He turned to Mr. Blatherbell. “As you, Mr. Blatherbell, are the most experienced among us, I suggest that you maintain the financial, equipment and supply records.” Mr. Blatherbell only nodded.
“Because of our limited amount of money,” he continued, I suggest that Your Grace, Mr. Fenton and Mr. Snoddergas leave for Mexico within the next forty-eight hours to purchase the cattle and hire men to bring them here, since I understand that labor there is cheaper. Mr. Snoddergas can drive the wagon to carry the supplies required.
“As we will need quarters here, I will hire two masons to repair one of the smaller houses which I observed was not too badly damaged. It will take approximately four hundred dollars for materials and labor since we can salvage a great deal from the other buildings, such as adobe bricks and roofing tiles. It will have three rooms, one for Your Grace, one for us, and the third as an office. An extension can be built onto the rear of the bunkhouse to serve as a dining room, since the space there now is inadequate for a larger number of people. The present dining area can be used to store food and equipment for the winter. We will also have to extend the lean-to for the horses to permit stabling of …” He looked across at Ned.
“Fifteen at least,” said Ned, too astonished to comment further.
“Fifteen, plus a shed for the saddles and bridles.”
And so the plans were laid by Mr. Poopendal, even to the secrecy they should employ to avoid a confrontation with the Birmans before it was absolutely necessary. He suggested that all of them move into the bunkhouse immediately so the departure for Mexico of Ned, Paul and Mr. Snoddergas would not be seen nor their absence noticed for as long as possible.
They managed to slip away in the dead of night, bypass Rijos, and conceal themselves in sheltered areas during the daylight hours of the first two days until they felt free of any chance encounters with the Birmans or Upjohn’s people. It was an adventure for Paul, seeing the startling change from well-watered grazing land to sand and rock and nature’s claim to hell once they crossed the Pecos River. As the sun beat down and the winds swept sand into their eyes and noses, Ned told them this stretch would be only thirty-five miles across, then they’d reach the Rio Hondo and after that the Rio Felix, then the Rio Grande.
“Between the Rio Felix and the Rio Grande we’ll have another dry stretch of forty miles, but there’s enough streams and springs to take care of the herd.
“The best way back would be to come up along the Rio Grande, as it runs almost due north from El Paso, but that would put us in Birman country and we don’t want that.”
They travelled swiftly, the wagon actually setting the pace, but even with all the sand and wind and the day after day of meeting no one but an occasional traveler, it was still almost like a vacation. Paul often rode ahead and spent half an hour practicing with his rifle before the others caught up with him, and much of his practicing filled the cooking pot with jack-rabbits and grouse and even an antelope, all of which tasted like shoe leather due to the rough ministrations at the merciless hands of Ned. But after a week of this, Mr. Snoddergas took over the supervision of the cooking pot, and while there was no noticeable change at first, the food became more palatable as the days passed.
There were also other changes once they forded the Pecos River - they never lit fires after dark and watches were kept throughout the night.
“The Apaches,” explained Ned. “Every now and then a few of the young bucks take to the warpath and cross the Rio Grande looking for trouble. It’s got so bad the last couple of years that the people going south have formed wagon trains for protection.”
“What should we do if we meet any?” asked Mr. Snoddergas.
“Well, if it’s a small party, Paul here can convince them it won’t pay to attack. He’s mighty good with that rifle of his. But if it’s a large war party, we’ll just run until we reach a town. They generally stay far away from populated areas.”
It was like entering another world when they crossed the Rio Grande into Mexico. Here time abruptly slowed to a walk; here people were seen in the fields and along the roads; here cantinas were found at the precise time their throats complained of thirst that only the juice from the stem of the tequila plant could quench; here the dark eyes of the Mexican and Indian girls lifted the weariness of the long journey from their shoulders.
