10
A cloud of dust obscured the corral. Chisum stood on the north porch out of the howling gale that stirred up dirt and debris and looked for her return. In the past hour the winds had risen and a real desert sandstorm brewed. Juanita had been gone too long. That damn red bay she’d rode out on would have been a handful for a man. If anything had happened to her, he would be beside himself. For a long moment, he considered going and having some of the ranch hands saddle up and go search for her. But they were mostly Mexican field workers and not cowboys; the riders were all out working or moving stock with Bailey. Besides, his army of hoe hands astride horses would look like potato sacks. No, it would look stupid if nothing was wrong.
“My husband certainly is taking his time looking at that dam,” Nelda Tweedy said pushing out on the porch.
“I am sure he wants to see everything,” Chisum said.
“My Gawd, he’s looked at it enough he ought to know every damn inch of it by this time.” She scowled and shook her head. “This dust is even in my teeth.”
“I have some fine wine,” Chisum offered still upset about Juanita’s absence.
“Good. I’ll go back inside and try some.” She held her hand to flatten the waves of gray hair on the side of her head. “I swear, he’s lost his mind. You too, John Chisum. All this talk about building an Eden in this desert. It’s a bad dream and I know it. Men ...” She dropped her face and shook her head. “Crazy business. All three of you spending so much good money on a hill for ants is all I can see of it.”
“Nelda, that’s no way to talk,” he said, and put his arm on her thin shoulder.
She glanced at his hand, then made a straight line with her mouth. He opened the door and guided her inside. No sense in letting her get all worked up and talking bad about the development company. Lord knows, he had enough enemies for that project. Besides, he knew her weakness.
“A little drought wouldn’t hurt our plans to water thousands of acres. And we need it, don’t we?”
She acted subdued, and he released her shoulder when they stood before the polished liquor cabinet. From the rack inside, he produced a dark bottle.
“French Chablis,” he announced. “Someday we will make wine like this right here. Better than France ever made.”
Deftly he uncorked the bottle and poured a sip of the white liquid in a tall wine glass. “Try it, my lady.”
She didn’t meet his gaze, and tossed it down. Using her tongue, she savored the drink and then nodded her approval. He filled her glass and stood back.
“Wonderful grape, isn’t it?”
“Good.” She made a displeased face, then tossed down the glass with her head thrown back.
“Is the wine not the best?”
“Leave the bottle, John,” she said in a low voice, dismissing him.
He drew a deep breath. Thank God. Nelda would be comfortably soused by the time her errant husband returned from his foray with Tina. No more harsh talk against their plans to irrigate the valley—he’d simply bought off her bitter tongue with a twenty-dollar bottle of fermented grapes. He drew a deep breath and pushed out on the porch; a wave of relief went through his chest. If Juanita didn’t come soon, he would need to go to the outhouse and try to relieve his bladder.
Sheets of dust swept around the edge of the porch, and he tried to see the corrals. Then, after the next wave of flying dirt, he clearly saw the poles of the pen and, to his disappointment, no sign of her. He grasped his hat and headed away. Half bent into the wind that met him head-on, he hurried to the privy.
Inside the foul-smelling structure, he lost his grip on the door, and it slipped out of his fingers to rattle the small structure. Holding his hat in one hand, he reached out and used all his strength to draw it back. When it was shut at last, he slid the lock in place. Wind whistled at the eves. Filled with dread, he undid his pants and stood above the hole. Waiting with his dick in his hand, he strained. Nothing. Then from deep inside, a dribble began to issue forth. His eyes looked up in gratitude toward the unfinished low ceiling.
Was that a horse he heard? Impatient to be through, he stood as the trickle continued forever. Damn, how much piss was in him? Had she ridden in? He felt anxious to find out what had kept her. This stream was never going to quit. He shifted his weight from one boot to the other. If he tried harder, it might shut it off—he couldn’t risk it. Oh, hell. He closed his eyelids and waited. At last it was over. He shook away the last drops, stuck it in his pants, and hurriedly rebuttoned.
The gust howled at the structure and when he went to open it, the door flew from his grasp. He fought it shut and held on to his Stetson. Bent against the sharp wind and stinging sand that attacked his face, he hurried for the house. He managed to make the protection of the porch, and close to the wall, he hurried to the west side.
The pens were obscured by the churning dust—no horse—no Juanita. Where was she? Damn now, he was worried. Holding down his hat, he tried to see into the dust storm. If anything had happened to her—
Slocum dropped off the ridge and saw something move in the brush. He reined up the black. There was no denying what he saw—three hatless Mescalero bucks were intent on something. So engrossed were they that they had not heard him coming over the sharp winds that whipped the juniper boughs. In the canyon, the velocity was less, but it still howled overhead. He eased down from the saddle and tied the horse out of sight. Better see what those renegades were up to.
