The comanche kid, p.7
The Comanche Kid, page 7
“Whoo-ee,” he said. “You must be one real bravo!” And at that we rode on again, both of us singing, and new songs started coming to me so I wasn’t boring the cattle with the same song.
Sometimes I’d just talk to them, singsongy, telling them wasn’t it a beautiful night, like black velvet, and how bright the silvery stars were, and I realized I was talking to myself, trying to give myself hope, and it reminded me of how Ma would talk to us if we’d had a nightmare or couldn’t sleep, and I started to choke up remembering how sweet and calm she was, so I went to another song to get away from the memory.
The next time Jack Straw come around, he said, “Now, how old did they tell me you was?”
“I’m fourteen, sir.”
“Hell, I ran away from home when I was fourteen and I never regretted it. You’re going to do just fine, son.” And off he went, and that’s how it continued, him asking questions every time we met up until he knew all about Ma and Pa and Sally. He was real kind about Sally, telling me all was not lost, or giving me bits of information about himself and how his father was a hard man and a drinker and his Ma died in childbirth and he wasn’t in touch with his sister much, but someday he was going to go back to Iowa and find her, as soon as he got enough money saved up.
Just before dawn we heard Monty in the distance call, “Roll out, boys!” and Jack Straw and I rode into camp to get some bait. Skinny brought the remuda in and roped it off near the wagon so the hands could wrangle the mounts they would be riding that morning, and after getting some bait he climbed into the camp wagon to sleep for the day.
Jack Straw and I put our horses in the remuda and the cook nodded to us and pointed at the coffee, saying, “Cafecito,” and he was handing out flapjacks and potatoes with gravy and fried salt pork, and there was airtight tomatoes stewed with sugar and bread, called pooch. Jack Straw and I sat with the other hands and the boys told me the biscuit buster here served up good bait, but with some outfits you were lucky if you didn’t starve to death before you got to Dodge.
Shakespeare was throwing wood and prairie chips into the tarpaulin cradle under the camp wagon, so I threw down the rest of my bait and cleaned my plate off in the wreck pan. I jumped in and started helping Monty break down the camp, him just nodding and pointing and not saying much. Then I helped Shakespeare haul the mules out of the remuda to hook up to the camp wagon.
Big Mike stopped by and said I’d be riding drag. Then he told the two point men, Hard Luck Luke Bronson and Abraham, this Abraham being another Negro hand but with fearsome scars on his face, and he was Big Mike’s segundo, to “string ’em out and point ’em north.” Then he rode out to pilot the herd and scout the day’s drive.
I decided I would ride Paint first, but I had a hard time getting my catch rope on him until Shakespeare come over, and with his riata he caught him in one easy throw. “Did you see that?” he said. “That loop was called a morning glory. Did you see how it didn’t open until it got right to him? That’s why it’s called a morning glory, the loop doesn’t open until it gets to where it’s going.”
He was oh so pleased with himself.
I was ashamed I was having so much trouble when all the other hands seemed to rope their mounts with such an easy grace. I was mad at him for helping me in front of everybody but I was also glad not to keep making a fool of myself, but that didn’t make me any less mad at his showing off.
I saddled up, but Paint began to bog his head and pitch so I took my mad out on him and decided to ride the rough off of him by lining him out.
He took off at a dead run and I yelled at him and hit his rump with my hat and made him run even faster. We went out a good half mile or more, cutting through the cold early morning breeze as the sun come up, and when I thought he’d run enough that he would behave, I run him back hard to the camp wagon just to make sure.
Shakespeare was still there, turning the remuda loose, now saddling up his own mount, and without looking at me he said, “You can ride, can’t you?”
I didn’t say anything but I swear I felt my heart swell at the compliment and for a moment my chest didn’t feel so much like a hollow shell, and I wasn’t mad at him anymore.
