Montana abbott 1, p.5
Montana Abbott 1, page 5
She eyed him approvingly. He was wearing Levis and chaps, the uniform and its implications put away. Only the fancy guns still rode at his hips.
“You look like a Texan again,” she added. “Somehow I like you better this way.”
Coming from her, the compliment pleased him. Now, with the details set, the next days were busy ones, spent rounding up and gathering the various bunches of cattle into a single herd. They could be more tractable once they were lined out on the drive, long miles under their hoofs each day. Having grown accustomed to the meekly domesticated cows of Eastern and Southern farms, Montana was a bit startled at the wildness of this new breed of longhorns.
For they were a new breed, something the world had never before seen. Certain traits had become more pronounced even in the years that he had been away. Forced largely to fend for themselves, these animals had reverted to the wild. The wickedness in their massive horns matched their bad temper. As lean as wolves, they could run or fight with any creatures of the plains.
Handling them required cool nerve as well as knowledge. But at least they were ideally suited to the rigors of a long, hard drive.
Supplies were loaded in the two wagons. Everything was now in readiness except for the third wagon, which Cindy had promised but which had not been delivered. The hardware dealer declared it should come any day.
It was needed, but Montana dared not wait. Some of the crew might get cold feet.
“Why don’t you go ahead?” Cindy suggested. “As soon as it comes. I’ll have it loaded and send a man with it. It will catch up with you before you get very far.”
Montana agreed. A team and wagon could travel twice as fast as the herd. Looking over his assembled crew, he was reasonably satisfied. Most of them were veterans, men who had smelled powdersmoke, who were accustomed to hardship. And they were as dismayed as he was at the sort of peace to which they had returned.
Captain Mulroney arrived with his five hundred head, his quick, easy smile and ready jests, but he was not as warmly welcomed as the others had been. Some questioned why Montana had admitted him to the company.
“It could be that I’m prejudiced, and maybe without reason,” Hackshaw admitted. “But he’s almost too handsome for a man, and he laughs too easily, and fights too readily. And who he is or was, or where he came from, nobody knows. Some figure him to be a renegade Yankee. The boys don’t trust him—and no more do I.”
Montana could only shrug the protest aside, amused at the quirks of men’s minds. He was suspected of being a renegade also, but of supporting their side. If they knew that he’d been a Yank by adoption, wearing the despised blue uniform even against the Indians—
It was too late to alter plans or personnel, whatever the reason. And if Mulroney had stopped short of open outlawry, choosing rather to lose himself in a land as wide as Texas, that was no particular indictment. There were many others like him.
Yet he was brash and overly bold; his methods of acquiring land and stock had not been too well liked. Also, the crew he’d gathered, some of whom were riding this trail, were as wild as himself.
“Sure he’s a fighting man, and that’s what we need,” Hackshaw added. “But what worries the boys is that, as likely as not, he’s one of that gang that straddles the Border. He could side with them when it comes to a showdown.”
“So could any of us,” Montana pointed out. “I’ll take my chances with him.”
With a string of horses for his own use, Montana relegated the big mule to the A Bar and a well-earned rest. Cutting horses were vital with such a herd, animals tough, well trained, jackrabbit quick.
It would be a long drive, with the turbulent Colorado to be crossed almost before they were well started. After that would come a variety of country, much of it wild, a considerable part having reverted to wilderness during the war years. Wide stretches would be barren of water, vaguely if not actively hostile.
“We Texicans should have settled a country by ourselves,” Sam Henson grumbled. “Texas is plenty big, and we’d have been a sight better off. Join the Union, then fight to get out of it—that’s the same thing as drawin’ a razor across your own throat. But men ain’t got half the sense of geese!”
Tom, able again to sit a horse, was one of several gathered to see them off. Cindy Cartright waved from beside him, and emotion hoarsened Montana’s voice as he gave the word. It was sunrise as they lined out, the cattle stepping briskly, as though conscious that adventure awaited them. His instructions were simple.
“We’ll keep them moving, but allow them to pick their own pace. And keep in mind that the easiest way to drive a bunch is to let them think they’re doing it all themselves. Guide; don’t crowd.”
It would take a couple of days to run off the eagerness, to shake them down to a steady pace, but the going should be routine until they were well above the Colorado—barring trouble at the river. You could never be sure of a stream or of a herd. Or of a woman, Henson added lugubriously. All three were unpredictable.
Sixteen thousand hooves, four thousand pairs of rapier-tipped horns, represented potential wealth or certain ruin. For good or ill, they were embarked on the adventure, and there could be no turning back.
Chapter Eight
The river rolled, roiled and sluggish, its turbulence increased by rains somewhere along its vast watershed. The river of the ages, the Colorado contained a power which had eroded canyons of unbelievable magnitude; it could still pounce as suddenly and savagely as a puma.
On this afternoon of lowering clouds and long slanting sun, it had an ugly look, swirling, sucking with sudden undercurrents, breaking loose in spurts. To gaze upon it for a long time would give a man the jitters.
