“I’ve never seen the Pecos,” Sierra said. “I have seen Texas maps, and it comes down out of New Mexico Territory like a big old wriggling snake and heads southeast till it connects up with the Rio Grande.”
“I haven’t seen it either. We’ve been driving our cattle north and east. But Jack says it twists and turns so much, you can get confused about what side of the river you are on.”
“Well,” Sierra said, “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.” She nodded toward the wagons and riders. “They’re moving out. Do you suppose we ought to join them?”
No, Jordy thought, I would rather spend the day just talking to you. He didn’t care it was small talk. He was starting to keep an eye open to opportunities to be near this enchanting young woman, who was turning out to be nothing like the spoiled brat he had initially pegged her. Sierra was not only pleasant to the eye, but she had some smarts upstairs. “I suppose we should fall in,” he said. “Maybe you would take another look at Buster before we get too far down the trail.”
“He should be fine, but I’d be glad to.”
The buckskin stallion had taken an arrow at his shoulder point, and Jordy had learned that Sierra’s presence had provided the party with the equivalent of a veterinary surgeon for their critters, not to mention her rudimentary skills with human patients. When the horse limped in with Sierra’s Dancer and Pokey early evening yesterday, Sierra had offered to examine the stallion.
She had quickly excised the arrow point while Jordy controlled the horse and sutured the shallow wound that she had widened slightly with a scalpel in order to remove the barbed arrowhead. She had partially closed the wound leaving a small outlet for drainage.
When they caught up to Irish, whose string had been reduced to a single mule, two spare horses, and Buster, they untied the buckskin and led him off the trail. They dismounted and Sierra examined the wound while Jordy held the reins of their mounts in one hand and steadied Buster with the other.
“He’s doing fine,” she pronounced. “Give him three days’ rest and he will be ready to ride.”
“You are quite amazing, you know. I mean, your surgical skills. And you had the scalpel like you were prepared for all of this.”
She smiled, and he suspected lighter skin would have produced a blush. She took her mare’s reins, and their fingers brushed. Was he imagining that her fingers lingered a moment?
“Papa taught me about caring for the animals. As you know, out on this vast prairie there is no one to call upon to help with ailing or injured critters. Folks have got to learn to do for themselves. I have several forceps, pliers, and the like in my kit.”
“Jack does most of the vet work at the Lucky Five, but Irish is handy that way. He’s doing most of the castrations and routine stuff these days. Birthing, we still call in Jack, but somebody helps with the heavy pulling. I can do some of that when we’re pressed, but I don’t have the gift. I can’t wait for you to meet Tess Wyman,” Jordy said.
“Tess? That’s Grandpa Jack’s lady friend?”
“Yes. She’s half-blood Comanche and kind of a medicine woman. Comanches and a fair number of whites come to see her for her herbal and plant remedies, and she does certain treatments and repairs short of surgeries. You will hit it off. I know you will.”
“And maybe I can learn from her.”
“I know she would love to have a pupil.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Horsehead Crossing was a spooky place, Sierra thought. Ruins of an old way station and outbuildings lay around a bend in the river. Horse skulls were mounted on the rotting posts that were scattered about the abandoned site. Along the riverbanks on both sides of the river were still more skulls and bones, both equine and bovine. She figured hundreds of animals had contributed, and that would not include those that had been carried off by scavengers.
The land along the slow-flowing, muddy water, which she thought looked more like moat than river, was desolate and near naked save for the usual creosote bushes, yucca, mesquite, and assorted cacti. She understood now why traffic funneled to Horsehead Crossing. Here the banks sloped gently toward the winding river, and wagons and travelers of all varieties could enter and exit the waters on each side without great effort if they could ford the waters.
Sierra stood by her grandfather, watching Swede take the first Studebaker through the current. The wagon sank nearly to the floor of the bed but moved steadily through the waters and soon the front mule team gained footing on the opposite bank and pulled the big wagon up the incline to the flat above.
Jack commented, “Looks like the big wagons won’t be a problem. They’re set up on springs and the beds can clear the water. The chuckwagon sits lower, but it’s lighter. That’s why Tige has his crew over by the old station. They’re salvaging lumber to build a raft. Built right, it won’t take much of one. We’ll have it here for the return trip, if somebody doesn’t come along and cut it loose or turn it in to firewood.”
Sierra said, “How did you know we could do this?”
“I didn’t for sure. No wagons to take across when I was here last, but this place is almost a legend. Charlie Goodnight told me about the wagons. Said they would be fine as long as we didn’t hit rainy season, which comes late summer down this way.”
The second Studebaker followed the other without incident, and she watched now as Jordy and Mitch Eagle Eyes moved the spare mule and horses across the river. Jordy knew his horses, she thought, and he rode like he and his mount were melded. He never bragged about his prowess, however. He must have got that
