Butcher's Crossing (13 page)

“Trail turns here with the river,” Miller said. “Follows it all the way up to the Arkansas. We could follow it and be sure of plenty of water, but it would put us near a week off getting where we’re aiming at.”

Schneider looked at Miller and grinned; his teeth were white in his dust-encrusted face.

“I take it you don’t aim to go by the trail.”

“It’d put us a week off, maybe more,” Miller said. “I’ve gone across this country before.” He waved toward the flat country in the west that lay beyond the Smoky Hill Trail. “They’s water there, for a body that knows where it is.”

Schneider, still grinning, turned to Andrews. “Mr. Andrews, you don’t look like you ever been thirsty in your life; real thirsty, I mean. So I guess it won’t do much good to ask you what you want to do.”

Andrews hesitated; then he shook his head. “I have no right to speak. I don’t know the country.”

“And Miller does,” Schneider said, “or at least that’s what he tells us. So we go where Miller says.”

Miller smiled and nodded. “Fred, you sound like you want an extra week’s pay. You ain’t afraid of a little dry stretch, are you?”

“I’ve had dry stretches before,” Schneider said. “But I never have got over feeling put out when I saw horses and bull-oxes being watered and me with a dry throat.”

Miller’s smile widened. “It takes the grit out of a man,” he said. “It’s happened to me. But they’s water less than a day from here. I don’t think it’ll come to that.”

“Just one thing more,” Schneider said. “How long did you say it’s been since you went over this bit of land?”

“A few years,” Miller said. “But some things don’t leave a man.” Though the smile remained on his face, his voice stiffened. “You don’t have no serious complaints yet, do you, Fred?”

“No,” Schneider said. “I just thought there was a few things I ought to say. I said I’d go along with you back at Butcher’s Crossing, and I’ll go along with you now. It don’t matter to me one way or another.”

Miller nodded, and turned to Charley Hoge. “Reckon we’d better rest the stock and water them up good before we go on. And we’d better carry along as much water as we can, just in case. You take care of the team, and we’ll get what water we can back up to the wagon.”

While Charley Hoge led the oxen down to the river, the others went to the wagon and found what containers they could for carrying water. From a broad square of canvas that covered their provisions, Miller fashioned a crude barrel, held open and upright by slender green saplings that he cut at the river bank. Two of the more slender saplings he tied together and bent into a circle, and tied again; this he attached near the four corners of the square canvas with leather thongs. The shorter and stubbier saplings he cut to a length, notched, and attached to the circled saplings, thus forming a receptacle some five feet in diameter and four feet in height. With buckets and kettles that Charley Hoge used for cooking and with one small wooden keg, the three men filled the canvas barrel three-quarters full; it took them the better part of an hour to do so.

“That’s enough,” Miller said. “If we put any more in, it would just slosh out.”

They rested in the shade beside the Smoky Hill, while the hobbled oxen wandered along the banks, grazing on the rich grass that grew in the moisture. Because of the intense heat, and because of the dry country over which they would be traveling, Miller told them, they would begin their second drive somewhat later; so Charley Hoge had time to cook up some soaked beans, sowbelly, and coffee. Until the afternoon sun pushed the shade beyond them, they lay wearily on the grassy bank of the river, listening to the rustle of the water that flowed past them smoothly, coolly, effortlessly, that flowed back through the prairie through which they had worked their way, past Butcher’s Crossing, and onward to the east. When the sun touched his face, Andrews sat up. Miller said: “Might as well get started.” Charley Hoge gathered his oxen, yoked them in pairs, and put them to the wagon. The party turned to the flat land upon which they could see neither tree nor trail to guide them, and went forward upon it. Soon the line of green that marked the Smoky Hill River was lost to them; and in the flat unbroken land Andrews had to keep his eyes firmly fixed on Miller’s back to find any direction to go in.

Twilight came upon them. Had it not been for his tiredness, and the awkward, shambling weariness of the horses beneath the weight they carried forward, Andrews might have thought that the night came on and held them where they started, back at the bend of the Smoky Hill. During the afternoon’s drive he had seen no break in the flat country, neither tree, nor gully, nor rise in the land that might serve as a landmark to show Miller the way he went. They camped that night without water.

