode swiftly along the bank until I came up with Jacob, who was in the lead.
“Riders coming,” I explained. “Quite a few of them.” Jacob turned and motioned to Monte McCalla, who rode up beside us.
“Trouble,” Jacob said, “or it could be. There are more bandits in this country than bears, and there’s a lot of grizzly.”
From where we were we could see no dust cloud as I had spotted it from the top of a rise. Jacob dropped back, speaking to Francisco, and they began bunching the horses.
We walked the horses forward, and my eyes swept the terrain ahead. There was a low hill crowned with a few cedars backed by the steep grass-covered mountainside. To the east of it there was a deep gully cut by runoff water. “Jacob?” I pointed.
“Good idea.” He turned in the saddle and pointed, and Francisco moved up and began to turn the herd. They went into the few acres of grass against the hill, and almost at once Jaime and Martin faded into the cedars. Francisco stepped down from his horse behind a boulder where there was also a fallen, decaying tree trunk with its web of branches. The others found their places, and we waited.
The riders came on. That they had seen us from afar was obvious, for two of them were standing in their stirrups, searching for us. There were seventeen or eighteen men in the lot, a mixed bunch of Anglos and Mexicans, heavily armed. “Bandidos,” Francisco said.
We waited. Suddenly one of them pointed, and they turned and rode toward us in a wide skirmish line.
“If there’s trouble,” Jacob said, “the tall one with the red scarf is mine.”
“I want the two on the paint horses,” Monte said.
They rode nearer, slowing their pace as they took in the situation.
“Looking for something?” I asked.
The man who answered was a thin, wiry man with a pockmarked face. He smiled quickly, his even, very white teeth showing under his black, trimmed mustache. “We are looking for lost horses,” he said, “and we have found them.” “Good for you,” I said. “We’ve been lucky, too. We captured some wild horses and broke them. We’re taking them into Los Angeles.” “It seems there is a difference of opinion,” he said. One of the Indians up in the cedars cocked his rifle. The sound was sharp and clear, and I saw several of the men turn their heads in surprise. From where they sat their horses they could have seen no more than four of us. Now they knew there were more, but how many more?
My heart was beating slowly, heavily. Sweat trickled down the side of my cheek, yet I did not feel nervous. I was curiously relaxed, ready. “It is a lovely day,” I said mildly. “The way is clear for you to ride on.”
“Give us the horses,” the pockmarked one said, “and you will not die.”
“We watched you coming,” I said, smiling at him, “and we have a bet among us. Sehno,” I said, “is almost behind you now. He was betting we could kill twelve with the first firing. I am more modest. I believe nine or ten only. The rest we will have to get later.”
“Ten,” Monte said. “I figure we can get ten, settin’ out in the open like that, and our boys under cover.”
“We got you outnumbered,” the pockmarked man protested. “Have you, now?” I said. “You’re a guessing man. If you were a gambling man, I’d lay you three to one you’re wrong, but I’d never collect, because three of the rifles are on you. Right on you, and that’s too bad, because I wanted you for myself.”