“Put the damned thing down,” Poteet shouted, “and get rid of it.” He turned away in disgust, and Jim appealed to the others, but no one would help. He was ashamed of the tears that came into his eyes, but he would not put down the calf. Finally, off to the left he saw Nacho driving his team to the next stop and he ran to him.
“Let me put the calf in your wagon ... just for a while. I’ll think of somethin’,” so Nacho hid the calf, but when they stopped and the men were eating, the calf bawled, and Mr. Poteet started to say, “What in hell ...” but he stopped. There were some things a trail boss was wise not to hear.
So Jim fed the calf and tended it, and when another was born the job of destroying it was given to Coker, but he proved no more valiant than Jim. “Hell, I can’t use a LeMat that was carried by a Confederate colonel to kill no calf,” he said, and his found a place with Nacho, too.
But when a third was born and Jim could not kill it, Mr. Poteet had had enough of first-time drags. “Out those calves go, and you two men finish them off,” he snapped, but Jim found reprieve in an unlikely quarter. Nacho in his singsong voice said, “Mr. Poteet, I theenk I got sometheeng ... sometheeng goood,” and he asked permission to keep the calves till they got to Fort Sumner, and Poteet gave grudging consent.
Three days shy of Fort Sumner the Apaches struck, but they did so with such cunning, crossing the Pecos after midnight and moving with the stealth of coyotes, that three of the horses were on the west bank of the river before anyone realized they had been stolen, and the cowboys wouldn’t have known it even then except that a bay horse much loved by Gompert whinnied, and he leaped up from his sleeping bag with a wild shout, “They’re stealin’ my horse.”
The cowboys couldn’t believe it. The Apaches had come right into the camp, had passed the remuda where the three guards waited, and had stalked through the space between the sleepers and the cook wagon, leading three good horses away with them.
“We didn’t see nothin’,” the wrangler reported on behalf of the guards, and Nacho said the calves had kept him awake and he had heard nothing. Gompert wanted to organize a posse to ride after the Apache and shoot it out, and Lasater and Coker were eager to go, but Mr. Skimmerhorn counseled prudence.
“Apaches have been stealing horses for centuries,” he said.
“They could of killed us in our sleep,” Lasater said.
“Why in hell didn’t they steal the calves?” Poteet asked. During the next two days the cowboys were unusually sensitive to their surroundings, and twice the younger fellows thought they saw Apaches on the western hills, but nothing came of it. Jim Lloyd, inspecting the landscape with extra care, made the acquaintance of a bird that he would always remember as the symbol of the drive, a doughty, quick, amusing creature that stayed on the ground much of the time, tilting his head from side to side while his crest of brown and white feathers glistened in the sun.
It was the roadrunner, a member of the cuckoo family, with an extensive tail which balanced beautifully as he ran across open spaces looking for insects. He was a friendly, curious bird, and he made the cowboys laugh, for his crest rose and fell according to his interest in things at hand. Often he would halt, look up at Jim and cock his head, fluttering his tail to maintain balance.
Jim was surprised to find that it was Lasater, the robber, who most appreciated the animals they encountered. “Mom told us that God sent the roadrunner to show us the way through difficult places,” he said, and this started a lugubrious fireside discussion of mothers and other noble women the cowboys had known. Tale after tale of frontier heroism unfolded, invariably with some gallant women at the core of the action.
“They was this woman down along the Rio Grande,” Canby said. “Husband killed in the war with Mexico. Big ranch to care for, thousands Of cattle and no one around her but a bunch of greasy damned Mexicans ...”
Nacho Gómez was cleaning up after the night meal and listened with rapt attention. He liked stories of brave women.
Canby’s tale went on and on, but never too long or tedious for his listeners. The stars of spring rose high in the heavens and Jim thought how sad it was to see Orion go to bed in the west, taking the long sleep till next winter.
That night as he and Ragland rode the two-to-four, listening for Apaches, they traveled at their regular, monotonous speed, but each time as they passed in the darkness they stopped their singing to exchange a few words, the subject continuing to be women.
