Along The Fortune Trail (17 page)

T
hey made their camp in a clearing of trees with an hour of daylight left. The temperature was mild, and Blaine collected fuel and made a fire while Sammy stripped and hobbled the horses. The women laid out bedding and prepared coffee and the meal. They sat on the ground around the fire and took their supper, eating off tin plates and drinking coffee from tin cups. Blaine also drank from his new second canteen, filled with two bottles worth of mescal from Enrique Tomingo. He asked Sammy if he wanted some, but Sammy declined, saying that the previous night's bottle still had him feeling “fogged.”

“I need the fog. The day's ride got this throbbin’ somethin’ good,” Blaine said, feeling the relief as he ate and alternated sipping coffee from his cup and mescal from his canteen.

“Anybody else want some mescal?” Blaine asked, his leg feeling better from the medicinal effects and his current position on the ground.

Claire looked up from her plate. “I think I would like to try some, Mister Corker.”

“Would you please call me Blaine, ma'am. I reckon we've been through enough together.”

“All right, Blaine, but you must call me Claire.”

“Well all right, Claire. Give some a this a whirl,” he said, and passed the canteen to Margaret to pass on. “Can I call you Margaret?”

“If I can call you Blaine.”

“You better.”

“Call me Sammy,” Sammy offered. “In fact, let's just agree we're all on a first name basis.”

“Yes let's,” Claire said, as she poured some of the mescal into her cup.”

“Okay, Sammy and Blaine,” Margaret said.

“Gooooooood,” Blaine said. He pulled out the makings and began to roll a smoke.

Margaret decided to ask. “Can I have a little bit of the mescal, Blaine? Not very much. I'd like to try it.”

“Sure you can. But careful, it's potent.”

She poured a little in her cup as Claire had done and handed the canteen back to Blaine. “Thank you, Blaine.”

“Right in with the coffee, huh? Well, let's see how that does,” Blaine said, as he poured some into his own coffee.

Margaret and Claire took their first sip cautiously. “Oh … it made the coffee better,” Claire said.

“I think it's making his leg feel better too,” Margaret said.

Sammy smiled. “It's making him feel better, and his leg's goin’ right along with it.”

They drank their spiked coffee and Sammy had his regular. Claire asked about where Sammy and Blaine were from, and the cowboys told the women all about the Twin T. and Homer and Reuben and the hands and Jacqueline and Lucilla and Raquel. The young women sat mesmerized, listening and asking occasional questions about something, but mostly just reveling in hearing about normal life and people.

The conversation played on for a while, and then during a pause Claire grew thoughtful for a moment and changed the subject. “How were you able to kill all those Indians? There was only the two of you.”

Sammy glanced over at Blaine, who suddenly looked a little more alert. “We opened up on ‘em. Surprised ‘em,” Sammy said.

“This man right here can shoot,” Blaine said, motioning toward Sammy.

“We can both shoot. Lucky in our shootin’ too. It just worked out for us. One of ‘em got away. You gals took care of those other two.”

Claire had a look of recollection on her face. “Emily shot the one who came in. She was off to the side in the shadows. He never saw her because he was looking at us. She didn't hesitate for a second.”

Then Margaret spoke. “I hit the other one in the head with the rock—a couple of times. He was there when they killed my father and the other men. He was part of it. They ambushed us. My father was still able to kill one of them before he died. I'm not sorry I killed him. I hope God forgives me.”

“It's them that needs forgivin’, but first they needed killin’. You done the right thing,” Blaine said.

“That's right,” Sammy agreed. “Don't you let that prey on you. They killed a lot of innocent people, and would have kept at it. You saved somebody's life—somebody who would have been innocent. You were brave to do what you did. Now it's time to get on with livin’. That's what your father would have wanted. That's what you'll do.”

The morning ride was slow going through mostly forest with occasional stretches of open meadow. They saw deer and elk and several different bears that paid them no particular attention other than passing glances. In the early afternoon, they came across a trail that was well worn by horses and wagons. It looked to Sammy to be heading in the general direction of Española. He hoped they'd make it by sundown. They turned onto the trail and alternated between a lope and a trot.

It wasn't far down the trail before Blaine took a turn for the worse. He continually shifted in the saddle in search of a position that would yield relief to his leg. He grabbed his mescal canteen and took a long pull, then slumped for a bit before hitting the canteen again. Sammy pulled up alongside him and could see the sweat on Blaine's pale face. His eyes were glassy and bloodshot. Sammy suspected Blaine was feverish, which meant infection was setting in. “How you doin?” Sammy asked. “You wanna rest for a while?”

“Damn leg feels worse today than ever. But let's keep goin’. If I fall out of the saddle, then I guess we better stop for a rest. How much farther ya figure?”

