The Valiant Women

by Jeanne Williams

  “Gadsden’s work is being kept pretty secret, though,” Frost continued. “A lot of Mexicans aren’t happy with Santa Anna. If they knew he was bargaining more land away to the Americans, he’d have a revolution on his hands.”

  Shea gave his guest a measuring look. “If it’s such a secret, how do you know?”

  Taking no offense, Judah Frost smiled. “My dear sir, I’m an investor in Gadsden’s rail interests. I naturally hear a few things that aren’t general knowledge. Which is very useful, let me tell you, in putting capital to work.”

  Talitha had heard the grown-ups discussing what they should do with the money that was beginning to accumulate from cattle sales and their percentage of the mine. They had bought some sheep and goats from the Calabazas settlers and the conductas had brought up pigs and chickens as well as household needs. The pigs had survived fairly well, providing tasty chorizo or sausage as well as bacon and ham. But the chickens were all gone in a matter of days in spite of the ocotillo fence put around them. A coyote and skunk dug under it, hawks and eagles swooped down for a picnic, and that was farewell to Socorro’s longing for eggs.

  If the country ever grew safer, Shea wanted to travel east and buy some good beef stock, Durhams or Herefords to breed with the hardy native stock. Addition of the Texas Chinos had helped, but the meat of these tough little cattle was stringy and flavorless. Shea planned to bring back a fine stud, too, and some blooded mares, again to breed to the best of the present animals and improve the strain. But Texas was the closest place fine stock might possibly be bought, and it could be necessary to go a lot farther.

  So when Frost mentioned ways of using money, Talitha could feel Shea and Santiago’s immediate interest. Politely, with a shade of disbelief, Shea asked, “You wouldn’t be looking around here, would you, Mr. Frost, for a place to invest your capital?”

  “I’m always on the watch.” Frost’s laugh was disarming. “My mining partner, Marc Revier, a Freiburg-trained engineer, is down at Ures right now negotiating for some land near Tubac which he says has great mining potential. And it’s high time someone went into the freighting business.”

  “Freighting?” Santiago echoed. “Why, who would they freight to?”

  “Tubac and Tucson.”

  At the incredulous stares, Frost chuckled and went on persuasively, “Not great markets just now, I’ll grant! But when the United States acquires this region, as it will soon by war or purchase, a lot of those topographical engineers running surveys, a good many army officers, are going to start mining along the Santa Cruz. And of course the United States will have to establish posts. Bound to be one at Tucson and I expect at least one down in this area.”

  Shea nodded somewhat glumly. “I take your meaning. Where there are miners and soldiers, there’ll be merchants, and merchants need supplies.”

  “Exactly. Why, Louis Jaeger, who runs a ferry at Yuma Crossing where the U.S. has a fort, has gone into freighting and will make a fortune if another Yuma arrow doesn’t finish him off.” He told how the Yumas at that strategic crossing of the Gila River had long ago killed the Spanish soldiers and Franciscan priests who’d tried to settle among them, and now were sometimes friendly, sometimes hostile, to travelers coming from or going to California.

  “One of the funniest things I ever heard was how the governor of California sent an expedition to punish the Yumas for doing in Joe Glanton. The militia lost one little fight to the Yumas and then settled back to eat up their food. California’s still paying the bills.”

  “Who was Glanton?”

  Dark eyebrows rose toward Frost’s gleaming hair. “Never heard of him? He was the worst—or best, depending on your view—of the scalp hunters. When the Sonoran government began to suspect he was selling them more Mex scalps than Apache, he wound up at Fort Yuma in 1850 and helped run a ferry. Got into a fight with the Yumas who had another ferry a few miles away. Kicked the chief and took a club to him.”

  Shea shook his head. “Doesn’t sound very smart.”

  “It wasn’t. The Yumas killed eleven of the ferrymen, and the chief personally split Glanton’s head open with a hatchet.” Frost said quickly to Socorro whose face had gone pale, “I beg your pardon, ma’am.”

