Secondhand Sunsets, page 5
Finally Ray woke, downed his coffee, and hitched the mules. She drowned the fire and tiptoed around the wagon. Love mercy.
“Git in.”
“Shouldn’t we bury him?”
“Forgit ’im, I said.” Ray raised a fist.
Bluffs taller than Doniphan’s courthouse towered in the distance as phrases whorled through her mind. “Do justice. Love mercy.”
Mr. Crondite’s skeletal image stayed with her as melancholy sucked her down. Morning lapsed into afternoon, afternoon into evening. By now, those vultures and wild jackals had surely picked his pitiful bones.
When the sky reflected orange and red, Ray left without even building a fire, so Abby made one. Then she wrapped in her quilt. As day’s colors wilted into twilight, the wind’s eerie wail absorbed her sobs.
†††
Sand peppered the wagon at a rude wooden signpost for Taos, Chimayo, and Santa Fe. They made camp, and after supper Ray vanished. The persistent throb in Abby’s temple for several days now pounded across the back of her head.
This morning her legs felt like railroad ties when Ray yelled at her to hurry, but she managed to tumble into the back. Hours later, a snow-peaked mountain range hovered southward when she opened her eyes. She yearned to reach a burning finger to those freezing slopes.
Finally, the wagon halted. Voices strained, but she could no longer lift her head.
“H’ain’t th’ White Mountains. This here’s the Sangre de Christo range.”
“Got a fevered woman slowin’ me down—been bad luck all the way.”
“Head on down t’ Chimayo, they got hot peppers fer fevers.”
Ray cursed before starting the mules again. Lost. Bad luck. But overwhelming sickness inundated Abby’s questions.
Darkness and light merged in the endless grind of wheels on garrulous rock. In the trail’s normal cadence, cooking and washing the dishes had made things bearable. But now, she could claim only this fine, thin air.
“Mount Baldy... Fever you say? Get blankets... fetch the priest.”
Later, flames lighted the wagon canvas, and drums pulsed somewhere. At one point, coal-colored eyes peered at Abby over the wagon side, but she dozed again as pain exploded in her head.
“Leave her here with us for the winter.”
“Practically dead anyways.”
Black eyes appeared again. Water slipped down her parched throat, and then a scrabbly white man’s face came into view.
“Come spring, I meander t’ Chief Hashkeedasillaa’s people, not so fer from Green Valley. Kin bring her ’long when th’ gama grass gets knee-high.”
The conversation faded. Being jostled from the wagon barely roused Abby. Someone smeared her chest with a smelly salve, but she hardly noticed.
“Bear grease mixed with native plants—this will help you.”
She had no idea who spoke, but waves of agony stilled all curiosity. Ice coursed her spine, yet her skin burned.
When she next woke, smoke curled above her, and someone bathed her face. Later, a woman adrift in pine tar and sage forced stinging liquid down her throat. Then a man in black hovered near and dipped his finger in a small pot.
He touched a gritty mixture to her forehead and intoned, “Santo... tierra—Chimayo.” He swept two upraised fingers in a cross, bowed his head, and smoothed her shoulder. “La paz y la curación.”
An ancient woman swayed nearby. Someone whispered, “Padre prays peace and healing.”
Days and nights passed. During the day, a child often sat beside her on the earth. One day, he pulled at her arm until she sat up. Sky blended with earth in a mad swirl, and she wretched.
Another day, her surroundings came into focus—women grinding corn and drying hides. A squaw brought her porridge. Later, the same woman held flat bread to Abby’s lips, still warm, and nothing ever tasted so good. Another day, the squaw and the boy coaxed her to her feet.
Before the world began to whirl, she shuffled a few inches. Exhausted, she slept until they urged her to rise. Mornings and evenings melded. The priest came and prayed over her again.
“La paz y la curación.”
Then one day, a change occurred, like shadows shifting at sunrise. Suddenly she understood some of the women’s speech, as though listening all this time had made a difference.
