A River of Horns

by Peter Grant

  Colleen nodded. “There’s another way Tyler might want to think about. What if he uses adobe or mud brick for the smaller buildings? We always did that in Mexico. It’s warmer in winter and cooler in summer than plank walls. It’ll also be a lot cheaper than cutting all that extra wood and sending it down.”

  “Good idea, although we’ll still need wood for bigger buildings like barns an’ storehouses. I’ll put that to him in a long letter, and send it with our wagons. I’ll also send molds for mud bricks, an’ poles an’ beams for uprights and rafters of adobe buildings, an’ enough planks for the roof, and lime to make whitewash. We have enough Mexican hands and teamsters that I’m sure they can teach the others how to make adobe bricks, and put up a building. Sam can do the same to build a bunkhouse at our depot.”

  “And while he’s doing that, he can drum up more business from others in the Panhandle as they arrive.”

  “He sure can, ’specially if we pick up some Army contracts. We might try for some in the western Indian Nations, too.”

  “What tribes are in that area?”

  “The Kiowa and Comanche reservations are near Fort Sill, which is less’n two hundred miles from the new fort in the Panhandle. If I can get hold o’ Laughing Raven, we may be able to use his friendship to help us – that is, if he’s still alive after all the fightin’. I daresay he’ll be glad to get his horse back. That’ll be a start.”

  Nine-month-old Thomas chose that moment to yell loudly in frustration, because he wasn’t getting enough attention to suit him. A little mothering from Colleen, and a romp around the room on Walt’s shoulders, and soon he was all smiles again.

  “Seriously, love, can we afford all this?” Colleen asked, her voice concerned, as she prepared the young boy for bed. “I know we’ve dug deep into our reserves, with all your plans and preparations. Won’t starting up two new branches, that won’t make a profit for a while, be too much of a burden on top of all that?”

  “They may be,” Walt admitted, “but we’re pretty much committed now. Just by sendin’ all these wagons and supplies south to Tyler, we’re spendin’ a lot of money. The cost of establishing branches on top of that isn’t all that much. Besides, most of what we spend in Dodge City will come after the herd’s been sold and we’ve recovered our seed money, and hopefully some profit, too. We’ll be able to afford it then.”

  “If nothing goes wrong with the herd,” she pointed out, frowning.

  “Yeah, if nothing goes wrong. That’s the gamble we’re taking. I’m trustin’ Tyler to bring it safely into Dodge.”

  She sighed. “This seemed like an awfully good idea when we discussed it with him, but now that the money’s flowing like water… it’s not so easy.”

  “It never is, sweetheart. It never is.”

  12

  August 1875

  The fifth and final herd Tyler had dispatched from Las Cruces had crossed the Llano Estacado, making steady progress, slowly catching up with its four predecessors. Josh Curran, its trail boss, was quietly satisfied. According to what the scouts from other herds had told Tyler, and he had communicated to Josh in turn, it looked as though the last herd to leave was having the easiest time of it. However, he did not say that aloud. He knew better than to tempt fate.

  Midway through a hot and dusty midsummer morning, a scout came galloping back to the herd. He pulled up, both horse and rider gasping for breath. “Boss… we got trouble… Big migration o’ buffler… comin’ this way… they’re gonna run… into our cattle.”

  “Damn the luck! Where away, and how far?”

  The scout pointed over his right shoulder. “Thataway… about six hours from here… at walkin’ speed, I’d say… movin’ slow.”

  “How many?”

  “Prairie’s black with ’em… from side to side.”

  Josh thought swiftly, then stood up in his stirrups, put his fingers in his mouth, and whistled shrilly. The point riders, on either side of the lead steer, turned towards him, and he signaled vigorously. They waved to show their understanding, and began to slow the herd.

  “We’re gonna have to turn away from them,” the trail boss said briskly. “If our herd gets crossways with ’em, we’ll lose at least half of it – the cattle will go with the buffalo. What direction should we go to get clear of them?”

