The Old Spanish Trail Read online

  By midnight, the sky was a mass of low-hanging gray clouds, rolling like waves on a restless sea. The wind moaned through distant pines, and thunder rolled far away. There was an occasional flash of lightning as it caressed the billowing clouds with jagged fingers of gold. Riders trotted their horses back and forth, seeking to calm the longhorns. When the rain began, it came in sweeping gray sheets, staggering both horse and rider. Thunder rumbled ever closer, and the blinding flashes of lightning became more frequent. Some of the steers had begun bawling nervously, and catching the fever, others joined in. The herd had been at rest, but when a few rose to their feet, the rest soon followed. It seemed they were waiting for something, and suddenly it came. Somewhere beyond the river, to the west, lightning struck. There was a crackling, an earth-shaking crash, and the leaden sky virtually exploded in a brilliant burst of light. For a few seconds, it was as though time stood still, while cattle, men, and horses were in shock. The longhorns recovered first. In a bawling frenzy of terror, they stampeded, the wind and rain at their backs. Riders drew their Colts, but the sound of gunfire was swallowed up in the fury of the storm.

  “Ride,” Don shouted. “Ride for your lives.”

  But his voice was lost in the roar of the wind and the rumble of thunder. He kicked his horse into a fast gallop, seeking to get beyond the far-reaching avalanche that was the running longhorns, hoping his comrades would follow. The rest of the riders gave it up, riding for their lives. Don looked back, and in a flash of lightning, he saw a riderless horse galloping ahead of the oncoming stampede. Wheeling his horse, he started back, but there was no time. In a brief flash of lightning, he saw a lone figure standing in the path of the thundering herd, his hands raised helplessly heavenward. Then the pathetic figure was gone, swallowed up under twenty thousand trampling hooves. Sick to his soul, Don rode on, dreading what he knew must follow. The stampede roared on, until finally there was only the rumble of diminishing thunder and the howling wind. The rain slacked only a little, and it seemed hours before Don saw the first of the riders. Slowly they all came together, nobody speaking. When finally the wind and rain had diminished enough for them to hear, Don shouted his command.

  “If you can hear me, sing out.”

  One by one, they answered, until only Eli Mills was unaccounted for.

  “Anybody seen Eli?” Don asked needlessly.

  “I saw his horse,” said Mike Horton. “I started back to look for him, but there was no time. I barely made it myself.”

  “I saw the horse too,” Don said. “Eli didn’t make it.”

  “Oh God,” said Les Brown, “I talked him into comin’ on this drive, when his family didn’t want him to . . .”

  His voice trailed off into a sob that was lost in the moan of the wind.

  “We can’t find him till first light,” Don said. “Then we’ll do for him what’s fittin’ and proper.”

  Sadly, in silence, they rode back to their camp.

  12

  The rain subsided and the clouds broke up, revealing a few stars and a quarter moon. As had become their custom, Dominique and Roberto had banked the cook fire with dirt, and with dry wood from within one of the canvas packs, the fire soon sprang into life. The coffeepots were placed over the fire, and soon there was hot coffee. It was sorely needed, for nobody slept the rest of the night. The tragic loss of Eli Mills had saddened them all.

  “I feel just awful,” Sarah said, as she sat beside Bob Vines in the darkness. “Eli was just a young man, with his whole life ahead of him.”

  “It’s especially hard on Don,” said Bob. “This is the kind of thing that can happen on any trail drive, but this time, Don feels responsible.”

  “But he wasn’t, was he?”

  “No,” Bob said. “It might have happened to any one of us. It’s a cowboy’s job to head the herd, if he can. Don warned all of us not to cut it too close, to save ourselves if we couldn’t head the lead steers. I think Eli’s horse stumbled, pitching him off. It’s just one more thing that can’t be helped.”

  Don Webb had said nothing more after he had spoken to the outfit immediately after Eli’s death. During the second watch, his rifle in his hands, he hunkered beside the river, staring into the dark water.

  “I wish there was something we could do, something we could say,” said Rose softly.

