Stampede

by Len Levinson

  Don Emilio looked at her as he galloped past, and she was secure on her saddle as the most experienced vaquero; he wouldn’t have to worry about her. He rode his favorite horse, Hermano, a lineback roan gelding with tremendous power and endurance, and urged him to his greatest effort, as he tried to reach the lead rank of longhorns.

  Lightning was everywhere, ripping apart the night. Don Emilio saw it darting between the longhorn’s legs and bouncing off their horns. There was forked lightning, chain lightning, and balls of lightning rolling across the ground, while the atmosphere thundered like the cannons of hell.

  The cattle rushed through the night, terrorized by the terrible sights and sounds, while the cowboys’ horses were maddened and running nearly wild. Don Emilio fought to keep his horse headed in a straight line toward the front of the herd, where he hoped to turn Old Ben. If he milled the herd, Cassandra would appreciate him more, and that’s what he wanted, along with her smooth firm woman flesh in the moonlit stream. Everything he’d ever done in his life he’d done for women, so they’d love him, and this would be his finest hour. I must have her, and this is the only way.

  He exulted in his manhood, and believed gringos were weaklings compared to caballeros such as himself. He was far ahead of all the other cowboys, and then heard hoofbeats to his right. He turned and saw the ramrod crouched low in his saddle, moving toward the front of the herd. Don Emilio urged his roan forward, but the ramrod pulled ahead easily, the front of his hat brim pressed back by the howling wind.

  Truscott was making the ride of his life as the hooves of his fear-maddened horse ate the ground beneath them. The hailstorm had become blinding sheets of rain, the prairie slick as pig manure, but Truscott pressed onward, because nature had thrown down the gauntlet, and Truscott picked it up.

  He too felt he must turn the herd, but not for Cassandra or any other earthly award. He wanted to prove to himself that he was the greatest ramrod in the world, and he could stop, single-handedly, the worst stampede he’d ever seen.

  All his life he’d lived with longhorns, studied them, and knew what was going on in their minds. He was Duke Truscott, ramrod of the Triangle Spur, and no bunch of dumb cattle would dare defy his glory on this night of nights.

  He turned the corner of the herd and moved toward the center, his lariat in his right hand, the reins gripped tightly in his left. The air smelled sulfurous, and a faint golden glow had come over the prairie. He looked at the cattle, and electricity played along their horns. A ball of fire the size of a plum rolled along a young steer’s back.

  And then Truscott’s eyes fell on Old Ben, and Truscott knew if he could turn him, he could turn the herd. He grabbed a handful of reins and pulled his horse’s head toward Old Ben, but the horse was terrified and didn’t want to go. The horse struggled to escape, but the bit dug into his gums and made them bleed. Reluctantly the horse turned toward the charging cattle.

  “Ho there!” Truscott hollered in his deepest ramrod voice, and afterward, every cowboy in the crew would say they’d heard him, no matter where they’d been. “Ho cow! Move out my goddamn road!”

  Truscott’s horse galloped toward Old Ben, and Truscott leaned forward, staring into Old Ben’s terrified eyes. It was a test of will, his against the dumb brute’s, and Truscott had to prevail.

  The herd trampled closer, and Truscott’s horse could see imminent destruction worse even than the bit in his mouth. He turned away, and Truscott stood in his stirrups, pulling the reins with every sinew in his body, twisting the horse’s head.

  The horse lost his balance, and crashed onto his back. Truscott’s leg was trapped beneath the horse, a solid bolt of pain shot through him, and he raised his gnarled hand before Old Ben’s drooling snout.

  “Turn, damn you—you son of a whore! Ho there!”

  Old Ben saw only the horrifying lightning storm. He and hundreds of other longhorns rampaged toward Truscott, and Truscott realized he wasn’t going to turn them. He shook his fist at the fear-crazed longhorns and bared his teeth, raging furiously as he fell beneath their terrible bludgeoning hooves.

  Lightning crackled across the sky, and the herd was bathed in a weird phosphorescent glow as thunder reverberated off distant mountains. Brandy Station had vanished, Stone was in Texas, Cassandra’s herd was running wild, and the only thing to do was get in front with the other cowboys and try to mill them. Spurring Tomahawk, he flew through gold crystals as the herd spread out beside him like a living rolling blanket.

