Chapter 50: SEARCH AND RESCUE
Maria Elena was again feverishly bouncing around in the kitchen, grumbling under her breath that no one had thought to mention how many people she should count on for supper. Even Teresa had exclaimed, 'Oh... just use your best judgment'. In Maria Elena's mind that meant best allow for ALL these men returning in the evening, but not all at the same time... Madre Dios! Therefore, a serve-yourself buffet was in order. She rounded up her three helpers and put them to work. Inés was pulling bowl after crock from the capacious icebox, noting that another block needed to be brought in from the ice house. Thankfully there were plenty of leftovers and cold cuts to construct an acceptable buffet, with fresh fruits and pastries in the pie safe to make up the difference. And there was always the daily-baked bread. Ivelisse and Nereida were put to peeling and slicing, chopping and dicing.
Teresa had helped clean up the kitchen after lunch, then announced she was going upstairs for a lie-down—if not for a nap at least for a good long think. Toeing off her shoes, she lay down fully dressed on the bed with a cool damp cloth across her forehead and eyes, hoping to stave off an incipient headache. Through the open window she heard the arrival of the supply wagon that had been sent to Morro Coyo that morning. Ordinarily she'd be down there cataloging the purchases against the list given to the drivers... but just this once, Maria Elena could do it.
As she was drifting off Teresa fancied she heard hoofbeats of multiple horses passing by the house and heading toward the barn, but no accompanying human chatter. Must be her imagination... none of the searchers would have returned this soon. Five minutes later there came a timid knocking at her door...
"Señorita Teresa? You awake?" The voice was Maria Elena's grandson's.
"Yes, Chico... what is it?"
"Abuela say you come down now, please... she need you."
Teresa sighed and sat up, fumbling for her shoes.
"Tell her I'll be right there..."
A short visit to the lavatory and a cursory face wash. A brief glance in the mirror. Teresa wished she hadn't looked. She wondered if she had time to comb her hair. Probably not. Descending to the kitchen, she found Maria Elena pacing the floor and wringing her hands.
"What's the problem now?" Teresa asked with weary resignation.
"You come. I show..." The little woman trotted out the hallway and through the door to the portico, around the corner and sped to the saddlehorse barn.
Clustered at the barn door were five saddled, riderless horses—the two Murdoch and Scott had ridden out, two with foreign brands that Teresa didn't recognize... and Charlemagne. Standing by with their puzzled brown faces turned her way were the teenagers on barn and stable duty that day and the two drivers who'd just come in from Morro Coyo, Miguel Vega and Felipe Reyes.
"¿Dónde están los jinetes?" Teresa demanded of the oldest of the stablehands, Agosto Dominguez.
"Horses come by theirself, miss... no riders."
" 'Themselves', Auggie... not 'theirself'," his teacher corrected.
"Yes, miss. What you want we do with them?"
Teresa stared back... it suddenly dawning on her that she—Miss Teresa O'Brian—was at the moment the highest ranking member of the family on the premises... and in charge. Expected to provide explanations. Make decisions. Give orders. Dispense instructions. She'd often wondered about the meaning of the phrase... "don't know whether to shit or go blind." Well, now she knew.
Something that had been pounded into her relentlessly by Doctor Sam over the past year came to the forefront: "In an emergency, you can't afford to dither. Any action... even if you're unsure, even if it's not by the book... is preferable to none at all. Rely on instinct."
Teresa checked the railroad watch she kept in a skirt pocket and did some quick math. Murdoch, Scott and Val had been gone a little over an hour. They'd followed the two-mile private drive out to the main north-south corridor—the Yokut Trace—where Murdoch and Scott were to cut north. They could be anywhere from four to six road miles away by now, depending on how fast they were moving. So whatever had happened, had happened close enough to home so that they might still be found before full dark.
While the temporary head of household and ranch ops was calculating, a driverless cart came careering around the side of the house, pulled by a medium-sized brown mule at full gallop. The mule caught sight of the horses and put on the brakes, but the weight of the cart kept pushing her forward, leaving four deep scallops in the dirt. The onlookers scuttled out of the way as the cart came to a full stop inches before braining the luckless mule against the solid barn door.
The crowd pushed forward. The cart was empty, aside from a few shards of pottery, a bundle that had been fastened under the driver seat, some wisps of straw and a great deal of semi-congealed blood.
