by Gwen Bristow
She felt hot with anger. They were not going to eat Sunny! She fired at another wormy black figure. She heard a yelp. Maybe she had hit him, maybe it was a yelp from another shot. A mule gave a howl and rolled over. She saw the arrow sticking out of his side. She loaded her gun again.
She remembered her instructions. Keep low. Don’t show anything over the wall but your eyes. Don’t give them any more of a target than you absolutely have to. As she peered over the saddle-wall she heard a dreadful animal-howl of pain very close to her, and in the dawning light she saw Sunny drop and roll over. There was an arrow in Sunny’s flanks. Garnet heard herself cry out. It was not a loud cry; probably nobody else heard it in the general noise. But she had heard it, because she had given it. It was a cry of wild rage. They had put an arrow into Sunny, into her brave strong little Sunny, and she was going to kill them for it. She was going to kill them all. There was a wormy figure that looked very close. He had a bow in his hand. Lying belly down, he was fitting an arrow into the bow. Garnet took aim. She felt quite cold and careful. She fired. He dropped his bow and flung up his arms with a yell, and then he collapsed and rolled over, and lay very quiet.
Beside her she heard Oliver’s voice say, “Good work! I knew you could!” He fired again.
Garnet stared at the motionless figure. It was not more than twenty feet away. She knelt by the saddle-wall, only her eyes and forehead above it, but she could see clearly. Around her the shots were peppering the air, and the arrows were singing. Her gun slipped out of her hand. Her mouth fell open. She said, though her words did not make any sound,
“I’ve killed a man.”
There was a strange dampness on her forehead. The sweat was rolling down her sides, and it felt cold. Her hands felt cold too. Her lips were dry. They made words, without any voice.
“This is what it’s like. They’ve all done it. I had to do it. I’ve killed a man.”
The stern strong voice inside her head exclaimed impatiently, “He’d have killed you, wouldn’t he? Don’t be such a delicate little blossom!”
She picked up the gun and loaded it again. She tried to take aim. But her hands were not steady. She raised herself, trying to brace her body against the saddles. Just then she heard a singing, very close, and she felt a stroke of pain that was like a fire and a blow at once. She tumbled down backwards, just as she remembered that she had been told never, never to raise herself above the saddle-wall where she could be seen.
But she had done it. She had done a stupid, foolish, greenhorn’s trick. She hated herself as she lay back, too dizzy to get up, and felt the pain like a fire in her left side.
Her legs were doubled up under her, her head touched the ground. She turned her head, and tried to see what had happened. The daylight was full now and she could see. The upper part of her left sleeve had been cut open as though with a knife, and in her arm, just below the shoulder, was a big red gash. Blood was spurting out of the gash like a fountain. She could see the blood seeping into the blanket she had slept on last night. Beside her, on the blanket, was an arrow with a stone head. The head was stained red with her blood.
She raised herself a little, and the pain shot through her arm like a blade as she tried to straighten out her legs. She looked around for Oliver. But Oliver was not there. Fright gave her a rush of strength. She sat up, and over the saddle-wall she saw now that the Diggers were running, and the white men were giving chase. Just after she had killed the Digger, while she was half paralyzed with horror at what she had done, Oliver had leaped up and gone to drive out the enemy. He did not know she had been hurt.
She felt dizzy and terribly weak, and before she knew it she was flat on her back again, trying to breathe while she bit her lips against the hot pain that was coming in bigger and bigger gusts with the beating of her heart. The blood was spouting out of her wound. It was bright red, and it felt warm as it ran down her chilly skin.
Garnet put her uninjured right hand to her forehead, and said aloud, “I’ve got to do something about this.”
But as she said it, and realized that she had only the scantiest notion of what to do, she saw somebody creeping toward her among the lines of saddle-walls. Garnet started with fright. Then she saw that the person approaching her was not a Digger thief, but a woman. She was one of the half-breed prostitutes who had followed the train from Santa Fe. The girl was drawing herself forward on her elbows, expertly avoiding any move that would lift a part of her body above the breastworks.
