Ralph Compton the Empire Trail, page 5
Sloane had been hired three years previous. At twenty-four years of age, he was a veteran of the war, having fought with the volunteer 104th Ohio Infantry. Sloane was mature in a way that combat made a man and he had no desire to test himself on the trail, like the others, nor ambition to be a rancher. His only wish, even four years on, was for honest work by day and quiet at night. War did that, too, to many men. Sloane was someone Buchanan knew would be happy to raise horses.
López took care of the horses that he and Buchanan would ride. The Mexican was proud of the animals he called “mis bellezas salvajes,” “my wild beauties.” For most of his Mexican campaigns López had ridden burros or gone on foot.
The air was already warm and as dry as it had been for the past week. As they prepared to mount, the rancher took Sloane aside.
“Fill the cisterns and watch the horizon for lightning. If it’s night, smell for smoke. Wildfires come on fast.”
“I will do that, Mr. Buchanan.”
“Also, I think we got field mice up top over the porch, filching tomatoes again. If you wouldn’t mind checking . . . ?”
“They’ll be food for the hawks this morning, early.”
“And you remember the hornet’s nests we had in the chimney a couple months ago . . .”
“Smoke pots will be ready below in case they return.” The square-jawed young man smiled. “You will have enough to occupy you, sir. I will see to your family above all.”
“Thank you, Pete. See you late summer. We’ll have things to talk about when I get back.”
“Yes, sir. And, Mr. Buchanan? Don’t worry.”
Buchanan hesitated. “There’s one more thing. We’re leaving better’n a month before the other ranches hit the trail. When word gets out, when they learn where we’ve headed, they may come by, try to find out where and why. You can tell ’em you don’t know but they won’t believe that from Patsy.”
“She’ll tell them it’s none of their damn business, or words close enough to impart her meaning,” Sloane said. “If I see anyone coming, I’ll let her know what you said.”
“Good man. Thank you.”
“Good luck,” the young man said before making a final check of the two palominos, a pair of tame riding horses that stayed easygoing when the herd or the weather wasn’t.
Buchanan, López, and Griswold rode out with the sun, headed southeast to rendezvous with the herd.
With 283 head at last count, Buchanan had two things going for him. The number of steers was smaller than most cattle drives by more than half, and he had more men by that same percentage to handle the job. As soon as they linked up with Fremont’s group, Buchanan, as trail boss, would ride point. He would take a half-mile lead on the herd, more than twice the normal distance, so he could watch for any problem spots.
The three men were silent as they rode, each contemplating the task that lay ahead. With all that he knew was to come—and likely more that he had not considered—Buchanan felt excitement, not dread. Even the dangers posed by bandits and Indians did not concern him unduly. There were always renegades. At least they would not have to deal with the Jayhawkers. Those men had been abolitionist Kansas guerrillas before the war, marksmen with Sharps rifles during the hostilities, and then feared rustlers after. The AB drive had only encountered small bands twice over the years, and both times the Jayhawkers were satisfied to accept no more than a meal. Perhaps they recognized a kinship with the struggling rancher. There was something melancholy about the aging warriors, and Buchanan made a commitment to himself that, raising oranges or horses, he would not let himself become like them in twenty or thirty years.
Lighting a cigarette he had rolled before leaving, López pulled down the brim of his hat to block the sun rising square in the direction they were headed.
Buchanan set a modest pace to reach the expected late afternoon union with the herd. He had allowed time for Griswold to settle the team. They objected to pulling a wagon laden for a long run, as this was, plus two extra horses.
López was riding between the wagon and Buchanan. When the three men had settled into a predictable pace, Griswold leaned toward López and shouted over the clatter of his hanging utensils.
“How d’you feel going home, amigo?”
López shrugged. “In Mexico, there was nothing for me. I have no family except cousins I don’t like very much, and most of my close compadres are under wooden crosses which may not even be standing anymore. At the ranch is I am home.”
“I guess I feel the same,” Griswold said, “though I might feel that sense a mite more powerful if I had a little hut and a woman instead of the six of you for bunkmates.”
“I think I will have both when I get back.”
“Oh? You gonna ask Maria?”
“I think so. It will be a long time before we are together again and I miss her already.”
“I seen those Mexicano girls at the laundry and you got yourself a princess, Miguel.”
“Sí. I tell her mother to marry off her two older sisters first so she will wait for me.”
“Why didn’t you tie the knot before you left?” Buchanan asked.
“It is not fair to a bride to show her what love is and then go away. I have seen this problem in the past. To wait for the first time is expected. To wait for the second is not so easy. It is a way to—what do you say?—vientos malos, the bad winds.”
“You’re not wrong,” Buchanan laughed. But it was not a knowing laugh. He had never been one for dance hall entertainment. He was saving money for cattle. Patsy had been right about his grandfather. Mathias Buchanan was a harpooner who, in the five years young Andrew Buchanan had been privileged to know him, loved telling stories not of the sea but of how he turned skill and ambition into owning his own ship. Buchanan was inspired by the man’s gruff, clear-eyed certainty in his own abilities. Andrew’s father, Jeremiah, did not quite match that spirit, that virility.
