Ralph Compton the Empire Trail, page 23
“What do you propose to do now, Mr. Buchanan? If I give the word, you and Haywood die.”
“And you. And a bunch of your hands.”
“Such is war.”
“You’re the one who made it such.”
St. Jacques snickered. “You talk like a boy of ten, pointing a finger. The West is changing. The railroads are here, the telegraph connects towns and cities, settlers are coming. This is about a new order of things, and Mr. Dawson intends to have a strong voice in how it grows.”
“And who’s included or pushed aside,” Buchanan said. “Well, we ain’t gonna settle that here. All I want is to get my cattle to market.”
There were shouts from the east: Buchanan’s men followed by gunshots and the mooing of the cows in the front.
St. Jacques smiled. “That, Mr. Buchanan, is not going to happen.”
There was a commotion behind the rancher as cattle backed into the valley, pushed by those in front of the herd. Griswold shouted as steer caused the horses to rear. He tried to simultaneously steady them and turn, both of which were impossible.
“Now, sir,” St. Jacques went on, “lay down your arms, leave me with two—no, three—horses, and you may leave.”
“I make you the same offer!” Haywood shouted.
“Kill that bastard,” St. Jacques said through his teeth, without turning.
St. Jacques was presenting Haywood his back, daring him to shoot. He was glaring now at Buchanan, challenging him to do the same. He heard nothing except shuffling on the dirt. His eyes on the rancher, he saw the man grin behind his gun.
The Southerner looked back. Entering the valley and taking up positions behind boulders were seven Mexican men in ragged uniforms. They were on horseback, rifles at the ready. One of them was leading Haywood’s horse.
“You made a foolish mistake, St. Jacques,” Haywood said. “Mr. Buchanan here rode into Arizpe with beef. You rode into the village with threats. I managed to explain to the alcalde what you proposed to do. He sent these men to help persuade you otherwise. We saw you all start to stumble and curse, so we waited just outa sight.”
St. Jacques did not repeat his order. His men waited.
The uproar of beef and chuck wagon had abated slightly since the last gunshot. The steers had nowhere to go on three sides, and the din of the chuck wagon had prevented them from pushing forward.
“Y’ain’t like stampeding buffalo, ya dumb ’horns!” Griswold shouted at them. He had gotten the chuck wagon far enough away so that it was silent, a sea of calmed cattle behind him. “Hey, St. Jacques? If ya got men out there, they ain’t gettin’ through! Not with this wall o’ rawhide!”
Haywood’s sharp voice broke the silence that had settled on the gorge. “I’m waiting for your answer, mister. Hell, I got no education like you, but I can count. This ‘bastard,’ as you called him, may die but so will you and all of your men.”
Buchanan was still not convinced, as Deems was, as Patsy was, that there was a God who had nothing better to do than to look after him and the small efforts of the AB. Nonetheless, three times now St. Jacques had been in a position to bully and then had to retreat.
The Southerner turned back to Buchanan, his look ferocious. “I surrendered once before. I would rather die than do it again!”
He stalked forward, his rifle snug in his tight fist. As he approached, he raised his gun toward Buchanan. After initial reluctance, the rancher was forced to do so as well. St. Jacques shouldered his stock and aimed. Buchanan did not. As his rifle came up, he dropped to his belly. St. Jacques’s Enfield cracked but the shot went high. Buchanan’s reply did not. The Dawson foreman stopped as the bullet struck and shattered his breastbone and continued into his chest. His head had snapped back slightly at the impact, causing his hat to fly off and fall to the ground, the feather fluttering as it did. Bullet and bone fragments perforated his lungs and heart and he stood still for a long moment, his face registering shock from the impact. His mouth fell open as he tried and failed to draw breath, as the skin of his face paled, as his knees wobbled. His men saw a great red spider form and grow on his back, seemingly alive as it finally sought the ground, pulling him with it.
