by Gary Paulsen
He couldn't shake the feeling of The noose around his neck, and he kept thinking about it. Wondering. What if the commandant hadn't been that drunk, and hadn't passed out, and remembered when he had come to, and decided to find them and hang them anyway? Francis paused before they left the plaza to reload his rifle, setting the butt on his left stirrup while he pushed the ball home with the ramrod. When they were moving again the thought of being hanged came back. Fretful thinking. He kept shaking his head to clear the thoughts out, “What's the matter with you?’1 Lottie and Billy had been on the mule's back so long that they had almost evolved into a part of the mule. Lottie would often sit sideways on the packsaddle to “keep my autheritis from acting up.” Sometimes she lay across the mule, sometimes sat forward on his neck. Once Francis had looked back to find both Billy and Lottie standing up on the mule's back, smiling at him. It just kept plodding, following Francis's horse. “You look like you up and died….”
“I keep thinking on being hanged.” Lottie shrugged. “That's all done now, way I see it. Ma used to say when a thing's done it's done and it doesn't do any good to fret on it and the hanging business is all done. Besides, we're gone from it now anyway and where are we going to sleep tonight?”
Lottie had a way of running things together that made them seem somehow logical. To be done with getting hanged and worrying about where to sleep seemed perfectly natural.
“Want to eat.” Billy spoke, and Francis smiled. That was two days in a row. Billy was getting positively talkative.
“We'll get some grain for the horses and then find a spot with some wood and water and make camp.”
“I don't flunk so.” Lottie looked at the country around them. “I believe the last time this country had water was when the great flood happened and you know when you think about that it makes you wonder on who's telling stories. I mean, how big would an ark have to be to get everything in it? And not just one, but two. Two buffalo, two mountain lions, two coyotes, two gophers, two ants, two mosquitoes, two horseflies, two ticks—and why did he include mosquitoes and ticks, I ask you? Seems Noah must have been stupid wanting to keep flies and ticks and mosquitoes around. Don't you think he was crazy? I mean, if it was me and I had a chance to get rid of horseflies, I'd drop them in a second. Right over the side. Did you ever watch them bite? They take a real chunk out of your arm, kind of twist and pull …”
Francis saw the livery and the freight yards ahead and kneed his horse into a trot before Lottie drove him into wanting to be hanged.
A sergeant met them. He had no neck, as near as Francis could tell, and was pouring sweat, though it was barely above freezing.
“We're here to be provisioned,” Francis said. The sergeant hesitated until Francis told him that Lieutenant Brannigan had said it was all right.
“Fine, lad. You should have said so in the first place. There's grain in those bags, and bacon, and flour; beans and dried beef in that shed over there. Help yourself to what you'll be needing.”
Francis took him at his word and loaded the mule down with sacks of flour, bacon, sugar, beans, and close to thirty pounds of oats for the stock. He also took several boxes of matches, two pounds of black powder, three tins of caps and a couple of five-pound pigs of lead. He had a mold and ladle to make rifle balls, but finding lead and powder was always a problem.
The mule didn't seem to mind the extra load, and they set off with perhaps another hour of daylight left, Francis feeling positively rich.
We're moving about four miles an hour, Francis thought, sitting on the walking horse. It was a mind game he played constantly. He factored in the speed and would look ahead to where he would be in an hour, see what was there to help him or hurt him.
In an hour we'll be by that ridge on the left. There are some thick trees along the base. Maybe there's water there. If not we can make a dry camp for the night. We have two canteens, and the animals can go a day more without water since the weather is cold.
Just thoughts rumbling through his mind all the time, information about his surroundings and what to expect. Sometimes he felt like a wolf. He'd watched them hunt several times and they didn't miss anything—they heard, saw, smelled everything around tlicm. They'd stop and eat a mouse, a bug, a rabbit or a deer, then move around a rattle-snake—they just knew what was nearby. He tried to do the same, and to be alert, to not miss anything, and so was utterly surprised when the Mexican found them.
They discovered a small stream. Francis suspected that it was dry most of the year, but with tlie snow in the mountains feeding it, there was a flow of water about five feet across, running through the trees and rippling over rocks.
They unsaddled and watered the horse and mule, gave them each about a quart of grain. Francis had some concern about giving them too much grain; they hadn't been fed anything but grass in so long he felt that they might founder on grain—but a small amount would certainly keep them in shape.
When they were fed he rubbed them down with the back side of the saddle blankets, inspected them for any sores or rubs, and then went to the camp.
Over the months the three travelers had become a team. As soon as they stopped Lottie picked a campsite and started a fire, and unpacked their tin plates and cups; Billy started gathering the large pile of wood it took to cook a meal and get them through a night—especially a cold night.
As soon as the fire was going well, Lottie put the large cast-iron pot onto the coals and started cooking. They had no game tonight, so she sliced bacon and put it in to fry, and used a second pot to start water boiling for “coffee.” They didn't have any real coffee, but she would heat the water and sprinkle dry pine needles in it to make a kind of tea. When they had sugar, as they did now, they would sit after the meal and drink sweetened tea.
