Ralph Compton the Empire Trail, page 15
“You can shoot me for talking but you won’t tell me not to,” Haywood said—proudly, almost defiantly, Buchanan thought. “St. Jacques will find you whether I help him or not. He is almost certainly riding with more men than before; my guess is up to twenty. That’s the number of guns he hires when he needs them. I said many times I don’t want bloodshed and I will try to prevent it; I swear to it again before Almighty God—which is a solemn oath, since, if your finger moves, I will meet Him. You can tie me up and waste a man watching me; that’s up to you. Up to me? I’ll give you this much to keep Mr. Buchanan from having to shoot his own man. I will ride out the way I rode in, without my guns. You can shoot me in the back if you want, Mr. Fremont.” His eyes drifted to Mitchell. “Or you can plug me in the side that’ll be facing you. But I am leaving.”
Fremont and Mitchell stayed as they were. So did Buchanan. In the background, beyond the fire, no one moved until Griswold did.
“I’m tired,” the cookie said, turning and throwing his arms up in disgust. “Don’t wake me up with any shootin’.”
As he walked away, López and then Prescott followed. Deems remained, regarding the others with a look of horror that had settled on his face when he arrived and had not changed.
He wanted to say, “This is against God’s law!” but thought better of speaking. A shroud of reconsideration seemed to have settled on the proceedings, and he did not want to disturb it.
Buchanan had no such reservations. “I think we all need to sleep this off—you included, Mr. Haywood, if you’re willing. I’d prefer you not ride out of here with the hate I see in your eyes.”
“Well, I can make no guarantee it will be gone with the sun.”
“I’ll take that chance,” Buchanan said. He regarded his men. “But I give you my word you will be unmolested, now or then.”
The standoff continued a few heartbeats more, after which Fremont and then Mitchell lowered their weapons. Without a word, they turned toward where the other men were folding themselves back into their bedrolls. Deems departed as well, leaving Buchanan and Haywood alone.
“I promised my wife I would turn back if there was trouble,” the rancher said. “I don’t think I knew how much I did not mean that until now. Mr. Haywood, if St. Jacques were to ride out with twenty times twenty, I would not sell him my cattle. I may die trying, but I am taking them to Mexico.”
“I did not expect to hear anything different.” He turned to where his saddled horse was tied to a tree. “I will see you in the morning, Mr. Buchanan.”
With a sigh—deeper, longer, less refreshing than usual—Buchanan returned to his rock, put his rifle across his knee, and looked out at a valley that was peaceful once more.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Griswold took the opportunity to bathe in the river just after sunup. Breakfast would wait: He would be making griddle cakes and he liked for the pan to heat and the batter to harden a little before he poured it. The men were going to roll them up anyway and more than likely dunk them in their coffee.
“Eat, drink, and slobber—all at the same time” was how he described flapjack mornings.
Haywood was just finishing up at the river when Griswold arrived.
“Mornin’,” the cookie said.
“Good morning.”
“How’d ya sleep?”
“Quite well. Haven’t had a warden in quite some time.”
“Eh? Oh, y’mean the Sachem? Yeah, his wishes is pretty much law among the rest of us.” Griswold pulled off his white cotton shirt and knelt by the river. He splashed his chest and arms and rubbed them down, shivering from the mountain-chilled water. “Everything that’s happened so far—and just a few days out! I wouldn’t’ve tried to get my wagon across that ledge for nobody else. Nobody.”
Haywood thought of the men coming after them. They were hard workers, too—for pay. He was not sure which earned greater loyalty.
No one spoke to Haywood that morning, nor did he attempt to engage any of the hands. When the herd was ready to move south, Haywood rode up to Buchanan.
“Be seeing you sometime, I suspect,” Haywood said.
“Where are you headed?”
“I’m going to have a ride north toward the forest,” the tracker said. “I don’t expect those fallen trees south of the Mohave stopped St. Jacques the way it did the drive, so I’ll likely meet them there.”
“I see.”
Buchanan appreciated the information. Offered in answer to a question, it did not quite have the taint of treason.
Haywood threw off a loose salute—a show of respect for the men who were watching—before riding off. Buchanan did not expect camaraderie to return to the camp at once, although he hoped no permanent damage had been done.
The day passed without incident, and night found them in a spot almost identical to the one they had left. That evening, shortly before sundown, Buchanan had a conversation with Griswold about a plant growing by the water, after which Fremont and the rancher sat on a large, flat rock and reviewed his map. Both men tried hard to be as they were before the previous night’s standoff.
“We made good miles today,” Buchanan said, noting the distance on the map and transferring the information to his journal. He pointed with his pencil. “Tomorrow should bring us to the start of the desert. At least, we’ll start into the north end that has heat and less grass. The next day we hit the main expanse and go from water to water.”
Fremont looked at the three red X marks on the area marked “Desert.”
“What do we do if there’s no water where it’s supposed to be?” He put a stubby index finger on the first X. “We can still turn back here. After that, next one’s about twenty miles. If it’s dry, we start losin’ cows.”
