Ralph Compton the Empire Trail, page 4
The roundup typically started three or four days before the drive, depending on where and how widely the cattle were grazing. Fremont would go out first to make that determination. Then he, Deems, and Prescott would pack their gear and join Mitchell.
This year Fremont came back with word that they’d need only two days to gather the herd. Preparations to depart for at least four months, and up to six, began in earnest.
For Buchanan, family was one of the two things that had dominated the days before the drive and undertaking it. The first days were mostly two parents trying not to wear their feelings on the outside where it would affect the girls and the work both had to do. Night was the best time to talk, when work was done and the girls were asleep. Diedre and Margaret slept in their own room, Buchanan and Patsy in the living room, their bed close to the hearth. Buchanan also liked to be near the door in case of a fire or varmint that somehow eluded Sloane.
Husband and wife were polite after the girls retired. Buchanan had informed his wife of his decision just days before and nothing more was said; the disappointment that hung in the room like a tester of smoke from a blocked chimney arose from love and not hate. However, both knew that their concerns would get squeezed to the surface—like that orange the man had crushed—the closer it came to the event.
Fueling the smoldering fire like dry brush were the messages communicated by telegraphy from the Western Union office in San Bernardino—a four-hour ride from the ranch—to the government postal service office in Pachuca, Hidalgo. The region had become a semiautonomous state only two years before, when the French were finally driven back across the sea and the Mexican Republic was restored. In none of his messages did Buchanan inform the authorities at the commerce exchange there when he was leaving or arriving or with how many head. Without a European army, López said that the countryside was a breeding ground for bandit gangs and bribed officials.
“Best not to give them notice,” the Mexican had warned.
Nonetheless, in several communications, the Comisión Permanente not only informed Buchanan about current prices and established markets, they furnished the names of men to help should he wish to divide the herd short of Hidalgo. Luis Cordero seemed particularly keen to get cattle to the railroad workers laying track north to America. Buchanan both read and spoke enough Spanish to know that the official seemed pleased and eager to have cattle coming south.
* * *
* * *
The morning the men began their two-pronged departure was always charged with a prairie fire excitement. All the men were up before the sun and Buchanan would settle them, like he did with horses. He made sure each man knew his duties, since changeable weather, a larger herd, less experienced cowhands, and cowboys who were just older than the year before created a lot of first-time situations. This year, with a new destination and rugged terrain, it was essential that each man be both independent and a functioning part of the team. In a stampede, where nothing was ever predictable, both of those qualities would be needed.
Buchanan was impressed with the job Fremont had done reviewing the details with his men. Against what everyone except Patsy had predicted, the months Fremont had spent with Miss Sally made him a more conscientious and attentive foreman.
“You cannot impress a woman by pretending to be the ideal she cherishes,” Patsy had said. “It must be true.”
Fremont, Deems, and Prescott had ridden out in high and eager spirits, as memorable a departure as Buchanan could remember.
While they brought in the herd, the rest of the men—and women—packed provisions and supplies that could not be hunted (a water pouch could be stitched from the pelt of a deer), gathered, or cut from a tree (a branch could be fashioned into a new spoke for a wheel to replace a cracked one on Griswold’s wagon). If need be, canvas bedrolls ruined by rain or snow could be replaced using the saddle as a pillow with the horse blanket for warmth. Tougher to fix were bones shattered by falls, wounds incurred in skirmishes, or disease that came with the wind and cold weather. Griswold was proficient with cures up to and including minor gunshots, knife cuts, arrow wounds, burns, and snakebites; mud was his preferred cure-all. It absorbed blood, drew out poison, and cooled the heat of broken skin. Nearly impossible to replace were horses, and most times one of the two extras the men brought were impressed into service.
But these were men accustomed to hardship, and Deems was always ready with the appropriate word of God to see them through. It was astonishing to Buchanan how many men became believers in the middle of a dust storm; not nigh as many as in the thunder of battle but more than a few. On the day before the second group rode out to meet the riders and beeves headed southwest for the first time, Griswold had said to Buchanan, “I believe we will come out of this with men who go to church more regular.”
The rancher was not so sure. Cowboys had very, very short memories, and those wisps were mostly washed away by the first night’s drinking. For his part, even in the midst of a stampede, Buchanan never thought half so much about himself as he did about his family.
Two days later, before Buchanan’s own departure with Griswold and López, the night was fragile as a pie crust. A little Spanish, even less French—Buchanan could get by with these. The language he did not speak at all was “Patsy.” The word “drive” was not spoken by the woman. Anything that might suggest the group’s direction or destination was avoided as though they were pits of vipers. Patsy had no doubt used those words in her head so often, without much liking, that to say them aloud might produce an outburst that was either sad or angry, perhaps both. It was not until the sun had set and they were consigned to being indoors that she broached how she was feeling.
Dinner was done, the table cleared, and the girls abed when Buchanan finally approached his wife. King had gone out to help Griswold clean up the ranch house kitchen, which would not be used for a while. He had only just returned and was settled by the fire.
