Ralph Compton the Empire Trail, page 8
Fremont had been out about ten minutes when the horse shied and the rider saw a small pack of coyotes. Four in number, they crouched low as they made their way through the tall grass, their eyes flashing like fireflies through the stalks. The blades barely stirred with their passage, and the beasts were as silent as they were nearly invisible.
“Easy, boy, they ain’t gonna bother us,” Fremont said, patting the animal’s neck. “Looks like they’re hunting for food, not a fight.”
In Fremont’s experience, coyotes were loath to attack a full-grown, healthy horse unless they were starving. From what he had seen of acorn husks underfoot, squirrels were plentiful, though probably in their tree hollows by now; more likely the coyotes were after rabbits or wild turkey, which he had also spotted when they rode in.
When they were past the pack, the horse continued to buck its head from side to side, dancing as it fought the direction Fremont wanted him to go.
“What is it, boy? More of ’em ahead?”
It was only when the foreman heard the low, guttural sound from the grasses that he realized there were no more coyotes and that they had likely been moving from something—something that was still there.
“Whoa,” Fremont said quietly, reining the horse to a stop.
Griswold had been right. Save for the rushing water, the night was strangely still. The river was to the left, but it was deeper and rushing faster than a sensible man would try to cross. Fremont gave the horse a gentle heel poke in the ribs and simultaneously walked him farther across the bank to water’s edge. He drew on his cigar to bring the flame back to life. With his reins in his left hand, the rider lay his right hand on his Springfield.
Horse and rider were about four feet from the edge of the grass when they came to a spot that caused the horse to rear. When it came down, Fremont saw that they were in an area where the grass was crushed flat and there was a dark shape within them. The form was hunched, with the contours of a bell. And it had the smell of wet fur. Fremont knew at once it was a large grizzly just seated there, its eyes tracking the two as they walked past.
A very low, guttural sound came from the animal. Fremont had heard enough wildlife to know when he was being warned, like now, instead of being actually menaced.
The foreman leaned close to the horse and low, on its side facing the bear. That had the dual purpose of being able to soothe the animal and block its vision.
“Steady,” he whispered as the steed edged sideways until it was splashing along the river in awkward, uncertain steps.
Never taking his eyes from the dark shape reposing in the grass, and ready to spur his horse if the shape moved, Fremont suddenly noticed another shape pressed against it: there was a cub, silent and unmoving.
“I didn’t think that was your den,” he said quietly. He spoke in a way he had heard Miss Sally address rambunctious boys and girls in her class. It was his intention that his soft voice would continue to calm the horse and also assure the bear of his peaceful intentions. “You come from those caves we saw across the river, yeah?”
The bear growled again, still low but less threatening now. It sounded almost mournful to Fremont.
“Yer little one didn’t fall or get attacked; there ain’t no blood. It drowned comin’ over, I suspect. I’m sorry, mama bear.”
The grizzly could not have understood his words but Fremont believed, like a horse, like a dog, like any warm-blooded creature, it recognized his tone.
The rider guided the horse forward, his left hand still tight on the reins. He no longer felt he was in danger; the bear was simply protecting its cub from scavengers, as the coyotes must have discovered.
Fremont moved on, the horse steadying to a spirited but less irregular pace. Even the treetops were dark now. A chorus of night creatures began in earnest, along with evening breezes that caused the trees to creak. The man whoa’d to a stop and listened. All he heard to his left was the rush of the river. He knew that unless Buchanan made a sound, he would not know whether or not the man was there.
“I think we’re gonna remain here tonight,” he said to the horse. “Boss’ll see the campfire if he’s out there. We’ll bed down away from the fire in case anyone else sees it and decides to take a shot at us.”
Fremont walked along the river a little farther until he began to feel not just stones but branches underfoot, pushed ashore by a turn in the river that he could not see. Dismounting, he gathered sticks as he led the horse ahead. When he had a fat armful, he dropped the kindling to the ground, felt for the driest piece, then built the others into a teepee shape. The one he selected still had bark and it had spent at least a day in the direct sun. He bent a piece back and held it to the tip of his cheroot, drawing smoke to make the flame grow. Fremont had done this hundreds of times since he was a boy—using his father’s and grandfather’s discarded stogies when they came west—but that only guaranteed know-how, not success.
It took nearly till the end of the used-up cigar before the bark finally did more than smolder. He set the ignited end down as he added the stick to the pile. Cupping his hand to protect the tiny flame, the fire climbed up, caused several others to smoke, and finally released a choking plume that erupted in fire. With that first light Fremont quickly gathered other twigs and branches and pressed them to the base of his tiny pyre. The fire grew and warmed him, not just with heat but security. Animals out here would not have seen many campfires, only wildfires. They would know to stay away.
Tying the palomino to a bush outside the circle of light, Fremont removed the saddle and placed it by the trunk of a tree to block the wind while he slept. Then he collected larger branches from among the trees. These were not for the fire but to build a perimeter around himself. The horse would only let him know if it felt threatened; the crack of the sticks would let Fremont know if anyone or anything was approaching him from another side. Taking one final look across the river, he briefly considered calling out. He dismissed that notion. If Double-D men were out there, they might not know Buchanan was watching for them. They would see him and come this way to investigate.
