Bless the Beasts & Children (10 page)

No sooner had they finished supper, forcing food down, and stepped out of the chow cabin, when Goodenow puked. Later, until lights out, they wandered alone among the pines, strangers to each other, ashamed of themselves and of their kind.

It had been five minutes of eleven by his wrist when Cotton woke from his bad dream. Listening for radios, counting four, not five, and finding the sleeping bag under the bed unoccupied, he roused the Bedwetters with the news that Lally 2 was gone.

13

They wallowed.

For a stricken minute more in the blood and mud they tried to stand, gagging, and to assist the helpless Goodenow. Finally, hauling him by a wrist, they were able to crawl to dry sand and get him on his feet and stagger from the killing ground to the small pond, where they flopped and rubbed hands underwater, making cups of them and splashing filth from their chins and scrubbing it from knees and elbows.

They sat another minute, their hands and faces dripping. Nothing stirred about the ranchhouse or among the vehicles and tents. The next day's shooters slept well. From far out on the preserve an eerie requiem went up, and they got goosebumps. It was coyotes, howling soul.

Cotton started them along the fenced lane down which the meat was shooed from the pens, but moving slowly, almost reluctantly. It was well after three in the a.m.

The Bedwetters had never had a real plan, only a simple objective: no matter who, no matter what, to free from the pens the thirty animals doomed to die in the morning. But the fact was, none of them knew what the "pens" were. They had assumed some kind of enclosure like a corral, with a gate which had only to be opened. It could not be this gate, they realized, approaching the end of the lane. That would merely let the herd onto the killing ground, where it could be mowed down. There must be another gate, on the far side of the pens, through which they had been rounded up before the hunt. Opening that one would free them to scatter again over the range, reprieved from execution for two years. But finding that gate, and getting the prisoners through it, they now recognized, might be about as easy as playing ice hockey in hell.

They groped for the gate. They stopped dead in their tracks. They heard it, smelled it, felt it. They were in the presence of great beasts.

It was very dark. They could see nothing between the bars. But they heard snortings and stompings and in their nostrils was an odor rank and fierce and primal and suddenly, with a rumble and roar, something the size of a dinosaur came at them and a hot breath slapped their faces and they tumbled backward, barking shins and dropping the head and horns and tripping over the .22. One of the bulls had rushed them.

Cotton swore a soft blue streak and said to get out of there fast, and helping each other, slinging up the trophy and rifle and burnt, bloody pillow, they creaked up and over the wire fence and out of the lane, then up and over a second, and jumped down and stood around shaking till he said to come on, they were safe now.

They investigated the pens. The sides were eight feet high, the crossbars roughcut 4X8's as big as railroad ties which were bolted to posts a foot or more in diameter. Nothing less, evidently, would confine what was inside. There was no gate here.

They turned a corner. This was the long side of the rectangle, and it fronted the open range. They passed a Ford pickup with lettering and an insignia on its door, and a stack of baled hay. Cotton said they could talk now if they kept it down, they were far enough away from the ranch and the mighty hunters, but they couldn't goof around all night, they had to find the layout of the pens, so he was going up, right by this gate.

He climbed three bars high and got a cloud break and motioned the others up beside him. At first, on their toes, they peered out over what seemed a maze of pens, but as their eyes adjusted they could see that the entire rectangle was divided by inner walls into at least four smaller rectangles, and that the herd had to be in the far right corner section, facing the gate and lane. Along the tops of the inner walls, constructed of the same heavy crossbars and posts, ran plank catwalks eight feet high. They dropped.

"Damn," Cotton said. "I didn't think we'd run into anything like this. One of us should've come down here yesterday and had a look."

"How'd we know we'd be back?" they demanded.

"Well, we have to see where the gates are and how to do it. Somebody's gotta go out on that catwalk."

They panicked.

"Not me!"

"What if you fell off?"

"They'd mash you!"

"I can't stand high places!"

Cotton sighed. "What a hairy outfit. So I s'pose I have to."

"No," Goodenow said. "You've done enough. So's Teft. It isn't fair."