Francis took his rifle and moved out away from the fire for a time. He circled, looking for tracks in the dying light—human or game—and sat off fifty yards under a pinon tree, hidden in the shadows for more than half an hour, waiting for something to move. When nothing seemed to be tliere he walked silently back to the campsite. Lottie had set the finished bacon on a tin plate and was cooking a kind of cornmeal mush in water and the bacon fat that was left in the pot. When it had thickened enough to “hold a spoon” she ladled it and three pieces of bacon on each plate, poured “tea” into each cup along with generous helpings of sugar, and set them by the fire. “Food's done.”
They ate in silence—even Lottie—although she started to talk while they were sipping the tea. In the evenings Francis didn't mind her talking, for it was nice, almost a kind of music. He leaned back on his blankets, feeling the warmth of the fire and hearing every fifth word or so. His face ached where the ball had grazed him.
“I honestly don't understand why everybody gets in such a snit over land as to fight a war. I mean look at all this land around us that nobody is using. There's no need to fight. Just take some that isn't being used and get to living …”
It was difficult to stay awake. Finally, after throwing more wood on the fire, he rolled himself into his blankets and closed his eyes. Billy was already asleep and within a minute, while Lottie was still talking, Francis slept too.
∗∗∗
FRANCIS WASN'T SURE what had awakened him: a sound, or the absence of it. Perhaps a chill. He opened his eyes to see a man wearing a serape squatting across the dead fire from him. The man smiled when he saw Francis's eyes open.
“Hota, amigo.” He said it softly and did not awaken Lottie or Billy.
Francis didn't speak. He felt for his rifle. It was still there. The man didn't appear to be armed—at least he couldn't see any weapons—but still, he was there. Francis sat up.
“How did you get here?” It was the second time Francis had been surprised on awakening. The first time had been when two men named Courtweiler and Dubs had come upon him and taken everything he owned. Nowadays Francis slept lightly, and he wondered that the horse or mule hadn't made a sound. “Without me knowing …”
> “I followed you. And I am quiet,” the man said in English. Not perfect, but better than many Americans. “It was not hard to track three children, a horse and a mule.”
“Two children.”
“Ahhh yes, there is that. You are now a man. A young man, but a man. You have killed another.”
Francis looked to the fire. There were still a few coals faindy glowing; he put some twigs on them and blew them into flames. He added wood. In the dark it had been hard to see the man. Now Francis studied him in the light. He had a revolver on his belt, partially hidden beneath the serape. It glinted now. The man's hand was not near the butt of the gun; but still, the gun was there.
“Why are you here?”
“So blunt, the Americans. That is not the Spanish way. Wc should have talk and work up to The reason. First, we must introduce ourselves. I am Garcia.
“I am—”
“I know who you are. That is why I am here. You are the man who shot and killed the American soldier yesterday.”
“It was an accident. Or almost. I didn't mean to shoot him—”
“You do not understand. I am not angry. I am grateful. The woman you saved was Carmela. She is Garza's wife. Garza is my brother. I am here to help you because Garza has a dizziness in his head from his wound, so he could not come himself.”
“Well, thank you. But I don't need any help.”
Garcia smiled and looked at the flames for a moment. “You do not need help. So confident. So young.” He looked again at Francis. “You are very rich. You have a horse and a mule and food and a rifle and two children who have value, and so you have much wealth. You are travehng through a country that is very poor. There are some who would simply take what you have. Garza has asked that I accompany you for a time until you learn our ways and can take care of yourself …”
“But we're doing good.”
“No, you're not. You think you are but you need guidance and I will provide it. If I do anything less Garza will be disappointed. A disappointed Garza is an angry Garza, and an angry Garza is … well, let us say it is not good when he is angered.”
Francis thought and decided Garcia was telling the truth. If he had wanted to steal anything he could have cut Francis's throat and been done with it. Francis nodded. “Well, as easy as you sneaked up on me, I guess you're right. I need the help. Go bring your horse in and tie him with ours. There's some grain in a sack by the packsaddle.”
“I do not have a horse.”
“Well, mule, whatever.”
“I am on foot.”
Francis shook his head. “With us riding and you on foot I don't see how you'll be able to keep up.”
“I will stay ahead of you. That way I will know what is coming.”
Francis leaned back on his blanket and smiled. He had started to say that Garcia couldn't hope to keep up with people on horses but then remembered that he himself had caught up with Courtweiler and Dubs on foot when they had been riding.
“Let us sleep now,” Garcia said. “There are still three hours of darkness for resting. I will be over by the horse and mule if you need me.”
And he was gone. Francis had done no more than blink, and when he looked again, Garcia had disappeared.
A ghost, Francis thought. He hadn't even awakened the children. Just there and gone—-I'm sure glad he's on our side. Francis closed his eyes and let the warmth of his blankets and the glow from the fire take him back down again.
The country tliey moved through the next day was in some strange way the prettiest country that Francis had ever seen. They moved down into a winding canyon that ran along the Rio Grande river, which went from cascading through narrow clifflike rocks to spreading wider and rolling through gentie rapids.
