They swatted the drag steers unmercifully, until they got the idea and closed ranks. The drag animals could set the pace for the herd, as those behind, with their sharp horns provided a powerful—and painful—incentive for their companions ahead. By the time the sun was noon high, Gil judged they had covered ten miles. Their hard driving would get them to Cienega Creek before dark. Gil rode ahead and caught up to the horse herd.
“Estanzio,” he said, “I’ll take your place here. I want you to ride on to the creek and look for Indian sign. I found none this morning, but I don’t want any surprises. Ride on beyond the creek a ways, and then get back to us pronto.”
Estanzio rode out, and Gil felt better. While he trusted his own eyes, ears, and judgment, nobody was better at Indian sign than another Indian. The relentless sun bore down, kindling a thirst in man and beast. The longhorns, weariness and thirst added to their already cantankerous mood, made it hard on the riders. When the troublesome brindle steer again lit out down the back trail, Rosa lost her temper and her patience. She kicked her faithful Indian pony into a gallop until he was neck and neck with the big brindle steer. Rosa doubled her lariat, then doubled it again, making it a veritable club. Swinging it as hard as she could, she brought it down on the brindle’s tender muzzle. Bellowing in pain and rage, he hooked at her, but her shrewd Indian pony was ahead of him. No sooner had the horse drawn away, when he darted back in, and again Rosa laid a mighty blow across the brindle’s nose. Then she urged the valiant horse on until she was ahead of the stubborn steer. She was prepared to slug him again, and he apparently realized it. Wheeling, he ran to catch up to the herd. Rosa laughed and tickled the ears of her horse.
“No see Injun sign,” said Estanzio when he returned.
By late afternoon there was only one lingering benefit from the last night’s rain. There was no dust, and that was something for which the drag riders were thankful. Two hours away from sundown, Gil rode ahead and caught up to the horse herd. He had an idea, and he needed to talk to Estanzio, Mariposa, and Juan Padillo.
“Take the horses on to the creek,” he told the trio. “With their stride, they can get there an hour ahead of the longhorns. Water them and get them on some good graze for the night. Move them well out of the way. If we get rushed for time, we may have to run the longhorns the last couple of miles.”
It was the only way he could compensate for the unpredictability of the ornery longhorns. Not only would the horses be watered and safely out of the way, the Indian riders would select the graze with an eye for defense. Gil rode back to the herd, pausing to speak to Ramon.
“I’ve sent the horses on ahead. We’ll keep the long-horns moving, but they can run the last two or three miles, if that’s what it takes to get them to water before dark.”
“Bueno,” said Ramon. “You start them running, I get out of their way.”
It was a controlled stampede that Gil had found effective, depending on the time and place. Terrain was a big factor. A stampede, however brief, was the last thing a trail boss needed if there were deep canyons or dropoffs. But there were no such dangers these last few miles to Cienega Creek. If need be, some riders could be sent ahead to slow the herd as they neared the water, but Gil had no fear of the thirsty longhorns running beyond the creek. He had only to be sure the horses had been watered and were out of the way.
“Ye reckon we gon’ make it?” Long John asked when Gil rode back to the drag.
“One way or the other,” Gil replied. “I’ve sent the horses on ahead. Once they’re watered and the creek’s clear, we can stampede the longhorns the rest of the way. That’s the only thing predictable about a longhorn. If he’s thirsty, he won’t run beyond the nearest water.”
When it came to running the rest of the way to Cienega Creek, the herd made its own decision, aided by a cooling west wind. Just minutes after the sun had slipped beyond the western horizon, a playful breeze had sprung up, bringing with it the tantalizing smell of water. The lead steers lifted their heads, forgot all about how tired they were, and lit out in a dead run. The rest of the herd followed, and for the first time that long, hard day, the riders relaxed. The herd would run no farther than the creek.
“How ’bout this Cienega Creek?” Long John inquired. “Is she deep?”
“Deep,” said Gil. “More like a river.”
“Sincet the herd has took care o’ itself fer the night,” said Long John, “they’s enough time ’fore dark fer me an’ Bo t’ try fer some fish.”
