Centennial (81 page)

The second day was miserable, with the men seeing at first hand the effect of this perilous journey on the cattle. Several cows seemed to go half mad and men had to lash at them and beat them over the head, forcing them back onto the trail.

In the late afternoon the cows began lowing, and soon the entire herd was voicing its protest in a surge of sound that rose and fell and entered the heart of every man who heard it.

The sun was unbearable. Men would ride hard and break into a sweat, but the air was so dry that they never became wet. They gulped enormous quantities of coffee but did not have to urinate. Those with dysentery—half the crew—had racking bowel movements but passed no water. And alkali dust covered everything—the eyes of the men above their bandannas and the eyes of the cattle.

Ordinary cows could not have survived this ordeal, but the thrifty longhorn, accustomed to thorns, struggled on doggedly, following Stonewall. In this time of trial each cowboy developed a positive love for that cantankerous old steer, his hipbones jutting out like those of a skeleton. It was as if he alone, among all the cattle, understood why this waterless trek was necessary, and he would do what he could to bring it to a rightful conclusion.

That night was most difficult, especially for the drags. Jim and Coker had been in the saddle now for thirty-nine hours without real sleep or a hot meal and they were desperately tired, but the cattle, scenting no relief ahead, decided to return to the Concho, where they last had water. It seemed to Jim that he spent the entire night at a gallop, bringing steers and cows back into the fold, and often as he dashed into the moonlight, he would be aware of Mr. Skimmerhorn, riding beside him or ahead, working just as hard.

At dawn, the herd having been held intact, Jim collapsed on the ground, and Skimmerhorn said, “Let him sleep.”

He was there when Nate Person rode back, his dark sleepless eyes sunk deep in his head. He brought good news. “The gap is dead ahead. Fourteen miles beyond it is the Pecos.”

“Water?” Poteet asked.

“Lots,” Person replied, “but only at Horsehead is it sweet. Even a short distance north or south ... almost stagnant ... pure alkali. It’ll kill every cow that drinks it.”

“Is the Horsehead marked?”

“The skulls are still in place.” He referred to the line of horses’ skulls fixed on posts that marked the way to the crossing. “I’ll be there to help.” And back he rode to chart the course for them.

The last day was almost unbearable. Thirty-two miles to cover, eighteen to the pass through the mountains, fourteen from there to water, and this could be explained to men, but not to the cattle. One cow, driven mad by thirst, set off on a straight line to nowhere. Jim, knowing this particular cow, tried to turn her back, but she brushed past him as if he did not exist. He called for help, and Mr. Poteet thought of enlisting the aid of Stonewall, but he was too far away, at the head of the column keeping things in order, so the cow was allowed to pursue her way. Jim watched her march into the bleakest part of the desert, stumble, rise again, fall to her knees, rise once more, and fall for the last time as buzzards swooped down to claim her.

“It’s all right,” Mr. Poteet said.

“I raised her,” Jim said, tears in his eyes. “She dropped good calves.” She had been the pride of the Lloyd herd, and he was powerless to save her.

The dreadful routine was now broken. In the distant west appeared a column of dust, and as it drew closer it became a momentary vision of men on horses with a wagon, only to dissolve again into dust.

“What the hell can that be?” Lasater asked, and everyone kept his attention on the dust, thinking that it must be Nate Person, but it was not.

It was indeed a company of men, seven or eight perhaps, leading a wagon drawn by mules.

“There’s no army unit around here,” Savage said.

“Could it be the Pettis gang?” Skimmerhorn asked with real apprehension.

“No, they wouldn’t range this far south,” Poteet assured him, but he, too, watched the approaching column with concern.

“Move that remuda in closer,” he called to Canby, who rode out to warn Buck. “Get the wagon, too.” And Nacho headed his mules back toward the column.

These precautions were unnecessary, for when the horsemen were close enough to be identified, they proved to be one of the strangest processions ever to cross the Llano. The man in the lead was a lean, sharp-eyed cattleman, thirty-two years old, named Charles Goodnight, the Christopher Columbus of the prairies. He had been everywhere, the first man to cross these plains with cattle, and now he was going home after having sold his herd at Fort Union.

