Cattlemen

by Mari Sandoz

  In 1767 horned cattle had been seen west of the Brazos, wild and roaming in large herds over the plains far from any settlement. Hunting wild bulls was by then the estab- lished sport and a Frenchman crossing Texas was taken on such a hunt. He observed that only the slowest could be run down, the swiftest, wildest always escaped, to pass on their excellence. In 1777 another Frenchman found "Castilian" cattle and mustang horses on the Brazos River and on the Colorado, too, not far from Coronado's camp of two hundred and thirty-six years ago in incredible numbers. They were hunted as the other wild creatures, the buffalo, the cougar and the javelina and could be even more dangerous.

  Back in 1757 the Spaniards had founded a mission and presidio up on the San Saba River for the Lipan Apaches, as a barrier against the French coming down from the north with their friends, the Wichita Indians of the Red River country. The Lipans were also to act as protection for the San Antonio region against the other, the raiding bands of the Apaches. The next year a large force of Comanches, Wichitas, and their allies destroyed the San Saba mission, killing several people, including two of the friars, and scattering the tame cattle herds. The captain at the presidio was sent out with 500 troops, some cannon, and about 500 Indian allies to punish the raiders. At the Red River he found the Indians fortified, with a ditch around the stockade and a French flag flying on the wind. Inside, it was said, some French traders directed the defense. Perhaps this was a story to cover the humiliation by the savages. Anyway, most of the 1,000 Spaniards and allies charged the stockade and not only were whipped back but lost their baggage and cannon.

  After this failure the raids spread to the San Antonio settlements. There were times when the Comanches left hardly a horse gentle enough for any except the vaqueros to ride, and sometimes even those venturesome men were afraid to get far out on the range. Then, by secret treaty, the French ceded Louisiana to Spain in 1762, and the Texas settlements expected quieter times.

  But by now the hostile Indians had all the advisors they needed from former mission workers, and the government no longer pushed the colonization or protection of Texas as a political or military outpost. So after 1770 ranching along the San Antonio River withered as under the hot winds from the Staked Plains, although the wild cattle kept spreading. During the next seven, eight years the vast herds down at Espiritu Santo were rounded up only three times. The Comanches, Apaches, and Lipan Apaches, too, slaughtered tame herds in unbelievable numbers, both for meat wherever buffalo was scarce, which was generally over most of the cattle territory because buffaloes disliked the scrub timber stretches and the brushy bottoms that cattle preferred. But most of the slaughter was pure sport and deviltry. In this the Lipans, the pretended friends for whom the mission up on the San Saba had been built, were the worst.

  In 1777 they were living near the presidio of San Antonio de Bexar ostensibly for protection from the hostile tribes but this put them right among the tame herds, the ones that didn't have to be driven, or dragged, from the brush. While professing friendship, their young men ran off cattle and horses and blamed it all on the outside raiders, denying that increasing numbers of wild Indians were hidden right in the Lipan camps. San Antonians charged that it was the Lipans themselves who killed and ran off 22,000 head of tame cattle at one time. They had even learned to make their own gunpowder from some traitorous mission workers who gave away the secret so precious on the frontier. Guns one might steal, but not a consistent supply of powder and ball, particularly powder.

  In 1776 De Mézières, a Frenchman working for Spain, had been sent to Texas to punish the Apaches of the east, including the Lipans, and to make Spanish allies of the tribes of the north, those who had long been friendly with the French traders. He was to go to the villages up on the Red River, get 1,000 allies, who would be paid by the missions for all the captives they could bring in, to be turned into neophytes. He did get the cannons lost in the attack twenty years before, but nothing much besides this came of his expedition.

  By 1790 the Texas missions hardly functioned as missions any more, and four years later they were secularized, the schools, farms, ranches, and other mission ventures closed, the chapels to become parish churches or stand empty to the wind and the rattlesnakes who liked the feel of stone around them at least part of the year. The mission lands were divided among the Spanish colonists and the tame Indians, which didn't mean much, in the light of the Spaniards' treatment of the subject Indians in the past. Still, most of them could do what most of the cattle did, scatter to the brush.