  Stone felt strong, confident, and he’d just made love to a beautiful woman. Now the difficult seemed easy, and the impossible only a minor challenge for a man as incredible as Stone felt at that moment. He steered Tomahawk toward the herd, and Tomahawk didn’t want to go, because he was badly spooked by the bizarre events of the night, and the prairie was yellow and blue, with little spheres of fire dancing upon it.

  “C’mon!” Stone yelled, pulling Tomahawk closer to the longhorns, and Tomahawk was so unsure of himself, he gave up resistance. His boss seemed to know what he was doing— let him call the shots.

  Stone sat light on his saddle, and Tomahawk felt as if Stone were an appendage of his body. He knew what Stone wanted, and was sure Stone would die, but if that was Stone’s intention, Tomahawk would die with him.

  Tomahawk angled closer to the herd, and now that it was close, Stone could see the individual longhorns only a few feet apart, and in some places actually touched and rubbed against each other. Tiny marbles of fire rolled from horn to horn, and blast furnace heat emanated from their bodies. Stone felt it sear his eyes and cheeks, and now he was close enough to jump from his saddle onto their backs.

  Something told him it was a foolhardy thing to do, and Tomahawk whinnied his disapproval, but someday, at a campfire, Stone would tell his grandson about the night he’d walked across a herd of stampeding cattle. He raised himself in his saddle, drew one leg over the pommel, and leapt into the air. He experienced a sinking sensation, and then one boot came down on a steer’s back. Stone caught his balance, bobbled, and jumped onto another steer. When he landed he leaned to the left, leaned to the right, and then stabilized himself, bending his knees to absorb the jostling of the animal as it clobbered the plains.

  We’ve done it! Stone thought. But the steer beneath him was frightened even more by the presence of Stone on his back, and raised his front hooves into the air, just as Stone was jumping toward the back of the next longhorn.

  Stone lost his balance, and this time couldn’t catch it. A terrible desperate feeling came over him as he slipped down the side of the cow’s wet back. Hooves tore up the grass before his eyes, and he knew he’d always been too impulsive, with far too high an opinion of his abilities, and he saw the Gypsy laughing behind a mound of earth.

  He plummeted toward the ground, and a long black arm extended out of the sky, grabbing hold of his bicep. Stone bounced on the turf, and then was pulled upward. He turned around and saw Ephraim atop his horse, bareheaded, dragging him away from the stampeding cattle. Stone dived for Ephraim’s waist, held on, kicked the ground, and vaulted into the saddle behind Ephraim, who pulled his horse’s reins to the right, to get away from the herd.

  Stone had been six inches from a gruesome death, but they still weren’t home free. Cattle swirled around them like eddies in a fast-moving river, but miraculously none of them ran into the horse and two riders, another eerie experience the longhorns wanted to avoid. Ephraim’s horse reached the edge of the stampede and broke away from the cattle. In the distance, Stone could see Tomahawk galloping wildly, stirrups flapping in the air, trying to escape the lightning.

  When they were a healthy distance from the herd, Ephraim pulled back his reins. The horse came to a stop, and Ephraim climbed down from the saddle. He dropped prostrate on the ground, his chest heaving.

  “You damned fool,” he uttered.

  Stone jumped to the grass and sat heavily, hearing the herd stampede into the farthest reaches of the night. His hand shook as he
pulled his bag of tobacco out of his shirt pocket, and he knew Ephraim was right, he’d tried something more stupid than ever, even worse than blundering onto the bear, and nearly killed himself. A dangerous heedless folly was deep inside him, and he had to get to the bottom of it before it was too late. But then a new thought pressed into his mind. He lit the cigarette, tossed the bag of tobacco to Ephraim, and asked, ‘Why’d you do it?”

  Ephraim looked at him. “I told you before, white boy. If anybody’s a-gonna kill you, it’s a-gonna be me.”

