“Looks like another storm building over yonder,” said Bob Vines. “With all this rain in summer, the snow must be neck-deep in the winter months.”
“I don’t want to find out,” Mike Horton said. “We got trouble enough when it comes down as rain. We’ve already had two stampedes from this same camp. I can’t believe there might be a third one.”
“This is a strange kind of place,” said Charlie. “When the herd stampedes from here, they’re lured back, because there’s no water to the east. At least, none that’s close.”
“If they run far enough, there’s the Little Colorado,” Don said. “I just hope we can be long gone before there’s another stampede in that direction.”
“We ought to be on the trail tomorrow,” said Red, who had been listening. “I refuse to set here another day, waitin’ for them Paiutes to bother us again.”
The storm held off. Though there was wind from the northwest, it was unbearably hot, a circumstance that didn’t change much even after sunset. Thunder rumbled but came no closer. There was no uneasiness within the herd, and the four-man first watch included Red. Walking his horse, he stopped to talk to Wendy.
“After the Indians shredded my clothes, I felt bad, having only a blanket to wear,” said Wendy. “Now I’m ready to get rid of the blanket. It’s so hot.”
“Shuck it,” Red said. “It’s dark, and it looks like the storm will rain itself out before it reaches us.”
“I’d like to have the rain, but it always come with thunder and lightning. I can’t forget what that last stampede cost us.”
Despite the distant thunder and the gray clouds far to the west, there was no storm and no rain. The day dawned clear, and even before sunrise, the heat was terrible. There wasn’t even a breath of wind, and the shirts of the riders were dark with sweat.
“There’d better be plenty of water close enough for tonight’s camp,” Jim Roussel said. “Hot as it is already, and with the sun comin’, this bunch is gonna be stampede-dry.”
“According to the map,” said Don, “we can drive due west from here and reach the old trail, which follows the Virgin River on into Nevada. I’ll be ridin’ ahead just to be sure.”
“I’m surprised that bunch of Paiutes didn’t have another go at us,” Charlie said. “They got to know that we’ll be leavin’ here pretty soon.”
“I aim to look for sign of Indians,” said Don. “We can’t overlook the possibility they may circle around and get ahead of us with ambush on their minds. Compared to our Henrys, we laugh at their bows and arrows, but let them get close enough and they’re deadly.”
Southwestern Utah. June 15, 1862.
Griff and his band of renegades were camped near the bend in the Sevier River, just after it turned south along the Old Spanish Trail. They sat around in the little shade there was, fanning themselves with their hats.
“I’ve never seen it so hot, with all that thunder and them clouds last night,” Doolin complained.
Quando laughed. “Not near as hot as it’ll be on the Mojave. After we take over that herd of Texas longhorns, we’ll be drownin’ in our own sweat.”
“I can stand anything, for a while,” said Lennox, “as long as there’s big money waitin’ for us in Los Angeles.”
“It’s about time we caught up to that herd and had a look at them hombres trailin’ it,” Oliver said. “How about it, Griff?”
“I want them into the desert before they learn we’re on their back-trail,” said Griff. “I reckon it ain’t too soon to learn where they are. Rodriguez, you’re likely the best tracker amongst us and you know this territory. Find out where they are without them seein’ you.”
“They oughta be in Nevada now, unless they’ve had Indian trouble,” Bullard said.
“That’s another thing, Rodriguez,” said Griff. “Look close for Indians. Them Utes gave us hell, likely because they come out on the short end of the stick with them Texas trail drivers. We don’t need another dose of the same medicine from the Paiutes.”
“I know all about the Paiutes,” growled Rodriguez. “You talk to me like I’m some kind of damn shorthorn that’s never been down the trail.”
They were all weary after many days of inactivity, and they laughed uproariously at the red-faced Rodriguez.
“Stay on bare ground, Rodriguez,” Quando said. “Then you can always foller the tracks of your horse so’s you can find us again.”
“Just one more damn word out of any of you,” said Rodriguez, “and I ain’t goin’ nowhere. One of you bastards that knows it all can scout ahead.”
“All of you shut up,” Griff shouted. “Get goin’, Rodriguez.”