  Deftly changing the subject, he added that freighting supplies the one hundred eighty miles from San Diego to Fort Yuma had been so expensive that the fort had closed for a time. After an attack on Jaeger in 1851, the fort was reestablished and efforts to supply it by water proved successful last December when the Uncle Sam, a paddle-wheeled steamboat, navigated up the Colorado to the Yuma crossing.

  “But Uncle Sam ran aground and sank this spring,” said Frost. “So mules are bringing in supplies for the fort, and the freighter’s making a pretty penny, you can bet!” He shaped his graceful long fingers into a pyramid. “If the Mexican government would establish a port along the northwest coast of Sonora, goods bought in California could be freighted here much more cheaply than from the port of Guaymas, farther south.”

  Shea studied Frost with considerable respect and a touch of wariness. “You certainly seem to have investigated the possibilities, sir!”

  “Why, that’s the fun of it, looking for a chance, taking the gamble.” Frost shrugged disarmingly. “I’ve lost as much as I’ve won, I’d reckon, though I’ve never kept track.”

  For the most fleeting of seconds, his eyes rested upon Talitha. That burning shock went through her again and she got up quickly to discard the wormy bits of acorn, keeping her face averted till the flush left her cheeks. “When I see something I want,” Frost’s pleasant voice continued, “I go after it with all I’ve got. So far, I’ve always won though the victories may have cost a lot more than the prize was worth. To anyone but me.”

  Socorro said abruptly, her dark eyes searching his, “And did you keep your prizes, Señor Frost?”

  He gave her a look of admiring respect. “Usually not, ma’am. The fun was in the getting. But I’m older now, more discriminating. I think the prizes I desire are ones I’ll hold to.” He patted back a yawn. “A most enjoyable evening! But I’m sure I’ve kept you from your rest and I’ll admit I’m weary. If I could spread my bedroll in your kitchen …”

  Talitha winced at the thought of his sleeping in the next room, and was relieved when Shea said heartily, “There’s an extra bed in the vaqueros’ quarters since Chuey moved out. You’re welcome to it and our table, Mr. Frost, as long as you care to stay.”

  “You’re kind indeed.”

  The smooth hypocrite! Talitha longed to shout accusations at him but that could lead to disaster for these people she loved. She bent her face to Chusma as Frost thanked his hosts and said he would very much appreciate their hospitality for a few days.

  XX

  He left on the third morning after his arrival, riding west along the creek on the big gray horse, turning once to flourish his silver-flashing hat in farewell. In his saddlebags he carried at least half of the ranch’s accumulated gold and silver to be invested in railroad shares and form part of the capital for a freighting enterprise in which the O’Sheas and Santiago would be partners with Frost.

  He’d insisted on leaving them duly signed papers and guarantees though Shea had laughed at this. “If you’re honest, we don’t need papers, and if you’re not, they won’t matter!”

  “Thanks for your confidence,” said Frost dryly. “But I’ve learned it’s best, in financial matters, to have it all in writing, fair, firm and easy to read!”

  Santiago nodded. Though neither of them had said so, Talitha sensed that neither he nor Belen really liked Frost.

  “He’s promised to have his associates in California watch out for your father, Tally,” said Socorro, as they turned back to their work. “If he’s found, he’ll be told where you are and that you’re safe. And he’ll send word to my cousin Carlos, telling him why I never got to California.”

  Talitha didn’t for a moment believe that Frost cared about relieving her father’s worry. “I wi
sh Judah Frost would mind his own business!” she said violently.

  Shea stared at her in surprise. Socorro, understanding at least some of Talitha’s feelings, gave her a soothing hug. “Don’t be troubled, dearest! After all this time, your father probably wouldn’t make you live with him if you chose not to. But how joyful he would be to learn that you’re alive!”

  “And that mother’s dead and bore an Apache child?” James was already at the corral so Talitha could vent her bitterness.

  “It would be better than thinking you were all dead,” Socorro said reasonably. “Besides, it’s better to know what happened, however bad it was, than to always wonder, always try to find out.”

  “That’s right.” Shea’s tone allowed no argument. “Whatever you think about it, Tally, your father has a right to know.”

