Mojave Crossing (1964) (5 page)

Not that she wasn't a beautiful woman, and the kind of woman any man would want. Even now, tired out as she was, she was lovely. But there was more to it than that. And the chances were good that I'd gotten myself on the wrong side of the law. Still, none of those men back at Hardyville had been wearing a badge ... nor did they look likely to.

Though all the men who wore badges through the western lands could not be said to measure up to a proper standard.

After a while I went back to our corner, checked the horses again, and burrowed into the sand to sleep.

But sleep did not come, dead tired though I was, for it came upon me that I knew mighty little about Dorinda Robiseau--not where she came from, who she was, nor where she planned to go. There was no telling about her, and all I had was my first suspicions that she was a witch woman.

Not that I place much stock in witches. All my life I'd heard tell of them, but I had never seen one, nor anything of their doings that I could swear to. ...

Somewhere along in there, I sort of dropped off, and the next thing I knew it was daylight.

Broad, bright daylight ...

The sun on my face awakened me, and I sat up fast and looked about.

A moment there, I couldn't place where I was, and then I saw the girl and she was a-settin' up, too.

"We slept over," I said, "and I was a fool to chance it."

About us the mountain walls lifted up steeply, In jagged, broken slopes. Up these a man on foot could climb, with some struggle and skill.

Before us, and to the south, the desert lay open, masked only by a drift of sand, a pair of crowded Joshuas, and some small brush. On the horizon to the south, maybe twelve to fourteen miles off, were the Pinto Mountains.

The cove in which we were hidden comprised maybe an acre of flat ground and banked sand. There were some good graze plants in the bottom, and I had the five horses pegged out among them. Sand had heaped across the opening of the cove so that with the brush and all it was mighty near invisible from the outside, without a man riding up to the top of the sand hill.

It was that which saved us, that and the wind being so that none of the horses caught scent of one another. For when I went up to the top of the sand I could see those riders out there, not fifty yards away, and all bunched together, talking.

During the night there had been a wind stirring, not much, but enough to drift sand in this locality where it was loose, and our trail had drifted over.

Evidently they had lost track of us and were talking it over to decide which was the most likely route for us.

The side of the mountain was drifted deep with that loose white sand. In some places it looked fit to bury whole sections of the range. So anybody taking a quick look our way would think there was nothing anywhere around but sand and rock.

Me, I motioned back to Dorinda to be still, and I lay there flat out on the sand with only the top of my head showing, and it screened by low brush and the base of a Joshua tree. My Winchester was with me, looking one-eyed at those men down there, ready to speak its piece if they started our way.

There was argument going on among them, but I could only guess at the words. Finally they turned and rode off toward the east and the spring at Twenty-nine Palms.

That was the next worst thing to their finding us, because there was no nearer water that I knew of, and our canteens were shaking light with only mouthfuls of water remaining.

Lying there in the sand, I watched them ride off.

By the time they reached Twenty-nine Palms they would figure it out that they were ahead of us, and the chances were they would sit right there by the water and wait for us, knowing that sooner or later we had to show up.

Oh, they would have it figured, all right! They would know about how much water we carried, and about how fast we used it, and right this minute they could guess within a quart the amount of water we had now ... maybe closer.

So I watched them ride away, and I knew that, riding away in the direction we must go, they carried our lives along with them. It was no easy thing, seeing them ride off, knowing the girl behind me was depending on me for a way out; and when I thought of what tomorrow would bring--the sun, the dust, the miles upon miles of desert around--I felt fear.

But there was no sense in starting off into the blazing heat of a desert day. With them ahead of us, I could, for the first time, choose our time of travel.

Taking up my rifle, I slid down the sand, and then walked back to where Dorinda was resting. From my expression she must have realized that trouble was upon us. She sat up, and, dropping to one knee on the sand, I told her.

There are men who prefer to keep trouble from a woman, but it seems to me that is neither reasonable nor wise. I've always respected the thinking of women, and also their ability to face up to trouble when it comes, and it shouldn't be allowed to come on them unexpected. Many a man has sheltered his wife from his troubles, until suddenly he dies and she awakens to poverty as well as grief. So I gave it to Dorinda hard and cold.

I drew her a diagram on the sand. "This here is Twenty-nine Palms, and beyond is the San Gorgonio Pass to the coast of the western sea.

Right about there is Los Angeles."

"Aren't there other water holes? In some other direction?"

"More'n likely ... but finding them wouldn't be easy."

She looked up at me. "We'll have to try, won't we?"

Simple as that. Sure, we'd have to try, because as well as I knew anything, I knew those men who had been trailing us would soon know they'd passed us somewhere and, as I'd thought when I watched them ride away, they would just wait for us there by the water.

Making some fire, I burned off the spines from some cholla and beaver-tail cactus and the horses ate them eagerly, for the pulp was moist. In Texas I've known ranchers to feed their stock that way. In this case, I was thinking more of the water they would get from it.

There was shade in the cove, and we sat tight, letting the day move slowly past. I'd made up my mind to travel no more by day, for, without anybody chasing us, there was no reason.

Traveling in full desert sunlight can kill a man or a horse mighty quick without enough water ... and we hadn't enough.

We did no talking, but I did a lot of thinking.

One time in Prescott I'd heard Paul Weaver yarning about some Mojaves who raided the California ranchos for horses and on their way back were driven from the trail by a sandstorm. With them was a Chemehuevi Indian who guided them to a hidden valley and a water hole in the canyon behind it.

