The Old Spanish Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “I’m beginning to think so,” said Don Webb. “It’ll be a godsend, having some idea how far we are from the next water. I’ll still have to scout ahead for Indian sign, but maybe we won’t be facing any dry camps.”

  The following day, once the herd was moving, Don Webb again rode west. Not quite fifteen miles distant, he came upon another stream, and beyond that, yet another. Just as Dominique had predicted.

  “The water’s there,” Don told them, when he reached the herd. “About the same as the streams we reached yesterday. They may not qualify as rivers, but they’re runnin’ deep and the water’s clear.”

  “Si,” said Dominique and Roberto.

  “Gracias,” Webb said. “I’ll talk to the two of you tomorrow before we move out.”

  Before taking the trail the following morning, Don Webb talked to the two Mexican wranglers about how far they must travel to the next water.

  “The next river on this map is the Colorado,” Don said, “and it’s too far.”

  “Si,” said Dominique. Kneeling, he drew a line in the dirt. “El rio.”

  “The Colorado?”

  “Si,” the Mexican said. He then drew a second line, angling it away from the first in a manner that coincided with the direction in which the drive was traveling.

  “There’s a runoff from the Colorado,” said Webb.

  “Rio,” Dominique insisted, shaking his head.*

  “River, creek, whatever,” said Webb, “there’s a stream forking off the Colorado.”

  “Si,” the Mexican said.

  “I’ve heard of that,” Bob Vines said. “Sometimes what begins as overflow from some major river becomes a lesser river in its own right. But I reckon it didn’t impress whoever drew our map.”

  “I’m about ready to trash the map and depend on Dominique and Roberto,” said Webb.

  When the herd had taken the trail, Webb rode out to learn how far they must travel to reach water. Fifteen miles later, he came upon a dry stream bed, and there was enough of a trail remaining to assure him that others must have followed the stream. Another mile and he reached the point where the water played out. It simply disappeared into the deep crevice between a pair of giant boulders. Beyond, however, the water deepened, becoming what could well be a river. Webb rode on another half a dozen miles, and the ancient trail continued to follow the stream. Although it was still early for the grass to green at higher elevations, there was some graze. After a distance that Webb judged to be fifteen miles, there was a bend in the trail that led west, where the stream angled in sharply from the north. Webb rode back to meet the herd, again with good news.

  “The river’s there,” he told the outfit. “Maybe twelve or thirteen more miles. There’s some graze, and I rode what I reckoned would be a day’s drive, before the stream bends to the north.”

  “So there’s a good chance we can reach the Colorado without a dry camp,” said Red.

  “I think so,” Don said. “Tomorrow I’ll ride on to the Colorado.”

  “Malo rio,” said Roberto, raising both hands over his head.

  “High banks,” Felton Juneau said.

  “Si,” said Roberto. “Mucho alto.”

  “If sheep crossed, our cows can,” Don said. “Can you and Dominique show us where the sheep crossed, Roberto?”

  “Many sheep die,” said Roberto.

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Bob Vines said.

  “Neither do I,” said Webb. “We’ll have a look at the sheep crossing, but we may have to improve on it. High banks can’t go on forever.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” Mike Horton said. “I’ve never been to Utah, but I know hombres who have, and there’s some almighty deep canyons.”

  “According to the map, we’ll have to cross the Colorado at some point,” said Webb, “and we’ll have to water the herd. If they can get down one bank, then we’ll find a way to get them up the other.”

  Charlie English laughed. “That’s what I like most about Texans. They’ll tackle hell with a hatful of water, if there’s no other way but through it.”

  “Yeah, but they’ve never done anything about the weather,” said Eli Mills. “From them clouds over yonder, I’d say we’re in for another storm. What do you aim to do about that, Don?”

  “I’m hoping we can reach water and get the herd bedded down for the night,” Webb said. “Then I aim to get wet, along with the rest of you.”

  By the time the herd had been bedded down and the outfit had eaten supper, there was a rumbling of thunder.

  “Tarnation,” Arch Danson said, “don’t it ever just rain in this part of the world without thunder and lightning?”

