Crossing Purgatory (29 page)

27

“H
og fodder,” Benito said. “My boys eat food meant for hogs, and you would deny us grain?”

It was true, Thompson admitted. The cornmeal had run low in June, and Teresa had collected dried husks from the fodder bin and crushed them and added the powdery mix to the remaining meal to stretch supplies. The tortillas tasted coarse but they filled the stomach.

Now they stood over the bags of wheat grain, twelve bushels, the yield from Thompson's experiment with Obadiah's seed. Together they'd cut the stalks, threshed it against the adobe wall of the placita, and winnowed chaff from grain. Twelve bushels they ended with.

“We need seed for planting come autumn,” Thompson said, keeping his voice even.

“There is more than enough to replant your field and supply bread as well,” Benito said.

“Bread would be welcome,” Teresa said. The others remained silent.

“Wheat takes to this climate,” Thompson said. “I, we need to expand acreage.”

“Fair,” Benito said. “You planted only a test section. What are your plans, ten, twelve acres?”

“Twenty-five, thirty,” Thompson answered. He watched as Benito evaluated the grain, measuring Thompson's requirement against yield. Benito's expression darkened.

“We've had no bread since spring,” Benito said. “Little cornmeal.”

“The gardens are beginning to produce,” Thompson said. “There's fresh meat. Surely we can trade for a few sacks of meal at the fort. Before long our own corn will be in.” He looked to the others. Hanna alone returned his gaze. She appeared ready to speak, but Genoveva broke the silence first.

“A compromise,” she said. “A share to all who helped reap, a double share to Thompson for his labor last autumn. He can keep his share in seed, and we can grind the remainder.”

Thompson would have liked more, did not understand Benito's shortsightedness. He thought if he pressed the matter, Hanna would join the debate on his side. Was it not her seed, after all? But he felt partially responsible for having depleted it, for upturning Obadiah's sack into the river soon after they had arrived. He knew the dispute could split their small community and saw no good coming from such a division. And, even with seed available, he technically owned no acreage on which to plant. He nodded assent and looked to Benito, who inclined his head not to him but to Genoveva.

“A fair solution.”

The following morning, Thompson returned to his cabin from early chores, built a small fire in the outside pit, and was reheating a pail of beans from the evening before when two men approached from the southwest, following the Purgatoire downstream. They were white men, lean-built and shuffling, one tall and long-whiskered, the other narrow-shouldered, almost boyish, clean-shaven, and with hair that hung down below his shoulders. The full-bearded man led a donkey loaded with what Thompson took to be mining gear: shovels and pickaxes strapped to the packsaddle; panniers knocking against the donkey's ribcage. Thompson considered retrieving his rifle from the cabin but decided against it because the two strangers had their weapons lashed to the donkey. They both lifted their hats as they drew near and Thompson moved his pail from the flame and set it on a stone of the fire ring and stood.

“It's good to come upon civilization again,” the tall man said, waving his hat at the cabin. “We'd be looking for the junction with the Arkansas, and the trail east.”

“You are not far,” Thompson said. “A few miles downstream yet, but the path is clear and level.”

“Obliged,” the man said. He eyed the skillet, looked away, and rubbed his beard.

“You come from upriver, obviously,” Thompson said. “Travel a ways?”

“We came west to prospect. The money men got all the Pikes Peak digs claimed. We went west into the mountains and south and followed this stream east, panning as we come.”

“Success?”

“None to speak of. We have flat had our fill of the adventure.”

“You eaten?”

“Oh, sure. A time back.”

Thompson noticed them both purposely looking away from the beans, downstream, as if searching for the confluence. “Come sit. This will divide.”

The bearded man glanced at his companion and motioned, and he tethered the donkey's lead to a willow limb and walked over to the fire.

“Obliged, again,” the man said and offered his hand. “Edward Handy.”

“Thompson Grey.”

Edward motioned to his companion.

“This here is Olivia Handy, my wife.”

Thompson quickly eyed her. Yes, a woman. Sun-darkened, leather-faced, hollow-cheeked, empty pouches for breasts, trail-worn.

