Demon's Pass (19 page)

As the others reached the top of the pass their reaction was the same as Parker's had been. The wagons stopped, and everyone just stood there for a long moment, looking ahead, shielding their eyes with their hands and trying to imagine if they would survive the crossing.

“It looks like we are going into the bowels of hell itself,” Jason suggested.

“We'll never make it across,” Pecorino added worriedly.

“We ain't got no choice,” Marcus reminded them.

“We're wasting time standing here.” Clay growled. “Let's move 'em out.”

Mouthing a prayer and gathering what strength they had remaining, the little party started out into the arid desert.

As the mules plodded and the wagons rolled, the wheels lifted a fine, powdery dust from the ground, which hung in the air, clogging the nostrils and burning the skin. With red-rimmed eyes, chapped lips, and grim, determined expressions, they continued their trek out into the yawning wasteland.

They camped the first night on the desert, building fires from the greasewood to help push back the cold. Almost total exhaustion made for a very quiet camp. They ate little and drank even less, then turned in for a few hours of fretful sleep. Before dawn they were up and going again.

As they moved farther out into the desert, the sand became deeper and harder to move through. The hooves of the mules sank into the sand and the wagon wheels cut grooves almost halfway up to the hubs, making the pulling much harder. The merciless sun continued its agonzingly slow transit across the bright blue sky, punishing everyone with its heat and glare. Despite their best efforts to conserve what they had, parched throats and chapped lips demanded water, and the men went to their containers time and time again. Often as not, when the water vessel was empty it would be cast aside so that, soon, the little train could be traced by the empty canteens, jugs, bottles, and barrels which littered their route.

When they stopped for the second night they realized a grim truth. The mountain range on the distant horizon looked as far away now as it did when they had entered the desert yesterday morning.

There was no water left for the animals by midmorning of the third day. There was no grass either. There was only the great desert reaching out before them in a blazing white that glistened in the distance, giving the tantalizing but false impression of water.

The men urged the teams on, sometimes getting behind the wagons and pushing when there was a particularly difficult place for them to negotiate.

That night, their third night on the desert, they sat around the fire, watching the sparks ride a rising column high into the night sky until the tiny red embers mingled with the distant blue stars. Finally, the fire burned down.

“We aren't going to make it out of this damn desert, are we?” Pecorino asked.

“Sure we are,” Parker said.

“No, we aren't,” Pecorino insisted. “We're going to die out here, all of us.” Pecorino's words were not those of a frightened man, but rather those of a man resigned. He said them as if he really didn't care whether they survived or not. “Someday someone will find our bones and if they know who we are, I want them to put on my tombstone; ‘Here lies Frank Pecorino. He never should'a left New York.' ”

“Why did you leave New York?” Jason asked.

“On account of my sister.”

“Your sister made you leave New York?”

“My sister was to be married . . . but the man who proposed to her changed his mind. The only problem is, he didn't tell my sister. He said nothing to no one, and just took off.”

Pecorino paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts.

“On the day of the wedding my sister put on her beautiful white dress and went to the church. My father was there to give her away. My mother carried flowers, The church was full as we all gathered to watch my sister be married.”

Pecorino poked at the fire with a long stick. It was several seconds before he spoke again. “Everyone was there for the wedding: family, friends, the priest, the bride, the bridesmaids. Even the best man was there. Only one person wasn't there—the groom.”

There was another beat of silence.

“And that's it?” Parker asked. “You left New York because you were embarrassed that the groom didn't show up at your sister's wedding?”

“Not exactly,” Pecorino said. He put the end of the stick he was holding into a flame and held it there until it ignited. Then he raised the stick and examined its end closely. “I left New York because I went after the son of a bitch who left my sister standing at the altar. I found him . . . and I killed him.”

“Damn! Remind me never to make you mad, Frank,” Clay said.

