Bud & Me

by Alta Abernathy

  Bud decided to saddle up and try to ride out the storm, in spite of lightning flashing all around us in jagged charges that seemed to strike only feet away. Between those flashes, the night was so dark we could barely make out the muddy way back to the road. Sam and Wylie, slipping and sliding, didn’t like the weather any more than we did.

  The storm lasted nearly an hour. We trudged along in the steady downpour, feeling like two drowned rats, and thinking every breath might be our last.

  When the storm finally let up, we put on our dry change of clothes and kept riding. Shortly after sunrise, we came to a small town, ate breakfast quickly, and then rode on, reaching Toledo about noon. As we tied our horses to the hitching post outside a store, the owner appeared and asked, “Are you two the Abernathy boys?”

  When we nodded, he said, “Come in the store. We have a surprise for you.”

  We followed him through the store, shaking hands with clerks and customers, and then, out a side door and onto the street. There was the surprise—a table covered with a clean, white tablecloth, gleaming silverware, and every kind of food two boys could ask for. As we were escorted to our places, we felt like royalty!

  A crowd had gathered around, and I hated to eat with so many folks watching. I offered some of my food to the kids in the crowd, but the store owner, who appeared to be our host, said not to worry, they’d be fed later. Bud and I ate and took turns answering questions fired at us from all sides. When we told them about the storm we’d just ridden through, the crowd oohed and ahhed. They’d listened to that same storm from the comfort and safety of their feather beds.

  Reluctantly, we left those generous people and headed on toward Chicago. One night we were rained on again as we camped on a beach beside Lake Michigan. A saloon bartender warmed us up with a glass of egg-nog. The next day, as we rode through the Windy City, the temperature changed from cold to hot and back again. West of Chicago, however, the air was fresh and cool, and the towns frequent and cheery. We were making good time, and there seemed no reason at all that we wouldn’t make the ride in 60 days. We wired Dad, and Dundy and Thompson that all was well.

  The dirt roads of Iowa were a relief to the horses’ feet. At one small town, we stopped to talk to a group of people and one man asked, “You boys hear about the aeroplane crash? That fellow Rogers didn’t make it.”

  We’d heard of the young flyer who was going cross country to San Francisco in a Wright Biplane, advertising Gi n Fizz.

  “No,” we said, “we didn’t know he’d crashed.”

  “Yeah,” the man said, “and those joggers and bicycle riders who are trying to cross the country are dropping out one by one. Looks as if you two might be the only ones who make it.”

  “We plan to make it.” I said confidently.

  As we rode out of town, I said to Bud, “Looks like riding Sam Bass and Wylie Haynes is the surest way to travel.”

  “I believe you’re right, Temp,” he said happily. Then he added, “Don’t forget about the Wildcat, though. If she doesn’t have too many flats, or any real bad engine trouble, that little car’s a pretty good way to go, too.”

  I agreed.

  We rode long hours to put the miles behind us, and I learned to sleep in the saddle. Rocking with Wylie’s easy gait, I napped through long stretches of flat country. One day though, Wylie saw a tree and decided to get some shade. Bud watched as Wylie stopped under the tree and I fell gently to the ground. I didn’t even wake up, and Bud let me sleep as long as he dared. Then he put me back in the saddle and started Wylie on his way. I slept on.

  When Bud told me all this later, I thought he’d made it up. But deep inside, a faint glimmer of memory told me he was telling the truth.

  Nebraska was pretty country, with Cottonwood trees and gold¬ enrod growing beside the road, and fields of yellow corn shining in the sunlight. As we traveled west, we saw fewer houses. Farms were scarce, and the towns farther apart.

  One afternoon, I got sick after lunch, and we lost nearly half a day because I felt too ill to ride. Finally, we came to a farmhouse, where a kind lady put a cold cloth on my head and let me rest. Toward sundown I was feeling well enough to travel, and we rode on into Sidney, in far west Nebraska.

  Dad was there to meet us. He planned to take the train to Cheyenne, the next town of any size, and wait for us there.

