FULL DAWN BROKE as McLain reached the western edge of the valley. The sun burst through the cloud, clearing the sky so that the wide panorama behind him got lit brilliantly, only the undergrowth along the river bank obscuring the view with a thin drift of dispersing mist. The land here sloped upwards in grassy folds to the steeper incline of the foothills, and when he had gained the slope, he halted. Twisting in the saddle, he looked back to the mission. It was too far for sound to carry, but amongst the few still-standing tents there was a buzz of activity, and he guessed that Donnely had discovered his escape. He wondered briefly what Sergeant Docherty might suffer by way of punishment – assuming that the captain would hold the non-commissioned officer responsible – and if any kind of pursuit would be mounted. He guessed not: Donnely’s force was too badly depleted to risk sending men after a single runaway when there was still the danger of hostile Indians in the immediate vicinity.
He pushed on into the foothills.
There were signs of considerable activity here. The grass was flattened by large bands of horsemen, and where the prairie gave way to the stone, there were the blackened patches of old fires, scattered pilings of dung. He made a swing along the flank of the hills, eyes scanning the ground for tracks: there were plenty to choose from. It looked like the Comanches had grouped in this area and then split up into separate bands, each one taking its own direction. Several went off to the north, but the majority were headed westwards, so he decided to take that route himself.
He knew little of the southern Plains Tribes. Little, in fact, of Indians in general. He had once fought off a band of vagrant Sioux, who had made a desultory raid on the farm, but they had been easily discouraged by the devastating firepower of the Sharps carbine. And during the war he had known Cherokee scouts, and a few men under Stand Watie’s command, but they had been ‘civilized’ Indians, their allegiance given to the Confederacy; vastly different to the half-naked, painted warriors he had encountered in the last few days.
He ransacked his memory for knowledge of the Comanche, seeking some flash of recollection or inspiration that would guide him to Alice Patterson. Kincannon had said the Indians were called Nokoni – Wanderers – and the sergeant had implied that they drifted, never staying in one place for too long. He recalled hearing that white women were sometimes taken alive and adopted into the tribe—if they were young enough, and strong enough to bear children. Alice Patterson was strong enough, but too old to make a child-productive squaw. And then he remembered something else: the Mexicans were known to buy captives as slaves.
He reviewed his scanty knowledge of the geography of the area. The Rio Verde was not far from the Mexican border, and the fastest route to the line would be due west.
He urged the horse onwards, climbing into the jumbled stone of the lower foothills.
His approach to the valley had left him with little detailed impression of the country. Just a vague recollection of a steep trail that went from semi-desert to stone to timber to grass. Now he saw it all in more detail. The foothills were the last outpourings of some prehistoric upheaval that had punched a spine of rock upwards from the flatlands. They were jagged and jumbled, some ancient river, long dry, forming a trail through. Grass had taken hold on the bed, so he could see the impression of many hooves on the sun-dried, crushed blades. Beyond, the hills proper lifted in a solid ridge of reddish, sun-washed stone that lifted up at a steep angle to the rimrock. Trees had taken hold on the slopes, where dirt had filled the cracks and allowed oaks and dogwood and a few aspen to root. The ancient river bed cut through this confusion in a wavering line that reached almost to the top.
He rode up, his eyes scanning the country ahead and his ears tuned to the sounds of danger. The tracks went on like a pointer, and he decided that the Indians felt confident of moving off without any danger of pursuit. At least, there was no ambush, no rear-guard left, and he climbed on to the rim and stared over the country ahead. He had approached it from a northerly direction before, not taking much notice of what lay to the south – now to his west – other than noting it was mostly badlands. Now, from the scarp of the hills, he saw that it was an area of grass and sand, cut through with gullies and ravines, low buttes jutting like the stumps of old teeth from the cracked gums of the land. There were patches of green, where grass grew; and yellow scars where there was nothing but sand. The trees were low, leaning southwards where the wind had fashioned their contours; and the grass lacked the richness of the valley: it was less verdant, more yellow, like paper left too long in the sun. The cuts appeared like scars: dark and melancholy; menacing.
