“We got one thing in our favor,” Van said, “that makes me think that outlaw bunch will leave us alone. Thanks to our Injun riders, they lost four men, while none of us got a scratch. Clanton—or whoever was the boss—lost control of them, and they started shootin’ at one another in the dark. We could of burnt powder and throwed lead until daylight and not even touched those coyotes. Their own fear and superstition did what we couldn’t have done in the dark, or even in daylight.”
Gil laughed. “Can’t fault them for running. Wouldn’t you, if your pards were dying all around you, and there was nothin’ for you to shoot at?”
“Damn right,” said Van. “I wouldn’t of stayed as long as they did. We purely got ourselves a pair of thinkin’ Injuns. Every outlaw they cut, they let him squall just enough to scare hell out of the others.”
With an overcast sky, darkness came early. When it became obvious the trail drive was going to continue without water or graze, the longhorns again expressed their discontent, bawling disconsolately as they plodded on.
“Cows not dry enough to run,” said Juan Padillo.
“Hope you be right,” said Vicente Gomez. “Wind come before rain.”
Soon there was a light breeze out of the west, heavy with the smell of rain, but the longhorns kept on. They were tired, maybe hungry, but not yet stampede-thirsty.
“Thank God,” Gil said, “the rain will solve our water problem until we’re able to reach the creek.”
“Ye sure?” asked the ever pessimistic Long John. “Texas longhorns is got t’ be standin’ in water up to their noses ’fore they knows it’s there, an’ I don’t look fer it t’ rain that deep.”
The rain came, slow and steady for a change, rather than in windswept torrents. To the dusty, weary riders it was a welcome relief. Rosa rode with her hat under her arm, allowing the cooling rain to wash over her head and face. The longhorns ceased their restless bawling, and the drive continued through the darkness.
“If this wasn’t open plains,” Van said, “we’d be in trouble, with no moon and no stars.”
“We’ll be in trouble later on,” said Gil, “because there’s hill country the last four or five miles. We’ll all be ridin’ headlong into trees.”
“Then we won’t make the creek tonight,” Van said, “unless it clears up.”
“I doubt it’ll clear up in time to help us,” said Gil. “We’ll soon be forced to call it a day, and wait for first light. But the grass is wet, and there’s some water on the ground. That’ll satisfy the cattle and horses until we reach the creek in the morning.”
The rain continued, and as the open plain gave way to wooded hills and valleys, Gil halted the drive.
“We’re all dead tired,” Gil said, “but we’ll have to keep watch. I’ll be the first, but I’ll need volunteers to join me.”
“Wal, hell,” said Long John, “I’ll stick wi’ ye. Who can sleep in all this rain?”
“I can,” said Rosa.
“When we reach water in the morning,” said Gil, “we’ll take a day of rest.”
They spent the rest of the long night in the saddle, most of the riders preferring to nighthawk instead of attempting to sleep. They would wait for the morning. The rain ceased before first light, and the sun announced its arrival with a rosy glow across the eastern sky. Soon as it was light enough to see, Gil and the riders were pushing the herd toward the creek ahead. Even with the rain, they had spent the night in dry camp, and there was no water. They couldn’t eat or rest until they reached the creek and the outlaw cabin. When they finally topped a ridge overlooking their destination, the outfit had been in the saddle more than fifty hours. There was no sign of life at the cabin below, but as they watched, Estanzio came out of the barn. Raising his hand, he beckoned them on.
“All right,” shouted Gil, “let’s take ’em down to the creek!”
The sun had quickly erased all evidence of last night’s rain. Longhorns and horse remuda trotted gladly toward the deep-running creek, while Gil and the riders reined up at the barn. The Indian riders were waiting, and Estanzio gave their report in a few words.
“Coyotes run,” said Estanzio. “Ride nort’. Rain come, trail go to hell.”
Gil nodded his thanks. It was about as he had expected. Rain had wiped out the trail, but Mariposa and Estanzio had gotten an early start. They’d had time to observe some pattern to the outlaws’ flight.
“One more thing, Estanzio,” said Gil. “What about Morgan Pinder? After he got loose, did he join the rest of the gang?”
