The Snake River (23 page)

He’d heard her out. He saw the passion in her denial of sin. Last night he’d seen the abject sincerity of Billy Wells’s confession. The issue was urgent within his flock. It could divide them badly, or weld them together. He needed time to consider.

Even if he didn’t, as a matter of policy he would have given the answer he now gave: “Miss Jewel, I need to take this to the Lord in prayer. Please come back after supper.”

She nodded once and marched toward the door. He touched her reassuringly on the upper arm, but she withdrew from his touch.

“All will work together for the good,” he told her.

Miss Jewel looked at him skeptically. Then she went out into the rain. It had rained for days already. It looked as dreary as she felt.

Dr. Full put himself onto his knees and asked God for clarity of mind in resolving this painful issue. Then he rose, paced, and let his mind hover around the facts of the situation, as he often did in crises.

Extraordinary…an extraordinary woman. He admired her, he always had. He admired her independence, prideful as it was. He admired her courage in coming this evening to confront him. He thought she had character, and, of course, intelligence.

Which did not change the facts. She was a woman. Had she been a man, she would have made a worthy opponent. But she was a woman. She had brandished her refusal to stay in her own sphere, to play a woman’s part in life. Inevitably the opportunity to teach her a woman’s place had to come. This was it. Dr. Full thought that was to the good.

It was not necessarily in a personal way that he liked it, he told himself. As leader of this community, he relished it. It was an opportunity.

He had heard her story of the interchanges—intercourse, he punned in his mind—between her and Billy Wells. In its own terms her account was plausible, perhaps persuasive. Dr. Full was not blind to the deceit, and self-deceit, all human beings were capable of, including Billy Wells.

Yet he liked Billy’s story. Dr. Full enjoyed the forbidden thoughts it brought to his mind, as other people did. He was pleased by the iniquity it bespoke, the eternal condition of mankind.

Billy was a less admirable person than Miss Jewel, less mature, less formed. But Full did not mind his faults. He liked flawed vessels for doing God’s work. They were humble, malleable.

Miss Jewel until now had proved unmalleable. A nuisance in a man, intolerable in a woman. And against God’s will, Dr. Full reminded himself. To make woman man’s helpmate had been God’s decision, not Dr. Full’s. The wisdom of that decision had always been manifest to him. A True Woman was pure, pious, domestic, and submissive.

Dr. Full returned to his knees and thanked God for His help. His knees hurt in that position after a short time, a fact he would not bring up to his congregation.

He got the coffeepot off the stove, filled his cup. He looked toward the cabin where she now lived alone and wondered what had happened there. He thought he could make a shrewd guess, but did not allow his mind to stray in that direction.

He watched her face again in his mind’s eye. She had told him her truth in perfect composure, then awaited his decision equably. Admirable. For practical reasons she hoped he would see things her way. In more enduring terms, it didn’t matter to her. Her refuge was her truth. Thoroughly admirable.

Strange, though—her virtue was a poor tactic with Dr. Full. It kept her beyond his reach, ungovernable. Billy’s vice (if such it was) was infinitely more useful.

Besides, there was fundamentally no question here. Dr. Full was no fool. He had heard Billy’s confession with his own ears. He had seen his congregation’s dramatic response. He had felt the fever raging through the community the past twenty-four hours. Even people who previously disapproved of Billy Wells today went to his workshop to embrace him and whisper words of support.

Like all leaders, Dr. Full knew a groundswell when he saw it. He could not have reversed the tide lifting the body politic into one great swell of feeling had he wanted to. Which he didn’t.

He reminded himself carefully that he was committing no injustice. He did not
know
who was telling the truth and who was lying.

Chapter Twenty-four

Rain and all, they moved those horses easily over to the valley of the Sacramento and straight on north.

The valley was high, wide, and handsome, making things easy. They moved the horses right along. Flare figured the danger was from the Mex soldiers. The Indians around here weren’t even horse Indians. So they made distance day and night, dozing in their saddles. It was a satisfaction to travel with mountain men, who didn’t complain when the life or the country got hard. Or winter turned out to be the rainy season, not the cold season.

