by Peter Grant
“You could buy more cattle with it, señor,” Pablo pointed out diffidently. “We passed the word throughout north central and north-western Mexico, as I promised. I am sure you will have many trying to sell you young cattle.”
“That’s good to hear, but I think we’ll stick to the numbers we decided on earlier. We’ve already gathered almost two thousand head o’ mavericks on the way here. I reckon if I buy thirteen or fourteen thousand more in New Mexico, that’ll be enough. We don’t want our herds to get so big they’re unmanageable.”
“That is true. Señor Walt says that Nate will meet you near Las Cruces with the wagons and supplies. He will tell Vicente where they will be – he is a mesteñero with whom we have done business before. I shall ride with you to that city, to introduce you to him, and he will show you where to find Nate.”
“I’ll be obliged to you. Thanks.”
The first sight of the wagons, a veritable train of them, caused much comment among the cowhands as they drove the cattle towards them.
“Dang, boss, what are we – a trail drive, or a freight outfit?” one asked, only half in jest.
“Where we’re goin’, there are no towns an’ no stores,” Tyler pointed out. “We gotta take with us everything we’re gonna need. That’s my partner’s job, and those wagons are the result.”
“I sure hope he knows what cowhands need on the trail.”
“I sent him several letters, to make sure he understands.”
A glance through the bills of lading for each wagon soon demonstrated that Walt had done far better than merely understand. The five trail bosses and Tyler thumbed through the pages, eyes growing wider as they saw what Walt had sent them.
“He’s outfitted us like we were the Lewis an’ Clark expedition!” one exclaimed. “Look, there’s tools to repair wagons, an’ axes an’ saws to collect firewood, an’ complete tanned cowhides for leather repairs, an’ waxed thread, an’ sailmakers’ palms, an’ tarpaulins, an’…” He shook his head in amazement.
“Never mind that,” Tyler’s long-time cook snorted. “Lookit the food! I dunno what to do with half this stuff!”
Nate grinned. “It’s easy enough. Miz Colleen hired five cooks an’ their assistants, and they spent two months learnin’ a bunch o’ new receipts. They got ox-wagons converted into chuckwagons, an’ all new cookin’ pots an’ gear. You’re gonna eat better than you have on any trail drive afore. In fact, I reckon you’re gonna find it hard to choose who to take on as ranch cooks when the time comes. I’ve eaten their food all the way here, an’ believe me, it’s great! Iffen you want to learn how to make it, I reckon they’ll be happy to show you.”
The cook, clearly feeling threatened, greeted that suggestion with a disgruntled “Hmpf!”
Jess had continued to page through the lists. “I’ll be damned if he ain’t bought two spare cowhand saddles for each drive!” he exclaimed.
“Yeah, that was my idea,” Nate admitted. “Even on a two- or three-month drive, someone usually has a problem with his saddle at least once – stitching torn, or a girth buckle come loose, or a broken saddle tree, or whatever. Some things can be fixed on the trail, but for anything big, it takes a proper saddler to do it right. I reckoned, since we wouldn’t be passin’ near one until we hit the railhead, it might be best to have a spare or two on hand, just in case.”
“Damn fine idea,” Jess approved. “We can’t do it on a normal drive because we don’t have space to carry spares, or money to afford them. How much is each wagon carryin’?”
“They can hold up to six or seven thousand pounds, but Walt loaded them with only about four thousand, to make ’em easier an’ safer to handle, and to leave room for bedrolls. We put something of everything into each wagon. If we lose one, we’ll still have enough to get by. Each herd gets five wagons, plus a chuckwagon, to keep ’em goin’ until we find our ranch site; then Walt’ll send more for the last part o’ the journey. You an’ your floating outfit may need to move fast sometimes, Tyler, so Walt asked that you use one o’ your horse-drawn chuckwagons and bedroll wagons that you brought from Gainesville for that, an’ take supplies from the freight wagons as you visit each herd in turn.”
Tyler grimaced. “Ours are pretty worn out. Might be better to buy two new wagons in Las Cruces, an’ transfer the chuckwagon gear to one of ’em. I can trade in the old wagons to help pay for them. Yeah, I reckon that’s what I’ll do.” He grinned at his cook. “You’d better start readin’ those receipts from Walt’s wife. I reckon you’ll be cookin’ ’em for us soon.”
