“That . . . that’s . . .” Petty pushed back the brim of his hat, just beginning to dry out. “Hell’s fire, that was nothing more than a ditch when we crossed it.”
“Thus you see the power of God,” the cook said. “He turns your ditch into an ocean.”
Mason Boone stopped his dun between the wagons. He guessed one of the riders halfway in the river had to be Sam Ireland, who had left Boone to ride point. The other had to be Tom Allen. At least, he thought, their horses were standing, not swimming. On the near bank, Story and Hannah kept talking, pointing northeast and northwest, while the riders began to mark quicksand.
“Shouldn’t you be back with the herd?” Petty asked.
“Fabian sent me ahead.”
“Nelson won’t like that.”
“Fabian Peña,” José Pablo Tsoyio said quietly, “can do the work of dos riders.”
“What are they doing?” Boone pointed to Story and Hannah.
“They argue,” José Pablo Tsoyio said. “To determine who gets to part the Red Sea.”
Which is exactly what the Canadian resembled, a roiling mass of reddish water that reached the upper parts of trees at least a hundred yards from the normal banks. Uprooted trees shot down the river, too, driven by a current. Boone glanced at the sky to the west and frowned at the flash of lightning well off in the distance.
Boone started to find a plug of chewing tobacco, but saw Story waving his hat, so he touched his spurs against the dun’s ribs and loped into water that came up to the gelding’s hocks.
* * *
The water reached over Boone’s saddle, but the dun’s feet found firm ground in the center of the river. At least here. Sam Ireland had marked the quicksand just about twenty yards downstream, and Story had put Boone here to make sure none of those precious longhorns drifted into what Ireland called “the dangersome part of the river.”
Dangersome? Ask Mason Boone, the whole damned ocean looked treacherous. Yet here came the cattle, Ireland and Peña back at point, Nelson Story riding on the other side with Tom Allen, Jameson Hannah on Boone’s side near the northern banks.
Both wagons had made it across and kept right on going.
“Boone.”
He turned in the saddle and saw Hannah pointing toward the far bank. “Drift back. Keep them moving. Don’t let the current take them.”
Orders that meant little to Boone. His priority was to stay mounted, and now he cursed himself for not removing his. 44 or poncho. Fabian Peña had stripped down to his socks and summer undergarments. Even his boots had been tied together with a thong through the pulls and draped over the saddle horn.
“Do not let them drift,” Peña ordered, motioning with his hand downstream, before moving his horse closer to the steers following the leader.
That’s what everybody kept telling Boone—even Luis Avala when he came alongside later—but nobody took time to explain how the hell anyone could stop a bull or heifer or steer from doing what it damned well wanted to do.
Back and forth, back and forth, from just about to the swollen banks, then riding alongside hooves and horns, bawling longhorns—even one struggling calf, crying for its mother. Boone wondered when it had been born. Northeast to southwest, but never once touching dry land, which caused him to picture Cody Hannah, Jameson’s brother, talking to him somewhere in Tennessee after a long, hard ride. “If I had to do it again, I wouldn’t have signed up to be no horse soldier,” Cody had said as they passed a jug of corn liquor around the campfire. “Navy. Navy. That’s what I’d like to be doin’. Sailin’ in some riverboat.”
“You can have it,” Boone said aloud, and went after that struggling calf before the current swept it to the Arkansas border.
* * *
The sky offered no help at all. No sun to see. No shadows, just a permanent dusk. He couldn’t even guess the time, so the thickening darkness might mean sunset or more rain. Yet he sucked in a breath and almost shouted a hallelujah when he saw the drag riders nudging the last of Story’s herd into the river.
Jimmy Titus waved his hat. He started singing, riding this way and that, though Boone could not make out the words or even the tune because of the blubbing cattle and splashing of water. Not until Titus drew near did Boone recognize the song:
The wee birdies sing and the wildflowers spring,
And in sunshine the waters are sleeping . . .
The youngster stopped abruptly at the scream on the other side of the herd.
Ernesto Martinez’s horse reared, and he pointed at something in the water.
Snake?
No. In a current like this, no one would be frightened by a snake that likely was scared out of its skin trying to stay alive. Horns flashed. Cattle began to mill. Finally, Boone thought he saw something, but couldn’t . . . A canoe?
