In the night the coyotes came and howled near the wagon, and I heard Mr. Farley go out to his horses and walk among them so they would not be frightened. My father was lying near me under the wagon, and sometimes when he turned on his wounded shoulder he would cry out in his sleep, but only a little. The stars were very bright and there were no clouds. Once I got from under my blankets and sat on the wagon tongue, liking the night. Mr. Finney was on guard then, and he stopped beside me. “Can’t sleep?”
“I woke up, and it was so bright. I wanted to listen.” “I know how that is. Get the feeling sometimes myself, but better sleep. We’ve got a long day ahead.”
“Will we stop at Piute Spring?”
“Maybe even overnight. Doug Farley makes up his own mind, and somethin’s botherm’ him. I can read it in him.”
At daybreak we were moving again, heading due west to the low, rocky mountains, and by midmorning we were loading our barrels at the spring. Farley told Kelso to fix a good breakfast, with lots of coffee.
It was a very rocky but pleasant place. From the spring a small stream ran over the rocks and disappeared in the sand some distance away. There was Indian writing on some of the rocks.
With a cup of coffee in his hand, Farley walked over to Papa. “You know this trail?”
“Somewhat. There are springs at intervals. It is used by both Mohaves and Piutes. I believe it is very old. Pueblo Indians used to come out here to work turquoise mines.”
“I’m uneasy about it.”
“Trust yourself. You know this country. If you’re uneasy, there’s a reason. Your senses have perceived something your brain hasn’t.” Farley glanced at him. “You believe that? I guess most of us do, when it comes to that. Some call it instinct.” He sipped his coffee. “Kelso’s feelin’ it too. Maybe it’s that pass when we get to the mountains or that spooky country off to the north, in the Tehachapis.” Farley hesitated, then asked, “How’re you doin’, Verne? You bein’ sick an’ all, and then losin’ blood.” “I’ll be all right. I’ll make it.” Then he added, “I have to, for the boy’s sake.”
They did not see me sitting on a rock near the water, but the air was clear and I heard their voices, and I looked into the water and wished my father would live forever.
Sometimes at night I dreamed of that fierce old man who awaited me. What would he do when he saw me? I dreamed of a sunlit ranch house where he would be but my father would not, and I was frightened. I did not know what to expect or what to think, only that I did not want to go to that old man, or even to see him. Sometimes I wanted to cry when I was alone in my blankets, but my father had troubles enough and might hear me and be unhappy. So I lay wide-eyed in the night, my eyes dry, but the tears were inside me. We left Piute Spring that day and suddenly, Miss Nesselrode was walking beside me. We were behind the others and alone. “You are unhappy,” she said abruptly. “Is it because your father is ill? Or is it something else, too?” For a moment I said nothing, for this was very private and I did not think I should speak of it to a stranger, but then I said, “Papa is taking me to my grandpa.”
“I see.” After a minute she said, “Johannes, if it does not go well for you there, come to me. I shall be in Los Angeles. Will you remember that, Johannes?” I would remember, but then I would have to be afraid for her, too. As if she knew what I had thought, she said, “I am not afraid, Johannes. You will be safe with me.”
I looked up at her, and I believed her.
Six
My father was dying and must find a home for me: this I knew very well, and this I understood. This was why we had come on this journey, trusting ourselves to Mr. Farley and his lone wagon. But why had the others come? When we were walking alone once, I asked my father. “It is a guess, of course, for none of them have said very much, but I would say that Fraser hopes to write a book, and later to lecture.
“He is not well-off, as you can see. He has taught school, I believe, but there is small future in that for a young man with no connections. I think he hopes to write a book that will give him some stature, and use it as a stepping-stone to the future.
“Mrs. Weber? I do not know, of course, but I would suggest that she goes west to marry again. There are fewer women out there, and she feels she would not be lost in the crowd. She is not very bright, but in her own way she is shrewd, and I think she would make the right sort of man a good wife.” “And Mr. Fletcher?” I wondered.
“Ah, yes. Mr. Fletcher. Avoid him, Johannes, and avoid men of his kind. He is a surly brute, quick to temper, violent in expression. If he has not already done so, he will someday kill a man, or be killed. I would surmise that he is running away from something he has done or toward something he expects to do. “More likely,” Papa added, “the former, judging by the way he kept from sight until we were far from Santa Fe.”
“Miss Nesselrode?”
He stopped, watching the wagon ahead of us. It was almost a half-mile off now, and Fraser and Fletcher plodded along at least half that distance in front of us.
“A handsome young woman. Not beautiful, but handsome. And she is intelligent. She is unmarried, and the reason is obvious. She is much brighter than most of the men she meets, and unless she becomes very lonely, she will settle for nothing less than the best.
“Unhappily, she is a woman alone. Obviously she has no family, no position. The men she would be apt to meet are marrying to better themselves, marrying money or family or both, which leaves Miss Nesselrode a respected outsider. But I do not believe Miss Nesselrode is thinking of marriage.” I told my father then what she had said to me. He stopped again, quite suddenly. “She said that, did she?” He swore softly. “I’ll be damned! Well, son, I do not think she realizes what she is inviting, but you have my permission to go to her if you wish. And if you can.”
He put a hand on my shoulder. “At least you have made a friend, and that is important, Johannes. And she is your friend. You made her a friend with no help from me.”
Sometime during that day the decision was made to go by a different route than the one planned. Mr. Farley decided, and he told us about it at supper. We would be longer in the desert. We would come to Los Angeles by a different way. We would avoid some mountains and perhaps some trouble with outlaws. We would be wending a way through the desert where wagons had not gone, and were likely to see some sights others had not seen.
Mr. Fletcher immediately agreed, and Mr. Fraser also. Miss Nesselrode listened carefully and then agreed. “If you think it best,” she said, but she turned to my father. “You have experience of the desert. Do you think it wise?” “I do,” Papa said, “although the way is longer.” Later, when we were moving again, she looked over at my father. “Mr. Verne, if you are feeling well enough, perhaps you could tell us something of Los Angeles?”
“Of course,” he agreed. “It is a very small town, and you must remember it is nearly eight years since I have been there, and it was changing even then. When I left, there were, I suppose, between two and three thousand people, mostly of Spanish extraction. There were a few blacks, most of them with Spanish blood and Spanish names, and a handful of Europeans and Anglos. “Water comes to the town from zanjas, or ditches. There are wells, also. Several of the Anglos have married Spanish girls from the old families. These Anglos are mostly former mountain men, trappers, and traders who came west when the fur trade ceased to be profitable. They are very shrewd men, alive to opportunity and quick to move.
“The town is twenty miles from the sea, the climate is superb, and the town has room in which to grow.”
“There is gold there?” Fletcher asked. “I heard gold had been discovered.” “There is some mining. I knew the man who first discovered it. He was sitting on a hillside and pulled some wild onions and found bits of gold in the earth clinging to the roots.”