  The next day we crossed into Wyoming. There were no signs, but Bud told me he knew we’d crossed the line, and I believed him. One more day’s ride would put us in Cheyenne.

  We were traveling through vast, open country now, with little vegetation and few trees. The day began hot, but then a “norther” charged across the flat prairie, and by late afternoon the cold wind had my teeth chattering. To our good luck, we rode over a rise and saw a small farm house. It looked ancient, its unpainted wooden sides grayed with time, but smoke rose from the chimney.

  “Bud, let’s hurry to that house and get warm.”

  We loped our horses right up to the door, knocked loudly, and hollered, “Hello! Hello!” A man came to the door and invited us inside where it was warm and cozy. We were greeted by his wife and his son, who was close to me in age.

  We introduced ourselves as the Abernathy boys, and told them we hoped to make Cheyenne that night, but it looked impossible with the bad weather. The lady invited us to supper and we gladly accepted, but we explained that we had to eat outside because of our contract. When she served us, we took our plates around to the south side of the house, out of the wind, and ate quickly. Then we ran inside, shivering.

  Bud and the farmer went outside to fix a place for us to sleep in the haystack south of the barn. We dug a hole in the hay and laid our tarp in it, and the farmer gave us extra blankets. Then Bud watered and fed the horses, giving them extra portions of grain and hay. We spent the evening telling that family every wild tale we could recall. Eventually though, it got so late there was nothing left for us to to do, but make our way through the wind to our hole in the haystack.

  Crawling in, we pulled the blankets over us, leaving only our heads out. We were snug and warm, and we even smiled as the snowflakes began to fall. The cold wasn’t going to bother us, and before long, we were both sound asleep.

  An hour or so later, we were awakened with lights flashed in our faces. Sleepily, I made out three men, and finally recognized that one of them was Dad!

  “Hi, Temp, Bud,” he said with a grin. “Let me introduce you to two men from Cheyenne who didn’t believe you’d be sleeping outside on a night like this.”

  One of the men was the Chief of Police of Cheyenne, and I never did get the other fellow’s name. It seems the chief had bet Dad that we’d be sleeping inside on this snowy evening, and Dad assured him that we would be outside. Then, on the spot, Dad took him up on his bet.

  The three men, driving a car, had looked for us a long time. Apparently, the chief and his friend were determined to prove Dad wrong.

  We slept out the night in our “haystack hotel” and rode on toward Cheyenne the next morning. On the way, we had a scary encounter with a large enemy.

  It had stopped snowing when we headed for Cheyenne, but a gusty wind made us keep one hand on our hats as we rode along. Unfortunately, I forgot the wind for just one second. A huge bull stood at the side of the road, and I called to Bud and pointed out the animal. Of course, I pointed with the hand that had been holding my hat. A rush of wind lifted the Stetson off my head and blew it along until it came to rest directly under the bull. He stood still, staring at us.

  “What do we do now, Bud?”

  Bud wanted nothing to do with the bull. “Temp, you’ll have to leave your hat behind.”

  There was no way I was going to settle for that. The hat was my one and only Stetson, and I loved it. “No,” I said firmly. “I won’t leave without it.”

  Bud looked at me as if I was Crazy. But when he saw I wouldn’t give in, he shrugged his shoulders and set out to do something about our problem. After all, he was eleven and
I was only seven, so he felt responsible for me. If one of us took a chance, it would be him. “I’ll try to get it.” he said.

  Leaving me with the horses, he started slowly toward the bull. When he was close, he crouched down and inched forward at a snail’s pace.

  The bull shook his horns a time or two in warning. He looked as if he would fight to the death before he’d budge from that spot. I stared at my precious hat.

  Bud called softly to me, “Temp, if he charges me, take off fast.”

  I was sure I had the most courageous brother in the world. He moved slower and slower. Bud eyed the bull and the bull eyed him back.

  Suddenly, the massive beast pawed the dirt and let out a bellow! Then he swished his tail, turned around and walked calmly away. Bud stayed in his crouch for several long seconds. Sweat dripped off him in spite of the cool breeze. Slowly, he straighted up and paced the last few steps to retrieve my Stetson.

