Riding from Memories

by Jim Cox

  Two days later Buck woke to sunshine spilling into the cave’s opening. He rose, shook-out his boots before putting them on, brought the fire back to life, and headed to the back of the tunnel to put a quart of oats on each end of the saddle blanket. The horses were outside eating snow, but they came inside when they heard grain being poured. Not long afterward, Buck sat against the cave wall with two bacon sandwiches and a steaming cup of coffee while Black and Bell crunched on their oats.

  Within an hour after eating, Buck packed his belongings and was on his way. The sun was bright in a clear sky, but it was still cold. The temperature was made tolerable because the wind had died. Several more inches of snow had accumulated during the night, but it was fluffy and not bothersome to the horses. It seemed to Buck the horses were pleased to be on the trail again. He knew he was.

  For two days, he traveled much the same as before the storm. The stone-faced cliff had come to an end, and the trees were less dense and looked stunted. Buck had heard the mountain landscape became sparser above an altitude of five thousand feet due to thin air, a lack of moisture, and the brutal winds which normally came in the afternoons, and today was no exception. By mid-afternoon, the wind was gusting so strongly Buck had to tie the chinstrap on his hat and lean forward over Black’s neck. The horses struggled onward.

  Their evening stop came early when they reached the mountain’s treeless crest. It was a feat worth stopping to celebrate. From here on, the terrain sloped away, and they’d be traveling downhill. They’d made it over the mountain.

  Buck made a shelter by laying his tarp on top of three large boulders and staking down its sides. It was snug between the rocks, but there was enough room to sleep. Not long after lying down for the night, he was awakened by one of his war dreams. He rose and went outside to collect himself. As he stood taking in his surroundings, he saw a light flicker for a second or two in the distance. His gaze stayed on the location where he’d seen the light, hoping it would re-emerge, but he saw nothing. He was starting to think his mind was playing tricks on him when two lights, a substantial distance apart, shone for nearly a minute. “Those lights might be coming from a town or trading post because of their distance apart,” he mumbled. “That’s where I’m heading in the mornin’—back to civilization. I should be there in a couple of days.”

  When Buck came off the mountain onto the rolling prairie, he rode due west for another half day before reaching the edge of the small settlement. A sign posted on the trail read, PINOS ALTOS, NEW MEXICO, TERRITORY—POPULATION 103. Buck couldn’t read the sign but could make out a few of the letters. He sat looking at the small group of buildings lining the single dirt road going through the town. The style was mostly Spanish and looked rundown. The houses sat at the west end of the street and a short distance beyond them a good-sized mountain stream flowed south. The road went through the stream and came out on the opposite side. There was no bridge.

  Buck rode on. There were only four businesses. A café and saloon on the north side of the road, and a supply store and livery on the Southside. The businesses were fronted with boardwalks and hitching rails. There were a few boardwalk benches.

  Buck stopped in front of the café, stepped down from Bell, and looped the reins of both horses over a rail a couple of times. Dark skinned men, wearing sombreros, sat on the boardwalk benches in silence as they watched the stranger walk through the batwings. Buck paused and looked around. There were five small tables in the cafe, each with four chairs. Two tables, occupied with men, stopped their eating and acknowledged the newcomer with nods and smiles, then returned to eating while Buck made his way to an empty table at the back, took off his coat, and sat down. As he took in a more detailed look, he saw a clean room with a dirt floor that had recently been swept and a burning potbelly stove with a coffee pot on top. The tables were covered with red and white checked oilcloths with a few sundry items centering the tables. Buck smiled. It’s different but the same as most western cafes.

  A heavy-set woman approached and started speaking. Buck took on a puzzled expression, shook his head and raised his shoulders, trying to convey he didn’t understand her. A young man at another table spoke up in broken English, “She ask if you want something to eat. She’s speaking to you in Spanish.”

  “Ask her what she has to eat.” When he repeated what Buck had said, the lady and men around the table laughed. “Why is everyone laughing?” Buck asked the man who was interpreting.

