RIDING SOUTH ON THE LAKE Mary Road, Sam reined the small burnt orange mare in beside the mule.
“Do you like the silver the Navajos wear?”
Doe nodded. “They have some nice things.”
“It isn’t bad to wear their jewelry?”
“No, but I do not have any.” She looked puzzled.
Reaching in the pocket of the Mackinaw, he swung the silver turquoise necklace he had purchased for her on his hand.
“Oh! It is very pretty.”
“Good. Since we sold horses and bought mules and all, we still had enough money for it. Thank Joe Sunday.”
“Maybe him worth old blanket.” She giggled as she put the jewelry around her neck with her hat in her lap.
Sam was in no big hurry. They allowed the horses time to stretch their stable muscles. It took them three days to get to Camp Verde, dropping out of the high country of pine down into the warmer juniper-pinyon and the red rock country below the Mogollon Rim.
Passing two mule-teamed army supply wagons struggling up the steep grade out of the valley, the cursing non-coms slapping the reins turned to stare at the twosome.
“Hey, squaw man, she may scalp you in your sleep.”
His cohort slapped him. “Stupid.”
“That’s a Navajo, see that silver necklace?”
Sam and Doe ignored the hoots and catcalls and rode the dusty narrow road that clung to the mountainside past the wagons.
Sam chuckled as he rode beside her. “Now you’re a Navajo.”
“At least I did not shoot them.” She booted General Crook into a faster walk and jerked the lead on the reluctant pack horses.
Camp Verde was a dusty log and tent army outpost surrounded by the small green patch farms that watered out of the Verde River as it wound its way southeast. The town was made of clapboard buildings, and Sam stopped at an office marked Marshal. Dismounting, he tied the mare at the hitch rail as a tall, stern looking, silver-badged man looked down his nose at Sam.
“Sam Brennen, Fort Collins, I was wondering if you could tell me how far it is to Prescott?”
The lawman eyed him coldly. “Sam Brennen, that Injun your wife?”
Sam grew aggravated at the man’s attitude. “Excuse me?”
“There’s a law in this territory that any man marrying an Injun, black, or Chinese is guilty of a felony.”
“Glad she’s not my wife, then. She just takes care of my horses. The road to Prescott?”
“That way.” He pointed nearly due west.
Sam undid the reins slowly. “Wonder if you ever heard of the Peralta brothers, maybe?”
The lawman shook his head. “They don’t live around here.”
“Guess not.” Sam swung aboard the mare. “Nice to meet’cha, Marshal.” He touched his hat as they rode out.
“Yeah, I better not find out that’s your wife, Brennen. This ain’t Colorado, and we don’t take kindly to white men marrying damn savages!”
“I appreciate the advice.” Sam turned to ride off.
They rode in silence up the street, dodging buckboards and pedestrians who turned to study the strange twosome with the pack train.
After a short stretch across the valley floor, the road they followed took them up a steep winding grade for several miles. Taking it easy on their horses, they camped on a narrow bench with a spring about four miles north of Mingus Mountain. After they dumped the saddles and packs, Sam hobbled the horses so they could forage among the rocks and scrub without wandering too far.
By the time he was done, Doe had some bread baking and was boiling beans and coffee. They both kept close to the fire when the sun went down. With few trees to break the wind, it was plenty cold up there near five thousand feet.
Later, finishing their beans, she looked across the plate at him. “Pretty lucky you did not shoot off the shotgun back there?”
Sam shook his head, amused. “That guy was sure friendly, wasn’t he?”
“‘She takes care of the horses.’” She mimicked his deep voice.
He set down his tin plate and fell over laughing. “One thing for sure, we have lots to learn about Arizona.”
The next day was spent with more climbing the switch-back trail passing through gardens of rough red or yellow boulders bigger than any house they’d ever seen, interspersed with dense pine forests. They rode all day with only brief stops to rest the horses or water at a stream. Doe seemed delighted with the small herds of deer and antelope, flocks of wild turkeys and even a solitary buffalo cow along their trail. High on top of the mountain, Sam reined off to make a dry camp in the pinions. This time, there was plenty of grass for the horses and mule, so he put them on picket pins to allow them to graze.
Prescott was beginning to show the permanence of brick and brick paved streets in the clear pine-scented mountain air. The palace-like courthouse in the square was faced on the west side by a block of fine saloons called Whiskey Row. Sam left her with the horses and climbed the stairs to the scarred wooden-floor of the lobby.
The land office was quiet as he stepped inside. He saw a bespectacled man under a visor. “Perhaps you could help me?”
“Got a claim or homestead?”
“This friend of mine filed this up here two years ago and sold it to me in Colorado. Kind of wonder if it’s of any value?”
