By the Horns

by Ralph Compton

  “It’s fine by me,” Grutt added, “but we ain’t the ones you have to convince.” He nodded at Luke. “We do whatever he wants.”

  “How about it, handsome?” The woman jiggled her breasts at him. “These can be yours to do with as you want.”

  “I’m not in the elephant business, neither.”

  The woman frowned and placed her thick fingers on her wide hips. “You’re sure a mean one. Fine, then. Leave me stranded. I don’t care. It’s my own fault for followin’ after that Bar 40 puncher.”

  Luke had taken several steps but he abruptly stopped and looked back. “Which puncher would that be?”

  “He calls himself Slim. Him and a friend of his named Cleveland were told by the man they work for to see I got to Laredo. They gave me the money for a stage ticket, then had to skedaddle.” The woman tittered. “I spent the money on booze. I passed out, I had so much. When I came to, the Bar 40 boys were gone.”

  “How would you like to see them again? Slim and his friends?”

  “You’re serious? You’ll take me to the Bar 40?”

  “They’re not at the ranch but I know where we can find them,” Luke Deal said, adding, “I know them real well. You could say I owe them, and what better way to repay them than to take you to your lover?”

  “Slim never so much as laid a finger on me,” the woman said, plainly disappointed. “But I could tell he was smitten. He might be the last chance I’ll ever have of becomin’ a decent woman.” She softly sighed. “There was an English gent I was fond of but he was scared of me.”

  Luke smiled and came toward her, holding out his hand. “Then it’s settled. We’ll find you a horse.” As they shook, he said, “I didn’t catch your name, by the way.”

  “Most folks call me Sweet Sally.”

  12

  First Blood

  Owen’s outfit had been skirting the swampland for the better part of an hour. Behind him the chuck wagon rattled and creaked. Ahead, the longhorns moved with tireless effort. Lon was on point; Slim and Cleveland covered the flanks. Owen was satisfied that things were going well.

  Then a wide, dark pool appeared on their right. No different from any of the other pools, the surface was as still as the hot air, broken only by a small island of vegetation at its center. The water looked inviting but Owen knew better than to drink it. To do so risked sickness and death.

  Cleveland was between the longhorns and the swamp. They had passed other pools without incident so he had no cause to expect trouble. He was watching a large bird in the distance, trying to figure out what it was. He had about decided it must be a crane when he heard a flurry of hooves. Cleveland shifted toward the longhorns but the harm had been done.

  The red cow was the culprit. Emily had darted for the pool, passing behind Cleveland’s mount. She was at the water’s edge before he could stop her. Since Big Blue and the rest of the cows followed her lead, they, too, made for the water. But where the cows moved briskly, eager to slake their thirst, Big Blue slowed and then stopped well short of the pool’s edge.

  Reining sharply around, Cleveland hollered and sought to cut the cows off. He partially succeeded. Two of the cows turned. But Emily was already in the pool, and the next moment so were Lily and Brownie. Cleveland immediately resorted to his rope. He had to get them out of there before they drank any of the water.

  Owen spurred over to help. He, too, prepared to rope them, if need be, and haul them out. He saw Emily dip her muzzle and bellowed at her but he’d might as well have been shouting at a tree stump. The contrary cow paid no attention.

  Lily dipped her mouth to drink. Brownie, though, kept on wading and passed the other two. She was eyeing the green island as if it were a smorgasbord and she was starved.

  Lon and Slim galloped to help.

  Alfred Pitney had never used a rope in his life—never, for that matter, herded any of the thousands of cattle on the BLC’s vast range. It occurred to him it was an oversight he should remedy.

  Benedito Chavez brought the chuck wagon to a halt. Since there was nothing he could do, he stayed where he was. He did utter a comment in Spanish that compared the intelligence of cows to the digested matter that came out their hind ends.

  Suddenly Brownie stopped and snorted and looked down at the water, which had risen as high as her brisket.

  Cleveland threw a loop over Emily, dallied the rope around his saddle horn, and wheeled his horse.

