“Boys hell,” I said. “We found ’em. Finders keepers.”
“Which reminds me,” said McAllister, “I have surely taken a shine to the little redhead, Janet. So you just retain your unseemly smirks for her sister. Hear?”
I said a very naughty word.
McAllister looked shocked.
Ten
WHEN SOME OF the excitement at finding the two white girls had died down, we started to settle down again as a cow-crew. We took a good look at ourselves and saw us for what we were—a few Texas boys, dressed up as cattlemen and pushing cows across a desert where there was not much of anything but thirst and a bunch of Indians that wanted our blood.
Now I look back on it all, I know I find it exciting, even romantic, especially when the two girls joined us, but while it was happening there was not a darn thing that was nice about it. Reality is often that way. Strung out guarding the cows made us vulnerable enough, but now we had the girls to worry about as well it just about stretched us to breaking point. Ten times a day I watched McAllister throw the wagon worried looks, willing old Smith to keep close to the herd. Any idea of his pushing ahead to prepare the next meal for our coming was out of the question. We all stuck together from there on.
Now there’s an old legend that says Indians don’t like attacking at night. Sure they don’t. Nor do white men. For one thing you can’t see what you’re doing. The only good time to jump the enemy is at dawn, so that you can rush them in poor light and reach them in good. While there was a chance the Comanches might attack under cover of dark, we still thought the most dangerous time was dawn. That first night we pushed the cows along, but not too hard, stopped at dawn so that we were ready for anything the Indians might have ready for us, then once more pushed on till we found ourselves caught in the heat of the day. It was not the ideal way to move cows, but it was the best we could think of under the circumstances. We covered about seventeen miles that night, which was good. At dawn we stood to, thinking the Indians may have gained ground on us in the night, for there had been enough moonlight to follow the broad plain trail of the cattle. But nothing happened. We pushed on another mile or two, came to meager water and stopped.
We had to get the spades to that miserable water-hole, but it was better than nothing. At least every animal there got some kind of a drink.
The two girls seemed to have stood up to the rough travel pretty well. I guess they wouldn’t be grumbling about anything for a while, they were so glad to be free again. We rigged up a shelter for them and the crew watched their language while we all ate a meal together.
I stood guard on the camp and McAllister pulled on his moccasins and circled the camp wide in search for Indians. He was so long gone, I started to wonder what had happened to him. He came back looking grim and I didn’t have to ask him if he’d found sign.
“They’re holed up about a couple of miles south of us,” he said. “They must of halted as soon as it was light. They made no dust, that’s for sure.”
Perfido wondered if it wouldn’t be a good idea to hit the camp and clear them out once and for all. McAllister was against it. We couldn’t all get near them without being seen and we didn’t have any men to spare. I knew what he meant. We’d lost two men already and for a trail-boss, that was two too many. I was against jumping the Indians for the simple and perfectly good reason that it was dangerous. Do you know any better one? If you do, I’d like to hear it.
Perfido thought we would have to jump them sooner or later, so why not now? I told him to shut his damn-fool Mexican head. In Spanish. It sounded good in Spanish. And hearing it in Spanish he got my tone right and he didn’t take offence. He grinned and he said: “You see, Mateo. We will do it before we are done.”
“No,” I said. “McAllister and a dumb paisano can go do it. I’ll stay with the herd.”
Perfido looked very arch. He put his head on one side and he said: “Ah, how you like to joke, man. I know for a fact you are very brave.”
My snarl was as good as McAllister’s—“That’s wishful thinking and you know it.”
I don’t think many of us slept much through those hot daylight hours. I found myself every once in a while walking to the nearest ridge and taking a good look at the country. Every time I did it, somebody else was doing it also. We would grin sheepishly at each other and go back to our unwilling sleep. By the time night came around again and we ate what was either supper or breakfast, whichever way you looked at it, we were all looking pretty bleary-eyed. The girls, however, feeling safe (poor fools) in the company of so many tough men, had slept like innocents. Brightly, they helped Mr. Smith with the chores and waited so prettily on us men that some of us almost woke up.