“Mam,” he said, tilting his head. “Excuse me a moment.” Thompson went inside and carried out one of the table benches and set it by the fire. “Please, sit.” He put the skillet back onto the coals and retrieved an egg from the basket he'd collected that morning and broke it into the skillet, and others, ten or so, and took his knife and scrambled the eggs with the beans and tossed in some dried peppers. He handed the knife to Olivia and she continued stirring the eggs while Thompson collected two tin plates from inside. He scooped eggs onto the plates and handed them to Edward and Olivia, and he ate from the pan with his knife. Olivia accepted the fork, and Edward ate with his fingers. Shoveling the food, the two prospectors without talk, without looking up until the plates were empty. Edward pressed his forefinger against the plate to tamp a morsel of egg and brought the finger to his mouth and sucked at it.

“How far to the trail, you say?” he asked.

“Couple of miles,” Thompson said. “Easy ford this time of year.”

“Well, then,” Edward said, standing. “We are fortified for it.”

Olivia stood as well. “You got more gold in that there skillet than we dug in four months on the streams.”

“I don't follow you,” Thompson said.

“Them eggs,” she said. “Peddler come into camp month last, fresh eggs, fresh meat.” Olivia spat in the dirt. “Men standing in line, just begging to give that man their gold flake for something other than salt pork and corn mush.”

Thompson wrapped a handful of coffee beans in a strip of flour sack and handed the package to Olivia along with several strips of buffalo jerky. She nodded thanks and fell into step behind her husband and the donkey. Thompson watched them go, a bit more surefooted than when they had arrived. To the ford, and then set course eastward, perhaps to join up with a company headed by someone like John Upperdine. Return home. Missouri? Kentucky? Georgia? To a future of, what? They'd had a dream, followed it, and failed. Were they better off for the adventure, or worse? Perhaps the memory of having a dream at all would provide sufficient motivation to begin anew, or some measure of comfort in their dotage.

He mulled what Olivia had said. Eggs, as cherished as nuggets. What price fresh produce? Unsalted meat? He picked up the shell of a broken egg, examined it, and watched the two prospectors shrink to small, shapeless forms. A chance encounter, he reflected. An offhand comment. An opportunity?

28

T
he bear came from the riverbank early the following morning, with the lumbering deliberation of the unassailable. Haunches worked up and down, side to side, without haste, a hump-backed sway. Thompson stood outside his cabin, washing his face in a tin basin, preparing to shave, and through filmed-over eyes he thought he saw in the distance a wagon making slow progress across the untracked landscape. He instantly understood the improbability, swiped a cloth across his face, cleared his vision, and confirmed his suspicion. The prairie grizzly leisurely dug an onion from Teresa's garden, ate it, and another. A movement caught Thompson's eye, Benito limping from the orchard, waving his hat with one hand and hobbling toward the bear, staff gouging the earth, propelling himself forward as fast as his crippled leg could carry him. The bear lifted its snout and sniffed the air, head tilting as if listening to the birdsong, not a care in the world. It seemed to lose interest in the garden because of some random scent delivered with the breeze and it followed the adobe wall, occasionally pausing to rub its flank against the warm sandpaper texture until it reached the open gate, and disappeared into the placita.

Thompson scrambled inside for his rifle, banged his shoulder hard on the doorframe, and started across the field, progress slowed by his deadened arm and by corn stalks almost as tall as he. He broke from the cornfield just as Carlos exploded from the brush bordering the riverbank and charged through the pepper patch ahead of him. Carlos screamed as he ran, an unintelligible sound, some basic, primeval cry originating high in his throat, and the machete in his hand caught the sun, glinted as his arms pumped. Thompson noted the speed and a desperate forward-leaning stride. A single-minded, unwavering course.

“Wait,” Thompson called, but Carlos did not acknowledge him. His hat flew from his head and cartwheeled among the peppers. Thompson raced after him, but knew he would not catch up, knew that Carlos would enter the gate first. As Carlos approached, a great baying sounded from within, a curling, deep-throated roar that caused Thompson to pull up. Carlos met the bear as it literally exploded from the compound, full gallop. Man and bear collided, uncontrollable force meeting fragile, malleable flesh. The bear continued forward across the fields and down the river embankment and into the brush. The human flew to the side, six, eight feet into the air, twisting, flapping like a cloth in the wind, thudding to the ground, a puff of dust rising, settling.

