Mojave Crossing (1964) (2 page)

It was very still. The Colorado River rustled by out there in the darkness, and beyond the river loomed the Dead Mountains. Over there a narrow point of Nevada came down to join borders with California.

Uneasily, I looked westward into ^th miles of desert, and the hunch rode my shoulders that I'd see blood and grief before those miles were behind me. A fool I was to entangle myself with that black-eyed woman.

Of a sudden I realized the thing I'd ought to do was to leave now. True, the ferry was not operating, but swimming the river at this point was no new thing.

Beale had done it with his camels, and fine swimmers they proved to be.

There was a light in the window of Hardy's cabin. Crossing to it, I tapped on the door, not too loud.

Being a wise man, he spoke before opening the door, but when I told I wanted to make a dicker on some horses, he opened up, but he held a pistol in his hand, which surprised me none at all.

"Yes," he replied, when I had explained myself. "I've two good horses, but they'll cost you."

He slid his gun into xs holster and picked up his coat. He started to put it on, then stopped and looked over at me. "Are you taking that Robiseau woman out of here?"

"I never asked her name, nor she mine. She wishes to go to Los Angeles, and I'm riding that way."

He shrugged into his coat. "You're borrowing trouble. Look, I don't know you. You just drifted in here out of nowhere, but that woman is running from something, and whatever it is or whoever it is will bundle you into her package. I mean, they'll resent interference."

"Whatever it is," I said, "she's a woman alone, and needs help."

He didn't say any more, but led the way to the stable and lighted a lantern. The horses in their stalls rolled their eyes at me. There were only a few stalls, for his own good stock. The mustang stuff was in the corrals out back.

One of the two horses he showed me was a liver-colored stallion with a white nose and three white stockings; a long-barreled animal built for speed and staying power, and one of the finest-looking horses I'd seen, and big for this country. It would weigh a good thousand pounds and maybe a mite over. The other horse was a short-coupled gelding, mouse-colored, with a fine head and powerful hindquarters. It was somewhat smaller than the other, but all horse.

We dickered there by lantern light, but he knew I had to have those horses, and he got his price. Yet high as they came, they were worth every penny of it. He had bought them from an Army officer who was changing station. The horses had been the officer's private mounts, and the smaller one had been broken for a woman to ride.

"You made a good buy," Hardy acknowledged, "although I got my price. There's no better horses around, unless it's those you've got."

We stood in the stable door, listening to the river. "She came up on the boat," Hardy volunteered, "and just missed the stage to Prescott."

"Prescott?"

"Uh-huh. Then she changed her mind and decided on Los Angeles. Seems to me like she wants the first stage out, no matter where it goes."

He paused and we stood there in silence, with me thinking about that road west, and those men who had been following me.

There'd been a time, back along the trail, when I was not sure ... maybe they were just traveling the same way ... but when I left Beale's Springs I headed up to the Coyote Wells and got in there with time to spare. Those riders never showed up, although I'd seen their dust on my trail. That could mean only one thing--they were lying out in the hills, making dry camp, just so's I wouldn't see them.

Short of midnight I had left my fire burning low, saddled up, and taken off across the hills. My trail led west, toward Union Pass; but I got a notion, and after whipsawing back and forth in the trail, I cut off through the brush toward the south. South, then west, and through Secret Pass.

At Secret Spring I made camp and slept until well past daybreak. Then, after saddling up, I had climbed to the top of the cliff looked off to the east and north. Sure enough, there was dust and movement on my back trail. Through my field glasses--taken off a dead Confederate officer on the battlefield--I could just make out four riders.

They had ridden on by the place where I'd turned off, discovering too late that I'd cut out somewhere. Now they were scouting their back trail to find the turn-off. They a good ten, twelve miles off and in the bottom of Sacramento Wash.

Descending to my outfit, I had mounted up and followed the Secret Pass trail into Hardyville.

Nobody had ridden in, so they were lying out again, fearful of being seen by me, which might mean that I knew them and they feared recognition.

"Whoever it is," Hardy said now, "who wants that Robiseau woman, he wants her pretty bad, and wants her himself."

There was meaning in the way he said it, and I turned to look at him. "Keep out of it, friend,"

Hardy went on. "Three of those men in the saloon are watching her for somebody, and they shape up like grief a-plenty for anybody in their way."

"I gave her my word."

"Your funeral."

"Maybe," I said gloomily. "I'm not a trouble-hunting man. Not a one of us Sacketts ever was."

Hardy gave a quick, funny sort of sound.

"Did you say Sackett? Is your name Sackett?"

"Sure ... do you know the name?"

He turned away from me. "Get out ... get out while you can."

He started off, walking very fast, but when he had taken but a couple of steps he turned around.

"Does she know your name? Have you told her that?"

"No ... no, I never did, come to think on it."

"Of course not ... of course." He looked at me, but I could not see the expression in his eyes. There was only light enough to see his face under the brim of his hat. "Take my advice and don't tell her ... not, at least, until you reach Los Angeles--if you do."

He walked away, leaving me almighty puzzled, but convinced the time to leave was now.

Chapter
Two.

When I looked into the window of the saloon the men at the bar were still drinking their liquor and talking it up. The black-eyed woman was gone.

The hotel had only four special rooms and I had latched onto one of those. The only other occupied one was the one given to the Robiseau girl, so I slipped in the back door and went to her room and tapped ever so gently.

There was a quick rustle of clothing inside, and something that sounded like a click of a drawed-back gun-hammer, and then her voice, low. "I have a pistol. Go away."

