by Lou Bradshaw
“My brother said he told you I’d just got out of jail, and you weren’t too concerned about it.”
That boy showed all the tell tale signs of a kid raised on frontier, He was another rag tag kid with hand me down clothes that didn’t fit and were well covered with stitches and patches. He was about as tall as Tate, but skinnier if that was at all possible. His old pistol was tucked into the waist band of his cuffed up pants. The crowbait he was riding looked as if he had seen his better years a few decades ago. But he was a rider and that was what we needed.
Ben asked, “Well, my only question is, did you learn your lesson… I don’t mean the lesson of not getting caught; I mean the lesson that you can’t go breakin’ the law.”
“Oh, they learned me that before they ever got the shackles on me. I tried to stand up a stage and somebody shot my horse, and then three of them jumped out and nearly stomped the life out of me. They tied me on top of the stage and hauled me on in to Trinidad. I was building a road with chains on for a year up near Pueblo.”
“What’s your name, old stage robber?”
“Kelly, sir, Dick Kelly.”
“Well, Dick Kelly, we been needing another Irishman in this outfit. You ever been on a trail drive before? And call me any one of those names you asked for when you rode in, but never ever call me sir.” Ben patted his shotgun to emphasize the point.”
“No, s… Ben, but I’ve worked cattle since I was a kid.”
“That’s fine, you’ll get the hang of it soon enough, or it’ll kill you.” Then he turned toward the fire and called, “Hey, Tater. Come over here if you would, please.” When Tate got to the wagon Ben said, “Tater, this hombre’s name is Dick Kelly, and I want you to show him the ropes for a couple of days…. Is Tater your first, middle or last name? No, don’t tell me, it’ll just confuse me.”
Tater took Kelly and his half finished plate back to the fire, and Ben just laughed.
“What’s the joke, Ben?”
“That boy, he seems so young, he makes me feel like I’m in my dotage… and I’m only twenty three.”
That revelation took me aback. I figured he was at least my twenty six years or maybe a little bit more. Like so many redheads, he was timeless. He could have been anywhere between twenty and thirty years old, by the look of him.
He was what they called a natural leader. Others just naturally turned to him because he was a source of confidence… a trait that usually comes with age and experience. You just had the feeling that he could handle whatever came up. I knew his story, and I knew he was thrown into the fray at a very early age, so I guess he got the experience without the age. I didn’t think that was the whole answer. Some people are just born with that little something.
I think what really amazed me was his ability to disarm others with his bunkhouse manner, and at the same time plotting his moves like a battlefield general. I doubt if he even realizes that he’s doing it. It made me wish I had my father’s academic mind because this man would be a great one to study.
Just out of curiosity, I asked him what he’d do if Ralls or any of his boys showed up. He thought about it for a few seconds and said, “I once threatened to walk a fella all the way from Taos to Santa Fe tied behind his horse because he wouldn’t tell me who paid him to shoot me. I reckon, I’d just tie ‘em fellas to the tails of some old mossy horned steers and let ‘em walk to Pueblo. There’s always a way to make someone’s life uncomfortable without killin’ ‘em.”
We had the herd in the pass early the next morning. It was rough going but it wasn’t steep, so the cattle stumbled along without too much trouble. They didn’t know any better, they just went where they were pushed or lead. There was a big white and red speckled steer that kind of took over as leader and the rest just went where he took them.
The ground was pretty broken with humps and drops. There were places that looked like half of a mountain hand fallen from way up. There were gullies that a few weeks earlier had been raging waterways, but now they were no more than pleasant little streams. I figured that the railroad would eventually run through the pass, but they’d have an interesting time doing it.