  Stone thought that over for a few moments as Ephraim rolled a cigarette. Then Stone looked coldly at Ephraim and said, “A man doesn’t risk his life to save his worst enemy. Tell me the truth for a change.”

  Ephraim lit his cigarette, and gazed off into the distance as the rain pelted them, washing away dirt and dried blood. “I told you,” he said. “So’s I can kill you myself.”

  “If you despise me as much as you say, it doesn’t fit together, unless you’re crazy. Is that what it is, Ephraim? Are you crazy?”

  Ephraim threw the tobacco toward Stone, then turned away. “I don’t want to look at you. I hate your guts, and I live for the day I can piss on yer grave.”

  “You could have been pissing on it tomorrow morning, if that’s what you’d wanted.” Stone moved in front of Ephraim and grabbed his shoulder roughly as he screamed: “Why’d you save my life?”

  Ephraim pulled his shoulder out of Stone’s grasp and turned in another direction, but Stone moved so Ephraim would be forced to look at him. Ephraim raised himself to his feet and balled his fists. “Git away from me, white boy, ’cause I’ll kill you!”

  Stone stood opposite Ephraim and squared his shoulders as a bolt of lightning shot across the sky. Stone’s hat had blown off, and the wind and rain blew against his face as he screamed: “You’re a liar! You’re hiding something!”

  “Git out my face, white boy! I had just about enough of your shit!”

  “You don’t have the guts to tell the truth! You’re a coward!”

  Ephraim furled his thick lips. “Don’t you call me no coward, if you wants to go on livin’, you white son of a bitch!”

  “What else can I call a man who’s afraid to say the truth? To hell with you, if you haven’t got the guts to speak your mind! You’re just another dumb nigra, far as I’m concerned, or maybe you really like me in some strange way, though you don’t have the guts to admit it!”

  Stone turned angrily and walked away. Tomahawk was out there someplace, and he was going to kick his ass for letting him attempt the stunt with the cattle. Stone walked several steps, then heard Ephraim behind him. He spun around and pulled out his knife, because he expected one in the back.

  Ephraim’s hands were empty, and his jaw trembled as he spoke. “I’ll tell you, becuzz I ain’t no coward, and I don’t want you thinkin’ I like you, or I saved you for anything you ever did. You want to know why? You think you can handle it, white boy?”

  “This white boy can handle anything you’ve got, nigra.”

  Ephraim paused and looked away from Stone. He was silent for a few moments as he collected his thoughts, and then he said, “There was a time befo’ the war when your daddy was havin’ money trubble. Don’t reckon you even knowed about it, ’cause you was away at West Point at the time, but anyways, your daddy planned to sell some of us, and a man made him a cash offer for me and my brother.”

  Ephraim paused again, and shivered as if at the North Pole; Stone could see this wasn’t easy for him. “Well,” Ephraim continued, “that night my momma went to your daddy, and got down on her knees, and begged him not to break up the family. She even kissed his feet, and you could hear her wailin’ all over the damn place, and your daddy finally said he wouldn’t break up her family no matter what happened, and he’d set us free fo’ he’d sell us separate.”

  Ephraim turned toward Stone and looked him unflinchingly in the eye. “So you wants to know why I saved your ass? It was fo’ your daddy, fo’ the one good thing he ever did in his life! That’s why! Now you know!” Ephraim reached to his belt and pulled out his butcher knife. “I guess there’s only one mo’ thing we got to do now!”

  Stone held his Apache knife in his hand. “You said my daddy went to the slave quarters at night, with the slave women. Was that true, or was it a lie?”

  “It was the truth, and I’ll tell you somethin’ else, one of the women he came to see was my mother!”

  Stone lowered his knife, pushed it into the scabbard in his boot, and no longer had the stomach to fight this man.

  Ephraim continued: “Do you remember your daddy used to ’speriment with chickens? Well, I used to take care of ’em, and one of the things they did was crossbreed ’em to see what they’d get. I remember one time a black hen and a white rooster got together. I saw the black hen lay her three eggs, and I waited till they hatched, and she had two white chicks, and one black chick, even though his father was completely white.”

  “I used to think about that a lot, and I ain’t never forgot it. Do you understand what I’m sayin’, Massa John? I mean, do you really understand what I’m sayin’?”