After the breathless heat of the day, the cool of the night was welcome. But the herd, not knowing night from day, were confused. This time, we had to drive them. The one good thing was that being wild longhorns, they were used to coming out at night to feed. They cropped what grass they could find as they drifted along. Without bunching them hard, we kept them as close together as we were able. I was riding point; alone because we did not have enough men to go around. Old Carlos stepped out behind me and he was real company during that long wary night. We made good time, pushing the cows a little all night. By the time dawn came and we stood by our arms, ready for the rush, we knew we’d made a good march. The cows were tired and, though we had not reached water, they were ready to bed down.
McAllister, who had been up and down the parade all night, wearing out horse after horse, now circled the herd wide, his Henry across his saddlebow. We watched him and waited. Every man there could feel his nerves twanging as we prepared ourselves for the attack which we all felt would come. But nothing happened. I watched McAllister ride in to the wagon and call out to the girls that they could show themselves.
As we shoveled down bacon and beans, down on one knee, our plates balanced on the other, I said: “Maybe they ain’t coming, Rem. Maybe they’re sensible and they had enough.”
“They’ll come,” he said with conviction. “They have to. They have a good many short-lance men with them and those hombres ain’t going home with a tale that’ll bring them disgrace. They’ll go home with a bunch of white men’s horses and a good few cows. They want a victory dance.”
“Thus,” I said, “you cheer my day.”
“Matthew,” he said, “can you manage without a few hours’ sleep?”
“I’m already short on about a hundred this trip. What difference does a few more make?”
“We have to find water today. You an’ me should take a ride. Soon’s you glutted yourself on them beans, rope a fresh horse an’ we’ll get goin’.”
So, when our breakfast was done, we caught up new horses and threw our hulls on them. The herd looked quiet. The girls were under the wagon asleep. Mr. Smith was propped up against a wheel, his derby tight on his head and his shotgun cradled in his arms. He looked as if he could withstand the onslaught of the whole Indian nation.
McAllister and I rode north-west a few miles, then came to slowly rising country. From the top of a ridge we looked at what lay ahead of us. From there on a clear day we could have seen a good many miles. But today the heat haze cut our vision drastically. McAllister pointed north-west by west.
“There just might be water down there, Matt. Go take a look. I reckon you should find a pinnacle down there. Beyond it in the same direction is some rocks. After rain, there’s sometimes water there. Don’t fool around waitin’ for me. Whether there’s water there or not, high-tail back to the herd as fast as you can make it. Every gun back there counts. I’m goin’ north-east.”
“All right.”
McAllister frowned, went to say something, thought better of it and kicked his horse into a trot. My pony hit a high lope. It wouldn’t do it much good to hold the pace in this heat, but I thought it more important to get back to the wagon. I knew McAllister was seriously worried by our both being away from the crew.
Now, McAllister
had told me to look out for a pinnacle. Down in Texas in those days we called any kind of a hill a pinnacle. Even if it was no bigger than a cow’s tit. On that plain it wasn’t hard to find. It was the only one for miles around. I headed for it, reached it and stopped for a moment to give my horse a breather. He needed it. The heat was overpowering. I mopped my face with my bandanna and straightway it was covered with sweat again. I dreamed a little about the high hills of Colorado. They seemed like heaven to me right then.
I went on and, sure enough, I came on the rocks. The flat plain broke up here and there were even a few stunted and twisted trees growing below ground level.
The horse smelled water. Or so I thought. I let it pick its way downhill through the rocks.
Suddenly I stopped.
That horse was mostly mustang and he knew water from an Indian. His ears were working overtime. He rumbled out a neigh and I thought: Christ, there’s Indians near. My heart performed a couple of loops and then sank—as it had a habit of doing at such times.
The horse was not too happy either. I thought it shook a little under me. It tried to turn back and started acting up when I stopped it. I reckon that little cow-horse had the right idea, but, just the same, it was important that I be sure there was water here.