Few words were exchanged as they broke the packs from their horses and set up the night’s camp on the open prairie. Charley Hoge led the oxen one by one to the back of the wagon; Miller held the large canvas receptacle erect while the oxen drank. By the light of a lantern he kept careful watch on the level of water; when an ox had drunk its quota, Miller would say sharply: “That’s enough,” and kick at the beast as Charley Hoge tugged its head away. When the oxen and the horses had drunk, the tank remained one-fourth full.

Much later, around the campfire, which Charley Hoge had prepared with wood gathered at their noon stop, the men squatted and drank their coffee. Schneider, whose tight impassive face seemed to twitch and change in the flickering firelight, said impersonally:

“I never cared for a dry camp.”

No one spoke.

Schneider continued: “I guess there’s a drop or two left in the tank.”

“It’s about a fourth full,” Miller said.

Schneider nodded. “We can make one more day on that, I figure. It’ll be a mite dry, but we should make one more day.”

Miller said, “I figure one more day.”

“If we don’t come across some water,” Schneider said.

“If we don’t come across some water,” Miller agreed.

Schneider lifted his tin cup and drained the last dreg of coffee from it. In the firelight, his raised chin and throat bristled and quivered. His voice was cool and lazy. “I reckon we’d better hit some water tomorrow.”

“We’d better,” Miller said. Then: “There’s plenty of water; it’s just there for the finding.” No one answered him. He went on. “I must have missed a mark somewhere. There should have been water right along here. But it’s nothing serious. We’ll get water tomorrow, for sure.”

The three men were watching him intently. In the dying light, Miller returned each of their stares, looking at Schneider at length, coolly. After a moment he sighed and put his cup carefully on the ground in front of Charley Hoge.

“Let’s get some sleep,” Miller said. “I want to get an early start in the morning, before the heat sets in.”

Andrews tried to sleep, but despite his tiredness he did not rest soundly. He kept being awakened by the low moaning of the oxen, which gathered at the end of the wagon, pawed the earth, and butted against the closed tailgate that protected the little store of water in the open canvas tank.

Andrews was shaken from his uneasy sleep by Miller’s hand on his shoulder. His eyes opened on darkness, and on the dim hulk of Miller above him. He heard the others moving about, stumbling and cursing in the early morning dark.

“If we can get them going soon enough, they won’t miss the watering,” Miller said.

By the time the false light shone in the east, the oxen were yoked; the party again moved westward.

“Give your horses their heads,” Miller told them. “Let them set their own pace. We’ll do better not to push any of them till we get some water.”

The animals moved sluggishly through the warming day. As the sun brightened, Miller rode far ahead of the main party; he sat erect in his saddle and moved his head constantly from one side to another. Occasionally he got off his horse and examined the ground closely, as if it concealed some sign that he had missed atop his horse. They continued their journey well into the middle of the day, and past it. When one of the oxen stumbled and in getting to its feet gashed at its fellow with a blunt horn, Miller called the party to a halt.

“Fill your canteens,” he said. “We’ve got to water the stock and there won’t be any left.”

Silently, the men did as they were told. Schneider was the last to approach the canvas tank; he filled his canteen, drank from it in long, heavy gulps, and refilled it.

Schneider helped Charley Hoge control the oxen as, one by one, they were led to the rear of the wagon and the open tank of water. When the oxen were watered and tethered at some distance from the wagon, the horses were allowed to finish the water. After the horses had got from the tank all that they were able, Miller broke down the saplings that gave the canvas its shape, and with Charley Hoge’s help drained the water that remained in the folds of the canvas into a wooden keg.

Charley Hoge untethered the oxen and let them graze on the short yellowish grass. Then he returned to the wagon and broke out a package of dried biscuits.

“Don’t eat too many of them,” Miller said. “They’ll dry you out.”

The men squatted in the narrow shade cast by the wagon. Slowly and delicately, Schneider ate one of the biscuits and took a small sip of water after it.

Finally he sighed, and spoke directly to Miller: “What’s the story, Miller? Do you know where there’s water?”

Miller said: “There was a little pile of rocks a piece back I think I remember. Another half-day, and we ought to hit a stream.”

