Santa Fe Woman

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Stuffy, you couldn’t tell the truth if your life depended on it.”

  “Oh, he’ll deny it,” Stuffy said, nodding wisely and winking at Kate. “But everybody knows that he’s a terrible fellow where women are concerned.”

  Kate suddenly faced McGinnis squarely. “Are you born again yourself, Stuffy?”

  McGinnis opened his mouth, started to speak, then suddenly found it necessary to clear his throat. “Well, not exactly.”

  Good News was delighted. He laughed and clapped Stuffy on the shoulder. “No, he ain’t born again, but he’s gonna be before this here trip is over.” He winked and said, “You and me’ll gang up on him, Miss Kate. We’ll get him saved, baptized, sanctified, and filled with the Holy Ghost before we get to Santa Fe.”

  “I’ll be glad to cooperate with you on that, Good News.”

  Stuffy was suddenly nervous, a most unusual thing for him. “I don’t reckon as how I need any help,” he said stiffly. He turned and walked away.

  “You’re forgetting your eggs, Stuffy,” Good News called out. But then he turned and shook his head, his eyes warm. “Never knew Stuffy to turn down seconds, but good to have a fellow believer on the trail, Miss Kate.”

  “I’ll look forward to having some meetings and talking about the Lord,” Kate smiled. She watched as Good News turned away and noticed that he walked over to where Stuffy was, sat down and began talking earnestly with him. That’s a good man, she thought. We’ll probably need more like him on this journey.

  * * *

  BRODIE DONAHUE FINISHED HIS plate and drained the last of his coffee. He was a tall man with wide shoulders, a solid neck, and black hair and eyes. He was fine looking, clean shaven, and better dressed than most of the mule skinners. He turned to Charlie Reuschel and said, “Look at that filly, ain’t she a pippin?”

  Charlie turned to look at the young woman who was standing alone at the table staring off into space. “A fine-lookin’ gal.”

  “She’s a daisy, ain’t she? Better go make myself available.”

  “You heard what Rocklin said about the women,” Charlie Reuschel said. He was no more than average height but very strongly built. He wore a hat always, for he was bald. He had light blue eyes and was the best shot of any of the men in the train. It seemed he could not miss with a rifle or a pistol.

  “Ah, that’s just talk.”

  “I don’t reckon Rocklin’s one for just talk. You better behave yourself.”

  Indeed, Rocklin had given a talk to all of the men on the train. It had been a short talk in which he had informed them that they were to keep themselves on their best manners where the women on the train were concerned. He had ended by saying, “I’m not much of a one for rules, but anybody that breaks this one I’ll come down on him pretty hard.”

  Donahue had paid little attention to the speech. He was a rough fellow and could handle himself in most any kind of fight. He knew that Chad Rocklin was a pretty tough man, or he would not have been chosen to lead this train. Donahue, however, was not one to worry about things like that.

  He got to his feet, brushed his black hair back, and shoved his hat back on his head. “A man that won’t take a chance of a whippin’ to get next to a good-lookin’ one like that don’t amount to dried spit, Charlie.” He left and went over at once to where Jori was standing. “Ma’am, my name’s Brodie Donahue. Don’t think we’ve met.”

  Jori turned and looked up into the face of the tall young man. “I’m Jori Anne Hayden.”

  “Right pleased to know you. Guess you’re lookin’ forward to this trip.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Well, that’s speakin’ right out,” Brodie said with surprise. “You don’t like Santa Fe?”

  “I’ve never seen it.”

  “I haven’t either, but I always like to see new things.” He glanced over at the wagons and said, “Anything I can help you with, you just say.”

  “As a matter of fact, there is one thing. I want to take a desk that my grandfather made. Would you help me get it into the wagon?”

  “Sure enough, Miss Jori.”

  Brodie followed Jori into the house and up the stairs. He was impressed with the ornate furniture and the wealth that the house bespoke. He followed her down the hall and into a room. She motioned toward a rather small, rosewood desk barely large enough to sit at. “My grandfather made that.”

  “Mighty fine workmanship.” He walked over, picked it up easily, and said, “Anything else?”