Innie seemed to think herding animals, using your skills of horse and rope, was a fine life. It struck Flare as irksome as herding missionaries. The critters didn’t quarrel, it was true. But if you worked for a mission or a big rancho, you’d see the same ridges and creeks every day of your life, and chase stupid beasts. While your horse slipped around in the mud, far as Flare could tell.

Folks in Texas and California raised a lot of cows and a few horses, he’d heard. They could have ’em.

Up the Sacramento River into country dominated by one solitary peak that looked like a volcano. Flare and Craw and Garrett and Murph rode in and palavered with the Indians who lived near the foot of the volcano, gave them tobacco and cloth.

No troubles. Flare and Skye and the others had to talk sharp to the young fellows, especially Innie, to make them keep their eyes out for the troubles that never came. Straight on to the north and then a little west, into the Siskiyou Mountains now, rough going.

Up canyon, across divide, down canyon, through the rain, slipping and sliding, until they came to the Klamath River.

This was what had been nettling Flare’s sleep. It was running out of its banks, high and hard, the rush like the rumble of hoofs, the waves snapping up like horses’ tails, white and angry.

For two days they scouted the river’s banks, upstream and down, looking for a better place to cross. The ford Skye found, a few miles downstream where the river was wider, was the best they could do. A little slower there. Not a man of them liked it at all.

When you got horses into a river, they acted crazy. Kicked each other, jumped on each other’s backs, turned around and tried to swim into the herd, every damn thing. If you lost a hundred horses, there’d be little profit in the venture. Worse, you’d look a fool to yourself.

Best thing to do was tie the critters nose to tail, send a savvy rider into the river leading them, drag them till it got deep, and pull until they had to start swimming. It would take time. Days. It was the only way.

Only Innie saw it otherwise. Even when he wasn’t angry, Flare noticed, he was a moody lad, and right now his mood was to drive the lot into the river and see what happened. He switched between saying “It’ll turn out fine” and “It don’t matter.” When he saw every man was ignoring him and just getting ready to do the job, he shut up.

When there was work to be done, sometimes Innie pitched in and labored like the very devil. Sometimes he’d do nothing at all, like he wasn’t part of the outfit, sharing all. At other times he seemed to make a point of doing double the work of any other hand. You could never predict which would be which, or whether the youngster might growl at you. Human beings were a study, Flare thought.

Flare thought the finest discovery around would be why Garrett did nothing but enjoy his life, turn it into laughter and music, and Innie hated his. It was the same life.

Skye took the first bunch, and all hands watched nervously.

Into the current, gently, slowly, letting the pony feel the cold first, and then the pull of the water. He stopped, fretful, eyes down at the freezing brown rush. Aye, matey, it might be full fathom five for us both, true enough. Then a touch with the spurs to make him move.

He did move. Gutty little pony, proved it before oft enough. Skye turned and looked at the string. The first horse had its feet in the river now, not liking it a bit, pulling back on the rope.

Rope dallied on the horn of Skye’s Spanish saddle. Pony upstream of the others. When the current took them, the rope wouldn’t sweep Skye off the saddle—they’d go away from him. Could let the string go if you had to. Must not, because of money. Each horse a half dozen plews, the ten worth a month’s trapping, or even two. Must not because of pride.

The water roiled around the pony’s belly now, and it fought for footing. Didn’t want to swim, no, not a bit of that. Touch of the spur. Beast’s confidence in man. Pony pulled forward.

Water in Skye’s moccasins and leggings now, bloody cold.

The pony lost its feet, flailed. Swung downstream fast. About to go over. Skye pulled the head upstream, and the pony righted and began to swim. Still swept downstream, then swimming took hold. Pulled. Right enough now.

Strong pull on the rope. First damn horse stopped hard, forefeet planted.

Cracking sounds—Flare and old Craw using their quirts on the horses at the back. They bolted forward and knocked the front ones into water.

