Authors: Elmer Kelton

Texas Rifles (13 page)

BOOK: Texas Rifles

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“Hungry?” he asked the girl. She sat on the ground, legs gathered up, head against her knees. She nodded. “A little. Mostly I'm tired.”

By the time the prairie dog was done, Cloud saw that Easter was dozing. Gently he shook her shoulder. She looked up, startled. Then she eased again and smiled at him.

“Supper's ready,” he said. “It's not much, but it beats grass.”

The animal wasn't large enough to satisfy the hunger of either one, much less both of them. There were some dried biscuits in the sack, and Cloud handed a couple of these to Easter. He started to take one for himself, then changed his mind and dropped it back into the sack.

Things might get worse instead of better, he thought. He'd keep these for Easter. Instead of the biscuits he munched on a few dry mesquite beans he had picked up earlier. He hated the taste of them. Far as he was concerned, they were meant for horses, not for men. But they could keep a man from starving to death.

Finishing the meager supper, Easter took a small drink of water from her canteen while Cloud pushed dirt over the fire to put it out. He didn't want to risk its being seen in the darkness. But if anyone had followed after them, he'd be having the same kind of trouble. That, at least, evened things up.

By the time Cloud got through, he saw that Easter had stretched out in the grass, her blanket beneath her and her head on the saddle. He picked up his own saddle and blanket, and he was conscious of the girl watching him, wondering where he was going to put them. He walked out away from her a few feet and spread the blanket, then put the saddle down and eased his long frame wearily to the ground.

“Good night, Easter,” he said.

In the gathering darkness he thought he could see her smile as she answered, “Good night.”

With dawn they were up and riding again. For breakfast
they had eaten a little cold bread and had broiled bacon on a stick. Cloud had used enough of the remaining water to boil each of them a little coffee.

Into the hot day they rode, the sun climbing on their right, burning ever more relentlessly as the day wore on. Still no water. The horses were suffering now. Cloud picked up his canteen and shook it. He heard the slosh of the meager supply of water. “How much left in yours, Easter?”

“About the same,” she said.

“We're goin' to have to let the horses have some of it, or we're liable to find ourselves afoot.”

Dismounting, he took off his hat. He pushed the crown down and poured water into it. He held it up to his horse's nose. The horse quickly drank. Cloud repeated for Easter's horse. He could tell the horses wanted more, much more.

“Sorry, boys,” he spoke, “that's all we got for you.”

He shook his canteen again. Hardly any left. Easter was staring at the canteen, her lips tight. Cloud handed it to her. “You just as well finish it,” he told her. “It'll evaporate anyway.” It really wouldn't, in that tight canteen. But he could tell she badly needed a drink.

“What about you?” she asked.

“I'm used to it, goin' on these long scouts. And you've lived a white woman's life long enough to get spoiled.” He smiled thinly and looked northwestward. “Somewhere yonder there's got to be water. We'll never find it standin' here.”

He swung back into the saddle, lips burning and his body aching for the drink he hadn't let himself have. He touched heels to his horse, and the animal grudgingly started walking.

Late in the day he came upon the first sign: a pair of mesquite trees alone out here in these open plains. It
wouldn't be too far to a waterhole, he figured. Where there were mesquites, water could usually be found someplace. Reason was that mesquites were most commonly spread by the wild mustangs which roamed these plains. Left alone, the horses never strayed too many miles from water. They ate mesquite beans from trees around the watering places. These beans later were spread out on the prairie, to sprout and grow more trees.

Presently Cloud came across a thin, almost invisible old buffalo trail, nearly grassed over. His heart gave a glad leap. He pointed it out to Easter and said, “The only question is, do we go up the trail or down it?”

Easter frowned. “There's another question, too.”

“What's that?”

“Is there still water in the hole, or has it dried up like the others?”

He took a chance and decided to go up the trail. It angled westward, not far off their regular course. It was a very old trail, not used in a long time. But even when it was hard to spot beneath his horse's feet, he could see it meandering along ahead of him, a tiny thread of shadow in the dry grass.

At last he saw the cluster of mesquites far ahead of him. He grinned, though it hurt his parched lips. “Yonder it is,” he pointed. “Just you hold on a while longer.”

The horses plodded along in a walk, and it took them a long time to reach the place. Ahead, Cloud could see the small natural basin that caught the runoff from the rains, the runoff that would seep clear and clean from this heavy mat of protective grass.

He reined up on the rim of the basin and felt his heart plunge.

Dry!

He looked back at Easter, who had fallen behind. He felt a wave of pity come over him. How many times,
traveling with the nomadic Comanches, had she come up thirsty to a waterhole like this and found the sun had drained it dry? Many times, no doubt. Yet each time it made a person die a little inside. It was something you never got used to. Thirst was worse than hunger. You could hitch up your belt a little and think of something else. When you were thirsty, your mind dwelt always on water.

He saw the bitter disappointment shadow her face.

Then he looked out across the dry lake and got an idea. “There's still a little green out in the middle of it, Easter. Maybe there's water there yet, under all that dried mud.”

“It'll be bad water,” she said.

“But it'll be wet.”

He wished for a shovel, but that was one thing he hadn't thought to bring. Digging into his pack, he found a tin cup. This in hand, he walked out into the dry lake. In the center, where the grass and weed growth still showed some green, he dropped to his knees and began to dig.

It was slow, but after a while he found mud. Digging farther, he found water seeping into the hole as he took the mud out. He kept digging until he had made a hole about as deep as he could reach with his arm.

