Paxton Pride (62 page)

Vance was standing, braced against the thin bole of a mesquite. “I heard a shot!” Karen exclaimed breathlessly.

“I heard it too. Probably someone hunting,” he answered optimistically. Karen glanced nervously over her shoulder. “I don't believe it either. We'd best not wait for them.” He placed one foot in the stirrup and laboriously swung his leg over, and try though he did to suppress any indication of pain, a groan broke from his lips as he settled into the saddle. Facing Karen, he read the worried frown darkening her face. “I scattered the ashes. Won't do any good. Let's go.”

Karen handed him the two bean cans full of water, mounted and took the cans back so Vance could hold on better, then guided the horses carefully from the thicket. Once in the open, Vance suggested she keep the lead. Karen suspected the suggestion was less motivated by confidence in her ability than by a desire to keep her from seeing just how poorly he fared. Still, there was nothing to be done but comply with his request, so she took the lead north into the borderlands, domain of the vulture, cactus, unrelenting heat and waiting thirst. Behind them.… She dared not think of the gunshot, nor the one whose finger pulled the trigger.

One day passed, then another. Hours of endless plodding beneath the baleful stare of an uncompromising sun, then dry camp amidst the chill night air which quickly cooled the wasted land. The water in the bean cans was long gone. Dismounting, Vance stiffly spread a ground blanket and collapsed to earth. Alarmed by his rising fever, Karen forced him to drink, then stripped his bandages to let the wounds dry in the air, replaced the old poultices with new and settled him down to sleep. Later during the night he cried out for more water, and denying her own thirst she gave him the last of the first canteen. If they were to continue, the horses would need most of the rest. Three hours later she helped Vance into the saddle again. The night's sleep had done him little good, but he was determined not to slow them up and insisted they be off before first light.

Could there ever have been rain? Water enough in which to drown? Karen stared into the cerulean madness of a burning sky. She had hoped to retrace the course of the journey south with Jaco and Marquez, but the way had become confused. Their escape from Rio Lobos in the night, the unfamiliar, labyrinthine trails over which they traveled in an attempt to lose pursuit and the more westerly starting place from the banks of the Rio Grande all threw her off and she could no longer ascertain in which direction lay the seep known to the outlaws. Afraid to veer from their set course, there was nothing to do but continue northeast and hope they struck a water hole or at least a party of rangers scouting the border.

There was no water. Nor was there life, save for a slowly circling pair of vultures patiently biding their time in the sky. Sooner or later, they would feed. Karen peered over her shoulder at her beloved. Vance was slumped forward in the saddle, his fingers locked around the pommel in an unconscious and nigh unbreakable grip. The water in the last canteen sloshed invitingly with each step of the gray gelding and reminded her of the dust-choked dryness of her own throat. Her eyes felt parched and grated in their sockets; her blood was sluggish and her brain unresponding. She looked longingly at the canteen and for a moment succumbed to thirsting temptation, but even as she lifted the container to her lips, the chestnut behind her snorted in weary dismay and she grudgingly conceded the animals were more important than the easing of her own discomfort. Reining up in the bottom of an arroyo, Karen half fell from her mount and poured the precious liquid into her bandana, wetting the muzzle and wiping out the mouth of the gray, then repeating the action for the chestnut.

Vance was feverish but still conscious; and he even managed a grim smile. “Could at least stop in the shade,” he said, his voice a grating rasp. Karen passed the canteen to him and he let a mouthful roll around on his tongue, then slowly trickle down his throat before handing it back. “One swallow.”

“I know,” she snapped, feeling guilty immediately. Hands trembling, she raised the canteen and let the water roll in her mouth.
God …!
Had water ever tasted so cool, so welcome? Quickly, she corked the canteen, hung it on the saddle.
Don't look at it
. “I'll check the way ahead.” Legs quivering with the effort, she climbed to the top of the arroyo, and standing with only her head above the rim, surveyed their surroundings. Nothing looked familiar, though she no longer expected nor hoped for that. The land rolled away in endless, arid repetition. Deceptively flat to appearance, she knew the way they would travel was a tortuous nightmare, mercilessly seamed and wrinkled, sunburnt and waterless, the product of convoluted generations of centuries. To the north, a vague purple line stretched across the horizon. Hills!
And water … water
… The trackless distance lying between brought her to her knees.
So far. So far still to go … Elizabeth, I'm frightened. I'm not strong enough to make it. What would you have done?

