Santa Fe Woman (17 page)

The others looked at her, and Mark asked, “Did he wake up?”

“Yes. His name is Paul.”

“What else did he say?”

For a moment Carleen considered telling them what he had said about wanting to die, but then she shook her head. “Nothing. I’m going to take care of him.”

Rocklin suddenly laughed. He found this amusing. He came over, ruffled her hair, and grinned. “Well, good to have a nursemaid around. You can take care of me when I get sick, punkin.”

TO JUST OPEN HIS eyes was a struggle, and when he tried to move, his body protested violently. Paul Molitor groaned and opened his eyes to slits. He knew he was lying in a wagon, for he saw the canvas over him. The wagon was not moving, and he could hear voices close at hand. His head was splitting, and he had cuts inside his mouth that hurt. The smell of food cooking came to him, but he felt no sense of hunger. The liquor had taken his appetite away, as always.

A rustling at the rear of the wagon toward his feet drew his gaze to a young girl who crawled up beside him. She was dressed in pants rolled up at the cuff and a gray shirt. “You’re awake,” she said.

Molitor struggled to sit up and groaned involuntarily. “Where am I?”

“I told you. Don’t you remember when you woke up?”

“No.”

“I’m Carleen—Carleen Hayden.” She crawled over some sacks and boxes to get at him. She was on her knees and bent over staring directly into his face. “You can’t sleep forever. You’ve got to get up and eat.”

“Where is this place?”

“It’s a wagon, Paul. Come on, get up.”

Molitor’s head seemed to swim, but he was terribly thirsty. “You got any water?”

“Of course we got water. There’s a whole river of it outside there. Get up, and I’ll give you some.”

Molitor moved slowly. He could smell himself, the dried vomit on his shirt, and he had not had a bath in recent memory. Weakness came to him then, and he was tempted simply to lean back and die, but the girl who called herself Carleen pulled at his shirt. “Come on,” she said. “Get out of the wagon.”

With the girl’s encouragement and help, Paul scooted down over the boxes to the end of the wagon. The ground seemed faraway, and when he let himself down and stood up, a dizziness came to him.

“Come on and sit down. You can meet my folks.”

The last thing Molitor wanted was to meet anyone, but he did begin to feel stirrings of hunger. He followed the girl over to where a woman was cooking something over a fire. To her right a younger woman and an older man were standing, their eyes fixed on him.

“Paul’s thirsty,” Carleen said. “Here, Paul, I’ll get you some water.”

The older man nodded and said, “Well, you finally woke up. My name is Leland Hayden. This is my daughter Jori and my sister-in-law Kate.”

Molitor licked his lips and tried to think of a suitable reply, but none came to him. Carleen came back and handed him a cup full of water. He spilled a great deal of it but gulped at it thirstily. When he finally lowered it and gave it back to the girl, he said, “I’m Paul Molitor.”

“You better sit down here, Molitor,” Leland said. “You’re not in too good a shape.”

“I’ve got some broth brewin’ here. It ought to do you good,” Kate said. “Sit down and eat.”

Molitor sat down, shakily, leaning back against the wheel of a wagon. He saw that one of his shoes was gone and could not remember where he had lost it. He took the bowl of soup that the woman handed him and took a spoonful. The hot broth hurt the cuts in his mouth and inside his lips, but he ate it hungrily.

“Thanks,” he said. “That was very good.” He handed the bowl back to Kate and looked around. “I don’t know where I am exactly.”

“This train’s going to Santa Fe. We just crossed Diamond Springs.” Leland saw that the name meant nothing and said, “You’re past Council Grove. We’ll be to the Little Arkansas in a few days.”

Jori spoke then. Her voice was crisp. “What were you doing out here in such poor condition?”

Molitor cleared his throat and tried to arrange his thoughts. He had been drunk for so long that it was difficult. “I left St. Louis awhile back headed for Franklin. When I got there I worked at a stable.”

“Why’d you go to Franklin?” Leland asked curiously. “There’s nothing much there except the businesses that fit out wagon trains.”

“I heard there was a friend of mine there, but he was dead when I got there so I got a job in a stable. That was about three weeks ago. I met a man there named Fenton, a trader. He said he was going to take a train to Taos in New Mexico and he needed a cook.”

“You’re a cook?” Jori said. It was in her mind as it was in the minds of the others that he had a frail look about him, not likely to be a good bet for a wagon train cook.

