“Bring the others,” Bartholomew commanded.
Lon and Cleveland rode around to the other side of the stable and returned herding five longhorns. All were cows. Some of the hands exchanged knowing looks. Steers could be more tractable but Alfred Pitney wanted cows. The Brit had hopes of not only breeding Big Blue with the BLC’s own cattle, but also starting a herd of longhorns of his own. All the cows were young, and none had yet calved. If they had, they would not have been chosen. There was no separating a cow from her calf. She would die before she would let that happen.
The five selected were different hues. One was yellow, one was cream. There was a brown with bay points. There was a black with white splotches. And there was a red. Not the common pale red but a rare rich red much like that of Herefords.
Owen gestured, and Lon Chalmers took point. He always took point. He had the best eyes of anyone in the outfit, and a quick mind to go with his quick hands, traits essential for a point rider, who sometimes had to make spur-of-the moment decisions and who was usually the first to encounter danger, whether it be a war party of hostiles or the stinging fury of a dust storm.
On a typical trail drive there would be swing and flank riders who rode on either side of the strung-out herd and kept cattle from straying. With only a bull and five cows there was no need for swing and flank men; Slim and Cleveland served as both. Slim moved to the right of Big Blue and the cows, Cleveland gigged his buttermilk to the left.
The least desirable position on a drive was that of drag. Drag riders brought up the rear. Their job was to encourage lazier cattle to keep up. They ate a lot of dust in the process. Now Owen moved between the longhorns and the chuck wagon team. The longhorns would not raise much dust, but it was still typical of the foreman that he chose the position most hands disliked for himself.
Pitney reined his mount in next to Owen’s. The Brit sat his saddle stiffly and held his arms higher than was customary. “I say, how do we drive that big brute, anyhow? With a whip?”
“That would be plumb cruel,” Owen replied. “The trick is to have cattle drive themselves. You point them in the direction you want them to go and let them do the rest.”
“That’s all there is to it?” Pitney skeptically asked.
“It’s not as easy as it sounds,” Owen said. “Sometimes a critter will get it into its head it likes a different direction.”
“This should prove to be highly illuminating. I don’t mind telling you, I am as excited as a small boy on his first day of school.”
“I never went,” Owen said.
Pitney’s jaw dropped. “You have never had any formal education? No schooling whatsoever?”
“You make it sound like a calamity. I can wrestle with the alphabet, and count past a hundred without takin’ my boots off.”
“I’m sorry,” Pitney said. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that in my country, education is the cornerstone of our society. The better the school, the brighter one’s prospects.”
“Out here, it’s the straighter you shoot, the longer you live. Book learnin’ can’t stop a Comanche arrow.”
“Point conceded,” Pitney said, grinning at his little pun.
Over in front of the stable, James Bartholomew cupped a hand to his mouth. “What’s the holdup? Are you waitin’ for Christmas?”
“No, sir,” Owen said. Removing his hat, he waved it overhead and whooped, “Heeyah!”
It was the crucial moment. Lon Chalmers flicked his reins, and twisted in the saddle. Slim and Cleveland were also watching the longhorns to see what Big Blue would do. Would the bull cooperate? That was uppermost in all their minds.
Big Blue stood immobile, his great head held high, his formidable horns glinting in the morning sun. Then he gave a loud uh-uh and lumbered into motion. When he moved, so did the cows.
Slim yipped, Cleveland beamed, and there were shouts from the assembled punchers.
The first day they made eighteen miles. That night, seated around the campfire, Alfred Pitney remarked that at that rate, they would reach Wyoming well within two months.
“Every day won’t be like this,” Owen said. “We’re still on our home range. There are no hostiles hereabouts. No rustlers to fret about. We’ll have two more days as easy as this one, then the real work commences.”
“I wonder if word got out?” Cleveland remarked.
Pitney waited for more and when it was not forthcoming, he asked, “What word would that be?”
Owen answered him. “Word of us takin’ Big Blue north for you. He’s a prize bull. Worth his weight in gold as breedin’ stock.”
