by Peter Grant
“We’ll teach them some of what doctors and medical orderlies learned during the War,” he concluded, “includin’ camp an’ kitchen hygiene, sanitation, an’ all that sort of thing. I’ll put a chest of basic medicines, bandages and tools in each chuckwagon.”
Colleen slowly nodded. “That may be even more important than teaching them to cook better. What happens to the injured or sick on a trail drive if it’s something more serious?”
“They make it on their own, or they die,” Walt told her bluntly. “They’re usually too far from a real doctor to get to one in time.”
“I see. All the more reason to give them the best chance we can!”
5
November 1874
There was a chill in the air as Nate rode his horse into La Junta. He walked the horse slowly down the main road between the buildings, glancing around until he saw a livery barn. He paid to stable his horse there, including a feed of oats and a warm stall, and took his saddlebags to a private house at the edge of town. Glancing around to make sure he was unobserved in the evening gloom, he knocked at the door.
Samson opened it. “You made it! Quick, come in. I don’t want anyone to notice you’re here. There are some folks who’ll be along soon to talk with us.” He ushered him inside, where a Mexican woman was cooking supper on wood-fired stove. She curtsied awkwardly to him, and he nodded in greeting.
They ate a hasty meal of chili and frijoles, mopped up with cornflour tortillas. It wasn’t fancy, but it took the edge off their hunger. Samson muttered, “You gotta excuse the food, Nate. Marta’s husband was one of those laid off when Griffith went bust. They ain’t got much money saved. I’m payin’ them to put us up an’ feed us. They’re gonna have to be out of this house at the end o’ the month. They can’t afford the rent.”
“How many are like that?”
“There’s a few families like this. The rest are single men. They’re all hurtin’, though.”
“Good thing some of them knew you well enough to talk to you. If what they say is true, we’ll do all right out o’ this, and they’ll help themselves, too.”
Soon after they’d finished eating, there came a knock at the door. Samson answered it, and let in three more men. “Guys, this is Nate Barger. Nate, this here’s Dan Simmons. He was a sergeant in the 9th Cavalry when Sam Davis was there. He worked as a wagonmaster for Griffith, runnin’ his own train of ox-wagons. This is Miguel, another wagonmaster, and this is Porfirio, one o’ Griffith’s teamsters. They’re tryin’ to help the other laid-off folks any way they can. Turns out, when the bank foreclosed on Griffith, it locked up all the company’s cash. They ain’t been paid for the last two months they worked.”
Nate’s mouth twisted. “Can’t be easy, tryin’ to make ends meet like that.”
“It is not, señor,” Miguel said softly. “Those with families are very hard pressed, and all of us are hurting. If it were not for señor Griffith helping us out of his own pocket, some would be starving already.”
“I need you to explain to Nate what you told me about that,” Samson told him. “That’s why I asked the boss to come. He couldn’t, but Nate speaks for him in this.”
The former Buffalo Soldier sergeant eyed Nate narrowly. “He won’t blab about this?”
“He won’t. You can trust him like you trust me.”
“Okay, if you say so. It’s like this, Mr. Barger –”
“Nate.”
“Nate, then. Mr. Griffith’s a good man. He didn’t plan to dump us all like this. The trouble started in the big panic last year, when his bank got taken over by a bigger one out o’ Denver. They started foreclosin’ on mortgages, grabbin’ the properties, an’ sellin’ them at auction. He never thought they’d lay a hand on his business, but his bookkeeper turned his coat. He told ’em they could make a lot o’ money by grabbin’ Griffith’s freight yard, and holdin’ on to it until next year. It’s right next door to where they reckon a railroad station will be built – the rails’ll prob’ly run right through it. Both the Kansas Pacific an’ the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe plan to get here next year.” Nate nodded silently.
“So, the bookkeeper went to work for the bank. Two weeks later, they called in Mr. Griffith’s loans. When he couldn’t come up with the cash right away, they foreclosed on him. Didn’t even leave him enough money to pay us – they took every cent in his business accounts. The man’s dang near heart-broken. He’d never have left us like this if he’d had any choice. We’ve all been tryin’ to find some way to keep goin’, but it ain’t no use. The bank’s got what it wanted, an’ they don’t care about us.”
