Relaxed against bedroll and saddle, she felt too sleepy to get up and go properly to bed, was trying to nerve herself to the effort when a frightful braying scream pierced the air.
She sprang up to follow the men, in the dim moonlight seeing that Santiago had grasped his saberlike knife. The riding horses were hobbled but other animals were loose. The burros set up an incredible racket, horses neighed in fright, and the cattle began to stir restively.
A shadowy figure heaved up from the ground, sprang into the air and came down viciously on a spitting, snarling shape twisting on the earth from which the burro had risen. Again and again the infuriated burro lashed his hooves into his enemy with all his force and weight. He stopped only long after there was no movement from the mass on which he vented his rage and fear.
“A lion!” Santiago spoke to the trembling burro, went over him cautiously. “He got his death, not his dinner, old one! But you’ll carry no pack for some days.”
“Is he hurt?” asked Socorro, shuddering as she passed the huddled silence and scratched the burro between his ears.
“The lion jumped on his back but failed to instantly break Viejo’s neck. Too bad for Señor León! A mule may seem a meek beast, but when something or someone he doesn’t want there gets on his back, he hurls himself down and rolls.” Santiago shook his head regretfully. “Viejo has some deep wounds on his shoulders and flanks. He may die, for all his courage.”
“Can’t we do something?”
“Some split pads of prickly pear will help staunch bleeding. Apart from that all we can do is share his load among the other mules.”
While Shea dragged away the mountain lion, Socorro helped Santiago skin several cactus pads, pound them to astringent pulp, and apply them to where the vicious claws had raked.
“Poor little brave one,” she murmured, rubbing the white muzzle. To Santiago she said, “He should have water to make new blood for what he’s lost.”
Santiago hesitated, then shrugged. “Bueno. There’s plenty of water at Sonoyta and we’ll refill our containers there. But after that, he’ll have to manage like the other animals.”
He poured water into one of the big leather boletas or buckets and held it for Viejo to drink. “Won’t the blood draw another cat?” Socorro worried. “Please, let’s have him hobbled close to us.”
“So some lion can have us for dessert?” teased Shea.
“Lions avoid people, though if one were hungry enough I suppose he’d take a bite if he could.” Santiago urged the burro forward. “It can’t hurt to keep Viejo near us and if it makes you happier, lady, we shall do it!”
So Viejo was hobbled where he could graze close to the bedrolls. Socorro slept in the middle with Santiago a few yards away on her right and Shea a similar distance to the left. It seemed a long time now since he’d lain close to her. She realized, with a certain desolation, that now they were no longer alone, they’d never sleep that close together again—unless they married.
She wanted the closeness but not what it would bring.
VII
Viejo survived the night. Socorro brought him water, put fresh cactus on his wounds, fed him some peeled pads and even a handful of corn. As they traveled that day the little beast fell behind, though he tried valiantly to keep up, and Socorro stayed back far enough to keep him in sight. He’d be easy prey now for coyotes.
During the long noon stop she watered him again, fetched him clumps of grama grass and more prickly pear pads. “You killed the lion,” she told him, caressing his neck. “If you’re that strong, you can get well if you try!”
He lagged badly that afternoon, and several times he simply collapsed. On the last fall, he didn’t get up. Socorro reined back, held Castaña’s reins and tried to coax Viejo to his feet. He struggled and gave a lugubrious bray, but his legs refused to obey him.
“Maybe I should cut his throat and end his troubles,” Shea said, riding alongside.
“No!”
“But, chiquita, if he can’t keep up—”
“He’ll be stronger tomorrow! I know he will. If he can just last today!” Tears stung her eyes as she looked at the little animal who’d kept going so long in spite of its mangled shoulders and flanks. “Please, Shea, can’t you help him up?”
He started to argue, saw her face, and threw up his hands. “I can get him up, doubtless. But his staying that way …” Swinging from the saddle, he gave her Azul’s reins, put his arms beneath the burro’s middle and lifted.
“Come on, warrior!” he encouraged, panting. “Come on, lad!”
