The Night Visitor

by B. TRAVEN

  It was even more complicated when we came to open pastures where other cattle were grazing in herds, often without herders. Sometimes these herds mixed in with ours, and had to be sorted out again; on one occasion, this took practically a whole day, for we couldn’t drive off a single head of another rancher’s cattle. Had we done so, it would have led to unholy difficulties for which I, and in the last resort Mr. Pratt, would have been held responsible.

  Sometimes, we couldn’t get rid of straying animals. They insisted on following us, because they took a liking to our bulls perhaps, or liked the smell of our herd. I was always supposed to know at a glance if a stray animal got in with our herd, or one of ours lagged behind; but the brands and markings were often very similar and almost illegible. The foreman with an Indian driver was supposed to chase other herds away before our herd approached them; but it often happened that a few dozen head of our own would manage to scamper off with the other herd. Then the mix-up would be hell on hooves, and we’d be soaked with sweat and have throats like sandpaper before we got them all sorted out again.

  For a general to take an army overland is child’s play compared with the task of transporting a thousand head of half-wild range cattle across undeveloped, half-civilized country. Soldiers can be told what’s expected of them. Herds of cattle cannot; you have to do everything yourself. You are the superior and the subordinate in one.

  At around five in the afternoon we usually called a halt, depending on whether we’d reached grazing land and water. The animals could hold out without water for one day provided they had fresh grass; two days, if they had to; but on the third day water had to be found. If I couldn’t find water, I’d often let the herd run freely and they’d find it by themselves; but such water might be so far off our main line of advance that we’d lose a day or so.

  We set up two camps at night, one in front and one in the rear. Fires were lighted, coffee made, beans or rice cooked, camp bread was baked, and dried meat eaten with it. Then we wrapped ourselves in our blankets and slept on the bare ground, with the sky for cover, our heads upon our saddles.

  I posted two watches, with reliefs, to keep jaguars away and to keep the herd together. There are cattle who like to nose around at night just as some men do; and of course all the animals are up long before dawn, grazing. We gave them plenty of time for this, as well as a long rest at high noon.

  After several days, I had lost only one bull. He had been fighting and got so badly gored that we had to slaughter him. We cut out the best meat, sliced it thinly, and dried it in the broiling hot sun. To make up the loss of this one bull, a cow had calved the night before, and this presented us with a new problem. The little calf couldn’t make the trek, but we didn’t want to kill it. We wanted him to keep his noisy young life, and we felt sorry for the mother cow who licked her baby so lovingly. So I took the calf first on my own horse, then passed it to other riders about every half hour.

  This little calf became our pet. He was a joy, and it was always a touching sight when we handed him down to his mother, who always ran near the rider holding her calf. There was always a great licking, mooing and lowing at these reunions, where the little calf went at her udder and she was almost beside herself with joy. When he got heavier we had to load him onto a pack mule.

  If too many cows had calved, it would have been impossible to show the mothers this consideration; but it happened three times more and I could never bring myself to kill the little ones.

  Ingratitude is so much a part of human character that it is best to take it for granted and not feel hurt by it. Nature on the other hand is grateful for the smallest services we render her. No animal or plant ever forgets the drink of water it receives at our hands, or the handful of fodder that we may give it. And so did the little calves and their mothers present their gratitude, although unknowingly, to us for the charity we had shown them.

  We came to a large river and neither we nor the guide could discover a ford. Farther downstream we found a ferry. But the ferryman demanded so much a head that the crossing would have been too costly; and I had yet to face the cost of other rivers, ferries, and toll bridges that had to be used, regardless. While I was bargaining with the ferryman, the herd rushed on upstream for another three miles. Here we stopped for two days, because the grazing was very good. Here they bathed, standing in the water for hours on end, ridding themselves of the various vermin that perished in water.

  After two days of rest, we still had to cross the river. We started to drive them over, but as soon as they felt the incline of the river bed, they turned back; though the river wasn’t very wide, there were deep channels.