No one else fired. After the echo of the gunshots faded, and the anxious cattle were once again steadied, the standoff ended with Dawson’s men lowering their guns.
Behind the tableau of dead horses and a fallen man of the South, Griswold sat staring from the seat of his chuck wagon.
“First time I ever seen a showdown with rifles,” he murmured as he looked out at the split chest of the late Yancy St. Jacques. “God help me, I pray it’s the last.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
St. Jacques was wrapped in his bedroll and buried under a pile of rocks. His death was Mexico’s problem, if the local alguacil, the county sheriff, chose to pursue it. If he talked to the people of Arizpe, that was not likely.
For his part, Buchanan was sad and then angry that it had come to that. But he was grateful not to have been the one who perished.
With the defeated men of the Dawson gang leading the way through the relentless sun, the herd moved toward the eastern mouth of the gorge. The men were on horseback, including the two extras the drive had brought along. Two of the Dawson men rode double. All had been disarmed, their weapons in the chuck wagon.
With the prisoners in front of the herd and three AB guns behind them, Buchanan did not think they would have trouble when they ran into the rest of the Dawson crew. His thoughts, as he followed the chuck wagon, were with the man at his side.
George Haywood explained that he had not left that morning back at the Colorado River. He had tracked the AB drive from a distance, waiting to see if St. Jacques or any portion of his team showed up. He did not follow the herd into the gorge but watched as St. Jacques rode in and threatened the alcalde. After the Dawson gang rode out, it was an easy matter to secure the cooperation of the Arizpe militia.
“Which brings us to what you’re going to do now,” Buchanan said.
Haywood offered a rare smile. “Makes a man damned unhappy when there are a couple of ‘right’ things in conflict under the shadow of a great wrong. You having a right to the drive, me owing allegiance to Dawson, but St. Jacques being a wicked son of a bitch. I’m glad that weight’s off me. I tell myself, ‘You’re alive and you’re free.’ For now, I will go north, because I discovered I do not know near enough Spanish to survive here.”
“I don’t think Dawson or his men are going to give you any trouble,” Buchanan said. “St. Jacques was the troublemaker. And the rest of ’em have reason to stay clear of the law. Paying for cattle at gunpoint is still rustling, and they won’t want to face that.”
“I know those men, and the stink of St. Jacques corrupted some of them. I like to think they’ll come back to their senses.”
“Either way, would you consider staying with the AB?”
“I heard a rumor that you’re considering some other trade.”
Buchanan chuckled. “Considering it.”
“Oranges?”
“Considering it.”
Haywood’s smile settled a little as he grew introspective. “I don’t know. Tracking and cattle have been my life for six years. I like the work and I don’t think I want to give it up.”
“What’s your immediate plan, then?”
“Soon’s we’re in the open, I’ll ride with the Dawson men, see what is on their minds and in their hearts.”
“Makes sense.”
“But I thank you for your consideration, Mr. Buchanan.”
“It’s a small thing compared to what you did for us. I’d be the one in that stone grave if not for you, an’ St. Jacques would’ve gotten away with it.”
Haywood rose a little in the saddle and saw daylight ahead as well as above.
“I think I’m gonna ride out, see how many of those boys are in a forgiving mood.”
“I hope to see you at the ranch sometime.”
“I’ll be there. With your horses.”
He extended his hand and Buchanan shook it warmly. “What is it they say down here? Vaya con dios?”
“‘Go with God,’” Buchanan said.
The tracker smiled, blew a gloved kiss to the sky, and rode ahead, waving at Griswold as he guided his horse around the herd.
Buchanan remained where he was, on tail, well behind the chuck wagon and Griswold’s chatter, contentedly alone. There was nothing—not one thing—that had gone the way he had planned since they left the ranch. For that matter, his life had been like that since Boston. Maybe it was time for that to change.