He raised up then, breathing hard from his exertion in the hot sun. The dank odor of the mud upset his stomach a little. Easter sat in the lacy shade of one of the mesquites watching him. He walked to her and flopped down on the ground.

“Got a slow seep workin',” he said. “We'll have to boil it before we can drink it, and even then we'll have to hold our noses. But it's water, and maybe it'll do till we can find somethin' better.”

He boiled the water in a small bucket he had brought, then took the first swallow to be sure it wasn't poison. It
wasn't, but it couldn't have tasted much worse if it had been. Involuntarily he spat out the first mouthful and exclaimed, “Damn!” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

Then he handed the cup to Easter. It was gyppy water which would leave them feeling almost as thirsty as before. But it was wet, and it would take care of the body's needs. After they had drunk all they could stand of it, he boiled enough to fill the canteens. The horses didn't like the water, either, but they drank it as Cloud poured it into his hat.

They rode on awhile. That night they made another dry camp. They did better for supper, because Cloud had shot a couple of rabbits near the lake. With darkness, they lay down again on the grass, their blankets apart. Cloud felt thirst working at him again, but he didn't want to open the canteens. They might need them far worse tomorrow.

He said, “The hell of it is that in this country we could pass by only a mile or two from water and never know it. Never been people up in this country much.”

“There've been Indians here,” she corrected him.

“I wasn't countin' them.”

With a little of accusation in her voice, she said, “The white man
never
counts the Indian. Never thinks of him as human.”

“Does the Indian think of the white man as human?” Cloud asked. “He couldn't, or he wouldn't kill and butcher the way he does.”

Sadly Easter replied, “That's the whole trouble, I guess. I can see it now, because I've been on both sides. The Indian doesn't know anything about the white man's way and doesn't care to learn. The white man figures the Indian is some sort of wild animal, and all he cares about is killing the Indian out.”

“Don't look like there's much chance for improvement,”
Cloud observed. “Neither side has any inclination to do anything except fight.”

“In the long run it'll end the white man's way,” Easter said. “There aren't many Comanchesâa few thousand, maybe. But there are more white men than there are blades of grass along the river. The Indian moves around from place to place. But where the white man goes, he stays. He takes the land, and he keeps it.” Sadly she asked, “What will become of my people then?”

Cloud had no answer. Hard for him to remember, sometimes, that in ways she was more Indian than white. He could sympathize with her concern, even though he couldn't see his way clear to agree with it. He had seen too many murdered men to have any particularly soft feeling toward the Indian.

“I'm like the others,” he told her. “I can't help but hate. Maybe I'm wrongâlikely I oughtn't to be that way. But that's how it is, and I can't stop it. They hate us as much as we hate them. Who's to say which side is wrong?”

Trying to change the subject then, he said, “It'd sure be worth a lot if somebody was to explore this country and map the waterin's.”

“You've been over quite a bit of the country now,” she said. “Maybe you could draw a map.”

“And show all the waterin' places I haven't found?”

“You'll find one. That spring I was telling you about, it's somewhere up ahead of us. I don't know how far; maybe a few hours, maybe another day. But it's there.”

“I ain't sure these horses have got another day. We've punished them somethin' awful.”

“We'll find it.”

They lay in silence awhile then. In the darkness Cloud could make out the shape of Easter Rutledge lying on her blanket, the curve of her hips, the gentle swell and fall of
her breasts as she breathed. He knew he should turn away and sleep, but he couldn't. He kept staring at her, wishing things could have been different, wishing â¦

He sensed that she was looking at him, too. He heard her soft voice say, “Cloud?”

“What is it, Easter?”

A long pause, then she said, “Nothing, I guess. Good night.”

He turned over, facing the other way. “Good night.”

Next day was as bad as the last one had been. Even coffee didn't make the brackish water taste much better, although its color helped hide the mud. They broiled their bacon, sipped the foul coffee, then swung into their saddles and started out.

The sun beat down without mercy. Cloud didn't know just what day it was, but he knew the peak of summer should have passed. Soon, now, the smell of fall should be in the air. He rode with shoulders slumped, his eyes and mouth burning. His lips were dry and chapped, and when he tried to talk, it felt as if they were cracking. Easter rode much the same way, her head down, her slender shoulders pinched in. Glancing at her often, Cloud could see her tongue run over her dry lips, trying to wet them. But her tongue was dry, too.

He took his canteen from the saddlehorn and extended it to her. She shook her head. “Wait till I need it,” she murmured.

It came to him then that he hadn't heard a word of complaint from her. White woman or not, the Indian training had made her strong as leather.

They stopped a while at noon out on the bald, open prairie. Strangely, the brackish water didn't taste bad at all anymore. Cloud didn't try to eat, for he feared that would make him even thirstier. He sat beside Easter in the shadow of the horses, resting. Even with the shade,
the sun's heat rose up from the ground and wrapped itself around them like a stifling blanket. He looked down at the woman, marveling at the silence in which she had borne her misery.

This is a woman!
he thought.
One in a thousand, and I'm lettin' her get away!

He put his arm around her shoulder and said, “We'll make it, Easter.”

She leaned to him, her head on his shoulder. “Cloud, I'm sorry I brought you to all this.”

“If you'd known, would you have changed your mind about comin'?”

She shook her head. “No, but I'd have come alone. I wouldn't have told you and made you share it.”

BOOK: Texas Rifles

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