Once released from its piney prison, Texas opened out into sugar then cotton plantations, neither of which appeared to have been inconvenienced by the war that had left much of the South east of the Mississippi a smoldering graveyard.
In a pretty stretch of hilly limestone country, we came upon a settlement of Germans who had fought with the Union against slavery and showed themselves to be the most welcoming whites I had ever encountered. Their limestone farmhouses, cedar fences, peach orchards, and cornfields were as neat and tidy as the plump wives and blond children who waved as we passed by. Some even ran up to offer us apples or a kerchief filled with dewberries.
But the true wonders of Texas did not present themselves until we rode into the old Spanish capital of San Antonio de Béxar where grandees with chin beards, thin and sharp as daggers, wandered the city’s narrow, twisting streets. A river, cool and green, ran through the city where citizens of all ages swam in the shade of giant cypress and willow trees. If I’d of run off anywhere, it would have been there in San Antone.
Instead, after four days’ rest while we resupplied and reshod the horses, we headed west by way of the Emigrant Trail, following in the tracks of a few settlers and a whole herd of prospectors bound for the gold fields of California.
As the Sergeant promised, the farther west we rode, the drier it got. Bit by bit all the greenery that had given me what privacy I could steal, commenced to thin out and dwindle in size. On the forty-fifth day out, we rode for nine hours before encountering any greenery higher than the rough grasses that extended as far as the eye could see. And that was only a patch of prickly pear that barely gave me enough cover to do my squatting business.
By then all the plants had turned on us. Gone were such as the sweet and gentle weeping willow that couldn’t of slapped a housefly in a hurricane. Instead of being the kind friends that did naught but feed and clothe and shelter, plants became sworn enemies dedicated to killing us and every other creature that passed by. They had the names to prove it, too: Spanish dagger. Devil’s darning needle. Horse crippler. Apache lance. Crucifixion thorn. Coach whip.
As Vikers had warned, there was no place to hide in this barren country and I had to wait until long after dark when the mens’ snores grew louder than the yips and howls of coyotes yodeling out their hunting songs to sneak off and relieve myself. One of those endless days seemed worse than all the others with strange cramps deep in my gut caused by my having to hold it for so long. The aching even reached up farther, making my breasts sore and tender beneath the tight bindings. That night, the moon was so full it was near bright as day and I was forced to venture even farther away than usual to find privacy.
In this light, when I pulled down my britches and squatted, the catastrophe that had struck was plain to see: After all these years, my nature had arrived.
I had no choice but to unwind my chest bindings and stuff them into my stained drawers. As I waddled back to my bedroll I wondered why the woman’s curse had found me after I’d ducked it for so long. It had to be that, for the first time in my life, out here on the trail, I was eating regular. We had all the game we could shoot, plenty of beans, and even vegetables whenever there were any to be bought. After a lifetime of hoecakes, hardtack, and mush, the long hollows on my body were filling out. My hipbones no longer stuck out like knife blades and I couldn’t count every single one of my ribs. Also, hard as army life was, it was a picnic compared to what it had been back at Old Mister’s.
I had to conclude that the army had made me soft, soft enough to become a real woman. For a minute or two, the thought that I was normal in this way comforted me. Then the cramping in my nethers almost ripped a moan from my lips and I realized that my woman’s body had betrayed me again and just made a hard road even harder.