The Valiant Women (11 page)

“They may be called, as Santiago names them, La Sierra del Agua Dulce, La Sierra Pintada, La Sierra de Sonoita, and I don't know what else! But they are all of them Las Sierras Encantadas. Enchanted Mountains.”

He grinned, shielding his eyes against the glare as he gazed about. “You're right, lass! It
is
enchantment for them to look so soft and dreamy when up close they're rock and earth, so scrubbed by wind and rain that it's a brave cactus or creosote that gets a toehold and hangs on!”

He fell back to help Santiago urge on the mules. Perhaps he'd inherited his father's gift with horses. Certainly he'd taken quickly to riding, handled the big grayish red horse with firmness and understanding. With sombrero quieting that flaming hair, he looked a man of the country. Santiago, of course, had ridden as soon as he could walk. He seemed part of Noche, his black, and could direct him with his knees or pressure of his weight.

Cristiano, the pride of leadership upon him, led the cattle, and no young bull cared to challenge him. These were the small “black” Spanish cattle, by no means all black for they moved in a dust-haloed somber rainbow of duns, brindles and roans mixed with the predominant black.

These, like all cattle in the New World until the late-coming English and French brought animals, were descended from the Andalusian stock brought over in 1521 by Don Gregorio de Villalobos, blood of the proud black
toros
of the bull ring.

Their wicked-looking horns spiked forward and they were wild as deer, but they could live off browse and cactus. They'd all been driven near the troughs that morning and most had drunk. Santiago said they should reach Sonoita next day and water at the river of that name, which they'd follow through the Sierra de la Nariz, then take the southern branch till it ended at the Sierra de Cobata, a journey of about three days.

Santiago said they'd depend then on wells at Papago
rancherías
, though they might find a little water at the far end of the Altar River, during the four or more days it would take to cross more desert and rugged mountains to the Santa Cruz River. This important river ran north past a few abandoned mines, missions and the presidios of Tubac and Tucson, Mexico's only defense against Apache in that immense region.

They'd find the Santa Cruz only to leave it at Calabazas, following Sonoita Creek westward between more mountains for the final day which should bring them to Agua Linda, or Socorro, as the men insisted it must be called.

Ten days. By then she might not think those mountains so enchanted unless by evil witchcraft. A cow was lagging, stopping to munch cholla. Socorro shooed her back with the herd.

Santiago had explained that ordinarily there'd be vaqueros at both sides and a couple at the end to urge along the “‘drags.”

“It is strange,” he'd laughed, “but cattle are much like humans! The leader leads because of something inside him and the others follow. Why? Cristiano has led thousands of his kind up to slaughter at the presidios. Has he never wondered why they didn't follow him back to the ranch? Did none of these at his tail now never miss companions who'd gone with him? And cattle always keep a position, unless they're hurt or sick. Some stay in front, some the middle, and others are forever at the end, dropping out, loafing.”

“It's the same in armies,” Shea grunted. “I was in both United States' and Mexican and can vow there are a hell of a lot more drags than leaders!”

“God's wisdom,” returned Santiago. “If there were more leaders, we'd have more wars than we do!”

They had a long nooning in a shaded dry wash, giving the cattle time to graze on thin clumps of scattered grass and bite off joints of cholla which dangled thornily from their mouths as they chewed.

The three people drank thirstily of tepid water from the leather jugs of which each horse carried two tied to the back of the saddle next to the rolled serape. Socorro sparingly wet the edge of the rebozo she wore beneath a sombrero and wiped her face of dust, much refreshed by this small thing.

“The poor burros!” she said.

The cattle were free to browse and the horses had been unsaddled and hobbled so they, too, could make the most of this rest. But the mules still carried perhaps three hundred pounds apiece.

Santiago shook his head. “I regret it much, lady, but you saw how long it takes to do the loading. Tonight, when the packs go off, they'll be the more grateful.”

Was that what God thought about lightening people's burdens? Socorro's thought was so irreligious that she tried to push it away, but it persisted and she decided that God shouldn't have given her a mind capable of such ideas if He didn't want her to have them. At least the mules were browsing, making the most of their burdened leisure, while the humans exercised their teeth on jerky and coarse ground corn mixed with a little water.

