Except for the meeting at the blacksmith's, these two people, both a credit to their little community, would be at home with their children, the husband farming, the wife teaching school. And, what was most important, they would both be safe.
Now, they were far from safe. They were in the great emptiness of the Pecos country, where Mox Mox and the Garza boy were, too.
Perhaps Woodrow Call would eliminate the outlaws. He had eliminated a good number, some of them formidable, in his day. But he couldn't be everywhere, and he couldn't work miracles. He was one man, trying to find two killers in a big country.
Goodnight had supposed that he was past having to take up the gun. He hadn't had a serious encounter with an outlaw in twenty years. He had thought that sort of conflict behind him; certainly, Mary thought it behind him. If she had been home, he would not have been able to clean the rifle without a debate, probably vigorous. Mary believed in professionals: cattlemen ought to raise cattle; bankers ought to handle money; lawmen ought to deal with outlaws; and wives ought to run their households without interference from the men.
But Mary wasn't home, and anyhow, although he had often let Mary slow him, she had never stopped him, not when he felt he had a task that he should do.
"No, and God and his lightning bolts don't stop you either, Charlie," Mary had observed once, when he was about to leave for Colorado, in uncertain weather.
The weather was uncertain again, but Goodnight had never let weather interfere with him. No one who worked on the plains could afford to bend to weather, if they hoped to accomplish anything.
At four a.m., Goodnight strapped on his pistol, put his rifle back in its saddle scabbard, and went to the lots to catch his horse.
It was sleeting again. Dawn was nearly three hours away, but he was restless. He had decided to go, and was soon saddled and ready.
There was a light on in the bunkhouse kitchen.
Muley, for all his flaws, at least wasn't lazy. He was in the kitchen, arms white with flour, making biscuits for the cowboys, all of whom were still asleep except his yawning foreman, Willie Bascom, who was sitting up in his bunk trying to pull on his stiff boots.
"Breakfast ain't ready, I just got up," Muley said, the minute Goodnight stepped in the door.
"Fry some bacon. I have to leave, and I hate to travel on an empty stomach," Goodnight said. "I hope that won't interrupt your schedule too much." "I usually fry the bacon last, but I guess you're the boss," Muley said.
"I was the last time I wrote you a paycheck," Goodnight said.
Goodnight poured his own coffee, since Muley hadn't offered to. The bacon was soon crackling and spitting grease. Willie Bascom came over and accepted a cup of coffee. He had his boots on, but did not look happy to be up.
"I didn't think we was branding till tomorrow," he said. "I guess I lost shut of a day." "No, you're branding tomorrow," Goodnight said.
"I hate to desert, but it's just the branding. You can handle it yourself." "Don't see why not," Willie Bascom said.
"What's taking you off in a sleet storm?" Muley asked. Another habit he shared with many ranch cooks was inquisitiveness. It was not so much that he didn't mind his own business; he just didn't recognize that there was any business that wasn't his.
"I'm going on a wolf hunt," Goodnight said. He finished his bacon and his coffee.
Cowboys were just beginning to crawl out of their bunks.
"These biscuits will be ready in another few minutes," Muley said. "You might as well wait and eat a few--you can't see to shoot a wolf when it's this dark, anyway." "No, I'll have to do without the biscuits," Goodnight said. Despite the weather, he was impatient to leave. He had saddled his best horse, a big roan named Lacey. The horse's coat steamed as the snow melted on it.
"He had his pistol on," Muley remarked, once Goodnight left. "That's the last time I'll offer him biscuits, if he's always going to be in such a hurry." "It's been five years since I've seen him wear his pistol," Willie Bascom said.
By the time the cowboys finished their breakfast, Goodnight was many miles to the south. The sleet had gotten heavier, but he didn't notice.
He had too much on his mind.
By the time Maria reached Ojinaga, her feet were badly cut from the icy, stony ground. Since leaving the railroad, Maria had walked without shoes. The train took the seven women east; the conductor was reluctant, but not so reluctant that he would leave seven women to die in the cold.
