Good Water

by John D. Nesbitt

  “What color are they?” Tommy asked.

  “One is the tan one with the cross, and the other is dark, like black, with a white nose and belly. You’ve seen them both.”

  “Oh, yeah. I remember them. Do you want me to go out and look for them?”

  “You and Gabriel can go south. Another two men can go north. The burros, they probably just go to look for something to eat.”

  “The grass isn’t very good here, so they might have wandered quite a ways.”

  “I know. Maybe they’re together, and maybe they go different ways.”

  “Well, we can sure try to find ’em.”

  “Oh, and one other thing. We use up all the firewood, and a lotta beans and corn, so Milena’s big bags can go in the wagon.”

  Tommy wondered what that meant for him, but not finding a hint, he said, “That’s good.” He stood up and brushed off the seat of his pants. “I’ll get my horse ready, and we’ll go look for the donkeys.”

  By the time he had Pete saddled and watered, Gabriel had the tired-looking brown horse ready to go. Tommy said, “I hope we find better grass in the next place. These fellas didn’t get all that much to eat yesterday. I’m not surprised that those two donkeys wandered off.” He did wonder why no one had tied up the two animals when the group was on the move like this, but he had become used to the way the people did things, and he knew he would do no good by complaining now.

  The two boys headed out of camp as the sun was beginning to warm the morning. Pete snorted and stepped along like a good cow pony, but the brown horse tended to lag, and Gabriel had to kick him every so often so that he would trot and catch up. A mile from camp, Tommy suggested that they split up. Gabriel drifted to the left, and Tommy struck out to the right, headed southwest. The country was flat, with low-lying brush as he had noticed the day before. The terrain sloped downward for about a mile ahead of him, and then it rose again into rolling country. By himself, and more alert in the morning than he had been the day before in the drowsy heat of the afternoon, he realized that the low area must be where the creek flowed from the Mexican settlement and the White Wings Ranch. He thought he might have ridden across the dry streambed in the afternoon without noticing. It also occurred to him that an animal might find better grass there, as he had discovered with the antelope. The green grass and flowing water of that day now seemed a long time ago, but there might be dry grass somewhere along here.

  He found the streambed, and he could not remember crossing it or anything that looked like it the day before. The grass was nothing remarkable, being sparse and dry and cropped close to the ground. Tommy dismounted to look closer, to see if he could find the tracks of a horse, or cattle, or a lost donkey, or even an antelope. Any sign was interesting, and he needed to practice reading that sort of thing.

  He walked along bent over, with his reins in his hands. He wondered if a better tracker would see things that he didn’t. He tipped his head so that his hat brim cut out the glare of the sun. Both red and black ants were going about their day’s work, as were the dry-backed, charcoal-grey beetles. A yellow-orange velvet ant disappeared under a tuft of grass, and a tiny white bone lay by itself in the bare soil.

  The ground felt dry and hard beneath his feet, and yet, by his figuring, water had run through here some four days ago. Maybe this was another stream that dried up earlier and not the one he thought it was. He knelt and scratched at the dirt. The dry, caked earth did not give but rather crammed under his fingernail. He pushed with his thumb. Still hard. He decided to stand up and dig with the heel of his boot, but as he did, he felt a terrible hand clamp down on the back of his neck.

  His blood went cold. A chill ran through his neck and shoulders. He heard the rustle of clothing, like canvas or denim, and he felt a fleck of saliva on his face as the hand pulled him upward and he heard a deep voice he knew well.

  “And what are you doing here, you little son of a bitch?”

  He turned to see the shadowed face of Vinch Cushman—the blotchy, flushed complexion and the stubbled jaw, the beak nose, one eye larger than the other, both of them bleary with the whites yellowed. His head hung forward, and the shadow on his face came from his large, floppy-brimmed hat. He looked bigger than ever against the pale blue sky, his hunched form shrouded with a dark cape of a dustcoat.

  The claw-like hand bit into the back of Tommy’s neck, then released, and, in less than the blink of an eye, Cushman had him by the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. Spit flew again, and yellow teeth showed. “I said, what are you doing here?”

  Tommy’s mouth was dry, and he had a hard time swallowing. His heart was pounding. “Out looking . . .” He was thinking burro and trying to say donkey.