  It was fitting, considering the long deification of the cow, that the first seed cattle to reach Texas should have been brought in by missionaries, by men of God. Through the wild herds that their stock fathered, they left a permanent mark upon the region, an imprint that was to spread as the cattle climbed the ladder of east-flowing streams on their march northward, eventually to become numerous enough to feed the meat hungry of the country, and many back across the sea, to change the lives and beliefs of many men, and much of the nation. Already, in 1800, Texas was characterized by her wild cattle, by her great and fabulous herds.

  With the Spanish knife seldom set against the young male and never, obviously, in the wild herds, there was much natural selection, with the young scrub driven out everywhere, his blood given no perpetuity. But that left large numbers of bulls to fight for supremacy, or for banishment from the herds, perhaps even death. As with most other wild ruminants, the males usually kept apart except in the breeding season. Some, particularly the ponderous old sires, kept entirely to themselves all winter, feeding alone, chewing their placid cud on some sun-warmed slope alone. Others gathered in small, loose bunches scattered over the bottoms, none turning a head toward the cows, who usually kept their distance, most of them heavy with the coming spring calves.

  But finally the grass started, grew up tall enough for good cropping with the forward jerk of the bovine head, to make up for the missing upper teeth in front. The faded winter hair was rubbed off on rock and oak and mesquite, baring a sleek and glossy new coat. The little bunches of cows had calves bucking and playing around them, the yearlings, bulls and heifers, were restless.

  Even before this the bulls in their little herds began to lift their noses to the wind, stretching their dewlapped throats far out, working their nostrils this way and that, testing the whiff of some far spring blooming, or the stink of carrion from winter storms, from early lightning, or perhaps death in a bog. But now there was something else, too.

  Afternoons cattle gathered around the shrinking water of the small creeks, many withdrawing to their sandy bed, perhaps leaving only a few moist threads on the surface and scattered water holes. High above an eagle might be circling slowly, and off against a yellowish little bank a dog coyote could be waiting, too smart to get his soft pads near the clumps of gray-green prickly pear cactus farther down the slope, or to risk the sharp and spreading horns of the cows scattered over the bottoms after watering. He waited. If nothing better came up, perhaps a late cow might leave the water holes for a little while and then he could smell out the dusty placenta afterward. At the best there might be a good bullfight, with a possible cripple or a gored one left behind. The coyote settled to his haunches, his red tongue lolling lazily in the warm afternoon, and finally he stretched out to sleep, but alert.

  Several times there was a low roaring on the wind, so far off it was barely to be felt instead of heard, perhaps a big blue-roan bull somewhere pawing dust upon himself in wrath, or a black one, six, seven years old, his shining coat touched with patches of red-gold along the belly as he showered the earth over himself, his neck powerful with the great bulge behind the head, the big dewlaps flapping from throat to knees as he tossed his thick and pointed horns. Lately he had begun to hang around the water holes instead of hastily sucking up his fill of water and then marching back to his pasturage, away from the herd of cows and young stuff that loitered sociably around the slopes until the sun began to settle.

  Suddenly the
black bull started toward the rise and the watering beyond. He stalked in pompous anger, on the prod, making impatient grunts and rumblings to himself, his heavy horns, with the forward tilt of the fighter, swayed with the rhythm of his angry walk. In mounting fury, like the approach of a desert cloudburst, his rumblings grew louder, settled to a steady, rolling sort of "Uh-h-uhh-uhh-hh," with pauses between the grunting roars, and pausing in his entire march as well, as though challenged. Then he lifted his head and a deep, subterranean thunder vibrated in his chest, rising to a high, defiant bellow, "Mu-uhh, mu-uhh—" neck outstretched, mouth open, trumpeting to all the wild country.

