A Vast and Desolate Land Read online

  As Caleb rode to the back, Rab rode up toward the front of the herd. He spoke quickly to each of the men.

  This was a hard outfit. All of the men had been in battles of one kind or another, either singular fights with individual rivals or full-blown army fighting with Indians or Confederates or Yankees.

  For his part, Rab Sinclair threw in with the Confederate army during the war, until it suited him to get out of it. Fitzpatrick was a Union cavalryman who took some pride that he'd fought under a fellow named Custer. Caleb had never heard of Custer, but outside of a few of the generals — Lee and Grant, Jackson and Sherman — Caleb didn't know the names of many people who'd fought in the war. That seemed a lifetime ago, and it was none of his business, anyway. He'd been a boy during the war.

  Caleb passed the word to Fitzpatrick, and that man took the news without a trace of emotion.

  "I'll keep watch for the survivor," was all Fitz had to say.

  Then Caleb rode out to O'Toole.

  "We found some buff hunters killed a couple of miles from here," Caleb said. "Rab says it looks like Comanche done it."

  O'Toole's lips drew narrow and he shook his head. "That ain't good news. How long ago?"

  "Pretty fresh, judging from the bodies," Caleb said. "Birds was at 'em, but they'd not been picked at too much."

  "Hell," O'Toole said, which was his response to most everything. "I sure would like to run this herd back up to Las Vegas without having to fight no Injuns. How many hunters in the party?"

  Caleb thought on it. "I didn't count, but maybe a dozen."

  "Hell," O'Toole said again. "Hell on that. We ain't but ten, so they ain't afraid to fight a party our size. What's Rab say?"

  "Says to keep a watch for the survivor," Caleb said.

  "Hell," O'Toole said. "Hell on the survivor. He ain't my affair. Boy, you see any sign of Injun, you ride on and tell me right quick."

  "I'll do it," Caleb said, wheeling the buckskin back around to catch up to a red-headed sorrel that was wandering in search of decent grass. That sorrel had a mind of its own and had been a constant source of irritation for Caleb this entire journey.

  With Vazquez and Kuwatee at the front and Fitz and O'Toole in the rear, Caleb felt a sense of comfort as the cattle drive pushed on ahead. Half of the herd would be Caleb's. That was a gift to him from Rab Sinclair. Rab had helped him build a cabin on Rab's ranch southeast of Las Vegas. Caleb had spent time helping on the ranch, learning the way of things. And now Rab was setting Caleb up with his own stock. It was small, but it was a start. Provided there was no disease, it would be a good start. One man by himself could manage a hundred and fifty cattle, and Rab had given Caleb a couple of good pastures for the critters. The truth was that it was all open range, but only Rab Sinclair had any claim to the land. Mixed in with the steers they were bringing from Texas there was also a score of cows, and that was the real prize for Caleb. Those cows would one day be the mamas of his own stock.

  Caleb pushed the buckskin over closer to the other horses.

  The blue roan that Rab had named Cromwell was the real wrangler in this pack.

  When Rab Sinclair wasn't riding him, Cromwell set the pace for the remuda. The other horses followed the roan. When they strayed too far, the blue roan would run out and give them a bite and push them back with the others. Part trail horse, part pack leader, part stock dog.

  With the horses moving again, Caleb didn't have much to do other than ride behind and keep an eye on them.

  Out across the backs of the steers, through the dust, he could see Rab Sinclair moving from one vaquero to the next, letting them know about the fate of the hunting party.

  Then Rab rode forward up to where the half-breed Apache was sitting on a high spot. They talked for a long time so that the cattle caught up to them and began to pass them. Then the half-breed rode on ahead and Rab made out toward where Vazquez was riding, far ahead of everyone else.

  Vazquez was a part-time deputy sheriff in San Miguel County. He was fast with a gun and didn't know fear. Had he ridden out with Rab and discovered the fate of the hunting party, Vazquez's stomach would not have twisted the way that Caleb's did.

  "He ain't much for driving cattle, but if we get into a fight he'll be worth ten other men," Rab had said. "He fights like the devil."

