“It’s started,” Gil shouted. “Let’s ride!”
As they galloped toward the scene of battle, there were more shots. It was the only assurance they had that Long John was still alive, but as they drew closer, the shots became fewer. Finally there was only silence.
“Rein up,” shouted Lieutenant Maynard. “The canyon’s just ahead, and they can cut us down from cover.”
“Long John’s in there,” Gil said, “so the sentries are dead. Once we’re in the canyon, what’s it like?”
“There’s a cabin at the box end,” said Sergeant Gannon, “backed up under a shelving rock. But if we can get into the canyon, we can get within sight of the cabin and still be out of range.”
“Let’s ride, then,” Gil said.
Cautiously he led out, and when he reached the canyon mouth, he found it narrow and forbidding. Dismounting, he took a stone the size of his fist and flung it as far as he could into the canyon. There was no response. Just a few yards beyond the entrance there was a bend, and boulders had fallen or had been pushed from the rim to provide perfect cover. But something had happened. On the canyon floor lay a hat, and it wasn’t Long John’s. Gil swung into his saddle, and Colt in his hand, rode into the canyon. The rest of the riders followed, and when they rounded the bend, they could see the bodies of two men sprawled on the canyon floor. As they rode on, the canyon widened, and they could see Long John’s horse cropping grass. Three-quarters of a mile ahead, part of the shake roof of the outlaw cabin was visible through sheltering oaks. To the left of the cabin, water tumbled down a canyon wall, and horses grazed around a spring which the riders could not yet see. In places, buffalo grass was knee high, while oaks sheltered much of the farthest end of the canyon. Suddenly there was movement ahead, and the riders reined up. A man leaned against one of the oaks, hatless, his head sagging on his chest. He had heard their horses approaching. Slowly, wearily, he lifted his head.
“Lord God,” Gil shouted, “it’s Long John!”
The lanky Cajun seemed more dead than alive, looking like an apparition from the pits of Hell. His face was a mask of blood from head wounds, the front of his shirt was blood-soaked, and it dripped off the fingers of his dangling left hand. One of his Colts was in the holster, the second under his belt, and Bo’s Colt hung from his bloody right hand. Blood still welled from wounds in his thighs, dripping onto his boots. He stared at them listlessly, through hopeless, pain-slitted eyes. Pedro Fagano helped Gil lower Long John to the ground.
“Some of you work your way toward that cabin,” said Gil. “We need to know where those owlhoots are, if they’re alive or dead.”
Even in Long John’s condition, he was trying to speak. Gil turned back to him, leaning closer.
“Kilt ’em . . . all,” Long John mumbled. “Got ’em . . . fer Bo. Take me t’ the hill . . . wher’ . . . he is . . . near the Colorado. Him an’ me . . . gon’ ride . . . ride the range . . . beyon’ . . . the stars. . . .”
* Destiny in Christ eternal
21
There was nothing they could do for Long John, except try to get him to the fort, where there would be medicine and a doctor. Sergeant Gannon rode back to report on the whereabouts of the outlaws.
“My God,” said Gannon in awe, “I never saw the equal of it. He’s gunned down the Guiterro gang, to the last man! When he took the two at the canyon mouth, it must’ve brought the others on the run. Eight of the bastards come at him in a skirmish line, and he shot them to doll rags. The lieutenant’s making sure Guiterro’s among the dead. How’s your man?”
“Maybe done for,” Gil said. “I aim to get him back to the fort and try to save him, but we can’t take him there slung over the back of a horse. Pedro, take all the blankets we have and cover him. Maybe there’s somethin’ in that cabin we can string up for a travois.”
“I’ll help,” said Sergeant Gannon. “He’s too good a man for us not to do everything we can to save him.”
Gil rode on to the cabin, passing Lieutenant Maynard as he examined the bodies of the outlaws. It was as Gannon had said—they were strung out in the high grass, all the way to the cabin. Gil found Juan Alamonte and Vicente Gomez tearing the frame of a bunk away from the wall. Once they freed it, there would be only a pair of strong cedar poles with wide strips of rawhide latticed between them. But it would serve as a travois, a drag, to make Long John as comfortable as possible on the long ride back to the fort.