  The scout thought for a moment as his breathing slowed towards normal. “Hard to say, boss… They’re movin’ across a broad front, mebbe several miles… more of ’em to our west than our east, though. I’d say turn east, to cut across their front. It’ll take us at least a day to be clear of them.”

  “All right. We’ll try to move sideways in front of ’em. Any small groups movin’ ahead or on the sides o’ them?”

  “Sure, boss. There always are.”

  “Yeah, damn the luck! Where are the other two scouts?”

  “Dunno, boss. I went north this mornin’. They went northeast an’ northwest. They’ll be back this afternoon, or sooner iffen they see what I did.”

  “All right. Get a fresh horse, then scout to the east and southeast, in front of our new heading. Tell me what’s ahead. We’re gonna keep goin’ until we’re clear of the buffalo, even if it means drivin’ the cattle all night long.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  “Find water for the herd, if you can.”

  The scout grinned. “That’s easy. South Fork of the Wichita River is about ten miles thataway.” He pointed to the east. “River’s prob’ly low durin’ this dry spell. I’ll find someplace we can bring the herd down to drink.”

  “Good man! On your way.”

  The scout headed for the remuda, while Josh rode to the head of the herd. He swiftly told the two cowhands there about the change of plan. “I’ll stay at the point for a few minutes. You two head back on either side o’ the herd and tell everyone what we’re gonna do, and why. Tell the wagons to start in that direction, too. Soon as you’re back, we’ll turn them east and move ’em faster. There’s water ten miles thataway. Once they’ve drunk their fill, we’ll turn further to the south if need be, to keep clear o’ them blasted buffalo.”

  All through the long, hot day, the cattle streamed eastward. Moos, bawls and bellows of complaint at the forced speed grew louder as the cattle, accustomed to a slower, easier pace, objected to being pushed. The hands ignored them. They all knew the hazards of being caught in the slow, unstoppable tide of a buffalo migration. Anything and everything else would be swept up in it. It was not unusual to see deer, cattle, wild hogs, and even horses drifting along as part of the stream of buffalo, like flotsam bobbing in the water. If the buffalo met the herd, the mass of cattle would simply disintegrate, most becoming part of the greater stream of wildlife. It would be the devil’s own job to try to extricate as many of them as possible.

  By the time the sun reached the horizon, the herd came to the South Fork of the Wichita River. While the hands watered the animals in the fading light, Josh switched his saddle to a fresh horse and galloped north-west, to try to see where the leading edge of the buffalo were. They were alarmingly close, the nearest group less than three miles away and getting closer, but the herd had cleared the majority of the mass migration. He raced back to the herd, where he gathered the scouts, who had all returned by now.

  “Ride around the herd, and to the wagons, and tell everyone we’re moving on through the night, a little south of east. I want to make at least five more miles before we stop, to get well clear of the buffalo. When you’ve told everyone, ride on ahead of us and find a good bedding ground, not less than five or more than ten miles away.”

  Fortunately, there was a bright moon that helped the scouts and the cowhands in their work. The animals were exhausted, horse and steer alike. More than a few cattle fell back to the drag, the rear of the herd, and had to be forced to keep moving. By the time they allowed them to halt, they had no energy left. They slept where they stopped. The hands were not much better off. The cook provided a quick, simple meal, then they collapsed
into their bedrolls and slept like the dead. The night herd found it difficult to wake their relief riders every two hours.

  The scouts were up before dawn, and headed out in an arc from southwest to northwest to find the nearest buffalo. To Josh’s relief, the herd was now a good four miles away from the migrating mass. “They’re almost past us,” a scout reported. “I reckon we could turn north now and move past the last few of ’em without trouble.”

  Josh considered. “No, let’s wait here for a few hours,” he replied. “The hands are whupped, and so are the cattle. We’ll all take a morning to rest. This afternoon we’ll head north to the bank of the river, and water them again, but no further.”

  “That’s nobbut a coupla miles, boss.”