FIRST PASS: “Jim, you ever kissed a girl?”
“Nope.”
SECOND PASS: “It can be rather satisfyin’.”
THIRD PASS: “But parts of it can be mystifyin’, too.”
That was the lesson for the night, and Jim brooded upon it till his watch ended. Two nights later he and Ragland resumed their discussion, which became more specific.
FIRST PASS: “Jim, you ever been in a whorehouse?”
“Nope.”
SECOND PASS: “Jim, you know what a whorehouse is?”
“Nope.”
THIRD PASS: “We get to Las Vegas, you’re gonna find out.” In this fragmentary but highly gratifying manner Jim Lloyd was introduced to the mysteries of life. God, sex, money, acquiring a ranch and, above all, how to handle women were explained to him by the night riders. Once as he passed Gompert on the ten-to-twelve that young cowboy sort of summarized the whole subject.
FIRST PASS: “Jim, don’t you believe everything Old Rags tells you.”
SECOND PASS: “There’s one hell of a lot Mr. Smart-ass Ragland don’t know.”
THIRD PASS: “Always remember, the finest woman you’ll ever meet was your maw.”
“I know.”
FOURTH PASS: “Of course, other girls can be pretty nice, too.”
“I know.”
FIFTH PASS: “Of course, Jim, I’m speakin’ only of nice girls.”
“So am I.”
There was a sense of relief when the column reached Fort Sumner, a dismal outpost on the Pecos, established to keep the Mescalero Apaches in line. When the commander heard that Poteet’s group had lost only three horses, he laughed. “We keep a line of old crocks over there so the braves can practice stealing. Makes ’em think the old days are still here.” He told Gompert, “If you lost only one horse, it was cheap,” but Gompert wanted to know if he could ride out with a scouting party, to see if he could recover his horse.
“Son, forget it! You’ll have real problems on your hands if the Comanche decide to move westward.”
“Where are they now?” Poteet asked.
“Our scouts have them spotted way to the east. North of Texas in the Indian country. But they could be moving west. I’d take my cattle over to the west bank. Forget the Apaches and keep an eye out pretty firmly to the east.
Now Nacho Gómez sprang his surprise regarding the calves. Asking for a horse, he spoke with some of the soldiers, then rode directly west into Apache country. Some hours later he returned with a dozen Mexican farmers leading a horse laden with trading goods. Going to his wagon, he produced the three calves, and the Mexicans groaned with delight. “A bull!” one cried, and Mr. Poteet watched as Nacho entered into frenetic bargaining.
The Mexicans offered chickens, long strings of garlic, onions, peppers and bundles of herbs none of the cowboys could identify. Nacho accepted each with a delighted grin, turning to inform the cowboys, “Now we feast!” In the end the Mexicans appointed three riders to follow the herd north, to collect any additional new calves, and the leader said to Mr. Poteet, “Pray God there will be bulls! For then we can start our own herd.”
On the first night out of Fort Sumner, Nacho prepared a chicken stew with potatoes and gravy, which Mr. Skimmerhorn pronounced one of the best he’d ever eaten, but Canby, Gompert and Savage refused it. “We don’t want no Mexican grub,” they complained. “We want real food,” so Nacho took down a Dutch oven, cut off six big steaks, two per man, put the oven in the fire, piled coals on the lids, and when the chewy meat was nearly black, s
erved it to the grumblers:
“That’s decent food,” Canby said as he chewed the tough meat.
The same thing happened next night when Nacho served a kind of chili, hot and meaty and very tasty. Again Mr. Skimmerhorn complimented the Mexican, and again Canby and his colleagues complained that they didn’t come on no cattle trail to eat Mexican grub, and where were the steaks? Sad-eyed, Nacho decided to give them an extra ration of biscuits. He was especially good with biscuits, for which he kept a large crock of sourdough fermenting in the back of his wagon. He had started this crock working back in Jacksborough: flour, water, some sugar, a little vinegar, some clean wood ash and some salt. When it was well fermented he threw away about two-thirds—“To keep the crock happy”—and refilled it with flour and water.