But was it worth the ultimate sacrifice, I asked myself?
I thought the answer to that should have been “no”, but I thought of McAllister and I asked myself what he would have done in the same circumstances. I didn’t like the answer I got, so I tried to ignore it. But McAllister was a habit from way back.
I turned the horse and let it climb back the way it had come. Suddenly, I had a very willing horse under me. I rode clear of the rocks, stopped and turned. Had the Indians passed us in the night? Was the whole bunch of them camped out of sight by the water?
I did not take my eyes off the rocks as I stepped down gingerly from the saddle. I don’t have to tell you that my nerves were twanging like harp strings.
What’re you so scared of? I asked myself. What do they have that can stand up to a Spencer repeater?
I knew that was no kind of a question. It didn’t matter if I had a cannon with me if one of those redskins planted an arrow in my heart. They might outnumber me thirty to one. They could move more quietly than I could. They were quick. There were a number of experienced fighting men among them.
In fact, I thought, if I went down there, it would be the act of a madman. I ground-hitched the horse and pulled the Spencer from its boot. I checked the load quite unnecessarily. I scratched my two days growth of beard. I adjusted my hat and my gun-belt. I even looked at the sky.
Then I started walking cautiously towards the rocks.
I heard a sound behind me, spun around and saw the horse trying to walk despite the dragging line. He trod on it, stumbled and halted. I turned back for the rocks and went on.
I did not go into the rocks. I started to circle them. You know, time does funny things at times like that. I mean funny strange, not funny funny. By the time I reached the northernmost part of those rocks, it seemed as if I had been walking for hours. All the time, I watched the rocks, shifting my gaze all the time, the Spencer held ready. If a jackrabbit had shown itself I would have blown its head off before I knew what it was. There was no other sound in all the world except the soft scuffle of my boots in the dust.
When I was to the north of the rocks, I stopped and watched them for a short while before I advanced and began to pick my way through them with enormous caution. A small loose rock under my foot could have been my undoing. In about five minutes, I came to the water. It was a sink about twenty feet down. How cows would have watered there, I had no idea. A man would have to lower a bucket on a rope to get any useful amount. Or he could have lain on his belly and reached a bare handful to his mouth. If McAllister didn’t find water, we were in trouble.
It was tempting to get down there and get myself a drink. But I hastily dismissed the thought. In the same moment, my eye caught a mark in the sand almost at my feet.
Somebody had hurriedly, too hurriedly, erased foot-prints. There was part of a heel mark still showing. Or at least that was the way I read it. I wasn’t any great expert in sign reading, but a fellow picks up such stuff as he goes along in the cattle trade. An Indian had been here. How long ago, I did not know, but I had to suppose that it was recently.
I now started to work my way back through the rocks towards my horse, all the time climbing the slight grade. And all the time, as you may imagine, with my eyes skinned for the opposition. All the time, I might add, with the scary feeling that an Indian with an arrow notched to his bowstring was watching me and carefully picking his target. It did occur to me to wonder where an Indian or Indians had hidden their horses. I had heard no telltale sound of horses and the fact puzzled me. After all, the ground covered by those rocks was not extensive.
However, be that as it may, I had nearly come within sight of my horse, when I almost walked on top of a man.
His back was to me. A broad back covered by a faded blue hickory shirt and topped by long dark hair and a battered Mexican sombrero. His leather shotgun chaps were worn thin and had seen much better days. His feet were bare. He might not be a Comanche, but I was pretty sure that he was an Indian.
I gained one item of comfort from my inspection. So far as I could see, he was unarmed.
In Spanish I said: “If you move, man, you are dead.”
He went very still for a moment. I saw his brown hands clench. Then they relaxed and he said in rough Spanish: “I shall not move.”
I circled him, not taking my eyes from him.
