2

Our wagon was our world. We were six people isolated from all about us as long as the wagon moved. We slept, we read, we stared at the canvas overhead or at one another, and we listened. Always, we listened.

Our stops during the day were brief, and always in selected positions where concealment was possible. Our rules had been laid down before the wagon started to roll.

One or the other of the outriders did the cooking. No pans were allowed to rattle, no voices were raised. Our campfires were brief and built from wood that promised little or no smoke. The side walls of our wagon were higher than usual, but the canvas top was much lower than on the prairie schooner or Conestoga, and the canvas itself was browned by smoke and usage. We wanted no glaring white top to draw the eyes of our enemies.

As we drew nearer the Colorado River, our travel periods were shorter and we were in hiding well before daylight.

We saw no Indians. Once Jacob Finney found tracks, but they were several days old.

My father talked little and did his best to stifle his coughing, yet it was a problem. Opposite us sat Thomas Fraser, a lean, tall Scotsman in a gray store-bought suit that was too small for him. Throughout the day he took notes in a small notebook he carried in the side pocket of his coat.

Hunched over the notebook, his thin shoulders like a buzzard’s wings starting to unfold, he hovered in scowling intensity over his stub of pencil. I wondered how he could write at all while the wagon moved, but somehow he accomplished it. When we stopped for the day, he wandered off by himself to sit on a rock or log and stare at nothingness.

On the last night before reaching the river, Mr. Farley led the horses to a secret tank where water collected from the rains. “We’ve got to water them good,” he explained, “else when they smell the river they’ll run for it. There’d be no holdin’ ’em. We’d have things scattered to hell an’ gone, and no end of racket. Bring ever’ Injun in the country down on us.”

“Are there Indians close by?” I asked.

“I hope not, son. But they’re about. Not many for such a big country, but they show up when least expected. Yumas can be almighty unpleasant, and they are fighters. Your pa can tell you.”

Jacob Finney came up, his rifle in the hollow of his arm. “Smoke off to the northwest. Thin trail.”

“How far?”

“Six, eight miles. Maybe less. This side the river, I’d say.” He paused. “Want me to scout the trail to the river?”

Farley hesitated, then said, “No, we’ve got it to do, and we’ll move out quietly as soon as it’s dark. No use tipping our hand until we must. With luck we can be across the river before they know we’re around.”

He glanced over at me where I stood listening. “Y’see, son, Injuns will come out an’ study the country after the sun goes down. The glare is gone, everything is still, and things sort of stand out. Sound carries further and any movement is easier seen. You put that away in your skull an’ hold it for another time.” He spat. “No, Jacob, we’ll sit tight and take our chances.”

It was very hot and the air was still. The wagon was drawn up among some cedars and the horses were grazing on a small patch of grass. Around us was a forest of sandstone boulders, and beyond them a rocky ridge. There was a good-sized pool of water.

“They’ve thought it out,” Papa said, speaking softly. “The wagon’s tight, and if need be we can cut loose from the gear and float all the way to the Gulf.”

My father was a puzzle to me. From the start there was a difference in the way Farley, Kelso, and Finney treated him. They seemed to accept him as one of themselves, but the others were not treated so. Why was this so?

Of course, my father had been over the trail before, yet even that did not seem reason enough.

“How much farther?” I asked.

“The hardest part will be after we cross the river. From the river to the mountains is a long way, all of it desert. There are bare ridges, lava beds, some cinder cones, and-”

“What’s a cinder cone?”

“Easiest way to explain it is, it’s a small volcano. Most of ’em are a couple of hundred feet high, or less, cone-shaped, with the crater inside.”

“Is there water in the desert?”

“Here and there, if you know where to look. There’s a river, too. Water’s not too good, and it isn’t much of a river, only a few feet across, and some places no more than an inch deep.”

“Where will I live?”

My father was silent for a few minutes and then said, “Your grandfather is a very rich man. He has thousands of cattle, sheep, and horses. He has a big ranch, and then he has a house in town, too.

“Most of the men who work on the ranch are Indians, those in town are Mexicans. Good men, most of them.”

I wanted to ask him about Felipe, and what he might have known that he was not wanted to know, but I did not. I could not let my father realize that his private conversations had been overheard, even though I only listened when they spoke about the past or about my grandfather.