The young man had never wanted to be tied to a family while he was journeying west. Patsy had been a miracle, and after they met, there had been no question about her fidelity. She would turn to Jesus before she would seek comfort from any other man. As for him, he would rather be on his horse doing something that mattered.
Though you did tell her your first lie, the one about turning back, he thought. Maybe that was worse than unfaithfulness.
López pinched out the tip of his cigarette and tucked the remainder in the pocket of his leather vest. During his years as a rebel, he had mastered the art of half sleeping in the saddle, making up for a night spent reconnoitering or running. He did that now, his horse dumbly, obediently moving with the others.
Fremont had once described the plains here as having a “dead-possum sameness,” still and brownish, with rolling rises here and there. He was not wrong. The trail they blazed went more or less straight through low ripples of hills and gullies. Occasional grasses and scrub, some hardy cactuses, and a few thirsty oaks were the only growth. Vegetation had been spotty for several springs, first from his cattle grazing and then from drought. A year before, a series of lightning strikes that could be seen, heard, and felt at the ranch started fires that burned away the underbrush, leaving only charred curls that mostly blew off, snagged on rocks, and hid large patches of the straw-colored dirt beneath.
“Larger herds’d die tryin’ to cross here, Sachem,” Griswold said.
“I see what looks like light bouncing off water ahead,” Buchanan said.
“I noticed it, too. I was talking about starving, not dyin’ of thirst. We need a name for this place, like ‘the Buchanan Deadlands.’”
“When we get to higher elevations, we may wish for plains so flat,” López said.
By early afternoon they reached a creek that was part of a tributary of the Mohave River. There they were able to water the thirsty horses and refill their own canteens.
The mountains to the south looked even more impressive here. They were slightly nearer and there were no trees to speak of concealing the foothills. The ribbon of water winding toward them seemed small and insignificant.
The morning brown hawks and golden eagles had already hunted, and the smaller meadowlarks and other grassland birds were out picking at insects and scrub and adding song to the stop.
“Thought there’d be more civilization out here,” Griswold said.
“Cucamonga is north, Temecula south,” Buchanan said. “After I made my map, I was looking for other surveyors’ documents in San Bernardino to see where they agreed and disagreed.”
“Doesn’t exactly fill a man with confidence, you sayin’ that.”
“Like newspapers, facts don’t tell the whole story. I got talking to an old-timer there who told me there was a flood of settlers when the republic became a possession of the United States in 1848. A lot of ’em gave up when the gold boom went bust and either there was too little water or too little good soil for farming. That left this whole middle section open.”
“But not uninhabited,” López said, pointing at marks along the creek. “Somebody dragged a canoe out of the water.”
“Most likely Pechanga,” Buchanan said. “I was told they’re peaceable enough.”
“Shoulda brought stuff to trade,” Griswold said as they prepared to set out again.
“It’ll be all right,” Buchanan said. “They don’t want to fight any more’n we do.”
“Hey, Sachem, you remember when Jacob stopped by a few weeks back?”
“I do,” Buchanan replied. “Hold on.” The rancher turned and rode back behind the chuck wagon; the extra horses needed extra coaxing after a rest. Then he went back up front. “You were saying about Jacob?”
“Well, I was thinking that orange seeds mighta been good wampum for the planting tribes. I was also thinkin’, on a trip like this, it would be something to have food and water in one small container like those oranges he carried. Tastier, too.”
“The strings get caught in the teeth,” López pointed out.
“I’d serve ’em with fish,” Griswold said. “Then you could use the little bones to dig it out.”
They splashed across the creek, Buchanan somewhat amused at how the cookie’s thinking aligned with his.
The creek marked a dramatic boundary between the flatlands and the terrain that loomed not far beyond. Buchanan imagined that the slope of the land had driven floods westward, to their rear, for as long as the river that fed them had existed. Those waters had both irrigated and leveled that region. Almost at once, stretching well north and south, were low bluffs following the course of the Mohave. They were topped with low grasses; with their roots dug deep, the hearty blades managed to survive on groundwater despite being sunburnt. It looked to Buchanan as though at some time in the past the earth to the east had just fallen away, perhaps weakened by water and dropped by quakes like the one they had experienced at the ranch.
The men turned south. According to the map, they would come to where the Mohave River running north and south met the Santa Ana River running crosswise. From the bluffs, they saw the river coming nearer.
“All we have to do is follow it into the valley,” Buchanan said. “It forks into two creeks, one of which cuts through a small valley and meets up with the Santa Ana. That’s where we meet the herd.”
“I think I like these drives without beeves,” López said. “Much easier.”
There was a superstition about easy beginnings to a drive presaging a hard finish, but Buchanan did not believe fancies like that. To him, all that sighting the Mohave meant was there lay about ten miles behind them with some eight or nine miles to go to the rendezvous. They would just reach the spot by dusk. Fremont and the cattle should already be there.