  Lily stopped drinking and raised her head, which made Owen’s task easier. Quick as thought, his rope flew toward her, the loop wide enough to settle over her long horns, and the deed was done. He, too, dallied his rope to his saddle horn and was about to turn his claybank when Lon and Slim reached them.

  “What the hell?” Lon blurted. “Do you see what I see?”

  The dark water around Brownie was roiling as if she had unwittingly disturbed a large school of fish. But the writhing bodies that broke the surface did not have fins. They were smooth and round and thick and scaly. There had to be scores of them, if not hundreds.

  “Are they snakes?” Slim marveled.

  As if in answer, a serpentine head rose out of the water next to Brownie’s rear right leg. Its fangs glistened as it opened its jaws wide, exposing the whitish insides of its mouth, the light hue that had earned the viper its distinctive name.

  “Cottonmouths!” Owen cried. “Get her out of there!”

  The aquatic equivalent of rattlesnakes, only without the rattles, cottonmouths were widely feared. With good reason. Their bites could prove fatal. Aggressive natures compounded the danger they posed, for where most snakes, rattlers included, beat a hasty retreat when confronted by humans, or large animals such as cows, cottonmouths stood their ground, or their water, and greeted intruders with the fangs in their white mouths.

  With a jab of his spurs, Lon plunged his mount into the pool. Slim was only seconds behind him. They stopped a safe distance from the roiling mass and swung their ropes over their heads.

  The cottonmouth’s fangs sank into Brownie’s leg. She gave voice to a wail so humanlike it raised the hackles of the four cowhands. She tried to turn but the mass of writhing reptiles hindered her, entangling her legs. Frantic, she thrashed wildly, which only incited the snakes more.

  “Dear God!” Slim breathed.

  Cottonmouths were striking at Brownie from all sides, their fangs sinking deep into her thick hide. Bellowing in panic, she sliced at the mass with her horns. But she might as well have been slashing at phantoms. As near as the cowboys could tell, she did not impale a single snake, although a couple of times when her horns rose dripping from the water, cottonmouths were wrapped around them.

  “Get her out of there!” Owen frantically repeated.

  Slim’s rope descended, and he had her. He turned his horse. The rope grew taut as he dallied it, then used his spurs.

  Seeing that the skinny puncher had the situation in hand, Lon Chalmers did not throw his rope. Instead he let it drop and palmed his Colt. There was little he could do against so many but he did what he could. When a blunt head reared out of the water in front of Brownie, its fangs glistening, Lon banged off a shot. The cottonmouth’s head dissolved in an explosion of gore. He fired again and a second snake sank, never to rise.

  In the meantime Owen had hauled Lily out. She dug in her hooves but he would not be thwarted and did not rein up until she was safely beside Mary and Cleopatra. “Hold her!” he cried, thrusting the end of the rope at Pitney, and flew back to the pool.

  By then Cleveland had Emily on dry ground. She was shaking as if she were having a fit—or as if cottonmouth venom was coursing through her veins.

  Slim spurred his horse in desperation but he could not get Brownie out of the water. She would take a few steps, and stop. Take a few more steps, and stop. Her movements were growing sluggish and she had stopped flailing at her tormentors with her horns.

  Without warning a lone cottonmouth broke the surface close to Slim’s horse. Owen stabbed for hi
s holster, but someone else was faster. Lon’s Colt spat and the cottonmouth was kicked into the air. Then it did the most remarkable thing: The snake bit itself, over and over, while slowly sinking.

  Owen was beside himself. The longhorns were his responsibility. Bartholomew had entrusted them to his care. The cows were to be the nucleus of the herd the Brit wanted to build, and they could ill afford to lose one. Accordingly, he plunged his horse in and made for the roiling ball, determined to save Brownie if it was humanly possible.

  “Pard, no!” Lon shouted.

  Owen did not know what he would do when he reached her. Maybe plow into the snakes to scatter them. He might lose his horse, but in the greater balance of things, the cow counted for more.

  Water splashed and sprayed, and Lon was alongside. He grabbed Owen’s arm. “Be sensible! You’ll only get yourself killed!”

  Owen shrugged the hand off and would have rushed in among the snakes anyway. But Brownie abruptly bawled in agony and hurtled toward land. Like a ship cleaving the sea, she raised a wake, passing within a few arm’s lengths of Slim, who glanced down to make sure the rope would not entangle his mount. What he saw turned him chalk white.