  “No. Just that.”

  As Jori turned and walked out of the house, Brodie followed her, admiring her figure. She’s a little bit snooty, he thought, but get out on the trail and she’ll break down, I expect.

  Jori stopped in front of the Conestoga wagon that she would be traveling in. “Just put it in wherever you can find room.”

  “Sure enough, miss.”

  The wagons were loaded, but Brodie was lifting the desk to put it in the back of the wagon when Rocklin suddenly appeared. “Take that back in the house, Brodie.”

  Brodie turned, surprise washing across his face. “But the lady said she wanted to take it.”

  “I am going to take it. It belonged to my grandfather.”

  Rocklin stood to one side, loose jointed and looking hard and capable. “I’m sorry, Jori, but we can’t take anything else. We’ve talked about this before.”

  Jori looked around and saw that her father and brother were watching. Beyond them, Kate had approached. Some of the mule skinners also had perked up and were grinning. She saw two of them grab Herendeen, lean over, and whisper something to Jake Fingers, and Fingers laughed quietly.

  Jori Anne Hayden was accustomed to having her own way. It had molded her and made her, and now she felt a sudden urge to demonstrate the independence that had always been a part of her character. “This was one of our family pieces, the only one that I’m taking. I’m taking it with me, Rocklin.”

  Rocklin did not hesitate. “Every pound counts. I’ve tried to point that out. We’re going across some bad rivers, and we’ll probably have to unload some of the wagons. We’ll probably even have to leave some of the gear.”

  Grat Herendeen suddenly moved closer. “Aw, let her take the desk, Chad. Don’t weigh much.”

  Every eye suddenly focused on Rocklin, at least among the mule skinners. It was a challenge lightly made but unmistakable. Grat was that kind of a man. He had to be first. Beside his bulk Rocklin looked almost small. He was as tall as Herendeen, but Herendeen’s bulk was impressive.

  “There’s not room for the desk, Grat.” He turned to Jori and said briefly, “Sorry, miss, it can’t go.”

  “And I say it will!” Jori cried, suddenly weak with anger.

  Suddenly Leland Hayden was there. He was a soft-spoken man who had had an easy life. It had not been easy for him to throw himself into a wild venture such as this, but he understood clearly that Grat Herendeen had thrown down a challenge. He understood also that there must be no question as to who was the captain of this wagon train.

  “We’ll leave it with the Nelsons, Jori.” He came over and put his hand on her shoulder and added softly, “We’ll come back and get it some day. I promise.”

  Jori suddenly understood that there was no appeal to this. “All right, if that’s the way it has to be.”

  Brodie had watched this little drama very carefully. He was standing next to Good News Brown and said, “If I’d had my say, I’d let her take the desk.”

  “It ain’t your say,” Good News replied shortly. He watched Rocklin and shook his head. “He’s a pretty tough nut, ain’t he, Brodie?”

  * * *

  THE WAGONS WERE FINALLY loaded, which had taken some doing. Eddie Plank, a big overflowing man with brown eyes and brown hair, was in charge of most of this operation. He was capable though slow moving, but when the wagons were finally loaded, he nodded with satisfaction. “Reckon it’s all on. We’re ready to go.”

  Rocklin nodded and moved over toward
his horse. Mark stopped him and said, “You were pretty rude to my sister.” He was still upset by the scene.

  “No, that’s wasn’t rude.” Chad suddenly smiled. “You’ll know it when I get rude, Mark.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to take one piece of furniture.”

  “She put me in a bad spot. I had to make a choice.”

  Mark started to argue, but Rocklin interrupted him. “Are you going to pull your weight on this trip?”

  Mark flushed. He had already been drinking, and the smell of liquor was on him. He was soft physically and spoiled, but he had nothing to measure himself by. He had always been given what he wanted, and his friends had surrendered to his wishes. Now, looking into the tough face of Chad Rocklin, he felt a sudden spurt of anger. “I can handle my end of it!”

  “You can’t handle the trail if you’re drunk.”

  Mark Hayden’s face flushed. “Mind your own business,” he muttered, then turned and stalked away stiffly. He was aware that his father was watching him, and he stopped to say, “We should have got another man for the wagon master.”

