by Peter Grant
The cook smiled. “She does not want food at present, trust me, señor. She will not want to eat until after the baby is born.”
“And how long’s that gonna take?”
She patted his arm, almost maternally. “Do not worry, señor. Your wife is young and healthy, and she is in good hands.”
Walt paced for another hour, growing more and more worried. He hated the feeling of being able to do nothing to help. It was unnerving, particularly when Colleen’s occasional moans of pain were loud enough to be heard.
At last his vigil was rewarded. Through the ceiling came the sound of a sudden light slap, then a faint cry in a very young, wailing, complaining voice. Walt slammed to a stop, staring upward; then he made for the stairs at a run.
As he reached the door of the bedroom, hand raised to knock, it opened. Dr. Gordon came out, his shirt sleeves rolled up, blood on his hands and forearms. Walt opened his mouth to demand more information, but the doctor forestalled him. “She’s fine, man. It’s a boy. Came out sweet as can be. Magdalena’s cleaning him now. As soon as we’ve washed your wife and changed the bedding, she’ll want to show him to you. No, not now!” He blocked Walt’s impulsive move towards the door. “Give her time to clean up and look her best. She won’t thank you for bursting in until she’s ready.”
The doctor went down the hall to the bathroom to wash his hands, and brought back a pail of hot water, which he took into the bedroom. For several minutes there came the rustle and thump of activity as they changed the bedding, washed Colleen, and cleaned up. At last the door opened again. “You can come in now,” Dr. Gordon advised.
The air in the room smelt odd, a combination of stuffiness from being closed against the night cold, the slight odor of lamp oil from the lights, soap and hot water from its occupants’ ablutions, a faint coppery tang of blood, and the sharp, astringent scent of carbolic acid antiseptic. A heap of discarded bedding and towels lay against the wall. The maid followed Walt into the room, seized the laundry, and whisked it out of the door.
Almost hesitantly, Walt approached the bed. Colleen was half-lying, half-sitting, propped up on heaped pillows. Her hair had been brushed and her face washed, but she still looked exhausted and drained. She held a little bundle to her chest.
She smiled tiredly as she saw him. “Oh, Walt! Look!” She tenderly lifted the bundle, to reveal a tiny, screwed-up face with eyes firmly closed. A faint wail of complaint arose as she moved their son, and she hastily put him back in his former position.
Gently, very delicately, Walt put out his hand and stroked the infant’s head with one finger. “He… he’s so small!” he whispered.
“They always are when they are newly born, señor,” Magdalena said fondly as she looked at her handiwork. “Do not worry. Soon he will be eating everything, and breaking what he cannot eat, and growing so fast you will not believe it.”
“What will you name him?” Dr. Gordon asked.
“He’ll be Thomas Gilbert Ames,” Colleen told him. “Thomas is for my father, and Gilbert for a man whose diary helped Walt to find our estancia, which is how we met.”
“They’re both good strong names. I hope he lives up to them. Now, Mr. Ames, leave your wife to get some sleep. She’s worn out. You can see her again in the morning.”
Walt bent and kissed Colleen gently on the forehead. “I’ll be in the spare room, honey. Call me if you need anything.”
“I will, dear, but with Magdalena to look after me, I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She put her head back on the pillows, and closed her eyes.
With a last, lingering look at his son, Walt tiptoed out of the room. All of a sudden, it seemed as if his entire life had changed. He now had a tiny new life to care for, one that was totally dependent on him for everything it needed. It was a scary, monumental responsibility, one for which he felt completely unprepared.
7
February-May 1875
“You want to buy just twenty head?” The rancher’s face was puzzled, even more so as he glanced at the hundred-odd cowhands sitting their horses beside two run-down old chuckwagons outside his home.
“Yeah, just twenty.”
“Waal… cash money’s short right now, and I could use some. How about ten dollars a head?”
Tyler made a face. “I was thinkin’ more like five or six.”