"Ma'am," I whispered right back to her, "you want to go to Los Angeles, you come to this door, an' quick."

She came, easing it open a crack. The pistol looking through the opening was no feisty little-girl pistol. It was a sure enough he-coon of a pistol, a .44 Navy Colt.

"Ma'am, if you want to get to Los Angeles, you get dressed. We're leaving out of here in twenty minutes."

I'll give her this--she didn't say aye, yes, or no, she just lowered that gun muzzle and said, "I'll be ready. At the stable?"

"The ferry," I said, "only we're going to swim it. The ferry stopped crossing at sundown."

I'd never left hold of my gold, nor my rifle, but I stepped across the hall and picked up the rest of my gear, took one longing look at that bed, and then tiptoed down the hall and out to the stable.

When I made my dicker for the horses I'd gotten an old saddle thrown in, and now I saddled up two horses.

We'd be riding those two, and leading two spare saddle horses and my pack horse. By swapping horses, we could make faster time than most anybody coming after us, and I was figuring on that.

But that wasn't the only bee I had in my bonnet. True it was that I'd never ridden those westward trails that lay before us, but I'd listened to a sight of talk about them from those who had, and it came over me that a body might strike off on a new route and make it through, if he was lucky.

That would be something to keep in mind.

She was at the river, carpetbags and all, when I got there with the horses. She had dressed in an all-fired hurry, but she didn't show it.

Helping her into the saddle, I got the feel of her arm, and she was all woman, that one. She swung up, hooking one knee around the horn like she was riding a sidesaddle, and we taken off.

The water was dark, and there was more current than a body would expect. Walking our horses into the water, I pointed across. "Make for that peak, and when you get over there, don't call out. If we get separated, just stay put. I'll find you."

Holding my rifle and gunbelt high, I rode on into the water, and she followed.

I felt the stallion's feet go out from under him as he hit deep water.

He was a strong swimmer, and when I glanced back I saw that woman right behind me, her horse swimming strong too. We made it up the bank, and as I turned to glance back I heard a door slam and somebody shouted and swore.

"What the hell?" I said. "They ain't found out a-ready?"

She pulled up beside me. "Maybe the ferryman told them," she said.

"Ferryman? How would he know?"

She turned and looked at me like I was a fool. "Why, I asked him to take us across.

He refused."

Me, I'd never hit a woman, but I wanted to right then. I wanted to hit her the worst way. Instead, I just turned my horse and started off into the Dead Mountains, mad enough to tackle a grizzly with my bare hands.

"Ma'am," I said roughly, "you played hell. The reason we started now was to get some distance between us before daylight. Now you've tipped them off and they will be comin' right behind us."

"But they couldn't!" she protested. "He's not--I mean, why would anybody want to catch us?"

"You know that better than me, but even Hardy knew some of those men back at the saloon were there to watch you. He told me so."

She shut up then, having nothing more to say and no chance to say it, for I led off, walking that stallion fast. Having the fresh horse was going to spell my two horses, and they could use the rest.

The trail lay white under the hoofs of the horses; the desert night was still. That liver-colored stallion went out of there like he had a fire under his tail, and I'll hand it to that black-eyed girl. No matter how she had to sit her saddle, she stayed with me.

No telling what those men wanted with her, but in these times there were white men with bloodier hands than any Indian, and I was asking for no trouble I could avoid with honor. Just short of daylight I drew up and we swapped saddles to fresh horses, but it was an hour later before I made my move.

The Dead Mountains lay behind us and I turned up a dry wash. If my memory was working along the lines of what I'd been told, this was Piute Wash and it ran due north for quite a spell, then a dim trail would cut over toward Piute Spring.

There was no time for talk, and I had no mind for it, wanting only to put distance between myself and those men back there. They might run us down, or they might wait until the steamboat came in with whoever was on it.

At Piute Spring, on the eastern foot of the range, we pulled up long enough to water the horses and drink a mite ourselves. The valley ahead of us was mostly flat-seeming land covered with Joshua trees. We went out of the shadow of the Piute Range and into the Joshuas, and at first they were scattered, then they thickened up. Once into the Joshuas, we slowed down to raise as little dust as possible.

There were thousands of those trees there in the valley, and they offered a might of cover. From a height, somebody might have picked us out, but nobody on our own level was likely to, so we pushed on, holding parallel to the old Government Road from Fort Mojave.

The sun had gone before we sighted the draw I was looking forand, riding up a hundred yards, came to Rock Spring. There was little water, which suited me, for when we left I didn't mean for there to be any.

The Robiseau woman looked pale and drawn when I reached up to take her by the waist to swing her down. Tired as she was, she wasn't ready to haul down her flag. As her feet touched the ground she let her hands rest on my forearms and said, "You're very strong."

"I'd better be."

She gave me an odd look, but I turned away and began gathering sticks for a fire. The spot was sheltered, and there was time for coffee and a quick meal.

This was something I'd done so often that it was no trick at all, and by the time I'd stripped the saddles the water was boiling and the food about ready.

"You haven't told me your name."

"Folks call me Tell."

"Only that?"

"It's enough."

"I am Dorinda Robiseau."

It sounded like a made-up name, but I'd known folks with real names that sounded made up.

"Pleased to meet you."

"You haven't asked me why I couldn't wait for the stage."

"Your business."

She acted like she wanted to explain, but I had no plan to get more involved than I was. I'd been fool enough to take her along, but the sooner I got shut of her the better.