by Nan Ryan
“You’re lying, of course,” she shouted back, but slowed.
“If Edmund sees me with your gloves in my pocket, he might wonder where I got them.”
Elizabeth stopped walking. She looked down at her breast pocket. Slowly she turned and looked back.
West stood there leaning lazily against the wagon wheel, calmly dangling her gloves between thumb and forefinger.
“Would you kindly bring them to me?” she asked, knowing the answer before the words were out of her mouth.
“You want them. Come get them.” He stuffed them into his breast pocket and crossed his arms over his chest.
As mad as a hornet, her hands balled into tight fists at her sides, Elizabeth stormed back across the meadow. When she reached him, she said nothing. She snatched her gloves from his shirt pocket, slapped him in the face with them, then spun around and marched off while his deep, infuriating laughter followed her.
But when she’d gone just a short distance, she stopped abruptly, turned, and again started back to him. Puzzled, wondering what she was up to, West came forward to meet her.
Elizabeth walked right up to him, reached out, and plucked the pink rose from behind his right ear. Making a face, she dropped it to the ground, forcefully crushed it under her heel, raised her eyes to his, and gave him a triumphant look.
And she said, “You silly son of a bitch!”
23
THE SUN VANISHED WHEN Elizabeth reached the stand of tall green cottonwoods. The deep shade was an immediate cooling balm for her hot, prickled flesh. And her hot, prickled temper.
Out of sight of her tall, dark tormentor Elizabeth stopped, put her hand against a slender cottonwood trunk, and leaned against it for support while she gathered her scattered wits.
She unbuttoned her suit jacket and wrenched her arms free, tossing the jacket over her left shoulder. She pulled out the high, choking collar of her pink blouse, then spread a hand on her bosom. She shivered involuntarily as she recalled the feel of Quarternight’s smooth warm lips boldly pressed to her breasts, breathing fire through the flimsy barrier of her blouse to the tingling flesh beneath.
Elizabeth sighed.
This journey was going to be a long and dangerous one in more ways than one. She would be in the close company of the cynical and unprincipled West Quarternight for weeks. She would have to be constantly on guard. She couldn’t allow him to get her off alone. If he ever managed to catch her away from the others, he would try to compromise her once again. She could not let that happen.
Shaking her head, Elizabeth made her way down through the silvery willows and tall cottonwoods toward the sound of voices drifting up from the river. When she stepped out into a broad grassy clearing beside the rushing Rio Grande, she saw the men of the second Curtin expedition busily handling their individual tasks.
Edmund and the two vaqueros were far downriver, where they had led the string of ponies to water. The peasants, chattering in Spanish, were even further away, watering the burros.
Directly before her the big silent Indian, Taos, and the talkative white-haired Grady were laying out the noon meal on a large checkered cloth spread on the smooth, grassy banks beside the flowing river.
Soon everyone gathered to enjoy the delicious lunch prepared and packed by the La Fonda kitchen staff. Cold chicken, smoked ham, cheese, thick-sliced bread, fruit, and assorted nuts met with everyone’s approval. Bottles of wine, stowed carefully in cracked ice, long since melted, were still pleasantly chilled.
Seated between Edmund and the silent Taos, Elizabeth ignored West, purposely keeping her eyes off him. When he had first strolled into the clearing she had stiffened, afraid he would head straight for her. But he hadn’t. He had slowly circled the large checkered cloth, stood for a moment so that all she saw were his worn boots and the bottoms of his soft buckskin trousers. Then he dropped into a crouching position directly across from her. Their eyes had met and held for a second or two, and she looked away as he sat flat down on the grass and leaned on his stiffened right arm.
Now as she sat there in the shade at the edge of the checkered cloth, she ate with the same relish as the hungry men. The Mexican help shared the meal, so the conversation was light and lively with much good-natured laughter and Spanish words like claro and bueno and Dios sprinkled in.
When every last piece of chicken and slice of ham had been devoured, the Mexicans rose, thanked Señor Quarternight, and politely drifted away. The others stayed where they were, sated and resting. There was a lazy lull in the conversation.
