by Rod Miller
“Bosh!” a cavalry trooper said. “There ain’t no birds like that!”
“I’m telling you I seen it,” Rawhide Robinson said. “Sure as I’m sitting here. That bird’s wings spread wider than the antlers on any three side-by-side longhorn steers I ever seen. And I’ve seen lots of cattle in my time—but never a bird like that. By-the-bye, I found out later that particular breed of bird is called a condor. You can look it up.”
“Nonsense!”
“Hold on a minute,” Ensign—Lieutenant—“Encyclopedia”—Ian Scott advised. “He’s right. The California condor is the largest flying land bird in the western hemisphere. It is indigenous to the western coastal mountains of the United States and Mexico and the northern desert mountains of the Arizona Territory. So, it is not impossible and, in fact, altogether likely, that Rawhide Robinson would encounter a specimen of Gymnogyps californianus in the locale in which his story is set and in the circumstances he describes.”
It took a moment for “Encyclopedia” Ian’s educational avian admonition to sink in. Once everyone absorbed the knowledge, Rawhide Robinson continued.
“So there I was, wasting away in the desert sun with that giant bird bearing down on me. He wasn’t in any hurry—his patience was as wide as his wingspan. But as he got ever closer and closer I came to appreciate his size. He was even bigger than I thought. So I come up with an idea.”
Again Rawhide Robinson paused to moisten his lips with the boiled bean brew in his tin cup.
And again, the audience voiced its impatience.
“What did you do?”
“What happened?”
“What are you waiting for?”
“Well, what I did was, I sneaked a reach up to the offside of my saddle—moving as little as possible, you see, so as not to look any more alive than necessary so that buzzard would keep coming—and unlatched my reata. I slow but sure built me a loop and sorted my coils. Then I waited. And I waited. And waited some more for the right time.
“It seemed to take forever, but the time did come.
“That bird came sweeping by on a slow, smooth glide. When he got to where he was almost overhead, I rose up from my squat and took my shot—tossed up an underhand loop and watched it slide over that buzzard’s neck as slick as a wedding band on a blushing bride’s ring finger.
“Right pronto-like, I jerked my slack, jumped aboard that jaded horse and took my dallies. That oversized turkey buzzard bogged down a bit when he hit the end of that rope, but then he took to beating them long wings of his like a woman beating a rug. He dragged us along in that desert dirt for a bit, but with a mighty flap he lifted us up into the air. We didn’t get none too high, mind you, us being as heavy as we was. But we sure as shootin’ flew.
“As we flew along behind that bird, I figured out how to rein that buzzard with my rope like it was a jerk line on a mule hitch. So, I set him on a course for the home ranch and sat back and enjoyed the ride. Don’t know how that horse felt, but I near forgot I was thirsty as I lofted along on that pleasant flight.
“That there condor was wearin’ out by the time we got to headquarters, so it wasn’t nothing to haul back on that gutline and slow him down until me and that horse set down soft as you please in the yard. I unloosed my wraps and let that buzzard fly away with my lass rope, figuring he could use it to line a nest, if for nothing else. Besides which, I couldn’t figure any way to get that loop off his throat anyway. And that’s the way it was.”
Again Rawhide Robinson sipped from his cup and observed the reaction of his audience. It appeared to be wide-eyed wonder all around, with the exception of Lieutenant Scott, Happy Harry, Ibrahim, and Hurry—all of whom had long since become accustomed to the ordinary cowboy’s extraordinary escapades.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
* * *
A copse of scraggly cottonwoods signaled the presence of water, but the arroyo along which they grew was as dry as the bones in Ezekiel’s valley. The need for water was extreme, so every member in the expedition took a turn on the business end of a short shovel or with any other implement able to scrape and scoop sand in an attempt to dig down to precious liquid.