  “There is nothing,” Mike Horton said. “I have some idea how he feels. I could see the riderless horse, and in a flash of lightning, just seconds before he went down, I could see Eli with his hands raised. Maybe he was praying. I would have been.”

  After leaving Mike, Rose found Bonita awake.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Just terrible,” said Bonita. “I keep remembering how I treated Arch, and I . . . I can’t help thinking it . . . might have been him . . . instead of Eli . . .”

  “Like the rest of us, he’s wide awake,” Rose said. “Do you want me to send him over here, so the two of you can talk?”

  “I wish you would, Rose,” said Bonita.

  It seemed the night would never end. Finally the gray of first light gave way to the golden rays of the sun, as it rose into a blue, cloudless sky. Nobody said anything about gathering the scattered herd. Although they knew it must be done, there was a sad duty—perhaps more a grim responsibility—that must first be done. Don spoke to them after breakfast.

  “I’m going to look for Eli. Those of you who want to are welcome to join me.”

  “I’m going,” said Les Brown.

  Quickly, the rest of the men volunteered.

  They soon found what remained of Eli’s horse. It had been gored. The rain had created an enormous amount of mud, and only the buckle of Eli’s gunbelt was visible. The pistol was gone, and when they found the mangled, broken body of Eli Mills, the weapon was clutched in his right hand. Eli lay in a shallow arroyo. For a long moment, they looked at what remained of their comrade. Then, to a man, they knelt and wept. There, but for the grace of God, might lay any one of them.

  “We’ll bury him here,” Don said, when finally he was able to speak. “Red, bring one of my blankets, the folding shovel, and the Bible from my saddlebag.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Red, “but what about the women? Do you want them to come?”

  “Only if they want to,” Don said, “and then only after you’ve brought the blanket and we’ve covered him. They shouldn’t have to see him like this.”

  “The women are all coming,” said Red, when he returned with the requested items.

  Don carefully covered Eli with the blanket, and they waited for the arrival of the seven women. A blanket draped over her, Bonita limped along, holding to Rose for support. All of them wept over the blanket-draped body, and it was a moment before Don’s voice was steady enough to read scripture. He opened the Bible to the Twenty-third Psalm, which he read. Closing the Bible, he spoke quietly.

  “Lord, I can’t tell you anything about Eli you don’t already know. He was a good man, saddled with the same sinful nature as the rest of us, depending on Your grace for his salvation. May his soul rest in peace.”

  “Don,” said Red, “the rest of you go on back. I’ll take care of him.”

  “I’ll stay and help,” Charlie said.

  Don nodded. Slowly they started back toward the river, as Red began shoveling dirt into the shallow arroyo.

  “Give me a turn,” said Charlie. “We’ll pile it deep.”

  Three-quarters of an hour later, Red and Charlie joined their companions.

  “Red, I want you and Charlie to remain in camp,” Don said. “The rest of us are going to look for the herd.”

  The seven of them rode out, knowing the risk they faced. While the Paiutes had moved on, they might recognize the scattered herd as an opportunity to attack the riders or the near-defenseless camp. They had traveled almost five miles before there was evidence that the herd was slowing. There were occasional tracks where individual steers had broken away, and soon there were lots of three or fo
ur of the animals grazing.

  “We’ll ride on,” Don said, “and gather these on the way back.”

  “Unless there’s water somewhere ahead,” said Mike, “these varmints will be going back to the river they ran away from.”

  “That’s what happened the last time they ran,” Bob said. “Can we be so lucky again?”

  “Not for a while,” said Don. “They can make it the rest of the day. But come sundown they’ll be ready to water. A little wind out of the west will gather them quicker than we ever could. Right now, we’re as much concerned with Indians as with cows. If those Paiutes know the herd’s scattered again, they might decide to attack us or the camp.”

  The riders topped a rise, and below them was a shallow meadow with some graze.

  “Must be a thousand head down there,” Jim Roussel said, “but there’s no water.”

  “We passed up another five hundred getting here,” Don said. “I’m thinking we’d better take this bunch, and with those we’ll gather along the way, drive them back to camp. The others may have drifted south, and if they have, our river will be the closest water.”