The next day was school, and Patsy was seated in a rocking chair mending one of her old blouses so Margaret could wear it. A lamp on the small table beside put an orange glow to her brown linen dress. When he spoke, his voice was gentle, like the light.
“I remember when you made the dye for that blouse,” Buchanan said, pulling over Diedre’s stool and sitting beside her. “Moss and nut hulls. Margaret was so small. And now she’s of an age to wear it.”
“That’s part of it,” Patsy said softly.
Buchanan looked at her curiously. “Part of what?”
She stopped her work and looked up. The lamp showed tears in her eyes. “Why I am so upset.”
Buchanan rose to hold her. She raised a hand to keep him where he was.
“No. I will say my say.”
“All right.” Buchanan eased back onto the stool.
“There is never a day I don’t fear for your safety. That mad horse you ride, Confederate marauders—danger is fulsome and coarse beyond these grounds. We have a different option now.” She held up the garment. “We have different responsibilities.”
Buchanan stood. He did not want to have this discussion child-sized.
“When your father left, did you feel the same way?”
“My father had a calling.”
“As do I.”
“What is it? Tell me. To explore? To test yourself? To be more like your grandfather than your father?”
“A little of all of that, I suppose. Mostly to build something.”
“For who?”
“For all of us.”
“But without soliciting ideas from any of us. Your calling, what drives you—and please forgive me for speaking frankly—is vanity.”
Buchanan smiled. “‘A worthless thing.’”
She was momentarily confused, then surprised. “That’s right.”
“You see? I do listen to Father Abbott’s sermons. And forgive me for speaking frankly, but you’re wrong.”
“Have you considered what you do not know about this enterprise? I fear not.”
“Every drive is different.”
“Like every dust storm, every fire. But at least with those we know generally what to expect. We know what to do: seek shelter, water, protect the horses.”
Buchanan let that subject drop. “What I feel is not vanity, Patsy. Cattle provide for us—not abundantly but well enough. That is why this trip must be made. We can become one of those large spreads.”
“Succeed, and the other men will move in. They’ve let us be because we are not a threat. Fail, and I will never see you again. I may never even know what happened to you!”
“I won’t fail,” Buchanan insisted. “Besides, what value would I be to you or our daughters if I stopped being a man?”
“How is a farmer not a man?”
“It isn’t a question of the trade. I have thought about this every day since Chester first suggested the idea. I cannot abide working for someone, in this case Laurence Widmark. He would be our one and only source of transportation. And, working for him, I would once more be involved once again with the sea. And the sameness of the sea.”
“Security,” she said. “It would be the first time we have had that.”
“It’s a form of death, Patsy. I have not come all this distance, in years and miles, to be back where I started.”
“So we are at this same conflicted place still.” Patsy picked up her sewing. The tears were now streaming from her eyes.
Buchanan looked down at her, helpless. Her sadness was a veil he could not penetrate. He could only remove it by taking it on himself.
“You mentioned my grandfather. You know some but not all of how I came to be here.”
Her eyes moved to his. Now she seemed hurt. “You have kept something from me, Andrew?”
“Not any facts, only a few truths.”
“I don’t understand the distinction.”
“It was something . . . something I didn’t understand myself, not fully, until this whole thing arose.”
“Go on,” she said.
He knelt beside the rocker and placed a hand on hers. “When my brother died, my father’s grief was as bottomless as the sea that took the boy. Before that black time he used to enjoy visiting his ships, talking to the sailors, arguing with others of his profession. Afterward, he left the house only when he had to, and then with no joy in his step. I had been apprenticed to him and took over as many duties as I could. My mother had to quiet her own sorrow around him so that he could be persuaded to eat, sleep, take the pipe he had once enjoyed.
“Uncle Bernard, the haberdasher from New York, came for a memorial. Not long after entering our home, he took me for a walk. It was a cold winter’s day, as befit our loss, and he encouraged me to leave that place or be dragged down by it. He did not just mean our home.
“‘There is a pall over the waters,’ he told me as we strolled the commons. He said that he had felt it himself as a child, which is why he learned a trade and left. Men never beat it, you know. The sea. At best, we are tolerated by the waters, by its swells and storms, lured by its superficial calm into the throes of its deep unrest. His parting words to me were ‘Get away, Andy. Find your own self where there is something to push against . . . not just swallow you whole.’
“I took his advice,” Buchanan said. “I’m not sure how much my father noticed about anything by then, but my mother encouraged my going.”
“Are you suggesting that I should do the same? Encourage you to ‘push against’ land that is as unforgiving as the ocean you just described?”
He thought for a moment. “I suppose I am.”
“Do you know what your mother was doing, Andrew? She was giving up her joy, the only strong man in her life, her only surviving son, to give you freedom. She knew what unhappiness lay ahead. I am not so courageous. My father once told me—and this I have not shared—that it was God who sent you west so that we might meet at the mission. God’s will. That helped to ease the concerns I had about the peril you faced every day. But not now.”
