Ralph Compton the Empire Trail, page 9
The rancher yearned to be with his herd. It was a pull he felt stronger than ever because of the stakes. But he knew that if George Haywood was tracking him, the man would follow that smoke scent starting at sunup. He hoped so: Haywood would pin it to the spot across the river, which was southeast of his own position. The way the sun made its crossing, Buchanan chose a spot to wait that would be in shadow till noon. Not only was the Double-D hand not likely to see him against the cliff, the tracker would be too busy splashing across the river to hear his horse, which the rancher had relocated inside the cave.
The major dilemma—for Haywood and Buchanan both—involved firearms. Despite his conversation with Fremont, it was possible that, riding hard, Haywood could have gone back for a gun. The tracker would have picked up the cattle trail easy, in which case Buchanan would be sitting here another day, waiting for an armed man.
But that did not seem likely, he told himself.
The tracker’s orders would likely be to follow, not engage. And nothing he had ever seen or heard about Haywood suggested he was a violent man. Not like the other Double-D crew. He would probably leave a trail of some kind, something the others could follow while they went back for weapons.
The other problem involved what to do with Haywood if he showed up unarmed. Buchanan did not want to have to shoot an unarmed man, and he did not want to shoot that man. It was only fate, not malice, that had put them on opposite sides.
The sunny, still morning was a marked change from the dreary, wind-whipped afternoon of the previous day, so much so that Buchanan could even hear, muted and distant, the cattle complaining about having to move on and the coaxing sounds of the riders. He was grateful for the quality of the men he had assembled. They respected Fremont enough to accept his leadership without question—even Griswold. The man could have made his life easier by riding ahead with the trail boss, as most cookies did, and by minding his rolling domain, nothing more. Instead, he unfailingly pitched in as needed.
Even with a bad arm, Buchanan thought.
The quiet climate did not, however, give Buchanan an opportunity to take things easy. He was doing what Haywood would be doing if he was out there: smelling and listening without distraction. He even considered the possibility that Haywood might come on him from above, for a larger view of the terrain. But he would still have to come down, and the detour would take time.
It was not long before the rancher learned that the tracker had not gone back to the ranch but had set out after the AB herd unarmed.
Curiously, there was nothing concealed about Haywood’s approach. The lone rider clopped along the stones of the riverbank. The sounds were quick, suggesting either a man in flight or a man with a destination. There was also a fifth sound, lighter than the hoofbeats and also less regular.
Buchanan smiled. It’s Haywood, and he’s leaving a trail of stones.
The herd had cut a path even a schoolboy could have followed, but Buchanan knew Haywood was doing more than that. He would have seen the threatening clouds the day before and chosen speed over stealth. In the event of the marks being washed away by rain, he was leaving a trail the others could follow. Smooth stones being the norm on the banks, he would have picked up jagged ones to drop among them.
Leaving his horse tethered to a rock in the cave, Buchanan pressed his back to the cliff until he was flat against it. The river was about thirty feet away. Following his nose, the tracker would be looking ahead, not to the west where Buchanan was standing. Buchanan was not cocky, however. He did not believe that St. Jacques would have given over his Bowie knife, not with open country to cross and no other defense. Besides, Buchanan did not recall Haywood being handy at knife-throwing. But the cowboy was good on horseback and he would likely have a stone in his hand. He could throw the rock, get low behind his mount, and cover thirty feet in seconds. If the target of such a man were to miss what might be his only shot, he would get trampled. Even an injury to the rancher would doom the herd. With Buchanan’s horse and his guns, and a kerchief across his face, Haywood could get close enough to be mistaken for him . . . and pick off enough riders to end the drive.
Like it or not, Buchanan thought, I have to be prepared to issue a command and then fire if it is not obeyed. Now that the moment was upon him, he decided what that order should be. It was reasonable. He hoped that Haywood would be, too.
