The Sweet Blue Distance, page 15
The Cimarron route could only be considered if the entire party were well armed, well mounted, sensibly outfitted and provisioned, and able to tolerate at least two bone-dry days. Thus Petit’s wagon train—and the Ballentynes—would travel the slower, safer mountain route.
“According to Eli,” he went on, “Romero’s got excellent stock for sale. Trail tested, five to six years old. And he is fair minded.”
Carrie pushed the newspaper back across the table, pointing to the paragraph about the horses. “Here it says he has very limited stock for sale.”
“I’m told he does have horses,” Nathan said. “But he won’t sell to just anybody. You have to have the recommendation of someone he trusts. And he has to see you ride.”
“And you want to go see these horses tomorrow.”
He raised a brow. “You don’t?”
It would not be to her advantage to quarrel with Nathan on this point. Carrie gentled her expression and picked up her spoon. With a mouthful of dumplings, she could take a moment to consider.
Eli Ibarra was willing to vouch for them with the rancher who had valuable horses otherwise unattainable. This would put them in his debt. At home she would know what that meant, but here, in these circumstances, she had no idea. He might want nothing more than a simple thank-you, or he might expect a favor in return. Somehow she couldn’t imagine him pressing an unfair advantage, but men were unpredictable and, for the most part, not especially trustworthy.
She pressed a knuckle to the spot between her brows where a headache threatened, and reminded herself that she would be spending weeks in a stagecoach. That was time enough to sort things out for herself, free of the distraction of random and unsolicited winks.
Nathan interrupted her train of thought.
“You know,” he said, “if you’d rather stay here, I could go and decide about the horses myself. You’d trust me to pick a mount for you, wouldn’t you?”
The urge to pinch him was almost irresistible.
“Fine,” she said. “I take it you’ve already hired a rig.”
“We’ll set out at eight,” Nathan said. “If that suits?”
14
Sunday, May 17, 1857
The next morning Nathan first wanted to take her on a tour of Westport, though the streets were clogged with wagons and oxcarts and livestock, and the going would be slow.
“As bad as Union Square on a Saturday,” Carrie said.
“Oh, I’d say much worse.” This clearly pleased her brother for reasons Carrie couldn’t fathom. “But one way or the other, we have to get out of town.”
“Well then,” Carrie said, resigned to surrendering gracefully. “Let’s have a look at Westport.”
For a small town, there was a great deal of very loud activity: bawling oxen and mules, barking dogs, the bone-cracking creak and thump of wagon wheels, and an out-of-tune piano outside a saloon on which someone was pounding out “Camptown Races.”
The general agitation made sense when you considered that three large wagon trains were scheduled to set out the next day. Emigrants would be nervous, unsure suddenly of this grand plan but convinced that they should have more in the way of provisions. Another few pounds of salt pork, a tin of black salve, a yard of muslin; they swarmed over Westport in search of the one thing that would guarantee a safe trip.
A gunsmith’s shop was especially busy, with men gathered around the show window. Carrie, suddenly wary, glanced at her brother.
He said, “We can stop by later today.”
“No,” Carrie said calmly. “Not necessary.”
At home there had been long discussions about weapons. Carrie had a rifled musket and a pistol, and was comfortable with both. Still her stepfather and brother believed that she should have the newest and most modern weapon available, the British Enfield rifle, which was thought to be more accurate than her weapon. Nathan had bought one for himself a few months before and was full of praise for it.
In the end Carrie only persevered because her mother took her side, but now her brother’s expression told her that he still hoped to buy her an Enfield. Carrie took some comfort in the certainty that gunsmiths on the western frontier would not have such guns for sale.
She pointed out a large placard informing the public that Mr. Lime carried in his apothecary the purest laudanum, opium, Peruvian bark, imported medicinal teas, tinctures, ointments, surgical instruments, dental kits, and medical supplies.
“If there’s time I’d be far more interested in Mr. Lime’s offerings.”
Nathan lifted both shoulders and held that pose for a long moment. Then he grinned.
“Very sensible,” he said. “While you’re busy with Mr. Lime, I’ll visit York’s Warehouse.”
It was hard not to laugh at his tone, so studiously innocent and, at the same time, transparent. He might claim to want nothing more than a cake of soap when he went out to the shops, but Carrie could imagine him coming back with the soap, a slide rule, a paper of straight pins, and an oxbow.
“Not the best idea,” she said to him now. “No room in the baggage. For anything.”
He huffed, but didn’t contradict her. Instead he developed a keen interest in a covered wagon set out for display in front of a wheelwright’s barn.
Carrie counted to herself, silently, and got as far as twenty before her brother turned to her, cleared his throat, and said, “A visit to that warehouse might be necessary, you realize. If all goes well today, the horses will need saddle blankets and bridles and—”
Carrie’s laugh made him stop. He scowled and then, finally, grinned. “All right,” he said, and pushed out a great sigh. “I’ll leave the warehouse to you.”
On the outskirts of Westport, they passed a gristmill, a dairy farm, and a tannery, but the countryside Carrie expected once those businesses were behind them didn’t show itself. The closest fields were neither planted nor given over to pasture, but instead served as great arenas where wagon trains were being organized.