The herd emerged into the sharp light of the afternoon. The foothills were long and sloping but not very high, with a bright prairie beyond. The Dawson group was still at the opening, having been pushed backward by the cattle. There was no challenge from them. The reasons for the small-scale war still existed, but without St. Jacques, the longing for a fight was gone. Half the Dawson men had no guns and half, having ridden hard for nearly two days, had no belly for a showdown. They headed north in the company of Haywood, who seemed to Buchanan to be both safe and content.
“If that wasn’t the most unexpected day I ever lived . . .” Griswold said as the cattle began to move.
“Don’t say that,” Buchanan told him, falling in beside the seat.
“Why not, Sachem?”
“Because there’s still a few hours of daylight left, Griz.”
The cookie frowned at that, but Buchanan intended to enjoy his first afternoon in quite some time.
The journey to Chihuahua took just over a week. They arrived very late in the afternoon and once again their first sight of the town was a house of worship. In this case it was the cathedral at the Plaza de Armas. Buchanan, Fremont, and López were at the head of the herd as they approached.
“Four years ago we fought the French imperialists here. They had taken up positions in the church, barricaded doors with pews, bales, everything they had except the horses. We could not enter, so we attacked with a cannon. We said many prayers for the violence we did.” He pointed. “You can still see the damage to the bell tower and the poor bell.”
It happened that López was remembered in the town, by the padre whom he and his revolutionaries had liberated from the French. Father Angel Sáenz was shopping for a straw hat in the plaza marketplace when shoppers began to gather and point to the north. He walked out, both puzzled and interested by the unexpected arrival of cattle.
“Padre Sáenz!” a voice called from the front of the drive.
The portly clergyman shielded his eyes—the unfulfilled purpose of the hat—and walked toward López. The padre’s brown frock appeared nearly golden in the western sun. His face glowed even brighter when he recognized the man at the head of the drive.
“Miguel López!” he shouted. “The man who broke my bell!”
“Do you forgive me?” López cried back.
“Every day that I do not see Frenchmen in my village! More importantly, my son, I am sure God forgives you as well!”
From Father Sáenz, through López, Buchanan learned that the railroad office was on the other side of Chihuahua, something he had suspected when he heard the sounds of banging and yelling the nearer they had come.
Buchanan and López dismounted and walked their horses while Fremont settled the drive.
“It is a constant discomfort to the ears,” the padre said as he walked between them, “except on the Sabbath, blessed as the Lord’s day and a day of peace! But—but—our town has never known such prosperity! Look how many tables are in our marketplace. You remember, Miguel, when we only had what the French left us?”
“I recall,” López answered. “Including the diseases.”
“Yes, there was misery. The Good Lord tested us, we proved worthy, and so we accept this bounty . . . along with the noise.”
The three men walked through the dusty town, the padre greeted with much the same respect as the alcalde in Arizpe. Faith and the wisdom of age were the cornerstones of these villages, perhaps of the new Mexican nation. It did not seem a bad way to conduct the business of a country.
The man in charge of the railroad was not Mexican.
“His name is Horace Caine, a surveyor who lost part of an arm and all of his patience in Gettysburg,” the padre explained. “He is from a railroad family that wishes to build what they call the Corpus Christi, San Diego and Rio Grande Gauge Railroad from here to your southwest.”
That’ll make Dick Dawson happy, Buchanan thought.
“It may be that is the true reason Dawson did not want us to make friends here,” López suggested.
“That may very well be.”
“But first,” Father Sáenz said, “Señor Caine must demonstrate that he can turn farmers into railroad workers. So far . . .” The padre waved his hand the way Buchanan had seen rowboats roll on choppy waters.
The three made their way among stacks of wooden ties and steel rails, then maneuvered between men working machinery that created a level track bed. Horace Caine stood in front of a single ramshackle engine that was being used to test laid track. A ribbon of wood and steel stretched out behind the train, running south.