Two days after crossing the border into Mexico they arrived at the hacienda of Don Jose Migulas Jesus de Catillion. Don Jose was an enormously fat, round, contented man of seventy years of age, his main house containing twenty-five rooms bursting with his sons and their spouses and grandchildren and their spouses and great-grandchildren looking about with eager eyes. In his village, for his hacienda would only be regarded as such, were fifty small abode shacks for his married vaqueros and a score of buildings for employees who provided the services for the patriarch and his ever-increasing brood.
Don Jose was fond of recounting the story about the time someone asked him how many cattle he owned and he thought a few minutes before answering that he had to have over twenty thousand animals, for every time he sold twenty thousand head, there were always twenty thousand more available to the next buyer.
He greeted Paul with open arms, for buyers were unusual at that time of the year, and when he had been exposed to Paul’s full title, formally announced by Mr. Snoddergas himself in the best Queen’s English, his arms spread even wider.
“A Duke, mind you!” he informed everyone within hearing, then excused himself and rushed through all the rooms, flinging his progeny out of the doors, and pulling them from beds and even flushing them from outhouses, trotting around like a sheep dog as he herded them into the massive reception room to present them one and all to a real Duke.
“Equal to a prince,” he told them frequently enough. to be included in their catechism, huffing and puffing to make certain that every single one of his family touched Paul’s hand. Then when he had a moment to explore further and learned that the English Duke was actually unmarried, the wideness of his arms had no bounds.
There could be absolutely no discussion about cattle, he insisted. Instead, there must be a fiesta. But in deference to the Duke’s plea that he had to return quickly to his ranch, he promised a very short fiesta - only three days. Forthwith the majordomo was called in and appraised of the situation in a few, short sentences. He wasted time only to bow before rushing out to ignite the fuse. Within minutes, the racing hooves of horses were heard as riders sped to nearby haciendas to invite neighbors, chickens cackled in terror as a swarm of kitchen helpers swooped on them with long knives in their hands, pigs squealed as they were sat upon and had their throats cut, two corn-fattened cows, always kept in reserve for sudden happy occasions such as a marriage, birth or death, were hit over the head with a sledge hammer. Fires were lit in the kitchens and in outdoor pits, tables and benches were set up to accommodate the expected flood of people, wine barrels and tequila jugs were dusted off and brought up from the cellars. Lanterns were suspended over the yard to be used as the centre of the fiesta, the domed stand for the musicians was given a quick coat of whitewash, the dance platforms were carried out of the barn and placed together in front of the band stand, and pots were hung over every inch of flame to heat water for baths. Women shrilled for this and that, children yelled, the men trimmed hair and moustaches, swearing once again to cut down on something or other to reduce their expanding waistlines - and Don Jose Migulas Jesus de Cotillion sat by himself in his study, drumming his fingers on his desk, mentally going down the list of grandchildren to find a young unmarried girl who might fit into the shoes of a duchess.
The fiesta began that very evening, and there was absolutely no sense in trying to avoid being overfed, drowned in drink, exhausted from dancing, and invited into dark corners. Paul did not even try, since it was more .than merely a matter of stamina. To live though a three-day fiesta needed acclimatization from childhood, being suckled on tequila and weaned with hot peppers, schooled to revive oneself in
the morning by rinsing the mouth with wine and then immersing the head in cold water, and not wondering too much with whom one explored the bushes the night before.
On the fourth morning, Paul, Ned and Mr. Snoddergas gathered with Don Jose and an assortment of his sons and commenced negotiations. Paul groaned softly to himself when he saw that Don Jose and his brood were as wide awake and alert as if there had been no fiesta. At each offer, Don Jose would turn to his sons and discuss it. Paul soon realized that he was seeing professionals at work, since discussion to them meant that everyone shouted together for indeterminate periods of time while striding around angrily as if they were ready to leave the room and throwing up their arms to illustrate how impossible it was to accept the bid.