The planted horse came tumbling, they all came, they all began to swim. Skye got his pony balanced and gave it the spur and the critter pulled hard for the far shore. That’s a matey.

Oh, bloody Christ. The river swooshed up to Skye’s waist and his chest, colder than the hand of death. He spurred and made his quirt whistle. A wave smacked him in the face.

He fought for breath. He didn’t know where he was in the river, going in what direction. He kicked the pony hard.

The pony found bottom, clambered forward, sank into current again.

The whole river roared over Mr. Skye.

The pony found bottom, Skye kicked it. Feet on the bank. Clattering out. Backward pull on the rope. Rope ripping Skye out of the saddle. He turned his pony toward the horses coming out. They pranced onto the shore, nervous-footed, mad-eyed.

Skye dismounted and shook himself like a wet bear.

It doesn’t get any bloody easier, thought Flare.

It was his third trip across, and he was still leery. Bloody river. He’d have nightmares about being down with the fishes and the turtles tonight. He always did, when he had to ford high water. If he’d been a sailor, like Skye, on those big seas he’d have died of his dreams.

He looked back at Craw and shook his head. Craw grinned. Craw used to say fear was a boon, it kept a man’s bowels cleaned out. His backwoods talk.

Skye and Flare and Craw and Murph had made all the trips today. The lads were back up the canyon, holding the other horses. They itched to make the hard ride, but Flare said they’d wait for tomorrow. Maybe water would be down tomorrow.

He looked at the water, brown with mud, dirty with floatsam, choppy, and in every way nasty. Flare figured he was made for a dry country. He dreaded his dream tonight.

He wondered if the new and unproven horse, Doctor, would be the death of him on one of these trips. He touched Doctor with his heels, and Craw put the quirt to the wild ones. Flare plunged in.

He would never get used to this cold.

The next morning the water was down, a tad, at least.

It was first light. Hosses making fires and some breakfast—which was needed when you rode through a freezing river like an idjit.

Flare squatted by the water. Truly, he thought, a little down.

Time for the young lads to act like men. Time indeed.

Skye and Fox holding most of the crossed herd up-canyon on the far side. Bulow and Dick James holding some on this side. Flare and Craw and Garrett and Innie to do the leading across—that was the scheme of things.

It was hard. For Flare, it was living.

A fellow came to difficulty. All sorts of difficulty, naturally, from learning accounts to outwitting a competitor to walking twenty miles in a day. The sorts of difficulty that held Flare’s mind in sway were the mortal ones. You stood up to a man who was twice your size and of murderous mind. Maybe he backed down, maybe you survived the fight, maybe the awful urge in you actually made him go down, didn’t matter. Or you walked into an Indian village with nothing but your wits for weapons and your life in the balance. Or you rode right among the buffalo, the great beasts rampaging, a stumble meaning certain death, and tried to keep your mind clear enough to get a clean shot. Or, Flare supposed, if you were a bloody British lord, you took your jumper fast over big logs trying to catch the fox.

One way or another, you risked your precious hide. Your precious life.

And suddenly in the middle of it all, you felt a way you’d never felt before—blood roaring through your veins, eyes seeing colors twice as bright, sounds keener. Air grand in your nostrils, and your lungs. Skin prickling. Balls clanging.

Alive, alive-ho!

Flare had taken his fair share of big risks, and then some. He’d chosen a life of them.

He’d seen a lot of other men take their first, and discover the feeling. He liked seeing that, truly liked it. Now, funny, he had some years on him, and maybe the big ones had lost a little of their zest. But he liked showing young men the way, seeing them brave forth, and start living because they dared.

Like Garrett and Innie today.

After breakfast the four of them drove twenty horses down. Flare cursed himself for yesterday. He’d let the entire herd come to the bottom of the canyon, which had been dumb. If something spooked them, the whole herd would have been in the river, and no telling how many you might lose. Innie had told a
vaquero
’s story about cattle stampeding into the Sacramento and starting to circle, right there in the river, headlong flight round and round in flank-deep water. Stumbled, fell, got knocked down, trampled. Most of them drowned.

