Centennial

by James A. Michener

“Burn the fort?” Jim asked.

  “They spread oil and gunpowder and lots of wood shavings through all the buildings, forty-six of ’em, and burned the whole shebang ... right to the ground.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Buck said.

  Suddenly Ragland had his revolver out. “Are you callin’ O. D. Cleaver a liar?” he demanded, mimicking Lasater’s voice so cleverly that even Lasater had to laugh.

  “Let’s ride to the top of the hill and see for ourselves,” Savage proposed, and with Mr. Poteet’s permission the younger cowboys took their horses, and by a roundabout way that would not disturb the dozing cattle, rode to the crest of a hill from which they could look across the starry wonder of the plains. And down below them stood the charred ruins of a once-great fort. Only the brick chimneys were in place, standing like ghosts guarding the stars.

  “You mean your old man burnt this whole place!” Jim asked in awe.

  “Him and the others.”

  “They coulda been hung.”

  “Nobody never found out who done it.”

  “That musta been some fire,” Gombert whispered, and the young cowboys rode back to camp.

  There the talk was again of rattlesnakes, with Lasater explaining that O. D. Cleaver had seen it with his own eyes: “This rattler—a huge one, big around as your thigh—chases a prairie dog down a hole. Dog comes out the other end, and as soon as he’s safe he calls all the other dogs—and what do you suppose they do?”

  “Run like hell,” Ragland suggested.

  Lasater ignored the laughter and concluded: “The other dogs hurried up, started to pile sand into the hole—both openings—then tamped it down with their feet, and smothered the rattler to death.”

  “I don’t think it would work,” Jim said cautiously. “I’ve dug out prairie-dog burrows and there’s usually more’n one or two ...”

  “Son,” Lasater interrupted, “why do you insist on callin’ O. D. Cleaver a liar?”

  “I ... well ... I’ve dug ...”

  “O. D. Cleaver seen it. He told me about it hisself.”

  Skimmerhorn, amused by Cleaver’s credentials as an authority on wildlife, asked, “Where’s Cleaver now?”

  “He’s dead,” Lasater said. “Shot holdin’ up a bank.”

  Now the days of caution began, for the time was approaching when the cattle would start their perilous journey across eighty miles of arid wasteland, with no water and little grass to sustain them. It was imperative that during the next two weeks the cattle eat as much as possible and drink copiously so as to be strong when the test came. Therefore Mr. Poteet and Nate Person rode even farther ahead of the herd, seeking good waterholes where grass was plentiful.

  The generous land along the Brazos River was now behind them and in its place long sweeps of emptiness prevailed; a rider would come over a ridge with good grass cover and from its crest see before him fifty miles of the brown barren lands that warned him of what lay ahead. The routine tightened and the men trained themselves to drink as little water as possible. They became extra polite in their dealings with each other, and all felt the tension of the ordeal to come.

  This feeling was not diminished when they passed Fort Chadbourne, once a notable installation with four hundred men and a German band, now a desolate waste of empty buildings. “My dad served here too,” Savage explained as they rode past the gaunt ruins. “Had to be abandoned ... never enough water.”

  Here, at the ruins of Fort Chadbourne, Poteet and his men stood at the edge of vast territories still being explored by frontiersmen, partially protected by small forts. Save for the classic settlements focusing on Santa Fe, there were none of the churches, farms or homes which eastern states had enjoyed for the ninety-two years since Independence. Once again, another huge tract of land waited for adventurous men to join it to America. True, in the hazardous years of 1858-61, the legendary Butterfield Stage had passed through here, taking the route to the Pecos River which Poteet proposed to follow, but the stage had been halted by war. The only sign that it had ever existed was the broken water tanks cached from point to point across the desert. For Poteet and his men there would be no water, and if their courage failed, they and their cattle would perish.

  This was the southern edge of the Llano Estacado, the Staked Plain. Its name had come from Spanish explorers who drove stakes as they crossed it, so that they could find their way back across its featureless domain. In 1542 it had broken Coronado’s heart, and now it baked in the sun, daring a new breed of adventurers to cross it.

  The Llano seemed to have been devised by nature as a fiendish test of man’s resolute will. Its difficulty increased by steps, and as each new hazard was encountered, a man would be tempted to turn back, knowing that the next was to be even more difficult.

  Step one consisted of the sixty-three-mile stretch from Fort Chadbourne to the north branch of the Concho, a miserable stream which did, however, contain a little brackish water. Along this trail there were a few hidden sources of water to sustain the cattle if the scouts were sharp enough to find them. On an ordinary trail, this stretch would have been known as “Hell’s Reach,” but on this, it was the good part.

  Step two covered only thirty miles, from North Concho to Middle Concho, but it contained no water at all between the rivers, and here the handling of cattle would become difficult.

  Step three was a reach of eighty miles across barren alkali flats stretching from the Middle Concho to Horsehead Crossing on the Pecos River. Here there was no water and little grass. Traveling at a normal rate, the herd would require nearly seven days to negotiate it, during which time they would have to perish. But if the speed could somehow be doubled or even tripled, the longhorns, drawing upon reserves of energy, might reach the Pecos alive. It was to this desperate gamble that the cowboys now addressed themselves.