  They rode on down the slope with the intention of getting on the opposite side, behind the grazing cattle.

  “I’d better ride up that other ridge and take a look,” said Mike.

  Horton was near the fringe of brush, when an arrow grazed the flank of his horse. It was all that saved him, for his horse began to buck.

  “Come on,” Don shouted. “Mike’s in trouble!”

  Drawing their Henrys, they galloped up the slope, arrows whipping all about them. But before they saw any of the attackers, it was all over. Only Mike’s horse had been hit, and the wound wasn’t serious.

  “That answers one important question,” said Bob. “The Paiutes haven’t given up.”

  “No,” Don said. “I was afraid of that. If Mike hadn’t surprised them, they would have come roaring down behind us as we tried to bunch the cattle. Shooting down-hill, their accuracy wasn’t all that good. Come on. Let’s move those cows.”

  “Once we get our gather back to the river, maybe we oughta go looking for that Paiute camp,” said Mike.

  “Not in daylight,” Don said, “but we’re not going to give them another chance at us or our camp. We’ll wait and see if the herd doubles back to the river. If they come to us, we won’t worry about the Paiutes. But if we’re still missing a bunch, then after dark, we’ll go looking for that Paiute camp.”

  “Good,” said Mike. “If we have to do some serious gathering in Paiute country, then I want to know where and how many there are.”

  They gathered as many longhorns as they could and drove them back to the river. They ran some quick tallies, and the low count was 1,600.

  “We’ll see if any more of them show up before dark,” Don said. “If there’s not enough of them, then we’ll have to do some serious searching tomorrow. But tonight we’ll scout around and find that bunch of Paiutes.”

  Many of the longhorns did drift in during the afternoon, seeking water, but there was still a great number of them missing.

  “Charlie and me are give out from layin’ around in camp all day,” said Red. “Why don’t you let us go lookin’ for that Paiute camp tonight?”

  “I’m trail boss,” Don said, “and I figure that’s my responsibility. How do you reckon I’d feel if the two of you was shot full of arrows and scalped?”

  “That’s downright insulting,” said Red. “You think a few Paiutes can do what every Comanche in Texas ain’t been able to do?”

  “I’m trail boss,” Don said, “but I’m willing to put it to a vote. What do the rest of you think? Should I allow Red and Charlie to go Paiute hunting?”

  “I don’t care,” said Mike, “but if they get shot full of arrows and their hair lifted, it’s you that’ll be breakin’ the news to their kin.”

  “If Charlie and me gets shot full of arrows and our hair lifted,” Red said, “the rest of you had better ride for your lives, because there’ll be about a million Paiutes after you.”

  It was cowboy boasting at its best—or worst—and everybody laughed except Molly Rivers and Wendy Oldham.

  “Go ahead, then,” said Don. “But don’t do anything foolish. All we want to know is where the Paiute camp is.”

  As far as the riders were concerned, the matter was settled, but Molly and Wendy still had something to say.

  “Why must you go riding off, looking for that Indian camp?” Molly asked.

  “Somebody has to,” said Red. “It’s not fair, Don taking all the risk.”

  “He’s trail boss,” Molly said. “He admits it’s his responsibility.”

  “No matter,” said Red. “Charlie and me have a stake in this herd, and we aim to take our share of the risk. Besides, all we aim to do is find the camp and come on back.”

  “Suppose you’re discovered?”

  “We won’t be,” Red replied. “You don’t know what it’s like livin’ in Texas amongst the Comanches.”

  “I was hoping, once this drive is over and we returned to Texas, that I’d never had to look at another Indian,” said Molly. “Now you’re telling me that Texas is full of them.”

  “Not full of them,” Red replied, “but there are some. For God’s sake, this is still the frontier. Where do you want to live, New York City?”

  “Of course not,” said Molly, “and don’t shout at me. Aren’t you glad that I care what happens to you?”

  “I reckon,” Red replied, “but don’t try to hobble me. I won’t have it.”

  Charlie was having a similar conversation with Wendy Oldham.

