The Abilene Trail

by Dusty Richards

  Ben spent hours in the saddle, riding ahead, leaving white rags to wave in mesquite trees and point the way. They had two days of rain beyond Waco. It soaked man and beast in the cold downpours. The camp wood smoked and hardly made heat enough to cook, much less drive the chill out of his men.

  “I hope it never, ever rains again,” Chip said, dropping out of the saddle.

  “Better not wish that,” Ben said. “Dust’d be so bad it would hide you.”

  “Guess you’re right, but I’d like to be dry for a while so my fingers didn’t look all shriveled up like prunes.”

  “We’ll find that dry weather, too,” Dru said. “Man’s a plumb fool to ever be a damn drover. Only old folks and young ones sign on.”

  “You should know,” Chip said and went on to where Hap had a canvas stretched tree to tree to shelter from some of the precipitation.

  “Well, I ain’t still wet behind the ears.”

  “Well, I ain’t a damn drunk shaking like a dog passing peach seeds either.”

  “Cut it out, boys,” Ben said after them. “This job’s tough enough. Don’t make each other mad.”

  “You said this would be no Sunday-school picnic,” Billy Jim said, dismounting his horse with rain running off the brim of his sodden hat.

  “Guess I was right.”

  “How far is the Red River, Mr. Ben?”

  “A good ways. Why?”

  “Times I get that feeling you mentioned.”

  “Of going back?”

  “Yes, sir. But I ain’t. They tell me them gals in Abilene are the prettiest in the world.”

  “Since Mexico you got kind of an eye out for womenfolks, ain’t you?”

  Billy Jim sucked on an eyetooth and nodded. “Mighty fine thing.”

  Ben agreed. He only hoped his own was safe and dry. He worked his stiff fingers. Chip was right: It’d be nice when his fingers weren’t all shriveled up.

  They skirted settlements and plowed fields. Ben made certain there was water and wood. The sun finally shone, but the north wind that drove the rain out of Texas had a nip that made the cowboys ride under blankets for warmth.

  “Too hot and too cold. Why can’t it be spring and nice?” Hap looked up from stirring his beans.

  “It’ll do that too,” Ben promised, coming after coffee after getting in from his morning ride to find a place to camp.

  “When?”

  “Next couple days. Tomorrow we’ll be across the Trinity and you can make a list of the things you need from town. We’ll heal up on the tall grass for a week. We may be pushing spring a little.”

  “Good, ’cause them boys are getting worn out, herding all day and only getting a half night’s sleep.”

  “Part of the deal, Hap.”

  “We camp here a week, it’ll take the month of April to cross the Indian Nation, right?”

  “That’s what I had allotted.”

  “Then two to three weeks to get to Abilene?”

  “Close.”

  Hap looked at his X’s in the calendar. “There any chance I’d be back in San Antonio on the Fourth of July?”

  “You might be, why?”

  “Lou Song told me they’re going to have the biggest fireworks show they’ve ever had there this year.”

  “Be something to see.”

  “Well.” Hap put the pencil and calendar away in his small writing desk. “I ain’t no kid. I can live without fireworks.”

  “Good.” Ben smiled. His old noncom made a great guy, and on the move he was less sarcastic than at home. Why, it had been days since he used that “Ben jamin McColloughie, you listen here” routine on him.

  After a week camped on the Trinity, the cowboys took baths, a shiny, snow-white operation that would have blinded any onlookers. They also washed their clothes and hung them on the brush to dry while they sunbathed in their ivory splendor. Everyone but Dru regained a better disposition.

  Heading north again, Ben located a ferry to take the wagon across the Red River, and they finally started for the Indian line. The plan was to head the steers into the river and hope the big black lead steer they called Stonewall Jackson would swim to the far shore with little encouragement.

  “Boys, if those cattle ever get to swimming in a circle, you get out of their way. That river has no bottom and it’s full of quicksand. We get messed up in it we can lose cattle—that’s money, but worse than that, we can lose lives.” Ben shook his head. “We need to trust Stonewall.”