By then, Maria's shoes were gone. The wet snow and icy weather cracked them. She cut up the bag she had carried the jerky in and wrapped her feet in the sacking, but the sacking was thin and wore out within a few miles.
From then on, Maria was barefoot. She went slowly, avoiding cactus, trying not to cut herself on rocks or ice. Her food gave out when she was three days from the river. Since leaving the railroad, she had not seen a single human being.
The conductor had offered to take her to Fort Worth. What did one more woman matter? He told her she was a fool, to try to walk to Mexico in such weather. Mox Mox had taken two children from a ranch near Comstock. He could be anywhere. Any day, he might appear with his men and catch her. Speculation was that he had already burned the children, a boy of nine and a girl of six. If he caught Maria, she could expect a hard death.
The conductor grew irritated with the woman when he saw that she wasn't going to take his advice.
Maria merely looked at him, without expression, when he offered to take her on the train. He didn't like sullen women. Who was she, that she could turn down free passage to Fort Worth?
"My children don't live in Fort Worth--I would just have to come back," Maria said. She wanted to be polite. After all, the man had accepted the seven women.
"You've got no shoes," the conductor pointed out. Despite rough travel, the Mexican woman was good-looking. Once she was on the warm train and had some food in her, she might become friendlier. Perhaps she could be persuaded to show her gratitude for what he was doing for her friends.
"You've got no shoes," the conductor said, again. He felt like dragging her onto the train.
It would be a kindness, in the end. It might save her life.
"No, but I have feet," Maria said. She saw how he was looking at her--men were always men.
She had intended to ask for a little food, but when she saw the conductor's look, she turned and walked away from the train. Men were always men--she would have to find food elsewhere.
But she found no food. Only the sight of the mountains gave her the strength to keep walking.
Her children were west of the mountains. Crossing the Maravilla Canyon was very hard, though. She had to crawl up the far side.
The day before Maria got home, she saw three cowboys in the distance. She hid in the sagebrush until they were out of sight. They belonged to the big ranch. Perhaps they would remember her; if so, it might be hard. She was too tired and too weak to be worried with cowboys. If they were too hard on her, she might forget her children and die. She still wanted to take her children to the doctors, so that Rafael's mind and Teresa's eyes might be fixed.
It seemed a big thing to hope for, though. She was tired and hungry, alone, and with no money.
Even if she got home, she would have no money.
But it was only her hope for her children, however farfetched that hope might seem, that kept her will strong and gave her strength to keep putting her torn, swollen feet on the hard ground.
Rafael and Teresa had no one but her to think ahead for them, to consider how their lives might be if she could take them to the great doctors who knew how to cure eyes and fix minds.
Finally, Maria saw the curve of the river.
She crossed well below Presidio. She did not want the hard sheriff to find her, just as she was almost home.
Teresa heard her mother's footsteps and went running to her, though the chickens squawked loudly at such an interruption. Rafael stumbled after his sister, carrying a young goat he had taken as a pet.
While Maria was still holding her children in the road, Billy came out and told her that Captain Call had destroyed the hard sheriff, beating him with a rifle.
"That's right," Billy Williams said.
"Joe Doniphan's done for. He's had to quit. You can walk right through the middle of Presidio and not a soul will bother you." "Did you see Call?" Maria asked.
"I reckon I did," Billy said.
"Call and a Yankee and a deputy from Laredo came riding up the Concho and stopped right at this house." Maria saw that her children were healthy. Teresa's hair had not been brushed well, and Rafael's shirt was not as clean as she would make it when she washed his clothes. But they were healthy. Billy had done a good job. Maria smiled at him, to show that she was not without gratitude. Since leaving the railroad, she had been thinking bad thoughts about men. She had left her children with this man, and he had cared for them well, although she had never been with him in the bed. Whatever his disappointments, he had been decent, and he had cared for her children. It was a thing she would not forget. She meant to try and help Billy a little, once she was rested. He was an old man, he drank too much, he didn't keep himself clean, and he was not very well.
Now, though, she felt frightened for Joey.
