A Vast and Desolate Land

by Robert Peecher

  Caleb narrowed his eyes and looked to where Cossatot Jim was sitting with the others, eating his supper. "And if I pull a canvas tarp over me and hide?"

  Rab grinned and nodded his head. "Then your fear has got you, and you ain't fit to ride a hawss in my outfit."

  If a Western man had much to do with cattle, he went on a trail drive at one time or another. But most of the men who sat stools in saloons and talked about their days driving cattle only shared stories from one trail drive. Not many men did it more than once. Saddle sores were a part of it for some. Stiff muscles and low wages chased others away. But the monotony of the day is what convinced most men that trail drives were for other people.

  Rise before sunup. Coffee and breakfast in the dark. Get the gear together, saddle the horse.

  The moment the sun topped the eastern horizon, push the cattle. Ride all day. All day. Slow, so that landmarks on the horizon seemed to never get nearer from sunup to late afternoon. Beef on the hoof couldn't move too fast and had to eat the whole way. If they ran the cattle too hard and didn't give ample time for grazing, the cattle lost too much weight on a drive and would fetch a smaller price per head.

  With the shadows long and pointing east, it was supper and bed down, with an expectation that soon enough you'd be on night watch.

  Over and over, day after day, sometimes for two full months.

  A trail drive was a hell of a way to make a living, and for the average cowpuncher, it was only fifty or sixty dollars at the end of the trail.

  For all the talk in saloons, the most excitement a man might have in two months was shooting at a coyote and missing.

  Of course, excitement wasn't what anyone wanted on a trail drive. Excitement usually came in one of only three ways — a crossing over a swollen river, a stampede, or an Indian attack.

  No cowpuncher wanted any of that if it could be helped.

  But the monotony had a way of digging deep down into the bones and making a man careless.

  If the blame fell to anyway, it was Miguel's fault. He could ride herd on steers better than almost any man in all of New Mexico, but keeping watch at night was not his specialty. It was worse now that watch was three men instead of just two because the rotations came quicker and everyone was getting less sleep.

  And Miguel began to doze in his saddle.

  So when Cossatot Jim slipped away from the rest of the men in their bedrolls, Miguel did not hear him.

  All through supper, Jim observed everything. He knew where to find a blanket and saddle. He knew which of the horses had been ridden and which were fresh, and he knew where the fresh horses were picketed. He knew where to grab a Yellow Boy and a box of ammunition. He'd already stashed away a full canteen.

  He made up his bed a bit farther away from all the others.

  Miguel, Carlos, and Vazquez had the second watch.

  Cossatot Jim waited until he knew the men from the first watch were asleep.

  Quietly, methodically, the buffalo hunter gathered his stolen supplies. He'd slipped a fair amount of jerky into a saddlebag, along with the stolen box of cartridges.

  He clenched his jaws tight, desperate to keep every movement as quiet as possible. The breeze was calmer now at midnight than it was through most of the day, but it still blew with just enough noise to mask the small movements.

  In the darkness, he could hear the watch, and he knew when they were near and when they'd ridden some distance away.

  When the horse was saddled, Cossatot Jim eased it away from the others, toward the lowing steers. He would let the cattle hide his movements.

  And when he was sure he was clear of the watch, Cossatot Jim mounted and gave the horse a kick with his heels.

  The horse bounded forward and worked itself into a gallop.

  The sound now was unmistakable, and Cossatot Jim knew the night watch would hear him.

  A six-shooter cracked like thunder somewhere behind him, but he dug his heels and the horse picked up more speed — a reckless and desperate race through the dark.

  Cossatot Jim knew for certain that those men and their cattle would soon fall prey to the Comanche, and he'd be damned if he was going to get caught with them.

  ***

  "Hell!" O'Toole shouted, snatching for his Yellow Boy and sitting up in his bedroll. "What is it?"

  "Rider leaving camp!" Carlos shouted.

  He'd fired the shot into the air to alert the others. He knew he was risking stampeding the cattle, but one shot, even in the dark of night, was seldom enough to get them going.

