SOMEWHERE BEYOND THE RIVER, to the west, lightning struck. There was a crackling, an earth-shaking crash, and the leaden sky seemed to explode in a brilliant burst of light. For a few seconds, it was as though time stood still, while cattle, men, and horses were in shock. The longhorns recovered first. In a bawling frenzy of terror, they stampeded, the wind and rain at their backs. Riders drew their Colts, but the sound of gunfire was swallowed up in the fury of the storm.
“Ride!” Don shouted. “Ride for your lives!”
But his voice was lost in the roar of the wind and the rumble of thunder. He kicked his horse into a gallop, seeking to get beyond the far-reaching avalanche that was the running longhorns, hoping his comrades would follow. The rest of the riders gave it up, riding for their lives. Don looked back, and in a flash of lightning, he saw a riderless horse galloping ahead of the oncoming stampede. Wheeling his horse, he started back, but there was no time. In a brief flash of lightning, he saw a lone figure standing in the path of the thundering herd, his hands raised helplessly heavenward. Then the pathetic figure was gone, swallowed up under twenty thousand trampling hooves. . . .
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles
by Ralph Compton
The Trail Drive Series
THE GOODNIGHT TRAIL
THE WESTERN TRAIL
THE CHISHOLM TRAIL
THE BANDERA TRAIL
THE CALIFORNIA TRAIL
THE SHAWNEE TRAIL
THE VIRGINIA CITY TRAIL
THE DODGE CITY TRAIL
THE OREGON TRAIL
THE SANTA FE TRAIL
THE OLD SPANISH TRAIL
THE GREEN RIVER TRAIL
THE DEADWOOD TRAIL
The Sundown Riders Series
NORTH TO THE BITTERROOT
ACROSS THE RIO COLORADO
THE WINCHESTER RUN
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
THE OLD SPANISH TRAIL
Copyright © 1998 by Ralph Compton
Excerpt from The Green River Trail copyright © 1999 by Ralph Compton
Trail map design by L.A. Hensley
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 0-312-96408-0
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / January 1998
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5
This work is respectfully dedicated to my brother, the late James E. (Jim) Compton.
AUTHOR’S FOREWORD
In April, 1844, John Fremont introduced Americans to the Old Spanish Trail. Fremont was accompanied by Kit Carson, Alexis Godey, and others, and was heading east along the trail, bound for Missouri. Fremont had just concluded a reconnaissance of the West that had begun in St. Louis, continued northwest to Oregon, and then south to California. The eastward journey along the Old Spanish Trail included a formidable winter crossing of the Sierra Nevada, the Mojave Desert, and the torturous Great Basin. Fremont later published an account of the 1,200 mile journey.
Early Spanish explorers had used the route to reach the Colorado Plateau, following the Rio Chama to the northwest. While the trail seemed to wander through southwestern Colorado on its way to California, there was a reason. Due west of Santa Fe was the domain of hostile Hopi Indians. The Utes and Paiutes were bad enough—the Utes to the northwest beyond the San Juan Mountains, and the Paiutes somewhere north of the Grand Canyon, in northwestern Arizona.
While Fremont’s published account brought the Old Spanish Trail national recognition, it had long been used as a trade route between Santa Fe and California. Antonio Armijo, a Mexican merchant, led the first successful pack train from Santa Fe to Los Angeles in 1829. His pack mules were loaded with woolen goods, and were traded at the missions for horses and mules. He then successfully drove his herds back across the same treacherous trail to Santa Fe. A year later, William Wolfskill and George Yount traveled from Missouri to Santa Fe via the Santa Fe Trail. They then rode northwest along the traditional Spanish route to the Colorado Plateau, and from there southwest to Los Angeles. Thus began the glory days of the trail, although by then it was centuries old. Travelers were forced to rely on mules, for few wagons ever survived the journey. The trail has been called “the longest, crookedest, most arduous pack mule route in the history of America.”