The sun reflected off a sea of canvas bonnets stretched over arched wagon bows; Nathan counted thirty wagons in one group, and thirty-five in the other. There was no sign of Mr. Petit’s wagon train, which must be on the other side of Westport, but if she raised the subject, Nathan would want to find it, and so she kept her curiosity to herself, glad to avoid another delay.
To her it looked as if most of the wagons were the property of family groups, two or three generations setting off together. It was hard to imagine taking children on this journey, but there were a great many of them. The older ones toted supplies or water buckets while their younger brothers and sisters chased each other up and down the rows, barefooted and mud splashed, ignoring the scolding that trailed after them.
Nathan pointed his chin toward a buckboard wagon where three teenage girls sat, faces turned up to the sun so that the bonnets tied down snug would give them no protection. In no time at all they would be freckled, but that did not seem to concern them. They were very animated, talking and laughing.
He said, “For them it’s a grand adventure.”
A little farther on, men were trying to fit a bedstead into a wagon. Nearby a grandmother sat in a rocking chair, knitting left untouched in her lap while she watched, and a hand on the head of the toddler who sat at her feet. His bottom was nestled into the dirt, his face hidden in her skirts.
Carrie said, “But their mothers and grandmothers know better.”
He frowned at her. “How do you come to that conclusion?”
“It’s obvious. Look there—” She nodded toward a woman struggling to lift a curio cabinet into a wagon bed. “No doubt she has been warned that they can’t spare the space, but she’s reluctant to leave the life she knows behind.”
Nathan pushed out a deep sigh. “You do like to borrow trouble.”
“Not at all,” Carrie said. “But neither can I turn a blind eye to something so obvious.”
For the next while they drove past one corral after another, many hundreds of oxen and mules but horses, too, all of them grazing, unaware of the trials ahead. Wranglers on horseback kept order, watched over the herds.
“Imagine the tack.” Nathan whistled under his breath. “Wagons full of tack.”
“You imagine the tack,” Carrie told her brother, “while I take in the countryside.”
It was very pretty farm country on this late spring morning. Patches of dappled shade spread out under chestnut and oak, maple and birch, while sunlight and shadow chased each other across pastureland. A breeze riffled through tall grasses and sent patches of wildflowers dancing: hyssop and pink fireweed, bright blue salvia, thimbleweed and marguerites as yellow as spring butter. They crossed a bridge, and Carrie looked down to see water moving fast. Spring runoff, rushing toward the Missouri and then the Mississippi and, from there, the world.
When they had been underway for more than an hour, Nathan pointed out the large flock of sheep scattered over the fields.
“I’m guessing the sheep belong to the Romero outfit. And here it is.” They had come around a corner to see a sign suspended from two tall posts flanking a wide double gate. As they approached, a buckboard was turning onto the road, headed back the way they had come.
“Look,” he said. “A familiar face.”
Carrie recognized Mr. Petit by his beard. What had brought him here was self-evident: a string of at least two dozen mules followed along behind the buckboard, with two riders bringing up the rear.
Mules were big, rawboned, strong animals. They were generally healthier, longer lived, better in rough terrain, and far cheaper than horses. Troublesome, yes. But also smart enough to see trouble coming; and more important, a mule was as good as a guard dog. Whatever was happening in camp, a mule would let you know, at three in the morning or high noon.
Mr. Petit touched his hat brim as he passed, but made no move to stop and talk.
“The bigamist,” Carrie remembered. “The blasphemer.”
“What?” She had startled her brother, but this was not the time to recount Miss Herlinde’s colorful condemnation of the hapless Mr. Petit.
“I’ll tell you later. Look at the size of this place, would you? An impressive property.”
Nathan turned the rig onto a lane lined with red maples and followed it around to what Carrie assumed was the main ranch house. Beyond it was a barn and stables, with paddocks and arenas close by.
A boy about fifteen years old greeted them and took charge of the horse and rig.
Nathan pressed a coin into the boy’s palm. “Mr. Romero?”
“Don Esteban is waiting for you.” The boy nodded toward the house, where a door opened.
Nathan held out an elbow for Carrie to take. “This will be a good day.”
Carrie, all her senses on alert, kept her opinion to herself.
Don Esteban Romero was a man of some seventy years, with the posture of a general, the dignified bearing of royalty, and a quick smile that hinted at a sense of humor. Carrie reminded herself that Eli Ibarra considered him a fair man and honest dealer. Now they would learn the truth for themselves.
It was Carrie’s intention to be friendly, calm, polite, and only vaguely interested. She would admire the animals, of course, but keep what she knew to herself. Men were wary of women who showed expertise in any subject outside housekeeping and the raising of children. The best way to establish herself with these people was to demonstrate that she knew how to approach a horse, and that she could ride; that would convince them as words never could. To that end she wore split skirts and could only hope that they would not be outraged by her refusal to take a sidesaddle.
Mr. Romero—or Don Esteban, as Eli had explained to Nathan he was to be called—was gracious and welcoming, but Carrie’s attention shifted toward a large paddock that could be seen from the porch through a small grove of apple trees. It seemed that yearlings were being put through their paces, but she could not make out anything about the men working with them beyond the fact that they all wore broad-brimmed hats and bright bandanas around their necks.