Rodriguez saddled his horse, mounted, and rode south.
Southeastern California. The Mojave Desert. June 15, 1862.
Elton Beavers and Arlo Dent had made their fortune in California. Not by digging for gold themselves, but by murdering and robbing other miners. But their past had caught up with them, and they had been forced to ride for their lives, just a few jumps ahead of the sheriff and a posse of furious, deputized miners.
“By God,” said Beavers, elated, “they’ve give up on us.”
“Their horses are played out,” Dent said, “and ours ain’t no better. We’ll be afoot long before we’re out of this damn desert.”
“I’d rather be afoot in the desert than back yonder with my neck stretched,” said Beavers. “We can live like kings in Santa Fe or Denver. We got near thirty thousand.”
“Yeah,” Dent said, “but it’s in bank notes, thanks to you. I don’t trust banks. I wish we’d of left it all in gold.”
“Too much weight and you know it,” said Beavers. “If we’d been carryin’ gold, we’d of had to choose between leavin’ the gold and savin’ our necks.”
The westering sun beat down on them, and they yearned for the little water remaining in their canteens. Not a breeze stirred. Heat waves shimmered, and the desert seemed to stretch on to infinity, where the desolate sand met the blue of the sky. Buzzards circled high above, seeming to know much that the humans on their dying horses did not. There wasn’t another living thing except an occasional yucca. Finally the weary horses stopped, their heads down, heaving. No amount of beating and cursing would move them another step. They were finished. Beavers and Dent didn’t bother removing the saddles, leaving the poor beasts to their fate. Taking their saddlebags and near-empty canteens, they plodded on eastward.
“We got just one chance,” Dent panted. “Tonight, without the sun suckin’ us dry, we got to find water or get off this infernal desert. It has to end somewhere.”
Beavers, too near spent or not considering it worthy of a reply, said nothing.
Rodriguez rode carefully, for there were many tracks of unshod horses. If he were to encounter Paiutes, he must do so while he was still near enough to return to his renegade comrades. To seek help from the Texans would force him to justify his presence on their back-trail, which he dared not do. He followed the path the herd had taken, for there was no better way. Tracks of unshod horses were everywhere, and there was no way of knowing from which direction Paiute trouble might come. He heard their galloping horses before he actually saw them. Three hundred yards ahead of him, they burst from the brush along the opposite bank of the river. There were fifteen of them, and splashing their horses across the river, they came screeching toward Rodriguez. Wheeling his horse, he spurred the animal into a fast gallop. To his dismay, there were a dozen more mounted Paiutes riding toward him along the back-trail. Frantically he reined his horse around and galloped to the east, but the Paiutes were ready for him. Half a dozen riders split from each party and began closing in. Rodriguez rolled out of his saddle, his rifle in his hands, and fell behind a cluster of stone that reared up head-high. It was the only available cover, and it offered little protection. Already the Paiutes were circling, surrounding him. Rodriguez cut loose with his rifle and had the satisfaction of seeing one of the attackers tumble from his galloping horse. Quick
ly he accounted for two more. His only chance lay in the possibility that his comrades would hear the shooting and ride to his aid. But even had they been so inclined, there wasn’t time. Rodriguez dropped his rifle, clutching the stone, as an arrow buried itself deep in his back. When a second and third arrow struck him, he lost his grip on the stone and slid to the ground . . .
“Listen,” said Oliver. “Shots. Rodriguez is in trouble.”
“Nothin’ we can do,” Quando said. “It’s his funeral.”
“What the hell we waitin’ for?” said Doolin, angrily. “Let’s ride.”
“Go ahead,” Griff said. “He’s a good ten miles away. Maybe farther. He’ll be done for long before we could get there.”
They listened, grim-faced, as the sound of the three distant shots died away. There were no more.
“Paiutes,” said Lennox. “We still don’t know where the trail herd is, and we’re another man shy.”
“Worse, damn it,” Griff said, “that bunch with the trail herd may have heard the shots and they’ll know there’s somebody behind them besides Paiutes.”