Apparently, the natural hazards and cussedness of the trail were equaled only by the ever-changing unpredictable climate. By day, men sweated under a merciless sun, while at night they hunched over fires in heavy mackinaws, woolen scarves protecting their ears. Little grew in abundance except cactus, and it seemed the hostile land had much more than its share of scorpions and rattlesnakes. Cougars prowled by night, and during scorching summers there were grizzlies, ever-present threats to horses and pack mules. Much of the mountainous terrain was shot full of arroyos that flash-flooded during thunderstorms, and when dry, provided abundant opportunities for Indian ambush. And in the mountains there was often rain, hail, sleet, and snow, all within a few hours.
About 1855, the Old Spanish Trail’s heyday ended, for Spanish and Mexican rule was no more. Gold-rich California had become a state, and with the opening of its harbors, it was no longer dependent on overland trade. Ships came from all over the world, bringing goods from England, France, China, and Japan.
But like the Santa Fe and other famous trails, traces of the Old Spanish Trail are still there, and with the exception of hostile Indians, much of the land is unchanged.
PROLOGUE
San Antonio, Texas. February 1, 1862.
Don Webb, Bob Vines, Jim Roussel, Les Brown, and Mike Horton had “learned cow” together, having been friends since childhood. While Webb hadn’t told them why he wished to see them, they could read the excitement in his face, and they waited expectantly.
“Sorry I got no coffee,” Webb said. “We got Mr. Lincoln’s war to thank for that.”
“Hell, if we’re here to talk about the inconveniences of the war,” said Bob Vines, “we got no flour for biscuits either.”
Despite the grim reality of their situation, they laughed. Webb was twenty-five, while Mike Horton was a year younger. Bob Vines was twenty-two, Les Brown twenty, while the youngest—at eighteen—was Jim Roussel. All were dressed in Texas boots and range clothes with Stetson hats in various stages of disrepair. Belted around the lean middles of each was a Colt revolver. From the hip pocket of his Levi’s, Webb produced a letter.
“Any of you wantin’ to read this is welcome to,” Webb said, “but for now, I’ll just tell you what it says. It’s from Warren Blocker, who moved to Santa Fe five years ago. He’s somehow got himself a land grant, a new wife, and he wants five thousand head of Texas cattle. He’s offerin’ us thirty dollars a head, if we’ll drive ’em there.”
For a moment there was only stunned silence. Jim Roussel was the first to recover, and he cut loose with a Texas yell.
“My God,” said Mike Horton reverently, “that’s thirty thousand for each of us. Where in tarnation did Blocker come up with a hundred and fifty grand?”
“He didn’t say,” Webb replied. “He was goin’ out there to do some mining. Maybe he struck it rich.”
“I don’t care if he got it stickin’ up banks,” said L
es Brown. “Let’s gather up the cows he wants and drive ’em there before he changes his mind.”
“We got to get us an outfit together,” Webb said. “For a herd that size, we’ll need at least five more riders, and we’ve all got to eat.”
“We can get the riders,” said Vines. “Everybody’s broke. Most of the northern trails are closed, and it may be just a matter of days until the Federals close the rest of them.* God knows when there’ll be another cattle drive but for this one we’re plannin’, and there should be riders jumpin’ at the chance to sign on. Eatin’ may be a problem, though, unless we eat nothin’ but beef.”
“A man can’t live on nothin’ but beef,” Roussel protested.
“That’s what we’re livin’ on now,” said Horton, “and as the war worsens, I can’t see it gettin’ any better.”
“Neither can I,” Webb said grimly. “For the kind of money Blocker’s promisin’, I’ll eat prairie dogs from here to Santa Fe.”
“I reckon all of us can agree on that,” said Horton. “But what’ll we do about a horse remuda? Every rider will need at least three horses.”
“That may be a problem,” Webb admitted. “I’ll need another horse, and any riders who throw in with us will have to supply their own. We’d better start askin’ around and see if we can come up with some extra mounts. How many horses do we have amongst us?”
