by Jory Sherman
Martin and Juanito rode slowly through the herd, veering to the left, trying to spot one longhorn that stood out from the rest. It was pitch-dark and the rain drenched them while the wind tore at their slickers with ferocity, as if it had teeth and claws.
Lightning stitched intricate mercuric patterns in the clouds. Thunder crescendoed, its powerful rolling rumble only a few miles away from the cattle herd, and there was ominous warning in its somber undertones. The rain pummeled the creatures moving across the grassland in a deluge that threatened to wash them all away.
Water rushed across the plain until it was hock-high on the horses and cattle. The longhorns bawled at every crack of thunder and bunched together in milling confusion, their horns clacking when they touched like the clicking of arrhythmic castanets.
“There, over there,” shouted Pepito above the rain, and Martin sought out the object of his exclamation. Bolts of lightning raked the sky and drenched Amador with light. He stood alone beyond the herd, his massive horns stretching out from his boss with majestic grace, his front hooves planted in mud and water above his ankles, his head low as if ready to charge any being that ventured into his querencia, his calico hide sleek and shiny in the sudden sizzle of light as if he had magically emerged from some watery pool at the dawn of creation.
“Juanito,” Martin called. “He’s ready to bolt.”
“I see him,” Juanito shouted, already shaking out his rope, his horse pushing against the rumps of cattle to forge a path through the herd.
Martin unfastened his own rope from the saddle, shook out a loop and drove spurs into his horse’s flanks. His horse bunched its muscles and surged forward through the pack of longhorns, toward the place where Amador stood glaring in the darkness, poised to swing those massive horns at anything that approached him.
Fidel slipped his rope from the lashing on his O-ring with wet fingers that lost their grip on the braided hemp. His rope uncoiled and one end dropped to the wet ground with a splash just as lightning fractured the sky and thunder boomed simultaneously less than a mile away.
Amador lowered his head and charged straight at the snake writhing with a sudden gust of wind in Fidel’s hands. Fidel saw the bull coming at him and pulled desperately at the rope as if that might save him. He felt the sudden jolt as the bull rammed the chest of his horse, and he felt the saddle slip out from under him and saw the gargantuan back of the bull slide beneath him as his horse went down. Then he released his grip on the rope and there was only air between him and the ground.
The horse screamed in terror as its legs crumpled under him and he lost his balance against the pull of gravity. A mighty horn slammed into the head of the horse as it collapsed, smashing the skull like a ripe melon, spraying blood and bone into the rain and the wind. Amador kept charging, churning the downed horse under its feet, turning its head to search for the next enemy as lightning danced across the sky and thunder upon thunder boomed like a battery of cannons from the black fortress of the sky.
Martin saw Fidel’s horse go down and Amador’s cloven hooves trample the animal after his horn had bludgeoned its brain to pulp. Then he saw the bull change course and head in his direction like a juggernaut.
The storm moved in over La Golondrina like some creature from ancient Norse mythology, hurling lightning bolts and booming thunder. One stroke of lightning speared from the sky with blinding speed. Before the bolt struck the ground, it stabbed a large steer in the rump, fried a path along its spine and twisted down one leg, peeling the hide from its flesh like a paring knife cutting a spiral around an apple. The steer bawled in pain and leaped into the air, shivered with the shock and dropped to the ground stone dead.
That was enough to send a signal through the milling herd. Those cattle nearest to the downed steer scrambled in all directions as if a bomb had exploded in their midst, scattering like a flushed covey of quail. As if on cue, the entire herd hurtled into motion at once as lightning laced the skies and thunder shattered their eardrums.
Anson, in the center of the herd, felt his horse speed up beneath him and he grabbed the saddle horn to keep from being ejected from the saddle. Cattle, their long horns raking everything in their path, burst into motion all around him and surged toward some unknown destination as if they were one being with a single mind. He found himself being swept up in the stampede like a cork on a mountainous wave, the ocean surging beneath him with a terrible force. The tip of a horn dug into his horse’s flanks just beneath his calf. His horse veered to the left, the herd packed around it and it was carried along on the immense tide of cattle, crushed on both sides, unable to break free.
