The Old Spanish Trail Page 14
“There’s a possibility they took the horses out to graze during the night,” Charlie said. “That could complicate things for us.”
“That would be more difficult in the dark, with a chance some of the horses might be lost. If we’re still waitin’ at sundown and they haven’t taken the horses to graze, then I’ll have to agree with you. But we won’t have to wait much longer. The longhorns will be givin’ ’em hell pretty soon,” said Don.
Within minutes, as though fulfilling a prophecy, the longhorns began acting up. There was distant bawling of a few, growing in intensity as the others joined in.
“They’ll soon be gettin’ the hell out of there pronto,” Mike predicted.
“That means the Paiutes will have to move their horses or risk having them caught up in a stampede,” said Don. “Come on. We’ll have to dismount and lead our horses the last few hundred yards.”
As the Texans drew nearer, the dismal bawling of the longhorns became louder. There was an even greater din, as some of the dogs joined in with a barking chorus. Don reined up, his companions following suit. They all dismounted, taking their rifles, and made their way on foot to the head of the canyon. With the furor going on below, there seemed little chance they would be discovered. The longhorns had been pushing and shoving, and some of the horses were being raked with horns. Already there was a fearful nickering, as the Paiutes struggled without success to get ropes on their mounts. The Texans grinned at one another. This bunch of Paiutes was learning what might become an expensive lesson.
“It’s goin’ even better than I expected,” Don said softly. “They’ll have to drive all the horses out in a bunch, and as soon as the last horse is clear of that canyon, we’re gonna be right on their heels. Bob, I want you to take Jim, Les, Mike, and Felton with you. Get to the far rim of that canyon pronto, making your way to the shallow end. Red, Charlie, Arch, Eli, and me will follow the near rim, comin’ together with the rest of you near the shallow end. We’re going to run those horses so far, the Paiutes won’t find them for a month. Let’s ride.”
The Paiutes had their hands full. Every one—from the youngest to the oldest—who owned a horse was trying to separate their animals from the bawling, kicking longhorns. Wounded horses nickered in pain and in fear, and many Paiutes were carrying or dragging to safety their unfortunate comrades who had been raked with savage horns. Finally most of the horses were headed toward the shallow end of the canyon, the Paiutes running after them, lest they stampede. But several of the animals, in haste and in fear, ran through the ash-concealed coals of burned-out fires. Crying in pain, they broke into a gallop, the rest of the herd following. By the time they streamed out the shallow mouth of the canyon there was no stopping them. Except for those gored by the restless longhorns, every one was caught up in a full-fledged stampede. The frustrated, shouting Paiutes were left behind and on foot, and they soon discovered to their dismay that their problems were just beginning. Thundering down the canyon in a bawling fury came a thousand head of longhorns intent on destroying anything or anybody in their path. Paiutes who were near enough, ran for the mouth of the canyon, while others attempted to climb the walls. Squaws dropped cooking pots, and seizing their young, ran for safety. Some were trampled as they tried to scale the canyon walls. When the last of the horses were out of the canyon, the Texans were right behind them, shouting and shooting. They ran the herd for miles, fanning out and scattering them. Finally, their own horses exhausted, they reined up.
“I hated to see the longhorns run,” said Bob, “but wasn’t it almost worth it, seeing the Paiutes gettin’ a good dose of trail-drivin’ revenge?”
“Almost,” Don said. “But some of the squaws and young ’uns may have been trampled.”
“I know,” said Bob. “I’d hate that, even if it wasn’t our fault. Where do we go from here?”
“We’ll circle back to the far end of that box canyon,” Don replied. “We’ll keep out of sight, so the Paiutes can remove their dead. When we’re sure they’ve all gone in search of their horses, some of us will start beatin’ the bushes for our cattle.”