She reached Garnet, and sat by her crosslegged. She did not say a word. As matter-of-factly as though this were part of the usual day’s routine, she took up the hem of Garnet’s skirt, held the edge between her teeth while she tore off a strip of cloth, and picked up Garnet’s arm.
Garnet winced at the movement. The girl did not notice her. She took a competent look at the wound, and tied the strip of cloth tightly above it. The bleeding stopped.
Garnet said, “Why, thank you,” and then remembering that the girl did not understand English, she said, “Gracias, señorita.”
The girl paid no attention. Dropping to her elbows again, she calmly pushed herself over the robes that had formed the bed. Garnet watched her wriggling down between the saddle-walls, looking for somebody else who might need help.
TWENTY-ONE
OLIVER SAID, “YOU TELL her, Texas. I haven’t got the nerve.”
He walked away and began helping his men round up the mules that had broken their picket-thongs during the daybreak attack. Garnet lay on a blanket he had spread for her in the shade of a big rock. Oliver had taken off the half-breed girl’s tourniquet, and had washed the wound, telling her that Texas would give her a bandage later. Texas was the one who always attended to wounds.
Garnet wondered what he wanted Texas to tell her. She raised herself on her good elbow. Her left arm was throbbing, but she tried not to mind it. The camp looked like a field of battle. The Diggers were gone, but there were some of them who would never go anywhere again; their corpses lay here and there on the grass, crumpled black things that she hated to look at. She had read in sentimental books about dead people who looked peacefully asleep, but now that she had seen dead bodies she knew that they did not look asleep at all. They just looked dead. There was no other word for it.
Some of the Diggers had only been wounded, and had lain howling themselves to death. When the white men came back from the chase they had mercifully put bullets into their heads. Sunny was dead too. Oliver had shot her himself. She lay over there, dear little Sunny, with several mules they had had to kill. Garnet had heard Mr. Penrose remark that when the white people had gone, the Diggers would come back to the Archillette. They would not bother with the human corpses, but they would gather up the animals’ bodies and eat them. When she heard him say that, she could not feel sorry any more that she had killed a Digger. She wished she could kill them all before they could eat Sunny.
Penrose had not been hurt, and he had said Florinda was all right too. But several of the men had been wounded. They lay on blankets, waiting for Texas to help them. One Mexican boy had been killed. Later on they would give him burial. They would scatter stones on his grave and try to make it look as if there was no grave there, for if the Diggers noticed a place where the ground had been disturbed they would dig it up, thinking maybe somebody had buried a favorite horse to keep it from being added to their dinner.
But before they buried the boy they had to round up the mules. About a hundred mules had managed to break their thongs, and of these several had run away beyond catching. But it was vital to save as many as possible, for without mules to carry their supplies they would starve a long way this side of California.
There was a lot of shouting and rushing about, but there was very little confusion. Though she still felt sick and dizzy, Garnet could not help admiring the skill of these men. With wild yells of profanity, they captured the mules, untangled the thongs, and got the camp in order again. In a dry place away from the creek severa
l boys were already building a fire.
Garnet glanced up at Texas, who had come to sit on the ground by her blanket. With such examples of courage around her, she reminded herself that she must not wince at whatever it was that he had to say. Under the dust and sweat, Texas’ face was grave. She asked,
“Is it going to hurt when you bind up my arm, Texas? That’s all right. I’ll try not to make any fuss.”
Texas shifted his position uneasily. He sat crosslegged, his big knotty hands between his knees. He looked at his hands as he answered,
“Well ma’am, not exactly that. It’s going to hurt, of course, but I’ve got to tell you about it. You see, these wounds made by Digger arrows, we have to give them a little treatment before we tie them up.” He pulled his big leather gloves out of his pocket and began to stretch their fingers.
“Why Texas, you don’t have to apologize. It’s my own fault that I got hurt. I raised up too far over the barricade.”
