Ralph Compton the Empire Trail, page 7
“Praise God for that,” Deems said. Before joining Prescott and Mitchell, who were setting the herd in motion, Deems turned from the others to offer a silent prayer of thanksgiving.
Fremont walked to his horse, his heart still unsettled as he sought the canvas bag that had held their food. It was just large enough to hold the sidearms. He used his lariat to tie the rifles into two bundles. Winding the rope around the pommel of his saddle, he let the rifles hang on either side of his horse.
Buchanan looked at the small black specks that had, just minutes before, been a menace to them. Deems had been earnest in his supplication to the Lord, but Buchanan wondered again if God was against him for some reason—not vanity but maybe something older; maybe what Patsy had said about leaving his mother when she needed him.
He would not learn the answer by thinking about it, so he stopped. With that undecided, Buchanan shouldered his rifle and started back to where he had left his horse concealed behind the herd.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Buck Griswold and Miguel López had spent the morning watching a creek flow. Griswold had determined that there were no fish worth catching and López had not seen any game large enough to make a meal.
Now the Mexican was getting restless, getting on and off the buckboard every few minutes. Griswold was inside preparing the salted meat he had brought.
“Miguel, you look like a man who’s thinking about going after the man who went after the cattle.”
Miguel López had been considering doing just that, although he did not say so to Griswold.
“I don’t need a nursemaid, if that’s what’s holdin’ you back,” Griswold went on.
“Boss told us to wait, so I’m waiting.”
“Wait till the cows come home,” Griswold chuckled.
The men had settled the chuck wagon on the highest spot above the creek, a small rise with a view of the mouth of the valley beyond. López had unhitched the horses front and back and tied them to a boulder at the creek so they could drink. The cowhand sat or stood or walked with an ear turned to the valley, thinking he would hear the lowing of the herd before he saw it. He hoped the drive was merely held due to a few wandering head or a rockslide and that Buchanan had met them and was already headed back.
“Ya want to go out and see if you can bag a deer, that’s okay, too,” Griswold said. “This kinda timberland, they gotta be out there somewhere.”
“Gracias, but this is not the hour that deer are about.”
“Maybe not, but you’ll see some scenery.”
“No. I should rest while I can.”
“That is sensible, I guess. Me? I never knew all this was out here.”
“I thought you traveled here. Sachem said you knew the area.”
“From maps and from the south side, sí.”
“Fightin’? Always fightin’?”
“It had to be done. What did you do during your war?”
“Same as now, actually. I made my home in Texas during the war. I refused to take the loyalty oath to the Confederacy, which everyone else including my wife and son and brother swore to. So I left one of the biggest spreads in Houston, the Honeysuckle, and ran out of food, and horse, at the AB.”
“Why did you not go back when the war was over?”
“I tried. I wrote, but my wife didn’t want me. She said our boy and my brother got kilt in the Trans-Mississippi fightin’, so there was nothing to go back to. Told me I shoulda died alongside ’em.” He shrugged, although a sadness had settled upon him. “I don’t think about it too much. I don’t sit around wishin’ I’d stayed. I growed up on my great-grandpap’s stories about fightin’ the Redcoats in two wars. Like you fightin’ invaders, that made some sense. But to fight each other? If there is a Lord God, then He did not intend this to be so.”
López looked at his companion. “I am a little ashamed, my friend.”
“Why’s that?”
“I never knew any of that about you. The others, they talk. I talk. Lewis, he even showed me how to twirl a gun. Only you and Mr. Buchanan, you do not talk. Well, he’s the boss, like the captain of a ship. He cannot be your amigo. But you . . . you are always alone with your pots or out picking this mushroom or that berry.”
“I learnt that keepin’ busy helps me not to think about what I done, right or wrong or just plain ridiculous.”
López rolled and lit one of his cigarettes, thought again of the heroic fighters he had known. He thought, too, about what a long and unpredictable journey it had been for him, from his boyhood in the seaside village of Guaymas to fighting in the war against the French to working as a cowboy here.
“I suppose it makes no sense because we all get planted soon enough. Why should we rush it? We must do useful things while we can.”
As his melancholy seemed to grow, Griswold’s watery eyes fixed on a spot along the water. “I think I see some duck potatoes growin’ out there. Reckon I’ll do something and gather ’em.”
“You want help?”
“I can manage,” he said. “My arm is stiff, not broke.”
Easing from the cart and stretching his injured arm when he had the room, the spindly cook picked up a stick and ambled through the grasses, pushing them aside so he would not accidentally set foot on anything that might sting or bite. Back at the ranch, scorpions no bigger than a thumbnail could enter a man’s boot while he slept and give him a crippling sting in the morning.
López followed the cookie as he walked.
I know you, Señor Griswold. You on guard against the one man who will ask if you left Texas because you were afraid. Yourself.
López had seen that look in the eyes of many men in many villages. Those sad oveja, those sheep, turned their heads to the ground or glanced another way or simply walked off when he and his fellow revolucionarios came seeking food or shelter, recruits or repairs. Firearms were particularly hard-hit. They were thirdhand to begin with, the elements were rough on the ammunition, and more often than not the rebels went without them. Knives, whips, machetes, and captured swords of oficiales made up the bulk of their arms. Those men they encountered were not loyal to the oppressors any more than Griswold could swear allegiance to the Stars and Bars. They were simply afraid.