  “Jim,” Mr. Poteet said, “it isn’t proper to enter this part of the trail without a gun. See if Canby’ll lend you one of his.”

  So Jim went to the point man and said, “Mr. Poteet thinks you ought to lend me a gun. But I want to buy it.”

  “With what?”

  “Money. When I get paid.”

  “You ain’t gettin’ paid. Everybody knows the old man gave your wages to your maw.”

  “I’ll get money somehow.”

  Canby played with his reins, embarrassed by this whole affair. He loved his guns and felt that with eight he had barely enough for the work ahead. Still, it wasn’t proper for a boy to head into such country without a gun. It just wasn’t proper.

  “I might let you have the .22.”

  “That ain’t a gun,” Jim said.

  “You’re right there, son.” He slapped the reins against his horse’s neck, then pulled her back when she started to move. “Tell you what, I do have an extra Army Colt’s and I could borry it to you.”

  “I don’t want to borrow it. I want to buy it.”

  “What in hell with?” Canby asked in exasperation. “All right, damnit, I’ll sell you the Colt’s. Ten dollars and I’ll throw in the bullets.”

  “I’ll pay you some day,” Jim said. “That’s a promise.”

  With everything tightened up, the outfit headed into the easy portion of the Llano. The days were hot and dusty, and the cattle grew restive because the grass was hard to find and the water scarce. Poteet and Person again ranged far ahead, finding some holes that had gone dry, others with enough dregs to keep the cattle going.

  The trick was to keep the cattle moving forward as rapidly as possible, to divert their attention from the scanty feed; instead of ten to twelve miles a day, the pace was stepped up to fifteen or even eighteen, and in this way the first stretch of the desert was crossed.

  At the North Concho the animals drank the brackish water with enthusiasm, and Mr. Poteet kept them there for an extra day, watching as some of the cows stood belly-deep in the creek, as if to let the water seep into their parched hides.

  The men had trouble with this water. It gave half of
them dysentery; Gompert and Savage became so sick they could not ride their night rounds, so Poteet and Skimmerhorn took their places, riding double shifts. It was Nacho Gómez who saved the day; he brewed up a nauseous concoction of cactus root, tobacco juice, vinegar and rum, guaranteed to tighten the loosest bowel, and after three doses Gompert and Savage were back at work. “Anything’s better’n that,” they warned the others.

  The thirty miles between the two branches of the Concho were covered in two days and ended in disappointment, for the Middle Concho contained barely enough water to replenish the cattle. Again Mr. Poteet laid over for an extra day, and this was wise, for some water did return to the creek bottom. He and Skimmerhorn rode well to the south to find the best possible drinking water, and returned to fetch the water barrel, which they filled. Each man looked after his own canteen, while Nacho collected as much as he could for coffee. During the next three days men would gnaw biscuits and drink coffee ... till the water ran out.

  On the night of April 6, 1868, Mr. Poteet gathered his hands for their last hot meal. As they ate he told them, “We’ll pull out at first light and move as fast as possible. You’ll have to watch ’em closely. They’ll want to come back here for water. I’ve known longhorns double back fifty miles.”

  “Tomorrow night?” Canby asked.

  “We travel all night, every night, till we get there.” The men said nothing. “Mr. Person will scout ahead and make sure we’re drivin’ for the pass through the mountains. He can borrow any man’s horse he needs, because I want him ridin’ back and forth, constantly.”

  The black man nodded. The distance to water was eighty miles; he would ride nearly two hundred, back and forth, assuring them of their way.

  “Now get some sleep,” Poteet concluded.

  At midnight Jim and Coker took over the watch, and as they. circled the herd Jim could hear the Confederate singing:

  “We are a band of brothers,

  Native to the soil,

  Fightin’ for the property

  We gained by honest toil.

  Once as they passed, Jim asked, “Was the war tough?”

  “Very.”

  “As bad as what we face tomorrow?”

  “Different,” Coker said, and he rode on singing.

  At first light the cattle were moved onto the trail. Now nature had used no subtlety at all. Move two feet from the banks of Middle Concho and you had ground so hard you knew it hadn’t seen water for years. Two miles out the alkali began to show, a sickly white deposit over everything. It had a dead, barren taste, neither acid nor sweet, and enough of it in water could kill a cow.

  When the sun rose the men caught their first full impact of the Llano, for over the land before them they could see not one tree, nor any shrub of size, nor any trail marking, nor any sign of habitation. It was the most bleak and arid space they had ever surveyed, and it promised nothing.

  A man standing on flat ground could see to a horizon 3.2 miles distant. Astride a tall horse he could see an additional 1.2 miles. He was at the center of a circle with the radius of 4.4 miles, so that as the cowboys rode they could survey sixty square miles of the Llano, and on it they saw nothing but their cattle and their own shadows.

  By nine o’clock the heat grew intense and the cattle began looking for water, and this search they would continue for the next eighty miles, this endless, patient longing for water that did not exist. The toughest old hand, the rawest youth who was trying to swagger, would at some unexpected moment catch the eye of a frantic cow, and as he drove her back to the panting herd, he would feel his throat choking.