  “Nunca,” said Dominique.

  “We’ve been almighty lucky, so far,” Don said. “If there’s thunder and lightning, we’ll all be in the saddle for the duration.”

  “That’s the bright side of trail driving,” said Charlie. “You never have to worry with tryin’ to sleep during rotten, miserable weather, ’cause you’re always in the saddle, trying to keep the damn cows from runnin’ off the edge of the world.”

  They all laughed, for it was a truth to which they could relate. Even before the sun had gone down, the sky had begun to darken and the thunder rumbled closer. Without a word being spoken, every rider saddled a fresh horse, preparing for the worst. The herd had been moved far enough from the river for the riders to circle it, and even in the twilight they began doing so.

  “The trouble with lightning is that you never know where it’ll strike,” Les Brown complained. “Let it strike to the west, and the herd runs east, but if it strikes to the west, the varmints will stampede to the east.”

  But there was little time for conversation as the thunder drew closer and lightning raked the western sky with jagged yellow fingers. But as the storm worsened, not a drop of rain fell, nor was there any wind. In the terrifying calm, a cow bawled, until finally there was a melancholy chorus, lamenting like lost souls. Thunder shook the earth and as one, the longhorns lurched to their feet.

  “Get ready,” Webb shouted. “Another rumble like that, and they’ll light out.”

  But the thunder died away, and suddenly the terrible silence was broken by what could only be described as an explosion. Lightning struck with a blinding flash, shattering a huge boulder within yards of the herd upstream. A dozen steers died, while shards of rock like stone shrapnel struck others. Like a fearful, bawling avalanche they broke into a run back the way they had come only a short time before. Riders tried in vain to head them, only to have their horses scream and rear after being raked by horns. Dominique and Roberto were in their saddles, riding madly, but their valiant attempt to save the horse remuda and the mules was futile. The thunder of hooves was soon lost in the rumble of thunder.

  “My God,” said Arch Danson, “I never seen lightning strike that close.”

  “Me neither,” Eli Mills said. “If it had hit a few seconds sooner, we’d have lost half the outfit.”

  “I just hope them stampedin’ varmints didn’t trample our packsaddles and grub,” said Mike Horton. “Dominique? Roberto?”

  “They’ve been down the trail before,” Don Webb said. “The packsaddles are all right.”

  “Si,” said one of the wranglers from the darkness.

  “Well, we can’t start the gather in the dark,” said Les Brown, “and there’s no rain. I’m for startin’ a fire and boilin’ some coffee.”

  “That’ll serve as a beacon for any Indians within fifty miles,” Bob Vines said.

  “I’ll risk it,” said Mike Horton. “Besides, my horse got raked by a horn, and I’ll need some light to doctor him.”

  “Likely more than one horse was raked,” Don Webb said. “As for Indians, there’s no way to trail a herd without them knowing where we are. Some of you try and scare up enough wood for a fire for at least long enough to check out our horses and boil some coffee.”

  Only two or three of the horses had escaped being raked by lethal horn
s, and while the riders were applying sulfur salve to the wounds, Dominique and Roberto filled both coffee pots and got them on the fire.

  The thunder had died away and there was only an occasional flicker of lightning. Still there was no rain.

  “I’ve never seen a storm like this,” Red Bohannon said.

  “There was likely rain somewhere to the west,” said Don Webb. “It just rained out before it got to us. We’ll have to keep watch over our horses, but two of us at a time, two hours each should be enough. Let’s turn in, get what sleep we can, and start our gather at first light.”

  Santa Fe, New Mexico. May 20, 1862.

  Ben and Curt Pickford saddled their horses and rode west, along the Rio Chama.

  “We ought to catch up to ’em in maybe four days,” Curt said. “You thinkin’ of bushwhackin’ ’em?”

  “Why should we?” said Ben. “All we want is the bastard that shot Wiley, and I want him to know why we’re gunnin’ him down. He ain’t gonna know that, if he’s shot in the back or gunned down from ambush.”

  “Texas cattle means Texas riders,” Curt said, “and I never knowed a Texan that didn’t side his amigo. Even if he had to stomp his way into hell and fight the devil.”