Captain Call had found her village, and even her house.
"Did Famous Shoes bring him here?" she asked. The old tracker was not to be trusted. He liked money too much.
"Nope, never got this far," Billy said.
"Famous Shoes and another deputy were in Joe Doniphan's jail when Call showed up. Joe wouldn't let 'em out. He pulled a gun on Call, and that's when Call started whipping him with the rifle barrel." "Did you tell Call anything about Joey?" Maria asked, suspiciously. When it came to Joey, she trusted no one.
"No, why would I?" Billy asked. "Do you take me for a lawman?" "I'm sorry," Maria said. "Let's go in the house. I need to heat some water, and I need to eat." Billy and Teresa made her soup.
She took a little, but she felt feverish and did not take much. The next day, Billy killed a baby goat--not Rafael's pet--and fed her some of the tender meat. Maria's fever got worse, though. For more than a week, she tossed with it, too weak to get out of her bed. Billy and Teresa cared for her, giving her a little soup, and bathing her face with cool rags.
Maria's mind flew around, while the fever burned or chilled her. She saw Joey hanging from the rock where Benito had died. In a dream, Benito came to her as a baby and tried to suck her breast. She dreamed about Captain Call beating the hard sheriff with a rifle--only the hard sheriff changed into Joey. It was Joey who the Captain beat.
When the fever broke and Maria could look clearly at the world again, Billy Williams was asleep on the dirt floor by her bed. He had a bottle of whiskey beside him, but had drunk only a little. The bottle had fallen over, and whiskey was seeping out. Billy slept with his mouth open. To Maria, he seemed older than he had seemed when she took the fever. He looked gray, as if he had no blood.
It was a chilly morning. When Maria got up, she covered Billy Williams with the serape she had been using for herself.
"Mother, a man came and looked at me," Teresa said. She was glad that her mother was out of bed.
"What kind of man?" Maria asked.
"A gringo--he is the one who is hunting Joey," Teresa said. "I could feel him looking at me." Again, Maria felt frightened. Call had destroyed the hard sheriff. He was hunting her son. What business did he have, coming to her house and looking at her daughter?
"Go in the house, if he comes back," Maria said. "Don't let him look at you. He is a bad man. He wants to kill Joey. Don't ever let him look at you." "He said I was pretty," Teresa said.
"He didn't do anything bad." "He was right--you are pretty," Maria said.
She hugged her daughter. They sat in a chair by the table. Rafael came in with his pet goat and sang the goat a little song. Maria held her daughter in her arms for a long time.
Someday, Teresa would be a woman, but Maria didn't want that time to be soon. She held her daughter tightly. Rafael sat down by Maria's chair, holding his goat in his lap.
Maria stroked his hair. Then she held Teresa tightly. Teresa liked it, when her mother held her close, in her warm arms.
Maria wished that this could be their life forever, just herself and her children sitting in her warm kitchen together.
If such a time could be the whole of life, then life could be happiness. If Teresa could remain a child in her arms, then Teresa would never know the deep sorrows of womanhood, sorrows as deep as the cold water in the village well. She sniffed her daughter's neck. Teresa still smelled like a child. She did not smell like a woman, yet. Rafael had stopped changing.
Unless she could find a doctor to fix his mind, Rafael would always be a boy. He would not know many of the sorrows of men.
But Teresa was growing; only her eyes were arrested. Teresa had heard Captain Call's compliment, and remembered it. She would not always fit in Maria's arms, and she would not always smell like a little girl. Maria meant to hold her as long as she could. Joey might be evil; he might be lost. Rafael might always be young in his mind. But Teresa was whole; she lacked only sight.
Someday, she would escape from her mother's arms and walk out in her beauty into the world of sorrows.
Maria didn't want it to be soon.
Call had a sense that someone was behind him, but if so, it was someone smart. After two days, the sense was so strong that Call doubled back twice. If it was the Garza boy, Call might surprise him. Even if he didn't surprise him, he could probably strike his track and determine whether the boy was alone.