  At last I hit on an idea. Taking our machetes, we chopped down some small trees and made a raft. We tied the lassoes into one long line and an Indian swam across with one end of the line. We tied the other end to the raft, as well as a second lighter line for pulling it back. I packed one of the calves onto the raft, the Indian pulled it over and landed the calf. We pulled the raft back and we sent a second calf over; in a few minutes we had all the four calves on the other side.

  They stood over there alone, pathetically wobbling on their spindly high legs and set up a chorus of wretched mooing. It sounded pitiful. And if the mooing of those small, helpless creatures went straight to our hearts, how much more did it affect the mothers. The little ones had cried out only a few times when one of the mothers took to the water and swam across. Soon, the other three mothers followed. There was an affectionate reunion. But we hadn’t time to watch it for much hard work awaited us.

  Now the mother cows were mooing, because they were separated from the herd; they were afraid, and longed to be reunited with their kith and kin. The bulls listened to the mooing for a while and then began to swim over. The leader bull was not among them. Only younger bulls had crossed over, probably thinking they now had a chance to found a new empire on the other side away from any interference from the older bulls. The jealousy of the older, bigger bulls was thus aroused, including the leader bull. They snorted and rushed over to teach those precocious young greenhorns a lesson.

  The water cooled them down, however, and by the time they got to the other side they lost the urge to fight, although they had been snorting so fiercely from the opposite bank. Now that the bulls were over, the cows had no intention of spending the rest of their lives with no bulls around; as they were in the habit of following the bulls everywhere, they followed them now. Soon the water was full of snorting, splashing cattle doing their best to swim across. It was a fine confusion of horned heads and of thrusting, monstrous backs.

  When the going got perilous, some of them turned back, and this was the moment when we had to take a hand. If we let the timid ones turn back, half the herd might follow; they were all fighting, unable to keep a straight course in the swift water, and milling about and heading for any bank. So we went in with our horses, shouting, using our whips, heading them all across, across, and across to the other side. Three of them swam too far downstream, drifted out of our reach, and were swept away, lost to us.

  These three were the sum total of our losses at this crossing. It was cheap at the price, for they weren’t much good anyway, they’d made trouble on the transport, they were slackers, and the fewer slackers in any troop, the better. Now we let the herd have a good rest while we made camp for the night. That night one of my two-year-olds was killed by a jaguar, though none of us heard a sound of it. The carcass and paw-marks told us the story next morning.

  In every respect, I got off lightly. Crossing by means of the small ferry would have taken a week, and would have cost hundreds of pesos; and even at that, I’d have suffered losses. Cattle might have jumped off the ferry or fallen victim to more jaguars or alligators had we stayed so long by the river. Thus, the pesos I saved went towards my earnings and bonus.

  What I had saved at this river-crossing, I owed to my dear little calves. The love we had shown to them and their mothers had been bountifully repaid.

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nbsp; The cattle drive would not have seemed the real thing without bandits or rustlers. In fact, as each day passes, you feel rather surprised if they don’t show up. A big cattle transport like ours can’t take place in a vacuum. Dozens of men see it; it gets talked about, and you never know what pair of eyes is a scout for a band of cattle-thieves or bandits.

  One morning we met them. They came riding along quite innocently and might have been ranch hands riding to market or looking for work. They approached from our flank.

  “Hello!” called the leader. “Any tequila?”

  “No,” said I. “No tequila. But we’ve got some tobacco. You can have some.”

  “All right. We’ll take it. Got any maize leaves?”

  “We can spare two dozen.”

  “We’ll take them too. Well, now, what about money? The transport must have money for ferries and toll bridges.”

  Things were getting hot. Money. “We’ve no money with us, only checks.”

  “Checks rubbish. Can’t read.”

  They talked among themselves, and then the spokesman came riding alongside. “About the money. We’ll look into that.”