  “Everyone in here eats the same food. She only cooks and serves one thing.” Buck smiled. The large plate of fried beans and tacos he was served were tasty and very filling. The coffee was strong and hot.

  After he ate, he spent a few minutes talking with the men at the other tables and then headed for the livery. His horses had been through a lot in the past several days and needed to rest with plenty of grain and hay to eat. He’d give them a good brushing to get rid of the trail dirt.

  Buck was taken back when the blacksmith at the livery welcomed him with a Southern drawl. “Howdy,” he said, “my name’s Grant, Grant Miller. I’m the town’s smithy.”

  Grant was a good-looking, well-built man with bulging muscles, at least six-foot tall, weighing well over two-hundred pounds. He was clean shaven with dark brown hair streaked with gray at his temples, and his eyes were steel blue. Buck judged him to be in his mid-to late-forties. “I’m known as Buck,” Buck said in a drawl similar to Grant’s, extending his hand. “Your accent sounds like you could be from Alabama or Georgia? I’m from Alabama myself,” he said with a smile.

  “Neither one, but you’re in shooting distance,” Grant said. “I’m from Mississippi, just south and a little east of Jackson.”

  “That’s a long way from here, Grant. What brought you to this part of the country?”

  “I was heading to California, but I ran short of grub money a couple months back and took this job to replenish it. I don’t own this place. I only work here—get paid by the job. There ain’t many folks around here, and the horses are even fewer, but there’s been enough to earn a few dollars. I’ve saved up enough to be leaving in a week or two. This here country ain’t nothing but hundreds of miles of desert. Its nights are cold and the days are always hot. The wind blows all the time and rains are few and far between. A few families have settled in the land for reasons I ain’t figured out yet—any hopes of them having a good life in this part of the country is slim to none.” He paused and then said, “You’re a long way from home, too, Buck. What brings you to Pinos Altos?”

  “I was heading to Arizona but got side-tracked in Texas by an old man and his wife traveling in a covered wagon with two grandkids. They were heading to Golden, Colorado, so I followed along to help ’em out a bit, but we got stranded in the weather and was taken in by a rancher. I suspect they’re still there, but I left the ranch a week ago and traveled over the mountain and was heading on west when I came upon this place.”

  “You came over the mountain?” Grant said with a startled expression. “I didn’t know that was even possible this time of the year. It’s a wonder you’re still alive, Buck. You could’ve been frozen stiff as a board.”

  “I nearly was. I was so cold I was completely out-of-it. All I could think about was my frozen body lying on a hillside for the wolves to eat when spring came. But then a miracle happened. I was trudging along on my horse wondering how much longer I had before I’d be frozen to death when I spotted the mouth of a cave. Actually, it was an old mining tunnel. Finding it saved our lives, gave us protection and warmth from the blizzard. We stayed there for two days ’til the weather broke.”

  “You’re a lucky man, Buck, to have found that old mine,”

  The talk had stopped for a few seconds before Buck asked, “What kind of mining is done around here, Grant?”

  “I’ve been told by the old timers living here that Pinos Altos was originally known as Jonesboro, a boomtown of nearly a thousand-people created in the 1840’s when silver, gold, and coal were found in
the mountains a few miles to the north. A man by the name of Jones made the first discovery, so he pinned his name on the new settlement.”

  “What happened to the town? Why did it dry up?” Buck asked.

  “I imagine the silver and gold dried up, and the miners left for better diggings to the South.” Grant paused as he wiped his forehead, “I’ve been told the town was boarded up and became a ghost town for several years ’til a few Mexican families moved in.”

  Buck thought on the matter for a minute or so and then asked, “How do they make a living, Grant?”

  “They don’t require much. Their lives are simple, but they seem to be satisfied. They appear happy enough even though they work every day from daylight to dark. A few travelers come through from time-to-time and buy some of their things, but mostly they raise crops along the mountain streams to sell in Santa Fe. It’s a day’s ride south of here.”

  He paused, then continued, “Is there anything I can help you with?” Grant asked. “What about your horses?”

