by Rod Miller
“You sure ’bout this?” the packer said. “That load’s likely to bust that beast’s back.”
On Happy Harry’s signal, the camel awkwardly unfolded itself as camels do and stood, as if the 600-pound load on its back was no more an irritant than a fly. The camel spread its legs, ducked its head and gave it a shake, rattling the cans in the packs, slapping straps and flaps, and raising a right ruckus.
The crowd, having caught its collective breath after the tension of awaiting the test, burst into applause.
“Yeah, but can he walk with it?” said the mule man.
Happy Harry clucked and whistled and led the camel around the plaza, applause accompanying the trip like a wave through the spectators.
“Well, mister, I guess you lost that wager,” Rawhide Robinson said.
“Looks as if. By the way, what’d we bet?”
Rawhide Robinson furrowed his forehead and kneaded his chin. “Airtights in them packs, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“Got any cans of peaches?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll take one.”
“You got it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
* * *
Hurry hurled herself like a cannonball.
At full speed, her head wedged between the man’s ankles. She grabbed his heels as her shoulders hit his shins. Her target toppled, his head hitting the hard Camp Verde earth, knocking him senseless. The girl leaped to her feet, fists clenched, and stood over the fallen muleteer. Cavalry troopers and packers gathered round, and Hurry spun slowly, challenging the threatening men with a piercing stare and cocked paws.
“Och!” Sergeant Donald O’Donnell said as he shoved men aside and stepped into the circle, joining the recumbent packer, the girl, and an unconcerned camel. “Faith n’ begorrah! Why’s this fella horizontal?”
“It’s that Arab girl!” a mule man said. “She attacked him!”
The gathered men agreed with gripes and grouses, some going so far as to threaten the girl. The sergeant grabbed Hurry’s arm and spun her around to face him.
“That so, girl?”
Hurry jerked her arm but could not free herself. A swift kick in the shin loosened her captor’s grip and she jerked free.
“Why! You! Little!”—
Major Wayne interrupted the sergeant as he reached again and again for the darting girl. “Sergeant O’Donnell! Hold it right there!” He elbowed and shouldered his way through the crowd with Rawhide Robinson and Lieutenant Scott in his wake.
The newcomers surveyed the situation. Hurry sidled over to stand between the cowboy and the lieutenant. The man on the ground stirred, sat up, and shook his head until his lips rattled. “What happened?” he said, looking around with empty eyes.
“That’s a good question,” Major Wayne said.
O’Donnell stepped forward. “These men here say that girl there, she assaulted him. Sir.”
A chorus of murmuring and mumbling seconded the motion.
“Is that right?” the major asked the still-sitting victim.
“Don’t rightly know. Last thing I recollect was tryin’ to teach that there camel some manners.”
“Ha! He was beating the camel!” Hurry said. “I saw it!”
“Darn right I was! That ugly varmint wouldn’t do one blamed thing I wanted him to!”
“Why should he? You mistreat him!”
The packer struggled to his feet and shook a forefinger in the girl’s face. “Me!? Mistreat him!? That camel took to flingin’ his head and slingin’ stinkin’ slobber all over me!”
“It is no wonder! Camels are—how do you say it?—sensitive. If you do not respect them, they will not cooperate. You cannot abuse a camel and expect him to work,” Hurry said, now shaking her forefinger in his face.
He snatched her by the wrist.
Rawhide Robinson grabbed the man’s ear and gave it a twist. “Unhand the girl,” he said through gritted teeth. Lieutenant Scott took Hurry by the arm and drew her away from the man.
The cowboy said, “So, what Hurry says is so, is it? You been a-beatin’ this here camel?”
The man nodded his head as much as his pinioned ear would allow.
The cowboy gave the appendage another tweak. “Sounds like it’s you as needs to learn some manners,” he said as he shoved the man’s head aside.
With a vigorous rub of his embarrassed ear, the muleteer said, “I’m a mule man. I never signed on to handle no monsters.”