It took us the better part of the day to get through Raton Pass, and when we came out, we were on the east face of the Rockies. On our left were those majestic big shouldered mountains, but on our right were the wide open plains. The East stretched out for many hundreds of miles. You had the feeling that you could almost see Missouri. I’d seen plains before where you couldn’t see anything on the horizon for days, but I’d always known that there was an end. But just the sheer knowledge that you could ride for a month in any easterly direction and still not see a change in the scenery was staggering. I reckoned that it was closer from Boston to London than from the mountains to St. Louie.
I’d heard stories of pioneers going mad in the middle of the openness, but it had never seemed likely until now. I knew enough about geography of the country to know where mountains, main rivers, oceans, plains and cities were in approximation. But no map I had ever seen was able to give me the feeling of emptiness that I was experiencing at that time.
After the pass, the herd strung out and moved north. We kept well away from the eastern face of the mountains and foothills. It was a good deal safer out in the open. Canyons and the piled up hills were an invitation for attacks by outlaws and Indians. We really didn’t want any truck with either group. We all kept a close watch on our back trail for any sign of Ralls and his bunch. I had a gnawing feeling deep down in the pit of my stomach, that we hadn’t seen the last of those boys.
The weapons we had taken from Slack’s raiders, Ben distributed them amongst our men. Neither Delgado nor Dick Kelly had a rifle, and Ed Graves had a poor excuse for a sixgun, so they each became a little better armed.
Riding in open country like that can be deceiving as hell. You think you can see for a hundred miles and everything is flat, but in reality the county is full of dips and swales. It’s criss-crossed by ditches, gullies, rivers, and creeks. Any one of those gullies or ditches can be a hidden highway for those who would want to take what we had… including our lives. One of the best ways to keep one’s hair was to keep one’s eyes open.
On the second day out of the pass I was riding point and spotted an Indian sitting his horse atop a low rise several hundred yards ahead. He just sat there. I loosened my Winchester in its boot and took the thong off my Colt. It was one of the shorter barreled Peacemakers, more adaptable for coming out quick but not as accurate at any distance. It would do here.
Walking my horse, I moved within fifty yards of him looking everything over real carefully. He didn’t move. Like I’d said before, I wasn’t a plainsman, but I knew there were places where an army or a tribe could hide almost in the open. He was a tall, fine looking man of middle years. I didn’t know what tribe he belonged to but he sat that pony like he was part of it.
He sat there fifty yards away, and I sat where I was. I’d heard that Indians were patient people, so I was determined to be just as patient. He finally moved a few yards toward me, so I called his play and moved a few yards forward. Then I raised him and moved a few more. He called me and stopped. That’s when I heard movement behind me. I wasn’t going to take my eye off the Indian, so all I could do was hope that the movement behind me was one of the drovers and not someone wearing paint.
Ben spoke my name and said, “Just sit easy Max. He’s Arapaho, and they’re generally friendly. He’s not wearing paint, so he probably wants to dicker… or at least that’s what I’m hoping.”
He walked his horse up beside me, and then he moved it up to the half way point. The Indian did the same and they talked for quite a few minutes. The herd had moved up and was passing us by. Still Ben sat his saddle and talked with the brave. Finally Ben turned and motioned me to join them.
When I reached them Ben said to me, “Would you mind ridin’ down and askin’ one of the men to cut out a critter that ain’t doin so well, maybe one of the stragglers
that can’t keep up or a trouble maker? Then chase it on up this way.”
A steer with a bad foot did the trick, and I soon had him roped and pulled along to where Ben and the Indian were holding their meeting. I was directed where to take it, which was about a hundred yards farther back from the trail. I was met by three bucks, who were with five or six women and at least that many youngsters. One of the women was almighty old, but the others were in their prime. I didn’t see any more men, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others about.
The braves took the steer without acknowledging that I was even there. They didn’t even make eye contact. I think they had a problem accepting charity… I know I would. My rope was removed and a rawhide reatta replaced it. The steer was then tied to a mesquite bush. I turned and rode back. The meeting was breaking up when I got there.
