San Antonio, Texas. February 25, 1862.
“Head ’em up, move ’em out,” Don Webb shouted.
Webb was riding point. Bob Vines and Jim Roussel were riding flank, while Eli Mills and Felton Juneau were at swing. Les Brown, Mike Horton, Red Bohannon, Charlie English, and Arch Danson rode drag.
“Damn,” said Charlie, “I’d forgotten how much dust a herd can stir up.”
His companions said nothing, for no sooner had they headed one bunch-quitter when a dozen more lit out down the back trail or for parts unknown. By the end of the first day, every man of them was exhausted and covered with dust from head to toe. Fortunately there was water, and after drinking, the unruly herd settled down to what little graze there was.
“God,” said Les Brown, “I ain’t lookin’ forward to tomorrow.”
“I ain’t lookin’ forward to tonight,” Jim Roussel replied. “This bunch is so jumpy, the sound of a hoot owl is likely to send ’em skalley-hootin’ back the way we just come.”
Don Webb laughed wearily. “The good news is, we haven’t come that far. Not more’n ten miles.”
“I think we made one big mistake,” said Mike Horton, who had ridden drag all day. “I know we have to make do with the riders we have, but we need at least two wranglers. Runnin’ the horse remuda and the pack mules at the tag end of the herd is killin’ us. The horses and mules have been raked with horns before, and they ain’t about to get close to the cows. They’re leavin’ daylight between themselves and the herd, and them ornery cows is takin’ full advantage of it. I’ve never seen so many bunch-quitters.”
“That’s gospel,” Red Bohannon said. “Neither have I.”
“I know,” said Don Webb. “When the drag steers begin to slack off, it opens up gaps in the rest of the herd. The flank and swing riders have been catchin’ hell too. But we’ll just have to make the best of it until this bunch becomes trail-wise. Until then, the only relief you can expect is that you won’t ride drag every day. Tomorrow, the five of you who rode drag today will take other positions, and the rest of us will take the drag. We’ll swap every other day.”
“Yeah,” Bob Vines said, “but don’t expect an easy ride. When the drag steers fail to take up the slack, all of them that’s ahead will scatter like hell wouldn’t have it.”
“We’re all worn to a frazzle,” said Charlie English, “but skittish as this bunch is, we’ll have to stand watch. Do we all ride?”
“No,” Don Webb replied. “We’re still close to home. We’ll stand two watches, five of us at a time, the second watch taking over at midnight. If there’s any trouble, it generally comes in the small hours of the morning, so I’ll take the second watch.”
“So will I,” said Bob Vines. “In fact, why not have Jim, Les, and Mike join us? We’re spearheading this drive, and if there’s trouble, we ought to be there for the start and the finish of it.”
“I can agree with that,” Don Webb said, “as long as the rest of these boys don’t feel we’re takin’ advantage of them.”
Felton Juneau laughed. “Nobody has any advantage on a cattle drive. We all got the opportunity of bein’ struck by lightning, throwed and gored durin’ a stampede, or of just ridin’ till we drop and can’t get up.”
Weary as they were, they all laughed. They built a supper fire, prepared their meager meal, and with only water to drink, sat down to eat. As dusk approached, Red, Charlie, Arch, Eli, and Felton saddled their horses for the first watch. Every man was armed with a Colt revolver and a Henry repeating rifle, and while they were only a few miles from their homes, they were taking no chances.
The weather held, and while nights were cold, there were no storms. Slowly the longhorns became trail-wise, settling down to the daily routine. Only when they were some fifty miles east of the Pecos River did trouble strike. Don Webb had ridden ahead, scouting for water, and when he returned, the rest of the outfit knew by his grim look that there was no water, or that it was too distant for the herd to reach by day’s end.
“Nothing ahead of us but the Pecos,” said Webb, “and it’s every bit of fifty miles.”
“Nobody sleeps tonight,” Arch Danson predicted.
“There’ll be some dewfall,” said Les Brown. “Maybe that’ll help.”
“It won’t come until late,” Webb said, “and that may be too late.”
