Last of the Breed

by Les Savage, Jr.

  This jerked Asa’s horse so heavily it almost lost its feet. Dancing to remain erect, it spun around into Brian’s animal as he wheeled to the right. He saw the dallied rope pull free and fall to the ground. The steer scrambled erect and disappeared in the dust, line trailing.

  Asa’s horse tried to dance away from Brian’s line-back. Asa reined it back in till he was knee to knee with Brian, grabbing at his jumper.

  “Damn you,” he shouted. “You did that on purpose.”

  Brian tried to tear free but Asa hung on. A sudden shift of their excited horses unbalanced Brian and he pitched into Asa, carrying him out of the saddle. They hit heavily. Brian rolled groggily away from Asa. The wiry Gillette gained his feet first and jumped Brian, lashing one boot out to rowel Brian’s face with the spur.

  There was the smashing detonation of a shot. Brian heard the whining ricochet of metal. He stared wide-eyed at the boot lifted above his face, seeing that the rowel was gone from the spur.

  “You better put it down on the ground, Asa,” Sandoval said. “Next time your foot I shoot off.”

  Asa let his boot drop back to the ground beside Brian’s face. Brian rolled over onto hands and knees. Sandoval was sitting a dancing horse right above them, a smoking Colt in his hand.

  “Now back to work get, both of you,” he said. “Any more of this and the welcome of my house she’s no longer yours.”

  * * * *

  For two weeks the roundup continued. Days that never seemed to end. Up before dawn and in the saddle till long after dark. Sleeping in stupefied exhaustion through a night too short to give a man any real rest. The wink of branding fires in the velvet dark. The constant stench of sweat and burning hair and hot dust. Brian lost weight till his clothes hung on him and his face was raw from the burn of sun and wind and his whole body ached with the slightest movement.

  A hundred times he was ready to quit. It was hard to say why he stayed. Sometimes it was Asa’s goading, making him stick in sheer bitter defiance. Sometimes it was the shy friendship of Sandoval, filling him with a warmth he had never felt with Jess Miller or the other men he had thought were close to him. Sometimes it was his own stubbornness, a stubbornness he had never known he possessed before, lengthening that long upper lip into a fighting shape and putting him back into the nightmare.

  After the branding was over they cut out the young stuff and started the beef toward Alta. They had long since used up the coffee and beans Estelle had gotten at Apache Wells, and were living exclusively on their own beef. But they had no time to stop off at the ranch. Sandoval had started roundup early in the hopes of beating the big operators into Alta, and it would be touch and go from now on.

  They drove west out of the Apaches and into the alkali furnace of the flats southeast of the Superstitions. At this time of year there was so little water that they worked on a dangerously close margin between sinks. They reached Denver Wells and found it dry. They pushed a herd frantic with thirst on toward Rabbit Sink, the next waterhole, the men as hollow-eyed and driven as the animals.

  They topped a sandhill east of the sink near nightfall, and saw that the cattle had run up against something ahead. In the haze of wind-blown sand, all Brian could see was the dim forms of the beasts milling back and forth in the flats, as if held by an invisible wall. Sandoval and Brian put their jaded horses to a trot, rounding the herd and catching sight of Asa and Pa Gillette ahead. Then Brian saw the triple strand of barb-wire.

  “This sink belongs to Sid Bouley, doesn’t it?” Asa said acidly. “I thought he was still with the Salt River bunch.”

  Cameron looked at his brother, then shook his head. “Bouley was always a weak bet, Asa. Looks like he went over to Tarrant when he heard Pa was squeezed out.”

  “We’ll cut the wire, damn it,” Pa said. “Juan, bring up that hatchet. These cattle will die if they don’t get this water.”

  The thin Mexican galloped up, pulling a hatchet from his bedroll. The cattle were frenzied with their thirst, milling against the fence in a bawling press. Sandoval told Asa to hold the beef there till he found out if there was any water. Brian and Pa went with him through the hole Juan chopped. Three hundred yards on they came to the sloping banks of the sink. In the dusk, Sandoval was a vague shadow, dismounting.