On the way back to the herd, Ben filled me in on what had happened, “These folks were forced a little farther south than they would have liked to be due to trying to avoid a party of Southern Cheyenne raiders. Then they found themselves dodgin’ Kiowa. Now they’re trying to move to the northeast, back to their own stompin’ grounds. Said they got hit by a small band of Kiowa and lost a man and a small girl…. He didn’t have much to trade for the steer, and didn’t want to ask for charity. He would have rather stole it than ask for help from strangers…especially whites.”
“He swapped this little pouch of stones for the critter. I didn’t want to take it, but I couldn’t offend him… a lot of pride there. ”Handing me the pouch he asked, “Anything worth anything in there?”
I took the pouch and gave the contents a good look. I knew a little about gemstones because of the kind of life I led. Playing cards, you learn to spot a fore-flusher by the cheap jewelry he wore, or by what he was trying use as collateral.
“Boss,” I said, “you got a couple of opals here, and what looks like a garnet. I’d say he paid you right for that steer.”
“Well, that makes it a fair deal, but I still would have given it to him… With that bum hoof, it would have been left behind sooner or later.” Ben said shaking his head.
“He also told me that they’d crossed the trail of about eight or ten horses… all shod horses.” Ben went on, “They were headin’ north coming from the southwest. I figure that could be Ralls and his friends. They probably got around us before the pass. Lord knows there’s plenty of room out there, and we been movin’ plenty slow.”
“We can only presume that it is Ralls.” I said. “But it doesn’t really matter… a group that large can only mean trouble for us no matter who it is.”
“Yeah,” he sighed, “we’re pretty much ripe for the pickins for anyone. If it ain’t Ralls, it’s probably some other bunch or they could be some Southern Cheyenne on stolen horses… That Arapaho said that we might meet up with some a little farther north…. Any way you look at it, we got our work cut out for us.”
“To me, that sounds like an understatement, Ben.”
We moved on. There wasn’t much else we could do. We knew that the trail the Indians spotted was east of us, so we kept a sharp eye in that direction. But there were also other tribes that visited this area, namely Comanche and Ute. The Ute’s were generally mountain folk, and they weren’t given much to traveling on the plains, but we were mighty close to their range. All we could do was keep our eyes open and stay alert.
That night, Ben told the men what he’d learned from the Indians. We added an extra man to each shift of night herd, which meant that none of us were going to get a lot of beauty sleep. And our bunch could use some.
“Fellas,” Ben told us, “These cattle mean a lot to me, but I can get by. I’ll survive… So if anything happens, save yourselves. I’m not sayin’ to run off, but you need to protect yourselves. Anybody comes out of the dark at you and they don’t say,” he thought for a minute and then said, “Andy Moore. You just shoot into them.”
“And if you’re approaching one of the boys, you be sure to call out that name… don’t forget it… Andy Moore.”
Chapter 7
We were still nearly a month away from Pueblo and the railroad, which meant at least twenty five to thirty days of short sleep and raw nerves, but the food was good. I always look on the bright side when I can. If anything happened to the cook or the chuck wagon, then I’d start getting grumpy.
We’d spent several days of little water and hot winds. The cattle were getting by but they were getting edgy as were we. On the fourth day there was no water at all. The cattle were slow and balky; it was all we could do to keep them moving. That big speckled steer kept on plodding along and we kept on pushing the rest after him.
Ben pointed to the clouds building up over the mountains. They looked like rain, and rain was something we needed badly. Ben made the suggestion that we sleep with our boots on and keep a saddled horse nearby. If there was any lightening in those clouds, we might have to move damned quick.
About sunset we heard the rumbling echoing through the hills, and we felt the wind pick up and turn decidedly cooler. We were going to get wet for sure, but what we didn’t know for sure was how the cattle would react. That was something we’d just have to wait for and be ready for.
It was past midnight when the first few drops fell. Slickers were pulled on and gear was stowed. The rain started like a tentative bride at first… very cautious and a little frightened. Then she became more and more courageous and excitable, until she was coming at you with all she had. It was falling straight down soaking man and beast alike…everything.