The herd refused to bed down, and bawling their displeasure, began milling about. The night came, and with it a treacherous breeze from the west, bringing the tantalizing freshness of distant water.
“They’re gonna run!” Mike Horton shouted.
“Maybe we can head ’em!” came the shout from Don Webb. “Let’s ride!”
Some of them got ahead of the rampaging herd, but then had to ride for their lives because the thirsty longhorns wouldn’t be stopped. It was all the desperate riders could do to save the horse remuda and the pack mules.
“I reckon we ought to be thankful the horses and pack mules didn’t follow the herd too close,” said Red Bohannon.
“I reckon,” Don Webb said, “but sometimes the blessings just don’t seem to equal all the trouble.”
“What now?” said Jim Roussel, as they rested their horses. “We can’t round ’em up in the dark.”
“Why don’t we get what sleep we can, and go after them at first light?” Mike Horton wanted to know.
“I reckon we might as well,” said Don Webb. “The usual watch, so we don’t lose the horses and pack mules.”
There was some dewfall before dawn, and by noon of the following day, the riders had begun finding bunches of longhorns. Some of them were grazing, while others just looked westward, bawling like lost souls. By sundown, less than two hundred head had been found and herded together.
“Where’s the rest of ’em?” Jim Roussel wondered.
“Maybe they’ve gone on to the Pecos,” Charlie English suggested.
“Let’s hope they have,” said Bob Vines. “Let the west wind bring another whiff of that river tonight, and we’ll lose the few we’ve been able to gather.”
But they were able to hold the diminished herd, and late the next day they were within a few miles of the Pecos.
“We might as well drive them the rest of the way,” Don Webb said. “Close as we are, they’ll smell the water and be gone anyhow.”
“I’m anxious to reach the river,” said Les Brown. “Unless the rest of the herd’s there, we’re ruined.”
Southwest Texas. The Pecos River, March 1, 1862.
Within four or five miles of the river, the portion of the herd they had gathered lit out for the water, the horse remuda and pack mules right behind them.
“Come on,” said Don Webb wearily. “There’ll be a moon tonight, and I want to see if we’re still in the cattle business.”
“Ah, hell, they’ll be there,” Arch Danson predicted. “Even a cow ain’t dumb enough to leave water, and where there’s water, there’s got to be a little graze.”
Reaching the river, the sight that greeted them was encouraging. The moon had begun to rise, and the east bank of the river was dotted with cattle. Even in the dim light from moon and stars, it was obvious that most of the herd had reached the river safely, and that few of them had strayed from it.
“I feel some better,” said Bob Vines.
“I won’t, until we round ’em up and run a tally,” Charlie English said. “I don’t have enough cows to lose any.”
“I reckon that’s why we’re runnin’ ’em under our own brands, instead of a common trail brand,” said Red Bohannon.
“Not exactly,” Don Webb said. “We’d have lost a month, trail branding ’em. If there’s a loss, we’ll each absorb part of it, when we reach Santa Fe.”
“That’s damned generous,” said Eli Mills. “It’s more than I expected.”
“Times are hard, and about to get even harder,” Webb said. “We’re all Texans, and it’s no time for one to take advantage of another.”
The following day
, the riders began rounding up the scattered cattle. To their surprise and relief, only twenty head were missing.
“We can follow the Pecos from here on to Santa Fe,” Don Webb said. “Water should not be a problem.”
“I never did read that letter,” Mike Horton said. “I reckon you know where this spread of Warren Blocker’s is.”
“South of Santa Fe,” said Webb. “He has a grant, so it should be big enough that we can’t miss it.”
“With water, we ought to cover twelve, maybe fifteen miles a day,” Felton Juneau said.
“I think so,” said Webb, “and we’re about three hundred miles away. Without any more stampedes, and at ten miles a day, we’ll be there in another month. Warren said his grant has its eastern border along the Pecos.”
Santa Fe, New Mexico. May 2, 1862.
“This is easier than I ever expected,” said Jim Roussel. A newly painted sign erected beside the river said THE WARREN BLOCKER GRANT.
“Don’t crow too loud,” Les Brown said. “We’re not there yet, and we don’t have our money.”