What good does “cow sense” mean when it’s like this? Anson thought as the herd picked up speed.
The dark clouds seemed even lower and the rain fell even harder, hitting the ground and raising the water level by inches until the cattle were splashing through knee-high puddles.
Anson tried to break away. He tried slowing the horse, hoping the herd would surge past him, but he felt a jolt as cattle struck his horse’s rump and then had to keep up with the herd or get gored or run over. It seemed to Anson that he could hear men shouting above the roar of the rain and the loud rumbles of thunder. Lightning razed the sky almost constantly now and the thunderclaps followed close on the heels of every burst of radiant light.
“There they go!” shouted Martin, and Anson felt the herd surge to the left and pick up speed. The cattle broke away from him as the horse turned right, bucking against the flow of horns that clacked together and separated as the herd found its direction. “Anson,” his father called.
“Yo,” Anson replied.
“Look out.”
Anson had his hands full guiding his horse out of the melee and could not answer. He wove his way through the stampeding herd that now swayed at right angles to his position. He wondered what his father meant by “There they go!” Where? All Anson knew was that he wanted to get away from them. The pounding in his ears was more deafening than the thunder now and the snaps of lightning all over the sky lent an eeriness to the scene that made him think he was in a living nightmare where nothing was real and everything was real at the same time. He felt helpless to change any of it, unable to wake up and leave the dream behind on the shores of sleep.
He saw Juanito out of the corner of his eye. Juanito was riding toward him in slow motion, his horse blotted out by the sea of cattle madly running to the north as if whipped on by the thunder and lightning.
Anson dodged two steers that swung toward him and kicked the horse with his spurs to avoid running into another bunch that loomed out of the night like ghostly cattle from hell. Juanito finally reached him, running his horse alongside to protect Anson’s flank. Cattle flowed around the two men as bolts of lightning lit their wet faces in brief tableaux.
“Where’s my daddy?” Anson asked.
“He was trying to stop Amador, but he is all right,” Juanito said.
“Where are the cattle going?”
“They broke through the mesquite fence. They are heading toward La Loma de Sombra.”
“The house?”
“Yes. Come, we must flank them on the west and try and turn the herd back.”
“That’s impossible,” Anson said loudly as the thunder pealed.
“Then we must do the impossible. Come. Follow me.”
Juanito wheeled his horse and rode through knee-high water through the stragglers in the herd, heading westward. When he reached an open spot, he spurred his horse into a gallop. Anson followed him, hoping his horse wouldn’t step in a gopher or prairie dog hole and send him flying.
The herd sloshed through the water at a fair clip, so it took Juanito a long time to reach the head of the stampede. Anson looked for his father, but could not see him. He heard yelling from somewhere off to the east, but could understand none of the words.
Juanito drove his horse at the leaders on the fringe of the herd and slowly began to turn some of them into the rushing sea of w
ild-eyed longhorns and mixed breeds. Anson flanked Juanito and started doing the same, lashing at them with his lariat shortened to the length of a bullwhip. Finally the cattle began to turn. As they bunched up, they milled and stomped the water with their hooves. Leaderless, they became confused.
Then as Anson was beginning to relax, a massive burst of lightning and a gigantic thunderclap jolted the herd to turn on him and he had to ride out of their way or risk being trampled. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Juanito switch his horse into a 180-degree turn and gallop out of harm’s way.
“There will be no stopping them now,” Juanito panted as he rode up alongside Anson’s horse.
“What do we do now?” Anson asked.
“Ride ahead, if we can, and try to head them off before they reach the rancho at La Loma de Sombra.”
“That’s a long ride, Juanito.”
“And where else would we go, amigo mío?”
The storm continued to rage and the herd was in full stampede, blindly following Amador. Anson watched them race by, slowed only by the water underfoot, and wondered if they could manage to get ahead of such an out of control herd. His horse was tired, and so was he.