  All Bud said when he handed me the hat was, “Let’s go.”

  “Yes, siree!” I shouted, kicking Wylie Haynes to get him started.

  Several hours later we trotted into Cheyenne. Dad met us and took us to a store where he bought us fresh clothes from the skin out. The Attorney General of Wyoming, a Mr. Preston, had arranged a luncheon for us on the sidewalk in front of the Plains Hotel. We were a couple of days behind schedule at that point, but we told Mr. Preston and all the reporters gathered around, that we were sure we could still make it to San Francisco on time.

  One reporter asked me, “How do you feel?” and quoted the following answer, “Fine and dandy, I can ride any horse as far as he can take me and ride anything that wears hair.” My bragging made everybody laugh except Bud. He said if I could do that, I should have ridden the bull and gotten the hat myself. That quieted me down—for a few seconds.

  Mr. Preston asked if we’d like some leather chaps to go along with our new clothes and we said that would be great. He promised to have them custom made and waiting for us in Reno.

  Dad had bought a Mercedes-Benz racing car in Cheyenne. He planned to drive through Laramie, then on to wait for us in Rock Springs, Wyoming. For us, it would be a long, four day ride to Rock Springs, so we left early that afternoon, after thanking Mr. Preston for all his kindness. Little did we know that the worst setback of the whole trip waited just around the corner.

  That night poor old Sam Bass got into a field of green alfalfa, foundered, and died the following day. Bud and I were both heart-broken. Dad had owned Sam longer than he’d had either of us. He’d ridden that horse to round up cattle, chase down wolves, and track outlaws. Then Bud had ridden Sam on our trips. Thinking back, we remembered all the times Sam had brought us unharmed through perilous circumstances. We talked, and laughed, and cried.

  “Remember the time last year when you and Sam had to swim back down the creek to save me?” I asked Bud. “When Wylie wouldn’t go the right way?”

  “I sure do,” he laughed. “You were pretty scared...and so was I.”

  “And remember when we crossed the Red River after dark and had to trust Sam to find the way across without hitting quicksand?”

  We’d talk, and then it would hit us that Sam was really gone.

  One man in Laramie asked if we’d quit the ride and go home, but it never occurred to either of us to do that. We’d been taught never to give up.

  We called Bud’s new horse Big Black. He was a good horse, but he couldn’t take the place of Sam Bass. Big Black and Wylie just didn’t work together as a team the way Sam and Wylie had, and all in all, Sam’s death slowed us down a good bit.

  Laramie was a tough place. While we were buying supplies, the grocer told us that a whole family had been murdered by a man with an axe. Even though it was late by the time we loaded up, we rode west for more than an hour before camping for the night. We wanted to be as far away from such madness as possible. We slept in a haystack again that night and talked more about how much we missed Sam, and how proud he would have been to have made the whole trip with us.

  Two days later we rode into Rawlins, Wyoming, and after a night in the wagonyard there, we started the difficult ride over the Rocky Mountains. We would really have to push it to get from Rawlins to Rock Springs in two days as we’d planned.

  The climb into the mountains was slow and dangerous. We followed a wagon trail, which sometimes had a sheer drop of several hundred feet close beside it. Then, with a sharp, hairpin turn, the road would head up the mountain in the opposite direction. Wylie Haynes and Big Black were sure-footed, but it was still a perilous climb.

  The horses were worn out when we reached the peak at almost 7000 feet. The view was spectacular and I turned all the way around in the saddle, trying to look in every direction at once.

  Going down the west side of the Continental Divide was even scarier than the climb up. There were steep gullies by the trail, high walls of rock in front of us, and sheer drops below. There were plenty of places where a horse might slip and fall into a chasm or down a rocky cliff.

  I began to worry about Dad. “Do you think Dad could go over this in his car?” I asked Bud.

  He just shrugged his shoulders, which I didn’t find too reassuring.

  “I bet the Brush could make it,” I went on.