The 44/40 eased out of the scabbard when he heard her scream. So that was their game. They had kidnapped Juanita James. How many more bucks were there? Maybe they were so taken with her good looks that he could sneak in close. His best hope of surprising them was to slip up carefully. He hoped he wouldn’t get her hurt in the process.
“Damn you bastards. Let go of me!” he heard her shout at the braves.
He smiled at her words. They had them a hellcat. Making his way down the hillside at last, he moved in behind the last dull gnarled evergreen. One of the copper-skinned renegades held her arms behind her back, and the other had torn open her blouse. Slocum winced when the buck in front moved in and began to fondle her pear-shaped breast.
“You son of bitches! My uncle will nail you to a damn cross for doing this to me! Let go of me! Stop that!”
Slocum covered the fifteen feet in a dead run. He struck the first buck in the back of the head with the rifle butt, then swiped the other one with the barrel and sent him sprawling on the ground. The last warrior holding her grunted something in disbelief, and fled on foot for the cover of the juniper with Slocum on his heels. The Apache reached his pony, mounted on the run, and never looked back or stopped his retreat, lashing the horse in a fast getaway.
Slocum watched him leave, then rushed back around the bushes. She was on her knees, sobbing and holding her shirt closed. Head bent over, she didn’t look up when he stopped beside her.
“You’ll be fine,” he said, and looked for the second Indian he had lashed with the rifle barrel. Then he turned to hear another horse fleeing the canyon; obviously his blow had not hurt that one much either.
“Gawdamn you!” she shouted and rose to her feet. In an instant, she began to kick the downed Indian’s side with her boot toe.
Slocum caught her by the waist and swung her away. “Stop that.”
“I’ll kill him!” She flailed her arms and tried to kick him.
At last, forced to drop his rifle, he secured a better hold to contain her. Then he forced her around and grasped both of her arms. He looked hard into her mud-streaked face.
“You’re fine. He didn’t violate you.” Their gazes met.
“He did too!”
“Your virginity is intact.”
She closed her wet lashes. “Virginity. Ha. What do you know about that?”
“What did you expect out here?” he asked, taken aback by her mocking look. “This was their land first.”
“They’ve got a reservation. They can stay on it.”
“You don’t stay on yours,” he said, and shook her, suddenly realizing his grip on her arms might be hurting her.
“My reservation. What do you mean by that?” The wind swept the material of her blouse back, and she glanced down with a scowl at her nakedness. “Will you let go of me so I may cover up, please?”
His gaze dropped to her dark puckered nipple. Would it taste half as sweet as he imagined it? They had no time for that.
“If those bucks are part of a war party, we better make tracks,” he said, and looked over her head to the west for any sign of them. “Your horse run away?”
“How should I know—yes.” She rubbed her arms where he had held her. “What should we do next?” With one hand, she closed the blouse and searched about.
“Get to my horse. He’s uphill back there. He can carry us double a ways. There may be lots more Indians between here and the ranch. Those were just some boys. We ride into the main party, we may not live to tell about it.” He stared off into the dust-obscured west. “No telling how long this wind-storm will last either. We’d be better to find a place to wait it out.”
She nodded, then drew out the tail of her shirt and tied it in front to hold it closed. “And quit looking at me,” she said with a tone of annoyance.
“I kinda like the scenery,” he said, gathering up his rifle. Then they headed for his horse.
“Scenery,” she said in disbelief under her breath, hurrying to keep up beside him.
He kept his grin to himself, and they climbed the slope in silence except for the screaming wind. He slid the rifle in the scabbard and checked on the cinch, leaning enough into the wind to keep the Stetson on his head.
“We’re not far from one of the line shacks,” she said.
“Might be a good idea to hole up there for a while. We ride out in the open country,” he said above the whistling wind, “we could ride right into them.”
“It’s not far. We have to backtrack.”
“That’s fine. Let’s find it,” he said, mounting up and then extending his arm down for her. Taking hold of him, she swung up and landed behind him on the back of his saddle. Righting herself, she pointed uphill, and he set the black on his way.
In a short while, they reached the crude dugout, and she slipped from the horse. It was a log-rock structure nestled into the hillside. She unlatched the door and reached inside for a wooden bucket.
“There’s water down there in a dug well.” She indicated a pile of talus rocks stacked in a small circle and covered with small logs.
“Need a rope?” he asked.
She nodded, and swept the strands of black hair from her face. “Not so windy down here.”
“Better,” he agreed, undoing his lariat. The deep walls of the arroyo, covered with stunted junipers, protected the spot. He glanced back at the rough shelter. Maybe there was some grub left in there. He could hope anyway. His belly felt as if it was gnawing on his backbone. Cowboys usually left some canned goods around in line shacks in case they were caught out without anything.
They both drank from the pail; then he watered the horse in the trough nearby. He finished drawing water for him, then dropped the bucket down the well to refill the pail again for his and Juanita’s use.
“I’m going to the shack,” she said, taking the full bucket from him, and he agreed.
