“What do you mean?”
“Your problems were all in your brain. You had a few difficult nights and set your head to thinking it was all over. I just told you the potion would solve the problem. In a way, I guess it did, the notion of it anyway. But Medicine Stick was still on his own, doing just fine once your brain left him alone.”
Jack squeezed her hand, released it and reached for a biscuit. “You’ve got a devious side, Tess Wyman. I will have to watch out for that.”
“Are you still going to ask me a question when you get back?”
“I am. And I am counting on you to have the right answer.”
Chapter Sixteen
The first day on the trail had been disappointing to Jack. Miles were just guesses in this country, but he calculated that they had traveled no more than fifteen miles of the estimated 150 or more they needed to cover to reach Lookout Canyon. The first day out tended to be slow, he reminded himself. A wagon party rarely departed as early as planned, with last minute changes in supply needs, shifting of wagon loads for better balance and the like. They had moved out of San Angelo at nearly eleven o’clock, several hours later than he hoped but earlier than he had been prepared for.
Tige had decided that a single mule team would be more than adequate for the chuckwagon and that double teams would be sufficient for the Studebakers. They had a string of four extra mules on a reata in case of injury to an animal or for relief of tiring critters. A team could be added to a wagon if necessary.
Chihuahuan Desert country lay to the southwest and Lookout Canyon lay within its mapped boundaries. They would be traveling along the fringes for several days, and water and grass would be in short supply early on. The Chihuahuan did not fit the image of endless sand that most folks thought of when a desert was mentioned. It was a vast territory covering most of West Texas and parts of northern Mexico, southern New Mexico Territory and southern Arizona Territory. Small mountain ranges broke up some of the area, and other parts were rough with canyons, arroyos and rock formations. In sandy and valley areas, creosote bush dominated, and yucca and mesquite thrived in foothill edges. There was water if a man knew where to find it, occasional streams and waterholes, even rivers like the Pecos and Rio Grande. In some places decent grasslands stretched out as temptation that would likely bring cattlemen when the tribes were moved to reservations. The Comanches would be gone soon, but many Apache bands had not surrendered yet and occasionally still found their ways into West Texas.
Jack had ridden Pokey till midafternoon when his painful back mandated a change. He had claimed a seat on the chuckwagon with Rudy where Thor had been riding, forcing the big dog to climb into the covered wagon bed to resume his napping. Thor had not been that much of a sleeper in his younger days, Jack thought. He worried that his old friend was ailing, but he ate well enough and seemed to summon up energy when he had some motivation. Not unlike himself, he guessed.
Rudy was a born mule skinner, and he obviously relished running a team again. He had promised to teach his assistant, Bram Potts, the fine art on this journey, but that would wait till he wore down some. For now, Bram rode horseback within earshot of the wagon.
“Ass is getting sore,” Rudy said. “When we gonna pull in for the night?”
“Within an hour. Mitch is finding a water spot up ahead. Needs to find a place with grass for all these critters.”
“You ain’t had a serious talk with your grand-gal yet. I been watching. You ain’t said more than ‘howdy do, ma’am.’”
“Nope.”
“Ain’t it about time?”
“We’ll talk some when it works out. It’s none of your concern.”
“That ain’t true. I got to put up with your damned crabbiness when you’re putting things off that need doing. It would be easier for everybody if the two of you would act more friendly. I don’t think she knows what to make of you. Time to get acquainted, so she can find you ain’t quite as mean and nasty as you seem.”
“That’s a compliment?”
“Best I can do right now.”
Jack found himself royally pissed at his old comrade-in-arms, but he had to admit there was a spoonful of truth in what Rudy said. He had been standoffish. She was not his enemy. My God, Sierra Wills carried his name and was his own flesh and blood.
Soon after, Mitch Eagle Eyes rode up to the chuckwagon and Jack asked Rudy to rein in the mule team. Mitch, a half-blood Comanche, sidled his horse up to Jack’s side of the wagon seat. Jack had not found anything yet at the ranch that Mitch could not do, but he knew that the wiry man loved horse work, so whenever feasible Jack paired him with Irish O’Toole, the ranch’s unofficial horse wrangler. Both good men, but in his judgment, he kept on nothing but. Nobody headed down the road for better wages.
“Hey, Boss Man,” Mitch said. “If you don’t mind pulling over early, I got a camping spot a half hour up the trail. Clear stream, some shade and a fair amount of firewood scattered about.”
“We’ll take it. I’m thinking we might want to head off more westerly tomorrow. We can talk about it tonight. Any idea who is following us?”
“Figured you seen him. I circled around and got a better look. Just one man. If he’s Comanche, he ain’t much of one. I could walk up in full light on naked prairie and cut his throat, and he’d never know what happened. Darker than me, though. Might be Mex. Hard to say.”
“Comanchero?”
“Could be. Some got cunning. Most don’t know shit from wild honey. He’d