The woman looked down at the blouse, her tears staining the fabric. King’s head rose but he remained spread beside the fire. Buchanan suddenly felt as though his hand were intruding. He removed it but remained kneeling by her side.
He did not agree with much of what Patsy had said, but there was one truth he could not avoid. He saw now, through her eyes, that his mother, Rachel Jackson Buchanan, had sacrificed herself to save him. It gave rise to a hard, sudden realization:
What is a man, farmer or rancher, who will not do that for his family?
Buchanan stood and turned his back to the woman. He did not want to see any further disappointment in her eyes, in her sweet face. He considered the question he had just asked himself, weighing not the muscles in his arms but the strength in his heart. After a long moment he turned back to her.
“What you call this pride of mine,” he said, “it’s strong and at times ungovernable. But I am prepared to make you a promise, if you will have it. Two promises, in fact. The first is that once we are underway, if it appears we cannot succeed, I will turn back. The second is that, whether we reach Hidalgo or not, when I return, the AB Ranch will become an orchard.”
She hesitated long enough to make sure she had heard what he had said. Then her damp eyes rose to meet his. There was a flicker of life in them. “You mean this?”
“If my mortal and venial sins be the work of the devil, they will all be gone.”
Tears came again, this time with happiness. “Thank you, Andrew.”
“Chester Jacob will no doubt pass through in our absence. Please inform him of our decision and find out what he needs from the Buchanan family to solemnize the arrangement.”
The woman set her work on the floor and put her arms around her husband’s neck.
The change in her had been swift, but even as Buchanan kissed her neck, he knew that he had committed to two courses of action that went against his very nature. The orchards—he could find a way to endure that. Most of the men would leave, but those who stayed could, as Patsy suggested, help him break horses for other ranches in the territory. As for Widmark, Buchanan would find a way to transport his oranges by sea and land. And maybe, as he had jokingly suggested to Jacob, he would figure out how to send them east. There was something to the idea of returning to Boston a conquering orange king, thinking of ways it could be served with the bass and flounder that populated the harbor.
Of course, Buchanan’s other promise had made a mockery of his wife’s relief, because he knew it was a lie. Once he set out, he knew that even if he ultimately reached Hidalgo with one cow—or did not reach it at all—there was nothing that would turn him back from completing what would be his last drive. . . .
CHAPTER FIVE
The day began as most days, with the rancher dressing and making a trip to the privy. It was the last solid structure he would inhabit for quite some time. His wife woke with him, also as she did every morning, but there was no talk of the day ahead. Only the sound of preparation filled their home, the rancher checking the essentials while his wife made sure he had personal items like their picture, his journal, and at least three pencils. When that was done, Buchanan went to the porch while his wife roused the girls. With his bag over his shoulder, his boots clunking, and his spurs ringing on the boards, he inhaled the clean morning air, freshened by the night’s ocean winds, There were scratching sounds in the eave above, varmints that came out from the thatching before the hunting birds did.
Buchanan was wearing his Colts from the war; a Spencer repeating rifle leaned against a post. They were proficient weapons and he was proficient with them. He hoped that nothing warranted their overuse. There had never been a drive where they were not needed for hunting, protecting, or signaling; there had never been a drive when the weapons were more than a short reach away. The only one who was more capable with a firearm was Pete Sloane. That was the main reason he was selected to stayed behind.
The other item Buchanan kept handy, worn in a loop on his belt, was a spyglass that his father had used for over a score of years to watch the seas. The maritime glass was a compactible eighteen inches of brass and was as fine an instrument as Boston lens makers could craft.
Patsy followed her husband out. Despite his assurances, he was still undertaking a drive of which she disapproved. Still, she would never show him her back or fail to appear at all. She would wait until he was out of sight before preparing to take their daughters to school. The sleepy girls stood beside their mother, still in their nightdresses, waiting for their final hugs. King pushed between them and came forward.
“Goodbye for now, boy,” Buchanan said, scratching him behind the ears and taking a good licking in return. “You keep guard over the trenches, stop the varmints from getting too close to the house.”
Rising, he wrapped his arms around both daughters. “Help your ma in all ways,” he said into their ears. “Make me proud.”
“We will,” they promised as one.
Then he moved on to Patsy, who was standing behind the door lantern she had lit. She wore an encouraging smile that stopped short of her eyes.
“You have your maps, your journal, your notes.”
“I do,” he said, kissing her forehead.
“God be with you,” she said as her husband hugged her tightly.
“And with you,” he replied.
Buchanan turned, picked up the rifle and, with a wave, walked toward the corral and the first sage-purple hint of the rising sun. Miguel López and Buck Griswold were finishing their preparations. Griswold would have been up most of the night provisioning his wagon while Pete Sloane readied the two-horse team and made sure the two extra horses in back were secure. Like the animals in front, these were pintos; they could be frisky, but Griswold wanted that energy. They were different from riderless mustangs, which were not to be trusted. The animals were packed with bundles of supplies, including extra hatchets, picks, and shovels, in case they were needed. Funerals on a drive were not unknown.