  “Is mud. The water in an hour should surface,” he turned to call. “Start them through.”

  It was getting so dark Brian could not see the cattle at first. He knew they were beginning to move, for their bawling grew to a raucous crescendo. Then the ground began to tremble and the first tossing heads appeared out of the gloom. Sandoval toed his stirrup and started to swing up.

  Then the gunshot came, like the crack of a giant whip. Brian’s startled horse screamed in fright and reared high. He put a rein against its neck and spurred a sweaty flank, bringing the animal back down and spinning it to keep the beast from bolting. More shots formed a crackling drumbeat in the night. Brian fought his spinning horse, staring into the darkness in a vain attempt to see where the shots came from. Sandoval’s horse had bolted while he was still only half on and he was racing away from the sink, striving to gain the saddle.

  “It’s coming from those north ridges,” Pa shouted. “The cattle are stampeding—”

  His voice broke off sharply, amid the drumming bursts of gunfire, and Brian saw him pitch from his saddle. The ground was shaking with the rush of cattle now and Brian knew he had but a moment to reach the man. He spurred the frightened line-back across the sandy flats, pulling it down hard where Pa’s gaunt form stirred feebly on the ground.

  “Grab a stirrup, Pa,” he shouted. “I’ll have to drag you out.”

  The man made a feeble attempt to lift his arm, dropped back. Brian swung down and tried to hold his frenzied horse and catch Pa under the armpits. As he heaved the man up, meaning to throw him over the saddle, more shots split the night. The line-back reared, snapping the reins from Brian’s hand, and bolted. He was left holding Pa halfway off the ground, without a horse.

  The tossing heads and curving horns of the cattle seemed to be right on top of them. Brian had a dim glimpse of a rider off to one side, and heard Juan’s high voice: “Run to the left, Brian. I can’t turn them! You can make it to the left!”

  Brian let Pa’s limp weight slide to the ground, his whole body jerked with the impulse to wheel and race for safety. But something held him. A thought from long ago was in his mind. And Jigger’s words: “It can’t be done. It’s just one of those stories you hear about Tiger Sheridan.” Even as it ran through him, Brian was reaching for the match in a hip pocket and wiping it against his Levis. It didn’t catch. The ground was quaking beneath him and it seemed another instant would bring the whole herd down on him. He struck the match again.

  It flared, wavered. He cupped it in his hand. He held it that way, standing spraddle-legged over Pa Gillette’s body. His whole being was torn by the primitive impulse to escape the destruction of those tossing horns and cloven hoofs bearing down on him.

  For that last moment he stared up at the oncoming phalanxes, and thought he was through. Jigger was right. It couldn’t be done.

  Then the steer right before him reared into the air, eyes rolling wildly in animal fear of fire. The next animal veered the other way, bawling in senseless fright at that small, winking flame. The others followed suit blindly, splitting around Brian. He was an island in a sea of sweaty bodies and tossing horns. The light flickered, seemed to die. He saw a heifer racing right at him. Desperately he cupped his hands about the match. The flame flared again. The heifer threw her head back to bawl and almost lost her feet turning aside in the last instant.

  If it had been a Double Bit gather, he would never have lasted it out. But the very meagerness of Sandoval’s outfit saved him. It seemed an eternity. It seemed a second. Finally they were gone, leaving him standing above Pa, unable to tell whether the earth was still trembling beneath
him, or whether he was shaking in reaction. The match burned his fingers and he threw it from him. Its light winked out and left the blackness of night.

  CHAPTER 11

  It was near evening of the next day that they got back to Sandoval’s ranch. Asa and Cameron rode with Pa between them and Brian brought up the rear. They couldn’t have gotten a wagon out to the Rabbit Sink Country, so they had been forced to bring Pa back on his horse. It had been a cruel ride for him, and he was half-delirious in the saddle.

  Estelle was the first to come from the house, staring blankly at the little group of alkali-covered riders, then breaking forward with a sharp cry. Brian dismounted and helped Cameron ease the elder Gillette out of his saddle. Pa opened fever-rimmed eyes as Estelle reached him, suppressed hysteria in her pale face.

