ALL IN THE DAY’S WORK
The next morning the herds moved out like brigades of an army on
dress-parade. Our front covered some six or seven miles, the Buford
cattle in the lead, while those intended for Indian delivery naturally
fell into position on flank and rear. My beeves had enjoyed a splendid
rest during the past week, and now easily took the lead in a steady
walk, every herd avoiding the trail until necessity compelled us to
reenter it. The old pathway was dusty and merely pointed the way, and
until rain fell to settle it, our intention was to give it a wide
berth. As the morning wore on and the herds drew farther and farther
apart, except for the dim dust-clouds of ten thousand trampling feet on
a raw prairie, it would have been difficult for us to establish each
other’s location. Several times during the forenoon, when a swell of
the plain afforded us a temporary westward view, we caught glimpses of
Forrest’s cattle as they snailed forward, fully five miles distant and
barely noticeable under the low sky-line. The Indian herds had given us
a good start in the morning, and towards evening as the mirages lifted,
not a dust-signal was in sight, save one far in our lead.
The month of June, so far, had been exceedingly droughty. The scarcity
of water on the plains between Dodge and Ogalalla was the dread of
every trail drover. The grass, on the other hand, had matured from the
first rank growth of early spring into a forage, rich in sustenance,
from which our beeves took on flesh and rounded into beauties. Lack of
water being the one drawback, long drives, not in miles but hours,
became the order of the day; from four in the morning to eight at
night, even at an ox’s pace, leaves every landmark of the day far in
the rear at nightfall. Thus for the next few days we moved forward, the
monotony of existence broken only by the great variety of mirage, the
glare of heat-waves, and the silent signal in the sky of other
voyageurs like ourselves. On reaching Pig Boggy, nothing but pools
greeted us, while the regular crossing was dry and dusty and paved with
cattle bones. My curiosity was strong enough to cause me to revisit the
old bridge which I had helped to build two seasons before; though
unused, it was still intact, a credit to the crude engineering of Pete
Slaughter. After leaving the valley of the Solomon, the next running
water was Pawnee Fork, where we overtook and passed six thousand
yearling heifers in two herds, sold the winter before by John Blocker
for delivery in Montana. The Northwest had not yet learned that Texas
was the natural breeding-ground for cattle, yet under favorable
conditions in both sections, the ranchman of the South could raise one
third more calves from an equal number of cows.
The weather continued hot and sultry. Several times storms hung on our
left for hours which we hoped would reach us, and at night the
lightning flickered in sheets, yet with the exception of cooling the
air, availed us nothing. But as we encamped one night on the divide
before reaching the Smoky River, a storm struck us that sent terror to
our hearts. There were men in my outfit, and others in Lovell’s employ,
who were from ten to twenty years my senior, having spent almost their
lifetime in the open, who had never before witnessed such a night. The
atmosphere seemed to be overcharged with electricity, which played its
pranks among us, neither man nor beast being exempt. The storm struck
the divide about two hours after the cattle had been bedded, and from
then until dawn every man was in the saddle, the herd drifting fully
three miles during the night. Such keen flashes of lightning
accompanied by instant thunder I had never before witnessed, though the
rainfall, after the first dash, was light in quantity. Several times
the rain ceased entirely, when the phosphorus, like a prairie fire,
appeared on every hand. Great sheets of it flickered about, the cattle
and saddle stock were soon covered, while every bit of metal on our
accoutrements was coated and twinkling with phosphorescent light. My
gauntlets were covered, and wherever I touched myself, it seemed to
smear and spread and refuse to wipe out. Several times we were able to
hold up and quiet the cattle, but along their backs flickered the
ghostly light, while across the herd, which occupied acres, it reminded
one of the burning lake in the regions infernal. As the night wore on,
several showers fell, accompanied by almost incessant bolts of
lightning, but the rainfall only added moisture to the ground and this
acted like fuel in reviving the phosphor. Several hours before dawn,
great sheets of the fiery elements chased each other across the
northern sky, lighting up our surroundings until one could have read
ordinary print. The cattle stood humped or took an occasional step
forward, the men sat their horses, sullen and morose, forming new
resolutions for the future, in which trail work was not included. But
morning came at last, cool and cloudy, a slight recompense for the heat
which we had endured since leaving Dodge.
