“Yes,” he agreed, “but the pages are never quite the same.”
“You live near here?”
“Wherever,” he said. “My home is where I lay my head.”
“But your family? Your people?”
“All gone. I am alone.” After a moment, when the fire was crackling and a bit of smoke rising, he said, waving a hand toward the desert, “Out there was a city. When I was small, it was my home. There was a shaking of the earth. A small shake, then a very strong shake, and much came crashing down. There were other shocks. For days the earth shook. Some of us ran away to the mountains, my father among them, taking us.
“The rains came, and the winds. The winter came, and the bitter cold. With my father I went to the ruins to find food, clothing, weapons. Others would not go, for they were afraid.
“We had grain stored for the future. We took it. We returned to the mountains, and my father was killed for the food we had. My brother, my sister, and two others ran away and hid.
“It was very cold. We found a small hollow among the hills where there were two springs. Below the hollow was a stream. We hid there and were not found. The winter was very cold, but we dug into the hill and built a shelter before it.
“Sometimes when hunting for food we would see others, but we did not trust them, so we hid and watched them. They did not fare as well as we, for some of them had never hunted.”
“Indians?” I said. “Who did not hunt?”
“They lived in the town,” he said. “Do your people hunt who live in towns?
“We built another place. It was up a narrow canyon among the trees, and there was the second spring. We did not go there, keeping it in reserve. There were nine of us.
“In the spring, one was killed by a spotted cat, what you call a jaguar. There were many around here in those years. Now it has been years since I have seen even one.
“Three of us went back to the town. The walls were of mud brick and they had fallen. Now they had returned to earth. Only a few were left. We picked around, but there was little to find.
“The fields were gone, some washed away, others buried in dust.
“When we came back, two more were dead and somebody had been there to kill them. The others had retreated to our other place and had hidden there.”
Food was passed around, and we ate. He ate sparingly, and spoke no more of those bygone years. How long ago? I did not know, but the more I saw of him, the older I believed him to be.
On the second day after that first camp with Ramón we came to where the horses were. We saw them out on the grassy plain, thousands of them, and for a time we sat our horses in the shade of trees along the mountainside and watched them. Our eyes picked out this one and that, judging, by the way they moved, their grace and speed.
In droves of one hundred or even as many as two hundred they fled across the plain, wheeled, and turned back, manes and tails flowing. They would come charging across the plain and come within a hundred yards or less of us before pausing, heads up, studying us to see what we were, then wheeling and rushing away like the wind.
It was a magnificent sight, and nothing I had seen equaled it. They seemed to flow across the plain like a varicolored wave, with often as many as a thousand horses within sight at one time, but each divided into smaller herds. A few of them stood out. One, a splendid black stallion with one white stocking, must have weighed a thousand pounds or more, whereas most of the horses were somewhat smaller.
One particular herd, numbering well over a hundred, wheeled and darted about us several times, as though challenging us to a race, but we made no effort to accept the challenge or to draw near, wanting them to become accustomed to our presence. They showed no evidence of ever having been chased, although Selmo suddenly pointed at a fine-looking bay who wore a brand on his hip.
The area through which we now rode, walking our horses and studying the land, was covered with grasses. Once, nearing the mountains, we saw a herd of elk that must have numbered nearly a thousand, and as they moved, it was a veritable sea of horns. Some of these seemed as large as the horses themselves. Toward nightfall, coming up to the place where we would camp, Monte killed one that would dress out to several hundred pounds of meat.
We saw several wolves, not at all afraid, for they had not seen our like before. They seemed to be following the elk to pull down any calves they could find straying from the herd or lagging behind. They were big gray wolves, moving like ghosts along the flanks of the elk herd.
Ramón led us again to our camp, this time beside a small but swift-running stream, several acres of grass and near the stream a spot of less than an acre surrounded by tall pines and a few scattered oak, although we were almost too high for the latter.
We staked our horses on the grass after watering them, and went about preparing our own camp. With Ramón and Francisco I walked out to look over the area.
After a minute, Jacob walked out to join us. “This is their watering place.” Ramón pointed to a bunch of tules further along the stream. “The water spreads out and sinks into the ground over there.”
Jacob studied the long sweep of the valley, the trees, and the brush. “We could build our corral to straddle the stream so they’d have water, filling in with brush between the trees, and some poles to fence them in.”
We walked along, studying the lay of the ground. Our plan was to build a wide-mouthed funnel down which they would go to water, a funnel that would narrow at the corral itself and which we could close off once enough horses were gathered.
“Take us a while,” Jacob said finally, “but we can pull back to camp each night and let them come down to water if they like. And if they get thirsty enough, they will come.
“They’ll leave when they wish, and they will get over being scared. Finally, we’ll just close them in. We should be able to get two, three hundred horses in there all to onct.”
It was not all that easy, but we didn’t expect it to be.