After each of these demonstrations, Don Jose would clasp his hands tightly to his breast and explain apologetically exactly how much money he would lose by accepting the offer. At one point, tears of disappointment were in his eyes that he was no longer the absolute authority in the hacienda so he could make a present of the seven hundred head of cattle.
Paul watched his starting tender of eight dollars soar to nine dollars and twenty-five cents before he took action. Rising from his seat, fighting back waves of dizziness, he bowed to his host and his company of advisors. “My partners and I thank you for your hospitality, but we are unable to pay more for the cattle. We must look further afield.”
“There is nothing for a hundred miles.” said Don Jose sadly.
“Then we will go those one hundred miles,” said Paul.
Don Jose spread wide his arms condescendingly. “For your sake, my friend, I will insist that my sons sell the cattle for eleven dollars a head instead of eleven dollars and twenty-five cents. What is the loss of money compared to the privilege of honoring a prince.” He resumed his attitude of folded hands against his breast. “Why travel a hundred miles hoping to find cattle when there will be such great wastage driving them just to this point? As much as two dollars a head, perhaps.” He nodded at Paul wisely.
“I thank you,” said Paul. “But we must make the effort anyhow. There is always the hope of finding cattle for seven dollars a head.”
“Seven dollars a head!” hooted Don Jose. “Fifteen years ago, but not today. Even at ten dollars and fifty cents you would get pygmies.”
Paul motioned to Ned and Mr. Snoddergas. and they started from the room. He fully expected Don Jose to stop him at the last moment, but he didn’t. As they approached the stables where their horses were already saddled and the team harnessed to the wagon, Ned leaned close to Paul.
“I don’t know where else to find cows for even ten dollars and fifty cents a head,” he said.
“We must try anyhow. I’m sure that if we go back, his price will rise again:”
Waving goodbye to the sons and their spouses and the grandchildren and their spouses and the great-grandchildren and the dozens of retainers seeing them off, they started down the road to the west, having heard that other large ranches existed there. They were downcast, not only from the failure of their first attempt to purchase cattle at an acceptable price, but also from the thunderous heads and queasy stomachs caused by the three days and nights of riotous fiesta.
The messenger from Don Jose caught up with them. one mile from the hacienda.
“Senor,” he said to Paul, sweeping off his sombrero with a magnificent gesture. “Don Jose wishes me to inform you that he had prevailed upon his sons to accept ten American dollars for each of his cattle.”
Paul did not even rein in his horse. “I thank Don Jose for his kind intercession, but we are unable to pay more than nine dollars and fifty cents.”
The messenger turned and galloped off. His horse was well lathered from hard riding when he returned half an hour later. Again his sombrero was whisked from his head.
“Senor, Don Jose wishes to explain with the utmost urgency that his price cannot go lower than nine dollars and seventy-five cents. He begs you to remember the great friendship that exists between you.”
“Very well,” said Paul. Please tell Don Jose that we will agree to his price, which will cause us great hardship, but only on the condition that he provides six good vaqueros to help us drive the herd to my ranch.”
The capitulation came at the messenger’s next trip, so they turned about and went back the five miles they had ridden, to be met at the hacienda by a horde of smiling sons and their spouses, grandchildren and their spouses, and great-grandchildren, who greeted them as if they had been gone for months at least.
Paul paid over to Don Jose five hundred dollars in gold coins and signed a draft for the remaining six thousand, three hundred and twenty-five dollars on the Lone Star Bank in El Paso, where Mr. Blatherbell had arranged a transfer from their account at the Cattleman’s Bank in Denver.
As it would take Don Jose three days to select the cattle and prepare them for movement, Paul left Ned and Mr. Snoddergas to watch over their host’s activities while he set out for Santo Luis, a town twenty miles away, near the Texas border.
Santo Luis had almost as many cantinas as it had stores, churches and schools combined. It was lucky he came upon the man he was seeking early in the second day, since he was taking a small glass of tequila in each cantina he visited and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could last.