Shecker had one of his unfunny ideas. "Maybe you go in like in a bullring." He held a make-believe cape, he stamped a matador's foot. "Toro! Hah, toro! Then when they charge, open the gate—"

"Gas 'im," they snapped.

"Hey, I know," said Lally 1. "Draw straws. The shortest one walks the plank. I'll get some hay from those bales."

He was gone and back with a fistful and sorting lengths before they could think the method through.

"Cotton holds 'em," Teft said. "You cheat."

"I do not!"

"I get dizzy even on a chair," Goodenow pleaded.

"If it was only lighter," Cotton said. "Say, where's Lally 2?"

They chased their tails. The little stinker was always sneaking off, down a road or under a bed.

"No!" Cotton snapped his fingers. One leap and he stood on the third crossbar. The rest followed, the straws forgotten.

And there was Lally 2, already too far out to haul back, inching on hands and knees along the catwalk toward the center of the pens. It was so crucial to him that he had even left his pillow behind.
Box Canyon Boys Camp rented its horses reasonably from a resort near Phoenix which stabled them for dude guests in winter and needed a place to summer them out of the heat. For the most part they were indolent animals which required a hard leathering to get beyond a trot. Lally
2
was terrified of the one assigned to him, an elderly mare named Sheba. He refused to mount her, much less to ride. One night early in the session Cotton missed him, and scouting, found him seated on the corral fence talking to Sheba. "Are you a mother horse?" asked Lally
2. "
Have you had some babies?" He hopped down, walked to the mare, and putting an arm over her neck, spoke into her ear. "Sheba, want to know where I sleep sometimes at home? In the sauna. There's some little people living there under the hot rocks. Ooms, that's their name, and hundreds of them come out and sleep with me." She whuffed and nuzzled his pajamas. "If you had any babies," he asked her, "did you stay with them or go galloping away and leave them?" Cotton brought a bridle from the barn, helped the boy mount, and led them around the corral. The next day Lally
2
rode her. After that he was aboard the mare most of the time. He could whisper in the ear of that old crowbait and make her perform like a show horse. They won the barrel race in the camp rodeo
.

Cotton was climbing, using a post for leverage, and hoisting himself. The rest were climbing, too, which he rather expected of them. Set them an example and they came through every time. Lally 2 was not all that intrepid, though. He waited for them.

The catwalk was made of two 2X6's nailed side by side and braced atop the inner wall which bisected the rectangle. In the dark the planking seemed about as wide as a snake's hips and as high as the Empire State Building. Along they crawled as though on combat patrol, noses to rumps—Kenilworth and Rocky River and Mamaroneck and Sixty-Fourth Street and Shaker Heights and Kenilworth. The system of pens began to make sense. They were holding pens, four large sections designed to hold the entire herd during roundups, to break it down into manageable bunches, and to cut individuals out for vaccination. Singly they could be driven into a small diamond-shaped squeeze pen in the center of the four-sectioned rectangle, and from it into the squeeze chute, a box of steel bars which trapped them and vised them immobile while the veterinarians gave them the needle. Fortunately, and necessarily, all the inner barriers including the gates in each were topped with catwalks, since no one in his right mind would enter a pen at ground level.

Just as the Bedwetters reached the center, the squeeze pen, the scud of clouds opened, and Lally 2, the leader, stopped. But the five behind him could not see, and cautiously, unsteadily, they stood up, and teetering, clasping hands, edged sideways on the planks. Then Lally 2 said "Oh!" And there they were, in their magnificence.

The buffalo is the largest, most awesome game animal found on the American continent. Standing six feet at the shoulders, even higher at the hump, measuring more than nine feet in length, the bulls weighed 2,000 to 2,600 pounds, the cows but a few hundred less. They tapered from mighty forequarters and heads and humps to slender hindquarters supported on delicate ankles and hooves, and beards of hair tufted from below their snouts and from their heads and legs and tails. Even in wan moonlight the curved, carved horns glinted, sleek hides tautened over muscle, eyes struck sparks of fire. And they were loco. Given reasonable situations, a man might reasonably guess how a buffalo would behave, but these beasts, deprived of the open range and comparative freedom they had known from birth, cut out from the big herd and stockaded for three days without food and water and goaded by alien sounds and smells, were totally unpredictable.

