In The Face Of Death (17 page)

“I wish I could persuade you to carry less gold and cash with you.” Concern roughened his tone. “You are not on the boulevards of Paris, Madame, and any signs of wealth are likely to attract attention you cannot want.” His face was set in hard lines, but his eyes were full of anguish.

“I know something of the dangers of travel, Mister Sherman, although I am grateful for your warning. I will heed your admonitions to the extent that circumstances allow.” How formal and stiff she sounded in her own ears; she wanted so much to weep, and could not. It would not be seemly, she told herself, even if it were possible, and added aloud, “I will take all the precautions I can.”

“Yes,” he said. “Be sure you keep a loaded pistol to hand at all times. If you need one, you will need it instantly.”

“I’ll do that,” she said, delaying taking her file of material into her hands, for that would be more final than closing the door.

“You will be wise to learn as much as you can about those you hire to guide you. Many of the men in that profession are scoundrels and not to be trusted.” He spoke crisply, yet all the while his eyes revealed suffering he could not admit.

“I will be careful, Mister Sherman,” she promised him.

Sherman coughed twice, short, hard coughs that might signal an asthma attack. “Don’t trouble yourself, Madame,” he said brusquely, waving her away, although she had not moved. “It will pass. And I have a vial of your medicine, if it does not.”

Madelaine had to stop herself from going around his desk to his side, to comfort him. “Well,” she said rallyingly, “Do not let pride keep you from using it.”

“I won’t,” he said, and stared down at his desk in silence for several seconds, then asked, “Do you think you will ever come back to San Francisco, Madame?”

“Ever is a long time, Mister Sherman,” she pointed out. “I do not plan to now, but in time, who can tell?”

“Who, indeed,” he said. “And we knew when you came that you would leave, didn’t we?”

She nodded. “Soon or late, I would go.”

“Off to study America,” he said, trying to be jaunty; his voice cracked.

“Yes.” She bit her lip to keep from saying more. With an effort, she remarked, “I suppose your children must be glad that their mother is coming home.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, grateful to have something safe to say. “Both of them are delighted.”

“I’ll think of them kindly,” said Madelaine.

“You’re very good.” He fumbled with a square envelope, then held it out to her. “Here. I want you to have this.”

“What is it?” Madelaine took the envelope cautiously, as if she expected something untoward from it.

“A sketch I did. Of you.” He looked her directly in the eye, a world of longing in his gaze.

“Oh!” Madelaine said softly. “May I open it?”

“Not here, if you please,” he said, his stand-offishness returning. “I couldn’t keep it with me, much as I wanted to. It . . . it is very revealing—oh, not of you, of me. If Ellen ever saw it, she—” He cleared his throat. “It is enough that one of us should have a broken heart. I will not chance giving such pain to her.”

Madelaine nodded, unable to speak; she slipped the envelope into her leather portfolio, which she had brought to contain her account records.

“This is too difficult,” Sherman whispered as he took the file and thrust it toward her. “If you do not leave now, I don’t think I will be able to let you go. And let you go I must.”

“Yes,” said Madelaine as she took the file and put it into the portfolio.

“And your cash and gold,” he went on with ruthless practicality, handing her a heavy canvas sack with Lucas and Turner stenciled on its side. “Be careful where you stow this.”

“I will,” she said, and turned to leave.

“Madel—am,” he said, halting her. “I wish, with all my heart, you . . . your stay here wasn’t over.”

“You’re very kind, Mister Sherman,” said Madelaine, struggling to retain her composure.

“As it is,” he went on as if unable to stop, “I will think of you each . . . often.”

“And I of you,” said Madelaine, wishing she could kiss him one last time and knowing she must not.

“If only you and I. . . .” He let his words falter and stop.

Madelaine backed away, reaching behind her for the door. “Our . . . our friendship is not at an end simply because we part,” she told him, forcing herself to speak steadily. She pulled the door open, readying herself to leave the bank.

His reply struck her with the full weight of his constrained emotions, as if he wanted to impart to her all that he could not say: “I know, Madelaine; I know.”