Settling his head on the comfortable leather, bathed in the familiar warmth and smell of the campfire, he woke only when the popping got quiet and the kindling needed refreshing. He looked up before going back to sleep; in the small hours of the night, when even the predators were asleep—save for a pair of owls that gave an occasional hoot—the landscape was dominated by stars and a half-moon. They were all clearer and more numerous than in the dusty plains. Fremont felt as though he had come to a place where the world was new, where rest came not just to the body but to the spirit.
Griswold was right. Even in this Eden, in this private corner sheltered from the wind, nocturnal cold effortlessly found him. It settled slowly as the brilliant stars emerged—so slowly it was hardly noticed. He was glad he had the fire and the blanket.
When the new day arrived the cold renewed its acquaintance. The first hints of dawn stirred the air like a chill caressed the skin. Fremont shivered awake, the fire having expired some short time before. He glanced ahead, at the river, where the earliest rays of dawn would fall. As a crescent of light began to shine over the eastern hills, they lightened the caves they had passed the day before—and, in front of one of them Fremont saw Buchanan’s horse. The animal was tied to a tree, positioned so that it blocked the mouth of the cave.
After performing his morning duties and washing his face in the river, Fremont replaced the saddle and rode across. The horse seemed happy to be away from that side of the river and also, perhaps, he recognized the horse ahead. The mustang across the way raised his head several times, snorting in welcome.
Peering ahead, Fremont was surprised that their coming had not roused Buchanan. The horse clomped onto the bank and galloped the two hundred or so yards to the cave. There, Fremont swung from the saddle and was surprised to find the cave empty. Nor were there any signs of habitation: no fire, no bedroll, no Buchanan.
Confused and concerned, Fremont went back outside and looked around. He stopped and smiled—first with surprise, then with relief.
The rancher was standing outside, his back to the river, a Colt in each hand. He holstered them quickly and walked over.
“Good morning, Will.”
“Did ya think someone shanghaied my horse to pretend they was me?”
“Be a good way to draw me out.”
“How’d ya do that, go from cave to cave?” Fremont asked. “Is there another way out?”
“No, I slept back there.” Buchanan jerked his thumb to his left, toward a cave farther south.
“Sensible precaution.”
“It’s more than that. Did you know all those men who were with St. Jacques?”
“I recognized the Swede Oland, that thug Kent, and I heard about George Haywood, the freed slave.”
“Escaped,” Buchanan corrected him. “Did you know he was a tracker during the war?”
“I did.”
“I encountered him a few times in Arizona,” Buchanan said. “Noticed him in church a couple of times, too, sittin’ in the back, ignorin’ the stares of folks who was still uneasy with emancipation.”
“A God-fearing rustler?”
“He may be a contradiction, but he looked a special kind of unhappy to be riding with that gang, and then again turning tail. If the Double-D does not intend for those cattle to reach Mexico, they would’ve dispatched him pronto to follow us.”
Fremont looked back along the trail. “Was there any sign of him?”
“No, and I did not expect there to be unless he caught up. That’s kinda why I’m glad you followed.”
“Glad? Why?”
“Because if Haywood’s out there, he may have mistook you for me or else thought we were moving together on the opposite side of the Mohave River.”
“He would’ve hung back,” Fremont realized.
“Most likely.” Buchanan started toward the cave he had slept in to get his gear. “You go ahead. If he’s back here, that will bring him out. He won’t have a gun, so don’t worry about bein’ shot.”
Fremont grinned with self-satisfaction. “Right. We got those.”
Buchanan stopped, looked back. “Say, Will, thanks for the night watch, old friend.”
“It was either that or poker.” He smiled. “And a man gets tired of losing.”
The rancher waved and Fremont, after looking upriver for any sign of Haywood, climbed back in the saddle and recrossed the river. As he did, he turned his face upward so the rising sun could warm him. Gazing out at the slightly higher ground, he noticed that the bear and her cub were gone. In their place was crushed brush, a hole in the graceful flow of things.
It struck him as being as poignant as some of the human death he had witnessed, and Will Fremont said a silent prayer for the mother and cub as he passed.
CHAPTER NINE
Men and cattle were already in motion when Fremont returned, which was not the same thing as the drive having resumed.
Griswold was the first to meet him. He was sitting at his wagon, ready to go but with nowhere to move.
“We got up, we ate, and then they realized they was tryin’ to wrangle crows, not cattle,” Griswold said.
“What’re you talkin’ about, Griz?”
“They’re nestin’!” he answered, pointing ahead.
“Aw, rats,” Fremont said, and rode toward the herd.
The cattle were uncooperative about leaving, not because they liked where they were, although Fremont knew that cattle could be stubborn that way. The problem was the way the herd had come apart during the night, forming little pockets of steer—nests, they called them.
