both the Rocky Mountain beaver trade and more than one lucrative journey to the land of long-horned ranchos. If Peg-Leg ended up drafting another ten or more recruits, then their foray against the land of the missions would make each of the riders a wealthy man no more than weeks from now.
But if they attempted to punch their way into and out of California with too weak a force—hurled up against not only the vaqueros tending the ranchos but small squads of Mexican
soldados
as well—then this daringride west into that foreign land lapped by the western ocean could well be their last hurraw. And he would never see his family again.
The days had not only been growing longer but hotter too, each night not nearly so cool as they had been. Summer was ready to bloom. The knitting of the stars overhead had taken a definite northward shift, along with that tilt to the path the sun scoured across the sky each day. It glowed hotter every morning, and hung up there longer every afternoon.
Then today they had run across these mists of troublesome buffalo gnats—disgusting little creatures so tiny a man might miss them if it weren’t for the fact that they traveled in clouds that swarmed and swirled around the heads of their horses and pack animals, hovered around every square inch of bare flesh the men had exposed to the galling heat. It was as if the creatures’ very feet were on fire when they alighted on his flesh, even before the gnats began to bite and burrow.
No wonder the shaggy buffalo had long, coarse, matted hair shrouding its eyes. An admirable protection from these annoying insects that zealously followed the herds, or any other warm-blooded, breathing creature who happened to pass close enough that the cloudy swarms sensed the body heat of those other unsuspecting mammals.
By midafternoon when they stopped to let the horses drink, the swarms surprisingly drifted off, theirs a dark mist weaving up the cooler bottom of a coulee as the sun finally appeared committed to falling toward the western horizon that day. Bass knelt on the creekbank, leaned over, and drank alongside the men and animals. Then he freed a second black-silk kerchief where he had knotted it around the strap to his shooting pouch and soaked the cloth in the cold water. After wringing it out, he rubbed it over his face, pulling his long hair aside so he could swab the back of his clammy neck. That done, he crudely knotted it around his long, coarse hair, allowing the damp handkerchief to drip, drip, drip down his backbone as he stood and stepped over to Williams.
“Was just cogitating on somethin’, Bill,” he began.
Williams looked up at Bass. “The heat can damn well swell up a man’s head like that. It’s a fact.”
“I figger you got yourself a damned good reason why you’re heading southwest across the wastes to California this time of year.”
“I do.” And Williams bent over for one last noisy slurp at the creek. Then he stood and explained. “Any other time of the year, this right here would be a problem.”
The leader gestured at the gurgling creek.
“Water,” Titus observed.
“Water,” Williams repeated. “Come late summer, them creeks and springs and seeps down in that country we’re gonna have to ride through will all be drying up—disappearing into dust.”
A few of the other riders were stepping closer as Scratch remarked, “Weather’d be cooler come autumn.”
“But with nary a drop of rain or a flake of snow to refill them waterholes,” Williams declared. “Naw, my friend—you’ll see for your own self that there’s but one time of the year to make this crossing. ’Specially when we’re pushing thousands of horses ahead of us, and every last one of ’em needs a lot of water to make it back to these here mountains.”
“Only gonna get hotter from here on out,” Scratch stated. “South where we’re headed.”
“We ain’t see hot yet,” Williams warned. “Ain’t seen nothing of dry either.
But if they attempted to punch their way into and out of California with too weak a force—hurled up against not only the vaqueros tending the ranchos but small squads of Mexican
soldados
as well—then this daringride west into that foreign land lapped by the western ocean could well be their last hurraw. And he would never see his family again.
The days had not only been growing longer but hotter too, each night not nearly so cool as they had been. Summer was ready to bloom. The knitting of the stars overhead had taken a definite northward shift, along with that tilt to the path the sun scoured across the sky each day. It glowed hotter every morning, and hung up there longer every afternoon.
Then today they had run across these mists of troublesome buffalo gnats—disgusting little creatures so tiny a man might miss them if it weren’t for the fact that they traveled in clouds that swarmed and swirled around the heads of their horses and pack animals, hovered around every square inch of bare flesh the men had exposed to the galling heat. It was as if the creatures’ very feet were on fire when they alighted on his flesh, even before the gnats began to bite and burrow.
No wonder the shaggy buffalo had long, coarse, matted hair shrouding its eyes. An admirable protection from these annoying insects that zealously followed the herds, or any other warm-blooded, breathing creature who happened to pass close enough that the cloudy swarms sensed the body heat of those other unsuspecting mammals.
By midafternoon when they stopped to let the horses drink, the swarms surprisingly drifted off, theirs a dark mist weaving up the cooler bottom of a coulee as the sun finally appeared committed to falling toward the western horizon that day. Bass knelt on the creekbank, leaned over, and drank alongside the men and animals. Then he freed a second black-silk kerchief where he had knotted it around the strap to his shooting pouch and soaked the cloth in the cold water. After wringing it out, he rubbed it over his face, pulling his long hair aside so he could swab the back of his clammy neck. That done, he crudely knotted it around his long, coarse hair, allowing the damp handkerchief to drip, drip, drip down his backbone as he stood and stepped over to Williams.
“Was just cogitating on somethin’, Bill,” he began.
Williams looked up at Bass. “The heat can damn well swell up a man’s head like that. It’s a fact.”
“I figger you got yourself a damned good reason why you’re heading southwest across the wastes to California this time of year.”
“I do.” And Williams bent over for one last noisy slurp at the creek. Then he stood and explained. “Any other time of the year, this right here would be a problem.”
The leader gestured at the gurgling creek.
“Water,” Titus observed.
“Water,” Williams repeated. “Come late summer, them creeks and springs and seeps down in that country we’re gonna have to ride through will all be drying up—disappearing into dust.”
A few of the other riders were stepping closer as Scratch remarked, “Weather’d be cooler come autumn.”
“But with nary a drop of rain or a flake of snow to refill them waterholes,” Williams declared. “Naw, my friend—you’ll see for your own self that there’s but one time of the year to make this crossing. ’Specially when we’re pushing thousands of horses ahead of us, and every last one of ’em needs a lot of water to make it back to these here mountains.”
“Only gonna get hotter from here on out,” Scratch stated. “South where we’re headed.”
“We ain’t see hot yet,” Williams warned. “Ain’t seen nothing of dry either.
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