Ralph Compton the Empire Trail, page 12
“Goddammit,” Fremont said. “We can’t even turn back, not with that sludge we dug getting up here.”
Buchanan took out his glass and eyed the ledge. “I’m gonna ride over and have a look. You tell ’em to stop the herd.”
“Boss, that is a very narrow pass—”
“Like you said, the only way to move the herd. It’s likely solid, though.”
“—and we don’t know where it ends.”
Buchanan removed the map from his saddlebag and unfolded it against the neck of his horse. He traced the path of the San Bernardino Mountains with a finger, then closed one eye and used that finger to sketch the same path on the peaks ahead.
“We go southeast, up that ledge, we will likely find a way into the valley.”
“Maybe,” Fremont said. “And once you start out in that direction, there ain’t enough room to turn around.”
“We don’t try, the herd dies here.”
Haywood rode up just then. Buchanan did not see the man’s rifle or six-shooters. He had left his bedroll behind, most likely stowed in the chuck wagon.
“I saw where you were pointing,” Haywood said. “Okay if I ride ahead and scout it out?”
“Depends,” Fremont said. “You gonna report fair or tell us we gotta sit tight, mebbe to sell to yer boss?”
“I don’t have to ride up a mountain to see what the smart play is—”
“Will, let it be! And you, Mr. Haywood,” Buchanan said, “you go too far! Your efforts here have been appreciated but your misdeeds toward my men are open wounds. You go salting them and, by God, you will be without that horse and walking away from our camp.”
Fremont’s lips were pressed tight and quivering but the tracker seemed impervious to the assault. Haywood lifted his eyes toward the rock ridge.
“Give me an hour. I’ll see if the path is clear.”
“All right.”
“Borrow your spyglass?”
Without hesitation, Buchanan pulled it from its sling and handed it over. Haywood held on to it as he left the men at a good clip.
“I’m sorry, boss,” Fremont said.
“We’re just starting out, Will. We nurse resentments this way, we won’t make it till the end.”
“I know. I’ll do my best.”
As he was speaking, Fremont slapped his neck suddenly and, pinching himself with two fingers, pulled out a tick. He flicked it to the ground and rubbed the spot.
“I guess my problem is me,” Fremont said. “Haywood ain’t got tact, but what if he’s right?”
Buchanan folded away the map. “He ain’t, and you know he ain’t. We knew this’d be tough and new and that we were up to it. Besides, I’ll take your instincts and stubborn backbone over some other man’s know-how any day.”
Fremont grinned.
“Besides, Haywood ain’t such a curly wolf,” the rancher said when he was sure the tracker was out of earshot. “Walked smack into our ambush, didn’t he?”
Fremont smiled, grateful for Buchanan’s graciousness including him.
“Enough woolgathering,” the rancher said. “Whatever’s up there, that’s the way we’ll be going.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
While Haywood was gone, Buchanan sat on a flat rock beneath a brilliant expanse of noon sky. He invested the time making notes in his journal relating to points on the map that coincided with the journey and the conditions they had found. He did not expect to be making this trip again, but someone might; he liked the idea that, given to the San Bernardino town clerk or even to Miss Sally for her library, his words might help someone who wanted to cross this territory or another like it.
When that was done, Buchanan and Fremont conferred on tactics as they walked to the chuck wagon. That was where the other men were gathered for a short meal. Griswold was beside the wagon, under an open flap where he was setting out the last of the prepared biscuits from a fold-down platform.
Fremont informed them that the riders would be tracking only the western side of the herd, since there was nowhere for the cattle to go to the east.
“We can probably run ’em a little quick, since they won’t be happy pinned where they are,” Buchanan added. “Definitely keep ’em moving, since we don’t want to be up there at night if that can be helped. And keep your horses eyes left so they don’t see the fall-off.”
“Maybe Prescott can show us some o’ his trick-ridin’!” Griswold said.
“You’ll be too busy keeping your own rig safe,” Prescott said. “I was looking up there before, saw a turn that’s gonna take some care.”
“I can drive this buggy two-wheeled if I have to,” Griswold boasted.
“With one horse danglin’ over the side?” Prescott asked.
Buchanan put away his journal and looked from the ledge to the herd. Darkness, not night, was going to fall awfully fast that low on the mountain.
“López, Deems, gather up the torches we used on the cougar in case we have to take it slower than we want. Griz, gather some dry pine cones, grass, and horse patties to light ’em?”
“Sure, I got time,” Griswold said. “I plan to be waitin’ here to see if you make it ’cross that . . . that pig ramp.”
“You’ll be on tail, not sittin’ still,” Fremont informed him.
“I had a feelin’ you’d say that. Just expressin’ my desire is all. This is still a free state, right?”
“Griz—”
“I know, I know. But, hey, you thought about breathin’ as we go higher?”
“We won’t be above a half mile,” Fremont said. “We’ll be fine.”
“You let the cattle know? The horses? They got more to carry.”
“They got four legs t’do it!” Mitchell said.
Griswold shook his head. “Yassir, we’re gonna have quite a little adventure. Once met a man who took cattle across the Rockies. He and his men ate ’em and was wearing their hides before he got down.”
