while ago and they were pulling out. Then I meet you and you’re doing the same thing. I’m tired riding a horse, want to stand on the ground. I’d like to know what I’m up against.”
The driver of the wagon eyed him levelly. “Kincaid’s his name. He’s driving everybody out.”
“Everybody?”
“He’s got hired guns, mister. The way it is now the fellow who points a gun at you is right. Never met the man yet who could talk back to the end of a shooting iron. With us it was easy. I was a small man, didn’t have much stake.”
“Thanks,” said Latigo. “I’m obliged to you.”
“Glad to meet with you,” said the woman.
The man beat dust out of his clothes with the flat of his hat. “You’re not wearing guns,” he said. “That’s the first thing I’d think about if I was you.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Sand fell from wheel rims as the wagon moved. The man leaned over to speak again. “See any Indians on your way?”
“Killed one yesterday.”
“You figure they’re running wild?”
“There’s a big peace being made. If it works out the Apache will be over in Chiricahua country, near the mountains.”
“Reckon we’ll be all right, then.”
“Keep your gun handy.”
“Sure will. Glad to have words with you, stranger.”
Latigo backed away and turned the gelding. The wagon moved on. None of it was good.
The air was bright after the wind and sand, cactus scents reaching out like a lure. He rode sideways across a slope of land. Bluestem grass appeared underfoot and he began to think he could smell the river. He sat up straight, searching ahead. He knew this ground, had hoofed it a hundred times, riding bareback on a long-geared colt without a bridle, using hands on a mane-hold and tight legs to stay mounted. When he saw the river he dug in his heels and raced and whatever it was that stretched his spine, squared his shoulders and tightened chest and knuckles, the gelding felt it, too.
The Gila river, which is like the veins on the back of a man’s hand, begins near the Black mountains of New Mexico somewhere west of Socorro, sucks at the earth of Arizona in a network of tributaries like the roots of a tree and heads west in a twisting swirl for only less than a thousand miles. The Santa Cruz helps feed the rushing water from the south as do the Salt and Verde rivers which swell into the Gila from the north and join the southewestern flow not far from Phoenix.
For Latigo, who at El Paso had looked across the Rio Grande and in the north had seen the Colorado, the Gila was the only river in the world; blue as the sky in high clear daylight, shining like silver at night, making a wind of air and a rushing sound that was like the ringing of bells.
He flung aside his hat and walked into the water, boots and all, to wet hands and face and head. It tasted the same, was the same water, the same river. Gila Bend wasn’t far away now. He stared at the sky till body heat and sun dried skin and shirt. When he rode again he hurried, skirted the river for a time, finally moved to higher ground.
He was still thinking of the river when the dark-haired girl on a pony climbed the sloping ground and rode quickly out of sight. Two men met on horseback, dismounted, left the horses where they stood and, without speaking, began to fight. Latigo quickened and rode close. He reached for the rifle and thought better of it. He looked over his shoulder for the girl but she did not reappear.
The men weren’t evenly matched. One was older and solid and knew how to handle his weight so that the other fellow knew what hit him. He was a square-faced man with a full broad moustache and wide shoulders. His lips were tight, his face angry.
The younger man was Latigo’s height and weight, skin dark and clear, face well shaped and handsome. His hair was black as tar and his good looks and flat waist might have come from Mexican blood. He held himself well and had a tight lean frame. Nobody spoke. Latigo watched.
The fight was hard and clean and serious, without boots or knee work. The two men rolled on the ground, stood up, used their fists and knocked each other down, grunted and spat blood. The young fellow’s face bled first but he straightened again every time he fell down. The bigger man had punch and longer arms. When the struggle moved close to where Latigo sat on the horse and the gelding backed away, head in the air, neither of the men slowed. Knowing that he was there didn’t stop the fight which was private and important.
The big man hit the young fellow and he went down to lie on his back, gasping, legs all spread out, chest flat, shoulders trying to rise and not having the strength. His eye was cut and his cheek bloodmarked. In a minute he turned on his belly, pressed himself up and rose. The other man waited and the lean-bodied younger man came running to swipe at the man with the moustache. It was a good hit and the big fellow reeled back but did not fall down. He rushed in again with a clenched, clasped-fist pole-axe that missed. The young dark man stepped out of the path of the swish of air and bone.
Then something else happened. Hoofbeats drummed on the air and another rider raced down from high ground. The fighting men heard the sounds of the horse and the young fellow’s shoulders squared. He hardened and hit the big man twice, blows that made the man with the moustache stand back and suck in wind. But it was only for a minute. The big fellow hit the younger man a crunching, bone-breaking blow that ended the fight, a pile-driver that filled the dark-skinned man’s sky with stars and turned the daylight black. The young fellow choked and fell down and this time he didn’t get up. He had been hurt. He twisted on the ground, body bent like a jack-knife, and groaned. The big fellow wiped his mouth and stood back.
The rider came close. Latigo reached for the gun a second time and then saw her yellow hair. She approached like a storm of wind on a fine-limbered mare, all haste and purpose, slowed and slid from the saddle as easily and smoothly as any young buck who might throw his leg forward across his pony’s mane and dismount from a saddle-less horse in one beautiful, boneless motion. She carried a riding whip and her eyes were on fire. Fine golden hair showed under her flat-topped Mexican sombrero. She saw nobody but the man on the ground. Latigo watched as she ran to the young fellow.
At times like this a man doesn’t much care who his company is. He shows what he feels. The spare-bodied man was hurt and not ashamed of it. There was blood on his face, his chest hurt and his hands shook. The woman knelt on the ground by his side, raised his head from the dirt and brushed his forehead with her fingers. He was too hurt to know. Her eyes moved quickly over his face. She spoke his name and he only groaned. She tried to raise him up and failed. Then she rose, eyes bright, lips tight and hands clenched.
The man with the moustache picked up his hat. When he straightened the riding crop cut him across the face. He started back, angry and surprised. She did it again, eyes dancing in fury, voice as sharp as the whiplash. He snatched the crop from her hand and his broad face darkened as red weals appeared. He raised the whip to strike her in return and Latigo’s hand moved to the rifle stock. He didn’t have to slide the gun from the holster for the wide-faced man only glared at the woman and tossed the whip aside. “Ask him!” he said loudly. “He saw it all. It was a fair fight and Joe got what was coming to him! Go on, ask the man on the horse!”
Latigo’s forehead creased. He stepped down. The man with the whip-marked face strode to his horse, mounted, walked the animal back and spoke down to her, finger pointing. “Some