Thompson had not shouldered his rifle. The bear had emerged from the placita with such unfocused ferocity, Carlos had entered with such urgency, he'd never thought to take aim. The drama froze him, mesmerized. The power of the beast, the frailty of the man, the silent aftermath settling upon the placita. The bear disappeared into wilderness, the man lay motionless, and Thompson lowered the hammer on his rifle and approached the gates. He knelt beside Carlos and studied the gash along his scalp line, not deep but blood heavily flowing. Although unconscious, Carlos breathed evenly, almost peacefully, it seemed, a slight fluttering behind the eyelids.

“Does he live?” Benito asked, coming up beside Thompson.

“Yes. I don't think he's in terrible shape.” Thompson stood and they started for the placita to check on the others, but were preempted by Teresa striding from it, followed by Paloma and Hanna. Joseph stood back with the two boys clinging to his legs. They were unharmed. Thompson noticed Teresa glance briefly at the man on the ground, assess his ragged appearance and rough clothes. Then she looked toward the field. “Has it fled?” she asked.

“Hell-bent,” Thompson said.

Teresa returned her gaze to the injured man, studied him closely, looked quizzically first to Benito and then to Thompson and then back to Carlos. Recognition came into her eyes. She took Paloma's elbow and tried to lead her away, but Paloma pulled from her grasp and stood over Carlos, eyes wide, mouth agape, “Qué …?” all she could mutter, “Qué es esto?” She turned and walked several paces back toward the compound and then returned and stood over Carlos, a look of distain as if disappointed the apparition hadn't melted away. She bent, peered into his face, stood, and repeated her pacing, brow forming questions she gave no voice to.

Teresa motioned to Thompson and Benito. “Gently,” she said, “bring him inside.”

“Do no such thing,” Paloma said.

Joseph approached Paloma and pointed at Carlos with disgust. “He has no right to be here,” nudging him roughly with the toe of his boot.

“Shut your mouth,” Thompson commanded. “And step away.” Joseph jerked his eyes from Carlos and glared at Thompson for a long moment before turning his back and retreating to the compound.

“You would have us leave him in the dirt?” Teresa asked her daughter.

“He left me in the dirt,” Paloma said, her tone flat and distant.

“He was injured attempting to intercept the bear,” Thompson said.

“No one asked his assistance,” Paloma said. “Why is he here?”

“He came because he could not stay away,” Benito said.

“Who invited him?”

“His heart.”

“Well, his legs can return him.”

Thompson came up close to Paloma. She diverted her eyes, but Thompson waited until she acknowledged him. “Think hard,” Thompson whispered, “before you pass judgment. Carlos was willing to die for you. Perhaps longing to.”

“A little tardy in his offer,” she said.

“Would you really choose to live out your days as you have this past year?”

“You don't know what it was like,” Paloma said under her breath, as if talking to herself.

“So. You are lost to the soldiers,” Thompson said, not unkindly, with resignation.

Carlos stirred. Paloma looked down at him, started to speak, hesitated. “Enough,” Teresa said. “Carry him inside.” This time, Paloma did not protest.

Carlos regained senses slowly over the next few hours, periods of fuzzy-headed confusion alternating with deep slumber. Upon initially awaking, his right arm hacked the air furiously, his imaginary machete fending off the imaginary grizzly. He aggravated his head wound and the bandages began to seep. Teresa put her hands on his shoulders and pressed him down onto the mattress and hummed soothingly. He looked up at her without comprehension but allowed himself to be tended to and comforted. He rested on and off and by evening realized his whereabouts, and now it was Thompson who had to sit with him, to restrain him from leaving.

“Help me. I must go,” he begged Thompson.

“You are not fit to be on your own. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

“You don't understand.”

“It seems there is much I don't understand today,” Thompson said. “Nevertheless, you need to rest, regain your strength.”