THE AIR GREW COOL as they climbed into the mountains. Mornings they woke to find the grass, trees, and even their blankets sodden with dew. Cooking, once considered the most odious of chores, was suddenly desirable. Sitting closest the fire, hands over a steaming pot, was a fair way to spend the evening. Boiling the morning coffee was even better.
In no time they’d skirted the southern edge of Stuart’s Peak, and were winding through alpine valleys corralled by pine trees and dotted with wildflowers.
One morning—it was MacLemore’s turn to stir the breakfast—Jack came trotting into camp, his horse already streaming sweat. As usual, the gunfighter had spent his night alone. MacLemore offered him a cup of coffee, but Jack refused it.
“There’s a boulder,” he announced, reining his appaloosa to a halt behind the wagon. “It must’ve broke loose last winter. At first, I thought we might float the wagon around it, but I doubt the mules’d survive.” He looked at Lu. “We’ll have to remove it.”
“We?” Lu asked.
Jack reached into the wagon, taking out a sledgehammer, an old bucket, a steel rod, and one of Jeb Stuart’s mysterious boxes.
Lu watched, mystified.
“Go on then,” Jack said. “Saddle up.”
“But what about the others?”
“They’ll follow.” Jack handed the rod and bucket to Lu.
By noon they were riding along the banks of a river. It was by far the angriest stretch of water Lu had ever seen. Every inch was churning foam, dotted here and there by jagged shards of granite, broken off from the sheer slopes that rose to either side. This river was as little like the Quapaw as a sparrow was like an eagle. The roar of the water was enough to send cold shudders up his spine.
“Here it is.” Jack had to shout to be heard over the roaring stream.
A chunk of stone as large as a sharecropper’s hut blocked the trail ahead. A horse and rider might climb around it, but the wagon certainly couldn’t.
“How do we move it?” Lu asked.
Jack slid down off his horse. “You’ll have to blow it up.”
“Me?”
“You’re our explosives expert.”
“But … I mean—”
“First, get down off that horse.” Jack waited until Lu was on his feet. “Now, put your hands on the stone. Feel anything?”
“Like what?”
“Your Granddad used to say he could feel the veins running through a rock. Tried to teach me, but I could never feel a thing.”
“Grandfather taught you?”
Jack nodded. He must’ve noticed the look of disbelief on the boy’s face because he laughed. “You didn’t think I was born knowing how?”
Lu started. The idea of anyone teaching Jack Straw how to do anything was strange enough—so far as Lu was concerned, Jack knew and could do EVERYTHING, and better than anyone else, too—but imagining him as a newborn baby was just too much.
“Try thinking your way into the rock,” Jack suggested. “Old K’ung would close his eyes and sort of reach out to the stone.”
Lu did as he was told. The boulder felt dusty beneath his outstretched fingers.
As he ran his hands over the surface of the rock, Lu wondered what he should be searching for. “Veins,” Jack had said. Lu tried imagining the boulder as a living being. To destroy it, they’d have to reach down past its skin, right to its heart.
Almost instantly, Lu felt something smooth and warm brush by under his fingers. He tried to find it again, but couldn’t seem to locate the right spot. Discouraged, he opened his eyes. A bit of mica jutted out of the boulder directly in front of him. He touched it, expecting to find the glassy rock cool. But it was warm. Hot even. “I think we should try here,” he said.
“Feel something?” Jack asked.
Lu shrugged.
“Well, let’s give it a go.” Jack handed him the steel rod. It was about two and a half feet long, and as big around as a grown man’s thumb.
“What is this?” Lu asked.
“A bit,” Jack said. “We’ll have to drill.”
Lu held the bit while Jack heaved the sledge. It was nerve-wracking work. Every time Jack swung the hammer over his shoulder, Lu’s rational mind told him to drop the bit and get his hands out of harm’s way. It only took a half-dozen good swipes before his palms were singing, his wrists numb. That he avoided dropping the bit seemed to him miraculous. Jack’s portion of the work was no less difficult. Sweat ran down his face as he repeatedly lifted and then let the hammer fall. By the end of an hour, the bit had reached to a depth of about two feet.
“Gather some sand,” Jack said. He was breathing hard.
Lu took the bucket and began scooping handfuls of grit from the riverbank. The sand was littered with small stones, sticks and other bits of rubbish. When the bucket was half full, he dragged it back to the boulder.
“Time to set the charge,” Jack said. He took one of the tin cans from Jeb’s box and handed it to Lu. “Dump that in the hole.”
“What is it?”
“Blasting powder.”
Lu did as he was told. As soon as he’d finished, Jack handed him the bundle of greasy string. “Cut enough fuse to reach the powder,” he said.
Using Jack’s knife, Lu cut the fuse and snaked it down the hole.
“Good.” Jack pointed at the bucket. “Now, pack in the sand.”
“It’s full of stones.”
“Doesn’t matter. Put it all in.”
When the sand was in the hole, Jack handed Lu the drill bit again. “You’ve got to pack it down,” he said.
Using the back of the bit, Lu rammed the sand down into the rock.
“Now what?”