“That’ll be enough,” Buchanan said sternly. “There’s no snow here and this is a short passage.” He had spoken for the benefit of the men, not Griswold.
For all his bellyaching, Griswold went to work quickly and efficiently. He grabbed a canvas bag and spade and moved to where the horses had spent the night. He was inhaling deeply, intending to hold his breath while he gathered whatever droppings had sufficiently dried before the sun rose.
On point, Buchanan and Fremont were organizing the herd into a single line by the time Haywood returned. Handing the rancher his spyglass, the tracker made a point of addressing only him and not Fremont. The trail boss was glad for that. Punching Double-D men instead of cattle would come after the drive.
“It’s about ten foot wide in most spots,” Haywood reported. “The cattle and chuck wagon’ll be fine, though there’s one sharp turn where we may have to break some rock.”
“How much?”
“Can’t say. It’s about two hours’ ride from here and the shadow’s not deep enough yet. Steepest part of the ledge is what you can see. After that, it levels as far as I was able to see. I didn’t spot any breaks in the surface, but there are some turns I couldn’t see past. Saw some crows and hawks, none of ’em mountain birds. Probably comes down like you said, into a valley.”
“Valley of the Ancient Lake, according to the map,” Buchanan said.
“There’s just one thing. Sundown’s gonna come real early out there, based on the shadows of the peaks I can see. You might want to wait till morning to start this.”
“That’d mean starting in fog.”
“We had enough visibility here for a slow passage. Same may be true up there. Certainly safer than darkness. Once you begin this—”
“It’s been pointed out we can only move forward. I’d rather be up there than down here.”
Buchanan did not have to explain why. The thought of giving St. Jacques time to close the distance and trap them here also made that idea unacceptable. Buchanan turned to Fremont.
“I need my best man on tail to keep an eye on the extra horses and the chuck wagon.”
The way Buchanan said it, Fremont understood that was not all he would be watching for.
“I’ll keep ’em moving,” he said. “Let’s fandango!” he shouted, and rode to the back of the herd.
“Where do you want me?” Haywood asked.
“In the lead, ahead of me. You’re the tracker. You got the best eyes.”
Haywood nodded once. If he suspected any other reason for being situated where Buchanan could see him, he said nothing. But after a day of truce there was renewed tension between himself and the rancher. Haywood was glad he had his guns. It was not Buchanan so much as his top hand and that Reb Mitchell who chafed him. Will Fremont was not his trail boss, not his master. The next time he or any man pushed, Haywood would shove back.
Before they moved out, Buchanan saw what he had not seen earlier in the fog: that they had made changes in this pristine land. Large swatches had been chewed down to the dirt and the wind had not been sufficient enough to dispel the stink of beast and man. That was different on well-worn trails where the land was already rugged if not tortured. The plains were vast and absorbed the passage. It was different here and as he rode to the front of the line Buchanan cast a look at the rocks where the mountain cat had disappeared. How much different would their world be for the next few days, perhaps weeks, with prey that had been frightened away by the herd.
Like the skies blackened by the railroads, like the creeks dammed for irrigation, human expansion was not without a price. He wondered if he was starting something that would lead to settlements, logging on the Mohave River, and more.
First you have to get to Hidalgo, he reminded himself.
Every man was feeling the effects of the challenge ahead, their movements sharp and careful as they took evenly spaced positions along the herd and started the cattle forward. It was not easy keeping the animals in a line on the plain, since they were not being crowded on the sides by other cattle moving in the same direction. All it took was for one steer to turn slightly, cause a kink in the line, and have to be straightened. But the half mile of plateau was instructional to men who were going to have to deal with those same problems ahead.
Buchanan fell in behind Haywood as they reached the pass. The forward man went ahead, looking back to measure the speed of the herd as the cattle started along the pass. Haywood set his own pace accordingly, appearing to be the portrait of cooperation itself. Buchanan wanted to trust him. He wanted to like him as he did all men, even Chester Jacob with his heartfelt pestering. But he could not even trust Haywood, and that added a needless burden to every moment of the drive.
Buchanan looked back so often, he let the mustang handle the passage. The cliffside to their left amplified the sound of every step taken by horse or cattle; it sounded to Buchanan like steady rain on a tin roof. The ledge itself was wide enough for passage, and the incline was not so severe that any of the cattle had difficulty. The riders did what he had suggested, continually reining their horses gently toward the cattle. Even if the animals were not spooked by the drop, there were loose rocks and patches of scrub. One step too far to the right and horse and rider could go over.
The drive moved at a good pace. After a short climb, the pass leveled, with more and more of the ledge ahead coming into view. It went almost due south, something they had not been able to see from the plateau because of an intervening peak. A strong breeze trapped and running through the peaks created a small challenge whenever it blew dead grass in their direction. Hat brims pulled low and heads half turned kept most of the debris at bay.
Haywood glanced back. “When I reconnoitered, I went a little farther than where we are now,” he said, then pointed. “The ledge slopes down; the haze has lifted and you can see it there, making a T with the horizon.”
