He remounted and took up the lead to the first pack-horse. “This stream is where we turn east. The village isn’t far now.”
Hours later the sun had sunk to the last quadrant of its trip across the sky. For suspended moments the Sangre de Cristos took on that vivid crimson hue so familiar to travelers in the Southwest. Far over their heads, the remnants of an early winter storm was exhausting itself among the high peaks and granite escarpments. But down here along the Fernandez no more than a few gentle flakes swirled on those breezes crossing the valley floor.
“Will we sleep in Ta-house tonight?” Waits-by-the-Water asked.
He could tell she was weary already, the children too. It had been an exhausting journey for them all: the longest Waits had taken in more than ten winters—unquestionably the longest their children had ever endured. Far better for them to reach Taos and the doorstep of old friends when they were all fresh.
“We’ll ride on a little farther. Find a place to make camp. We can wait to ride into the village till morning.”
It had snowed overnight, but no more than a dusting of light flakes that would shake right off of their buffalo robes when he prodded the young ones from their communal bed where Jackrabbit lay sleeping between the two older children.
Titus had found it hard to sleep himself, despite how weary he had become from unloading the horses, or helping the children drag in wood for their fire and water from the creek for his wife. What had brung him satisfaction was that throughout all their preparations in making camp, little Jackrabbit was at his older brother’s side. It made Scratch proud, even though he felt a sense of regret that neither of his younger brothers had ever bonded themselves to him in this way. Scratch turned and rolled through the night, hopeless at finding comfort for the aching hip, no matter how much of the blanket he shoved beneath it.
Eventually he had slipped quietly from her side and left the warm robes to stoke the fire before dragging the dented coffeepot to the edge of the coals where he could reheat the remains of last night’s brew.
He had always liked this time of day the best. As good as eventide was with its varied textures and hues of light, these moments when night had grown exhausted and was prepared to give way to day … such were the most dramatic moments of the day. There Titus sat, sipping at his coffee this last morning on the trail, staring into the dancing flames when he was not studying the eastern sky, harkening back on fond memories of those squeaky boots and the way Josiah had cinched up that worn leather belt around those store-bought canvas britches threatening to fall off his skinny hips. How testy the lad had been in those first days as they gradually came to know one another, day by day, mile by mile on that early-summer crossing from the Wind River Mountains to Pierre’s Hole.
Lo, the times he had grown disgusted with Paddock, ready to ride off on his own, leaving the boy behind—or just as soon let Josiah stomp off by himself with no more than a call of good riddance … Titus was grateful for every moment they had shared. As much as Paddock might have needed a hivernant to take him under his wing and teach him the way of the mountains, Titus Bass had needed a companion—needed a friend—all the more. They had been there for one another, at the very moment when one had to give what the other needed most.
Titus stared up at the sky a long time, dazzled at the countless stars in this early-winter sky—and realized once again he could not deny the presence of something far greater than himself at work in the lives of man.
He had crossed paths with Josiah Paddock at a crucial juncture in both their lives. That following winter Titus had returned to the Crow with Josiah, at just the moment when a young woman was ready to take herself a husband. Not to mention how the Grandfather Above had blessed him and Waits with these three beautiful children who amazed and stunned their father without fail every day.
With all the people, the trials and the joys that he had encountered in his own inconsequential life … Bass knew he could never deny the hand of the Creator in all that had transpired. While most young men more often than not saw their lives in terms of their own accomplishments—the older Titus got, the more easily he could admit that the crucial turnings in his life had been guided by another’s hand.
It was clear as sun that, for some reason he did not fully understand, he had been granted redemption more times than a man might have the right to expect.
“Morning is coming soon.” Her soft voice surprised him at his back. “We can finally reach Ta-house, to see our old friends again.”
He peered at her over his shoulder and smiled. “Yes. Finally, after a long, long time.”
“You did not sleep well: restless to have the journey done?”
This woman never ceased to amaze him—how perceptive she could be at times. “Once the journey itself was enough to hold my heart. But—I am growing old. As my allotted days grow fewer and fewer, I have come to think my travels need to have some purpose. When a man realizes he has less and less days ahead of him, every single one of those days becomes all the richer in meaning.”
Scooting over behind him where she could wrap her arms around Titus and lay her cheek against that notch between his shoulder blades, Waits-by-the-Water said, “You and I will grow old together, watching our children become men and women. We will see our grandchildren born, hold them in our arms and prop them on our knees to tell them marvelous stories of a bygone time.”
He felt tears sting his eyes as he cradled her arms across his chest. “I pray it will be so, woman. I only pray it will be so.”
When a graying light finally swelled along the horizon, Scratch left her at the fire and went to the nearby rope corral. Two-by-two he led the horses to the creekbank where they drank their fill, then he picketed them on a patch of short-grass until he was ready to pack them one at a time for the last miles of their long journey to Taos.
Jackrabbit was already awake, cuddling with his mother, when Titus returned to the fire. Scratch put his finger to his lip, then knelt by the other two children and gently rubbed their heads, speaking low. Eventually all three sat in their blankets, chewing on cold meat left over from last night’s supper as Bass set off to bring in the first of the packhorses. Each one stood patiently as he strapped on its saddle, loading it with their camp equipment, then returned the animal to the grass so it could continue grazing until all were prepared for the trail, when he could string them together with long leads of hemp rope.
This matter of the lead rope was something different that morning. For most of their journey south, he had let them follow on their own, giving each trail-savvy animal its own head. But now that they would be nearing a concentration of strange men and even stranger beasts—squawking chickens and bleating goats, not to mention noisy brass bells and tin horns the Mexican herders used—the long lead rope was a precaution against the trail veterans becoming startled and bolting.
The sun had risen, making its trek low across the southern horizon, where it hung at midsky when he stopped them late that morning. “Children—look.”
He watched their faces for a long moment, studying their eyes now that they were seeing this valley for the first time. Off in the distance at the far side of the valley lay Los Ranchos de Taos, a small village. But what truly caught the eye was the large maze of low buildings nestled beneath a shroud of grayish fire smoke, a far, far larger community. With that new dusting of snow and those whitewashed adobe walls—most every object reflecting the brilliant winter light—it was difficult for his tired old eye to discern that cluster of huts, hovels, shops, and—then suddenly he made out the cathedral’s tall bell towers. Even more impressive after this absence of more than ten years.
“That big village, it’s Taos,” he announced, a dry lump suddenly clogging his throat. “W-we come to Taos.”
Titus watched their eyes grow as they raked over the scene before them. Against all the white of that new snow, he spotted an orderly line of horsemen just then appear from the cluster of huts and houses, no more than a couple dozen of them emerging on their left, riding two-by-two down that road that would lead a man to Santa Fe. A small flag popped and quivered in the winter breeze above one of the front riders.
Little chance any of them would recognize him after all this time, he thought warily. Nor would any of these
He squinted at the short column now in the bright, reflected glare of the sun as the horsemen loped closer