  Smarting at his manner, Talitha wanted to cry out that Judah Frost was bad, that she didn’t trust him. But if she told about that forced kiss and his threats, either Shea would ride after him and there’d be shooting or the O’Sheas would think she was exaggerating a playful whim into an assault. Either was unbearable, especially her fear that Shea would be killed. Talitha clenched her teeth, got a large basket, and went to gather mesquite beans.

  She wasn’t worried about the ranch’s money, though. Frost wouldn’t steal it because for some inexplicable reason he had decided to ingratiate himself with the O’Sheas. And Talitha had no doubt that he was going to have his railroad, his ranch, his freight company and mine.

  But he’s not going to have me.

  And then she mocked herself for that thought because surely his kiss that day had been an impulse. He’d probably already forgotten it. Still, she hated him, for setting that first male kiss on her like a brand. She felt as marked as Shea though Frost’s sign was invisible.

  Frost’s visit provided conversation and speculation for several days. Anita sighed dreamily that she was sure he, was muy fuerte y amoroso, strong and passionate. And James went about whistling “Sweet Betsy.” Talitha found it excruciating. She wanted to forget, as much as she could, that the tall silver-haired stranger had ever set foot in the house, been accepted almost as one of them.

  Because he wasn’t! He was no more like Shea and Santiago than a blood-grooved Bowie was like a knife meant for honest work.

  Estranged from the family because of what she knew about the man they trusted, also because she felt dirtied by his handling, Talitha found enough solitary outside work to keep her busy. She ranged widely, gathering wild currants and grapes as well as acorns and mesquite beans, restoring herself with golden air, and the changing shadows on the mountains.

  “A coyote ran right up to me today,” Santiago said one night at supper. “Acted blind and staggered. I guessed he had hydrophobia, so I got my rifle and shot him.”

  “Wonder if he’d got to any of the stock?” Shea asked in quick fear.

  “I don’t think so. The only animal he got close to was my horse and he didn’t get a chance to bite him.”

  “But you don’t know what he might have been doing earlier.” Shea glanced around the table. “We’d all better pay extra attention if we see an animal acting peculiar. Patrick and Miguel, you do remember that if a wild animal comes up to you, you should get away fast and call someone? Don’t pet it. It may be terribly sick and make you that way.”

  The twins nodded solemnly, but had an uproarious time playing mad coyote after the meal. Hydrophobia was a fearsome plague that spread some years through the wild creatures who would occasionally be so afflicted by the deadly sickness that they’d attack anything they chanced upon.

  A few days after Santiago shot the coyote, a sow went into running, frothing fits. She made for Chacho who was majestically stalking past the ramada where. Talitha was slicing squash for drying.

  Chacho had no fear of hogs, having taught several of them that he wasn’t to be tempered with. When the sow lurched toward him, the cat arched his back and hissed. When she still came on, in spite of Talitha’s scream, he lashed out, bloodying the sensitive snout, but the sow was past pain. Her teeth grazed the cat as he streaked away, understanding he was up against something outside normal experience.

  A little foam dribbled from the sow’s jaw. She stood stupidly a moment after Chacho’s disappearance, then reared about and started in Talitha’s direction.

  Talitha was already halfway to the house. Socorro came out with a rifle, rested it on the rain barrel, and fired. The sow jerked. Blood flowed from her side, but, horribly, she ran on. Shea, running from the corrals, brought the animal down with his second shot.

  She collapsed only a few yards away from the house. “Did—did she hurt you?” Shea asked Talitha, his face chalky beneath its tan.

  Talitha shook her head, unable to speak for a moment. It had been so sudden, so totally unexpected! “But she tried to bite Chacho,” she said through trembling lips. “I don’t know if she scratched him or not.”

  James, behind Shea, screwed up his eyes and shouted furiously, “She couldn’t bite him! She couldn’t!”

  “We’d better find him and have a look,” Shea said.

  When James coaxed his pet out of the mill where he’d refuged after fleeing the sow, Shea carefully went over every inch of the soft black fur. It began to seem that Chacho had indeed escaped when the probing fingers paused, searched, then drew back the hair to expose a small scratch.

