The California Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Both men went for their guns. Gil shot Neomo twice before he cleared leather. Three other riders cut down Alfredo. The pair sprawled backward over the rumps of their horses and slid to the ground. Disregarding the fallen riders, Ramon and Van began unsaddling the exhausted horses. They would be given a little water when they were able to handle it.

  “Drag this pair of rattlers away from camp,” said Gil, “and take them far enough so the smell can’t spook our horses or the longhorns. I won’t be much surprised if we find some real lawmen—dead ones—between here and Tucson. Once we get there, we can let the town know these coyotes didn’t escape.”

  While the sun lost none of the splendor of its departure, it set red beyond a massive bank of gray clouds.

  “Rain come,” said Mariposa. “Maana.”

  First light came with a haze of clouds lessening the usual bite of the sun, and Gil viewed that as a mixed blessing. Without the sun burning down, they could push the herd harder, longer. On the other hand, a wind from the west, with a cooling breath of rain, could drive the longhorns crazy. They would run till hell wouldn’t have it, without regard for canyon rims or other dangers.

  “Rain come late,” said Ramon. “We push lak hell all day.”

  Gil, expecting a hard day, had kept Mariposa and Estanzio with the herd. Once they reached the San Simon, the map accounted for water for the next several days. They’d been on the trail about four hours when they saw the buzzards. They circled lazily in the gray western sky, harbingers of death.

  “Come on, Mariposa,” said Gil. “I reckon I know what they’re after.”

  The two men had been shot down from ambush, and it was a grisly scene. Going through their pockets, Gil identified them as the sheriff and a deputy. He took their wallets and a few other personal belongings, which he would take to Tucson. There was no sign of the outlaws’ horses. Apparently they had recovered sufficiently to wander away, perhaps back to Tucson. Having no tools for digging, Gil did the best he could. He and Mariposa carried the bodies to a small coulee and managed to cover them by caving in the sandy banks. It wasn’t much of a grave, but it would protect the remains from the buzzards and coyotes. On the brutal frontier, many a man’s mortal remains were left at the mercy of predators and the elements. Having done their duty as best they could, Gil and Mariposa returned to the trail drive.

  “They’re trailin’ great,” said Van. “Without the sun, they’ll trot. Like Ramon says, we got to just run the hell out of them, and get as far as we can before the rain comes.”

  By late afternoon they knew there was going to be more than rain. While the sun withheld its fury, there was no wind. The flanks of the horses and longhorns were dark with sweat, and every rider’s shirt was soaked. With no wind to carry it away, dust hung in the air like smoke, seeping through their bandannas to nose and mouth, becoming instant mud when it touched a rider’s bare skin. Lightning danced across the western horizon, and thunder grumbled its accompaniment. The long-horns began bawling, as if sensing the coming of the storm. That was a bad sign. It seemed they were preparing themselves, and at the peak of some unknown but anticipated fury, they would run. They could stampede toward water, or they could flee from thunder and lightning, running back the way they had come. While there were no deep canyons between here and the San Simon, Mariposa and Estanzio had reported rough, broken land. If they were going to run, a stampede toward water would favor the riders. Gil rode back to the drag, taking Ramon with him. Rosa, Vicente, Juan Padillo, Bo, and Long John were already there.

  “If they run toward water,” said Gil, “we’ll come out of this all right. But if they run from the storm, it’s goin’ to be hell with the lid off. If we can, we’ll head them, but if you see they’re goin’ to overrun us, ride for your lives. Don’t risk yourself or your horse.”

  “This bunch ain’t thirsty enough t’ run fer water,” said Long John.

  “You’d better hope they are,” said Gil. “We’ve got a good twenty miles behind us. If they get spooked and backtrack, we’ll have to make that twenty miles all over again.”

  “Mebbe they be too tired,” said Juan Padillo.

  “Maybe,” said Gil, “but if they are, it’ll be the first time in the history of the world. Shake the ground with enough thunder, blind ’em with lots of lightning, and they’d run with four busted legs.”

