Ralph Compton the Empire Trail, page 13
Except for the ringing of metal on stone, and the occasional sounds of cattle and crumbling rock, the air was silent. There had been birds before, hawks below and eagles above; they were gone know, chased by the strange movement and sound from the mountainside. Every man was aware of the arc of the sun across the peaks, none more so than Buchanan and Haywood. Every few minutes the shifting shadows revealed fresh angles of attack, fractures or outcrops where the picks could tear down more of the wall. The work was slowed only when the men needed to drink or to push rocks over the side. Some stones hit the ledge and tumbled off; others had to be moved lest they pile up and block the herd.
Mitchell relieved Buchanan twice during the afternoon, both times so that the rancher could walk up and down the line to see how the hands were doing, and also to collect torches for himself and Haywood.
It was during the second trip, when he had nearly reached the halfway point of the line, when Mitchell suddenly shouted, “Get back!”
Buchanan turned and started in that direction, saw that Mitchell’s iron had apparently struck an ancient fissure, causing a rock nearly half his size to slide onto rocks below it; the shelf gave way, one rock after the other, finally causing the big chunk to drop.
Mitchell and then Haywood had dropped their picks and lunged in opposite directions as the massive piece fell and then tumbled down the elbow of the ridge. Mitchell had reached the wall and pressed against it; Haywood had flung himself to the ground and landed facedown in the opposite direction.
The rock kicked up a cloud of dirt as it went over, leaving a trail of crushing, crashing sounds as it fell. When it was silent, Mitchell pushed off the cliff and waved his hand so he could see. Haywood rose and turned.
The men on the line could see none of this because of the dust.
“Everyone all right?” Buchanan shouted.
“Yeah,” Mitchell said. “Not sure about the ledge, though. Rock might’ve taken part of it down or loosened it some”
“Stay where you are,” Haywood told him. “I’ll check.”
While the air was still thick with dust, Haywood got on his hands and knees and crawled along the edge. He felt his way, pressing down with his palms and then leaning into them.
The men were as silent as a graveyard as they waited. Buchanan knew, as they all did, that if that ridge was gone, there was nowhere and no way to move the herd.
“Doesn’t seem like there’s any damage,” Haywood said after what seemed like a very long time. He rose to his knees. “Lost some of the overhang, but that was too weak to—”
There was a sharp cracking sound as a smaller piece, higher up, became dislodged and fell. Once again Mitchell pushed himself back against the cliff while Haywood pivoted on one knee and rolled away several turns. The stone went straight down like a plumb line, less than a foot behind the tracker, gouging the cliff before going over and straight into the field far below.
Once again Haywood went forward to inspect the damage.
“Still solid, but it cut a rut the wagon will have to go over slowly.”
Mitchell was looking up the cliff. “Looks like everything that means to fall fell,” he reported.
Buchanan did not realize he had been holding his breath until he exhaled. A moment later, with the ledge still obscured, they heard the chunk, chunk, chunk of the picks resuming their anvil beat. Taking a moment to reflect on their good fortune, the rancher continued down the line.
The hands were quiet both times Buchanan came through. It was not their usual exhaustion during a drive but something else. The second time he came to the end of the line, he asked Fremont what he thought it was.
“I can only say what’s on my mind, but it’s a fair guess the others are thinkin’, it too,” he said. “Part of it is the things we didn’t know but should’ve. We knew there’d be water, grass. But we’ve all looked out at Old Greyback. How did we not think about low clouds slowing us to a crawl?”
“The lower elevations of Old Greyback are blocked, Will—”
“We’ve never seen mountain mist? Ever? We were just so eager, like kids at Christmas. We’re prepared for wolves on the flatlands. The mountain lion shouldn’t’ve bushwhacked us like that. Those rocks just now—it’s a mountain we’re choppin’ at, fer God’s sake. An’ lookin’ back, why wouldn’t the Double-D try to bury us once and for all out in God’s country?”
“All true, Will—every word—and I was stupid not to talk to Patsy more about some of that. She’s been through this territory.”
“That’s probably why she didn’t want us to go.”
“Did she say something to you?”
“Not with words but with her looks. She hasn’t been joyful since you first came up with this plan. I ain’t blamin’ you, boss. I wanted this, to trailblaze. Always something I hoped to do to see what I was made of. It’s just . . . we ain’t as practical as women, most of the time.”
The sound of the picks got louder as the dust settled and the efforts seemed to grow. The sinking sun was on everyone’s mind.
“We’re not gettin’ out of here by sundown,” Fremont said.
“No. We either move by torchlight or we stay put.”
“Staying here is a bad idea,” Fremont cautioned. “Settling in, we can’t watch all the cattle, which means if they get restless, we lose some number of ’em over the side.”
“I agree. So we move out regardless. But we also don’t want to light the torches too early. We ain’t got the wherewithal to make extras.”
Fremont agreed, and Buchanan resolved to get back and at least get the pass widened before the sun went down and the steers—and riders—lost their bearings.