The small creature tried desperately but could not raise himself. Santiago had dropped back. He tied Noche’s reins to a paloverde, limped over to join his efforts and exhortations to Shea’s.
“Please!” Socorro whispered. “Please, Viejo! If you can’t get up, they must kill you!”
The burro seemed to gain resolution and new strength from the men’s will to help him. At their next concerted lifting, he scrambled his legs beneath him and slowly, shakily gained his feet.
“Muy valiente!” Santiago applauded.
But the burro didn’t move forward, only stood swaying. “Maybe we could rig a kind of sling beneath him,” Shea suggested. “Fasten our ropes from one saddle horn to the other, passing under his belly.”
Santiago squinted at the westering sun. “We can try it for the rest of the day but if he’s not sufficiently restored by tomorrow, we’ll leave him at Sonoyta. Some Papago family will be glad to have him.”
“Well, let’s at least get him there!” Socorro entreated.
The men each fastened a braided rawhide reata to a saddle horn, crossed them beneath the burro and secured the end to the long rawhide tie strings behind the cantle. Santiago pointed out that he’d better stay loose in order to herd the cattle, so Castaña was opposite Azul with the burro borne up between them. Not much of his weight was on the sling. The idea was to support him if he started to go down.
Socorro lost track of the times they had to pause till the little animal collected himself and strove onward. The herd was out of sight except for dust. But Viejo was moving.
Just before sundown, Shea pointed. Socorro, whose attention had been anxiously fixed on Viejo, glanced eastward to a broad long valley.
Fields, ramadas, small huts! They seemed a veritable city.
“We’re there!” Socorro called to the flagging burro.
The cattle were still drinking when Shea and Socorro rode up to the river. “That’s a river?” Shea demanded. “Faith, it can’t be more than a foot deep and twelve wide!”
“Enjoy it!” Santiago advised, laughing, as he unloaded a burro. “It’s the most water you’ll see till the Santa Cruz!”
Socorro helped undo the ropes. Viejo sank to the ground, so after she’d unsaddled Castaña, she brought him water. He was meditatively wisping up clumps of long coarse grass. She felt much relieved about him. Since he hadn’t died, he must be getting better and he could be left at this settlement if he weren’t fit to travel next day.
Leaving him to enjoy his grass, she unpacked a kettle and was putting jerky and corn in it to cook over the fire Santiago had kindled, when a half-dozen Papagos approached.
Fear chilled her. Though these men wore loose white trousers and shirts instead of loincloths, for a moment their dark faces seemed to be those of the Areneños. She could feel those sinewy hands again, brutal thrusting pain, hear the laughter and bestial labored breathing. Then Santiago and Shea stepped forward. The Papago spoke in friendly Spanish and Socorro’s evil nightmare faded.
They had just finished their harvest and had plenty of beans, corn and melons. They asked if the travelers needed food. Here, as a gift, were melons, tortillas and a jug of honey.
Santiago thanked them with great courtesy, explaining that they didn’t need corn and beans but would be glad to trade for more honey.
He and Shea brought out some of the equipment and clothing salvaged from the Cantú ranch, and after some disc
ussion, the Papago selected several shirts, a pair of boots, and an old saddle. One man went back for the honey but the others lingered though they refused to join in the meal.
“We have already eaten,” one old man said. “You have far to go so we will not use your provisions. But to sit for a time at your fire …”
Invited, they did so, while Socorro offered tortillas to Shea and Santiago which were soon put to vigorous use in scooping up the thick stew.
“Have other strangers passed through?” Santiago asked. “Six white men, about three weeks ago?”
The old Papago’s eyes veiled. “These are friends to you?”
“No.” Santiago’s lean cheeks corded. “Men I must kill.”
“May Elder Brother aid you!” said the wrinkled ancient. “Our ranchería has too many men for their liking, but ten days ago a woman came to us who’d escaped slaughter at La Nariz by hiding in the fields. Except for her, the white men killed everyone in the settlement and took the scalps. Thirty-one of them.”
“And there was no pursuit?”
