Mojave Crossing s-11 Read online

  They had ridden on by the place where I'd turned off, discovering too late that I'd cut out somewhere. Now they were scouting their back trail to find the turn-off. They a good ten, twelve miles off and in the bottom of Sacramento Wash.

  Descending to my outfit, I had mounted up and followed the Secret Pass trail into Hardyville.

  Nobody had ridden in, so they were lying out again, fearful of being seen by me, which might mean that I knew them and they feared recognition.

  "Whoever it is," Hardy said now, "who wants that Robiseau woman, he wants her pretty bad, and wants her himself."

  There was meaning in the way he said it, and I turned to look at him. "Keep out of it, friend,"

  Hardy went on. "Three of those men in the saloon are watching her for somebody, and they shape up like grief a-plenty for anybody in their way."

  "I gave her my word."

  "Your funeral."

  "Maybe," I said gloomily. "I'm not a trouble-hunting man. Not a one of us Sacketts ever was."

  Hardy gave a quick, funny sort of sound.

  "Did you say Sackett? Is your name Sackett?"

  "Sure ... do you know the name?"

  He turned away from me. "Get out ... get out while you can."

  He started off, walking very fast, but when he had taken but a couple of steps he turned around.

  "Does she know your name? Have you told her that?"

  "No ... no, I never did, come to think on it."

  "Of course not ... of course." He looked at me, but I could not see the expression in his eyes. There was only light enough to see his face under the brim of his hat. "Take my advice and don't tell her ... not, at least, until you reach Los Angeles--if you do."

  He walked away, leaving me almighty puzzled, but convinced the time to leave was now.

  Chapter Two.

  When I looked into the window of the saloon the men at the bar were still drinking their liquor and talking it up. The black-eyed woman was gone.

  The hotel had only four special rooms and I had latched onto one of those. The only other occupied one was the one given to the Robiseau girl, so I slipped in the back door and went to her room and tapped ever so gently.

  There was a quick rustle of clothing inside, and something that sounded like a click of a drawed-back gun-hammer, and then her voice, low. "I have a pistol. Go away."

  "Ma'am," I whispered right back to her, "you want to go to Los Angeles, you come to this door, an' quick."

  She came, easing it open a crack. The pistol looking through the opening was no feisty little-girl pistol. It was a sure enough he-coon of a pistol, a .44 Navy Colt.

  "Ma'am, if you want to get to Los Angeles, you get dressed. We're leaving out of here in twenty minutes."

  I'll give her this--she didn't say aye, yes, or no, she just lowered that gun muzzle and said, "I'll be ready. At the stable?"

  "The ferry," I said, "only we're going to swim it. The ferry stopped crossing at sundown."

  I'd never left hold of my gold, nor my rifle, but I stepped across the hall and picked up the rest of my gear, took one longing look at that bed, and then tiptoed down the hall and out to the stable.

  When I made my dicker for the horses I'd gotten an old saddle thrown in, and now I saddled up two horses.

  We'd be riding those two, and leading two spare saddle horses and my pack horse. By swapping horses, we could make faster time than most anybody coming after us, and I was figuring on that.

  But that wasn't the only bee I had in my bonnet. True it was that I'd never ridden those westward trails that lay before us, but I'd listened to a sight of talk about them from those who had, and it came over me that a body might strike off on a new route and make it through, if he was lucky.

  That would be something to keep in mind.

  She was at the river, carpetbags and all, when I got there with the horses. She had dressed in an all-fired hurry, but she didn't show it.

  Helping her into the saddle, I got the feel of her arm, and she was all woman, that one. She swung up, hooking one knee around the horn like she was riding a sidesaddle, and we taken off.

  The water was dark, and there was more current than a body would expect. Walking our horses into the water, I pointed across. "Make for that peak, and when you get over there, don't call out. If we get separated, just stay put. I'll find you."

  Holding my rifle and gunbelt high, I rode on into the water, and she followed.

