Ralph Compton the Empire Trail, page 18
“I mean ‘or.’ We’re going to continue through the night, no stopping. I’ll want you on tail. Oh, and send López to me.”
“Boss, you gonna try to outrun men who don’t have to move cattle?”
“No. But we gotta beat St. Jacques to the sea and keep going. Otherwise we’re finished. Go, please. Now.”
Fremont was confused, but Buchanan’s tone was grave and his instructions clear. The trail boss went off to rouse men and cattle. Buchanan broke out his map. He compared it to the prairie before him. The dimensions of the desert they had just crossed, compared to the ground that lay ahead, suggested they had about twenty miles to cover. That was a day and a half of pushing. The plains would be rougher in some ways than the desert because of gullies, exposed roots, and harder earth on worn hooves. Nonetheless, it had to be crossed.
López came riding up as Buchanan folded away the map.
“You came to California through the Valley of the Ancient Lake,” the rancher said. “How well do you know it?”
The Mexican shook his head. “I came to north along the western side of the valley. That’s where our hideouts had been, in the foothills of the mountains.”
“All right, that’s good. We’re going back that way, as planned. I want you in front with me.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“The Dawson gang is coming after us, Miguel. They’re about a day behind and some twenty-two strong.”
“Maldita sea todo,” the Mexican muttered, rubbing his scruffy chin thoughtfully.
“You fought wars. You know that numbers can make a man overconfident.”
“With good reason, Señor Buchanan. That’s a lot of guns.”
“Hopefully not this time. I plan to stop them. To accomplish that, I’ll need you to do something.”
“What do you need?”
Buchanan explained what he was thinking. As he did, the former revolutionary perked up like a rose in the morning sun. When the rancher was finished, López voiced his support for the plan, then galloped off to help the other riders rally the herd.
“Don’t break your neck in a sand pit!” Buchanan warned.
“I will tell my horse,” López said with his typical good humor.
War was god-awful in every way. But Buchanan reflected that it took men who had been in combat to be uncowed by most any other challenge and discomfort that arose. He himself had crossed the American continent, but it was war that had prepared him to lead these men and rush without hesitation into fresh hardships.
That, too, was something he had never been able to explain to Patsy. He thought of her and the girls before he turned to join the men. What he was planning had to work, or all he would have of the ladies was his final, mortal thought. . . .
CHAPTER TWENTY
The plain at night left the steers less than a herd of almost three hundred head of cattle with a mind in each head.
Every man knew that it is the tendency of steers to wander or stop altogether when they are not penned by fence or herders. On the prairie, in the dark, every one of the six riders was as busy watching for unseen obstacles as they were tending cattle. López was the only man at the head of the herd. Fremont was in back but in front of the chuck wagon. Buchanan was once again behind. His official task was to listen for the Dawson riders. In fact, he and Fremont spent more time leaving their posts to round up stray beef.
The reason for the strays was that the men were watching the ground more than they were the herd. Even so, there were dangerous stumbles and sudden halts. The near-full moon was low, and although the expanse was illuminated, the light threw long, long shadows that concealed flaws in the surface. Not just cracks and holes but large rocks, clumps of tumbleweed, even hollow anthills. The danger was heightened by the fact that Buchanan had set them the task of moving at a daytime pace to keep some distance between the drive and St. Jacques.
After several hours the moon gave them a respite by passing overhead. By then the herd was a snakelike force weaving generally south; on the sides, Prescott, Mitchell, and Deems had drifted farther apart than they had realized. The men took the opportunity to reassemble the cattle before the light slanted in the opposite direction. It was not long before the herd—tired now as well as unguided—had flattened into a mob.
Fremont rode back to Buchanan.
“I figger we got about two hours till sunrise, when there won’t be no light at all,” he said.
“That’s about right.”
“I counted about a half-dozen strays that the boys couldn’t grab without losing more. I say we stop, give everyone a rest, while we go back and get them.”
“You sure? We stop now, we lose cattle to thirst.”
“Maybe. But if we don’t, we definitely lose steers.”
During a drive, Buchanan relied heavily on the opinion of Will Fremont, and the rancher considered three things that were part of Fremont’s request. First, the trail boss was making a strong recommendation. It usually came with equal consideration of cattle, men, and conditions; it was dangerous to ignore that. Second, Fremont was the number two man; it was bad for morale to dismiss him. But, third, St. Jacques would not be stopping.
“What is this, Will?” Buchanan asked.
The trail boss peered into Buchanan’s dark face, with specks of moon in the eyes. “I don’t follow.”
“Is this drive about getting as many cattle as possible to Hidalgo or about beating St. Jacques?”
“Now that you ask, it’s both I guess. But we—”
“How many steer do we have to lose before we make less selling them to Mexico than we do to Dawson?”
Fremont’s head jerked back like he’d been snapped at by a dog. “You actually considerin’ that?”
“I don’t know. I truly do not. Things are different than when we set out. Like I said, what are we after now?”