  “Out looking for what?”

  “A donkey. Two donkeys.”

  “Puh!” A small spray flew out. “You just as well be lookin’ for a titty.” Cushman switched hands on Tommy’s shirt and pushed back his dustcoat, revealing a dark-handled six-gun. Tommy thought he was going to draw the gun, but instead he lifted a quirt that hung on the handle. He let the coat fall back into place, then slapped the quirt against his coat where it lay along his leg. “Now, tell me, what in the hell are you doin’?”

  Tommy felt like a little boy with a whimper in his voice. “I’m helping the Mexicans look for a couple of donkeys.”

  “I bet you are.” Cushman slapped the quirt again. “Now you listen to me. I could leave you here, dead as a jackrabbit, and no one would know the difference. The only reason I don’t is to put the fear of God into you.” The fist tightened as it twisted Tommy’s shirt. “You’re a mewling, puking little bastard, is what you are. Probably a runaway, but that doesn’t matter to me.” The larger eye glared. “All the time you were workin’ for me, I thought you and your crooked little friend pulled something, and I would like to have hung you for it. But I didn’t catch you at it.” Cushman took a deep, wheezing breath. “That was my only regret in firin’ the two of you. If you’d stayed on, I might have caught you at something. But your pal got what was comin’ to him after all.”

  Tommy tried not to look at Cushman’s face, but he couldn’t stand to look at any other part of him. He loathed the man’s presence.

  “So it wouldn’t surprise me if you were out lookin’ for somethin’ to steal now, ’specially since you’re out of a job.”

  “I told you, I’m staying with the Mexicans.”

  “And I don’t doubt it. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t lookin’ for somethin’ to make off with.” Spit flew again as Cushman said, “You’re a filthy little tramp, as much as lickin’ the same spoon as those low-livin’ vermin. The way they breed like rats, and you’ll be right in there with ’em. It makes me sick to think about it.”

  Tommy could feel the hatred emanating from the man, along with his raw physical power. Tommy wished he could break free and run, but Cushman’s grip, plus the evil eye that the Mexicans thought could give a curse, had him petrified. Even if he could get loose, Cushman could swoop down on him in an instant, and failing that, he could put a bullet in him.

  Cushman waved the quirt, and Tommy wondered what he was going to do with it—whether he was going to whip Tommy, or scare away Pete, or do something Tommy could not guess. Cushman slapped the dustcoat again and did not release his grasp on Tommy’s shirt.

  “It makes me wonder what kind of a low way of life you came from, whether you slept six in a bed and had burlap for blankets. Shit in the corner. I know your type. Steal shoes off a dead man.”

  Cushman’s rant was interrupted by the footfalls of a horse. As Tommy twisted to get a look, he expected to see either Lew Greer or Walt McKinney. He was relieved to recognize the clean features of Fred Berwick, with the addition of a pair of spectacles.

  “What’s goin’ on?”

  Cushman snapped. “I caught this one nosin’ around.”

  “Lew and Walt are waiting.”

  “See anything?”

  “Just a Mexican kid on one o
f their skinny horses. By himself.”

  “He’s with this one. I saw ’em earlier.”

  Tommy’s dislike came to the surface as Cushman relaxed his grip but did not let him go. The man had known what he was up to, or at least who he was with, and he went on to torment Tommy because he had the power to do it.

  “We’ll go. But first one thing.” Cushman glared, shook him by the shirt, and seethed through his yellow teeth. “Now, you listen to me again. If I ever catch you doing anything, on or anywhere near my land, you’ll get what your rotten little friend did.” He released his grip and pushed Tommy back.

  Tommy stumbled and regained his footing. He exchanged a glance with Fred Berwick. The spectacles were something new, but they looked natural on Fred. Furthermore, they seemed to aid him in giving a neutral expression, as if he was looking out through a window.

  “Let’s go,” said Cushman. With a rustle of his dustcoat, he strode away from Tommy. Twenty yards back, he gathered the reins on a large sorrel horse and turned him around so that the animal stood a few inches downhill. Cushman stuck his boot in the stirrup, grabbed the saddle horn with his two large hands, and swung aboard. He did not look back as the horse trotted away, swishing its tail. The man’s dustcoat, with its caped shoulders, looked like the wings of a large, dark bird. El zopilote.