It was still desert, or near-desert, with scrub pilon and juniper and odd stands of prickly pear cactus, but the nearness of water made the desert seem more beautiful. When they came into a shallow valley full of small farms on narrow tracts of land with irrigation ditches running across the ends, it all looked like a picture.
“Ma, she had a calendar with a picture on it looked like these farms,” Lottie started. “All set so nice and neat …”
Francis had seen the farms and the river moving through them, but he had been spending most of his time watching Garcia. It was amazing. The Mexican carried a small bedroll over his shoulder and had his revolver—a Colt cap and ball—in his right hand. He ran in a kind of loose shuffle that left the horse and mule trotting to keep up. Since trotting was so uncomfortable that Francis and the children didn't want to do it, Francis kept the stock at a walk, and Garcia, as he'd said, quickly left them far behind.
Garcia had not been there when they had awakened in the morning and had not showed himself until they were two miles along the road. The first Lottie knew of him was when he stepped softly out of some pilon along the trail next to the mule.
“Hola, senorita,” he said to her. For once she was speechless. “A very good morning to you …”
“Francis!” Lottie called ahead to where Francis was riding. “There's a strange man here.”
“He's not strange,” Francis said without turning. “Lottie and Billy, meet Garcia. Garcia, meet Lottie and Billy …”
“Where did he come from?” Lottie asked. “You have friends I don't know about out here? I don't think that's right …”
“He just showed up. A brother of the man where I had to shoot The soldier. He's here to help us, guide us.”
“When did you meet him?”
“He came last night while you were sleeping. If you didn't sleep so hard you'd know these things. I tried to wake you, shook you, poured water on your head, but you were out like a light. I've never seen anybody sleep so hard. I diought you'd died. I woke Billy up and he tried to get you awake too and you wouldn't—”
“Stop that. You're just making up stories.”
But it quieted her and Francis used the silence to talk to Garcia. “I saw tracks,” he said to Garcia. The Mexican had moved up alongside Francis, holding onto the stirrup on the left side of his saddle and letting himself be pulled along.
Francis had seen a wide band of tracks come in from the south side onto the road. They were all unshod horses and he couldn't tell for certain how many but he thought more than ten. They moved out ahead of the direction in which Francis and the children were traveling, and they were fresh. Some of the dirt cut by their hooves still looked damp in the morning cold and hadn't frozen.
“I have seen the same. There are many horses. Seven, perhaps ten, it is hard to tell when they all run together.”
“They aren't army.”
“No, the army horses have steel shoes. These have nothing.”
“What do you think?”
Garcia frowned, a quick flicker of concern. “I think it is perhaps not good. Nobody of any worth would be out riding around with seven or ten men on horses. If they aren't army then they must be somebody else and a group of men that large is usually up to no good.”
“They're out ahead of us.”
Garcia nodded. “I will move off the trail and catch up to them and see. Keep moving but go slower and I will be back to you when I find out more.” He slid off into the pinon and was gone, and Francis checked the percussion cap on his rifle, cleared a bit of dust off the front and rear sights, and wished he knew more about the tracks.
“What was that all about?” Lottie had seen them talking but hadn't heard what they said.
“Garcia asked if I wanted him to find a good place to camp tonight and I said yes. He's gone ahead to locate water.”
“Hmmm.”
She didn't believe Francis but that didn't matter to him. He couldn't shake the feeling of worry about the tracks and had just decided to obey his instincts and stop altogether when the sound of gunfire came from ahead.
One shot, then two, tfien a whole ripping tear of them, and then nothing for a moment; then one more. Then silence. All in the space of four or five seconds.
I
t had to be Garcia and he had to be in trouble. “Take Billy off the trail and head back up into the trees and hide,” Francis said.
“Where are you going?”
“Just move! I'll be back …”
He kicked his horse in the ribs and slammed her into an instant gallop. It couldn't be far. Garcia hadn't been gone that long. By her fourth jump he had taken three lead balls out of his possibles bag and put them into his mouth, took three percussion caps and stuck them between the fingers on his left hand and brought the rifle up to be ready.
It wasn't enough.
For a moment Francis thought he'd ridden into his own private war.
He came around a corner in the trail, the mare running wide open, his rifle ready, and found himself in the middle of what proved to be twelve men on horses.
Francis had flashes of images. Somehow all twelve men looked dirty at once, covered with trail dust, all riding scruffy Indian-style ponies—wild stock, very small and very tough—and all wore what he thought of as mixed Indian clotling . Leather leggings; wool blankets with holes cut for their heads; some had feathers, some wore old felt hats; some had no shirts on at all in spite of the cold. They were all covered in weapons. All had rifles or shotguns; some had bows and quivers full of arrows tied to their backs; otliers had one, two, even three revolvers in their belts. Francis saw tomahawks in belts. They were all shooting into the brush on the left side of the trail.
Garcia, Francis thought; they must be shooting at Garcia in there. And then a second thought: I have made a terrible mistake. There was no time for any other thought. He raised and cocked his rifle and picked a target. But before he could pull The trigger, what looked like all the guns in The world seemed to be aimed at him and they all fired at The same time.
He had time to see one ball crease the mare's neck, another nick her ear, and then something slammed into the side of his head and he had nothing resembling thought after diat.