“Boss, even assumin’ that bastard would buy the herd now—and that’s no guarantee—Dawson would own you. That would be the end of your ranch. The AB sign comes down and the Double-D goes over the gate. What do you do then? What do any of us do?”
Buchanan did not answer. His expression told Fremont that he had an answer but did not want to say it.
“Oranges?” Fremont read into the silence. “You’ll plant groves?”
“And raise horses. You, me, Griz, maybe Prescott.”
Fremont exhaled. “I don’t say that’s the worst idea in the world, given what’s set in motion. But to go on bended knee to St. Jacques and Dawson? S’pose he wants your land next . . . and he may. Mitchell says his cows are grazin’ more and more on your grass.”
“We got enough.”
“That ain’t the point. Bein’ neighborly ain’t gonna buy you his gratitude. He will want to own the land, the ranch, and you. You won’t have any place to plant Jacob’s crops! And, boss, I thought you didn’t want to work for Dawson or Widmark or anyone.”
“That’s true. It’s the reason we’re having this talk.”
“This is a lot for a man to consider in a hurry and sober,” he said. “But speakin’ for the hands, and I think I can, we’d rather go back free men than slaves. I fought a war because I believed that in my guts. Miss Sally—she teaches the kids about how folks fought in these parts to overthrow the tyrant Santa Anna.” He shook his head. “I will back you whatever you decide for your own brand, but for me? I would rather die than submit.”
Buchanan had listened with his heart as well as his ears.
“Before we left, I gave López orders,” the rancher said. “At sunup, he’s to ride ahead, into the foothills, make his presence known.”
“To who and why?”
“He has said that many of his compadres live in the western hills. They did not want to farm or build railroads, so they rob travelers. I had intended to stay east of that region—but we need more guns.”
“Bandit guns. How do you know they won’t take our cattle?”
“We’ll give ’em some. López says they’ll cotton to being treated like men, like partners getting paid instead of like pirates.”
Fremont seemed to fill with the same enthusiasm López had shown back at the creek.
“We stop now, we round up the strays like you say,” Buchanan continued. “But the Dawsons gain on us and López may not reach whatever help is out there in time. We can move faster when the sun’s up, but we won’t make up time and the steers’ll be two hours more worn down. Plus we may lose cattle for lack of water. So what do we do?”
“We go on,” Fremont said without hesitation. “I’ll fall back and round up those head that I can. I don’t know that there’s a great plan out there, but this is a good one.”
“Glad you brought it up, Fremont. I been chewing cud on this thing, always arriving at the same words you just stated. Oh, one thing you should pass along—any cattle drop, shoot ’em.”
“But the sound of the gunshot—”
“St. Jacques finds a live steer, he knows we’re just two, maybe three hours ahead. Dead steer—buzzards will come. Picked-at carcass could add a couple of extra hours to St. Jacques’s thinking.”
“That’s true.”
“Also, let Miguel decide when to head out himself, though sooner is better than later.”
“He already told me. He was thinking first light. That way he doesn’t fall in a gopher hole, he said.”
Buchanan managed to find a smile. “That’s fine.”
The trail boss rode on to rope the strays he could. Buchanan was not only grateful for the talk but for having men who, unlike himself, had an almost eager willingness to listen.
He was thinking now that he could learn from the men.
Fremont was able to save three head of cattle, although he almost lost his horse in an old Indian wolf pit. Migrating tribes would dig pits and cover them with a latticework of branches covered with grass. The goal was to protect children from predators and also to obtain pelts. One of the steers he approached took off and fell into the brittle trap; it broke its neck, hindquarters twitching as they stabbed up above ground level. That is what Fremont’s horse would’ve done had it continued on its course.
The trail boss decided not to go back for the rest, because he was needed to keep from losing more. He paraded his horse from side to side in the spreading rear of the herd, coaxing stragglers back into the group wherever they happened to be.
Griswold had an easier time negotiating the terrain and moved his wagon along both sides to offer the men coffee he had made before they broke camp. He reheated it with a small iron pot in which he had packed sticks and brush he’d collected at the creek.
“I warmed it best I could without settin’ fire to the coach, embers bouncin’ and flyin’ like they do,” he apologized to each man. “It won’t heat ya but it’ll wake ya.”
The night was colder than Griswold’s coffee, and the hands were appreciative.
Buchanan fell back farther than before. Like the night before he encountered Haywood, he found himself putting more and more space between himself and the herd. He was almost at the point where his hold on the drive was just listening to the distant banging of Griswold’s wagon, which had returned to its position in the rear. Buchanan was angry that he had to deal with St. Jacques on top of what was already proving an expectedly difficult drive. He was distracted trying to puzzle out what Haywood would do, whether they could count on his help or at least his neutrality. Buchanan thought he knew folks’ natures well enough, but this one was a puzzlement. At the same time the Dawson distraction was in some ways a welcome one. The rancher was not out doing what he would have been, searching for strays in the dark. In doing so, he might have ended up like Fremont almost had.
