A fire … one man. A big rawboned Anglo with a straggly beard. A hawk face and long, sparse hair. He added fuel to a fire. I could smell coffee. My stomach growled ominously. Edging closer, I thought of that coffee, of food, of water, of…
He saw me.
He had picked up the coffeepot to fill his cup. His eyes held mine. Slowly, carefully, his eyes never leaving mine, he put down the coffeepot. He held the stub of a cigar in his yellow teeth and he rolled it to the corner of his mouth. He had a straggly mustache that fell on either corner of his mouth. His shirt was stained and dirty. He slowly straightened up, rolling the cigar again. When he was straightened to his full height, he smiled past the cigar; then coolly he reached for his gun. Dumbly I stared at him. I was stupid with exhaustion. I saw his hand clasp the gun, saw it start to lift as it came free of the holster, saw the yellow teeth, the wolfish smile, and his gun came up. Then I shot him.
My rifle, held in my right hand, fired from the hip. The bullet struck bin, and, shocked, he stared at me. Then his gun went off, the bullet going into the ground. Stepping forward, I swung the barrel of my rifle against his arm and the gun went flying.
He fell back in a sitting position, staring at me as blood spilled over his belt and stained his pants. Picking up his cup, I filled it with coffee. Holding the cup in my left hand, I made a gesture of salute. “Gracias,” I said, and drank. He made a gesture of indifference, as much as to say: Help yourself. I drank again.
One of his hands rested on the ground; the other held bis belly where the bullet had gone.
“It was for fifty dollars,” he explained.
“It is a lot of money, sometimes,” I agreed; then I added, “You make a good cup of coffee.”
“For nada,” he said.
I finished the coffee and refilled my cup. There was no pain in him yet, only shock. “They will come,” he said. “The shot…” “Of course,” I agreed.
He pointed toward his pack. “There is bacon,” he said, “but you have no time.”
“I can take it? And the coffee?”
“Of course,” he said, and then he added, “They are at the Old Woman. They will run you down, I think.”
“Who knows?” I shrugged. “There was a pair of saddlebags.”
“The bacon is there,” he said, “and the coffee.”
“I’ll take them, and the pot.” I emptied the last of the coffee. “It was for fifty dollars,” he said. “Fifty dollars to be here, a hundred if I killed you.”
“Ah? You have bad luck,” I said. Taking my time, for my hands were unsteady, I reloaded my rifle. I would need every shot. There was a canteen. Taking that and the saddlebags, I slung them over my shoulder and took the cup and the coffeepot.
“There is the horse,” he said. “It is saddled. Take it.” “Gracias,” I said again, and then, as I started toward the horse, I turned back to him. “Another time, I might have bought you a drink.” “Of course,” he said, “and I, you.”
He was sitting in a pool of blood now. I lifted a hand, and he tried to lift a hand to me but could not. At the rim of the firelight I untied the horse. “Fifty dollars?” I said. “It was not enough.”
“Who knows?” he said, and he rolled over with his cheek against the rocks, his eyes staring toward the fire.
“Adios,” I said again, but he did not answer.
The horse was a tired horse, but not so tired as I. I rode him down Rattlesnake Canyon and then cut back into the hills toward Saddlerock. The canteen, when I hefted it, was only half-full. At Saddlerock I could fill it if it was not watched.
It was not. Dismounting, I emptied out the water, rinsed the canteen, and refilled it with the fresh, clear water from Saddlerock. I lay down and drank, and drank again. The horse was in no such shape as I and drank but little. They would be coming soon, and there would be many of them, nor was I in any shape for a fight. Yet they would find the other man and be cautious. Morongo Valley. Was it ten miles? Or further?
Mounting up, I turned the horse into a canyon that sloped toward the desert I walked the horse, saving it for runs yet to come. The shot would have been heard. On such a night, clear and cool, it would be heard far … Two shots. By the time I had gone a mile, the coffee had brought me alive enough to think.
They would be coming fast down the Burns Canyon Trail, and they would cut me off from Morongo. They would know about the Indians and me, as they had known about the Indians and my father.
They would cut me off, they would drive me into the desert.
Not that, not again. Please … not that again. Turning my horse, I sought a way over the low ridges and found it. There was open ground beyond, with some Joshua trees. I wove a way among them, ran into a clump of boulders, and had to swing wide around them. And then I heard them. They were coming fast down the Burns Canyon Trail, and there were a lot of them, judging by the sound. I ran my horse toward the gap near Chaparrosa Spring, hoping to pass them and ride into Morongo ahead of them. Suddenly a yell and a shot. There had been riders at Chaparrosa, heading me off. There were five or six of them. I fired then, and fired again. The horse jumped sharply and faltered.
“What … ?” Riding hard, I rode into the desert, and under me the horse’s gait became unsteady. They had fired, my horse had been hit. Please, I whispered, just a little further! Please! Gamely, desperately, the horse ran on. Then he tumbled and pitched forward and I left the saddle over his head but landed on my feet, running. My rifle was gone with the fall; the saddlebags flapped over my shoulder, and the canteen. Desperately I clung to them, saw some boulders and went into them, ran down a slope and wove my way between other boulders and the Joshuas. Pausing to listen, I heard them passing off to the south. They would ride on, find the fallen horse, and begin to search.
Only minutes … just minutes….
They were coming.
Fifty-two
Meghan sat close to the fire, her arms around her knees. She stared into the fire and was frightened. She had been a fool, a complete fool, and now she was trapped.
Tomas was across the fire from her, preparing food, and he was also trapped, and it was her fault. Such a kind old man! He had tried, very gently, to dissuade her. He had tried to tell her how impossible it was to find one man in all that vast world beyond the mountains. She had not believed him, and now it was too late.
By the third day she had begun to realize the impossibility of it, but her stubbornness refused to let her turn back, and she could not believe she would not find him. She must find him.
There were two other men with them, and one of them, named Iglesias, had not worked with Tomas but had volunteered to come along. From the first, he made her uncomfortable. He insisted on trying to ride beside her, and kept throwing meaningful glances at her, taunting, contemptuous glances. Once, riding near her he had said, “He is an old man. He can do nothing for you.”
On the night of the third day two other men had ridden down from the hills and joined them. They did not say anything, but they rode along. And they knew Iglesias.
Obviously the meeting had been arranged. They looked boldly at her, letting their eyes go over her body and smiling at each other. One of them had looked at her and said, “Soon.”
She wanted to turn back now but was afraid that would only precipitate matters.
Perhaps if she waited, something might happen.
She was desperately afraid, but she must not let them know. She also had the small pistol her father had given her, but it was hidden and they had not seen it.
There were three of them. She had never shot a man and had never believed she could; now she believed. Now she knew it would come to that. Now she could not think of Johannes. All her wits must be upon this situation. Tomas glanced at her. He knew she understood and he knew she was ready for whatever could be done.