Ralph Compton the Empire Trail, page 22
After the meal, while the men listened to one of the local young men play guitar and danced with a few of the ladies, Buchanan spent time listening to their host talk about the valley and the range in which it sat. The alcalde sat with him and with López, who translated. The rancher was particularly concerned about bandits.
“He says they only come where and when there are crops to steal,” López said. “The villages in the north are small and far apart, so it is not worth their effort, and Arizpe trades with travelers for much of what they eat.”
“The blankets we saw,” Buchanan realized.
“It is also months early for banditos, who will be in the south, where the growing season is earlier.”
The night wound down quickly with everyone well-fed. Most of the village turned out to see them off the following morning . . . including a set of eyes that had not been present at the previous night’s festivities.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Except for having to return an adventurous boy who had hidden in the chuck wagon, the entry into the valley was accomplished quickly and without incident. Lewis Prescott, the former rodeo rider, took the stowaway home using backward-riding tricks that convinced the frightened boy never again to leave his village without permission.
The passage through the Sierra Madres was not what Buchanan had been expecting. It was narrow and zigzagging, with steep walls and slanting piles of rock and dirt on either side. Here and there were edges that seemed to have been left when the surrounding wall cracked from seeping water and fell away or were knocked down and shattered by rock sliding from above.
“We gonna have to fix some maps when we get back,” Fremont noted as they rode in. “Ain’t more’n a gorge.”
Deems, riding nearby him, added, “It’s like the Lord extended His hands and pulled the mountain apart just enough.”
Mitchell snorted. “He didn’t finish this place any better’n He finished men.”
There was an unearthly echo of hooves and animal sounds, and movement slowed where the morning sun did not yet reach. The herd would frequently stop where large, craggy boulders, sheared from the cliff above, blocked their way. Coaxing the steers around them required stopping the lead animals and those behind them lest they be crushed against the obstacle. The chuck wagon fell behind, having to make right-angle turns to get through blocked, narrow passes.
“Wasn’t built to go sideways,” Griswold complained. He had to get out to lessen the weight and walk the team through.
Buchanan, riding beside him on the seat, had untied the spare horses and trailed them so that the wagon could slide sideways a few feet where it had to.
“Some country, Mexico, where I never want to come again,” Griswold said. “Refugee behind my flour, wagon movin’ sidewards, givin’ away our beef! It ain’t natural here.”
“You seemed to enjoy the señora.”
“Well, man does not live by bakin’ bread alone.”
“Also, I seem to recall you felt the same when we first met the Grand Canyon,” Buchanan said.
“We didn’t try to go in it,” Griswold said. “This Mexico place—the whole thing is upside-down, even the lingo.”
Buchanan knew he had played out the rope of reason and let the conversation go back to being one-sided.
Progress through the valley was unexpectedly slow, and a day that had begun well quickly turned caustic to Buchanan’s spirit. The narrowness of the pass was one problem: there was also the length. For a rider, neither would have been an issue. But the way the herd was moving, they might not reach the other end by nightfall. That would make them easy, trapped targets for anyone approaching from the opposite side. If not bandits, then possibly—if not imminently—St. Jacques. The rancher knew it was unlikely, and he continually referred to his papers to try and remember what he had seen on the more detailed printed maps. If the Dawsons took an inland route, it would not put them close to the current route, but it would put them closer. If they fanned out, a rider might see or hear them. Within these walls, they were creating quite a ruckus.
“He thinks like a reptile,” Buchanan said suddenly. “Has nothing but time to think.”
“What’s that, Sachem?”
“I’m considering our situation aloud,” the rancher answered.
“Which situation? This crack in the mountains that ain’t suitable for a drive?”
“No, I’m talking about St. Jacques,” Buchanan replied. “If we were all troops during the war, I’m wondering how would he find us and attack.”
“One way he ain’t is from the high ground—unless he plans to throw rocks.” Griswold chuckled. “That’d chafe Deems!”
“What would?”
“To be stoned, like some sinful whatnot in the Bible.”
“St. Jacques won’t do that. Going into the mountains would slow him. What he has now is more men and greater speed. How does he use that?”
“I don’t know. I woulda gone home by now. I can’t think moon-looney like that.”
But St. Jacques could and did, and as Buchanan rode alongside, he weighed the naked facts of the situation. The Dawson gang had information available to them that he had unavoidably left behind in deeds and tracks, along with the testimony of Haywood should he choose to give it. St. Jacques also had speed and numbers on his side, and a devious mind to deploy them.
A plan was beginning to form itself, one that concerned him more than anything they had faced till now.
Tying the extra horses to the seat rail of the chuck wagon, Buchanan rode to Mitchell at the back of the herd.
“I’m gonna tell Fremont to keep the herd moving hard till we’re out of here,” the rancher said. “Keep up, and if you can’t, forget any strays.”
“Something happen?” the ex-Confederate asked.
“No, and I want to make sure it doesn’t,” Buchanan said as he rode ahead. There was room for him to maneuver around his riders and the herd, but not a lot, and there were jagged rocks to his left side.
