Rawhide Robinson Rides a Dromedary

by Rod Miller

  “—Now hold on there, Sergeant,” Rawhide Robinson said, interrupting the coming tirade. “The way I see it, we can turn this situation to our favor. Ensign Ian here—”

  “—Lieutenant—”

  “—is about as well-schooled and smooth as they come, despite his tender years. If we send him to town this evening to hobnob with the mayor, I suspect we can stir up a celebration of sorts. Why, when we was in Jamaica, that girl Hurry had folks lined up for a look at these camels. People here in San Antonio ain’t so much different.”

  “Hmmmph!” O’Donnell said. “One look at them ugly animals will scare the pants off children, cause women to faint dead away, and make brave men cross the street. That’s if the smell don’t scare ’em away first. And there ain’t no need to remind you eejits what the dogs and horses and mules will do—sir.”

  “Granted, we have had some difficulties,” Major Wayne said. “Be that as it may, I believe Mister Robinson is on to something here. Lieutenant, would you be willing to engage in a diplomatic mission of sorts on our behalf?”

  “Certainly, sir,” said the energetic and ever accommodating young officer.

  “Robinson, you go with him as you know the lay of the land here. And take Hurry with you, if you will. I believe the presence of a young lady—a child, really—will work to our benefit.”

  Rawhide Robinson smiled (as did the lieutenant). “That girl will jump at the chance. Once I tell her San Antonio women whip up the tastiest tamales in all the earth we won’t be able to hold her back with a camel halter.”

  The camel ambassadors sneaked back into camp in the middle of the night so as not to wake their comrades, confident in the success of the mission. With municipal elections in the offing, the mayor of San Antonio saw the usefulness of an impromptu public spectacle—with himself at the head of the parade, of course. His network of supporters knocked on doors until long past bedtime, alerting business leaders and shopkeepers and civic officials to the event and eliciting their support.

  Sunrise saw patriotic bunting retrieved from storage and draped from storefronts and balconies. A dusted-off, all-purpose “Welcome to San Antonio” banner stretched across the thoroughfare the caravan would plod along through the city. By the time most of the citizens of old Bexar came awake, an air of excitement was already in the air.

  As the city prepared itself for the camels, the dromedary hostlers prepared the camels for the city. Currycombs and brushes cleared the animals of trail dust, the handlers straightened cinches, untangled halters and lead ropes, tidied up packsaddles, and otherwise prepared the camels for public display. Ornery Ibrahim even unpacked his exotic finery and polished himself and Tulu and his tack until all fairly sparkled.

  After reveille, a disinclined Sergeant Donald O’Donnell supervised similar preparation of cavalry mounts, prodding his even-more-reluctant charges to do their duty. Orders, after all, are orders. “Boots and Saddles” sounded on the bugle and the buffed and beautified troopers mounted up and formed ranks to lead the way.

  Rawhide Robinson, Major Benjamin Wayne, Lieutenant (formerly Ensign) Ian Scott, Happy Harry, and ornery Ibrahim lined out the caravan, climbed aboard their camels, signaled them to stand and fell in behind the mounted troopers. Hurry opted to walk behind the towering Tulu and beside Okyanus, bringing up the rear of the procession.

  By the time they reached the city, word had spread and onlookers lined the road into town. Houston Street led the parade to Alamo Plaza, where every Texan in the cavalcade—or camelcade, if you will—tipped his hat to the shrine, and none with more panache than Rawhide Robinson. Some cheering from the crowds welcomed the caravan, but jeers and sneers were more the order of the day.

  Giggles and guffaws greeted the dromedaries. As was the custom, dogs barked and chickens squawked and quit the country. Horses and mules tested their tethers, wanting nothing more than to run away from the freakish and fiendish animals causing the mess and muddle.

  Fascinated children, however, ignored importunate parents, trotting along in the wake of the captivating camels, raising more dust than the dromedaries.

  The camels did not care. They plodded across the bridge over the San Antonio River and along Commerce Street, paying scant attention to any of it. A pack of police officers held back the crowds as the parade passed under the “Welcome” banner into the Main Plaza, past San Fernando Cathedral and into the Military Plaza where doyen and hoi polloi alike awaited them. The mayor stood atop a cobbled-together podium, applauding the arrival of the procession. His attempts at speechifying, however, failed, lost among the raucous taunts and mockery, the riotous hoots and hectoring.