“What would you have done,” she muttered aloud, the words soundless, sucked dry by the oven-like, dessicated air. No gentle breeze from the south came in answer. No green panorama sprung to sight to stretch with lush beauty to the sky. Only stark, unchanging wasteland. Only sand digging into her flesh like tiny granules of glass. Only thirst … dully, she lifted her head, searched with bleary eyes the horizon to the south, checking for signs of pursuit. She studied the bitter contours a moment more, stood, swayed dizzily and dejectedly slid down the steep slope to the horses. Seconds later, the diminutive caravan of two moved from the arroyo, avoided a rise and skirted a hillock to keep from being seen against the sky.

A little over an hour later she spied a cluster of scraggly mesquite. Two trail-weary horses, a wounded man and a frightened young woman, both exhausted, drew to a stiff-legged halt, seeking shade and respite from the heat. Disappointed to find neither, Karen used the blankets to construct an umbrella under which they could pass the brutal afternoon hours. The top layer of sand scooped away, she helped Vance lie down on the cooler lower layer. The horses needed tending, too. Karen took a minuscule swallow of water and almost gagged, but managed to keep it down. Working in a somnambulistic stupor, she stripped the mustangs' saddles and blankets and loosely tethered the tired animals. A bandana full of water served to wipe out their mouths and moisten their muzzles again before she reeled into the scant rectangle of shade and collapsed, panting with exhaustion, next to Vance. He was asleep.
Sleep … if only I could rest a little while
.… Promising herself but a short nap, she stretched back on the blanket, and to the sound of the mustangs stripping meager forage from the mesquite trees, fell immediately asleep.

The sun would not be hurried. Like a brand on the sky, the fierce chariot described a tortuous arc cleaving the dome of heaven and bleaching the cloudless ceiling with pale fire. The blazing fury of its passage notwithstanding, the scalding journey led at last to confluence with the rim of earth where jagged hills loomed deceptively close. The sky was streaked with bands of amethyst, coral and turquoise, followed by even deeper hues of the same until blending into pavonine night. The wandering moon rebuilt the landscape. The lee of every rock and hummock disappeared in darkest night in contrast to the stark white shapes which cast the shadows. Karen woke, chilled. She made a small fire of mesquite branches, and using the final remnant of dried meat, made a broth for Vance, saving the last few ounces of water for the horses. Vance meekly accepted the broth, but only after Karen promised to take some herself. His fever had lessened but his leg throbbed painfully and he was unable to saddle the gelding, although he did manage to climb unaided into the saddle. Karen scattered the ashes of the campfire and returned to the horses, portioning out the last of the water to them. Though as dehydrated as their riders, still the animals exhibited a surprising amount of pluck, appearing eager to be off. The meager rest had done them some good after all and they, almost better than Karen and Vance, knew the way they would have to go to find food and water.

The earth quickly released the captive heat of day, and in the near freezing temperatures which followed, Karen and Vance were forced to bundle up in the blankets as they held their course north. Dreaming of water, Karen nodded, jerked her head to stay awake, mentally scolding herself for being lulled by the gray's monotonous pace. Trying to get her mind away from the almost constant thought of water, she recalled the first leg of her journey, the “agony” of travel from Corpus Christi to San Antonio with plenty of food and an abundance of water, and only the discomfort of the buckboard to plague her. Discomfort? How she would welcome simple discomfort. How nice to feel anything other than thirst.…“Water can get mighty precious out here,” Vance said from sometime in the dim past. She had heard the words, but paid little attention. And now … she forced a paintful swallow and stared across the grim landscape until her eyes betrayed her.
Would you like a glass of water, dear? Yes, mummy. Yes yes yes. I want a glass of water
.…

She yanked back on the reins in surprise. The moon was gone and the sky brightening with predawn light. The darkness ahead was not of the night but of foothills sweeping up from the plains. The plains they had crossed! Vance's horse drew abreast of the gray. “We made it,” he croaked, his voice brittle, tired and proud.