Presidio de Santa Barbara, 14 November, 1855

We have found an inn near the Presidio itself, and I am assured we will be safe here. . . . This part of California is much more Spanish than the north, more like Mexico; I suspect it is because there are fewer men willing to prospect in the deserts than in the mountains. Perhaps the hold of the Spanish landlords is stronger here than in the north, as there are fewer newcomers to challenge their rule and their Land Grants. Thanks to gold, San Francisco has become quite an eclectic place, what with miners arriving from every part of Europe and America. But here, I am told, it is not so dramatically changed. For the most part, the Camino Real, which our guide calls the Mission Road, is well-enough maintained that we made good progress along it, and lost only one day to rain. Our average progress has been a respectable ten-to-twelve miles a day, although we did slow in our climb through the mountains around San Luis Obispo. Generally, however, we have traveled swiftly, and at this pace, we should reach San Diego by Christmas, from whence we will turn east.

I have sent two letters back to Tecumseh, though I have had no replies and expect none; I have not yet found a way to thank him sufficiently for the sketch he made of me and gave me the morning I left. He is right: it is too easily read for him to keep it by him, where it might be discovered and understood. In execution it is simple enough: he has drawn me seated on a fallen log, my hat in my hand, in all considerations a most innocuous pose—but there is something about it that smolders, so that I half-expect the paper to burst into flame. He included a short note which said he would have to carry my likeness burning in his heart; that is very gallant of him, as well as being very nearly accurate, if this sketch is any indication of his sentiments. I am surprised to discover how strong the bond between us is, though why I should feel so, I cannot think.

I wonder if Saint-Germain is right, and I am developing a weakness for Americans?

THE SANTA FE TRAIL

Yuma, New Mexico Territory, 9 January, 1856

I have never seen so much dust as I have coming here, and that includes the sandstorms of Egypt. It is silky, and it gets into everything: hair, nose, underwear, tack, the lot of it. My clothes are worn from it, and I have decided to do as some of the women in these remote regions do—wear trousers of sturdy canvas. It is better to shock a few of the settlers than to continue as I have been doing. At this rate I will have no clothes, but the single ball gown I have brought with me, left in a month or so. . . . Mineata San Ardo, our cook, has much the same complaint, but she would rather rub herself raw than go so much against tradition that she don trousers. I have attempted to convince her that other women in the world wear trousers and would think it strange not to, but she will not entertain so radical a notion. . . .

In the four days since we have arrived here, I have been the object of local curiosity. Women who travel as I do are an oddity—European women alone are apparently so much an oddity that no one knows what to do about me. I am to speak to the Alcalde of the town this evening. I hope my explanations will satisfy him.

For the last week there have been warnings of sudden floods, for during the winter, they say this is a great hazard. It would appear that rain falls in the mountains, and fills the creeks and rivers so suddenly that whole villages may be washed away in a matter of minutes. . . . I have asked Mister Hagen to use all reasonable precautions, but thus far he is not worried, though he agrees that these floods are a risk here.

I have sent a packet of notes back with a military messenger from Taos bound for San Francisco, as General Hitchcock arranged for me; these are to go to Euphemia Stephens for transcribing and shipping on to Amsterdam to the publisher. Tecumseh has my authorization to pay her for this, and little as he may approve of what I am writing about, he will make sure she receives her fee for her work. There is a note to Tecumseh with the rest, saying once again that I miss him. It is not wise of me to send that to him now that his wife has returned, for I am convinced she has, but I find I cannot quite give up the links that are our bond. . . .

Tomorrow there is a market to be held, and I will want to attend it, with the hope of seeing what Indians are there, in the hope that I can persuade them to permit me to learn from them. . . .

Yuma, New Mexico Territory, 14 January, 1856

I am getting used to being here on sufferance. I don’t know what I shall do if I am asked to leave while I am writing on the Yuma Indians. . . . From them I have learned of a tribe living in a deep canyon to the north of here, in a beautiful, deep gorge with great waterfalls and natural protection against all comers. . . . When I broached the matter to Mister Hagen, he said that all this part of the country is full of legends of lost peoples and great cities hidden in canyons. But he is willing to go upriver with me if we have a reliable Indian with us, and I can meet his price. He tells me that he will not put himself at risk for less than two hundred dollars a day, which he himself considers outrageous and thinks will discourage me.

So now I must find a reliable Indian. . . .

Los Osos, New Mexico Territory, 22 January, 1856

Carlos Nisachii is half Indian and half Spanish, what is called a mestizo here, I think. He has said he will find the Havasupai people for us. Mister Hagen tells me that Carlos Nisachii is regarded as reliable, and will probably not guide us into a trap where we will be made slaves or held for ransom or killed or any of the rest of it. He has made sure his men are well-armed, ostensibly to hunt; but I don’t think anyone is fooled by that assertion. . . .

