San Antone. V. J. Banis

      “I’ll drive if you want,” Gregory offered.

      As welcome as a period of respite sounded, however, she declined. For all his willingness, Gregory was little more than a boy; it would not take long for him to be exhausted as well. It was not yet even midday, and so far none of the other wagons had changed drivers.

      “I’ll drive till we stop at noon,” she said, and was soon wondering if she could stick to that promise.

      Just when she was beginning to fear she could go no farther, there was the clatter of hoof beats alongside, and the Indian, William Horse, rode up to the wagon. It was the first she’d seen him since they had set out, or in any case, she hadn’t noticed him. He was dressed indistinguishably from the cowboys—the same dugris, which seemed to be standard for everyone but the soldiers, with a kerchief at his throat, and atop his head one of the wide-brimmed Stetson hats, the practicality of which she could now more fully appreciate.

      He tipped his hat toward her and then, as gracefully as a dancer, leaned sideways from his horse, slid from the saddle, and, while her breath caught in her throat, leaped to the wagon and was sitting beside her.

      “I will drive the wagon for you,” he said matter-of-factly.

      “Oh, but that’s not necessary...your horse....”

      “He will follow, he is an Indian pony,” he said, and without further ado, took the reins from her.

      She smiled, too weary to pretend she wasn’t glad to have them go. “I am grateful,” she said.

      His face remained expressionless, but he nodded, and concentrated his attention on the team. It was immediately evident that he knew what he was about; you almost fancied you could see the oxen falling into step, shedding the lackadaisical manner with which they’d followed her plaintive suggestions.

      Gregory was more than grateful; he was soon leaning back and forth, one time in front of his mother and the next behind her, fairly threatening to topple her from the seat while he plied their working guest with an endless stream of questions: “What kind of trees are those? Is it always this hot and dry? How long can the horses travel without water? Is that really an Indian pony? Did you catch him wild?”

      Joanna was certain she’d never heard her son so voluble. After a while, his voice faded into a sort of droning noise, and the heat seemed to lessen; she could actually feel herself growing cooler....

      The gentle touch of a hand on her shoulder brought her back— she realized with a start she’d been about to pass out.

      It was Gregory’s hand on her shoulder, and William Horse, with one eye on the team and the other on her, was giving Gregory directions.

      “She must lie down, inside, out of the sun,” he said. “Water, but only a little. Wet her wrists and her face, and a small amount to drink, but no more.”

      “No, really, I’m all right,” Joanna tried to insist, but truth to tell, she did still feel light-headed, and found herself hanging on tightly to the edge of the drive board.

      “Do as he says, please, mother,” Gregory said. “We can handle this.”

      “Oh, well,” she murmured, but she let him help her into the shaded interior of the wagon.

      It did feel heavenly to lie down and rest her eyes. Gregory was back in a moment, helping her to sit up while she took a few sips of water, and draping a wet cloth over her brow afterward.

      Lewis was snoring faintly nearby, and, lying inside like this, the constant motion of the wagon was far less wearying than it had been in the driver’s seat. She rose and fell with it, rocking gently to and fro, letting it lull her into a dreamy state of suspension between sleep and waking. It was the most peaceful moment she could remember since they’d left Eaton Hall. She drifted contentedly into sleep....

      And woke to an uproar.

      At first, her brain refused to tell her where she was or how she’d gotten there, keeping secrets from her, teasing her, the way her mother did when she was little.

      “God damn thieving Indians!” Lewis’s voice, an angry bellow.

      Lewis. Indian. William Horse! She sat up abruptly, banging her head on something hanging from the crosspiece (“Space is precious inside a wagon; you must learn to move around things”), and pushed aside the flap over the opening.

      Lewis was there, just alongside the wagon, his riding crop raised in a violent pose. They were stopped—that was the first thing she grasped; the rest came more slowly, seeping upward into her consciousness, like something she’d known long before, and forgotten, that was just coming back to her.

      William Horse, standing in front of Lewis, neither cowering nor defending himself. Gregory, to the side of the two men, not cowering either, but holding himself back: You could actually see the man, not quite ready yet for action; the boy, relinquishing submission, while her son teetered between boyhood and manhood.

      Time, holding her breath, blinked and went on, content to let her handle this. The fist with the riding crop in it (Where on earth had he found that? It gave this whole scene a touch of the ridiculous) lifted to come down.

      “The minute a man’s back is turned,” Lewis was ranting.

      “Lewis! For heaven’s sake!” She nearly fell from the wagon, reaching out to snatch the whip from his hand.

      Unexpecting, he let it slide easily from his fingers. His head snapped around, mouth open, eyes red and graveled. It was the first time she had ever taken physical action to defy her husband, and it would be hard to say which of them was the more surprised.

      “Have you gone daft, woman?”

      She crawled out, clambering to the ground, heedless of skirts and bared legs and people watching, though it did just register that the Indian moved involuntarily toward her.

      “He was helping us,” she said, sorry that she hadn’t stayed in the wagon where she could look down on her husband; he was too tall to scold this way. “The driving was too much for me. He came up to help.”

      “Help?” You could see comprehension struggling its way through sleep and liquor. Heaven alone knew what he thought he’d seen, waking up.

      He looked around, uncertain, suddenly self-aware. People were staring. By now, Joanna realized, the whole train was stopped. It was midday.

      She stepped to her husband, put a gentle hand on his arm, was surprised to discover that he was trembling. “It’s all right,” she said in a lower voice. “I told them you were ill. I said you had a fever.”

      And now I am lying, she thought; it was inescapable: Whatever spoiled, spoiled whatever it touched. Unless you cut off the rot. But the rot was in Lewis; how could she cut him off without sacrificing him?

      “A fever....”

      “Rest here awhile, in the shade of the wagon. I’ll see if Lucretia hasn’t some lunch ready. And this afternoon you can rest inside the wagon. There’s three of us now to handle the driving, no need for you to wear yourself out. You’ll need to be fresh and rested when we get to San Antonio.”

      “San Antonio, yes.” He let her lead him to the side of the wagon and sank gratefully to the ground in the small patch of shade. “Yes, I’ll have everything to do once we get there.”

      He was already reaching for his flask when she turned away from him.

      William Horse was still standing where he had been, one hand on the shoulder of an ox. She tried to read his dark eyes as she came up to him, but without success.

      “I am sorry,” she said. “Are you all right?”

      “Yes.” He made no elaboration. His eyes bored into hers for a moment; she had no idea what he was thinking or feeling. Then, abruptly, he turned away from her and walked toward his horse, eating grass nearby.

      Gregory, looking embarrassed