It was obvious that he was a professional gunfighter, from his black cowboy-style clothing to the. well-worn butt of his revolver. He was also no mother’s dream. A man of medium height, somewhat chunky in build, his ruddy face pitted by the ravages of a previous attack of smallpox, his black eyes never still but shifting constantly about the room, turning instantly to anyone coming into the cantina.
Paul sipped at his tequila until he felt the gunman had weighed him up, then he took his glass over to the corner table where the man was seated.
He nodded casually. “My name is Sanderson. Would you mind if I have a few words with you?”
The gunman’s brows rose at the sound of Paul’s accent, then his foot pushed out a chair. “Rest yourself,” he said in a low voice.
Paul sat down and took two cigars from his pocket, offering one to the black-clad man, who accepted it with a wave of his hand. When they had lit up, Paul leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, “I’ve inherited a ranch in northern New Mexico. Before came from England, someone stole the cattle and burned the buildings. I am here to buy another herd and restock the ranch, but I’m certain there will be trouble again when I return. Therefore, I am looking for men who can protect my property.”
“Why did they burn you out?” asked the gunman.
“I think a railroad man wants the land for a right of way and to exploit it later on.”
“How many hands do you have?”
“I have only two now, but I will hire four or five more once I get the herd on my ranch.”
The gunman drained his beer and motioned for the bartender to bring over another. He waved. off Paul’s attempt to pay for it and flipped a coin at the bartender. “Six or seven men - that’s not very many for a range war. Who’s giving you trouble?”
“I’m still not sure, but the railroad man is named Upjohn.”
The gunman shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
“He’s using a family called the Birmans.”
The gunfighter sat up straighter and drank half of his beer in one swallow. He put down the glass and wiped his mouth. “I’ve heard of the Birmans. There’s twenty or twenty-five men there. They’d eat you up.”
“That’s why I need experienced men like you,” said Paul softly.
The gunman almost smiled. He reached out a hand. “I’m Jake Inglesby. What are you paying?”
Paul shook his hand. “I haven’t the foggiest notion what the pay scale is.”
Jake did smile at that. “A hundred and fifty a month and found.”
“My word,” said Paul. “That’s rather high. I also need two others, you know. I just can’t afford four hundred and fifty dollars a mon
th.”
The chunky gunman thought this over. “I’ve got two friends who are right good with a gun. I reckon they’d come along for a hundred or so each.”
Paul stood up. “I’ll be glad to have them. I’m buying cattle from Don Jose De Catillion. Do you know how to find his ranch?”
“I know,” said Jake.
“We’ll leave there the day after tomorrow.”
“We’ll be there, Mr. Sanderson,” said Jake.
Jake joined them shortly after Paul, Ned, Mr. Snoddergas and the six vaqueros started the drive. He had camped overnight on the trail the cattle would have to take, for a fire was still alight and a pot of coffee simmering next to the embers when Paul rode up. With him were two lean men in their middle forties, hard-faced, deliberate-moving, also carrying well-worn guns slung low on their hips.
“This here’s Jim Nesbitt and Emil Block,” said Jake by way of introduction. They nodded to Paul, who was hard put to telling them apart, what with their same blue woolen pants and jackets, centre-creased cowboy hats, red bandannas around their necks, weathered faces, narrow, restless eyes, and a week’s growth of beard on their cheeks and chins. The only noticeable difference was a scar on Emil’s right jaw. Paul waved up Ned and had him meet the newcomers.
Ned looked closely at the gunmen and seemed to approve of what he saw. “I reckon you’d better come up and take point with me,” he told Jake. “Jim, you sorta keep an eye on the left flank, and Emil, you watch the right flank. We’ve got a small remuda at the tail end, whenever you want to give your horses a rest.”
Without further ado, they took the places assigned to them and were soon bantering with the vaqueros in Spanish, helping to drive in a straying cow now and then, but remaining especially watchful to their flanks and rear.
The Cossack Cowboy Page 12