That evening, the sun departed with such a flourish, Abby wept as the horizon burnished with golden tangerine glory.
See how the red remains stronger near the horizon, daughter, and the deep yellow hues stay aloft? This is the moment you want to capture... ah, yes, that’s it. Dab a little more of that deep gold a bit higher on the paper.
The squaw noticed her tears and called to the lad, who planted himself near. “Puesta del sol. Day go sleep.”
Hours later inside a tepee, those magical hues remained strong, along with the child’s words. Puesta del sol—even now the sunset touched her. Earlier Mama’s voice had sounded so clear, so true.
In the morning, she felt strong enough to join the women grinding. Day after day, she sat with them and mastered their method of kneading and pounding. Phrases from the Indian tongue swept through her now, even when she slept. Gradually, she understood where she was—these mountains were named for the blood of Christ.
But one afternoon, a visitor with rotten teeth and a tobacco-stained beard hunched near the women’s circle. His voice reminded her of Hollis Blum.
“Y’ alright, Missus?”
His beard hopped up and down when he spoke. His brash tone set Abby’s pulse racing, but her tongue recoiled.
“I be takin’ y’ on down t’ yer man now; hear?”
The edge of command in his voice bade her swallow her rising objections. She had thought to stay here forever.
While the trapper spoke with some men, the child handed her a packet. One of the women lifted her head with the barest hint of a smile. Then the stranger smelling of animal hides and ashes drew her toward his mule. No chance to thank these people for saving her life as she landed like so much firewood on a bony mule.
The trapper straddled his mount and yelled, “Git up thar.”
From her perch, Abby could only watch those kind souls vanish from sight. The scrappy mule ride pushed against her bones, and her spirit sank.
That night, a Spanish woman—bent nearly in half—led her to a pallet in an adobe enclosure. Long after everything quieted, Abby lay listening to others breathing. Finally, she rose and stole toward a faint light.
Moonlight revealed 1816 carved into a small building’s foundation, and its heavy wooden door swung open to roughhewn pews. The long narrow enclosure centered a candlelit altar fashioned from dark wood. To the left, a polished Madonna gazed over the scene. The orderly benches touched a chord and revived Abby’s power of speech.
“What would Mama think? I never dreamed...” Silence and melting wax soothed her, though Mama’s strong opinion wafted.
We are Protestants. Catholic people believe very differently from us.
For a moment, Papa hovered near. “But dear, do you not think the Creator fashioned us all?”
“Our memories are a gift.”
Maybe Aunt Susan had been right after all—at least these memories still existed of those now passed into eternity. Such a line they made through Abby’s mind, like locals parading down Poplar Bluff’s main street on the Fourth of July.
The chapel’s serenity soothed her. Sangre de Cristo. Back on her pallet, sleep came at last.
An impossible week ensued, nights so cold her guide tucked an extra animal hide around her at the fireside. But each morning, brilliance painted the east, and by noon, she shed her shawl. One day, it occurred to her that her green calico dress had become white.
Now and again, the trapper stopped. “Checkin’ m’ traps.” He left her a fire with water and some jerky. “Bellows here makes good comp’ny. Injuns recollect ’im, too.”
The mule pawed rocky soil and snuffled an impassioned bawl.
“You want your master, don’t you?” Her voice still sounded foreign in her ears. Through long hours, she imagined Indian braves skulking up from one side or another, but none came. At twilight, the trapper returned, and in the morning they started out again. Eventually the snow proved too deep for the mules, as though they slogged through mashed potatoes.
“Hafta go ’round now. Takes longer, but we’ll git there soon enough.”
A week later, in warmer country, only the highest peaks still showed white. The mules crisscrossed a massive canyon alive with an unfamiliar plant rising as tall as the oaks back home.
“That tall cactus—what do they call it?”
“Them’s saguaros. Feast yer eyes fer a spell, h’aint none where yer goin’.”
Where was she going? She felt no need to know. For now, the ever-changing landscape held her interest.