“Long John be hard hit,” said Vicente. “We think mebbe travois get him to fort and medico.”
“Good thinking,” Gil said. “It’ll be a miracle if he gets there alive, but you have the right idea. We might as well spare him more suffering and let him die where he is, as to sling him over a horse.”
When the trio returned to the hard-hit Long John, bearing their makeshift travois, they found the rest of the riders there. Lieutenant Maynard had apparently satisfied himself that Perra Guiterro was among the dead. He assisted them in making a bed of blankets over the latticed rawhide. Gently as they could, they lifted Long John onto the bed and then wrapped him in blankets to his chin. But the real difficulty lay ahead. Long John’s horse didn’t appreciate or trust the strange contraption, one end of it slung over his rump and the other end dragging the ground behind him. The horse bore the unfamiliar burden only because Vicente rode on one side of him and Pedro on the other. Their progress seemed painfully slow, and every man chafed at the delay. Gil and his riders had been concerned only with saving Long John, and hadn’t taken a second look at the dead outlaws, but Sergeant Gannon and Lieutenant Maynard had. As they rode, the military duo pieced together the fight, marveling all the more at what one man had accomplished in an act of vengeance.
“He had three Colts,” said Sergeant Gannon, “all empty except the one he was holdin’ when we found him. If he started fully loaded, that means he fired seventeen times.”
“Counting the two at the canyon entrance,” said Lieutenant Maynard, “he scored fifteen hits. By God, he’s a fighting man, by anybody’s standards. He’s got to pull through so I can shake his hand.”
It seemed forever before they came within sight of their destination, and by the time they could see the fort, they could also see a rider tearing along the bank of the Colorado. It was Rosa, in a cloud of dust and at a fast gallop. She said nothing, riding behind the travois on which Long John lay, tears streaking her dusty cheeks. Gil didn’t know if the Cajun was alive or dead, and he feared the worst. Long John was carried, crude travois and all, into the post hospital. It seemed well-supplied, and the post doctor, Lieutenant Scott, took charge in a competent manner. Only Mariposa and Estanzio remained with the herd. The rest of the outfit haunted the post hospital, awaiting some word on Long John’s condition. After two long hours it came, and Dr. Scott looked grim.
“He’s been hit nine times,” said Scott, “and five of them are serious enough to finish him. God knows how his lungs were spared, but they were, and this object in his shirt pocket was all that saved him taking a slug through the heart.”
They all gathered around to see what the doctor had dropped on the desk. It was the badly bent silver coin with Bo’s birthdate, the medal that Long John had dropped in his pocket the night before. The lead had hit the star dead center. In his own way, Bo had ridden with Long John this last time.
“He has a chance,” said Dr. Scott. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
Gil lagged behind until the others had departed. He then confronted the doctor.
“You say he has a chance, Doc, but how much? What are the odds?”
“One in a thousand,” said Dr. Scott. “If I’m any judge, this time tomorrow he’ll be dead.”
June 2, 1850. Fort Yuma, Arizona Territory
Even as Long John lay grieviously wounded, perhaps mortally, Gil had to make some decision regarding the trail drive. Long John, if he lived, would be weeks, perhaps months, recovering. The drive must go on to California, and with that in mind, Gil had Mariposa and Estan
zio begin reshoeing the horses that were in need of it. At suppertime he told the outfit of his decision and the reason for it.
“We’re moving out at first light tomorrow,” he concluded.
“But we cannot,” Rosa cried. “Not until we know about Long John . . .”
“I think we’ll know by morning,” Gil said, recalling Dr. Scott’s grim prophecy.
“You are a heartless Tejano bastardo!” Rosa cried. “I will not go until I know that Long John will live!”
Gil sighed. Despite Dr. Scott’s objections, Rosa took up her vigil beside the narrow cot on which Long John lay. Gil was there shortly after eleven that night, before he began the second watch, and found Rosa nodding off. A lamp guttered low, smoking the globe. If Long John had so much as moved since being placed on the cot, Gil couldn’t tell it.