“Hmm, just a claim? You got an assay report?”
“Just happen to have one.”
“Looks good enough, but it would take more than just this to sell it if that’s your intention. You would need an engineer’s report and examination. Do you want to sell it?”
“What’s it worth?”
“Could be worth, oh, maybe a thousand for a quitclaim. It’s in a good area, I don’t mind telling you.”
“Who buys them?”
“A man named Alex Thompson.” The clerk looked at the clock. “You can find him across the street at the Palace Saloon about now.”
Sam thanked the man who stole a last mute look at the claim and shuffled back to his ledgers.
Stopping to tell Doe where he was going, he crossed to the two-story saloon and entered its sour whiskey, beer, and smoke smelling interior. It was practically empty except for a few at the long, polished bar and a couple of bar girls busy talking in a booth.
“Alex Thompson?”
The bartender nodded to the sharp dresser at the middle of the bar. Sam thanked him and walked over to the man who seemed entranced with his own reflection in the mirror on the back bar.
“Mister Thompson?”
“Indeed, at your service, my good man.”
“Sam Brennen. It seems the cards have dealt me a claim here in Yavapai County, and they tell me you’re the highest bidder over at the courthouse.”
“Have a beer?”
Sam nodded. Thomson waved with a two-finger signal to a ready bartender and two mugs of amber ale appeared in front of them.
“Now, let me see the claim.” He pulled a monocle from his pocket to view the paper.
Sam followed it with the assay report as he leaned on the bar and studied Thompson. This man was no fool. Like a good card player, he never showed any emotions as he read the papers.
Finally, he looked up and brushed his mustache with a finger.
“Certain investors might buy this, but it would be required to have some more engineering reports—and of course time, which you do not have.”
“I’m heading south. No rush. I’ll wire you, and you can let me know.” Sam folded the papers up to take with him.
Finishing using a short pencil to take down the information that he wanted, Thompson looked at himself in the mirror again as he slid the paper inside his coat pocket.
“It could be a very good claim—understand, I only handle the sale on a commission basis.”
Sam nodded “My pleasure, I’ll wire you in a few weeks.” .
“Wait, I have another beer coming—”
“Oh, sorry. I don’t drink anymore.”
“That will be fine, Mister Brennen. It has been a pleasure to talk business with you. I shall see what we can do.” The two men parted company.
Taking the reins, he searched about, but there was no gathering to greet him. He swung into the saddle, and they rode south out of Prescott. Dropping lower, they soon left the evergreens of pinyon and juniper for the cactus and warmer desert lands. Spiny ocotillo clung to the gravel hills, and soon the giant saguaro towered above them as they rode under the hot, fall sun.
——————————
THREE DAYS LATER THEY WERE in the oasis of Phoenix. Smokey gray mesquite trees lined the ditches that carried the murky water to the green fields of cotton, melons and corn. Sam had never seen the red pomegranates that she peeled as they rode through the valley, enjoying the seeds of the tangy fruit. He decided, if there had been a Garden of Eden, certainly they were riding through it. Indians drove skinny horses to wagons—their women whipped the team into a stiff trot. Wagons of sweet hay were hauled with horses and farms boys, and boxes of fresh produce were carried by wagons and teams on the way to market. Milk cows grazed in succulent meadows, some flooded with irrigation water, and killdeer chased the bugs trying to escape the liquid. Cotton grew taller than a man.
Sam stopped in the Phoenix Marshal’s Office, and after a short conversation, returned with two papers in hand. Standing beside her stirrups, he handed her the posters. Slowly, she considered the crude facial drawings, reading the words with her lips and nodded.
“That the Peralta brothers?”
Sam swung into the saddle. “Yes, both of them. They call one Bigote because he has a mustache. That’s the one the paper calls Jesus Navarro. The other is José Guillermo.”
“Looks to me like they’re wanted for several crimes.”
“That’s an understatment.” He guided the mare east through the traffic of wagons, carts, horseback riders, and even some bicycles on the brick streets. Most folks on Washington Street ignored them except for a curious few who gawked from the horse-drawn streetcar as it headed into the city.
The wagon yard looked like the place for them to stay, Sam decided. Turning in, he dismounted and met the anxious youngster who ran out to greet them.
“Señor, to feed this many horses grain and hay is fifty cents. To build a fire will cost you ten cents for firewood, and there is no charge to sleep. Okay?”
“Good.” Sam wearily dug out the coins to pay him.
“Gracias. I will bring you the wood right back.” He rushed off.
Doe dismounted and stretched her back. Sam moved past a wagon and began tying the horses to the board fence. The chore of unsaddling barely was started when the boy returned with a big load of firewood sticks. The youth dumped them unceremoniously near the fire ring.