  People had said the same about Rab Sinclair.

  Caleb Morgan didn't know the men in the hunting party. He didn't know their reputations or abilities. But he didn't think O'Toole was right. The Comanche might take on a hunting party of a dozen men, but they wouldn't try these hard men in this cattle drive. Not if they were smart.

  -3-

  Sancho Biscuit drove his wagon on ahead, trailing his mules on long lines about behind the chuck wagon.

  When he was satisfied that he'd picked a good spot, he called his team to a stop and unhitched them from the wagon.

  He staked the animals out near the wagon, but gave all of them lines enough that they could graze. Then he went about setting up for supper.

  Salt pork cooked in a skillet with onion, then beans cooked with the grease from the pork. It was decent enough food for the trail. Sancho kept green and red chili peppers that he cut up and added to everything he cooked. Beans flavored with chili peppers. Pork flavored with chili peppers. Beef steak flavored with chili peppers. When he made up corn dodgers, he flavored them with chili peppers. Some were hotter than others, and Sancho amused himself by watching the white men try to eat the hot ones. O'Toole and Fitzpatrick, in particular, would starve before they'd eat the hot peppers.

  He also made up flatbread with the flour he had, so that the entire meal could be wrapped up into the bread.

  Each day Sancho was the last to leave camp and the first to arrive to the next camp. He had the job of selecting the site for the camp each evening, but Rab Sinclair had instructed him to always choose the highest ground he could find.

  High ground on the Llano Estacado often could be measured out in inches. The Staked Plain all through here was flat as a saucer. A low hill in the distance might be eight miles away. But there were swales, depressions, even washes, and Rab Sinclair didn't want to be near anything like that. These were all places where an ambush could be made, or a man might hide in such a place until nightfall.

  Sancho used his shovel to clear away a small pit for making a fire. He gathered up some loose stones nearby to put around the pit. All the wood he had to burn is what he brought with him, so the fire was never bigger than it had to be to cook. And Rab didn't like more smoke than was necessary.

  Sancho had worked with trail bosses who liked a big fire that put off light all through the night. But not Rab Sinclair.

  Small fire. Little smoke. High ground. Keep your eyes open. Watch for sign. Watch for people.

  Always worried, that was Rab Sinclair.

  The only time Rab altered his desire for high ground was when he directed Sancho to a place where there was water. Somehow, Sinclair knew always where to find water. But those spots were few out here on the Staked Plain.

  He started the fire, using newspaper he'd picked up in a Texas town to get it going. Plenty of wind but no fuel meant that every fire had to be made with what a man brought with him. The possum belly of the wagon was loaded with wood, and the newspaper helped to get the fire lit when the wind would blow the flame off of every match. Sancho saw no need to worry about smoke. The wind here in this place whipped the smoke away before it had time to rise. The wind also made it a chore to get the fire started. Sancho had to get very near the newspaper to strike his match, and he had to cup his hand around the match to keep the flame from disappearing.

  In the distance he could see the cattle moving. From here they looked like the earth itself, shifting and swaying. They kicked up dust, but so much sand blew anyway that the dust above the cattle was only a darker tinge on the horizon.

  While the fire burned itself into hot coals, Sancho got his fry pans from the back of the chuck wagon and started preparing the m
eal. He chopped up the green and red chilies. He cut thin slices of the salt pork. He put a kettle of water near the fire for coffee. He had one fry pan for the pork and beans and one for the flatbread. He could make the bread better in a Dutch oven, but that was often too much work. The men did not care if they had good bread, they just wanted to eat as soon as they rode up to the wagon.

  By the time he looked up again, the steers were taking shape, moving out across the countryside. And here came Vazquez riding up to the chuck wagon.

  "It's a good spot to camp," he said. Vazquez and Sancho both spoke English. The Vaqueros mostly just spoke Spanish, though Carlos spoke good English when he wanted to. Kuwatee spoke very little.

  "One spot here is little different from any other," Sancho said. "Picket your hawss and get a plate. The bread will be finished in a moment."