  “It’s all right, daughter,” he said feebly. “Little gunshot wound ain’t going to hurt me after what we went through. Brian saved my life. He’s a real Sheridan all right. Nobody’d ever believe that story about his pa. He proved it. Just a match like that. Just a little match—”

  He winced and sagged forward against Sheridan. With a small sob, Estelle turned and helped them half carry him toward the house. It was then that Brian noticed the two dusty horses at the door, and the pair of men who had followed Estelle.

  Morton Forge was a thick-muscled man in a linseywoolsey coat and brush-scarred leggings of rawhide, the ruddy hue of a perpetually sunburned face glowing faintly through a gray mask of alkali. Ring Partridge was smaller, his narrow shoulders stooped in their horsehide vest, his sun-squinted eyes smoldering with an old hatred. Last year Wolffe had foreclosed on the long-overdue notes of both these men. Seeing the unveiled hostility in their faces, Brian knew an impulse to try and explain how little contact he’d had with the business of the Double Bit. Then he shrugged it away, knowing how useless apology was now.

  “I never thought I’d see you riding with Salt River,” Partridge said acidly.

  Forge put a rope-gnarled hand on Partridge’s arm. “Never mind, Ring. What happened out there, Brian?”

  “Somebody’s put bobwire around Rabbit Sink,” Brian said. “When we tried to drive the beef through, they started shooting. The cattle scattered out into the badlands north of the sink. Sandoval’s out there trying to round them up.”

  “What now?” Partridge asked.

  “I’m riding for the doctor.”

  “Doc Manning is Tarrant’s cousin.”

  “What’s the difference? He’ll come.”

  “Sure he will,” Forge said. “He’s decent enough. But that won’t keep him from talking. It’ll bust the Salt Rivers for good if it gets around that Pa Gillette’s wounded this bad. Pa was all that held us together.”

  “It was bad enough when you foreclosed on him,” Partridge said. “A lot of borderline men thought we were finished. They hopped right over to Tarrant.”

  Forge nodded. “Tarrant’s working like hell to get enough signatures on that recall petition. But he hasn’t got fifty-one per cent yet. If we can only hang on till Mayor Prince gets the franchise voted through, we’ll be safe.”

  Brian saw the wisdom in their talk. If it got out that Pa was hit this bad, men like Sid Bouley and Wirt Peters would go over to Tarrant immediately. Maybe Bouley had already gone over, by the looks of the wire around Rabbit Sink.

  Asa came to the door. The boy’s eyes were like holes burned through the dust-caked mask of his gaunt face.

  “Sandoval’s wife got the bullet out,” he said.

  “How’s the wound?” Brian asked.

  “Little swollen. The Indian woman says she can draw it out with a poultice. I think Pa’s main trouble is loss of blood. He wants to see you.”

  Brian and the other two entered the squalid mud jacal. A pot-fire flickered in one corner, a stew kettle hanging over it. Stooped over the kettle was Quita, Sandoval’s tubby Indian wife, stirring a stinking mess of piñon gum and creosote leaves that was to be the poultice for the wound. Pa Gillette lay on a pallet next to the wall, Estelle on her knees beside him.

  “I heard what you said outside,” Pa told them feebly. “Don’t ride for the doctor.”

  Brian shook his head. “I don’t feel right about it.”

  “You don’t know these Yaquis,” Pa said. “I’ve seen Quita heal men Doc Manning gave up for dead.”

  For some reason Brian looked at Estelle. She met his eyes soberly, nodding. “I trust her, Brian.”

  It decided him. “All right. Just promise me one thing. If Pa gets worse you’ll send for the doctor.”

  They all nodded in silent agreement. Brian turned and went outside. Now that it was over, reaction began to set in. His exhaustion struck him like a blow and he felt sick and began to tremble. Forge and Partridge followed him out.

  “I’ll be going back to help Sandoval with those cattle,” Brian said. “Why don’t you come along?”

  “With you?” Partridge’s voice was sarcastic.

