Last Stand at Papago Wells (1957) (3 page)

Their situation was now serious. It was Sheehan's duty to report the outbreak to the post at Yuma at the earliest possible moment, but he could not spare a horse for a messenger. Their very survival might depend on the horses to carry canteens and ammunition, and later they might have to share them, turn and turn about. Their one chance for survival lay in a safe arrival at Papago Wells.

Once there they could rest, supply themselves with fresh water and make the attempt to reach Yuma. The worst of their journey undoubtedly lay between their present position and Papago. The Indians had escaped and might be returning in force, and not for one minute did Sheehan believe the few who attacked them were the only hostiles.

And so, from various points on that southern desert, parties of men on foot and horseback moved toward Papago Wells, drawn by the common necessity of water.

At Cipriano Well the Indians, gorged on mule meat, grunted in their sleep. Junie Hatchett slid the loop of her bound wrists down over her narrow hips and down behind her ankles. Then, doubling her knees under her chin, she put her bound feet through the circle of her arms and brought her wrists up in front of her. Then she began to fight the rawhide knots with her teeth.

After more than an hour of heartbreaking struggle her wrists were free, and it required half again that long to free her ankles. Ghostlike in the silence, she got up. It was impossible to get a horse, for they would be frightened of the smell of the white man about her, and the Indians would awaken. She wasted no time except to retrieve a waterbag, but walked silently away into the darkness.

Junie Hatchett was fifteen, soon to be sixteen, and her years had known little of love, much of loneliness, of longing, and of hardship. They had been years, too, of empty yearning toward the impossible ... but from that yearning she now drew strength, for there is no power greater than the power of a dream, and she walked steadily away into the vast and empty desert, unafraid.

Chapter
Three

In the first gray light of day three riders rode up to Papago Wells. Jennifer Fair had all she could do to hold herself in the saddle, but exhausted as she was, there was no relenting in her purpose. Kimbrough, though disliking the presence of Lonnie Foreman, was unable to do anything about it, and had decided at last that it was just as well.

There was no wedding ring on the lady's finger, but Lonnie knew a lady when he saw one, and in his book of rules, which was strict, Jennifer Fair was a lady.

Fair ... Jennifer Fair ... Big Jim Fair!

Of course! All at once it made sense, for the name of Jim Fair was known wherever cattlemen gathered. If Jim Fair's daughter was riding out of the country with a man it was because her father disapproved of the man. Lonnie himself was a romantic, and if Jennifer loved the man, then her father had no right to object. Well ... not much.

Lonnie Foreman knew that Grant Kimbrough was a gentleman. From the West Virginia hills himself, he knew Kimbrough for what he was at first glance--Southern aristocracy. Back where he came from there was little of that, though down in the lowlands it was quite a thing. Up where Lonnie came from a man was judged by his shooting and his farming, and Lonnie had carried a rifle ever since he was tall enough to keep both ends off the ground. And he knew how to use one, too.

They had arrived on the morning after the arrival of Beaupre and Lugo, of whom they saw nothing. On this same morning, far to the east of them, Junie Hatchett walked steadily toward the west, and behind her the sleeping Indians had not yet awakened.

They had drawn up, well back from the tanks. "Maybe," Lonnie suggested in a low voice, "I better ride up and take a look. Might be Indians."

Jennifer moved to protest, but Grant Kimbrough said, "All right ... but be careful."

Jennifer glanced at him sharply, but made no comment. Kimbrough moved his horse near hers. "The boy is good at this," he said, "we might as well let him do it."

She made no reply. The moon, in these last hours of night, had turned the cholla into torches of captured moonlight. She listened. Somewhere a pebble rattled on the rocks up ahead of them where Lonnie had gone, and a low wind stirred the desert, causing the greasewood beside them to hum faintly. It was beautiful ... but so lonely, so empty. After the cities, the parties, the gaiety, the lights ... no, this was not for her, despite the stillness, despite the beauty.