Jack handed him a match. “Soon as you’ve lit it, run.”
“Where?”
The gunslinger pointed back up the gorge, in the direction from which they’d come. He was already walking away, the box of blasting powder cradled under one arm, and the sledge and drill bit in the other. The horses followed him.
Lu eyed the fuse trailing from the boulder. It was only an inch long. His fingers shook. What if he’d made a mistake and the rock exploded before he got away? He turned to look after the gunfighter. Jack stood a hundred yards distant, lighting a cigarette. The horses stood behind him.
There was nothing else to do, so Lu struck the match. Immediately, the fuse began to spark and hiss. Needing no further urging, Lu turned and ran. He’d only just reached Jack when he felt the charge go off. Air, pushed so hard it felt almost solid, struck against his shoulders and neck, followed a split-second later by the sound of the explosion.
When the smoke finally cleared, and the gravel had all fallen out of the sky, they saw that the boulder was blocking the trail just as completely as ever it had. Lu was crestfallen. “It didn’t work,” he muttered.
Jack strode back to the work site. “You expected too much,” he said. “That charge broke half the stone. One more good blast and it should be passable. Back to work.”
Actually, Lu wound up setting two more charges before the path was clear, and even then they’d had to throw a lot of granite into the river by hand. But still, Jack was right. Lu had done it. By the time Chino and the others reached the gorge, the boulder was utterly destroyed, leaving only rubble as evidence that it’d ever been.
“Look at all that smoke,” Chino said, as he passed by in the wagon.
“So how’d he do?” MacLemore asked.
“Fine,” Jack said. “He did just fine.”
They reached the end of the gorge later that same day. The river, so recently a churning ribbon of deafening whitewater, emptied onto a peaceful valley, forming an oblong lake of crystalline blue surrounded by verdant grass.
Jack afforded them only a short rest before guiding them across the valley and into the forest beyond.
Lu was amazed by the colors. The needles on the trees were darkest green. Their trunks were gray, red or golden. He saw, deep beneath the shadows of the towering firs and pines, his first blue spruce, its needles as tough and prickly as those of a porcupine.
They’d gone a little more than a mile when Jack signaled for a stop.
“What are we stopping for?” MacLemore asked.
“We’re being watched,” Chino whispered.
“Watched?” MacLemore peered suspiciously at the shadows beneath the trees.
Jack took a cigarette from his shirt pocket. He lit it and took a long drag. As he exhaled, Lu heard the first sounds of approach. He reached for his pistol. There were still no bullets in his gun, but Lu felt better holding it.
“Put that away,” Jack said.
“But what if—”
Jack glared at him, and Lu slipped the pistol back into its holster.
No sooner was his weapon stowed than an Indian boy—not much older than Lu, if a shade taller—rode out of the trees directly ahead of them. His buckskin shirt was decorated with animal teeth, and dyed in streaks of crimson and ocher. Round his neck hung a string of white beads. His hair was adorned with feathers.
The Indian gave only cursory glances to the rest of their party before riding over to Jack. When they were side by side, Jack handed him the cigarette he’d so recently lit. The boy took a puff and handed it back.
“Father sent me to find you,” the boy said. “He says you are late.”
“There was a boulder,” Jack explained. “Took us a while to remove it.”
“We heard.”
After that, Jack spoke to the Indian in his own language. Lu listened close, but couldn’t tell whether Jack and the Indian boy were friends, enemies or just casual acquaintances. Their whole conversation blended into a stream of indecipherable noise, punctuated by questions, grunts and meaningful silence. He felt the way he imagined a white person must feel whenever his mother and grandfather began to argue in Chinese. It was a suspicious, fearful sensation.
And then, all at once, the Indian boy wheeled his horse about and gave it a kick. Jack was right behind him.
They followed the Indian boy deep into the forest. At long last, they saw smoke floating amidst the tree-tops. Lu wondered where they were being led. He’d heard that Indians were masters of camouflage. A war party could be anywhere, he figured, just waiting to spring their trap.
His fears seemed to be realized when, passing through a grove of enormous sugar-pines, they came face to face with a delegation of Indian warriors. Lu counted forty-seven, each mounted and ready for battle. Behind them, arrayed along the banks of a shallow stream, was an Indian village. A few brave souls peered out of the tipis. One elderly squaw stood right out in the open, hands on her hips, waiting to see what would become of the confrontation.
Jack greeted the men in their own tongue, but received no reply. The Indian boy also spoke, but was quickly rebuffed by a stern-faced warrior sitting at the center of the formation. Neither Jack nor the boy bothered to translate. It was clear to all that the warriors would not willingly let them pass through the village.
The Indian boy tried once more, pleading with his elders to allow them entry, but was once again shouted down. Strangely, it was Jack himself that the Indians appeared to find most offensive. One went so far as to point an arrow in the gunfighter’s direction.
Jack was not amused. He shouted and gestured at the wagon with both hands. But his every word was met with stony glares. Worse, ever more of the Indians were putting arrows to bows.
Just as things seemed most dangerous, they heard new voices coming from the direction of the stream.