The cowboy’s black saddle horse came into view around the edge of the cliff. He was moving rapidly, his rifle scabbard full of stones, his eyes ahead. The rider was bent low behind the neck of his horse, his focus on the spot where Fremont had been camped—
“Stop there, Mr. Haywood!”
Buchanan stepped from the cliff and was looking at the tracker over the barrel of his gun. The rider changed up like this was a cavalry drill. He redirected the charge into a quarter turn so he was facing whoever had spoken. His eyes moved the same way, pivoting and fixing on Buchanan. If Haywood was annoyed at being ambushed, he did not show it.
“Good morning,” Buchanan said.
The rider did not reply. He just looked at the other man with an unchanged expression.
George Haywood was a big man. His loose, ivory-colored slicker made him seem even more thickly muscled than he was. His dark eyes were more intimidating than his size, and Buchanan suspected that most people looked away. Haywood also had large, scarred hands. One of those hands held the reins. Another held a large piece of quartz. There was a sack of the rock slung from his saddle.
“Your being here presents us both with some hard choices,” Buchanan went on.
“You got a gun. Seems the choices are yours.”
“I don’t want it to be that way but I can’t abide having you at my back.”
“You can’t abide? We both fought a war, Mr. Buchanan, one that guarantees me the same right as you to be where I am. Besides, you got property that was stolen from me. If you intend to take my horse, too, that one’s a hangin’ offense.”
Buchanan wondered if the man had been running those words through his head. Alone out here the mind could not help doing that.
“You can put the prairie lawyering back on the shelf,” Buchanan said. “I learnt some, too, in my time. I would never be caught with a stolen horse. You charged, I fired at the animal. Did that in the war, rather than killing men. The result is the same: You’re on foot, waiting for your comrades. Also, a fall like that—you could be hurt.” Still aiming at Haywood, Buchanan took a few steps forward. “Instead of all this talk, I got a better idea.”
Haywood did not ask what it was. He just waited.
“Come to work for me, at least for the rest of the drive. Give me your word you’ll execute faithfully, by which I mean not interfering, and I will take that as a contract.”
“Thank you for that courtesy, but you are asking me to betray my present employer and Yancy St. Jacques. Dawson, at least, ain’t given me a reason to do that.”
“I’m askin’ you to stay on the right side of the law. And to thank me for saving you from a rope.”
“A rope? How do you figure?”
“My foreman wouldn’t’ve taken the Double-D money or given up the cattle. You would’ve had to kill him. Rustlin’ and murder also end in a noose.”
Haywood was silent.
“Or wouldn’t you have returned fire?” Buchanan asked. “I’m betting you are better than that.”
“Mr. Buchanan, I didn’t want what happened back there. We were promised it wouldn’t come to that.”
“I believe you, yet here we are. And it’s bound to get uglier. What do you think will happen when your friends catch up to us, especially if they wait till we cross the border where the laws of Mexico don’t exist for any practical application? Dawson won’t let the cattle reach market in Mexico, not from what I heard. So St. Jacques comes back with more men and arms to kill us and our herd and blame it on banditos. Maybe you skirt justice, maybe you don’t. How’s that gonna sit with you inside?”
Haywood’s expression was still unchanged but he seemed to be considering what Buchanan had said. At least, he did not spit or make some other show of rejection the way the others had done on the previous day.
“May I dismount?” Haywood asked. “Been riding awhile.”
“Sure. Just step back and toward the river where you can’t swat his rump.”
Haywood’s eyes showed some life; he seemed, to Buchanan, amused or impressed by the man’s caution, maybe both. He was experienced enough to know that even a wildly bucking animal was a threat, not just its hooves but by offering a man cover if he decided to run at his opponent or make for the river. A cornered man might think it was worth trying in order to dash to the midpoint of the water, hoping that it was deep enough to offer concealment and escape.
The cowboy raised his hands and slid easily from the saddle. Then he walked several paces, just out of arm’s reach of the stallion.
“You can lower your arms,” the rancher said. “Like I indicated, I trust ya.”
Haywood eased them down. He faced Buchanan, not defiant but unbowed.