Teresa immediately recognized the cart and mule as belonging to the Espinozas. It was the blood that spurred her into command mode, first addressing the two drivers.
What was the condition of their team? Excellent, Miguel swore—they'd come home at a relaxed pace with barely a hair turned. He and Felipe were directed to pull the supply wagon around to the back and unload everything under the kitchen portico—the three servant girls would ferry the purchases indoors. Water and grain the horses as necessary and standby to reload the wagon.
Agosto was detailed to attend Charlemagne and see to his injuries. One of the other teens could take care of the four other horses plus the miserable mule which could barely stand up at this point.
Teresa and Maria Elena returned to the house where Teresa first checked her medical bag (a hand-me-down from Doc Sam that she kept concealed in the food pantry). While she ran upstairs to change into shirt, trousers and boots, Maria Elena and Inés collected blankets, quilts and towels to go into the wagon. Ivelisse retrieved four carriage lanterns from the storeroom and made sure they were filled and had new wicks. Nereida filled goatskins with hot water and canteens with cold drinking water. A straw-lined wicker hamper carried bottles—whiskey, carbolic solution, laudanum, alcohol, chloroform—whatever Teresa thought might come in handy. Two pillowcases were stuffed with bandages. At the last minute Maria Elena remembered the collapsible canvas litter in a cellar storage area and send Inés to get it because she was the only one not afraid of spiders.
In the meantime, Miguel and Felipe had taken care of the horses, unloaded the wagon, and wheelbarrowed several loads of clean straw to spread in the bed. The last rays of the sun winked out behind the mountains as the makeshift ambulance moved out... Felipe driving, Teresa next to him and Miguel in the wagon bed. The men were a bit nervous about traveling in the twilight but Teresa promised that if they hadn't found anything by the time they reach the Fatman's Squeeze, they would turn around and come back. Yes... it would be full dark... but that's why they had lanterns. And she made sure they were armed because... you never knew!
Full dark. Murdoch paced the road—back and forth, back and forth—alternately muttering profanities in an undertone and shaking his head at the sheer insanity of the situation. Inbetween, he thanked a deity in whom he'd long ceased to believe that poor Mrs. Espinoza hadn't been severely injured in her fall from the driver's seat to the cart bed and thence to ground, having happily landed on a cushion of Lancer sons... and for the fact that all three of the sons were still alive—for the present. In addition, he appealed to that same deity to send rescue before the night grew too chill and the bloodloss too great to overcome.
Juan Sebastián had sustained a fair amount of road rash while being dragged a hundred yards before it occurred to him he'd best let go of that horse. He lay in the dust, stunned, until the patrón had come to help him stand up. Clutching the patron's arm with one hand and the pitiful remains of his tattered trousers with the other, he toddled back to join his slightly addled wife, whom the patrón had already parked on a flat boulder at the side of the road. Man and wife huddled together for warmth, furiously clicking their rosary beads, her rebozo spread over both their shoulders.
Several paces away on a grassy hummock lay the three battered young Lancers, dragged far enough apart by their irate father that they couldn't get at each other.
First in line was the instigator, Scott, who'd entered the fray more or less undamaged except for what had been inflicted at camp. When they'd fallen off the cart, Scott had landed awkwardly on his right shoulder, which now didn't want to work. He knew it was dislocated. He had a black eye and a bloody nose—also, Johnny had vomited on him as they rolled off the cart. Breathing through his mouth to avoid gagging, he leaned forward against drawn up knees with his eyes closed, right arm clamped to his torso, sunk in misery. Awake, but afraid to move and refusing to speak—knowing this was going to be blamed on him... and rightly so, he had to admit.
Johnny lay on his back in the middle. His leg wound had bled copiously after all that rough and tumble and more of Margarita Guadalupe's undergarment had been sacrificed to staunch it. His heartbeat was too faint and too rapid for Murdoch's liking but he remained conscious most of the time, only occasionally drifting off. Whenever his father passed by and inquired as to how he was doing, he managed a sickly grin and said 'grand!'
Jody lay on his left side with his back to the others, cradling his numb right arm against his chest and trying to ignore the aching hip, which hurt no matter which side he lay on. Murdoch found the bullet hole in this son's shoulder, although it'd stopped bleeding some time ago. His earlier tiny flash of humor had retreated and he was even less inclined to answer when Murdoch tried to ascertain his status.
