“Matthew,” he said one night when I was giving him a hand with the dishes, “we’ll make it all right. We have one hell of a crew here. Best I ever drove with an’ that’s sure sayin’ somethin’.”
“Nice of you to say so, Mr. Smith.”
“That McAllister is sure a good man to ride the river with.”
“You’re not wrong there,” I said. “Would you of sawed up my wooden leg like you said, Matthew?”
“No, Mr. Smith,” I said. “Of course I wouldn’t of. I’d of burned the damn thing.”
We rested the herd for three days, letting them fill their bellies with grass and water. A good many of them started to pick up visibly. The horses did likewise and little Horry Mangold looked as pleased as a dog with two tails.
“That McAllister,” he said, “he sure knows his job. The horses are top-rate.” The rest did Golly Adams good too. I reckon just a’sitting around all day helped to get his ribs mended. I suspected that McAllister had been thinking as much of him as anything when he ordered the stop over. I think it was Carlos, the lead steer, who enjoyed the rest the most. He seemed to be smiling the whole time. This is a damn sight better than work, he seemed to be saying. Having license to go where he pleased, he hung around the chuck wagon all day and was fed tidbits by the cook who seemed to like the big steer’s company.
“There is no doubt in my mind,” declared the coosie, “when it comes to superior intelligence the bovine has the edge over the equine. This marvelous creature is as brave and wise a creature as any could be.” And, remembering what came after, I reckon the man had something there.
It was kind of luxurious to sit around or take our turn watching the cows, mending gear, swopping yarns, telling lies and eating. Pegleg surpassed himself and gave us culinary delights which were outside the experience of us simple cow-folk. I guess if the stopover had lasted much longer we would have been too fat to climb into a hull. But all good things come to an end. One dawn, the cook woke me and said: “Get up, Matthew. There is a sight for sore eyes awaitin’ you.”
As soon as I opened my eyes, I knew what he meant.
It was daylight, but the sky was dark. The rain clouds had rolled up during the night. A soft damp wind blew from the north.
“Rain,” I said, “There has to be rain, coosie.”
“You bet your sweet life.”
McAllister was pulling on his boots. “Maybe this is our lucky day, boy. If it rains for a few days, we can laugh. It’ll rain the goddam Indians off and it’ll get the cows across the plains.”
Little Horry Mangold glared angrily up at the lowering sky and said: “Rain, you bastard, rain.” All of us silently shared his prayer. We gulped down our breakfasts and called for our horses. Throwing saddles on, we hurried as if all of us couldn’t get the cows on the road fast enough. I think that every other second we cast our eyes up to the sky, expecting rain at any moment.
We threw the cattle out on to the trail, but as yet the rain held off. That morning, I remember, little Perfido took the lead with Carlos, as ever, at his left elbow. It was my turn to ride drag, for, when we could, all of us took turn and turnabout in that position, so that the same two men did not have to eat dust all the way to Colorado. I looked forward to a miserable day urging tired cows forward and encouraging weak ones. McAllister meant to push them a little while the air was cool. That was always the problem when you faced a long march like the one we had ahead of us. Nobody was certain that it would rain. We’d all seen clouds like these that never came to anything. We still maybe faced four or five days without water. So did we conserve the animals’ strength or did we push them to get over the worst part quickly while the animals were still strong? Anybody’s guess could be the right one. It could also be the wrong one, and could see a lot of cows lost.
It didn’t rain all morning and the wind dropped. It was what we dreaded. We did not glimpse the sun, but the heat increased and for the rest of the day we rode through weather so close that it was near to suffocating. We sweated. Golly was doing his best with the rest of us, but I could see that he was feeling awful. But there wasn’t a single bellyache from him. Nor did we expect one.
