The Old Spanish Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “I hope we don’t find half of ’em gored,” Bob said.

  “So do I,” said Don. “There’s plenty of water, but it’s not spread out enough for them all to get to it at the same time. There’s too many of them and too few of us. They’ll just have to take their chances.”

  “They can stand some wounds,” Mike said. “Despite all the other problems we’ve had, I’ve seen no blow flies. Must be the altitude.”

  When the outfit reached the waterhole, the longhorns were still pushing and shoving one another. The riders roped several who were standing in the water, dragging them away to make room for the others. While many had been raked by the horns of companions, it seemed none were seriously injured.

  “Let them all drink,” said Don, “and when they have, move ’em out to make way for the others. There’ll be no coffee and no supper until the water clears.”

  The sun had long since descended below the horizon when the last of the longhorns had been driven from the waterhole. Dominique and Roberto already had the supper fires going, waiting for water.

  “Everybody pitch in so we can get the horses and mules watered,” Don said.

  While it was normally the task of the horse wranglers, nobody minded, for Dominique and Roberto would have been that much later getting the supper started. The women did their share, each watering her own horse.

  “Now,” said Don, when the horses and mules had been watered, “we’ll cross-hobble all the mules, and every horse that won’t be ridden on watch.”

  Darkness had fallen by the time supper was ready, and they ate by starlight. Both fires had been put out, and when the outfit had finished eating, Don called them together.

  “Thanks to Dominique,” Don said, “we’ll have water for tomorrow night, but still no graze. Another day should get us out of the desert, but there’s trouble ahead, and I look for it sometime tonight. I have reason to believe there are renegades—outlaws—who will try to take the herd from us. They’ll be riding in from the north, and I want every rider awake, with his rifle ready. We’ll move the herd, the mules, and the horse remuda south of the waterhole, and position ourselves north of it. Tonight, that bunch should be at the waterhole that we left this morning, so when they ride in, it’ll be from the northeast. We’ll all be waiting, belly-down. Nobody fires until I do.”

  “Shoot to kill?” Red asked.

  “Yes,” said Don. “I aim to challenge them, and if they’re who we think they are, their answer will be hot lead. I don’t look for them until after moonset, and that’s an edge, as far as we’re concerned. Them firing first will provide muzzle flashes for us to shoot at, and as long as we’re belly-down, their first shots will be high. There’ll be eleven of us, including Dominique and Roberto, and there’s no reason why each of us shouldn’t account for one of them. They may have us outnumbered, but if we can cut down enough of them with a first volley, that’ll make believers of the others. Any questions?”

  “If we’re that sure they’re at the waterhole northeast of here,” Mike said, “why don’t we just ride up there and end it?”

  “Because we could never be dead certain,” said Don. “I won’t kill a man unless I know he’s out to get me and there’s a gun in his hand. I figure if they ride in on us sometime tonight, and they answer my challenge with gunfire, that’s proof enough.”

  “That’s more than fair, and more of a chance than they’d give us,” Charlie said.

  There was quick approval from the rest of the outfit. While Texas justice was swift, it was fair. Each man took his Henry from his saddle boot, and they positioned themselves at ten-foot intervals facing the direction from which the marauders were expected to ride.

  Soon as it was dark enough, Griff and his bunch saddled their horses and rode south, to the waterhole so recently visited by the trail drive.

  “They were here last night, just like I planned,” said Griff with satisfaction. “We’ll wait until moonset before we go after them. We’ll gun down every man on watch.”

  “They ain’t likely to have the whole outfit on watch,” Kenton said. “The rest of them could roll out with their rifles and give us hell.”

  “There’ll be muzzle flashes, so you’ll have targets,” said Griff. “If half the outfit’s on watch, and we cut them down, we’ll have a two-to-one edge against the rest. If there’s one of you that thinks that ain’t enough, you’re ridin’ the wrong trail.”

  “You’re right,” Bullard said. “If them odds ain’t good enough, then we’d all better get ourselves work at day wages.”