  It soon became obvious that although they would eventually get some rain, the thunder and lightning would reach them first. The thunder escalated into an almost continuous roll, and while the lightning flamed blue, green, and gold, it wasn’t striking. But when it finally did, it came at the worst possible time and place. A hundred yards ahead of the horse remuda and the lead steers stood an old dead pine. Lightning struck, traveling the length of the tree, turning its resinous corpse into a flaming, sixty-foot torch. The horse remuda was nearest this fiery apparition, and the best efforts of Mariposa and Estanzio were in vain. The horses wheeled, nickering their fear, and broke into a fast gallop. The horses, running headlong toward the lead steers, would have been enough, but the leaders could see the flaming pine for themselves. The herd being bunched, the longhorns couldn’t just turn and run, so they did the next worst thing. The herd split. Roughly half the lead steers took a horseshoe turn to the left, while the rest of the leaders took a similar turn to the right. The rest of the herd split behind the leaders, and the horse remuda, running hell-for-leather, split in the same manner. The flank riders didn’t stand a chance, and had to run for their lives. Gil and the drag riders were safe enough. The longhorns were running away toward the west, and by the time they doubled back to the east, they had separated into two columns. Gil had never seen anything quite like it. While the horse remuda and longhorns all thundered back toward the east, it was actually two stampedes. Ironically, before the sound of the stampedes had died, the thunder and lightning began to diminish. The wind rose, coming out of the southwest, bringing with it a cooling rain.

  “Wal,” said Long John, “they’s one thing fer shore. We ain’t goin’ t’ make camp on the San Simon t’night.”

  “Mebbe not tomorrow night also,” Juan Padillo added.

  “Perhaps we will just remain here forever,” said Rosa, “hunting stampeded cows and horses.”

  “Anybody wantin’ to say the hell with it and ride back to Texas, light out,” said Gil. “Me, I’m ridin’ after the herd.”

  Gil’s sense of humor had slipped again. He rode out, and the others followed, grinning at one another. They soon began finding bunches of longhorns and horses. Soon as they had turned away from the flaming, lightning-struck tree, the herd had slowed, stopped, and begun to graze.

  “Well,” said Van, “we didn’t make it to the river, but when we take the trail tomorrow, it won’t be with a thirsty herd. That is, if this bunch is smart enough to drink from puddles.”

  “We’ve got a while before dark,” said Gil. “Let’s start gettin’ these brutes back together. Once the rain lets up, these puddles won’t last. Then we’ll still be stuck with a thirsty herd, fifteen miles from water.”

  But some of the stubborn longhorns chose to remain where they were, and no sooner had they been driven in with the slowly growing gather, when they became bunch quitters. It was during a mad chase after one of these brutes that Ramon’s horse threw a left rear shoe. Within minutes Gil’s horse threw a right front shoe, and threw Gil. He came down flat on his back in a depression half full of muddy water.

  “I went t’ the circus oncet,” said Long John, “an’ I never seen nothin’ half as good as that.”

  The other riders had tried not to laugh, but Long John spoiled their act. Everybody howled. Gil got up, killing mad at first, but forced to see the humor in the situation.

  “Many horse need shoe,” said Mariposa.

  “Tomorrow, then,” said Gil, “we’ll replace the shoes of those most in need of it, and we’ll see to all the others once we reach Tucson. A thrown shoe can cripple a horse, as well as the rider.”


  By the time it was light enough to see, Gil had every rider in the saddle, rounding up the horse remuda and the scattered longhorns. Once the horses had been gathered, he withdrew Mariposa and Estanzio from the roundup.

  “Check out every horse,” said Gil, “and those in danger of throwing a shoe, see that they’re reshod before we leave here. But unless they’re just about barefooted and in real need, let’s try to hold off until we reach Tucson.”

  The sun rose in a clear sky, determined to compensate for its absence the day before. Every drop of standing water was swallowed up, and the last night’s rain might never have fallen. Mariposa and Estanzio found all of the horses needing new shoes, but only nine seemed in immediate danger of throwing a shoe. Those, and the horses Ramon and Gil had ridden the day before, would be reshod. The others could wait until they reached Tucson, or at least a camp where there was water. The gather was going far better than Gil expected, and he was elated.

