War Party (Ss) (1982) (12 page)

When Jimmy spoke, Angie got quickly to her feet. She recognized Cochise with a start of relief, but she saw instantly that this was a war party. And then she saw the prisoner.

Their eyes met and she felt a distinct shock. He was a white man, a big, unshaven man who badly needed both a bath and a haircut, his clothes ragged and bloody. Cochise gestured at the prisoner.

"No take Apache man, you take white man. This man good for hunt, good for fight.

He strong warrior. You take 'em."

Flushed and startled, Angie stared at the prisoner and caught a faint glint of humor in his dark eyes.

"Is this here the fate worse than death I hear tell of?" he inquired gently.

"Who are you?" she asked, and was immediately conscious that it was an extremely silly question.

The Apaches had drawn back and were watching curiously. She could do nothing for the present but accept the situation. Obviously they intended to do her a kindness, and it would not do to offend them. If they had not brought this man to her, he might have been killed.

"Name's Ches Lane, ma'am," he said. "Will you untie me? I'd feel a lot safer."

"Of course." Still flustered, she went to him and untied his hands. One Indian said something, and the others chuckled; then, with a whoop, they swung their horses and galloped off down the canyon.

Their departure left her suddenly helpless, the shadowy globe of her loneliness shattered by this utterly strange man standing before her, this big, bearded man brought to her out of the desert.

She smoothed her apron, suddenly pale as she realized what his delivery to her implied.

What must he think of her? She turned away quickly. "There's hot water," she said hastily, to prevent his speaking. "Dinner is almost ready."

She walked quickly into the house and stopped before the stove, her mind a blank.

She looked around her as if she had suddenly waked up in a strange place. She heard water being poured into the basin by the door, and heard him take Ed's razor. She had never moved the box. To have moved it would-

"Sight of work done here, ma'am." , She hesitated, then turned with determination and stepped into the doorway. "Yes, Ed-"

"You're Angie Lowe."

Surprised, she turned toward him, and recognized his own startled awareness of her.

As he shaved, he told her about Ed, and what had happened that day in the saloon.

"He-Ed was like that. He never considered consequences until it was too late."

"Lucky for me he didn't."

He was younger looking with his beard gone. There was a certain quiet dignity in his face. She went back inside and began putting plates on the table. She was conscious that he had moved to the door and was watching her.

"You don't have to stay," she said. "You owe me nothing. Whatever Ed did, he did because he was that kind of person. You aren't responsible."

He did not answer, and when she turned again to the stove, she glanced swiftly at him. He was looking across the valley.

There was a studied deference about him when he moved to a place at the table. The children stared, wide-eyed and silent; it had been so long since a man sat at this table.

Angie could not remember when she had felt like this. She was awkwardly conscious of her hands, which never seemed to be in the right place or doing the right things.

She scarcely tasted her food, nor did the children.

Ches Lane had no such inhibitions. For the first time, he realized how hungry he was. After the half-cooked meat of lonely, trailside fires, this was tender and flavored.

Hot biscuits, desert honey . . . Suddenly he looked up, embarrassed at Ids appetite.

"You were really hungry," she said.

"Man can't fix much, out on the trail."

Later, after he'd got his bedroll from his saddle and unrolled it on the hay in the barn, he walked back to the house and sat on the lowest step. The sun was gone, and they watched the cliffs stretch their red shadows across the valley. A quail called plaintively, a mellow sound of twilight "You needn't worry about Cochise," she said. "He'll soon be crossing into Mexico."

"I wasn't thinking about Cochise."

That left her with nothing to say, and she listened again to the quail and watched a lone bright star.

"A man could get to like it here," he said quietly.

*

A Mule for Santa Fe
.

Sell the mules,' Hassoldt advised, "you want oxen. Less water for 'em an' their feet flatten out on the prairie country where a mule's dig in. If you get hard up for grub you can always eat an ox."

"If I get that hungry," Scott Miles replied shortly, "I can eat a mule."

Hassoldt was an abrupt man. He turned away now, his irritation plain. "Suit yourself, Miles. But you'll need another mule and I haven't any for sale."

Bitterly, Scott Miles turned away and went out the door. Rain lashed at his face, for outside the building there was neither awning nor boardwalk. Head bowed into the rain, he slopped along toward the Carter house where young Bill was waiting.

Hassoldt wanted those mules badly, and no wonder. There would be a big demand for them in a few months, and nobody had mules like those of Scott Miles. They were well-bred and well-fed, strapping big mules with plenty of power. If he could get them west there would be money in them.

Everywhere he went they advised against the mules. On roads they were fine. On rocks they were all right. But out on the prairie?

Pembroke advised against them, too. However, after much argument he had agreed to accept the wagon in his company if Miles had a full team of six mules. Four, Pembroke insisted, were not enough. Not even, he added, if the mules were big as those of Miles' team.

There were half a dozen people in the hotel when he stepped in. Pembroke was there, a big, fine-looking man with a tawny mustache. He was talking to Bidwell, a substantial farmer from Ohio who had been the first to sign for Pembroke's fast wagon train.

Miles looked around and found Billy. He was talking to a pretty woman with dark red hair who sat in a big, leather-bound chair.

Bill saw him at once. "Pa," he said excitedly, "this is Mrs. Hance."

She looked up and he was immediately uneasy. She had blue eyes, not dark eyes like Mary's had been, and there was a friendliness in them that disturbed him. "Bill's been telling me about you, Mr. Miles. Have you found a mule?"

Glad to be on familiar ground, he shook his head. "Hassoldt won't sell. I'm afraid I'm out of luck." He was absurdly conscious of his battered hat, its brim limp with rain and his unshaven jaws. He wanted to get away from her. Women like this both irritated and disturbed him. She was too neat, too perfectly at ease. He knew what such women were like on the trail, finicky and frightened of bugs and fussing over trifles. Also, and he was frank to admit it to himself, he was a little jealous of Bill's excited interest.