  But Ben and Curt Pickford had other plans and had separated themselves from the rest of Griff’s band so they could talk.

  “We’ll stay behind,” said Curt, “and before they get close enough for shooting, we’ll lose ourselves in the dark. We can’t be that far from Los Angeles.”

  “Yeah, and we’ll be goin’ there broke,” Ben complained. “There’s a chance Griff was levelin’ with us, when he said we could share in the money from the herd.”

  “You and your damn Santa Claus ideas,” said Curt. “That bunch of Texans is as mean and smart as a pack of wolves. I got my doubts that Griff and his outfit can handle ’em. Stick with me, and at least you’ll get to California with a whole hide.”

  Ben said nothing. He had been much closer to his dead brother Wiley than he was to Curt, and he silently vowed to avenge Wiley by killing Jim Roussel. In a town the size of Los Angeles, he told himself it would be much easier to lay an ambush and then lose himself after the killing.

  The bawling of the longhorns finally ceased, as the beasts became exhausted and bedded down for the night. Nobody slept. The men were awake with their rifles, and the women with their fears. Don had warned them to spread their blankets near the herd, far enough away so there would be no danger from stray bullets. To pass the time, they talked among themselves.

  “After this,” said Rose, “we shouldn’t have any more trouble. There’s water for just one more day in the desert.”

  “I have all the confidence in the world in Don Webb,” Sarah said, “but there’s shooting to be done, and we don’t know a thing about these outlaws, or how many there may be. I can’t help worrying.”

  “Neither can I,” said Ellie. “For the first time in our lives, all of us have someone besides ourselves to worry about. If Jim were to be shot . . . killed . . . whatever would become of me?”

  “You’re still thinking of yourself,” Rose said.

  “Then so am I,” said Millie, “because I feel that way about Les. He’s young, with some growing up to do, but he’s all I have. What in the world would I do in California with only a dirty blanket between me and jaybird naked?”

  “You’ll be no worse off than me, if something should happen to Arch,” Bonita said. “All I have is this blanket, and when mounting or dismounting it’s worse than nothing.”

  “I forgot to mention that,” said Ellie, “but it couldn’t be helped. We got away from those Indians with our lives. When we thought we were going to die, I’d have been willing to ride to California without a stitch, just to get away.”

  “So would I,” Bonita said. “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful.”

  “Neither do I,” said Millie. “Instead of complaining that we have nothing to wear, perhaps we should be saying prayers that our men will live through this night.”

  “I have been saying them,” Rose said. “I think they’ll do more good than all of us just complaining among ourselves.”

  “We ought to be sleeping,” said Sarah. “Us laying awake won’t change anything. When the attack comes—if it does—I don’t think any of us will sleep through it.”

  The night wore on. Midnight came and went, and when the moon finally set, the darkness seemed all the more intense for its absence. While the Texans were within speaking distance of one another, they said nothing. Each knew what to expect, and they all became more tense and watchful as the time for the expected attack drew near.

  Five mil
es to the northeast, Griff and the ten men riding with him reined up.

  “We can’t risk the horses givin’ us away,” Griff said. “Pull your bandannas tight over the noses of your horses, tying a corner of it to each side of the bridle.”

  The men dismounted, following Griff’s orders. It was a precaution they appreciated, for they dared not approach the cow camp afoot. Should their plans go awry before they were able to reach their horses, they might be ridden down by the vengeful Texans. When their horses had been effectively silenced, they rode on. They kept their horses to a walk, so there was barely any sound in the desert sand. But there was the ever-present breeze out of the northwest, and with the back of his hand, Don Webb wiped the grit from his brow. A cow bawled restlessly, and Griff strained his eyes, seeking the dim outlines of the riders who should be circling the herd. Bringing up the rear, Ben and Curt Pickford reined up their horses until the other riders had gone on. Then they carefully wheeled their mounts and rode west.

  “Drop your guns,” Don Webb shouted. “You’re covered.”