“Hmpf!”
Nate laughed. “The herds have no bedroll wagons, but a few hands can put their gear into each o’ the freight wagons. Every wagon has two spare wheels, a 45-gallon water barrel, a barrel o’ grease for the axles, a barrel o’ dubbin for harness, saddles, boots an’ belts, and other needful things. There’s also a couple thousand rounds o’ ammunition in common cartridges for each herd. If any o’ your riders use out-o’-the-ordinary guns, they’ll need to provide their own. The wagons also carry tarpaulins rigged to extend out from either side, to make a sort o’ canopy under which the hands can eat an’ sleep in rainy weather. Just make sure the slope o’ the ground drains water away from them.”
Tyler shook his head slowly. “Y’know, if we make it to the Panhandle, an’ from there to the railhead, I reckon Walt’ll deserve at least half the credit. He’s outfitted us like an army!”
The hundred-plus hands and the teamsters formed a large camp outside Las Cruces. Tyler asked Vicente to find him worthwhile wranglers, nighthawks and some more scouts. Many of Vicente’s own crew of mesteñeros eagerly volunteered for the positions, as the mustangs they normally gathered, trained and sold were now in short supply, thanks to most of the quality animals already having being taken. The herd of longhorns was grazed on a different part of the surrounding grasslands every day, held together by a strong contingent of cowhands. The pleasant late spring weather, freshly growing grass and readily available water in the Rio Grande helped keep the cattle contented. They were accustomed to staying together by now, and gave little trouble.
Tyler decided to set up the cattle buying point just north of the Mexican town of Puerto Palomas, on the US side of the border. That was about sixty miles from their present camp, as the crow flew, but had the advantage of being remote from officials of both nations who might ask awkward questions about customs duties.
“We’ll brand the cattle we buy each day, then drive them to join the others every week,” Tyler told his trail bosses. “Most of the hands will stay here with the wagons, guarding them, and collectin’ the cattle into bigger herds for the trail. They’ll all take turns to come down and fetch more. We’ll take one chuckwagon down with us, plus a supply wagon.”
“When should each herd hit the trail?” Jess asked.
“I reckon as soon as it reaches the right size. Let’s say no more’n 3,250 cattle to a herd, to keep it manageable. Each of you will have sixteen cowhands; three scouts; two wranglers and two nighthawks, double the usual number, because each herd will have a remuda of more’n a hundred fifty hosses; one cook an’ his louse; and one teamster per ox-wagon. It’ll be the cook’s job to keep his chuckwagon ready, an’ draw supplies from the freight wagons as he needs them. Jess, you take the first herd out as soon as we’ve bought another fourteen hundred or so cows, then we’ll start collectin’ the next herd together. Use your scouts to keep in touch with me an’ the other herds, and warn us of any trouble ahead. Tell ’em to pick routes for the herds that won’t go over grass other cows have already eaten. Each herd should stay slightly more west than the one ahead of it, to avoid that.”
“When will you leave, boss?” another man asked.
“I’ll leave last of all, once the buyin’s finished, but I’ll travel faster than the herds. I’ll catch up an’ get into a central position among you, so you can get word to me in a hurry if you need help. I’ll visit each herd from time to time, to see how things are g
oin’. Remember, slow an’ steady does it, and don’t be afraid to stop and rest the cattle for a week or so if you find real good water and grass. Don’t plan on gettin’ to the Panhandle before October. We want the Injun war there to be long over afore we arrive.” There was a rumble of emphatic agreement from his audience.
Pablo sent riders to carry the news of the designated rendezvous point to sellers approaching from central and western Mexico. They soon began to come in, and it didn’t take long for the trickle to turn into a flood. Tyler concentrated on buying two- to three-year-old cattle, as near as he could judge. He found they were available in good condition for two-and-a-half to to three-and-a-half gold dollars per head. He mostly bought gelded steers, as well as cows for breeding stock at the ranch, plus a few promising young bulls. Yearlings he rejected, on the grounds that they might be too weak to survive the rigors of a very long trail drive. He also rejected muleys of all ages. The Mexican longhorns were, as expected, a little smaller than their counterparts from south and central Texas, but not so much so as to be difficult to sell at the railhead. He knew they would fill out and fatten up as they traveled.
