by Ralph Moody
The afternoon went a good deal like the morning, except that a few of the steers began to get tender-footed, and Lady wasn’t nearly as good as Pinch at keeping them afraid of her. With a long drag rope that he’d step on if he tried to run, Blueboy trailed well and caught up on his grazing. By late afternoon the high hills, the brush, and the scrub oaks were behind us, and the prairie stretched out ahead in long rolling swells.
The sun was sinking low in the west when Mr. Batchlett dropped back to me for the first time that afternoon. “How’s them tender-footed ones holdin’ up?” he asked me.
“Pretty well,” I told him. “I think it’s more laziness than sore feet with most of them.”
“Reckon so,” he said, as if he were thinking of something else. Then, “I ain’t been over this country in ten years or more. Not much in the way of landmarks to recall, but if I ain’t twisted and too far north we’d ought to have raised the head of Black Squirrel Creek. Didn’t see nothin’ that looked like cottonwoods off to the right, did you?”
“No, sir,” I said, “but if any had been there I think I’d have seen them. This is new country to me, and I’ve been kind of looking it over so I’d remember it.”
“Not a bad idea,” he said. “Reckon I’ll head a little more to the southeast. We’ll be in a bad way if we don’t hit water by nightfall. This hot wind’s dryin’ out the cattle.” Then, as he rode away toward the point of the herd, he called back, “Keep a sharp eye out to the southward!”
I’d been so busy during the afternoon that I hadn’t noticed the hot wind until he mentioned it. It was coming in from the south, off the New Mexico deserts, and the air hadn’t cooled at all with the sinking of the sun. Mr. Batchlett turned the herd well south of east, and rode to the top of every hill, looking off to the south for the cottonwoods that would mark Black Squirrel Creek.
Just before sunset Blueboy spooked at a jack rabbit that jumped out of a clump of Spanish dagger. He raced away up a hill to the north—holding his head far to the side, to keep the drag rope out from under his feet. I had to spur Lady hard to get around him and head him back. As we topped the hill, I glimpsed a thin line of green along the gray-brown of the horizon—but it was far to the northeast.
Mr. Batchlett raced his horse up to me when I shouted and motioned to him. At first he couldn’t see the line of green, then his eye caught it, and he said, “You’re right! You’re right as rain, boy! That’s what happens to a man when he mistrusts his judgment and goes to worryin’ too soon. If I’d held straight on east, we’d have fetched the headwaters of the Black Squirrel an hour ago. For its first five-six miles, it runs toward the southeast.” Then he raced his horse back to turn the herd.
It was deep twilight before we got the trail-weary herd over the last hills and to the cottonwoods—and when we got them there Black Squirrel Creek was nothing but a bed of powder-dry sand.
Often a prairie creek that seems dry will have water under the sand, but the Black Squirrel was dry as deep as we could dig. Most of the men I’d worked for would have sworn at their bad luck, but all Mr. Batchlett said was, “Well, son, we’ve got a rough night’s work ahead! Ought to have knowed that hot wind would dry up this creek! Ought to have rode day herd and let you catch a wink o’ sleep! Catch up my horse string while I rastle some grub together! Your mare’s put in a big day, and you got to have a pack horse—no sense tryin’ to tote a pack on Blueboy.”
By the time I’d caught the horses, Mr. Batchlett had the packs unloaded, a fire going, and beans and bacon on to fry. “Leave me have your canteen!” he said, as I came up to the fire. “Coffee’ll hold you together better’n water on a night ride; keeps a man from drowsin’ off in the saddle.” As he spoke, he emptied both canteens into the pot and put in three big handfuls of coffee. “That ought to do it!” he said, as he flipped the lid down. “Coffee that’s too strong for night ridin’ won’t run out of the pot. Light into them beans! I aim to get lined out for Big Horse Creek before full dark falls. There won’t be no moon till close onto mornin’.”
The night drive from Black Squirrel to the Big Horse wasn’t easy. But I was lucky to have Pinch under me—and good strong coffee in my canteen. The hot wind kept up right through the night, but the stars were bright and the cattle didn’t try to scatter. My biggest trouble was with the tender-footed ones. If I didn’t watch them every minute, they’d pull off to the side and lie down.