  So he marched down the slope to the water holes, past the resting but watchful cows, the curious young stock. The bull drank deeply but slowly, even though he had not been to water for two, perhaps three days. Then he turned and walked in dignity to a cut bank and suddenly butted his shoulder against it, his powerfully muscled forequarters bulging, his flanks seeming even lither as he curled up the earth and sod before his thrust. Several other bulls drifted in with the little herds, drinking, scattering out over the worn bottoms or standing in the drying creek bed, to switch tails at the flies awhile and chew the cud. Most of the cattle settled down on the worn benchland dotted with cow chips, the cows groaning a little, comfortably, as they let their fore-quarters down. The yearlings were restless, or sleeping flat in the sun, the young calves shying in exaggerated terror at any convenient weed or thorn or ground squirrel or grackle— running, bucking, kicking their heels, or suddenly uneasy or hungry and blatting for their mothers.

  The big black bull paid little attention to any of this or to the other bulls. They knew their rank and territory long ago. They glanced at the black's excitement, calm as the old cows. Bulls didn't cut out herds of she-stuff as the mustang stallion who watered here with his mares, fighting away all other males so long as his youth would last. Bulls, promiscuous, were free of jealousy other than the one of territorial rank. The others here were free to follow any cows that favored them, so long as they acknowledged who was boss here, and kept away from his choice of the moment, stayed out of his way generally.

  Today the black bull wasn't satisfied by a simple challenge thrown on the wind. He kept getting more truculent, fighting the sod, starting over again with a kind of private bellowing deep in his chest, to himself, and pawing dirt from an old bull scrape in the soft earth. He hooked a horn into the ground, deeper and deeper. Then he thrust in the other horn and went down on one knee, still bellowing, head down, eyes bulging, and goring the earth to the bowels. Finally he rose, shook himself, and rubbed a shoulder against the edge of the bull hole as his powerful lungs sprayed the flying earth from before him.

  A fat young heifer came down the cowpath near the bull's hole. He lifted his head to smell her, but only for a nose-curling instant, letting her go on past, her arrogant walk tamed by the rejection. But another bull, a tawny brindle with white and smoke upon him, got up and walked slowly to meet her at the first water hole and stood beside her, testing the smell of her. With water dripping from her jaw, she turned a backward look to the bull roaring up on the knoll and then she started down through the brush, the brindle right after her, but without too much hurry while in sight of the bellowing lord on the rise.

  Over in the bull scrape the black was covered with yellowish earth, his horns tipped with wet clay as he thrust them into the ground as into a great and powerful enemy. He worked up a fine fighting fury, sending his threats and his challenges to the sky and to the echoing bluffs on the far side of the little creek in quick, rib-jerking bursts of bellowing that rose high and hoarsely shrill to carry far over the prairie. Suddenly he stopped, his head turned. From back over the rise came a faint and distant rumble and a bellow, twice, three times.

  The resting cattle stirred. Overhead the eagle still soared, a bit of black curved hair far, far up. The coyote rose, sniffing eagerly forward without taking a step. Only the other bulls seemed unconcerned. One did lift his head, barely pausing in the rhythm of his chewing. He swallowed, and then his jaw began moving again.

  The faint uh-hing came nearer, a deep and throaty rumble, but without the marching measure of the black's to the water holes. The trumpeting bellow came nearer and nearer until suddenly a bull broke the rise, running down the slope, switching his hindquarters this way and that as he tried to follow the zigzag of the cowpath until he broke from it in his momentum. He was a furious and magnificent specimen, a little heavier than the black, a dusty pecan dun with the golden line down his back, his sides and belly light-splotched. His horns were thick and yellowish, well-sharpened for their bloody work by long whetting on the ground but spreading, fitted to the side thrust, not forward-tipped for the head-on lunge to throat or belly.

  At a hundred yards the dun stopped, pawed the earth, giving a higher, wilder bellow for every one of the black's. He charged upon a scrubby thorn, broke it, tossed it over his back. His sharp eyes spied out the coyote and he charged him, but the sly animal just side-stepped around the tall cactus clump. Plainly this was only a feint, too, for the bull had already turned, head lifted, tail arched, looking toward the black as upon an interloper, as one who had just come into the territory long owned by the dun. Purposefully now he marched toward the bull hole, eyes bulging, lower lip curled away from the foolish little teeth. The black climbed out, running heavily to meet the challenger. Some distance apart they stopped, roaring challenges, feinting thrusts this way and that, trying to out-maneuver each other under the noisy fury and the rising dust, their heavy little charges shaking loose the earth still clinging to their powerful shoulders.

