Ralph Compton the Empire Trail, page 6
“Señor Boss, do not kill yourself or the horse.”
“Miguel, something ain’t right. I intend to find my herd.”
The rancher kicked the mustang with both heels and rode out, possessed of a sudden sense that it was not just his wife who disapproved of his adventure but perhaps God Himself.
CHAPTER SIX
For the cowhands and foreman of the AB, the first days of the roundup had passed without trial or incident. The day before their arrival, Mitchell had been able to bring most of the herd in. The cattle had been unusually cooperative, perhaps because he went easy on them; they had a longer journey ahead—men and cattle alike—and he knew they would all have to husband their resources.
By the time the others arrived, there were mainly just strays to be rounded up. Mitchell handled that as well while Fremont, Deems, and Prescott got the herd moving south.
The terrain was hospitable enough, with ample grass for the cattle. At some points the Mohave River dried into a muddy sludge, as the water traveled mostly underground, but there was enough for the herd. Fremont was in good spirits the night before the final push to Mill Creek. Camping around a generous fire on a cool night, the men had the herd gathered against a high, steep hill. Prescott had shot a few mountain quail that had strayed too far from the foothills, and Deems had made a firepit to roast them.
“Long as you ain’t in a hurry, they taste better cooked in the earth,” he said.
The men did not need to make haste. They would bed down for the night and in the morning Prescott would go ahead to scout for Buchanan and the others. There were just two miles or so remaining to the headwaters and they would be there by noon.
The sun was setting, and with business done, Mitchell was eager for some of Griswold’s sourdough, which he had been without for too long. Fremont got the flat, paper-wrapped biscuits from a canvas sack strung from his saddle. They were a flour-and-water concoction that, while hard on the outside, were soft inside because of the way Griswold baked them with bacon fat. The men slept well after their long trek and well-deserved feast.
The morning was overcast with more than just clouds. Deems was already gone when the three remaining men rose with daybreak. They splashed canteen water on their faces and ate the remaining biscuits. The men could have used coffee to wash them down but were traveling light and had to settle for water.
Prescott checked on the cattle, looking for those that might have taken a leg injury the men might have missed or were showing any kind of discharge from eyes or mouth. Illness was not uncommon, given the unfamiliar grass, water, and climate, and sick cattle had to be cut from the herd and destroyed. The animals seemed as fine as a cursory look could reveal. Prescott reported such to Fremont.
The cowboys had just finished saddling the horses when there was a stirring among the cattle. Wolf packs hunted only at night, and his first thought was that a rattler nesting in the hillside had come out and was moving among the cattle. But then he heard a horse snort from somewhere around the hill. It was not the sound of one of their smaller trail horses but a larger saddle horse—the kind used to range over rugged terrain.
“Bar Double-D riders,” Fremont said. “Has to be. No one else within twenty miles.”
“Their cattle range to the north, not south,” Mitchell said. “I brought a few of them back couple of weeks ago.”
“They got no business down here unless they’re lookin’ for wild horses,” Prescott said.
Fremont leaned toward the sound, listened. “Three . . . four . . . five sets of hooves, I count. Could be trackin’ ponies.”
The foreman walked to where his Springfield lay against a rock. Following Fremont’s lead, Mitchell stepped over to the tree where he had leaned his Enfield. Prescott stayed with the herd to keep them calm. Neither man picked his weapon up. They did not want to appear belligerent or provoke gunfire. But of all the ranches in the territory, they trusted Dick Dawson’s operation the least. Dawson himself was generally cordial with Andy Buchanan, but he hired men who liked to dirty their hands. That was especially true of his foreman, an unrepentant Rebel named Yancy St. Jacques from Louisiana. It was not unusual for the men to encounter one another in town or on the trail, usually from a distance. These were the same folks they tangled with on the last drive when they tried to keep the AB beef from buyers.