They crossed the Pecos at the next shallows onto what they believed was the Blocker grant, but it was almost sundown before they saw any sign of life. A lone horse lifted its head and nickered.
“It can’t be much farther,” Webb said. “We’ll be there before dark. Let’s hold the herd here until I ride ahead and tell them we’re coming.”
Don Webb rode out, and what he discovered took his breath away. There was only the charred remains of what had once been a barn and a large log house. Beyond the barn, so new that grass had not grown over them, was what could only be a pair of graves. Slowly Webb turned his horse and rode back to meet the herd—
*On April 19, 1862, President Lincoln proclaimed a blockade of all Southern states.
*In 1866, Goodnight lost 400 head at the Pecos River. (The Goodnight Trail, Book One)
1
At the herd, Webb’s companions waited anxiously. When he reported to them what he saw, there was a shocked silence. Mike Horton was the first to regain his voice.
“You sure we’re at the right place?”
“You saw the sign pointin’ this way,” said Webb.
“I reckon this is a fool question,” Jim Roussel said, “but where do we go from here?”
“Santa Fe,” said Webb. “It’s clear enough what happened, and somebody had to bury Warren and his wife, so we’ll go callin’ on the county sheriff. Then we’ll have to find some hombre that can afford five thousand Texas longhorns. Red, why don’t you ride with me. The rest of you take the herd back along the river and wait for us.”
Wordlessly the rest of the riders obeyed, as Webb and Bohannon rode upriver toward Santa Fe. They had no trouble finding the sheriff’s office. The lawman sat at a desk cleaning his Colt. He got to his feet when they entered.
“I’m Don Webb and this is Red Bohannon.”
“Sheriff Carpenter. What can I do for you?”
“Not much, I’m afraid,” said Webb. “Warren Blocker was a friend of ours, and we just came from his place. What was left of it. What can you tell us?”
“Not a lot,” Carpenter replied. “Couple of sheepmen found ’em, and they was dead and buried a week, before I heard about it. I took a posse out there, but the trail was cold. A dozen riders headed south, and we lost ’em when they split up. Renegades, I’d say.”
“Maybe,” said Webb, “but why single out the Blockers? We saw only one horse, and not another head of stock anywhere.”
“Money,” Sheriff Carpenter said. “The Blockers came from southern Arizona, and first thing they done was deposit forty thousand dollars in the local bank. It was no secret that Blocker had made his fortune in mining, and just a few days before his place was raided, he took thirty-five thousand out of the bank. I reckon I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but it was a foolish thing to do.”
“Under the circumstances, I’d have to agree with you,” said Webb. “Thanks for the information.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” Sheriff Carpenter said.
Webb and Bohannon closed the door behind them and stood on the boardwalk looking around.
“Come on,” said Webb. “I see a livery sign, and that’s usually where most livestock is bought and sold.”
The livery barn was large, and the office door was at one corner, in the front. Above the door was a sign that read LIVESTOCK BOUGHT AND SOLD. JORDAN WINKLER, PROP.
“Come in,” the big man said, easing his chair down to its front legs. “I’m Winkler.”
“Webb and Bohannon,” said Don. “We have Texas cattle to sell. Prime, two-year-olds and under.”
“How many?” Winkler asked cautiously.
“Fifty-five hundred,” said Webb.
Winkler whistled long and low, shaking his head.
“Folks around here don’t like beef?” Red Bohannon asked.
“Not that much of it, friend,” said Winkler. “This is sheep country. Most folks around here are third and fourth generation Mexican, and they was livin’ here while this territory still belonged to Mexico. They’re mostly mutton eaters. Them that’s partial to beef is them that’s come here from Missouri and Texas. I’ll take two hundred head, twenty dollars per.”
“Thirty dollars,” Webb said.
“Twenty,” said Winkler. “No more.”
“Twenty-five,” Webb countered.
“Twenty,” said Winkler.
Webb sighed. “Two hundred head, twenty dollars a head.”
“I’ll want a bill of sale,” said Winkler. “When can you have them here?”
“In the morning,” Webb said. “Do you have pens?”