“Shit.” Suddenly, he knew. On the northern banks, Jameson Hannah cursed and plunged his horse into the stream. Story rode up toward the bank, but Boone paid no attention. He tried to swim his horse closer to the herd, not knowing exactly what to do. He heard—at least thought he heard—the sound of the uprooted tree as it slammed into a longhorn. Then the straggling, sore-footed cattle turned in the middle of the river, trying to escape the tree. And Boone realized his mistake.
A horn jabbed. His gelding reared. Boone’s boots slipped out of the stirrups. He lost a rein, and the horse started to roll. Grabbing for the horn, Boone missed, only to realize the last thing he wanted to do was hold on to a horse that was going underwater. Another horn raked his side. The pain told him that wasn’t water running down his shirt.
Suddenly, he realized he was in the water. His head went under. Came up. He started to gasp, only to feel a hoof clip his thigh.
“Boone.”
He saw Jimmy Titus, lariat in hand. Jody Barley forced his black horse through the panicking steers, trying to cut a path toward Boone.
“Grab a tail,” someone shouted.
A snake shot across the back of a brindle bull. No. Not a snake. Jimmy Titus’s lariat. He reached for it, lost it as it slid on the far side of the bull’s back. He ducked underneath a massive horn. Snatched at a tail, found only water. Barley cursed.
Then, Boone went under.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
He vomited, so hard he must have busted up his insides, because he yelled and felt blood rushing out of his body.
“He shall need stitches, señor,” a voice he thought he recognized said.
“If . . .”
The second voice belonged to Nelson Story, but Boone didn’t hear what the tough man said because he was puking again, then rolling onto his back and . . . Jesus . . . he was breathing. Actually breathing. Sucking in air. Not muddy water. He gasped, breathed, sweet, sweet, merciful, glorious oxygen. His side burned. His left hand started to reach across his body, only to be knocked away.
The dark face of José Pablo Tsoyio bent forward, eyes probing, water dripping off the soggy hat’s brim. Boone felt chilled. Wet. His eyes shot upward and he felt the cold drizzle.
Christ Almighty, it had started raining again.
“Cesar,” José Pablo Tsoyio said, and the wrangler stepped over Boone’s legs. Naked legs. Boone raised his head as much as he dared and realized he was stark naked, his legs covered with sand, leaves, scratches. His manhood all shriveled up to nothing in front of all the men he rode with. Son of a bitch. José Pablo Tsoyio spoke in rapid Spanish and the little wrangler answered and ran out of Boone’s sight.
“You’re lucky,” Story said as he squatted beside Boone.
Boone didn’t feel lucky.
“What happened?”
Jordan Stubbings’s lean black face somehow showed up on Boone’s right. Stubbings answered Boone’s question, most of which Boone started to recollect.
“Who pulled me out?” Boone asked, then screamed.
José Pablo Tsoyio, Lucifer’s top hand, had poured whiskey over the hole in Boone’s side.
“Can I have some of that?” Boone as
ked when he could open his lips without yelling or cursing.
The cook glanced at Story, who nodded, and Stubbings lifted Boone’s head as José Pablo Tsoyio, that angel of mercy, let Boone swallow a bit of forty-rod that tasted like his mother’s applesauce.
His head lowered, he repeated his unanswered question, but this time adding, “I’d like to buy him a bottle of rye.”
“He don’t drink ardent spirits.” Boone looked at Stubbings, who grinned wearily. “Steer done it, boss. You latched on to his tail. Got a couple of dallies around your wrist. Probably swallowed half the river getting out.”
Boone almost laughed. He recognized another face. “Thanks,” he said, nodding at Jody Barley.
Hoofbeats sounded, and Story rose, turning, and taking a few steps.
“How about another sip?” Boone asked the cook.
José Pablo Tsoyio did not answer because Story called out to a rider. “Did you find him?”
The answer came silently. Boone couldn’t read Story’s face. Then the voice of Jameson Hannah said, “Combs and Ward are still looking. Peña, Stubbings. Fetch some coal oil out of Petty’s wagon. You two ride downstream. Might need torches. Dark’s coming fast.”