  “It’s not for me,” Brian said angrily. “It’s for Sandoval.”

  “We ain’t got any beef in the herd,” Partridge said.

  “You’re still with the Salt Rivers, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then do it for them. If Tarrant stops Sandoval from this drive you might as well give up.”

  Forge frowned at the smaller man, scratching thoughtfully at his ruddy face. “Boy’s right, Ring,” Forge said. “Sandoval’s about our last hope.”

  Brian heard a stir in the doorway and turned to see that Estelle had been standing there, a cup in her hand. “You can’t go now,” she said. “You’d pass out.”

  He smiled wearily. “You’re right. How about first thing in the morning?”

  Forge nodded. Partridge did not react. He stared at Brian a moment, the suspicion deepening weather-tracks around his narrow eyes. Then both he and Forge turned and headed for their horses, hitched at the corral. Silently Brian watched till the men reached the animals. They stood by the horses a moment, talking; then they began to unsaddle. Brian turned to see Estelle smiling at him. He returned the smile and she held the cup of steaming coffee out.

  “Quita’s getting up a plate of food, too,” she said. She was silent, watching as he drank. Then she said, “Brian … how can I thank you?”

  He looked at her, remembering when their whole relationship had been a gay, bantering duel. He had never been able to penetrate her defenses, verbally or otherwise. But now a change had come. Her face held a different expression from any he’d ever seen before; it was soft, accepting. There were no defenses to penetrate. A short time ago he would have pressed his advantage.

  He handed the cup back. “One of those things, Estelle. Pa would have done the same thing for me.”

  Her breathing lifted her breasts. They formed a round, high shape against the dress. It made him suddenly conscious of her whole body. Summer corn and fresh-baked bread and a sweet spring wind. The blood thickened in his throat.

  She saw the change in his face and moistened her lips. “Brian—”

  He waited expectantly. She did not continue. Her body seemed to settle, to move away from him. Her cheeks were flushed and her tawny eyes had grown veiled.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Nothing.” She put her hands together and looked down at them. “If you’re going in the morning you’d better get some rest.”

  “Yeah. I guess I had.”

  She raised her eyes to him for a last time. Then she turned and went into the house. He waited a moment, finally began walking toward the bear-grass huts down by the river. He had gone all the way before he remembered that Estelle had said Quita was getting a plate of food for him. He stopped by the door, eyes closed with exhaustion. Morton Forge came from inside.

  “We stowed our gear in there for tonight,” he said. “You going to eat?”

 
; Brian shook his head dully. “Tell Quita I’m too tired. You take my plate.”

  Forge nodded. Partridge joined him and they went toward the main house. Brian stumbled inside. Estelle was still in his mind. He wanted to think about something. He was too tired. He knew he could think about it if he wasn’t so tired. It was about Estelle. Something about Estelle. He rolled into a bunk without even bothering to undress. He went to sleep before he thought to pull a cover up.

  * * * *

  They rose next morning just after dawn. Quita was already up, making their coffee, heating their tortillas and beans. They ate hurriedly, shivering and groggy in the early chill. Then they rode—Brian and Partridge and Forge and the two Gillette brothers.

  It was a grueling ride, through the hottest part of the day. Sandoval had set up a half-faced camp on the rim of the badlands a few miles north of Rabbit Sink. The men reached it near evening, faces alkali-whitened masks, clothes turned to a clammy paste by sweat and dust. There was an ocotillo corral jammed into a box-end gully, holding a pitiful handful of the Yaqui’s cattle. Pancho stood guard on the ridge, a sleepy, cat-nervous sentry with an old Sharp’s buffalo gun loaded and cocked in the crook of one arm. He told them Sandoval was still back in the badlands gathering the stampeded cattle. Quita had sent coffee with them and they made a pot and sat around the juniper fire drinking it, bitter and black, while the sun went down. In the following darkness Sandoval and Juan returned with a dozen more mangy head of beef. They drove the cattle into the corral and then swung off their briny horses. Exhaustion and defeat seemed to deepen the gaunt hollows in the Yaqui’s primitive face.