“You’re suggesting others might try to steal him from us?”
“It’s not a matter of might,” Owen said. “It’s a matter of when. Owlhoots can’t pass up an opportunity like this.”
“It won’t be the usual brand artists,” Slim commented. “Big Blue is too famous for them.”
“There’s that vernacular of yours again,” Pitney said. “I’m sorry, but what in the world is a brand artist?”
“A type of rustler,” Owen explained. “He carries a brandin’ iron with him everywhere he goes, and when he comes across cattle out in the brush, and no one is around, he helps himself and changes their brands so he can claim them as his own.”
“And this wouldn’t work on Big Blue?”
“No, sir. A brand artist could change the brand any way he wanted, but sooner or later someone would recognize Big Blue. Mr. Bartholomew has shown him off to a lot of people.”
“Still,” Pitney said thoughtfully, “if a rustler took him far enough, say, to another state, and kept anyone from seeing him, they could get away with it.”
“Yet another reason we have to keep our eyes peeled.”
The next two days were exactly as the foreman predicted. Once the Bar 40 was behind them, a new wariness was evident in the four punchers. At night they took turns keeping watch, walking around and around the camp, and often singing softly. When Pitney asked why they sang, he was told it soothed the longhorns.
“No one knows why it works, but it does,” Owen elaborated. “Just like singin’ to a baby will calm it down when it’s bawlin’, singin’ to cows calms them down and helps them sleep.”
“Fascinating,” Pitney said.
“Don’t Wyoming punchers sing?”
Pitney looked down at the ground. “I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’ve never been out with the herd at night.”
“That’s all right, sir. You push a pencil for a livin’. You don’t push cows.”
A routine was established. Each day they were up before dawn. They ate breakfast, then the cowboys saddled the horses they would use that morning, and the cook loaded the chuck wagon. As the sun peeked above the horizon, they were under way. They traveled until noon. After a brief rest, they were again on the move, pushing on until close to sunset. By then Lon invariably had found a likely spot to camp. The cook would set up his stove, the punchers would bed down Big Blue and the cows, and they would relax around the fire for a few hours. They seldom stayed up late. There was no drinking, no gambling. Their employer prohibited both when on the trail, and it was unthinkable to them to go against his wishes.
Within a week, Benedito Chavez had endeared himself to the punchers. They were aloof around him at first, until his brother’s boasts about Benedito’s skill were demonstrated to their satisfaction.
The chuck wagon contained everything Benedito needed, including a Dutch stove. He had an array of pots, pans, plates, and implements, and enough foodstuffs to feed a small army: flour, salt, pepper, bacon, cornmeal, beans, rice, raisins, lard, dried fruit, baking soda, coffee, and more.
Only Arbuckle’s coffee would do. The Arbuckle brothers of Pennsylvania had come up with the brilliant brainstorm to pre-roast their beans and coat them with egg whites mixed with sugar to retain the flavor. The beans came in manila one-pound bags with the word “Arbuckle’s” across the front and the image of an angel wearing a red scarf. Ben
edito had wisely stocked up enough bags to last the entire trip.
Most of the food, the condiments, and the cutlery were stored in the chuck box at the rear of the wagon. As was customary, the gate had been removed and in its place a cupboard constructed. As wide as the wagon, and about four feet high, the cupboard had drawers and shelves and compartments for everything the cook needed. Two large folding doors held it all in place when the wagon was on the move. Hinges ingeniously attached to the bottom permitted the cook to swing the whole cupboard down to make a table. The lid could also be let down to serve as a workbench.
Benedito, and only Benedito, was allowed anywhere near the chuck box. It was his private domain, and he became surly with anyone who violated it.
Not that the cowboys gave him much cause. They soon came to treat him with a respect bordering on reverence, and when he called them to eat, they came eagerly, like ravenous wolves, and ate with unfeigned enthusiasm.
Even Pitney was impressed, and he had eaten at some of the best clubs and restaurants in England and on the Continent.