“No, I’m not a cook and I told him. But the night before he left, I guess I drank too much and when I woke up I was in a wagon on the way.”

“What happened? Why’d you leave the train?” Leland asked.

“I—I didn’t. Fenton put me out.”

“Why would he do that?” Jori demanded. “He just left you, you mean?”

They all saw that Molitor was searching for an answer. “I guess it was because I couldn’t cook and I stayed drunk.” He looked at Leland and cleared his throat. “I need to get back to St. Louis.”

“Well, we can’t leave you. There’s no way for you to get there that I know of unless we meet a train headed east.”

A silence fell over the group, and Kate said quickly, “You can travel with us, Paul. We’re sure to meet a train headed back to Franklin. Until then you can make yourself useful.”

Paul Molitor looked down at his hands that were thin and trembling. He already was dying for a drink and saw nothing in the future but a grim dark way.

“I don’t guess I’m very useful,” he said and dropped his head.

The others looked at him, and Leland said as cheerfully as he could, “Well, you’ll feel better after awhile.”

* * *

A GROUP OF THE mule skinners had gathered around a fire and were cooking steaks. Pedro Marichal had shot an antelope and sold it to them and brought it by. “I hate antelope,” Wiley Pratt said. “It’s like eatin’ shoe leather.” He shoved his hair back, and his hazel eyes were filled with disgust. “Shoe leather might be better.”

Grat Herendeen dominated the group as usual. “Eat it and shut up, Wiley. I’m tired of your bellyachin’.”

Wiley was a hot-tempered man, but he knew better than to cross Herendeen. Sullenly he took out his knife and cut off a piece of the tough meat and began chewing it.

Stuffy McGinnis was working on his own steak. “I’m gonna get me a job as a cook on a river boat when I go back,” he announced.

“What makes you think you can cook?” Brodie Donahue squatted on the other side of the fire from Stuffy. Except for Herendeen he was the largest of the drovers. He had wide shoulders and a solid neck. His hair and eyes were black, and he was as tired as the rest of them.

“I’ll learn how. Them river boats, now, that’s the life. I took a trip on one. There was fancy women, gamblin’, liquor flowin’ like the river itself. Yep, maybe I’ll become a river boat gambler.”

Jesse Burkett grunted and took a swallow of black coffee. He was a tall man, lanky, with brown hair and blue eyes. He had lost his wife and three children to cholera two years earlier and had not smiled since then. “You’re not much of a gambler, Stuffy. Even I can beat you.”

Eddie Plank, a big man with an overflowing stomach, was eating his steak as if it were the best thing in the world. “Better enjoy this. It may be scarce down the way.”

Grat Herendeen had been quiet for the most part. Now he shook his shoulders in a dissatisfied manner. “We should have been further along the way than this. Rocklin’s not much of a wagon master.”

Brodie Donahue laughed shortly. “Better not let him hear you say that.”

“He can hear it if he wants to,” Herendeen said.

Brodie Donahue, alone among the mule skinners, had no fear of Grat Herendeen. His face was scarred with battles in the past, and although not as large as Herendeen, he was fast and almost as strong. “If you don’t let Callie alone, you may find yourself sent back.”

“Nobody’s sending me back,” Herendeen said. He stared across the fire at Brodie and gave him stare for stare. “Rocklin makes lots of rules about us stayin’ away from the women,” Herendeen grunted. “But I notice he stays pretty close to the old man’s daughter and to Callie, too. I guess he thinks he’s a ladies’ man.”

Jess Burkett shook his head. “He’s a good man.”

“He’s pretty tough, too. I knew him in the mountains,” Wiley Pratt said.

“Tough enough,” Brodie said. “You’d better stay clear of him. Rocklin will cut you off at the knees, Grat.”

“No, he’s soft.” Herendeen fell into a morose silence, and the rest of the men began talking about what lay ahead.

“We’ll hit the Arkansas pretty soon,” Charlie Reuschel said. He pulled his hat off, and his bald head shone in the darkness. He was the best shot on the wagon train and had been over the trail, part way at least, once. “When we get there, we’ll have to decide what to do.”

“What are our choices?” Stuffy asked, chewing vigorously on the tough steak.

“We can either take the Cimarron Cutoff or go straight on across until we hit the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.”

“Which way’s the easiest?” Stuffy asked. “That’s what I want.”