The cattle in the herd bawled more and more as the night went on, but those that tried to fall out never made a sound. In the darkness, I was afraid I might have passed some of them and lost them. It worried me most after I’d run out of coffee. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t help drowsing off in the saddle. Each time my head jerked and I woke up, it seemed as if I’d only closed my eyes for a second. But once, I woke up to find Pinch standing stock still, asleep on his feet, and the herd out of sight ahead. Another time I woke to find him nipping at a steer that was lying down, but I’d never even seen it leave the herd.
It was only about sixteen miles from the Black Squirrel to the Big Horse at the place where we crossed, but it took us all night to make the drive. In the first gray of dawn, the spare horses started leaving the herd at a trot, and Mr. Batchlett called out to me, “Water up ahead! The horses smell it!” A few minutes later the dark outline of trees showed against the pale sky to the east.
There was only a trickle of water in the Big Horse Creek, and the stock fought each other for it. As the bulls and larger steers fought the smaller and weaker ones away, Mr. Batchlett called to me, “Spread ’em down the line; I’ll spread ’em up—give ’em all a chance!” By clear dawn the cattle were strung out for a quarter mile along the damp snake of sand in the creek bottom—bellowing, pawing into the sand, and sucking up any drop of water they could find.
I was so tired and sleepy I was seeing double, but Mr. Batchlett seemed as fresh as ever. “That was a close one!” he called as we met again at the center of the strung-out herd. “Hated to put you through it, boy! But we’d have lost the weakest if we’d waited to cross in daylight—lost ’em if you hadn’t saw them cottonwoods before dark come on!”
“I’m afraid we’ve lost some anyway,” I said. “I drowsed off once or twice after my coffee ran out, and I’m afraid . . .”
“Don’t fret you!” he told me. “Old Pinch wouldn’t pass up none of ’em. Never seen a better drag horse.”
“Well, once when I woke up he was sound asleep on his feet,” I told him.
“Poor old devil!” Mr. Batchlett said, and gave Pinch a slap on the rump. “Shouldn’t ought to took him on a rough trip like this; he’s twice as old as you are. He belongs on the home ranch; he’s earned it.” Then he grinned at me and said, “Reckon a little coffee and some flapjacks wouldn’t do you no hurt. Rastle up some firewood while I make a count and dig up a pot o’ water!”
I gathered a little pile of wood, but must have drowsed off when I laid down the last armful. I was dreaming I was at home when Mr. Batchlett called out from right behind me, “Full count! We’ll have coffee boilin’ in a few minutes! Got to drift the stock along down-creek right away! With this wind blowin’, they’ve got to have more water.”
I unsaddled Pinch while Mr. Batchlett cooked breakfast, but I had trouble in staying awake to eat. Once he slapped me on the face—not hard, but enough to sting. “You need grub,” he told me when I jumped and woke up. “Get some coffee and bacon in you, then you can turn in for a bit while I drift the stock on down-creek.”
22
Fireworks
I WOKE up lying on a pile of leaves at the foot of a cottonwood. Lady was saddled and tied to a tree, my boots were off, and the sun was about four hours high. I sat up and looked all around, but there was nothing to see except trees, the prairie, and a dry ribbon of sand. A hot wind was blowing, my mouth was dry, and a crack on my lip was bleeding. It was a minute before I remembered where I was.
I supposed Mr. Batchlett had let the cattle work their way down t
he creek, grazing, and drinking where they found water. So I pulled on my boots and swung into the saddle, but I’d ridden a good five miles before I caught up to him. He was pushing the herd along the dry creek bed as fast as it would travel. “Weather man’s sendin’ the fireworks for the Fourth!” he called, as I rode up. “It’s sure goin’ to be a scorcher! Feelin’ better?”
Until Mr. Batchlett mentioned fireworks I hadn’t thought of its being the Fourth of July, but the wind did feel as if it were coming off a fire. “I feel fine!” I told him. “I felt all right before, only I couldn’t keep awake. Haven’t you found any pools of water yet?”
“Nary a drop! Won’t be, this high up the creek, and with this wind blowin’.” He leaned from his saddle, scooped up a handful of powdery sand, and tossed it high. Watching it whip away, he said, “Bad enough now; hope this wind don’t veer to the west—dirt’s commencin’ to rise a’ready! We got to hightail for water or we’ll lose these critters!”