“Him ride ’lone,” said Estanzio, pointing west.
It confirmed Gil’s suspicion that Pinder was acting on his own, likely seeking revenge for Verd Connor’s death. Pinder wouldn’t be eager to get back with the Clanton gang.
“We’ll lay over here for the rest of the day and tonight,” said Gil. “We all need rest and sleep. Mariposa, you and Estanzio are rested. Ride on ahead and look for water, and for any sign of trouble.”
8
The riders took turns sleeping. Gil was up and about after two hours, looking westward for some sign of Estanzio and Mariposa. The longer they were gone, the farther the herd would have to go in search of the next water. Rosa had slept little, spending her time in the abandoned cabin, searching through the debris the outlaws had left behind. The door was open, and when Gil stepped into the cabin, the stink almost floored him. Overriding everything else was the distinctive smell of a cigar. Rosa knelt at the hearth, picking at the stones with a horseshoe nail. She stood up when Gil came in.
“My God,” he said, holding his nose, “how can you stand it in here?”
“I left the door open,” she said.
“You’re wasting your time,” said Gil. “That bunch wouldn’t leave anything of any use to us.”
“I did not expect them to,” said Rosa, “but this was not their cabin. It was built by someone else, a man who took pride in his work. See how carefully the stones in the hearth and the fireplace have been laid? See how the logs have been fitted to one another? There is almost no chinking. It is a house that was not built by outlaws, I think.”
“I think you’re right,” said Gil. “They likely rode in and murdered the man who built the place. What are you doing?”
Rosa again knelt at the stone hearth. “There is a stone loose,” she said, “and I am wondering why.”
“You’ll never find out with that nail,” said Gil. “Let me try it with the Bowie.”
So well had the stones been fitted, he wondered how she had found this loose one. He had a time raising the flat stone enough that he could grip it with his fingers. In the small space beneath the stone was what looked to be nothing more than wadded paper. It was brittle with age, and when Gil brought it out, it broke up in his hands. It had once been a page from a newspaper, and amid the remains, there was the dull gleam of gold! Gil placed the double handful of crumbling newsprint and gold on the hearth, and Rosa knelt beside him. There were eleven thick, eight-sided gold pieces!
“Tarnation!” Gil exclaimed. “These are fifty-dollar gold pieces! Five hundred and fifty dollars’ worth!”
“It is someone’s treasure,” said Rosa. “Perhaps we should not disturb it.”
Gil was piecing some of the newsprint together, and finally he came up with a readable date.
“This paper was dated April second, 1834,” he said. “Rosa, this gold’s been here more than fifteen years, and the paper in which it was wrapped was printed in San Francisco. The man who left this gold here won’t be comin’ after it. He’s long dead. This money is yours.”
“But what am I to do with it? It saddens me to take it.”
“If you don’t,” said Gil, “it’ll just lay here until somebody else takes it. The man who left it here may have stolen it. I’ve heard of these eight-sided pieces, but these are the first I’ve ever seen. They were first minted by the Spanish, I think, when California was under Spanish rule. Here, take them. Tie them up in a bandanna, and tell no
body you have them. There may come a time when you’ll need them.”
He spoke more truth than he realized. The time would come when his very future would depend upon that handful of Spanish gold.
Mariposa and Estanzio returned with disturbing news. Once they left the plentiful water near what had been the outlaw camp, they faced a twenty-mile drive. While none of them knew what lay ahead, Gil had his suspicions, and he shared them with the outfit after they’d finished supper.
“It’s goin’ to be more mountainous,” he said, “and I look for us to have to drive for miles along deep canyons before we find a way across. There’ll be dry camps, because the distance between water will be too great for us to make it in a single day’s drive. I look for canyons and dropoffs that’ll make it impossible for us to trail the herd in the dark.”
“If longhorns get thirsty and stampede in the night,” said Ramon, “these same canyons and dropoffs still be there.”
“You’re damn right they will be,” said Gil, “and one bad run over some canyon rim could cost us the herd and the horse remuda.”
“We push lak hell in daylight,” said Juan Padillo.