  “I don’t think so,” Leland said. “I think you need to pay attention to him. You don’t need to be drinking, especially in the morning.”

  “A drink never hurt anybody, Father.”

  Leland Hayden watched his son go, and a sudden fear touched him. “I haven’t done much to make a man out of him,” he said softly to himself. “Maybe this trip will help.”

  Pedro Marichal, the head drover, had watched the confrontation between Rocklin and the Hayden woman. Pedro was a tall, lean man with dark eyes and black hair beginning to be sprinkled with gray. He was aware of the girl Callie who was seated on her mare beside him. “What did you think of that, Callie?”

  “He was mean to her.”

  “She’s spoiled. You can tell by looking.”

  As Pedro studied her, he recalled how Rocklin had asked him to try her out to see if she would be able to help with the remuda. It was a tough job keeping the spare mules and horses together, and Pedro had been doubtful. He had tried her out and been pleased to discover that Callie Fortier was better than most young men her age.

  Now he suddenly asked, “How’d you learn to ride and handle animals?”

  “My father was a mule skinner.”

  “This trail’s gonna be hard,” he warned.

  “I don’t care, Pedro.”

  He smiled. She was wearing men’s clothing that did not altogether conceal her trim, young figure. “What are you going to do when some of the men make up to you?”

  It was the same question that Rocklin had brought up, and Callie smiled at Pedro. “I’ll shoot ’em in the foot.”

  Pedro abruptly laughed. “That’s a good idea. You do that.”

  * * *

  THE TRAIN STARTED OUT, and Jori was surprised to see the mule skinners riding on the back of the horse closest to the wagons, although Charlie Reuschel walked beside his team. She was also surprised to see that the only animals with lines really attached to guide them were the off-leaders, the front horse on the left-hand side of each team. She did not understand that, but she determined to ask someone.

  She rode in the front seat of the wagon for two hours and discovered exactly how hard a seat could be. It was a simple board with no padding and no back. Once she looked with envy at the girl Callie who was riding a horse at the back of the line of wagons. She was laughing and talking with Pedro, and the thought came, I wish I could ride a horse. The pace was slow enough, so she leaped down and started walking alongside the wagon. Carleen piled out after her, and they had not gone more than a hundred yards when Rocklin came by on his big red horse.

  “You decide to walk all the way to Santa Fe, Carleen?”

  Carleen looked up at the man on the big horse and grinned. “My bottom got sore. Didn’t yours, Jori?”

  Jori flushed. “Don’t talk like that.”

  “Like what?” Carleen said.

  “Never mind.”

  “If you’d rather ride, Jori, I’ll have Callie cut out a horse for you.”

  Instantly Jori nodded. “I’d like it a lot better.”

  “Come along. We’ll pick you out a good one.” Rocklin swung out of the saddle so that he could walk alongside Jori. “Wagon seats do get pretty hard.”

  Jori did not answer. It aggravated her to have to take a favor from this man, but, after all, she thought, these are our horses.

  “Callie, will you put a saddle on that sorrel over there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ten minutes later the horse was saddled, and Callie had handed the lines to Rocklin. She had mounted and ridden back to help with the stock. “This is a good horse. I don’t reckon he has a name.”

  “How are you gonna ride in that dress?” Carleen had suddenly appeared and was staring at Jori curiously.

  “That is a problem, I reckon,” Rocklin said. “We don’t have a sidesaddle in the train.”

  “I don’t need one.” Jori made an instant decision. She lifted her foot up, put it in the stirrup and grasping the saddle horn pulled herself into the saddle. She plumped down with both feet dangling from the left side of the horse and glared at Rocklin, daring him to laugh.

  “Well, that’s one way, I reckon, but I’d sure hate to ride all the way to Santa Fe like that.”

  “I want to ride with you,” Carleen said.

  “Come on up then.”

  Rocklin suddenly reached out, picked Carleen up, and put her on the back of the horse behind the saddle. He watched as Jori rode off and shook his head. “Well, it seems like I find more ways to irritate that woman. It’s going be a long trip if things don’t change.”