And they were afraid still. Those men who had fought could not find a welcome or peace in those same villages, so they lived in the foothills, off the land, off the villagers, off travelers. It was a sad end to a glorious victory.
López looked out at the creek and the valley and up at the gray clouds. He leaned back, his head resting against one of the bonnet ribs of the wagon, shut his eyes, and the next thing he knew he was awakened by cattle bellowing from afar. He looked out in time to see the herd emerging from the valley like a sea of brown with whitecaps rising as cattle raised their heads here and there. There was a stirring quality to seeing the herd arrive unlike coming upon it already here.
The cowboy launched himself from the driver’s seat and made for the spectacle of steers, horses, and riders. He passed Griswold, who stood there watching, his arms full of the pulled greens with their thick, white veins. There was no time to put the saddle on. López grabbed his riata from around the horn, pulled his kerchief over his face nearly to the eyes, grabbed the mane of his palomino, and swung onto the animal’s back.
Whooping with excitement, López galloped ahead. He could see Fremont and Buchanan maneuvering the lead cow so the herd would follow him around the southwest turn of the creek.
Fremont saw the Mexican riding in and motioned him broadly, a signal to go to the tail position. López acknowledged with an excited sweep of his hat. Holding on to the palomino tightly with his thighs, he turned into the dust cloud and slowed by half. With vision obscured by a tawny haze, he did not want to risk running into cattle or riders.
López joined Mitchell in back. The tail rider had been stitching from side to side, keeping the cattle moving. López fell in, crisscrossing in the opposite direction. The passage was completed quickly and the men helped the cattle find spots along the river to drink or feed. While they dismounted and washed the dirt of the drive from hands and faces, Buchanan and Fremont walked toward the chuck wagon.
Still at the river, López welcomed Mitchell back to the fold. Although the two men came from entirely dissimilar backgrounds, they had both been “rebels” for different causes and were both outsiders here. Soon the other hands stopped by the creek to wash off the trail dust. That was where López learned what had happened back on the plains.
“It has come to this,” he said to Mitchell. “The heroes die in war and the villains are set free.”
“No one to keep the order, that’s a fact, Miguel.”
“I heard Dawson was a man of decency.”
“That may be. He did offer to pay for the steer over the barrels of five rifles.”
Prescott wandered over, shaking his hands dry. “Boss played his poker smart. I’m not sure Fremont was gonna fold.”
“That woulda been okay with me. I was ready to shoot the varmints,” Mitchell admitted.
While the men debated tactics, Buchanan was preoccupied with what came next. He pulled Fremont aside to discuss it by the chuck wagon. Griswold had hurried back, stuffed his leaves in an empty sack, and grabbed a can from the shelf. This was where the two men came to plan in private and the hands all knew to let them be. Griswold knew to give them coffee.
“We’re gonna have to watch our back goin’ and our front coming back,” Fremont said with grim conviction.
“They do mean to stop us,” Buchanan agreed.
“All they have to do is cripple our drive,” Fremont said. “Only way we prevent them is by killing. Do you trust what St. Jacques said about Patsy and the girls?”
“I don’t think he’ll hurt ’em, if that’s what you’re asking. Scare ’em? He might try, but Sloane’ll see through that.”
Griswold poured his strong brew and the men sipped it gratefully. The rancher thought briefly of the promise he should not have made to Patsy.
“Right now, we got about two hours of daylight left,” Buchanan said. “The more distance we can put between us and them, the better. Let’s get the herd back on the hoof as soon as possible.”
“I’ll let the men know,” Fremont said, returning his cup to Griswold.
Buchanan finished the coffee then accepted another pour from Griswold while he thought it through. A plan—at least the beginning of one—came to mind.
“Hey, Will?”
The foreman turned. “Yeah?”
“Tell ya what. You take point and lead the cattle on till dark. I’ll bring up the rear with Griz. I may fall back a spell to watch and listen. We’ll have another look at things when we make camp.”
“Sounds good.” Fremont smiled. “By the way, I been thinking. I do believe St. Jacques and Dawson will stay away from your family. I spend more time with town folk than you do. Sheriff Lipcan in San Bernardino, the cowhands at the Running S, Fred Gold the retired marshal who works at the saloon—they wouldn’t stand for anything like that. Dawson and even that puffed-up foreman don’t want that kind of trouble.”
“You’re probably right, Will. I certainly hope you are.”
Fremont smiled again then went to inform the riders that they were moving on. Buchanan declined more coffee and Griswold, pleased with his previous harvest, went to gather more garnish before the sunlight faded completely. Then he went to gather up the Dawson guns he’d taken—which he’d lashed here and there to the saddles of the men—and moved them to the chuck box in back of Griswold’s wagon.