Paint danced around, and as he mounted up Shakespeare added, “And he can run, can’t he?” He did that soft smile of his that I thought seemed just a little bit sad, and he said, “Through his mane and tail the high wind sings, fanning the hairs who wave like feathered wings, right?” I noticed he always said, “right?” after every quote, like he wanted some kind of confirmation that he was speaking the truth, or maybe he just wanted you to admire him, but that sounded mean of me.
I said, “What did you do, memorize the whole book?”
“Just the parts I like,” and at that he hurrahed the remuda away with a “Hi-yah, hi-yah!” and led it north alongside the herd as it began to string out.
I rode drag that first day, glad to be there in spite of the dust. Scotty had left a blue silk neck scarf in his mackinaw pocket and I found it and wore it like a mask to keep the dust out of my mouth and nose, and I was grateful for it. Paint was good at pushing the stragglers, then darting into the brush after ones that had spilled past the flankers, driving them back to the herd. I was grateful he was turning into the kind of horse Pa said all the hands would call a Joe Dandy.
Nearby was Preacher, the sin buster Shakespeare had mentioned. We didn’t have a chance to talk, although I could hear him calling the stragglers slow devil brutes, telling them they’d damn well better catch up because they were being driven by an angel of the Lord.
Farther away also on drag was Shady, an Apache who seemed to be a particular friend of Monty, the cook, and I saw he wore a long red sash around his waist, but we didn’t have a chance to talk much either. Preacher and Shady rotated up to flanker and other hands rotated back, taking their turn, me staying as drag, but I didn’t mind, in spite of the dust. I hoped Pa would be proud of me now that I was a real hand.
At noon, when the herd stopped to rest and graze, I hurried over and helped Monty out as best I could, trying not to get in the way and waiting for him to nod or point and trying to read his mind as to how I could help best, then helping Shakespeare bring the remuda in so the hands could switch out their mounts.
While dinner was put out, I figured I’d start to ride the mounts in Scotty’s string, and that would give all the mounts two or three days to rest before I put them back to work again. I soon discovered they were a salty string. When Scotty was killed, I learned, the hands divided up his best horses among themselves and traded in their saltiest, so now my string was saltier than even Hard Luck Luke Bronson’s, who was the rough string rider, the rough string rider always riding the saltiest horses. He thought that was real funny and he told me, “You got here a day late and a dollar short, Kid.”
That first day we moved out, John Bell Hood slowly worked his way through the herd until he was up front with their lead longhorn, Blackjack. The two of them argued about the leadership position and John Bell Hood won out and Blackjack fell into line behind him. Big Mike had come back in from piloting the herd to get some bait and told me about the challenge and he said, “That’s one persistent brute you got there.”
“Pa always said John Bell Hood is a ranny himself if ever there was one.”
“That’s what you call him? John Bell Hood?”
“Yes, sir, that’s what Pa named him.”
“Your pa fight with the Texas Brigade?”
“Yes, sir, he did.”
“Not many of the Texas Brigade survived,” he said. “Your pa was a lucky man.”
“I guess so,” I said, “and I guess not.”
I think he knew what I meant. He changed the subject and said, “Let’s hope that longhorn of yours is as good at river crossings as he is at leading the herd.”
Big Mike trailed the herd slowly, maybe ten to twelve miles a day. They grazed in the mornings before being trailed out, then again at noon while everyone got some bait, then at night after being thrown off the trail and watered and bedded down. Big Mike said they’d be less likely to be ornery if they were fat and happy.
It was some days later when we were sitting around eating corn bread, beans, and salt pork with airtight tomatoes and corn and peas and onions all mixed together with lots of salt and pepper, and there were several apple pies sitting out as well, when someone called out to Shakespeare, “Hey, pick back up where she goes to that girl’s house.”