  One by one, the riders all came in. All except the half-breed Kuwatee and Rab Sinclair. As the riders converged on the chuck wagon, Rab and the half-breed rode off to the north.

  "They not hungry?" Sancho asked.

  "Probably riding a scout," Fitz said, his mouth full of food.

  "Is there trouble?" Sancho asked. Having driven the wagon ahead in search of the campsite, he did not know about the discovery.

  "A few miles back we found a hunting party slaughtered by Comanche," Caleb said.

  Sancho cleared his throat. He walked to the front of his wagon and checked his shotgun and six-shooter. Both were loaded.

  "Does Rab think the Comanche are near?" Sancho asked.

  "Hell, of course they're near," O'Toole said. "Three hundred cattle and a wagon cutting out across this godforsaken place? They knew we was coming two days before we got here. I guarantee you, them damn Injuns hit that hunting party just to get their dander up in preparation for us."

  "If it comes to that, we'll give them a better fight than the hunting party did," Fitzpatrick said.

  The Union cavalryman exuded confidence in everything, but especially in a fight. "By God, I'd give them a charge they won't soon forget."

  "You don't charge Comanche. Not if you like your hair," O'Toole said. "When I was a trooper, we fought the Comanche. Only way to fight them is to hunker down, shoot back, and pray to God that they leave before nightfall. They sneak up on us in the middle of the night and we're as good as dead."

  "Put three men on night watch," Carlos said, his accent thick.

  "They won't care about the steers," O'Toole said. "They'll want the hawsses. But if they decide to take them hawsses, three men on night guard ain't gonna stop no Comanche raiding party."

  As they ate, the men dropped the bandannas from their faces. But when the food was finished, they raised the bandannas back up. The wind blew strong and picked up pieces of sand that stung the eyes and face. The wind helped the sand find its way into their food, and the grains were grit in their teeth. Even after they ate, the men would sometimes lift the flap of the bandanna to spit grains of sand.

  "Rab and the half-breed ain't back yet," Vazquez observed. "I want Miguel, O'Toole and Jorge to take the first watch. Caleb, you and Fitz join me on second watch. Two hours per watch. Every man on watch take a fresh hawss. Stay close to the remuda. Don't worry too much over the steers. If Rab and Kuwatee get back, Carlos you'll take watch with them on third watch. For now, second and third watch should bed down by the wagon. Get some sleep where you can."

  "Good advice," O'Toole said. "I've got a feeling this night is going to be hell."

  "I'll keep a couple of plates of food under this cloth for Rab and the half-breed," Sancho said.

  ***

  Rab Sinclair slid down out of the saddle and walked to where Kuwatee was kneeling beside his horse.

  "Unshod hawsses," Kuwatee said. "You can see the tracks here, riding east. I would say maybe as many as twenty or twenty-four hawsses, all with riders."

  Rab looked at the tracks as Kuwatee pointed them out. The tracks overlapped quite a bit, making it almost impossible for Rab to count the number of horses that had passed through here. The Comanche, to hide their numbers, rode in single file, or near enough to it. Looking at the tracks, Rab would have guessed closer to thirty riders.

  "How long ago do you think they came through?" Rab asked.

  Kuwatee nodded to a pile of droppings. "Not more than four days ago."

  "They came through here just before they attacked those hunters back yonder," Rab said.

  "Likely," Kuwatee agreed.

  "If they kept going east they won't be around here, then," Rab said.

  "They have gone to water," Kuwatee said. "They're riding dry."

  Rab stood up and looked across the horizon. He knew where some of the water holes were, and none were close or easy to find. A small range of squat mesas somewhere beyond the horizon marked a spot where there was sometimes a few small ponds. If enough rain had fallen in recent weeks, Rab knew they could find water enough for the cattle there. If not, they would have to drive the cattle on to the Pecos River where there would surely be some water this time of year.

  If the Comanche were moving east, they'd have a harder time finding water. They would have been better off traveling south where recent rains would still be standing in some of the washes.

  "May not be looking for water," Rab said. "The buffalo hunters had at least a couple of casks, and those were both broken open and spilled out."

  Kuwatee grunted a response.

