3

There was another time when Finney had taken me up on the saddle. “My pa used to ride with me like this. He taught me about cows. More’n I needed to know, I suspect.”

He indicated the hills around. “Mighty bare, you’d say. Not much but cedar, but there’s always more’n a body would suspect. You’ve got to look close to see an Injun, if you ever do. Watch out of the corners of your eyes. You pick up movement quicker that way. An Injun never looks over the top of a rock or a bush, always around the base. They don’t skyline theirselves. You best learn to do the same.

“Don’t wear nothin’ bright, nothin’ to catch the sun. Shining things can be seen for miles. Buckskin, that’s a good color. Stay away from white. Some damn fools want all that fancy, jingly stuff on their horses. Surest way to get killed.

“Your pa, now, he knows an uncommon lot about Injuns. I’d never have figured it of him, either. He looks more like a schoolteacher.”

“He was one, for a while.”

“You don’t say? Well, what d’you know? I wonder if any of them youngsters knowed what a ring-tailed catamount they had for a teacher?”

“A What?”

He drew up to study a wide stretch of country opening before us. “Maybe you don’t know about your pa, son. Farley told me, but I’d heard a few stories before that. Seems like somebody didn’t want him alive, so they sent some outlaws after him. He killed two of them, wounded another, and got away-wounded himself.

“When he run off with your mother, they took in after him, the old man and about forty tough vaqueros. He played hide-an’- seek with ’em in the desert and got plumb away, and him with a women with him. There’s a lot of folks know about Zachary Verne.

“Farley was thinkin’ of that when he taken him on. Just knowin’ how to shoot is one thing, knowin’ when to shoot is something else again, an’ your pa has savvy.”

That had been days ago, and now we were waiting, waiting for the last long hours to pass-and then we had the river to cross.

This was the most dangerous moment so far, perhaps the most dangerous we would encounter. Yet the Indians were a danger of which we thought little. They might attack, and the man in the wagon would fight back. Even the women would, for both of them knew how to shoot. Or they might just reload guns for the men to fire. The Indians were a present danger, but it was that fierce old man who was my grandfather that I feared the most.

I fell asleep and was awakened by a stirring about. The sun was already low, and Doug Farley was harnessing his horses. It was something he always did himself, allowing no one to even help. He always wanted to be sure everything was just as he wished it in case Kelso and Finney spotted trouble.

“Check your weapons,” he said. “This here’s liable to end in a fight. Don’t be skeered. Just shoot low and take your time.

“I don’t want a fight, but if we get one, we’ve got to win it or die. I figure we’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of swimming the river without bein’ spotted, but no better than that.

“Just gettin’ across ain’t the end of it, for they might chase us into the desert, seein’ we’re only one wagon. We’ve got to be ready for that.”

Farley turned to my father. “Verne? What do you think our chances would be, startin’ now? We’ve got a canyon about three miles long to get through, with some big rocks in the trail. That’ll take us the best part of an hour. By that time it will be dark.”

“I’d say start now.”

“Finney? Kelso?”

Both men nodded. “We can miss some of the rocks if we can see, otherwise we’ll bump over them an’ make a racket.”

Kelso rode out ahead, keeping well to the left, as close to the canyon wall as the fallen rocks would permit. He rode with his rifle in his hands. Fifty yards behind and on the opposite side rode Jacob Finney. Riding warily eyes searching the canyon ahead and the rock walls and rims, the small group moved slowly down the canyon.

Papa called it a “cavalcade”, and it sounded strong and good to me. He had his own rifle out and now he had a shotgun too, which he took from his blanket roll. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Now, Johannes, I have taught you how to load and fire a gun. Today I want you to load for me. As I put down the rifle, take it up and reload. The same with the shotgun. If, when we are fighting, some Indian tries to crawl into the rear of the wagon, take this pistol shoot him. But you be sure it is an Indian, because Finney or Kelso might have a horse shot from under them.”

“Yes, Papa.”

My heart was beating with great, heavy thumps. He was trusting me. He was depending on me. I must do it right. Step by step I went through the reloading process in my mind. There might be many Indians, and I would have to work very swiftly and surely.

Surely. Papa had always said not to be too hasty. Not to be nervous, not to waste time.

We were moving at a walk, the wheels grating on the sand. My mouth was dry. I inhaled deeply. My father always said if I was nervous to take a few deep breaths and tell myself to be calm.

Mrs. Weber looked around at me. She was on her side with a rifle in her hands, and surprisingly, she winked at me. “Don’t you worry, son. We’ll be all right.”

“Yes, ma’am. I was worried about Mr. Kelso and Mr. Finney.”

“Well you might, son, well you might. If they attack, those boys will take the brunt of it, but they are good men, mighty good men.”

She looked around at Miss Nesselrode. “If I was you, miss, I’d set my cap for that Jacob Finney. There’s a right upstanding young man. He’d make a good husband for a girl like you. He’s knowledgeable, he’s steady, he ain’t no drinker, and for the right women he’d make a fine husband.”

Miss Nesselrode tried to look shocked. She didn’t make it very real. “I am sure he would,” she said primly, “but I am not coming to California to look for a husband.”

Fraser looked at her; then, as their eyes met, he looked quickly away. Fletcher simply snorted, and Miss Nesselrode blushed.

My father looked at her and smiled. “The young men of California will be the losers, ma’am. It will be a disappointment to them.”

“There are other things than marriage,” she said with dignity.

“There surely is,” Mrs. Weber said, “an’ I tried one of ’em. There’s bein’ a spinster and there’s bein’ a widow, an’ I don’t care for neither. Not that I was ever a spinster. I married when I was sixteen an’ seen my man die when a log jam broke on the river whilst he was runnin’ logs.