So he hauled a small book out of his shirt pocket and started speaking Shakespeare’s words, reading from it and going on and on and explaining it as he went along. The gist of the story was that this girl who is dressed as a boy, acting as a servant to this duke, goes to this girl Olivia to tell her again that the duke is in love with her and that she should love this duke back, that he’s a real good man. But this Olivia and her friends make fun of this girl dressed as a boy and won’t let him talk, but she, or he, reprimands them back, and Olivia is so surprised and yet curious that she sends the other women away and gets this servant alone and lets him talk. He talks so pretty that this Olivia can tell something’s up, and she starts asking questions about where this servant is really from, because she can tell by his accent that he’s not from those parts and she can tell he doesn’t act like he’s from a servant family, and who is he really? And this girl, dressed as a boy, starts getting worried that she is being found out, because she is actually a noble person, so she tries to backtrack and throw Olivia off the scent, and pretty soon it becomes clear that Olivia thinks this so-called boy is an attractive boy, and she discovers she has a failing for him, not realizing that it’s a girl in disguise.
It was very complicated. And I didn’t like how close to home it was.
Shakespeare went on reading and knowing some of the words by heart, and pretty soon he’s on his feet acting out all the parts. Showing off, I thought, but all the hands were laughing, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was trying to tell me something with that story, as if he knew something.
When Shakespeare was done, Jack Straw began singing that song “Get Along Home, You Spanish Girl,” and right when I was listening to all that and about to fall asleep, one of the hands, named Cliff, him being a fellow that was always telling jokes and blanket stretchers, came fogging in fast and yelling, “There’s hell in Georgia, boys!”
In an instant everyone was on their feet, throwing on their boots and unhobbling their horses and hitting the saddle as fast as they could, and so was I.
EIGHT
I don’t know what set them off. Maybe it was a nightrider striking a lucifer to light up his Bull Durham or the jingle of a spur or a jackrabbit jumping out, but the whole herd was off and running, all some two thousand of them, as if they had a meeting planned and they all needed to get off at the same time and in the same direction. I heard one of the boys yell, “They’re going north!” I got a grip on myself and I took off with the other hands.
As we caught up with the herd, they were a sight to behold, the moonlight shining on them and glinting off their horns as they ran. They held their tails high over their backs, their eyes wide and white and rolling and they bawled and the ground shook and I hoped Buck wouldn’t hit a prairie-dog hole. I come up on the edge of the herd and I didn’t have any idea about what I was supposed to do, as if there was some way to stop a runaway train all by yourself.
From out of nowhere Abraham, the segundo, rode up beside me, the one who had scars on his face, not pox scars, but scars that looked like he had been hit with something several times, or maybe knifed. He called out, “Don’t ride too close or they’ll think you’re pushing them. Keep an eye out for those spilling off and push them back in. Anything you miss will be picked up by the hands behind you!” And he rode on.
And God help anyone who falls, I thought.
When they spilled out, I tried to push them back in but sometimes there were just too many of them. I kept a lookout for dangers but Buck saw everything before I did. I heard Pa say, “Watch Buck’s ears. They’ll tell you what he’s going to do.” So I paid attention to Buck’s ears, and Buck kept his head low as he ran and he watched the ground, and before I even saw any of it coming he was dodging around prickly pear and mesquite and yucca, their white blossoms shining in the moonlight, and sometimes he swerved so sharp it was all I could do just to stay in the saddle. He’d stop quick and I’d practically tumble over his head, then there was cut banks he’d somehow seen and I hadn’t even known was coming up and he’d leap it without warning, or if it was too wide he’d clamber down one side and back up the other, then he’d slow down and step over some outcropping of rocks like he was a dainty old lady, and I thought I could have been killed a hundred times over.
The hands on the left whistled and hallooed and hurrahed and waved ropes and slickers, trying to push the herd to the right to get them circling around and back into themselves so they’d start to mill, but the herd wasn’t having it and kept on the run, bellowing and wild-eyed, their horns clacking against each other so that the whole herd was making a rattling sound, like sabers hitting each other in some big battle.
I yelled at them too, and prayed I’d stay in the saddle and hoped Buck wouldn’t fall. Even if we weren’t trampled it would be a hard spill and God knew I could hit rocks or cactus, or even Buck could fall on me and there I’d be with broken bones or killed. Then I got scared Buck would stumble and I’d get knocked out of the saddle and my foot would get caught in a stirrup and I’d be dragged to death. I imagined Buck breaking his leg, and if I survived I’d be faced with shooting him, and I knew I couldn’t take that loss.