Benedito was a master at Mexican cuisine. His tacos were crisp and crunchy, his bean burritos so soft and delicious that they melted in the mouth. His cheese enchiladas became a favorite. His gringo food, as he called it, was just as superb. Their staple was stew, more commonly known as son-of-a-bitch stew, which the punchers downed by the gallon. Pitney once asked what went into it, and Benedito, eyes twinkling, replied that it was better for his digestion if he did not know.
Benedito’s sourdough bread was another favorite. The cowboys liked biscuits, buttermilk especially, and they tolerated corn bread, but sourdough bread they could eat all day and all night. They positively loved it.
Benedito further endeared them by preparing what Slim referred to as fancy foods. Spotted pup, made of raisins and rice, was popular with all four. Owen and Slim liked a jelly dessert called Shiverin’ Liz, but Lon refused to eat anything that moved when he poked it. Cleveland wasn’t the last bit fussy; he would eat whatever was put in front of him, whether it was still moving or not.
Then there were Benedito’s pies. The aroma they gave off had every mouth watering. The crusts were always fluffy and light and sweet. Each slice was savored as if it were a condemned man’s last meal.
One evening Alfred Pitney remarked that he had never eaten so good, and for his courtesy Benedito gave him a stick of striped peppermint.
Ten days out, and things were going well. Supper was over with, Slim was on watch, and everyone else had turned in.
Pitney lay on his back, his head propped on his saddle, and gazed at the myriad stars sparkling in the vast firmament. “I never realized.”
“Sir?” Owen said.
“Oh. Sorry. I was talking to myself. I didn’t know you were still awake.”
“I’ve been thinkin’ of Cynthia.” Melancholy tinged the foreman’s voice. “Folks say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and they’re right.” Owen paused. “What is it you never realized?”
“How grand your life is,” Pitney said. “How glorious. All these years I have worked for the BLC, I never saw what was right in front of me. How deucedly strange.”
“Our noses hide an awful lot, don’t they?”
Pitney chuckled.
“Is there a Mrs. Pitney hid away somewhere?”
“Would that there were. I spend so much time working, the fairer gender does not loom large in my personal life. But I’m young yet. Only twenty-eight. Plenty of time for me to find a woman willing to tolerate my many quirks and accept me as her husband.”
“You’re not much older than me. I’m twenty-six, and I’d like to be hitched before I turn twenty-seven.”
“Miss Langstrom?”
“The signs are favorable. We might have done it before now except I’ve been loop shy. Not on her account. I can’t quite get it through my noggin that I won’t make a mess of her life. Mr. Bartholomew says it’s normal to be scared, and I just have to take the bull by the horns.”
“I wish you much happiness,” Alfred Pitney said.
Owen rolled onto his side and cradled his cheek in his hand. “The first time I set eyes on you, I took you for a swivel dude. But clothes are only feathers. You have some peculiar notions but you’ll do to ride the river with.”
“Thank you. I think.”
The next day they had their first taste of trouble.
They were awake before sunrise, as usual, and ate breakfast, as usual, washing it down with cups of Arbuckle’s. Then the punchers saddled their horses, as usual, and the cook loaded the chuck wagon, as usual, and they were ready to ride out when dawn breathed new life into creation.
Lon took point, as usual, and Slim and Cleveland took the flanks, as usual, while Owen and Pitney took their place between the longhorns and the chuck-wagon team. At a holler from the foreman, Lon touched his spurs to his mount, and Big Blue lumbered forward.
That was when the red cow moved ahead of him and assumed the lead.
“What in tarnation?” Slim blurted. “Look there! What does Emily think she’s doin’?”
The cowboys had named the cows. Emily was the red, Mary the yellow. The cream cow earned the dubious distinction of being called Cleopatra. The black with white splotches was Lily. The brown with bay points became Brownie.
So far the cows had behaved. Not one had tried to turn back or scamper into the brush. Emily had been observed to be the feistiest, perhaps because she was the youngest, and she always insisted on walking ahead of the other cows. But now she had gone herself one better.