  He searched my pockets, the saddlebags, saddle, and gear. No money. He found only the checks, and had to admit that I spoke the truth.

  “We could do with some cows,” he decided.

  “I could do with some myself,” I said, “I’m not the owner, I’m only in charge of transporting these cattle.”

  “Then you won’t be hurt if I take out one or two for myself.”

  “Go ahead,” I agreed, “help yourself. I’ve one good cow, but with a lame foot. She’ll be in milk in three months. You can cure the hoof, it’s not bad.”

  “Where is she?”

  I had her driven out, and he liked her. All this time, the transport had been moving on, for it couldn’t be halted by a word of command, like an army, particularly since there was no grazing. The rustlers obligingly rode along beside me.

  The leader said: “Well, you’ve given me one, and now it’s my turn to pick one out for myself.”

  He picked one, but he didn’t know much about cattle; and I didn’t mind losing the one he picked.

  “Now you can pick one out for me,” he granted.

  I did so. Then he picked himself another one.

  This time he took one of the milk cows.

  “Now it’s your turn again, señor!” he called.

  I had to have my little joke. I called the man who was carrying the milk cow’s calf on his saddle. “Here you are, the little one in the bargain,” I said, handing the little calf over to him. He was well satisfied with the bargain, and let the calf pass for a fully grown animal. But he wasn’t acting out of generosity. Oh no. Many Indians can’t milk cows; or they can milk the cow only if the calf is sucking. The milk must practically flow by itself, as if she’s giving the milk to her calf. So, the calf was a welcome gift to that man. He could now get milk from the cow for his family, or for sale.

  It was his turn to pick out another cow.

  When they rode away, they had seven cows and one calf. Which cost me a hundred and seventy-five pesos. Of course, the possibility of bandits was duly considered when I made the contract with Mr. Pratt; and it was only a question of how I’d deal with the bandits. It’s best to bargain with them, as with businessmen, and employ diplomacy, too, for they might well have driven off with fifteen, instead of seven and a half.

  It all counts up as business expense; like freight demurrage. It was a business risk, such as a derailed train, a ship wrecked or burned, which would be the end of the transport. In this country, at that time, no rancher insured his herd, and no insurance company would issue a policy except at impossible rates. Bandits were a business risk, just as depot, freight, feeding, watering, taxing and licensing might be in other regions. Here, the total risks are rivers, mountains, mountain passes, gorges, sandy regions, waterless routes, bandits, jaguars, rattlesnakes, copperheads, and, if worst comes to worst, a cattle epidemic which might be caught from contact with other cattle met on the march.

  Here, the cost was borne by the vastness of everything: the land, the herds, the breeding, the increase. Mr. Pratt’s twelve thousand head were not among the largest herds of his region. Bandits and rustlers were just another factor. Of course, one can shoot at bandits, or threaten to call the military. Some fools may do that. You can always see it done very nicely, in films: three dozen bandits fleeing from one smart cowboy. In the movies, yes; in reality, no. In reality, it’s quite, but quite, quite different.

  In reality, bandits do not gallop off so easily. It is the birthright of bandits to take what they need. Three hundred years of slavery and subjugation under Spanish overlords and Church domination and torturers couldn’t but demoralize the most upright people on earth. My bandits were pleased that they got everything so easily, so pleasantly, with such genial conversation, including my little calf-joke. So we all were pleased.

  Now we had to make a long detour, for a biggish town lay on our route, and no grazing ground near it. We had to make our way up a river cut, and then cross a range of mountains, la Sierra.

  Here, it was getting cool. There was plenty of water about, but grazing was getting tight and the animals were eating leaves from the trees. Tree foliage was as filling as grass, and seemed to make a pleasant change for the cattle. As I watched them stripping the leaves off trees so neatly I couldn’t but believe that cattle in ancient times may not have been prairie and steppe beasts, but beasts of the forest, living off shrubs and low-branched trees, in woods that have nearly disappeared while tall high-growing trees have survived.