“I expect that’ll happen whether we water ’em or not. López says it’s baking heat out there. And we’ll have to watch out for rattlers.”
“They get up to six feet long,” Fremont said.
“You learn that from Miss Sally?” Buchanan said. There was lingering tension between the men. He hoped that mentioning her would break it.
“Nah. That trinket-peddlin’ Luiseño mission Indian in San Bernardino. You know the one, sells beads, feathers, skins, and the like.”
Buchanan nodded.
“Mebbe I shoulda consulted Medicine Man Grant, that half-breed at the tavern who sees visions when you buy him whiskey. Coulda showed him the map, made sure it was right.”
“Y’mean the one who used to be Medicine Man Jefferson till the Union won the war?”
“That’s him. Yup.”
The conversation suddenly ran out of leg.
“Then there’s the other thing,” Fremont said, starting it up again, his tone was cautious.
Buchanan continued to stare at the map. “What’s on your mind, Fremont?”
“The Dawson men. We suspected they would be coming. Now we know it.”
“You got any suggestions?”
“Seems to me that a valley where we have food and water, for the cattle and us, is as good a place as any to make a stand. We put men along the valley walls, our best shots—”
“They won’t just ride in. They’ll go up those same walls and signal the others.”
“I figgered. Those are the ones we pick off.”
“So we start the fight? I’ve been figuring, too, Fremont. They know how many hands we have. St. Jacques is a veteran of many a drive. He sees that we’re down two, three men on the valley floor, he’ll know where we had to position them to contain the herd. He’s gonna set, what, three or four men after each? And what if the Dawson gang starts shooting steers instead? Twenty or so men, wouldn’t take long for them to cut down the entire herd.”
Fremont was silent as he considered the options. “You can’t hope to outrace them to Hidalgo.”
“No, and I could be wrong, but I also don’t believe they will do anything until we cross the border.”
“Track us, wait till the desert takes some of the fight from us?”
Buchanan nodded.
“You think Haywood went back to him?”
“I do. He doesn’t really have a choice.”
“You think they’ll trust him?”
“I don’t think they woulda trusted him in the first place if they hadn’t had to. Man doesn’t seem to make friends real easy. As long as he tells them the truth, they’ll trust him again.”
“He’ll tell them where we are?”
“I expect so, but any cowboy worth his saddle could see where we went. I also expect them to try and head us off instead of following us up that muddy slope. Maps’ll show it all leads to the Valley of the Ancient Lake.”
There was another silence, and Buchanan suspected what was coming next. Fremont was not one to let troubles sit.
“I’m sorry that last night happened,” he said.
“Most of us are, I suspect.”
“Yeah, but I led the charge.”
“Well, best to forget it.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry, but I’m also sore.”
Buchanan knew that tone of voice. “What’d I do?”
“You didn’t confide in me what you knew about the guns.”
“I didn’t want you or anyone else in an uproar over it. I kept watch on him. And he left without them, didn’t he?”
“He did, but only because—”
“You called him on it. I know. I still don’t think he would’ve turned them on us, do you?”
Fremont shook his head.
“I’ll tell you this, though, Will. One thing about your position last night made me think hard about my own.”
“What’s that?”
“Your reasons for mistrusting the man were because of his affiliation, not his skin color. You were an abolitionist. You were concerned about a man as a man. That’s why I couldn’t just kick your concerns to the ground.”
“I appreciate you telling me that.” He gave a small, hollow laugh. “Funny thing. I took to Haywood easier than I first did to Reb. Gettin’ over his loyalty to the Confederacy—that took a bellyful of forgivin’.”
Buchanan clapped the man on the shoulder and rose.
“I can’t ignore this either. I did not take you into my confidence. I’ll talk to you first before something like that can happen again. Now, how about we get some sleep?”
Fremont nodded and, lighting his stub of a cigar, rose and went off to join the others. Buchanan sat on the rock and considered something else he had not thought about before leaving. On a drive you know, you also learn to expect your own reactions to things. Here, the challenges and his moods were different. That was something he would have to watch going forward.
Once again the drive had an easy passage, covering some eighteen miles of valley until they reached the first scrubby sands of the hot flatlands. It was not quite desert yet. But outside the verdant floor and walls of the valley, the sun would rise early and its heat would increase swiftly. The night they arrived, the air was already different. Although they remained nestled in the low walls of the valley, the dry, dusty air from the south mingled with the cool dampness of the hills. It changed from spot to spot, even within the camp. The change in the heat was noticeable even before the sun rose, which was when the men made their preparations for departure. The drive would go from sunup to sundown without stopping. They had left the river behind on the previous afternoon and had lingered long enough for the cattle to drink their fill. They were going to have to travel the entire day without reaching any of the mapped streams or small lakes. Beyond that, the Big Salt Creek itself would be of no help because it was not fresh water. It was his plan to go along the western side where there were foothills of a small range; on the east was a continuation of the long, wide desert they would already have spent days crossing.
