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McAllister 1

Page 3

by Matt Chisholm


  McAllister only mentioned the possibilities of the trans-Pecos drive. We had road-branded the last recalcitrant steer and the crew were already starting to drift the herd slowly west, as a first step to making them feel like a herd. Some trail men believe in driving hard for the first few days, forcing the animals to accept each other, but that was not McAllister’s technique. Maybe the other way was better, I don’t know. I’ve had big trouble with herds both ways. So we hadn’t told Dice goodbye, but we had started on our way. The cook had given us our first meal on the trail and it had turned up trumps. At least so far, in spite of the chances of no pay and the certainty of a mean owner, the boys seemed pleased enough with their unenviable lot and looked pretty chipper. McAllister and I sipped a last hot, bitter coffee before turning in.

  “Matthew,” he said, his long, dark face solemn as a parson in a whore-shop, “do you have your mind fixed on making this trip?”

  “Yep, I do.”

  “If it ain’t your idea of a picnic, I shouldn’t take it hard if you was to change your mind.”

  “McAllister,” I said, “you sure rub me up like a burr between my ass and the saddle, but I don’t hate you enough to allow you to ride all the way to that den of iniquity of the Rockies called Denver. I shudder to think what depths of depravity you would sink to without me to nursemaid you.”

  “I could imagine, Matthew,” he said, “that there’s the faintest possibility of me sinkin’ to some pretty abysmal depths in your company. I mean, you ain’t struck me that you took the pledge or swore off women.”

  “That’s different. It’s bad for a man to drink or chase women on his lonesome. It can lead a man into nasty habits.”

  “The truth of it is,” he said, “my mind wasn’t ezackly on sin right this minute. I was kind of ruminating on the light cavalry of the Comanch’ nation.”

  “You were?” I said in surprise.

  “They can make it damned unpleasant for a man wantin’ to get his cows to the diggin’s.”

  “I heard about that someplace. I can’t think where. Before you start to get maudlin, McAllister, I need the money.”

  “Nobody can want money that bad unless he’s a miser.”

  “That’s me,” I said, “I’m a miser. I just love the prospect of one per cent of nothin’.”

  “What the hell’s the good of talkin’ to you?” he said. “I’d ruther hunt fleas in my blankets.”

  So we rolled in our blankets and fell asleep.

  That night the herd decided it wasn’t a herd and scattered out over hell’s half acre. We had exactly thirty minutes sleep that night and did not eat until the following evening when Dice Roberts rode into camp and announced that if this was the way McAllister handled his herd he’d better call the whole thing off. McAllister and I told him in unison that he could suit himself. Our cook offered him a cold cup of coffee. Dice didn’t wish us luck (that would have been out of character) but he did tell the cook not to overfeed the men— it was false generosity: overfeeding made them loggy and a danger to themselves. We drove straight for the Pecos and started pushing the cows hard, meaning to hold them to the new pace for a couple of days.

  Four

  INTHOSE EARLY days we had a saying: “All that was to be found west of the Pecos was dust, dirt and damn fools, which clearly told the world that we considered any man who lived west of that river must want his head examined. Mind you, there were those of us down in the brasada who thought the saying applied equally to folks living east of the Pecos, though any self-respecting Texan would pull iron in defense of the good name of his country. From which you will gather correctly that Texas is not just a part of the Union, it is a frame of mind, a whole country, a world of its own. And more so then than now. Because distances were far greater. The distances covered now in no more than minutes, those days could take a week. Just think on that a while and you will begin maybe to appreciate what the trail-crew of a longhorn herd had to face.

  The river itself had a little water in it. This encouraged us slightly. It not only meant that we could cross without too much trouble, but also it might be a sign that there was some water on the giant plain beyond. We wanted something more than buffalo grass on which to sustain our stock.

  That night a short distance north of the river, we bedded down a well-fed, well-watered and contented herd. First light we were on the road and now, for the first time, the cows lined out thinly and willingly, grazing as they went, as once disciplined and happy. Not a small amount of this success was due to old Carlos. You’d better meet him before we go any further.

  Carlos was an old brindled steer that had been a member of the Roberts family for years. He had been hand fed at the kitchen door as a calf by Mrs. Roberts and I reckon he regarded himself more as a human than a longhorn. Now stories of Texas trail driving are full of noble lead steers, all with their very individual characters, their quirks and fancies. One which they all shared was the willingness to lead. No matter what was in the herd, aggressive bulls, rampaging young steers or touchy cows, a lead steer would lead or die in the attempt. Carlos had a self-confidence, aggressiveness and the largest pair of horns I ever saw, all of which saw to it that he took his rightful position at the head of the column. Riding point as we so often did, Perfido Suarez and I became used to Carlos’ massive right horn just to our left and often we would grip the point of the horn and ride for miles thus. Every now and then Carlos would give a companionable snort. At the start of the drive one or two young bulls, busting with their own self-importance, tried to usurp Carlos’ rightful place, but he soon whipped them into submission. One he nearly killed and we were forced to finish off the injured animal, which we were not reluctant to do for it meant steaks for all. We gave the remainder of the meat to ranchers we passed on the road so that it could be eaten before it spoiled.

