Santa Fe Woman (18 page)

“Why are you doing that?”

“That man’s not able to work. He’s in poor shape, him.”

“You have your own work to do.”

Callie had said very little to Jori Hayden. She was intimidated by her. There was something about her that spoke of pride, and she had been a good, fine lady in Little Rock. This much Callie had found out. Now, however, anger touched Callie’s eyes and she said, “You have no gentleness.”

Jori’s head went up, and an angry reply leaped to her lips. It was the same thing that Rocklin had once said when she had wanted to leave the girl back in Missouri. Without a word she turned her horse and drove her heels into his side. Callie watched her speed away and smiled. “That got to her, it did,” she said with a glow of satisfaction.

* * *

“THAT FELLOW MOLITOR, HE ever say where he came from?” Good News was putting an ointment on one of the mules that had rubbed a raw spot in his tough hide.

“No, he doesn’t talk about himself much, but he’s had a better place at one time,” Kate replied.

“So I figured,” Good News said. “You know, I like that verse in the Bible. It’s the one that says, ‘As a bird that wandered from her nest so was a man that wandered from his place.’”

“That’s the lonesome verse,” Kate said. “You ready for another lesson tonight?”

“If you’re ready to waste your time.”

“It’s not a waste of time,” Kate said. The two of them had spent several evenings together by the light of the fire going over letters and words. Good News did have some sense of
reading and writing, and he was highly intelligent despite his rough look.

“Where’s your place, Good News?”

“Don’t guess I have one. I’m like that wandering bird.”

“Well,” Kate smiled at him, “the Scripture says the steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord. That means you, doesn’t it?”

Good News wiped his hands on his handkerchief and smiled at her. “I guess so.” He liked the way she was able to quote Scripture, and it humbled him to think that she would take the time to work with him. He had nothing to do with women, at least her kind of woman, and he said, “I’d like to spell a little while tonight.”

* * *

JORI HAD GONE DOWN to the creek for water. She had been thinking about what the girl Callie had said about her needing to be more gentle. The remark had galled her, but she was honest enough to know that there was truth in it. The creek whispered a sibilant song as she scooped down and got a bucket full of water, and when she straightened up she was startled, for Rocklin had come up behind her so silently she had not heard him.

“I wouldn’t go down that way,” Rocklin said.

“Why not?” Jori resented his presence, and Callie’s reminder that she had no gentleness was fresh on her mind.

“Been some Indian signs the last two days.”

His words startled Jori, and she looked quickly down the creek.

“Oh, they’re mostly just Cherokee, no danger, but I wouldn’t wander off if I were you. Here, let me take that bucket.”

She surrendered the bucket, and asked, “What about Molitor?”

“Seen a lot like him. He’s his own worst enemy.”

“He needs to change.”

“Sometimes a man can’t change without help.”

Whether it was so or not, she felt that his remark was critical of her. “You think I’m hard, don’t you?”

“On the outside. I’d like to see what’s on the inside.”

Jori could make nothing of his remark for a moment and finally said, “Tell me about the Indians.”

“Well, they’re like us. A young Indian woman has the same dreams, probably, that you do.”

Jori was resentful of the man and knew that it was foolish. “When will we get to the Arkansas?” she asked.

“Probably two days.”

“How far have we come?”

“About two hundred and sixty miles,” he said. “That’s a third of the way.” Suddenly he reached out and took her arm. “Quiet,” he whispered.

Jori did not know what he meant, but the remark about Indians frightened her, and she stood absolutely still and was aware of his strong hand on her arm holding her in place. He did not move for what seemed like a long time then he expelled his breath. “Nothing there,” he said. He suddenly put the water down and without warning reached out and pulled her into his arms. Before she could react, he kissed her on the lips then released her.

“You—you let me alone!” she said.

“Sure would like to know what’s on the inside,” Rocklin said. He saw she was struggling with anger and laughed. “The outside looks mighty good. Maybe I’ll find out more what the real Jori Hayden’s like before we get to Santa Fe.”

“Don’t you touch me again!”