The small party was still on the bluff, and Buchanan rode ahead to find a spot they could traverse to get to the river. Riding close to the edge, he was looking not just for a gentle slope but one that looked solid enough to support a horse and the chuck wagon. He was glad, just then, that Griswold insisted on keeping the washing water inside instead of outside. The cookie did it for a smoother ride, the weight of the large barrel centering the wagon. It also meant the men doing some of his work for him: instead of just dumping their plates, cups, and utensils in an empty basin, they had to bring them inside where they belonged.
He was still within shouting distance when he found a spot he thought was suitable. The land had fallen from some winter rain, no doubt, given the rivulets that had been baked in by the sun. He motioned the others over, then started down.
The ground crumbled under the hooves of Buchanan’s mustang, which struggled to keep his footing. Afraid of tumbling down on his larger horse, López pulled back on the reins as he descended. Its back legs bent, front legs doing the work, the animal was able to slide the twenty feet to the ground. The incline was more charitable to Griswold’s wheels, which slid as much as they turned. The ruts actually kept the wagon from tipping to one side or the other as it descended.
Whooping and grinning, Griswold seemed to enjoy the ride.
“You got a strange idea of fun,” López said when the wagon reached bottom.
Convened at the base of the bluff, the party continued south along the Mohave River until the northern wall of the valley came into view. Buchanan stopped them and took out his spyglass. He scanned the terrain to the southeast. Fremont had agreed to light a large campfire upon reaching his goal, assuming dry weather, but Buchanan saw no smoke. He inched the telescope north, looking for the dust of hooves in motion. He did not see those either.
“Don’t look like you spotted ’em, Sachem,” Griswold remarked.
“I have not. They could be farther east, behind some of those hills. Or the wind may just be blowing in the wrong direction. We’ll move on. I’m sure we’ll see some sign of them soon.”
The men continued along the western bank of the river. The herd would have been traveling on the eastern side. Their course took them across low rocky hills toward the main headwaters of the tributary at Mill Creek, where the meeting had been arranged.
The mountains to the southwest had swallowed the sun early, so the men made camp in preparation for the late-morning push through the stone-covered hills that opened into the valley. Griswold welcomed the layover to tie down his canvas, which had jostled loose during the journey. He declined assistance from López .
“When it comes to my wagon, there’s some things I do better one-armed than other folks do with two.”
“You can sew your name on it too, mi amigo, as long as we get sourdough and whiskey beans first,” López replied.
“I’ll secure the wagon first, Miguel. Or don’t you feel a wind threatening?”
“Griz is right,” Buchanan said. “The ocean winds’ll get this far at least.”
The rancher smiled. It reminded him of the comment he had made to Jacob about floating beef. God help him, he could not stop imagining potentialities—just as he could not help drawing out the spyglass and looking for the herd.
* * *
* * *
The night was windy and loud, the grasses and spotty trees rustling and groaning as the easterlies blew over. Tumbleweeds rolled constantly, and blown bits of grass bit as they stung the face. Griswold slept through it inside the wagon, the back panel up and the heavy curtains that opened to the driver’s seat pulled shut, and the other two took shelter with their bedrolls behind their saddles, lodged next to the wagon wheels.
They finally fell asleep for a few hours before dawn broke calm, cloudy, and colder than they had anticipated.
“The cattle won’t like this,” López remarked as they saddled up. “Once we meet up, we should maybe push south, where it’s warmer, and then west.”
“That’ll add days and higher elevations,” Buchanan said. “It’ll be colder than whatever we find on the ground. We’ll stick to the route as planned.”
The rancher’s comments were practical, not critical, and López took them as such. Buchanan had always welcomed ideas from his men, especially men like López who had lived in other places and knew different things from him.
The elevation actually lowered as they neared the valley, in a way the map did not indicate. But then a different kind of chill settled on Buchanan. The nearer they came to the tributary, and as the morning progressed, the more the rancher’s soul began to dampen. He did not need to check his map to know that they were nearly in sight of the meeting spot. Even though the herd was coming from a different direction, through a cut in the valley that lay ahead, they should have seen or heard something. Moving cattle causes birds to scatter, men to shout and sometimes to fire their weapons. Dismounting and placing an ear to the ground, Buchanan should have heard the sound of their hooves or felt the vibration.
There was no sign of a cattle drive anywhere nearby. The rancher stood and once again took out the spyglass.
“Maybe they came down farther east for some reason?”
“That’s about a two-day rounding outside the valley. I can’t think of what would make them take it. And Fremont would’ve sent a rider ahead to let us know.”
“You want me to ride north?” López offered.
“No.” Buchanan collapsed the telescope and tucked it in his belt. “I want you and Griz to continue through the valley to the creek and wait there. I’m going to cut to the northeast.”
“You want jerky?” Griswold asked. “You didn’t eat much last night.”
“I’m not hungry,” Buchanan said as he turned his mustang toward the north. He reined hard—a warning lest the horse think to give him any trouble.