Come evening, we saw that Pegleg and Horry, wagon and horse herd together, had found the only motte of cottonwoods within a day’s march and had camped by them. There was no water, but that didn’t worry us. The cattle had all drunk well that morning and the grass here could not be complained about. They settled down that night on the bedding ground, making all the sweet noises of contented cow critters. A squad of well fed and watered cows easing themselves in for the night is, I swear, the prettiest sight in the world to a cowman. There is not one thing to equal it.
It never pays for a trail driver to get complacent and tell himself that something could not happen, but I reckon that when I rolled up in my blanket that night, a stampede never entered my head. I listened to the two boys on watch crooning to the cows for a few minutes, then fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Five
I WOKE TO the dreaded sound. “Stampede.”
A trail driver’s whole being is so tuned to the horrors of a night-time run that he could run to his horse in his sleep and saddle it and maybe not wake up till he’s in the middle of the running herd.
As I reached for my boots and heaved them on, I could see dark forms coming out of their blankets all around me. Everybody there knew what he had to do. McAllister had drilled it into our heads time and again. He didn’t want any suicidal milling of cattle while he was bossing the outfit. By this he meant he didn’t want the cattle circled as they ran so that the whole herd would turn in on itself until the cows were so crowded in on each other that they could not move. He reckoned you lost cows and men that way. All you had to do, he insisted, was stay with them. If you let them run, they would stay together, just like I said a while ago.
I found little Horry Mangold catching horses like a demon and I’m damned if in a matter of minutes every man-jack of us didn’t have his night horse under him. Ropes flashed all around, Horry was swearing, men barged into each other, still muzzy from sleep, and McAllister bellowed orders. Then I was in the saddle and for the first time that night I looked in the direction of the herd. The whole world seemed to shake and tremble beneath the hooves of Patch, my night horse. The sound of the herd was like thunder itself and it mingled with the grumble of the real thing in the dark sky above us. Then the lightning came and I gave a momentary thought for the two boys out there on guard.
Perfido Suarez went by me, lashing his animal into a run with his quirt.
I hit old Patch, but he was already running. He was my own horse and I never used any other at night if I could help it. He had been in as many night runs as I had and he didn’t really need a man on his back to guide him. He knew what was wanted of him and he didn’t need to be told. In fact, he was better off left alone, so uncanny was his night-sense. He was as tetchy as a jackrabbit and as brave as any cow-horse I ever owned. He lit out for the head of the herd and I knew he wouldn’t let up till he got me there. He moved in close behind Perfido’s fast bay and stayed there, not giving an inch. In the next flash of lightning I could see that there was one other rider ahead of me and some more out to the right, but I couldn’t see who they were. I couldn’t see the herd, but I didn’t have to. Patch knew the way and they were kicking up enough row to be heard in hell.
I think about the only thing in our favor that night was that we were in country where there were precious few trees. There’s nothing worse than having cattle run in trees. Men ride into trees, they get plucked out of the saddle, cattle get crushed against tree trunks in the panic—it’s a nightmare. Where we were then, the cows could have run all night with nothing to stop them except exhaustion.
We let our mounts take us through the night for about fifteen minutes and we slowly began to overtake the herd. Finally, in a flash of lightning I saw that Perfido and I were alone. Or so it seemed. The Mexican’s bay was still pulling hard and
Patch kept pace with him. In the flash, Perfido turned in the saddle and I could feel his relief at realizing that he was not alone. I continued to follow him as he gradually surged ahead of the mass of cattle. Their pace had not slowed a fraction. Panic showed still in every line, their eyes rolled wildly and their tossing heads clashed their long horns together like a savage music that had a kind of menace in it.
Then Perfido and I ran together for a mile or maybe two—who could tell how far in the dark night? The thunder faded, grumbling to the east of us; there was one last distant flash and we felt a soft cool breeze in our faces, the most welcome thing in the world. Now we concentrated on becoming the leaders of the herd and both of us, without a word exchanged, began to slow our pace almost imperceptibly. It was now that we realized that there was a giant steer pulling through the gap between us.
Perfido recognized him before I did.
“Carlos!”