Then Edmund, sipping the last of his wine, said to no one in particular, “A man could live a long time out here if he stayed on the river, couldn’t he?”
West said flatly, “Ed, your brother couldn’t stay on the Rio Grande and reach his destination.”
“I know,” Edmund admitted. “I know. Just what are his chances, West? Is there really any hope he’s still alive?” Elizabeth finally looked at West, as eager as Edmund to be reassured of Dane’s chances for survival.
Cupping his hands to light a cigar, West slowly puffed the smoke to life and took it from his lips. “At this time of year there’s plenty of water in all the streams and creeks. There’s always wild game in the mountains, even the deserts. Dane won’t die of thirst or starvation if that’s what’s worrying you.” His gray eyes met Edmund’s. “His chances? As I’ve said before, I feel they’re very good. What do think, Grady?” He turned his dark head to look at the drowsy white-haired scout sitting cross-legged beside him.
Grady immediately became alert. Stroking his flowing white beard, he said, “I believe they’re alive, all right. So does Taos, don’t you?” The big, stone-faced Indian calmly nodded. Grady continued, “If they are alive, why, we’ll find ’em. The New Mexico Territory ain’t a big enough place to hide in, once me and Weston and Taos start lookin’.” His blue eyes shone and his pink lips stretched into a grin beneath his drooping white mustache. Quickly, he added, “Not that I aim to imply Dane Curtin’s a-hidin’. That ain’t what I meant.”
“No, of course not,” said Edmund. “But suppose they located the cache, but can’t get it out of—”
“Now, you’re jest a-borrowin’ trouble, Edmund,” Grady told him. “Besides, I don’t care what anybody says, I’m still not fully convinced there’s a big cave down south with the Grayson gold hid in it. In my time I seen lots of them charts like your brother had. Some was good, some of ’em just sets of directions, or waybills, others were maps. Seen some that was real old, others that had been artificially aged to dupe some tenderfoot. But I never did see one that showed any big caves or caverns.”
Elizabeth had begun to doubt there was any gold hidden in a deep underground cavern, but she didn’t care. If Grady was right, if Dane and the others were alive, nothing else mattered.
Engrossed in what Grady was telling them, Elizabeth paid little attention as West quietly rose to his feet and walked away. As Grady’s raspy voice droned on and on, and he got off on a tale of flushing Apaches out of the hills back when he rode with Kit Carson, her mind began to wander. She turned her head and looked out at the river.
It was nice here. Very nice indeed.
The waters of the river tumbling and splashing over the smooth boulders had a rhythmic, musical sound. The tall cottonwoods murmured their soft accompaniment as a breeze out of the west stirred their shimmering leaves. It seemed almost as if she—as if they all—were only out for a Sunday picnic.
Lounging there in the shade by the river, Elizabeth easily lulled herself into supposing that the entire trip would be like this.
Travel during the morning when it was reasonably cool, then stop in some shaded glade for a leisurely noon meal. Afterwards, rest and nap through the long, warm afternoon. Then get back on the trail for a couple of hours in the evening. When darkness came, stop again and make camp for the night.
Supposing that they would stay right here for the next three to four hours, Elizabeth lazily searched for a spo
t to take her much needed afternoon nap. Yawning, she casually looked around for West. He was directly behind her, not fifty feet away.
Like an animal sunning himself on a rock, he lay on his back atop a low, flat sandstone boulder. His bed of stone was not in the cool shade, but he appeared totally oblivious to the hot noonday sunshine beating down on his face and lean body.
His eyes were closed. His tanned fingers were laced atop his hard abdomen. His long legs were stretched out full length and crossed at the ankles. His breathing was slow and even, the rhythmic movement pulling the soft doeskin fabric of his shirt tight against the flat muscles of his chest.
In sleep he looked boyishly young and deceptively harmless. With those arresting silver eyes closed and all that raw power contained, he appeared innocent and benign.
Elizabeth knew better.
She turned away. She sat there not listening as Edmund and Grady continued to talk. Finally she was so sleepy she felt she couldn’t hold her eyes open for another moment. Yet, even with West Quarternight sleeping, she was reluctant to wander too far from Edmund.