  Golly Adams, whose ribs were giving him hell, was, in McAllister’s opinion, too sick to ride and he offered him a seat on the chuck wagon. Not on your life, cried Golly, he’d seen the way the crazy coosie drove and would rather risk his ribs and neck on the deck of a half-broken mustang. So Golly was in the saddle, riding flank and eating dust with the rest of us. The herd was going well, following old Carlos without even knowing it, keeping a nice steady and unhurried pace, the kind that shows a driver that he’s doing his job properly. I must say that I began to be a mite complaisant. Not McAllister. Understandably, for the responsibility was his and he had a share in the herd now— or at least that was what he fondly believed. He said, darkly, that this was the kind of time when something big could go wrong.

  “You’re a pessimist,” I said.

  “Like hell I’m a pessimist,” he replied, “I’m a Baptist.”

  The two newest members of the crew were settling in pretty well. You could see it by the way the rest of the crew accepted their little foibles. Horry Mangold, for example, thought he knew more about horses than the rest of us put together. And maybe he was right. Who am I to say? It was his job to know every one of the near a hundred horses in the remuda, and to catch up the one any rider wanted, day or night. The horse wrangler was allowed what sleep he could get when he could get it—which was pretty damn seldom, I don’t mind telling you. Mostly I think in those days remuderos slept in the saddle during the day. Little Horry had an embarrassing way of telling a rider that he was mistaken and he didn’t want the horse he called for. He needed another and that was what he would get. When the boys complained to McAllister, they pointed out that a horse wrangler was the lowest form of animal life on a trail crew—and they were right, of course; everybody knew that. But Horry thought different. And said so.

  “Boss,” he said, “I know horses. My word on it. I know every goddam horse in this remuda better ’n anybody knows ’em. If a horse is out of sorts, I don’t aim to work him and spoil him.”

  “Out of sorts?” exclaimed the trail-boss. “Hell an’ damnation man, these are ten-dollar cow-ponies. They don’t have no right to be out of sorts.”
r />   “It’s a fact of life, boss, an’ I would be derelict of my duty if I didn’t act on it.” McAllister gazed up in the direction of his Maker far away in the azure blue sky.

  “God give me strength,” he said fervently, “an’ save me from cocky little goddam roosters who are too damn big for their goddam boots.”

  Horry didn’t turn a hair. It was plain to see that he had out-stared tougher bosses than Remington McAllister.

  “Boss,” he said seriously, “in my book a horse is a horse. Sure, these are lightweight half-starved cow-ponies, but that don’t stop them bein’ horses. It’s my job to keep them at their peak of condition an’ I’ve been doin’ that with horses all my born life. An’ I aim to go ahead doin’ it in this here corrida or take my time.”

  It was an ultimatum and McAllister knew it. He weighed the wrangler against the crew. But before he could make his decision, there was an interruption.

  Pegleg Smith said: “I know, sir, that I do not have a single say in this here matter. I am, as you might say, non judicky an’ all the rest of it. But I think for the sake of the outfit at large that I should intervene with a quiet word of counsel, not to say advice.”

  “My God,” said McAllister in that dangerous tone between clenched teeth, “every damn body is havin’ his say today. Why ain’t you spoke up, Matthew?”

  “It’s a free country,” I said softly. “This outfit definitely ain’t free,” McAllister declared. “It’s a one-man dictatorship an’ I’m the dictator.”

  I turned to Horry and said: “Mr. Mangold, oblige me by stepping around to the far side of the chuck wagon.”

  He looked momentarily startled. He muttered: “Sure, why not?” and strutted off on those little legs of his.

  McAllister said warningly, rather like a school ma’am: “Matthew!” It was just the kind of tone to get me mad. I got mad.

  I said: “McAllister, you keep the hell out of this.”

  When I got around the wagon, there was Pegleg Smith siding his small partner.

  “Mr. Smith,” I said, “you tend to your cooking or I’m going to saw that wooden leg of yourn in little pieces and throw it away.”

  He looked at me closer to read me right. He read me exactly true and he walked away to his cook fire. I turned to the remudero.

  “Mr. Mangold,” I said, “you could be the little punk that ruins a first rate crew. I don’t aim to see that happen. You use a little tact around here or I’m going to kick your little butt all the way back to the Pecos.”

  You know for one solid second I thought that little rooster was going to take me. I’ll say this for him, he didn’t spook one little bit. But he had sense just the same. For the first and only time I saw him smile. It only flashed on for a brief moment. It was so short in duration that I even doubted I had seen it.

  He said: “Matthew, I can see we understand each other.”

  “You bet your goddam life we do,” I said. “Just remember this, in the next week, maybe tomorrow if our luck goes bad, you’ll need every man in this crew because that’s all there’s going to be between you and the Comanches. We ain’t too far from the bit of trail where they killed Oliver Loving. You’re maybe only half-size, but you count as one full one to an Indian.”

  He said very quietly and very sincerely: “I have this feelin’ for horses. Can I help it?”