“Couple more hours. If you wanna stop before then, let me know.”

“Okay.”

“You look to be runnin’ a fever. Might wanna take it easy on the mescal.”

“Ah, bullshit! It's keepin’ me goin’.”

“All right, hoss.”

Sammy dropped back by the women, who had been watching Blaine's erratic posture in the saddle. “He's not well,” Claire said.

“No, he's not. I need to get him to a doctor as soon as I can. He looks to have a fever. I think his leg is infected.”

“Maybe we should stop and let him rest,” Margaret said.

“Yeah, he needs it. But the more we stop, the longer he goes without proper attention. We'll ride until he says he needs to rest. We should make Española in a couple more hours. Maybe they have a doctor there.”

“I know Española,” Claire said. “There might be a doctor. But if not, it's only several hours farther on to Santa Fe, and I know a good doctor there.”

They kept up a good pace as the afternoon wandered on. Sammy took frequent compass headings and was certain of the trail's destination. He also watched Blaine and worried over his friend's condition. Blaine drank water, but continued to work at the mescal to fight the pain. He was finally overcome with nausea and delusion, vomiting just before toppling from his horse in a slow motion roll. On the way down, he pawed at his saddle and the horse's neck, attempting to slow his descent toward the ground. He landed on his back with a thud. The sky above spun in a sickening whirl, and he turned his head to the side and vomited again. Then he blacked out.

The Evening Star glistened in singular solitude against the dark blue sky of twilight. Blaine focused on it as his eyes slowly opened. He felt the cool of the wet cloth on his forehead and became aware of his surroundings. His head was cradled in Claire's lap as she sat propped against a cottonwood tree holding the cool compress on him. His pants lay beside him. A blanket covered him from the chest down. Margaret was cooking meat over a nearby fire. He looked up at Claire, whose face was silhouetted by early evening. Her long hair hung down near his face and moved gently with the easy wind. He thought for a moment he was being held by an angel. She was looking down at him and reached for the canteen next to her when she saw he was awake. “Here, you must drink some water,” she said, holding the canteen to his lips and gently tilting it to deliver the cool liquid to him. His thirst overwhelmed him at the first sip, and he brought both hands up from his side to take control of the canteen, gulping several mouthfuls, then pausing to get his breath and drinking more. He finally stopped and looked at her, wondering how he came to be resting his head on her.

His voice was raspy and not much above a whisper. “What happened?”

Claire moved the cool compress around his face as she spoke. “You passed out. You have a fever, and I dare say it didn't mix well with the mescal. There is some infection in your leg, but I don't think it's too bad yet. We cleaned it, and Margaret made a poultice that's wrapped on. It should help.”

“Margaret made a poultice?”

“Yes. Sammy told her what to do. She boiled some yucca plant with elm bark and charcoal and flour.”

“Ain't he just a bag of know-how. I'll tell ya, that boy's smart. How long have I been out, anyway?”

“Three or four hours. Are you hungry? Sammy shot a turkey, and Margaret is cooking it right now.”

“No. I don't reckon I could eat.”

“That's the fever,” she said.

Sammy appeared from the trees with both arms so full of wood that it nearly covered his face. He walked cautiously toward the fire peeking around the side of his balancing burden. When he got near enough for comfort, he pitched the load forward and it crashed to the dirt with prolonged rumbling as each piece wrestled in the clump for its ending position. “That oughta do for the rest of tonight and the morning,” he announced with the tone of certain calculation.

“I think the bird is close to done,” Margaret said.

“All right, Margaret. Let's see how our patient is doin’, and then we'll get to supper.”

“Good … I'm hungry,” she said. “It sure smells fine.”

“Well, that's cause you've done such a fine job cookin’ it. Just like you did makin’ up that poultice.”

She smiled at Sammy and he could see the joy the young girl took in the simplest of compliments.

Sammy walked over to the tree and looked down at Blaine, who had a blank stare. “Hey, amigo. Feelin’ alive?”

“That's about all. But I sure am a lucky one for the care I been gettin’.”

“That's a fact. We'll see about a doctor in Española in the morning. If they don't have one, we'll make a run for Santa Fe. Should make it by the noon or so. Get you to the doctor as soon as we can.”

“I'll be ready to ride,” Blaine said without hesitation.

Sammy and Claire and Margaret ate a supper of perfectly roasted, succulent turkey with biscuits, while Blaine continued to sleep. Claire took him a small plate later and woke him, imploring him to eat to keep up his strength. He wasn't hungry at all, but ate a little bit anyway to make Claire happy. He vomited a few minutes later. Claire felt badly about it, and took up her position against the tree with Blaine's head in her lap. She continued to administer the cool compress against the fever that would not yield. Later in the evening, she asked Margaret to bring her a blanket. She spent the rest of the night talking to him, cooling him, singing to him, waking him to drink more water, and sleeping for periods herself.

