Desert Hearts Read Free

David?”
    “We are through the worst of the mountains. And we are only a week or so out of Santa Fe. The weather should hold.”
    “It isn’t the weather, David. What about Indians?”
    “Most of them are settled Indians, Helen. They live in towns. Not like the Sioux or Cheyenne. We’ll be safe. And besides, I’m a good shot.”
    Elizabeth Jane was glad to say good-bye to the wagon train. All of the girls her age had been rough-and-tumble tomboys, none of them with much schooling. There were even two Irish families on the train, a fact that appalled her. Mrs. Compton had always warned her girls against the Irish children in Boston. “They are of an inferior race,” she had explained. “Dirty, lice-ridden,”—here she had lowered her voice—“and they are in thrall to their papist superstitions.”
    If the truth be told, Elizabeth Jane had felt a little lonely having to keep away from Kathy Kelly and her friend Mary. They were less hoydenish than the other girls and in the beginning had wanted her to be friends. She had held back out of fear of their difference, and soon all the girls on the train were calling her a stuck-up snob.
    It hurt, though she didn’t let them know. She didn’t think she was a snob. She just didn’t want to leave Miss Elizabeth Jane Rush behind in Boston. She didn’t want to leave her home behind, and she didn’t know how else to hold on to it.
    “This looks like a likely spot to camp tonight,” her father announced, pulling the horses up.
    They were down out of the mountains, but not out of sight of them, and there were still trees around and water and grass.
    “Elizabeth Jane, will you get us some water from the creek,” her mother asked, handing her the wooden bucket.
    “Can’t Jonathan do it, Mama? I hate the way the water slops all over my dress.”
    “Elizabeth Jane Rush, do as your mother says,” said her father sternly. “You are a big girl of fourteen and Jonathan is only seven.”
    “Yes, Papa.” When her father sounded like that, which was rare, you obeyed him. Jonathan stuck his tongue out at her as she walked by and without thinking, she stuck hers back, forgetting that she was a young lady.
    “Lizzie stuck her tongue at me, Mama,” cried Jonathan, moving off to where their mother was unpacking the pots and pans.
    “Lizzie” indeed. She hated it when he called her that and he knew it and she was almost ready to turn back and box his ears for telling, but she was almost down the hill to the creek by now.
    It was a lovely warm evening and the creek ran happily over the rocks. Elizabeth Jane pulled off her stockings and waded in. She had to admit that squishing her hot toes in cool red mud felt good and was something you couldn’t do in Boston.
    All was still except for the creek running and the sound of her father’s voice.
    “Oh, sa-ay, will you go out West wi—”
    Elizabeth Jane heard a sharp crack at the same time her father stopped singing. Had he snapped a branch for the fire? Then she heard Jonathan scream. And then her mother. She stood paralyzed in the cold running water. Jonathan was yelling, “Mama, Papa! Let me go!” Mama was crying and saying, “No, please, no.”
    Elizabeth Jane put the bucket down very carefully at the edge of the creek and, lying flat on her stomach, crawled up the bank. Papa was lying near the fire and red stain had blossomed on his white shirt like a great rose. There were six or seven of them. They weren’t Indians, they were white men. Maybe some were Spanish, thought Elizabeth Jane, registering black hair and knee breeches. She could smell them from here, or maybe that was her imagination. She could smell the whiskey. That was not her imagination. They were passing a jug around, three of them. Another was tying Jonathan to the back of a mule. He was very still, but surety he was still alive if they were bothering to take him? Then she saw Mama and wished she hadn’t. The other three men had her on the ground and