Ralph Compton the Empire Trail, page 16
Buchanan left the tail position and rode to López, who was leading the forward herd. Just that short ride was a challenge. The gale was hot and pushed stove-like temperatures before it. Grit clung to the sweat wrung from the exposed parts of his body from scalp to neck. In just moments, windblown sand had created uneven footing for the mustang while continuing to prickle its hide. The rancher did not make it easier on the horse, having to turn slightly into the wind in order to move forward. He could only hold the reins with his right hand, as he had to keep his hat on with the left.
“How long?” Buchanan shouted when he rode up.
López pulled down his kerchief as he looked away from the winds. “I don’t know! I was here during summer when no one wanted to chase us in a desert. I never see wind like this!”
“Stop the herd! I won’t have them tumble blind into rocks or gullies!”
“¡Sí!”
“I’ll let the men know!”
López acknowledged and passed the word to Fremont, who was just a few yards away and had not been able to hear the exchange. Up front, the winds were shrieking louder as they tore through untrampled grass.
Buchanan rode along the line, first up one side and then down the other, telling the men to stop. He looked up from time to time, hoping to see sky, some sign that the tempest was winding down. There was nothing but sand above, from near his face to as far up as he could see when eddies of wind churned the particles some other way.
The rancher finally reached the second herd, knowing the chuck wagon by its sound, since he could barely see it. He heard the canvas flapping hard and was not sure it would hold. At sea, canvas tore free and became ghostly shapes in winds less than this.
“We’re holding up!” he told Griswold. Buchanan had to lean into the front of the wagon to let him know, the man having retreated to inside.
“Whoa!” he shouted, pulling the reins.
The man had nothing else to add. That was how the rancher knew this was too much for men and beasts. Buchanan continued to his spot in back, letting Mitchell know and then dismounting. The rancher stood beside his horse, positioning himself beside the animal’s head with his own back to the wind. Despite being shielded, the mustang was agitated by the force of the storm and the howling it made as it tore over land and cattle. The rider calmed his animal as best he could.
Buchanan could not be angry with López: the man had said he had come through once, in the summer. He knew that, from one season to the next, this part of the country experienced different kinds of weather off the Pacific Ocean or from over the mountains.
Mitchell had dismounted and walked his horse over to help shield the boss and his mustang.
“Way it just came up on us, like hell opened up to say ‘Howdy!’” he said.
Mitchell’s horse bucked then and he had to pull the bridle to steady it. “I think it’s the beeves spookin’ him. They sound like the spirits of the dead my grandmother used to tell about!”
The Southerner was referring to the cattle, which complained even louder after they were bunched together. The sand bit the backs of the steers in the middle. For the ones on the outside and for the horses there was nowhere to hide from wind that prickled their flesh like thousands of stinging ants.
“Boss, this is gonna give St. Jacques time to get closer. You want me to go back and look?”
Buchanan shook his head. “All hands’ll be needed to start the herd up. Let him do the chasing!”
Mitchell nodded then stood still, like Buchanan, like the others, like everything in the sandy plain. The men were indistinguishable from cactus or rock, even to their boots being planted the same way with mounting sands. The rancher had the feeling of suddenly being timeless and ancient, as if he had been set in this spot for an eternity.
And then, barely perceptibly, the wind stopped pushing quite so hard. That was the first sign of the storm dying; it fell off quickly after that moment, by halves, and died in less than a minute. Dust and grass fell back to earth like a million shooting stars, first in an arc and then straight down like Rocky Mountain snows. All that remained was the roar in the ears of the men, echoing inside their heads; then that, too, fell away to nothing. It left every sound around them heightened, including birds that had been unable to find shelter and had been blown to ground; they dotted the sandy landscape like rot on fallen logs, many mute and struggling with broken wings, others chirping for lost kin.
The birds were not the only things that captured the attention of the riders.
“Sweet Jesus,” Mitchell said when the air had cleared.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
With the winds and the animals both still now, and the sun higher in the sky, what had hitherto been a tan-powdered haze was now daylight crisp. Ahead lay an expanse that would have given a man pause even if he had not just pushed through a mountainous sandstorm.
“The plagues of Egypt,” Deems muttered, his voice carrying in the new silence.
There were just two colors before them: blue sky and golden sand. They met at a nearly straight line on the horizon. The distance was difficult to gauge; the only vegetation was cacti, and they could be stunted or faraway—no one was sure.
Buchanan rode to the point of the first herd. None of the men he passed spoke, and the cattle were now strangely silent. If they had the ability to wonder, Buchanan suspected they would consider what a strange thing it was to be stopped not on a grassy plain near a river or lake but on hot, barren sand.
This time Buchanan went to his trail boss and not to López. Fremont had drawn his kerchief down. The top half of his face was a powdery off-white; the bottom half was soaked with perspiration. His lips were slightly bloated and dry. His eyes were glazed and staring ahead.
“You all right, Will?” Buchanan asked.
“Yeah.” The answer was flat as beaten copper. “Sittin’ here thinkin’ whether we go ahead or turn back to the river.”