Fremont was in the lead with López riding slightly ahead to watch for holes and narrow passages.
“Miguel! Over here,” Buchanan said as he rode up.
The Mexican cantered over. The men continued riding, Buchanan in the center.
“Will, I want you to push the herd. I want to be out of this gorge before dark, if that’s possible. Miguel, you ride ahead. Let me know if you can see the end.”
“Bueno,” López said, and rode off. He stayed to the northern side to avoid the deep shadows on the southern half.
“You think the Dawsons got the draw on us?” Fremont asked.
“I truly do not know. But I’m thinking if I was him, with more’n twice the men, I’d’ve split ’em up, sent one west and one east. A party moving south along the western side of the Sierras will learn from our tracks, maybe from Haywood, maybe from the alcalde, that the Juaristas did not stay with us and we’re headed to this clog of a valley.”
“Which means they could be close.”
“It does,” Buchanan said, “and it’s my fault. We probably should’ve pushed on last night, but—”
“That’s bosh, boss. The men needed that fiesta. So did that town. So did you.”
“Well, we got it. They still don’t know where we’re going, which is why, if we can get out of this, we can still beat a west- or east-moving band to Chihuahua.”
It was late afternoon before López returned. The shadows had shifted but there was still enough light to show his face when he reported to Buchanan, who was back beside the chuck wagon. The Mexican’s expression was grim.
“If we do not stop, we still do not arrive until it is dark,” López said. “Very dark.”
“How is the passage?”
“The same as we have seen. And very soon the shadows will be everywhere. We will have to go slower.”
Overhearing, Griswold said, “An’ this time we ain’t got torches. Used my last sticks to dry clothes.”
“You have instructions for point?” López asked.
“Give me a moment.”
Buchanan took out his map and studied it as the mustang loped along. He used his index finger to approximate distances down the eastern side. He looked up, around, and back. Then he regarded López.
“Tell Will to slow ’er down, Miguel. We’re not going to try and finish the passage today. I’ll come up a bit and explain. Also, send Prescott and Deems here.”
“You will set up—how do you say it?—guards for the rear?”
“That’s close enough,” Buchanan said.
López threw off a small salute before leaving.
“What’re ya gonna do, leave ’em behind to hold off any Dawsons that come through?” Griswold asked.
“That’s the idea.”
“Okay. Once we get out, an’ assuming they survive, we need ’em on the herd. What, then?”
“I’m working it out,” Buchanan replied. His strict tone told Griswold to stop talking.
The two men arrived as the herd slowed. Without the swing riders in place, the center of the drive bulged toward the sides as the cattle gave themselves room.
Buchanan stopped and faced them. He had the extra horses, both of which had bundles of tools on their backs.
“I don’t know for sure, but we may have Dawsons coming up behind us. We gotta prepare as if we do, anyway.”
“Pharaoh’s chariots,” Deems muttered. “We need the Lord of Hosts to do battle alongside us.”
“I welcome any assistance with wide-open arms, Joe, especially His. But, barring that, we need defenses. The valley floor will be in shadow soon. I want ya to take a shovel and pick and get to work digging as many holes as ya can. Not a trench they can walk over. Keep digging into darkness: I want enough holes to trip up a horse, make them lose one or two or three so they have to stop till they can see again. I don’t like it, but if they’re coming, we gotta make ’em stop for the night.”
“I’m gonna enjoy this, boss,” Prescott said. He had already guided his horse to one of the extra animals. He dismounted and untied the bundle on its back. He handed Deems a shovel and kept a pick. The two men headed west, Deems assuring Buchanan they would be two Horsemen of the Apocalypse, resolute and bringing their own brand of wrath down on the Dawsons.
“He’s crazy,” Griswold said after they had departed.
“We’re probably gonna need more of that quality before this is finished,” Buchanan said with solemnity.
The drive continued until late in the afternoon, when the shadows were too wide and deep for the men to see. There was no wood for a campfire, nor would they have made one. In addition to the light giving away their location, Buchanan was concerned that the crackling would prevent them from hearing anyone who might approach from either side. He also asked the men not to talk for the same reason.
Several of the hands had bedded down by the time Prescott and Deems returned.
“We made it like a mess o’ cannonballs went off out there,” Prescott said. “No one’s getting’ through from that direction.”
Buchanan told them to go to the chuck wagon for beans; supper was cold but abundant. The rancher went over to Fremont, who was still awake. He was sitting on a rock that had fallen at some point in the past and buried itself deep in the dirt. He was chewing a cigar too stubby to be lit. Its only use was to keep the man’s mouth busy.
“I hate waiting,” Fremont said as Buchanan leaned against the cliff beside him. “Used to feel the same way the night before a battle. At least in the war you knew what you was waiting for.”
“Think about moving the herd out in the morning,” Buchanan said. “That’s the only job we got any control over.”
“I know. Got Mitchell out front, but I don’t think I’ll be sleeping much. It’s this place. Every movement I hear, I think, ‘Is that us or them?’”