  “I think he’ll do like he did at Waco,” Mark said. “Aim him for that bank and he’ll go.”

  “Yes, I agree. Dru, you go with the wagon, take you a horse, and meet us on the far side,” Ben said.

  The man nodded that he heard him.

  “Lou Song, can you swim?”

  “Swim, me no drown, bossy man.”

  “Good. We’ll take the horses across first thing. Them over there might help encourage the steers to go to them.”

  “Mr. Ben, we’ve been crossing rivers since we left home. What’s so bad about this one?” Billy Jim asked.

  “Trust me; we won’t have many tougher ones than the Red.”

  “I’ll be ready then.”

  “Good,” Ben said.

  “Chip, it’s up to you and Mark to get them started. But swim your horses wide. We ever get them started and they keep going, we may make it.”

  From where he sat the gray, he could see all the trees and debris that clogged the river, the reddish-brown water moving to his right at a good enough clip for him to know the stock would land farther downstream rather than directly across from him. The white-barked sycamores were not budded out yet; a few elms had broken dormancy. The river would be cold, and the entire matter of a safe crossing made his stomach churn.

  “Bring the horses,” he said, and they drove the remuda down the draw. A big black horse took the lead and set out to swim it; the others hesitated and had to be choused in by the cowboys. Then they all were swimming, with Lou Song clinging to his saddle horn on the upstream side, his horse making the swim easy. The black climbed up the bank and Lou shouted for him to go on. He stopped to shake, and that made a backup in the ones behind. They’d soon all be in the quicksand and bogged down.

  Ben jerked out his Colt and fired it in the air. The black bolted and the others never hesitated. They piled up the bank and were on the grassy flat high above the river when Lou rounded them up.

  “See what we must do?” Ben shouted to Chip and Mark. “You get a backup and the river will be full of cattle. Both of you stay on the upstream side crossing and get over there. We need them to run out of the way.”

  “We see, Ben,” Mark shouted back.

  “Let’s roll them,” Ben shouted. It was as good a sunny day as ever to lose a fortune. The big steer leaped out in the river and boys shouted to him. He swam across the river’s current and soon the rest of the steers came filing in behind.

  “Not too fast,” Ben shouted, but over the bawling and horn rattling of eight hundred head he could have saved his commands. The cattle’s calls in the river sounded afraid, but they swam in a fair order. One or two took courses of their own. Ben cringed watching them. He could only hope the dumb steer swimming in a circle didn’t attract more. Another rode the current downstream until he high-centered astraddle a large tree and commenced complaining at the top of his lungs, caught by the current. Ben shook his head at the animal’s dilemma. The best part was that most of the livestock were anxious as his cowboys to get to the other side and were headed up the bank, dripping wet, which made the climb slick, but the cattle were doing fine, save a half dozen idiots who’d wandered off on their own.

  He could see Mark was tying ropes together and was still stripped down to his underwear, as were the rest of the crew. Mark coiled up the rope, put it over his shoulder, and began to swim toward the steer on the log. Wet as an otter he climbed out on the log, made a loop, and tossed it around the steer’s horns after three tries.

  The big crit
ter wanted no part of it; he kept throwing his head at Mark but was unable to get any footing.

  “Pull it!” Mark shouted, and Chip turned his horse with the rope on the horn. The hundred feet or so of lariat came flying out of the water, covered in moss, weeds, and sticks. Chip’s pony dug in, and for a moment Ben wondered about the animal’s strength. But he flipped the steer over and took off up the grade. Horns came up next out of the stained water and the half-drowned steer paddled with his head out and let out an angry bawl. Under again, this time he came up fighting with fury. Cowboys went to mount. Chip shucked his rope and headed up the hill.

  Ben sent the gray off the bank and joined Digger on the drag. At last glimpse, the steer trailing lots of rope was headed for the main herd. Ben’s gray needed a little encouragement and soon was swimming across. Ben clasped his hands on the horns and kicked his feet. The water’s chill about took his breath, and he knew a fire would be in order.

  The boys were roping cattle stuck in the mud and dragging them out. Most were too tired to fight; others came out on the prod and had to be avoided. Mark was dressing in his wet clothing when Ben reached the north shore.