B
laine opened his eyes and listened to an owl hoot as the night sky began to give way to the morning light. He smelled the coffee and lifted his head to look at the fire.

Sammy was sitting by it, drinking his first cup. He looked at Blaine when he saw the cowboy's head come up, nodding to him, but saying nothing. Margaret was sleeping near the fire, and Claire had rolled from sleeping in a sitting position against the tree to being curled up on the ground just above Blaine's head.

Blaine moved quietly and grabbed his pants, then worked at getting them on. Sammy watched the ordeal and thought it looked something like a man trying to stuff himself into a potato sack. A minute later and out of breath, Blaine completed the maneuver and pushed himself to his feet using his arms and one leg, while his injured leg stuck out to the side like an errant rowboat oar. He limped off into the dark to relieve himself. A moment later, he returned and retrieved his boots.

Blaine limped over to the fire where he dropped his boots and fell forward, landing on his hands and then flipping to a sitting position in a rather acrobatic move. He was able to get both his boots on with no assistance. Sammy took the whole episode as a sign of improvement. He poured Blaine a cup of coffee, and the two men sat quietly by the fire as daylight crept upon them.

The women were up soon after. Claire came over to Blaine and felt his forehead and face. His fever was still present, but she thought it seemed a bit better than the night before. “I'm all right, Claire,” Blaine reassured. “Thanks for looking after me, and thanks for the poultice, Margaret. It must be helping ‘cause my leg feels better.”

“Really? It really does?” Margaret asked.

“Yes, ma'am. I'm ready to ride today.”

Two hours later, they rode down the main street of Española, made up mostly of mud huts. “Hold up here for a minute.” Sammy stopped them in front of a small frame building with pine siding and white painted letters: GOODS. “I'll be right back.” He jumped down from Dobe and tied him to the hitching post.

“You want us to just sit here in the street?” Blaine asked.

“You can all get down if you want. I was just gonna check to see if there's a doctor in this town. Won't be but a second, and I didn't figure you were partial to using that leg if you didn't have to.”

“I see your point. I'll be waitin’ here.”

“We'll wait with Blaine,” Claire said, sensing Sammy's desire to be fast.

Sammy returned quickly. “The doctor comes once a week from Santa Fe—on Fridays.”

“Well, I reckon we better get on to Santa Fe then ‘cause this don't look quite lively enough to wait for a couple of days.”

“It's only a few hours more,” Claire added.

“Do you ladies need to stop for a break?” Blaine asked.

“I don't,” Margaret said.

“No, let's keep going,” Claire said. “We're so close now.”

“Onward, Mister Winds,” Blaine declared in a tumbling phrase.

Sammy looked appraisingly at Blaine, knowing he was hurting and ever so nimbly delusional. His fever looked to have picked up some. He knew he could get worse fast, or maybe he would hold on and make the ride easily. “Let's make dust. The trail we want is out the east end,” Sammy said, putting Dobe to a trot.

As they cleared town and came upon the trail, Blaine undid one of his canteens. Claire feared he might be getting ready to have a go at the mescal again, but then the pale cowboy pulled his hat off and proceeded to pour water all over his head. It ran down his face and over his ears, soaking the top of his shirt from front to back. He took a deep breath and shook his head to clear the excess. His dark brown hair was matted slick and sheen. Smiling, he put his hat back on and re-hung the nearly empty canteen. “Now that I'm wet, I reckon I'll make a little breeze for myself. Get up, Seesaw!” His horse jumped to a gallop along the flat, straight trail.

“It appears he'd like to get there sooner rather than later,” Sammy casually remarked.

“Me too!” Margaret said. “C'mon, Windchaser!” She put her heels to the horse and was gone in a burst.

Sammy looked over at Claire, who was still in a trot beside him. She looked knowingly back at him. “Ladies first,” he said. She smiled, and then put her horse to a run. Sammy continued on at a trot, watching the parade of horses galloping ahead, throwing up a dust trail that mixed with the scent of pine and wildflowers. Dobe snorted and twitched. “You tryin’ to tell me we oughta get on after ‘em? Heaaaaaw!”

The Plaza was sodden with late morning sun that warmed the many adobe walls. Santa Fe sat at an elevation of seven thousand feet and had a population of some three thousand. Wagons, horses, and buggies were thick on the main avenue, and the boardwalk bustled with people, some moving with the pace of commerce while others strolled in the melody of looking. The young crop of alfalfa grew on the Plaza Square, presenting a lush foreground and vibrant contrast to the textured brown adobe of the Palace of the Governors and San Miguel Mission. A cathedral with Corinthian columns of Roman architectural influence was being constructed and looked oddly singular in style to the other buildings. Alongside the construction site, several dozen men worked in a large mud pit for making the adobe. Vendors lined the square with their carts and wagons selling jewelry and artwork and pottery and baskets and weavings and hats and clothing and foodstuffs and leather goods and potions and perfumes. The people on the Plaza were mostly Spanish and Mexican, but there were also Anglos and some Indians and Asians.