  Startled, one of the outlaws fired at the sound of Don’s voice, and the others, thinking it was Griff, also began firing. The Texans returned the fire, shooting at muzzle flashes. The fire was deadly, and seven horses galloped away riderless. Only Griff and Quando survived, for they had not fired. Wheeling their horses, they galloped away into the night. Don waited until the desert was again silent, before calling out to his comrades.

  “Texans, sing out.”

  One by one, they called out their names. Nobody had been hurt.

  “Stay where you are,” said Don quietly. “That should be the end of it. We’ll take a look come first light.”

  The men dozed, all the sleep they were going to get for many hours. When the first golden fingers of dawn touched the eastern sky, they beheld a shocking sight. There in the sand lay the bodies of seven men. Gathered around the waterhole there were seven saddled horses.

  “We didn’t get ’em all,” said Charlie, “but I’d bet my saddle them that got away won’t be comin’ back.”

  “Why don’t don’t you and Red saddle up and ride out a ways?” Don said. “Maybe you can find out how many of them were in the bunch.”

  Red and Charlie saddled their horses, mounted, and rode out.

  “What about those saddled horses?” Rose asked. “Now that their owners are dead, who do they belong to?”

  “Anybody who wants to claim them,” said Don.

  “I want one of them,” Rose said. “While I appreciate the Indian horse, he’s got a spine that’s like straddling a corral pole.”

  Don laughed. “Now that we’re practically in California, you have a saddle.”

  “I want one of those horses and a saddle,” said Sarah.

  The rest of the women quickly laid claim to one of the horses, and each of them began unsaddling their new mounts. After a few minutes, Red and Charlie returned.

  “Wasn’t but nine of ’em rode in on us,” Charlie said. “Two of ’em hightailed it.”

  “Bueno,” said Don. “They won’t be bothering us again.”

  “There was eleven of ’em,” Red said, “but before they got close enough for shootin’, two of ’em backed out and rode west.”

  “It’s not likely they’ll come together with the two who escaped then,” said Don. “The two who didn’t come after us won’t be on good terms with the others.”

  Dominique and Roberto soon had breakfast ready, and after they had eaten, Don called them all together.

  “I want every last one of those cows to have a drink before we move out. Mules and horses too. I’ll want Roberto riding with me. Felton, help Dominique with the remuda and the mules until we return. We must find water and graze for tomorrow.”

  The longhorns had begun bawling restlessly, and the last thing most of them wanted was water. They refused to drink, and despite Don’s order, many took the trail without watering. The horses and mules drank gratefully, and the horses captured from the Paiutes were turned in with the remuda horses. Joyfully the women mounted their horses and the men adjusted the stirrups of their newly acquired saddles.

  “What about the dead hombres?” Arch asked.

  “We’ll leave them where they lay,” said Don, “but each of them had a rifle. Take them and return them to the saddle boots. If any of you want to search the bodies, that’s up to you. I personally want no part of anything found on them.”

  It was quickly decided, with the exception of their rifles and horses, the dead would keep their possessions. When the herd took the trail, Don and Roberto rode ahead on what they hoped would be their last quest for water on the Mojave.

  Far to the west, free of the desert, Ben and Curt Pickford had stopped to rest their horses.

  “Hell of a lot of shootin’ back yonder,” said Ben. “You reckon they made it?”

  “I doubt it,” Curt replied. “I think them first few shots come from Griff’s bunch, but I think the rest of ’em come from that Texas outfit. I’ll be surprised if any of Griff’s bunch got out alive.”

  “If they did, they’ll be comin’ on to California,” said Ben. “We better ride, or they’ll be catchin’ up to us, and I ain’t wantin’ to explain why we backed out on the fight.”

  But there was little danger of the survivors catching up, for Griff and Quando had returned to the waterhole where the outfit had spent the previous night. Despite the darkness and his not having fired a shot, Quando had been wounded in the shoulder.

  “The slug’s out and it’s clean, Quando,” said Griff, “but that’s all I can do for you. There was just a quart of whiskey left, and it was in Doolin’s saddlebag. You’ll be needin’ a doc. We better go on to Los Angeles, while you can still ride.”