Interspersed with the saguaros’ grey-green shapes, misshapen parodies of dried, woody fiber twisted into grotesque forms. Something had eaten them away.
“What happened to those?”
“Too many wood rats diggin’ tunnels. Done played out th’ cactus.”
That night beside the fire, the trapper confided, “Most calls me Cactus Joe. Who y’ be?”
At first, she could think of no reply. Finally, the sign above the store in Poplar Bluff came to her—Ferguson. She mouthed the name, and with it came another.
“Abby Ferguson. Abigail Belinda Ferguson.”
Cactus Joe lit into a story about a Ferguson he met years ago. “Ever been t’ Colorady?”
She shook her head.
“Thet Ferg’son lived yonder—had ’im a fambly. I s’pect three daughters. Tol’ me ’bout that Oatman gal what got taken by Injuns, her n’ her sister. Injuns kilt the ma n’ pa down in Arizona terr’tory. You heard a her?”
“I cannot recall.”
“Waal, her sister died after some time, n’ she got traded to another tribe. Injuns do thet, y’know. Anyways, they branded her on th’ chin, like they do with their own gals.”
Though the tale was far from pleasant, Abby fell asleep listening and wakened the next morning still beside the fire. Cactus Joe had kept it burning all night and greeted her with hot coffee.
“H’ain’t fer now, gal. H’aint fer a’tall.”
After an impossible descent, the mules rustled through grass up to their backs.
“This here they call th’ Tonto Basin.” Cactus Joe made camp near some natives and exchanged pelts for venison. They traded dried corn for tobacco, and Abby sought out the women. Serenity settled over her in the luxury of staying at a campsite for more than one night.
Gorgeous sunrises hailed each new morning, and equally outrageous sunsets put each day to sleep. These Indians seemed friendly, and one night she asked about that Oatman girl.
“You said they branded her?”
“Yep. Put their mark right on her chin so’s ever’body’d know she b’longed.”
These squaws, so much like the ones who had nursed her, seemed unlikely to allow such a thing. Little by little, Abby spent more time pounding with them, but after about a week, a wagon approached across the wide western meadow.
Cactus Joe studied its progress. When the mules came within hearing distance, he sang out to the driver.
A short, bull-nosed man pulled up the team and stalked over, his eyes a foamy grey. He gave Abby a quick glance and pulled Cactus Joe by the arm.
Shivers coursed her backbone. Ray. Until now, she had kept him at a distance, like a bad dream.
A distance away, the two men’s voices rose. At last, the trapper straggled to his mules as Ray returned to survey her up and down. “Waal, looks like yer alive.” He slapped the side of the wagon, but Abby only stared.
“Git on up here, then. Ain’t got all day.”
When they curved north across a grassy plain, Cactus Joe stood shading his eyes. Once again, no time for a farewell. But words rang a chorus through Abby’s mind as she caught a final glimpse.
Mercy. Kindness. Whatever lay beyond, he had shown her mercy and reminded her that kindness still existed, even out in this lonely wilderness.
Into the same Pinon pines that straggled across New Mexico territory, Ray urged the mules. But fear clutched at Abby. He had left her with the Indians to die—why would he want her now?
Upward, ever upward, the steep trail led. After three days, as if by magic, pines taller than she ever imagined towered above spectacular red boulders. To the north, a long lazy ridge stretched east and west as far as she could see.
Ray caught her staring. “Thet’s the Rim.”
After another hardscrabble day, her head began to clear. Midafternoon, Ray unhitched the mules at a rivulet where treetops staggered a treacherous path leading downward. A massive crow flashed blue-black feathers, its raucous, throaty call proclaiming the trespassers. When it flapped away, a jury hidden in the trees followed suit.
Ray mounted a mule. “Climb on. Gotta get some meat on y’, woman—got work t’ do.” He hauled her up behind him like a potato sack. Then the path, so steep and winding she clung to him, demanded all of her attention.
Strewn with roots and rocks and barred by red-barked branches, the trail promised anything but ease. The mule balked, so Ray cursed and reached for his strap. The animal understood. Finally Ray pulled on the reins and pointed almost directly below.