“Now, now, Miss Garnet, you mustn’t say that. You mustn’t even think it. No ma’am, you’re a soldier that got wounded in battle, and that’s an honorable wound in anybody’s country. There’s not a man in this outfit that don’t respect you for it, and if there was one of ’em that wouldn’t help you all he could, he’d be a son of a bitch and we’d—excuse me, Miss Garnet. Now here’s a drink of water. Drink a lot. You’ve lost blood and when you’ve lost blood you need water. Now lie down again flat. That’s right. I’ll tell you what the treatment is.”
Texas put his hand under her head and settled her as comfortably as he could. Garnet passed her tongue over her lips. Though he had just given her a drink, her mouth still felt dry.
“Why yes, Texas,” she said, “tell me. What do you want to do?”
She heard Texas draw a deep hard breath. He put his rough hand over hers. “I want to burn your arm with a red-hot iron, Miss Garnet.”
“No!” She jerked up, and at the movement her arm gave her a thrust of pain. She grabbed her elbow just below the wound. “Texas! It’s raw! The flesh is gaping open—you can’t!”
“I guess. I’ve got to, Miss Garnet,” he said.
Garnet stared up at him. Every nerve in her body was rolling up into a knot of horror. She felt her mouth opening like a square, the lips drawn back from her teeth. Her skin felt wet and crawly under her clothes. Texas made a pointing gesture. Her eyes followed his hand, to where the boys had made the fire. She thought they had made it for cooking, but now she saw that they had taken three of the iron rods from which they usually hung the pots, and had thrust the rods deep into the pile of wood under the flame. The six men who had been wounded lay on blankets together. One of them was groaning audibly. Garnet gasped,
“Are you going to burn them too?”
“Yes ma’am. They know I’ve got to. They’ve been here before.”
“Ah!” Garnet heard herself make a deep shuddering noise. Texas put his arm around her and gave her another drink.
“Now, now, Miss Garnet. You’ve been mighty brave. Try to be brave just a few minutes longer.”
Garnet tried to be brave. “But why do you have to do it, Texas?”
“You lie down, ma’am. I’ll explain everything.”
Garnet lay down. Every muscle she had was stiff with fear. She heard the mules braying angrily, and the men swearing at the Diggers who had caused all this trouble. One of the boys, who was a good friend of the boy who had been killed, was crying as he worked.
“It’s like this, ma’am,” Texas was saying. “Those Digger arrows are dangerous. Some folks say they’re poisoned. Other folks say it’s just that the Diggers are so damn filthy that everything they handle is poisoned. But anyway, if a Digger arrow cuts your skin, even a little scratch, it’s liable to make trouble. And I mean trouble, Miss Garnet. I’ve seen men who were scared of the burning, men who had just a little cut that they thought would heal up without it, and I’ve seen those little cuts swell and turn purple and send out shoots of poison till the men died howling, begging us to shoot them. Sometimes we do have to shoot them, because they’re so wild with the fever they might kill us if we didn’t. I’m sorry, Miss Garnet, but I had to say it.”
Garnet’s tongue felt too big to be kept inside her mouth. “Does that—always happen?” she asked thickly.
“No ma’am, not always. Sometimes the wound heals up fine. But you never can tell at the start. And by the time you can tell, it’s too late. You’d better let me burn that cut, Miss Garnet.”
Garnet swallowed, but there was nothing to swallow. Her mouth was dry again. “All right, Texas,” she said. “You can burn it.”
“There now, that’s fine,” Texas said heartily.
Garnet shut her eyes and put her good arm over them. She wondered if she could keep her teeth clenched and not scream when he did it. In front of all these people she must not scream. She must not let them think she was a delicate lady who couldn’t stand the trail. She must not let Oliver be sorry he had brought her along. “I chose this myself,” she said fiercely in her mind. “I wanted to come to California. Maybe if I have something to bite on I won’t scream. I’ll bite on something, very hard.”
Through the turmoil of the camp she heard footsteps on the ground close by her. John’s voice asked, “How is she, Texas?” and Oliver asked, “Did you tell her?”