  Tommy felt empty, as if every bit of energy had been drained from him. He made an effort to steady his wobbly legs as he walked toward his horse. Pete stood with his reins on the ground, waiting and watching. Tommy sensed that the horse understood and sympathized, but even if he didn’t, he stood still while Tommy, weak and hollow, needed two attempts to pull himself into the saddle and get seated. His legs were still shaking as he caught his other stirrup and evened his reins.

  He rode to higher ground and headed east, in the direction Fred Berwick had come from. After half a mile he saw Gabriel on the brown horse, trying to catch the sand-colored burro with the striped cross. The burro dodged one way and the other, and Gabriel followed. He had a rope, but he never got close enough to drop it over the burro’s head and tall ears. On one toss he landed the loop on the animal’s nose and forehead, and on another toss he bounced it off the back of the burro’s neck.

  Tommy untied his rope as Pete trotted down the slope and took them across the dry creek bed. By the time he rode near Gabriel, Tommy had built a loop and was ready to try. Pete knew right away what Tommy wanted, so he cut right when the donkey did, and he cut left when the donkey stutter-stepped on his little hooves and cut back. When the animal was running smooth in one direction, Pete picked up speed and Tommy made his toss. The loop sailed over the tall ears and the tip of the nose and settled around the animal’s large neck. Gabriel smiled, and Tommy smiled back as he wrapped the rope around the saddle horn. Pete stopped and dug in, and the burro jerked to the side. He moved his hind end around and pulled back. Gabriel rode up behind the sand-colored animal and whipped him on the hind end with the loose end of the rope.

  “¡Ándale, burro!” he called.

  To Tommy’s relief, the burro gave in and stepped forward. Tommy and Pete fell into line and headed north. Gabriel rode up on the other side of the donkey and hollered, “¡Ya, ya!” to keep it going.

  Tommy let out a slow breath and evened his reins again. He was pleased with himself for making a good toss in front of Gabriel, and he was glad the burro wasn’t giving them any more trouble. It could have been a long day with a strong little beast like this one.

  Back in camp, the blackish-brown burro with the white nose and belly was tied snug to a wagon wheel. People were picking up the last of their belongings and shoving them into the wagons. The sheep had crossed the creek and now reflected the sunlight a mile to the east. With the arrival of the remaining vagabond burro, activity picked up. Men hitched the horses and burros to the wagons and carts, and the move began.

  The Romero brothers crossed the creek first, then Raimundo’s wagon, and then Alejo’s. Anita, Elsa, and Milena walked alongside the wagons, while Milena’s two children rode in the wagon with Raimundo and Eusebia. Gabriel had set off on foot to catch up with the sheepherders.

  Tommy sat on his horse and poked along. The whole procession moved at a slow pace, much slower to him now that he was on horseback and not walking. He felt as if he should be doing more, and he felt guilty at seeing the young women on foot while he loafed along in the saddle. For the present, though, he did not know what else to do. As his thoughts wandered, he wished he had told Raimundo about his run-in with Vinch Cushman. Now was not a good time. He would tell him when they made camp again.

  They arrived at water in the late afternoon, after they had passed the herd of sheep. Tommy saw at once that their destination was a water hole, a large pool of muddy-looking water with a fifty-yard slope of pocked, drying mud leading to it. The water was no good for human consumption, unless a person strained it two or three times and then boiled it. But it was fit for animals, and it would tide them over until the people found better water the next day. Meanwhile, as each family had a supply of water, the people would get by as well.

  As the wagons rolled in and parked in the usual haphazard way, Tommy saw what was on hand for the evening meal. The people killed two pens’ worth of chickens and used the wood from the crates for the evening fire. They set up a big pot of water, and by the time the steam was rising off the surface, they had plucked and cleaned and cut up the chickens. Tommy had to look twice to be sure, but he verified that the feet of the chickens went into the pot along with the legs. He grimaced. Prospects improved a little with a cutting board full of diced-up shriveled potatoes, followed by a pound or so of puny white onions, halved and quartered. Milena shook in a dose of salt, then a small wooden spoonful of oregano. A handful of crushed, dried red chile topped it off.