  Toward noon Savage cried, “He’s coming!” and far in the west the cowboys saw a light rise of dust and then a horse and then a man upon it, his face white with alkali. They watched as he approached, his horse cantering gently over the flat sands.

  Dismounting at the cook wagon, Nate asked for coffee. Holding the cup with both hands and keeping it to his chin as he looked over the edge, he reported, “We’re on the right headin’ so far.”

  “Any water?”

  “None.” He finished his coffee, changed horses and rode off long before the cattle were put back on the trail.

  On a normal run it was the head of the column that required special attention, but now, since the cattle might try to double back, it was the rear. So Jim and Coker were strengthened by Mr. Poteet and Skimmerhorn, and for several hours the latter rode with Jim and talked of life in Colorado.

  “It’s bound to be one of the greatest states,” Skimmerhorn said.

  “Better’n Texas?”

  “Better scenery. Better chance for a young man.”

  “I’ve heard good things about Wyoming.”

  “It’ll never be the state Colorado is. Too many Indians.”

  “How about Montana?”

  “No people.”

  Jim was impressed with this man. He wasn’t as iron-hard as Mr. Poteet nor was he as good a cowboy, but he was the owner of this outfit, and here he was riding drag. Jim had noticed that no job in the camp was too low for Mr. Skimmerhorn, and if the cook needed more wood, he was the first to volunteer.

  “You married?” Jim asked.

  “Yes. I have one daughter and a son on the way.”

  “What if it’s a girl?”

  Nothing happened that long day, and for much of the time they rode in silence, each favorably impressed with the other. But on the night march trouble came, for the longhorns were bewildered by this change in tactic and by their lack of water. Again and again strays tried to turn back, so that Jim and Mr. Skimmerhorn were busy all night, riding until they exhausted their night horses and had to get others from the remuda. It was a bad night, and everyone was thirsty, but the men had hot coffee, whereas the cows had nothing.

  The second day was miserable, with the men seeing at first hand the effect of this perilous journey on the cattle. Several cows seemed to go half mad and men had to lash at them and beat them over the head, forcing them back onto the trail.

  In the late afternoon the cows began lowing, and soon the entire herd was voicing its protest in a surge of sound that rose and fell and entered the heart of every man who heard it.

  The sun was unbearable. Men would ride hard and break into a sweat, but the air was so dry that they never became wet. They gulped enormous quantities of coffee but did not have to urinate. Those with dysentery—half the crew—had racking bowel movements but passed no water. And alkali dust covered everything—the eyes of the men above their bandannas and the eyes of the cattle.

  Ordinary cows could not have survived this ordeal, but the thrifty longhorn, accustomed to thorns, struggled on doggedly, following Stonewall. In this time of trial each cowboy developed a positive love for that cantankerous old steer, his hipbones jutting out like those of a skeleton. It was as if he alone, among all the cattle, understood why this waterless trek was necessary, and he would do what he could to bring it to a rightful conclusion.

  That night was most difficult, especially for the drags. Jim and Coker had been in the saddle now for thirty-nine hours without real sleep or a hot meal and they were desperately tired, but the cattle, scenting no relief ahead, decided to return to the Concho, where they last had water. It seemed to Jim that he spent the entire night at a gallop, bringing steers and cows back into the fold, and often as he dashed into the moonlight, he would be aware of Mr. Skimmerhorn, riding beside him or ahead, working just as hard.

  At dawn, the herd having been held intact, Jim collapsed on the ground, and Skimmerhorn said, “Let him sleep.”

  He was there when Nate Person rode back, his dark sleepless eyes sunk deep in his head. He brought good news. “The gap is dead ahead. Fourteen miles beyond it is the Pecos.”

  “Water?” Poteet asked.

  “Lots,” Person replied, “but only at Horsehead is it sweet. Even a short distance north or south ... almost stagnant ... pure alkali. It’ll kill every cow that drinks it.”

  “Is the Horsehead marked
?”

  “The skulls are still in place.” He referred to the line of horses’ skulls fixed on posts that marked the way to the crossing. “I’ll be there to help.” And back he rode to chart the course for them.

  The last day was almost unbearable. Thirty-two miles to cover, eighteen to the pass through the mountains, fourteen from there to water, and this could be explained to men, but not to the cattle. One cow, driven mad by thirst, set off on a straight line to nowhere. Jim, knowing this particular cow, tried to turn her back, but she brushed past him as if he did not exist. He called for help, and Mr. Poteet thought of enlisting the aid of Stonewall, but he was too far away, at the head of the column keeping things in order, so the cow was allowed to pursue her way. Jim watched her march into the bleakest part of the desert, stumble, rise again, fall to her knees, rise once more, and fall for the last time as buzzards swooped down to claim her.

  “It’s all right,” Mr. Poteet said.

  “I raised her,” Jim said, tears in his eyes. “She dropped good calves.” She had been the pride of the Lloyd herd, and he was powerless to save her.