Now one man, the Sin Killer, had done him more damage in the course of a second than he had experienced in twenty years of slaving. The slightest movement of his jutting jaw caused him terrible pain—and the pain would go on for months. No one in the group knew how to reset a jaw, and Obregon could not have stood the agony if someone had tried.
Obregon tried desperately to calm his mind, to think carefully about what to do. He either had to prepare to die, or else steel himself against the pain. He hated the pain, and yet he was afraid of the pain of death as well. A bullet wouldn’t hurt for long—but still it would hurt terribly, a little nugget of iron tearing through his flesh! Both his options were now distressing , and all because a quick-moving white man had hit him with a stick.
Malgres thought their best bet might be to find the Cheyenne they had been hoping to trade with. The tribes had healers—perhaps one could help Obregon.
He suggested as much to Ramon, who thought it a waste of time.
“I’d rather just kill him—why wait?” he said.
“The Indians like him, that’s why,” Malgres reminded him. “With Obregon alive, we’ll be safe. They won’t attack us while he’s alive. We’re a long way from Santa Fe, and we don’t have much food. If we can keep him alive until we’re safe, then we should do it.”
“Maybe we can tie up that jaw with a piece of rawhide string,” Ramon suggested. “It’s horrible to look at, the way it wobbles.”
They got a string but when they tried to bind Obregon’s jaw he screamed so loudly and spewed so much blood on them that they gave the whole thing up as a bad job. All they had accomplished was to make the jaw worse—now it stuck out at an even more startling angle.
Unable to talk, in terrible pain, Obregon moaned and moaned. When anyone looked at him he pointed at his head—he wanted them to shoot him, or at least give him a gun so he could shoot himself.
But the renegades were still debating the wisdom of keeping Obregon alive. The point Malgres kept insisting on was that it was important to have a recognized leader—as John Skraeling had been and as Obregon was—when they went among the tribes.
“I’ll be the leader,” Ramon said. “I’m smarter than Obregon anyway.”
“It doesn’t matter how smart you are,” Malgres argued. “The Indians don’t like you, but they do like Obregon.”
Ramon thought such talk was all nonsense. He thought he knew the business well enough to win the Indians over.
“Obregon never gave them much—just cheap goods,” Ramon argued. “If we give them more than he did, then they’ll like us.”
Malgres ceased to argue. Ramon was too stupid to grasp the point, which was that liking didn’t have that much to do with the quality of the trade goods.
Obregon would not stop moaning. Around midnight, kept awake by this irritating noise, Ramon walked over and caught Obregon by his twisted jaw, causing him to emit a piercing scream, which was reduced to bloody gurgles when Ramon cut his throat.
In the morning none of the renegades felt energetic enough to dig Obregon a grave, so they stripped him of all his possessions, left him to the coyotes and the carrion birds, and turned back toward Santa Fe.
49
Josefina had always been the bold one . . .
JOSEFINA had always been the bold one in her family. Maria might be haughty but she was not one to take chances when it came to money. She wanted a rich man and she got one in Charles Bent, the most ambitious young trader to have traveled the Santa Fe Trail. Their mother had not wanted Maria to marry an americano but their father, a practical man, saw the benefits of such a union right away. The americanos were coming—why not recognize reality and form a union with the most successful of them?
Josefina didn’t think of it in those terms—the minute Kit Carson returned and looked at her with his shy eyes, Josefina determined to grab him and get him to marry her. Dona Esmeralda wouldn’t like it and her parents would huff and puff, since Kit was only a penniless guide, but Josefina intended to point out to them that if she and Kit got married at the same time as Maria and Charlie, it would save the expense of a second wedding. However, if her parents didn’t knuckle under, Josefina was fully prepared to run away with Kit—her father would lose his little Josie, the child dearest to his heart, the girl who was always willing to fetch his pipe and fill it for him.
Kit had followed Jim’s instructions—he walked his horse for two miles down the gully; he heard no gunfire and supposed the encounter with the Mexican soldiers must have passed off peaceably. He traveled on through the day and through the night and was rewarded not long after sunrise with his first glimpse of the big trading post the Bents were building. Kit would never have supposed those two scrappers, Charlie and Willy Bent, with their fancy partner St. Vrain, would have built anything as large as this huge adobe stockade he was approaching.
No sooner had Kit wandered in awe through the massive gates than Charlie Bent, without so much as a handshake, came over and began to pump him for information.
“I thought you were traveling with a rich Englishman. Where’s he at?” Charlie wanted to know. He had heard about Lord Berrybender from Captain Clark—the thought of doing business with a man that rich appealed to his acquisitive instincts, but now Kit Carson, a fellow not worth a nickel, had arrived without him.
“They’re coming—they’ve got an ox, and that ox ain’t speedy,” Kit told him. “I expect they’ll show up in a day or two.”
Willy Bent walked up with a grin on his face and punched Kit in the shoulder. Willy and Kit liked to tussle and wrestle, but with Charlie Bent around there were few opportunities for sport.