  I felt the stallion's feet go out from under him as he hit deep water.

  He was a strong swimmer, and when I glanced back I saw that woman right behind me, her horse swimming strong too. We made it up the bank, and as I turned to glance back I heard a door slam and somebody shouted and swore.

  "What the hell?" I said. "They ain't found out a-ready?"

  She pulled up beside me. "Maybe the ferryman told them," she said.

  "Ferryman? How would he know?"

  She turned and looked at me like I was a fool. "Why, I asked him to take us across.

  He refused."

  Me, I'd never hit a woman, but I wanted to right then. I wanted to hit her the worst way. Instead, I just turned my horse and started off into the Dead Mountains, mad enough to tackle a grizzly with my bare hands.

  "Ma'am," I said roughly, "you played hell. The reason we started now was to get some distance between us before daylight. Now you've tipped them off and they will be comin' right behind us."

  "But they couldn't!" she protested. "He's not--I mean, why would anybody want to catch us?"

  "You know that better than me, but even Hardy knew some of those men back at the saloon were there to watch you. He told me so."

  She shut up then, having nothing more to say and no chance to say it, for I led off, walking that stallion fast. Having the fresh horse was going to spell my two horses, and they could use the rest.

  The trail lay white under the hoofs of the horses; the desert night was still. That liver-colored stallion went out of there like he had a fire under his tail, and I'll hand it to that black-eyed girl. No matter how she had to sit her saddle, she stayed with me.

  No telling what those men wanted with her, but in these times there were white men with bloodier hands than any Indian, and I was asking for no trouble I could avoid with honor. Just short of daylight I drew up and we swapped saddles to fresh horses, but it was an hour later before I made my move.

  The Dead Mountains lay behind us and I turned up a dry wash. If my memory was working along the lines of what I'd been told, this was Piute Wash and it ran due north for quite a spell, then a dim trail would cut over toward Piute Spring.

  There was no time for talk, and I had no mind for it, wanting only to put distance between myself and those men back there. They might run us down, or they might wait until the steamboat came in with whoever was on it.

  At Piute Spring, on the eastern foot of the range, we pulled up long enough to water the horses and drink a mite ourselves. The valley ahead of us was mostly flat-seeming land covered with Joshua trees. We went out of the shadow of the Piute Range and into the Joshuas, and at first they were scattered, then they thickened up. Once into the Joshuas, we slowed down to raise as little dust as possible.

  There were thousands of those trees there in the valley, and they offered a might of cover. From a height, somebody might have picked us out, but nobody on our own level was likely to, so we pushed on, holding parallel to the old Government Road from Fort Mojave.

  The sun had gone before we sighted the draw I was looking forand, riding up a hundred yards, came to Rock Spring. There was little water, which suited me, for when we left I didn't mean for there to be any.

  The Robiseau woman looked pale and drawn when I reached up to take her by the waist to swing her down. Tired as she was, she wasn't ready to haul down her flag. As her feet touched the ground she let her hands rest on my forearms and said, "You're very strong."

  "I'd better be."

  She gave me an odd look, but I turned away and
began gathering sticks for a fire. The spot was sheltered, and there was time for coffee and a quick meal.

  This was something I'd done so often that it was no trick at all, and by the time I'd stripped the saddles the water was boiling and the food about ready.

  "You haven't told me your name."

  "Folks call me Tell."

  "Only that?"

  "It's enough."

  "I am Dorinda Robiseau."

  It sounded like a made-up name, but I'd known folks with real names that sounded made up.

  "Pleased to meet you."

  "You haven't asked me why I couldn't wait for the stage."

  "Your business."

  She acted like she wanted to explain, but I had no plan to get more involved than I was. I'd been fool enough to take her along, but the sooner I got shut of her the better.

  Sitting under the stars, we ate a quick meal, then finished the coffee I'd made. "There's something about a campfire ..." she said. "I like to look into the coals."

