"You've done some growin' up since we talked last," said Gil, telling her what she wished to hear. His own private conclusion was that she had decided what she was going to do, and that staying with Dorinda was the furthest thing from her mind.
* * *
Gil and Clay reached San Antonio an hour after first light, and a few minutes later, when McCulloch led out, they followed. They traveled south along the San Antonio River for a little more than three hours.
"Lipan Apaches aren't nomads," said McCulloch. "They live in mud and log huts, and they have some pretty decent farms. The women do, that is. The men still hunt with bows and arrows."
"If they ride for us," said Gil, "I aim for 'em to have guns. How do you feel about that?"
"If it was anybody but the Lipans," said McCulloch, "I'd draw the line at guns. But for these Injuns, I'll have to make an exception. I doubt they'll be a danger to anybody but Comanches, and for every one they shoot, it's one less we'll have to track down."
McCulloch knew the chief—Feurza—and when Gil had been introduced, McCulloch explained to Feurza what Gil wanted. Feurza called a meeting, and although he had excluded the women, they peeked from behind every bush and tree. Some of the men had seen at least seventy summers, and might not see another, while the youngest were only children of maybe nine or ten. Once Feurza had explained what Gil was seeking, there arose a clamor that would have drowned out a buffalo stampede. McCulloch spoke to Feurza, and the chief managed to restore order.
'He's telling them you want nobody younger than seventeen," said McCulloch.
"Ganos!" shouted a youth. "Ganos!"
He was muscular, a man by anybody's standard, and looked strong enough to throw a bull. But Feurza shook his head and spoke to McCulloch.
"His name is Goose," said McCulloch, "but he's not quite fifteen. By God, when he grows up, he'll be a man."
One by one Feurza chose a dozen men, not a one older than twenty-one or -two. Much later Gil learned that the chief had honored him by choosing men that Feurza believed were a credit to the tribe. When it was all done, Gil was dismayed to learn that the dozen young Apaches would be riding with him that very day!
"We won't move out with the trail drive until sometime after Christmas," said Gil. "and until we do, there won't be room for them in the bunkhouse."
McCulloch chuckled. "No matter. You don't see a bunkhouse here, do you?"
Gil and Clay shook the hands of their new riders, and then Clay turned to McCulloch with a grin.
"Cap'n Mac, we owe you one. The Comanches come lookin' for a fight, I purely believe these hombres will see they get one."
McCulloch laughed. "I'm countin' on that. Why do you reckon I brought you here?"
Gil, Clay, and their new riders passed to the east of San Antonio, and it was there that Ben McCulloch left them, riding back to town. When they reached the Box AA, the new riders created a sensation. Rosa spoke to them in rapid Spanish and soon had them laughing. Ramon and the vaqueros greeted the Lipans in Spanish, and everybody was excited over their arrival except old Stump, the cook. Gil thought he swore in all five languages, and then slipped in a couple more of which nobody was aware.
"I got to bring Angelina over here to see these hombres," said Clay.
"Make it tomorrow, then," said Gil. "Bring Van and Dorinda too."
* * *
The following day was Sunday, and they made it a festive occasion. Rosa set a table for Van, Dorinda, Clay, and Angelina. Despite Stump's grousing, he rose to the occasion and fed the riders a meal they never forgot. While Dorinda was lacking in Spanish, she was readily accepted for her smile.
"They ain't a bit like the Indians we brought from Mexico," said Van. "But when we get back from California with our regular riders, what happens to our Lipan Apaches?"
"If this trail drive's the success we're lookin' for," said Gil, "we'll build another bunkhouse and keep them."
Suddenly there was a commotion outside, followed by a mad rush, as everybody in the house jumped up and headed for the door. The riders had finished eating and had gathered in a circle outside the bunkhouse. At the center of the circle, facing one another, was a grinning Long John Coons and one of the newly arrived Lipan Apaches. Each man grasped a deadly Bowie, and they circled each other warily, like a pair of lobo wolves.
"Dear God!" cried Dorinda. "Stop them!"
"No," said Van, "leave them be. Go back in the house."