Then all hell broke loose. A monstrous flash of light came out of the sky. I watched it work its way toward earth. I couldn’t believe how slow and deliberate it moved along its jagged path from the heavens. It seemed to be searching for just the right place to land. It seemed to be taking minutes to reach the earth, but I knew it had to be less than a half second.
The bolt seemed to come within a hundred feet of a big cottonwood, when a smaller streak shot out of the tree and raced toward it. When the two streaks of light met, the one from above overpowered the lesser one and followed its path back toward the tree. The whole damned tree exploded. The ear splitting crash followed instantly… The herd was up and moving!
We had all been in the saddle since the bride had started to build up her nerve. We were ready, but that didn’t mean we could do much about it. It just meant we had a little better chance of staying alive and maybe turn the herd. The one thing you never know is which way the herd was going to go, so you just had to try and stay with them and try to guide them to where you want them to go. That was a lot easier said than done.
I saw one man go down with his horse. The horse came back up and galloped off with stirrups flapping, but the man wasn’t on him. My first and only thought was to get him before he was trampled. The trouble was, the only light I had was flashes of lightening. So I went toward where he had gone down. A flash showed that I was only just ahead of some mighty frightened critters, which would go over or through anything that got in their way. As I sped toward him, I saw that he was up and running. I banged off a couple of shots hoping to let him know I was coming and at the same time maybe slow the steers behind me.
He was ready when I got to him and swung up behind me as slick as you could imagine. I thought it was Delgado, but I wasn’t sure because everything was dark and wet. I had thought that Delgado and the cook had taken the remuda and the chuck wagon over to the east, hopefully out of harm’s way. With the help of those California spurs, I raced wide to the right where I’d spotted some boulders. A few flashes showed me that the rocks would be the best place for him. They were a little higher and were backed up to a bank of some sort.
Sliding to a stop in the mud and gravel, he slid down and it was Jesus I’d picked up, not Delgado. I told him, “Get up in those rocks and wait. If I don’t get back to you by morning take off on foot in the direction of the herd. You’ll find someone or else it won’t matter.” The last I saw of him, he was scampering u
p into those rocks like a monkey. I reined left and headed back to the herd.
It was wet, cold and windy, and it was scary as hell, but the cattle seemed to have lost their appetite for being crazy wild. It was like someone had pulled the cork and tipped the bottle; and all their wide eyed fear drained out. It could have been because they had spent five dry days that all they wanted now was to find puddles and low spots to drink from. We started moving them and trying to bunch them in mass. We’d spend the better part of tomorrow rounding up the crazier ones who ran the hardest and the farthest. Right now the main bunch was peaceful.
I’d spend the rest of the night trying to move one, two or ten cattle in the direction of the herd. Every time I came upon one of the boys, I’d ask who he was and who he’d seen. It seemed like most were accounted for. I found Ben and he had a saddled horse without a rider on a lead. I told him that Jesus had lost his, and did he think that might be it.
“I stashed him in a bunch of boulders about a half mile back. He didn’t seem to be hurt, but we both had a close call. I reckon he’s still there.”
“You wanna take this one and go find him? I imagine he’s plenty worried out there not knowin what’s happened.”
“Sure,” I said, “We’ll see what we can find back that a way and move em on up.” I went on to tell him who had been accounted for as far as I knew. He told me who he had word of, and that only left two unaccounted for… the two youngest, Tate and Dick. We could only hope they were okay.
I headed back down the trail in search of Jesus and strays. Every time I found a steer, I got him started up the road toward the rest of them. When I got to where I thought I might be close to where I’d left Jesus, I called out, “HALOOO, JESUS!” I sang out over and over. I was just guessing at the location. There was no telling how far I’d ridden after I dropped him off. I figured a half mile, but it could have been less or it could have been more.