“That’s why Walt asked me to come out here,” Samson said to Nate. “I wanted to see if I could help Dan, an’ Walt told me about needin’ more ox-drawn prairie wagons. Turns out we may be able to help Mr. Griffith an’ his people. If we do, he’ll help us.”
Nate cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? Tell me more.”
Miguel said softly, “Señor, I talked with Samson here, then to señor Griffith. He wants to help us find work, and get back the two months’ wages the bank took from us. He would also like to get his own back on the bank that has treated him so badly. Samson says you need wagons and teams, and maybe teamsters too. If you will help us, señor Griffith is willing to help you get the wagons and oxen very cheap.”
“How can he do that, if the bank owns ’em now?”
Porfirio chimed in. “Señor, the foreclosure auction is next week. The bank has contracted with an auctioneer to sell everything belonging to Griffith Freight & Wagon at the best price. There is a clause that says if anyone offers the reserve price of something before the auction, he can buy it at once, without waiting.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen that sort o’ clause before.”
Dan said softly, “If the wagons were written off as worn out, and the teams too, the auctioneer’s assistant would replace the valuation page in the file. It might say something like the wagons are worth only ten dollars apiece, and the oxen ten dollars per span. Their valuations will be their reserve price.”
There was a long silence. They all knew that was many times less than the real value of the wagons, even older, well used ones, and less than a quarter of the value of a span of two oxen.
Eventually Nate said, slowly, carefully, “How many wagons are there?”
Porfirio said, “Thirty-six prairie wagons, señor, each with four span – eight oxen. The wagons are old, but most are in good condition.”
“And what would it take to value them that low?”
Miguel replied, “Two months back pay for all of us, señor, to make up for what the bank stole, and jobs for all of us, plus a little more.”
“How many of you, and how much is that? Is Griffith willing to go along with this?”
“There are thirty-seven of us in all, señor. Our teamsters earned twenty-five dollars per month, and our six wagonmasters thirty-five.” Nate began some rapid mental calculations as the wagonmaster continued, “Señor Griffith knows the auctioneer’s clerk – he gave his son his first job as a teamster, a few years ago. The clerk does not like what is happening. He will lose his job if he helps us, but if he is given a year’s pay in advance, he says that will make up for it. His boss is not here at present. He will return next week for the sale, only to find that the wagons and oxen have been sold, and his clerk has left. Señor Griffith will be gone, too. He will take the train from Las Animas, and go back to Pennsylvania. He invested his profits over the years in a farm there, for his retirement.”
“Won’t the bank come after him, or us, over the wagons an’ oxen?”
“If the sale is legal according to their contract, and the payment has been officially receipted, and they have accepted its deposit in the auctioneer’s account, how can they, señor? Besides, why should they? Their loans have been repaid by what they stole from the company. They expect to make much more by selling its freight yard. The rest is worth a lot less.”
“Reckon so. We can hire all of you
who are willin’ to take on a long, hard job. What’s more, Ames Transport offers better pay than you’ve been earnin’ here.”
Nate spent five minutes describing the forthcoming cattle drive from the Mexican border to the Texas Panhandle, and thence to the Kansas railhead. “You’ve got to understand that, from the day we leave, we’ll all be paid half-wages. When the cattle are sold at the railhead, we’ll get the other half all at once, plus a bonus of three months’ wages on top of that. It’s a good deal for those who can afford to do it that way, and it’s good for Ames Transport, ’cause the company can use its money to buy wagons an’ teams. You can trust Walt Ames to pay you. I am – I’ll be doin’ the same thing next year, goin’ on half pay until we get where we’re goin’.”
Miguel asked, almost diffidently, “Single men might be able to afford that, but what of married men, señor? I do not think our families could live on so little.”