The excavation was much larger than when Buchanan had left, not all of it due to the collapse. Whatever Haywood’s leanings, he was putting his big arms and shoulders into the task. He hollowed out enough so that he could come over and assist Buchanan when the rancher returned. They struck the cliff on alternate strokes, tearing off rocks that range, from the size of a man’s first to that of a cow’s skull. Except for sidestepping each one and then bending to push it over the side, the men did not stop until the ledge was wide enough to move the chuck wagon through. Internal erosion from ages of spring thaw assisted them in taking down the rock. Such would never have occurred to Buchanan however much thinking and planning and talking-to he had done.
The work of widening the ledge was completed shortly before the men lost light where they were.
Haywood gathered up the empty canteens, brought the horses over, and paused to kick over the last of the rubble.
“Thank you,” Buchanan said.
Haywood heard but did not react. He cocked his head to the east as he handed Buchanan the pick. “I’ll go ahead, make sure there are no other traps.” He lit his torch with the match he had been given. “If there’s a problem, I should have enough room to come back and let you know. If not, I’ll just wave ’er back and forth and you’ll have to come down.”
Haywood climbed into the saddle—slower than usual, worn-out from the pickaxing—and was gone without further conversation. Buchanan understood that this had to be tough for him; it had to remind him of the days when he was in bondage. The rancher still did not like the man, still did not entirely trust him, yet was reminded again how they might have been stuck now three times without him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Joe Deems experienced an unexpected sense of euphoria as the drive proceeded along the ledge. With Mitchell and Buchanan ahead of him, and Haywood in the distance; with the night breeze carrying distant, aromatic scents and silence from all but the occasional night bird below—with the stars blocked by the cliff to the north and a peak to the south—he had the sense of being an ancient pilgrim on a journey to some sacred place. The destination was not necessarily a physical spot. His soul seemed to be on a journey as well. In any event, out here he felt as connected to God as ever in his spiritual life. He felt that if he were to die here, he would be that much closer to heaven. Strengthening that view was the mystical sight ahead and behind: a long line of indistinct shapes, slow-moving and shifting under spots of flickering torchlight. They could be pilgrims on a journey or souls bound for heaven or hell. Deems felt closer than ever to the Bible in his saddlebag as a sense of the vastness outside of creation came near to overcoming him.
None of the other cowboys had anything on his mind but surviving the passage and bedding down. Whether they were filled with faith or hope, no man could afford to let his attention lapse. Every step brought with it a sound of small stones crunching, sliding, or being kicked forward. Those had a sameness after a time. What they listened for was a crack like the one they had heard when the wall came down. It was less likely to be the cliff than the ground below them, unaccustomed to the weight of cattle and weakened after each one had gone past.
Griswold was the most anxious of them all, riding tail. He had lashed his torch to the side bar of the seat so it wouldn’t burn the canvas. His arm was good enough so that he did not need the sling, and it kept getting burned by grass ashes that fell from the fire. He was as vocal as ever about his discontent.
“They got me between four horses, an’ none of ’em wants to be on a cliff in the dark,” the cookie muttered. “An’ I’m far back enough so I’m the only one who can’t hear orders from up front. I can imagine the folks, though. ‘Old Griz can handle things on his own, don’t worry.’ I’m tired o’ bein’ so reliable. It ages a man. Plus these pebbles are makin’ everything ring like the dang earthquake did. I feel like I’m inside a spittoon.”
There was buzzing conversation making its way along the line.
“What is it, Miguel?” Griswold demanded.
“Hush!”
“Hush? I need to know!”
“If you stay quiet, then perhaps I can hear!”
Griswold turned down the muttering to mumbling just long enough for Miguel to inform him that the ledge was beginning a downward slope.
“It’s not bad, they tell me.”
“‘Not bad’ to a horse ain’t the same as ‘not bad’ to a wagon.” Holding the reins in his right hand, Griswold rested his healed hand on the brake. “‘Not bad’ could be if I went over the ledge but left the food behind.”
Griswold saw something he had not noticed before: the torches were showing less and less of the cliff in their light.
“Looks to me like the torches are gettin’ closer!”
“They are,” López informed him. “I’m getting instructions.”
“From a guardian angel, I hope.”
The herd was more stretched out now and it was taking longer than before to relay information from Buchanan. When López finally had it all, he turned back to Griswold.
“They are not sure the wagon will fit!”
“Well, there’s a stick in the wheel! What am I s’posed to do, put it on my back?”
“When you get closer to where the point is now, we may have to carry what we can and push it over the side! Otherwise we cannot get the back horses through!”
“Of all the balled-up plannin’! Tell them to chop away more of the mountain! Knock the whole thing down so it doesn’t bother innocent travelers ever again.”
“I don’t think they want to hold up the cattle any longer. And it’s AB property, amigo. I am sure the boss is less happy than you.”
The cookie fell silent as the drive picked its way through the blackness. When the chuck wagon neared the spot where Haywood had been, Griswold removed his torch from the post, raised it, and moved it slowly back and forth.
“Miguel? You tell Buchanan I can make this!”
“They just told me he is waiting for the cattle to pass: Stay where you are until he can see for himself. And, Griz?”
“Yeah?”