Watching her shapely butt as she headed for the dugout, he drew in a deep breath. Then he busied himself undoing the cinches and stripped his saddle off the black. Satisfied that the horse would stay close enough, he shouldered his pack and started for the shelter.
She had a small candle lit on the table when he stepped over the high wall that kept out rattlesnakes. He tossed his saddle and sweaty pads down with the bridle on top of them. Along the walls were the bunks. In the center of the room stood a crude table and two benches. Crates were stacked on the back wall for cabinets, and there was a dry sink to prepare food. A small sheet-metal stove, with a rusty stovepipe piercing the exposed low shake roof, and a stack of firewood rounded out the twelve-by-ten room carved into the dirt hillside.
“Sure isn’t a castle,” she announced with her back to him, busy checking the crates’ contents.
“What kind of grub do we have?” he asked from behind her.
“Tomatoes, a couple cans of sardines, and some tins of crackers.”
“Let’s drink some tomato juice,” he said, reaching past her and taking two cans from the shelf.
With his jackknife, he punched two holes opposite each other in each lid, and handed her a can. He raised his can and toasted her with it.
“Here’s to saving our scalps.”
“I’ll toast to that,” she said. They clinked cans together, then both began to drink the juice off the tomatoes. The acid liquid cut the dust trail down his throat. He wiped his mouth on his gritty sleeve and returned her grin.
“Not half bad,” she admitted, and took another sip.
“Bet you never drank the juice from a can before.”
“No, I haven’t. Nor spent much time in a dank bunkhouse.” She curled her lips and looked around.
“Not too bad a place. Why, I haven’t seen a pack rat, or scorpion since we came in here,” he said, glancing around at the floor.
“Damn you, Slocum—you said that on purpose.”
“Don’t put your boots on without dumping them out each time. Those little curly-tailed boogers like to get inside them and they sting hard.”
Her shoulder shook in revulsion.
“Listen to me,” he said, feeling nauseated by the juice in his empty stomach. “Surviving out here is important, and there are rules to the game you better know.”
“And is my being grateful to you one of them?”
“No.”
“What if I wanted to be?”
“That’s a whole different deal.”
“I suspected so,” she said, and sighed as if impatient. “How long will this dust storm last?”
“A day, maybe two.”
“My poor Uncle John will be beside himself.” She folded her arms over her bust.
“Guess he can come looking.”
“He will, Slocum. He will be very upset.”
“Guess this uncle thinks lots of you then?”
She hesitated as if unsure, and then nodded. “Yes, he does. I have lived with him the past six years.”
“This Coyote works for him?” He scooted out a bench and took a seat. She slipped in opposite him.
“What about Coyote?” she asked.
“He killed a friend of mine who wasn’t hurting a thing. He killed a widow woman who hurt no one.”
She wrinkled her pert nose. “My uncle didn’t tell him to do that.”
“I didn’t figure he did, but the way I see it, you turn a rabid dog loose, he isn’t going to be selective.”
“These people are keeping his stock from water.”
“A sad widow woman was keeping his damn longhorn range cows from water?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t buy that.”
“They were camped all around that spring.”
“You were there?”
“No, but ...” Her hands were folded before her. Suddenly she clasped both sides of the tabletop.
“Folks aren’t going to put up with this regulator business for very long,” he said.
“Regulator business?” She frowned at him.
“This Coyote and his bunch. John Chisum does not own all of New Mexico. People besides him have rights too.”
“So you are siding with all the nesters and cattle rustlers?”
“I had a good friend once. He was married and had children. He owned land on the Rio Rita. He was irrigating one day and for no reason at all, someone shot him in the back and then tore out his weirs. If this Coyote did that, I’ll nail his damn hide to that door.”
“How are you going to prove that?”
“When I do, I’ll tell you.”
She bolted to her feet. “I’m not staying here another minute with you, Slocum. I’m not listening to your lies.”
“Good, start walking. Ain’t nothing out there but Apaches and a damn dust storm to get lost in. Go right ahead.”
He swung his open hand toward the crude door with the wide cracks between the boards. Go on, fancy woman. Take your butt and go out there, and when you get good and lost, I’m not coming looking for you.
Engrossed in opening the tomato can with his jackknife, he ignored her pacing back and forth. Soon the top was peeled back and he stuck his knife in and produced a dripping round red ball. Leaning over the table, he took small bites of it, and the rich flavor soon drowned his tongue.
“What do you think those damn Indians are doing right now?” she asked.
“Using the distraction of the dust storm to make a raid.”
“Out there in that wind and dirt?” She narrowed her eyes in disbelief.
“Hey, those Apaches are believers in using what they have.”
“But how can they see?”
He shook his head and concentrated on the second tomato. “They can find their way.”
“I simply can’t believe it.”
“I can, I know them,” he said, and took another mouthful of the fruit stuck on the end of his blade.