The California Trail

by Ralph Compton

  There were shouts of agreement, but Gil heard no more. He mounted and rode out, feeling no elation. A burden had been lifted, but there was only relief. It was still early, but Gil sang out so the riders on watch knew who he was. Feeling safe with the nearness of town, Rosa still had a small fire going, and the coffee was hot.

  “Morgan Pinder,” said Gil as the riders gathered around. He told them nothing more, nor did he need to. He was alive, and that told them the rest. Rosa poured coffee from the big pot into a pewter cup, bringing it to him.

  “I am glad you are unharmed,” she said.

  Strong on her mind were the hard words they’d had. She turned away.

  “Rosa.”

  She turned to him, expecting retribution. If he spoke unkindly, hadn’t he earned the right? But he surprised her, and perhaps himself.

  “Rosa, it’ll be safe enough in town now. Would you like to ride in for Sunday dinner tomorrow? We’ll eat at a café.”

  “I would like that,” she said. “I have never eaten in a café before.”

  Gil sipped his coffee, more at peace with himself than he’d been for weeks. For the first time in years he had gold—more than two thousand dollars—from the sale of Texas steers. He estimated they were at least halfway in their conquest of this California Trail. Surely, he thought, the frontier could not imperil and punish them any more than it already had. But on the trail ahead, it could and would. At Fort Yuma . . .

  18

  Gil’s second day in Tucson was as tranquil as the first had been hectic. He found himself an unwilling celebrity for having rid the town of the arrogant, troublesome Morgan Pinder. He first became aware of his notoriety when he took Rosa to Sunday dinner at the café and they wouldn’t take his money. Later, when Bo, Van, Long John, and several other riders came in, they also were not allowed to pay.

  “Damn it,” said Gil, to the amusement of his outfit, “this is embarrassing. I shot Pinder because he was trying to kill me, not to get myself set up as a gunfighter.”

  “Ye should of jus’ bored him oncet.” Long John chuckled. “Takes a real heller with a pistol t’ shoot three times an’ git three hits, even in daylight. Ye done it in the dark, an’t’ be honest, I couldn’t of done better myself. Like it er not, ye got the name of a real pistolero.”

  “We can take the herd on to California,” Van jibed, “if you wanta stay here and run for sheriff.”

  Rosa laughed and Gil grinned, trying to ignore them. But it wasn’t easy, ignoring a whole town. Vento Henneagar closed his store on Sunday, and Gil rode out to the house. He still needed to know something about the country west of Tucson. The dog announced his arrival, and was called off by Jeremiah Henneagar.

  “Git down an’ come in,” the old man bawled. “Pleasure t’ meet an honest-t’-God fightin’ man.”

  Vento rescued Gil from the old mountain man, who wanted” to talk about the very thing Gil wished to avoid.

  “Jeremiah,” Vento said, “I promised Austin some information on the trail between here and Fort Yuma. We have some talkin’ to do.”

  “Wal, I got some talk of my own,” said old Jeremiah. “Some gun talk, somethin’ we never hear much of in these parts.”

  It was an obvious slap at the “town living” of his sons. Vento overlooked it, and Gil followed him into the house. Jeremiah stomped along behind, mumbling under his breath. Vento took a seat at the big kitchen table, and Gil sat down across from him. Leaning back, Henneagar opened a sideboard drawer and took out a pencil and tablet.

  “Right smart for a man to remember,” said Vento, “so I wrote it all down for you.” He placed the tablet on the table. “This will get you to Fort Yuma, which I’m figurin’ at two hundred fifteen miles.”

  “Some mighty hard days,” Gil said, “if your miles between water are even close, and I’m not doubting you.”

  “You could maybe lessen the total miles,” said Vento, “but you’d have to gamble on the water. You’re better off to go a little out of your way, like you did when you stumbled on that spring to the south of here. You’ll drop down near the Mexican border a time or two, but that’s to get you to sure water. First you can count on, once you leave here, is at Queens Well. I’d figure it a good twenty miles. Could be less, but not much. Second day, you’ll need to reach Santa Rosa Valley, and that’s eighteen miles. Third day, figure another eighteen miles to Quijotda valley. Day four you’ll be lookin’ for dripping springs in the Ajo Mountains, and that’s a good twenty miles. The next day is maybe twenty-two miles, and that gets you to Papago Wells.”