There was only one thing to do. Lie down right here where she was. Making sure her skirts were down over her legs, Elizabeth stretched out beside the checkered cloth, draped a bent arm over her closed eyes, and fell asleep.
Something tickled her nose.
She didn’t waken, but rubbed at her itching nose with the back of her hand, licked her lips, and turned her head to the side. It happened again. A faint, almost imperceptible tickling of her nose. Again her hand rubbed back and forth and she sniffed, feeling as if she were going to sneeze.
Her heavy lashes finally fluttered open. The first thing she saw was a darkly tanned hand drawing a cottonwood catkin back and forth directly under her nose. Frowning, she knocked the hand away and saw the dark, smiling face of West Quarternight looming above. He was crouched on his heels beside her.
“Time to rise and shine, Mrs. Curtin,” he said in that drawling resonant voice. “Got to get back on the trail.”
“Go away!” she said groggily, squinting at him. “I just got to sleep.”
Plucking a dead leaf from her tousled red hair, West rose to his feet. “We’re pulling out. If you want to go with us, better get up.” He turned and walked away.
“West is right, Elizabeth,” Edmund said, gathering up their gear. “Perhaps you can rest in the wagon.”
Reluctantly, Elizabeth sat up, yawned, and asked what time it was. When Edmund told her it was only one-thirty, she realized she’d slept about ten minutes. No wonder she still felt so sleepy! She was about to complain when from out of nowhere a huge hand appeared, startling her.
Elizabeth looked up to see Taos, his flat black eyes expressionless, reaching down to her. Elizabeth gratefully placed her hand in his and thanked him when he effortlessly drew her to her feet. But she protested strongly as she and Edmund walked together up the forested incline to the road.
She hoped West Quarternight didn’t intend to push them too far, too fast. She was anxious to find Dane, of course, but she wasn’t sure she could travel all day every day. She was still exhausted from the long tiring morning. Wasn’t he?
Yes, he was, Edmund admitted. He understood exactly how she felt. Still, West was their guide. He was the trail boss. They were paying him to lead them to Dane, so they were obliged to do it at his pace. Maybe West just wanted to make good time on this first day out when they were all fresh and eager. Once they had been on the trail for a day or two, he would surely slow down.
Hoping Edmund was right, Elizabeth suddenly noticed he was limping slightly. Stopping him, she put a hand on his arm and said worriedly, “Edmund, what is it? Are you hurt?”
Urging her on, he sheepishly said, “Blisters. These new boots have rubbed blisters on my feet. Both heels.”
“Poor Edmund,” she said. “Why didn’t you take them off while we were stopped for lunch?”
“If I had, I couldn’t have gotten them back on.”
“You could have changed to shoes. Some of your comfortable English-made soft leather footwear.”
They had reached the road. Edmund spoke softly so that no one could hear. “No, I couldn’t. I foolishly left all my shoes in Santa Fe. I have another pair of new boots with me. Nothing else.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it.
“So am I,” he admitted. Then, “Please, Elizabeth, I don’t want to be a burden. Don’t tell the others. Don’t tell West.”
“I won’t,” she promised, understanding completely.
At the buck wagon, Edmund lifted Elizabeth up onto the high seat, then went to his horse. He forced himself to walk as though nothing was wrong, manfully concealing his acute discomfort and his deep embarrassment.
If the morning had been long, the afternoon was interminable. Grady told Elizabeth that they would likely ride until they reached La Bajada, where they would stop for the night.
So, like a child, all afternoon Elizabeth kept asking how much farther it was to La Bajada. She envisioned it as a sleepy, pristine little community where they could all check into a quiet inn, have a hot bath, then enjoy a leisurely dinner before retiring to a clean, soft bed.
She could hardly wait. She was hot and tired and bored and thirsty and uncomfortable. When she complained of the heat, Grady smiled and told her they were still in the high desert.
“This here’s the cool uplands, missy.”
“Then Lord deliver me from the hot lowlands,” she replied.
The white-haired old scout chuckled, then said, “Gawd Almighty. Jest wait till we reach the Malpais and the White Sands.”