“By the time the woman came to us, they were far away,” excused a younger man. “Besides, they had good rifles. But we went to La Nariz and buried the dead.”
No use chiding Papagos for not behaving like Apaches. After all, if they were fierce and warlike, they’d have killed the travelers and kept their livestock instead of bringing them melons and honey.
Santiago stared somberly at the fire. “If this cursed leg of mine hadn’t held us back! Thirty-one more!”
“We’ll get them, lad,” growled Shea.
“It’s not your quarrel.”
“Hell it’s not! Can’t have two-legged wolves running around the country like that ripping people up!”
After a long hard look at the Irishman, Santiago nodded. “First we get our lady settled. Then …” His hands clenched.
The Papago who had gone for the honey returned with several earthenware jugs of it, sealed with melted beeswax, and a generous supply of the sweet stored in baskets lined with corn husks. What a wonderful difference that would make! Socorro didn’t know what she craved most, something sweet or something salty, but it was luxury to have either.
Santiago cut open the yellow-fleshed watermelons and their guests ate of these since there were plenty and melons were too heavy to carry on a journey.
Socorro thought nothing had ever tasted so delicious as the cool juicy crispness. Though at first she’d wished the Papagos would take themselves quickly back to their village, she was glad now that they’d stayed till she’d had time to watch them, see them as individuals.
As they talked, answering Shea’s questions, it turned out that the settlement hadn’t always been so peaceful. Once there had been a mission here, a church and convent, but during the Pima revolts of less than a hundred years ago, the Papagos had killed the priest, burned the mission, and taken over the livestock which had produced the animals grazing beyond the village.
Then it was their turn to ask questions of Shea. Did they believe there was a country such as he described, green with much water? They listened gravely. Probably what he told them of the war between the United States and Mexico seemed as removed and incredible as Ireland, but the tales would be something to repeat and marvel over.
It was late when they finally rose, wished the travelers a safe journey, and returned to their village. Socorro took Viejo part of a melon which he greedily devoured, making ecstatic sucking sounds as he tried not to lose a drop of the juice. He’d been up moving around a little, so she hoped he might be able to go with them tomorrow.
Weary as she was, Socorro went down to the river, took off her dusty clothes and bathed. The water was cold and she didn’t stay long, but she felt much refreshed as she slapped her body dry before resuming her dress.
Back by the dying fire, one of the men had spread her pallet. They were so good to her!
Stretching to ease her aching muscles, she was almost instantly asleep.
She woke next morning to see a shawl-wrapped figure sitting by the dead fire. Starting up, Socorro choked back a scream. This was no ghost, no La Llorona, but a slender young woman, almost a child, whose broad, handsome face had a small nose that somehow gave her the look of a cat. Her hair was blacker than her shawl and so were her eyes.
“Who are you?” Socorro demanded. “What do you want?”
“I Tjúni.” The girl’s voice was soft but there was a guttural sound to her Spanish, and she spoke it haltingly. “Your men seek scalp hunters. I go with them.”
Shea and Santiago were both sitting up now, staring at their uninvited guest. “You must be the one who escaped from La Nariz,” guessed Santiago.
A nod of the covered head.
“Do you know where the scalpers went?” asked Shea.
“No.”
“Then it’s best you stay here, child,” Shea said kindly. “Santiago and I will have all we can do to look after ourselves. But you can be sure we’ll catch up to those rascals. Your people will be avenged.”
“I come.”
“It’s daft,” Shea argued. “You could get yourself killed. Then what would be the good of getting away the first time?”
“To kill scalpers!” she said, rocking slightly. She did not cry but her eyes blazed. “To kill them!”
Santiago stirred. His feelings after the Cantú slaughter had been the same as this girl’s so he must sympathize. “Surely you desire to have the scalpers dead. You might slow us down, keep us from getting them.”
Fiercely, she shook her head. “I follow anywhere—lead! I one of Desert People! All family dead now. Parents, brothers, sisters, grandparents, cousins, man I would marry. Whites say they travelers. Ask for food. Get down from horses, pull rifles, shoot men.” Her face twisted. “I in field for melon. Hear shots. Hide behind fodder stacks.” She shuddered. “They not kill women at once.”