An Indian couple stepped from amidst the trees. The woman wore a long buckskin dress and matching moccasins. In her arms was a simple basket, loaded to the brim with fresh-caught fish. On the man’s shoulders perched a little girl, her bare heels kicking playfully against her father’s chest.
The Indian man smiled when he saw the standoff at the edge of the village. He spoke to his wife, and then they strolled over to stand between the opposing groups.
“You’re late, Jack Straw,” he said. “I sent my son to find you hours ago.”
“Hello, Joseph,” Jack replied. “There was a boulder.”
Joseph gestured at the warriors standing guard over the village. “You must forgive Ollokot. My brother is normally more hospitable. But times have grown hard.” He looked at Jack’s coat. “And as usual, you come under the sign of war.”
After that, Joseph spoke to the warriors. It took a bit more convincing, but eventually Ollokot gave the command to disperse.
“Now we may enter the village as friends,” Joseph said. He spoke to his wife, who turned and led the way.
Jack dismounted and followed them. Henry, Lu and Sadie did likewise. MacLemore even climbed down from the wagon. Only Chino remained seated, driving the mules very slowly through the village.
They stopped at one of the smaller tipis. Joseph said something to his wife and she disappeared inside.
“Janey arranged for me to bring you a gift,” Jack said, gesturing at the wagon.
“How is Janey?”
“Prosperous. Happy, I think. She worries about you.”
“You’re still riding my horse, I see.” Joseph patted Jack’s appaloosa on the neck. He spoke to it in his own language and the horse pawed at the ground.
“I’ve brought you another.” Jack handed over the gray stallion’s lead. “He’ll make a fine stud.”
Joseph inspected the stallion. “Good legs. What do you want for him?”
“The horse is a gift. But for transporting the rifles and ammunition we’ll need two saddle-trained mounts. One for Chino. One for the boy. And I need information.”
“You plan to cross the Hell Mouth.”
“If we can.”
Joseph looked at the sky. The sun was quickly sinking behind the trees. “Our Feast of the Sun begins at dusk. When it is over we shall discuss the canyon.”
“How long does this feast last?” MacLemore asked.
“Only three days.”
“Three days?”
Joseph looked MacLemore in the eye. “You’ve waited years to reclaim your gold,” he said. “Is three days more so long a time?”
“How do you know about my gold?” MacLemore asked suspiciously, but Joseph just smiled.
Joseph’s wife poked her head out of the tipi.
“Alikkees says you must wash for dinner,” Joseph translated. “And that this little one must help serve.” He set his daughter down and she scampered inside. “My son, Chuslum-moxmox, will take you to a place where you may scrub away the road.”
“This way,” the boy who’d guided them through the forest called. He pointed at the creek. “There’s a good spot with plenty of sand.”
When they’d reached the water’s edge, Lu found himself kneeling beside their young guide. For some reason, the Indian boy kept staring at him.
“Are you really Yen Hui’s son?” he asked finally.
Lu nodded. “How did you know that?”
“My Pa. He knows pretty much everything. You’ll see.” The boy grinned. “He also says that your Pa was a good friend of his. Is that true?”
“I don’t know. My father died before I was born.”
The Indian boy frowned. This wasn’t the answer he’d been hoping for.
“Can I ask you a question?” Lu asked. The boy nodded. “What was your name again?”
“Chuslum-moxmox. But you can call me “Little Joseph.” The white soldiers all do. All but Jack.”
“I’ll try to call you by your real name,” Lu said. “Chuslum-moxmox.” If Jack thought it important enough to call him by his Indian name, Lu felt sure he ought to follow suit. “Can I ask you something else?”
“Sure.”
“How come you speak English?”
“Pa taught me. He and Aunt Janey grew up at a convent school in San Pablo. They’ve been speaking it since they were five or six.”
“Were they captured?”
Chuslum-moxmox shook his head. “Grandpa sent them. He believed the whites had powerful magic, and wanted his children to learn it so they could bring it back to the people.” He’d finished washing, and was drying his hands on his shirt. “Grandpa must have been right, because Pa’s the most powerful headman of all the Iceyeeye niim Mama’yac.”
“What’s that?” Lu asked.
“It’s the name of our people. What we call ourselves.”
Lu remembered hearing the soldiers in Fort Jeb Stuart talk about “Green Woods Injuns.” It’d never occurred to him to think they might have another name.
“What does it mean?” he asked.
“Children of Coyote,” Chuslum-moxmox replied. He leaned toward Lu. “Can I ask you a question?”
Lu nodded.
“Is that a girl?” He gestured toward Sadie.
She was bent over the river, scrubbing the trail dust from the back of her neck. Her bonnet lay on the grass and her long honey-blonde hair dragged in the stream. Lu was surprised. With her face wet, and her hair illuminated by the setting sun, Sadie was quite beautiful.
“She’s a girl,” he said. “I swear.”
“Good.” Chuslum-moxmox sounded relieved. “That’s what I told my uncle and the other warriors.”
“Did they think she was a man?”
“They wondered. None of them had ever seen a white woman in trousers before.”