  “No, you can’t,” I said, “and it does you credit. Neither can McAllister and me. Just use a little tact.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Tact it is.” A couple of days later when McAllister joined me for a while on point, he said: “What did you tell that little bastard, Matt? He’s been behavin’ hisself.”

  “I told him he was your favorite little rider and if he gave you a great big kiss you’d tuck him up every night.”

  I guess McAllister would have knocked my teeth down my throat if the commotion would not have stampeded the cattle.

  On that day we came to a ranch house. Way out in the middle of nowhere near a trickle of water and two cottonwood trees, there was this house. Two partners worked the range and raised a few head of cows. Why there, I shall never know. They were living like hogs from what we could see. They had some kind of a Mexican woman living there and choring for them, but she was not making much of a job of it. Perfido refused to speak to her, so I reckon she was pretty low at that. Perfido would fall on his face for most petticoats. Two days back, they’d had a Mexican rider. But they didn’t anymore, because he was dead. They found him lying face down in an arroyo, all cut up. I won’t describe what they had done to him, there’s no pleasure in it, I assure you. They buried him where he lay and put a crude cross over him. They couldn’t report the death to anybody but a ranger when he happened to pass by. There wasn’t anybody else who would be interested and a ranger wouldn’t give the time of day to a Mexican in those days. It was the general opinion that they were all cow thieves or bandidos. So a man lived and died and was forgotten. That kind of thing always depresses me. Hell, a man should be remembered by somebody even if only for a short time.

  The two cowmen had made a show of tracking the Indians, but I reckon they were not too enthusiastic about catching them. And who can blame them? The Comanches liked the game of pursuit and flight and they had a nasty way of circling and catching their pursuers up the ass, as you might say. These two talked tough but McAllister was pretty short with them, I think.

  Old Perfido spent around an hour reading the sign the Indians had left and when he came back into camp, he wagged his head lugubriously. In Spanish he told us: “It does not give me any pleasure to tell you this, hombres. This was a war-party. No doubt about it. They were strong. I cannot decide why they did not attack the house or at least take the horses.”

  McAllister asked: “How many were there?”

  Perfido shrugged theatrically. “I cannot tell exactly. There were many tracks. If I under-estimate maybe … twenty … twenty-five. Who can say?”

  “Enough,” said McAllister.

  Inside me, I said: Too much. I do not like fighting Indians. If any man ever tells you he does, he’s a liar. What I hate more than anything is fighting Indians while I’m nursing cows. One activity distracts you from the other and you can’t do both at once. I told myself we might as well go on because it was too late to turn back. Any road, by now they might be between us and the Pecos.

  Now, there’s two schools of thought about what is the ideal way to make up a herd and they both have some sort of reason on their side. One says if you have calves and nursing cows along you’re in for trouble sure as God made little apples. The calves slow you down. Cows in milk can’t keep up either. The other school of thought reckons that the cry of a cow for its calf and a calf for its mother steadies a spooky herd and holds it together. Their very slowness will keep a herd back if it shows signs of running.

  McAllister and I had tried it both ways and we were of the opinion, rightly or wrongly, that a mixed herd was better all around. Except in the case of a desert route. Then it could be too tough for calves. So this time we had stayed for the most part with bulls and steers, though there were some young cows mixed in with them. The bulls had all been goodnighted so their bags wouldn’t give them grief on the long hard walk. One or two cows had proven to be pregnant and we’d had one or two calves dropped; we gave these away to any ranches and farms we could on the road.

  Now, when we got to the ranch of these two fellows I was telling you about, we put our heads together and reckoned from our knowledge of the country that, apart from the Indians, there could be a whole lot of grief for us waiting plumb around the corner. It was early in the year, but there was too little water around for our liking. We knew from past experience that out there on the sea of grass there would be even less. Perfido, who knew the area better than anybody, told us that he had doubts even about the grass. But if there was no water ... it didn’t do us a mite of good if there was no water. Longhorns don’t have to drink but every few days, but water is so necessary
to them that they will walk vast distances for a drink before they return to their grazing.

  Golly Adams had once in his teens actually driven cows over this trail. Sitting gray-faced and in pain by the fire, he voiced his doubts.

  “I ain’t sayin’ I’m fazed, boss, but I sure ain’t laughin’ none. This ain’t a-goin’ to be a nice drive. I come this way once with Mister Goodnight an’ Mr. Lovin’, an’ they both said they was crazy to make it. An’ they was the toughest cowmen I ever knowed.”

  “All right, Golly,” said McAllister, “we get your drift.”

  “I ain’t scared,” said Golly, “an’ I’m stickin’ with the outfit. So don’t you fret none, boss.”

  “I won’t fret, Golly,” said McAllister.

  But he fretted all right. I could see it by the way he kept going off on little solitary walks on his lonesome. He’d always done that when he was all tensed up as a young boy. He was responsible for a lot of cows and if he lost a herd, maybe he wouldn’t ever drive one for anybody again. I knew I’d waste my breath if I tried to talk to him about it. So I held my tongue. But seeing old McAllister worried like he was, I started to worry myself. Strangely enough I don’t think anybody else in the crew noticed it. Except maybe Pegleg Smith.

 

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