Tyler bought over thirteen thousand head of cattle during April and the first half of May. Many arrived in small herds of twenty to fifty animals, driven by a few peasants who had banded together to bring them. Some ranchos sent larger herds of several hundred cattle each. Every week, once they were branded and the deeds of sale recorded, they were driven to the main camp outside Las Cruces, where trail bosses gathered them into shipping herds. Four herds were sent on their way to the Panhandle, and the fifth was growing rapidly.
Around mid-May the flood of cattle coming over the border fell off precipitously. Within two days, it dried up completely. Tyler was surprised, as he’d had no indication from other sellers that no more were coming. He sent a rider to Las Cruces to telegraph an inquiry to Pablo, asking whether he knew anything about it, and waited for a reply.
Before an answer could arrive, a party of ten horsemen crossed the border one morning and cantered towards his camp. Their leader was flashily dressed, his saddle, boots and belt decorated with silver, and his wide-brimmed sombrero too. Tyler passed the word to his floating outfit, who were camping with him, to be on the alert in case of trouble.
By the time the new arrivals drew up in front of his wagons, Tyler was waiting to meet them, his right hand thumb-hooked into his belt near his holster. A dozen cowhands, some carrying rifles, had spread out around the camp, each with a clear line of sight towards the horsemen. Their leader studied the obvious preparations, and his mouth twisted in a slight smile.
“Saludos, señor,” he began. “I understand you are the man who is buying cattle?
“I am,” Tyler replied warily.
“You are in luck, señor. I have more than a thousand head I am willing to sell you. Shall we say ten dollars a head?”
“I ain’t payin’ more than three dollars a head for three-year-olds – less for younger ones.”
“You do not understand, señor. There will be no more cattle coming over the border except mine. No-one else in Mexico for a hundred miles in any direction will sell you any. If you want cattle, you must buy them from me, at my price.”
“And who are you?”
“My name is Garcia Mendez, but my men call me El Jefe.”
“Heard o’ you. You’re a bandido from down south near Casas Grandes, right?”
“Oh, señor! ‘Bandido’ is such a hard word. I am merely a businessman.”
“Sure you are. I reckon you heard about what was goin’ on here, and decided to horn in. You’ve rounded up all the smaller herds that were comin’, stole all their cattle, an’ now you want to sell them to me on your own account.”
“What does it matter, as long as you get the cows you need?”
“It matters to me. I ain’t buyin stolen cattle, and I ain’t payin’ your price. Take your men an’ head back over the border, and don’t come back.”
Mendez’ face and voice turned ugly. “Be careful, señor. People who cross me soon wish they had not – as some of the cattle sellers have already discovered.”
Tyler laughed, a short, bitter sound. “I’m tremblin’ in my boots at the thought.” Behind him, his men chuckled.
The bandido’s hand crept towards his holstered pistol, but froze as the ratcheting sound of a Winchester rifle being loaded and cocked sounded from behind Tyler. He scowled. “You fear to back up your bold words with your gun, señor?”
“Not at all, but Jake’s rifle will serve as well as my revolver, if need be.”
The Mexican sniffed contemptuously. “Only a coward hires others to do his fighting for him.”
“I guess that’s why you ride around with a bunch o’ hired gunmen at your back, right?”
“It is unwise to mock me. I am very fast with my gun.”
“Oh, yeah? If you want to measure yourself against someone who really is fast, I’ll introduce you to my partner sometime. He’s given me lessons.”
“And who would he be?”
“Walt Ames.”
Surprise appeared on the faces of all the Mexicans. After a moment, Mendez said, “Is that the man who killed Enrique Sandoval in Rancherias last year?”
“The very same.”
The bandido took off his sombrero with his left hand, and held it against his chest. His right hand snaked in behind it as he raised his eyes to heaven. “Señor Sandoval was –”
Tyler snapped “Jake!” even as his hand grabbed for the revolver at his side.
