and gold faded from the sky, the blues became deeper. There was a dull purple along the far-off hills, and a faint purplish tone to the very air, it seemed.
We moved the remaining cattle into the darkening day, into the slow-coming night.
|
Under the soft glory of the skies, they moved in a slow-plodding stream, heads down, tongues lolling and dusty. They moved like drunken things, drunken with exhaustion, dying on their feet of thirst, but moving west.
The riders sagged wearily in their saddles, their eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion, but westward we moved. The shrill yells were gone, even the bawling of the cattle had ceased, and they plodded on through the utter stillness of the evening.
A heifer dropped back, and I circled and slapped her with the coiled rope. She scarcely flinched, and only after the dun nipped at her did she move, trancelike and staggering.
More cattle had fallen. Twice I stopped to pour a little from my canteen into the mouths of fallen cows . . . both of them got up. Some of the others would be revived by the cool night air and would come on because they knew nowhere else to go.
And then the breeze lifted, bringing with it the smell of the river.
Heads came up, they started to walk faster, then to trot, and of a sudden they burst into a headlong run, a wild stampede toward the water that lay ahead. Some fell, but they struggled up and continued on.
There was the hoofs' brief thunder, then silence, and the smell of dust.
Alone I rode the drag of a herd long gone. Alone, in the gathering night. And there was no sound then but the steady clop-clop of the dun's hard hoofs upon the baked ground, and the lingering smell of the dust.
The stars were out when I came up to the Pecos, and there our wagons were, and our fire.
When the dun stopped, its legs were trembling. I stepped down heavily and leaned for a moment against the horse, and then I slowly stripped the saddle and bridle from him and turned him loose to roll, which was all the care most mustangs wanted or would accept.
Zebony cane in to the fire. "They've drunk, and we're holding them back from the river."
"Good . . . no water until daybreak." Sitting down near the fire I took the Patterson from its scabbard and began to clean it. No natter what, that Patterson had to be in shape.
"'I want a four-man guard on those cattle," I said, "and one man staked out away from camp, to listen. This is an Indian crossing too. The Comanches used it long before any white man came into this country, and they still use it."
Mrs. Stark brought me a cup of coffee . "Drink this," she said. "You've earned it."
It was coffee, all right, laced with a shot of Irish, and it set me up somewhat.
So I finished cleaning my rifle, then went to the wagon and dug out my duffel-bag.
From it I took my two pistols. One I belted on, the other I shoved down behind my belt with the butt right behind my vest.
When I came back to the fire, Pa was there. He looked at that gun on my hip, but he said nothing at all. Tom Sandy looked around at me. "Never knew you to wear a handgun," he said, "you expecting trouble?"
"You're tired, Tom," I said, "but you get mighty little sleep tonight. I want all the barrels filled now."
"'Now?"
Tom stared at me. "You crazy? Everybody is dead tired. Why, you couldn't-- "Yes, I can. You get busy---every barrel full before we sleep." And they filled them, too.
It was past one o'clock in the morning when I finally stretched out, slowly straightening my stiff muscles, trying to let the tenseness out of my body, but it was several minutes before I could sort of let myself go... and then I slept.
The first thing I heard when I awoke was the water, the wonderful, wonderful sound of water. Even the Pecos, as treacherous a stream as ever was.., but it was water.
The sky was faintly gray. I had been asleep almost two hours, judging by the Big Dipper. lolling over, I sat up and put on my hat. Everything was still.
I pulled on my boots, belted on
We moved the remaining cattle into the darkening day, into the slow-coming night.
|
Under the soft glory of the skies, they moved in a slow-plodding stream, heads down, tongues lolling and dusty. They moved like drunken things, drunken with exhaustion, dying on their feet of thirst, but moving west.
The riders sagged wearily in their saddles, their eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion, but westward we moved. The shrill yells were gone, even the bawling of the cattle had ceased, and they plodded on through the utter stillness of the evening.
A heifer dropped back, and I circled and slapped her with the coiled rope. She scarcely flinched, and only after the dun nipped at her did she move, trancelike and staggering.
More cattle had fallen. Twice I stopped to pour a little from my canteen into the mouths of fallen cows . . . both of them got up. Some of the others would be revived by the cool night air and would come on because they knew nowhere else to go.
And then the breeze lifted, bringing with it the smell of the river.
Heads came up, they started to walk faster, then to trot, and of a sudden they burst into a headlong run, a wild stampede toward the water that lay ahead. Some fell, but they struggled up and continued on.
There was the hoofs' brief thunder, then silence, and the smell of dust.
Alone I rode the drag of a herd long gone. Alone, in the gathering night. And there was no sound then but the steady clop-clop of the dun's hard hoofs upon the baked ground, and the lingering smell of the dust.
The stars were out when I came up to the Pecos, and there our wagons were, and our fire.
When the dun stopped, its legs were trembling. I stepped down heavily and leaned for a moment against the horse, and then I slowly stripped the saddle and bridle from him and turned him loose to roll, which was all the care most mustangs wanted or would accept.
Zebony cane in to the fire. "They've drunk, and we're holding them back from the river."
"Good . . . no water until daybreak." Sitting down near the fire I took the Patterson from its scabbard and began to clean it. No natter what, that Patterson had to be in shape.
"'I want a four-man guard on those cattle," I said, "and one man staked out away from camp, to listen. This is an Indian crossing too. The Comanches used it long before any white man came into this country, and they still use it."
Mrs. Stark brought me a cup of coffee . "Drink this," she said. "You've earned it."
It was coffee, all right, laced with a shot of Irish, and it set me up somewhat.
So I finished cleaning my rifle, then went to the wagon and dug out my duffel-bag.
From it I took my two pistols. One I belted on, the other I shoved down behind my belt with the butt right behind my vest.
When I came back to the fire, Pa was there. He looked at that gun on my hip, but he said nothing at all. Tom Sandy looked around at me. "Never knew you to wear a handgun," he said, "you expecting trouble?"
"You're tired, Tom," I said, "but you get mighty little sleep tonight. I want all the barrels filled now."
"'Now?"
Tom stared at me. "You crazy? Everybody is dead tired. Why, you couldn't-- "Yes, I can. You get busy---every barrel full before we sleep." And they filled them, too.
It was past one o'clock in the morning when I finally stretched out, slowly straightening my stiff muscles, trying to let the tenseness out of my body, but it was several minutes before I could sort of let myself go... and then I slept.
The first thing I heard when I awoke was the water, the wonderful, wonderful sound of water. Even the Pecos, as treacherous a stream as ever was.., but it was water.
The sky was faintly gray. I had been asleep almost two hours, judging by the Big Dipper. lolling over, I sat up and put on my hat. Everything was still.
I pulled on my boots, belted on
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