Going out there with axes, we cut brush and filled the spaces between the trees. Here and there it needed poles. We took our time, working steadily, pausing for coffee now and again or simply to tell stories. We could see the horses from time to time, and when evening began to come, we’d stop work so our movements and the ring of the axes wouldn’t frighten the game.
We were not thinking only of the horses, for in dry country water belongs to all living things, and we moved off from the creek to our own place, farther up. Then the horses would come in, moving along slowly but warily, alert for any movement. Along with them were a few elk and a deer or two.
Sometimes, while it was still light, we’d lie up on a rock and watch them come. Wolves would come, too, and in the morning sometimes there would be bear tracks.
Occasionally we killed an elk or a deer, but never close by. One of the boys, often it was me, would ride off a few miles and do our shooting there so as not to scare the game.
It was hard work, but the air was clear, the sky blue, and the days went by like the drifting clouds, so we scarcely noticed they were gone. Finally our corral was ready, and the drift fence, too.
We’d made a swinging gate of poles and brush that we swung wide to one side, and then we rode away up the valley. We wanted not only the horses that had been coming there, but a good many more.
We started from ten miles up, the lot of us, spread out across the valley, and after we’d fixed ourselves a spot of grub and drunk some coffee we rode out across the country, turned and began to drift, walking our horses down toward our corral.
This was wild stock, but we’d been moving around and not bothering them, so they hadn’t, after the first day or so, paid us much mind.
Now, spread out maybe a half-mile apart, we started drifting, and they moved ahead of us. After all, this was their country, and most of them had lived their lives here. Wild horses a
re, more than you’d believe, inclined to be homebodies. They didn’t like to get too far from where they were born. They knew that country, and if driven away, would come back.
Gradually the valley narrowed, and gradually we cowboys moved in closer together. Not so much as they’d notice at first, but by the end of the first hour we were only a hundred yards or so apart. Ahead of us the horses were bunching a little, and here and there some wild old stallion was beginning to be bothered by it.
Once in a while one would stop, stand head-up looking around, but the way ahead was clear and we were coming along behind. We didn’t seem to be anything to worry about, but they just didn’t want us getting too close.
At the last, just as he went through toward the water, that black stallion decided he didn’t like that crowd of horses up ahead and wheeled. He made a dash for the opening, but Alejandro and Martín were already swinging the gate closed.
It had been easy, just too easy. Later, when they had become wary of men, it would prove much harder, but we had them. We didn’t know how many, but we guessed around three hundred horses.
There was grass enough for a few days, and there was water.
CHAPTER 33
“It will never be that easy again,” Monte commented. “They just aren’t used to people. Nobody’s tried to catch them before.”
“And they always drink from that stream,” Jacob agreed.
We sat our horses, studying them. We would have to cull them, turn the rejects back to their freedom, and then start breaking the others.
Watching them from where we were, we could see a few that could be turned out, but by and large they were in good shape, a well-built bunch of horses. “Give ’em a few years,” Monte said, “and you’ll look a long time to find any horses you want to keep. We’ll cut this bunch for culls, and the next bunch, too. Then along will come some other wild-horse hunters, and they’ll cut for the best stock, too. It won’t be no time at all until all you find out there will be culls.”
“Do you suppose Miss Nesselrode was thinking of that?” I wondered.
Jacob shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. I’ve given up trying to second-guess that woman. I just know that seven times out of ten she’s right, and when she makes a mistake, she swallows it and never tries to blame anybody else.”
The quicker we could get rid of the culls, the better off we’d be, as there would be that much more grass for what remained. We stayed away, watching from a distance, letting them get settled down.
“Funny thing about wild horses. Folks think it’s the stallion who keeps them together. It’s true that he herds them around, fights off varmints and any other stallions who want to take over, but there’s something more going for them. Take away the stallion, and the others will fight to get back together.
“They’ve become a family. Good neighbors, at least, and they want to stay with their friends. Watch ’em, you’ll see.”
Jacob indicated the black stallion. “That one’s a troublemaker. He’s too smart. I think we should get rid of him.”
“I want him,” I said.
“Look,” Jacob warned, “that stallion is anyway six years old. He’s been runnin’ wild all that time. He’s tough and he’s smart, and he looks to me like a fighter. He’ll make you no end of trouble.”
“He’s right, Johannes,” Monte said.
“I want him,” I insisted. “Leave him to me.”
“Your funeral,” Jacob said, “and it could be just that.”
The weather held. It was bright and clear, day and night, and we took our time. Nobody was in a hurry, nobody was waiting for us. Nobody had a watch and nobody had a calendar. We just forgot all about time except for dawn and sunset.
When we quit work, we’d eat, and then I’d stroll down to the corral. I’d already learned that singing will quiet a herd, mostly because it knows where that sound is coming from and that you’re not some varmint sneaking up on them.
I’d lean on the gate and keep my voice low. I wanted them to get to know me, and especially that black, who seemed to know that gate was the way out. He watched it like a hawk, never far away, always watching his chance.