I swear the great brute gave a bellow of acknowledgment. A tip of his great horn was just behind the pair of us. Any burst of speed on his part could have scooped us from the saddle. I looked around at him and he was thundering along there, calm as you like. It occurred to me that he had not run with the rest of the herd from any sense of panic, but only from a sense of duty. Maybe I’m giving an animal more sense than it’s possible for one to have. Maybe.
Another mile and the great mass of animals behind us had slowed to a hammering trot. Gradually we eased them down to a walk. Carlos gave us a loud snort as if to say: Well done, boys. Perfido shouted across to me above the sound of the herd: “I think maybe he did it more than us.” I was inclined to agree with him.
Within the time it took to get through a smoke, the herd was grazing. We began a rough count. Dawn was beginning now and we could see fairly well. We were both nervous and kept looking around, thinking to see an Indian on the next ridge each time. We also looked for other riders. A little company would have been a comforting thing at that time.
When we were through with the count we reckoned that we had about two-thirds of the herd there. We talked it over and decided the best thing for us to do was stay with the herd. Neither of us could be spared to go back and report to McAllister. No one man could hold two thousand critters on his lonesome. It was asking too much even of two men. Breakfast time passed and we started to think about food. Our bellies thought our throats had been cut. Nobody could fail to follow our churned up trail, so somebody should have been with us pretty soon.
Perfido thought he heard distant shots and we both listened, but we could hear nothing beyond the sounds of the cattle. Every now and then one of us would ride to the nearest high ridge for a good look around, but we didn’t see anything. The last time he came back to me, Perfido said: “I don’t like this. McAllister is smart. He should have been here an hour gone. There must be a fight back there.”
I thought about the situation. Maybe Perfido and I should ride back. Leave the herd to its own devices. What was a few thousand head of cows to men’s fives? Maybe two of us going back there could make all the difference.
I put it to the Mexican and he nodded. I could be right. But he was a cowman and he didn’t like to leave his charges. McAllister would have said we should stay with the herd.
The cows had settled down nicely. It was hard to believe they had just done a long hard run in sheer panic. They gazed calmly around them and went on placidly grazing. They started to spread out and we rode circle to tighten them a little.
After a while I could stand it no longer. I said to Perfido: “You stay if you want, but I’m going back. Some of the boys could be dying back there.”
He looked relieved at this decision, said: “To hell with cows,” and headed straight back down the broad trail left by the cattle.
I looked at the sky. It was lowering. The breeze was keeping the clouds moving, but they looked menacing.
“You may well look,” Perfido said. “Tomorrow these plains will look like the ocean. Then today will seem like a picnic.” I cursed him for a miserable son-of-a-bitch and he shrugged his shoulders wryly as if to say that I could swear my head off my shoulders but that would not make one jot of difference to nature. Oh, well, I thought, if it rains it’ll be hell driving the cows, but maybe it’ll wash the Indians out.
We came in sight of the wagon, a small white patch of canvas against the pale yellow of the dried out grassland, vaguely sprouting green here and there. We could see a few small figures moving about near it, but we couldn’t see if they were Indians or white men. I was very conscious of being armed with nothing but a revolver. I wanted something with a little more range than my old Colt.
Perfido flashed a small, rather sick grin at me and I knew he was thinking the same thing as me. We rode on down off a ridge, ready to lash our horses into a run in the opposite direction if those figures should turn out to belong to Indians.
There was a man standing out from the wagon waving his hat above his head in a circling movement, which in my language meant for us to go around him wide. But Perfido thought different. That was young Hopper Roberts and he was telling us to come ahead. We trotted on for the wagon.
They were our men all right, but not all of them. They had just dug a grave and buried one of us. Young Stew Roberts. Sixteen years old and a good hand. McAllister stood off from the others, gray faced. A man has a right to look sick when he loses a boy on the trail. This boy was the owner’s son. He had been given into McAllister’s care to gain some useful experience.
“What happened?” I asked McAllister.