“Go ahead,” said Gil, “but you’ll have a long ride upstream. Once those longhorns hit the creek, there won’t be a fish for miles.”
So Bo and Long John rode away, taking Van, Pedro Fagano, and Vicente Gomez with them.
“If there be any fish, we have plenty,” said Ramon.
“I hope the others are as thoughtful as Bo and Long John,” Rosa said. “When they catch fish, they clean them. The cook does not clean the fish.”
The longhorns were strung out along the creek, while the horses grazed well away from it. Juan Padillo had already begun unloading the packhorses, but he was receiving no help from Mariposa or Estanzio. It was not the nature of an Indian, whatever his origin, to so demean himself.
“I’ll round up some wood for a fire,” Gil said. “Ramon, take a couple of riders and haze the longhorns back into a herd. Now that they’ve watered, there’s no reason for them to graze for two miles along the creek. Our watch won’t be worth a damn with them stretched halfway to Mexico.”
Gil built the fire, Rosa put the three-legged iron spider in place and soon had the coffee ready. When the fishermen returned, every man with a big string of trout, Rosa threw up her hands in despair.
“Now, now,” soothed Long John, “we gon’ clean ’em fer ye. We jus’ brung ’em back like this so’s we could git here ’fore dark.”
16
Despite the long, hard day, the outfit was elated. Even if it had been necessary for the longhorns to run the last two or three miles, they had reached Cienega Creek in a single day’s drive. Rosa put a big iron skillet on the fire, rolled the trout in cornmeal, and fried them in bacon grease. It was a good camp and an excellent meal. To Gil’s surprise—and probably that of everybody else—Rosa volunteered for the first watch. No more would she tempt Gil, nor would she make it convenient for any more late night arguments. Instead she spent her first watch in conversation with Bo, Long John, and Van.
“Oncet we git back t’ Texas,” said Long John, “I’m takin’ some time an’ goin’ t’ see my mama, back in the bayou country. Bo, he aims t’ go wi’ me, an’ git a bait o’ Cajun cookin’.”
There was a depth to Bo that few of them had suspected, and before the night was over, they would regard the little cowboy with respect and awe.
“There is a legend,” said Bo, “that each of us is born under a star. It influences us, directs our footsteps, and is our link with God. It shines upon us all the days of our lives, and to follow it is our destiny. When our star grows dim, we may yet be young in years, but when it dies, so do we.”
“Ye soun’ like my mama,” said Long John. “She reads tea leaves, coffee grounds, playin’ cards, the stars, the moon, an’ God knows what all else.”
“Madre de Dios, Bo,” said Rosa, “you speak like the profeta. If your star does not permit it, you cannot go with Long John to visit his madre?”
“Should my star grow dim and flame out,” said Bo, “I will not be returning to Texas.”
“Ye need fer my mama t’ git a holt o’ this damn star,” said Long John, “an’ figger out what it aims t’ do. How’n hell can a man go anywher’, er do anything, with this know-it-all star a-tellin’ him he may be dead nex’ week?”
Bo laughed. “Long John, how can any of us know if we’ll be alive or dead next week? For that matter, even tomorrow? Our star is our friend, not limiting our days, but marking them. To worship the creation instead of the Creator is paganistic. The star is not my God, but a manifestation of Him. W
hen your star dims, it is His way of preparing you for that which is to come.”
“Por Dios,” said Rosa, “I have read Gil’s Bible, and I think you have been reading it also. You seem to have a better understanding of it than I. Does it tell you that your star is growing dim?”
“Tonight,” said Bo, “my star is at peace, as am I. But in times of great danger, the star becomes restive. I tell you none of this to frighten or sadden you, but so that you may know I enjoy each day as it is given to me. I cannot plan for next week, next month, or next year. I suppose that what I wish to say is that when my star flames out, you should have no regrets, for I will be ready. You are my friends, and I am glad that my life touches yours, however briefly, and for as long as my star permits.”
