The horses were rearing wildly, and riding them was not an option. It would have taken energy that needed to be applied to the steers. The men moved them first, fearful that they would run off and be lost in the lush pastures. They tied the animals to a tree behind the chuck wagon, moving Griswold’s animals there as well. They were bucking so much on both sides, the cookie was afraid of the wagon falling over or snapping its brake.

  Buchanan had experienced severe gully washers before, but never beside a river. He also felt a smaller crosscurrent coming from the north, possibly off the Big Salt Creek.

  “Boss, I say we leave ’em go,” Fremont said. “They run, they probably won’t go far! The cattle need us!” The trail boss and Buchanan were the only ones trying to calm them now.

  “You go! I’m worried about them hurting themselves!”

  Fremont signaled okay and, putting his head and shoulders down, made his way to the nearest lantern. They had been tied to trees near the herd, giving light where it was immediately needed: the cattle that were slowly being shoved, kicked, and whipped away from the river. The men had started by trying to push the cows nearest the water outward, but they bumped against cattle that were disinclined to move. Three men went around the other side to rope individual animals and try to drag them into motion. Prescott had the most success, actually encircling steers around the head with his arms as he had done in the rodeo.

  The storm showed no sign of relenting as the cattle were maneuvered from the riverbank. Fremont was still on that side of the herd as the rising water reached his boots. He turned to the other man farther down that side.

  “Miguel, go around and help move ’em out! These steer get too wet, they’ll stampede into the others!”

  The Mexican sloshed ahead on the muddy earth. Fremont had never felt anything like the seething mass of beef in front of him as he stopped pushing and let the water do that job for him. All he wanted to do was make sure that they did not turn into the river in a panic. Steers’ sense of direction was poor under normal conditions; in this situation it could be fatal.

  To the west, Buchanan saw it first: a surge of water that was at least waist-high and twofold more than the banks could contain.

  “Fremont, get out!” he cried.

  The trail boss could not hear him—ironically, because the wave was so loud. Where Fremont was standing, about three hundred yards away, it would still sound like rain.

  Buchanan grabbed a rope, left the horses, and ran forward, half slipping as he raced the floodwaters to reach his old friend.

  “Fremont! Fremont, get back!”

  Whether the trail boss heard the water or Buchanan or both, Fremont turned as the water came rolling at him, catching him before he could take a step. The man had his legs swept out from under him. He landed facedown, his legs in the water and his body pinwheeling as he was pulled downriver. He dug his gloved hands into the sod, cutting long ruts as he was dragged.

  “Miguel! Lewis—anyone!” Buchanan yelled. But the gale was too loud and the men too far away to hear him.

  With the wind at his back, Buchanan took a chance by throwing his lasso from ten feet away. The rope landed on Fremont’s shoulders and he raised one arm from the watery mud to put it through. Just then the current spun his head toward the river while simultaneously dragging him downstream. Once again he dug into the bank with both hands, although they did little to slow his progress. The rope slipped away and Buchanan yanked it back. Still running forward, he scooped the loop up and heaved a second time, trying to get the rope in the water as far below the man’s left hand as possible. He succeeded in dropping it near Fremont’s elbow so that he drifted toward the loop. While Buchanan watched anxiously, the trail boss raised his arm from the water and slapped around until he had it in his fingers. Buchanan dug his boot heels in and tightened the line as Fremont got his arm through and grabbed the taut rope.

  “Both hands!” Buchanan yelled.

  Fremont released his grip on the bank and put his left arm through the loop. He also grabbed the rope with his right hand.

  The torrent wanted the man but not as much as Buchanan wanted him back. He leaned back. Even as the waters rose and lapped over the rancher’s boots, he pushed against the earth with his heels, trying to walk backward, arms straining to pull Fremont in.

  Suddenly, an extra pair of hands grabbed the rope. Buchanan did not see who they belonged to until the man bent low enough into the glow of the lantern.

  It was George Haywood.

  The tracker was grimacing as he pulled with strong arms, leaning back so far, he appeared to be seated. He started working the rope hand over hand. Pulling together, the men drew Fremont from the raging water onto muddy ground and then several feet beyond. The trail boss lay still.

  Buchanan dropped the lariat and ran over. As rain continued to pour down, he flopped Fremont onto his back. The man was unconscious.

  “You are not going to die!” Buchanan screamed.

  He straddled the man’s waist, pushed Fremont’s face to one side, and put both hands flat on his rib cage. He pressed upward slowly, repeatedly, leaning into each push the way he had learned at the seaport in Boston. The man’s cheek had felt cold, very cold.

  “Come on, Will!”

  By this time López and Mitchell had seen what was going on. They ran over, Mitchell skidding to Fremont’s side on his knees. He pulled off his glove with his teeth and stuck two fingers in Fremont’s mouth as deeply as he could. The trail boss lay still for several moments longer; then, abruptly, he coughed hard and a stream of warm water spewed from his mouth. He retched, turned onto his side, and spit more.

  “Let’s get him up!” Buchanan said.

  The rancher took him under one arm, Mitchell under the other, and they got him to his feet.