In the course of four days' travel, he doubled back three more times, but he didn't surprise Joey Garza, and he struck no track.
Yet, the sense that someone was behind him wouldn't leave him. It became a conviction, though none of his maneuvers produced the slightest evidence of a pursuer. Anyone following him would have had to be on horseback, and horses left tracks. But there were no tracks. If it was the Garza boy, then he was a formidable plainsman.
In the cold night, Call rode a circle, hoping to glimpse a campfire, but there was no campfire, either.
It was vexing, because it made him distrust his own instincts. Maybe he had slipped a notch, as a tracker; or maybe he had just begun to imagine things. Never before had he followed his instincts and come up totally empty.
All he could do was travel cautiously. At night, he made no fires; he slept little, and kept his horse saddled and the bridle reins in his hand when he lay down. During the day, he kept as much space around him as possible. He tried to stay a mile or more from any cover that might shelter a killer with a fine rifle and a telescope sight. He whirled his horse often, hoping to catch a flash of reflection on a spur or a bridle bit, but he saw no reflections.
He was alone; yet, he knew he wasn't.
Then it occurred to him that perhaps the boy wasn't on horseback. Perhaps he was a runner, like Famous Shoes, or some of the celebrated Apaches. If so, he was bold indeed. Few men of experience would voluntarily put themselves afoot in such country, in the wintertime. Few would be able to do without fire to rest by, in the freezing night.
Call's own hands ached terribly, in the mornings. Three days passed without his even unsaddling his horse. He was afraid he might not be able to pull the saddle straps tight again, with his sore hands. When the horse grazed, he walked with him. One night, he napped on his feet, leaning against the horse for warmth. He took the trigger guards off both rifles; his knuckles were too swollen to fit through them.
On the fifth day, he crossed the trail of Mox Mox and his men. They were traveling toward Fort Stockton. The trail was fresh--the gang had just passed. In fact, to the northwest, Call did see a flash, as the sun struck some piece of equipment.
Call checked the loads in both rifles and took his extra Colt out of the saddlebags. It was midafternoon. He turned northwest, on the easily followed track of the killers. He put his horse into a lop
e, debating with himself about the timing of his ambush.
He could try to overtake them that day; his mount was fresh enough. If he could kill Mox Mox and the Cherokee, the others might run. But he needed good light to shoot by, and he also needed to be close. He was not shooting a German rifle with a telescope sight. He was confident of his marksmanship, but only if the range and the light were favorable. If he attacked at night, as Gus had once attacked Blue Duck's camp, it would all be guesswork, and anyhow, he had never been as reckless on the attack as Gus McCrae.
Within an hour, it became apparent that catching up with the gang would be no trouble. They were idling along. Call soon had to drop back and veer west of them to lessen the danger of being observed.
He decided then to try to close the gap and hit them as they made camp. They didn't know he was following them, and might not immediately set a guard.
The outlaws were even lazier than Call judged them to be, at first. It was only a little past midafternoon when they made camp. Call walked his horse for the last three miles, as he approached. He was one against eight, and he wanted to be as meticulous as possible in what he had to do.
He could not expect to thunder in and kill eight men, or even cripple them sufficiently to remove them as a threat. Above all, he had to try to kill the fighter, Jimmy Cumsa, first.
As Call cautiously moved, foot by foot, to within two hundred yards of the camp, he heard a child scream. It was a rude surprise--Mox Mox must have taken a child from some farm or ranch, in his marauding. The outlaws had not even made a campfire yet; surely they couldn't be burning the child.
But the child continued to scream, as Call crept closer. The child's screams rang in Call's ears, echoing other screams, heard years before.
On one of his first forays against hostile Indians, when he was a young Ranger, the troop had surprised a little cluster of Comanche, on the Washita. They recovered two young white captives, both girls. Just before the Rangers raced down on the camp, one of the little girls screamed. An old Comanche woman was beating her with a stick. Call shot the old woman, the only female he ever killed in his years of battle. The little girls had lost their minds, from the cold and the beatings. The one the old woman was beating recovered and married; the other one was never right.
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