“Need I remind you, mister, that you are in the employ of the United States Army as a packer. Whether with mules, horses, camels, or your own shoulders, your job is to move supplies where and when ordered,” Major Wayne said. “If learning to work with these animals is not to your liking, you can draw your pay any time. Good luck finding future employment with the army if you do.”
“But these camels won’t do as they’re told!”
Rawhide Robinson said, “Now listen you here, mulero. Not so long ago I never seen a camel myself. Like you, I thought it was a crazy notion to use these critters. But I learned better. This girl Hurry, here, is right. You’ve got to take a firm but gentle hand with the camels. You pay attention to what she teaches you—”
“—I ain’t takin’ no lessons from no slip of a girl like her!”
Major Wayne said, “Yes, you are. You will. Or you will be gone.”
Rawhide Robinson said, “Like as I said, you pay attention to what Hurry teaches you—or Happy Harry, or Ibrahim, or Ensign—Lieutenant—Ian, or me for that matter—and you’ll learn a thing or three. And one of them things is that these camels will outwork them mules you’re so all-fired fond of six ways to Sunday.”
“Pshaw! I heard about your little trick in San Antonio. But we’ll see what happens when them camels gits out on the trail. I’m bettin’ mules’ll walk those monstrosities’ legs right off!”
Again, the assemblage of muleteers and their cohorts in army uniforms muttered concurrence.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Major Wayne said. “In two days’ time, an expedition will leave Camp Verde with a caravan of ten camels and a string of twenty mules and travel to Fort Stockton. There, we will outfit the pack animals to carry supplies and equipment to accompany a topographical and mapping excursion into the big bend region of the Rio Grande.
“You men choose your best mules and packers. Mister Robinson, Harry, Hurry, and Ibrahim will handle the camels under command of Lieutenant Scott. As it happens, many in the War Department in Washington remain skeptical of the suitability of camels. So, the topographical mission will serve as a test—a direct comparison of their capabilities vis-à-vis mules in harsh field conditions and difficult terrain.”
Instead of grumbling, the major’s announcement elicited applause and hurrahs.
Tragedy arrived the first day on the trail from Camp Verde to Fort Stockton. A rattlesnake launched itself out of the scrub to strike the leg of the camel Rawhide Robinson was riding. Upset while dozing in the shade of a pile of rocks beside the trail, the snake coiled up and rattled, putting the mules into a panic. As they brayed and bucked, jumped and jerked in fear, the camels plodded on, unaware of the danger. The rattler clung to the camel’s leg by its fangs for a moment then dropped away. As it hit the ground, a bullet from Rawhide Robinson’s revolver rendered it lifeless.
The caravan halted and deliberated what to do, there being no experience with snakebit camels extant. The cowboy opened up his pocket knife and applied the accepted treatment, slicing across the fang marks, then making another cut to create an “X” so the flowing blood would flush out the poison.
A helpful mulero suggested shooting the camel. “A rattler bit a mule of mine on the muzzle one time and killed him dead,” he said. “His nose holes swelled shut and he got to where he couldn’t breathe no more. Might as well shoot the camel right now—save him the misery.”
Rawhide Robinson considered the suggestion, knowing of similar situations with horses in the p
ast. “Maybe so. I’ve seen that with horses bit on the nose. But I’ve seen horses bit on the leg that pulled through—leg swelled up and had a nasty sore that took a long time to heal, but they lived.” He lifted his thirteen-gallon hat and scratched his head, then reset it with a purpose. “Nope. This camel acts like there ain’t nothing happened. Let’s douse that cut with whiskey, wrap a bandage around it and go on.”
And so they did. Much to everyone’s surprise, the camel showed no effects—ill or otherwise—from its encounter with the rattlesnake and plodded on toward Fort Stockton.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
* * *
The usual hubbub ensued upon the caravan’s arrival at Fort Stockton.
Cavalry horses bolted at the sight and smell of the camels. Sheep stampeded. Cattle decamped. Soldiers mocked and taunted, jested and jeered, teased and needled.