That’s when Boone understood, and he turned his head, hoping to throw up again, hoping he could close his eyes and drown. But nothing happened except Cesar Lopez returned and handed the cook hairs freshly plucked from a horse’s tail.
“The wound in your side requires stitches, señor,” José Pablo Tsoyio explained as he began to thread one of the hairs through a wicked needle meant for leatherwork.
Story squatted beside him again. “I’ll hold his shoulders.” Story nodded to someone out of Boone’s sight. “You two grab his legs.” Then to the cook. “Give him another belt, and let’s get this done before we lose the light.”
The jug came into the hands of Kelvin Melean, who had replaced Jordan Stubbings. Boone jerked his head back to Story.
“Who was it?” he demanded, although he already knew the answer.
* * *
“That’s not coffee,” Boone said weakly.
“A broth,” José Pablo Tsoyio said. “I make it. It will help you heal. From the inside.” He reached up with his left hand, grabbed a spoke to the wagon wheel, and pulled himself into a seated position. The Mexican cook made no effort to help, perhaps realizing Boone wanted to do this himself. Although now that he had proved himself, Mason Boone wished that the cook had assisted just a little.
He stared into the blackness of morning and took the cup from the cook’s hand. Other cowhands gathered by the fire, sipping coffee, eating biscuits, talking.
“Why is it,” Dalton Combs drawled, “that we have to wake up at first light when there ain’t no light at all? All we do is sit around and sip coffee till it’s light enough to saddle our horses.”
“It’s written in the book,” Kelvin Melean said.
Boone wanted to smile, but his eyes turned toward José Pablo Tsoyio.
“Did they find Jimmy?” he asked.
The cook’s head shook.
“Is there any chance . . . ?” But José Pablo Tsoyio rose and walked to the cookfire, leaving Boone with broth and guilt.
* * *
“We could rest the cattle and horses another day,” Jameson Hannah tried.
“No.”
“Leave a man, one man, and have him catch up with us at Fort Gibson.”
“No.”
“The men won’t like it.”
Story tossed the rest of his coffee into the soupy ground, and nodded west. “It’s still raining. We sit around here looking for a dead boy and we’ll never get out of the Nations.”
“It’s not right. Titus deserves a decent burial.”
“It’s right in my book.” Story rose. “That boy could be ten miles or twenty downstream. He could be hung up on a submerged tree, feeding catfish. He’s dead, and I don’t think he cares one way or tother if he’s six feet under sod or sixteen feet underwater.”
Spitting and wiping his mouth, Hannah looked at the fire where the men ate breakfast. “And folks in Texas say I’m a hard man.”
“You took the job knowing I’m boss. We’ve burned enough daylight, and you told me that the Verdigris and Neosho are going to be hell if we don’t put those rivers behind us mighty quick. Or maybe you’d rather lose one or two more men trying to cross those.”
“All right.” Hannah stepped closer. “But when you try to persuade these cowboys to stick with you all the way to Montana, they’re gonna remember that you didn’t give one of their own—a kid, and a damned good kid—a Christian burial.”
“We’ll be burying him,” Story said. “He just won’t be in the grave. I had Luis Avala fashion a cross. We found the boy’s spurs in his saddlebags, and they’ll be draped over the cross. It’s a burial. It’ll be Christian as we can make it. He just won’t be laid to rest—like maybe a hundred thousand soldiers North and South. Maybe more.”
Story started moving to the fire to break the news to the men. “I’ll read over his grave, too.”
“The hell you will,” Jameson Hannah said. “Sam Ireland will. He actually believes in God.”
“That’s good to hear.” Story kept walking, thinking—and smart enough not to say it aloud: Because on this drive, I’m God, and he damned well better believe in me. You might want to learn that, too.
* * *
Boone looked at the spurs on the cross, then twisted his head and stared at the expanding Canadian River, wondering where the body of Jimmy Titus might actually be. He wanted to believe that soon, when the waters receded, maybe some Choctaws or Cherokees—depending on which side of the river the body washed up—would find poor Jimmy and bury him. Maybe sing a song about him. “Loch Lomond”? He could hear Jimmy’s voice just before . . .
“It wasn’t your fault.” Sam Ireland squeezed Boone’s shoulder.