  Wriggling furiously, cottonmouths clung to the cow’s heaving sides and neck, their fangs embedded deep. One by one, though, they began dropping off, so that when Brownie clambered unsteadily out of the water and stood shaking violently from her horns to her tail, only one viper was still attached.

  The cowboys rode out of the pool. Owen was first to alight. Removing his hat, he swatted at the cottonmouth but its fangs were hooked, somehow, and the snake could not let go.

  Lon had dismounted. “Let me,” he said. Gripping the cottonmouth by the tail, he yanked with all his strength. The fangs jerked free, and Lon instantly pivoted and swung the snake like a whip, smashing its head on the ground again and again and again until the serpent hung limp and lifeless. Then he threw it from him in disgust, declaring, “I hate the varmints.”

  Brownie took several shuffling steps toward the other longhorns. She lowed piteously and looked around her as if unsure of where she was. Drops of blood oozed from scores of holes, and her legs wobbled even when she stopped.

  “What can we do?” Slim asked, choked with emotion.

  No one answered. They all knew the answer. As cowmen, they made it a point not to become too attached to the cattle they tended. Why would they, when the cattle were destined for market, and slaughter? But they had grown to know these five cows well, and Slim had come to like them more than he should. But that was Slim; he had a weak spot for animals and women.

  “There’s no cure, no treatment.” Owen gloomily voiced the truth they all knew. Angry at himself for not preventing the mishap, he smacked his chaps. “All we can do is wait for her to die.”

  Slim swung down, walked up to Brownie, and placed a hand on her head. “I’m sorry, girl,” he said contritely. “You didn’t deserve to end like this.”

  Lon spun toward the pool. His right hand fell to his Colt. He glared savagely at the now still water, and under his breath cursed every cottonmouth that had ever been born and ever would be.

  Cleveland had removed his rope from the red cow and was coiling it. “It’s all my fault,” he lamented. “I should have stopped Emily before she reached the water.”

  “Cows can be tricky.” Owen sought to soothe his guilt. “She waited until your back was to her so you couldn’t stop her.”

  “It’s my fault,” Cleveland insisted.

  “You managed to cut two of them off,” Owen reminded him, “and the other two weren’t bit.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Owen ran to Emily and hunkered to examine her for drops of blood. To his great relief he did not find any.

  Lon was carefully checking Lily, and he called out, “I think I found a bite.” On one of the white splotches low on her left front leg were two pinpricks. They were not bleeding but they had clearly been made by fangs.

  “Maybe the snake didn’t bite deep enough,” Cleveland said hopefully.

  Owen gingerly touched the splotch and lightly pressed but all Lily did was turn her head and regard him inquisitively. He removed his hand and patted her ribs. “We can’t lose two of you.”

  “I say!” Alfred Pitney called out. “The other cow is down!”

  Brownie was on her front knees. As the punchers watched in silent sympathy, the longhorn lowered onto her belly. Her tongue lolled and she hung her head and made an assortment of sounds they’d rarely heard longhorns make, low moans and chuffs that were much like a human cough.

  Lon asked, “Want me to put her out of her misery?”

  “I should. It’s my fault.” Cleveland would not let it drop.

  Owen shook his head. “No need. She won’t last much longer. And I don’t reckon she’s in much pain, not with that much venom. More numb than anything else.”

  Brownie looked at them. Her nostrils flared with each labored breath and her eyes were drooping. Saliva ran down her tongue and dripped from the tip. Every so often she would tremble as if cold.

  “Damn, I hate snakes,” Lon growled. “When I was ten I lost an uncle to a rattler. He went into the root cellar and didn’t see it in the shadows. When he reached for a basket of potatoes, the rattler bit him on the wrist. Got him right in the vein. My aunt sucked out as much of the poison as she could and sent for the doc but my uncle was dead inside an hour.”

  “I had a cousin who was bit by a black widow,” Cleveland mentioned.

  The other cowboys looked at him.

  “Well, I did.”