"We'd better go, Bill. Say good-by to Mrs. Hance."

He walked out, red around the ears and conscious that somehow Bill felt he had failed him. It was not necessary for him to have been so abrupt. Just because he looked like a big backwoods farmer was no reason he should act like one.

They lived in the wagon. It was a big new Conestoga, and his tools were all new. He had his plowshare, he'd make the plow when he got there, and he had two rifles and plenty of ammunition. Bill was nine, but already he could shoot, and Scott Miles wanted his son to grow up familiar with weapons.

He wanted him to be a good hunter, to use guns with intelligence.

A boy needed two parents, and being an observant man Scott had not failed to notice the wistfulness in Bill's eyes when other children, hurt or imagining a hurt, ran to mother. Bill would never do that with him, he was too proud of being a little man in front of his father. But it wasn't right for the boy.

Farmer Bidwell had a daughter, a pretty, flush-faced girl with corn-silk hair. She had been casting sidelong glances at him ever since their wagon rolled alongside.

Tentatively, Scott Miles touched his chin. He had better shave.

He did, and he also trimmed down his mustache. He wore it Spanish style and not like the brush mustaches of Bidwell or so many of the company. He got into a clean shirt then. Bill eyed him critically, "Gettin' all duded up," he said. "You goin' back to see Mrs. Hance?"

"No!" He spoke sharply. "I may go to see Grace Bidwell, later."

"Her?" Bill's contempt was obvious. So obvious that Scott looked at the boy quickly.

"She isn't as pretty as Mrs. Hance."

Scott Miles sat down. "Look, Bill," he said, "we're going into a mighty rough country, like I've told you. We won't be in a city. We'll be in the mountains where I'll have to fell trees and trim them for a cabin.

"Now I need a wife, and you need a mother. But just being pretty isn't enough. I've got to have a wife who can cook, who can make her own clothes, if need be. A wife who can take the rough going right with me. I need somebody who can help, not hinder."

Bill nodded, but he remained only half convinced. Scott Miles was shouldering into his coat when Bill spoke again. "Pa," he was frowning a little, "if we get a new mother, shouldn't it be somebody we like, too?"

Scott Miles stared into the rain, his face grim. Then he dropped his hand to Bill's shoulder. "Yes, son," he said quietly, "it would have to be somebody we like . .

. too."

The rain stopped, but the sun did not come out. Slopping through the rain, Miles made inquiries about mules. Yes, there was an old hardcase downriver who owned a big black mule. The man's name was Simon Gilbride. Sell him? Not a chance! He wouldn't even talk about it. Nevertheless, Scott Miles saddled his bay mare and rode south.

As he started out of town he saw Mrs. Hance on the hotel steps. She waved, and he waved back.

He saw something else, too. Something that filled him with grave disquiet. Hassoldt was standing on the steps talking to three roughlooking men from the river. All wore guns. They turned and looked at him as he passed, and Scott had the uncomfortable feeling they had been talking about him.

Gilbride came to the door when Scott arrived. He was a tall, old man with a cold patrician face and the clothes of a farmer. "Sell my mule? Of course not!" And that was final.

It was dusk before Scott returned to the wagon. He was tired and he sagged in the saddle. It was not so much physical weariness, for he was a big man and unusually strong, but the weariness of defeat. Only a few hours remained and there was only one mule in the country the size of his. Of course, wagons were arriving all the time. If he could keep circulating . . .

He pulled up. There was a fire going and Bill was squatted beside it. He was laughing and eating at the same time, and the girl who was cooking was laughing also. "Good!" he muttered. "Grace has finally got to him. Now things will be easier all around."

Only when she straightened from the fire it was not Grace. It was Mrs. Hance.

She smiled, a little frightened. "Oh! I didn't expect you back so soon. I-I was worried about Bill going without his supper."

The food was good. Had a flavor he didn't know, but mighty good. And Bill was eating as if he hadn't eaten in years. Of course, Bill could digest anything.

"Mr. Miles," she spoke suddenly as if nerved for the effort. "I have a favor to ask.

I want to ride in your wagon to Santa Fe."

He blinked. Of all things, this was the least expected. Bill had looked up and Scott could almost feel him listening.

He shook his head. "I am sorry, Mrs. Hance. The answer is no. It is quite impossible."

He walked to the door of the hotel with her, then back to the wagon. Suddenly he decided to check the mules and, nearing them, he was almost positive he saw a shadow move in the darkness near where they were picketed. He waited, his gun ready, but there was no further movement, no sound.

He waited for a long time in silence, seriously worried. Hassoldt wanted mules badly, with a big contract to fill for the government, and he did not impress Miles as a very scrupulous man. In such a place as this there would be thieves, and Hassoldt impressed him as a man likely to stop at nothing to obtain something he wanted.

When he reached the hotel next morning there was no sign of Mrs. Hance. He hesitated, faintly disappointed at not seeing her. Pembroke and Bidwell were together. "Well, Miles," Pembroke was abrupt. "Have you found a mule? I'm sorry, of course, but if you haven't one tomorrow we'll have to make other arrangements."

Wearily Miles walked back to camp, leading the mare. He was walking up to the wagon when the mare whinnied. He looked up. Tied to a wagon wheel was a magnificent sorrel stallion. At least sixteen hands high, it had a white face and three white stockings.

After tying the mare, Scott Miles walked admiringly around the stallion. It was one of the finest animals he had ever seen.

Mrs. Hance came out of the trees with Bill. They hung back a little, then walked toward him.

"This," he inquired, "is your horse?"