Blinking back tears, Boone turned and tried to think of something to say. No words came. His gut twisted. His side ached. José Pablo Tsoyio’s broth was taking its good sweet time to start the healing.
“Freak accident. That’s all. Maybe it was his time.”
“You believe that?” Boone asked.
“I believe the boss man’s right,” Ireland said with a sigh. “We have to get this herd moving.” His jaw jutted to the west. The drizzle had become steady, harder.
Boone felt like an idiot. He was dressed in clothes that didn’t fit—a shirt that had belonged to Jimmy Titus, found in his saddlebags along with the spurs and a tintype of a woman. The boy’s mother, sister, girlfriend? No one would ever know. They had buried the tintype in the grave, along with one of the boy’s boots that had been washed up about a mile downstream.
Boone still had his own boots. The current hadn’t swept those, or his trousers, off him, but the trousers had been ripped apart, so now he wore his extra pair of drawers covered by Kelvin Melean’s chaps. Sam Ireland tossed in the vest. Cesar Lopez provided a scarf. Story had loaned Boone the hat, saying they’d get some new duds at Fort Gibson.
“You up to ride?” Story asked.
Boone rubbed the sleeves of the shirt, which didn’t fit, but would keep the sun off him—if the sun ever returned.
“I’m not up to walk,” Boone answered.
“I mean riding.”
Boone looked into Story’s heartless eyes.
“I’m down a drag rider,” Story said.
“Nelson,” Bill Petty called out from about ten yards away. “I figured Boone could drive my wagon, and I—”
“I’ll do the figuring, and Boone rides better than you do.” Story’s face, damp from rain, remained hard, and the eyes unrelenting. “We’ll hire another rider. In Gibson. Baxter Springs. Somewhere. But I need you on drag till then.”
There had been no question since Story’s You up to ride?
“Yeah. I’ll ride.”
Hell, had he said he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, he’d be walking back to Tyler, Texas. Boo
ne felt certain of that.
“If the side opens up,” Story said, “just mosey up to Allen or José, and ride in the wagon with one of them. We can go shorthanded at drag if we have to. Or I can send Tom Allen to spell you, though Tom’s been acting as a scout a bit, and I was thinking about sending him out today to see if he could bag us a deer or turkey.”
Boone made himself nod, but all he wanted was for Story to shut up and leave him alone. Instead, Story took Boone’s empty cup. “Best catch yourself a horse,” Story said. “We’re moving north. I’ll dump your cup in the wreck pan.”
“That’s mighty damned decent of you,” Boone whispered as Story walked away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
It would be faster just walking to Montana.
John Catlin sighed. His wagon moved at the exhilarating speed of two miles an hour. The scenery never changed, maybe because the wagon—filled with three tons of sugar, flour, coffee, and bacon—never really moved. He had learned the commands on the first day, but it wasn’t like you needed to know a whole lot about oxen. Ghee meant “turn right”; yaw meant “turn left”; whoa meant “stop.” It was getting and keeping the beasts moving that worked up the sweat, tried the patience, and increased the use of profanity among bullwhackers. And Catlin had beaten himself to hell more than he had popped that stiff-shanked whip against the hide of his team.
Though he was getting to like his oxen. And he had to thank Major Coushatta John Noah for patience, and the chance, and for teaching him a little bit about positioning the animals that had to pull three tons across a dreary, sunbaked, windblown country.
A pair of longhorns went in the lead yoke. Though nowhere near the size of the other oxen, these two steers just plodded along and wouldn’t stop for hill, cliff, river, or mud bog. Catlin didn’t need to try to crack his whip over the lead pair’s ears. He just had to yell Whoa! loud enough to get them to stop.
Closest to the wagon, on each side of the singletree, were big Durhams, the one on the right mostly white with black spots, while the left one shone a deep reddish brown. Each animal weighed more than a ton. Between those two yokes were three pairs of Devons—Ruby Reds—not as big as the Durhams, not as reliable as the longhorns, but with quick temperaments. Back in Nebraska City, the major had told Catlin that he would be better off with all longhorns and Devons, but this would test the new bullwhacker, and if the wagon overturned, well, then Captain John Catlin would have a long, hard job, and a fine stretch of the legs walking back to Indiana.
A Thousand Texas Longhorns Page 18