After about three hours, they saddled and pushed on. Socorro had insisted on saddling Castaña during the journey. She planned, though she hadn't told the men about it, to learn to do everything they did except hunt and butcher. So long as they were around, she had no necessity to do either, and if they were gone, she'd live without meat. The only way she could eat it now was by refusing to think of the living creature it had come from.

Castaña, as Santiago had warned was her habit, puffed up when, after putting on the
tiruta
, a white and black woven blanket, Socorro hefted the saddle, near stirrup raised to keep it from flopping, onto the mare's back.

Following his demonstration of that morning, Socorro pulled the cinch as tight as she could, waited till the mare relaxed and yanked again, hard. This brought the cinch several inches tighter, doing away with the danger of the saddle turning later. Socorro hung the bow and arrow sling over the saddle horn, tied on the water jugs.

“We have to understand each other,” she told the mare who turned her head to give an affronted look. Socorro, clucking softly, gave the mare a scant handful of corn, rubbed the whorled spot on her forehead. “I'll be much nicer to you than the vaqueros were, but don't try to play me for a fool.”

Santiago gave a shout and Cristiano led off. The cattle sorted themselves out, dropping into their preferred places, and the mules plodded stoically at the rear.

They were another animal brought in by Spaniards, Socorro realized. In fact, all the important domesticated creatures of Mexico and the Southwest had come from Spain. Strange, for they had become so much a part of the country. Goats, sheep, cattle, mules and horses.

Her father, in his youth, had gone with a merchant of Chihuahua on a trading journey to San Antonio in Texas, which at that time, of course, was still owned by Spain. Settlers from the United States had been coming in, though, bringing stock descended from English and, occasionally, French cattle.

Their crossing with Spanish horses and cattle had produced larger, different animals than those in Sonora. Her father had laughed about the mixed-breed cattle, all imaginable hues, with great long horns that grew in fantastical ways, some almost straight up, others angling back, most forking from the sides with a few arching curves before tapering to vicious tips.

Longhorns, the Texans called these weird creatures, and rightly so. Don Esteban said the spread from tip to tip was usually four to five feet, but six or seven feet was common, and he vowed he'd seen one beast encumbered with horns spreading fully ten feet, though Socorro suspected
aguardiente
had something to do with
that
figure.

As Socorro mounted, blessing the freedom of trousers, she noticed Santiago didn't vault into the saddle as he had that morning. His leg must be paining, she thought. He still limped, perhaps always would, for though the bone was intact, he'd lost a mass of nerves and muscles. He was so graceful and lithe, however, that even his limp had a glide to it.

The afternoon grew hot. A good thing it was mostly at their backs. Hundreds of hooves churned up white dust, powdering burros and packs, sticking to Socorro's face and lips.

Her body ached. She shifted her weight frequently and was almost glad when a cow strayed, for the diversion of chasing it back. She wouldn't ask for a halt, though. If Santiago, with his barely healed wound, could manage, so would she.

When they finally stopped at twilight in a broad dry wash, her spine felt like bruised agony and she was numb from the hips down.

Dragging the saddle off, and the blanket, she rubbed the mare down with a scrap of fleeced sheepskin Santiago had given her for that purpose, removed the bridle with stroking and praise. Castaña gazed at her a moment, then joined the other horses who were rolling in the sand, powdering their sweated backs with great enjoyment.

At last the burros were unloaded and ambled off to luxuriate in sand-bathing and browsing. Socorro liked the furry little beasts with their long ears and sleepy manner.

No fire was kindled for fear of bringing down Apaches or other raiders. “One thing about jerky”—Shea grinned, leaning back against his saddle—“it makes your jaws tired enough to match the rest of you!”

“Tomorrow we can have a fire at Sonoyta,” Santiago assured them. “And it'll be all right when we camp at inhabited Papago
rancherías
.”

“Can we trust the Papagos?” Socorro frowned. “The
Areneños
, the Sand Papagos, certainly rob and kill when they have a chance!”