There was a restless mood among the men as they set out, a sense that the day would be hard and the terrain unforgiving. They had washed their clothes of dust in the river in expectation of the sand and sweat that would take its place. These men had never driven across desert, and López was the only one who had spent any time here. He took point with Fremont. As much as Buchanan wanted to see what was ahead, he felt that his place was on tail, watching for any sight, sound, or smell of the Dawson men.
Griswold was uncommonly quiet as the drive was renewed, the sun low to their left, throwing long shadows beside them. The cookie was tired; he had filled every pot, jug, and barrel with water, working well after dark. The washing-water barrel was for the horses if they started to foam. The drive could afford to lose steer but not their mounts. But the cookie was also wary of what was ahead and what was behind.
“If there’s banditos ahead, mebbe we can sic ’em on the Dawsons,” he said as Buchanan rode past.
“Don’t think too much,” the rancher warned as he rode past on his way to the rear. “We’ll handle things as they come.”
“Dam breaks, locusts swarm, Apaches raid—always smart to have a plan, even if it’s just runnin’ in the opposite direction. ’Cept in this case we got no opposite direction from trouble.”
There was no reasoning with Griswold when he was in this state. A time and place for talk was something Buchanan had learned, and not just about one man.
Managing men is something I couldn’t have thought of back when I was fourteen, he thought. He vaguely recalled the skills he thought he would need or acquire as he made his way west. Learning that someone like Fremont could be talked to and that someone like Buck Griswold had to be listened to was a talent you grew into; you did not learn it like branding a steer or roping a horse.
The herd was kicking up clouds, which, along with heat rippling upward, limited visibility. Buchanan pulled his kerchief up nearly to his eyes, raised his collar to protect his neck, and drew his hat low to protect himself from the sand. The horses in back of the chuck wagon were somewhat protected, but the horses in front had their heads low and were taking their guidance from Griswold.
The sun was unforgiving as well. There were no peaks or clouds to shield them and the heat rising from the ground made him forget how chilly everyone was just two nights earlier. It would be worse, of course, when there was no brush on the ground—just sand that, as López had explained it, made you pray for the relief of a breeze, then curse it for stirring the heat. The only good thing about the rising heat was that it was something new to Buchanan’s mustang. It boiled the fight right out of him.
The sun was on its way to noon when Fremont came cantering back.
“There’s somethin’ funny going on with the black cattle,” he yelled through his kerchief. “They’re slowin’ down more than the rest, an’ wheezin’.”
“Must be their dark coats reacting to heat,” Buchanan shouted back. “We got, what, forty or so afflicted head?”
“About that.”
“Cut ’em out so they don’t hold the others back.”
“That’s my thinkin’. I’ll put Prescott and Mitchell on that bunch. Looks like we’ll have a rearward guard at that.”
“Good point. I’ll stay with them instead of the main herd. You hear shooting, you let the herd run. Don’t try to stop ’em.”
“They’ll kick up too much of a storm to get near!” Fremont pointed out.
The trail boss turned back and Buchanan rode up to inform Griswold.
“We’re carving out a small group of slower cattle so you just keep your eyes on the main herd and follow that. We’ll be grouping the other behind you.”
“Sachem, I’ll foller whatever grandfather clock tail is tick-tockin’ in front of me, an’ I’ll be lucky to see that, never mind which herd it’s in.”
“Griz, you’re gonna have to mind me on this,” Buchanan said sternly. “The steer’ll be scattered left and right for a bit. Do not follow a tail that’s black. Could take you hours longer.”
“To do what? Get deeper into sand?”
The man had a point, and Buchanan let him be. Handling Griswold was a unique skill that the rancher believed he would never master.
The sounds of cattle complaining loudly began to roll toward Buchanan as Prescott and Mitchell moved the individual steers to the east and to the west. Falling back, Buchanan rode from one side to the other, herding the cattle together behind the chuck wagon. The mustang was also expressing displeasure now, with justification. It was nearly impossible for him to see or breathe through the mix of stirred sand and swirling dead grass, and several times Buchanan had to yank the horse one way or the other to avoid colliding with a steer. As soon as the secondary herd was organized, Buchanan instructed Prescott to ride tail on the main herd while Mitchell rode lead on the darker herd.
“We’ll let ’em take their own pace for now,” Buchanan said. “Keep in contact with Prescott. If he starts to gets too far ahead, we’ll move ours along.”
“What about behind us?” Mitchell asked.
“My ears are on the back door,” Buchanan assured him.
“Listen, about that fracas over the tracker . . .”
“Like I told Fremont, we were all spent. Forget it. I have.”
The former Confederate soldier accepted it, even if he did not believe it. Tipping his hat, he rode ahead. The gesture had a touch of melancholy. Unlike St. Jacques, Mitchell was not highborn, but he affected the same manners. With all that was wrong with the Confederate way of life, politeness was not one of them. Buchanan hoped that, at least, lived on.
The danger of the front herd pulling too far ahead vanished by late afternoon. The edge of the main desert was still a mile or two distant—invisible to the eye but marked on Buchanan’s map—when a dust storm blew over them, stirred by the westerly winds.