We hightailed five or six miles down the creek bed, but found only one shallow pool of water. The loose horses and stronger stock smelled it before we reached it, and ran ahead. Mr. Batchlett wanted the horses to drink, but to hold back the stronger cattle and let the weaker ones at the water. I double-knotted my throw rope and swung it like a flail, but fighting those water-starved bulls and steers was like fighting so many wild elephants. Mr. Batchlett couldn’t do much more with them than I, and before we could get the weaker cattle up to drink, the water was gone.
The sharp gravel in the creek bed cut into the cleft of the cattle’s hoofs, so we had to fight the herd out onto the prairie, where there was no protection from the sun and the burning wind. With each hour the dust in the air grew thicker and the herd harder to handle. The weaker and tender-footed wanted to turn tail to the wind and stand, the stronger ones kept trying to break back to the creek in the hope of finding water. Each mile, Mr. Batchlett held the herd alone, while I rode to the creek and searched up and down it for any drop of water.
By early afternoon the wind had turned full into the southwest. The air was so thick with dust that the sun looked like an orange-yellow blot. All my coffee was gone, and Mr. Batchlett used part of his to wet spots on our bandannas. We tied them over our mouths and noses, trying to keep out some of the dust. In two minutes the spots were patches of mud, and in another two they were dry again. The wind hissed through the short, curled buffalo grass with a sound like steam escaping from a boiler. At the creek, it roared through the wildly flailing branches of the cottonwoods. Tears ran from the animals’ eyes and ours, turning into streaks of thick mud. To drive half-blinded cattle against that quartering wind was almost impossible.
I’d swung my knotted rope until both arms ached, and Lady was all in when Mr. Batchlett rode up. “Catch up Pinch, and drive ’em hard!” he shouted. “Got to reach shelter and water before nightfall or we’ll lose ’em all!”
I caught Pinch, and drove him so hard he staggered, but I could barely keep the tender-footed and laggards moving. The sun was entirely gone, and twilight began falling when I knew it couldn’t be more than five o’clock. Half the time I could see only the laggards, but every once in a while Mr. Batchlett rode past me through the dust, and shouted, “How you makin’ out?” “You’re doin’ fine!” “That’s the stuff; keep ’em movin’!” or, “Here! Get a swig o’ this coffee!”
Twilight had deepened nearly into darkness when he rode up and passed me his canteen. “Get to the creek!” he shouted. “Follow it till you find damp sand, and dig for water! If it’s plumb dark before you get back, keep hollerin’! I’ll be downwind to hear you.”
I tried to shout back, but my throat was so dry that I only made a croaking sound. What I wanted to tell him was that a couple of cattle were down farther back, and that I hadn’t been able to get them up. When I found I couldn’t shout, I tried to tell him in sign language, but he shook his head and motioned me to ride for water.
In the quarter-light, with the trees whipping and groaning, the creek bed was a scary place. I was afraid, but kept low in the saddle, looking for any damp spot on the sand. I tried to spur Pinch into a canter, but the best he could do was a shuffling trot. By the time we’d covered two or three miles, his head was hanging so low it was just above the sand. I was sure, from the way he was swinging it back and forth, that he’d give out any minute—but that was because I didn’t know old Pinch well enough.
At a place that looked just as dry to me as any other, he stopped, circled, and began to paw into the gravel. When I slid out of the saddle I could see that water was seeping into the hole he’d dug. I found a piece of a broken limb and dug the hole deep, but didn’t drink or fill the canteens until Pinch had drunk all he wanted.
Water was still seeping into the hole after I’d filled the canteens and drunk again. We needed every drop of water we could get, but I had nothing to carry it in, and was afraid I couldn’t find the place again after dark. I could think of only one way to do it: I walked Pinch back up the creek bed counting each step as he took it.
It was almost full dark, so, when I thought I was nearly back to where I’d started from, I began hollering. Pinch had taken seven hundred steps more before Mr. Batchlett rode out from among the trees. The moment I saw him, I shouted, “It’s fifty-one hundred and thirty-six steps!”
“What’s that?” he shouted back. “Did you find water?”
“No, but Pinch did,” I yelled. “It’s in a hole we dug, fifty-one hundred and thirty-six steps down the creek.”