“We may have a dry camp ahead of us tomorrow night,” said Van.
“No like dry camp,” said Mariposa. “Make cow run.”
“It may come to that,” Gil said. “We may have to choose between running them in daylight when we can see where we’re going, or having them become thirst-crazy and run at night. Maybe over a canyon rim. We’ll move out in the morning the moment it’s light enough to see, and drive them as hard as we can.”
“Reckon ye can spare me an’ Bola fer two er three hours in the mornin’?” Long John asked. “We seen deer tracks up the creek a while ago. We git there ’fore daylight, with an extry hoss fer the carcass, an’ it’s venison steaks fer supper.”
“Long John,” said Gil irritably, “this is a trail drive, not a deer hunt. Besides, in the early dawn, a shot can be heard for miles.”
“They won’t be no shot,” said Long John. “We’ll use the bola.”
Long John’s affable grin was missing, and he had fixed his cold blue eyes on Gil in a manner that suggested there might be trouble in the making.
“I would like some fresh venison,” said Rosa.
“So would I,” Van said.
Gil didn’t fault Van or Rosa for attempting to avoid an ugly scene, but it angered him that they felt a need to interfere. If the time ever came when Gil Austin couldn’t stand up to Long John Coons—or any man—he’d as well get on a fast horse and head back to Texas. Rosa’s eyes wouldn’t meet Gil’s, but Van didn’t flinch. There was an unmistakable coldness in Gil’s voice when he again spoke to Long John.
“Go on, then,” said Gil, “but if there’s any trouble—Indian or otherwise—I’m holding you responsible. And don’t waste any time catching up to the drive. We have a hard day ahead of us.”
Rosa had always spread her blankets near Gil’s, and sometimes they would talk before they slept. But tonight she turned in well ahead of him, and he suspected it was to avoid anything he might say about her interfering in his confrontation with Long John. She fooled him. By the time Gil had shucked his boots and hat, and was settling down with his head on his saddle, the girl was sitting on her blankets looking at him in the moonlight.
“I know you are angry with me,” she said, “but must you always prove you are the boss, even when it gains you nothing?”
“Rosa,” he said, and his voice was dangerously low, “when a man can no longer prove he’s the boss, he’s done. Like it or not, that’s how it is on the frontier.”
“Long John did not question your authority,” said Rosa. “He only asked your permission to hunt deer. You could have simply granted him permission or refused it. Only you saw his request as a challenge to your authority.”
Gil kicked out of his blankets, got up and hunkered down face-to-face with her. Rosa didn’t cringe, even when he spoke to her through gritted teeth.
“I’m almighty damn tired of you talkin’ down to me like I’m five years old and you’re my mama,” he said. “Worse, I feel like I’m stuck with all the miseries of a wife, with none of the benefits.”
“Are those all my faults, or have you not finished?”
“I have not finished,” he growled. “I don’t like this . . . this obsession with Long John Coons. What’n hell do you see in him?”
“I see a lonely man who would be your friend, if you could stop being the boss long enough to allow it. And there is the little man, Bola, the Argentine. You have orders for him, but never a kind word.”
“Well, by God,” said Gil, “it’s no wonder we’ve had so many problems. This is no trail drive, it’s a tea social. Are you done tearin’ me down?”
“I am not tearing you down. I am trying to stop you from tearing yourself down. Can you not be the boss without being hated?”
“I’m trail boss, and this is a trail drive,” said Gil. “It’s my job to keep these men alive. How I do it is my business, and whether or not they choose to hate me is theirs. You reckon I’d be more popular if I stopped the drive and let all the men ride back to El Paso for a Saturday night in town?”
“You are making fun of me, and I will speak to you no more.”
