A River of Horns

by Peter Grant

  Tyler winced. “That’s a real important point, right there, considerin’ how many banks went belly up durin’ the panic o’ ’73. A lot o’ folks lost everything when their loans were called in. I’m grateful to both of you. Do you plan to live on the ranch, or stay up here?”

  Walt shook his head. “I figure on stayin’ here, where I’ve already got two businesses. You’ll run the cattle ranch.”

  “Okay, but in that case, who’s in charge? If we’re equal partners, who calls the shots about the cattle?”

  “I reckon you’ll be the boss of the ranch. You know more about the cattle business than any of us, and you’ll be there to make decisions. I’ve already talked to Nate Barger, my manager at the Rafter A, about being our representative as your segundo. He started out brush-poppin’ longhorns on the Neuces River as a boy, so he’s no beginner; and he’s run the horse ranch since we started. I figure you won’t have a problem workin’ together. He’s a good man. I’d say, if you both agree that something’s needed, you can go ahead an’ do it without askin’ me. If there’s doubt, give me a chance to weigh in before you decide. Is that fair?”

  “I reckon so. When do I get to meet him? I’ll want to make up my own mind about him.”

  “Of course. He’ll be back in town tomorrow.”

  “Good. What about a place for us to live on the ranch?”

  “You’ll build a nice place for both of you as part of the startup costs, plus someplace for visitors, including us. Pay yourself a good salary, too. How about two hundred fifty dollars a month and all found, to make it worth your while?”

  Tyler grinned. “That’s three thousand a year! Given a good cowhand makes thirty a month and found, I reckon that’s more’n fair; and I’ll have my share of the profits, too.”

  “Yeah. We’ll pay Nate a little less, say two hundred a month and found. All that’ll be part of the ranch’s day-to-day running costs. You and I will divide the profits equally every year, after settin’ aside a reserve for the ranch if need be, and Colleen and I will pay Nate a bonus out of our share. We’ll both agree to stay invested for at least five years, after which either of us has the option to sell his share of the ranch at market price, with the other getting first refusal if he does. We can get a lawyer to draw up a partnership contract with all the fine print, but I reckon we know and trust each other well enough to agree on everything important even before that.”

  Tyler nodded. “That’s for sure.”

  “Then it’s a deal.”

  They reached across the map and shook hands solemnly, while Colleen beamed her delight at both of them.

  “Spend a couple of days with us,” Walt invited. “We’ll make plans in more detail, and have my lawyer draw up the partnership contract, and open a joint bank account with Wells, Fargo.”

  “Sounds good to me. If I catch the train back to Texas by the end of the week, through Kansas an’ then around and down to Dallas, that’ll get me home in time to lead the last trail drive o’ the season.”

  “One last thing,” Colleen said. “What’s our ranch going to be called? What will its brand be?”

  Tyler thought for a moment. “I guess we can use the initials of our surnames; R for Reese, and A for Ames.”

  “In what order?” she asked mischievously, a gleam in her eye.

  Walt laughed, and reached into his pocket for a coin. “I’ll spin, you call,” he said to Tyler, and flipped the coin into the air.

  “Heads!” Tyler called as they watched it fall. It landed on its edge on the floor, and bounced onto the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace.

  Colleen bent down to retrieve it. “It’s tails,” she said, displaying the coin. “Walt?”

  “Uh… can we add Colleen to the brand?” he asked Tyler. “She’s part of our team, after all.”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Then let’s use C for Colleen, A for Ames, and R for Reese – CAR. We can do it inside a circle, with a bar across it, with C on top and AR below. That’ll stiffen the branding iron, so it’s less likely to bend.”

  “Circle CAR,” Tyler mused. “I like it. It’ll be hard for cow thieves to alter that design with a running iron. I’ll register it for us in Texas at my place near Gainesville – brands are registered by county in that state. We’ll transfer it to the Panhandle as soon as they’ve set up counties there, and the spread’s up and runnin’.”

  “We’ll figure out the design by the time you leave,” Walt promised. “I’ll have branding irons made for you to use on the cattle we buy, and send them down on the wagons holding your first supplies.”