The Texans rode wide of the canyon, coming in near the box end. Dismounting, they crept to the rim. The scene below was ghastly. Three horses were dead, and a fourth lay thrashing and squealing in agony. On the sandy canyon floor, nine braves lay sprawled, unmoving. Beyond them, in the wreckage of the camp, lay the bodies of five squaws. Most tragic of all, beside each of them lay a dead child. While it had not been of their doing, the Texans were touched. Don Webb had removed his hat and bowed his head. When his companions sneaked looks at him, there were tears on his dusty cheeks. By ones and twos, some of the Paiutes drifted back into the canyon and began removing their dead.
“Bob,” said Don, “I want you, Jim Les, Mike, and Felton to return to our camp while the rest of us begin searching for our cows. I think these Paiutes will go after their horses before they try anything else, but we can’t be sure. They were big losers, and their medicine’s all been bad.”
“If we aim to follow that river south a ways, we could drive the rest of the herd a mite closer,” Bob said. “Any of the cows you’re able to gather, you won’t have as far to drive them.”
“That might be wise,” said Don. “Go ahead and move them downriver, maybe another five miles. Whether we do or don’t gather the rest of the herd, we’ll see you before sundown.”
Bob and his companions rode north, while Don and his riders again circled the canyon to pursue their stampeded longhorns.
“None of us got a scratch,” Bob reported, when the five of them returned to camp. “All the Paiute horses stampeded. Unfortunately, our cows stampeded with them. Don and the others have gone in search of our herd. We’re gonna move our camp five miles downriver.”
“Oh, I’m so glad none of you were hurt,” Sarah cried.
None of the others said anything, but the relief was in their eyes. Quickly the riders bunched the herd, while Dominique and Roberto loaded the pack mules. Within an hour, the outfit had the herd moving downriver. Several miles beyond where the Paiutes had first driven the cows away from the river, they headed the herd and settled them down on what graze there was.
“Them longhorns will be gettin’ thirsty and lookin’ for water,” said Charlie. “I wonder which way they go, when the time comes?”
“Perhaps they’ll return to the canyon where the Indians were holding them,” Rose said.
“No way,” said Charlie. “There’s the smell of death. They’ll never return there.”
Reaching the shallow end of the canyon, Don and his riders reined up.
“We can’t ride too far too fast,” Don said. “While that bunch is armed only with bows and arrows, I don’t doubt they’d take time in their horse-hunting to kill and scalp us. We’ll keep to the open as much as possible.”
“While we were stampeding those horses, we didn’t cross a stream of any kind,” said Red, “and we know the varmints won’t be goin’ back to that canyon. Question is, where will they go in search of water?”
“We had those horses a good distance ahead of them,” Don said, “so I don’t figure they ran too far. With any luck, maybe they’ve angled off to the south, so we can follow them without catching up to the Paiutes. Let’s see where the tracks lead us.”
Less than a mile beyond the mouth of the canyon, the cow tracks turned south.
“They’ve slowed down,” said Eli.
“They’re more hungry than thirsty,” Charlie said. “Maybe we can round ’em up before they get a hankerin’ for water.”
Within another mile, they began seeing grazing cows. But the graze was skimpy, and there was rarely more than two or three animals grazing together.
“We’ll gather as we go,” said Don, “so we don’t have to come back this way.”
They rode on, following the erratic tracks.
“They’re driftin’ west, back toward the river,” Arch said. “I never would of believed a cow was that smart.”
“They’re not,” said Don. “The graze gets better, back toward the river. They’re drawn toward that.”
“Let’s hope it don’t draw that bunch of horses, with the Paiutes following them,” Arch said.
“Not likely,” said Red. “We must have run them a good fifteen miles, and there’s got to be water ahead of them that’s closer than this river to the west of where we are.”
They continued following the tracks, and it soon became obvious that the cows were indeed headed toward the river where the rest of the herd waited.
“Look at their strides,” Charlie said. “They ain’t even botherin’ to nip at the little bit of grass along here. They know there’s somethin’ better ahead.”
Red laughed. “Yeah, like water. There’s a little breeze in our faces, and that’s all it’ll take to get the interest of a cow. They’ve had three hours of sun, and when a longhorn gets thirsty, the varmint just naturally forgets all about graze.”