Karen's joy was short-lived. She had kept herself alive with the promise of green hills, but the hills in front of them were brown, as devoid of water as the desert. Her shoulders sagged in dismay. “I forgot … how barren they are. I thought there would be water. We've come all this way, but how do we get through the hills … without water … and food?” The gray strained at the bit but she held him back.

“Give him his head,” Vance instructed in a dry whisper. “They'll take us to water.” He loosed the reins and the chestnut immediately led off, ears pricked forward.

The slope increased and Vance wound a strip of leather around his hands and the saddle horn, securing himself in place. The fever, loss of blood and dehydration had left him with little strength to cope with the steep trail ahead. Karen searched the rocks for any telltale indications of water. Desperately, she tried to recall Ted's teachings. How like a game her lessons had seemed then, and how serious now when a matter of life or death. Did the horses know where they were going? She had to trust they did. She couldn't last much longer. An hour later, the sun starting to climb, Karen craned her neck to check on Vance and caught a glimpse of what she thought to be a slight plume of dust back across the way they had come. A boulder loomed to obscure the view and when the gray swerved again, the wisp of dust was gone. Illusion, or …?

“There!” Vance exclaimed. His voice broke through her thoughts and she followed his gaze, turning around to stare straight ahead into the yawning mouth of a cave.

The chamber in which they rested was illuminated dimly by a pair of flaming brands, left in the cave's anteroom, evidently by the usual visitors. “More than likely we're at the
Caverna de los Bandidos
. It's a watering stop used by the bandits and Apaches alike,” Vance said. “I've heard of it, but never seen it or known how to get here. We were lucky in our choice of horses. They've been here before.” He leaned over and cupped another mouthful of water. Karen giggled and luxuriantly submerged her face, letting the biting cold liquid soothe her sunburned, thirsty flesh. “You drink any more for awhile and you'll burst.”

Karen raised her head, water beads dancing down her face. “I'm not drinking. Just lying in it. This is the most wonderful water in the whole world. Look. Even you're better.”

Vance grimaced. “I'm not dying of thirst, if that's what you mean. Anything's better than that. But I've still got a bole in my arm and a leg that hurts like blazes. Damn it, I can even get around to help you, much less …”

Karen put her finger to his lips. “Shhh.” She took away her hand and kissed him, pulling back immediately. “You
could
smile.”

“That's about all I can do,” he grumbled, sagging back to rest again. “Too weak to do anything else.”

Karen smiled. “You'll get well. Oh, Lord! It must be noon. I'd better check on the traps.”

“Karen … you know, you got us through, alone and burdened with me. Ted taught you well.”

“Not well enough. He taught me to build the traps, but he left out how to make the birds and rabbits understand their part. They'll be empty again, I just know.”

Vance closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep again. Karen studied the face, the form of the man she loved. Gaunt, ragged, his beard scruffy and unkempt.
Even now there is a clean, open handsomeness. A strong face made for laughing, a man with whom I will share my love
.… She sighed and headed toward the exit, a long, narrow passage leading to the wide-mouthed antechamber, outside of which the horses had been tethered—after watering—to nibble at the meager forage. They would need more food before taking up the journey, but for the present were happy, and safely concealed from anyone who might pass below. Karen paused well inside the darkness, remembered Ted's instructions. “Never jump out into the open without letting your eyes get used to the light. Otherwise you'll be blinded for the first few minutes.” She held back a moment more, her cheek resting against the moist, cool stone. But time was wasting. Reluctantly, she stepped to the mouth of the cave and.… The horses were gone! Wandered? No. She had securely tethered them. Then taken. By whom?

“
Señor
Paxton …”

The voice reverberated, echoed through the hills, startled her into rigidity, unable to move, to run, to barely breathe lest she open her mouth and scream. That voice … that terrible, nightmare voice … Jaco!