Fremont and Prescott were waiting as five cowboys rode into camp, St. Jacques at their head. All of the men save the foreman were wearing gun belts, and each had a rifle in his scabbard. St. Jacques carried a Bowie knife in a sheath on his hip. The way each man held his reins, low near his thighs, he could draw and fire before Fremont or Prescott would be able to get off a shot.
St. Jacques sat on a black horse with an ornately worked saddle. He had on a white wide-brim hat with an eagle feather in the band and set at a jaunty angle to the right. It was a contrast to the buckskins demanded by his trade, if not his personality. His smile showed a lot of teeth; like the hat, they suggested the genteel ways of a vanished society.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” said St. Jacques, his voice as smooth as buttermilk. “May we join you for a spell?”
“As long as it’s a short spell,” Fremont replied. “We have business to see to.”
“Thank you.”
St. Jacques had stopped but the Double-D men had separated into a line, like a hungry eagle spreading its wings.
“Uncommon early for you boys to be so far from home, ain’t it?” Fremont asked.
“I might say the same about you,” St. Jacques replied. “In our case, an uncommon purpose demands it.”
“What might that purpose be?” Fremont asked.
“Mr. Dawson did not want us to miss you.”
“For what reason?”
“Business.” St. Jacques was looking at where the horses were corralled. “I do not see Mr. Buchanan’s mustang.”
“You see correctly. He ain’t here.”
“I thought we spotted him on the flatlands. Or at least our tracker did. Were we mistaken?”
“This bodes longer than a ‘short spell,’ Yancy. Would you mind tellin’ me what business we have?”
“Blunt as a whip handle, as always.” St. Jacques’s eyes settled back on Fremont. “All right, then, sir. We’re here because Mr. Dawson is set on buying this herd.”
Not just the statement but the confidence with which it was spoken chilled the AB foreman like snow blown sideways. “I can’t help you there, friend.”
“They are for sale, are they not . . . friend?”
“You know the answer to that and you also know I am not authorized to sell to other than the receiver named by my employer, not by yours. You know, too, I think, that if Mr. Dawson had wanted to confer with Mr. Buchanan about this, he would have fared better doin’ so at the ranch.”
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Dawson had thought to do just that before your drive. Your early departure prevented that. It was late May last year and the year before, wasn’t it?”
“You and your cowboys know the answer to that.”
“How would they know?” St. Jacques asked.
“Because I was standin’ in the sales office in Abilene, right next to the calendar, when yer point rider threatened to put my head through it.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fremont. You know how men get frayed after driving a thousand head of cattle. Or . . . don’t you know?”
“Brass and sass,” Fremont said. “That’s what we used to call braggarts at the lumber camp. We gotta go.”
The AB trail boss started to turn to his men.
“Not just yet,” St. Jacques said.
Fremont looked back. “Why not?”
“Our conversation is not quite concluded. You see, we are here because we heard rumors, something a shipping agent told a farmer who told a sheepherder who told one of my hands. He said that you were looking to sell somewhere else. To the south.”
“Given where you found us, that’s obviously so.”
“To Mexico?”
“You’re familiar, Mr. St. Jacques, with all the meat markets in this region.”
“There aren’t any.”
“Exactly. There’s your answer.”
“Ah, some brass and sass,” St. Jacques laughed. “Your time with Sally Haven has not been wasted, Mr. Fremont. You are quite the interlocutor.”
“Uh-huh.” It galled Fremont hearing her name come from that white-tooth mouth. He let it pass and turned to the two men. “Let’s get the herd movin’—”
“Not just yet.” The Double-D foreman made a soft chucking sound in his cheek and rode his horse forward a few paces. “To be frank, sir, Mr. Dawson does not think it’s a good idea to start selling beef to the Mexicans.”
Fremont turned back fully to face St. Jacques. “I will be happy to relay that concern to Mr. Buchanan and you can tell him your reasons when we’re—”
“I will tell you, Mr. Fremont. I will tell you now, and you can explain to your employer why you sold the cattle. Mr. Dawson believes that if you bring food to Mexico, then Mexican workers will have no reason to come here. Coming here, they provide labor that otherwise engages cowboys or draws freed slaves.”