  “Five days to Papago wells,” Gil said, “and then we turn due north.”

  “You do,” said Vento, “and there’s a good reason. After twenty miles, you’ll reach San Cristobal Wash. It carries a runoff from the Gila River, in the Mohawk Mountains. You follow San Cristobal north forty miles. Now I know this is roundabout, out of your way, but it’s sure water. Once you reach the Gila River, follow it west sixty miles to its confluence with the Colorado. That will take you to within sight of Fort Yuma.”

  May 20, 1850. Tucson, Arizona Territory

  “Move ’em out!” Gil shouted.

  The horse remuda, down to its original size, took the lead. The longhorns moved into position behind the horses, and the trail drive was again headed west. Some of the folks from Tucson, including Vento and Gid Henneagar, had ridden out to see the Texans off. Before the tag end of the herd disappeared over a ridge, Rosa waved her hat one last time.

  “Them is good folks,” said Long John.

  “It saddens me to leave here,” Rosa said, “when I do not know what might lie ahead of us.”

  “All the more reason to press on,” said Bo. “If we could see what lies ahead, the little bad would frighten us away from the good. We would become slaves to our fears, huddling together and dying of stagnation.”

  “He talks like a politician I knowed oncet, back in the bayous,” teased Long John. “Feller talked like ever’thing was jus’ purely goin’ t’ hell if’n he dint git elected.”

  “I reckon you voted for him,” said Van.

  “No,” said Long John, “but ever’body else did. The bastard got elected, and that’s when ever’thing went t’ hell.”

  The conversation ended when Gil rode back to the drag.

  “We’re twenty miles from water,” he told them. “It’s swing some lariats, bust some behinds, or face a night in dry camp. Get with it!”

  By noon the pleasures of Tucson and the restful camp were forgotten. The smaller horse remuda moved at a gait the longhorns found difficult to maintain. As usual, there were many who decided to forsake the drive and return to the good graze and water at Cactus Springs. While the riders fought to keep the steers bunched and the ranks closed, there were always some that managed to break away. There was no wind, and the heat from a vengeful sun seemed all the more intense. Every rider wore a bandanna over nose and mouth, but it spared them little, and their eyes not at all. Sweat blinded their eyes, soaked their hair, dripped off their chins. Dust became so thick they could scarcely tell if the steers were bunched or not, beyond the first few at the tag end.

  “I reckon we’re halfway there,” Gil shouted when he next rode back to the drag. “Keep ’em moving, and keep ’em bunched.”

  It was becoming more and more difficult to do either. As the day wore on, the hard traveling took its toll. As the steers began to tire, they became more ornery, and the hard drive rapidly increased their thirst. Gil was thankful for Vento Henneagar’s directions, giving him some idea where the water was. But as the day seemed to grow hotter, he became increasingly uneasy. He must know for a certainty how far away that water was!

  “Ramon, I’m riding ahead to check out the water at Queens Well. Keep the longhorns in sight of the horses, and keep ’em moving.”

  Gil paused long enough to tell Mariposa and Estanzio where he was going. They well understood the urgency, and he didn’t have to tell them to keep the horses at a fast gait. To Gil
’s relief, he found Vento’s mileage accurate. The drive was within half a dozen miles of the water. It was in a valley amid a forest of Joshua trees, and Gil was struck by the unusual water source. While it was actually a big spring, it did look like a well. Fed from underground, it was a dozen feet across, and seemed bottomless. Any man, horse, or cow falling in there had better be prepared to swim. There was excellent runoff, with a profusion of Joshuas and other greenery, and it wouldn’t be difficult to keep the long-horns away from the spring itself. Gil found no remains of old fires, and the only tracks those of coyotes, wolves, and wild turkeys. He watered his horse, satisfied his own thirst, and rode back to meet the herd. He hardly needed to tell Estanzio and Mariposa to take the horses on to water. It was what they had come to expect, and they soon had the horses at a gait that would put them at the water well ahead of the longhorns. Gil rode on to meet Ramon.