He saw the Comanches’ trail break up; one group turning to the north, another to the south, a third breaking away to the northeast, and a fourth to the southwest. The largest group continued to the west, and he went on following in that direction. For want of a better choice.
Not really knowing why.
Not really knowing why he was doing it at all.
The woman meant nothing to him. No more than a friendly face, who had bandaged his arm and talked about a town that might one day – someday – give him a home. But his home was gone. Burned down along with his wife and his dreams. He had come to Texas in search of a new start, and the way the Rio Verde valley looked, there was no new start , to be found there. It would have made more sense to go on to San Antonio, or Houston. Any fixed settlement, where a man well-versed in gunplay could make an easy living. To one of the ranches, maybe. Where the skills learned during the war could be put to profitable use.
But he didn’t like towns.
He was a farmer. And the gun-skill was accidental. Part natural talent, part practice.
So why was he trying to save Alice Patterson?
Because she had bandaged his arm and offered vague hints of a new life? Other people had done that. Doctors had dressed his wounds before now. Two women had suggested he stay.
Because Kincannon had asked for his help? And helped in return, before dying?
Because Docherty didn’t care about the color and the pattern of a man’s flag? Because the sergeant had helped him? Enabling him to escape a hanging?
Maybe.
Maybe because he felt a debt.
Not just to Alice Patterson and Kincannon and Docherty, but also to his past. To a past that was mostly built on trying to establish something: to carve out a farm, a living, where children might grow up without fear of Sioux raids or Kansas Red Legs. Where life might spring without shadows, bright in the sun; enjoying the sheer pleasure of being alive.
Also, in a twisted way, to Donnely. To prove that he wasn’t just a Johnny Reb seeking to sabotage the Union. To prove that he wasn’t a traitor or a coward, or whatever Donnely thought he was. Maybe even to prove the captain wrong. No more than that: just to make him eat crow.
Or maybe it was because he could envisage a town growing in the Rio Verde valley, and felt he might have a part in it. Someplace to live again.
Maybe just that.
He remembered what the man called Josey Wales had said to him just before they parted.
‘Their amnesty’s gonna leave us earning what we owned before, John. We’ll have to fight for our rights all over again. They won’t give it to us: we have to win it. I don’t think it’ll be easy.’
He was right.
McLain found himself a hollow where he was protected on three sides by folds of rock and gnarled oaks, on the fourth by tumbled boulders. He made camp, chancing a small fire of dry twigs; just enough to heat a small dixie of coffee.
He picked up the Sharps and moved on foot around his position. There was no sign of Comanche, the secondary tracks by now gone behind him, the main trail still leading to the west. Far off in that direction, he saw the faint glow of fires. They were indistinct against the darkening sky, mostly hidden under the rimrock of the gullies and ravines, so that an inexperienced watcher might have missed them.
A day’s ride ahead, he thought.
He went back to his camp with the sky turning from dark blue to lightless velvet. Then stars began to prick through, and the moon lifted pale from the eastern horizon. Somewhere to the north a wolf howled, the wailing cry echoing empty and lonesome over the hills. Reminding McLain of his own lonesome thoughts; and his own lonesome determination.
He lifted the dixie from the fire and filled a tin mug with coffee. The hot liquid softened the hardtack he was chewing, and when he dunked the Army biscuits Docherty had given him, the dry texture got softened too, tasted better.
He emptied the dixie over the dry earth and kicked dirt over the flames, quashing the fire without leaving any smoke to mark his position. Then he packed his gear back in his saddlebags and climbed up the slope with his blanket slung over his shoulder, and the Sharps in his right hand.
He found a place immediately above the hollow where two wind-blown scrub oaks had gotten joined together to form a curved arch, and spread his bed there. It was an old trick: if anyone had seen him make camp, they would go in through the shut-off entrance, while he would be sleeping above them.
He took one last look at the high, bright stars and then went to sleep with the Sharps cradled in his arms.