  The troopers divided to take their places along the edge of the crowd to discourage curiosity seekers from getting too close to the camels. The soldiers’ casual attitudes, mocking smiles, and insolent sneers revealed sensibilities similar to those of the citizenry.

  The caravan halted, lined up across the center of the plaza. Rawhide Robinson and the other riders ordered their dromedaries to their knees and dismounted, and the remaining camels squatted like slow-motion dominoes as the handlers passed down the line signaling their repose.

  The simple spectacle aroused the curiosity of the crowd and calm—of a festive kind—fell across the plaza like a fuzzy blanket. Major Wayne climbed atop the mayor’s podium and offered up a short speech about the army’s intentions for the ships of the desert under his command. His arms tired from repeatedly raising them to tamp down the jeers and raspberries, the scorn and catcalls. The man was, to put it mildly, desperate.

  And desperate times call for desperate measures.

  So he said, in his most commanding voice, “Let me introduce one of your own—a fellow Texan, a cowboy, and a convert to the cause of camels. Listen, if you will, ladies and gentlemen, to Rawhide Robinson!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  * * *

  Rawhide Robinson’s teeth rattled when his lower jaw hit the ground, sending up a puff of Military Plaza dust. He reeled in his chin and reset his chops, struggling to catch his breath as he made his way to the podium.

  He could not fathom, could not imagine, could not understand, Major Wayne’s unexpected invitation to address the assemblage.

  “M-M-M-Major!” was all he could manage to mouth upon meeting the military man on the platform.

  “Robinson!” came the hushed but urgent reply. “Say something to these people!”

  “Say what!? I don’t know nothin’ about public speaking!”

  “They are not listening to me. Maybe they’ll pay attention to you.”

  The cowboy swallowed a lump the size of a saddle horn that had somehow settled in his throat. “What am I supposed to say?”

  “Tell them what you’ve learned about camels. That should do the trick. Now, get over there and get to it!”

  The crowd quieted when the cowboy sidled up to the lectern as if it were a bad-tempered bronc. He cleared his throat as he eyeballed the multitude lining the plaza.

  He lifted his thirteen-gallon lid and wiped perspiration from his forehead with the swipe of a shirtsleeve, tucked back his forelock and reset the hat.

  He cleared his throat.

  He studied the toes of his boots as if inspiration resided there.

  He cleared his throat.

  He tugged at the lapels of his vest and hitched up his britches.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Folks,” he finally squeaked.

  He cleared his throat.

  “My name is Rawhide Robinson. But my name ain’t nothin’ extra. An ordinary cowboy is what I am. But after punchin’ cows all over Texas and beyond, and trailing more herds north than I can count on all my fingers and toes, and being horseback almost as long as I’ve been breathing, I reckon I’ve learned a thing or three about critters.”

  The crowd remained quiet, straining to hear Rawhide Robinson’s words.

  He cleared his throat.

  “I ain’t accustomed to speechifyin’ so I hop
e you-all will cut me some slack. For months now, I’ve been a-babysittin’ these here camels. I’ll grant you that they are funny lookin’ critters. Their necks is too long and wobbly. Their legs is too long and limber. They stink worse than a goat and darn near as bad as a sheep.”

  Scattered jeers arose in the crowd—apparently there were mutton conductors present, or perhaps wool merchants.

  Rawhide Robinson raised a hand for quiet. He cleared his throat.

  “They’ve got more hinges in their legs than all the saloon doors in San Antone. Then there’s that hump they pack around on their backs. There ain’t no doubt about it—these camels are as odd as a two-gun man at a tea party.”

  He waited for a smattering of applause to subside.

  “All that aside, I’m here to tell you these camels have their finer points. Let me tell you-all a little story.”

  Rawhide Robinson removed his hat and held it reverently in front of his chest.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Whilst we plied the high seas on the way home from this recent camel excursion to far ports of call, of which I was a part, we encountered a terrible storm. Waves battered our boat—ship, I should say—so bad it near reduced the USS Cordwood to kindling. The wind ripped our sails to flinders and we floundered out there in the middle of the ocean, like bein’ on a bucking bronc having lost your reins and blown your stirrups. There ain’t nothin’ you can do but pull leather and hope to ride it out.”