  “I need a stall for a couple days, Grant. Feed ’em plenty of grain, a mixture of corn and oats if you have any, and keep hay before ’em all the time. You can replace any shoes that’s needed, and give ’em a good rub-down.”

  “I only have oats and hay,” the smithy said.

  Buck nodded his approval and asked, “Do you have a place I can store my gear?” Grant nodded and led him to a vacant stall.

  After Buck had stored his belongings, Grant asked, “Where ya’ gonna spend the night, Buck?”

  “I ain’t got a place yet, but one of the men at the café said there’s a boarding house at the west end of town. Thought I’d start there.”

  “Do as you please, but I wouldn’t advise you to stay there. The old man who owns it ain’t the cleanest, and the beds ain’t nothing but planks with an inch or two of straw over ’em. If I was you, I’d spread my bedroll on a couple inches of hay inside the livery and sleep there. Won’t cost you a thing since you’re keeping your horses here.” Buck thought on the offer and thanked him with a nod.

  For the next hour or so, Grant worked at the forge while Buck tended to his horses. He had curried and brushed both horses, removing loose hair and tangles from their mane and tails, and was now holding Bell while Grant replaced two of her shoes—the left front and the right rear. Buck was very impressed as he watched Grant carefully rasp the excess hoof around the new shoe into a neat fit. After the shoeing, Grant led the horses to stalls where he gave them a healthy feeding of hay and oats. When he returned, Buck asked, “Where did you learn to shoe horses, Grant? That was a professional job you did on Bell.”

  “My pa and grandpa were smithys back home in Mississippi. That’s all they ever did. Shoed and housed horses. They even shoed oxen from time-to-time. Pa made me work in the livery every day learning the trade…started when I was knee high…just comes natural now.” There was a bit of silence before he continued, “That’s how I got this job. I shod a couple of horse to demonstrate to the owner I knew what I was doing, so he hired me and lets me run the place. He comes around ever-now-and-then to see how much business we’ve had.”

  As with most liveries and other businesses throughout the South and west, a pot of coffee sat alongside a small fire. “Help yourself to the coffee,” Grant said waving to the pot. “There’s a cup on the shelf over yonder. I’ve got a few other jobs to do, and then I’ll join ya’.”

  Buck was on his second cup when Grant returned, poured a cup of coffee, and sat down. Buck could tell something was on the man’s mind from his uneasiness, but he didn’t probe the matter. It wasn’t long before Grant said, “Buck, I’ve got something to tell you, and I’m afraid you ain’t gonna like it, you being from the South, but it’s something you ought to know about me before our relationship goes any further. I was a Union soldier. I fought against you folks from the South. That’s why I’m heading to California. My pa kicked me out of his livery and told me to leave town. He said he never wanted to see me again.” Grant took a long swallow and then fixed his eyes on Buck, waiting for his reaction.

  Several minutes later, Buck finished telling Grant his own story. That he also was a Union soldier who fought against the Confederates to which his two brothers belonged. He described going back to his abandoned family farm after escaping from Andersonville, his experiences on the farm with Na’man and his family, and why he left the area heading west.

  Both men sat in silence reflecting on the fact they were considered to be outcasts to the land in which they were born. Outcast even to their own families. They were strangers searching for a land that would accept them - accept their right to have beliefs different than the majority.

  Buck asked, “Are you married, Grant? Do you have any family?”

  Grant looked at the ground with watery eyes and after hesitating said, “I did have one but not anymore.”

  “What happened to ’em?”

  “Stella and I were only able to have two sons. Stella was my wife. Our oldest son joined the Confederate Army shortly after the first shots were fired at Fort Sumter. A year later our youngest son joined up with the Union.” He paused to wipe his eyes before continuing, “We got word in June of ’63 our oldest son had been killed. A month later our youngest son was killed. Not long after receiving word of our sons’ death, I found Stella hanging from a rope in our barn. I always figured she couldn’t stand the grief any longer.” There was a pause. “Two weeks after I buried Stella, I joined the Union. That’s when my own Pa disowned me.”