When I got around in front of him, I found a man of about my own age; one of the ugliest men it has ever been my privilege to see. I won’t say the face was evil exactly, but it sure was ugly. He was all nose and chin for a start. His black eyes were like obsidian and were sunk, deeply into his head. They looked like tiny gimlets. He had shaved about a month before, but he was not a man who had to shave often. I suppose that was his Indian blood. He had a very large wart on one side of his massive and shapeless nose. He had the look of a man to whom fate had dealt every blow in the book. Yet there was still something undefeated in him. He seemed to watch me around that nose with all the wariness of a cornered wolf. I looked him over carefully. He still looked as if he was totally unarmed. He also looked hungry. At a guess, he was at the end of his strength.
“Are you alone?” I asked.
“No,” he said quickly, “I have two companions.”
I knew he lied.
“Do you have a horse?”
“No horse.”
“What is your name?”
“How can my name possibly be of any importance?” That was a fair question and I couldn’t think of any answer.
I shrugged and said: “It is a convention to tell one’s name.”
I saw the slightest glimmer of a smile. He said: “How about the convention that it lacks manners to demand a man’s name?”
He seemed better with questions than with answers. I asked: “How about the convention of eating? When did you observe it last?”
He spread his hands, Mexican fashion. “I am hungry. That is a question I can answer easily.”
Now, it’s my habit never to move without some jerky in my pocket. The Chisholms always have hated hunger. When I’m hungry in the saddle, I chew jerky. Better than chewing tobacco any day. And you get nourishment as you chew. We’re all big folk and we need nourishment. I took some from my pocket and handed it to him.
The look on his face was pathetic. For a moment, he didn’t look so darned ugly. He stood there in front of me, moving nothing except his jaws. He closed those little eyes and he chewed. He looked slightly ecstatic. When he had chewed it well, he gave one gigantic swallow and opened his eyes.
“Por Dios,” he said and I never heard a more fervent prayer.
“There’s plenty more where that came from,” I told him. “I’m with a cow-crew a few mile
s south of here. Get on the horse and we’ll ride.”
We walked together to the horse and he waited politely for me to get on first. “You first,” I said.
He looked a little hurt and said: “You do not trust me.”
“That’s right,” I said.
He got into the saddle like a riding man and picked up the lines. It entered his head to ride off there and then without me. I could see the idea come.
“No,” I said. “We go together.”
He kicked his left foot from the stirrup iron then and offered me a hand to swing me aboard. I got up behind him and took the lines. The horse started south.
We had not gone more than a hundred paces when I thought I heard something and waited a moment to listen.
“Guns,” said the man in front of me. “Where?” I asked and he pointed in the direction McAllister had taken. “There.” I would have turned the horse in that direction at once, but I remembered McAllister’s words. At times like this, there is nothing to be gained by every man doing as he thinks best. McAllister had foreseen that either of us might run into trouble and he had made it clear that I should return to the herd, no matter what. It was not easy to go on straight ahead with the thought that my partner might be in deep trouble, but I did it, all the time staring into the east in the hope that I might be able to see something. I saw nothing but the endless plain and the confusing and dancing heat haze.
The man in front of me said: “If we meet Indians, you must loan me a gun.”
I did not answer, thinking that we would see about that.
It was not very long before we came in sight of the cow column halted, the men resting. At once my passenger showed signs of uneasiness. He began to ask me questions—who the outfit belonged to, who was bossing it, were there many of us, had we been attacked by Indians. I evaded all these questions, except to tell him that we had been attacked by Indians. I did not have to be clairvoyant to perceive that he was reluctant suddenly to come face to face with the crew. I could see that he contained a struggle within him between his dire need of food and human company in this dangerous country and a profound unwillingness to being seen. My first conclusion was, of course, that he was wanted by the law. That would be nothing unusual. Often in cow crews there would be at least one man who was one jump ahead of a sheriff. In those days, a man in a spot of trouble would change his name, move on and nothing more would be said about any crime he had committed. Lawmen were not so much interested in seeing justice done as getting rid of their criminal element into another sheriff’s bailiwick.
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