With the breaking of day, the herd was turned back on its course. For
an hour or more the cattle grazed freely, and as the sun broke through
the clouds, they dropped down like tired infantry on a march, and we
allowed them an hour’s rest. We were still some three or four miles
eastward of the trail, and after breakfasting and changing mounts we
roused the cattle and started on an angle for the trail, expecting to
intercept it before noon. There was some settlement in the Smoky River
Valley which must be avoided, as in years past serious enmity had been
engendered between settlers and drovers in consequence of the ravages
of Texas fever among native cattle. I was riding on the left point, and
when within a short distance of the trail, one of the boys called my
attention to a loose herd of cattle, drifting south and fully two miles
to the west of us. It was certainly something unusual, and as every man
of us scanned them, a lone horseman was seen to ride across their
front, and, turning them, continue on for our herd. The situation was
bewildering, as the natural course of every herd was northward, but
here was one apparently abandoned like a water-logged ship at sea.
The messenger was a picture of despair. He proved to be the owner of
the abandoned cattle, and had come to us with an appeal for help.
According to his story, he was a Northern cowman and had purchased the
cattle a few days before in Dodge. He had bought the outfit complete,
with the understanding that the through help would continue in his
service until his range in Wyoming was reached. But it was a Mexican
outfit, foreman and all, and during the storm of the night before, one
of the men had been killed by lightning. The accident must have
occurred near dawn, as the man was not missed until daybreak, and like
ours, his cattle had drifted with the storm. Some time was lost in
finding the body, and to add to the panic that had already stricken the
outfit, the shirt of the unfortunate vaquero was burnt from the corpse.
The horse had escaped scathless, though his rider met death, while the
housings were stripped from the saddle so that it fell from the animal.
The Mexican foreman and vaqueros had thrown their hands in the air;
steeped in superstition, they considered the loss of their comrade a
bad omen, and refused to go farther. The herd was as good as abandoned
unless we could lend a hand.
The appeal was not in vain. Detailing four of my men, and leaving Jack
Splann as segundo in charge of our cattle, I galloped away with the
stranger. As we rode the short distance between the two herds and I
mentally reviewed the situation, I could not help but think it was
fortunate for the alien outfit that their employer was a Northern
cowman instead of a Texan. Had the present owner been of the latter
school, there would have been more than one dead Mexican before a
valuable herd would have been abandoned over an unavoidable accident. I
kept my thoughts to myself, however, for the man had troubles enough,
and on reaching his drifting herd, we turned them back on their course.
It was high noon when we reached his wagon and found the Mexican outfit
still keening over their dead comrade. We pushed the cattle, a mixed
herd of about twenty-five hundred, well past the camp, and riding back,
dismounted among the howling vaqueros. There was not the semblance of
sanity among them. The foreman, who could speak some little English, at
least his employer declared he could, was carrying on like a madman,
while a majority of the vaqueros were playing a close second. The dead
man had been carried in and was lying under a tarpaulin in the shade of
the wagon. Feeling that my boys would stand behind me, and never
offering to look at the corpse, I inquired in Spanish of the vaqueros
which one of the men was their corporal. A heavy-set, bearded man was
pointed out, and walking up to him, with one hand I slapped him in the
face and with the other relieved him of a six-shooter. He staggered
back, turned ashen pale, and before he could recover from the surprise,
in his own tongue I berated him as a worthless cur for deserting his
employer over an accident. Following up the temporary advantage, I
inquired for the cook and horse-wrangler, and intimated clearly that
there would be other dead Mexicans if the men were not fed and the herd
and saddle stock looked after; that they were not worthy of the name of
vaqueros if they were lax in a duty with which they had been intrusted.
“But Pablo is dead,” piped one of the vaqueros in defense.
“Yes, he is,” said G—G Cederdall in Spanish, bristling up to the
vaquero who had volunteered the reply; “and we’ll bury him and a
half-dozen more of you if necessary, but the cattle will not be
abandoned—not for a single hour. Pablo is dead, but he was no better
than a hundred other men who have lost their lives on this trail. If
you are a lot of locoed sheep-herders instead of vaqueros, why didn’t
you stay at home with the children instead of starting out to do a
man’s work. Desert your employer, will you? Not in a country where
there is no chance to pick up other men. Yes, Pablo is dead, and we’ll
bury him.”
The aliens were disconcerted, and wilted. The owner picked up courage
and ordered the cook to prepare dinner. We loaned our horses to the
wrangler and another man, the remuda was brought in, and before we sat
down to the midday meal, every vaquero had a horse under saddle, while
two of them had ridden away to look after the grazing cattle. With
order restored, we set about systematically to lay away the unfortunate
man. A detail of vaqueros under Cederdall prepared a grave on the
nearest knoll, and wrapping the corpse in a tarpaulin, we buried him
like a sailor at sea. Several vaqueros were visibly affected at the
graveside, and in order to pacify them, I suggested that we unload the
wagon of supplies and haul up a load of rock from a near-by outcropping
ledge. Pablo had fallen like a good soldier at his post, I urged, and
it was befitting that his comrades should mark his last resting-place.