“Rosa,” he said softly. Instantly she was awake.
“I only closed my eyes to rest them,” she said defensively.
“Rosa, you’re not helping him,” said Gil. “You’re only hurting yourself. You had no sleep last night, and you’re dead on your feet. Give it up.”
“No,” she said. “I have prayed for a sign that he will live. Sometime tonight I will know. Until then I will stay.”
When Gil had gone, she took one of Long John’s bony hands in hers and began to talk to him as though he were conscious and listening to her.
“Long John, Gil says we must take the cows on to California, and he says you would understand. But how can you understand if you do not know? How am I to leave you, unless I know you will be waiting for us when we return from California? Something—perhaps it is my star—tells me that I must go, or Gil will be lost to me forever. But I cannot leave you, unless you promise me that you wish to live, and that you will try. I know you are hurt and cannot speak, but I have prayed that somehow, before the morning, you will tell me that you understand. I wish you to know that all of us want you to live, to return to Texas with us, and I cannot leave you until I have that promise.”
The laudanum had long since worn off, but Long John felt no pain. In fact, he felt nothing. He feared he was dead, that he had not been one of those the Almighty had predestined to ride that range beyond the stars. His limbs felt frozen, he couldn’t open his eyes, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. Could his brain be alive and his body dead? At first the voice was only a pleasant but meaningless sound. Only the last few words got through the barrier his tortured body had flung up around his brain. He felt a little warmth in the fingers of his right hand, and slowly he was able to relate that to the distant but familiar voice. Hurt as he was, unable to move, he was aware that he had been on the very edge. There had been no reason for him not to cross that eternal line, until the voice had begged him not to. He wanted to get closer to the voice, to respond to it, and he put his very soul into the effort. He concentrated on the evening star that he had spoken to just the night before, over Bo’s grave. He was unable to do it alone, and he silently begged for help. . . .
Rosa had talked to the silent Long John until her throat ached, and while she still held his bony hand in hers, her head had sunk down in total exhaustion. Suddenly she was wide-awake. Had she imagined it, or had Long John’s fingers moved just a little? Slowly, for just a few seconds, the bony fingers pressed her own, and she knew! He had heard her plea, and it was the answer for which she had prayed! She fell on her knees beside the cot and wept. Dr. Scott came in, expecting to find Long John dead. But Rosa was smiling through her tears. The doctor stepped out and closed the door. He spoke of the strange incident to Gil the next morning, before the two of them went to the little room where Long John lay. Gil had expected to find Rosa in an exhausted stupor, but she greeted them with a smile and a prediction.
“Long John is going to live!” she said. “He will be waiting for us when we return from California. He understands why we must go.”
Rosa didn’t see Dr. Scott shake his head, but Gil did. He believed, as the doctor obviously did, that when they returned from California, Long John’s bones would be resting in a grave next to Bo’s. In fact, unknown to Rosa, Gil had already made arrangements with Captain Norris to see that Long John had a decent and proper burial. He had no idea what had given Rosa new hope, but he was thankful for it. There would be time enough for her to weep over Long John’s grave when they returned from California.
June 3, 1850. Fort Yuma, Arizona Territory
“Move ’em out,” Gil shouted.
Mariposa and Estanzio led out with the horse remuda, while the rest of the outfit, now short two riders, got the longhorns moving. The day’s drive was only ten miles. They crossed the Cargo Muchacho Mountains, bedding down the herd in the foothills beyond the western slope. Again they were relying on springs, and this one was a certainty. The next one promised to be much farther.
“Tomorrow,” said Gil, “we’ll turn more to the northwest. To the south there’s Salton Sea, which may be a salt lake. Beyond that is the Anza Borrego Desert. I think we want to avoid both. We’ll keep to the northwest, drive through Palm Springs and to the north of Los Angeles. We’ll be in the northern foothills of the Sierra Madres for maybe a hundred miles. Then we’ll move in near enough to the coast to see the big water.”