Murdoch himself wanted so very badly to be able to kneel beside each son, to smooth hair away from a strained face... to have some tactile assurance that they were still there with him. But his bad leg screamed in silent protest and he was having to use a broken off branch as a walking stick as he paced. He was afraid if he got down he wouldn't be able to get up again. He had to keep moving.
To occupy his time and keep the leg from locking up, he started picking up unbroken jugs of pulque that had rolled off the cart, one after another, and now lay at intervals in the road. All of them were thirsty and they had no water. He offered the first jug to the Espinozas... they drained it immediately. The next jug he took to Scott, who tasted it and spit it out, then to Johnny, who chugged it. Anything that would alleviate pain was fine by him. Jody took a swallow and yakked it right back up. Murdoch had worked up a raging thirst himself. He'd had pulque before and didn't like it... but it was wet and it was there and he needed the hydration. They all did. He persuaded himself that if he held his nose while it went down, he could pretend it was beer. No one turned his nose up at the next round and Jody managed to hold his down.
A lightening of the sky behind the black silhouette of the Sierra Nevadas signaled the rising of the full moon. Murdoch fumbled his watch out of its vest pocket and flipped it open. Still too dark to see the time. Remembering he had matches in that same pocket, he extracted one and struck against the makeshift walking stick. Only an hour had transpired since they'd been ignominously stranded. Seemed like half the night. He wondered how much longer he could remain upright before his leg gave out. There wasn't so much as a sturdy bush nearby against which he could lean. A light breeze stirred the grasses in the meadows on both sides of the road, producing a gentle rustling that vied with the chirps of nocturnal insects.
Although Murdoch had taken only a few restrained nips (or so he'd thought) of pulque, he was starting to feel queasy, warmish and a tad light-headed. So when he thought he heard a faint jingling of harness brasses in the distance, he was inclined to attribute that to impaired auditory function and mere wishful thinking. At the same time he thought he could hear muffled hoofbeats coming at him from the other direction. He vowed that in future he'd stick to scotch... that didn't cause hallucinations. The noises didn't cease, no matter how much he shook his head.
Presently four pinpricks of light appeared to the south, along with the unmistakable clomping of many hooves from both directions. When the lights resolved themselves into carriage lamps—swaying from shepherds' hooks on a wagon and shedding a golden glow—the patrón all but wept in relief. The other new arrivals—a weary trio indeed—slipped from their mounts simultaneously with Teresa, Miguel and Felipe jumping off the wagon.
Teresa ran to Murdoch and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. "Thank God you're all right... I was so worried!"
"And you don't know how glad I am to see you... all of you!"
Teresa pulled her head up and looked around. "But... where's Scott? And... oh!" She'd spotted the three dark forms on the ground... two of them horizontal.
"Oh no! Are they...?"
"Hurt but alive... they'll be fine once we get them to the house... good thing you thought to bring the wagon."
Juan Sebastián and Margarita Guadalupe, who'd fallen asleep propped against each other, woke up. Vicente went straight to the old couple—they were related in some way.
"Good Lord! Is that the Espinozas?" Teresa exclaimed. "Their cart and mule showed up at the house right after the horses..."
"The horses...?"
"Five horses, including Charlemagne and two that aren't ours, came in without riders... and a few minutes later this mule came charging up with a cart and no driver... that's how we knew you were in trouble! How did that happen?"
Murdoch sighed. "Just something else I'll have to explain later... I don't suppose you brought your medical bag... the one you keep hidden in the pantry...?"
Teresa's blush was quite visible in the light from the carriage lamp. "I... you... yes... of course I did... that's what Doc Sam's been training me to do all this time..."
"Well then, Doctor Teresa... get it and let's see to your brothers... you'll find quite an interesting variety of injuries... but first I'd like you to take a look at the old people..."
Murdoch was endeavoring to keep his tone light, not at all sure how well his ward would deal with blood and gore in the field as opposed to a clinical environment. Once again, she surprised him, letting go of his vest and calling to Felipe to bring her the medical bag and one of the sacks of bandages. Pointing to the other two men standing off to the side, she crooked a finger at the tall young one—Ron. "You... would you come and hold one of these lamps for me?"
Ronnie stepped forward obediently, but agog. (He'd seen the young lady of the house many times in his father's apothecary shop but had never spoken with her directly, so he knew who she was... but that was from a distance... and he was overcome with shyness.) "Um... uh... yes, m'am."