“Tjúni—” Socorro began.
“Some women snatch up knives, fight. These shot. Scalpers rich, for leave knives in hands. Find mother like that. Small sister, not yet in hoholikaki, house of seclusion. Now she never go for rites of becoming woman or have child.”
Santiago’s golden eyes burned into her dark ones. “You’ll come with us. But afterward …”
“You may stay with us,” offered Socorro. “But the ranch where we’re going was abandoned because of Apaches. It will not be safe.”
Tjúni laughed. “No place safe! My people not wolves, like Apache, but we fight! Not let them drive from country. Spaniards, Mexicans, they fell back. Never sent enough soldiers to check Apache.” She remembered to whom she was speaking, stopped and muttered, “Pardon, lady, but is true.”
Socorro, jarred at hearing her own complaint on the lips of a Papago, only said, “I wish you would call me by name. I am Socorro.”
Tjúni didn’t answer.
She’d brought another melon. They had this for breakfast along with jerky cooked in corn and a mouthful of honey apiece. Socorro saved some melon for Viejo who seized the rinds as well.
“Should we leave him?” she asked Shea, who turned from saddling one of the extra horses for Tjúni. “He seems better now but there’s so far to go!”
Shea studied the little beast, scratched him between the long ears. “Why don’t we let him decide? Leave him here by the river where there’s plenty to eat. If he follows, it’ll have to be because he feels like it!”
Pausing as he finished tying a pack, Santiago nodded. “We can trust Viejo’s judgment. Burros are sagacious.”
“Sagacious!” Shea echoed.
“Absolutely yes! I love horses, amigo; they can be loyal and brave. But the smartest horse is not so intelligent as the dumbest burro.”
Viejo twitched his ears and munched watermelon rind with a placidity that belied Santiago’s praise. When the herd moved off behind Cristiano, the burro watched as his heavily laden brethren followed, dropped his head and continued to feed.
He’s staying, Socorro thought in
relief tinged with regret. She had grown fond of the small creature but of course it was better that he stay here than die exhausted in an attempt to keep up.
The river soon failed and they followed its dry course as it wound southeastward. It was twenty-three miles to La Nariz, a two-day journey. They had a dry camp that night, but ate well because Santiago had brought down a javelina, or wild pig, with an arrow. Though the meat was rank, when rubbed with chilis and roasted it was a welcome change from jerky.
They put their fire out before twilight when it might betray their presence, and went to sleep early, fatigued by the unusual lateness of the night before.
Socorro, as usual, slept between the men but Tjúni, though invited to share that protected spot, took the serape they’d given her and slept some distance on the other side of Shea. Perhaps she selected his proximity because he was older and called her “child,” but Socorro wished the handsome girl had chosen Santiago’s side.
At nooning next day Socorro roused from a nap to hear a rending of grass close to her head. Opening her eyes slowly, she gazed at a white muzzle, gray-brown head and eyes outlined with white.
“Viejo!” she cried, sitting up. Getting to her knees, she hugged him. “You caught up with us! You must be strong again!”
“Stronger than if he’d come with us yesterday,” Santiago observed. “He had another day of water and good forage, probably started after us well before dawn this morning.” At Socorro’s look of silent entreaty, ha said, “Yes, I’ll give him water! We can fill up our containers at La Nariz.”
Late that afternoon they could see the long dark mountain which looked like the profile of a face with a snubbed nose from which it got its name. Tjúni said there were ancient fortifications along the side and designs on the rocks made by Those Who Came Before, a vanished people who had much skill in making pottery and tools.
No one was interested in viewing such antiquities, however, nor did they linger at the ranchería longer than was necessary to water the herd. The men of Sonoyta had, as Tjúni explained was Papago custom, buried the dead with their belongings, sitting up in holes dug in the ground, covered with mesquite or paloverde poles from their houses. These burial pits were heaped over with stones. Thus even the village was gone except for a few ramadas and heaps of mud-daubed ocotillo that had been the walls.
The Valiant Women Page 9