And, as usual, the camels chewed their cuds and paid little attention to the hullabaloo. The long days on the trail had not tired the camels or the mules. With water readily available, good grass along the way, light loads, and a layover at Camp Hudson, the trip to date offered little opportunity to test or compare the worth of the pack animals.
All that was about to change.
Lieutenant Scott, Rawhide Robinson, and Happy Harry huddled with the officers at Fort Stockton to plan the expedition. The land southward into the big bend of the Rio Grande was unmapped and—to the United States Army, at least—largely unknown.
Likewise, the capabilities of the camels were untested, and no one, save those who handled the caravan, had any confidence in their ability to perform. The army officers questioned their ability to carry the kind of loads the handlers claimed. They doubted the dromedaries’ capacity to withstand the rigors of rough country.
Lieutenant Scott did his utmost to reassure the officers, quoting facts and figures, statistics and history, accomplishments and achievements of the animals in their homelands. Rawhide Robinson related his experiences. Happy Harry offered up his impressive résumé and involvement with camel caravans. Hurry, lurking on the outskirts of every meeting, only laughed at the ill-informed and ignorant Americans.
And, of course, the muleros made every attempt to undermine the ability of the camels and voice their dissatisfaction at sharing the trail with animals God surely created as a joke on mankind. The presence of Hurry in the company also created a point of contention. But Lieutenant Scott had come to admire and respect the girl and was firm in his decision to include her. He further upset mule packers and cavalry troopers alike with his contention that her pluck and animal sense made her more valuable than any three of them.
Plans and preparations proceeded despite debate and disputation. The topographers required considerable equipment. Scant but sufficient rations for the men—the mapmakers, the cavalry escort, the packers—and one unwelcome girl—must be carried along as the availability of game and other provender was questionable. Camp equipment represented a considerable load. The assumption was that forage for the mules and camels would be adequate in the wild.
Water was the unanswered question. Where and when would they find it? Could they count on found water to be potable? How much must they carry? Could they carry that much? How?
Happy Harry worked with the Fort Stockton smithies to fashion iron hoops linked by a vertical bar to narrow shelf that would accommodate a twenty-gallon keg and hang from the packsaddles of his camels. He assured army skeptics that the camels could easily carry four kegs apiece, or two kegs each as part of a larger load.
The army officers wondered if the camels could actually carry such a load over the long haul—after all, each keg would weigh in at more than one hundred and sixty pounds. Happy Harry assured them it could be done. Hurry pointed out that were it not for thirsty mules needing two or more gallons of water a day, it would not be necessary to haul so much of the heavy liquid. She tweaked the mule men even more with the suggestion that the mules be required to carry their own water—a chore clearly beyond the long-eared hybrids’ abilities for an extended period.
The journey into the West Texas desert proved every bit as trying as anticipated and, at times, even more so. Craggy trails, arduous elevations, declivitous canyons, capacious playas, sand and alkali, dust and brush all conspired against success.
As expected, adequate water proved a problem. People were frequently parched. Mules were often lop-eared from thirst. And while the camels tolerated the paucity of water with relative ease, they, too, at times suffered.
The end of one particularly dismal day found the expedition stranded on a broad alkali playa. The last water harvested was running low, and was so sulfurous and putrid it was hardly palatable. Canteens could barely raise a slosh. Most kegs were empty and supplies in the others skimpy. The men were limited to a cup apiece, enough for a few swallows of acrid coffee boiled over flimsy flames from the final fragments of firewood found in the packs.
The situation was made worse when a hobbled mule, overwhelmed by thirst and unable to resist the allure of the water kegs, humped and hopped his way over to one and worked out the bung with his teeth. The dehydrated donkey offspring attempted to lap up what spilled water he could before it disappeared into the thirsty dirt, then rolled the barrel over with a nudge of his nose to dump more. Other mules, of course, smelled the spill and fought and jostled for a lick of the liquid and went at the other barrels.