Van and some of the other riders had been witness to the strange conversation. None of them had ever heard anything so profound, and in the light of what was to come, they would understand it for the premonition it had been. Darkness hid the tears in Rosa’s eyes, and Long John was strangely silent. . . .
Cienega Creek had been a memorable camp, and every rider felt some reluctance in leaving it. But Gil had the longhorns on the trail at first light, driving them hard to stay within sight of the fast-moving horse remuda. This day demanded yet another twenty-mile drive, which should take them to Tucson. The visitors from the town had told Gil the herd must be driven to the south of Tucson, then west four or five miles, to Saguaro Springs. That posed a question Gil should have asked the visitors, a question that now bothered him. Had their estimate of the twenty miles from Cienega Creek to Tucson included the extra miles beyond the town, to Saguaro Springs? He suspected it had not, and once they were near enough, he must ride ahead and learn for sure just how far they must go to reach water. The longhorns had already begun to lag.
“Good water an’ good graze, an’ they’s still cranky as hell,” said Long John in disgust.
“They don’t like bein’ pushed this hard,” Gil said. “We run them ragged yesterday, for sure, but they were rewarded with a night of good graze and plenty of water. It’s a damn shame longhorns learn nothing from experience. They’ll be just as mean and ornery today as they were yesterday, and they’ll give us hell for our good intentions.”
The longhorns had become such a trial that Bo had been forced to use a lariat, saving the unique bola for deer hunting and special occasions. The lariat could be doubled and used as a whip, a necessity in the daily battle with bunch-quitting longhorns. Rosa rode and worked as hard as any cowboy, while the nondescript Indian pony she had adopted became one of the best cow horses in the outfit.
Gil rode out when the sun was noon high, bound for Tucson. After he knew where the water was, he aimed to call on the man who bought and sold livestock. They had no need for the many horses they had taken from the Apaches. Even if there was little or no market for beef, the horses might bring enough to supply their needs from Tucson to the goldfields. Unsure as to how far he was from his destination, Gil topped a ridge and his horse nickered. Hand on the butt of his Colt, he reined up and waited, but there was no answering nicker. Cautiously he rode down the slope, and as he emerged from a forest of fir, he couldn’t believe his eyes. At the north end of the valley below was a cluster of greenery, like an oasis. His thirsty horse had scented water! Warily, he rode on. At best it could only be a spring, but why had their visitors from Tucson not mentioned it? Slowly an answer—or what might be an answer—came to him. Had they passed to the north of Tucson—and at one time, they might have—this little patch of green with its spring would have been well to the south of them. Now he suspected they had drifted off their original course and were actually somewhere to the south of Tucson. But what did it matter, if they were miles closer to water?
Gil scouted the spring, finding it more than adequate, with a good runoff. Using the sun as a guide, he estimated the trail drive could easily reach the water before dark. Tomorrow would be soon enough to correct their course and ride ahead to Tucson. He turned back to meet the herd with the good news. Not only was there water, but it was near enough that they need not kill themselves getting to it, as they had been forced to do yesterday.
“Bueno.” Ramon grinned. “Is better than having cows stampede through the town.”
While the horse herd had been behaving well, the longhorns had not. But once they were allowed to assume their accustomed gait, they settled down. The drag riders removed dusty bandannas from their sweaty faces and fanned themselves with their hats.
“I ain’t complainin’,” said Van, “but why didn’t those hombres from Tucson tell us about this spring?”
“The way we were headed at that time,” said Gil, “I don’t think it would have mattered. I expect we’re somewhere to the south of Tucson now. But we should be able to change direction and still reach Tucson within a day’s drive. The important thing is, we have water for tonight.”
“So we takes this hellacious long day,” said Long John, “an’ makes two out’n it.”
“Looks that way,” Gil said, “but it’ll be easier on the horses, the longhorns, and us. We need that extra day, and the only reason we weren’t takin’ it was because we thought the next water was beyond Tucson.”
“We have not drifted far enough south, then,” said Bo, “for tomorrow’s drive to become a hardship.”
“I doubt it,” said Gil. “I’ll ride out at first light, find out just how far we are to the south of Tucson, and get us back on course. Right now, I couldn’t be more satisfied. Some of a man’s mistakes turn out for the best, thank God.”