“I reckon we’ll need to overhaul all your wagons as soon as they reach Pueblo, an’ our own as well, an’ then load a year’s worth o’ supplies. That’ll keep all o’ you on the payroll at full wages for a few months. Some of you will then go south, but those who can’t afford half-pay can stay in Pueblo. We’ll send some of our own teamsters in your place.”
“I think that is fair. Where will we live, señor? Most of our single men lived in a bunkhouse at the freight yard.” He scowled. “They were all kicked out when the bank took over. They are staying with friends, or camping outside town.”
“We have a bunkhouse too, and another at the old freight yard where you’ll work for the first few months. On the trail, we provide food an’ ammunition. At the yard, you’ll pay fifteen dollars a month for your bed an’ two meals a day – good ones.”
Samson nodded enthusiastically. “He ain’t jokin’. The food’s hot an’ tasty, and there’s plenty of it. I eat it myself.”
Nate flashed him a smile as he went on, “Those with families will have to rent or buy houses, but there’s some available near our yard.”
Dan said, “When will the wagons leave for New Mexico?”
“We’ll head south in February through Raton Pass, then down to Las Cruces via Fort Sumner. We plan to get there by the end o’ March.”
Dan made a face. “You’re plannin’ to go down Raton Pass in February? Mister, you’ll likely lose some wagons. They gotta be roped down some sections, inch by inch. You’ll know them by the wrecked wagons at the foot o’ the slope, an’ a few grave markers, too. In the snow and ice, it’s damned dangerous work.”
“You know that road?”
“Real well. All of us do. In mid-winter, with heavy wagons, you’ll do better to take the Cimarron cutoff on the original Santa Fe trail. It’s a lot easier. Sure, it’s a couple hundred miles longer, and in summer there ain’t much water, but in winter that ain’t as bad a problem. The Injuns can be a danger there, too, but right now they’re fightin’ the Army, so I reckon they won’t be likely to bother us.”
“You can talk to Walt Ames about the route. If you make a good case, he’ll probably change it. If we leave earlier, the extra time an’ distance won’t matter too much.”
“This señor Ames,” Porfirio asked, “is he the same man who killed the bandido Enrique Sandoval in Mexico earlier this year?”
“He sure is. Took him on mano a mano in the street, and beat him to the draw.”
The Mexican smiled grimly. “He must be good with his gun, then, because Sandoval was very fast. I was very happy to hear of his death. Sandoval killed a friend of mine some years ago. I shall be glad to work for the man who avenged him.”
“Walt’s a good boss, and yes, he is fast when he needs to be. All right, what next?”
Dan said, “I need five hundred dollars in cash, now, with no questions asked. Tomorrow mornin’, Samson will bring you to the freight yard at ten to sign some papers. Bring the money for the wagons and oxen, at the prices we talked about. You an’ the auctioneer’s clerk will go to the bank to deposit the money, an’ get receipts. Once the deal’s done, we’ll load all our personal gear into the wagons, plus food for the journey, and bring in the oxen from their grazin’. At first light next mornin’, we’ll all head for Pueblo. At ox-wagon speeds, it’ll take us four days to get there.”
“You can trust him with the money, Nate,” Samson added.
“That’s good enough for me.”
Nate reached for his saddlebags, and counted off the cash – presumably to pay off the auctioneer’s clerk – from the bundle of banknotes one contained. He handed it to the former sergeant. “I’ve brought enough with me to buy everything tomorrow, and for your two months’ back wages as well. To avoid complications, I’ll buy everything in my name, then ‘sell’ it all to Ames Transport when we get to Pueblo. As soon as the contract’s signed, have your people come to the freight yard, and I’ll pay everybody. I’ll also give Dan an extra two hundred dollars, to buy food for the journey to Pueblo.” The three teamsters’ faces broke into smiles.
Nate finished, “I want you to load a big water barrel onto each wagon, and fill it. We’ll make that a habit, right from the start. Also, load spare wheels – one front and one rear per wagon – and all the spare parts, buckets, ropes, logs an’ chains for steep slopes, an’ other gear you can find. We’ll likely need it all next year.”