“None of what you just said is our problem, sir.”
“How unneighborly. Money and manpower—compliant manpower, eager manpower with many bambinos to feed—is everyone’s problem.”
Fremont’s eyes went to George Haywood, a former slave who was as far from St. Jacques as he could be. The black man was the tracker St. Jacques had mentioned. He sat as still as a statue and expressionless on his stallion.
“You’re the only one allowed to break your own rules, I guess,” Fremont said.
“If you mean Mr. Haywood, his work keeps him out under the stars. Finding you, for example.”
“I will not ask if he is permitted to lay at the ranch house when he is not in the field.”
St. Jacques’s smile thinned. “I am pleased, sir, that you do not wade into a matter that is not your concern. Especially given your tendency to talk the liver out of a man.”
Fremont smirked. “I will not do that now, since, again, we have work to do.”
Once more Fremont turned to go. His back to the Double-D men, he reached for his rifle. Once more St. Jacques stopped him.
“Leave the Springfield, Mr. Fremont, and stop being obstinate.”
As the AB men watched, four sets of hands drew six-shooters and rifles. The long barrels were pointed up, the others were leveled at the three cowboys.
“I will ask one last time that you sell us your cattle.” St. Jacques reached into his saddlebag and withdrew two stacks of bills. He shook them. “There’s eight hundred dollars in gold banknotes here, a fair price for your herd. Instead of making a dangerous drive with unknown perils in front and known perils behind, you sign the bill of sale I’m carrying and you all get to go home. And for those who prefer to work and earn some cash, I am authorized to offer employment to any who wish to ride back with me and join our drive in three weeks.” St. Jacques’s alert eyes went from Prescott to Mitchell. “I am sure neither of you men wants to wage a losing battle. Mr. Mitchell, you and I have had enough of that, haven’t we?”
Prescott spit. Mitchell—with respect for the speaker’s aristocratic Southern roots—did and said nothing.
“Cut to what’s your ‘or else’?” Fremont said. “You gonna shoot us? Steal the herd?”
St. Jacques laughed. “Those actions would be illegal, and Mr. Dawson is a law-abiding citizen, as are we.”
“Yeah. I felt your law abidance in Abilene.”
“I’m told Mr. Prescott struck first—”
“That’s a lie!” Prescott snapped.
“—but no matter. Should you decline our offer, we will stampede your herd. And when you’ve rounded them up, we will stampede them again. And we will follow you until it makes no good sense to herd them again and deliver beeves showing bone to the Mexicans.”
Fremont weighed his options. His job, as described in the document to which he had affixed his name, was to protect and preserve the herd at any cost short of the loss of life. But coming out of this encounter bent and ashamed—before his men and before Miss Sally—was a darker prospect than not coming out of it at all.
“Don’t do it.” St. Jacques nodded toward the Springfield. “It’s temptation in Eden. We will defend ourselves. Just take the money and ride off.”
“Or,” said a firm, familiar voice from behind one of the horses, “you folks can go back to the Double-D and tender my regards and my regrets to Mr. Dawson.”
Fremont and his men, St. Jacques and his men, all turned toward the speaker. Buchanan’s Spencer rifle was aimed at a point just above St. Jacques’s saddle, at the man’s right hip. Now it was the Double-D foreman who was considering options.
“Don’t,” Buchanan warned him. Without changing his aim, he faced the line of Double-D men. “Don’t none of you do anything hasty either.”
St. Jacques chuckled. “Good morning, Mr. Buchanan. Am I supposed to raise my hands?”
“Standard for outlaws, but snakes don’t have hands. Tell your men to put aside their guns.”
“They will take no such action because you will not fire, sir. You have a family—”
“Mention them again and you will bleed on your fancy saddle.”