But Dorinda didn't move. Her eyes were frozen in hypnotic horror on the two combatants. The lanky Long John was tall, gawky, seeming to loom over the Indian. Like a striking rattler, Long John's blade nicked the Apache's brawny forearm, drawing blood. The Indian laughed in savage glee, retaliating by slashing Long John's shirtsleeve from shoulder to elbow. Time after time they parried, until finally the Apache's blade struck Long John's with such force that the Bowie was torn from his grasp. The Indian then began what might have become a death thrust, slowing the drive until the point of his blade stopped just short of Long John's belly. Dorinda screamed, but nobody heard her except those on the porch. The riders, including Long John and his Indian adversary, were shouting and laughing. Angelina was pale and Dorinda was trembling. Only Rosa seemed at ease, dashing off the porch and joining the shouting riders.
"Don't swoon on us, ladies." Clay laughed. "They're just havin' themselves some frontier fun."
"Dear God," Dorinda cried, "if they call this fun, what happens when they get serious?"
"Somebody dies," said Clay.
Chapter 2
Gil felt guilty, having no bunks for his new Indian riders, but it seemed not to bother them. They could have been comfortable in the barn, yet they chose to take their blankets and disappear into scrub oak and cottonwood thickets. But one of the white man's accommodations they readily accepted was the cookhouse. They made themselves at home at its long plank tables, and even won the grudging admiration of old Stump. The Apaches had voracious appetites, and whatever Stump put before them, they ate, accepting more if they could get it. There were times when Clay Duval took some of the Lipans to the Winged M, allowing them to become familiar with the horses and duties on the ranch. Thus the Lipan Apaches came to know the trio of Mexican Indians, Solano, Mariposa, and Estanzio.
It was a quiet time, those days before they began the trail drive to the goldfields. Gil Austin occupied himself with building bookshelves along one wall of his parlor. There he placed the many books left behind by his uncle, Stephen Austin. There was the worn family Bible, the works of Shakespeare, Chaucer, and others. But what interested Gil was the law books. It seemed a shame to him that Stephen Austin had spent months in New Orleans, studying the law, only to have his work go for naught. Stephen had taken over the colony at the dying request of Moses Austin, his father. Young Ste-phen had poured his strength, his knowledge—his very life—into a colony of men who had willfully cheated him of any compensation due him. The colony had survived because Austin had spent his own meager funds, fulfilling his father's wish. Once Gil had the books arranged along the wall, he began reading from them.
"There are so many," said Rosa, "how will you know when you have read enough of them to become a man of the law?"
"I don't know," said Gil.
"You are rich in land, horses, and cows. Why must you read them at all?"
He had no logical answer for her, and none for himself. While there had been lean times, he, Van, and Clay Duval had among them the beginning of an empire. What more could he, or any man, want? He took the old Bible from the shelf and opened it to the first pages, where the precise hand of Stephen Austin had carefully recorded the births and deaths over the years. The last entry—Stephen's death in 1836—Gil himself had written. Prior to that, Stephen had recorded Granny Austin's passing, in 1829. Gil had been just fifteen, and Van a year younger. How well he remembered the old woman reading from this very Bible, until her eyes had failed and even her spectacles no longer allowed her to see. Finally, on that day she had been laid to res
t, when purple shadows had crept over the Ozarks, Stephen Austin had read over her from this same old Bible. Gil and Van had been orphaned while they were young, and Granny Austin had taken them in. She had forced them to sit quietly while she read to them from the scriptures. This day, Gil seemed to feel her presence, and from long ago and far away he heard her voice.
"Children, when you don't know what to do or where to turn, search the scriptures. When you're ready for the answers, you will find them there."
Gil opened the old Bible and began to read…
* * *
After the melancholy days of fall, Gil felt the need of some merriment to lift everybody's spirits. Two weeks before Christmas, he shared his idea with Van and Clay.
"Let's dig a pit," said Gil, "kill a beef and roast it. Workin' around that, we'll put together a Christmas feed for all of us, our riders, and any friends who want to join us. Van, you can take a wagon and bring Dorinda's mama and daddy. We'll ask Big Foot Wallace, Captain Ben McCulloch, and their Rangers too."
