Blood and Gold

“Where are you folks headed?” the sergeant asked, his puzzled eyes on Lila.

“We expect to cross the Brazos at the Clear Fork later today,” I said. “Then we’ll head south to my home ranch.”

“River is low,” the soldier said, “so you’ll have no difficulty there.” He shook his head at me. “But you’re heading into a hornet’s nest. Victorio and his main band are south of the Brazos and all ain’t well in the chicken coop. The Apaches are burning and killing as far east as Abilene and I heard tell a couple of days ago they ambushed and cut up a Ranger patrol on the North Concho. Three Rangers dead and twice that many wounded is what I heard.”

“Once we clear the Brazos, it’s only a few miles to the SP ranch, Sergeant,” I said. “We’ll be safe there.”

The man nodded. “Well, I sure hope so, for your sake and the little lady’s.” His restless gaze took in the bandage on my shoulder. “Here, you’ve been hit.”

“Took one of Lafe Wingo’s bullets,” I said. “Lila cut it out for me.”

The sergeant looked at Lila, a dawning respect in his eyes. “I’ll get the doc to take a look at it,” he said.

“You have a doctor with the column?” I asked, surprised.

“Mule doctor,” the soldier replied, smiling. “But he’s right good with bullet and knife wounds. Good with the croup too, come to that.”

The mule doctor was a tall, lanky corporal with mournful eyes and gentle hands. He unbuttoned my bloodstained shirt and looked the wound over, probing carefully. “Couldn’t have done better my ownself,” he said finally. “Clean as a whistle.” He turned to Lila. “You done real good, ma’am.”

Lila smiled and dropped an elegant little curtsy. “There’s a first time for everything, Corporal,” she said.

The sergeant called the corporal over to him, leaned over from the saddle and whispered something I couldn’t hear. The soldier nodded and stepped to one of the pack mules, returning with a folded blue army shirt, which he handed to me.

“It ain’t new,” the sergeant said. “But it’s clean and in a heap better shape than the one you’re wearing.”

Gratefully I stripped off my own shirt and buttoned into the new one. The color was faded almost to a pale blue, but the shirt was soft and smelled of yellow laundry soap. I slipped the suspenders back over my shoulders and thanked the sergeant for his kindness, but he just waved me off and returned to his men.

The soldiers spent the next hour burying the dead Apaches and then Ezra Owens, carefully segregating the graves.

After a break for coffee, the troopers mounted again and the sergeant rode over to Lila and me. “We got to get moving along,” he said. “You folks take care, you hear.”

“Plan to, Sergeant,” I replied. “And you too. Ride careful.”

The soldier nodded. “I’ll do that.” He touched the brim of his hat to Lila and waved his men forward. And after they were gone, the land around us once again descended into silence and loneliness, the dust of the troops’ passing slowly settling back to the dry earth.

The sun was burning white-hot in a lemon sky as Lila and me took our farewell of Ned. I stood beside Lila, my hat in my hands, looking down at the fresh-dug grave, and could find no words.

This man had saved my life and I owed him a debt I could never repay, but decided right there and then that somehow I’d find a way to pay it in full to his daughter.

Lila had gathered some wilted wildflowers; she placed them on the grave. When she rose she looked at me with dry eyes, a little, sad smile on her face. “I think Pa will like it here,” she said.

I looked around at the other graves, a heaviness inside me. “One thing, he won’t ever pine for company,” I said.

Finally, Lila whispered a last prayer then turned and walked with me to the paint.

“Dusty,” she said, “we must find the wagon.”

“Why?” I asked. “I’m sure the Apaches stripped it good.”

“Maybe,” Lila said. “But Pa made a little secret compartment in the bed where he stashed two hundred dollars in double eagles. It was seed money, he said, and if I’m to plant a crop I’ll need it.”

Now wasn’t the time to cuss and discuss about farming, so I let it go and said: “Well, let’s go see. Maybe we’ll get lucky and the money is still there.”

It was. Ten gold coins in a small canvas pouch hidden in a tiny box cut into the bed of the wagon, like Lila had said.

Riding double, we took the dusty trail south toward the Brazos, riding under a hot sun, the only sound the plodding of the paint’s hooves and the constant hum of bees and the chatter of saw-legged insects in the buffalo grass.

We splashed across the Clear Fork near the old But terfield stage road just as day was shading into night. The paint was tired from the long trail behind him and the double load he carried, so I decided to hole up somewhere and head for the SP Connected early next morning.

We made a cold camp among some sheltering rocks on the slope of a shallow rise, spreading our blankets on some fine grass that felt as soft as any hotel bed.