“You mistake my intention. I do not threaten women and children. You Yankees left that much of a gentleman still standing. I meant that this course of action will end badly for you, your men, and your drive. Even now you have not thought this through. Shoot me, and your cattle are just as likely to trample you in a panic.”
“Then we go down together.”
“There is no need for anyone to ‘go down.’ Instead, I repeat what I said to your foreman. Mr. Dawson wishes to buy your herd.”
“Yeah, I heard some of that along with your threats. The answer is no.”
“Then I appeal to your ability to count, Mr. Buchanan. You are still outgunned.”
“Wasn’t it just you who said that killing’s illegal?”
“So it is. But self-defense is not. Lower your Spencer, take the money, and go home.”
Buchanan came from behind the horse without removing his hand from the trigger. “You got the others?”
St. Jacques and his men seemed perplexed.
“I got ’em all,” said a voice from behind a group of cactuses behind the men.
There was a stout oak behind Buchanan, and Joe Deems seemed to sprout from behind it. His Colts in both hands, held hip high and angled up, he maneuvered behind the line of cowboys.
“Keep facing front,” Buchanan warned. “You said yourself that a shooting would be self-defense. Don’t make it so.”
“In the back?” St. Jacques asked.
“Be kinda stupid if we let four armed men turn and draw on one.”
The Double-D foreman hesitated only a moment before ordering his men to holster their weapons.
“I want the guns in the dirt,” Buchanan said.
St. Jacques glared at him. “Don’t push me.”
“Says the man who rode in barking orders at my men and me. Next time I speak it’ll be to apologize for shooting your horse. I got enough gold to buy as many as I’m forced to kill—for dead-horse prices, of course.”
Not just the eyes of St. Jacques but also those of his men were on Buchanan.
Another moment passed before St. Jacques told his men to toss the weapons down. Spitting and cursing, their movements stiff with anger, the men obliged. The guns thumped on the ground, leaving their owners enraged but without menace.
“We’ll keep ’em safe in the chuck wagon and make sure you get ’em back,” Buchanan said. “I want to make sure you only got rocks to throw if you give chase.”
St. Jacques indicated for the men to head off to the north. He turned his own mount, then stopped and looked back. “That was foolish, Mr. Buchanan.”
“Wasn’t a first for me; won’t be the last.”
“You may be wrong about one of those,” St. Jacques said. The Double-D foreman spurred his stallion forward, surprising the horses of his men. The cowboys had to struggle to contain them as they fell in behind him.
As the dust clouds of the retreating cowboys simultaneously rose and shrank, Will Fremont went to collect the Double-D guns.
“Sorry, boss,” the trail boss said as he scooped them up.
“No need. From what I heard, you did the right thing.”
“To that point, mebbe. I honestly don’t know what I would’ve done next.”
“You would have sold him the cattle to protect your men, same as me.”
“That was not the last thought I had when you two showed up.” Fremont looked over at the other cowhand. “Thank you, Joe.”
“God will punish them,” Deems said.
Fremont was not convinced of that, or whether he would have done what his boss had said: surrendered. The foreman’s blood was still raging and he hugged the guns as if he meant to crush them. Fremont had served as a sergeant with the 1st Delaware Volunteer Cavalry Regiment. Though a slave state, Delaware had sided with the Union. Fremont had been a lumberjack and an abolitionist, and, in addition to everything else, St. Jacques’s comments had fired up all the old tensions and resentments.
Buchanan relaxed for the first time since he had arrived. He turned to Fremont, who had not relaxed. “You did fine, Fremont.”
“I shoulda had one of us watching. That was careless.”
“It wouldn’t’ve changed anything.”
“It was still stupid of me,” Fremont said. “Let me just find places for these arms so we can move out.” He paused beside his boss. “Say, how’d you happen to be here?”
“Didn’t see any signs of your approach this morning. That caused some worry, so I rode out. A lucky encounter with Joe got me here pronto.”