  “I know, but like I said, we’re all tired. We’ll treat today as a rest day. I’ll tell the cook to make us the best supper he can manage, to put us all in good spirits to hit the trail tomorrow.”

  The cook rubbed his hands in glee at the challenge. Timoteo had made a number of dishes from his Mexican heritage in the past, but had been saving one of which he was particularly proud for a special occasion. He demanded a steer for fresh meat, and headed out early to set up camp, slaughter the beef, and start cooking. His louse was kept busy stirring pots, stoking fires, and pan-baking rounds of trail bread. Savory, delicious smells rose from the chuckwagon and the fires to greet the cowhands as they watered the herd and gathered it on the bedding ground. They made haste to finish the job and grab their plates.

  “Damn, that’s fine! What is this?” Josh demanded as he swallowed his first mouthful.

  “Señor, we call this carne guisada. It is steak cubes, pounded to tenderize them, browned in lard, then cooked with onion, garlic, lots of tomatoes – how I bless señor Ames for sending us so many cans of them! – and dried pequin peppers and wild Mexican oregano. It is slow to make, because the meat must be allowed to cook down with the other things over a lower heat, to blend the flavors. Today, you gave me time, so I made it.”

  Josh could feel the spicy, piquant heat of the peppers running all the way down his throat into his stomach. He tore off a piece of pan bread, spooned some of the stew onto it, added some refried frijoles, and took a big bite. A blissful smile came over his face as he closed his eyes and chewed slowly, savoring the flavors as they blended. Around him, the cowhands were so busy eating that their normal banter was utterly silenced.

  “Timoteo, this is great! Hope you made enough for seconds and thirds.”

  The cook gestured to the row of outsized three-legged cast iron cooking pots and Dutch ovens, keeping warm over a low bed of coals. “I did, señor, and extra for breakfast too, because there was plenty of meat on the steer, and it will not keep. Besides, I have grown used to the ways of hungry men – and cowhands on the trail seem to be the hungriest of them all!”

  The third of Tyler’s five herds had so far had a relatively uneventful journey, avoiding extremes of weather, high water in the rivers, and other dangers of the trail. Some of the less experienced hands had begun to get complacent, but those with more trail savvy had rapidly disabused them. Bill Neiman, the trail boss, was quick to warn his crew. “Just when you think everything’s goin’ right is when it all goes to hell,” he warned the overconfident few. “That’s when people get killed, too. Don’t let it be you!”

  Bill was riding at the point of his herd one fine morning when a small cloud of dust on the horizon caught his attention. He peered at it through his binoculars, but could make out nothing at that distance. He sent out a scout to take a closer look.

  The scout returned with a frown on his face. “It’s a small herd o’ cattle, boss – couple o’ hundred head, four men drivin’ ’em. They’re askin’ if they can join up with us, and help work our herd through the Indian Nations in return for safe passage. I told ’em we ain’t gonna go through this year, but they seem tolerable set on joinin’ us regardless. They also ain’t sayin’ much about where they come from, an’ there’s several different brands in their herd. Somethin’ don’t feel right about this.”

  Bill thought rapidly. It was not unusual for smaller herds to ask to join bigger ones, sharing the labor of getting all the cows to market in exchange for the protection, security and mutual assistance offered by greater numbers. However, he respected his scout’s instincts. He made a snap decision, and waved to one of the point riders. The cowhand trotted over, and he issued quick orders.

  “One o’ you ride back down each side o’ the herd. I want Lenny, Dave, Frank, Nick, Sheldon and Willy. Tell ’em to get their rifles, and tell the rest o’ the hands to spread out and fill in for them while we see what’s goin’ on. Soon as you’ve told everyone, get back up here. You’re comin’ with us,” to the scout, “and you’ll go back on point,” to the cowhand.

  “Aw, can’t I come too, boss?” pleaded the point man, excitement showing on his face.

  “Nope. Takin’ six away from the herd’s gonna leave us short-handed as it is. I can’t spare another man.”

