Blood and Gold

Chapter 12

We were halfway down the slope when the rain began, not the downpour I’d expected but a soft drizzle, lacing across the landscape as fine as spun silver.

As soon as we reached the flat and turned south, I remounted the black while Lila took my place beside the oxen and I rode away to scout the trail ahead.

For the most part this was open country, a grama and buffalo grass plain with low hills rising here and there, their slopes dotted with mesquite and post oak.

I startled a small herd of grazing antelope and they bounded away from me over the crest of a hill and were soon lost to sight. Several times I spotted long-horn steers, strays from the spring herds, but they were every bit as wild as the antelope and kept their distance.

When I reached a shallow valley between a couple of low, flat-topped rises, I reined in the black and slid my Winchester from the boot.

My ears straining for the slightest sound, I sat still in the saddle, scanning the valley ahead and the surrounding slopes.

Nothing stirred.

The drizzle continued to fall silently on the grass and far above me the gray clouds were starting to thin and far to the west I saw a patch of blue sky.

I turned in the saddle, looking for the wagon. It was about a mile behind me, the oxen plodding through the long grass, and I could make out the tiny figures of Lila and her pa.

There was no way around it—the wagon would be here soon and before it arrived I’d have to scout the valley, a likely place for an Apache ambush.

I wheeled the black around the screening rise of the hill to my right and got behind its shallow slope. I rode down into a rocky wash, followed it for a couple of hundred yards, then rode out of it again, finally stopping at a dense thicket of mesquite growing low on the hill.

Rifle in hand I swung out of the saddle and, crouching low, made my way up the rise. I reached the crest and looked around. As far as I could see the land around me seemed empty.

But the Apaches had been here.

A small, charred circle on the grass showed where they’d coaxed a sullen fire out of mesquite root and sent up smoke, probably the talking smoke we’d seen earlier in the morning.

I got down on one knee, my rifle at the ready, but saw only silent hills and rain-washed grass. After a few minutes the pattering drizzle petered out, discouraged by the blossoming sun that felt warm on my back, and around me the color of the grass and hills shaded from dark to light green as the sunlight touched them.

I rose to my feet just as the riders started to come.

A column of cavalry was riding through the valley, a red-and-white guidon fluttering at their head, two pack mules bringing up the rear. The officer in command threw up a hand when he saw me and halted the troop.

I made my way down the hill, under the careful scrutiny of two dozen hard-eyed buffalo soldiers, and stopped beside the officer, an elderly white captain with iron gray hair showing under his battered campaign hat.

“Captain James O’Hearn,’ the officer said by way of introduction, his voice harsh like he gargled with axle grease. “Ninth Cavalry.”

I gave O’Hearn my name and added: “I see you’ve fared badly, Captain.”

The officer nodded. “Had a run-in with Apaches south of here. Lost my scout and a couple of my men are hit hard.”

I glanced along the column and saw a Pima draped belly down across his saddle, his long black hair hanging loose, almost touching the top of the grama grass. Two of the soldiers sat slumped in the saddle, one with a bloodstained bandage around his head.

O’Hearn studied me with interest. “What brings you out here, Hannah?”

I nodded toward the approaching wagon. “That. We’re headed for the Clear Fork of the Brazos.”

The captain watched the wagon creak slowly toward the column, and when he saw Lila walking by the side of the oxen as she finally reached us, he touched the brim of his hat. “Captain James O’Hearn, ma’am. Ninth Cavalry.”

Lila dropped an elegant little curtsy, then introduced herself and her father.

Obviously taking pleasure in the sight of a pretty woman in this stark wilderness, O’Hearn smiled and swung stiffly out of the saddle. He turned to his sergeant, a clean-shaven man in a faded blue army shirt, tan canvas pants tucked into his high cavalry boots. “Rest the men for fifteen minutes, Sergeant Wilson.”

I watched the troopers dismount, all of them black men in the ragtag uniforms of the frontier army, no two of their sweat-stained campaign hats alike, each shaped to the wearer’s individual taste. Most wore the blue shirt and yellow-striped breeches of the horse soldier, but a few affected store-bought pants and all had brightly colored bandanas around their necks.

To a man the men looked worn-out and hollow-eyed, but their weapons were clean and as they searched for wood to boil their coffee, their restless attention was constantly on the hills around them.

These were first-class fighting men who had earned a reputation among the Apaches of being brave and tenacious enemies, no small accolade from Indians who were mighty warriors themselves.