Santiago knew about her father's death. He didn't know what the
Areneños
had done to her, though possibly he guessed. “Oh, far back they were related, but living in those dunes and craters, always hunting food, has made them very different from other Papago who are peaceful farmers and herdsmen. You need have no fear, lady, of most Papago or Pima.”

“Pima?” asked Shea.

“Farmers and friends of the Papago, but they tend to live near water and among trees whereas the Papago have always kept to the desert.”

Darkness had fallen though there was a new moon. An owl called. Some thought this an evil omen, but surely they hooted every night. Socorro liked the cry, so long as she wasn't alone, and the distant singing of coyotes which sounded as if they were serenading each other from various directions.

Relaxed against bedroll and saddle, she felt too sleepy to get up and go properly to bed, was trying to nerve herself to the effort when a frightful braying scream pierced the air.

She sprang up to follow the men, in the dim moonlight seeing that Santiago had grasped his saberlike knife. The riding horses were hobbled but other animals were loose. The burros set up an incredible racket, horses neighed in fright, and the cattle began to stir restively.

A shadowy figure heaved up from the ground, sprang into the air and came down viciously on a spitting, snarling shape twisting on the earth from which the burro had risen. Again and again the infuriated burro lashed his hooves into his enemy with all his force and weight. He stopped only long after there was no movement from the mass on which he vented his rage and fear.

“A lion!” Santiago spoke to the trembling burro, went over him cautiously. “He got his death, not his dinner, old one! But you'll carry no pack for some days.”

“Is he hurt?” asked Socorro, shuddering as she passed the huddled silence and scratched the burro between his ears.

“The lion jumped on his back but failed to instantly break Viejo's neck. Too bad for
Señor León!
A mule may seem a meek beast, but when something or someone he doesn't want there gets on his back, he hurls himself down and rolls.” Santiago shook his head regretfully. “Viejo has some deep wounds on his shoulders and flanks. He may die, for all his courage.”

“Can't we do something?”

“Some split pads of prickly pear will help staunch bleeding. Apart from that all we can do is share his load among the other mules.”

While Shea dragged away the mountain lion, Socorro helped Santiago skin several cactus pads, pound them to astringent pulp, and apply them to where the vicious claws had raked.

“Poor little brave one,” she murmured, rubbing the white muzzle. To Santiago she said, “He should have water to make new blood for what he's lost.”

Santiago hesitated, then shrugged. “
Bueno
. There's plenty of water at Sonoyta and we'll refill our containers there. But after that, he'll have to manage like the other animals.”

He poured water into one of the big leather
boletas
or buckets and held it for Viejo to drink. “Won't the blood draw another cat?” Socorro worried. “Please, let's have him hobbled close to us.”

“So some lion can have us for dessert?” teased Shea.

“Lions avoid people, though if one were hungry enough I suppose he'd take a bite if he could.” Santiago urged the burro forward. “It can't hurt to keep Viejo near us and if it makes you happier, lady, we shall do it!”

So Viejo was hobbled where he could graze close to the bedrolls. Socorro slept in the middle with Santiago a few yards away on her right and Shea a similar distance to the left. It seemed a long time now since he'd lain close to her. She realized, with a certain desolation, that now they were no longer alone, they'd never sleep that close together again—unless they married.

She wanted the closeness but not what it would bring.

VII

Viejo survived the night. Socorro brought him water, put fresh cactus on his wounds, fed him some peeled pads and even a handful of corn. As they traveled that day the little beast fell behind, though he tried valiantly to keep up, and Socorro stayed back far enough to keep him in sight. He'd be easy prey now for coyotes.

During the long noon stop she watered him again, fetched him clumps of grama grass and more prickly pear pads. “You killed the lion,” she told him, caressing his neck. “If you're that strong, you can get well if you try!”

He lagged badly that afternoon, and several times he simply collapsed. On the last fall, he didn't get up. Socorro reined back, held Castaña's reins and tried to coax Viejo to his feet. He struggled and gave a lugubrious bray, but his legs refused to obey him.