  Without much else to do, Tommy observed Milena. He sensed her presence as a full woman, very capable in her tasks and confident in herself. And as Tommy had mentioned to Anita, Milena had pride. She also had an attractive physical presence, and though she was out of Tommy’s age range, he appreciated the maturity of a woman who had children and knew how to be a wife to a man. He wondered if that was what Anita would be like in another ten years, and it was not a bad prospect.

  Vapors from the big pot floated on the air. They carried the smell of chicken soup, with enough of the other spices to make Tommy’s eyes water and his nose burn. As he waited for the evening meal to come around, he remembered to tell Raimundo about his encounter with Vinch Cushman.

  Raimundo nodded. “It is a good thing we moved camp. Stay out of his way.”

  Tommy did not feel so safe. He thought that wherever they went, they would be dogged by Cushman. But it was only a feeling, or a fear, maybe, so he said no more.

  The moon was a sliver in the dark sky, but it gave some light. Tommy sat up in his bed, trying to place something that didn’t fit. He had been dreaming about working on a ranch, sort of a combination of the White Wings Ranch and the Muleshoe. Either he had heard something in his dream, or a noise from outside had entered his dream. He was used to hearing the sounds of animals in the night, such as the shifting of a horse’s hooves, a snuffle, or a cough. Here among the people and wagons he had become accustomed to other noises. The donkeys did not bray when they had company, but they wheezed as a matter of course, and the goats had their soft bleating sound whenever something stirred them. Even the chickens, though there were fewer of them now, clucked at random in the night, and the mutter of sheep came drifting across the distance from the bed ground.

  But what he had heard, if only in his dream, was the undertone of cattle. It was not a lowing or a mooing but rather a mixture of bahs and grunts that came from a group of the big-bellied creatures. He could picture them lumbering and drooling. Now he heard them again as he sat up in his bedroll—the heaving of breath and the clumsy thud of hooves. The animals were moving.

  The footfalls came faster now, drumming. Brush snapped. Then came a man-made sound, a sl
apping like a glove or the end of a rope on leather chaps. Tommy wanted to yell, but for a few seconds he held himself back, afraid to make a fool of himself with the older men. Then he didn’t have to call out anything. The piercing “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” of a cowpuncher cut into the air, hooves thundered, and people all around him broke out into shrieks and hollers.

  A chill ran through him, and his neck and shoulders tightened as he grabbed for his boots and pulled them on. He found his hat and clapped it on his head, then bunched up his bedroll and stuffed it under the wagon along with his saddle. In a matter of seconds he was on his feet and running.

  In the moonlight he saw the shapes of Pete and the Villarreals’ horse where he had staked them out at sundown. The horses were snorting, twisting around, and pulling on their ropes. Tommy grabbed Pete’s rope first. He positioned himself square in front of the horse, dug in his heels, and pulled. The horse settled onto all fours. Tommy remembered driving the stakes deep, and this was no time to be trying to pull them out. He picked and worked at the knot until he had the first rope free. He moved to the second horse, which was wheezing through his nostrils as he pulled and sidestepped and hunched up. For a skinny old horse, the animal had plenty of energy in a moment of danger. Tommy yanked on the stake rope and pushed at the knot until he worked it loose.

  The cow hooves rumbled as women screamed and men yelled. A goat cried. Dogs barked. Tommy held onto the brown horse’s rope as he turned Pete so as not to get tangled. He grabbed Pete’s mane, put the palm of his hand on Pete’s back, and boosted himself up so that his chest was on Pete’s spine. He climbed around until he was parallel with the horse, then settled into bareback position. Holding the lead rope off to the side, he got a new hold on Pete’s mane and touched his heel to the horse’s ribs. Pete took off, and the brown horse labored to keep up.

  A quarter-mile off, Tommy stopped the horses and turned. The cattle were crashing among the wagons and trampling the area. Wood broke and cracked, metal thumped. A wagon creaked as it settled back onto its wheels. Female voices shrieked, and children cried. A goat was blaring now, and one dog was yapping in retreat.