“I reckon it don’t matter what happened to Rodriguez,” said Hernandez. “I knowed him a long time. He was my amigo.”
“You’re welcome to ride out and shoot as many Paiutes as you’re of a mind to,” Griff said. “Gettin’ the rest of us killed and scalped won’t help him none.”
“Since you don’t care a damn what happened to Rodriguez,” said Hernandez angrily, “I got a question for you. Who do you aim to send to scout that trail herd now?”
“I reckon I’ll ask for volunteers,” Griff said. “What about you?”
“I wouldn’t take you a drink of water if you was in hell,” said Hernandez.
“Well now,” Griff said, through gritted teeth, “how do the rest of you feel?”
“Same as Hernandez,” said Doolin.
Griff had his thumb hooked in his gunbelt just above the butt of his Colt. But as his eyes met those of his renegade comrades, he eased his hand away, dropping it at his side. Doolin, Quando, Lennox—all of them—were seeing themselves in the position of the unfortunate Rodriguez. Seeing the tide turning against Griff, Hernandez spoke.
“I reckon we’ll all ride ahead if there’s scoutin’ to be done.”
“Hell,” said Quando, “we can’t do that. Them Texas trail drivers will know we’re on their back-trail. Maybe Griff will volunteer to scout ahead. How ‘bout it, Griff?”
“We’ll ride as an outfit,” Griff said. “Unless some of you have a better idea, we’ll ride west into Nevada’s great basin, and from there, south into the Mojave. We’ll catch up to the trail herd there, and that will eliminate any problems with the Paiute.”
“That makes more sense than anything you’ve said since leaving Santa Fe,” said Doolin.
“Except that there ain’t much water in the Mojave unless you know where to look,” Quando said. “I ain’t all that sure Griff knows where to look.”
“We’ll have to ride into the Mojave eventually,” said Griff. “All I’m saying is that we’ll be there a mite sooner, and I’d rather take my chances with the desert than with all these Paiutes. Anybody besides Quando feel otherwise?”
“Hell no,” Doolin shouted. “What about the rest of you?”
“I’m goin’ with Griff!” Bullard said.
Like an echo, the others joined in, with the exception of Quando. He said nothing.
“Then we’ll ride west from here,” said Griff, “going south when we reach the Great Basin. Water may be a problem, but not as much a problem as the Paiutes.”
While Ben and Curt Pickford had agreed to follow Griff, their confidence in the ragtag renegade outfit had diminished. When they finally were alone, Curt spoke.
“This whole idea of avengin’ Wiley has gone sour. Once we reach the desert and there ain’t nothin’ else between us and Los Angeles, I’m leavin’. With or without you.”
“What about the herd?” said Ben.
“I got my doubts this bunch can take the herd away from them Texans,” Curt said. “And even if they can, it won’t put a peso in our pockets. We’ll be paid off in lead.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Ben. “We can avenge Wiley after them Texans get to Los Angeles.”
“Not we,” Curt said. “You. I’ve already seen this Jim Roussel draw against you, with the promise to kill you if he does it again. Wiley’s dead because he couldn’t leave booze alone, was lousy at poker whether he was drunk or sober, and he was never the fast draw he fancied himself.”
“All right, so I ain’t fast enough,” said Ben angrily, “but I ain’t the kind that’s got to play fair. If I want some bastard dead, I’ll gun him down any way I can. I don’t need you preachin’ to me. If you aim to split and go on to California, I’ll go with you. But once we’re there, I aim to see this Jim Roussel salted down, one way or another.”
“Then you’ll do it without me,” Curt said. “Roussel said he’d kill you the next time you go after him, and I believe he can and will.”
Their conversation ended, for the band of renegades was breaking camp. They saddled their horses, mounted, and with Griff leading out, they rode west. Toward Nevada’s Great Basin.
With the herd moving west, Don had ridden ahead, seeking the old trail and the river on the map. Red, Charlie, Arch, and Felton were riding drag, accompanied by the seven women. On their heels came the pack mules and the horse remuda. Roberto and Dominique never allowed any tolerance. Suddenly Red trotted his horse wide of the herd and reined up, listening.