  They spent the afternoon discussing their past. At supper time Buck went to his belongings and fetched some vittles Sun Kim had packed. Two thick pieces of salt-cured ham, potatoes to be sliced and fried, a tin can of peaches, and biscuits. Grant had a fire blazing under the outside cooking grate by the time Buck was ready to put the skillet on.

  After supper, Buck asked, “Can you leave when you wanted to, Grant, or do you have to give the owner an advanced notice?”

  “I can leave with a day’s notice if I wanted to, but I need to stay on for another couple of weeks to build up my traveling money. How come you ask me that, Buck?”

  “I was thinking maybe you could travel with me since we’re both heading in the same direction. It gets a mite lonesome riding through this country by yourself. A man can go for days without seeing a soul. As far as your grub money is concerned, I have enough food to last us both for a week, maybe ten days, and we can stretch it out even longer if we kill an animal or two. I hear there’s plenty of game in this part of the country, especially buffalo.”

  “When do you plan to leave Pinos Altos, Buck?”

  “I’d wait on ’ya for a couple days if you decide to leave with me, but I’ll be leaving tomorrow if you ain’t going.” Grant looked into the unknown for several seconds and then said, “I’ll give you my answer first thing in the morning.”

  Several minutes later, Buck sat his empty cup down and asked, “Grant, do you think you could teach me to become a smithy?”

  Grant smiled. “It ain’t hard to learn to put a shoe on. Might take you two or three weeks to learn to do it right, but making the shoe from a steel rod is something else. That’ll take a few months.” Buck returned the smile.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Three days later Buck and Grant were nearly a hundred miles west of Pinos Altos, just short of the Arizona territorial line. They had considered riding south and crossing New Mexico in the middle part of the territory where the terrain was less mountainous but changed their minds and stayed to the mountain passes in the north where there was game, more streams of water, and plenty of grass for the horses. Grant had packed his belongings alongside Buck’s in the horse’s pack rack and rode a spirited, steel-gray gelding, sixteen hands high. Like Buck, he had disposed of his farmer’s clothes sometime back and was now wearing western garb, including a brown leather vest, a high-crowned tan hat, and cowboy boots. A pistol hung on his right side.

  Wild game was plentiful. Coyo
tes, antelope, deer, buffalo, and an array of small animals. On their third day after leaving Pinos Altos, they killed a male buffalo calf to add to their food supply. The following morning cow prints were starting to show, especially around streams of water, and by mid-afternoon, they saw cows.

  The men were ready to call it a day and were looking for a suitable place to stop when a plume of smoke appeared in the distance, so they rode on. When they got close enough to distinguish things, they stopped and took in the situation. There was a chuck wagon with a busy cook walking about, obviously preparing the evening meal. Sitting around the fire holding cups were twelve cowhands waiting for their food. Bedrolls were scattered just beyond the firelight, and west of the camp was a sizeable cattle herd. A mixture of mamma cows and calves that looked to have been born after the last roundup. A few riders were on the outskirts of the herd keeping the cows from scattering.

  “Hello, the camp,” Buck called out when he and Grant got closer. They were waved in.

  They tied their horses to a bush several yards from the campfire and walked in. A tall, rather robust man in his mid-thirties rose and met them as they got closer. He was obviously the owner or trail boss by the way he was dressed and carried himself. “Howdy,” he said, “Welcome to the Lazy Horseshoe. My name is John Summers and I’m the ramrod of this here outfit. Get yourself a cup of coffee and sit a spell.”

  “Thanks,” Grant said, as the cook handed both men coffee. “My name is Grant, and my friend is known as Buck,” nodding toward Buck.

  “Where are you men headed?” Mr. Summers asked,

  “I’m going to Arizona, and Grant’s going on to California,” Buck said after taking a long swig of coffee.

  “I can tell you’re both from the South from your drawl. I’d say from Georgia or Alabama,” Mr. Summers said with a smile.