  3

  Late September 1874

  Sam peered out beyond the camp perimeter in the fading light. “Reckon they’ll attack tonight?” he asked.

  Nastas nodded. “They will be fools if they do not. They do not know how many we are, but we are too close to what must be their main camp. They have to drive us away, or at least our horses, so we cannot move in.”

  “Yeah. I guess we’ll be securin’ the animals real careful tonight.”

  Orders to that effect were not long in coming. Lieutenant Thompson, known affectionately as ‘Hurricane Bill’ due to his usual battle tactics, gathered the scouts around him. “We’re going to hold position through the night, no matter what they try to do,” he informed them. “The horses are to be staked, cross-sidelined and hobbled, to make sure they don’t run.”

  All around the camp, the cavalry troopers and the scouts drove iron rods into the ground and fastened the horses to them with thirty-foot ropes, ‘staking’ them so they could not move far away. One of their front legs was tied to the opposite rear leg at normal standing distance, preventing them from spreading them farther apart for high-speed running; and their front legs were tied close together with a shorter rope, preventing them from moving faster than a slow shuffle. Restrained like that, they would not go far no matter what happened.

  Shortly after ten that night, the attacks began. Groups of two to three dozen Indians swept down on the camp from different directions, screaming war cries and shooting randomly in an attempt to stampede the horses. They seemed baffled when their efforts failed to bear fruit. Withdrawing to the slopes beyond the camp, they fired shots at random intervals through the night, to keep the soldiers awake. In the pitch darkness, accuracy was impossible, so almost all their rounds missed. Only a few horses were injured.

  At the first light of dawn, over a hundred Indians mounted up and moved out onto the slope, preparing for another charge. Colonel Mackenzie, wanting to prevent them seeing the full strength of his force, sent orders that a troop of cavalry and the scout platoon were to drive them off.

  “That’s us!” Lieutenant Thompson exclaimed, almost quivering with excitement. “We’ll form up on either side of Captain Boehm’s troop, and charge alongside them.”

  The scouts – twenty-one Seminoles, seven Tonkawa and Sam’s five Navajos – suited the action to the word. Captain Boehm wasted no time, charging straight through the gathering Indian throng and scattering them to the four winds. Only a couple of them fell, but the rest drove their horses pell-mell up the hillside and over the top, to get away from the unexpectedly vigorous assault. Sam watched in admiration as a Seminole scout jumped from his horse to get a steadier platform, took careful aim, and shot an Indian’s horse out from under him, whereupon a still-mounted Tonkawa scout ran down the Indian and shot him in the head with his revolver. Grunts of approval came from the Navajo scouts as they watched the teamwork.

  Captain Boehm had his trumpeter sound the ‘Recall’ at the crest of the rise, and his troop formed up as they watched the Indians scatter into the distance. To Sam’s surprise, the Comanche came together two or three miles away, gathered in what looked almost like a military formation, and marched away to the east, looking back at the troopers who had driven them off. The Captain shook his head. “They want us to follow them, that’s clear. Well, we won’t. They’re trying to lead us away from their main body, wher
ever it is. We’ll see what the Colonel wants to do about it.”

  Colonel Mackenzie had the troops march out later that afternoon, seemingly in the same direction as that taken by the Comanches; but it was a ruse. The soldiers pretended to make camp as the sun set, but as soon as darkness had fallen, they saddled up once more. Lieutenant Thompson told his scouts proudly, “We’re going to lead the way. We’re heading north, to the edge of the Palo Duro Canyon. The Colonel thinks the Indian’s main camp is there. By dawn, we should be able to see it.”

  The first rays of the rising sun revealed exactly what the Colonel had suspected. Sam and his Navajos looked down in awe from the canyon rim at hundreds of lodges, stretching for miles along the Red River. Thousands of horses grazed in groups in all directions.

  “How the hell are we going to get down there?” Sam wondered aloud.

  Lieutenant Thompson heard him. “Not to worry. We’ll find a way down. The Colonel’s got the bit between his teeth now. He’s not about to let all those Comanche and Kiowa get away.”