Big Blue appeared to be as surprised as the cowboys. He stopped and stared, and when he stopped, the other cows stopped, too. Not Emily. She continued on, halting only when Lon reined up and looked back to see what was going on.
The rest of the punchers also drew rein. Owen gnawed his lower lip and commented, “This could be serious.”
“So what if she wants to lead the longhorns?” Pitney asked. “What possible difference can it make?”
“The difference between her livin’ and dyin’,” Owen revealed. “Bulls generally don’t take kindly to bossy cows.”
“What could he do to her?”
“Gore her to death, for one thing,” Owen said. “On a trail drive there is always one bull or steer that takes the lead, and he will keep it even if he has to fight other bulls and steers to earn the right.”
“Can’t we separate them?” Pitney proposed. “Rope her so Big Blue can be in the lead again?”
“This is somethin’ they have to work out between themselves. Otherwise we’ll have the same situation tomorrow.”
Big Blue snorted and moved toward Emily. She turned her head to watch him but did not move aside. She was the smallest of the cows, and he towered over her like a moose over a whitetail. Her horns seemed puny compared to his. In a clash, the outcome was foreordained.
“Females!” Slim growled. “Four legs or two legs, they are all the same.”
Big Blue came to a stop a few feet from Emily. He snorted again, then lowered his head and swung his long horns from side to side.
“I don’t like the looks of this,” Owen said. “Cleveland, you’re closest to the dunderhead. Rope her if he goes to pawin’.”
“Will do.” The cowboy from Ohio already had his rope in hand and was shaking out a loop.
A rumbling grunt from Big Blue hinted a crisis was imminent. Suddenly Emily turned and walked up to him. She touched her nose to his. For all of ten seconds they stood perfectly still, muzzles brushing. Then Emily wheeled and took the lead once again, and Big Blue docilely followed.
“I’ll be switched!” Slim exclaimed. “She’s done it. He’s not goin’ to put her in her place.”
“Now I’ve seen everything,” Owen said.
For the rest of the day Emily led. At noon they stopped and let the longhorns graze a while. Emily attached herself to the other cows and stayed with them until the punchers were once again ready to head out. As they fo
rmed up, Emily trotted past Big Blue. The giant bull did not contest her.
That evening Lon shot a doe with his Winchester. They were in need of fresh meat. Since there were no cows to spare, venison had become a steady part of their diet.
Benedito did the butchering. He cut out the heart and chopped it into pieces. He cut out the tongue. Part of the liver and the brains were broken apart and mixed with flour and salt and pepper, resulting in the venison equivalent of son-of-a-bitch stew.
“It ain’t beef but it will do.” Slim summed up the sentiments of his companions.
“So long as he goes on making those pies of his,” Cleveland said, “he could cook skunk and I wouldn’t care.”
Another night under the stars. Another crisp dawn. Big Blue started to lead but Emily passed him. A new tradition had been established.
“He must secretly like her,” Cleveland opined.
“She does have a saucy walk,” Lon said.
They were far enough inland that the last thing Alfred Pitney expected to come across was swampland. It was more common along the Gulf coast. But come across it they did, a foreboding expanse of dark water broken by intermittent hummocks of lush vegetation.
“Do we go around?” the Britisher asked.
Owen did not want to. They would lose too many hours. But they had the chuck wagon to think of, so he had them bear to the west to skirt the wetland. A wise decision, everyone agreed.
It should have gone well.
But they did not count on the snakes.
11
Coyotes
Toothless was always one of the last to leave the Nose Paint Saloon. The married men were the first. They had to be home early or suffer the wrath of their wives. Next to go were the townsmen who had to open a business or be at work by six or seven a.m. the next day. Cowhands usually stayed late no matter how far they had to ride to reach their outfits, but then, cowboys generally had a carefree streak. Plus, they did so love their liquor.
So did old Toothless. Which was why he always hung around until closing, hoping to mooch one more drink. He did not care from whom. Married men, single men, townsmen, punchers, so long as they had money to spare.
By the Horns Page 12