Sourdough wouldn’t breed unless the temperature was just right, so on very cold nights Nacho took the crock to bed with him; on unusually hot days he kept it in the wagon wrapped in a wet cloth.
To make his biscuits he took from the crock a good helping of sourdough, mixed it with flour, water and salt, and pinched off nubbins, which he placed around the bottom of a Dutch oven, maybe forty biscuits to one baking.
Nacho’s biscuits were the best the men had ever eaten, and he told them his secret: “More coals on top than on the bottom.” He achieved this by placing his oven in dying embers and heaping upon the lid the liveliest coals he could find. In this way the biscuits came out brown and crisp on top, well done on the bottom and just about perfect inside. It was not unusual for him to bake eighty for a meal, so that each rider could have six or seven, but this night he outdid himself.
Knowing that the treat he had for them would be appreciated, he baked up three ovenfuls of biscuits, many more than a hundred, and told the men, “For that young bull Mr. Poteet traded, look what we got!” And he opened four jars of the finest sagebrush honey, dark and aromatic and tasty.
The men ate ravenously, and Canby said, “For a lousy Mexican, you are one great cook.” The chili and the chicken stew were forgiven. Men broke open the crusty biscuits, drenched the feather-light insides with honey and ate them like Christmas candy.
Two days later, as they were crossing the Pecos prior to the march into Colorado, Poteet allowed his herd to get separated. The first half was safely across the river and had started toward the low mountains that lay ahead, but the trailing half was having trouble negotiating the steep bank into the stream.
At this vulnerable moment Bufe Coker, well to the east chasing strays, looked across the Pecos and saw some twenty Comanche sweep out from behind a mesa, where they had been hiding, and launch an attack on the forward half of the herd.
For just a moment Coker sat transfixed, staring at the superb horsemen, checking to see how many had guns, how many lances, and he was stunned by the magnificence of these half-naked warriors. Quickly he recovered his senses and fired a warning shot from his LeMat, but the Indians ignored him, concentrating their attention on the forward half of the column.
Now Coker spurred his horse, galloping back to the rear of the herd, but what he saw there dismayed him. Jim Lloyd and Ragland had been helping at drag, and when they saw a skirmish developing on the north side of the Pecos, they drove their horses into the river, with Ragland yelling, “Here we come!”
Mr. Poteet, anticipating such foolhardy response, left the fight for a moment and bellowed, “Get back there and protect the rear!” They turned in midstream to find Coker cursing at them from the shore. “Our fight will be here,” he yelled. And as they scrambled back to dry land he shouted, “Bring the cattle in close. If they stampede, we’re finished.”
On the north bank a savage struggle ensued, with Poteet in charge and Canby firing like a machine as the Indians surged past in one attack after another. Mr. Skimmerhorn and Nate Person stayed up at point, drawing much of the Indian fire and alternately riding back to keep the startled herd from milling. “Sweet Jesus!” Nate yelled. “I sure wish we had Stonewall now.”
Coker, watching the fight, shouted to Lloyd, “That nigger can handle hisself,” but Jim was watching Mr. Skimmerhorn, noting the cool yet desperate way in which the northerner held off the Indians when they bore down upon him. “Everything he’s got is at stake,” Jim muttered as he watched Skimmerhorn reloading.
It would be a long time before Jim could forget what happened next. Seven Indians detached themselves and rode furiously right at the central core of white men, trying apparently to chop down Mr. Poteet, whom they spotted as the leader. He stood coolly firing his revolver as they approached, then took up his rifle, firing point-blank at the Indians and diverting their attack.
In a violent turn to the north, the Indians bore down on Canby, who kept firing with both hands. One Comanche with a vicious chop of his hatchet caught Canby on the right shoulder, tearing away cloth and skin down to the elbow. For one desolate moment Canby stood erect with a revolver in his right hand; then cloth and flesh and blood enveloped the hand and the revolver vanished. The Texan stared at his nearly severed arm and calmly said something to Savage, who was fighting beside him.