The effort paid off, if only in pennies, when the sand moistened, saturated, and finally puddled water. Men, mules, horses, and camels visited the slow-to-fill trench in turn for refreshment. The men filled canteens and a few kegs from the paltry puddle before moving on. Hoping to find the source of the water that sometimes flowed in the channel, the expedition followed the arroyo upstream as it deepened into a ravine, then a canyon, then steep-sided gorge lined by barren mountains.
The treacherous trail took its toll—two mules lost their footing and tumbled down the slope but survived the fall and their handlers gathered the spilled packs and urged the animals back to the trail. One of Happy Harry’s camels also took a topple but it, too, suffered no harm and the water kegs it carried stayed intact, thanks to Harry’s iron rings.
Mules soon thought better of proceeding as the faint game trail reached a particularly perilous passage, and only whips and curses kept them moving, if only at a snail’s pace. The camels, too, were uncomfortable but, instead of balking, dropped to their front knees and crawled along until reaching safe footing.
Near the head of the canyon, Rawhide Robinson espied a scruffy clump of scrub oak on the hillside above the trail.
“I reckon there’ll be a spring there, or at least a seep,” he said.
The cowboy and Lieutenant Scott scurried through the scree to reach the oak brush where it concealed a narrow defile in a cliff face.
Rawhide Robinson focused his auditory faculties and said, “Hear that?”
“I hear a drip. It must open into a cave, with pooled water.”
“I do believe you’re right, Ensign Ian—”
“—Lieutenant—”
“—only thing is, this here opening is so small there ain’t none of us can get through.”
“What about Miss Hurry?”
Rawhide Robinson examined the opening, looked downslope at the girl, studied the slit, and decided she might be able to snake her way through.
Lieutenant Scott had second thoughts. “It could be dangerous. Perhaps she will find a way in, but be unable to extricate herself. And who knows what she might find in there besides water? I cannot countenance the possibility of any harm coming to Miss Hurry.”
Rawhide Robinson’s eyes twinkled and he smiled. “Why, I do believe you’re sweet on the girl.”
The young officer only blushed in reply.
“You’re right, though. It could be dangerous. We’ll leave it up to her,” the cowboy concluded.
Recognizing as well as everyone else in the expedition the ongoing need for water, Hurry was eager to give it a try. With a canteen dangling around her neck and a lantern in hand, she squeezed through the slot. She creeped and crawled only a few feet before the cave opened up. And there, shimmering in the torchlight at the back of the cabin-sized chamber, was a pool—more a puddle, really—of clear, cold water. She dipped a finger and the taste was sweet. The canteen glugged itself full when submerged, and Hurry nearly emptied it to satisfy a long-neglected thirst. She refilled the container and scooched back out to the sunlight.
It took hours for Hurry to fill canteen after canteen by lantern light and pass them out the opening where the men, in bucket-brigade fashion, passed them downslope to fill the kegs. The miniscule cave lake was up to the task, replenishing itself quickly despite the expedition’s attempt to drain it. When every animal was refreshed, every man quenched, every keg and canteen sloshing a full load, Rawhide Robinson told Hurry to come on out.
Her reply echoed out the opening. “In a moment. There is one more thing I must do.”
The cowboy and the lieutenant alternately furrowed their brows and arched their eyebrows, their curiosity piqued with the huffing and puffing, sliding and scuffing accompanying the girl’s exit.
Hurry popped out of the hole, dusted herself off, then
reached back in and dragged out a dusty, musty rawhide parfleche. The men looked it over.
“Looks old,” Rawhide Robinson said.
“Looks to be Spanish,” Lieutenant Scott said. “At least that’s what the style of cross carved into the hide suggests.”
“What’s inside?”
Hurry peeled back the flap and reached into the rawhide pouch. With some effort, she pulled out a shiny, sparkly, sizable ingot of gold. “There are three more,” she said.
The treasure caused a kerfuffle among members of the expedition, each believing he deserved a share of the cash the cache would bring. The army officers relieved the cavalry troopers and topographers of any such notion, pointing out that they were agents of the United States Army and any claim they might proffer rightly belonged to the government. The mule packers, however, were under no such restriction and fairly salivated at the prospect of prosperity and argued vociferously among themselves over the division of the riches.