Rosa emphasized that by stretching out on one blanket and covering herself—including her head—with a second one. Gil returned to his own bed, not to sleep, but to think. What irked him the most was the fact that Rosa seemed to see, to feel, to understand things he did not. Why had the girl used Long John and Bola to antagonize him? None of the riders—Mexican or Indian—who had joined him for that near-disastrous trail drive from Mexico in 1843 had ever caused him a minute’s trouble or questioned his authority.* Bola had been part of that outfit, yet he had sought the friendship of the lanky Long John. The men were as different as daylight and dark. Bola was neither Mexican or Texan, but an Argentine. Long John was a man of the gun, the knife, and the saddle, but he was a Cajun from the Louisiana bayous, the son of a conjuring woman. While each man was part of the outfit, they were outcasts, drawn together by the very differences that set them apart. Gil was sorry for some of the things he had said to Rosa, and he sat up, tempted to speak to her. But she seemed asleep, and he again stretched out, his head on his saddle. Sleep was long in coming.
Well before daylight, Long John and Bola rode out, paralleling the creek, to the northeast. Gil and the rest of the outfit had the herd on the trail at the very first gray light of dawn. Mariposa and Estanzio were well ahead of the trail drive, beginning their quest for water for the next day. Gil and Ramon again had charge of the horse remuda and the packhorses. Rosa was riding drag, with Pedro Fagano and Juan Alamonte. More than once Gil had been moved to speak to the girl, but Rosa had been cool and unresponsive. Gil began to resent her aloofness, and for the first time began asking himself some troubling questions. Even if he accepted the differences in his age and hers, did he really wish to tie himself to a female who never seemed to see anything but his faults, and was damnably swift in pointing them out?
Long John and Bola had reached their chosen place along the creek well before daylight. The bola was a clever device the Argentine used as other cowboys used a lariat, except that the thing left his hand entirely, wrapping itself around the hind legs of cow, horse, or deer. The bola consisted of three long, braided strands of rawhide, joined at one end and loose at the other. At each of the loose ends was a leather pocket, and in that pocket an iron ball the size of a man’s fist. A rider who threw the bola must be strong of arm and shoulder. Taking a grip on the butt, where the three leathers joined, the rider began swinging the bola over his head, much the way a cowboy swung a lariat. Judging he was close enough to a fleeing quarry, the rider released the bola, allowing it to entangle itself around the hind legs of the animal being pursued.
Long John had watched in silent admiration as Bo had captured horses, cows, and deer with the strange device. The Cajun had made up his min
d that he would learn to throw the bola, and unknown to the rest of the outfit, the Argentine had tried to help Long John. But try as he might, Long John hadn’t been able to master the damn thing. Time after time he tried, and couldn’t twist the bola around a tree trunk often enough for it to be more than just accidental. Long John wasn’t accustomed to failure, and his ego suffered mightily. He had half expected the Argentine to laugh at his clumsy efforts, but Bola had not. Thus had begun their strange friendship. The two men had reined up their horses behind a clump of brush where they could observe the stretch of creek the deer seemed to favor.
“Bo,” said Long John, “s’pose ye lef’ the hoss here, an’ slunk up on ’em clost as ye can, an’ made yer throw? They goin’ t’ light out an’ run like hell, oncet we ride outta here.”
“One cannot creep close enough without being heard, Long John,” said Bo. “It is for sure the deer will run before I am close enough to throw, but with a horse, I can pursue. A deer’s movements are swift, and a standing animal would have to move only a little to evade my throw. It is far easier to catch an animal on the run, using lariat or bola, because the prey is not attempting to avoid your throw. A standing animal may simply dodge your throw, while a running animal seeks only to escape.”
“Reckon that’s why I ain’t had much luck with yer bola,” Long John said. “That tree I was throwin’ at should of been runnin’.”
Bo grinned, appreciating Long John’s laconic sense of humor. Bo had the bola ready, and no more was said until the deer appeared. There were three, one of them a young buck. Once they decided it was safe to drink and their heads were down, the two riders kicked their horses into a gallop. Long John was in the lead, seeking to flank the buck until Bola could get a clear throw. The trio of deer bounded through the creek and were scrambling up the farthest bank when the buck slipped. It was but a slight delay, just what the Argentine needed. The bola went true, entangled the buck’s hind legs, and the animal fell with its hind quarters in the creek. Long John was out of his saddle in an instant, in water above his knees, the Bowie in his hand. So intent was the Cajun on cutting the captive buck’s throat, he saw or heard nothing, until Bola spoke.
The California Trail Page 11