Ralph Compton the Empire Trail, page 17
“He’s still there?”
“He figured you’d need rest, and on top of that it was stupid to try and travel during the heat of day, so we set up camp.”
“Bless y’all,” Mitchell said, echoing Buchanan’s sentiments.
“Will also instructed me to watch for the Dawson boys. Ain’t seen a sign of them anywhere.”
“Not surprised,” Buchanan said. “They probably figured to rest up and let the heat take some of the fight out of us and, more important, exhaust the cattle.”
“Unhappily for us, they got someone in their party who can read those signs,” Mitchell said with blossom-petal lightness that could almost have been a whisper.
Buchanan did not know whether the man was being informative or critical. He let it pass.
“Everything they do makes me even more determined to go on,” Prescott said. “I had a bellyful of the Dawsons even before this.” He eyed the cattle and the wobbling chuck wagon as he waited for the herd and Griswold to reach them. “You lost some head, I see, and Griz is riding light. You watered the herd?”
“Had to.”
Prescott smiled and turned the horse. “Well, come on. There’s plenty of water at Lake AB—at least, that’s what we’re calling the watering hole. Deems carved a sign on what was left of a wagon nearby.”
“That must be where those horse bones came from,” Mitchell said as he fell in behind Prescott. Buchanan returned to his tail position, keeping far enough from the chuck wagon so he did not cover it with sand.
“Was that Lewis who met ya?” Griswold asked.
“It was. Camp’s at the water hole.”
Griswold smiled crookedly. “I’m proud o’ you, Sachem. Ya did it.”
“Somehow, yeah.” Buchanan looked at the older man’s stubbled face with its deep-set eyes. “Let me ask you, Griz: Was I crazy to start this thing?”
“A little late to be inquirin’.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Depends what ya do with this ‘thing,’ as you call it.”
“I don’t follow.”
“What y’asked me the other night, about those mushrooms growin’ on the riverbank—”
“That may have been wrong of me.”
“No it weren’t. You was bein’ prepared. You were thinkin’ to poison any water we find, to stop the Dawsons if necessary in their iron-shod tracks. An’ I gathered ’em like y’asked. But I been thinkin’ that if we make it to Hidalgo, it should be ’cause we did it on the square. Otherwise, it’s worth dirt.”
“I don’t disagree, mostly. But if they’re intent on stoppin’ us—”
“If y’ain’t learnt this yet, it’s a good time to start. People who start bad things always stop themselves. Lookit the war. Rebs got hotheaded and started fightin’ without the supplies or manpower. What about the Alamo? Who lost the war? Not Texas. The Redcoats got tossed off these shores—should never have tried to stomp on us. You worry about gettin’ cattle to Mexico. The rest will take care of itself. Besides, we may need that same water on the way back. Pretty funny if y’end up killin’ yourself.”
Buchanan had never thought of Griswold as a man of peace, but then, the subject had never come up before in all the years they had been together. The rancher did not agree with the man on all the points he raised; he would have to reach the water, see the condition of the main herd, before deciding whether they could hold up against a large, armed force—
Or whether the earth will just swallow ’em up, like in some biblical passage.
The camp was a balm to Buchanan’s tired body and conflicted soul. There was camaraderie among the men, if not outright good humor. And although there was still a distance to go in the desert, it would be easier at night, when the sun did not squeeze the water from man and animal.
As soon as Prescott came in, he filled his canteen and went out again to watch for St. Jacques. He would not fire a shot to warn them lest he tell the Dawson men where he was.
“The idea me an’ López worked out—both of us havin’ fought in wars and all—is simple,” Fremont told Buchanan. “Prescott rides in with a warning, we threaten to kill steers and poison the water. The Dawsons won’t have enough to get back.”
“They’d take yours.”
“We’d bury them first. Not enough anyway.”
Buchanan chuckled. The men were sitting at the body of water some three horse lengths across and twice as wide. The herd was opposite them, on the southern side. Fremont was puzzled by his boss’s reaction.
“What’s so amusin’?”
“Griz tried to talk me out of a similar notion.”
“Griz? Why?”
“Basically called it immoral and uncivilized.”
Fremont snorted. He looked over at Griswold. Deems had helped him unharness the horses and bring them to the pond.
“What d’you think of your sign?” he asked, pointing.
Buchanan looked over at the small board tied to a stake in the ground. “AB” was crudely carved in capital letters.
“It’s not just mine. We all did this.”
“Yeah. That woulda been too much to fit.”
The men made themselves comfortable under tents made from their bedrolls. Buchanan made a few notes in his journal before doing the same. He remembered that he had forgotten to eat—but was asleep before he could do anything about it.
It was dark before Fremont woke him. Buchanan started awake.
“Boss, we’re ready to move out.”
It could not be very late, since the air was still warm. The rancher rose and brushed away the sand that had blown over him during the night.
“No sign of the Dawsons?” Buchanan asked.
“Nothing. I had the last watch; moon showed nothing but clean desert.”
“I guess that’s good, ’less they found a way to get ahead of us.”
“That’d be a lot of hard riding,” Will said.