Barking three separate instructions at once to a supernaturally calm translator, Caine initially greeted the two Americans as bothers. Then he learned why they were here. His big, open face turned from devil-red to angelic before he could snap out another command.
“Food, hell,” Caine said with a mildly apologetic look at the priest. “I’ve been asking Hidalgo for more men. We’ll eat half—the cows, I mean—and use the others to haul steel. What do you want for them?”
Buchanan named a price, the same he had quoted to Hidalgo. And just like that, the entire herd was sold. Buchanan and Caine retired to the small hotel on the south side of the plaza overlooking the construction site. He had his own safe in an office so small, the hotelier had to leave so the other two men could fit. Caine paid Buchanan with a sack of gold coins.
“Not sure this new ‘gold standard’ will take, but if it doesn’t, you can melt these down and you’ve still got gold.”
“That is entirely satisfactory,” Buchanan assured him.
“Get your herd bedded down,” Caine said. “If you stay till I can get a capable team over . . .”
“It’ll be done,” the rancher replied.
“Good man. I’ll have some of our grub sent over.”
The rancher left the office with his chest tight and tears behind his eyes. If he had been undecided before about planting oranges, he was decided now. Upon hearing about the plans for the railroad, he knew he would have the same problem here that he had in the States: Men like Dawson would crowd him out with cows. But that was not the main reason for making the change; he and his men did not shy from a scrap.
What tilted the scales toward planting was the fact that he suspected he would never again have a day like this.
Buchanan met López in the plaza and walked toward the men. Like the rancher, the Mexican seemed choked up when he saw what Buchanan was carrying. The rancher sought out Fremont first, then gathered the others for a celebration that had not only been earned but was much-needed.
Only the man who found his stores of spirits seized and then depleted before sundown had cross words for the celebration.
“Don’t complain t’me when yer whiskey beans ain’t got no liquor taste in ’em.”
Buchanan said they would buy more before they left Chihuahua and that he did not think anyone would be complaining about anything during the journey home.
The trip to the north began three days after the men had arrived. The cowboys had celebrated, slept off the celebration, then finished transferring the cattle to the camp and resupplying. As in Arizpe there was a celebratory atmosphere in the town. Buchanan realized that it had as much to do with being a free people as it did with the spectacle of beef on the hoof.
It was ironic, he thought, that the Civil War had not produced a similar feeling among his countrymen.
Buchanan did not retrace the route they took, which had proven to be less favorable than he had expected; the thought of crossing the ledge that Haywood had helped them hew from the mountainside was reason enough to follow a different trail. They set out to the northwest, around the Rio Conchos and for four days made their way past the three lakes to El Paso. There, after the men spent a little of the gold they had earned—and Buchanan purchased church gloves for his three girls—the cowboys picked up the old Gila Trail. It was not as direct as some of the other wagon ways, but it followed the San Pedro, Gila, and other rivers, and the men wanted a rise that was easy, not necessarily fast.
Riding beside the wagon—now out of habit, not necessity—Buchanan was relaxed . . . and thoughtful.
“What’re we runnin’ back to, anyway, Sachem?” Griswold asked a day out of El Paso. “I like the oranges we took, for once in a while, but that smell all the time?”
“We can still raise some cattle for our own use . . . horses. You don’t have to live near the groves.”
“‘The groves,’” Griswold said. “Sounds like you already got ’em laid out in your head. You’re decided.”
“I believe so,” Buchanan said. “I don’t much like drives that end with killing a rival, even if it was him or me.”
“I don’t imagine Jacob would be drawin’ on ya,” the cookie agreed.
Saying out loud what he was thinking made the notion even more real to Buchanan. It was decided. He would hereafter be an orange grower, not a rancher. The name did not sit well.
But Buchanan had over a week to get accustomed to it as they made their way along the trail. They passed a sign that announced a new town, Shakespeare, where silver miners were already staking their claims. Mitchell and Prescott came forward there, asked Buchanan about his intentions.