“Some cattle won’t make it either way,” Buchanan said. “We’ll have trouble just turning them round in these conditions. And we could walk into trouble.”
“Right. I’ll start ’em out.”
Fremont mustered his energy to get the horse to do the same. The animal protested as the trail boss faced the lead steer, which seemed equally disinclined to move.
“Let’s go!” Fremont shouted at him.
The animal mooed back and settled into its previous state. Reluctantly, Fremont roped the steer’s horns and backed his horse into the desert, drawing the reluctant beef with it.
Slowly, like a logjam clearing on a river, the cattle moved out one at a time. The only thing the elements of the drive had in common was that they were trudging ahead.
Sand dripped like water from the hooves of the cattle and horses. Light winds blew the covering of sand to the east as the drive moved south. Patches of scrub returned, but it became sparser as the cattle were pushed to the desert.
The steers in back were keeping up with the herd, but Buchanan knew that they could not maintain that pace. Spittle fell from open mouths and sometimes the animals would just stop and cry out before being coaxed to continue. There was no sign of water ahead; even with a cautious reading of his map, Buchanan felt they should soon encounter what was drawn as a pond or small lake. He only hoped it was accurately marked within a mile or so.
As morning became afternoon and more and more of the steers in the rear struggled to move, Buchanan told Mitchell he wanted to stop the back herd. The men got in front of the cattle and held them back by blocking the path forward. As the first steers stopped, so did those behind them. That done, Buchanan rode up to the chuck wagon.
“Stop here,” he said.
Like a machine, Griswold braked and just stared ahead as Buchanan instructed Prescott, on the tail of the front herd, to keep going.
“We’ll catch up when we can,” the rancher added. “You don’t see us, keep moving.”
“Yes, sir,” Prescott said, with more of a rasp than before.
“And water yourself up, even if it’s just a spill. You’ll be alone back here. You gotta be alert.”
“You gonna drink, too?”
Buchanan took the canteen from his pommel and swallowed a mouthful.
“Thank you,” Prescott said, before taking a drink from his own canteen.
The gratitude was in earnest; the man clearly needed water. But Buchanan’s men prided themselves on being tough, and believed that adversity made them stronger and competition made them stronger still. This was not the time to prove that.
Buchanan returned to the chuck wagon, went around back, and waved Mitchell over. Then he summoned Griswold to the fold-down serving area under the chuck box. The cookie bent to look out.
“We’re going to have to water the cattle,” Buchanan said. “We’ll use the pots and pans and walk the cattle by. There may be enough water to save many of them.”
Griswold reacted with surprise. “They ain’t hounds.”
“They won’t last to the next water. We have to try.”
“We use up a barrel and don’t find water, we don’t last.”
“Should we turn back, Griz? Would that be your plan?”
“I ain’t sayin’ that.”
“Good. Then let’s get this rolling.”
With a lazy shrug, the tired cookie began collecting every receptacle he owned. Meanwhile, Buchanan moved the two extra horses around to the side and climbed in. He unlatched the top of one of the two water barrels and got the ladle that was hanging above. Griswold stacked the iron pots and pans on the floor.
“We’re gonna put two pans side by side on the serving board,” Buchanan told the men. He gave Griswold the ladle. “Griz, you set up and fill ’em. Mitchell, you bring one steer over and I’ll get another.”
Griswold arranged two pans and filled them while the other two men stepped into the broiling afternoon sun.
It was a sluggish and tiring task, as the cattle were not inclined to move until they saw the water. Finishing the contents, they were unwilling to move away. But the men created a rough pattern that got each of the forty cattle enough of a drink to keep them going.
Griswold closed up the chuck wagon, which was noticeably lighter as it got underway. He did not complain about it. For all his grievances, he respected Andy Buchanan and trusted his judgment on this.
Mitchell took point and moved the herd past the chuck wagon. After Buchanan had returned the spare mounts to their place, Griswold started his team up and Buchanan once again fell in at the rear. Water was on his mind, but also how many miles they had yet to cover to Hidalgo. Over the years, every drive had been a challenge. But each was met with skills he had learned—partly by making mistakes, partly by watching other herds and talking to veteran cowhands. His herds became increasingly larger, but he always took them along the same route, with few surprises. He made money and came back upright.
Maybe Dad knew something I didn’t, he thought. Or else the sun was frying his brain. It was time to stop thinking.
The cattle were largely cooperative and the water seemed to have renewed them to a point. Buchanan did not see any dead cattle from the first herd, which he took to be a good sign.
Either that or we are off our course, he thought.
But walking was harder in the sand, the air was drying to the lungs, and the steers began stopping just as the sun was going down. Some simply refused to walk any farther; others dropped to their forelegs, struggled to get up, and then simply fell over. Buchanan lost four heads before twilight had begun to thicken. Griswold lingered to cut some meat from one of them.
Buchanan rode up to Mitchell and told him they would be pressing on.
“Figured on it,” Mitchell replied. “I caught the herd’s dust, and there’s nothing between us and them. We go due south, we should connect.” He took a brass-encased porcelain-face compass from his pocket. “Should be enough moonlight to read this.”
“Good job,” Buchanan said as he dropped back to let Griswold know.