The plains gave way to more and more sand, and then the drive was back in desert. The heat was not an issue, even as light began to break, because the country was bordered on both sides by mountains. The peaks provided relief from the direct sun, although they also blocked the easterlies and westerlies that had provided some relief against the daytime heat. From time to time a poor steer stopped and fell to one side. Some would struggle to regain their feet; others just lay there. Buchanan regretted that he had to leave them to the mercies of thirst and desert predators.
It was the first drive on which he had regrets. He thought it strange that that had never occurred to him before. From the time he conceived this undertaking it was always succeed or fail, with nothing in between. He had not, in fact, felt anything like this since leaving his inactive, grieving father in the care of his mother.
She told you that you had your own life to live. What does this tell you? he asked himself.
The only thing that occurred to him was to listen more closely to the woman closest to him. It was a strange thought to have while in the middle of doing something that a man was born and raised to do. He liked it better when he was just puzzling over whether he could trust George Haywood.
Griswold poked his head around the side of the wagon and shouted. “Ya smell it?”
Buchanan did not. He had lifted his kerchief to keep out the sands kicked up by the chuck wagon wheels. He moved aside and lowered the cloth.
“Salt air,” the rancher said.
“Has to be that big salty creek, yeah? Unless there’s a salt desert ya don’t know about.”
“López would’ve mentioned such.”
“I seen him ride off a while ago,” Griswold said. “More’n scoutin’, it looked like. Reminded me of one of them Pony Express boys I saw just after I left Arizona. He was beatin’ dust like he was tryin’ to outrun a hvirfilvindr. That’s what my granpap used t’call a whirlwind.”
Buchanan pulled his kerchief up and fell back. Griswold never expected an answer to his speeches. He gave them whether anyone was listening or not.
“Hey, boss!” Griswold shouted.
“Yeah?”
“I’m seein’ tired horses! They’re fightin’ the boys a bit!”
“Thank you!”
Buchanan was not surprised by that, or by the fact that Fremont had not come back to tell him. They had the spare animals if needed. It would mean dumping whatever provisions they were carrying or finding a place for them in the wagon—although repacking would slow them down.
The rancher rode a little to the east of the herd so he could look ahead as well as back. In the distance he could see what looked like a necklace of small diamonds like his mother used to wear. They were strung across the horizon: the first hint of Big Salt Creek.
* * *
* * *
It was early afternoon before the drive came within direct sight of the salt creek. By then the herd was strung out nearly a half mile, a group composed of individual steers moving at their own lazy pace. There were little flashes of color and sound, the arms of the cowboys cracking whips in the air to urge the strays and stragglers forward.
The scent had an uplifting effect on the men and horses, as though some ancient urge, some primitive memory, drew them toward the sea. When Big Salt Creek came more fully into view, Buchanan saw at once that the name did not fit. Either that, or it had grown since it was first called that. What spread before them was more than a lake. It was an inland sea of an inland empire, so vast that it cooled the air of the desert immediately to the west.
“It’s like a rabbit pelt on my left cheek,” Griswold put it as they stayed on the eastern side of the sands, closer to the lake.
They could not stay there long, however, as access to the foothills required a turn to the southwest. Fremont brought Prescott up to help him turn the steer into the warmer air. The lead animals resisted and had to be roped and tugged. That caused protest from the tired horses; Fremont’s horse had to be swapped out for one of the animals tied to the chuck wagon. Mitchell brought it up, Griswold stopping the wagon to take on the necessities that the Confederate had stripped from the horse and left in the sand.
“Least ya coulda done is handed ’em to me!” Griswold complained.
“No time, Griz.”
The man rode off to bring Fremont the fresh mount. Buchanan turned and watched along the trail they had traveled. The breeze was covering their tracks somewhat, but Haywood would have no trouble finding indentations from the wagon, patties, even spits of tobacco.
Mitchell returned with Fremont’s horse and tied it to the wagon. He mounted to return to the herd. He happened to look back and stopped.
“Hey, boss?”
“Yeah. I see it.”
A mound of dust lay on the northern horizon, still in the plain. It was at least four times as wide as it was high.
“Tell Will to get them into the foothills, Reb. Hurry. Griz, leave the rest and get the wagon outa here.”
“Ya may need an extra—”
“Jabber all ya want as you join the drive.”
Griswold threw a final armful of tools into the cart, leaving sacks of flour and bundles of jerky. He hurried back to the driver’s seat, muttering.
“There better be more mountain goats or somethin’ to hunt, ’cause I won’t have the men yellin’ at me for just servin’ beans.”
Buchanan weighed putting guns in his hands. He decided against giving them a reason to shoot. He also knew this above all: Armed or unarmed, his being here was not going to stop their pursuit.
The last sounds he heard were Griz’s indistinct mutterings and the fading clang of the pans.
Then he was alone, not lying in wait for one man like last time but facing twenty-odd charging cowboys.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Before dismounting, the only questions in Buchanan’s head were whether St. Jacques had the men riding shoulder to shoulder to create a terrifying dust storm or surround him, folding him in like the wings of a bat, and whether they would gun him down or trample him.