O’Hearn himself looked to be about sixty, but he was lean and hard, honed down to bone and muscle by constant campaigning and the harsh nature of the land itself.

The soldiers shared their coffee with us, and while we drank, O’Hearn paid a great deal of attention to Lila. She was so beautiful that morning that when I looked at her, I felt pain as much as pleasure. Lila had a way of doing that to a man and when I was around her I found it hard to think straight.

It was the captain’s voice that brought me back to reality. “Ma’am, I’m returning to Fort Griffin and I’d be happy to escort you and your father there until the Apache renegades are penned up.”

Lila flashed her dazzling smile. “Thank you kindly, Captain,” she said. “But Pa and I are anxious to reach our farm while there is still time to plant a crop.”

O’Hearn shook his hoary head. “Ma’am, I have a daughter your age, and I would tell her the same thing I’m telling you. It’s too dangerous for a woman to be out here. The Apaches have split up into a dozen different war bands and they have the whole country between here and the Brazos in turmoil.”

He nodded his head to the south. “Yesterday they killed two men at a cabin over on Valley Creek and before that they hit a preacher and his family on the Concho. Killed five people, three of them children.”

The officer looked from her pa to Lila. “I urge you, ma’am, to accompany us to the fort where you’ll be safe.”

Lila was silent for a few moments, obviously weighing possibilities, but then shook her head, a tendril of raven black hair falling over her face. “Captain, Mr. Hannah assures us we can reach our farm in a couple of days. I really do wish to press onward.”

The soldier shrugged, a helpless gesture. He turned to Ned. “And you, Mr. Tryon? What do you think?”

Ned looked exhausted and suddenly old. “My daughter has a mind of her own, Captain. I’ll do as she says.”

O’Hearn studied Ned closely, taking in his haggard appearance and bloodshot eyes and drew his own conclusions. “Then God help you,” he said. His shrewd blue eyes turned to me, judging me, sizing me up from the scuffed toes of my boots to the top of my hat. “Now it’s all up to you, Mr. Hannah, I think.”

I nodded, drawing a breath from deep in my chest. “Once we cross the Brazos we’ll be safe. My ranch is down there.” I tried a smile. “We’ll get it done.”

“Well, maybe so,” O’Hearn said, unconvinced. He drained his cup and turned to the sergeant. “Mount ’em up, Sergeant Wilson.”

The soldiers threw the dregs of the coffee onto the fire and swung into the saddle.

Captain O’Hearn looked down at Lila and touched his hat brim. “One last time, ma’am, I beg you to reconsider.”

“I’ll be fine, Captain, but thank you so much for your concern.”

The soldier seemed to realize that any further attempt at persuasion was useless. He waved his men forward and the troop clattered past us, their accoutrements jingling loud in the morning silence.

After the soldiers disappeared from sight a deeper silence descended on the valley, and the heat of the sun did little to warm me.

Without a word to Lila, I went back up the hill and retrieved my horse. By the time I caught up with the wagon the day was brightening to noon and the sky was swept clear of clouds. As I surrendered the black to Lila, a hawk circled high above me, then glided off on still wings to the north only to dive with tremendous speed at something crawling in the grass.

A little death had just occurred, but it was one among many, and the sky and the sun and the listening hills seemed none the poorer for it.

We traveled through the growing heat of the day under a smoldering sun and saw no sign of Apaches. But I knew they were out there sure enough, moving through the vast land that had swallowed them, making no sound, gliding like vengeful ghosts.

I walked beside the oxen, my rifle across my chest, knowing I had no hand in the course of future events, but must wait for whatever happened to come to me.

It was a perilous situation that did little to settle a man’s mind and I felt exposed and mighty vulnerable.

That night we made a cold camp in a thicket of mesquite and shared a poor supper of the peppermint balls I’d bought at Doan’s store.

Later, after Lila and her pa had sought their blankets, restless, I took up my rifle and scouted around the camp. Above me, in the dark purple heavens, a sickle moon was reaping the stars and a rising wind whispered warnings in my ear in a language I could not understand.

I climbed a small hill above the camp that rose to its crest in a series of narrow benches. Once at the top, I stayed there, listening to the silence that suddenly stirred below me.

Carefully, I descended the other slope of the hill, then froze when I heard a hoof click on a rock. My eyes slowly penetrated the gloom and I saw a huge, shaggy shape walk along the sandy bed of a wash, every now and then stopping to dip its bearded muzzle into a shallow pool where the rain had gathered.