Southern California was dry, and Gil was often forced to shorten the day’s drive to assure them of water. Leaving sure water to gain a few more miles didn’t make sense if it resulted in a dry camp. The land seemed to have an abundance of chaparral, a thorny bush common to the west, whose name had been bequeathed during Spanish domination. From a distance, to those unfamiliar with it, the growth was deceiving. Up close it became a dense thicket of dwarf trees, a virtual haven for wild longhorns. Except for the higher elevations, there was virtually no forest, and that clothing the slopes appeared to be coniferous. On the chaparral plains there were tracks of deer, rabbits, and coyotes.
Once the outfit had left Fort Yuma, little had been said about the critically wounded Long John. Gil had left Bo’s saddle at the fort, to be claimed when they started back to Texas. Long John’s saddle had been left there with the same thought in mind, but Gil hadn’t had any intention of leaving the Cajun’s weapons, ammunition, or horse. Rosa hadn’t seen it that way.
“When Long John is well,” the girl had said, “he will need his horse, and has he not earned the right to keep his weapons and ammunition?”
So Gil had been forced to leave Long John outfitted as though he would one day rise from the cot on which he lay more dead than alive. And again there was a rift between Gil and Rosa. Rosa had told Gil of her prayers and of Long John’s response that last night at Fort Yuma. Now she realized he didn’t share her faith, that he never expected Long John to rise from that cot. Gil was resentful because Rosa had created a scene that had left him seeming callous and uncaring.
June 18, 1850. East of Los Angeles, on the Mojave River
Gil estimated they were 210 miles northwest of Fort Yuma and a hundred miles from the point where they’d parallel the Sierra Madre foothills.
“Seventeen days out of Yuma,” Van said. “That’s just a little more than twelve miles a day.”
“Which is a good day on a trail drive,” Gil reminded him. “We’ve had short days, bedding down near water when we still had three hours of daylight left. According to this map Big Foot Wallace got for us, there’ll be lakes and rivers aplenty from here on. We’ll be able to follow some of these rivers, like we did the Gila. That means we can keep the drive goin’ right up to sundown, with the river there beside us.”
“Nex’ time,” said Juan Padillo, “let us bring the map which has a river all the way from Tejano range to Californio goldfields.”
They all laughed, and it sounded strange in their own ears. It was the first cheerful note since Bo had died and Long John had been shot. It might be a turning point, Rosa thought. Perhaps things were about to change for the better. The next morning, three hours on the trail, they came up on a northbound wagon with a smashed rear
wheel. A middle-aged man and a younger woman, both dressed in city clothes, stood there looking helplessly at the disabled wagon. The mismatched team—a roan and a bay—waited patiently, to be unhitched or to continue the journey.
Mariposa and Estanzio drove the horse herd wide of the wagon. Far ahead, but within sight of the longhorn herd, the Indian duo held up the horses. If Gil chose to aid these stranded travelers, it might mean halting the trail drive. But Gil rode far enough ahead of the long-horns to take a look at the wagon without stopping the herd. He waved his hat, signaling Ramon to guide the longhorns wide of the wagon but to keep moving. He then rode to the wagon and dismounted. Taking things in the order of their importance, he considered the problem before he spoke to the travelers. The wagon was far from new, and had been rawhided together. Several of the wheels had spokes missing, while others had split, held precariously in place with wire. The brake shoe, once a thick pad of leather, had worn through to the wood. In mining country, mules were at a premium, so that accounted for the horses. By the time Gil turned his attention to the people involved, they seemed impatient and half angry. To further complicate things, the longhorn herd had passed the wagon, and Rosa had left her drag position. She reined up beside Gil just in time for the stranded strangers to introduce themselves.
“I, sir, am former judge Lionel Donnegan, recently retired from the New York bench, and this is my daughter, Kate.”
“Gil Austin, and this is one of my riders, Rosa.”
The two females were appraising one another like a pair of hostile hounds. Kate spoke first, a malicious gleam in her eye.
“A female cowpuncher, and a chili pepper at that. There must be a real shortage of men out here.”
“There is a shortage of women as well,” Rosa responded angrily, “and I cannot see that it is improving.”
The California Trail Page 28