  Now all the men in the outfit were stirring. The men of the night watch rode back into the camp. Darkness all around them and not enough moonlight, the men could only see shadows of each other.

  "Report!" Fitz called out. "What's happening?"

  "A rider leaving camp," Carlos said. "I don't know who it was, but I heard someone riding away."

  "One rider?" Fitz asked.

  "That buffalo hunter has absconded with one of our hawsses," Vazquez said. "He was sleeping right here, but his bedroll is gone and so is he."

  "Should we try to ride after him?" Carlos asked.

  "You'll never trail him in the dark," Rab Sinclair said. "We can bet it's a certainty when we see the hawss again it'll be under a Comanche."

  "Hell. It'll serve him right," O'Toole said. "Double dealing backstabber is all he is."

  "Tighten up the watch," Rab said. His tone, typically easy and settled, did not mask his irritation. "We ain't worried about the critters. Watch the horses and the camp. We'll find out in the morning what all he stole."

  "Damnation!" Fitz called. "That scoundrel made off with my saddle."

  O'Toole started to laugh. "I told you to sleep with your saddle under your head."

  In Sancho's wagon there were two spare saddles, but they were both old and worn, and Fitz was going to regret the loss of his own saddle.

  "Maybe the Comanche will leave it when they take his scalp," O'Toole said. "You might get it back after all, Fitz."

  In the first light of morning, Rab Sinclair made an accounting of all that was stolen.

  Only the horse could not be replaced, though Fitz might argue that his own saddle was irreplaceable.

  When he kitted out the expedition, Rab brought extra of everything. There were extra rifles, even a couple of extra saddles, plenty of cartridges and canteens. A saddlebag full of jerky would not be missed.

  But they were now down one horse.

  "I had a bad feeling about bringing him along," Rab confessed over breakfast. "I should have left him down in that canyon."

  O'Toole, who was feeling more generous than Fitz, shrugged his shoulders. "It would be tough to make your way in this world if folks didn't sometimes give you a hand. That's different from a second chance, though. If we see him again we'll hang him for thieving a hawss."

  "Won't be a need to hang him," Fitz said. "I'll shoot him dead for thieving a saddle. That saddle saw me through Gettysburg, the fight at Culpeper Courthouse, and the entire campaign through Virginia leading up to Lee's surrender at Appomattox Courthouse. I rode that saddle all the way from Fort Leavenworth to New Mexico. No offense to your horse, Rabbie, but I put more value in that saddle than I do the horse it's sitting on."

  "Let's get the cattle moving," Rab said to Carlos. "Maybe before the day is over we'll come across Cossatot Jim again."

  The vaqueros mounted and started the cattle. The others were slower to take up their positions because it always took some time in the mornings to get the steers started, and there was no need to be in a rush.

  As Sancho was stowing his supplies, the unconscious man in the back of the wagon began to stir.

  "Where am I?" Skinner Jake asked.

  "You're in my chuck wagon," Sancho said.

  "Who are you?"

  "Name is Sancho de Herrera, but my friends call me Sancho Biscuit."

  "You with that outfit I saw?" Skinner Jake asked. Talking around his swollen tongue was difficult, and his
throat was painful. He tried to raise himself up, but his head began to spin.

  "I am. You've been unconscious for two days with us."

  "I could use some water."

  Sancho Biscuit got a canteen of water and climbed into the back of the wagon. He helped Skinner Jake prop himself up, and then held the canteen to his lips.

  "Not too fast," he said. "Don't drink too much at once. You'll make yourself sick."

  Rab Sinclair was mounted now on the Appaloosa and rode over to the wagon. Of the horses in the remuda, Rab's preference was to ride Cromwell. But the Appaloosa had proved to be a good saddle horse, and Rab was enjoying riding him.

  "He's awake?"

  "He is," Sancho said.

  "Damned thirsty, too," Skinner Jake said through a straining throat.

  "We picked up one of your friends," Rab said. "Cossatot Jim. He made off with one of my hawsses in the middle of the night. I'll give you fair warning, you try the same and I'll shoot you out of the saddle."