  “You’re saying we might be brothers.”

  Ephraim moaned, and all the strength went out of him. He sank to the ground and buried his face in his hands. “I hate you,” he said, “and I hated you all my life.”

  Stone dropped to one knee in front of him. “Ephraim, I never bought or sold a slave in my life, I never whipped one, and I never forced myself into any mother’s bed. Maybe my daddy did some of those things, but God will judge him, not you. My daddy came from a world where that happened all the time, and he didn’t know any better, but who knows, if things were different, maybe we might’ve been the slaves, and you the slave owners. Your own people in Africa sold you to the Yankee ship captains, so don’t preach to me. You don’t really think nigras’re any better in their hearts than white people, do you?”

  “You’re damn right I do!” Ephraim shouted.

  The two sat silently for a long time, as the rain baptized them, and lightning bolts cracked the sky.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was morning, the sky still was cloudy, and the dead lay on the ground next to a big hole scooped out of the muddy earth. Not far away sprawled the herd, not more than one thousand head of cattle now, and the rest were littered across North Texas. The first job was round them up, although the crew had no chuck wagon, no tools, and nothing but their guns, horses, and plenty of beef to eat.

  But first they had to bury their dead. The survivors stood around the hole and looked at Duke Truscott, ramrod of the Triangle Spur. They could make out his general form, and some of his clothing, but everything was matted with blood. Don Emilio had seen him go down, and told the others Truscott tried to stop Old Ben single-handedly, but the herd hadn’t stopped, and now he was mangled beyond recognition.

  It was time for Cassandra to say her final prayer, but somehow no words came to her mouth. For a man like Truscott, there was nothing anyone could say. She realized now she’d loved the leathery old bastard. He’d been her father, big brother, and sometimes she’d thought about being alone with him, for she always had a weakness for older men.

  Now he was dead, and her eyes were salty with tears. She knew Duke Truscott didn’t approve of tears, but she couldn’t hold them back. Her body was wracked by a sob, and every cowboy and vaquero wept silently alongside her, because he was their fallen leader, and everyone admired him. When they came right down to it, they knew Duke Truscott had been utterly fearless, and that’s what every man, deep down, wishes he had more than anything else.

  They all knew they’d never forget him. He’d been stubborn and too harsh sometimes, but never asked them to do anything he wouldn’t. He shared their pain and pleasure, and was the kind of man other men followed, because he was solid as a rock. The only thing that could stop Truscott was a herd of stampeding cattle, so that’s what he went up against, to see what it was like.


  He’d found out you can’t push too far, and everybody standing at the grave learned the lesson from him. The school of the open range was unforgiving, and Truscott had been their professor, with his life as his blackboard.

  Cassandra realized Truscott had made her stronger, because he’d fought her tooth and nail, and if she could stand up to Duke Truscott, she’d never be afraid of anybody again in her life. There were times he’d given in to her when he didn’t have to, she knew now, although he could’ve put her over his knee and spanked her whenever he felt like it, and she couldn’t’ve stopped him. Evidently in his own rough way he’d cared about her, and he never let her down.

  She remembered the time he’d come to her and said she had more balls than most men he’d known. That meant, in his tough cowboy language, that she had guts, and coming from a man like Truscott, who wasn’t afraid of anything, that was high praise indeed.

  She wanted to end the drive, because too many men had died. She even wished she could fall on the ground and weep her eyes out, but she knew Truscott, wherever he was now, wouldn’t stand for it. He’d tear the floorboards out of hell, because it was his herd too, and a point of honor to push it all the way to Abilene. Now she had two reasons to move those longhorns up the trail—for herself, but also for old Duke Truscott, the greatest ramrod who ever lived.

  And she knew what he’d say just then if he were standing there with them, in his old rawhide vest and his floppy leggins, with his Remington hanging low on his waist. She put on her hat, and slanted the brim over her eyes the way he always did. “We got work to do!” she hollered, hitching her thumbs in her gunbelt, her eyes brimming with tears. “Fill that goddamned hole—and let’s move it out!”

  The Searcher

  By Len Levinson