They bargained briskly back and forth for a few moments, finally settling on eight dollars per animal. Tyler reached for his wallet, counted out a hundred and sixty dollars in greenbacks, and handed it over.
The rancher pocketed it. “Thanks. I’ll ride out with you and point out which to take. There’s a small group that hangs out not far away, over that rise.”
As they rode towards the crest of the rise, the rancher asked, “What brings y’all this far into central Texas, anyway? Ain’t never seen so many cowhands in one place afore.”
“We’re on our way to New Mexico, to pick up cattle there an’ drive them north.”
“Oh, up to Nebraska?”
“Not quite that far.”
Within an hour, twenty longhorn steers were being driven westward, surrounded by five times that number of cowhands. This was one herd that wasn’t about to get away.
Over supper that night, Tyler told everyone what they would be about for the next few weeks. Those who’d encountered the technique before were amused, and the rest were intensely curious to see how it worked.
“Half of you will head for the Colorado River,” he concluded. “Jess Manning will be in charge. You’ll take a chuckwagon, a bedroll wagon and ten steers with you. The rest will head for the Pecos River with me, the other wagons, and the ten remaining head. We’ll rendezvous outside El Paso a month from now, with as many mavericks as we’ve been able to round up and brand. Good luck to us all!”
Three days later, as the sun was dropping towards the western horizon, Tyler looked around him. The banks of the Pecos River were obscured by dense brush, in some places a mile deep. If any wild cattle were to be found, this was the sort of place they’d choose to hide from their enemies. They would be as good as invisible, and the brush was thick enough to be almost impenetrable.
“We’ll make a start right here, tomorrow morning,” he said with satisfaction. “Come on. Let’s head away from the brush for a few miles, so we can make camp without alertin’ them with our fires.”
That evening, one of the ten steers was slaughtered. Before the cook cut it up and prepared it for supper, a bucket of blood was drawn from the big vessels in its neck, then the carcass was skinned. A flap of its hide was cut off and tied over the top of the bucket to prevent spillage, then the hide was folded and set aside.
“What are they gonna do with that?” a young cowhand inquired, nose wrinkling at the raw, unpleasant smell of blood.
“You’ll see, young ’un,” a grizzled older hand replied with a tolerant smile. “You’re about to learn what they mean by the ‘blood call’. We did the same sometimes, down on the Neuces River in the old days. It was the only way we could roust some o’ the worst of them ole ladino steers out o’ the thorn thickets.”
“What’s a ‘ladino’?”
“That’s a steer that got away young. It’s spent its life livin’ alone in the thick brush, and it knows it’s the boss. It takes sass from nothing an’ nobody, least of all no cowhand. It’s wild, it’s mean, and it’ll kill your hoss, or even you, as soon as look at you. You mark my words, boy – a big ladino will fight a grizzly bear to a standstill, an’ even kill ’em sometimes.”
“He ain’t jokin’,” another hand agreed fervently. “Don’t ever relax when you’re herdin’ wild brush cattle, and stay clear of their horns. They’ll gut your horse in a heartbeat, an’ rip open your leg from fork to foot if you get careless in the saddle. Friend o’ mine bled to death that way back in ’67, afore we could get him to a doctor. Sid went right through the War without a scratch an’ made it safe home, only to meet up with a killer ladino.” He spat sourly into the fire.
Tyler added, “Try to keep a way open to get clear, just in case, and keep your gun handy. If one o’ them takes a dislike to you, and you can’t get out of its way for some reason, there’s only one way to stop it. I know we allus say you should never use your gun near cattle, ’cause they’ll stampede at the drop of a hat; but when it comes to fresh-caught, still-wild ladinos, you ain’t got a choice in the matter. In a tight spot, it’s them or you. All those of you who’ve never dealt with wild brush cattle afore, team up tomorrow with someone who has, and learn from them.”
That sobered everyone. Clearly, this would be no ordinary roundup.