Montana allowed no time for doubt or questioning. He led the way, kicking off boots and chaps, moving fast as the van of the herd neared the water and made ready to pause, to eye the broad sweep distrustfully. A shower had spilled from the still uncertain clouds, freshening the grass, taking care of thirst as the cattle grazed, so that the river held no attraction. Given time to look, they would veer away, preferring not to wet their hooves, shunning the prospect of a swim.
Montana drove in suddenly, cutting half a hundred head before they could cluster or pile up. Curley and Mulroney, shoving them to a run, brought them to the water’s edge. Montana’s horse took it at a gallop, the water splashing silver, and this was something to follow. The steers, unable to dodge, came right behind, swimming before they realized it. Then the main body of the herd were being fed in after them, and minutes later, Montana’s horse scrambled onto the far bank.
He headed upstream and recrossed, twice more taking the lead with small bunches as gaps spread and hesitation threatened. It was tiring work, with a considerable element of risk, a sea of horns swirling at his heels all the way across. But the big herd endured its baptism and crossed over without serious incident.
The remuda was sizable, with ten horses for each man. The number of mounts was unusual, but Montana figured that the extra animals might save lives when the going grew rough.
The Colorado was hardly more than a fading memory when they faced the first real test. All at once the weather was hot and dry, and they stirred the dust across a parched range. The rains, which had been ample along the San Saba, apparently had skipped this region. Montana was faced with a problem he had not expected to encounter so early in the season: drought.
Much of this land had remained unsettled, and most of what men had tamed had reverted to wilderness. There was grass to spare, but how long there might be water for the big herd became a more worrisome question with each day’s advance. How far this land of little rain might stretch there was no way of telling. Montana rode ahead, finding no answer. They would be all right as far as the chain of lakes, but after the last lake was passed, the immensity of Texas would be all about them.
“And whether we should keep straight north, or swing east or west, is pretty much a matter of guess work,” Montana admitted to the others. “A good rain, of course, would solve everything. But until something busts loose, we run the risk of going thirsty.”
He fell silent, deep in introspection, recalling that earlier drive before he’d left home, the pitiless nature of a dry prairie. Almost in a whisper he went on:
“You ever try to handle cattle when they’re on their last legs, choking with thirst? It’s not a job I’m partial to.” But this drive had been his idea; he’d talked the others into it. There could be no turning back.
Sam Henson was equally worried, scanning a sky from which even the light clouds of summer had vanished. “Look at the grass!” he muttered. “It’s nigh as powdery, when you step on it, as the ground. But I’m most worried about the grub, with that other wagon not catchin’ up. Sure, a man can keep from starvin’ on a meat diet, but after about so long, it can be pretty bad. And if that wagon Cindy promised don’t show pretty soon, it never will.”
Montana was nagged by the same thought. Something must have gone wrong. But they could not wait.
“At least there’s plenty of water at the lakes,” he pointed out. “Every animal can drink its fill and be in top shape for the dry stretch beyond.”
There were some seven lakes, forming a chain, each about a mile apart. This year they were an oasis in the middle of the desert. Beyond the final one was a stretch of some sixty miles which was usually parched, save during the rainy season. What worried Montana was how far those miles might stretch in a drought year. Flesh, whether horse or human or cattle, could endure only to a certain point.
Again he scouted ahead. The lakes were natural water holes, with rocky bottoms. Filling his canteens, riding one horse and leading another, he headed on north, moving after sundown. It was cooler, so that more miles could be covered with less strain.
There was plenty of grass, which lost its crispness and became moist with night dew. The dust-dry smell faded from his nostrils. At midnight he allowed the horses to graze for a couple of hours, benefiting from the scant moisture. The land lay wide and empty under the moon.
With daylight he estimated that he should be about at the rim of the dry stretch, and dry it had proven. Then, once the sun flamed across the prairie, he spied a patch of green far ahead and drew a breath of relief. This was as he remembered it from that journey before the war. His recollection was accurate, not a dream confused with the events of other years, hope and desire. That green meant water. It would mean hard going to reach there, but they should be able to make it.
The herd was at the final lake when he rejoined the drive. The cattle was rested, well fed, ready to go. There was still no sign of the third wagon.
They set out an hour short of sundown, pushing the herd for the first time, rather than allowing them to drift at their own pace. By morning, Montana estimated that they had crossed a third of the dry stretch. They halted, allowing the tired animals to graze, to make the most of the dew before the onrush of sun sucked it away. At mid-forenoon he put them into motion again.
Kegs had been filled at the lake, loaded into the wagons. Even with canteens, it was becoming a dry drive for men as well as animals. There was no coffee, no hot meals. The accumulated grime remained on unwashed skin. The sun, hot as a torch since they’d left the river, was suddenly oppressive, a red bowl of fury burning across the sky.
They rested through the hottest hours of the afternoon, then roused the cattle and shoved them ahead. They moved mechanically now, a domesticated herd, the spring gone from their walk, the sparkle of adventure faded from dull eyes. They lowed thirstily, but there was no water, and there would be none until the sixty miles were behind them. The riders made full use of the remuda, changing mounts at frequent intervals.