“Bundle yourself in something. It’s going to get cold, they say!”
“Tell ’em I survived more’n half a century before any o’ them came along,” he said.
It was another hour before most of the herd was on flat ground and Buchanan was able to come back. He walked up, Fremont at his side. Both men were carrying torches replenished by underbrush from below. Buchanan was also holding a lasso. López was gone leaving only the three men and four horses.
“We been talking and there may be a solution,” Buchanan said. He walked to the endangered side of the wagon and began knotting his rope to the seat bar. “We’re gonna tie the torches to the bar on the outside. That’ll let you watch the outside edge of the ridge.”
“Watch it for what?”
“Will and I are gonna be in the wagon, adding weight to it cliffside. We figure as long as the wheels don’t go completely off the side, and as long as the horses are creating pull on both sides, it’ll stay planted on the ledge.”
Griswold looked at the men as they went about their work.
“Part o’ me wants to say that’s a good idea,” the cookie said, “but the grown-up part says it’s nuts.”
“Yeah, we’re both of the same mind,” Buchanan agreed. “If you’d rather get out and lead the horses . . .”
“Hell, no! This plan o’ yours has got my full attention. If it works, we’re all gonna have a story to tell!”
“You’ll lie anyway, say it took place in the clouds during a thunderstorm,” Fremont said as he made sure his torch was secure.
“God’s always listenin’ for ideas,” Griswold rebuked him. “I’d stop there if I was you.”
Neither Fremont nor Buchanan was superstitious, but the cookie had a point. After everything that had happened, the trail boss was glad that Griswold had not mentioned an avalanche, earthquake, or mountain lion.
The two men went around back and retied the horses so that they were bunched together on the cliffside. It was a question not only of added weight there but of the animals not seeing or hearing the fall that was possible to the south. When they were secure, Fremont and then Buchanan stepped up under the canvas. They cleared a spot on the cliffside of the wagon where they could plant their feet. Then they turned so their backs were against that side, their fingers wrapped around the tops of the wooden ribs.
“I hope we know what we’re doin’,” Fremont said.
“I’m so tired, I’m not sure any o’ this is happenin’,” Griswold said.
“It’s happening,” Buchanan assured him. “You ready?”
“Scootin’ over to my right. No point in all this rigamarole if I can’t see.”
Buchanan felt just that shift in the distribution of the weight. He was glad it was dark inside. He did not want Fremont to see how uncertain he was. No man on a cattle drive had the time or temperament to be truly scared. But the rancher had time to think, and that was the hatching place of fear.
Griswold started the team forward, the hooves scraping on dry earth, the insides of the wagon rattling from everything that was hung or had been hurriedly stacked to make room for the men.
Buchanan leaned closer to Fremont. “You feel us start to lose our grip on the ledge, you get out.”
“In a cow’s arse I will.” He chuckled nervously. “I owe you a small apology.”
“Oh?”
“This is not something we could have planned for sittin’ around the ranch house table with maps.” The wagon hopped slightly as it hit a dip made by the passage of the herd in softer dirt. “That journal o’ yours—we live to get it back, future generations will be grateful.”
“We’ll live,” Buchanan said. “I won’t pretend to know the mind of God, but He did not set our feet on this path with no purpose.”
“Now he’s gone devout,” Griswold said. “The end is definitely comin’.”
The chuck wagon continued to rattle but the horses in front and behind created stability. They never swerved and turned only when Griswold followed the gentle curve of the stone face. He always let the men in back know when something unexpected was coming so they were not alarmed.
It was after taking one such curve that the wagon sloped slightly to the front right, off-center; Griswold whoa’d and reined the team to a hard stop even as the earth and stone beneath the front right wheel gave way.
“Lost some lip on the ledge!” Griswold said. “Just fell away!”
Fremont swore and both he and Buchanan pressed themselves harder against the ribs of the wagon.
“Griz, get off and cut the team free!” Buchanan yelled.
The cookie was unnaturally silent.
“Griz?” Buchanan yelled.
“You hold your horses an’ I’ll hold mine. I’m leanin’ to see! Can’t very well slide to that side, can I?”
The driver had a point. The only sounds were the neighing of the horse on that side and the trickle of pebbles bouncing down the lower cliff.
“Front wheel is clear off!” Griswold said. “I’d say about four inches straight’ll put it back on solid ground.”
“If not?”
“It will,” he assured the passengers. “Only question is whether the back ledge gives and both wheels go over. It hasn’t while we been stopped on it, so it likely won’t.”
“You sound confident!” Fremont said.
“What d’ya want me to do, sob like a baby? Hold on—I’m gonna move myself full to the left to add weight. Then I’ll try to get us back on!”
The wagon shuddered slightly as Griswold shifted toward the cliff; the wagon dipped further as several clods of earth fell away.
“Come on, wagon . . . we been through too many years for ya to give up on me now!”
The wagon was unsympathetic to Griswold’s plea. It settled down where it was. Griswold peered at the edge of the trail in the flickering light.
“No roots up here holdin’ this together,” he said. “Don’t ferget to put that in your journal.”