“I’m not even going to ask,” she informed him.
Somehow the afternoon was finally gone.
The burning sun had dropped behind the purple mountain peaks and the air had started to cool. Elizabeth kept squinting into the gathering dusk, anxiously searching for the elusive twinkling lights of La Bajada.
She soon learned, to her despair, that there were no twinkling lights of La Bajada. No sleepy, pristine community. No inn. No nothing. La Bajada was only a name for a deserted spot by the Rio Grande where a stage way-station had once been. Not even that building remained.
Elizabeth loudly voiced her unhappiness to Grady, told him she badly needed a bath and a hot meal and a clean bed!
“Well, now, this is the frontier, missy,” said Grady flatly. “We’re not out here for fun.”
Out of the dusk, West reined his sorrel alongside the buck wagon, where the bitterly disappointed Elizabeth, arms crossed, sat looking around at all the nothingness.
“You seem less than thrilled to be stopping,” West said, patting his winded sorrel’s neck.
Elizabeth turned angry eyes on him. “If this is your idea of a joke, I’m not laughing. Since we’ve already been on the road for an eternity, I’d just as soon go on until we reach a town.”
“Albuquerque is fifty miles away,” West said, totally unsympathetic. “While I’m sure you could make it, Lizzie here might get a little tired.”
Before Elizabeth could reply, he flashed his white, dazzling teeth, wheeled the mare about and rode away.
No sooner had he disappeared than Taos materialized out of the dusk. Silently, he held out his gargantuan arms to her. She nodded her ascent and the big Navajo plucked her from the high wagon seat.
Solicitously, he escorted her to the river, pushing tree limbs out of her way, alert and ready to catch her should she make a misstep in the dense underbrush. By her side, he saw her safely to the campsite and never so much as touched her arm. When they reached the river, Taos stayed with her until Edmund arrived, then disappeared back into the dusk.
Supper on the river was nothing like the lovely lunch had been. There was no more of the chicken and ham. No more fresh fruits and cheeses and nuts. No chilled wine.
Taos built a campfire while Grady got out an old tin coffee pot and filled it with water. West, straddling a big rock, sliced a huge slab of bacon, the
sharp knife gleaming in the firelight. Edmund, boots now off, squatted on stockinged feet pouring beans into a huge skillet.
Elizabeth hated bacon. She hated beans. And Grady’s coffee was so strong she suspected he was probably right when he bragged it would “put hair on your chest.”
When the unappetizing meal was over, full darkness had fallen and Elizabeth was forced to go to bed without a bath. In the privacy of the tarped buck wagon, she undressed and washed her face, throat, and arms in a pail of water. She drew on her lacy nightgown, stretched out on the blanketed wagon floor, and reluctantly blew out the lamp.
As tired as she was, she lay there in the darkened wagon, tense, listening, afraid. Bullfrogs kept up a loud, steady chorus on the river. Crickets chirped. An occasional male laugh carried on the still night air.
Lying in the close darkness, it occurred to her that the others were camped at least fifty yards from the wagon. A wild beast or dangerous outlaw or renegade Indian could attack her while the men on the river slept through the assault. She shuddered with fear, then gritted her teeth in anger.
West Quarternight had simply shaken his dark head and made no reply when she had announced she was going to the wagon to spend the night. She would have told Edmund, but he was already sound asleep. Alone, she had picked her way through the darkness back to the wagon while their lead guide remained sprawled by the fire, calmly drinking coffee and smoking a cigar.
Elizabeth continued to lie wide-eyed, listening to the night sounds. Tired as she was, she could not relax. She would never be able to sleep. She was terrified.
Her heart in her throat, Elizabeth sat up, crawled on hands and knees to the end of the wagon, lifted the closed tarp, and fearfully peered out.
She saw the giant Taos standing there in the moonlight, a Remington rifle in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. He leaned against an upthrust of rock not a stone’s throw from the wagon. His big body was rigid, his head unmoving, the night breeze lifting strands of his shimmering black hair. But those alert black eyes were flashing and constantly sweeping the valley as he stood silent watch over her.