Martin rode wide of the onrushing herd, flanking it on the right. Ahead of him, Pepito broke out a loop, swung his wet lariat over his head as he closed in on one of the lead steers. Martin saw the vaquero in relief at every flash of lightning, a spectral figure on horseback chasing after a ghostly herd through shimmering sheets of rain.
Pepito threw the rope and it soared over the horns of the steer, settled under one side, caught the tip of the other. He reined his horse back and the rope tautened. The horse backed down on its haunches and the steer jerked sideways into the oncoming herd.
The steer went down and those behind it crashed into the rope and stumbled. The rope jerked out of Pepito’s hand as Martin rode up on him in the slashing rain.
“Did you get Amador?”
“No. I could not reach him.”
“Come on.”
Martin’s horse leaped ahead as the rider put spurs to its tender flanks and Pepito prodded his own horse to follow. Martin jerked his rifle from its scabbard as his horse dodged cattle in full gallop through high water.
Anson saw dead cattle lit by lightning and his horse jumped over the downed mesquite fence on the heels of Juanito’s horse. Some cattle had gotten tangled in the fence, where the herd was slowly trampling them to death as they struggled to rise from the brush. Anson could hear their cries as he rode by, but was helpless to save any of them.
Juanito neared the head of the herd. Off to his right he saw Martin and Pepito closing in on Amador, but they seemed to be riding very slowly as if their horses’ hooves were caught in quicksand, and then he realized that he too was being slowed by high water. His horse swerved as one of the mixed breeds faltered and went down on one leg. Cattle barreled into the stumbling cow and she rolled over with the impact, bawling as she struggled to right herself and was knocked down hard until her head was underwater. She never rose up again and the water turned red as hooves slashed into her flesh.
Anson rode wide of the herd, trying to get out of its way and catch up to Juanito. He saw the cow go down and Juanito’s horse shy away from it, swinging wide to the left. In the dancing light of lightning he saw his father well ahead of him, riding toward the head of the stampede, right into its path. He called out, but knew that no one could hear him over the explosive rumble of thunder. Rain bit into his eyes, stinging them raw, and he felt as if he were in some endless nightmare, powerless to break free of the mindless herd splashing through chest-high water.
Martin drew close to Amador and struggled to get close enough for a shot. His horse needed strong hands on the reins to avoid going down or faltering. He tried to draw a bead on the lead bull, but he could not see through the knifing rain and the bounce of the horse made it difficult to hold his rifle tight to his shoulder. The barrel bobbed up and down and swayed from right to left.
“Come on, boy,” Martin said to his horse and dug his spurs in deep. The horse struggled against the rising water and gave it all the bottom it had. In between the rumbles of thunder, Martin heard another sound, one that made his blood turn gelatinous with the cold rush of fear that coursed through him. Then Amador did a strange thing.
The big longhorn bull veered toward Martin as if to charge him, and the entire herd swung on Amador’s fulcrum. Martin’s horse reacted and shied to the right, nearly unseating Baron. The horse stumbled on uncertain footing and Martin thought he was going to go down.
“Whoa up, boy,” he said in a calm voice. “Steady.”
At that same moment, Martin saw his chance. He brought the rifle quickly to his shoulder and took aim at Amador. He led him a few inches and squeezed the trigger. The flint struck the frizzen and threw sparks into the pan, but the powder was wet and did not explode.
“Damn,” Martin cursed, and sheathed his rifle as he turned his horse away from Amador.
And that saved his life, for he heard the roaring again in the silence following a thunderclap and then his horse was rearing and struggling against a strong current. Martin was swept back toward the rear of the stampeding herd and no longer felt the ground solid beneath him as his horse breasted the surge of water that fanned out from the main current of a flash flood.
Juanito reined in his horse before Anson did and turned it away from the wall of water he saw coming toward the front of the herd. Anson saw him wheel and then, behind Juanito, he saw the huge swell of muddy water roaring down on the herd.
“Flash flood!” Juanito yelled, and waved at Anson to turn back.