The others laughed, and the mirth had the effect of breaking the tension. When they went to sleep that night, after more joking and bantering, there was a mutual belief that the desert would not beat them. They would survive

That feeling of transcendency over all obstacles was put to a test the very next afternoon when they crossed over a great saltwater sink, covered by a thin veneer of sand. The hooves of the mules and the wheels of the wagon cut through the crust easily, bringing saltwater to the surface.

The mules, with very little water for the last thirty-six hours, were nearly mad from thirst. The men weren't faring much better than their animals. Marcus told Parker of an old trick he had once learned of sucking on rocks to fight the thirst, and Parker did so, though he didn't know whether it helped or not. He rubbed eyes which were nearly blinded by the sun and irritated by blowing salt.

“Parker,” Clay said, finally coming to a decision, “I'd like you to ride ahead to find water. As soon as you do, bring some back to us.”

“All right.”

“What about the mules, Mr. Springer?” Jason asked. “Parker can't bring back enough water for them too, and if we keep on drivin' 'em like this, we're goin' to kill 'em.”

Reed rubbed his chin. “You're right,” he said. “All right, if Parker finds water we'll cut the mules loose and take them on ahead. After they've drunk their fill, we can bring them back for the wagons.”

Parker began gathering what canteens had not been discarded, and tied them to his saddle pommel.

“Parker,” Clay said, just before Parker was ready to ride off.

“Yes?”

“Don't tarry, boy,” Clay said. “For if you do, when you get back, you'll find nothing but bleached bones.”

“I'll be back as soon as I can,” Parker promised.

Leaving the others behind, Parker rode on ahead, fighting the heat and the sun throughout the rest of the day. At about dusk his horse smelled water and, without Parker's urging, broke into a gallop. Parker hung on until, finally, he saw grass and trees and knew that there had to be a spring there.

When he reached the small spring he leaped from the saddle and ran to the water, then lay on his stomach and after dunking his head under, he sucked up cool liquid in such long drafts that he got stomach cramps. He had to get up and walk away from it, and he began throwing up.

When, finally, he got control of his retching, and drank some more water to replace that which he had regurgitated, he began filling the canteens. Once they were full, Parker started back, continuing all through the night until he finally reached the wagons just before dawn. He found Clay and the others waiting patiently by the inert wagons. He gave them all water to drink, then, because he had not slept in over twenty-four hours, he crawled into one of the wagons to sleep. There would be nothing else to do until Clay and Marcus brought the refreshed mules back for the wagons.

When Parker woke up it was midafternoon and he was sweating in the terrible heat.

“Jason?” he said, sitting up.

“Yeah, I'm right here,” Jason answered.

“Where is everyone?”

“We're down here,” Jason said. “Sitting in the shade of the wagon.”

Parker crawled out of the wagon and looked around. They could have been on the surface of the moon, they were so alone. The mountains rose in the distance and a hot, dry wind moaned across the desert.

“Clay and Marcus aren't back yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Maybe they ain't comin' back,” Tobin suggested.

“They'll be back,” Parker said.

“What makes you so sure of that?” Tobin asked.

“Because I know Clay Springer. He's not the kind of man who would abandon us.”

“Then how come he's not back yet? He's had plenty of time to get there and back.”

“Could be the mules are too tired,” Jason said. “You know what ornery cusses them critters can be.”

 

Jason's suggestion turned out to be correct. It was absolutely impossible to get the mules away from the spring and moving again before the next morning. As a result, by the time Marcus and Clay returned to the wagons with the animals, the supply of water for those who had waited behind was nearly exhausted again. Anticipating that, Clay and Marcus had brought back two barrels of water.

Returning to the spring, it was five more days before mules and men were sufficiently rested from their ordeal in the desert to continue. Two more days of hard travel beyond that brought them to a small lake with green grass. It was such an inviting oasis and the mules were so exhausted, that the train wanted to rest again.