  Skinner took another drink from the canteen.

  "Cossatot ain't no friend of mine," Skinner said. "Not a friend o' mine a'tall. You ain't got to worry over your horses none with me. I ain't got strength to stand, much less ride."

  Rab nodded. "We'll talk more later."

  The rest of the outfit now was mounting up and following in behind the cattle.

  Rab rode over to Kuwatee.

  "I'm going to ride a piece over to the north, the way we saw them Comanche scouts yesterday. I'm going to try to keep you in sight, but if I ain't back in a couple of hours, you might grab O'Toole and ride a ways to look for me."

  The half-breed grunted. "Watch yourself, Rab."

  -7-

  Bernard Swain took a long drink from the bottle of mezcal.

  The boy Rudy — they called him "Rude" for short — was antsy.

  "Don't worry none, boy," Swain said. "Ain't nobody riding out here to catch us."

  "No posse?" Rude asked.

  "No posse is coming out to the Staked Plains after some middling saddle horses."

  Mezcal Pete reached across and took the bottle from Swain. "Posse comes out here, we'll shoot 'em and leave 'em for the crows. I wish a posse would come out here, I really do."

  Rude looked back and forth between the two older men. He'd give his arm for Bernard Swain. Swain was a good man, took him in and taught him a trade. But Mezcal Pete was cheap trash, and Rude wished now that Swain had never brought him along.

  "They ain't all middling horses," Rude said. "That stallion won some races, and I know they was looking to breed him. And them two mares are both Morgan horses, sure 'nough."

  Bernard Swain took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his head. Out here, the wind dried the sweat fast enough from every spot it could reach, leaving behind a crust of white salt on a man's face. But up under the hat, it could get like a pool with so much sweat.

  "You picked some good'uns," Swain said. "You done real good, Rude. You're right, there ain't no middling horses in this bunch. Every one of 'em will fetch sixty dollars or more once we get 'em to Texas."

  "What's sixty for a score of horses?" Mezcal Pete asked.

  "It's more than a thousand dollars, I'll tell you that," Bernard Swain said.

  The truth was, Swain knew he could get seventy-five dollars for each horse. He knew damn good and well that once they got these horses to Texas they'd get fifteen hundred. But he planned to pocket three hundred for himself and then split the remaining twelve-hundred three ways.

  The way Bernard Swain saw it, the three hundred was his fee for setting up the deal and being smart enough to figure it out. He figured the kid owed it to him for all the meals and gear Swain had paid for so that the kid could get along. And he didn't mind taking money from Mezcal Pete because Pete was a lowlife.

  A man who was a lowlife even among a band of horse thieves didn't deserve a share of the extra three hundred.

  In addition to the twenty stolen horses and their own mounts, the men had three pack mules loaded with supplies for crossing the Llano Estacado. Swain figured there were two ways of making the journey across the Llano Estacado. A man could go well-provisioned, ready to face the elements and whatever else came along, or he could go fast, and get off the Staked Plains before the worst came. Bernard Swain planned to get to Texas fast and get money in his pockets for his stolen New Mexico horses.

  "That's enough of a break," Swain said. "Let's get moving again."

  The men each took a last drink from the bottle of mezcal and Pete pushed the cork back into the bottle and slipped it into his saddlebag.

  Rude, swinging himself back into the saddle, saw the man out on the horizon.

  "They's somebody out there," he said, astonished.

  Both Pete and Swain looked up from where they were cinching their saddles.

  "Naw there ain't," Mezcal Pete said. "Look again. You're seeing shadows."

  Swain reserved judgment until he was in his saddle and had a better view.

  "Damn if there ain't," Swain said. "One man, by hisself."

  Pete stepped into his saddle and wheeled his horse to the direction the other two were looking.

  "I'll be."

  Swain urged his horse forward toward the man. "You two stay here with the horses, I'm going to ride out and see who this is and what he wants."

  As he rode out to the man, Swain drew his Colt Army from his holster and turned the cylinder so that a cartridge was under the hammer.

