The secret cargo prodded him to prepare for various eventualities, for he did fear they were being followed. Had been for three days. Or at least that was when Collins first observed the sign, which he pointed out to no one else until he was sure he was right about it.
He estimated the number of Jicarilla as between ten and twenty. In the event of a hot brush with them, Collins intended to behave like the glass snake, a natural oddity he had discovered down this way. The glass snake was not a snake at all but a legless lizard with the ability to shake off part of its tail when attacked. The tail kept twitching after it separated from the body, and while the attacker was being distracted by the sight, the creature writhed away to safety.
Collins was not only determined to escape with his skin and his hair but with part of the gold. He certainly couldn't get away with several hundred pounds of it, but even a little would allow him to live handsomely and have fun for a while.
Aye, he would play the glass snake, all right. Having of course made sure, either by observing the Apaches at work or by taking action himself, that Mr. Powell and the lawyer were in no state to tell tales of his thievery, ever.
That evening they encamped among tall standing rocks near a deep gully, part of a line of eroded breaks above a stream they must ford. Collins assured Powell of an easy descent to be found three miles due south, but he preferred this campsite because of the natural fortifications the rocks provided. "Better here tonight than in the open." "You think the Apaches are close?" "I'm certain of it."
"How much longer to reach Santa Fe? Three days?" "Or a wee bit more." Collins never risked a lie with Powell. The man's eyes and barely controlled tension warned against it. "Now, sir, I suggest we build a fire and stay close to it. If you take a stroll, make sure it isn't far." "All right." "I must go ha' my dinner now."
"And we'll have ours."
Powell, Huntoon, and the teamsters ate biscuits and jerky, both of which helped relieve the boredom because it took so much time to soften the food with chewing. Collins preferred his own fare, pit-roasted pieces of mescal, an Apache delicacy of which Powell wanted no part.
Powell rubbed a slim hand over his hair. It felt dry, scratchy. He had run out of pomade weeks ago. He disliked hats. The result was more and more gray apparent. He must resemble a scarecrow. An old one, at that. Would Ashton laugh, he wondered. He imagined her naked as he leaned against a wagon wheel.
Huntoon rose, his apologetic expression explaining the reason. He stepped behind a rock. Two teamsters snickered at the sound of water.
Three days to Santa Fe. Apache in the vicinity. Powell decided he had better wait no longer. Huntoon had been useful, performing menial chores and dutifully twitching each time Powell reminded him that no matter how onerous his task, he must carry it out to prove his mettle. The stupid cuckold had done it, too.
Twilight came on rapidly in this craggy, lonesome land, which resembled nothing Lamar Powell had ever seen. He found it magically beautiful if taken on its own terms. As a teamster stood, stretched, and rubbed his rump, Powell left the fire and threaded through the stones to the gully rim, where he looked down. The gully bottom was already hidden in cool black shadow.
He gazed east, toward clouds that picked up the fiery light slanting from the opposite direction. Eastward, Ashton was waiting. He was disarmed and amazed to realize how much he missed her. In his own way, he loved her. She was intensely physical and warm, something her pitiful husband undoubtedly hadn't appreciated during his short span on earth. She would be an ideal first lady for the new state he would rule and guard from harm for the rest of his life.
He had planned the first steps months ago. Locate an appropriate site, near Santa Fe but not too near. Hire workers to erect a small ranch house and sink a well. Find some Confederate sympathizer to travel into Texas, spreading the word — rallying the disaffected soldiers, who, if not already paroled after a surrender, soon would be.
At first they would ride to Santa Fe singly or in pairs. But before the year was out, they'd be arriving by platoons and companies, shaking the earth with the sound of their coming. He would devise a new flag for them to carry against potential enemies, and write a proclamation establishing the new government on an equal basis with that of mongrelized Washington and all the nations of Europe.
It would be convenient to employ Huntoon as his first herald in Texas, but Ashton made it impossible. Powell meant to live with her from the moment they were reunited. Therefore —
A contented sigh signaled his decision.
Powell shivered; the evening air was cooling rapidly. Tonight was not only suitable; it was ideal, he thought, gazing east. He felt close to Ashton all at once.
Perhaps she, too, was growing excited as he drew near. He had sent a letter from Virginia City, which he presumed she had received by now; the mail surely traveled faster than his overburdened wagons. In the letter, he had described the contents of the wagons, their probable route of travel and approximate timetable. Was she poring over his words at this moment, thinking of the two of them romping on sheets of presidential satin? Delightful vision —
About an hour later, with night settling, he examined his four-barrel Sharps to be certain it was fully loaded. He tucked the gun away inside his frock coat, yellowed by travel dust, and sought Huntoon at the smoky fire. Collins was napping against a boulder on the far side. Two of the hired men still squatted next to each other, chewing jerky. The third had gone to take the first turn at picket duty.
"James, my friend?" Powell said, touching his shoulder. Huntoon's spectacles flashed with firelight as he turned.
"What is it?"
"Would you come for a short stroll? I have a matter to discuss."
Pettish, Huntoon said, "Is it important?"
A charming smile. "I wouldn't ask otherwise."
"I'm infernally tired."
A level stare, once more demanding that he prove his mettle. "Just five minutes. Then you can have a long rest."
"Oh, all right." Sounding like a cranky child, Huntoon wiped biscuit crumbs from the corners of his mouth. He had grown slovenly on the journey. Powell distastefully noted black dirt under the lawyer's nails.
They moved off among the rocks as the fire crackled beneath the black sky. From the near distance came the cry of an animal, half yelp, half growl. Banquo Collins sat up instantly, raising the brim of his buckskin hat. One of the teamsters glanced at the guide.
"Mountain lion?"
"No, laddie. That animal has two legs."
134
Earlier that day, Charles rode north in the Carolina springtime, through green rolling land where bowers of azalea blew to and fro in the warm wind and wisteria bloomed in purple brilliance. He saw little except Gus.
He saw her in the face of a much older farm woman who gave him a dipper of water when he asked politely. He saw her in a cloud formation. He saw her on the backs of his eyelids when he tethered the mule and rested by a roadside tree.
In all the muddle and madness of the past four years, he was trying to find something of worth. She was all there was. His memory held scores of small, touching portraits of her racing across the grass to greet him, cooking in the kitchen, scrubbing his back in the zinc tub, bending to embrace him in bed.
He had found one thing of value in the war, and out of confusion and some stupid, contradictory sense of duty — the same duty still driving him along these unfamiliar dirt roads — he had thrown it away. The hurt and regret that followed the dawning realization were immense. His physical wound was healing nicely, but the other one — that never would.