mother's name.
He did know he enjoyed making the bespectacled Southron squirm. Collins's employer, Powell, was something of a hard case. Collins thought him demented but not to be trifled with. Huntoon, however, was born for bullying.
Nearly every day, he would say pathetically, 'Where are we?' To which Collins liked to reply, after a number of suitable obscenities to register his annoyance, 'Aren't you tired of asking that question, laddie? I am tired of answering it, for we're exactly where we were yesterday and last week and two weeks previous. On the trail to bonny Santa Fe. And that's that.'
And away he would gallop, up alongside the lumbering wagons, leaving Huntoon on foot, swallowing dust.
Bonny, did he say? Sweet Christ, there was nothing bonny about this part of America. Why had Powell chosen it? Why had the Confederacy tried to occupy it? It was as forlorn as the moon, and full of menace. The teamsters delighted in warning him to watch out for coral and giant bull snakes — they neglected to mention the latter were harmless — or tarantulas and the allegedly venomous vinegarroons. 'What the greasers call sun spiders. Real poison, those suckers.' Another lie.
Huntoon was uninterested in the occasional sight of hairy buffalo, prairie-dog towns, orioles and hummingbirds and swooping duck hawks, the taste of roasted pinon nuts or the fact that crushed yucca root made excellent suds for washing. 'Thass why they call it soapweed down this way, reb.'
He hated all the verbal jabbing, but he was even more frightened when, one day, it stopped. The teamsters kept their eyes on the jagged horizon. Collins began to deluge Huntoon with warnings about red Indians, and not entirely for sport. He wanted to exorcise some of his own mounting worry.
'We're in the country of the Apaches now. Fiercest warriors God ever made — though some claim it was Satan who whelped them. Got no respect whatsoever for flesh, be it human or horse. The braves ride their animals till they get hungry, then they eat 'em. Makes no difference in their fighting — they always do that on foot. They like to sneak up, and it doesn't endanger them all that much. In a pinch, many an Apache lad can outrun a mustang.'
'Do —' Huntoon gulped '— do you think there are Apaches close by, Collins?'
'Aye. A party from the Jicarilla tribe, if I read the sign properly. They're out there somewhere right now, watching.'
'But surely we have enough guns to frighten them off —?'
'Nothing frightens off the Apaches, laddie. They go out of their way to plague white men and each other. Year or two ago, some of your Southron soldier boys rode into this country. The Apaches made a treaty of friendship at Fort Stanton, then endorsed it by ambushing and massacring a party of sixteen. They don't take sides, though — altogether neutral, they are. In a Union settlement they killed forty-six, including youngsters.'
'Stop telling me that kind of thing,' Huntoon protested. 'What good does it do?'
'It prepares you for what we may run into. If we have bad luck and the Jicarilla decide to do more than watch, you'll have to fight like the rest of us.' He sniffed. 'Doesn't appear to me that you've ever done much fighting. But you'll learn fast, laddie. Mighty fast if you like living.'
Taunting Huntoon with a laugh more like a dog's bark, he booted his horse forward toward the first six-horse hitch.
After years in the Southwest, Collins had adopted many Indian ways and devices. He didn't ride with a saddle, only a soft ornamented pad of supple hide stuffed with grass and buffalo hair. His pony had a war bridle: the rope of braided buffalo hair tied around the animal's lower jaw was the bit, the ends of the rope the reins. Collins had lived with a squaw wife for a while. Despite all this, he hated red men, the lot of them, and now began to regret hiring on with this crowd.
One possibility of profit offset the danger. Banquo Collins knew the two wagons contained something besides guns and provisions. Powell hadn't told him so, of course. But he suspected from the moment he saw the six powerful horses straining against the traces of the first wagon back in Virginia City. He confirmed the suspicion by discovering the special cross-bracing on the underside of both wagons. The extra weight was not visible, but it was there.
How much precious metal the wagons carried, he didn't know.
But it had to be a goodly amount. Gold bullion, probably. As to its purpose, its ultimate use, he presumed that was Powell's secret. Maybe it had a connection with the Confederate cause, for which the man was openly keen. All the Southrons Collins had met were fanatics of one sort or another.
The secret cargo prodded him to prepare for various eventualities, for he did fear they were being followed. Had been for three days. Or at least that was when Collins first observed the sign, which he pointed out to no one else until he was sure he was right about it.
He estimated the number of Jicarilla as between ten and twenty. In the event of a hot brush with them, Collins intended to behave like the glass snake, a natural oddity he had discovered down this way. The glass snake was not a snake at all but a legless lizard with the ability to shake off part of its tail when attacked. The tail kept twitching after it separated from the body, and while the attacker was being distracted by the sight, the creature writhed away to safety.
Collins was not only determined to escape with his skin and his hair but with part of the gold. He certainly couldn't get away with several hundred pounds of it, but even a little would allow him to live handsomely and have fun for a while.
Aye, he would play the glass snake, all right. Having of course made sure, either by observing the Apaches at work or by taking action himself, that Mr. Powell and the lawyer were in no state to tell tales of his thievery, ever.
That evening they encamped among tall standing rocks near a deep gully, part of a line of eroded breaks above a stream they must ford. Collins assured Powell of an easy descent to be found three miles due south, but he preferred this campsite because of the natural fortifications the rocks provided. 'Better here tonight than in the open.' 'You think the Apaches are close?' 'I'm certain of it.'
'How much longer to reach Santa Fe? Three days?' 'Or a wee bit more.' Collins never risked a lie with Powell. The man's eyes and barely controlled tension warned against it. 'Now, sir, I suggest we build a fire and stay close to it. If you take a stroll, make sure it isn't far.' 'All right.' 'I must go ha' my dinner now.'
'And we'll have ours.'
Powell, Huntoon, and the teamsters ate biscuits and jerky, both of which helped relieve the boredom because it took so much time to soften the food with chewing. Collins preferred his own fare, pit-roasted pieces of mescal, an Apache delicacy of which Powell wanted no part.
Powell rubbed a slim hand over his hair. It felt dry, scratchy. He had run out of pomade weeks ago. He disliked hats. The result was more and more gray apparent. He must resemble a scarecrow. An old one, at that. Would Ashton laugh, he wondered. He imagined her naked as he leaned against a wagon wheel.
Huntoon rose, his apologetic expression explaining the reason. He stepped behind a rock. Two teamsters snickered at the sound of water.
Three days to Santa Fe. Apache in the vicinity. Powell decided he had better wait no longer. Huntoon had been useful, performing menial chores and dutifully twitching each time Powell reminded him that no matter how onerous his task, he must carry it out to prove his mettle. The stupid cuckold had done it, too.
Twilight came on rapidly in this craggy, lonesome land, which resembled nothing Lamar Powell had ever seen. He found it magically beautiful if taken on its own terms. As a teamster stood, stretched, and rubbed his rump, Powell left the fire and threaded through the stones to the gully rim, where he looked down. The gully bottom was already hidden in cool black shadow.
He gazed east, toward clouds that picked up the fiery light slanting from the opposite direction. Eastward, Ashton was waiting. He was disarmed and amazed to realize how much he missed her. In his own way, he loved her. She was intensely physical and warm, something her pitiful husband undoubtedly hadn't appreciated during his short span on earth. She would be an ideal first lady for the new state he would rule and guard from harm for the rest of his life.
He had planned the first steps months ago. Locate an appropriate site, near Santa Fe but not too near. Hire workers to erect a small ranch house and sink a well. Find some Confederate sympathizer to travel into Texas, spreading the word — rallying the disaffected soldiers, who, if not already paroled after a surrender, soon would
