Free The Valiant Women by Jeanne Williams Page A

real soap in the bedroom window, borrowed Socorro’s scissors to get off the worst of the beard and, with great relief, shaved.
    Even though it was hard work to haul and carry the big leather bucket, Shea enjoyed watering the cattle, seeing them crowd up to drink, their dun, roan and black bodies scuffling for room.
    He moved much more freely now that he had trousers, a pair he’d found in one of the chests. Too short and a bit loose on hips and waist, but still a proper garment. He’d also found a rough white cotton shirt and there’d been things Socorro could wear.
    Santiago had said the cows could go three days without water. Only a small portion of the Cantú herds came up on any single day. There were tinajas in the hills and some cattle never came to the troughs at all.
    â€œHow many cows does the ranch have?” Shea asked at the evening meal. Santiago was awake, so the tortillas, the kettle of beans and a pot of corn soup had been moved over by him.
    â€œThis fall we branded about fifteen hundred calves which means the range carries between seven and eight thousand head.”
    When Shea frowned his puzzlement, Santiago explained. “Don Antonio keeps his steers till they’re three years old. Then there are heifers, bulls and cows. For each calf, there are about five other animals.”
    Shea’s head reeled at such figures. “But what do they eat? They’d walk themselves poor hunting grass!”
    â€œThey like grass when they can find it.” Santiago shrugged. “But they browse just about everything but creosote. They love mesquite beans and acacia and paloverde pods. And they eat quantities of cholla and prickly pear.”
    â€œCholla!” Shea winced at the thought of the many-jointed, thousand-thorned pads. They made prickly pear look gentle. “How can they? Looks like their tongues would swell up and they’d die.”
    â€œThat does happen sometimes,” the vaquero acknowledged. “The lady says you come from a land that has no cactus, the thorns are mostly on roses and berries, and there is much green grass and giant trees.” It was his turn to stare in disbelief.
    â€œThat’s so.”
    â€œI,” said Santiago flatly, “cannot imagine a place without cactus!”
    â€œAnd I couldn’t imagine a place with it till I got here,” Shea said ruefully. “These are mighty good beans, Socorro. And that corn soup is great!”
    Socorro smiled, also ruefully. “You don’t speak of the tortillas.”
    Shea blushed. He knew how long she’d worked to grind the corn into meal, tedious hard labor she wasn’t used to. And slapping tortillas into shape must be a lot harder than it looked when you watched someone who’d done it all her life.
    â€œThey’re very good,” he lied. “It’s just that they’re sort of taken for granted and—”
    â€œMine are lumpy,” enumerated Socorro. “They have holes and heavy thick places and are raggedy. They are raw where they aren’t burned!” Picking one up, she gazed at it in disgust. “I don’t think I’ll ever learn!”
    â€œMany dull women can pat tortillas,” Santiago said. “You have healing in your touch.”
    â€œThe agave is curing your wound and water eased the fever,” demurred Socorro.
    Santiago shook his head. “No, lady. If you had not cared for me yesterday, I believe I would have died in spite of all the water and agave in Sonora!”
    She looked incredulous but Shea nodded. “I had died when you found me.”
    Confused and somewhat dismayed at such testimonials, she ducked her head, took another tortilla which tore as she loaded it with beans and said dolefully, “I still wish I could make these!”
    â€œNo doubt the rose complains that it doesn’t bear corn,” remarked Santiago gallantly.
    God’s whiskers! If he framed his tongue to