Mercifully, the temperatures did not just drop; they fell. Whereas the men had cooked under the sun, they felt a chill in the light breeze. At first, the cooling of Buchanan’s hot sweat on every inch of him felt good. Then it raised goose bumps and he actually considered rolling around in the sand to swab it away. But then he’d have grit on every square inch of him. He hunkered into his shoulders and buttoned his jacket and shivered until just that shaking warmed him.
The cold white of the moon and stars seemed to reflect the nighttime chill. Falling stars were plentiful, slashing icicle trails across the heavens. Even when Buchanan looked ahead, he could see them out of the corners of his eyes. He wondered if they were angels, maybe guardian angels, traveling here and there, leaving their mark the way the drive did with their hooves and wheels.
Here, then gone, he thought, looking down and seeing the sands quickly fill in those tracks almost as soon as they had been made.
It was funny how darkness brought on those thoughts. What did they call it—philosophy? That seemed right.
Tracks are here and gone; people are the same. What stays? he wondered.
The ranch may or may not; groves may or may not. It’s the children, he answered himself. He felt a sudden, unexpected, and unfamiliar longing to see the girls and to see them wed and having little ones of their own.
He wondered if Mitchell and Griswold were having similar thoughts. Maybe Griswold about his former wife and Arizona home, Mitchell about the Confederacy and the vanished world he had grown up in.
Or, like sane men, are they half asleep in the saddle?
No. He suspected Mitchell was keeping sharp eyes out for any sign of a campfire. So far, they had seen no trace of one ahead.
Thinking such thoughts could make a man lose sleep, or maybe his ambition. It was an unfamiliar and unlikable path for the rancher. But, like a stubborn steer, it refused to move.
But there were distractions. Little ones. Like the flatlands beyond his spread, like so many plains Buchanan had crossed, the desert came alive at night. Unlike other places, where trees and skies were filled with hoots and howls, the sands themselves seemed to breathe. The ruckus made by the chuck wagon likely kept any larger animals at bay, if there were any. But large flying insects buzzed loudly by—flying beetles, he suspected—and wiry, runty reptiles made their way up the horse and onto the saddle. Buchanan swatted them away, but in the still night, with the cattle too parched and tired to moo, he could hear Mitchell address each and every one with a fatherly voice: “Who are you, sir or madam?” or “Did we wake you, little fellow?”
It was like dreaming while being awake. Even the presence of an animal skull and half-buried bones seemed not quite real. It was not like they had been gnawed clean like on the prairie. It looked like the skin and meat had just vanished like morning dew.
Night bled into morning, with a line of red forming to the left of the small drive. Dawn was heralded by a stronger stirring of the wind. Seeing it through half-closed eyes, Buchanan felt his heart speed up. He silently prayed that the first herd was in view, and close by. If not, then they might have turned in search of water or else his own herd had turned during the night. Either way, not seeing them would likely mean they’d have to use their last barrel of water for the cattle. That would leave only what little was left in the canteens for them.
Buchanan left his tail position to ride up beside Mitchell.
“Morning,” the Southerner said.
The rancher inhaled slowly and deeply through his nose.
“I don’t smell ’em yet,” Mitchell said. “Air’s dry and wind’s movin’ west, so I wasn’t expecting it to carry. I don’t much smell our own herd.”
Mitchell was right.
“Funny how things change,” the man went on. “At the ranch, I go out before sunup and there’s a whole mess of odors, all of ’em familiar. Same at home, growing up. Flowers, cooking, perfumes. I’ve never been in a place that don’t smell.”
“Critters except for men are too smart to come out here. And if they do . . . I saw some bones a while back. Horse, looked like.”
“I noticed that, too. Had the same thought,” Buchanan said.
The sun finally broke the surface and threw yellow light across the desert. It crept ahead, dissolving stars above and exposing sand below. It was the opposite of what Buchanan had seen Old Greyback do at night as its long shadow inched across the flatlands. Riding side by side, both men peered through the clear air.
Blasphemy it might have been, but Buchanan felt what Moses himself must have experienced upon laying his tired eyes on the Promised Land.
Ahead, facing in their direction, sat Prescott on his horse, waving them on.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
One day I want to build a statue to you right here,” Mitchell told Prescott. “A beacon to every traveler.”
Buchanan and the Confederate veteran had just ridden up, trailing the heat-shimmered vision of thinned cattle and a sand-slowed chuck wagon. The waiting cowboy seemed refreshed and even relaxed. His bearing and expression renewed Buchanan’s heart.
“Before you pour the cement, Reb—Lewis, where’s the herd?” Buchanan asked.
“Just southwest of here, boss,” Prescott replied. “Either the map had it wrong or we was off to the east. Pretty far off, to tell the truth.”
“Maps I checked were not so precise on that first water. Future ones will be.”
“No matter. We found it. Or, rather, the cattle did. They kept wanting to go southwesterly and Fremont finally let ’em.”
“That’s why we didn’t see a campfire,” Mitchell said.
“Anyways, soon as we got to the water, Fremont told me to drink up, then he sent me back to lead you in.”