  Cossatot Jim was nobody's fool. He'd seen three riders and a score of horses. He recognized a band of horse thieves when he saw it. But seeing as he was one now himself, he figured horse thieves were just the sort he needed to fall in with.

  "Howdy!" Cossatot called from distance.

  "That's close enough, mister," Bernard Swain called out. "Who the hell are you, and what are you doing out here by yourself?"

  "Name is Cossatot Jim. I come from Arkansas. I'm a buffalo runner by trade, but my group was attacked by Comanche some days ago. I got took in by some cattle drovers, but they wouldn't spare me a horse, so I took this 'un. I'd be obliged to ride with you until we find some more white people."

  "Land sakes, that's a mouthful," Bernard Swain said. "Where abouts was you attacked by Comanche?"

  "Directly in the way you're going, about four or five days ago."

  "And where abouts are these drovers?"

  "They're moving a herd directly in the way you're going. I left 'em at midnight, so they're 12 hours behind me."

  Bernard Swain narrowed his eyes.

  "You stole a horse, but you think we'll take you in?"

  Cossatot Jim nodded to the two riders and the score of horses yonder.

  "I'm savvy enough to know a fellow traveler when I see one," Cossatot Jim said. "I ain't asking for more than company from you. Your horses, or whosoever's they are, ain't an interest to me."

  Bernard Swain chewed on this for a bit.

  "If we're moving in the direction of them drovers you stole that horse from, you don't want to ride with us. You'll come face to face with them."

  Cossatot Jim grinned. "I guess I reckon you'll want to avoid them as much as I do," he said. "You ain't taking them horses right past a band of cattlemen."

  Swain shrugged. "That's true enough. What'd you say your name was?"

  "Cossatot Jim."

  "Well, Crosstoe, turn your horse around and let's see about getting past them drovers and Comanche."

  ***

  With their new companion, the horse thieves started a wide arc to the south, leaving plenty of room for a herd of cattle and a band of renegade Comanche to pass by unobserved.

  Mezcal Pete and Cossatot Jim rode together, leading some of the horses.

  Rude and Bernard Swain rode behind them with the rest of the horses and the two pack mules.

  "Do you trust him?" Rude asked.

  "Of course not," Bernard Swain said. "I'll keep one eye on him and the other eye on the horses as long as he's around."<
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  "Why would you want to bring a man like that along with us?" Rude asked.

  Bernard Swain clicked his tongue and rubbed the back of his neck.

  "Well, boy, it's like this. When you make your way in life the way we make our way, you can't have too many friends. You never know when you'll need them. Way I see it, men like us need to band together and look out for each other. Maybe in a year or five years, I'll run into him again when I've got troubles of my own. And if I help him today, he'll be more likely to help me then."

  Swain rode on a ways, thinking through his thoughts.

  "We look out across this wide plain, and all we see is how big and empty it is. And we start thinking what a big ol' world this is. Right?"

  Rude swept his eyes from north to east to south. "It is a big ol' world," he agreed.

  "But the fact is, it's a pretty small world. There ain't that many people in all of Texas and New Mexico. You get into a town and start askin' around, and you'll find that pretty quick you'll run into someone you know, or someone who knows someone you know. It's happened to me more times'n I can count. So folks like us, we stick together. We help each other out."

  "I reckon so," Rude said.

  "And besides, if we get into trouble, either with them cattle drovers or the Comanche, having one more gun won't hurt none."

  Bernard Swain had taken in or partnered up with any number of thieves and outlaws in his day.

  At one time or another he'd ridden with stagecoach robbers, rustlers, cutthroats, bank robbers, and claim jumpers. He preferred stealing horses to any of the rest of it. You could make off fast with the stolen merchandise, sell it in the next town, and be shed of all evidence. There was little time involved in stealing a horse and it left ample time for Swain's favorite activity — loafing.

  He was a man who liked being master of his own schedule. He didn't like being told to be in a place at a time. He didn't like other men telling him what to do or when to do it. He liked to loaf. Whether he was drinking mezcal on a stool in a saloon or whittling a stick in a front-porch rocker, Bernard Swain enjoyed idle hours.