Gil didn't say—nor did he need to say—that the next Christmas might find them far apart, or maybe dead. Three days before the holiday, Van returned with Eben and Matilda Jabez, Dorinda's parents. They brought food from their farm: live chickens, hams, many dozens of eggs, and vegetables. That same afternoon, Wallace and McCulloch rode in, accompanied by a dozen Rangers.
"Speakin' for us all," said McCulloch, "we're obliged. Rangers are as bad off as soldiers. Ours is a lonesome life, and our Christmas dinner may be a bit of beef jerky, if we're lucky. This is an unexpected and welcome treat for us."
There was a saying that if two Indians spent a day together, and each of them had a horse, there would be a horse race before the day's end. The Bandera spread's Apache riders proved that to be true, and they engaged in rough and tumble wrestling. But they had another sport that Gil feared would result in somebody being killed. The Apaches called it bull throwing, and Gil allowed it only after Ben McCulloch had explained it.
"You turn a bull loose and make the critter run," said McCulloch, "and a rider gallops after him. When the rider's alongside, he leaves his horse, grabs the bull by the horns and wrassles the varmint to the ground. It don't hurt the bull, and not much chance of the rider bein' hurt, unless he's still there when El Diablo gets on his feet. Once in a while some ornery old bull will turn and try to gore the horse before the rider can grab the bull's horns, but it's up to the rider to see that it don't happen. Usual way is to loose two bulls at the same time, and the rider that gets his bull down the quickest wins."
The holiday lasted five days and nights. Some of the Indians and vaqueros went hunting at first light, returning with deer and wild turkeys. Angelina, Dorinda, Rosa, and old Stump cooked until they were exhausted. It all ended amid laughter, backslapping, and handshaking. Before the Rangers rode out, Ben McCulloch spoke to Van.
"Ride in sometime after mid-January. We've been promised new arms on the fifteenth."
* * *
January 20, 1850. San Antonio, Texas
Clay Duval and Van Austin rode into town, dismounting near the jail. Since the Texas Rangers might be away for days and weeks at a time, they had no office, but could usually be found near the jail, or in the sheriffs office. That was where Ben McCulloch had been this day. but he had seen them coming and had stepped out onto the boardwalk.
"Stay around close," said McCulloch. "The sheriff goes home to dinner. When he leaves, ride down the alley behind the jail."
It was then almost two hours until noon, so Clay and Van had time on their hands. They had neither the money nor the desire to hang around the saloons, so they rode out far enough to find water and graze. There they picketed their mounts and the packhorse, and settled down to wait. They rode back to town a few minutes past noon, Van leading the packhorse. When they passed the sheriffs office, Ben McCulloch was out front, leaning on the hitch rail. He nodded to them. Clay and Van rode on to the end of the street and turned at the next cross street. From there they rode down the alley to the rear of the jail. McCulloch opened the back door and they went in. There in the corridor, near the back door, were the wooden gun cases from Colt.
"Two dozen?" McCulloch asked.
"Actually," said Clay, "twenty-six, for every rider to have one."
"Twenty-six, then," said McCulloch, "and there'll be an extra cylinder with each of them. But they shorted us on ammunition. Two hundred rounds for each piece. Best I can do."
"You've done more than enough, Cap'n," said Clay. "We're obliged, and we'll settle with you after the drive."
They wrapped the weapons carefully in blankets, and then, when the packhorse was loaded, covered the pack saddle with a piece of tarp. With final thanks to McCulloch, they rode out. When they reached Van's place, he took one of the Colt Dragoons for himself, and Clay took four: his own, and one each for Solano, Mariposa, and Estanzio. Van took the rest of the load to Gil's, and each of the riders was given one of the new Colts.
"We have plenty of pistol belts," said Gil, "but we'll have to cut some leather for new holsters to fit these new Colts."
That was of no concern to the Lipan Apaches. They wanted nothing restrictive around their middles. They wore buckskin breeches, and each man slipped his new Colt beneath the waistband, muzzle down. Some of them already carried a Bowie there, but most wore the big knife down their backs, secured to rawhide thongs around their necks. But the vaqueros set about altering their old holsters, or fashioning new ones.