  “Maybe,” said Ben, “but I’m countin’ on their Texas pride workin’ in our favor. There ain’t a Texan alive that’ll admit he needs help, even if he’s got to die with his boots on.”

  “So we’re goin’ to call him out,” Curt said. “Which of us is gonna face him?”

  “I will,” said Ben. “If he bores me, then it’s your turn.”

  “Wiley wasn’t no slouch with a Colt,” Curt said, “and from what the sheriff told us, he didn’t have a chance.”

  “From what the sheriff told us,” said Ben, “Wiley was also drunk. That slows a man down. I don’t aim to be drunk.”

  “Me neither,” Curt said, “but I can’t help wonderin’ about this Jim Roussel. Suppose he outguns the both of us?”

  “Then we’ll be joinin’ Wiley in hell,” said Ben.

  Dominique and Roberto had breakfast ready before first light. The outfit ate hurriedly, and leaving the Mexican wranglers to watch over their supplies, they rode east in search of their stampeded herd, horse remuda, and pack mules. They found the horse remuda and the mules first.

  “Thank God they don’t spook as bad or run as far as longhorns,” Red Bohannon said.

  “Red, you and Charlie drive them back to camp,” Don Webb said. “Have Dominique and Roberto doctor any of them that’s been raked by horns. Then ride back and join us for the gather.”

  The horses and mules were soon gathered and on their way, while the rest of the outfit rode in search of the longhorns.

  “Tarnation,” said Felton Juneau, “I hope they ain’t rememberin’ the last water on our back trail. That’s a good seventeen miles.”

  “They watered yesterday, before the storm,” Don said. “It’ll take half a day of sun to dry ’em up enough to search for water. Then they may return to where they last watered, and that’s in our favor.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Eli, “but my optimism is just shot all to hell where cows is concerned.”

  They still hadn’t found any cows and had stopped to rest their horses when Red and Charlie caught up to them.

  “We told Dominique and Roberto to drag them dead steers well away from camp,” Red said. “Where’s the cows you gents was gonna gather?”

  “We decided not to look for them until you and Charlie was with us,” said Don. “We reckoned you wouldn’t want to miss out on the fun.”

  Santa Fe, New Mexico. May 21, 1862.

  “Tomorrow we ride,” Griff said. “If anybody’s got business in town, let’s hear it now. I don’t want no whining, once we’re on the trail.”

  “You said no whiskey, but we won’t have nothin’ for snakebite or gunshot wounds,” said Bullard.

  “I didn’t say we wouldn’t have whiskey,” Griff said. “I meant there won’t be no bottle passed around. The whiskey will be in my saddlebag, and nobody samples it until I see a snake or some bullet holes. We should have ammunition and grub aplenty. We forgettin’ anything else?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “Then we’ll ride out at first light,” said Griff.

  The riders were two-thirds of the way back to their old camp before they began seeing the stampeded cattle.

  “I was afraid of that,” Bob Vines said. “They’re closer to the water at our old camp, and that’s where we’ll find most of them.”

  “That’s better than if there was no water for fifty miles,” said Charlie. “Then we’d have to ride god knows how far in every direction.”

  “That’s right,” Don agreed, “and since most of the herd may be back yonder at the forks of that river, we’ll ride there first. Any cattle between here and there, we can add to the gather on the way back.”

  It was the sensible thing to do, and when they reached their old camp where the two streams forked, they found great bunches of grazing steers.

  “Maybe we won’t lose more than a day,” said Mike Horton. “Looks like they’re mostly all here.”

  “Well, let’s hope they’ve had a blessed plenty to drink,” Bob Vines said, “because we’re a day’s drive away from the water they ran away from. It’ll take some time, roundin’ ’em up and headin’ ’em back that way.”

  “They’ll be back there tonight, however long it takes,” said Don Webb grimly. “They’ll be thirsty, and if there’s any wind from the west, they’ll smell the Water ahead.”

  “Damn right,” Charlie English said. “That run they took last night spoiled our day, so if they run again, we’ll make sure it’s in the right direction.”