“Two years later I married up with a gamblin’ man. Flashy, he was, a handsome man with diamonds and all, an’ for a while we had everything. Then he had a run of bad luck and I taken in washin’ to he’p us live. Then he hit it big again, a run of luck that lasted three year, an’ we bought a fancy house in Dubuque, had us a carriage drawn by four black hosses, an’ then he run off with a red-headed women from Lexington.”

The wagon slowed down and Doug Farley spoke over his shoulder. “A little open through here. Stand ready.”

It was dark inside the wagon. Outside it was still light, but it would not be so for long. I saw Doug Farley’s hand come back to his six-shooter to see if it was where he wanted it. I could see Jacob, sitting easy in the saddle, but Mr. Kelso was away off ahead of us now, around a bend in the canyon.

Now the horses began to trot, Doug Farley talking easy to them. Rounding the bend in the canyon, we could see a silvery gleam of water far ahead. My mouth was dry, and I tried to swallow.

My father put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s all right, son, all right. These are good men.”

Farley was talking softly to my father. “You know the place, Verne? Cottonwood Island?”

“I do.” My father paused; then he said quietly, “Unless they’ve spotted us, it’s unlikely the Mohaves will be around there at night. That big mountain on the left ahead is Dead Mountain, where the Mohaves’ spirits go when they die. They don’t like to be around there at night.”

Farley slowed the horses through some soft sand. The wheels only hissed slightly as the sand fell from them.

Kelso suddenly came in out of the dark. “Looks good, Doug. Water’s no more’n twenty inches deep this side of the island.”

“Pray to God we don’t have a flash flood upriver,” Farley muttered.

It was all downhill now, and Farley held the horses back, saving them, I guess, for a hard run if need be. I had listened to my father talk with other men and with my mother and could understand some of what was happening.

It was dark and still. The stars were bright in the sky, and we could smell dampness from the river. Farley swung the team to avoid a boulder and bumped over another. He swore softly at the sound.

“Deep cuts in the gravel here an’ there,” Farley commented. “Kelso will find one we can use, somewhere the bank’s broken down. You know the Colorado-changes all the time. You can’t count on the channel one time to the next.”

“There are waves of mud underwater, too,” my father said. “I’ve known them to take down strong swimmers.”

After that, nobody spoke. In the darkness of the wagon, I could hear the people breathing. My father took a drink from a bottle. He was not a drinking man, but sometimes it stilled his cough, and nobody wanted that now.

“Is there a road?” Miss Nesselrode inquired.

“”Ma’am,” Farley spoke over his shoulder, “there ain’t even the ghost of a trail beyond what moccasins leave.”

It was quiet again. Even Fletcher was still. I heard him grunt a little as the rear wheel hit a rock. Then we heard the click of hooves on stone and Farley drew up, resting the horses. A shape loomed out of the dark. It was Kelso.

“I don’t like it, Doug. I don’t hear the frogs.”

“Maybe we aren’t close enough.”

“I was right up there. I haven’t heard a coyote in the last half-hour.”

“Not much choice now,” Farley said. “Better to try it than get caught out here in the open.”

“There’ll be a plenty of them.”

“Nobody said this was a picnic. There may be deeper water on the other side. Worse comes to worst, we can cut loose the horses and try to float downriver.”

Kelso agreed. “Water’s deeper in Pyramid Canyon, right below here, but that takes us right into the heart of Mohave country.”

“Where’s Jacob?”

“Ain’t seen him in a while.”

My father said, “If it’s all right with you, Farley, I’ll ride up there on the seat with you. This looks like close work, and I can handle my pistols better.”

“Glad to have you.” He clucked to the horses and slapped them gently with the lines. “All right, Kelso, stay close now. We’re going in.”

There was no sound but the creak and bump of our wagon and of the hooves of the horses as they walked. Kelso was ahead and a little to one side, and I could see he was holding a pistol in his right hand.

“Bank breaks off right ahead.” Kelso was back beside us again. He spoke softly. “Keep right ahead, and you can cross the end of the island. No dead trees or fallen stuff in the way.”

Suddenly the horses went down before us, the wagon bumped, slid, then went over the edge. The horses were in the water. “Gravel bottom here,” Farley commented. “I’ve crossed here a-horseback.”

The current was strong. I could feel the thrust of it against the wagon, high though our wheels were. Once the wagon was pushed and almost swung end-wise in the current, but Farley spoke to the horses and they leaned into their collars and pulled the wagon straight.

We could almost taste the coolness from the water. Farley’s voice to the horses was low, confident, strong. How long we were crossing, I do not know, but suddenly the horses started to scramble and pulled us up out of the water.

We could see the dark loom of the trees on our right, a few scattered ones just ahead. It was almost a half mile across the island at this point, or so I remembered someone saying. We moved on, and there was no sound.

Fletcher swore, slowly, bitterly. Miss Nesselrode spoke primly: “Please, sir, it is no time for that.”

Fletcher was silent, and I wondered what Fraser was thinking. Now he would have something to write in his little book. If he got through this alive.

Leaves rustled softly. Kelso was guiding us through brush and fallen logs.

“It’s a trap,” Fletcher said, “a bloody trap.”

They came out of the trees then, a dark wave of them, coming in silence that suddenly broke into a weird cacophony of yells. Farley’s whip cracked like a pistol shot and the mustangs leaped into their harness. The wagon lunged forward, and I saw my father’s pistol dart flame.

A wild face painted with streaks of white suddenly appeared in the back curtains of the wagon as a warrior attempted to climb in.

Miss Nesselrode thrust her rifle against his face and pulled the trigger. The face, and the head, disappeared.