“That’s the truth,” said Don. “We’ve found less than a hundred of them, and from the tracks, I’d say we’ll find the rest of them somewhere ahead, maybe along the river.”
Bob and his riders, as a precaution, circled the herd they had just brought downriver. Suddenly and distinctly there was the distant bawling of a cow somewhere to the south.
“Can that be one of our bunch?” Jim Roussel wondered. “When they lit out of that canyon, they were headin’ east, after those Paiute ponies.”
“True,” said Bob, “but we were right behind the horses, keepin’ them running. Those longhorns didn’t have anybody drivin’ ’em, and once shy of that canyon, they might have run another direction. Maybe south. The wind’s out of the west, and one whiff of this river could have ’em headed back this way. The rest of you stay here, while I ride downriver and see.”
Bob hadn’t ridden more than five miles when he sighted grazing cattle. Others were in the water, drinking.
“Horse,” Bob said aloud, “Don and the boys lucked out. Let’s get back to camp.”
Less than three miles east of the river, Don and his companions had no trouble with the hundred or so they had gathered, for the longhorns knew there was water ahead. Their thirst wasn’t yet stampede-strong, but it was sufficient to keep them trotting at a faster than usual gait.
Red laughed. “Look at ’em go. This has to be the easiest gather in the history of trail-driving.”
“Don’t crow too loud too soon,” Don cautioned. “We’re gettin’ our herd back, but we don’t know that those Paiutes won’t coming looking for us once they catch their horses.”
“Maybe they will,” said Red, “but I reckon they’ve learned one thing. You don’t take a bunch of Texas longhorns hostage and hold ’em without graze.”
“Or water,” Charlie added.
Soon they were within sight of the line of green that marked the banks of the river. The cows broke into a gallop, thrashing through the brush and into the water. Along the banks, other longhorns grazed.
“I’d bet my hat they’re all here,” Don said. “Let’s ride downstream and work our way back. Maybe we can gather them all and reach camp in time for supper.”
They rode along the river until they could see no more grazing cows on either bank.
“Red, you and Charlie cross over to the other bank,” said Don, when they were ready to ride upstream.
While Red and Charlie found only a few cows along the opposite bank, they drove all of them across the river until there was a single herd. After not quite two hours, they bunched their gather in with the rest of the herd.
“That should be all of them,” Don said. “Let’s run some tallies.”
The low count was 5,200.
“We can live with that, I reckon,” said Bob.
“There may be a few more downriver,” Mike said, “if this river’s good for another day’s drive.”
“We’ll have another look at the map,” said Don, “and in the morning I’ll ride ahead far enough to decide what we should do.”
They spread out the map and studied it, paying particular attention to the river along which they traveled.
“Look there,” Bob said, pointing. “This stream that we’re following goes on south, but almost joining it is another that flows west, toward Nevada Territory.”
“Then what we need to know,” said Don, “is where we leave this river to reach the fork in this other one. Once we’re on it, the trail follows it right on into Nevada.”*
“Si,” Dominique said.
When Don spread out the map, Dominique and Roberto were always there, quick to agree or disagree with its claim. The outfit had learned to appreciate their knowledge of this old trail.
The Colorado River. June 6, 1862.
Griff and his band of renegades had made their camp alongside the Colorado where the bank was low enough for them to reach water and to water their horses. Except for easy access to the water, it was a poor location, for the opposite bank was a jumble of rock and shallow arroyos that permitted the Utes to conceal themselves while creeping close enough so that the outlaw camp was within range of their arrows. Having had their horses stampeded and their comrades slaughtered by the white man, the Utes thirsted for revenge. At first light, they struck.
“Indians!” Doolin shouted, dropping the coffee pot. An arrow had buried itself in his shoulder.
Seeco, Fedders, and Ibanez were struck by the deadly barbs before any of the renegades could fire a shot.
“Shoot, damn it!” Griff shouted.
The renegades were shooting, but their position was poor, while the Utes were loosing their arrows from cover. When gunfire from the defenders became too heavy, the Indians retreated, vanishing like smoke.