  “Keep them moving like they are, Ramon. We’re maybe two hours from the water, and I’ve sent the horses on ahead.”

  Gil rode to the drag with the same cheering words, finding the riders sorely in need of encouragement.

  “Five more hard days,” Gil said, “with a drive about like today’s, but when we reach San Cristobal Wash, we’ll be about a hundred miles out of Yuma. We’ll be following the wash north, and since it carries a spill-off, we’ll be sure of water all the way to the Gila River. Then we follow the Gila west until it joins the Colorado, near Fort Yuma.”

  “All we got to do,” said Van, “is live through five more days like today, and we can ride easy the rest of the way to Yuma.”

  Gil laughed. “That’s it.”

  “Please,” said Rosa wearily, “explain that to the cows. They do not believe there is water anywhere else in the world, except back at the Cactus Springs.”

  Sweat-soaked, dirty, and exhausted as they were, they laughed. But they pressed on, and before sundown the longhorns were strung out along the runoff from Queens Well.

  “By damn,” said Long John as they sat around the supper fire, “we must of done somethin’ right. Ain’t this the fust twenty-mile day we done, that them critters didn’t stampede the last two er three mile?”

  “I think you’re right,” said Gil, “but it wasn’t so much our doing. We had no wind bringing the smell of water to the herd. But we can take credit for getting them here before sundown. Usually that’s when the night wind rises and they discover there’s water ahead. The secret is to start early and just drive the hell out of them, getting as far as we can, as quick as we can. Like we did today.”

  The night was peaceful, and again Rosa took the first watch, avoiding any time alone with Gil. The outfit was up, had breakfast done, and were on the trail at the first gray of dawn. Gil was determined that their second day out of Tucson would be as successful as the first. Everything seemed to be a repeat of the previous day’s hard drive. The sun rose hot as ever, there was no wind, and the longhorns rebelled when they were again forced to keep up with the fast-moving horse remuda. Bunch quitters broke away, were chased back, and at first opportunity broke away again. At noon Gil had the riders change horses. One at a time they rode ahead to the remuda for a fresh mount. But there was no relief for the riders. Again Gil rode ahead, seeking the Santa Rosa Valley and the water Vento Henneagar had said was there. He found they had again drifted too far south. He rode north several miles and then doubled back to the spring. It was adequate, but with a lesser runoff than Queens Well. Gil scouted the area before returning to the herd. As usual, when he reached the horse remuda he sent Mariposa and Estanzio ahead with the horses, having them adjust their direction to the north. Then he rode on to meet Ramon.

  “Little more to the north,” said Gil. “I missed the water at first and had to ride back. Today’s drive is about eighteen miles, so we ought to do at least as well as yesterday.”

  Gil found the drag riders in about the same state of exhaustion as the day before. The good news that the water was a little closer than yesterday cheered them only slightly. They were as dirty and sweat-soaked as ever, and if anything, the ever-present dust was even worse. Gil pitched in to help, and the very first bunch quitter he tried to head turned on him. Only his fast-moving, quick-thinking horse saved him from a horn in the belly. What happened next was bizarre, something none of them had ever seen or heard of before. While the steer’s horn missed Gil’s belly, so near was the miss, it caught under his pistol belt and he was plucked from the saddle. The unruly steer, as though he had planned just such a maneuver, lowered his head and slammed Gil to the ground on his back. The angry brute then set about to finish what he had started. But two loops snaked out as Long John and Van roped the lethal horns. Frustrated, the steer kicked the air, allowing Rosa to ride in and catch his hind legs with an underhand throw. With her lariat dallied around the horn, her horse took up the slack, and the stubborn steer was thrown to the ground in a cloud of dust. Gil was up in an instant, piggin string in his hand and a second one clenched in his teeth. Seizing the big steer’s flailing front legs, he tied them, and then went for the hind legs. Then he loosed all three lariats, allowing Rosa, Van, and Long John to go after other bunch quitters. To his disgust, he saw that others within the herd had taken advantage of the absence of the riders who had come to his aid. A dozen or more longhorns were raising a cloud of dust down the back trail. Feeling like every bone in his body had been broken at least once, Gil swung into his saddle and kicked his horse into a gallop. Sensing trouble, several flank riders had dropped back, trying to bunch the herd. Gil threw in with them, allowing Van, Long John, and Rosa to gather the bunch quitters along the back trail. When the herd was finally gathered, bunched, and moving, every rider was drenched with sweat, caked with dust that had become instant mud, and totally exhausted. When Gil managed a feeble grin, it felt like his face was going to crack like a looking glass.