He knew Poteet. “You can make it,” he assured the cowboys. “Your cattle are in bad shape, but they can handle the mountain and then they’ll have water.”

He impressed upon Poteet the necessity of keeping his water-starved cattle away from the alkali sections of the Pecos. “Only at Horsehead is the water good. Station your best men north and south and keep your critters away from the salts.”

“What’s in the wagon?” Poteet asked.

“Oliver Loving,” he said solemnly. “My partner and friend. Killed by Comanche.” He spoke briefly of Loving’s character and his knowledge of range life. “He made me promise one thing. Didn’t want his bones buried in a foreign land.”

Goodnight’s men had flattened kerosene tins to make a metal covering for the wooden coffin in which they were transporting the body. They had then placed it in a spacious wooden outer coffin and filled the space between with charcoal, so that the body would ride easily.

“We’ll bury him in Weatherford, Texas, the way he wanted,” Goodnight said, and he reassembled his men to continue their long march across the desert. “It’s easier,” he said, “when you don’t have cattle.”

Before he left, Mr. Skimmerhorn asked, “You’ll be passing Tom Lloyd’s ranch, won’t you?”

“Tom’s dead.”

“I know. This is his boy.”

Mr. Goodnight looked at the boy and said, “You must be about fourteen. Good age to be startin’ on the trail.”

“What I had in mind,” Skimmerhorn said, “was that Mrs. Lloyd gave Mr. Poteet about two hundred longhorns...”

“Two hundred and eighteen, less one that died this morning,” Jim said.

“And we’re taking them to Fort Sumner to sell ... on consignment, as it were.”

“No market at Fort Sumner. None at all. John Chisum sells ’em all they need.”

Jim’s face showed his anguish at such news. His mother needed that money, but Mr. Skimmerhorn continued: “I’ve been watching these cattle. I’d like to buy them all-right now. And give you the balance of the money for Mrs. Lloyd.”

“You’ve got yourself a bargain, sir. Didn’t catch the name.”

“Skimmerhorn.”

Mr. Goodnight hesitated. “You’re not old enough to have led the Colorado militia ...”He stopped.

“At the Rattlesnake Buttes massacre? No, sir. That was my father.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, sir. But if you want to send Mrs. Lloyd the money by me, I’d be honored by such evidence of your trust.”

Skimmerhorn counted out the bills for the two hundred and seventeen longhorns, less the advance that Mr. Poteet had given, and Mr. Goodnight tucked it into his belt. Bidding the cowboys farewell, he headed his cortege eastward toward Fort Chadbourne.

“You trustin’ him with all that money for a widow?” Savage asked, and Mr. Poteet said, “If you can’t trust Charles Goodnight, there’s no man on earth you can.” Then he interrupted himself to ask, “What’s wrong with that boy?” and he sent Mr. Skimmerhorn to where Jim Lloyd was standing beside his horse, looking at the disappearing column, his shoulders heaving in silent grief.

“What’s the matter, son?” Skimmerhorn asked, and the fourteen-year-old boy mumbled, “I’ll never see my mother again ... nor my brothers.” Skimmerhorn said nothing, for he suspected that this would be so.

They now led the cattle across the last bleak stretch of alkali flats and into the mountains, knowing that when the animals smelled the water ahead they would rush to it. But manipulating them over this final desert was bound to be difficult. The cattle were mad with thirst and could no longer be bullied. A steer cut off on his own, like the cow before him, and like her he died. The buzzards kept steady watch, floating in the cloudless sky, noting each faltering step.

It was now that Stonewall proved himself invaluable; he was a kind of Old Testament prophet, leading his stricken cohorts to a better land, just beyond the mountains. Perhaps he, sooner than the others, smelled the distant water; at any rate, he kept the animals moving and disciplined those near him if they attempted to break loose.

At the top of the pass, that strange cleft between hills so flat they might have been scraped across the top with a ruler, the cattle sensed that water lay below them in the distant valley and they surged forward with new hope. But as they did so it was the cows, not the bulls or steers, who took charge. Some extra responsibility for keeping life alive animated them, and rudely they shoved the males aside, pushing and knocking until they came to the head of the column, where only the patience of Stonewall kept them in order.