“Well, I’ve never made the whole trip,” Jesse said, “but a friend of mine did. He said the Cimarron Cutoff is the quickest, but it’s bad desert most of the way and not much water.”

“I heard about that cutoff,” Herendeen grunted. “It’s bad. We’d be fools to take it. I say we go onto the mountains.”

“It’ll be Rocklin’s say,” Brodie commented. He looked with some sadness at the steak and threw it out into the darkness. “Antelope’s a poor thing for a man to feed himself on.”

* * *

ROCKLIN HAD STOPPED BY before the train started up the next morning. He met Paul Molitor and saw that the man was practically helpless. His hands were trembling, and Rocklin finally said, “I think you’d better ride in the wagon with Kate today, Molitor.”

“I—I could use a drink.” It had cost Molitor whatever shreds of his pride was left, but he knew before he spoke that it was hopeless.

“That’s not what you need. You’re going to have to dry out. You drink a lot, don’t you?”

“All I can get.”

“Poor way to live.”

“You don’t have to tell me that.” Molitor pulled himself up and climbed aboard the wagon. He sat there until Kate got up beside him and picked up the lines. She said nothing until she heard the customary call for starting.

Rocklin yelled, “Stretch out!” and the wagons lurched forward, the wheels making a whining noise on their dry axles as the schooners lurched, moving forward.

Kate said quickly, “If you get to feeling too bad, you can lie down on the bed in the back.”

“I’m all right,” Molitor said. He tried to smile although his nerves were screaming out for liquor. “I’m sorry to be such a bother.”

“Don’t be foolish.” Kate studied the man. He had shaved early that morning, which made his face look even more cavernous. He had crisp, brown hair that had not been cut, and his eyes were sunk deep into their sockets. He was thin, and there was a twitch at the side of his mouth. Still Kate thought,
He’s seen
better days than this. I don’t know what his story is, but it’s probably not a good one.
“We’ll be getting to the Arkansas soon. There should be some wagons on the way back east. You can get on with one of them.”

Molitor did not answer. He was holding onto the seat, and his stomach was crying out. He had eaten a little of the mush Kate had fixed for him for breakfast, but all he could think of was getting a drink. He knew that was impossible, and despair settled over him like a heavy, dark mist.

* * *

FOR TWO DAYS MOLITOR had endured the ride. The initial craving for drink had gone away although he still had moments when he wanted to scream and at times blow his brains out. On the second day he had joined Mark, who was still condemned to filling the wood boxes. It was late afternoon as he tried to pick up a heavy chunk of wood and felt a weakness. His head seemed to swim, and he slumped to his knees trying not to pass out.

“Here, let me give you a hand with that.”

Molitor looked to see a young woman dressed in male attire who had brought her horse close beside him. She stepped out of the saddle and said, “I’m Callie Fortier.”

“My name’s Paul—Paul Molitor.”

The girl reached down, picked up the chunk easily and dumped it in the back of the wagon. “Are you sick?” she asked.

“No, just a drunk,” Paul said bitterly. “You don’t have any whiskey, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

Molitor looked down at his hands, which were trembling. Callie said, “How long has it been since you had a drink?”

“Three days, maybe four. I don’t know. I lost track.”

“You’ll feel better soon. This doesn’t last forever.”

“It seems like it’s going to,” he said.

Callie saw that he was still unsteady. “Tell you what. Why don’t you ride on my horse awhile. You can ride, can’t you?”

“No, I don’t think I could even get on.”

“Well, you get in the wagon then. I’ll pick the wood up.”

Molitor stared at her. “Why are you doing this?”

The girl did not answer. She had large eyes, expressive, and there was a firmness about her lips. But at the same time there was a gentleness as she said, “Because I know what it is to be alone and scared.”

Her remark went right to Molitor’s spirit. He had long ago lost his pride, and now when this girl who came, apparently, from nowhere showed a gentleness, it was almost like getting hit in the face. “Thanks,” he said briefly. “Don’t waste your sympathy on me. I’m not worth it.”

The girl did not answer. She watched him as he went to the wagon and crawled in and fell on his back. He was shocked as tears suddenly rolled down the sides of his face. “I’m no good,” he whispered. “Be better off to blow my brains out.”

* * *

CALLIE TOSSED A CHUNK of wood into the wood box and turned to see Jori, who had ridden up and was watching her.