Occasionally we killed an elk or a deer, but never close by. One of the boys, often it was me, would ride off a few miles and do our shooting there so as not to scare the game.
It was hard work, but the air was clear, the sky blue, and the days went by like the drifting clouds, so we scarcely noticed they were gone. Finally our corral was ready, and the drift fence, too.
We’d made a swinging gate of poles and brush that we swung wide to one side, and then we rode away up the valley. We wanted not only the horses that had been coming there, but a good many more.
We started from ten miles up, the lot of us, spread out across the valley, and after we’d fixed ourselves a spot of grub and drunk some coffee we rode out across the country, turned and began to drift, walking our horses down toward our corral.
This was wild stock, but we’d been moving around and not bothering them, so they hadn’t, after the first day or so, paid us much mind.
Now, spread out maybe a half-mile apart, we started drifting, and they moved ahead of us. After all, this was their country, and most of them had lived their lives here. Wild horses are, more than you’d believe, inclined to be homebodies. They didn’t like to get too far from where they were born. They knew that country, and if driven away, would come back.
Gradually the valley narrowed, and gradually we cowboys moved in closer together. Not so much as they’d notice at first, but by the end of the first hour we were only a hundred yards or so apart. Ahead of us the horses were bunching a little, and here and there some wild old stallion was beginning to be bothered by it.
Once in a while one would stop, stand head-up looking around, but the way ahead was clear and we were coming along behind. We didn’t seem to be anything to worry about, but they just didn’t want us getting too close.
At the last, just as he went through toward the water, that black stallion decided he didn’t like that crowd of horses up ahead and wheeled. He made a dash for the opening, but Alejandro and Martín were already swinging the gate closed.
It had been easy, just too easy. Later, when they had become wary of men, it would prove much harder, but we had them. We didn’t know how many, but we guessed around three hundred horses.
There was grass enough for a few days, and there was water.
Chapter 33
IT WILL NEVER be that easy again,” Monte commented. “They just aren’t used to people. Nobody’s tried to catch them before.”
“And they always drink from that stream,” Jacob agreed.
We sat our horses, studying them. We would have to cull them, turn the rejects back to their freedom, and then start breaking the others.
Watching them from where we were, we could see a few that could be turned out, but by and large they were in good shape, a well-built bunch of horses. “Give ’em a few years,” Monte said, “and you’ll look a long time to find any horses you want to keep. We’ll cut this bunch for culls, and the next bunch, too. Then along will come some other wild-horse hunters, and they’ll cut for the best stock, too. It won’t be no time at all until all you find out there will be culls.”
“Do you suppose Miss Nesselrode was thinking of that?” I wondered.
Jacob shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. I’ve given up trying to second-guess that woman. I just know that seven times out of ten she’s right, and when she makes a mistake, she swallows it and never tries to blame anybody else.”
The quicker we could get rid of the culls, the better off we’d be, as there would be that much more grass for what remained. We stayed away, watching from a distance, letting them get settled down.
“Funny thing about wild horses. Folks think it’s the stallion who keeps them together. It’s true that he herds them around, fights off varmints and any other stallions who want to take over, but there’s something more going for them. Take away the stallion, and the others will fight to get back together.
“They’ve become a family. Good neighbors, at least, and they want to stay with their friends. Watch ’em, you’ll see.”
Jacob indicated the black stallion. “That one’s a troublemaker. He’s too smart. I think we should get rid of him.”
“I want him,” I said.
“Look,” Jacob warned, “that stallion is anyway six years old. He’s been runnin’ wild all that time. He’s tough and he’s smart, and he looks to me like a fighter. He’ll make you no end of trouble.”
“He’s right, Johannes,” Monte said.
“I want him,” I insisted. “Leave him to me.”
“Your funeral,” Jacob said, “and it could be just that.”
The weather held. It was bright and clear, day and night, and we took our time. Nobody was in a hurry, nobody was waiting for us. Nobody had a watch and nobody had a calendar. We just forgot all about time except for dawn and sunset.
When we quit work, we’d eat, and then I’d stroll down to the corral. I’d already learned that singing will quiet a herd, mostly because it knows where that sound is coming from and that you’re not some varmint sneaking up on them.
I’d lean on the gate and keep my voice low. I wanted them to get to know me, and especially that black, who seemed to know that gate was the way out. He watched it like a hawk, never far away, always watching his chance.
We started weeding them out on the first day, two of us riding into the corral and just easing the culls out, with a man on the gate ready to open and close it. Some of the culls ran away; others hung around looking for their friends, like Jacob had said.
We tried not to make any fuss. We wanted them to get used to our moving around and to the feeling that we didn’t represent trouble. We spotted a couple wearing brands, and there were three mules in the lot which showed signs of having been worked.
Even in the pasture we’d created, they separated into bunches. The black stallion kept his lot to one side, but never far from the gate.
“Horses may seem stupid,” Jacob said, “but they know what they have to know to get along, and you can teach them a lot if you take time. Wild horses have learned a lot by just surviving out there, so be careful.”