  The crowd, by now, was enthralled. Major Wayne, the erstwhile Ensign Ian, the girl Hurry, Happy Harry, and even the ornery Ibrahim (who could catch only the occasional word) were likewise riveted, hearing, for the first time, about an incident which must have included them but of which they had no memory; an event, in fact, that was as new to them as it was to the assembled citizens of San Antonio.

  “Having no sails to catch the wind, nor no canvas to hang more, that ship and all us on board was at the mercy of the angry sea. Them camels,” the cowboy chronicler continued as he pointed at the animals reposed on the plaza contentedly chewing their cuds, “these very ones right here before you, did not fear. They did not quaver. They did not panic at the hopelessness of our situation. No, my friends, these camels cowboyed up and saved the day—or night, as it were.”

  Had they been seated, the crowd would have been on the edges of their seats with anticipation. The cowboy’s camel-caretaker companions, meanwhile, were both confused and captivated.

  “Here’s what happened. Lacking any cloth or canvas to replace the ship’s shredded sails, the camels shed their hair. Now, you folks may not know it, but back where these camels come from they are often shorn like sheep and their hair woven into fabric. And that’s exactly what these shipboard camels accomplished, that fearsome storm notwithstanding.

  “No one saw the whole thing, but I saw enough to draw some conclusions. Like as I said, the camels shed their hair, so each one was surrounded by a pile of fiber. Then each one proceeded to paw at the pile, rolling and twisting and spinning all that hair into wads then ropes then twines then threads, as slick as a spinster at a spinning wheel.”

  The revelation prompted heckles and hectoring, hoots and whistles from the skeptical crowd. The cowboy pressed on.

  “Now, folks, I know it sounds unlikely—but I’m telling you what I seen, as sure as a fiddle tune’ll make your feet fly. Once all that dromedary fur was spun into thread, them camels passed them threads up and down the line and back and forth, using the prehensile lips at the tip of their proboscis to push and pull it along, weaving up a warm, fuzzy, giant-size blanket-looking affair.”

  Again, the listeners expressed disbelief via various vocalizations.

  Again, Rawhide Robinson the raconteur pressed on.

  “Don’t get me wrong—it wasn’t fancy and the fact is it was right rough looking. And what them camels wove wasn’t a blanket at all.”

  Rawhide Robinson looked around the plaza, basking in the attention of the audience. He reckoned that in all his years of spinning windies, this was far and away the largest assemblage of spectators he had ever had the pleasure of regaling.

  As he watched and waited, his listeners, as he expected, became anxious and edgy awaiting the continuation of the tale. Once anticipation reached a fevered pitch, and encouragements to continue became cacophonous, he carried on.

  “No, folks, what them beasts had whipped up was a sail! Like as I said, it wasn’t pretty. And it certainly wouldn’t pass muster should there be an inspection by an admiral or some other high-ranking naval officer. But it served its purpose. Them sailors on that ship hauled that sail aloft, lashed it to the yards and got their clew lines, bunt lines, halyard, and lifts all in order. When good ol’ Captain Howard Clemmons saw the wind fill that sail, he grinned like a calf with a mouthful of mama. That sail wasn’t perfect by any means, but it gave the captain enough control over the good ol’ USS Cordwood that the ship rode out the storm.”

  Again, derision and disbelief flowed from the told toward the teller with all the force of an Atlantic gale. Rawhide Robinson raised his hand for quiet.

  “Folks, you can see I’m a-standin’ here in fine fettle. You can see Major Wayne and all the rest of us as was on that ship—including all these camels you can see here. Now, ain’t that so?”

  The crowd could not help but agree.

  “So, you see—it’s like I said. Otherwise, we’d have not survived that storm.”

  A rustle among the dignitaries behind Rawhide Robinson on the podium diverted attention. It was the mayor’s wife, striding across the platform with a purpose, hiking her voluminous skirts with both hands.

  “Mister Robinson,” she said (in a voice that no doubt awakened those lazing about in the shade of the sacred walls of the Alamo, more than half a mile away). “I intend to challenge what you say!”