“Tell me something, Mr. Buchanan, if you don’t mind.”
“If I can, and if it’s short.”
“Why don’t you accept the offer? You do that, St. Jacques will forget about what happened up north.”
“Will he, now?”
“Dawson will make sure of it, and that’s no small thing. Yancy’s a Southern gentleman—or was. They hold grudges like they hold a whip. Tight.”
“The promise to curb a feral dog is no reason to do a thing, Mr. Haywood. He shouldn’t’ve been loose in the first place. What would you do? Would you give in?”
“Dunno. I never had that kind of money to give or take. It’s attractive.”
“How attractive is submission to Dick Dawson? Should I take an offer that puts me on my knees—not just now but next time, when he wants my horses and my land? How attractive is servitude?”
The question had a point and that point found its target.
Haywood inhaled and continued. “I say again, this is not something I want but here are the facts, Mr. Buchanan. The Double-D men, more men than before, will follow me this far, and if I’m not here, they will continue on their own. Goin’ forward, they’ll hear you, smell you, see you, and eventually they will catch up.”
“And there will be needless bloodshed on both sides. We will find high ground and wait for you. We will set fires behind us. We will do everything we can, including see our cattle starve, before we do what St. Jacques ordered. Now, Mr. Haywood, what is your answer?”
Once again, the tracker became thoughtful.
“If I do what you ask, I will have to stay in Mexico. Or at least leave this territory.”
“You’d have a job with me.”
“That’s not my meaning. Somehow, somewhere, St. Jacques and the others will come for me. A rope or a bullet, maybe a beating—you’ve seen them use their fists.”
“My men have.”
“Like you just said, the result of any of them is the same.”
“I’m sorry for that, but I cannot let you drop more stones and make this easier for them. The choice for you is settin’ here a day or two, horseless—I will be forced to shoot him—and then doing one thing you say you’re against, or doing something else that goes against your nature: joining us, at least for the present, and giving me your word you won’t try anything.”
For the first time, Haywood smiled. “You’re sincere. That’s a real offer.”
“As real as the bear tracks to my back.”
Haywood renewed his smile. “I was wondering if you’d believe me if I said there’s a bear behind you.”
“The grizzly I heard and smelt ain’t close enough to worry me. And you and I both know my horse woulda let me know if it was. So what’ll it be, Mr. Haywood? You can keep the horse but not the rocks. We can talk about your concerns as we head south.”
This time there was no hesitation. “I’ll ride with you.”
“My men may not trust you.”
“Won’t be the first time I’ve been alone. You’re a good man and I won’t break my word. I will do nothing to slow you down or signal the Double-D.”
Buchanan lowered the rifle and turned toward his mustang. “Mount up, Mr. Haywood. We got some catching up to do.”
CHAPTER TEN
The men of the AB Ranch had undergone a swift and unpleasant change. They were no longer supplicants at the altar of the San Bernardino range or its lush foothills. The forests were no longer columns on which the vault of heaven rested; they were a crown of thorns. What had been majestic beauty below was humbling now for another reason entirely. The recent spring thaw that had swollen the rivers with melted snow now conspired to make their ascent into the foothills a brutal one.
The slope was as gentle up close as it was from a distance. And it was grassy. Fremont would not have hesitated to climb it with Miss Sally on his arm. To the west, on their right, it fell away gradually to the green-robed rocks and trees; to the east it rose more sharply toward the mountains; ahead, according to what Fremont had been able to see, it was nothing but open country leading flatly to the west, to mountains to the east. Southwest was where they wanted to go, which made it an ideal route.
But it proved to be far from that. The earth beneath the animals’ hooves and the wagon wheels was soft, creating a slow, uneven march from the start. Steer ran into steer, the horses whinnied as a leg would be swallowed nearly to the knee, and Griswold was working his pintos hard to keep the chuck wagon or its trailing extra horses from getting stuck. Traveling across the already-trod ground, the four sets of hooves and four chuck wagon wheels were constantly getting stuck in the soft earth. While the panicked horses tied behind wanted to race ahead, the chuck wagon slid from side to side as the procession got underway. Griswold quickly fell behind, then far behind, as the wheels continually became stuck. It was then a matter of the cookie climbing down, steadying all four animals, and starting over—at an angle and without traction. Griswold’s own boots were muddy nearly to the knees. López frequently fell back to help lest they leave the chuck wagon behind.