All at once the pattern was reversed. Where they had crowded the herd to increase their speed, now it was necessary for the outriders to hold them back. Impatient, wild with thirst, the steers were anxious to break from a walk, to run if allowed. Montana understood and sympathized, but such a course could not be permitted. A run would quickly take on some aspects of a stampede, but only to a degree. Soon, with bodies sapped of all reserves of moisture and vitality, they would slow to a stumbling walk, then begin to fall. Once they were down, many would never regain their feet.
If held to a steady pace, they could go for a long while. The wagons circled ahead, making camp well in advance of the herd. With the sinking of the sun, the tired animals commenced to graze. Montana estimated that two thirds of the dry stretch had been covered when finally they bedded down for a brief, uneasy rest. They allowed the cattle much more room than usual, but many refused to rest, jumping up, frantic with thirst.
“It’s going to be nip and tuck,” Henson observed, out of the depths of experience. “But we’re not in any serious trouble … so far.”
Sleep came in fitful snatches. Most of the crew had to keep riding to prevent the restless herd from straying in all directions. There was one boon. A hot meal was prepared, with coffee to wash down the food. Bone-weary men could not have kept on otherwise.
An hour before dawn, Montana again gave the word, and they moved. He appreciated the meager comfort of this coolest hour of the twenty-four, the heavier curtain of darkness. Then the rising splash of sun dissipated what scant hope they had entertained that the day might break cooler, possibly even with a curtain of clouds. If anything, it loomed out of the East as more of a scorcher than the preceding ones.
“Water casks are empty,” Curley reported laconically.
Montana’s lips were cracked and sore, a common affliction. The cattle moved like sleepwalkers, their lowing a mournful dirge, tongues lolling. The horses were in scarcely better shape.
“Go on to that green stretch,” Montana instructed the drivers of the wagons. “With luck, we’ll reach there by mid-afternoon.”
There would be no midday meal, but each man had a can of tomatoes, which could be drunk as well as eaten. This final push was going to be hell on the hoof in a literal sense, but they had to keep moving.
Montana stuck with the herd, sending Curley to scout ahead and report. At a little past the sun’s zenith, he was back, and the grimness of his face was not belied by either his appearance or his words. He was like a scarecrow on a skeleton horse.
“Grady met me—asked me to scout both ways,” he said briefly. Grady was the cook. “The creek, where that trace of green shows, has gone dry. Only mud is left. He couldn’t dig to water. I traveled both ways, miles upstream, then down. Found water just once—what had been a big, deep hole.”
He shook his head wonderingly.
“There’d been a lot of fish trapped there—and minks and birds after them. There were tracks everywhere in the mud, regular trails—all dry and hard now. The scavengers hadn’t been able to clean them all out. There were still dead fish, even a dead mink Even my horse wouldn’t touch the dregs.”
Montana heard him, appalled at the immensity of the disaster. The words were like a knell.
“Gray and his helper are still digging,” Curley added, “hopin’ to get water enough for the horses. I dunno.”
“Sure, and there’s more trouble along the trail than even I counted on,” Mulroney commented, his cheerfulness diluted for once. “And I expected nothing else.”
The hope was a thin one, but when they arrived the cook had found water. The trouble was that it was barely a trickle. There was no more than could be dipped half a bucket at a time to give snorting, desperately eager horses. It was a fight to control them so that they would not spill and waste what little there was. The water hole was slow in filling, so that no horse was given more than half as much as it wanted. During the night they were watered in relays. That was better than the cattle were faring.
The herd was increasingly restless, a moaning desperation driving them, so that there was no rest for the men. Montana studied the sky and prayed for clouds, for a cool day. Should that occur, they might keep going. And there had to be water before long. But the sun came blazing out of a relentless dawn, and the herd was on the verge of revolt.
By mid-morning they were feverish and unmanageable. A glimpsed oasis, apparently seen by men and animals alike, had turned out to be only a mirage. Now it was only a matter of time, and not much of that, before they stampeded or died.
Chapter Nine
This, above all other times, Montana realized, was when he must remain cool-headed, in order to find some solution. The trouble was that there was none. There was no water, and the herd was turning mad.
It was madness in the double sense of the word: a slowly growing anger, inspired by desperation, as well as a frenzy of sun and thirst. Men, cattle and horses had all reached the ragged edge of exhaustion. Weariness was aggravated by parched bodies and the inexorable blast of sun from a too bright sky. There was a stir of breeze, but the wind brought no relief. It stung blistered hides or skin as though coming off the nether regions. No cloud puffed even faintly across the merciless sweep of a withered world.
Until then, they had all been sustained by at least a faint hope, and that had given them a measure of control over the herd. All at once, hope and control were gone. The leaders did not arrest their movement, but they swung about, refusing to be checked or directed. For a time they had moved without apparent purpose or direction. But now they were as irresistible as a tide. When horses or hoarsely shouting men got in their way, they ignored them. The horses had to step aside or be run over. Ropes’ ends across noses, even gunshots, had no effect.
Now the whole herd was milling, at first raggedly, then more and more wildly. Working together, a few men could check a wedge of the herd, but immediately afterward another mass would erupt, moving at cross-purposes. The drift was like snow tossed by twisting winds. Only here there was heat, and even the thought of a blizzard’s chill breath seemed like a dream, remote and impossible.