“I got just one,” said Jim Roussel, “but if I take along a few head of cows for my pa, I reckon he’ll loan me two more.”
“We’d all better go callin’ on our kin,” Mike Horton said, “but I purely hate promisin’ money I don’t have in my hands.”
“So do I,” said Bob Vines. “But times are hard, and they’re about to get harder. Right now, a promise is better than nothing.”
“We need riders and we need horses,” Don Webb said. “Each of us must find one rider who has or can get three horses. Any questions?”
There were none, and when his friends rode out, Don Webb watched them go. Already a Texas convention was voting to secede, as the war came closer to home, and not one of them knew what the future held in store.
San Antonio, Texas. February 10, 1862.
Red Bohannon was near Don Webb’s age and still lived with his aging parents. They all sat at the kitchen table as Webb explained his need for riders.
“Pa, what do you think?” Red asked.
“I think you’d be a fool not to go,” said the senior Bohannon. “There’s nothin’ for you to do on this ten-cow spread, and with two-year-olds sellin’ for less than three dollars a head, things can only get worse. I reckon I can spare you a couple of horses. Since all the trade’s goin’ to be shut off, there’ll be no cash crops. I can use the mules to plant some corn and a garden.”
Leading his two extra mounts, Red Bohannon rode to Webb’s ranch. There they waited until the rest of Webb’s companions arrived. Bob Vines was the first, accompanied by a young cowboy leading his two extra horses.
“This is Charlie English,” Vines said. “Charlie, this is Don Webb.”
“Howdy,” said Webb. “The redhead here is Red Bohannon.”
Within a matter of hours, Jim Roussel, Les Brown, and Mike Horton rode in, and with each of them was a rider leading his two horses.
“This is Arch Danson,” Roussel said.
“Gents,” said Les Brown, “this is Eli Mills.”
“This ugly hombre is Felton Juneau,” Mike Horton said.
Each of the new riders was a friend or relation of the man who had brought him, and Texans all, they wasted no time getting acquainted. They all gathered in Webb’s parlor, sitting or hunkering where they could, while Webb told them the little that was known of the forthcoming drive.
“We can reach the Pecos River just east of Fort Stockton. That’s two hundred miles, and from there to Santa Fe, it’s three hundred more, but we can follow the Pecos all the rest of the way. I figure it’ll be worth it for sure water.”
“I hear there’s quicksand in the Pecos,” said Charlie English, “and once bogged down, a cow ain’t got sense enough to back out.”*
“That’s what I’ve heard,” Webb replied, “and we’ll have to check it out for quicksand before the cattle are allowed to drink. We’ll have some control over them, with sure water close at hand.”
“I ain’t one to horn in on another man’s good fortune,” said Felton Juneau, “but I got maybe a hundred head of two-year-olds I’d hate to leave behind. Is there any way I could include ’em in this drive? I’d be willin’ to take pot luck in Santa Fe, anything over three dollars a head.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with each of you including a hundred head,” Webb replied. “Why don’t we put it to a vote?”
The vote was quickly taken, with Vines, Roussel, Brown, and Horton nodding in agreement.
“I can’t see a man leavin’ his cows to just work for wages,” said Bob Vines. “I’d say the butcher shops in Santa Fe ought to take five hundred head.”
“I like the idea,” Mike Horton said. “I feel some better about the drive, if we all have a stake in it.”
“So do I,” said Jim Roussel, “for several reasons. On a trail drive, a man signs on for wages and grub, but as all of you know, grub—except for beef—is in short supply. All of us may have to pitch in, taking payment at the end of the drive, along with wages.”
“Fair enough,” Red Bohannon agreed. “This is just the beginnin’ of hard times, and nobody in Texas is flush. Pa had a good corn crop last year, and I can throw in enough corn meal to keep us in cornbread from here to Santa Fe.”
“Bless you,” said Don Webb. “Do any of you have kin who had a good crop of coffee beans last year?”