“What is it?” Charlie asked, joining him.
“Shots,” said Red. “Somewhere back yonder. Listen.”
There was only one more shot, followed by silence.
“Somebody’s run into that bunch of Paiutes,” Charlie said.
“Yeah,” said Red, “but who? I can’t think of anybody who might be on our back-trail, unless it’s the Pickfords.”
“I can’t imagine it bein’ them,” Charlie said. “Not just the two of ’em, anyway.”
“Let’s ride on then,” said Red. “Whoever they are—or were—there’s nothin’ we can do. But I reckon Don oughta know.”
They quickly caught up to the rest of the riders who were pondering the cause of the delay, and Red tried to satisfy their curiosity.
“I think we oughta know who’s on our back-trail,” Arch said.
“Not at the expense of ridin’ back through Paiute country,” said Charlie. “It couldn’t have been more than one hombre. Not enough shooting.”
“One hombre scoutin’ ahead, like Don’s doin’ for us,” Arch said. “There may be others followin’ him.”
“Not for long,” said Red.” If the Paiutes got their scout, that should turn the rest of ’em around.”
The women had ridden close enough to hear the conversation.
“Oh Lord,” Molly said, “suppose that doesn’t discourage them and they keep coming? Haven’t we had trouble enough?”
Don Webb rode west, toward what the map called the Virgin River, which the old trail appeared to follow on into southern Nevada. There were no tracks except those of various wild animals, and Don breathed a sigh of relief. He had ridden more than a dozen miles, when his horse snorted, breaking into a trot. Soon he was within sight of the river, with its fringe of greenery. There was also evidence of the old trail that followed the river. Don rested his horse long enough for the animal to drink safely before allowing him to water. He then satisfied his own thirst, mounted his horse, and rode back the way he had come. The herd, moving at a faster than usual gait, had made good time. They were almost halfway to the new water when Don met them. He found Red loping his horse ahead of the lead steers, obviously waiting for him.
“We heard shots somewhere along the back-trail,” said Red. “But not more than three or four. Sounded like one hombre in a losing fight with the Paiutes.”
“How long ago?”
“A few minutes after you rode out,
” Red replied. “What do you make of it?”
“Several possibilities,” said Don. “What do you think?”
“Charlie and me thought it might be them Pickfords that’s after Roussel for gunnin’ down that no-account Wiley,” Red said.
“Maybe, but I doubt it,” said Don. “When we left Santa Fe, it was no secret that we had a buyer for our herd in Los Angeles. What’s to stop a bunch of owlhoots from takin’ our trail with the intention of rustling our cows and sellin’ ’em as their own?”
“Not a damn thing, now that you mention it,” Red said. “From what we learned about Warren Blocker’s murder, there was a bunch hangin’ around Santa Fe that would likely be more than willing to bushwhack us. Of course, they’d wait until the hard trail’s behind us, and we’re within hollerin’ distance of Los Angeles.”
“Exactly,” said Don, “and they must know something of this territory, since they seem to have had a scout riding ahead. It’s just his misfortune that those Paiutes took their mad out on him instead of us.”
“If we got outlaws on our trail, we need to know where they are and how many,” Red said, “but this is no time to go scoutin’ our back-trail, when it’s likely full of mad-as-hell Paiutes.”
“Time enough for scouting our back-trail when we’re out of Paiute country,” said Don. “Whoever’s following us is in no hurry to catch up. That’s proof enough that they’re waiting until we’re much closer to the end of this trail before making their move.”
“Like in the Mojave desert,” Red said. “That’s when the herd will likely be dry, hard to handle, and cantankerous as sore-tailed bobcats.”
“True,” said Don, “but there are certain advantages in the desert. We can see for miles in every direction, and it won’t be easy, settin’ up an ambush.”
Well before sundown, the herd reached the old trail and the river that it followed. Don again spread out the map while they waited for supper.
“After tomorrow, that map will be pretty well used up,” Bob Vines observed. “I’d say we’ll have about one day before this river drops off to the south, leaving us with nothing on our plate but sand and alkalai water.”
The Old Spanish Trail Page 20