In instant echo, the Winchester barked as Jake fired from the hip. A two-hundred-grain flat-nosed .44-40 bullet smashed through the brim of the sombrero into Mendez’ chest. He rocked back in the saddle, crying out in pain. A small Remington Double Derringer pistol fell from his right hand as he dropped the hat. Jake snapped his rifle to his shoulder as he worked the loading lever, and fired a second shot. The lead ripped into the bandido’s head and tumbled him lifeless from the saddle.
Mendez’ followers were caught completely off-balance by the sudden turn of events. By the time they recovered, they were under the guns of all the men in the floating outfit. From behind his cocked, lined revolver, Tyler commanded, “Shed your guns, right now! Use one finger and thumb only, and move real slow. Drop them on the ground.”
Slowly, sullenly, the bandidos complied. When their holsters were empty, Tyler ordered, “Now your rifles, too.” He waited until they’d finished, then said, “Turn your horses around and get back over the border. If we see you again, we’ll shoot you on sight.”
“What about El Jefe?” one of them demanded.
“We’ll tie his body over his horse and take them to the sheriff in Las Cruces. Iffen his family wants them, they can claim them from him.”
“And our guns?”
“They’re ours now, as payment for the trouble you’ve caused us. Don’t worry, we’ll put ’em to better use than you ever did.” Laughter from the cowhands.
As the dejected bandidos rode away, heads hanging, Jake asked, “How did you know he was reachin’ for a gun behind that hat, boss?”
“That’s one of the tricks Walt Ames taught me.” Tyler took off his own hat, and showed them the U-shaped clip set inside the Stetson’s crown, holding a Remington Double Derringer.
“Waal, I swan!” Jake exclaimed. “I gotta get me one o’ those!”
“With any luck, happen this drive works out all right, you’ll be able to afford hideout guns all over your body,” Tyler joshed him.
“No, thanks, boss. It takes too long to shed ’em all, if you want to get to grips with someone prettier an’ more interestin’ than bandidos, if you follow me!”
When the laughter died down, Tyler said, “I reckon we won’t be gettin’ more cattle from here.” He consulted his notebook. “Still, we ain’t done badly at all. We collected 1,874 mavericks on the way here, an’ I’ve bought another 13,336. That gives us 15,210 cattle in all, plus whatever mavericks we f
ind on the way north. I reckon that’ll do. All right, people, pack your gear. Let’s head back to Las Cruces.”
He and Jake collected the bandidos’ guns, unloaded them, and packed them in the supply wagon until they could clean them. While Jake fetched a horse blanket to wrap the body, Tyler went through Mendez’ pockets and saddlebags. To his astonishment, the Mexican had been carrying over five thousand dollars in gold coins. His face twisted in anger as he realized that El Jefe had most likely stolen the money from some of those who’d recently sold him cattle. Given the bandido’s reputation, it was unlikely they had survived.
Gritting his teeth, Tyler added the money to his cash reserve. It could no longer benefit its rightful owners, because he didn’t know who they had been and had no way to deliver it to their families. However, it would at least help get his cattle to their destination.
8
June 1875
Among the letters and bills awaiting Walt’s attention one morning was an envelope from the Pinkerton Detective Agency. He picked it out of the pile and opened it eagerly.
A year before, while buying horses in Mexico for the U.S. Army, he’d come across the diary of a Confederate officer. Major Gilbert d’Assaily had been killed in 1865, shortly after the end of the Civil War, while trying to deliver gold and a final message from Confederate President Jefferson Davis to Brigadier-General Joseph Shelby, who’d led his soldiers into Mexico rather than surrender to Union forces. Walt had used the diary to locate the gold. While doing that, he’d met and later married Colleen, and used some of the Major’s money to buy her late father’s entire breeding herd of horses. They both knew they owed their present happiness to Major d’Assaily’s diary. Without it, they’d never have met.
Walt had brought the Major’s remains back to Colorado, and commissioned Pinkerton’s to trace his surviving relatives. The agency enclosed a copy of d’Assaily’s baptismal certificate, and reported that his parents had both died a few years after the war, within a year of each other. They were buried in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Their death certificates and the location of their shared gravesite were provided.