He was looking at Rosa, but she seemed not to have heard. Gil rode on ahead, and catching up to the horse herd, decided to use the procedure that had worked so well at Cienega Creek. He gave the same orders to Estanzio, Mariposa, and Juan Padillo as he had the day before.
“Give it another hour, and then take the horses on to the spring. It has a pretty good runoff, but the steers will hog it all. Water the horses and move them down the valley to graze. Once you’ve done that, split up and ride beyond the spring a ways. I didn’t see any Indian sign near the spring, but I didn’t take the time to ride any farther.”
Sundown was just minutes away when the longhorns reached the ridge from which Gil had first sighted the spring. While there was no betraying breeze, the water was close enough. Just as it had excited Gil’s horse, it had a similar effect on the longhorns. Bawling their eagerness, the leaders tore off down the slope, the rest of the herd close behind.
“I believe in givin’ credit where credit’s due,” said Van, “and sending the horses to water ahead of the longhorns is a plumb good idea.”
“That it is,” Long John agreed. “Them longhorn bastards would of gored half the hoss herd by now.”
Gil grinned at the unexpected praise and said nothing. When they got to the spring, Juan Padillo had unloaded the packhorses and had filled the coffeepot before the longhorns had invaded the spring. Van and Long John soon found enough wood for the supper fire.
“Ramon,” said Gil, “take a couple of riders, and as the longhorns drink, drive them off a ways. If they’re still thirsty, let them drink from the runoff. I purely can’t stomach drinkin’ from a spring when there’s a cow standin’ belly deep in it.”
“I did not think a Tejano drank from a spring unless a cow was standing in it,” said Rosa.
The riders laughed, Long John howled, and there were rare grins from the usually impassive Mariposa and Estanzio.
May 17, 1850. South of Tucson, Arizona Territory
“Let’s move ’em out!” shouted Gil.
So sure was he of their having drifted off course, he headed the drive to the northwest, and then rode out ahead of it. He would find the town, locate the water, and again change the course of the trail drive, should it be necessary. Yesterday they had traveled a good twelve miles. Added to today’s drive would be the miles they had drifted to the south, but he didn’t believe it would increase the distance enough to hurt them. Gil had
ridden about ten miles when he heard the faint but distinct barking of a dog. He reined up, listening. He reasoned there wouldn’t be an Indian camp so near the white man’s town, so it had to be the cabin—or at least the camp—of a settler or rancher. He rode due north, and was rewarded when the yipping of the dog grew louder. Finally there was another sound that assured him he was, indeed, nearing civilization. It was the crowing of a rooster, and Gil grinned in appreciation as the fowl crowed again. He couldn’t recall having heard a rooster crow since leaving Missouri, in ’33. They’d had occasional eggs and fried chicken at the Bandera ranch only because Dorinda, Van’s wife, had come from a farm. Since the Jabez farm was but a few miles south of San Antonio, Van was always swapping beef for eggs, poultry, pork, and vegetables. Pangs of guilt reminded Gil that Rosa had wanted chickens of her own and he had refused. He vowed, once they returned to Texas, that she would have the fowls, and a big red rooster to go with them. That was, if she returned to Texas with him. When he rode into a clearing, he found himself approaching a barn, and it was substantial, built from logs. In an adjoining corral there were four mules, sleek and well-fed.* This must be, as Long John had once suggested, mining country, requiring “mule work.”
Gil rode past the barn, and by the time he could see the log house beyond a stand of oaks, the dog had discovered him. Gil rode on, reached the yard and reined up. The house was as substantial as the barn, the morning sun reflecting off a glass windowpane. Smoke curled lazily from a stone chimney, and there was a long porch that covered three-quarters of the front of the log house.
“Hello the house!” Gil shouted.
There was no immediate response. Finally the front door eased open a little, and it was a foregone conclusion that whoever stood behind it had a gun. This was still very much the frontier. Gil needed more than a simple hello. He tried again.
The California Trail Page 21