She had hated the loneliness of the ranch without women of her own kind, she detested her father's brusque good nature and his clumsy efforts to be affectionate. She hated the gun he was never without, and the memory of the gay, laughing boy it had destroyed.

The desert, she told herself, was not for women. It dried them out and burned them up, and she was glad she was getting out of it, and fortunate to have met a man like Grant Kimbrough at such a time. He was so obviously a gentleman. He had breeding ...

Lonnie Foreman appeared in the vague light. "It's all right. Nobody around, and plenty of water. Down in the lower wash there's feed for the horses."

The feeble lemon light over the eastern mountains widened with the hours and crimson began to tint the far-off hills. Here and there the red dripped over and ran down a ridge into the desert. Tired as she was, Jennifer led her horse to the lower pool and stood by while he drank deep of the cool water. It was a lesson learned from her father, learned long ago.

"We'll have to rest," Kimbrough said reluctantly. "Our horses are in bad shape."

"It's a place to fight from." Foreman squatted on his heels. "We could do much worse."

Kimbrough's thoroughbred was showing the rough travel. He looked gaunt and hollow-eyed from the unaccustomed heat and dryness. Jennifer was shocked at its appearance, for her own horse, while very tired, was standing up well.

Above the pool among the lava rocks a head lifted slowly and eyes looked down upon them. It was a ragged-looking black head, and the eyes were black, Indian, curious. The watcher studied each of them in turn, remaining longer on Jennifer. To his right another head lifted and Jim Beaupre joined Lugo in sizing up the arrivals. His shrewd eyes noted with approval that the boy had not put down his rifle.

Neither man looked like the law, but there was no reason why they should be here, at this lonely place. "All right," Beaupre whispered, "we'll filter in on 'em, but take it easy. That youngster looks like he'd shoot first and ask his questions of the corpse."

Foreman got to his feet. "I've some coffee, ma'am, and I reckon we could trust a fire if we keep it small and down in the hollow. I figure to make one that won't show smoke."

"Would you, Lonnie?" Her smile was quick and friendly, and he grinned in reply. "You make the fire and I'll make the coffee."

He was returning with his arms full of wood when he saw the two men. Lonnie stopped where he was, his eyes going from one to the other, and then to his rifle, a good ten paces away. His six-shooter was in his belt but he would have to drop the wood first and he was no hand with a short gun.

"No call to get stirred up," Beaupre said, "we're travelin' east, an' just stopped the night."

Kimbrough turned at the sound of the voice and Lonnie saw how his coat was drawn back and that he wore his coat for a fast draw. Lonnie glanced at him sharply, finding something surprising in the gun. He had taken Kimbrough for a man just out from the East ... he was not brown enough for a Westerner, but he wore his gun like a man who knew how to use it. Lonnie walked to where the fire would be and dropped his armful of wood.

"You better think again before you go east," Lonnie advised. " 'Paches killed my two partners at Bates Well."

"We'll wait, then." Beaupre grinned at the boy. "If they come thisaway we can stand 'em off."

"They'll come."

They built the fire under an overhang of rock where the flames could not reflect upward, although the sky was too light now to show any reflection. Over their coffee they huddled together, each busy with his or her own thoughts. Somewhere behind them, Jennifer thought, would be her father, probably with a dozen men, searching for her ... and somewhere to the east, perhaps near him, were the Indians.

Jim Beaupre had his own thoughts and they were not attractive. A sheriff's posse was on his trail with hanging on their minds, and even if he were taken back for trial, a possibility which he did not consider likely, it would be doubtful if anyone on the jury would give them a break. Hometown folks were apt to consider such youngsters just harum-scarum boys, not giving due thought to the fact that the guns they carried were fully aged. A drifting buffalo skinner and a half-breed could expect no breaks.

From time to time Lugo slipped away from the fire to study the surrounding country. The Pima was a good man, and could see things on the desert that only an Indian would see ... an Indian or a man who had lived there as long.