  Sure enough, the scouts were sent along the rim of the canyon in both directions to search for paths leading downward. One of the Seminole scouts soon found one, a narrow, steep, winding footpath that appeared more suitable for mountain goats than for horses; but Colonel Mackenzie didn’t hesitate. He ordered the force to descend into the valley and engage the enemy.

  It was a hot fight to get down the steep side of the canyon. As soon as the Indians below saw the line of horses and men coming towards them, they opened up a hot fire, to which the soldiers replied as best they could. Marksmanship on both sides was lacking, as Nastas observed with a frown of disapproval.

  “They would do much better if they slowed down and aimed more carefully,” he observed as his Winchester cracked. A Comanche brave, sheltering behind a rock a hundred yards down-slope, cried out in shock as the bullet blasted rock chips an inch from his face, and hastily ducked behind cover.

  “Don’t say that too loud,” Sam told him with a grin. “They might hear you!”

  The Colonel sent messages down the line of troopers, urging greater speed, even at the expense of greater casualties if necessary. Fortunately, the attack had come as such a surprise to the Indians, and they were scattered over so wide an area, that they could not gather in large numbers to oppose the force before it reached the bottom.

  The cavalry troops rapidly gathered in their formations, and set about their grim work. They charged through the villages of tents and lodges, firing rapidly, scattering every attempt by the Indians to come together and fight back. For three miles the fight raged, but only one trooper was seriously hurt, and several cavalry horses killed or injured. In the swirl of dust, the random movements of groups of troopers and Indians, and the chaos of dodging through tepees and lodges, lines of fire were often obscured, so the Indians also suffered few casualties. Rather than allow themselves to be trapped against the canyon walls, the braves fled on foot, abandoning their horses when they could not climb the steep, trackless slopes.

  Some bands of braves displayed reckless courage in hurling themselves at their attackers, seeking to hold them off, while others got the women and children away, rather than risk leaving them to the questionable mercy of the soldiers. One such band struck at the scouts, appearing out of the dust with screams and shrieked war-whoops, firing as they came. The Seminoles and Tonkawas were focusing their attention on another group, and did not notice the new attack immediately, so it fell to Sam and the Navajos to take it on.

  Sam and Nastas carried Winchester 1873 rifles, while the other four had the earlier 1866 models. They took full advantage of their rapid-fire capabilities, jumping off their horses, taking aim at the center of the group of hostiles, and unleashing more than a dozen rounds apiece in a hail of lead. Over seventy rounds tore into the approaching warriors, laying half a dozen of them on the ground, wounding others, and injuring and killing more than a score of horses. The survivors scattered, picking up the wounded whenever they could and hauling them up behind them as they turned and ran.

  Nastas suddenly exclaimed, “That horse!” He pointed, and Sam instantly saw what he meant. One of the fallen Indians still clutched the reins of a magnificent roan stallion. Sam recognized it. Walt had asked him to cut it out of their horse herd during their passage through the Llano Estacado earlier that year. He’d given it to Laughing Raven, a Kiowa sub-chief.

  “Load your rifles first, then let’s go get him!” he snapped as he thumbed rounds through the loading gate of his Winchester. As soon as they were done, they jumped back into their saddles and rode towards the fallen men.

  Sam was dreading what he’d find when they drew near. He knew Walt felt friendship for Laughing Raven, and didn’t want to have to be the one to tell him that his friend was dead. However, as they came up, he realized that the dead man wasn’t Laughing Raven, but an unknown Indian warrior. He’d almost certainly grabbed the horse as being the first available nearby, and ridden it into battle using only a hackamore. The animal bore no saddle. Walt’s Rafter A brand was burned onto its right hip. It had not been canceled or replaced.

  Nastas dismounted, freed the hackamore’s rein from the dead man’s hand, and shook out the loop in his lariat. He placed it gently around the roan’s neck, blowing into its nostrils and murmuring endearments as he did so, then mounted his horse once again. “We shall take this horse back to señor Walt,” he said to Sam. “He would want that.”