Texas answered them. “Sure, I told her. She’s fine. Taking it like a veteran.”
Garnet opened her eyes. Oliver was kneeling by her. His hair and beard were so shaggy that she could not see much but his eyes, but he was looking at her tenderly.
“I’ll give you a big drink of whiskey first if you want it,” he said to her.
She shook her head. “I’d rather not. It would go right to my head. I might scream or something.”
John bent and took a look at her wound. “It’s an ugly gash, but not too deep,” he said. He gave Garnet his brief grim smile. “Scream all you feel like, Mrs. Hale. Nobody will mind.” He picked up the water-bottle. “Nearly empty.”
“I’ll fill it,” said Oliver. As he went down toward the creek, Florinda came and knelt by John. She had not heard what Texas said, and she was smiling at Garnet cheerfully.
“I’ve been wanting to see you. But I had to get my clothes on first. You did get a bad cut, didn’t you?”
“You’re all right?” Garnet asked.
“Yes, by the merest luck. I was never so scared in my life. I was sound asleep when it started. Gee, I must have looked funny, kneeling there in my little white unspeakable shooting over a pile of saddles.”
“I hear from Penrose that you got two of them,” said John.
“He’s flattering me. I don’t think I got but one. But I’m all right. Garnet’s the wounded soldier. Can’t we do something to help her?” Florinda bent and looked at the wound with concern. “Say, John, shouldn’t we tie that up? Won’t it get full of dust?”
“Texas will wrap it later,” said John. One of his muleteers called him, and he stood up. “You stay with her, Florinda,” he said as he turned to answer the muleteer.
Florinda tore a piece from the end of her petticoat, and dampening it with water from her bottle she began to bathe Garnet’s hot forehead. “Does it hurt very much, darling?”
“Not too much. But—” Garnet shivered, and the fear she had been ashamed to show the others burst out of her. “But Florinda, do you know what they’re going to do to me? Texas is going to burn this gash with a red-hot iron.”
“Oh, Garnet!” Florinda cried. She dropped the bottle, and the water ran out on the earth. “Not that raw wound!”
“Yes. And I’m scared. I don’t want them to know how scared I am. Florinda, when he comes over here with that iron—I don’t know how long it’ll be, it’s got to get red-hot first—when he comes over here, hold my hand tight and don’t let me start yelling like a baby.”
Florinda made an inarticulate noise of dread. She squeezed the wet cloth. The water ran down the fingers of her leather glove an
d dripped on the ground. Oliver came back with the bottle he had gone to fill. He sat by Garnet, telling her to lie still and try to relax. She was very thirsty, and though she lay in the shade of the rock she was very hot. Her arm was throbbing. Oliver held the bottle to her lips and told her to drink all she could. Florinda got up and walked away.
John gave directions to his muleteer. He glanced at Garnet, where she lay on the blanket with Oliver sitting by her. Turning on his heel, he walked rapidly over to the stream and made his way along to a pile of rocks overgrown with bushes. At the edge of the stream, where the rocks shielded her from sight of the camp, he saw Florinda. She was sitting in a huddle on the grass. As she heard him approach she turned her head.
John stopped. He looked her up and down.
“Go on back,” he said.
“Go on back yourself,” she returned shortly.
“What made you run away?” John asked.
“None of your damn business.”
“Stop acting like a rabbit,” said John. “Go back and hold that kid’s hand.”
She said nothing.
“For God’s sake, Florinda,” he demanded, “what’s the matter with you?”
“I’m not going to sit there,” she said through her teeth, “and watch them brand her like a cow. And you can’t make me. I won’t do her any good by being there.”
“Yes you will. She asked you to stay. I heard her.”
“She doesn’t need me.”
“I think she does. You’re her friend, and you’re somebody of her own sex, and she wants you. It’s not a pleasant operation, you know. I had it done once; I’ve still got the mark on my leg. It’s no fun to feel that iron going into your flesh. You hear it sizzle, and you smell yourself cooking, and besides, it hurts.”