Rocklin shook his head, as if puzzled by his own behavior. His voice was summer-soft as he said, “Beauty is a funny thing, Jori. Men see it in different things—some in the desert nights, some in the sea. But I think all men look for beauty in a woman. Those fellows who find it in a certain woman and are lucky enough to win her—why, they’ve got everything.”

Jori stood absolutely still, her breast softly rising and falling to her breathing. She had a temper that could charm a man or chill him to the bone. She had listened to the strange falling cadence of Rocklin’s voice, and faint color stained her cheeks. His kiss had caught her off guard, but it had stirred her in a way no man’s caress ever had—and this shamed her.

“Don’t you ever touch me again!” she whispered.

Rocklin picked up the bucket and looked at her as if deliberating some problem. “I probably will,” he remarked, dryness rustling in his voice. “Come on, let’s get back.”

THE LEFT FRONT WHEEL of the wagon dropped into a pothole, and the motion sent an exquisite pain through Jori and almost made her drop the reins. The day had been long, and her father had chosen to ride instead of driving the wagon, so she had accepted the chore—one that she was beginning to hate. Shifting around trying to find a comfortable position, she looked to her right and took in the country which, except for its lack of mountains and sea, actually was quite beautiful. The late spring flowers had sprinkled the prairie profusely with many-hued flowers. The crab apple thickets sometimes carpeted many acres in the pink blossoms as delicate as anything that she had ever seen. She could see a group of wild grapes that she had learned to recognize, for the hands all wanted to stop and pick them. She saw beyond them a specie of mimosa, flowers like purple globes dotting the landscape.

She had grown used to the monotony of the wide prairie that was broken only by deep ravines or at times a very gentle slope. The woods at this point were sometimes thick with tall, stately walnuts and the towering oaks and graceful limbs. Tall cottonwoods sometimes lined the creeks, and at this point there was plenty of cool, sweet water for the stock and for all of them. The sound of a popping whip like a rifle shot drew Jori’s
eyes toward the wagon over to the far left. They were traveling now five abreast instead of in a single line so that no one actually had to ride in the rear. She watched now without curiosity as Herendeen, walking alongside his team, cracked the whip. It nipped the ear of the leader, and the animal at once quickened the pace. One of the other men called out something to Herendeen, and she heard his husky laughter. She had learned to dislike the man and kept waiting for him to say something that she could use to pull him up short, but he was crafty and sly and kept barely within the boundaries.

“You want me to spell you, Jori?”

Turning to face her father who had ridden up, Jori shook her head. “No, I expect we’ll be nooning pretty soon. Maybe then.”

“Kind of rough on the body sitting on that hard seat. Why don’t you take a quilt or something and make a cushion.”

“I’ll be all right, Papa.”

Leland rode alongside the wagon for a moment, studying his daughter’s face. He saw the fatigue etched there and knew that his own face was no different. “Pretty tough going, isn’t it?”

“We’ll be all right.” She found a smile, and he returned it and then turned and rode forward.

It was past noon, and when Jori’s stomach growled, she was aware that she was hungry. She reached down into the bag under her feet, mined around inside of it, and fished out a piece of hard rock candy that she popped in her mouth.

The train usually halted at about ten or eleven o’clock, depending on the weather. The routine bored her in all truth, for every day was pretty much the same—they’d pause, the animals would rest, and the men had a light meal. Jori thought it was amusing that they called it breakfast though sometimes it did
not come until after twelve o’clock. The men sometimes carried out chores or repaired their gear. The meal was pretty much the same for everyone and included cooked meat and freshly baked skillet bread.

A shout to her right caught Jori’s attention. She turned to look and saw something moving into a grove of trees.

“It’s a bear—it’s a bear!” one of the men called out. Wiley Pratt grabbed a rifle and started after it, but Rocklin’s voice brought him up short. “Leave that bear alone, Wiley!”

“Bear meat would go mighty fine.”

“I’ll take care of the hunting. You take care of your mules.”

Wiley Pratt, a tough, short, muscular man with tow hair and hot-tempered hazel eyes, glared at Rocklin, who sat on his horse and met his gaze evenly. Jori drew her breath in, for these were violent men. There was always the chance of something happening. Nothing had so far, but she knew it was the iron control of Rocklin that kept them in line. She expelled her breath as the mule skinner sullenly turned and walked back to the wagon trudging along beside it.