  As he watched the two gallop away to do his bidding, Bill grinned cynically. He’d selected the six men for a reason. They’d all seen action in the Civil War, and had established solid reputations as fighting men since then, against Indian raiders and in defense of trail drives. If there was going to be trouble, they’d be a team to be reckoned with. He wasn’t carrying his rifle, like most of the hands – it was just extra, unneeded weight to tire the horse when working cattle – but he checked the revolver at his side, and slid a round into the empty chamber on which he normally rested the hammer. If trouble lay ahead, he wanted to be ready for it.

  As soon as the six selected men had arrived, he told them briefly what the scout had discovered. “We’re gonna ride up to them and ask some questions. Be ready for trouble.”

  “Carry our rifles, boss?” one asked briefly, sliding his Winchester out of its saddle boot.

  “That’s why I told you to get ’em. If you’ve got to shoot, the extra range an’ accuracy will be handy.”

  The scout rode ahead of the seven men as they approached the small herd. As its escorting riders saw them approaching, they gathered in a group and rode forward to meet them. Bill noticed a couple of them furtively loosening their handguns in their holsters, and frowned. That was not the reaction he’d expect from honest men.

  One man rode ahead of the other three, who hung back about twenty yards. Bill signaled his men to halt their horses, and they waited for him to come up. He stopped his horse in front of Bill. “Who’s the boss here?” he asked.

  “I’m Bill Nieman, trail boss o’ that herd back there.”

  “I’m Jeb Smith. I’d like to join up with you boys to get through the Indian Nations.”

  “What outfit you boys from?”

  The man hesitated for a brief moment. “My spread’s the Bar B.”

  “Where at?”

  “Oh, east o’ here.”

  “Mister, Texas runs for hundreds of miles east o’ here until it hits the Gulf o’ Mexico. What county?”

  “Ah… Wise County, northeast o’ Dallas.”

  From behind Bill, a cowhand spoke up. “I’m from those parts, too. My name’s Sheldon Kirby. Don’t recall a Bar B spread, though. Where at in the county is it?”

  For a fleeting moment, irritation flickered across the other man’s face. “North.”

  “Can’t say I know it. You boys are a helluva long way west o’ Wise County. Why didn’t you head north to the Red River crossing, and join up with a herd on the Chisholm Trail? It would’ve been a sight easier than travelin’ this far out o’ your way.”

  The man tried to ignore the question, turning back to Bill, but the trail boss added, “That’s a fair question. Also, you’ve got several brands in that herd.” He turned to his scout. “Did you see any Bar B brands in it?”

  “Nary a one, boss.” The trail boss noted that his scout’s hand was laid on his thigh, ready to draw his revolver at a moment’s notice. Clearly, he expected
trouble.

  He turned back to the stranger. “Mr. Smith, why don’t you have any of your own brand in your herd?”

  Smith blustered, “Say, why all the questions? I just wanted to join up with your herd. If you don’t want us, we’ll ride on and find someone else!”

  He began to turn his horse, but Bill’s voice cut across the space between them like a whip. “Hold it right there! You ain’t answered my question, Mr. Smith – if that’s your real name. I’m still waiting.” Behind him, he heard the creak of saddle leather as his men tensed, ready for action.

  “That’s none o’ your business!”

  “I’m makin’ it my business.”

  “Then to hell with you!” With a frenzied shout, the man grabbed for the gun at his side.

  Bill wasn’t particularly fast with his gun, but his men held rifles ready in their hands. One snapped his Winchester to his shoulder and fired, slamming a round into Smith’s right shoulder. He yelled in pain as he clutched at the injury, his gun falling from his hand. Even as Bill pulled his revolver from its holster, more shots sounded as the rest of the cowhands cut loose at the remaining three men. Two of them tried to draw their weapons, but were swept from their horses’ backs by a hail of fire. The third, wiser than his companions, threw his hands high into the air and kept them there, his face screwed up and eyes squeezed shut in anticipation of the burning pain of a bullet. Fortunately for him, Bill’s men controlled themselves and their shots.