  Brownie’s breaths were like the blast of a blacksmith’s bellows. Her head dipped almost to the ground but she snapped it up again and gazed wide-eyed at the other cows. She struggled to stand and join them but she was too weak. Lowing loudly, she shook her head, as if to stave off the inner night.

  “From now on, every snake I see, I shoot,” Lon vowed.

  “Even garter snakes?” Slim asked.

  “Every snake.”

  “But garters are plumb harmless. The same with king snakes and corn snakes and rat snakes. They eat all kinds of vermin. Then there are bull snakes and gopher snakes and those big indigo snakes that live down to the coast, and long-nosed snakes and striped snakes and those pretty little scarlet snakes they have over in the bayou country and—” Slim stopped.

  Lon had held up a hand. “Mention one more god-damned snake and I’ll shoot you.”

  “Now, now,” Owen said.

  Slim’s feelings were hurt. “I was only pointin’ out that some snakes don’t do us any harm and don’t deserve to be shot.”

  “Where did you learn about all those?” Cleveland asked.

  “I’ve always liked snakes,” Slim said. “When I was a boy, I’d collect all kinds. It got so I had me a snake zoo, with twenty or more. Folks would come from miles around to see it. There was this big old rattler I kept in a coal box. He was thicker than my arm and scared everyone half to death just to look at him. Why, I recollect—” Again he stopped.

  Lon had made a sharp gesture. “So snakes are wonderful critters, are they?” He pointed. “Tell that to her.”

  Brownie was on her side. Her legs were stiff as sticks and she was shaking all over, her tongue half out of her mouth. As they watched, her eyes rolled up into their sockets and she uttered a last, final low.

  “Damn,” Owen said.

  The cowboys gathered around the deceased and Slim touched the tip of the horn that jutted into the air. “Do we bury her or leave her for the buzzards?”

  Behind them came a soft cough, and Benedito was there, his sombrero in his hands. “Pardon me, señors. I have a suggestion.”

  The cowboys waited.

  “The poison, it does not go deep into the meat. I can butcher her and we can have fresh beef for a few days. Sí?”

  “That’s harsh,” Slim said.

  “Well, she is a cow,” Cleveland said. “Or was.”

  “I wouldn’t m
ind some beef for a change,” Lon remarked. “I’m sick to death of venison.”

  Owen was dubious. “Benedito, are you sure it will be safe? It won’t make us sickly, or worse?”

  “I am confident, señor. So long as I only take meat from certain parts, not the heart or the kidneys or where the snakes have bitten.” Benedito brought his right hand out from under the sombrero. He was holding a long butcher knife. “Say the word, señor. I will be quick.”

  Owen glanced at Lon, who nodded, then at Slim, who shook his head. That left Cleveland, who was rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Cut away.”

  Before Benedito could commence, Big Blue snorted and came toward them. This whole time, the giant bull had stood as still as Pikes Peak, seemingly undisturbed by Brownie’s plight. But now Big Blue came over to the prone cow and sniffed noisily. A shudder ran through him, and throwing back his head, he uttered a peculiar series of bellows that fell to a low whine and then rose to what in human beings would be called a scream.

  “The blood call!” Lon exclaimed.

  Three of the four remaining cows immediately came over and milled about Brownie’s body while adding cries of their own to those of Big Blue.

  Alfred Pitney yelped in alarm. Straining at the rope, Lily was trying to reach the other longhorns.

  “Slip the rope off her!” Owen hollered.

  “How?”

  “Danged foreigners,” Slim said.

  Owen ran over and hastily released Lily so she could join Emily, Mary, and Cleopatra in their display of grief.

  “Good heavens!” Pitney exclaimed in amazement. “What in heaven’s name are they doing? I’ve never witnessed such bizarre behavior in cattle.”

  “We call it the blood call,” Owen said reverently. “When a longhorn dies, sometimes the others will gather around and set to caterwauling like riled cats. I once saw hundreds act up like this over a cow that was killed by a cougar. They bawled for hours.”

  “How do you quiet them?” The din was so loud, Pitney covered his ears with his hands.

  “We don’t,” Owen said. “We let them bawl themselves out. Otherwise they become mean.”