Sunlight glinted on something down there. Weary as she was, a thrill ran through Abby. Perhaps this grueling journey had come to an end. For some reason, her name came to her again.
Abby—Abigail Belinda Ferguson McHale.
After a long swig from his flask, Ray let forth a sigh. His heavy breath dusted her cheek as all trace of blue leached from his eyes. “Nobody’s ’roun here, nobody a’tall. We go farther down, n’ this here Rim keeps ever’body out.”
Chapter Five
The heady pink reflection against the Rim’s eastern side nearly made up for missing Poplar Bluff’s sunsets. Moments later, peach transposed with violet in a vivid shadow that enlivened the Rim’s hulk.
Maybe if she baked bread tomorrow, Ray would be pleased. In all this time, she had spoiled not even one batch. Learning the squaw’s ways had helped, but nothing she did satisfied him. She pressed her thumbs into the nape of her neck and waited.
Use your ingenuity, Abby Belinda. This spring, Mama’s instructions had begun to emerge in her thoughts, akin to the first crocuses rousing from an unforgiving winter.
Things take time... a watched pot never boils...
Ray’s trips across the Rim had become more frequent, but caused little change in her daily tasks. During his absences, many unanswered questions returned. Why don’t wasps make honey? What makes the red stay low in a sunset? What happens when a wayfarer reaches the top of the Rim? Does he see hills ahead, or a flat mesa?
Sometimes when Ray toted butter, cream, and wild brown honey over the Rim, he headed back several days later with a couple of hens to add to their collection. But on every single trip, a few more head of cattle trailed him. The columns in his notebook represented those long-horned creatures, the shade of dun horses and always bony.
“How many cattle do you have now?”
Ray cocked his head. “Forty-three steers n’ six cows ready to calve.” Scarred pine floorboards lifted their futile complaint as he rocked. “Injun agent pays forty cents a pound fer butter, n’ good for cream, too.”
“How far away is he?”
“Half a day from the top.”
“How would you keep butter and cream cool for so long?”
Ray squinted. “Line crates with hemp, cover ’em with straw—”
“You would need a wagon?”
“Ain’t no concern ’a yours.”
Deep russet gradually threaded with smoky purple before merging behind Strawberry Mountain.
“Whatcha watchin’ fer all th’ time?”
Putting her thoughts into words came hard. “The way… I like how all the evening shades blend into one.”
He spat over the porch side. “If I’d knowed y’s so given t’ dreamin’—” His glower deepened, so she looked skyward again.
Where Strawberry Mountain met the Rim, an indentation formed. If one were to head that way, perhaps the climbing would go easier. The hair on the back of Abby’s neck rose. Without looking, she knew Ray still stared at her.
In the morning, sunshine would find the western slope and inch by inch, chase the shadows down the valley. Such a turnaround—instead of rising in the East, light descended down the Rim’s western side until full day. In late afternoon, nature swabbed extra charcoal into each niche and cranny, igniting her desire to create the likeness on paper. But all too soon, evening came.
Besides, she had no pencils, not to mention paper. Oh, how carefully she would fill even one page of Ray’s notebook—if she dared.
Forty cents a pound for butter—double the price in Papa’s store. More churning awaited her in the morning, but at least the wooden paddle’s steady beat would free her thoughts to roam.
Silence reigned, except for the cicadas’ hum in gangly Manzanita bushes. Then a shrill howl agitated a nagging hunger—a coyote from across the Rim. Abby edged across the floor and leaned into Ray’s leg as an elk call shrilled to fever pitch. Another bull took up the cry.
“Them elks obey their mates.” Ray spat again.
A desperate guttural rasping followed more elk bugles, and a turkey vulture passed over. Something about the heavy bird’s ungainly flight lightened Abby’s heart. “Those vultures always swoop west.”
Ray’s lips sealed to a stark line.
“I can’t help but wonder what lies over there. Don’t you ever?”