The trousers are quite satisfactory.

At night the desert was cold, the moonlight making the vastness of it appear corpse-like. Dutch Hagen sat by the fire for his portion of the watch, his fully loaded Smith and Wesson Volcanic Repeater resting against his knee. From time to time he put more dry wood on the fire, watching abstractedly as the flames leaped up; he could hear the rush of the river not far away.

Madelaine lay in her tent staring up at the ridge-seam, missing Tecumseh. She had resisted the impulse to write to him once more, knowing it would serve no purpose but to bring pain to them both. So she thought back to their times alone, letting the unencompassable vastness of the night return her sense of perspective. She had finished her entry in her journal while the men had eaten. Only their cook, Mineata, knew that Madelaine did not, in fact, eat separately with her as the men supposed; she had reluctantly accepted Madelaine’s explanation that she had taken a vow to eat alone to avoid the sin of gluttony, as it was the ridiculous sort of thing a European would do. Madelaine drew her watch from its double pocket in her jacket and looked closely at it. Not quite one in the morning. She sighed, thinking what nonsense it was that she could not be permitted to stand guard—she slept so rarely and her night vision was the most acute of the entire party’s.

From a short distance off came the yapping howl of a coyote, and for a moment all the desert was still.

Madelaine rolled onto her side, recalling the young American missionary she had visited in sleep, only three nights ago, just before she left Yuma. He had luxuriated in his dream so intensely that he doubtless spent the next morning plagued with guilt. It was not the same as being with Tecumseh, of having him desire her in full knowledge of her nature. For the next few years she realized she would have to content herself with the fare of dreaming men and the memory of all she and Tecumseh had shared.

There was a sudden flurry of activity near the campfire, and Dutch Hagen cursed.

Madelaine opened the flap of her tent. “Is anything wrong, Mister Hagen?”

“Something bit me,” he replied, laughing enough to show he did not consider the bite anything serious. “It’s uncomfortable. I’ll put salve on it before I go to sleep.”

“What was it?” Madelaine asked, aware of how little she knew of the dangers of this region, and nothing at all of the poison of plants and venom of animals here.

“I didn’t see it, and I didn’t get to squash it,” he answered. “I don’t know. Maybe a bug. Maybe a spider. It’ll be fine.”

“All right,” said Madelaine, disliking the thought of anyone being hurt out here, where only the few jars she carried could treat injuries or illness; and in a place like this she did not want to have to deal with more pressing emergencies, such as gunshot wounds or broken arms.

“Go back to sleep, Madame,” said Dutch Hagen softly. “You’ll need your rest tomorrow.”

This was more true than Madelaine liked to admit. “I agree; and I wish you would consider my suggestion that we travel at night. There are many desert-living people who do.” Night would be easier for her, not compromising her strength and endurance as the battering daylight did. She would have less of her esurient hunger if she could travel at night.

“So you say. And maybe we’ll do it, if we don’t reach that canyon soon.” He shied a small rock into the night and listened to the scuttlings where it landed.

“Very well, then. Good night, Mister Hagen.” Madelaine closed her tent flap and resigned herself to drowse for the next watch.

Going up the Colorado River, 25 January, 1856

It has been getting more difficult to travel, for the river is faster and the banks are higher. In an overwhelming way it is impressive. Carlos Nisachii informs me that this is only the beginning and that the way will become arduous in a day or two. I am pleased now that we had the good sense to hire mules for this journey, given the state of the land. . . .

Mister Hagen has developed a large, open sore on his shoulder where he was bitten a few nights since. He claims it does not pain him much, but his eyes and movements tell another story. I have offered to treat the bite, but he will have none of it. So I am constrained to watch him suffer and know that he could soon develop an infection severe enough to cause irreparable harm. The men with us sense this as well, and they have become wary of Carlos Nisachii and of me. . . .

“It would not be so bad if they had not taken three of the mules,” said Carlos as he stared about the camp. “With just three left, we will not have an easy time of it.” He glanced significantly toward the tent where Dutch Hagen tossed in the fierce grip of fever.

“I understand,” said Madelaine, who did not want to spare one of the mules to carry Hagen, but knew it was necessary. “It might be best if we waited here today, and pressed on tomorrow.”

“Or we could go back to Yuma,” said Mineata dryly. “I would like to go back to Yuma.” She indicated the forbidding landscape around them. “This is no place for the likes of us.”