So they’d bring the horses down a few at a time today. Lasso ’em—that was the word Innie used. Innie and a couple of other coons were good at it, and Craw was coming right along. Catch those hosses by the neck. Improvise halters and get ’em tied together. Without the California hands, Flare and Skye would never have been able to get this job done.

Now time to let the new lads earn their keep, and find out how to love your life.

Craw took the first bunch, to show the way. A fine swim, no trouble. On the far side he waved his hat as though to say it was Simon-simple, and pretend it wasn’t particular cold.

Flare just gave Garrett a nod and a small smile.

Garrett could feel the eyes on him. Except for his dad and O’Flaherty, he’d stay right here. Seemed dumb, really dumb. His stomach felt like a jumble of river ice.

He looked back.

In he went, watching the rope. It came taut and the horses began to move, Flare rousting them sharp from behind. All in good order, himself upstream, them nicely spread out below and moving.

Jumping Jehosaphat, it was cold.

Well, he was crazy, but he wasn’t a coward.

He whipped his horse hard and they were swimming and the whole bunch was swimming. Jesus, it was cold.

Flare watched Innie get lined up. The lad was either too damn eager or too damn scared, Flare couldn’t tell which. But it was like losing your virginity. You were as you were, as there was naught for it but to go ahead.

“Move on in!” Flare shouted at him.

The lad did, with a close eye on the line and the horses. Good lad, on out. In good control.

Flare sat his horse at the ready just upstream, and Craw and Garrett watched closely from the far bank. Though Flare couldn’t think what good any of them could do if aught went wrong.

A rumble.

Flare looked around. What the hell was it?

The horse herd, galloping downcanyon.

“Go!” he yelled at Innie.

Flare whipped the line of horses hard as he could.

Too goddamn late.

The lead horses were on him.

Whump! A horse shouldered Doctor fiercely on the rump.

Doctor almost went over.

Flare lost his seat in the saddle. He fought for one foot in the stirrup. He grabbed the saddle horn savagely.

One foot was on the ground, and he could see nothing but flying feet and bobbing heads and rumps.

Whump!

Doctor took the bit in its mouth and scrambled out of the way.

Flare dragged along behind.

He swung up in the saddle and saw instantly.

Innie was trying to lead the string fast, but he had no chance. The lead horses in the herd crashed into the rear horses of the string, jumped on them, knocked them over.

Innie couldn’t ride across because his rear horses were pulling back on the rope.

“Let go the line!” Flare screamed at Innie.

He had no chance of being heard over the din.

He kicked Doctor into the water. Maybe he could get to the line and cut it. “Let go the line!” he screamed again.

Held fast to the end of the rope, Innie was being swept straight downstream.

Doctor wouldn’t go into the melee, threw its head, stayed upstream of the herd, began to swim hard.

Flare saw Innie throw the rope away with a big arm fling.

The entire herd was between him and Innie. He let Doctor have its head to swim across.

He stood in the stirrups and watched Innie.

The lad was buffeted by the wild horses, but he kept his seat. Good lad!

They were still in water only flank deep, and the horses were leaping on each other’s backs. One crashed into Lnnie’s mount from the side. Horse and rider went sideways and under.

A moment later both came up, Innie in the water but clinging to the saddle horn.

A horse screamed and jumped on top of Innie, front feet flying.

Then Flare could see nothing but heads and rumps leaping into the air.

In his mind’s eye he saw the rocky bottom, hundreds of hoofs, skull and bones between.

The sky was filled with the screams of horses.

Flare and Doctor clambered up the far bank and wheeled to gallop downstream. He had to do something for Innie, dead or alive, and something for the horses, dead or alive.

Craw was ahead of him. And swinging that damned reata.

What the hell for?

Craw’s throw shot out fifty feet and fell useless into the tossing waves.

Then Flare saw. Garrett was swimming horseback on the edge of the herd. The damn fool was trying to get to Innie.