A stagecoach stopped at a corner of the Plaza. The weary-looking occupants climbed stiffly out into the bright sunshine. One of the travelers, an older woman, began to beat the dust from her dress, but stopped and looked with fascination and slight disdain at Margaret and Claire, riding western style in dresses.

Sammy was behind them, alongside Blaine, now slumped in the saddle as if he might fall any second. Blaine had displayed stoical grit and determination on the ride from Española, but now he was played out. His fever was well up and the pain was unrelenting. He'd stayed away from the mescal, knowing he'd never make it if he began drinking. But he hadn't held off the delirium. He'd seen the Indian from the tunnel flying around in the treetops, and engaged in rambling conversation with his long deceased grandmother and several of his boyhood friends during the last half hour before hitting town.

“It's right up here,” Claire said over her shoulder as she reined up in front of the Exchange Hotel. The sign on the low one-story adobe building next to the hotel simply said: MEDICA. Sammy pulled up, jumped off Dobe, and helped Margaret and Claire dismount. He turned to give Blaine a hand, but the cowboy was already dismounting and was halfway off when he blacked out and fell to the ground.

Several people stopped and looked, some just thinking it was a drunken cowboy.

“You gals tie the horses off,” Sammy said as he quickly moved over to where Blaine lay in the street. Blaine's eyes opened as slits squinting against the sun. He began to try and sit up. Sammy kneeled down and got his arms around Blaine's upper torso, lifting hard to help his friend to his feet. “Come on, hoss. Let's go see the doctor.”

“That horse can't dance proper,” Blaine slurred.

“You can teach him later,” Sammy replied. He pulled Blaine's arm around his neck and began to walk him toward the building. “Lead the way, Claire.” Sammy half-dragged Blaine along. Margaret hurried to Blaine's other side and took his free arm, doing the best she could to help.

Two old Mexican women were sitting in the outer office when Claire opened the door. Sammy, Blaine, and Margaret followed her inside. The old women glanced at Blaine then looked away. He was pale with chalky lips. Beads of perspiration ran down and around his hollow, red-glazed eyes. His blue cotton shirt was dirty and clung to his shoulders and chest, soaked with sweat.

There was no one at the reception desk. Claire was just about to knock at the door when it opened and Dorian O'Malley emerged with his assistant and a patient. He was dispensing some final words to his patient in a heavy, Irish accent when he caught sight of Claire. He stopped cold. “Missus Studdard?” he asked, shocked.

“Yes, Doctor O'Malley…. It's me.”

“My dear! You're back. No one knew what happened. Your husband … Robert …”

“Yes, I know, Doctor. I was there when he was murdered. They took me, and these men saved us a few days ago.” Dorian O'Malley looked over his spectacles in a state of bewilderment at Blaine and Sammy and then to Margaret. Claire wasted no more time. “This man is injured and sick. He needs your help immediately.”

“Yes … of course, of course.” The doctor looked at the old women who had been waiting. “Un pocos minutos, por favor.”

“Si. Si,” they both said, apparently understanding the urgency of the situation and waving the backs of their hands as if to say don't waste time standing out here.

“Muchas gracias,” Blaine said to the old women in a slow, slurred drawl.

“Si, gracias,” Sammy added while dragging Blaine through the door to the examination room.

“He's got a bullet wound in his left thigh, Doctor,” Sammy said as they helped Blaine get situated on the examination table. “It didn't go all the way through, but I was able to get it out from the backside. It looks to be infected where the bullet entered. I don't think it is on the backside where I cut it out.”

“I see. Well, he's very feverish, so I would say infection is a certainty.”

Blaine's head rocked to the side and he opened his eyes. “I reckon this pain is a certainty. You got anything for it, Doc?”

“Yes lad, I do. Alice would you bring me the laudanum?” Doctor O'Malley turned to Claire and Sammy and Margaret. “Why don't you folks come back later on. We've got several beds in the back for patients, and unless there's some dire emergency, I think your friend shouldn't move any farther than one of those beds. I'll know more in a bit. The hotel next door is the best in Santa Fe if you need accommodations.”

“Yes, I know that doctor,” Claire said with surprise.

“Well, I didn't know if you had been by your home yet.”

“No, not yet. We came straight here. What do you mean?”

Doctor O'Malley looked a little uncomfortable. “I think someone is living there.”