“Here, Willy—you and Kit get a buggy and a wagon and go bring in that English party. They’ll probably be wanting to replenish their supplies, and we can sure help them out.”
“But Kit just got here—let him eat at least,” Willy said. “Besides, Kit don’t work for you.”
“Well,” Kit said, noncommittally He didn’t want to ignite a conflict between the brothers, and it was easy to do.
While the brothers were facing off, Kit happened to cast his eye toward the parapet and saw two girls—at once he recognized the Jaramillo sisters, the stuck-up Maria and the merry little Josefina, whom he had once been so bold as to kiss.
“What are those girls doing here?” he asked. “I thought they lived in Santa Fe.”
“They did, until Charlie decided to marry Maria,” Willy said.
Charlie flushed—he disliked casual references to his forthcoming nuptials, but before he could gripe at his brother, Ceran St. Vrain strolled over, looking, as usual, breezy and somewhat distracted.
“Why, Mr. Carson, welcome to our humble post,” he said. “I’m glad to see you’re unscalped.”
“I am, but the Pawnees tried for it,” Kit informed them.
“So how was William Ashley’s big rendezvous? Profitable, I hope,” St. Vrain went on.
Kit was trying to get a better look at Josefina. Here he had just arrived, and Charlie and St. Vrain were already trying to dig out information about business conditions to the north. They wanted him to make a fur report, and do it before he’d even enjoyed a drink of water.
“You see, we’re thinking of opening a post on the South Platte,” St. Vrain said. “If Billy Ashley survived I guess we could too.”
“Nope, you’d all be scalped in about three days,” Kit said, annoyed by the persistence of the traders: all they cared about were furs and money.
Ceran St. Vrain was quick to sense the drift of Kit’s feelings, but his partner Charlie Bent had no interest in anyone’s feelings unless they could be utilized to earn the firm more money.
“You must be hungry, seftor,” St. Vrain said. “We have plenty—let Willy take you to the kitchen.”
’All right, get some grub, I’ll hitch the wagon,” Charlie said. He himself put work first and grub second, and those who worked for him were expected to support the same priorities. Kit Carson was the only pers
on who knew where the English could be found. After all, there were hostiles all over the prairies—it behooved Kit to make haste on behalf of his friends.
“How’d Charlie get that fair beauty to agree to marry him?” Kit asked Willy, as they were strolling toward the kitchen.
“You know Charlie—he’s dogged,” Willy reminded him. “When Charlie wants something he don’t turn aside till he gets it.”
“You’re better looking than he is, why didn’t you marry her?”
“Not me—I got a fine little Cheyenne wife myself,” Willy said—but then he noticed that Kit had stopped listening—Josefina Jaramillo had come down from the parapet and was boldly waving at Kit.
Though he had been ravenously hungry when he rode into the fort, he at once forgot his hunger.
“Excuse me, I see Josie waving—I better go see what she wants,” he said.
Willy Bent was startled. Josefina was waving, a very bold thing for a properly brought up girl to do. But Kit was already hurrying toward her, careless of the proprieties that had to be observed where the well-to-do Mexican families were concerned. One reason he preferred his wife, Owl Woman, was that in Cheyenne life few formalities need be observed. This sudden turn of events made Willy vaguely uneasy—Kit was supposed to be eating, not courting. Charlie would probably have a fit when he found out.
Josie’s heart was thumping hard when she saw Kit approaching. She was resolved for a bold strike, one that would horrify her family. It might even horrify Kit. And yet she had long felt that Kit was the man she wanted to marry—if he refused her, she meant to enter a convent and marry no one. Kit had been the first man to notice her, the first to be kind to her, the first to arouse her womanly feelings. Now there he was; Josie felt ready for the gamble of her life: marriage or the nunnery. She did not intend to wither and grow old amid the many neglected old duennas to be seen in Santa Fe.
When Kit was twenty yards from Josefina he looked at her: there she was, smiling her merry smile at him. Between one step and the next he became so shy that he got his feet tangled up. He remembered how clumsy he was and began to feel embarrassed. What if he fell flat on his face and busted his nose again, as he had when he was walking with Tasmin Berrybender up on the Yellowstone? Josie was prone to giggles—no doubt she would giggle until she was out of breath if he fell and busted himself.
But then he was there—he hadn’t tripped after all.
“I missed you—I thought you’d never come back,” Josie said. “I thought a bear killed you.”
“It has been a spell, hasn’t it?” Kit said, feeling so shy that he hardly knew where to look.
“What have you been doing? You look older,” Kit went on. He wished he could make some witty remark, but none were in his head.
“I been waiting for you to come back so we could get married—I don’t want nobody else to be my husband,” Josie said.
“Why, that’s fine and dandy,” Kit said automatically—it had not quite registered that he was answering a proposal. But when it soaked in and he did understand what Josie said, he at once turned bright red with shock.
“Say yes, I been waiting a long time,” Josefina insisted.
“I guess you’re joking—you don’t really want to marry me, do you?” Kit asked.