Rawhide Robinson took a different view.
“Pipe down!” he told the packers. “You-all ain’t got no claim on that gold. Hurry found it, and it’s a case of finders-keepers if ever there was one.”
The packers, of course, protested.
Lieutenant Scott entered the fray. “Rawhide Robinson is right, I’m afraid. According to common law, in cases of abandoned property forsaken by a previous owner and verifiably antiquated and concealed for so long as to indicate the owner is probably dead or unknown, the finder of such abandoned property or treasure trove acquires the right to possess the property against the entire world.”
“You mean we don’t get nothin’!?”
“That Arab girl gets it all!?”
The learned lieutenant assured them it was so.
“We’ll see about that!” said one packer, particularly passionate about presumed possession.
Rawhide Robinson drew his revolver from its holster and pointed it at the end of the mulero’s nose. “You see that hole bored in the end of the barrel of this here pistol?”
The packer’s eyes crossed as he looked certain death in its one eye. “Y-y-y-yes.”
“You even hint at any kind of move against that girl or her gold, you’ll find out what that little hole’s for.”
“Hmmmph!”
“And I don’t mean maybe,” the cowboy said as he ratcheted back the hammer. “Now, uncross your eyes and get to work.”
Work—hard work, on the part of man and beast—was what it took to top out at the crest of the canyon. But once over the summit, the way down the other side of the mountain range proved easier going. Now, the mapping mission faced only the long slog back to Fort Stockton. The cavalry mounts, bearing only their riders, had fared well on the journey, although insufficient forage showed in the ripple of their ribs.
Three of the mules, hip bones showing a sufficient hook to hang a hat on, had to be abandoned in the desert to find their own way home or fend for themselves in the wild. The others were so famished and footsore they could barely carry their weight, let alone a load, so their burden shifted to the ships of the desert.
Although in considerably better shape than the equines, the camels by no means escaped suffering. The rocky desert trails were hard on their padded hooves, slowing their progress. Many had aching backs; some even sported open sores. But they plodded on, their passengers and packs rocking along day after day.
When Fort Stockton appeared on the horizon, hurrahs and yahoos issued forth from the trail-weary travelers. Even the exhausted mules exhibited newfound energy for the home stretch. Hurry urged her camel into its rocking-and-rolling pacing gait, and her pack animals followed suit. That inspired Happy Harry, Ibrahim, Lieutenant Scott, and Rawhide Robinson to pick up the pace as well. The dromedaries hove to on the parade ground winded and gasping, but well ahead of the mules and horses who straggled into the fort for some time afterward.
It was obvious to all in attendance that the camels returned in better condition than the mules, some of which had not survived at all. The troopers and packers at the fort saw no need to celebrate the camel’s accomplishment.
After a hot meal, a hot bath, and a short rest in the relative cool of the adobe officers’ quarters, Lieutenant Ian Scott wrote up his report and delivered it to the telegrapher for transmission to Major Wayne at Camp Verde.
“The performance of the camels proved superior in every respect to that of the mules,” he wrote. “While often exhausted, footsore, and galled from heavy loads, they out-performed their mule counterparts in terms of speed, docility, and handling. Each camel carried, on average, heavier packs than the mules by a factor of three. Without the camels, in fact, we could not have carried sufficient water to keep the mules alive. While man and beast alike suffered for want of water on many occasions, the camels showed no ill effects from the thirst. Their ability to forage more effectively and consume a wider range of plants contributed to their maintenance of flesh and conditioning as compared to the mules. Details are recorded in daily journal entries, which will be at your disposal upon our arrival at Camp Verde.
“In conclusion, I can only repeat that by any measure, the camels clearly demonstrated their superiority as pack animals. Their adoption as the primary vehicle for distributing supplies to remote outposts and performing other packing tasks should be encouraged and established with all deliberate speed.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
* * *
After a couple of weeks of rest and relaxation to rejuvenate the camel caballeros and recruit the camels, the outfit hit the trail for Camp Verde. The remaining mules from the expedition were still in no condition to travel, so they and their packers stayed on.