“Sister? Don Esteban is inviting us into his home.”
She said, “Pardon me. You have such a beautiful place here, Mr.—Don Esteban. I don’t know where to look first.”
Nathan’s grin said she had done a very poor job of pulling the wool over his eyes.
Before any discussion of the purchase of horses could start, they must take the most comfortable chairs in the parlor and be introduced to Mrs. Romero, called Doña Teresa. She came in to offer something to drink and to insist that the Ballentynes join them for Sunday dinner at noon.
Then there were all the usual questions about themselves and their journey. Most of this discussion Carrie left to Nathan. She tried to listen; she meant to listen, but her gaze kept drifting, again and again, to windows that provided a somewhat better view of the nearest paddock.
There were many people coming and going in pursuit of the usual tasks. A restful Sunday was not something anyone on a ranch or farm should expect. Most of the people she saw were men, and all of them wore hats and bandanas.
She was studying the men, she admitted to herself, because she thought Eli would be nearby. His sister lived here, after all. And he had made the suggestion that she and Nathan come look at the horses. She was being silly, she was very aware, but if she was going to encounter Eli, she wanted it to happen sooner rather than later. Like a dose of medicine, she thought, to be quickly dispatched in order to begin its work. And how odd a comparison, Eli Ibarra as a cure for—what? With some effort, she focused again on the discussion.
Don Esteban was telling the story of how they came to build this ranch. Thirty years ago they left their home in the Pampas of Argentina with a small herd of the valuable Argentinean horses. Don Esteban’s purpose had been to start a breeding operation that would provide for his wife and establish his sons as experts widely admired for their knowledge, skill, good sense, and honesty, and, above all, the quality of their horses.
“And this,” he said with a small smile, “we have done.” With that, he turned over one hand, palm open. “You are here, as I understand from our mutual friend, to buy horses that you will take with you to Santa Fe. Let me show you what I have to offer, and you can spend the rest of the morning riding. I believe you will be pleased.”
The paddock they wanted was some distance away, but Carrie insisted on walking, and so the small party set out. They passed an old couple sitting in the sun outside a cottage, who raised their voices to greet Don Esteban.
Don Esteban’s workers were in general not especially tall, but there was a sense of wiry strength in the men and women both. From what she had seen thus far, they all had very dark, straight hair, almost black eyes, and skin that looked burnished to a deep caramel by the sun. Carrie could not imagine that they would all have come from Argentina, and wondered if they might be from Mexico. In any case, to her eye, South American or Mexican, many of these people were primarily Indian. The term Mestizo made more sense now.
This was, of course, nothing out of the ordinary for her own family, where Mohawk, Seminole, African and Scots, English and French lines were braided together.
A barrage of childish squeals drew her attention to the next cottage as they passed. Like the main house, it was built of red brick, the shutters and doors and woodwork painted white. White fencing surrounded the house and gardens, which struck Carrie as very odd: any rabbit worth its salt could find its way inside to the vegetable beds. Then she saw the shape of a large dog asleep in the shade on the porch. Far more effective than a fence.
The children’s voices came closer, raised in a good-natured squabble.
“My grandsons,” Don Esteban said. “Honking like geese.” He shook his head, unable to hide either his pride or his exasperation.
The boys appeared just then from around a corner, and behind them a harried woman who must be their mother. As soon as they caught sight of Don Esteban, the argument was forgotten in the rush to get to him. They vaulted the fence, so eager to greet their grandfather that they would not waste time with gates and latches.
“Boys,” Don Esteban said, lowering his chin to look at them down the slope of his nose.
And just that simply, they fell silent.
“Better,” he said. “Now, Miss Ballentyne, Mr. Ballentyne, if I may introduce my daughter-in-law, Maddalen, the wife of my oldest son. These are three of my grandchildren. Jaime, Carlos, and the one scowling there is my namesake, Esteban.”
Maddalen came forward to be introduced, and Carrie realized almost immediately that this had to be Eli Ibarra’s sister. The resemblance was unmistakable, but more than that: Eli himself had come out of the house and was walking toward them.
The boys launched themselves back over the fence and rushed to their uncle, shouting his name.
“I believe you know my brother,” Maddalen said to Carrie.
“I do,” Carrie said. And stopped talking, because anything she might say could be misunderstood.
Nathan said, “Eli and I got to know each other when the steamer sailed without us.”
“Yes,” said Maddalen drily. “We heard about that. How many years do you think that adventure took off your life, Miss Ballentyne?”
“Too many,” Carrie said.
She was aware of Eli just behind her, and did what was expected of her. She greeted him politely, asked after his health, answered his questions. All the while aware that the Romeros were watching her closely. Watching them both closely. As if they knew her, or knew of her.
The idea made her mouth go dry. It occurred to her that she could grab the first horse she saw and ride away. Surely she could find work as a nurse somewhere in Missouri.
“I know you are trying to smile,” her brother said, leaning close and lowering his voice. “But it looks like a grimace.” And he stepped away before she could apply her elbow to his ribs.