By the fourth day, taking our time and raising no dust, we had weeded out most of the culls. We were sitting by the fire considering our next step when Ramón came in and squatted near us. He accepted a cup of coffee, sipped a little, and then said, “Somebody is out there.”
Jacob looked over at him. “Injuns?”
“White men. Six, maybe seven. They watch us.”
“Could be Fletcher,” I said.
“I never liked that man,” Jacob agreed.
Monte reached for the coffeepot. “Why don’t we take turns standing by with rifles? Maybe two at a time?”
Fletcher it could be, but there was also my grandfather. His holdings were vast and he had many riders, few of whom I knew by sight. There were other dangers, too, the Mohaves, who raided deep into the settlements at times, and the few lingering Piutes who came down from the Tehachapis.
There was also, somewhere around, old Peg-Leg Smith. Supposedly he had left the country, but one could never be sure. He was a wily old pirate, and if I judged him right, he would wait until we had our horses broken to ride, and then steal them. They would bring more money.
I said as much, but Jacob doubted his presence. “Heard he was up Frisco way. You know, that little town on the bay?”
“Monterey?” Monte suggested.
“North of there. Yerba Buena, they called it. I heard the name was changed.”
There was good talk around the campfire, and occasionally the Indians joined in, but usually it was Alejandro who did the talking. He had left the Cahuilla country as a young boy and worked on the west side of the mountains; then for a time he had gone north and worked for a doctor up there, often riding with him when he made calls on the sick.
We moved our camp closer to our horses, both to protect them and to let them become familiar with us. Jacob decided after studying the horses that aside from the mules there were at lea
st four horses that showed signs of having been ridden.
Separating them from the others, we brought them outside, and Monte offered to ride them.
Ramón was quiet, speaking rarely. He had an easy way with horses and occasionally led one out of the corral, walked it around, let it graze where the grass was green and fresh while he held the picket rope himself. His way of gentling horses took time, but when he called them, they came to him.
For three weeks we worked hard, breaking horses to lead and to ride. The Cahuillas we had were all riders, but Francisco was the best of the lot.
Even Ramón avoided the black stallion. “He is a devil,” he warned.
“I’d say turn him loose or shoot him,” Monte advised. “He’s been wild too long and has been leading that herd too long. Look at the teeth scars and hoof scars. He’s a fighter.”
Nobody needed to tell me that. It showed in every line of him, and he was wary, watching his chance to escape and take his bunch with him. Sometimes I’d gather some green grass from near the water and drop it over the fence, and his mares would eat it, but not him.
At night when I was on watch I’d move over close to the corral where I could keep an eye on the horses. They would know if trouble was coming before I would, and it was a lot easier to watch them than to stare into the shadows under the trees. Sometimes I’d talk to them, low-voiced. Mostly I was talking to him, and I had an idea he knew it.
I’ve known men who thought horses stupid, but it’s been my impression that horses are only as stupid as their masters. A riding man in wild country becomes very close to his horse, and most talk to them as to another person. The horse listens, and although he may not understand, there is communication and he senses the kinship of interests if no more.
The black stallion was wild and might have been wild all his years, yet sometimes I wondered about that. Sometimes I had a feeling he had belonged to somebody sometime, maybe when he was very young.
Each morning we roped a few head and took them out of the corral, where any fighting they did wouldn’t get the others wrought up. Monte McCalla was a first-class hand, more experienced with breaking horses than any of us. Alejandro was good, too, as he’d broken horses for the doctor up north.
We were settling down to eat when we heard a horse walking. Jacob stayed where he was by the fire, but Monte an’ me, we faded back into the dark. The Cahuillas were already there.
We waited, and then somebody called out, “Hello, the camp! How’s for some coffee?”
“Ride in,” Jacob Finney said, “but ride easy, with your hands in sight.”
He was a tall, very lean man, a little stooped. He had quick, ferretlike eyes and he rode a dapple-gray gelding, a fine animal. There was no blanket roll behind his saddle.
“Get down and come up to the fire,” Jacob said. “Coffee’s on, and we’ve got some grub, such as it is.”
“Thankee, thankee much! I’ve been ridin’ all day and I’m mighty tired an’ almighty hungry!”
Monte, his rifle in his left hand and his pistol in its holster near his right, came in from the dark, flanking the stranger. Then Francisco and Alejandro came in. The rest stayed out, away from the fire. Diego was with the horses, and I suspected Jaime was, too.
He came on up to the fire, taking a look around as he did so. Seeing those men coming in from the dark seemed to make him a mite nervous, and you could almost see him counting.
“Come from Los Angeles,” he said, although we did not ask. “Headin’ for the Colorado.”
“Well, that’s different, anyhow,” Monte commented. “Since that gold strike up north, everybody is headin’ that way.”
“Gold is where you find it,” the stranger said easily. “I figure they’ve got to eat, so I’m thinkin’ of drivin’ cattle north. No matter whether they find gold, they’ve all got to eat.”
Nobody had much to say to that. He drank coffee, seemed about to speak, then changed his mind. Finally he said, “Seen a corral yonder. You catchin’ wild stuff?”
“Here an’ there,” Jacob said, “catchin’ an’ breakin’.”