  “Saddle my horse,” Quando growled. “If I can’t set my saddle, tie me across it.”

  Griff watered the horses, saddled them, and helped Quando mount. Quando gripping the saddle horn with both hands, they rode west.

  Only a few of the longhorns had the strength to break away from the herd. The others stumbled along, as though the next step would be their last, bawling only occasionally. The drag riders were hard pressed keeping the ranks closed.

  “My God,” said Mike Horton, “if they don’t have graze tonight, they’ll never be able to take the trail tomorrow. They’ll fall and not be able to get up.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Bob Vines said. “I aim to talk to Don when him and Roberto return. I think our only chance is to stop at the next water only long enough for them to drink. From there, we’ll have to drive them until they reach graze, or until they drop.”

  “Dear God,” said Sarah, “after months on the trail, after risking your lives, is there really a danger of them dying before you can get them to market?”

  “A danger more real than any of us realizes,” Bob said. “If we don’t find graze for them by tomorrow, there’s a fifty-fifty chance we’ll lose all or most of them.”

  The longhorns stumbled on. With every step their weary heads drooped nearer to the desert sand that might soon claim their gaunt bodies and bleaching bones for all eternity . . .

  16

  Don and Roberto soon reached the source of water they had visited the day before, but of far greater importance was the distance the herd must travel to free them of the brutal desert. They dismounted, resting the horses before allowing the animals to drink. Lacking graze, they were gaunt. Placing his hand on his horse’s flank, Don pointed southwest and then due west. Which way to the nearest graze? Roberto understood, pointing west. When the horses had been watered and they were mounted, Don pointed west. Roberto led out and Don followed. To the northwest, Don could see a distant mountain, and his heart sank. The hummock seemed many miles away, and from a distance, looked as drab and lifeless as the desert itself. But Roberto never faltered, and after what Don believed was ten miles, he could see what appeared to be a thin line of greenery. He reined up, rubbing his eyes, and when Roberto looked back,
the Mexican was grinning. He kicked his horse into a lope and Don followed. The sand began thinning out, and the horses slowed, nipping at occasional tufts of grass. Ahead of them, the greenery became more substantial, and reaching a rise, they reined up. Below them, stretching to distant foothills, was a virtual sea of green grass that might have equaled the promised land. Pouring down from a higher elevation was a stream that fell to the valley floor and winded its way southwest, along the base of the mountains.*

  “My God,” Don said reverently. “My God.”

  “Mañana” said Roberto, pointing.

  “Not tomorrow,” Don shouted. “Today! We can’t be more than a dozen miles from that last waterhole. We’re going to push our horses, mules, and cattle onto that range tonight. Let’s ride.”

  The desert sun bore down. The longhorns seemed determined to fall back to an even slower gait, but the riders urged them on. But when the outfit saw Don and Roberto coming at a fast gallop, they allowed the longhorns to bunch, bawling their misery. When the outfit had all come together, Don told them what lay ahead.

  “Maybe a dozen miles beyond the next waterhole,” Don said. “We’re going to water this bunch and take them on to that range tonight. It’s that, or lose them all.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” said Bob Vines. “I’m just not sure they’ll make it. I’d say we’re still half a dozen miles from water. Lay another twelve miles on that, and it adds up to impossible.”

  “But we have to try,” Mike Horton shouted.

  “Try, hell,” said Charlie English. “Let’s do it. Once the sun’s down, that’ll help some.”

  Despite Bob’s doubts, the rest of the outfit echoed Charlie’s determination. Drag riders shouted, fired their Colts, and somehow got the longhorns moving again. Forsaking his point position, Don threw in with the drag, and somehow the weary herd picked up on the urgency that drove the cowboys. Just as the setting sun was feathering the sky with its crimson tendrils, the longhorns smelled water. Gaunt as they were from lack of graze, the desert heat had drawn the moisture from their weary bodies, and they broke into a lurching trot.