In horror, Anson saw Pepito’s horse rear up as lightning struck a water oak and the tree blazed with fire, silhouetting the vaquero. The water struck Pepito’s horse as it stood on its hind legs. Then animal and man disappeared in the deluge. Anson’s throat tightened in fear as he reined his horse far over in a tight left turn. He caught a glimpse of Juanito riding toward him just before his horse turned, and then he felt the water slide under his horse and he was floating, the horse pawing the water to stay afloat. Behind him, the oak tree blazed and sputtered in the rain.
Anson looked around and saw Juanito and his horse swimming by and cattle all scattered and flailing the rising waters for their lives.
“Head for high ground,” Juanito called, whipping his horse with the trailing ends of his reins.
“Where?”
“Follow me.”
It seemed hours before Anson reached land that was not flooded. Juanito’s horse stood on a little knoll, watching the cattle drift past. Snakes coiled and slithered all over the knoll and then disappeared back into the water as Anson rode up, his ears still ringing with the sound of thunder.
Anson looked back and saw his father’s horse breasting the waters, veering to avoid the nearby cattle. He no longer felt anger toward him. “Thank God,” he said. “Did you see Pepito?”
“Yes,” Juanito said. “Too bad. Fidel did not make it either.”
Dead cattle floated by, their heavy carcasses bobbling up and down in the water.
“I’m glad we’re alive,” Anson said.
“Yes, that is a good way to look at it. Life goes on, even when there is death.”
Martin Baron’s horse climbed from the water onto the knoll. Martin did not say anything as they all looked at the cattle floating by, and Anson knew that his father was crying, although he could not see his tears in the rain.
5
ANSON BARON HAD just turned seventeen years old the week after Mickey Bone rode away from the Box B just before the big storm hit that part of Texas, slashing the land with flash floods, ravishing the cattle and the fields, drowning several head of prime crossbred beef that Juanito Salazar had raised from Argentine and longhorn stock. Anson still thought of Mickey often and wanted to talk about him to his father, but Martin Baron did not like Bone and would not say much about his leaving except “Good riddance.”
/> “Why didn’t you like Mickey?” Anson asked his father the day after the storm and the cattle stampede was over. The wind had blown part of the barn roof away, collapsed the posts of the main corral, overturned watering troughs and feed bins. The barn was still filled with standing water and Anson had been pushing the water and mud out with a makeshift rake that had no teeth, just a flat board nailed to a mesquite stick. The barn reeked of urine and horse apples and sunlight angled through the hole in the roof.
“I didn’t trust him. He’s an Apache.” Martin was currying a young colt that was still skittery from the storm. He held the animal fast with a rope halter while he ran the currycomb over its muddy sorrel hide.
“But he didn’t live with ’em.”
“He’s livin’ with ’em now, ain’t he?”
“I—I guess so.”
“Well, there it lies, son. Do you need to get burnt to know what fire is?”
Anson, a dark-haired, hazel-eyed young man, looked at his father, tall and sunburned, and felt a distance grow between them again. Lately, his daddy had been riding him hard, treating him like a little boy in front of the vaqueros and Juanito. And his mother, Caroline, seemed uneasy around his father, and he often heard them arguing at night after he had gone to bed. Something was wrong and he didn’t know what it was, but he wished his father wouldn’t treat him like a child. Not when he was ready to grow up and be a man.
Anson pushed a wad of horseshit and mud out the back door of the barn, scooted it to a pile he had made. He lingered in the sunlight, free of the heady musk inside the barn for a few moments. The light wind tousled his hair and he liked the feel of it—silky fingers caressing his scalp, ruffling the open-throated shirt he wore. If he had his choice, he would be riding with Mickey Bone, going with him back to his tribe, the Lipan Apaches, living free, just him and his horse. He did not feel welcome in the house anymore. His mother was acting funny and seemed to be sick or mad all the time and afraid of something she would not name. His father was distant, angry at everyone and everything, snapping at him as if he was a cur dog.