  “Good job,” Ben said, riding past him. “Billy Jim, how many we lose?”

  “My best count, two. We’re going to ride downstream and check on them.”

  “All the hands here?”

  “Yes, sir, cold as hell, but we’re here.”

  “Someone build a fire. There’s plenty of wood. The rest of you try and find the missing ones.”

  “I got coffee up on top,” Hap shouted.

  “Forget building the fire; let’s go have some coffee. Them two can wait.”

  They stood around swallowing hot coffee and shaking, while trying to get some heat out of the windswept cooking fire. Ben had never felt this cold in the rain.

  Chip and Mark rode off to find the last two. Hap was drying out a pistol for one of the boys who had forgotten to put it in the wagon. The others were busy reassembling the herd before they scattered.

  “We got lucky,” Hap said, and Ben agreed.

  “We’re going to need lots of it. There’s several more to cross.”

  “These boys are doing a good job,” Hap said, still drying off the revolver.

  “The best, under the circumstances.” Ben watched them bringing in the strays. “I ain’t too certain we didn’t end up with better help than if we’d gotten all grown men.”

  Hap agreed, applying oil to the weapon’s surface. “They give it their all.”

  He was on time by his schedule, he thought, looking across the rolling brown grassland of the Indian Nation that carried a hint of green. Thirty days north lay the Arkansas River and Kansas. Then they’d be within two weeks’ drive of Abilene and Joe McCoy’s shipping pens. His thoughts went to Jenny and the boys back home. If things went right he could be there by July. With a glance at the sky he asked the powers above for help and left camp to find the stray hunters.

  He passed a mud-coated, exhausted steer obviously pulled from the Red’s bottom. Through a copse of trees showing some early leafing, he rode into the open. Two cowboys were struggling to sled a bellowing steer on his side up a sharp bank.

  “Wasn’t no place else to do it,” Mark shouted as he pressed his bay onward.

  At last the critter was on the grassy surface. Chip dismounted, undid the lariats, and stepped back up while the muddy steer flailed his legs to get up.

  “They don’t always appreciate being saved,” Chip said with a smile. and coiled up his rope.

  “Boys, we did good today, but we’ve got plenty more crossings ahead.”

  Both of them nodded.

  “No Sunday-school picnic, right?” Mark asked, twirling his lariat tail at the steer to get him going toward the herd.

  “Right.”

  Five days north of the Red, Ben watched a bank of dark clouds gathering in the northwest. The temperature had turned hot and the dust boiled up from every hoof. By midafternoon they had reached the campsite and let the steers graze. By then the ominous wall towered higher in the sky, so Ben was forced to throw his head back to measure the height of them.

  “Got your eye on her?” Hap asked, pouring coffee into Ben’s tin cup.

  “She won’t get here till dark, but I figure when she comes it’ll slam into us.”

  “Been going too smooth,” Hap said. “Eight hundred crazy cattle and we’ve been going along like a milk-cow train.”

  “They aren’t bad wild.” Ben studied the dark curtain.

  “Sure, but have they really been tested?” Hap asked. “I figure there’s hail in that sucker. Lightning and sure enough hell to pay its due before morning. Too hot.”

  “I better start warning the boys.”

  Hap agreed and mopped his face on the kerchief from his hip pocket. “We ain’t getting much sleep tonight. None of us.”

  By four o’clock, the rumble out of the storm’s belly began to roll across the wide horizon. Ben considered that the herd was in a good bunch, but there was no telling what they’d do when the storm struck. It was as Hap had said, they’d never been tested. The entire trip the rains had fallen soft and the weather had been ideal. But the sky coming at them with lightning dancing over its face might be the challenge of the drive.

  With everyone on horseback but Hap, they circled the herd, talking, singing, anything to distract the steers’ attention from the freight train bearing down on them. The first breath of wind drew several head of longhorns to their feet. Their muzzles tested the wind, as if they wanted to know this new smell of cured grass and the freshness of the air.