“I’ll listen for both of us. You lie down.”
“Sure, sure,” Fremont said. He took the cigar from his mouth and tossed it. “Ain’t nothin’ left o’ this anyway.”
The camp fell almost entirely asleep. Without a campfire, even the herd seemed to settle into quiet repose. Before too long, Buchanan saw what Fremont had meant. The rancher felt the heaviness, the closeness, of the cliffs closing in. He was used to open spaces, not this. Even after the flooding of the Colorado, there had been a freshness to the abused camp and exhausted men. This place and the imminence of danger preyed on him.
Maybe Will was not wrong, he reflected.
Waiting, too, was the enemy.
Buchanan sat where he had been standing. From time to time he slept, only to be wakened by sounds from the west—distant noises that were heightened by the stone walls and silence of the camp. They could be animal growls and trees creaking back toward Arizpe.
Or they could be horses and riders falling.
If so, the traps have worked, he thought. After weeks of accepting whatever fate and men had hoisted upon them, that was a tonic to his soul.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The morning brought a wash of cooler air from the east. It was a welcome relief from the humidity that had collected in the gorge. It was also a beacon bidding the drive to come forward.
Neither that nor the hint of deep blue in the sky were what had wakened Buchanan. What roused him was the sound of hoofbeats in the distance—to the west.
“Will,” he whispered to his sleeping trail boss.
The man flustered to wake. “Yeah?”
“Wake the others. We may need guns. Keep ’em on foot.”
Fremont crawled from his bag and, still on his knees, went from man to man. waking them and giving the order. Buchanan rose, his rifle in both hands, across his chest the way he had carried it in war. He listened carefully; after a minute, he was certain.
Men were coming from the west. Buchanan heard horses, some with an uneven gait.
“They fell into the holes,” Fremont said, walking over with his Springfield.
“Sounds like it.”
The men of the AB were silent as they watched the twisted angle of the gorge to their west. They stood shoulder to shoulder; tucked behind them was the cookie peering from the back of his wagon, his own six-shooter in hand.
There was a sharp turn some two hundred feet distant; as they looked on, three men on foot and then seven on horseback came into view. The mounted men all had rifles under their arms. The men who were walking led lame horses behind them. The animals were still carrying their bedrolls and supplies. One of the men on foot was St. Jacques.
The Dawson trail boss raised a hand to his men when he saw the row of five men ahead. The newcomers stopped.
“That was a clever thing you did,” St. Jacques shouted. “We need three horses.”
Griswold muttered, “You’re gonna need a whole lot more horses if you make another move.”
“Quiet,” Buchanan said.
St. Jacques left his horse and started forward. “There are more men coming up behind you. I suggest you set aside your arms. They will shoot your beeves and those nearest you will, I fear, trample you down.”
“Mister, I’ve had a bellyful of you,” Buchanan said. “You want to shoot, shoot. We will all get bloodied.”
“I have no intention of shooting. There’s no need. You’re the one who is trapped.”
“Well,” Fremont whispered to Buchanan, “you was right about them splittin’ up.”
St. Jacques continued to walk forward. Buchanan could not fault him for guts if nothing else.
“I say again, Mr. Buchanan: Give me three horses to replace the ones you lamed. We can shoot these and then wait for our companions like civilized people. And before you ask, the drive ends here. There will be no further offers to purchase your beef. That time is passed. It’s to be a feast for buzzards and wolves now.”
“The question is: What will they be feasting on?”
The voice came from behind the Dawson men. Even before he saw him, Buchanan knew the man who had spoken: It was Haywood. The tracker was perched on a small ledge, his rifle aimed at St. Jacques.
“Haywood,” the Southerner said as he turned. “I wondered where you had gone.”
The other Dawson hands turned to various degrees, raising their weapons.
“Lower the guns or you’ll have a lot fewer horses,” Haywood warned.
“Do as he says,” St. Jacques ordered.
The Dawson trail boss walked slowly toward his own injured mount. His rifle scabbard was on the right side. That was the side he was headed.
A shot cracked; the animal flopped over, blood jetting from its head. Buchanan took a few steps forward. His rifle was smoking and his eye was dead-set behind it. To the west, the Dawson horses jerked here and there from the shot and had to be steadied. Behind Buchanan, the herd stirred and mooed unpleasantly.
“Will, take the men and steady the cattle,” the rancher said.
“Lead ’em out?”
“Not yet. The cliffs will help contain them. There may be more shots.”
“Yes, sir,” Fremont said with fresh enthusiasm as he motioned the others to mount up and follow him.
St. Jacques watched the proceedings with a look that had gone from rage at the loss of his stallion to a haughty contempt—like a low Yankee had no right to shoot a fine horse. Maybe, to him, this was now a duel between gentlemen, with only one of them fitting that description. Buchanan suspected the man’s glare was a challenge like the slap of a glove. The question he asked seemed like a formality, since the conclusion was obvious.
The AB men must surrender or die.