What they did now, for example, by instinct, they had never done before. In the old days, one of the most remarkable sights on the prairies each spring was the thousands of circles where the grass had been trodden bare. "Fairy rings," the pioneers called them, unaware what had made them. In reality, they were formed by bull buffalo walking circular guard round and round the cows and calves to fend off wolf packs. And now, as the animals snuffed the odor of man nearby, of man their mortal enemy now, as they drew into flaring nostrils that scent which for the first time connoted death, half the herd advanced, the bulls, and stood on guard before the cows, snorting and stamping hooves, heads lowered to hook with horns whatever might attack.

Nothing would. Instead, high on the catwalk, holding on to each other, six boys quaked before the beasts below.

They turned, they deflated, they crawled back as fast as they could along the planks to the squeeze pen. There, letting legs down, they sat like bumps on a log as what they had seen sank in. The enormity of the task hunched their shoulders. To liberate the herd they must get it through two pens: the squeeze and one of the big ones. Three gates had to be opened: one between the section in which the herd was now held and the squeeze pen; a second between the squeeze pen and a large; and a third in the outer wall of the large, which opened onto the range. And through those gates they must hoo-hah or sweettalk thirty tons of critters as mean as sin and twice as jumpy as they were themselves.

Cotton found some dried blood on his nose and peeled it off, thinking. Then he said it wasn't as tough as it looked. Here was how. The second and third gates they could open safely now, no sweat. He'd stay here on the squeeze pen by gate one. The rest of them would go back outside the way they came, around the corner to the section where the herd was. That would turn the buff toward them and away from him. Then he'd jump down, open number one gate into the squeeze pen, climb up again, and when they saw he'd done that here, all five of them should climb the pen wall above the herd, suddenly, together, and lean over and not holler but wave headgear and kick the crossbars and that ought to stampede the herd out past him and out the last two gates.

"Okay," he said. "Got it?" He knew they were petrified. "Okay," he said decisively, "Teft, you open two and three gates on your way. And for God's sake, when all of you get over there, when I jump down to open this one, give me time to get up again before you guys go up the wall. And remember, this is what we're here to do. Okay, everybody move on out."

Nobody budged. He despaired. And then, of all unlikelies, Lally 1, on the end and more afraid his little brother would steal the show again than he was of the buffalo, took off on hands and knees and the rest followed.

Cotton watched them go. With this bunch, you never knew who or why or what next. They were as bad as buffalo. He watched Teft drop, open number two gate on the opposite side of the squeeze pen, climb to the catwalk again, crawl to the outer wall and open gate three. Then they disappeared into the night.

He tried to time them around the corner and along the wall. They'd be slow, he was sure of that, knocking knees and dragging tails. Then movement in the herd clued him. He stood up, sensing rather than seeing. It seemed to him the animals had wheeled, facing the wall away from him. He heard them snuff and stomp. Clouds had closed down and he could not tell, but they must be there now, revving themselves up to assault the wall, the herd acted like it. He pulled his helmet chinstrap tight. He crouched to jump. He tried to whisper Geronimo but his mouth was dry.

He jumped. The gate was secured with a chain and drop-bolt. The instant his bootheels hit dirt he reached for the chain and jerked the bolt and grabbing a crossbar swung the gate wide and in the same frantic sequence of movement leaped for the opposite wall and flew upward hand over hand and toe over toe before he got a horn up his rear.

Things happened so fast that Cotton nearly fell off the catwalk. On the wall over the herd he thought he saw the flap of hats. Then he heard milling and that awful rumble and the hats vanished and there was a crash and splinter of wood and he thought, oh God they've smashed right through the pen wall. Then below him a bull and two cows tried to batter through the gate he'd opened and the whole squeeze pen swayed and he did fall, flat, flinging arms around the planks as the damnfool animals rushed through gate two into the big pen and instead of taking the last gate and cutting the scene wheeled and rammed right back through his gate and back into the original pen with the rest of the herd.