“Must be gold down here, too, feller knew where to find it.”
“Like you said,” Jacob said mildly, “gold is where you find it. We figure folks will have to ride to get anywhere, so we’re breakin’ horses to sell.”
“Seen any Indians?” I asked innocently. “I mean Mohaves? Or Piutes? This is nervous country, so many of them around. Although,” I added, “they don’t often come this side of Tehachapi Pass.”
He looked around as if seeing me for the first time. “No? Why not?”
“Superstitious,” I said, “or what we’d call it. They don’t like the spirits up yonder.” I indicated the Tehachapis. “There’s a spell on this country.”
“You don’t seem much skeered,” he said contemptuously.
“We aren’t,” I said. “We’ve got our own medicine man. He’s out there now,” I added, “casting spells on our enemies, whoever they may be.”
“I don’t put no stock in such things,” he said.
“I didn’t either,” I replied. That this man was a spy, I had no doubt. He carried no blankets, yet he was supposed to be traveling for days. His horse hadn’t even worked up a sweat, yet he implied he had come far, and he did not eat like a man who had missed even one meal.
“I didn’t either,” I repeated. “Until that man”—I was lying cheerfully now—“stole our medicine man’s horse.
“This fellow just rode up and threw down on him with a pistol and took his horse. Our medicine man just stood there and said, ‘Did you ever have a broken back? Somehow I see you with a broken back.’
“The horse thief, he laughed sarcastic-like and said he’d had no broken back. At that moment the medicine man lifted a hand, and that horse started to buck. Next thing you know, that horse thief was on the ground.
“He started to get up and he cried out and sweat broke out all over him. Our medicine man, he went and mounted his horse. He said to that horse thief, lyin’ there, he said, ‘You said you didn’t have a broken back. Well, you’ve got one now.’ And then he just rode off an’ left him lyin’ there.”
“What happened?”
I shrugged. “What could happen? It was August. It was the Mohave Desert. If he was unlucky, he’d have lasted two, three days. If he was lucky, he’d have died the first night.”
He glanced from one to the other of us, but nobody was smiling. Monte said, “Aw, he’s a good feller, long as you don’t cross him.”
My eyes dropped to the stranger’s gun. The thong was slipped off the hammer. Now, a riding man would want that thong in place unless he expected trouble.
Alejandro had moved slightly. He was now seated right behind the stranger. He spoke softly. “You didn’t tell us your name.”
“Just any name will do,” I said. “We need something for the marker.”
“What?” He started to get up, then sank back. “What marker?”
“Suppose horse thieves rode in and attacked us now?” I said. “We might be suspicious of you, or the thieves might think you were one of us. At least you’d be one less to share things with. We’d have to have a name for the marker on your grave. Shame to bury a man without leaving something to show where he passed.”
He put down his cup. “Maybe I should be ridin’ on,” he said, “ride while it’s cool, y’ know?”
He got to his feet very carefully. He started to brush off his pants, which would put his hand near his gun, and then thought the better of it.
“Mount up,” I said, “and ride. When you see Fletcher, tell him to come anytime he’s ready.”
Chapter 34
WHEN IT WAS daybreak, I walked down from our breakfast fire carrying a piece of bread, and when I reached the corral gate, I held it out to the black stallion. He shied away, tossing his head and rolling his eyes, but I talked quietly and held the bread out to him.
One of the mares came up and reached for it, and I brok
e off a bit and let her have it. This mare was one that had been handled quite a bit, I thought. Anyway, she took the bread from my hand.
The stallion seemed interested, but he was wary. I talked to him a little, but he held off, and finally I left the bread on the top rail of the gate and went away. I suspect the mare got it, but did not know.
Jacob was getting up from the fire, holding his cup in his hand. “I figure we should move ’em,” he said. “I don’t like that crowd.”
“Me neither,” Monte said. “I think they had something in mind last night. I think they were out there, ready to come in. I think he was going to start it.”
“Martín saw something moving out there, and the horses were restless.” Jacob sipped his coffee, his eyes on the scattered oaks along the mountainside. “Maybe it’s the Injun stories, but I don’t like this place. Or maybe it is just that I want to go back. I’d never have believed it, but that woman’s got me thinkin’ of business, wheelin’ an’ dealin’ like she does. It’s like poker, only it takes longer to rake in the pot.”
He looked at me, a faint twinkle of humor in his eyes. “Anybody told me I was becoming a city man, I’d of been ready to shoot him, but there it is.”
My thoughts were on Meghan, and I agreed. “Why not?” But when I said it, I was looking at the hills. There was a place back there where a creek came down a canyon, with oaks on the mountainsides. I wanted to ride up that canyon alone sometime and drink out of that stream.
Ramón came up to the fire, leading a line-back dun from the herd. It was a horse to which he had given special attention. He dropped the reins, and getting his cup, poured coffee from the blackened pot. The others had gone, wandering off to catch up their horses. Most of them had already rolled their beds.
“We go now?”
“Jacob does not like it here.”
“And you?”
“I like it.” Nodding toward the hills, I said, “There is something up there for me. And in the desert there is something.”
“You come back?”
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