A band of Comanche now forded the river and spurred their horses to attack the rear guard. “Don’t fire too soon,” Coker shouted, and the three guardians waited until the Indians were well upon them. Then Coker and Ragland started firing furiously, and Jim heard the Confederate yelling, “Fire, Lloyd, fire!” And in a kind of daze the boy began using the pistol Canby had given him, thinking all the while of Canby’s arm. Twice more the Comanche bore down on Jim and might have killed him except that before the third charge, Bufe Coker rushed over, firing rapidly and killing two Indians. The rest fled.
The herd had been held together. No horses, no cattle had been lost. One Indian was dead on the north bank, three on the south, and suddenly Jim Lloyd realized that he had been at the center of the fight.
“Old Jim just stood there and fired like he was a veteran,” the cowboys said admiringly, and Jim said to Nate Person, “Boy, was I glad to see you comin’ back across that river,” and he pretended not to hear when Gompert told Mr. Skimmerhorn, “Did you see Old Jim blazin’ away at that Comanche chief? Hell, he couldn’ta been three feet away from you, Jim, when you killed him.”
The words blazed through. “I killed him?” Jim asked.
“I sure as hell didn’t,” Coker said. “I was busy with them braves.”
The young cowboys were turning the corpse over with their boots and Jim could see once more the chief’s face during that last charge: terrifying, very close. “I think Nate Person shot him,” Jim said. But he knew that he himself had fired the shot—had killed a man.
Canby’s arm was in pitiful shape. Nate Person thought it ought to be amputated right then, but Canby bellowed, “Christ, not my shootin’ arm.” Next day it began to fester, and even Jim could see that there wasn’t much chance to save it. They put Canby in the wagon and Jim rode with him for most of that day, fetching him water and lighting his cigarettes, and he told the southerner, “You better let ’em cut it off, Canby. It’s festerin’ bad,” but Canby said, “I might as well die as lose my gun arm.”
The column was now eleven miles to the east of Las Vegas, that wild, inviting frontier town, and the men begged Poteet to lay over and allow them a spree, but he said, “No. No leave in Las Vegas.” When the men asked why, he said, “We can’t leave the herd unprotected, and we’ve got to push on to the doctor at Fort Union.” He nodded toward the wagon, where Canby lay in delirium, and the men complained no more.
There was a saying on the trails: “If a man gets sick or wounded, only two things he can decently do. Get well or die quick.” It looked as if Canby would do the latter, for since he refused to have his arm cut off, it was poisoning his entire body. Two days later Mr. Poteet made up his mind. He told Nacho, “Lash your cooking gear to the backs of horses. I’m taking the wagon into Fort Union with Canby.” There an army doctor would know what to do, and Poteet and Skimmerhorn rode off, leaving command of the
outfit to Nate Person.
On the second afternoon Poteet and Skimmerhorn returned to camp with the wagon, but without Canby. “The doctor took one look at the arm and said, ‘Off it comes.’ ” Poteet explained. “Canby fought like hell, and it took three men to lash him down before they could get the chloroform to him.” No one spoke, and he added, “We paid him off and he’ll go back to Texas.”
“His horse is here,” Buck said.
“We bought his horse,” Poteet said. Mr. Skimmerhorn paid him well,” and no more was said by anyone.
It was about five-thirty in the afternoon. Never before on the trip had they camped at such a beautiful spot, with low mountains to the north, dark-blue piñon trees everywhere, and to the west the high snow-covered peaks of New Mexico. It was a valley of protection and peace, and while Nacho Gómez began putting his gear back in the wagon Mr. Poteet turned to Nate and asked, “Are you well rested?” The black man said he was, and Poteet said, “Men, we’ve had a hard trip and Canby’s misfortune weighs upon us all. With Mr. Skimmerhorn’s permission I have brought you a change of diet.” And he uncovered six bottles of whiskey.
As the men cheered, Poteet added, “Mr. Skimmerhorn has agreed to guard the remuda. Mr. Person and I will watch the herd.” Forgetting even Nacho’s good cooking, the cowboys opened the whiskey bottles and sat about the fire till midnight, drinking and telling more and more outrageous stories with less and less clarity until one by one they fell asleep.
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