  They walked him toward the chuck wagon and leaned him against the side, away from the river and sheltered from the slanting rain. While they held him there, letting him cough out what water remained, Buchanan looked around. He saw Haywood standing shin-high in the river, pushing the cattle toward solid land. Some went; those that did not ended up in the torrent and then moving downriver against their will. Their struggles sent up high splashes but did not get them any nearer to the bank. They cried skyward but the sounds were soon lost in the storm, the steers vanishing into the night.

  Fremont finally raised his arms and then his head.

  “You look bad, friend.” Buchanan smiled.

  “Feel worse,” Fremont said. “Felt like I swallowed half the river.”

  “Not quite, but enough to nearly drown ya.”

  Fremont looked at Buchanan in the dark. “You pulled me out?”

  “I tried, but it took me and Haywood to get you to ground.”

  “He—he’s back?” Fremont coughed again.

  “Yes, and timely enough.”

  Mitchell released Fremont. “I’m goin’ back to help the roundup.”

  “Thank you,” Buchanan said.

  “Yeah, from me, too,” Fremont said weakly. He shook his head, which was more like letting it just flop from side to side. “I thought I was done.”

  “Wasn’t gonna let that happen,” Buchanan said.

  “Haywood,” the trail boss muttered. “Jeez. I’ll thank him, too, when I can move.”

  Buchanan looked out at the faint light. Although the river continued to leap and pour from its bed, the storm was weakening and the men seemed to be getting a handle on the herd. There would be time enough for Haywood. For now, cold and shivering, Buchanan was just grateful to be standing there with his friend instead of mourning his loss.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The storm had passed before the steers had been settled. The oppressively hot day gave way to a cool night. Griswold made a fire using dry wood he kept in the chuck wagon for just this purpose. While the men pulled off their soaked clothes, the cookie hung the lanterns on trees so he could see as he fashioned a drying rack between two upright branches that had come down in the storm. He lay sticks he had kept to make torches across the top. When he was finished, he carried it over to the campfire and jammed the ends in the sodden earth.

  “Cookin’, doctorin’, laundry,” he muttered. “I oughta get the pay o’ three men. Four, if ya consider pullin’ teeth, which can still happen.”

  “I’m grateful to be alive,” Fremont said. “That’s pay enough for me.”

  The trail boss was seated beside the fire, covered with a blanket from the chuck wagon. His knees were pulled to his chin as he contemplated the brash actions that had nearly cost him his life and the heroism of the ones who had saved him.

  “And bartender!” Griswold exclaimed suddenly, a cloudburst of complaint. “Don’t forget who it was ran barefoot through the mud to get the whiskey that brought back yer warmth and color!”

  “I will never forget that.”

  “Dribbled half of his down yer chin, so don’t blame me if we run out.”

  “We’ll get tequila over the border,” López said. “You will like it more.”

  “I believe, Griz, that every man here will give up his personal claim to the four head we lost tonight,” Mitchell said.

  “What do you need money for, anyway?” Prescott asked. “The ladies at the Horn and Hide stopped takin’ yer money two, three seasons ago.”

  Griswold began draping shirts over the center of the bar, chaps—which did not need as much drying, being leather—toward the end. “Mebbe I’ll strike, see how you all like it. That’s what I’ll do.”

  “Then you won’t get nothin’,” López laughed.

  The Mexican’s laughter, like the conversation itself, was born of relief. Talk drifted and shrank as the men lay back around the fire, their flannel undershirts and cotton drawers drying on them as they tried to rest if not sleep.

  Buchanan took the watch, since the men needed sleep. Besides, his muscles were still charged, his arms looking for something to do. He even considered chopping wood and cutting away the bark for more firewood, but he had something else more pressing. After checking to see that the horses were secure, he tucked his rifle under his arm and walked to the chuck wagon. Haywood was drinking coffee that he had made himself with Griswold’s blessing.

  The men had learned the drill already: George Haywood showed up and the others paid him no attention. They were not being rude but watchful. This man who had helped get them off the ledge and had now helped save their trail boss was still the man who had stolen back his guns and then tried to steal their cattle not once but twice.

  The backboard was open and Buchanan put his foot on it. It was dark back here, the sloshing of the river full and ominous but all else was silent, even the owls and coyotes.

  “Brew smells good,” Buchanan said.

  “I make it strong,” Haywood said. “Every man’s got a particular smell, lest he smells like coffee. Have some.”

  “Not just now,” Buchanan said. “Seems I have to thank you again, Mr. Haywood. Were you out here scouting?”

  “That’s what St. Jacques called it when he sent me. But I don’t believe St. Jacques trusts me anymore.”

  “Why? ’Cause you lied to him about what happened in our camp.”

  “No, Mr. Buchanan. He believed what I told him.”

  Buchanan looked at the man with open disapproval. “That you were our prisoner.”

  “That’s right. There was nothing else to say.”

  “Then what makes you think he doesn’t trust you?”

  Haywood drained the cup, poured another from the pot. His movements were certain, trained for activity in the dark. “He did not tell me what his own plans were. For all I know, he turned round after I left and went hunting for Juaristas in the foothills. In case you didn’t catch it, St. Jacques has had a bear’s bellyful of losing battles.”