“D’ya ever have a situation like this in Mexico?” Griswold asked, standing beside the cowboy and pulling hard.
“Sí,” the Mexican replied. “We had a cannon for one battle.”
“What didja do?”
López replied, “What we cannot do here. Pulled it as far as we could and then fired.”
The nine horses and six riders tired quickly, but to rest on the hill meant a slow, unhappy retreat over ground already covered.
Buchanan and his companion had no trouble catching up to the herd. Riding into the forest, the rancher was surprised to see them on the slope. He went in among the trees to see how far they had gone and how much they had left to cover. The front of the drive still had most of the hill to go before reaching what looked like a plain on top. Buchanan and Haywood turned back and started up the incline.
Griswold was several wagon lengths back, focused on coaxing his forward horses along and hoping his rearward horses remained steady. He was using his bad arm more than he should and shouting more than usual.
“I do not intend to become buzzard feed up here!” he was yelling when Buchanan passed on the east side of the wagon. The cookie’s face lit up like a July Fourth sparkler. “Boss! Welcome to Soft Clay City.”
“What happened out there?” Buchanan asked, gesturing to the west.
“Fallen trees, a lot of ’em! I hear they was more like mush than—”
There was an audible clap of Griswold’s mouth when he saw George Haywood ride up beside Buchanan. “Eh?”
“Buck Griswold, George Haywood,” Buchanan said, making introductions as he looked ahead.
“I seen you in town,” Griswold said. “Ain’t you Double-D?”
“Mr. Haywood will be riding with us,” Buchanan said, excusing himself and driving his mustang toward the herd. He left a thick, unhappy silence in his wake.
“If you brake, I’ll rig some help,” Haywood said.
Griswold dumbly reached out and pulled the wooden handle toward him, causing the wagon to skid to a stop. Haywood dismounted and moved closer to the side of the chuck wagon and settled beside the horse on the left.
“Was recent events misrepresented to me?” the cookie asked.
Haywood did not answer. He walked his horse in front of the others, doing so slowly so as not to excite them, then grabbed his rope and tied it to his saddle. Then he ran it between the pintos to the tongue under the front of the wagon.
“Start ’em up again,” Haywood ordered, swinging back onto his horse.
“Yes, sir, at once,” Griswold grumbled. “I always take orders from men I don’t know and until a few breaths ago I was told not to trust.”
“We live in changing times,” Haywood said. “Don’t forget to release the brake.”
“I know my rig,” Griswold protested, though not loudly.
The cookie did as he was instructed and the tracker urged his horse forward with a loud “Gyah!” Initially, all the big horse did was pull. The pintos were daunted by the larger animal and by hooves that were stuck in the ground. Behind them, the chuck wagon shuddered from the effort. The old joints of the weather-beaten cart groaned, the pans shook, and kegs of water knocked against each other as the lids rocked up and down. In back, the two spare horses had hunkered down like mules, afraid of the wood-and-metal monster roaring before them.
“Whoa, whoa—we’re comin’ apart!” Griswold yelled fearfully, but he did not stop the wagon.
Haywood appeared not to hear him. He kicked the animal hard. The stallion whinnied and reared, then came down with a short forward leap. The entire rig moved forward with a rattling jerk, nudging the pintos ahead and dragging the animals behind forward. The chuck wagon was rolling again and Haywood kept his horse moving. The tracker’s mount closed the gap between the tail rider and the herd, and Griswold only stopped when it was about to run directly into a wall of cattle. This time, and each time thereafter, the experienced cookie left them enough space to give Haywood’s horse room to tuck into the next pull.