On and on they pressed, mad for water and the continuation of life. Their gaunt necks reached out and their dust-filled eyes peered through the haze as their legs pumped mechanically, driven by the last surges of energy within their shrunken frames.

“Keep up with ’em!” Poteet shouted to his men. “Keep ’em from the alkali.”

The cowboys started at an easy canter, then found themselves pulled into a gallop by the running herd. Dust rose over the arid plains and buzzards. flew higher to escape it. Jim Lloyd, riding drag, had no problem keeping his charges moving forward. They were far ahead of him and it was all he could do with his tired horse to keep up with them.

Now Nate Person rode back from the river, shouting, “Keep ’em to the south!”

He and Poteet and Skimmerhorn moved to the right point to help Lasater force the stampede away from the bad water, and by skillful riding they turned the herd.

“I think we’ve got ’em!” Poteet called, for the river was less than a mile away and they were headed in the right direction.

But now a tragic thing happened. Stonewall, having safely brought the herd so far, smelled water and set out for the nearest source, which happened to lie north, just where the alkali was most concentrated.

“Head him off,” Poteet yelled, but it was impossible to turn him. What was worse, the cows were following him and a great pressure developed from behind.

“Stop him!” Person shouted. “Goddamnit, Lasater! Stop him!”

Lasater, who was closest to the old steer, did not hesitate. Spurring his horse, he rode directly at Stonewall, intending to divert him, but the big steer simply ran down both man and horse, throwing both to the ground. Now only Poteet stood between the cattle and disaster.

Without waiting, he rode hard at Stonewall, and again the big steer tried to run the man down, his old partner Poteet.

When the trail boss saw what the steer intended he reined in his horse and waited till the big brute was upon him. Then, aiming his revolver carefully, he destroyed the wonderful. animal. With a last look of astonishment at Poteet, the steer stumbled forward and fell into the dust. Instantly Poteet spurred his horse away from the spot, and with help from Skimmerhorn, held the hesitant cattle and headed them for the good water.

They surged into the stream past the skeleton horseheads and stood there for some minutes before drinking. Then, unlike the men who drank in foolish gulps, they took small sips, lowing as they did, until the whole muddy stream echoed with their joy.

Jim Lloyd and Coker found Lasater stretched out unconscious, but Mr. Skimmerhorn, who listened to his heart and felt for broken bones, told them, “He’ll be all right.” Now Ragland called, “Poteet’s missing,” and everyone tried to reconstruct where the boss had been.

“He was riding like hell when we turned the cows back,” Skimmerhorn said, and they spread out. Canby found him back down the trail a bit, toward the bad water. He had dismounted and was standing beside Stonewall, and as the younger Texans rode by in their search, Canby motioned them away, and they left him there, each cowboy with his own memory of that splendid steer.

The Pecos was a preposterous river. For the past five weeks these men had dreamed of the moment when they would lead their cattle down to it, and for the last three waterless days it had been an obsession. Now here it was, about eighteen feet across, as shallow as six inches in some parts, only a little deeper in others. There wasn’t much water, but it kept flowing. Two hundred cows would crowd into the good part and drink like siphons, and minutes later the water would stand at the same level. Jim Lloyd tried it, and it was brakish, tasting of alkali even at the good part. Farther up you couldn’t keep the water in your mouth, let alone swallow it.

“Hell, I could jump that,” Ragland said, and he stepped back, hunched up his shoulders and pumped his legs like pistons on one of the new steam engines. With a snort he sped across the even upland, tore down the steep bank and gave a mighty roar as he leaped into the hot air brooding over the river.

He would have made it, too, except that he found no secure place from which to take off. He fell two feet short, landed with a resounding splash, fought to maintain a foothold and fell backward in the water. For the rest of the trip, cowboys at night would slap their legs and ask each other, “Remember when Old Rags said he could jump the Pecos? Hell, he missed by a mile!” Henceforth he would be Old Rags, the highest compliment a cowboy could pay another. It would never be Old Gompert or Old Savage and certainly not Old Buck. That would be inconceivable.