"Now," said Van, "if we were as well-fixed for rifles, I'd feel better. You reckon we can salvage enough of that foreign-made artillery we brought from Mexico to arm every man with some kind of long gun?"
"We can try," said Gil. "The rifles are dependable enough. It's a lack of suitable ammunition that's the problem. For firepower we'll have to depend on the new
Colt six-shooters, with that extra cylinder. Our biggest concern is enough ammunition for them."
"We're ready, then," said Van. "When do you aim to start the drive?"
"Mid-February; that suit you?"
"I reckon," said Van. "Mixed herd?"
"No," said Gil. "Steers, two years old and up. Ramon says we can pull out that many without makin' a dent in the herd."
"Clay's got Solano, Mariposa, and Estanzio gettin' the remuda ready," said Van. "I told Clay to reshoe every horse, so they can start fresh. I'm figurin' six packhorses, with two carryin' extra horseshoes, necessary tools, and cookin' utensils. The others will carry grub. Every man packs his own extra ammunition and bedroll. Anything I've overlooked?"
"That sounds pretty complete," said Gil. "Big Foot Wallace promised to get us a new government map before we leave. It'll have New Mexico and California added. At least we'll have some idea where rivers and streams are."
* * *
February 16, 1850. Bandera Range
Gil was ready to move out at first light, but there were painful good-byes yet to be said. Clay, Angelina, and little Christabel were there, as were Dorinda, young Van, and Rosa. Gil hugged Rosa, and she seemed stiff as a corral post, saying nothing. Dorinda managed to restrain her tears until Van was gone.
"Move 'em out!" Gil shouted.
Mariposa and Estanzio led out with the horse remuda, which included the five packhorses. Ramon rode point, ahead of the longhorns. Van, Juan Alamonte, and Manuel Armijo were at right flank, with Domingo Chavez, Pedro Fagano, and Long John at the left. Vicente Gomez, Bo, Juan Padillo, and Gil rode drag. Mariposa and Estanzio would keep sharp eyes on the plains ahead of the horse remuda.
Some of the herd had come up the trail from Mexico in 1843, but they had retained none of their trail sense. They knew nothing except the old familiar range from which they had been driven, and to which every last one was determined to return. The outer perimeters of the herd were a mass of bunch quitters, and all that restrained the others was the fact that they were hemmed in. The brutes wanted to go anywhere except forward. One wild-eyed steer tried to gore Gil's horse, until he swun
g his doubled lariat and swatted the beast across his tender muzzle. Every rider wore a bandanna over nose and mouth, but it did little good. There were clouds of dust so dense, the drag riders couldn't see beyond the behinds of the steers right in front of them. Gil felt the grit on his teeth, and his eyes stung as rivulets of sweat streamed into them. Sweat darkened the shirts of riders and the flanks of their horses.
The sun was three hours above the western horizon, and Gil doubted they had traveled more than six or seven miles. Horses and riders were exhausted. Not a man had been able to break away long enough to change horses. First water they came to—granted they made it that far—Gil decided to halt the drive for the day. This bunch had yet to accept the idea they were a herd. Right now, after little more than half a day on the trail, some of them had, through their own frantic exertions, worked themselves into a thirst-crazed condition. Their tongues hung out and they bawled for water. There hadn't been a breath of wind all day, but that suddenly changed. A playful breeze from the west touched their sweaty bodies with a blessed coolness, but it brought with it the smell of water. For the first time that day, every steer in the herd lit out in the same direction, on the run. They split around the horse remuda and thundered on. Their insanity was contagious, and the horse remuda quickly joined the stampede. Not a rider pursued it. The cause was lost, and they knew it.
Their horses were exhausted; why kill good horses trying to head a stampede that could not be stopped? They'd stop when they reached the water that had started them running.
"That's somethin' I never expected to see," said Van wearily. "Every one of the damn fools headed the same direction, at the same time."
"Rein up!" shouted Gil. "Dismount and rest your horses."
They found some shade and stepped tiredly from their saddles.
"Reckon these gone be run lak hell bunch," said Juan Padillo.
"Reckon you're right," Gil replied grimly. "Barely out of sight of the ranch, and already we got a stampede. Still, we may have time enough to gather them before dark."
California Trail Page 3