A drive began with a herd moving not as one but in pieces. After several days the herd behind the lead steer was supposed to move when he did. But to get around the trees required them to be busted into tiny groups, none of which had their own lead cow. So they just meandered.
Assessing the situation, Fremont gave each man his instructions before riding into the trail boss position.
“We’re gonna have to move ’em like we did on the river, two by two, till we get through the trees,” he said. “Soon as they’re lined up that way, we can work ’em through.”
Fremont assigned Deems and Prescott as swing riders at the sides, López and Mitchell on flank well behind them. Because Fremont was on point until Buchanan returned, Griswold temporarily took the place of tail rider. That meant, in effect, that there would be two men for each of the two nests in the center, one man for the nest in front, one for the nest in back.
The strident and inexorable racket from the chuck wagon helped keep the back end of the herd going forward. When Fremont got bunched up because of slower steers—some aged, some weak from the trek, a few newly overfed and disinclined to move—he would shout through a tin horn he carried to alert one of the flank riders.
The drive had left the Mohave River behind, north of the valley. The plan was to reorganize the herd and regain the waterway to the south, on the western side of the forest, and follow it southwest. According to Buchanan’s hand-drawn map, that would enable them to pass through the San Bernardino and San Gabriel mountain ranges. The route added some twenty miles to the drive but saved them from having to push the herd into higher elevations.
Without a precise idea where exactly the river was—the maps did not have that level of detail—Fremont decided to break from the herd and get up as high as he could. He galloped to a rise east of the trees. Fremont saw at once that the woods were of considerable breadth and length. He also saw something that concerned him deeply.
When they moved cattle across the flatlands, the rising sun would reveal crevasses and gopher holes. Out here, it revealed larger, more dramatic structures and impediments in the terrain. Unfortunately, between the shadows of the trees, what Fremont saw were fallen pines—not a few but years of them knocked over by the spring runoff from melted mountain snows.
“It’s impassable,” he said with resignation, then looked ahead. To the west, the trees climbed thickly into the foothills. There was no way through those pines. The path around the woods—the one they would have to take—lay to the east, a series of hills like the one he was on, each reaching anywhere from three hundred to four hundred feet. Water from the mountains had prevented trees from taking root there. Moss-covered boulders at the foot of the rise suggested that the incline Fremont was on had been created, like so many other formations, by the volatile earth years before. Maybe that was what knocked some trees down; he did not know and it did not matter.
Fremont considered the problem. They had driven cattle over rises of one hundred feet or so in the past, but nothing like this. Still, it was the best option.
He went back to confer with his riders, calling them over as he descended to the floor of the forest.
“That clearing we had back there?” he said. “That was the work of beavers on the river, cartin’ off the trees toppled by runoff. Up ahead the trees are too far from water, so there ain’t no beavers. That means if we try to cross, we’re gonna run into a passel of uprooted and rotted trees. Acres of them.”
“Gettin’ over humps like that are gonna cause a lot of busted legs, and that’s if the cattle agree to be driven,” Prescott said.
“They won’t,” Mitchell said. “We’ll probably have to rope and pull each steer over to get them to move. Between you an’ me, doin’ two cattle at a time—”
“We’ll be at it for days,” Prescott said. “We’d also have to pull grass to feed cattle that have logs to their front and back.”
“I know, which is why we’re going to have to go around to the east,” Fremont said. “We can take them up the slope I was just on. Leads to a plateau about two hundred feet to above the tree line.”
“Where’s the boss?” Deems asked. It was a question, not a criticism of Fremont’s plan.
“Boss is watching our tail for those Double-D mudsills, but I believe this is the decision he would make. Anyway, that’s how we’ll handle this.”
The men murmured assent and resumed their positions with the goal of winding the double line of cattle from the forest to the grassy ledge.
“We’re gonna get us some exercise,” he said to himself. The only option was to turn back, and no one suggested or wanted that.
Turning to take his place at point, Fremont began the arduous task of leading two lines of cattle through thick woods to a passage that a more generous God would have made a bit wider. . . .
* * *
* * *
Even if he had not seen and heard Will Fremont the night before, Andrew Buchanan would have smelled the fire of someone on his own side of the river. And that was a good thing. In the dark, the smell of a wood fire was as reliable a compass as actually seeing something, especially with winds blowing gently north as they had the night before. Smells had a way of pooling in a cave, probably because of the natural flues they possessed in deep, unseen recesses.
Now, with the sun risen, Buchanan took the time to make entries in his journal—his “ship’s log,” as his wife teased, and not without reason. That was where he got the idea. Buchanan had a book for each drive and looked back on them with some regularity. The tally of lost cattle and depleted supplies was most useful in planning each new trek. But what he learned rereading the diaries was that events were rarely as he remembered them. Details like passing encounters, illness, detours due to flooding or fire—a lot of that was forgotten under the pressure of just getting a job done.
He wrote down the events since he had left the camp to come here, then stood by a section of the rock wall and chewed on beef jerky while he considered the situation.