Josefina’s hopes collapsed; she felt that her big gamble had failed—her eyes, so merry a moment before, filled with tears at the thought of the long years she would have to spend in the nunnery.
When Kit saw the sudden tears splash down Josie’s brown cheeks, he realized that he had somehow said exactly the wrong thing—his tongue had betrayed him, causing him to hurt this little brown girl who had always been his only female friend. If Josie really wanted to marry him, of course he would do it. Josie, in her disappointment, started to turn away, but Kit grabbed her and hugged her close. Her little chest was heaving—he himself was so bewildered that he feared he might faint.
“Don’t cry, Josie—you just surprised me,” Kit explained. “I been traveling so long I don’t have my wits about me. Sure I’ll marry you, though, if that’s what you want.
“Is it what you want—really want?” he asked.
Josie, overcome with relief, could only nod. She pressed her face close against his chest. He wore an old buckskin shirt, filthy from weeks of travel, but she didn’t care. She looked up, right into Kit’s face. Had he lied? Was he just trying to get her to stop crying? She didn’t want her hopes to rise, only to be dashed again. If Kit was going to regret his decision she wanted to know it now;
But when she looked up at him she was immediately reassured. Though still a little red, Kit had a pleased look, and he was still holding her tightly in his arms.
“Josie, you’re the best,” he told her.
“You mean we can marry? You mean it?” she asked.
“You bet I mean it,” he said. “You don’t suppose I’d be such a fool as to marry anybody but you, do you?”
Josie stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. Happiness filled her like sunshine.
“Maybe we can get married with Maria and Charlie,” Josie said. ‘And then we can have babies. I want five or six.”
“Good Lord, where will we put ’em?” Kit asked, blushing again at the thought of the intimacies attendant to having several children.
“Here,” Josie said, gesturing at the great two-story edifice still being built.
“Maria and Charlie are going to live here—maybe we could too.”
“No, the Bents are too bossy, I’d rather live in Taos,” Kit said. He felt it was best to arrive at some practical understanding right away.
“Charlie Bent’s apt to rub me the wrong way if I’m around him too much,” he explained. “He’s already rubbed me the wrong way and I just got here.”
“I like Santa Fe better than Taos,” Josie informed him. � lot of mean old women live in Taos—they might pick on me.”
“The important thing is to hurry and get hitched,” Kit told her. A moment later it occurred to him that he had no money. He and Josie would need a house, somewhere. How would he afford it?
“Let’s go tell everybody the news,” Kit suggested. He was filled with pride and happiness—he held Josie’s hand tightly, as if she were a bird that might escape.
“Maria will be very angry,” Josie predicted. “She likes to keep all the attention for herself.”
When Willy Bent saw the two of them coming toward him, boldly holding hands, he knew that his moment of apprehension had been justified. Here the two of them came, bold as brass.
“We’re getting hitched, me and Josie,” Kit announced. ‘Ain’t she something? What do you think?”
“I’m leaving, that’s what I think,” Willy told them. “Charlie will have a fit—that’s another thing I think.”
“Charlie’s getting married himself—why would he care?” Kit asked.
“He just will,” Willy said. “He just will.”
50
The men snatched up> firearms . . .
MARIA JARAMILLO raced out of her room, screaming so loudly that everyone in the great courtyard of the trading post at once assumed that Indians were attacking. The men snatched up firearms and raced for the parapet. A few sheepherders, just outside the walls, heard the screams, abandoned their sheep, and ran for the great gate, hoping to get inside before it was shut. The small, dark men making adobe bricks hurried to the safety of the arsenal, their arms still covered with mud. St. Vrain, who had been in a storeroom doing his inventories, hurried out, puzzled. Where had the Indians come from? Which Indians were they? He himself had been out that morning on a long scout and had seen no Indian sign at all. It was true that Kit Carson and Willy Bent were expected to arrive with the English party at any time, but if it was them, why did Maria think it necessary to scream at the top of her lungs? Now the sheepherders had left their sheep and the builders their building. Her husband-to-be, Charlie Bent, a man who hated to see work interrupted, would no doubt have sharp words for his bride when
he took stock of the situation—but where was Charlie Bent?
“Where’s Charlie?” St. Vrain yelled at the distraught young woman, who was scurrying in and out of the spacious second-floor apartment where she would soon be living with her husband.
“He’s dead—I killed him!” Maria cried.
“She didn’t—she broke his head a little!” Josefina, her short but usually reliable sister, shouted down at him.
“His head is cut. Maria hit him with a pot,” Josefina continued.
“Hit Charlie with a pot? But why?” St. Vrain inquired.
Josefina just shrugged.
“She was angry,” she said. ‘All these pots up here are broken now—every one.”
St. Vrain hastened up the main stairway, itself not quite finished, and peeked cautiously into the rooms where the couple planned to live. Charles Bent lay stretched on the floor, bleeding from a gash on his temple. The floor was littered with shards of pottery— the heavy pottery that the local Indians made.
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