  "Take your last look," I said. "I'm putting it out." When I'd kicked sand over the coals I added, "Fool thing, looking into a fire. When you look away you're blind ... and men have been killed thataway."

  I saddled up and loaded our packs. She looked like she couldn't believe what I was doing, but I said, "If you're coming with me, get up in the saddle."

  "You're going on? Tonight?"

  "You want your friends to catch us? You can bet if I knew where this spring was, they'll know. In the desert a man's travelin' is pretty well cut and dried by where he can find water."

  Whoever those men were, they must be wanting her pretty bad to follow us as they were. Of course, there was a chance they were following me. They might be the same outfit that had trailed me to Hardyville. There'd been a bunch of renegades drifting through the country raiding ranches or mine prospects for supplies.

  Somebody said they were a Frisco outfit that had come down through Nevada.

  As for this Robiseau girl, she might be somebody's wife, or she might have been involved in some shady doings out California way.

  Anyway, they needed her bad enough to chase her.

  Meanwhile, I'd been doing some pondering of the situation, and there was nothing about it to make a man content. According to what I'd been told when preparing to start westward, it was twenty miles to the next water at Marl Spring, almost due west of where we were now. Most of that twenty miles lay out on bare desert, and if we started from here now we could make it by daylight--if we didn't stray from the trail.

  If we strayed ... Well, there were bones a-plenty out there on the desert to answer that question.

  Moreover, I had me a tired woman, in no shape for such a ride.

  In those days every saloon was a clearing house for information. Sitting around in a saloon or standing at a bar, loafing in a cow camp or riding the trail, men just naturally talked about places they'd been. It was likely to be all a body would ever get to know about trails or towns until he traveled them, so men listened and remembered.

  Nobody reckoned in miles. Not often, at least. Distance was reckoned in time, and a place was a day's ride, or two days' ride, or whatever.

  And many a cowhand who had never left Texas could describe in detail the looks of Hickok, Earp, Tilghman, Masterson, or Mathers. If a body wasn't able to recognize the town marshal, he'd best not try to cut any fancy didoes in western towns.

  So I knew a good bit about the Mojave, although I'd not crossed it before. I knew what landmarks to look for, and the trouble to expect. Only nobody had told me I'd be crossing the wide sand with a fine-dressed woman behind me.

  Well, it was twenty miles to water if I held to the trail, but there was water south along the Providence Mountains, and if we could locate one of those springs we could hole up for the night, then work our way south. We'd be taking big risks, venturing off into the desert thataway, but there was a good chance we'd leave all pursuit behind.

  And so it was that when we left out of Rock Spring, we headed south.

  The night, as desert nights are inclined to be, was cool ... almost cold. There were many stars, and around us lifted the jagged shoulders of black, somber-looking mountains. We went at an easy pace, the ground being rough and the country unfamiliar, and we had to pick our way. So it was over an hour of riding before we covered the six miles to Black Canyon.

  There was a spring in the canyon, but we took no time to look for it, pushing on toward the south.

  Getting through the canyon, which was close to impassable, was a struggle. By daylight it might have been no trouble, but at night it used up time, and by the time we covered the four additional miles to Granite Well, we were tuckered.

  We made dry camp a short way from the well, bedding down on a patch of drift sand among the rocks. Rolling out my bed, I pointed at it. "You roll up there. I'll sleep on the sand."

  "I've no right to take your bed."

  "Don't argue," I said shortly. "I can't have you falling out of the saddle tomorrow, and what we did today will look like one of your pink tea parties to what we got ahead of us."

  It was rugged, broken country, mostly rock and drift sand, with some low-growing desert brush, and I lay awake for some time, speculating on our chances of getting through. Mostly, folks went by the northern route, following the old Government Road or Spanish Trail across the desert and over Cajon Pass. But with men following us with no good intent, it seemed best to risk the run to the south.