We dozed, awakened, then dozed again. Fletcher paced irritably. He was a difficult, impatient man, one accustomed to having his own way, I thought, and he did not like being just one of a group, nor did he like my father. I did not like Fletcher, nor did he like me.

“What’s the matter with him?” he demanded once. “He doesn’t talk like any boy I know.”

My father’s expression was bland. “He has spent much more time with adults, so he talks like one, even thinks like one. We’ve been in few places where there were other children, a fact I regret.”

Later, when I had gone to get a drink from the pool, I heard Farley talking to Kelso. “He’s trouble, and I don’t want trouble. I’m not worried about Verne. He can take care of himself, but I don’t want shooting.”

“There’s been no trouble so far.”

“No, and I want to keep it that way. Fletcher looks like a tough man, but he doesn’t know anything about Verne, and I don’t think he knows much about the West.”

There was a pause. “I want to get these people through safely and with as little trouble as possible. I nearly refused Fletcher on sight. I am sorry I didn’t.”

Fletcher finally seated himself against a tree, removed his hat, and closed his eyes. I watched him curiously, wondering why he was going to California in such a hurry. Yet I had no idea why any of them were going except for my father.

So far, neither of the two women had tried to talk to me, which seemed strange, as women traveling always seemed to fuss over youngsters, and I had been wary of them for that reason.

Miss Nesselrode was a slender, graceful women who might have been thirty and was probably younger. She wore high lace collars that were always immaculate, no matter how dusty the trail. Her gray traveling dress was much worn and there were signs of raveling at the cuffs. She was rather pretty in a fluttery way, but I did notice that with each day we were on the trail she fluttered less and her eyelashes were steadier. If she had a first name, I had never heard it.

Mrs. Weber was a stout lady in black satin-or what looked like it. I felt sorry for her in that old stiff black dress she wore that seemed to have so many layers. She held a small handkerchief to her nose most of the time, and sniffed a good deal.

Sometimes I tried to imagine why they were all going west, but could not.

It was very still. Not a breath of air stirred. Occasionally one of the horses would stamp of hoof to drive away flies. Jacob Finney, who had been lying under the wagon, got up, and taking his rifle, went out to relieve Kelso.

Farley walked over and dropped to the sand beside my father. “Verne? Did you ever make the crossing this high up?”

“My first time was in Mohave country, but I never crossed in here.”

“You know the country west of the river?”

“Some of it. There’s some water holes at the west end of the Chocolates.” He paused, then abruptly he asked, “Farley? Do you know Peg-Leg Smith?”

“No. I heard of him, but who hasn’t? Trapper, isn’t he? Mountain man?”

“He’s that, but he’s more. He’s a horse thief, too. He’s a mean, dangerous man, and he runs with a bunch of renegades, both Indian and white. He steals horses in Arizona and sells them in California, then he steals horses in California and sells them in Arizona.

“When they take after him, he hides out somewhere in the desert. Vanishes. Just drops off the end of the world and leaves no trail. Nobody’s been able to catch him. Obviously he has a hideout somewhere in the desert north of here, a place even the Indians can’t find-or don’t want to find.”

“What has that to do with us?”

“Peg-Leg will steal any horses or mules he can lay hands on. He’s attacked at least one of the Spanish gold trains coming down from northern California. He wasn’t even thinking of the gold, didn’t know there was any, I expect, and just wanted the mules. He got them, too. Wiped out every man, he thought, but two of the mule drivers got away.

“Funny part of it was, they say he didn’t take the gold, just dumped out the ore and went away with the sacks and the mules.”

“He probably didn’t know it was gold. I’ve seen only two or three pieces of gold ore in my life and wouldn’t have bothered to pick up either piece. How many people know gold when they see it in the rock?” Farley was silent; then after a moment he said, “You mean that whole mule train of ore was dumped out somewhere and is just lyin’ there?”

“That’s the story.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“The point I’m making has nothing to do with gold, but a whole lot to do with Peg-Leg. You’ve got some fine stock here, and what looks like a wagonload of something valuable, so be careful.”

“We’re watchin’.”

“For Indians. But are you watching for what seems to be a friendly white man?”