The boy accompanied Sam as he brought a generous fork of alfalfa for two horses and went after another. He pointed. “That mule sure looks like General Crook’s mule that I saw one-time last spring.”
“That’s his name.” Sam laughed as he set the panniers down in a small circle behind Doe who was breaking the wood up to build a fire. With a sulfur match, she lit the fire that began to take hold.
Taking the broken white corn brought in a bucket for horse feed, he put it in the feed sacks and put them on the horses and mule. Kept them from fighting so bad for his two cents.
Outhouses were probably the worst thing Doe could expect. In the Santa Fe Hotel, the room had a pot she traded for an empty one. The wagon yard had a facility that was built from used rough lumber. It rattled dangerously when you slammed the door. Barely what she considered privacy, Doe found it too smelly to stay very long. She decided that demons surely were in such a bad place and kept aware the entire time spent there.
During their supper, a vaquero came by, doffing his large sombrero politely, and stood waiting to talk to them. Sam looked up in the last half hour of red light at the gray-bearded stranger.
“Señor?”
Sam rose to his feet. “Hello, my friend.”
“Gracias, sir. I am on my way back to the ranchero and find I have little more money to feed my patron’s horse.”
“Sit. We have plenty of food. It is poor in quality but lots of it.” Sam showed him a place to sit. “We can feed him some grain after we eat.”
Doe stayed him with a hand and dug out a plate and spoon, dipped up some beans and handed them across the small fire.
“Muchas gracias, Señora.” The man nodded politely.
“Sit with us.” Sam motioned, and she poured him a cup of coffee. After he sat down, she handed it to him.
“I am embarrassed that I am so poor, but my daughter is going to school here and will be a teacher. It takes most of my wages to keep her here.”
Sam ate slowly and studied the old man over his fork. “What ranch do you work on?”
“I work for Señor Mendoza. He owns a ranch on the Iron Mountain, and his cows run in the Superstitions.”
“Is it a nice ranch?”
“I think so. But, the Señor lives in Globe because the Apaches sometimes camp on the land. He and his family have not lived on the ranchero since his father died. I watch his cows and brand them and drive out the big steers.”
“Does it have a nice ranch house?”
“It was a grand place when Señor Mendoza’s father lived there. The ranch house is big like the one on the hacienda where I was born in Chihuahua.”
Joining their conversation, Doe said softly, “The house was once white, and the tile was very red.”
“You have been there, Señora?” The man sounded excited.
“Yes.”
“Did you visit the Mendozas?” Sam asked.
“No, I was a little girl then and remember you.”
“I do not know you. I am sorry.”
Sam dipped out some more beans. “Tell him, Doe, who you were with.”
Doe gave him a questioning look. “Does he have a good heart?”
“I am sure this vaquero is a very strong man.” Sam chuckled.
The man stopped eating his beans and looked closely at her.
She cleared her throat. “Do you remember when Natise came and spoke to the old man Mendoza?”
“Oh!” He swallowed hard and nodded with big eyes.
“Natise and the older man sat on the tile porch and spoke for a long time.”
“Yes, the Apaches had an agreement with him for years. They could eat a calf when they were without food”
“Why does the young patron not live on the ranchero?” Sam asked.
“He does not think it is safe. There are still some renegade Apaches. His Señora does not like the isolation.”
“Would your patron sell the Hacienda?”
“I do not know, but you may go to Globe and see him.”
“How many cows?”
“I think you could find perhaps seventy-five.”
“Corientes? Longhorns?”
“Sí, Señor.”
“Should we go see his patron about this place?”
“You will like those wild mountains?” He could see the excitement growing in her brown eyes.
“Would you stay and help us?”
“Señor, my name is Miguel Santos, and I would be proud to be your vaquero.” The man’s dark eyes glistened with excitement at the prospect. The three talked on about the ranch and the country. One thing Sam understood well—both this vaquero and Doe liked the area up there.
Later, Miguel excused himself after thanking them for the meal and horse feed. Sam invited him to breakfast and to ride east with them. He said he would and left.
“What do you think of such a place?” Sam stretched his arms and yawned. It had been a long day.
“It is a very nice place, but there is no wagon road to that place. Not when I knew it.”
“You go in on horses?”
“Yes. No road. Do you think he will sell us this place?”
“We shall see.” Seated on the ground, he cupped his hands behind his head and grinned as she finished washing the dishes and pots in steaming water.
“Some things are too good to come true. I can remember the shiny red tiles on the floor. What if we do not have enough money?”
“That’s for me to worry about.”
“I will speak to my gods and the one the Padre loved.” She tried to suppress her obvious anxiety.
“Do that, Doe.” He liked the notion of a remote ranch, especially one where she acted like she would be happy to live. She had become someone important in his daily life.