“They’re gone,” said Griff. “Hold your fire.”
“You’ve been through these mountains before,” Hernandez said accusingly. “Why didn’t you warn us about Indians?”
“Because I’ve never been attacked by Utes,” said Griff angrily. “They must have come out on the short end of a fight with that bunch of Texans.”
“Tell it to Seeco and Ibanez,” Hernandez said. “They’ve rode their last trail.”
Both men lay on their backs, arrows buried deep in their chests. Fedders had an arrow in his left thigh.
“All of you take the horses half a mile west of the river,” said Griff. “We’ll set up our camp there, get some fires going, and some water on to boil. Those arrows will have to come out of Doolin and Fedders.”
“Seeco and Ibanez deserve to be planted where the varmints can’t get at ’em,” Bullard said. “Don’t you aim to bury ’em?”
“Find a shallow arroyo and cave it in on them,” said Griff. “That is, unless some of you feel like digging somethin’ more decent with a spoon or Bowie knife.”
His attitude was callous, unfeeling, but his comrades expected nothing better. Bullard and Rodriguez took the horses belonging to Seeco and Ibanez and went looking for a place to bury them. Griff and the rest of the bunch took the remaining horses and their supplies well beyond the river, where there was no convenient cover for another attack by the Utes.
“Quando,” Doolin said, “you’ve had experience with arrows. Will you drive this one on through?”
Quando laughed. “What’s it worth to you?”
“It might be worth me doin’ the same for you sometime,” Doolin snarled.
“Quando, if I tell you to drive that arrow through, you’ll do it,” said Griff.
“I don’t want his damn hands on me,” Doolin said, through clenched teeth.
“I’ll take care of it,” said Hernandez, “after I’m done with Fedders. I’ll need a bottle of that whiskey, Griff.”
“All kinds of volunteers,” Quando sneered, “when they can get their hands on a bottle of redeye.”
“Quando,” said Griff, “shut up.”
Quando laughed but said no more. He stood at ease, his right hand near the butt of his Colt, but Griff ignored him. From his sa
ddlebag he took a bottle of the whiskey and handed it to Hernandez. Uncorking it, Hernandez passed the bottle to Doolin, who downed half of it. When Fedders took his turn, he drank the rest.
“No more,” Griff said, “unless they come down with fever.”
“That’ll slow us down, them bein’ wounded,” said Kenton.
“Three or four days, maybe,” Griff replied, “but it won’t make any difference. We’re on the trail of a herd of cows, and for us, time ain’t a problem. Besides, them of you that gets in a hurry, there’s somethin’ you better keep in mind. We ain’t free of Indians by a jugful, and the next hombre sweatin’ an Indian arrow might be you.”
They went about moving their camp, every man with his rifle handy. Suddenly there was a thump of hooves, as Bullard and Rogriguez returned at a fast gallop. They swung out of their saddles, and there was a bloody gash along the left flank of Bullard’s horse.
“Indians,” said Rodriguez.
“Damn,” Lennox growled. “You coyotes ride out to plant Seeco and Ibanez, and come back bringin’ more Indians.”
“We didn’t have time to plant Seeco and Ibanez,” said Bullard. “The same bunch that cut down on us was just waitin’. Arrows was flyin’ ever’where.”
“Hell, I can understand you leavin’ Seeco and Ibanez, them bein’ dead,” Quando said, “but why did you leave their horses an’ saddles? We could of used them.”
“We had to ride like hell, just gettin’ away with our hair,” said Rodriguez angrily. “If them horses and saddles mean all that much to you, then you just mosey on out there and get ’em.”
Some of the men laughed and Quando’s hand dropped to the butt of his Colt, the look on his face ugly.
“Go ahead, Quando,” Bullard said, his thumbs hooked under his gunbelt.
“Yeah, Quando,” said Rodriguez. “I ain’t never liked you, and the more I see of you, the less I like you.”
“I don’t like a damned one of you,” Griff said, “but for the time being, I need you all. I’ll kill the first man pullin’ iron.”