Buchanan looked where he was pointing. He saw the T, which was the ledge making a gentle incline that would bring them to the valley. When he had looked at that spot on the map, it had seemed farther away. It seemed a perfect place to camp. The play of the sun on the lush ground was inviting, but he did not see light sparkling on water, nor had the map shown any rivers or lakes there. He would take a more thorough look when they got closer.
The turn Haywood had mentioned before they started out was nearing, and it was sharper than the men had thought. Haywood had gone ahead. The tracker had stopped and dismounted when Buchanan caught up.
The ledge beyond the spot where they were standing turned from southeast to south at such an angle that the cattle would have to turn to follow that ledge two at a time and the horses could not move beside them. The problem for the chuck wagon was graver: It would not be able to make the turn and keep all four wheels on solid ground.
The rancher turned and yelled back. “Hold the herd! We got an elbow turn here!”
“Hard bend—stop!” Mitchell turned, passing the word down but continuing forward.
His message was repeated down the line, followed by a general bellowing and scuffling of hooves. The animals had to be stopped from back to front to keep from colliding.
While the herd eased to a halt, Buchanan dismounted and led his horse ahead. Haywood was looking up the cliff. It went some five or six hundred feet straight toward the blue canopy above.
“We can build a plank bridge from the chuck wagon,” Haywood said. “That’d be the fastest action.”
The rancher looked down at the sheer drop. “I’m not sure it’d hold up.”
“Maybe not for the entire herd, but that’s the risk.”
Buchanan was neither frightened nor rattled. As a boy and a man, he had faced the plains, the elements, the Rebels, and come through it. This was another challenge, that was all. He removed his buckskin glove with his teeth and placed a bare hand on the rock.
Haywood watched him curiously. The rancher seemed to be communing with the mountain, like a pilgrim adoring the statue of a saint.
“I like your first idea better, the one from back at camp,” the rancher said, moving from the wall. “Mind holding my horse?”
Buchanan handed the reins to Haywood and headed purposefully back along the ledge. Mitchell had moved forward and was at the head of the herd. There was no room to go around him or the cattle.
Buchanan stopped a few feet in front of him. “Who’s next in line, Reb?”
“Deems.”
Buchanan cupped his hands around his mouth. “Joseph!”
“Yessir?”
“Who else can hear me?”
Prescott and López answered in turn. López was the farthest in clear earshot.
“Miguel! Call back to Griz! I want the picks passed forward from the wagon! We gotta chop some rock up here! Each man will have to leave his horses and walk ’em to the next man.”
“Sí, I understand!” López shouted.
Buchanan returned to the bend in the ledge. He was surprised to see the usually expressionless Haywood wearing a half smile.
“Something tickling you?” Buchanan asked.
“This whole thing,” Haywood confessed. “Reminds me of the war. Men would dress as women to draw Rebels over or use rabbit blood to look wounded. It was like a stage comedy, but with death.”
“We don’t have time for campfire stories,” Buchanan said. “If you’ll give it, I’m gonna need your help to widen the turn.”
“I’ll help,” he said. “There’s a cluster of shrubs on the other side. I’ll tie the horses there. It’s far enough so flying chips won’t hit them.”
Buchanan nodded once, deeply—it was both an “Okay” and “Thanks.” Then he went back to the herd to wait for the tools. Haywood returned to the bend with the canteens and lay them well along on the western side, where they would not be pushed over or dented by falling rock. Buchanan had also realized that it was not only a matter of paying attention to what was before them but also what was behind them. In the heat of activity, one of them could easily step too far back and plunge to his death.
Mitchell had dismounted and one by one the two picks were passed along the side of his horse. The former Confederate bundled them in one arm.
“Stay where you are,” Buchanan said. “I’ll come get them. Also . . . Miguel?”
“¿Si?”
“Have Griz pass the torches up as well, and the matches. Each man keeps one torch, one match, passes the rest. No way we are gonna clear this ledge by dark.”
“I’ll tell him!”
A moment later the line heard Griswold complaining, but his words, if not the tone, were swallowed up by distance.
Mitchell faced Buchanan although his eyes were on the tracker. “You watch yourself, boss. We can’t afford to lose you.”
“I’ll try not to swing too wide,” the rancher said.
“I don’t just mean stepping off: There’ll be falling rocks. I was on a Union chain gang. There’ll be sparks that sting.”
“I’ll watch out,” Buchanan said as he walked off with the picks.
Buchanan and Haywood took up positions on opposite sides of the bend, the tracker with his back facing south. The sun was slightly to the west, lighting the rock wall and suggesting nooks where they could begin. To minimize flying shards, they agreed to chop but then pry as much as possible, pulling away the rocks in chunks.
The first swings caused a ripple among the animals, rolling from front to back as the sound rang out. The sparks were lively, as Mitchell had warned. They shot out with every blow, and the clanging itself penetrated deep inside each man’s skull. The initial uneven tempo gave way to a rhythm that broke only when each man determined how hard he had to swing and whether overhand or sidearm. Chunks fell without needing to be pried, although the men realized they had to keep careful watch of the rock above them. If any sizable piece came loose its falling could knock either man to his death.