Even in the uncertain moonlight, there was no mistaking the humpbacked shape of an enormous buffalo bull. The animal lifted his head, caught my scent and, his eyes rolling white in panic, he galloped along the wash and disappeared into the darkness.

The bull must have been among the last of his kind and his survival was nothing short of a miracle. Miracles are not for men who believe, but for those who disbelieve. And right then, with all the puncher’s inborn superstition, I was willing to believe that the buffalo was a sign Lila and me and her pa would also survive.

Thus reassured, though I knew in my heart of hearts that I was surely clutching at a straw, I returned to the camp where the others were asleep. I caught up my blanket and drew a little ways off, settling my back against a boulder that jutted from the earth among a few post oak. I wrapped the blanket around me and forced myself to stay awake.

I thought about Lila Tryon and the way she looked and the way she looked at me.

Was I falling in love with her?

That was unlikely, on account of how I planned to very soon marry pretty Sally Coleman.

But Sally giggled!

The single memory of that high-pitched, undulating tee-hee giggle cut through all the rest like a knife.

Could I wed a gal with a giggle like that?

Once, it was only a few months ago but seemed like a lifetime, I’d thought her giggle a darlin’ thing and when I heard it my breath would ball up in my throat and I’d go weak at the knees.

Now, remembering, I realized it wasn’t so cute, but kind of little-girly and immature.

Lila didn’t giggle. She had a good, outright, white-toothed laugh that chimed like a silver bell.

Ashamed of myself for my treachery, I put both women out of my mind, forcing myself to concentrate on what was happening around me, and the soft sounds stirring amid the gathering night.

Ned Tryon tossed in his blankets and cried out in his sleep and a coyote yipped in the distance and once I heard, or imagined I heard, a far-off rifle shot.

The wind gusted over the buffalo grass, bending it this way and that, setting the leaves of the post oaks to fluttering. Shivering, I drew my blanket closer around me, worrying over that rifle shot, if that’s what it was.

One way or another, I reckoned it was going to be a long night. . . .

I woke with a start as the darkness died around me, probing fingers of dawn light forcing open my eyes.

I stood, stiff and weary, and studied the land around me. The plains and sentinel hills lay still, bathed in brightness from broken clouds that looked like someone had dipped a giant brush in gold paint and stippled them across the vast blue canvas of the sky.

Many people believe the sky is a thing separate from the earth, but it’s not—it’s part of it. And soon we’d be traveling, not under its arching canopy, but through it, golden light stretching out all around us.

Last night I’d feared to build a fire, but now, wishful for coffee, I gathered a few sticks of dry wood from the hillside, then filled the pot from the wash, where I’d seen the buffalo.

The fire I kept small, just enough to boil the coffee, and when it was done I poured a cup for Lila and brought it to her. The girl woke and smiled at me and I felt my heart thud in my chest. Lila took the coffee gratefully, handling the hot tin cup with care.

I poured coffee for myself, squatted beside her and built a smoke. I thumbed a match into flame and lit the cigarette.

“We should wake Pa,” Lila said.

I nodded. “Soon. He had a pretty restless night, crying out in his sleep an’ all. I reckon we’ll let him rest for a few more minutes.”

Lila glanced over at her sleeping father. “He’ll be just fine when we reach our farm,” she said, a wistfulness touching her voice. She looked at me, almost challenging me to say different. “I know he will.”

Me, I let it go. I’d said all I needed to say on the subject of Ned Tryon and I’d no call to speak further. Deflecting any possible questions, I said: “I reckon we’ll cross the Brazos tomorrow about twelve miles north of Round Timbers. Before then we’ll reach the headwaters of the Little Wichita and then Deepwater Creek.” I drew deep on my cigarette. “It’s good country down there, plenty of grass and wood.”

Lila picked up her cup gingerly, holding it with her thumb and forefinger by the rim. “The farm has been my dream and Pa’s dream for months,” she said. “I can hardly believe it soon will come true.”

I tossed away my cold cigarette butt. “Best we get moving,” I said.

Thirty minutes later we took to the trail again, but this time I rode the black, scouting just ahead of the wagon.

The sun was straight above my head and the day was warm when the three riders came.

And there was no mistaking the huge, yellow-haired man who rode grimly at their head, a scoped rifle across the horn of his saddle.

It was Lafe Wingo.