The sun was just about to tip its eyebrows over the mountain when he called down. "Man coming ... riding alone."

From the shelter of the rocks they saw the man on the zebra dun. The horse had a fast, shuffling trot and he came on fast, but circling as he came, taking advantage of every bit of cover. At times they saw him, then they did not, but Jim Beaupre muttered something to Lugo, then chuckled. "He's a smart one! Right now he knows exactly where we are, and I bet he knows how many there are! He also knows what shape our horses are in ... see him cuttin' for sign a while back?"

"He's not very intelligent," Grant Kimbrough said. "From here I could drop him at any time."

"Maybe, but don't try it. Notice how his rifle lays? My guess is he saw us as soon as we saw him and if you started to lift a gun you'd be combin' lead out of your hair. Right now he's just makin' sure this isn't a trap. I'll lay you an even dollar he gets off on the far side of his horse from where we stand."

The rider on the dun walked the horse up through the brush and they went down to meet him. Kimbrough was in the lead, and when the dun stopped walking, the Winchester lay across the pommel with the muzzle centered on Kimbrough's chest.

"How's for some coffee?" Logan Cates asked pleasantly. "I could smell it a quarter of a mile way."

"Come on in," Kimbrough invited, and Cates swung down, his horse between them, the rifle always ready without being obtrusive. When he was on the ground, Cates led the dun into the trees and after a minute came toward them, carrying his rifle in one hand, his canteens and saddlebags in the other.

"Picked up a smoke at daybreak," he told them, "and heard shooting off to the south."

Cates's eyes met Jennifer's and slanted away. He accepted the coffee she offered him, aware of Beaupre's quick glance at the way he wore his gun, and the longer look at his face.

As he sipped his coffee, Logan Cates tried to make sense of the little group he had joined. That the two parties had arrived separately, he was well aware, but he did not know which was which. Obviously the exhausted horse whose tracks he had seen had been ridden by either the man who first greeted him or the girl ... probably the girl.

Beaupre explained about the Indians Foreman had encountered and the death of his two friends. "I think we've headed into trouble. The Indians know this place and they'll need water."

"Best to sit tight, then," Cates advised, "we're safer here than running."

"My name is Beaupre."

The hesitation was just enough to be noticed. Jennifer glanced at Logan Cates and he said, looking at her, "I'm Logan Cates."

Jennifer had heard the name but remembered nothing about it. Beaupre had smiled a little satisfied smile as if pleased with himself. Lonnie started to ask a question, then held his tongue.

"We're going west," Kimbrough said. "The Indians we've heard of are east of here."

Nobody said anything for several minutes but Cates was thinking what he knew Beaupre must also think, that there was no being sure about Indians.

Lonnie phrased it his own way. "I like this place. I'm staying until we know."

Kimbrough shrugged, then nodded to indicate Lugo. "He's an Indian ... what about him?"

"He's a Pima," Beaupre said, "they hate 'Paches more'n you do."

"He's an Indian. How do we know we can trust him?"

"How do we know we can trust you?" Cates asked mildly. "Or how can you trust me? We're all strangers here."

Kimbrough's anger showed in his eyes but before he could speak Jennifer brought the coffee pot to fill Cates's cup. "I trust him," she said. "My father says the Pimas are good men ... the best of men."

Tony Lugo looked up briefly, no expression on his face. He gave no evidence of being interested in the conversation, but at her remark he merely glanced briefly at Jennifer. Later, after Kimbrough had turned impatiently away, Lugo asked Jennifer, "Your hoosband?"

"Not yet ... not until we get to Yuma Crossing."

It had to be that way, Cates reflected, and Kimbrough was handsome enough to make it understandable, and, judging by his manner, he was a gentleman. Yet there was something about him that did not quite fit, something off-key. It's probably you, he told himself; you're jealous.

He grinned over his cup and Jennifer caught his grin and wondered about it. There was something in Cates's brown, triangular face that was attractive. He was far from handsome, but he was intriguing.