  Slowly they circled each other, dusty heads down, eyes rolling, seeking an opening. Once they both stopped, facing, heads down, tongues out, rumbling, and now the other cattle were suddenly up, some running in to see, but turning aside well out of the way, moving impatiently, making low, sympathetic mooings. More cattle strung in over the rise. A couple of driven-out scrubs edged up, but were ignored. The fat heifer and her bull came slowly out of the clump of brush, side by side, very close, but drawn to the impending fight.

  Now the rumbling stopped. One bull lunged and then the other, taking a side swipe with a dusty horn, but met only by side-stepping, parrying, the answering thrust. Then they both lunged together, the crack of skull on skull a thunderous report. With foreheads locked, the bulls pushed mightily this way and that, the black yielding a bit before the weight of the dun, his hind hoofs struggling for solid footing, tearing up the earth as he was thrust back, their shoulder muscles standing out hard as dusty metal, the massive necks pushed up in humps almost like the buffaloes of the high regions. Then the black's hoofs caught and the dun went back, back, until suddenly he twisted his head to free a horn, drive it into a black shoulder. He was blocked with the crack of horn on horn, and then with a quick motion caught the blackish brisket, tore it to hang down, the dust clotted red.

  Now the black worked with blood fury, trying one side twist after another, working to unbalance this opponent, drive an up-turned horn into a shoulder, a rib, the belly. So they thrust and parried, and swerved this way and that, with their heads tight as though sealed, hoofs digging. Curious calves were drawn up to see, and scuttled back as the fight suddenly swerved their way, scared by the bawl, and the panting, the sharp and desperate scrabble of the hoofs.

  Now and then the bulls backed apart and then rushed together again, apart and together, the sharp reports echoing over the creek, the dust rising like smoke, the ground torn. Foam flew, their tongues hung out, their breath rasping, tearing. Once the black's horn raked the dun shoulder, cutting to the blood, but he had to pivot against the heavy drive to his belly, and was caught in the brisket again. Now there was a strong smell of blood on the dusty air and a bellow rose from the wild cows, heads down, angry tongues out, eyes bulging, the younger cattle pushing up closer. The coyote thrust his nose around the cactus, sniffing impatiently.

  By now it was plain that the fight was mor
e than a test of strength. Neither bull dared to turn and flee. Instead, they fought it out head to head, swerving, twisting, thrusting, glancing, butting together, their throats almost sileht with the straining, all but the panting, tearing breath in the dust. The sun lowered, a flock of wild turkeys came flying over toward their roosting trees along the far bluffs. The cattle stirred uneasily, hungry, looking off toward their range, yet still held. Both the bulls were reaching exhaustion, their heads still coming together, but without the sharp crack of bone, the twisting struggle slowing, hesitant.

  Here and there an old cow struck out over the rise, and stopped when there was a sudden confusion of hoofs and grunting in the fight of the bulls, and a low rending bawl of pain. Then, in a swift scrabble and turn, one of the bulls, the dun, was running with a bulging of gut bursting from his torn belly, the panting black hard on his rump, trying to hook him between the legs, but too worn out. Once the dun stumbled but pawed himself up with desperate hoofs, and ran again, the black, with ragged skin flapping, still after him when they disappeared over the evening rise.

  As the sun rose next morning an eagle was circling lower, followed by several buzzards in more awkward spiraling, dropping fast beyond the rise somewhere. The coyote was gone and on the whole slope of the little creek there was only the dusty black bull, lying flat, ragged, torn, with hide loose at the shoulder and the brisket, one thick, powerful horn brown-coated in dried blood and gut.

  After a while three vaqueros came up along the drying creek. When they saw the bull just rising to escape to the brush, they spread out, riatas down. The black was cramped and lame but he tried to run a little before a loop settled over his horns.

  "It is a good way to do, this watching for the fights in the spring," one of the dark-faced men said.