Tyler rousted the hands out of their bedrolls at four the following morning. No fires were allowed, so the hands had to make do with a cold breakfast of the remains of last night’s supper, without coffee. They mounted their horses and walked slowly towards the brush along the river, one of their number carrying the bucket of blood, another toting the bloody hide. One group of hands drove the nine surviving steers along behind them.
Tyler halted the group about a mile from the brush, and checked the wind direction. It was blowing out of the west. He positioned the hands downwind from where he’d place the hide and blood, and warned them to move very quietly when the time came. “Form a half-circle as you come up to them, then spread out to surround them as you move them forward. Stay back an’ keep still until you see me make a move.”
Tyler had the hand carrying the hide spread it, bloody side out, over a convenient bush. The man with the bucket took off the cover and poured the smelly, turgid blood over the hide, so that it spread out on the ground around it. That done, they made themselves scarce while Tyler rode back to get the tiny herd he’d brought along. He and a couple of hands drove them towards the bush and the blood.
As the first rays of sunrise broke over the horizon, the animals suddenly scented the blood. Their heads lifted, their nostrils quivered, and they began to move faster, showing excitement. They broke ranks and surrounded the hide over the bush, hooking at it with their horns, pawing the red mud beneath it. A steer cut loose with a long, tremulous bawl, and more and more of the cattle took up the refrain.
“There they go!” Tyler enthused as he and the other hands rode off, stopping half a mile away behind a clump of brush. “Now to see if that fetches more of them.”
“I’ve got ten dollars that says we’ll see at least fifty come out o’ brush that thick,” an old-timer said.
“No bet,” Tyler retorted. “That’s why I chose this place.”
Sure enough, within minutes a shadowy form could be seen hovering just inside the edge of the brush. As soon as the steer was convinced that there were no enemies about, it hurried out of the bushes and over to the group of bawling cattle, adding its voice to the chorus. It was followed by another, then another, then a small group. More and more cattle made their appearance, and the herd pawing and snorting around the hide and blood-soaked earth grew larger and larger.
“I ain’t never seen or heard tell o’ the like!” a young cowhand whispered in awe as he watched.
“Hide hunters have,” another replied. “Buffler sometimes do the same thing when one of them is shot. They’ll gather round, beller, and hook an’ paw at it. That’s how some hunters keep a herd together to be shot. They lung-shoot a bull, so the others will gather round as they smell the blood, then shoot as many as they can before something spooks them and they run off.”
For over an hour, the cowhands watched as the number of cattle grew. The blood frenzy spread among them, causing them to bellow and paw the blood-soaked ground. Cows and calves that were too small to force their way through the throng to the center circled the outskirts, bawling in complaint at being deprived of access to the source of their excitement.
At last Tyler moved forward. There were well over a hundred cattle there now, and if he waited any longer, some of them were sure to notice the waiting cowhands. Looking around, he saw all his hands begin to follow his example, moving carefully so as not to startle the cattle. Closing in, they formed a ring around them, and began to urge them gently away from the brush towards their camp site.
At first the longhorns moved slowly, without complaint; but within minutes the wilder bulls realized that something was amiss. They were being pushed further and further away from the thick brush that had until now been their protection and concealment. Bellowing their anger, they tried to break back and get away. Fast-riding cowhands wielding lassos intercepted them, and cattle thudded hard to the ground as their hooves were caught in the flying loops and immobilized. It sometimes took two or three falls before a particularly stubborn steer could be persuaded to stay with the herd.
When they had reached clear ground, half a mile from the camp site, Tyler had the hands thin the cattle into a narrow procession. He and another man rode ahead, then turned to face inward. As the cattle were driven between them, they pointed to every branded animal they saw, or any branded cow with an unbranded calf. They also picked out every male animal more than about a year old that had not yet been castrated, and all the muleys. The cattle they designated were cut out of the herd and driven back towards the brush, allowing them to escape. When the counting and checking was over, there were sixty-one unbranded cattle remaining, plus the remaining nine head they’d purchased from the rancher.