  Most of the longhorns were scattered along the river, and were quickly gathered.

  “Let’s run some tallies,” said Don. “We can’t quit this gather until we’ve found all or most of them. Everybody count, and we’ll take the lowest tally.”

  Several hours later, when they compared tallies, Felton Juneau had the lowest.

  “Forty-five hundred ain’t near enough,” Don said. “The question is, can we make up the difference between here and camp?”

  “Let’s five of us hold what we’ve got,” said Bob, “while the others ride ahead and see how many can be added. That way, we’ll have some idea of how many more are missing.”

  “I’ll buy that,” Don said. “Take Jim, Les, Arch and Eli, and see what you can do. When you feel you’ve gathered all you can, a couple of you stay with them, while the others ride back to help us trail these ahead to join them.”

  Two hours later, Arch and Eli returned.

  “We found six hundred head,” said Eli.

  “Counting the two hundred and sixteen we left in Santa Fe, and the dozen dead, we’ve got enough to consider this gather done,” Don said.

  “We didn’t ride all the way back,” said Eli. “There may be some that’ll remember the water ahead, and drift back there.”

  “You’re right,” Don said. “But if they don’t, we’ll go with what we have. Let’s get them moving or supper will be almighty late.”

  *Tributaries of what is now the San Juan River.

  *The Dolores River. It forks off from the Colorado in southeastern Utah, and the Old Spanish Trail follows it for a few miles prior to the crossing of the Colorado.

  4

  It was almost dark when they reached camp with the herd. Dominique and Roberto had seen to it that the horses and mules had been watered and were well out of the way when the thirsty longhorns arrived.

  “We were almighty lucky there was water close on our back-trail,” Bob Vines said. “If there hadn’t been, we might have been a week roundin’ up the herd.”

  “Next time, we may not be so fortunate,” said Don Webb. “Keep the varmints back far enough from the water for us to circle the herd.”

  The night was peaceful, and the outfit was ready to take the trail when they saw two riders appro
aching along the back-trail. They reined up and dismounted.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” Don Webb asked.

  “Ben and Curt Pickford,” one of the strangers shouted, “and we’re callin’ Roussel, the varmint that gunned down our brother Wiley.”

  “The court ruled the shooting self-defense,” said Webb. “Leave it alone.”

  “We ain’t leavin’ it alone,” Ben said.

  “If they won’t have it any other way, I’ll face them,” said Roussel.

  “If that’s how you Pickfords want it,” Webb said, “Roussel agrees. But the rest of us aim to see that you do it one at a time. Who goes first?”

  “Me,” said Ben.

  He began walking, his right hand near the butt of his Colt. Roussel began walking to meet him, as the rest of the outfit moved out of the line of fire. Curt Pickford was careful to keep his hand well away from his weapon, for the eyes of Roussel’s companions were on him. When Ben was within forty feet of Roussel, he went for his gun. Roussel seemed in no hurry, not reaching for his Colt until Ben had begun his draw. But Ben never fired his weapon, for Roussel’s lead slammed into his arm, just above the elbow. Ben dropped his Colt and stood there dumbly, as blood dripped off the tips of his fingers. Finally, with his left hand, he seemed about to reach for his fallen weapon.

  “Ben, no!” Curt shouted.

  “Leave it lay, Pickford,” said Roussel. “I didn’t want to shoot your brother any more than I wanted to shoot you, but if you come after me again, I’ll kill you. Both of you ride out while you can.”

  “We’re goin’,” Curt said hastily. “Come on, Ben.”

  Curt’s voice trembled, and it seemed to get through to Ben. Using his left hand on the saddle horn, he managed to mount his horse. Curt then mounted and led out. Ben followed and they rode back the way they had come.

  “You should have killed the varmint,” said Les Brown. “we’ll have it to do later on. Next time, the varmints will bushwhack us.”

  “Maybe,” Roussel said, “but it all seemed so foolish.”

  “Jim’s right,” said Don. “The first killing may have been unavoidable, but this one sure wasn’t. This hombre was so slow, my old granny could outdraw him.”