“Good boy!” Mr. Batchlett shouted back. “That’s usin’ your head! You watch herd as best you can while I take the horses down to drink. Listen for my holler in about an hour.”
Mr. Batchlett had moved the cattle to the east side of the creek, to give them a little shelter behind a few stunted cottonwoods. As I rode up out of the creek bottom, they looked like great blurry balls of tumbleweed on the prairie. A few were lying down, others stood humped with their tails to the storm, and some were drifting away down the wind. If the drifters weren’t stopped before full dark came on, I knew they’d keep right on going all night.
I put Pinch into a trot, to get around the drifters, but before we’d gone more than a mile it turned from deep twilight to pitch darkness. I couldn’t see my hands on the reins, and, in the wail of the wind, I couldn’t tell whether the bawl of a steer was near or far away. There was only one thing I could do: turn Pinch straight into the wind, knowing that, sooner or later we’d get back to the creek—if he didn’t break a leg in a prairie dog hole, or stumble over a down animal and fall on me.
I knew when we were back near the creek by the roar of the wind in the cottonwoods, but I didn’t know we’d reached it until I was almost raked off against a tree. Of course, I couldn’t tell just where I’d struck the creek, but most of the drifting cattle were straight downwind from there, so I had to stay to mark the place.
All around me the trees were screeching and groaning. There was a crack like a rifle shot close by, then the crash of a falling tree or a heavy limb. I was afraid to stay where I was, but I didn’t dare leave for fear of missing Mr. Batchlett and losing the cattle. It seemed as if I waited in the blackness for at least two hours—expecting a tree to fall on me every second. I’d made up my mind that we’d missed each other in the dark a long time before I heard Mr. Batchlett’s “Hi-ya! Hi-ya!” It sounded as if it were half a mile away the first time, but a couple of minutes later it came from almost beside me.
“Here I am!” I yelled back into the wind, and a moment later a horse bumped into Pinch.
“You all right?” Mr. Batchlett shouted, almost into my ear.
“Yes, but I couldn’t stop the drifters,” I hollered. “It got pitch dark. They’re straight downwind from here. Did you find the water hole?”
Mr. Batchlett’s hand found me, and he called out, “Yeah, by countin’ steps! Here, take holt of this lead line! Hang tight; there’s horses on it!”
He didn’t give me the
end of the line, but a hold somewhere along it. Then it pulled tight in my hand as he moved his horse slowly downwind. We left the creek bottom at a creeping walk, but some horse behind me must have got his head on the wrong side of a tree. The lead rope snubbed short and slipped a foot or two through my fist, burning as it went. Then it slackened as the snagged horse came back into line, and we crept on.
I thought we’d gone about a hundred yards when the rope fell slack in my hand. In a minute or two Mr. Batchlett was beside me, and shouted, “Sit tight! We’ll tie the horses to old Pinch! He’ll stand and ride out the wind!”
One by one, Mr. Batchlett brought the horses up, feeling his way along the lead line. Each time, he found my hand and showed me how short to tie the drag line to my saddle horn. When I’d counted seven ties, he shouted, “Give me your throw rope, and sit tight till I come back!”
I couldn’t keep track of time, but it seemed to me that Mr. Batchlett had been gone an hour when, from out of the blackness, his hands touched me, took me under the arms, and lifted me out of the saddle. He carried me three or four steps, stood me down, and guided my hand to a rope that hung like a low, loose clothesline. Then he shouted, “Follow me!”
I’d taken fifteen or twenty steps when I bumped into Mr. Batchlett. “There’s a hole here,” he shouted. “Lay down and follow the rope into it! Go feet-first!”
I’d only wriggled a few feet when Spanish-dagger spears pricked and stung my legs. The rope led into a hole among them. It was smaller than I, but I kept flat to the ground and pushed myself back with my elbows. In another minute or two I felt as if I were in a cave—with Spanish daggers all around me. There was no wind, and the roar of it outside was muffled. When I stopped to feel around, Mr. Batchlett’s boots pushed past my head.
I didn’t need to be told where I was or what Mr. Batchlett had done. In some way he’d taken the tarpaulin off one of the trail packs, and had lashed it over and around a big hollow clump of Spanish daggers, almost in the shape of a giant mushroom. There was so little room inside that we had to curl up like kittens, and every time I moved a dagger pricked me, but it seemed almost like getting home.