To our agreeable surprise the corporal hurrahed his men and the wagon
was unloaded in a jiffy and dispatched after a load of rock. On its
return, we spent an hour in decorating the mound, during which time
lament was expressed for the future of Pablo’s soul. Knowing the almost
universal faith of this alien race, as we stood around the finished
mound, Cederdall, who was Catholic born, called for contributions to
procure the absolution of the Church. The owner of the cattle was the
first to respond, and with the aid of my boys and myself, augmented
later by the vaqueros, a purse of over fifty dollars was raised and
placed in charge of the corporal, to be expended in a private mass on
their return to San Antonio. Meanwhile the herd and saddle stock had
started, and reloading the wagon, we cast a last glance at the little
mound which made a new landmark on the old trail.
The owner of the cattle was elated over the restoration of order. My
contempt for him, however, had not decreased; the old maxim of fools
rushing in where angels feared to tread had only been again
exemplified. The inferior races may lack in courage and leadership, but
never in cunning and craftiness. This alien outfit had detected some
weakness in the armor of their new employer, and when the emergency
arose, were ready to take advantage of the situation. Yet under an old
patron, these same men would never dare to mutiny or assert themselves.
That there were possible breakers ahead for this cowman there was no
doubt; for every day that those Mexicans traveled into a strange
country, their Aztec blood would yearn for their Southern home. And
since the unforeseen could not be guarded against, at the first
opportunity I warned the stranger that it was altogether too soon to
shout. To his anxious inquiries I replied that his very presence with
the herd was a menace to its successful handling by the Mexican outfit.
He should throw all responsibility on the foreman, or take charge
himself, which was impossible now; for an outfit which will sulk and
mutiny once will do so again under less provocation. When my curtain
lecture was ended, the owner authorized me to call his outfit together
and give them such instructions as I saw fit.
We sighted our cattle but once during the afternoon. On locating the
herd, two of my boys left us to return, hearing the message that the
rest of us might not put in an appearance before morning. All during
the evening, I made it a point to cultivate the acquaintance of several
vaqueros, and learned the names of their master and rancho. Taking my
cue from the general information gathered, when we encamped for the
night and all hands, with the exception of those on herd, had finished
catching horses, I attracted their attention by returning the
six-shooter taken from their corporal at noontime. Commanding
attention, in their mother tongue I addressed myself to the Mexican
foreman.
“Felipe Esquibil,” said I, looking him boldly in the face, “you were
foreman of this herd from Zavalla County, Texas, to the Arkansaw River,
and brought your cattle through without loss or accident.
“The herd changed owners at Dodge, but with the understanding that you
and your vaqueros were to accompany the cattle to this gentleman’s
ranch in the upper country. An accident happens, and because you are
not in full control, you shift the responsibility and play the baby act
by wanting to go home. Had the death of one of your men occurred below
the river, and while the herd was still the property of Don Dionisio of
Rancho Los Olmus, you would have lost your own life before abandoning
your cattle. Now, with the consent and approval of the new owner, you
are again invested with full charge of this herd until you arrive at
the Platte River. A new outfit will relieve you on reaching Ogalalla,
and then you will be paid your reckoning and all go home. In your
immediate rear are five herds belonging to my employer, and I have
already sent warning to them of your attempted desertion. A fortnight
or less will find you relieved, and the only safety in store for you is
to go forward. Now your employer is going to my camp for the night, and
may not see you again before this herd reaches the Platte. Remember,
Don Felipe, that the opportunity is yours to regain your prestige as a
corporal—and you need it after to-day’s actions. What would Don
Dionisio say if he knew the truth? And do you ever expect to face your
friends again at Los Olmus? From a trusted corporal back to a
sheep-shearer would be your reward—and justly.”
Cederdall, Wolf, and myself shook hands with several vaqueros, and
mounting our horses we started for my camp, taking the stranger with
us. Only once did he offer any protest to going. “Very well, then,”
replied G—G, unable to suppress his contempt, “go right back. I’ll
gamble that you sheathe a knife before morning if you do. It strikes me
you don’t sabe Mexicans very much.”
Around the camp-fire that night, the day’s work was reviewed. My rather
drastic treatment of the corporal was fully commented upon and approved
by the outfit, yet provoked an inquiry from the irrepressible Parent.
Turning to the questioner, Burl Van Vedder said in dove-like tones:
“Yes, dear, slapped him just to remind the varmint that his feet were
on the earth, and that pawing the air and keening didn’t do any good.
Remember, love, there was the living to be fed, the dead to bury, and
the work in hand required every man to do his duty. Now was there
anything else you’d like to know?”