  “Sure it could,” Bud said. “It’s got a fuel pump. Most cars have to back up mountains, which makes it twice as hard. I don’t know if the Mercedes Benz could go forwards up these mountains or not.”

  On our second day in the Rockies, as we continued down the west side, we came to a clear stream bubbling over rocks. In one place there was a deep spot where we could take a bath. “Temp,” Bud said, “let’s get this dirt off us and I’ll wash our clothes.”

  The water was colder than expected. “Ooowee!” I hollered as I splashed around, trying to warm up.

  “The water comes from uphill where the snow’s melting,” said Bud. “You’ll get used to it in a minute.”

  I splashed Bud as he washed our clothes. He put up with it for awhile, busily pounding our shirts with a rock to get them clean. Then he turned around and splashed me with that cold water time and time again, until I finally yelled, “Uncle.”

  We hung our things on tree limbs to dry, and lay down on a rock to get warm in the sunshine. But as often as we checked our clothes, we found they dried very slowly. Finally Bud said, “Wet or dry, we have to put them on and get started. Rock Springs is still a long way off and we want to get there tonight.”

  I’d learned not to question by brother’s decisions. He was good at taking responsibility and making decisions and besides, he was our navigator with a much better sense of direction and distance than I had. As I pulled on my wet long-handle underwear though, I had serious doubts about this decision. The wet clothes felt awful.

  Long hours later, we reached Rock Springs, riding through rain for the last few miles. It was so late at night that we just bedded down at the wagonyard without even looking for Dad. The man at the stable gave each of us a bale of hay to sleep on so we’d be off the wet ground. Under our tarp and blankets, we managed to stay warm and fairly dry.

  We found Dad the next day, and had a longer visit than we expected because it rained for the next three days. When the rain stopped long enough, Dad demonstrated the Mercedes Benz, speeding up and down the muddy streets of Rock Springs. With his racing cap and goggles and his duster flapping in the breeze, he looked to me like an over-size tumblebug. He laughed when I told him that.

  Dad was itching to get to San Francisco, so he left us the minute the skies cleared. Next morning, Bud and I saddled up and followed him. Before we saw Dad again we would have to go through Utah, Nevada, California, and some of the hardest times we’d ever known.

  Our journey was more than two thirds over. We had fallen behind schedule and suffered through Sam’s death. But we were determined to finish the ride, and to try to do it in 60 days.

  I’d never heard such wild tales as we were told about Brigham Young and his Mormon foll
owers. Everybody in every town between Rock Springs, Wyoming, and Brigham City, Utah, had a tale to tell about Young and his hundred wives. Young died in 1877, but the stories were so vivid, I thought he was still alive.

  I hadn’t known the Mormon story before—how Young and thousands of his followers had come to the barren desert of Utah so they could practice their religion without persecution. I learned how they’d planted and irrigated and turned the desert into a Promised Land, alive with growing things. I was fascinated by the whole thing, but mostly by Young and his hundred wives.

  Every time we passed a farmhouse, Bud would say, “That’s where Brigham Young and four of his wives live.”

  Now I was pretty gullible, but it wasn’t long before I realized Bud was having fun at my expense. When we bought supplies in Brigham City, I asked the clerk, “Is it true that Brigham Young has a hundred wives?”

  He laughed. “He’s been dead a long time, and he probably never had quite that many. Nowadays, no one has more than one wife. The Mormon Church ruled against that in 1890.”

  I was really relieved to hear that.

  We bought a jar of strawberry preserves from that clerk, and for safekeeping, we stuck it in the sack of oats we carried for the horses. Our next destination was Promontory, Utah, where the railroads from east and west met, and were joined by a golden spike. From there, we followed the railroad around the northern end of the Great Salt Lake.

  “Do you think it’s so salty you can float in it without having to swim?” I asked Bud, looking at the clear, green water from a mile or two away.

  “We sure don’t have time to find out,” he told me.

  Both of us still clung to the hope that we could make it to San Francisco in 60 days. We knew we’d have to ride long and hard to do it, however. We headed southwest, across barren, arid country known as the Great Salt Lake Desert.