  “I care what you think,” said Charlie, “but you don’t tell a man what he can and can’t do. Hell, it ain’t like I’m robbin’ banks or holdin’ up stages. There’s some risk just bein’ alive. The Paiutes could attack the camp and kill us all, but we don’t aim to let it happen. Red and me can take care of ourselves. We’re just goin’ to look for the Paiute camp, not attack it”

  “All right,” Wendy sighed. “If you’re determined to go, then I suppose there’s nothing I can do to stop you.”

  “No,” said Charlie, “there ain’t, but I don’t like leavin’ you with a burr under your saddle. You got a look on your face like soured milk, and I ain’t wantin’ to come back to that.”

  Despite herself, she laughed. “Go on then, and I’ll try not to disappoint you when you come back.”

  Red and Charlie waited until after supper, when the last crimson rays of the setting sun had given way to the gray of twilight. As they saddled their horses, the first stars were in the sky. Despite the fact that the Paiute attack had come east of the river, they rode north.

  “The varmints know by now that it don’t take a lot to get a bunch of longhorns to runnin’,” Red said.

  “Yeah,” said Charlie. “After that storm last night, they got a pretty good idea the herd was scattered from hell to breakfast, and knowin’ the storm blowed out of the west, even a Paiute can figure the direction the stampede took.”

  “I’d bet my part of the herd that Paiute camp’s somewhere along this river,” Red said. “We already know there’s no water east of here, or them cows wouldn’t of come wanderin’ back.”

  They rode on, and reaching the former Paiute camp, they rode more slowly. The light wind was from the northwest.

  “I smell smoke,” said Charlie, reining up.

  “So do I,” Red said, reining up beside him, “but that don’t make sense. The wind’s all wrong.”

  “The wind’s all right,” said Charlie. “They’ve set up their camp somewhere west of the river, and we’re downwind from them. We’d better leave our horses here.”

  They dismounted, tying their horses to a limb, and continued afoot. The smell of wood smoke grew stronger as they progressed. Suddenly Red seized Charlie’s arm and pointed into the night sky. Charlie saw the tiny spark just before it winked out.

  “They got a fire,” Red said softly. “They a
in’t afraid of us.”

  “They may be, before we leave these parts,” said Charlie. “Come on. Let’s get closer, if we can. We need to know how many of them there are.”

  They crept on, pausing beneath a huge pine. Suddenly, without warning, a pair of silent shadows dropped from the branches above. Charlie and Red went down, each seizing the upraised arm of his attacker just in time, for the Paiutes were armed with knives. Using his free hand, Charlie swung his fist, smashing the Indian on the chin. Off balance, he went down, but like a cat, was on his feet again. Red had dragged his assailant to the ground, and they fought for the knife. The Paiute struggled free, and thrusting with the knife, raked it across Red’s belly. But before the Indian could recover for another thrust, Red kicked him under the chin, and he tumbled over backward. Charlie’s attacker lunged at him with the knife, but Charlie was ready. Swinging his Colt, he smashed the muzzle across the Paiute’s wrist. The Indian dropped the knife, and pursuing his advantage, Charlie hit him in the head with the Colt. With both their assailants down, Red and Charlie tried to catch their breath, but there was no time.

  “The rest of ’em heard the commotion,” Charlie said. “We’d better get back to the horses, if we can.”

  Even as they ran, they heard the thump of horses’ hooves. When they reached their horses, Charlie swung into the saddle, but Red could not. He clung to the horn, breathing hard.

  “Red,” said Charlie, dismounting, “what’s wrong, amigo?”

  “I been cut,” Red replied, “and I’m weak. Bleedin’ like a stuck hog.”

  “I’ll help you into the saddle and take the reins,” said Charlie. “You just hang on.”

  Charlie helped him to mount and he got his feet into the stirrups. Mounting his own horse and taking the reins to Red’s, Charlie rode out. They splashed across the river and headed south, and when Charlie slowed the horses to a walk, there was no sound of any pursuit.

  “We lost ’em,” Charlie said. “You still with me, pard?”