By the time anyone among the two-legged thirsters was aware of the situation, it was too late. The water supply was thus further diminished, further depressing the disposition of the men.
“Aw, shucks, this ain’t so bad,” Rawhide Robinson said in an attempt to lighten the mood.
“Not so bad? What do you mean?” asked a topographer.
“You’re saying it could be worse?” said a trooper.
“How could that be?” wondered a mulero.
“You mean to say you’ve seen straits more dire?” said Lieutenant Scott.
“Why, sure I have, Ensign Ian.”
“It’s lieutenant. I guess we had better hear about it.”
“Well, there was this one time,” Rawhide Robinson said, launching yet another tale of his extraordinary exploits, “that I was a line rider for this ranch out in the Arizona desert—‘Arizona’ and ‘desert’ being redundant, as anyone familiar with that country can attest. It gets so hot on them long summer afternoons there ain’t nothin’ to be done but shade up somewhere and have a siesta.”
“Hold on a minute, Mister Rawhide,” Happy Harry said. “Is this the story of the magic armadillo I have heard before?”
“Oh, no! That was down south in the Territory. This was on a ranch up north and west of there. Anyway, this one day I was away out in all that emptiness looking for lonesome bovines when this jug-headed red roan-colored last-year’s bronc I was riding tripped over a stone no bigger than a biscuit. He staggered and stumbled around some trying to regain his feet and in doing so bowed a tendon.
“Now, as any of you-all as has dealt with horses knows—even mules, come to that—a bowed tendon is serious business. His leg puffed up in a matter of minutes and it was clear we wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. We was miles from water, more miles from the line shack, and even more miles from the home ranch.
“I knowed that trying to walk out of there in the heat of the day was a fool’s errand. So I settled in under what little shade that horse cast—there being nothing else upright anywhere in sight—to wait till the cool of night to see if I could lead him on home on the limp. Now, this was along about noontime and the day wasn’t going to get anything but hotter. I hadn’t but one little ol’ canteen half full of water and I used that up rubbing down that horse’s sore leg, trying to cool it off some to take down the swelling.
“Now, that would seem a silly thing to do to some, I suppose, but if a man’s any kind of cowboy, he always looks out for his horse’s well-being before he worries about his own. It’s The Cowboy Way is what it is. See, when you make your liv
ing in the saddle—”
“Hush up with the philosophizin’ and tell the story,” an anxious audience member advised.
“Yeah! Get on with it!” urged another.
“Oh, hold your horses. It ain’t like you got anywhere else to be as of now.” Rawhide Robinson sipped a tiny sip of his coffee before continuing—little more than a sniff, really, in an effort at conservation.
“Anyway, it got so hot that afternoon I could hear my brain bubblin’ and boilin’ under my hat. That horse sweated himself dry and I did the same. It was a hard job even to breathe, the air bein’ so all-fired hot it scorched goin’ in and still burned goin’ back out.
“Late in the afternoon I noticed the buzzards showing up. I don’t know how them carrion crunchers do it, but they somehow know what’s on the menu before it even gives up the ghost. Must be a turkey vulture telegraph or some such thing in operation. So I sits there and watches them buzzards circle and circle and circle and circle around up in the sky. I swear I can feel their beady little eyes on me, and hear them smackin’ their lips over the meal to come, that being me and my horse.”
“Hold on a minute!” someone said. “Birds ain’t got no lips!”
“It’s a figure of speech!” Lieutenant Scott said. “Hush up and let him finish.”
“Finished is about what I was. That sun didn’t show no sign of goin’ down and kept on burning and burning. I figured my goose was cooked—”
“Goose!? I thought they were buzzards!” someone interrupted.
“Figure of speech!” several said. “Shut up!”
Rawhide Robinson the raconteur resumed. “Then I noticed something strange. Soaring around up there in the sky was this giant buzzard. I swear, he was two, three, four times the size of them other turkey vultures. I ain’t never seen nor heard of no bird that big. He must have been the boss buzzard, too, as him showing up cleared them other vultures right out of there.”