Alone for the first time since leaving the ranch, Buchanan quietly cursed Dawson for having added these political complications to the anticipated physical hardships. But as he returned to his men, the rancher was resolved more than ever to make it to Hidalgo and back. That, not with fear and violence, was the way to respond to the hostile designs of the Double-D.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When the drive resumed, it followed the gentle curves of the Mohave River. The fast-moving waters led them through a stony plain that ran past a wall of red rock. Small caves pocked the floor of the cliff. Fremont suspected the rocks and the caves had a common origin: a river that once flowed much higher through this region. He had seen similar formations in his logging days. None of the caves showed signs of current human habitation.
It was just before sunset that the drive completed a crossing at a shallow point in the river and entered a region thickly populated with fir and juniper. The last of the light revealed a vista that was both expansive and towering.
When they got the last of the herd across, the clouds had broken and sun covered the land. The sight caused Mitchell to slow without realizing it.
“What’s wrong?” López asked.
“I grew up beside Florida marshland that was rank and rotted,” he told López. “It is difficult to comprehend that the same God created that . . . and this.”
“And the desert full of cactuses where I grew up,” López said. “Maybe the Lord hammers us on an anvil before He gives us paradise?”
“Could be,” Mitchell said. “Makes me kinda itchy to see what lies beyond. I never been up close to mountains.”
“Amigo, I can tell you now how you will feel. Very, very small.”
The ground was deep with wood chips close to the river, the work of beavers. The pulpy carpet had absorbed and held rain to provide a soft passage. There weren’t even gnats circling the cowboys, a twilight bane in most southwestern places. Mitchell suspected it was the river spray combined with a soft sweep of wind from the mountains that kept them from gathering. That same wind also sharpened the rich scent of the trees. The combination not only cleared the dust from his nostrils—it was almost intoxicating.
The men organized the herd into a line that that was two cattle wide in order to make it through the trees. Still in the lead on point, Fremont found a clearing created by mountain runoff; that same water, soaking into porous earth, had created a region that was thick with grass.
“Settle the cattle in there and we do things same as on the prairie,” Fremont told the men. “I want two men on watch tonight. Joe and Lewis, you take first shift north and south. Remember, stay sharp and keep your fires big ’n’ bright. There’ll be wolves and great cats hunting, and they likely ain’t seen beeves out this way.”
“And Dawsons?” Prescott asked.
“I said wolves, didn’t I?” Fremont answered.
The joke did not change the fact that the real danger was wolves. On flatland trails, wolf packs in particular looked for stragglers while the drive was in motion, pulling them down and away in woodlands or gullies. Cowboys were often too busy calming the survivors to give chase to what was already behind them and done.
“How do we handle ’em if they come?” Prescott asked. “We can’t shoot and panic the herd.”
“Build two fires, point and tail, make torches, and keep your horses near,” Fremont said. “Wave the brands if you see their eyes. That’s how we used to protect the wounded during the war.”
As the two perimeter fires and one campfire were lit, Fremont went to the southern edge of the forest and watched for Buchanan. The rancher had been just within sight for most of the journey but they lost him as the sun went behind the mountains. The treetops stayed bright against the reddening sky, with darkness swallowing them from the bottom in tiny, gliding bites. Below them was different. A purple, then brown, then dead-black shadow fell over the river and its surroundings. It was a strange sensation, being in night but looking up and still seeing day.
Fremont knew that his boss would be able to hear and smell the herd, however far back he was. Seeing them was another matter. The foreman fished his stubby fingers into his shirt pocket where a half-smoked cheroot had stayed mostly dry during the river crossing. He lit it using the lantern that hung from the chuck wagon, where Griswold was well along with dinner preparations
“Griz, I’m gonna double back a way and watch for the boss,” Fremont said.
“If he’s still on the other side of the river, he’ll likely bed down there.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
“Huh? Oh, I see,” Griswold said. “You’re thinkin’ o’ them Double-D hardcases. You gonna camp out?”
“Don’t know. Depends on what makes sense.”
“You got yer Indian blanket? Gets cold in the mountains.”
“When were you ever in mountains?”
“We all crossed country to git here in the first place, Will.”
“That’s true.”
“If you do stay out there, I’ll take yer watch.”
“Thanks. If I stay, I’ll be countin’ on the morning birds to have me up before sunup. If I ain’t back, tell Mitchell to get the herd moving.”
“I’ll do that. Pay attention to the night birds, too. They go silent, hide. You said yourself, we don’t know what or who is out there.”
“I been in those situations before,” Fremont said.
The trail boss had not bothered unsaddling his horse, having had it in mind to go back out since they arrived without Buchanan. With a few quick motions, he made sure his rifle slid easy in and out of the scabbard—the sun sometimes shrunk the leather—and, for good measure, he took one of the Double-D revolvers. Setting out, he stayed on the narrow riverbank, since the grasses there were even higher than at Mill Creek and likely as not to conceal predators of all kinds and sizes.
Fremont passed an area where beavers had built a lodge. He had not noticed the structure when the herd rode by, and he was considerably impressed by the community the animals had built. They used not only trees but also mud and rocks. Safe from most predators because they were freestanding in the water, providing shelter from the elements, and constructed close to the vegetation that made up the beaver diet, the lodge was a perfect little fort.