  “Yeah. I wonder what happened to Laughing Raven?”

  Nastas shrugged. “He could be anywhere here. The Kiowa and Comanche are scattered to the winds. For señor Walt’s sake, I hope his friend escapes.”

  “I hear you, but don’t say that to anyone else. We don’t want the cavalry thinkin’ you’re suddenly on the enemy’s side!”

  Nastas led the roan as they set off in search of more groups of the enemy, but there were almost none left to find by now. The surviving Indians had dispersed into side canyons or plunged into deep brush, hiding from the soldiers, getting their families to safety rather than see them die in a hopeless resistance.

  It took more than an hour to clear the three-mile stretch of villages of the last hostiles. Some of the Comanche and Kiowa clambered up the sides of the canyon and perched on the rim, from where they fired on the cavalry below, but their marksmanship was poor. They hit only a few horses.

  Colonel Mackenzie sent orders to burn the tepees and lodges, and everything inside them. The troopers indulged in an orgy of looting, taking whatever seemed to them to be worth having as souvenirs of the battle before using burning brands to fire the dwellings. The scouts joined in happily, and being Indians themselves, had a good idea what to look for. They found an astonishing variety of goods, almost as if the Comanche had brought their homes with them; buffalo robes, blankets, china plates, kettles and pots, breech-loading and repeating rifles with plenty of ammunition, bows and arrows, shields, and food of all varieties.

  One mule was loaded with over 500 rounds of Winchester rifle ammunition, which caused growls of discontent from the troopers who saw it. “How in hell do Injuns come to have better rifles and more bullets than we do?” one of them exclaimed angrily, as they watched the Navajo scouts appropriate the ammunition to refill their depleted stocks.

  “They were issued to them on the reservation,” a sergeant explained bitterly, “because they’re ‘peaceful’ Injuns. They said so themselves, so it must be true, right?” The reservation documents accompanying many of the weapons proved he was right.

  The Indian’s horses and mules were driven up the trail to the top of the canyon, then out onto the prairie beyond, where they were bunched into a large herd. By early afternoon the troops had climbed out of the canyon, and headed back to their main encampment. Behind them, they left a scene of utter devastation. The homes, belongings and supplies of over 2,000 Comanche and Kiowa warriors, women and children had been destroyed, leaving them destitute in the face of winter on the plains.

/>   Colonel Mackenzie’s soldiers arrived at their wagon train in the small hours of the following morning. They got a few hours of sleep, then commenced the grim task of making sure that the Indians could never regain possession of their horses. Since there were far too many animals to take with them in their pursuit of the fleeing hostiles, and no spare troops to escort them to the nearest fort, there was only one way to do that.

  Some of the best Indian horses were issued to troopers whose mounts had been killed or injured in the fighting the day before. The scouts were also allowed to select five horses each, as a token of gratitude for their good work in locating the enemy camp and leading the attack. Nastas and his Navajos chose the best they could find, with an eye to future breeding. Nastas took only four, having already saved the roan stallion. Sam knew his limitations, so he had Nastas choose five good horses for him, knowing he lacked the other’s intimate knowledge of the animals.

  As soon as the horses had been selected, the remainder of the herd, over 1,400 animals, were bunched in a group. Soldiers began to gather around them, carrying their rifles. Nastas watched with dawning horror, and turned to Sam with a desperate look on his face. “Tell me they are not about to do what I think they are going to do?”

  Sam sighed heavily. “They are, Nastas. I’m real sorry – I know how you feel about horses – but we can’t take them with us. They’d only slow us down. We can’t just drive them out into the plains, because the Comanche and Kiowa would get them back. There’s only one way left.”

  As if to underline his words, the first shots cracked out. Horses whinnied and screamed in pain and fell to the ground, kicking and struggling. The firing grew in volume as more and more troops joined in.

  Nastas whirled his horse and headed back to the encampment, tears in his eyes, and his Navajo scouts followed him. The Seminoles and Tonkawa did not; but Sam knew they did not share the fierce, strong emotional bond felt by Navajos towards their horses. He turned his horse sadly and rode after his friends.