Rocklin turned and found Jori watching him and guided his horse over. “How’s it goin’, Jori?”

“Why wouldn’t you let him go after that bear?”

“Because she had cubs.”

Jori stared at Rocklin. “I didn’t see any cubs.”

“I did. Two little ones. Not able to take care of themselves yet. You shoot their mother, they’d die.”

It was a side of Rocklin that Jori had seen little of. “But that’s always the chance when you’re hunting, isn’t it, that you’ll shoot a mother?”

“Yes, it is,” Rocklin admitted. “I guess I’m too tenderhearted.” He rode easily in the saddle, and his eyes were always moving
from point to point. Jori studied him carefully. There wasn’t any fat on the man. He had long arms and legs, and the edge of his jaws were sharp against the heavily tanned skin. She noticed something she had missed before, that his nose had a small break at the bridge. He looked solid and tall in the sunlight. He suddenly turned and caught her watching him and smiled at her. She flushed, for since he had kissed her there had been a restraint between the two of them.

“About time for nooning, I reckon.”

She arched her back and lifted her head. “Look, there’s a river,” she said. “Is that the Arkansas?”

“No. That’s the Little Arkansas, just a branch. The real river’s on a few more miles, but we’ll stop before we go to crossing.”

He stayed beside her, neither of them saying anything, and finally when they came to the stream Jori caught her breath. “It looks rough.”

“All that rain’s coming down out of the hills.”

“Won’t it be dangerous to cross?”

“Won’t be easy.”

The river, for such it seemed to be, was roiling, and there were small white caps tossed by a breeze. There was a menace in the stream, it seemed to her, and finally she asked, “Can’t we wait until it goes down?”

“No tellin’ when that will be. It ought to be all right if we keep our heads. I’ll drive your wagon across.”

“I can do it.”

“You probably could, but I’d hate to see you tump over and get all your goods wet.” He did not wait for an answer but kicked his horse into a gallop forward and shouted, “Pull up! We’ll noon here!”

* * *

PAUL MOLITOR STOOD STARING down at the brown waters of the small river. He was so fatigued he could hardly stand there, and every nerve in his body cried out for a drink. He had hoped by this time that some of the desire would have left him, and at times it did. But now it came to him, and he knew he would sell his soul for a bottle of whiskey.

“Looks pretty active.”

Molitor turned to see Callie Fortier, who had come up on foot leading her horse. “I don’t see how we’re going to get across.”

“It will not be bad, no. At least nobody should get killed.”

Molitor reached down, picked up a stick, and threw it out in the river. It sailed out until it hit the water and instantly was driven downstream by the force of the water. He watched it grimly and shook his head. “We could all drown in this thing.”

Callie studied the man. She had wondered about him, for his speech was different from the mule skinners. She knew instinctively that he was educated, and now, as she studied him, she thought,
He would be good-looking if he’d gain weight and shave.
“We’ll need help getting the mules across. You want me to pick you out a horse?”

“I’m no rider.”

“All you have to do is sit. The horse does all the work.”

Molitor suddenly shivered. It was not cold, but the desire for drink did that to him at times. He did not speak but was such a picture of abject misery that Callie felt sorry for him. She did not have a chance to say anything else for a voice cut into her thoughts. “All hands pullin’ grass!”

“Pullin’ grass? Why for is that?” Callie asked.

“That bank’s too steep for a wagon.” Rocklin was looking at the slight rise. “We’ll pack it down with grass and make sort of a carpet. You OK, Molitor?”

“Yes.”

“Well, start pullin’ grass then. You, too, Callie.”

* * *

IT TOOK MORE THAN grass, and men finally had to fall to with picks and spades and even axes. They leveled out the incline, saw that it was not abrupt, and the dirt was shoveled in. Then the grass, shrubs, and bushes that the crew had gathered were thrown in. In the end it made a carpet strong enough to bear the weight of the wagons, at least Rocklin hoped so. “That ought to do it,” he called out. “Let’s get across this thing. Herendeen, you take the first wagon.”

Herendeen, big and bulky, was staring at the river. “I never like white water,” he said. “It ain’t nothin’ to fool with.”