Buchanan washed himself at the lake, then made his way through the ghostly light of the moon toward the hanging lantern of the chuck wagon for whatever leftovers were there. He was not surprised to find Griswold awake.
“Did you get any sleep, Griz?”
“Enough. Deems refilled the barrel for me and López cut up the beef I took from one o’ the dead steers. Here.” He handed a plate down from the chuck wagon. A large, slightly burnt steak sat invitingly on it. “Saved it for ya. The Lord taketh but the Lord giveth.”
“Much appreciated.” There was no time to sit and cut. Buchanan stabbed the meat with a fork and chewed it.
“Sachem, I had a coupla thoughts about those hombres chasin’ us. What if they ain’t comin’? What if they got waylaid by Injuns?”
“If the Dawsons are riding fifteen, twenty large, as Haywood suspected, it’d have to be a war party that attacks them. We’d’ve seen signs of one.”
“Okay. Then what if they telegraphed ahead and hired el pistoleros? Ya considered that?”
“Hired guns work for gold, and you can’t telegram that.”
“Hmmm. Okay, hadn’t considered that.”
“Besides, St. Jacques will want the pleasure of doing this himself,” Buchanan said between bites. His eyes went to the moonlit horizon. “He’ll come. Maybe not soon, but he’ll be on us.”
“If such is the case, I believe Haywood will try and let us know.”
“I hope you’re right and not just for that.”
“What?”
Buchanan grinned. “It’d be good for me and the men if I was right about him.”
“Won’t do me any good to be wrong either. Don’t forget who else stood up for the man back at that prairie trial couple o’ nights back.”
“The men need you if they want to eat,” Buchanan laughed, handing back his empty plate. “I’m the one who’ll be facing desertion and mutiny.”
Now it was Griswold who grinned. “Say, there’s a tip o’ the hand.”
“What?”
“Seafarin’ terms.”
“Doesn’t mean anything, Griz, I promise you.”
“Don’t be so sure,” the cookie replied as Buchanan turned to get his horse. “Man reaches a certain age, his thoughts get backward-lookin’. Take it from one who has a squint in his brain from all the mighta-beens.”
“I truly don’t think so,” Buchanan said, walking away but surprised by the older man’s remarks. The rancher’s unintended sea reference did not suggest Boston but something else: Jacob’s notion that he go to sea for Widmark. Being his own boss had always been a certainty in Buchanan’s life. After facing down his own men—whose lives he had put at risk not just with Haywood but with the drive itself—he was not so sure.
* * *
* * *
The drive was soon underway, Fremont conferring with Buchanan about the creek that was marked on the map.
“If the distances are right, we got more’n a day to the next water,” the trail boss said.
“The map shows where the creek was situated relative to the San Jacinto that feeds it, though the flow may be seasonal.”
“Well, springtime shouldn’t be a problem when it comes to that. If we push, we get there faster, we lose head from exhaustion. I say thirsty, complainin’ steer are better’n dead ones.”
“Agreed, though it means we travel into the afternoon without stopping well.”
“We can rest at the water,” Fremont said, “make camp till the next morning. Map says our last stretch of desert is just beyond the creek. By afternoon tomorrow we’re back on hard plains.”
“Yeah. Y’ever think we’d be glad for flat scrubland?”
“Boss, there ain’t been one thing about this drive that even Medicine Man Grant could’ve foretold at his drunkest. Miss Sally warned me that this drive’d be a passel o’ learning. She ain’t been wrong so far.”
Buchanan folded up the map. “You still think she’d be glad you were on this drive, knowin’ what we know now?”
“I do. That lady’s still got pioneer blood from her girlhood. Can outshoot me, truth be told, six-shooter or rifle. I got her beat at hatchet throwin’, though.”
“Wish I’d known. We could’ve used her.”
“She would’ve loved to be on a drive, if women was allowed to and teachin’ didn’t mean so much.” Fremont smiled contentedly. “She’s gonna make a great mother.”
Thinking about a future that did not involve water or rustlers was a refreshing change, one that Buchanan tried to hold on to as he left Fremont and took tail position behind Griswold.
As much as he tried not to think of it, ignoring the present was not possible, and Buchanan found himself turning regularly to look at the open sands bright with a three-quarter moon. . . .
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The creek was where Buchanan had expected it to be.
It was early afternoon when Fremont spotted the overflowing banks and called out; he also saw the first greenery he had seen in days, small clumps of grasses half underwater, gathered where the banks typically lay.
“You’re beautiful,” he said to the sparkling waters before turning to rope the horns of the tired, lean lead steer and guide it over. The other animals did not need any such urging. Within minutes, pushing and crowding, all of the remaining cattle were spread along the banks. The men rode wide upriver to drink and water the horses.
It had been a challenging night, with some steers slowing because they were tired, others hungry, and one because he had breathed in so much sand that blood was running from his nose. He stopped and did not start up again. The drive lost another four head, but not as many as Buchanan feared he would lose, and Griswold was able to take more meat. It was also a challenge for the men, as the slow pace and sameness of everything around them bade them to drift asleep in the saddle. Some did and woke instantly; López did and stayed asleep, his horse keeping the pace and distance from the cattle; Prescott did and fell from the saddle, scaring some steer as he scrambled to get back up.