  The rancher considered this. It made no sense, but he respected Haywood for being honest about lying.

  “What’s your guess about his plans?”

  Haywood hesitated—too long, Buchanan thought. “I truly do not know.”

  “Would you tell me if you did know?”

  “I was just contemplating that,” Haywood said. “I’m not sure. See, I can still go back if I want to. I throw in with you, I’m a hunted man. St. Jacques, given what he is, and me, given who I am—he would never give up trying to hang me.”

  “Can a man live like that?”

  “Like what? I saw you back there at the foothills, Mr. Buchanan. For all your high ideals, you were considering St. Jacques’s offer.”

  Haywood was not wrong. Now that he was safe, and with hindsight, the rancher felt ashamed.

  “You’re not wrong,” Buchanan said as he took coffee for himself. “That wasn’t a matter of lying. I was faced with a tactical decision.”

  “You and me, we grew up with different ways of surviving,” Haywood said. “You make decisions because you have choices. I learnt how to yield on the outside while staying strong on the inside.”

  “I understand,” Buchanan said. “Would you have joined them, firing on my cattle?”

  “I most likely would. Cattle are not people; they’re food. And you would have been paid.”

  “I don’t like what you say, but your honesty is appreciated.”

  “You probably won’t like this either,” Haywood said. “I can’t swear to it, but I don’t think St. Jacques gives a spit about the border anymore. Crossing it won’t make you safe.” He pointed with his tin cup. “You’re one Yankee he does not intend to let win.”

  “People make mistakes when they’re mad,” Buchanan said.

  “Or they whip you near to death. I’ve seen him break horses, permanent. And there’s something else you should know. I don’t like the man, but he’s no fool. Commanded cavalry during the war and knows all the tricks and tactics. I heard the stories, like circling horses in the woods to make it seem like he’s got more than he does, leaving uniforms stuffed with hay on the ground to make Union boys walk into ambushes. With nothing to do but ride and think since those Juaristas surprised him, he will find some way to surprise you.”

  “And you?”

  “And me. I don’t think like a reptile.”

  Buchanan wasn’t sure what he meant by that. “You mean a real one?”

  “I do. He’s watched them chase locusts. How they wait, dash, keep their distance, then strike with their tongues, sometimes working in pairs. Said he heard during the war that Chinese learned to fight that way, so he did the same. Didn’t much care for foreigners, but he was smart enough to learn from them.”

  “That’s a little too philosophical for me,” Buchanan said. “And I’m not a locust.”

  Haywood said nothing.

  “That still leaves us with the question of what you’re going to do,” Buchanan went on. “Where are you supposed to meet him?”

  “North, same way I came. I just can’t be sure he’ll be there. Could be using me to make you think he’s coming up behind you.”

  “But you don’t know.”

  “I do not,” Haywood said. “St. Jacques—he doesn’t like confiding in former slaves.”

  “Yet you stay.”

  “Yeah. They mostly leave me alone. Man like me, that’s a welcome thing.”

  Buchanan had met a number of former slaves and each had his own measure of what freedom meant. To some it was leaving their old existence behind. To others it was exacting revenge against those who had abused them. He tried to respect them all, although Haywood presented a challenge: his employer was out to get them.

  “You mind if I stay the rest of the night?” Haywood asked. “It was a long ride getting here and I’d like some sleep before thinking any more.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll bunk by the horses, like before,” he said.

  “You can stay by the fire.”

  “Actually, it looks drier over on the rocks.”

  Buchanan shrugged and left it at that. He went toward the river that had so lately threatened his foreman and the drive, the waters turbid and still flowing hard, though not as turbulent as earlier.

  St. Jacques was not giving up. That left the Dawson man just two options, as far as he could figure: chasing him west of the Big Salt Creek or making a rush along the eastern bank, hoping to cut him off.

  If I was him, I’d send Haywood west and go east, he thought. Make a dash toward Hidalgo.

  Unfortunately, there was no other location that Buchanan knew where he could sell his cattle. The confrontation with the Juaristas had humiliated the proud Southerner in front of his men. He wondered if the Dawson foreman would bother to give him the same offer a second time, or whether he would just shoot the cattle—and possibly the men—on sight.

  And I’m still outgunned, he thought. I can’t risk that possibility.

  Another standoff was not likely to work, even if more soldiers could be found on this side of the border. Buchanan needed a better solution, and there was not much time to find one.

  Frustrated, he decided to clear his head. He went to his horse to get his journal and record the events of the evening. While he felt for a pencil, his fingers touched several folded sheets of paper. He moved them aside, then stopped. With a sudden rush of excitement and hope, he fished them out with two fingers. He also grabbed the map. It was too dark to read here, so he went over to the campfire. Griswold was still tending to the clothes.

  “Ya want to watch these, Sachem? Make sure they don’t catch fire? I’d like to go back to sleep.”

  “Hang on awhile longer,” Buchanan said. He stood under one of the lanterns and opened the papers.

  “Patsy slip ya a secret note? ‘Don’t open till yer up to yer chin in river water’?”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24