B. M. BOWER: Historical Novels, Westerns & Old West Sagas (Illustrated Edition). B. M. Bower
when they had left town, settled clown to a dogged, plodding half walk, half trot which is variously described upon the range; Luck, for instance, calling it poco-poco; while the Happy Family termed it running-walk, trail-trot, fox-trot—whatever came easiest to their tongues at the time. Call it what they pleased, the horses came to a point where they took the gait mechanically whenever the country was decently level. They forgot to shy at strange objects, and they never danced away from a foot lifted to the stirrup when the sky was flaunting gorgeous bantiers to herald the coming of the sun. More than once they were thankful to have the dust washed from their nostrils and to let that pass for a drink. For water holes were few and far between when they struck that wide, barren land ridged here and there with hills of rock.
Twice the trail of the six horses was lost, because herds of cattle had passed between those who rode in baste before, and those who followed in haste a day’s ride behind. They saw riders in the distance nearly every day, but only occasionally did any Indians come within speaking distance. These were mostly headed townward in wagons and rickety old buggies, with the men riding dignifiedly on the spring seat and the squaws and papooses sitting flat in the bottom behind. These family parties became more and more inclined to turn and stare after the Happy Family, as if they were puzzling over the errand that would take nine men riding close-grouped across the desert, with four pack-horses to proclaim the journey a long one.
When the trail swung sharply away from the dim wagon road and into the northwest where the land lay parched and pitiless under the hot sun, the Happy Family hitched their gun-belts into place, saw to it that their canteens were brimming with the water that was so precious, and turned doggedly that way, following the lead of Applehead, who knew the country fairly well, and of Luck, who did not know the country, but who knew that he meant to overhaul Ramon Chavez and Bill Holmes, go where they would, and take them back to jail. If they could ride across this barren stretch, said Luck to Applehead, he and his bunch could certainly follow them.
“Well, this is kinda takin’ chances,” Applehead observed soberly, “unless Ramon, he knows whar’s the water-holes. If he does hit water regular, I calc’late we kin purty nigh foller his lead. They’s things I don’t like about the way this here trail is leading out this way, now I’m tellin’ yuh! Way we’re goin’, we’ll be in the Seven Lakes country ‘fore we know it. Looks to me like them greasers must stand in purty well with the Navvies—‘n’ if they do, it’ll be dang hard pullin’ to git ‘em away ‘n! outa here. ‘N’ if they don’t stand in, they’d oughta bore more west than what they’re doin’. Looks dang queer to me, now I’m tellin’ ye!”
“Well, all I want is to overtake them. We’ll do it, too. The little grain these horses get is showing its worth right now,” Luck cheered him. “They’re keeping up better than I was afraid they would. We’ve got that advantage—a Mexican don’t as a rule grain his horses, and the chances are that Ramon thought more about the gold than he did about carrying horse-feed. We can hold on longer than he can, Applehead.”
“We can’t either,” Applehead disputed, “because if Ramon takes a notion he’ll steal fresh horses from the Injuns.”
“I thought you said he stood in with the Injuns,” Weary spoke up from the ambling group, behind. “You’re kinda talkin’ in circles, ain’t you, Applehead?”
“Well, I calc’late yuh jest about got to talk in circles to git anywheres near Ramon,” Applehead retorted, looking back at the others. “They’s so, dang many things he MIGHT be aimin’ to do, that I ain’t been right easy in my mind the last day or two, and I’m tellin’ ye so. ‘S like a storm—I kin smell trouble two days off; that’s mebby why I’m still alive an’ able to fork a boss. An’ I’m tellin’ you right now, I kin smell trouble stronger’n a polecat under the chicken-house!”
“Well, by cripes, let ‘er come!” Big Medicine roared cheerfully, inspecting a battered plug of “chewin’” to see where was the most inviting corner in which to set his teeth. “Me’n’ trouble has locked horns more’n once, ‘n’ I’d feel right lonesome if I thought our trails’d never cross agin. Why, down in Coconino County—” He went off into a long recital of certain extremely bloody chapters in the history of that famed county as chronicled by one Bud Welch, otherwise known as Big Medicine—and not because of his modesty, you may be sure.
Noon of that day found them plodding across a high, barren mesa under a burning sun. Since red dawn they had been riding, and the horses showed their need of water. They lagged often into a heavy-footed walk and their ears drooped dispiritedly. Even Big Medicine found nothing cheerful to say. Luck went out of his way to gain the top of every little rise, and to scan the surrounding country through his field glasses. The last time he came sliding down to the others his face was not so heavy with anxiety and his voice when he spoke had a new briskness.
“There’s a ranch of some kind straight ahead about two miles,” he announced. “I could see a green patch, so there must be water around there somewhere. We’ll make noon camp there, and maybe we can dig up a little information. Ramon must have stopped there for water, and we’ll find out just how far we are behind.”
The ranch, when they finally neared it, proved to be a huddle of low, octagon-shaped huts (called hogans) made of short cedar logs and plastered over with adobe, with a hole in the center of the lid-like roof to let the smoke out and a little light in; and dogs, that ran out and barked and yelped and trailed into mourning rumbles and then barked again; and half-naked papooses that scurried like rabbits for shelter when they rode up; and two dingy, shapeless squaws that disappeared within a hogan and peered out at one side of the blanket door.
Luck started to dismount and make some attempt at a polite request for water, and for information as well, but Applehead objected and finally had his way.
If the squaws could speak English, he argued, they would lie unless they refused to talk at all. As to the water, if there was any around the place the bunch could find it and help themselves. “These yer Navvies ain’t yore Buffalo-Bill Sioux,” he pointed out to Luck. “Yuh can’t treat ‘em the same. The best we kin look fer is to be left alone—an’ I’m tellin’ ye straight.”
Luck gave the squalid huts a long stare and turned away toward the corral and a low shed that served as a stable. A rusty old mower and a toothless rake and a rickety buckboard stood baking in the sun, and a few stunted hens fluttered away from their approach. In the corral a mangy pony blinked in dejected slumber; and all the while, the three dogs followed them and barked and yapped and growled, until Pink turned in the saddle with the plain intention of stopping the clamor with a bullet or two.
“Ye better let ‘em alone!” Applehead warned sharply, and Pink put up his gun unfired and took down his rope.
“The darned things are getting on my nerves!” he complained, and wheeled suddenly in pursuit of the meanest-looking dog of the three. “I can stand a decent dog barking at me, but so help me Josephine, I draw the line at Injun curs!”
The dog ran yelping toward the hogans with Pink hard at its heels swinging his loop menacingly. When the dog, with a last hysterical yelp, suddenly flattened its body and wriggled under a corner of the shed, Pink turned and rode after the others, who had passed the corral and were heading for the upper and of a small patch of green stuff that looked like a half-hearted attempt at a vegetable garden. As he passed the shed an Indian in dirty overalls and gingham shirt craned his neck around the doorway and watched him malevolently; but Pink, sighting the green patch and remembering their dire need of water, was kicking his horse into a trot and never once thought to cast an eye over his shoulder.
In that arid land, where was green vegetation you may be sure there was water also. And presently the nine were distributed along a rod or two of irrigating ditch, thankfully watching the swallows of water go sliding hurriedly down the outstretched gullets of their horses that leaned forward with half-bent, trembling knees, fetlock deep in the wet sand of the ditch-banks.
“Drink, you sons-uh-guns, drink!” Weary exclaimed jubilantly, “you’ve sure got it coming—and mama, how I do hate to see a good horse suffering for a feed or water, or shelter from a storm!”