  Each man was in his yellow slicker on a fresh horse, riding, talking to the cattle. Filled with the anxiety of knowing the powder keg could blow at any moment, Ben pushed Roan along.

  “Whoa, doggies,” he repeated, waiting in anticipation for the first nearby crash. The suspense roiled his guts. He missed Jenny, wanted to hold her, hug her, and have her for his own. A glance to the west told him trouble would not be long in coming.

  A triple blast of lightning and the resounding crash came as one. Steers jumped to their feet. Drops of rain pattered on Ben’s slicker, then more blinding lightning and thunder. He looked across the herd and saw the fear in sixteen hundred eyes. He booted Roan and shouted louder as the first piece of hail struck his hat like a rock.

  On cue, the herd bolted when the ice pellets started. Darkness was marked with repeated blinding strikes that danced over the ground. The drum of thousands of hooves, the plaintive bawling all mixed in with the roar of the hell they were in. There was nothing to do but try to head them off, to pray they weren’t headed for one of the huge patches of prairie-dog villages that covered hundreds of acres in places, or a sheer drop-off, where Ben could visualize hundreds of carcasses piled up.

  He spoke to urge on the hard-driving Roan, racing into the wall of darkness and being hammered by fist-sized hail. Maybe it was all foolish, this chase. He shouted at Roan as they moved beside the river of slick-wet steers running in fear. He needed to turn the leaders to make them circle. Hand on his hat, Ben felt more wind grabbing at him and wondered at the ear-shattering noise of a freight train if they were in a tornado.

  Then it passed and he was beside the leader, who acted as if he was out of the will to run much more and circled to the right when he rode in close, waving his coiled rope at him.

  In the west he saw a window of light and looked with relief to the east for the others. Mark and Chip were coming, Toledo and Miguel behind them. That left Digger, Dru, Lou. . . .

  Their lathered, hard-breathing horses reined up. Both Mark and Chip shook their heads.

  “You see that twister?” Chip asked.

  Ben shook his head. “I heard it.”

  “Went north of us a little,” Mark said. “Whew, we were lucky.”

  “Keep the herd here. I’ll go look for the others.”

  “Who’s missing?” Chip asked as he and Mark stood in the stirrups to look arou
nd for sight of them.

  “Billy Jim, Digger, Dru, and the wrangler, Lou.”

  “There’s Dru,” Mark pointed out as the ex-soldier appeared on the far side.

  “Mark, go tell him the plans and ask about the others. I’ll ride back and look for them. You boys get them settled good; we’ll start riding herd and get everyone fed some supper.”

  “Cool as this wind is, I’d say it was over,” Chip offered, and they all agreed as the ragged edge of the end of the curtain began to drift away.

  Ben worried more about three drovers he could not see. He loped Roan easily for the east. Standing in the stirrups, he stopped to talk to the two Mexicans.

  “You seen any of the others?” he asked, taking a seat in the saddle.

  “No, we were riding so hard,” Miguel said.

  “You all did good. Help keep the herd here and I’ll go look for them.”

  He passed the tail end of the herd. Several head were scattered, and he smiled when at last he saw Digger and Billy Jim appear, driving the tailenders toward the herd.

  “Any sign of Lou?”

  “Not since before all hell broke loose, Mr. Ben,” Digger offered, and the three searched around.

  “We were getting up these to put in the herd, if you all ever caught them,” Billy Jim said. “But we ain’t seen Lou since it started.”

  “I’ll ride back and see if I can find the boy. You keep gathering the strays.”

  “Yes, sir. Hope he ain’t hurt none,” Digger said.

  “Me too.” Ben took his leave and hurried on.

  Where was the remuda? He’d not seen any horses in the herd. But had he looked closely? Searching for any sign from the high places, he soon spotted the wagon and rode over to talk to Hap.

  “Get ’em stopped?” the cook asked, looking shaken.

  “Yes. You seen Lou and the horses?”

  “No, but I thought me and this wagon was going flying. It about turned the damn thing over. My washpan flew a hundred yards. Guess I was lucky to get it back. How’s the rest?”

  “Everyone’s accounted for but the Chinaman.”