  “How’s that, ma’am?”

  “I am not unfamiliar with the home arts. As a matter of fact, spinning and weaving and knitting and other such domestic crafts are among the interests that occupy my time. I shall test your contention concerning camel hair. Clip some of these curious creatures and afford me the fur, and I shall clean it, card it, spin it into yarn, and knit my husband the mayor a pair of socks! If, that is, your claim has any veracity whatsoever!”

  Rawhide Robinson hemmed and hawed. He stuttered and stammered. He feared he had talked himself into a trap from which there was no escape.

  He felt a tug on his sleeve. Hurry beckoned him to bend with a wagging finger. She whispered something pleasing into his ear. He stood tall, seated his thirteen-gallon hat atop his head with a firm tug, smiled at madam mayor and said, “As you wish. You go on along with this girl, Hurry, and she’ll shear a camel for you.”

  “That I shall do!” she said with enthusiasm, then whispered to the cowboy, “But I shall not hurry—frankly, my feet are killing me from all this standing!”

  Before Rawhide Robinson could correct her misapprehension concerning the girl and her moniker, Hurry spirited madam mayor away. (In the course of time the mayor’s wife did, in fact, knit a pair of camel hair socks for Hizzoner, which she demanded he wear regularly despite his complaints concerning their comfort—or lack thereof.)

  The calm and quiet crowd watched Hurry lead the mayor’s wife down the line of camels, and eyed the beasts with even more curiosity than before. Then a heckler in the crowd hollered, “So what’s the army gonna do with them camels, set ’em to knittin’ uniforms?”

  When the laughter subsided, Rawhide Robinson said, “No, sir—as Major Wayne told you-all, these camels will be used as pack animals.”

  “What’s them skinny, spindly legged critters gonna pack, popcorn around a circus tent?”

  Again, the jokester’s jibe elicited laughter in the crowd. Rawhide Robinson surveyed the assemblage and saw, away off at the edge of the plaza, parked on Market Street, a mounted man with a leg wrapped around the horn of his Mexican saddle, taking in all the excitement. Tied head-to-tail behind
were three mules, heads hanging, hips cocked, dozing in the warm sun.

  “You there,” Rawhide Robinson yelled. “You with the desert canaries!”

  The packer perked up and acknowledged the cowboy with a wave.

  “Ride on over here with them knobheads, if you will.”

  “Well, I won’t,” came the reply. “I ain’t gettin’ my mules no closer to them circus animals. They’ll likely pitch a fit if’n I do.”

  “Aw, c’mon! These camels won’t hurt a thing. And I’m willing to wager that any one of these critters can carry everything you got loaded on all three of them Arizona nightingales.”

  Never one to turn down a sure bet, the mule man led his pack train into the plaza and, as he predicted, the mules protested. They bellered and brayed, hung back on their halters, and one of them bucked—as much, that is, as its load would allow. As the audience tittered and tee-heed at the spectacle, the packer hauled the mules back into line, halted before the platform and looked up at Rawhide Robinson.

  “The packs from all three mules? On one camel?”

  “That’s the deal.”

  “Which camel?”

  “Well, sir, I reckon you can take your pick. All except Okyanus—that baby down yonder—or the big one we call Tulu. That wouldn’t be fair neither way.”

  The mule man studied the herd and picked a likely looking prospect—a skinny, small-to-middling-size camel with a shaggy hump and lazy eyes. Happy Harry clucked and whistled and led it up, and Rawhide Robinson stepped off the podium to help him adjust the cinches. Harry signaled the camel to squat.

  “What you got in them packs, anyway?” Rawhide Robinson asked.

  “Canned goods, bound for Chihuahua. They’re heavier’n they look. Them mules is packin’ right around 200 pounds apiece give or take. You might’a jist bit off more’n you can chew, cowboy.”

  “Oh, horse apples!”

  The crowd huddled closer as the men transferred the packs from the mules into the commodious panniers hanging from the camel’s pack saddle. As they hustled and bustled, the camel chewed its cud, nodding off occasionally, and casting a backward glance now and then to see what his handlers were up to, although he did not seem to care overmuch.