Tyler had intended to make two or three gathers before branding, but the size of the first day’s haul persuaded him to change his plans. Fires were kindled, and the animals brought down in turn with ropes. Handlers kept the ropes taut while a red-hot branding iron was applied to the right hip, producing a clear Circle CAR insignia. Hair sizzled and burned as the brand was applied, and the longhorn jerked and bellowed at the pain. If necessary, while it was still distracted, another cowhand quickly removed its testicles with a sharp knife, producing yet more bellowing and struggling. After brushing the brand and wound with pitch as a rough-and-ready disinfectant, the animal was released to rejoin the herd.
By mid-afternoon, the work was done. The cowhands moved the enlarged herd a few miles along the Pecos to another likely-looking location, and made camp several miles away. The balkiest and most aggressive steer among their recent captures was killed for supper, and its blood and hide appropriated for the morning. Normally only two or three hands would ride night herd over the cattle. However, because of their wildness and recent capture, Tyler allocated six men to every watch of the night. No-one complained, because they understood the need for exceptional vigilance until the cattle grew accustomed to the loss of their freedom. Fortunately, because there were so many hands available, the extra work would not be an intolerable burden.
They all felt a glow of satisfaction as they ate supper around the camp fire. Tyler admitted, “I never expected to get so many on the first gather. Given luck, I reckon we may come up with a good few hundred head along the Pecos.”
“And if Jess does the same along the Colorado, we’ll have a decent-size herd when we rendezvous at El Paso,” an old-timer added.
“Let’s hope he does.”
“Our hosses are gonna be worn out by then, though,” a cowhand noted. “We only brought three mounts apiece with us.”
Tyler shrugged. “Yeah, but that can’t be helped. There should be several hundred more waitin’ in El Paso, if Walt’s friend has come through for us. Once we have them, we can rest these hosses for a while.”
As it turned out, Tyler found more cattle along the Pecos River than Jess Manning did along the Colorado. “I reckon that’s because o’ the Goodnight-Loving Trail herds,” he admitted when he met up with his segundo at El Paso. “There were more cattle movin’ along the Pecos to get lost in the first place. Still, your 752 head ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at. Added to my 1,122, we’ve got 1,874 head basically free of charge, to make up for what we’re payin’ the hands to
get to New Mexico. If we get decent prices at the railhead, they’ll fetch up to sixty thousand dollars. You just earned yourself an extra year’s wages as a bonus for your good idea.”
Jess flushed with pleasure. “Thanks, boss, but we’ve still gotta get ’em there.”
“That we have. With luck, we’ll find more mavericks as we drive north-east, although I reckon there’ll be nowhere near as many as further south. Still, wouldn’t it be somethin’ to arrive at the railhead with three thousand or more cattle that ain’t cost us a cent?”
Pablo was equally pleased to see them. “I have 574 horses for you,” he told Tyler proudly. “You owe me $6.50 each for them.”
“That’s a damned fair price,” the cattleman admitted. “It’s a good three dollars a head less than I paid for most o’ mine. I’ll take them all. No need to check them – Walt told me you’re an honest man, and I know they’ll be in good shape.”
“Thank you, señor. Con su permiso, I shall take the money out of what I am holding for you from señor Walt, and give you the balance.”
“Sure, that’ll be fine. The money’s comin’ out o’ the same pot, one way or t’other. How much do you have for me, then?”
Pablo scribbled some calculations in a notebook he took from his pocket. “The horses will come to $3,731. Señor Walt made $23,517 on his grubstake investment, including his deposit of $10,000. That leaves $19,786, which I have waiting for you in gold at the Wells, Fargo office in El Paso. Señor Walt sent me a telegraph message saying I should give it all to you, and not send him anything. He said to tell you that the extra $3,517 would be emergency money, in case you ran out. If you do not need it, you can give it back to him at the railhead.”
Tyler grinned. “That’s good o’ him. I brought an extra $4,000 with me, too, all the money I had left over, also in case of emergencies. I hope we don’t need it, or Walt’s extra money, but you never can tell.”