We started weeding them out on the first day, two of us riding into the corral and just easing the culls out, with a man on the gate ready to open and close it. Some of the culls ran away; others hung around looking for their friends, like Jacob had said.
We tried not to make any fuss. We wanted them to get used to our moving around and to the feeling that we didn’t represent trouble. We spotted a couple wearing brands, and there were three mules in the lot which showed signs of having been worked.
Even in the pasture we’d created, they separated into bunches. The black stallion kept his lot to one side, but never far from the gate.
“Horses may seem stupid,” Jacob said, “but they know what they have to know to get along, and you can teach them a lot if you take time. Wild horses have learned a lot by just surviving out there, so be careful.”
By the fourth day, taking our time and raising no dust, we had weeded out most of the culls. We were sitting by the fire considering our next step when Ramón came in and squatted near us. He accepted a cup of coffee, sipped a little, and then said, “Somebody is out there.”
Jacob looked over at him. “Injuns?”
“White men. Six, maybe seven. They watch us.”
“Could be Fletcher,” I said.
“I never liked that man,” Jacob agreed.
Monte reached for the coffeepot. “Why don’t we take turns standing by with rifles? Maybe two at a time?”
Fletcher it could be, but there was also my grandfather. His holdings were vast and he had many riders, few of whom I knew by sight. There were other dangers, too, the Mohaves, who raided deep into the settlements at times, and the few lingering Piutes who came down from the Tehachapis.
There was also, somewhere around, old Peg-Leg Smith. Supposedly he had left the country, but one could never be sure. He was a wily old pirate, and if I judged him right, he would wait until we had our horses broken to ride, and then steal them. They would bring more money.
I said as much, but Jacob doubted his presence. “Heard he was up Frisco way. You know, that little town on the bay?”
“Monterey?” Monte suggested.
“North of there. Yerba Buena, they called it. I heard the name was changed.”
There was good talk around the campfire, and occasionally the Indians joined in, but usually it was Alejandro who did the talking. He had left the Cahuilla country as a young boy and worked on the west side of the mountains; then for a time he had gone north and worked for a doctor up there, often riding with him when he made calls on the sick.
We moved our camp closer to our horses, both to protect them and to let them become familiar with us. Jacob decided after studying the horses that aside from the mules there were at least four horses that showed signs of having been ridden.
Separating them from the others, we brought them outside, and Monte offered to ride them.
Ramón was quiet, speaking rarely. He had an easy way with horses and occasionally led one out of the corral, walked it around, let it graze where the grass was green and fresh while he held the picket rope himself. His way of gentling horses took time, but when he called them, they came to him.
For three weeks we worked hard, breaking horses to lead and to ride. The Cahuillas we had were all riders, but Francisco was the best of the lot.
Even Ramón avoided the black stallion. “He is a devil,” he warned.
“I’d say turn him loose or shoot him,” Monte advised. “He’s been wild too long and has been leading that herd too long. Look at the teeth scars and hoof scars. He’s a fighter.”
Nobody needed to tell me that. It showed in every line of him, and he was wary, watching his chance to escape and take his bunc
h with him. Sometimes I’d gather some green grass from near the water and drop it over the fence, and his mares would eat it, but not him.
At night when I was on watch I’d move over close to the corral where I could keep an eye on the horses. They would know if trouble was coming before I would, and it was a lot easier to watch them than to stare into the shadows under the trees. Sometimes I’d talk to them, low-voiced. Mostly I was talking to him, and I had an idea he knew it.
I’ve known men who thought horses stupid, but it’s been my impression that horses are only as stupid as their masters. A riding man in wild country becomes very close to his horse, and most talk to them as to another person. The horse listens, and although he may not understand, there is communication and he senses the kinship of interests if no more.
The black stallion was wild and might have been wild all his years, yet sometimes I wondered about that. Sometimes I had a feeling he had belonged to somebody sometime, maybe when he was very young.
Each morning we roped a few head and took them out of the corral, where any fighting they did wouldn’t get the others wrought up. Monte McCalla was a first-class hand, more experienced with breaking horses than any of us. Alejandro was good, too, as he’d broken horses for the doctor up north.
We were settling down to eat when we heard a horse walking. Jacob stayed where he was by the fire, but Monte an’ me, we faded back into the dark. The Cahuillas were already there.
We waited, and then somebody called out, “Hello, the camp! How’s for some coffee?”
“Ride in,” Jacob Finney said, “but ride easy, with your hands in sight.”
He was a tall, very lean man, a little stooped. He had quick, ferretlike eyes and he rode a dapple-gray gelding, a fine animal. There was no blanket roll behind his saddle.
“Get down and come up to the fire,” Jacob said. “Coffee’s on, and we’ve got some grub, such as it is.”
“Thankee, thankee much! I’ve been ridin’ all day and I’m mighty tired an’ almighty hungry!”
The Lonesome Gods (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 23