This was in a country covered with Joshua trees and a weird lot of rocks piled up in all sorts of strange shapes. Near the valley there had been one formation I remembered Weaver telling about--he said it looked like a huge potato balanced on three points of rock.

There had been two other water holes he mentioned, but of their location I knew nothing--only that the Chemehuevi had known of them. It was almighty little to begin with, and I was scared.

Twice I went back up to that ridge of sand and looked off to the south, and neither time did my looking give me any room for hope. All I could see was miles upon miles of empty sand or burning rock, mostly dotted with creosote bushes, or here and there cactus or Joshua trees.

When the sun was almost down I put the saddles on our horses, and loaded up our pack horse. Believe me, those horses were ready to go. They had sense enough to know that if we were to get out alive we had to travel. And so, with the dying sun like a red ball of fire over the western mountains, we rode over the sand ridge and headed south into the empty, unknown desert.

After a while a bright star showed up, hanging above the distant mountains, and I chose it for our own, putting my horse's nose on it, and pointing it out to Dorinda.

"What mountains are those?"

"I don't rightly know. Could be the Pinto Range. There's a dozen small chains of mountains through here ... they all look alike the first time you see them."

"You are risking your life because of me."

"Didn't figure on it."

Beauty does something for a woman--some of them, anyway. Taking a side glance at Dorinda, I could see that even out here she'd made an effort to brush up and comb out. For a girl who'd been riding and sleeping out, with no water and all, she looked almighty pert. And I could imagine how I looked, a tall man with a big-boned, wedge-shaped face, a scar on my cheekbone, and by now a heavy growth of beard. Nobody ever claimed I was pretty, but by now I sure must look like an old grizzly coming out of hibernation.

The only brushing up I'd done was to beat the dust off my hat and wipe my guns off careful.

Only two things a man really needs in this country to survive, a gun and a horse. ...

Come to think of it, though, there is something else.

Water.

Dorinda was thinking of it, too. She rode up beside me again and said, "However can we find water out there?"

"We've got to be lucky. In desert country you can find it up a canyon, or somewhere where the rock is faulted, or at the lowest point of a basin. But unless a body sees trees out in the bottom, I'd not chance that.

"Sometimes where a ridge pushes into the desert you'll find water, but mostly you look for trees or brush of a kind that needs water. Palm trees grow with their feet in the water and their head in the sun--that's what they say. It usually is only a little way to water if you see palms growing. Willows, cottonwood ... they are good indicators, too.

"But you can't rely on that. Mostly a body should look for animal tracks, or birds flying, but mostly for bees. I've found that bees can lead a man to water faster than anything, but it's chancy ... it's chancy."

I felt pretty sure there probably weren't five water holes within a hundred square miles ... not that you could rely on.

Tilting my hat brim down, I studied those hills. It was a cinch we weren't going to find anything this side of the mountains.

The night was cool. The stars hung bright above us, and the horses moved ahead, walking with a steady, distance-eating gait. Several times I opened my mouth and drank in great gulps of that cool air.

An hour passed, and then another. But the mountains seemed no nearer. We were out on the bare desert, and I worried over every bit of talk I'd heard of the Mojave, trying to recall anything that might be of help.

When, judging by the stars, two hours more had gone by, I drew up and got down, and helped Dorinda from the saddle. She was dead beat, I could feel it in her, and she sank onto the sand and just stayed there whilst I swapped saddles and talked encouragement to the horses. They were going to need it.

"How far have we come?" she asked.

"Maybe twelve miles, if you figure a beeline. More, by the way we've had to travel."

"How much further to the mountains? We'll rest then, won't we?"

"We won't rest until we find water ... if we do." She got up into the saddle again with some help from me, and we started on, only this time I walked. At least, I walked for the first couple of miles. When I began to stumble, as near asleep as awake, I climbed into the saddle myself.

Sometime after that, I dozed in the saddle, and when my eyes opened again the horses had stopped and it was gray in the east.

We had come up to a deep, sandy wash.

Looking around, I saw that witch woman, looking like nothing but a tired girl, just sagging in the saddle and hanging on by sheer grit. My pack horse was gone.

Staring back over the desert, I figured I could see something back there, a black spot of something on the sand.

"You got anything in that outfit of yours that you can't afford to lose?" I asked.

She looked up at me, staring stupidly for a moment before the sense of the words reached her. Then she turned to look, and after a moment she shook her bead.

"He may come on after us," I said. "It'll be in him to come after the other horses if he's able.

They've been carrying more weight, but they're better stuff than him."

Looking up at her, I added, "Ma'am, you've got some solid stuff in you, too. You surely have."

But her lips were cracked and swollen, and there was no more spark to her than nothing. Nor in me, neither.

Right and left I looked, seeking a way through that wash. The banks were steep, and I feared to slide my horses down for fear they'd never get up after reaching bottom. At last I saw a place that looked like a broken-down bank, so I turned and headed for it. The sky was already lighter, and without water we would last no time in our condition if the sun caught us here.

We got through the wash, although I had to dismount and bully and harry the horses to get them up the opposite bank. A break in the mountains showed ahead of us, and I headed for it. From somewhere there came a burst of energy ... most likely the last I had.

The sun was an hour old before we found shelter in the lee of a shoulder of rock. That horse of hers just quit cold, and I didn't blame him.

Dumping our saddle gear in the shade of the rocks, I stared around. There wasn't even a barrel cactus within sight, although this was the country in which they grew. Nor was there anything I could use to feed the horses or to give them a bit of moisture. There was nothing but creosote, and mighty little of that.