That same evening, several hundred miles to the south, Pablo sat down with his hands in the bunkhouse at his small farm outside El Paso. He’d bought it from Walt after their first horse-buying venture had proved so successful, to use as a base for his own efforts later that year.
He explained to them what Walt had told him in the message accompanying his grubstake money, translating it into Spanish. “That means I shall send some of you deeper into Mexico than I had planned, and further west, too, to tell farmers and ranchers about this new market for their young cattle.”
“But it will cause more wear on our nalgas,” sighed a youth. The others laughed.
“Your buttocks are still young,” Pablo retorted. “They can stand the strain. Us older men will have to be more careful, to preserve what we’ve got left!” More laughter.
“Will señor Walt pay us for this service?” another asked.
“Of course he will. He is a fair man.” Nods of agreement from those who’d known Walt during the previous expedition into Mexico. “He will pay us a finder’s fee. The first five thousand cattle to arrive don’t count, because señor Reese could get that many even without our help. Between five and ten thousand, we will get twenty-five cents per head; and for every cow above ten thousand, up to fifteen thousand, we will get fifty cents per head. We will be paid after the cattle are sold in Kansas. I’ll share the money with you as a bonus to your wages.”
“That is fair, jefe,” a vaquero agreed.
“He also wants cheap horses for the vaqueros that will herd the cattle. A cow pony costs ten dollars in Texas, but señor Walt wants to save money. That means we can make a little more money if we help him.” There was a rustle of interest around the table. Pablo smiled, and continued, “If we buy several hundred cow ponies in Mexico – not as good as Army-contract horses, but still sound – and get them back here for, say, four or five dollars each, I can sell them to señor Reese for six or seven dollars each.”
“And if we bring too many, jefe?” another asked.
“I think señor Reese will take all we can supply. To encourage you, and to help my friend señor Walt, I shall give all the profit on each cow pony to the person who brings it in.” Their eyes lit up. “However, the Army horses are still the most important, because we make more money on them, and they pay your wages all year round. Don’t get distracted from that!”
Walking back to the farmhouse, Pablo couldn’t help a smile of satisfaction. He had already arranged a contract with the Army for remounts. Now he would earn even more money by helping his friend in his cattle venture. At this rate, he would make enough money to buy his own rancho within a few years, and gradua
te from being a jefe, the boss, to the status of patrón, or owner, just like Walt. Vicente and his band of mesteñeros near Las Cruces would join him in breeding and training horses, and had already begun to look for suitable locations for the rancho. Things were looking good.
Sitting down at his desk, he sadly shook his head as he picked up a sheathed knife, drew it, and hefted it experimentally in his hand. Walt had recovered an 1849 Ames knife while in Mexico, the first knife ordered by the US Army to its specifications. Pablo had offered to have a local knifemaker make a smaller, lighter, handier copy from modern steel. The knifemaker had just delivered his third attempt; but, like the first two, the balance was all wrong for a fighting blade. A well-made bowie knife of the same size, with its clip point, balanced better in the hand.
“I shall have to tell señor Walt that the knifesmith cannot do as he promised,” he mused to himself. “That big Ames knife is fine as a camp knife and all-round tool, but not so much as a weapon. He will be disappointed.”
He drew a sheet of paper towards him, dipped a pen in the inkwell, and began to write.
6
December 1874
Walt paced back and forth in his study, face furrowed with concern, ears cocked for any sound from upstairs. Colleen was in their bedroom, attended by Magdalena, a midwife who’d come with them from Mexico earlier that year, and Dr. Greg Gordon, their family physician. They’d been closeted for more than six hours. Every attempt by Walt to find out how things were going had been gently, but firmly rebuffed with the same answer. “Nothing’s changed yet. We’ll tell you when it does.”
Agustina appeared at the door with a mug of hot soup. “You should drink this, señor,” she said reproachfully. “You have eaten nothing since you came home.”
“Thanks, Agustina,” he said with a sigh, taking it from her. “What about Colleen?”