Ralph Compton - Blood and Gold

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.

Lila came to me in the night and lay beside me and I understood her need and held her close, comforting her as best I could. Gradually, her breathing slowed and she slept.

My wounded shoulder throbbed unmercifully and kept me from sleep. I turned on my back and looked at the sky above, where a million stars glowed brilliant, beautiful, but coldly indifferent to all that happened on the small, dusty planet far beneath them.

Lila stirred in her sleep and gave a little cry and I held her close again, the memory of her mouth on mine a sudden rush of sweet pain. Around us, hidden by darkness, spread the impossibly ancient land, and we two, neither of us past our twentieth birthday, lay quiet in its embrace.

As the night birds called and a coyote barked his hunger to the uncaring stars, I at last fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

I had no idea what tomorrow would bring, and that was just as well.

Had I known I was about to ride into hell, I would have had no rest.

Chapter 19

Lila and me rode across a strife-scorched land, keeping to the divide between Deepwater Creek to our east and Cottonwood Creek to the west. Ahead of us lay the vast sweep of the Colorado and, farther south, the craggy barrier of the Blue Mountains.

Around us was rolling country, pinnacles of gray rock jutting here and there on the slopes of the hills, the grass-covered plains good for horses and cattle.

We rode with a long wind that smelled of rain at our backs, but we were getting close to our destination and I would have no need for my slicker. Just a few miles to the south lay the SP Connected, with its familiar big house, white barns and corrals.

I was coming home, but to a suffering land scarred by conflict.

Twice since we’d crossed the Brazos I’d left Lila with the paint to investigate thin plumes of rising smoke, once finding only the charred timbers of a deserted ranch house. The second time I’d almost stumbled over the bodies of two bearded government surveyors who’d been surprised and shot down outside their tent.

There were plenty of hoofprints of unshod ponies scattered around, and that could only mean Apaches.

As much as I enjoyed the closeness of Lila and the sweet smell of her and how the sunlight got all tangled up in her hair, I let her ride and took a position well ahead, my rifle at the ready.

Despite the gusting wind, the day was hot, the sun high in the upturned blue bowl of the sky. Sweat trickled down inside my shirt and I constantly had to remove my hat and wipe off my brow with the sleeve of my shirt.

Fifty yards or so behind me, Lila seemed cool and comfortable, riding easily, and when I turned to look at her, she waved at me and smiled, her bright eyes holding a promise or an invitation, I couldn’t decide which. Anyhow, I only growled and grumbled to myself, knowing full well that girls did that kind of thing just to drive a man crazy.

We were about to fetch up to a low hill crowned with post oak and curly mesquite when I stopped and let Lila catch up to me. My shoulder throbbed unmercifully and waves of tiredness were washing over me, making me feel light-headed and sick.

“The SP is just over the rise,” I told Lila. “When we reach the crest, you’ll be able to see it.”

Lila’s eyes lit up. “Oh, Dusty, do you mean it? Are we almost home?”

“Almost,” I said, “but I reckon your place is a piece farther to the east, maybe another ten miles or so.”

A fleeting sadness crossed Lila’s face. “I only wish Pa was here with us,” she said.

“Me too,” I said, mostly for politeness’ sake, since Ned had no inclination to farm. “But don’t be getting any big ideas. You’re not going to your cabin, where you’ll be out there all alone with the Apaches on the rampage. Best you hunker down at the SP for a spell.”

Lila opened her mouth to argue, but then seemed to appreciate the logic of my decision. “How long before I can see my place?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Lila, as long as it takes for the army to round up ol’ Victorio. A week, a month, a year, with Apaches you never can tell.”

“A year!” Lila exclaimed. “I’m not going to wait a year. I’m not even going to wait a month. Dusty, if I’ve any hope of putting in a crop, I’ll have to do it soon.”

Well, I didn’t see any point in arguing, at least not now when I was so tired. “Suit yourself,” I said. “But in the meantime you’re going home with me. Ma Prather will enjoy having another woman around and she’ll pamper you, trust me.”

Lila saw the logic in that too, because all she said was, with a tinge of wistfulness in her voice: “About now I could sure use some pampering.”

And so it was that we rode over the crest of the rise and down into the wide and fertile valley that had given birth to, and then sustained, the SP Connected.

I was home, and I was bringing with me Simon Prather’s badly needed thirty thousand dollars. It was a good feeling.

The ranch was the usual scattering of barns and corrals, but the bunkhouse was bigger and more spacious than most, though Simon had scrimped on windows, there being only one on each wall of the log building. I knew that only a couple of punchers would be living in the bunkhouse, since Mr. Prather had paid off the hands who’d made the drive to Dodge.

The ranch house had two stories and a tile roof, both levels boasting wide and shady balconies, unusual at that time in Texas, when even rich ranchers like Charles Goodnight and John D. Chisholm were content to live in what were little more than shacks. Rarer still were the house’s three tall chimneys, each made of gray stone, expertly laid by an itinerant German mason.

Simon had built the house as a palace for Ma to live in and he’d spared no expense, hauling the lumber all the way from the coast, and the durable white English paint from an importer in Austin.