  There was another pass down thataway, or so Joe Walker had told me. The Indians had used it a time or two, and some Spanish man had gone through the pass fifty or sixty years before.

  It was a risky trip, but we Sacketts always had an urge to try new country, and the time was right.

  As for that black-eyed woman ... she should see some new country, too. Although I wasn't sure she was going to take to it.

  A time or two I glanced over at Dorinda Robiseau. She lay quiet, resting easy, as she should have, for that bed of mine was a good one, and the sand I'd spread it on was deep and free of rocks, more comfortable than many a mattress. I could only see the white of her face, the darkness of her loosened hair.

  She would be a trial in the days to come, but somehow I felt better just having her there.

  It worried me, though ... why were those men chasing her? And were they the law?

  Remembering the men at the bar, I doubted it.

  They had a bad look about them. One thing was sure: if we faced up to each other out here in this lonely desert I was going to be glad that I was packing a gun.

  That big-shouldered man who had stood with his back to me ... he worried me. Why was there something familiar about him?

  I awakened with a start, coming from a sound sleep to sharp attention.

  Dorinda was sitting up, wide-eyed. "I heard something," she whispered.

  "What?"

  "I don't know. Something woke me."

  My six-shooter was in my hand, and I looked first at the horses. They were standing heads up, looking off across the desert toward the east.

  Rolling up, I put my six-shooter down carefully and shook out my boots--scorpions take notions to hide in boots and such like--and tugged them on.

  A glance at the stars told me it was shaping up for daybreak. "Get up, and be very quiet," I said. "We're moving out."

  She offered me no argument, and I'll give her this: she made herself ready in quicker time than I'd expected from any tenderfoot woman. By the time I'd saddled fresh horses, she had my bed rolled, and rolled good and tight.

  Standing close in the dark, I said, "There's another spring not more than a mile over to the east.

  Sound carries far through a desert night."

  Me, I wasn't alt sure that whoever had made that sound was that far away, but it could be somebody searching for a waterhole.

  We stepped into our saddles and I led off, heading due south, and keeping our horses in soft sand wherever I could. The Providence Mountains loomed hi
gh on our right, bleak, hard-shouldered mountains.

  It was rugged going, but the night was cool and there was enough gray in the sky to enable a man to pick his trail. After riding about eight miles we left the rocks behind and had the Providence Mountains still on our right, with bald and open desert on our left, stretching away for miles toward distant hills.

  "We're riding south," she said.

  It was a question more than a statement, so I gave her the answer. "You want to get to Los Angeles, don't you? Well, I'm leaving the trail to them. We're going south, and then west through another pass."

  What I didn't tell her was that I had only heard of that pass, and had only a rough idea of where it was. I knew that a stage line and a freight road went through that pass to the placer diggings around La Paz, on the Colorado.

  The sky turned to lemon over the distant mountains, a warning that the sun would soon be burning over us. Somewhere to the south there were other springs, but I doubted if they would be easily found. The desert has a way of hiding its water in unexpected places, sometimes marked by willows, cottonwood, or palm trees, but often enough right out in a bottom with nothing but low brush around, and not a likely thing to indicate water. And we wouldn't have time to spend looking.

  She rode up alongside me. "You're not a very talkative man."

  "No, ma'am."

  "Are you married?"

  "If you're wonderin' about that scar on my cheekbone, I got that in a knife fight in New Orleans."

  "You have no family?"

  "Me? I got more family than you could shake a stick at. I got family all over the country ... only I am a lonesome kind of man, given to travel and such. I never was one to abide."

  She looked at me curiously and, it seemed to me, kind of sharp. Then she said, "Where are you from, Mr. Tell? You hadn't said."

  "No, ma'am. I hadn't."

  We rode on for a couple of miles after that.

  A road runner showed up and raced out ahead of us, seeming glad of the company. Overhead there was nothing but sky, a sky changing from gray to brass with the sun coming up. Those mountains on our right, they were cool now, but within two hours they'd be blasting heat back at us.