  “Them brutes knows it’s you that’s makin’ it hard on ’em,” said Long John. “Ye’d best stay up front, so’s they cain’t git at ye. Never seen one o’ the bastards grab a rider thata way.”

  “Freak accident,” said Gil wearily. “All he had in mind was a horn in the gut. Worst of it was, he took four of us away from the herd and allowed others to break loose. Damn him, I ought to shoot him between the eyes.”

  “Then you would have to shoot them all,” said Rosa. “Given the chance, would not any one of them gore you and your horse?”

  “Yeah,” said Gil sheepishly, “I reckon they would. Let’s burn their behinds and force ’em to use up all that cussedness gettin’ to water.”

  Again their determination paid off, as they reached the spring without further difficulty. Gil estimated they were forty miles west of Tucson and 175 miles from Fort Yuma.

  May 22, 1850. Santa Rosa Valley, Arizona Territory

  “Eighteen to twenty miles today,” Gil said as they saddled their horses. “Place called Quijotda Valley. Another spring, I reckon.”

  So began another wretched day of blistering sun, dust, sweat, and ornery bunch quitters that wanted to go anywhere except California. When the sun was noon high, Gil rode out, anxious to find the water and to estimate their chances of reaching it before sundown. It was a spring, as he had expected, and as good as the one of the day before. Judging by the time it had taken him to reach it, the herd had been better than halfway when he had left them. For the third time in as many days, they were about to reach water without a stampede. While the hard drives were hell on the riders, they were worth the effort, and Gil was elated. They should reach Fort Yuma no later than June first! Soon as Gil met the horse remuda, he sent Mariposa and Estanzio ahead with the horses. That was another innovation of his that had proven itself. Jubilant, he rode on to the drag with the good news. Water was near!

  “I believe ye,” shouted Long John. “Now if ye kin jus’ git it through the head bones o’ these stupid, cantankerous, horned sons o’ the devil . . .”

  Gil laughed and threw himself into the task that had so infuriated Long Jo
hn: keeping the longhorns moving west, returning one bunch quitter to the herd just in time to tear out after the next one.

  In contrast to the long, hard, hot days, the nights were cool and peaceful. And there were no dry camps. Nobody complained. On a trail drive, it never got any better, and most of the time it was infinitely worse.

  May 23, 1850. Approaching the Ajo Mountains

  “This will be another hard day,” Gil told them at breakfast as they were preparing to move out of the Quijotda Valley. “We’ll have to cross the Ajo Mountains to reach dripping springs, so we’ll be travelin’ uphill some of the way. That means the steers and horses will tire quickly. We’ll have to fight twice as hard to cover the same ground.”

  Gil had the herd moving at first light, and he immediately rode out to scout the mountainous terrain ahead. It would be the most difficult part of the day’s drive, and he wanted it behind them before man and beast became exhausted. While there would be little danger in the ascent, the drive down the opposite slope could be hazardous if there were sudden drop-offs or shale outcroppings. This was Gil’s concern, but when they reached the foothills, he felt better. While the land became more mountainous, the rise was gradual, but he still had to see the other side. At the higher elevation there were stately ponderosa pines and thick forests of fir. Reaching the crest, Gil reined up, his eyes searching the valley below. He marked the position of the spring by the profusion of greenery that surrounded it and the runoff. Beyond the spring and as far as Gil could see, there was a literal forest of cactus, treetop tall. Magnificent, they dwarfed anything he’d ever seen.* Suddenly his eyes were drawn back to the spring. Briefly something had caught his attention, and then he’d lost it. Just as he was about to blame it on his overactive imagination, he saw it again. A wisp of smoke, barely visible against the blue of the sky, quickly dissipated. Somebody was or had been at the spring! Warily he rode on, avoiding bare spots, staying well within a sheltering growth of fir and pine.