  Chapter Eight

  AS JORI LOOKED BACK at the wagons, it occurred to her that they well deserved the nickname of “prairie schooner.” They were huge wagons made in Pennsylvania, heavy and lumbering, all pulled by eight mules. Some called them Conestogas; others called them Pittsburghs. She pulled the sorrel up and waited, watching as they swayed heavily as the wheels dropped into different tracks. They had high prows and sterns and enormous wheels with iron tires six inches wide. She had heard Rocklin explain that most wagons had wheels no more than three inches, but it was his considered opinion that the wider wheels were less likely to burrow down into the soft ground. She had talked one evening after supper to Addie Joss, the only black man on the train. He was a quiet man with a ready smile and handy in every way, especially as a blacksmith. He had told her that the wagons were built like ships and as watertight as possible. “We’re gonna be crossin’ some pretty big rivers,” Addie had nodded, “but these are good wagons made out of white oak, hickory, bois d’arc—all of it well seasoned.”

  Shifting her weight uncomfortably, Jori longed for a sidesaddle. They were not as comfortable as the saddles that men used, but it would be better than perching sideways. The sorrel snorted, bent his head, and bit at the new spring grass that light rains had brought out. The sounds had become familiar to her—men’s voices, the mule skinners’ whips popping like gunshots over the heads of the mules, the stay chains and the traces jingling musically, and, from time to time, the raucous braying of the mules.

  Despite herself, she thought there was a grace about the Conestogas. The covers were white, following the bows that arched over the wagons, which in turn followed the curve of the prow and the sterns. It occurred to her again that they looked more than ever like ships that sailed the rolling plains of the prairie instead of the blue seas and oceans.

  One wagon had passed them on the day they had left Arkansas for Franklin. It was painted red and blue with the white sails giving it a patriotic flavor. But their wagons had been simply oiled and were designed strictly for utility. Eddie Plank had informed her that each wagon contained anywhere from twenty-five hundred to three thousand pounds of cargo. In addition to the trading goods there were extra spokes, extra chains, all sorts of tools, and cooking gear needed so that there was not a spare inch left unused. Uncom
fortably, Jori thought of the encounter she had had over her grandfather’s desk. She hated to be wrong. Noticeably, the relationship between her and Rocklin had not modified.

  The sound of hoofbeats caught her attention, and she looked up to see Rocklin, who had ridden on ahead, coming back at a fast gallop. He rode well, she admitted, but then all of the men did. He stopped to say a word to her father who was in the first wagon and then came alongside her. He was smiling. “Good news. We’ll be in Franklin before dark.” He turned his horse, which immediately fell into step with her mare. “I guess you’ll be ready for a change.”

  “Be nice to sleep in a bed or even to sit in a chair.”

  Rocklin merely smiled at her. She noticed that he never stopped searching the horizon, his eyes moving from point to point. “What are you looking for?” she asked curiously.

  Rocklin started and then gave a half laugh. “Indians.”

  “Indians? Are they here?”

  “Just the tame ones. The hostiles won’t be a problem until we cross the Arkansas.”

  He seemed comfortable enough with silence, this tall man with the restless eyes. She studied his tawny hair and wondered about the scar that began near his ear and followed his jawbone all the way down into his neck. “How’d you get that scar, Rocklin?”

  “Foolishness.”

  His brief enigmatic reply amused her. “Probably an interesting story.”

  “Not one for ladies.” He suddenly turned to face her, and she met his eyes. He had the bluest eyes she had ever seen, almost the color of the cornflowers that grew in the woods throughout Arkansas. He held her glance, then said, “Been pretty rough on you. You’re not used to such things.”

  “It has been hard.” Indeed, the admission did not cover the trouble. She had been bitten by mosquitoes and troubled by a strange sort of black fly that delighted in crawling in her nose and ears. Rocklin had included a tent in the gear despite the extra weight. It was large enough for the women, and Addie Joss put it up for them every night at the end of the day. There were no cots or beds, simply blankets, but Jori had been so tired each night that she had fallen asleep as if struck by a mighty blow.