  “Better when cows run from storm than run to water,” said Ramon.

  “That’s gospel,” said Van. “When they’re dry and smell water, they’ll run till they find it, if it’s twenty miles. When the storm lets up, a storm scare wears off quick. This storm caused ’em to run, but it done us a favor. Thanks to the rain, there was water most of the night.”

  “Reckon I’d be ongrateful,” said Long John, “was It’ say that won’t do us no good t’night.”

  “Ungrateful,” said Gil, “but truthful.”

  “There be moon,” said Pedro Fagana. “Mebbe go at night.”

  “Rough lak hell,” said Estanzio, shaking his head.

  “I’ve been over this with Mariposa and Estanzio,” said Gil, “and I’m convinced we don’t want to take a herd through such country at night. There is broken land, drop-offs, and rock slides. Cow or horse could break a leg in the dark. From here to the San Simon, and probably through all of Arizona, I think we’ll need a point rider far enough ahead of the herd to warn us as to change of direction. There may be some deep canyons ahead of us, and one good, hell-for-leather stampede could ruin us. Not only are we unable to travel at night, we’ll have to be especially watchful in the daylight.”

  Try as they might, the horses and longhorns could not be gathered in time to salvage any of the daylight hours, and they were stuck in a dry camp for the night. Mariposa and Estanzio had replaced one or more shoes on eleven horses. As usual, Gil split the outfit into two watches for the night. After a day in the hot sun, thirst had caught up with the longhorns. Restless, they milled aimlessly about, bawling and hooking at one another in their frustration. When Gil and the second watch took over at midnight, the brutes still hadn’t settled down.

  “If they wander around all night,” said Rosa, “tomorrow they will be top tired to run.”

  “Haw, haw,” Long John cackled, “the cow ain’t been borned that was too tired t’ run.”

  “I’d have to agree,” said Gil, “but there’s one thing in our favor. Sometime before dawn there’ll be dew fall, and it’ll wet the grass enough to take the edge off their thirst. But give ’em two hours in the morning sun, and they’ll be thirsty as ever, and cantankerous as sore-tailed grizzlies.”

  “Meanin’ they ain’t goin’ t’ take kindly t’ bein’ drove hard,” said Long John.

  “They won’t like it,” said Gil, “but they’ll take it. I promise you, we’ll reach the San Simon tomorrow, if every cow in this bunch ends up with a black-and-blue backside. Now let’s get out there and swing those lariats, and show ’em what hard driving really is.”

  There was no water for coffee, so the outfit made do with a breakfast of jerked beef. Before it was good daylight, Gil had the herd on the trail, pushing them hard. The dew-wet grass had settled the longhorns down, and Gil thought they’d travel well for maybe two hours. By then the sun would be well on its way to sucking the last drop of moisture out of man and beast. The next water—the San Simon River—was more than fifteen miles away. Gil wanted to see for himself what the broken country was like, since there was a possibility they’d be facing it most of the way across Arizona. Mariposa and Estanzio would remain with the herd until they reached the San Simon. That would be soon enough to scout ahead for the next water. Gil soon understood the caution of his Indian riders. There were gullies whose banks weren’t steep but were shale, shifting beneath his horse’s hooves. Gil had to find a way around such obstacles and then get back to the herd in time to turn them. He had to grin at Rosa’s suggestion that he should have brought a wagon. He doubted a man would live enough years to get a wagon through such desolate, broken country as this.*

  By the time the sun was noon high the longhorns had given a whole new meaning to the term “ornery.” While they had no assurance there was water ahead, their bovine memories reminded them of water they had left behind. How far it was didn’t matter. They knew it was there, and every steer in the bunch was hell-bent on returning to it. Bunch quitters became so numerous that riders were forced to desert the main herd entirely, chasing those who had broken away and hightailed it down the back trail. Rosa had pursued one big steer who had decided to simply gore her and her horse. In a dangerous move that would have made Gil furious, Rosa swung her doubled lariat hard, laying it full force across the steer’s tender muzzle. Only then did he wheel and run bawling back to the herd.