“He was on guard when the cows lit out. Horse must of lost its footing. There was hardly nothin’ of the kid left.”
In a way I was relieved because I expected to hear that he’d been shot by Indians.
“It didn’t have anything to do with you, Rem,” I said by way of comfort.
“It had everythin’ to do with me,” McAllister said.
How could you argue with the man at a time like that? Mr. Smith, the cook, had stew in the pot. Perfido and I filled our bellies until the one-legged cook cried halt. McAllister came over and asked about the cows and I told him what the position was.
He snarled at me. “You should of stayed with the cows, for God’s sake. That’s what you’re here for. To nurse goddam cows.”
I didn’t answer that, mainly because I thought he was right. Perfido and I asked Horace to catch us two strong horses. He did so and we threw our hulls on to them. When we rode out McAllister told us that he would take some men and catch the rest of the herd. He would try to join us before dark. Smith, the wagon and the remuda would follow us. I didn’t like the sound of the crew being split with Indians around. But, like McAllister said, we were contracted to nurse cows and that’s what we should be doing. One man stayed with the wagon and the remuda from the riding crew so at least the coosie had three guns to fight off Indians if they should happen.
Perfido and I now had our rifles from the wagon, so we felt a mite better about meeting with any opposition. But it didn’t encourage us much when Perfido’s sharp eyes caught sight of a set of fresh tracks near the herd when we approached it.
“That’s Indians,” he said. “Neither you nor I rode in that direction.” He hadn’t spotted the sign when we were here before, so they must have visited the herd since we left it. I began to feel uneasy and hoped to high heaven that the rest of the crew came in sight before nightfall.
The herd had scattered out some in our absence, but it had stayed as a herd which was something. I missed my own horse. He had enough mustang blood in him to smell an Indian a mile off. Those ears of his were the best signal of danger I knew. Perfido and I circled the herd, pushing it in a little. The animals were calm and tractable. They moved before our pressure without showing any sign that they were aware of our presence, as though they thought they moved of their own accord. Perfido and I rode with a chin on either shoulder, our eyes moving continually over the low ridges which surrounded us.
Towards the end
of the afternoon, we heard the rattle and bang of the chuck wagon coming and pretty soon Lowell Harpingdon Smith, our cook, came in sight, cursing his mules and carrying on as if there wasn’t an Indian within a hundred miles of us. Following along behind came little Horry Mangold with the horses. It didn’t seem possible that there were Indians around with so many horses travelling untouched. If we were up against Comanches, those horses must have represented all the temptation in the world.
It’s a curious thing about Comanches. Most horse Indians are kind of horse crazy, but none of them hold a light to the bow-legged Comanches who hate walking even more than cowhands do. There was nothing a Comanche liked more than to have more horses than his neighbors, and some of the Comanche horse herds were immense. I have seen a band of less than fifty warriors and a herd of several thousand. It was said that they were the best horse thieves in the world and I could believe it. Nobody came by honestly as many horses as they had. And, you know, the funniest thing is you can often tell the really great men among them by the fact that they have given away most of their horses. They’re the last of the big givers. I’ve seen a great warrior with little more than his war-horse and the clothes he stood up in because his pride, which had gathered a herd of several hundred horses, prompted him to give them away to men who couldn’t obtain them for themselves. The inference was that there were plenty more where they came from. This same Indian had a lance that was so short he could hand-touch a man he could stick with it in battle. Each time a man proved himself to be a brave warrior, his lance would be shortened. So if you met a short-lance man in battle, you had best look out for yourself.
Yes, I guess I thought a lot about Comanches that day. Especially as the rest of the crew with the remainder of the herd had not come in before dark came down on us. The hand McAllister had detailed to stay with the wagon had now gone off to join the rest of the crew with the other part of the herd. That may sound callous of McAllister, his leaving Perfido and me with the cook and horse-wrangler, but he knew what he was doing. He knew that he would be driving after dark and that would take as many men as he could raise.
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