“No,” said Winkler, “just a corral, and it’s full of mules. Just drive the cows here, and I’ll have some riders to take charge of them.”
“One thing more,” Webb said. “Do you know of anybody, anywhere, who might buy the rest of our herd? We’ll sell at twenty dollars a head.”
“Ellerbee and Sons in Los Angeles will take them,” said Winkler, “and they’ll pay lots more than twenty dollars. Couple of years back, they bought three thousand head of sheep from here. Send ’em a telegram, ask if they’ll buy, and ask for a quote.”
“Thanks,” Webb said. “Where’s the telegraph office?”
“Take a left out of here, and it’s a block up the street,” said Winkler.
They were almost to the telegraph office when Bohannon spoke.
“You forgot to ask how far it is to Los Angeles, and how we’re to get there.”
“I didn’t forget,” Webb said grimly. “We got no choice but to go, even if it’s three thousand miles. You reckon Texas cowboys can’t take a herd of longhorns where Mexicans drove three thousand damn sheep?”
Bohannon laughed, and they paused outside the telegraph office, pooling their meager resources to pay for the telegram. They entered, and taking a yellow form and a pencil, Webb wrote out the message: Have 5,000 head prime two-year-old Texas steers. Stop. If buying telegraph quote.
“We’ll wait for an answer,” said Webb, as he paid for the telegram.
“Might not have it ’fore tomorrow,” the telegrapher said. “We close at six.”
“Then we’ll wait till six, and if it hasn’t come, then we’ll be back tomorrow,” Webb said.
“Tarnation,” said Red, when they left the telegraph office, “ever’thing’s ridin’ on that telegram. We’re in one hell of a mess if they don’t answer. Denver’s God knows how far to the north, Mejicano land’s to the south, and the war’s comin’ to Texas.”
“That telegram’s got to pay off,” Webb replied. “While we’re waitin’ for an answer, we can maybe learn something about the trail to Los Angeles. Let’s find out if there’s a newspaper in town.”
The Santa Fe Chief occupied a small office across the street from the jail, and when the Texans entered, an elderly lady looked at them over the tops of her spectacles. Don wasted no time.
“Ma’am, we have s
ome cattle we aim to trail to Los Angeles. We’ve heard other stock has been driven there, and we’re needin’ some directions.”
“You’re talking about the Old Spanish Trail,” she said, “and there’s twelve hundred miles of it. We used to print a map when it was in regular use. Perhaps I can find one.”
One entire wall of the office was lined with shelves, each of them sagging under a load of what obviously were back issues of the newspaper. Eventually she presented them with a yellowed edition of the newspaper.
“There’s a full-page map in here,” she said.
“We’re obliged, ma’am,” said Webb. “What do we owe you?”
“Nothing,” she said, with a grim smile. “You’ll hate me before you reach Los Angeles.”
Thirty minutes before the telegraph office was to close, a reply came from Ellerbee and Sons in Los Angeles. It said: Buying at sixty dollars a head. Stop. Confirm delivery date.
Speechless, Webb and Bohannon left the telegraph office, pausing to read the brief message again.
“Lord Almighty,” said Bohannon, “that’s three hundred thousand dollars for the five thousand head. I ain’t believin’ it’s possible for a bunch of hard-scrabble Texans like us to get our hands on that kind of money. Not with the country at war.”
“California’s a hell of a long ways from the war,” Webb said, “and it ain’t that many years since they discovered gold. They got the money and we got the cows, and if some joker gets overly interested, we’re from New Mexico, not Texas.”
“That’s sound thinking,” said Bohannon. “It’d be just like the Federals to take our herd or the money.”
“Not as long as I’m alive and with a gun in my hand,” Webb said.
“After Ellerbee’s quote of sixty dollars a head, twenty dollars don’t seem like much,” said Bohannon, “but it’ll be enough to keep us in grub from here to California.”
“I reckon,” Webb agreed, “but that presents another problem. Enough grub for ten of us over twelve hundred miles purely won’t fit on two pack mules. We’ll need four more.”
The Old Spanish Trail Page 2