  "If they do not seek water, then they seek scalps," he said. "If they saw us, they are following us."

  Rab nodded. "That's my thinking. And we're damned hard to miss with all these steers kicking up dust."

  The two men both swung back up into the saddles.

  "What do you think, Rab Sinclair?"

  "I think we should have got fresh hawsses before riding out this far," Rab said. "But we should ride back across our backtrail a ways and see if we see anything there."

  "Yes," Kuwatee agreed. "It would be better to know they are coming than to find them in our camp tonight."

  There was no love between the Apache and the Comanche, but that made little difference to Kuwatee. He held no loyalty to any tribe, nor to the whites. As a half-breed, he was ostracized by everyone. Though he'd spent much of his childhood with his father living among the Apache, when his father was killed in a battle with Buffalo Soldiers, Kuwatee was sent away. His mother's people refused to take him in. And so he found his way to Las Vegas working odd jobs.

  He might have fallen in with outlaws except that Rab Sinclair gave him a job working on his ranch. He paid Kuwatee very little, but the Apache half-breed was free to live on Rab's land where he could go unmolested.

  No friendship existed between Rab and Kuwatee, but there was a mutual respect that was as close to friendship as the half-breed had ever known.

  Together, they rode back to the east, following the path the cattle had cut out across the Llano Estacado earlier in the day.

  Their shadows stretched long in front of them, and the haze on the eastern horizon showed that night was approaching.

  They rode easy, sparing the mounts for a dash back to the camp if the Comanche appeared in front of them.

  They spread out, riding up to every high spot they could easily reach. They dismounted and walked, looking for sign. At last, when the sun was getting so low that they might worry about finding the camp, Rab signaled to Kuwatee, and they wheeled their horses and started back.

  "No sign of the Comanche," Kuwatee said, riding up even with Rab.

  "I didn't see anything, neither," Rab said.

  "Maybe we sleep easy tonight. Worry tomorrow."

  Rab chuckled. "Maybe. But I don't think I'll sleep easy tonight."

  The two riders continued riding blind off toward the northwest. The sun descended on the far horizon, leaving the riders to pick their way through the dark. But the herd was spread out over some distance, and when they came to the first of the steers they were then able to work their way among the cattle to find the camp.
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  "Rab Sinclair and Kuwatee riding into camp," Rab said loudly, knowing a guard would be awake.

  "I hear you, Rab," O'Toole called back.

  In the darkness, the two men found each other.

  O'Toole rode close to Rab Sinclair so he would not have to speak loud.

  "Vazquez put us on a three-man night watch. We're not worried so much about coyotes getting the critters as we are Comanche taking the hawsses, so we're sticking pretty close to the remuda."

  Kuwatee rode on ahead to picket and unsaddle his horse and give it a good rub down.

  "That's the right thing to do," Rab said. "Comanche ain't cattle ranchers, but they'll take a score and a half of good hawsses quick as you please."

  O'Toole nodded uselessly into the dark.

  "When I was in the cavalry, we had a couple dozen men riding a patrol out in west Texas. We bedded down in a canyon with the hawsses picketed in the center of our camp. Guards at each end of the canyon. We woke the next morning, every man camped at one end of the canyon was murdered. Throats cut. The hawsses was all gone. All that happened without a sound. Them Comanche is like ghosts in the night."

  "Just keep your ears open. No moon, you'll never see them, but you might hear something. Trust the hawsses," Rab said. "You understand me? Trust the hawsses. If they get restless, blow or start acting jittery, it's a threat nearby. Fire a round. Even if it's nothing, I'd rather be awakened for nothing than have my throat slit while I'm asleep."

  "Don't you worry, Rabbie," O'Toole said. "I'm a mite jumpy tonight. I'll pull the trigger to wake you up if the wind changes direction."

  "Fair enough," Rab said.

  "Sancho left a couple of plates for you on the back of the wagon, covered 'em up with a cloth. It'll be cold now, but better than nothing."

  Rab joined Kuwatee in tending to his mount, and then the two hurried to eat and bed down before it was their turn to stand watch.