  Talitha sucked in her breath. Shea got wearily to his feet, holding the cat. But James cried ringingly, “That was already there! It was, Shea! Chusma got mad at Chacho this morning and she did it!”

  “You’re sure?”

  James nodded his head, claiming the cat, cuddling him protectively. Shea hesitated, searching those dark blue eyes that were at once so defiant and pleading.

  “James, we can’t take chances.”

  “Chusma scratched him!”

  Shea shrugged and turned to Santiago who had come up during the examination. “We’d better have a look at the pigs. Kill any that look like she may have nipped them.”

  Two young hogs had bloody marks that might have come from a grazing fang or from rubbing into a projecting dead branch. Both were killed and butchered since at this point the meat would be unaffected. The sow was burned to make sure that nothing, wild or tame, dug her up and caught the disease.

  “I don’t know if it can be caught that way,” Shea said grimly. “But no use risking it.”

  Talitha was jumpy for several days and kept a rifle with her when she was working in the field. She tried to question James more closely about Chacho’s scratch, but he only grabbed up his pet and made off with him. No more mad animals turned up and the day the sow went wild was fading in memory when, about two weeks later, Chacho came into the house while they were having supper.

  He was unsteady, weaving, stood on the threshold blinking as if the last rays of sun hurt his eyes. “Chacho!” James ran toward him, arms reaching down.

  The cat hissed, arching its back, but James kept on. Talitha shouted at him, slipping from the bench. Shea caught James backward just as Chacho bit. The teeth spiked into Shea’s wrist. Santiago stripped off his leather vest, dropped it, over the cat, swaddling his claws and head, while Shea held James who gave one wild cry and began to sob.

  “What—what’s he going to do?”

  “See if Chacho’s sick.” Shea spoke quietly though blood dripped from the punctures on his wrist.

  Belen said, “Perhaps if we cauterize those bites right away …” He built up the cookfire and put a dulled knife to heat. Talitha snatched James away from Shea and gave him a hard shake.

  “Did you lie? About Chusma scratching your cat? Did you lie?”

  “I didn’t lie, Tally! Chusma did scratch him!” James struggled to wrest free. “Let me go! Let me go to Chacho!”

  Santiago came back, his limp heavier than usual, addressed James as ahijado, godson. “Your pet had the sickness. I put him down in the quarters, watched till I was sure.”
/>   “How—could you be sure?” James panted.

  “He went into fits. I put him out of his suffering.”

  James gave a shriek that echoed through Talitha’s nerves. Then he went very still, slipped from Talitha’s hand, and started for the quarters.

  “You must be careful how you handle him, godson,” Santiago said, going with him. “I’ll help you burn him.”

  In spite of her anger at James, Talitha’s heart ached for her brother. As soon as Shea’s wrist was cauterized, she left him assuring Socorro that rabies didn’t always follow from a bite, and picked up Chacho’s “toys”: a round of bone that could be jerked by a piece of rawhide, a leather ball stuffed with cattail down, a battered eagle feather.

  She took these out to where Santiago and James had made a pyre on the slope close to the burial of the scalps of Tjúni’s village and Santiago’s rancho. Thank heaven Santiago hadn’t shot Chacho or split his skull. He must have smothered him. She placed the feather between his paws, the ball and bone by his head, helped James heap smaller branches on top as Santiago started the fire.

  She held James in her arms and they both wept.

  Life went on. The men began to brand yearlings and cull out cattle that would be driven to market. James rode with them for the first time, helped chase down recalcitrants, kept the branding fire going, and learned to use the iron himself. Though it was grueling for a six-year-old, Talitha was glad he was kept busy and tired. At that, she often heard him sobbing in the night, either in grief for Chacho or guilt for what might come to Shea.

  Strange how they waited for that, as in a controlled nightmare. Everyone worked, ate and slept, not speaking of the horror that might come, though Socorro, heavy in the last weeks of pregnancy, knelt daily, a long time, before the madonna.