  Gil found Mariposa and Estanzio had distanced the horse remuda considerably ahead of the longhorns. It was a smart move, preventing the horses from picking up on the skittishness of the longhorns. While the big Texas steers were unruly, they could be handled. The test would come in late afternoon. For now, there was no wind, but later there might be. A treacherous wind out of the west, bringing with it the maddening promise of water . . .

  * Tucson was established by the Spanish, in 1560.

  * This was to eventually become the Butterfield Overland Mail Route. From September 15, 1858, until March 1, 1861, Butterfield operated a semiweekly stage mail and passenger service extending from St. Louis to San Francisco, a distance of 2795 miles.

  10

  The graze in southern New Mexico had been exceptionally good, consisting of blue grama or buffalo grass, and sometimes a mix of the two. There was juniper, pinion pine, and an occasional ponderosa. Gil continued to push the herd as hard as he dared. Theirs was a race with the westering sun, and for all their efforts, the sun was winning. It was Van who mentioned something Gil had thought of a time or two.

  “Sometimes,” Van said, “I wonder if we didn’t lean too heavy on the map Big Foot Wallace got for us. We could have crossed the Rio south of El Paso, and kind of straddled the line between the United States and Mexico all the way to southern California.”

  “I thought you’d had a bellyful of Mexico,” said Gil.

  “I have,” said Van, “but I can’t help wonderin’ if that would have made any difference in the water situation.”

  “Except for springs and occasional water holes, how could it? Mexico’s rivers and creeks flow into the Gulf of Mexico to the east, or into the Gulf of California to the west. I think if we were too near or below the border, we’d only increase our chances of being ambushed by Mexican bandits.”

  In the late afternoon, riding ahead of the horse remuda, Estanzio and Mariposa flushed some javelina. They shot two of the wild pigs, wrapped them in a piece of tarp, and lashed them to one of the extra horses.

  While the thirsty longhorns plodded on, they slowed continually, bawling their objections when prodded to a faster pace. There was an interval, between sundown and dark, when nature made her own decision. Would there or would there not be wind, and if there was, from which of the four corners would it come? In the western territories it often came from the west or the southwest, and this day was no exception. It was a west wind so gentle, it might have gone unnoticed had it not been for a hint of moisture.

  “This is it,” shouted Gil. “They’re gonna run!”

  And run they did! Estanzio and Mariposa fought to control t
he horse remuda, but it had no effect on the longhorns. The herd split, running on both sides of the remuda, taking some of the horses with them. Gil, Van, Ramon, and Long John tried in vain to get ahead of the longhorns. As it became a lost cause, the riders fell back, helping Mariposa and Estanzio hold the rest of the remuda.

  “Now,” shouted Gil, “let’s move ’em ahead!”

  It began orderly enough, but the horses had scented water and were in no mood to lag. They charged ahead and soon were in a mad gallop, defying all attempts to slow them. Mariposa and Estanzio, followed by the rest of the riders, went after the packhorses. At least they would avoid having their grub and supplies scattered from hell to breakfast. Before the riders reached the scene, the frantic bawling of longhorns told them there was trouble ahead. Three of the brutes had lost their footing in a shale slide and had tumbled into a gulley. One had died with a broken neck, while the others suffered broken legs. Gil shot the two injured animals, and they rode on, every man silently hoping they wouldn’t find any of the horses in a similar condition. Miraculously, they reached the river without finding any more injured or dead animals.

  “We’re lucky to have lost only three steers,” said Gil. “Had we been any farther from the river, we might have lost a lot more, and some of the horses too.”

  Having watered, the rest of the horses and longhorns began to graze.

  “Still a little while before dark,” said Van. “Some of us ought to ride back and save some of that beef. I can’t see lettin’ the coyotes and buzzards have it all.”

  “Good thinking,” said Gil. “Take a couple of men and save what you can.”

  Van rode out, taking Vicente and Pedro with him. The others unloaded the packhorses and went about setting up the camp.

  “Kin we have a cook fire t’night?” Long John asked. “We got them two wild pigs an’ all that beef, an’ I’m hongry enough t’ eat the lot of it.”