As it had a way of doing, the sun made the men forget the trials of the night. Once more the light, along with the water and just being out of the hard saddle, brought renewed life to the cowboys.
If not for the expanse of sands behind them, the terrain on the other side of the creek could be any plain on any drive. The land was familiar and low-lying, with enough grass for the cattle to feed on. Buchanan told Fremont to make camp on the other side and they would stay until dawn.
It would have been a satisfying end to the hard desert crossing if Deems had not noticed a plume of dust headed their way. He thought at first it might be a dust devil, a small tornado of wind picking up sand. The winds were blowing gently south, so its movement was right. But then he saw, emerging from the cloud, the figure of a man on horseback. He was riding hard, which caused the horse to kick up the enveloping cloud.
“Rider!” Deems said, not concerned that the cattle would scatter at the cry. They were much too content to stay where they were.
Buchanan had crossed the creek with Fremont to organize the layout of the camp. Still in the saddle, the rancher sent his mustang splashing back to the opposite bank.
Deems would have announced who it was if he could see; Buchanan knew at once that it was Haywood. A man running from Indians had a frantic manner about him, whipping his horse with his hat, spurring him, shouting. This man sat like a forward-facing ramrod and came in a straight line. He was running to something.
Griswold leaned over the left side of the seat to have a look; the rider had to cut wide to keep from knocking the cookie from the wagon. The frothing horse slowed as Buchanan rode out to meet it.
The new arrival was indeed George Haywood. He was wearing fresh guns and the look of a man warning settlers that floodwaters were coming.
Both men dismounted and stood facing each other. The man’s canteen hung full from the saddle, so Buchanan did not offer him a drink. It was the horse that did all the work.
“Mr. Haywood?”
“They’re twenty-one strong now, which includes me,” he said without preamble. “Half of them are cowboys, half are from town, a couple lately in jail for fighting, drunkenness—you know the breed. They camped at the lake last night.” He grinned. “At your AB Lake, which they spent an hour arguing about.”
“Arguing?”
“They figured you might’ve poisoned it and did not want to lose any horses. They decided to draw lots and let one of them drink.”
“Did they?”
“No. I drank—myself. Filled my canteen right up.”
“That was quite a gamble. I appreciate the faith.”
“I didn’t think you’d do it. I wanted to show them up.”
Buchanan was too interested in what else Haywood had to say. Otherwise, he would have considered the irony of the gang losing time debating a thought he himself had rejected.
Fremont had walked up with hardtack, biscuits Griswold kept on hand when there was no time to cook. Haywood shook his head but thanked him. That mutual show of gratitude was a first for both men.
“So you showed them up,” Buchanan said. “Then they sent you ahead to scout for us?”
“They didn’t send me to scout for you. They have maps; they knew where you were headed. It’s about water. Took St. Jacques a while to find that lake since their map had it wrong. Even I couldn’t find a sign of it, not even a smell, since we had the wind to our back. I told St. Jacques I’d go ahead to look for the next one, make sure it was where it was supposed to be. I wanted to warn you about their nearness and numbers. And also their plan.”
“Which is?”
“They mean to secure your cattle or kill every last head. Some of the men they brought are rustlers of Dawson’s acquaintance. They’ve got some story about a grudge against Reb Mitchell. They agreed to shoot the herd, then ride south with two hundred dollars each.”
“Jesus. I want to crush him like you did to that orange,” Fremont said.
“Were they staying at the lake or setting out?” Buchanan asked.
“They planned to set a spell, shake loose some of the dust, then press on.”
“I was thinking they’d wait until we’ve crossed the border to strike. That ain’t so now.”
Haywood shook his head. “They want to get to you before you reach the Big Salt Creek.”
“Any particular reason?” Fremont asked.
“Our man González is from there. He says there are two rivers forking from the southeastern side.”
“They’re on the map,” Fremont confirmed.
“What’s not shown are the villages built up around there,” Haywood said. “St. Jacques is concerned there’d be people to hear the killing, find the dead herd, tell the local policía. Down there, his lies wouldn’t have the protection of him being Dawson’s man.”
Buchanan considered the explanation. “May I know what you plan to tell St. Jacques about the location of the water?”
The man shrugged. “I’ve got to tell him exactly where it is and, when we get here, show him signs of where you camped. Otherwise he’ll never trust me again.”
“There’s someone whose trust I can live without,” Fremont muttered.
“Then there’s information you would also be living without,” Haywood said. “I don’t know if and when I can come back, but I wanted you to be prepared.”
“Once again, I am in your debt,” Buchanan said.
There was something in the rancher’s voice that sounded reserved, guarded. Or maybe he was just thoughtful. Haywood did not have time to reflect on it. Nodding in farewell, he rode off, trailing dust.
When he was gone, Buchanan gave final consideration to what he was about to say.
“Will, get the drive moving. Pronto.”
The trail boss looked over with surprise. “You mean while there’s still some daylight or—”