And damned if the herd didn’t keep it up all night long.
Right before dawn they finally just stopped. Bawling and clacking horns and breathing hard they came to a standstill, spent and just standing there, wild-eyed, their tongues hanging out, and maybe real proud of themselves for putting everyone on the run. Then they got quiet as if they all were coming home exhausted from some late-night fandango, then they bedded down and rested, as if nothing had happened.
The hands backed off and gave them space and you could hear the boys talking to them real low and sweet, some singing and some whistling, trying to keep them calm and reassure them everything was OK, talking to them as if they were kids who’d had a nightmare, like Ma did with us, stroking our hair and telling us everything was all right.
Dawn came on and the sky got lighter with streaks of gray and pink and gold, and the herd lay there like it was any other day.
Big Mike rode up and said, “You did good, kid. You may just turn into a ranny after all.”
I felt good about that, knowing I hadn’t really done anything but glad I hadn’t made things worse or hurt myself, or Buck. I knew I had a long way to go before I was a real ranny, but then it occurred to me that by being a girl I couldn’t ever be a real ranny, and at that I got mad and I was determined I’d do more than my share so I could be called a ranahan someday, even if I was a girl.
Big Mike spread the word that after we got some bait, we’d move the herd east a few miles to where they could get water and we’d spend the next week or so letting then graze while we rode back and rounded up the ones that spilled off and were God knows how many miles away and in every which direction.
Monty caught up with the camp wagon and I jumped in to help unhook the mules and get the fire going. The nighthawk, Skinny, showed up leading the remuda and Shakespeare rode with him, covered in sweat and dust. In spite of him looking worn and dirty I couldn’t help but think, Doesn’t he look good, tall and slender and sitting light in the saddle like a horseman should, and pushing a herd of some hundred and fifty cow ponies.
I told myself, You can’t think like that.
Shakespeare and Skinny dismounted and hauled out yards of rope from the wagon, along with several iron stakes, then put the stakes into the ground to throw up a rope corral. I turned Buck into the remuda and helped them, and so did Abraham and the rough string rider, Hard Luck Luke Bronson. Between the five of us we got the corral up real quick, and it never ceased to amaze me that with only one string of rope circling around them withers high, the horses minded their place and wouldn’t push through.
“That’ll keep them,” Shakespeare said.
I wanted to stay and talk with him but I knew that’s what a girl would do, so I knew not to do that or I might give myself away. Then I thought, Well, if I’m only a fourteen-year-old boy maybe it would be OK to stay and talk to him, as if he was some kind of older brother and it wouldn’t look funny at all. You are on dangerous ground, I then thought. Don’t even think about it.
I started to walk off but he called after me, “So you stayed aboard the whole time, did you?”
I turned and said, “Yeah, but there were a few times I thought Buck and me was going to eat dirt.”
“That your first stampede?”
“Sure was.”
He tilted his head at me and said, “I thought you drove from the Colorado to the Trinity and so on.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Not once any of those cow brutes stampede?”
And that is exactly why Ma used to say, “I don’t ever want to hear you lie, do you understand me? Keine Lügen! No lies!”
I stood there silent, at a loss for words. Then he let me off the hook, giving me a head nod, and said, “You want Paint saddled up?”
I was real sheepish and I said, “Yes, sir.”
As he shook out his riata, he said, “Whoa, listen to him, calling me sir. I just got a promotion. Heavy lies the head that wears the crown, right?” and he chuckled to himself at how clever he was.
I got real mad and wanted to hit him. I felt my face turning red and I was just as mad at myself for thinking he looked real handsome, pushing the remuda in. I wanted to turn and walk off before I said something to make things worse, all the while knowing he could tell Big Mike I’d lied anytime he wanted. I hated him having anything over me, and I hated that I had lied to Big Mike and that I was lying to everyone by dressing like a boy and lying about my name and my age.