Clay, however, was anxious to go on as quickly as he could. He was beginning to grow more and more concerned about the lateness of the season and in order to discuss his concern, he called a meeting.

The men gathered around with gaunt faces, sore bodies, and diminished spirits. How different this meeting was, Parker thought, from the ones they had had early in the journey. At those earlier gatherings there had been jokes and good-natured ribbing. Now, everyone was silent.

“Men,” Clay started, “I don't have to tell you that we're in a bad fix here, and I have to take the blame for it. I thought that by taking the cutoff, we would be gaining time. Instead, we've lost time, and we're beginning to run low on provisions. I know you want to stay here and rest some more, but if we do that, we'll never make it through the mountains before the snows come. We can't stay here and rest. We have to get going, and we have to do it now.”

Grumbling over the fact that their rest period was being cut short, the men nonetheless left to begin hitching up their teams.

“I don't know, Clay,” Marcus said as he walked over to stand beside Clay and Parker. “The way you're driving these men, you may wind up with a mutiny on your hands.”

“Well, if it does come to a mutiny, it'll be three against three,” Clay said. “And I reckon we'll just have to handle it.”

“It'll be four to two,” Parker said.

“Four to two? What are you saying, boy? That you would join with them?” Marcus asked in surprise.

“No,” Parker answered. He smiled. “I'm saying that Jason would throw in with us.”

Clay looked over at the young man, who was, at that very moment, busily connecting his team.

“I have to admit,” Clay said, “Jason has worked out a lot better than I thought he would. You have an eye for good men, Parker. You are going to be a fine leader.”

Chapter 13

Because Bloody Axe knew Elizabeth had wanted to leap into the cold stream, the brave now kept her wrists bound together all the time. He didn't untie her when she ate, nor when he forced himself upon her. He even kept her tied when she had to answer the call of nature, laughing at her awkwardness. At first her cheeks flamed in embarrassment as he watched her during these most private moments, but eventually she got used to it and she was able to totally close him out of her mind.

It was midmorning now, and Bloody Axe was on horseback. Elizabeth, with her wrists tied and a long cord keeping her attached to him, walked along behind the horse, often having to break into a shuffling run to keep up.

“Stop,” Bloody Axe called to her as he halted his horse, then slid down to the ground. Putting his hands to his groin, he started pulling the breechcloth to one side. At first, Elizabeth steeled herself for another assault, but from the expression on his face, she knew that sex wasn't on his mind.

Ironically, while Elizabeth had learned to adjust to the lack of privacy when she was called by nature, Bloody Axe had not. Walking a few paces off the trail, Bloody Axe turned his back to her, then began urinating on a tree.

A stout hickory limb about two inches in diameter and about three feet long gave Elizabeth the opportunity she had been looking for. She walked toward it quietly, utilizing the skill of silent movement she had acquired since being captured by the Indians. Watching him intently, she bent down to retrieve it.

“I think you do not walk fast enough,” Bloody Axe said without looking around. “If you cannot keep up, I will drag you like a travois,” he added.

Elizabeth wrapped her hands around the stick, getting as good a grip on it as she could, given that her wrists were tied together. She raised herself up again, then took another step toward him. Now, with the hickory club firmly in her grasp, she drew her arms back, ready to strike.

“We go now,” Bloody Axe said, adjusting his breechcloth as he turned away from the tree.

Bloody Axe barely had time to perceive the danger. His eyes grew wide in fear an instant before Elizabeth brought the club smashing down on his skull. There was a loud thunking sound as club hit flesh, and Bloody Axe fell back like the pole-axed pigs Elizabeth used to see during slaughtering time on her father's farm back in Illinois.

By the way Bloody Axe lay on the ground, Elizabeth believed he was dead, but she intended to be certain of it. Though it unsettled her to do so, she brought the club down on his head again and again, until his face was nothing but bloody, disfigured pulp. Not until then did she realize that she had been screaming at him with every blow of the club, cursing in both English and Cheyenne.