  The moutain-crossing was laborious, for these range cattle were not used to mountain trails. Two lost their footholds, one of them a magnificent young bull. He went down with his cow just as they were merrily copulating. A tragedy of love. We could see them lying in the gorge below, smashed. For all that, I’d anticipated more falls.

  We had two cases of snakebite, too. One morning we noticed that two of the cows had swollen legs; examination showed the fang-marks. But the cows had been lucky, evidently not fatally infected with the venom. We treated the wounds by cutting them open, bathing them in pure alcohol, and applying tourniquets above the wound. We had a two-day halt, once that crossing was behind us, and the cows picked up well. I was glad to be able to save them.

  That evening two Indians started a terrible argument as to what kind of snakes those had been. One maintained for rattlesnakes, the other insisted on copperheads. I settled the dispute, which threatened to become serious, by drawing a parallel: “Castillo, if you were shot at, or worse, shot dead, it wouldn’t matter to you whether you were shot with a revolver or a rifle, would it?”

  “Seguro, señor, this doesn’t matter. Shot is shot.”

  “There you are, muchachos, the same goes for cows. They’ve been bitten by posionous snakes, by rattlers or coppers. It hurts. As for the rest, they don’t give a damn.”

  “You’re right, señor. A poisonous snake. Who cares what kind?”

  They found my dictum so clever that they turned from snakes to curability of snakebites, discussing all kinds of herbs and Indian remedies, and so their quarrel petered out.

  One day at sunrise when we were calling the signal to start off, I rode up onto a hill to see beyond the herd, and decide on our direction. From hilltop, I could see church spires in the distance.

  Laid about with dawn’s shimmering gold, the end was in sight!

  Our troubles were over. In that town over there, bathed in golden sunlight, joy awaited us. I left the herd on the prairie, ordered camp pitched, galloped into town and wired Mr. Pratt. It was evening when I got back to camp, where the fires were blazing and the two vaqueros on guard watch were riding leisurely about singing the animals to sleep.

  To man, who has always been a diurnal creature, there is something indescribably uncanny about the tropic night; and tropic nights are also uncanny to diurnal animals. In the evenings, small
herds gather round the rancho house to be near man, knowing that man is their protector. During the weeks after the rainy season when mosquitoes and horseflies zoom through the air, thick as swirling dust, the cattle come home from the prairies to congregate around the rancho house, expecting help. But you can’t help them because you’ve wrapped your own face and hands in cloth to protect yourself against the evil sprites of the tropical hell.

  Even great herds on their home ranches get restless at sundown. They surround the huts of the vaqueros, and the watches ride around them, singing, throughout the night, and the animals lie down to sleep. Some of the big breeders leave it to the vaqueros to sing or not, for some think it’s unnecessary. But cattle not sung to sleep are restless the whole night through, lying down for ten minutes, then getting up to prowl around and rub against the others for companionship. The cattle are then sleepy next day, and feed less than cattle sung to sleep, and hence take longer to fatten into shape. During transports, singing is even more essential, for cattle are even more restless, having to lie as they do on strange earth.

  So I had my men sing every night, and they did it willingly. As the men rode slowly around them, singing, the cattle would lie down with a feeling of absolute security; drowsily the cattle would follow the singing rider with their eyes, moo and low, sigh gigantically, and settle to sleep. The more singing through the night, the better. For the cattle felt reassured that nothing could happen to them, as man was near to shield them from all dangers, including jaguars and mountain lions. I might add that my own kind of cowboys’ singing would keep away anyone who adored music. My own singing, for instance, was regarded as the eighth wonder of the world, but not as music.

  A front watch was no longer necessary as the river guarded us and the flanks needed only the two regular watches; I took the foreman from the front, so we could all spend the last evenings together. Later, while the men smoked and chatted around the big fire, I saddled up and rode watch along the herd, singing, whistling, humming, calling to the cattle.