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Short Stories & Tall Tales
The 10 Horse Drive
Von Harter
Brantmeyer shifted in the saddle. With a small wince for the strength of the sun, he tried to will away the dark haze of last night’s drink. He tipped the sombrero back to scrub a little wet mud from his face.
“Lordy.” On his head, the fancy black sombrero was a lead weight. Designs of silver thread that made it so special now made the hat weigh twice as heavy on a brittle skull.
The horses walked with heads down and ears unmoving. The remuda. Brantmeyer forced a long hiss through his teeth and winced at a glimpse of burning sky. Mountains closed in. He forced his eyes to focus.
Hung-over or no, Brantmeyer stood in the stirrups to look around. Mescalero didn’t give an inch and a Lipan could be worse. Rubbing the pain from his eyes, he looked for oddities. A pile of brush out of place. A spot in the earth that wasn’t weathered enough. Anything that might tell of Apaches hiding, waiting to strike.
Brantmeyer’s teeth bared in anger.
Johnny and Emanuel were supposed to be up here, too.
It might be the modern era of 1852, but the Pecos country was rife with mal hombres and tended to be a little unhealthy.
He gripped the back of his neck and wished the whiskey to perdition. Aye, and Dagger for stealing it from the cousie’s bedding. A little glum, he loosened the thong over the hammer of the pistol. The hand came to rest on the butt of Grampa’s Kentucky Rifle.
The sombrero tipped back, casting the full force of a hot sky on bloodshot eyes.
He glanced around again. Birds fluttered here and there, snatching at bugs the horses stirred up. A small feeling of relief came to him.
The herd was a quarter mile back and somebody would have to show up, if only to get a fresh mount.
He rubbed his mouth. Ol’ Dagger might even have a drop or two left in the jug.
One hand reached for the canteen strap. He raised the rawhide bottle, pulling the cork with his teeth, and drank. The cork was popped back in, the canteen hung with more care than usual. He peered at brush crowding the trail.
The only signs were deer and horse. He stood again, glancing back. Nobody. Brantmeyer squatted in the saddle tugging the sombrero down hard.
Scowling at the dusty copper mane, he plucked at a vest pocket. The poke was gone. Last night, Dagger asked for a smoke. Teeth ground and Brantmeyer threw a hard look at the sky. A glint of light shot into his eyes and he winced.
His head came up, the eyes wide and seeking the source of the light.
Hoofs pounded on the back trail. He twisted, the pistol in his hand. A trio of longhorns ran up the trail. Spotting Brantmeyer, they plowed to a halt and bolted into the brush.
A blinding pain not even the whiskey could induce exploded in his head and he was thrown over the saddle horn. The horse darted into the herd. The whole remuda bolted, scattering with eyes walling and terrified cries echoing off desert mountains.
#
Hung-over and repenting a wasted life, Brantmeyer groaned. Laws, laws, but if he never took another drink, it would be too soon. One hand reached up to rub his face. Flies roared away.
“Didn’t think I was that stinky,” he said, chuckling, and winced.
He peered at surrounding brush. Even in the dark, he could see the horses were gone. By gum, he must have passed out. Guilt swelling in his heart, he looked around.
Brantmeyer clutched at his head. The sombrero. Granny had that hat made special for him. The hand came away wet.
Scowling, he sniffed, but his head was clogged. Not rain, it was sticky. Nor had anybody smeared cow flop on him. When caught snoozing on the job, that was something all the boys got.
He came out of the shadows of the trees. His hand was black. Taking a chance, he licked it and gagged. Blood. He dozed off and some son-of-a-buck threw blood over him. Brantmeyer spat and scrubbed his mouth off with his sleeve.
By gum, some fool was going to pay. He winced and frowned. Where were the horses?
The flashy sorrel tried to nip at a cottonwood seedling. Brantmeyer pulled the head up. He stilled. The night horse. He should be on the steel dust. Wincing and scowling, Brantmeyer pulled the sorrel around. He tried to stand in the stirrups only to sag back.
A glance up showed only a blur of light and gained another ragged ache. He snorted a laugh. Something warm and wet shot from his nose. Muttering in disgust, he pulled a bandana to wipe it off.
“Dagger sees me,” he said to the sorrel, “he’ll be calling me a snot-nosed kid again.” And maybe Dagger might get a bloody nose.
Cheered by the thought, he wiped away the mess. The moon grew a little brighter and he glanced at his shirt. It was black, stained. Brantmeyer frowned. He looked in the bandana. The stain was a darker color and his eyebrows shot up.
Where were the horses? He dozed off and let the horses wander away. But, the herd should have caught up... Unless the boys decided to play a prank and let him sleep near the trail.
A crooked grin lit his soul. Dagger, probably. That old boy needed a snake in his pants. Grampa told of doing that on a drive to the city of New Orleans. A practical joker kept making trouble, so one fine night the boys caught a water moccasin. They pulled the fangs, and slid it into the joker’s bedding.