The trip was uneventful, even enjoyable, and with little baggage, the caravan covered a leisurely twenty-five miles a day, making the trip in ten days. Rawhide Robinson, Happy Harry, Ibrahim, Hurry, and Lieutenant Scott relaxed in their swaying seats, laughing and swapping tales. Even the normally taciturn Ibrahim conversed from time to time, testing his limited English, but getting back to his beloved Tulu occupied most of his thoughts.
Hurry, too, was anxious to return to Camp Verde and excited to see how much Okyanus had grown in her absence. She and the young lieutenant spent considerable time at the tail end of the parade, riding side by side.
“I am concerned with Huri,” Happy Harry confided to Rawhide Robinson one day. “She is spending too much time with the lieutenant. Such behavior is not proper for a young girl.”
“Aw, shucks, Harry. I wouldn’t worry none about Ensign—Lieutenant—Ian if I was you. He’s as fine a fellow as ever forked a camel, in my estimation.”
“This I believe. But with the wealth she now enjoys, I cannot help but wonder at his intentions. Besides, Huri is so young.”
Rawhide Robinson laughed. “I don’t guess you noticed it, but that young man had his eye on that girl long before she found that gold. It also seems to have escaped your attention that Hurry has grown right up into a young lady. She’s still young, I’ll grant you that, but she’s no little girl anymore.”
Happy Harry was unconvinced, but the cowboy’s words were food for thought and he chewed them over as he rode, ruminating on his responsibilities to his niece and her future.
The caravan eased into Camp Verde with little ceremony—save the now-routine upsetting of mules and horses, the fright and fleeing of chickens and hogs, the shock and awe of people upon seeing such curious critters. As the crew unpacked and unsaddled the camels, a messenger from Major Benjamin Wayne came by requesting their presence in his office at first opportunity.
With all assembled, the major wasted no time. “Gentlemen—and Hurry—I have here correspondence from my superiors at the War Department in Washington: ‘Major Benjamin Wayne, Commander, United States Army Camel Corps, et cetera, et cetera.
“ ‘We regret to inform you of our decision to disband the United States Army Camel Corps. Experiments investigating the suitability of utilizing the camel as a pack anima
l for purposes of supplying United States Army forts, camps, and outposts in the Southwestern deserts is determined to have been a failure. You are hereby ordered to cease and desist any further operations. Release the civilian handlers in your employ with reimbursement as seems equitable and dispose of the camels as you see fit, with an eye to recovering the costs of their acquisition and upkeep as much as possible, and remitting any funds so procured to the Director of Army Finance. These orders are effective upon receipt and we anticipate receiving notice of the carrying out thereof in due time. We are Your Obedient Servants, et cetera, et cetera.’ ”
Since the news knocked the earth off its axis and upset the normal course of timekeeping on the planet, there is no way to know how long the stunned silence lasted.
When Lieutenant Scott came to himself, he said, “I don’t understand, sir. Our recent expedition proved beyond doubt the superiority of the camels over the mules.”
“You are, of course, correct, Lieutenant. I forwarded your preliminary report to Washington but the only part of it they paid attention to were the words, ‘. . . often exhausted, footsore, and galled from heavy loads.’ It seems the unfavorable reports they have received from the various cities along our route since landing at Indianola carried more weight. All filed complaints with the army demanding reimbursement for damages caused by frightened livestock. Only San Antonio failed to issue a negative report, and even it was less than enthusiastic. It seems the mayor found the camel-hair socks his wife knitted for him itchy and unpleasantly odorous.
“And, of course, it is no secret that the mule interests—both within the service and independent contractors—have been dead set against the use of camels from the outset. Their protests delayed funding for the project on several occasions, and their hostility to the idea has only intensified.”