“Just a fair-to-middlin’ crop,” Arch Danson joked, “and we drunk it all ourselves.”
They all laughed, despite the seriousness of their situation, and then they got down to business.
“Ever’thing seems to be comin’ together, and I hate to mention it,” said Felton Juneau, “but has anybody got mules and a wagon, or at least some pack mules?”
They had overlooked the obvious, and for a moment they looked at one another. Mike Horton eventually spoke.
“I reckon we could get a wagon, but that would take a rider away from the herd, and we can’t spare one. What we really need is pack mules. No more grub and supplies than we’ll have, two will be enough.”
“Two or two hundred,” said Red Bohannon, “it won’t be easy. Pa let me have the two horses I needed, leavin’ him only the mules. He’ll need them to grow enough food just to stay alive, and I’m thinkin’ that’s goin’ to be the same situation with everybody else.”
“Whatever it takes,” Don Webb said, “we’ll need at least two pack mules. I’m asking all of you to pitch in and help find them. As for the cattle, we’ll gather and hold them all here until we’re ready to begin the drive. Bob, I reckon you, Jim, Les, and Mike will need help. What about the rest of you?”
Felton Juneau laughed. “I could drive a hundred head in my sleep.”
“So could the rest of us,” said Charlie English.
“Bring them here, then,” Don Webb said, “and then begin looking for those mules.”
San Antonio, Texas. February 17, 1862.
Charlie English arrived at the Webb place with a hundred and three two-year-olds and a mule.
“Bueno, Charlie,” said Webb.
“I got the mule from kin,” Charlie said, “and it ain’t all that good. I got him with a promise to pay, and I owe a hundred dollars.”
“It won’t cost you anything,” said Webb. “For the mule and any supplies, I’ll see that you’re paid, right off the top.”
“I’m obliged,” Charlie said. “How about the others?”
“Red, Arch, Eli, and Felton have brought their cows,” said Webb, “but nobody’s come up with a mule except you. Jim, Les, and Mike will be helping Bob Vines bring in his herd tomorrow. The day after tomorrow, the four of them will drive in Jim Roussel’s
herd, and finally, herds belonging to Les Brown and Mike Horton. I’m hoping, somewhere along the way, one of them will come up with another mule.”
“So do I,” English said. “I’m afraid this war’s about to bust loose all around us.”
“It already has,” said Webb. “Yesterday, Texas troops took over the Federal arsenal, right here in San Antonio.”
The following day, Bob Vines, Jim Roussel, Les Brown, and Mike Horton arrived with the herd belonging to Bob Vines.
“Nine hundred and fifty,” Vines said. “Best I could do.”
“I may not have any more than that,” said Jim Roussel.
“Then we may need that extra hundred head from each of our new riders,” Webb said.
“I think we will,” said Les Brown. “We cut out some scrub stock from Bob’s herd, and Jim, Mike, and me aim to do the same with ours.”
“Then I’ll weed out some of mine,” Webb said. “Hard up as we are, now that we have a market, we can’t afford to deliver anything less than prime. Charlie brought us a mule. Do any of the rest of you have even a promise of another?”
“I can get one,” said Jim Roussel, “but the asking price is a hundred and fifty dollars, which I don’t have.”
“The rest of us are in the same boat,” Webb said. “See if you can get him with the promise to pay. That, and any grub and supplies you throw in the pot will come off the top, once we reach Santa Fe.”
“I’ll get him, then, and bring him along with my herd,” said Roussel.
Each of the five new riders had more than a hundred head of acceptable two-year-olds, and when Webb, Vines, Roussel, Brown, and Horton had cut out the culls from their herds, there were 5,525 Texas longhorns ready for the trail drive to Santa Fe.
“Barring stampedes, I’m figuring two months for the drive,” Don Webb said.
“It’ll take a month for this bunch to become trailwise,” said Mike Horton. “Don’t look for ’em to do anything we want ’em to do, until then.”
The Old Spanish Trail Page 1