Schneider looked at him quizzically. Then he stiffened, took a deep breath, and asked, his voice soft: “Where are we, Miller?”

“No need to worry,” Miller said. “Some of the landmarks have changed since I was here. But another half-day, and I’ll get us fixed.”

Schneider grinned, and shook his head. He laughed softly and sat down on the ground, shaking his head.

“My God,” he said. “We’re lost.”

“As long as we keep going in that direction,” Miller pointed away from their shadows, toward the falling sun, “we’re not lost. We’re bound to run into water tonight, or early in the morning.”

“This is a big country,” Schneider said. “We’re not bound to do anything.”

“No need to worry,” Miller said.

Schneider looked at Andrews, still grinning. “How does it feel, Mr. Andrews? Just thinking about it makes you thirsty, don’t it?”

Andrews looked away from him quickly, and frowned; but what he said was true. The biscuit in his mouth felt suddenly dry, like sun-beat sand; he had swallowed against the dryness. He noticed that Charley Hoge put his half-eaten biscuit into his shirt pocket.

“We can still cut south,” Schneider said. “Another day, at the most a day and a half, we’ll run into the Arkansas. The stock might just hold up for a day and a half.”

“It would put us a week off,” Miller said. “And besides, there’s no cause for it; we may get a little dry, but we’ll make it all right. I know this country.”

“Not so well you don’t get lost in it,” Schneider said. “I say, we turn to the Arkansas. We’ll be sure of water there.” He pulled up a tuft of the dry, yellow grass that surrounded them. “Look at this. There’s been a drought in this country. How do we know the streams ain’t dried up? What if the ponds are empty?”

“There’s water in this country,” Miller said.

“Seen any sign of buffalo?” Schneider looked at each of them. “Not a sign. And you won’t find buffalo where there ain’t no water. I say, we ought to head for the Arkansas.”

Miller sighed and smiled distantly at Schneider. “We’d never make it, Fred.”

“What?”

“We’d never make it. We’ve been heading at an angle ever since we left the Smoky Hill. With watered stock, it would take us two and a half days—almost as bad as going back to the Smoky Hill. Dry, this stock would never make it.”

“God damn it,” Schneider said quietly, “you ought to have let us know.”

Miller said: “There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll get you to water, if I have to dig for it.”

“God damn it,” Schneider said. “You son of a bitch. I’m half a mind to cut out on my own. I might just make it.”

“And you might not,” Miller said. “Do you know this country, Fred?”

“You know damn well I don’t,” Schneider said.

“Then you’d better stick with the party.”

Schneider looked from one of them to another. “You’re pretty sure the party’s going to stick with you?”

Miller’s tight face relaxed, and the loose ridges came again about the corners of his mouth. “I’m going ahead, just like I’ve been going. I just have to get the feel of the land again. I’ve been watching too close, trying too hard to remember. Once I get the feel of the country again, I’ll be all right. And the rest of you will be all right, too.”

Schneider nodded. “Hoge will stick with you, I guess. That right, Charley?”

Charley Hoge lifted his head abruptly, as if startled. He rubbed the stump of his wrist. “I go where God wills,” he said. “He will lead us to where water is when we are athirst.”

“Sure,” Schneider said. He turned to Andrews. “Well, that leaves us, Mr. Andrews. What do you say? It’s your wagon and your team. If you say we go south, Miller would have a hard time going against you.”

Andrews looked at the ground; between the dry thin blades of grass the earth was powdery. Though he did not look up, he felt the eyes of the others upon him. “We’ve come this far,” he said. “We might as well keep on with Miller.”

“All right,” Schneider said. “You’re all crazy. But it looks like I’ve got no choice. Do whatever you want to do.”

Miller’s thin flat lips lengthened in a slight smile. “You worry too much, Fred. If it gets that bad, we can always get by on Charley’s whisky. There must be nine or ten gallons of it left.”

“The horses will be glad to hear that,” Schneider said. “I can see us walking out of here on ten gallons of whisky.”

“You worry too much,” Miller said. “You’ll live to be a hundred and five.”

“I’ve had my say. I’ll go along with you. Now let me get some rest.” He lay on his side, rolled under the shade of the wagon, and came to rest with his back to them.