“Possibly not,” said Madelaine, permitting herself to feel discouraged. “But we have come such a long way, and we may need Mister Hagen’s services if we are to make it back without trouble. He must improve, and quickly.” She sighed. “I have a poultice for hurts of this sort, to draw out the infection and ease the pain. I will treat him with it today and hope that he will be better tomorrow.”

“He cannot be much worse,” said Carlos Nisachii. “The fever will kill him soon if it doesn’t break.”

“Yes, it will,” said Madelaine.

On the banks of the Colorado, 29 January, 1856

Mister Hagen continues to improve, but slowly, and our progress is curtailed because of it. I doubt we have covered more than five miles today, and much of that in the early morning. . . . I continue to treat the festering bite on Mister Hagen’s back and take some reassurance in its continued draining. It will not be long before it will begin to heal, if he does not cause renewed inflammation.

If I can find a few crucial herbs, I believe I can stimulate his capacity for healing, but many of the plants of this barren land are unfamiliar to me, and I must proceed with care.

Nightfall came early to the sandbar in the canyon; above the sky was unsullied blue, and the rocks glowed in the long, slanting rays of the sun where they touched them. But the direct light penetrated no more than half-way down the walls, making the twilight beneath the more oppressive for the brilliance above.

“How far does this canyon reach?” Madelaine asked as she slapped dust from her canvas trousers.

“No one knows, Señora,” said Carlos, bowing a little in deference to her.

“But it does reach the tribe I’m seeking? The Havasupai people?” She found this place beautiful in a stark and dangerous way, though the quantities of running water so near her gave her a persistent touch of vertigo.

“It is said that it does.” He looked around. “I have not been to their land, myself, but I have been told how to get there. And you may be sure they know we are searching for them.”

“Oh?” In spite of herself, Madelaine felt apprehensive.

“They always watch those who come into the canyon. If they approve of us, they will come to us and guide us to their place. If they do not approve, they will drive us away with rockslides and. . . .” He crossed himself. “They can summon the spirits of those who have died here to fight for them.”

“And you think they will?” Madelaine asked.

“If we are not to their liking,” said Carlos.

“What do they like?” It was an obvious question, and Madelaine did not expect much of an answer.

“Quien sabe?” Carlos replied: who knows.

The Colorado River Canyon, 5 February, 1856

We have managed to cover another four miles today. Near the rim of the canyon I can see patches of snow, and the wind that whips through these towering stone walls is an icy knife.

Mister Hagen is improving noticeably, which is a great relief. In a few more days he will regain some of his strength, or so I suppose now. Mineata has been feeding him rabbits and wild fowl, and it seems to help him. I think she is very taken with him, for she fusses over him and smiles when she looks at him.

I have three chests of my native earth left, enough to last me well into next year if I am circumspect in what I do. It will take time to get more, either from San Francisco or St. Louis, and I must keep that in mind. . . .

Carlos Nisachii has told me that the number of Indians watching us has increased, and earlier today we came upon the footprints of half a dozen flat-shod feet, which tends to support Carlos’ claim. . . .

There were three of them standing at the end of the narrow sandbar, their faces stoic, neither frightening nor welcoming. They waited for Carlos Nisachii to approach them, and when he did, they let him speak first.

Madelaine continued to make her notes in her journal, taking care to do nothing that would give the newcomers reason to strike out. She glanced toward Dutch Hagen, who was squatting next to their cooking fire, helping himself to the last of the stew Mineata had made.

“Three of them, four of us,” said Hagen quietly. “It means they’re probably not going to kill us.”

“Good,” said Madelaine, equally softly. “Then we and they are in agreement. It is not in my plans to be killed here.”

“I would guess not,” said Hagen with a curt laugh. “My Volcanic is still in my tent, curse it.”

“I think it is probably just as well,” said Madelaine. “I doubt those three men would be here if your gun was in sight.”

“That might not be a bad idea; we better not look too worried,” said Hagen, taking his skinning knife and using it to pick up the hunks of meat on his plate. “Beans and goat. Not too bad for a place like this.”

Carlos glanced over his shoulder, indicating Madelaine, then resumed his hushed conversation with the other Indians.

“They have knives,” said Mineata, making it a simple statement. “I don’t know if they intend to use them.”

“So long as it is not on us, I don’t care,” said Madelaine, and went on writing. When she finished her paragraph, she closed the book and put it back in the canvas-and-leather dispatch case she always kept with her.