Grampa swore the feller’s screams scared everybody from Nacogdoches to Baton Rouge. He said they still had legends of the shriek that caused the earthquake. Of course, according to Granny, Grampa was known to stretch the truth. But ol’ Dagger screaming in terror might make it worth causing another earthquake.
He frowned, shaking his head. Something was wrong. Eyes growing wide, his head came up.
Where the hey was the remuda? And why was he riding a weary horse? He patted the sorrel’s neck.
“Soon as we catch up, I’ll let you take a roll and get a feed. Want I should snitch a little posole from the coosie?”
An ear flicked back. It moved to point at a shadow. A horse stared at them. Maybe he hadn’t lost the remuda. Grinning, Brantmeyer turned the sorrel to the horse.
It was a black pinto. A split ear and the Ten Horse brand showed it to be one of the string. Well, the sorrel was beat, and the man would be happy to see his horse back. A loop dropped over the pinto’s head. The horse nickered.
Talking in soft tones, Brantmeyer slid from the saddle. Wondering what happened to his legs, he blinked, peering down. A grin at his own foolishness stretched his face. Yep, there they were.
“Lordy, but that bug juice was rough.”
The pinto nosed up but the sorrel’s ears went back.
“Hush, Red. You’re jealous as a cat, I swear.”
He pulled the tack, stumping around on numb legs. A little feeling came back. That was when he noticed a wetness between his legs. To his horror, he realized he had passed water in his pants.
Head thrust forward, he said, “By gum and gone, when I catch that be-durn Dagger.”
What the hey would make a man go? If he recalled lessons with Granny, a lot of things. That old Cherokee knew her yarbs. Dagger, no doubt, put a little something in the bug juice.
With a grimace, he heaved the saddle on the pinto and cinched it fast. The sorrel snorted at something in the brush.
Gun out, Brantmeyer turned. Bold as brass, a coyote flitted from one shadow to the next. A second followed.
He crawled into the saddle. He blinked and the whole world shifted. Brantmeyer found himself tilting off the saddle. He grabbed leather and the pinto shifted under him.
“Thanks, partner,” he said, clinging to the horn.
He lifted the reins. The sorrel tore at a clump of grass. Brantmeyer trailed them, letting the horses feed as they went.
A horse snorted and trotted up. Two more moved behind them.
Maybe they trampled the corral rope.
Frowning, he dragged up the canteen and drank. Water went over his head and the horses snorted, shying away, but it took a little of the haze. Durn the boys and their jokes.
One horse jumped at a thicket. A cow snorted.
Brantmeyer took in a deep breath and let it out. He sniffed but smelled only blood. The hanky came out again. One blink and the world drifted into a mooncalf blur.
Rising a few miles up the trail got nothing. The horses spread out to feed.
With a groan, he turned the horses and rode towards where he awoke. Broken brush and an occasional pile of horse apples showed the way. Leaning on the horn, he fought a cold weariness. When he caught up with them fools, he was going to bust one in the nose for letting the remuda wander.
By gum, what a... A comedy of errors, yeah. Granny liked that story. Some old boy named Will Shakes-Spear. He couldn’t write English worth a darn, but Granny loved his stuff.
Brantmeyer shivered and peered at the sky. The moon was a haze of red, the stars fat and blurred.
Another horse joined the remuda. Brantmeyer sat up scowling. He licked his lips, grimacing at the taste. One hand fumbled for the poke of tobacco and trimmed corn shucks. No nada, durn.
A fly zoomed over his head. He reached up to brush it away.
The sombrero? The boys swiped his new sombrero. Then he did scowl and a ripple of shivers ran over the pinto’s hide. Brantmeyer gave him a pat.
The horse slowed. It stopped and Brantmeyer lurched over the horn. He righted himself. A dead cow lay on the trail. It had the trail brand the men agreed on, a horse’s head and a 10 for the ten families.
“What the hey?” he said, his voice low and muttered. Nobody abandoned a dead cow. Even green, hides came in all too handy. A leg bone had snapped to show splinters in the leg. Jingling the bit, the pinto stepped around it. A bullet hole showed in the neck.
Not Apaches.
He leaned over the horn lashing the pinto with the reins. The horse shot down the trail. More cattle lay dead. They bounded over a carcass that was a horse. A small fire showed in the distance. The pinto headed for that but Brantmeyer leaned back and they skidded on the rocky ground. A cloud of pale dust drifted around them.
He slid off the pinto, leading him a little closer. The fire flickered, dying to embers before he ground-tied the horse.
The others crowded close snorting and pushing on him. Brantmeyer shoved them out of the way.
Grampa’s rifle went in the crook of one arm. Mindful of sticks and dried manure that littered the ground, he crept close. Cattle lunged up, edging from him.
A few men lay rolled in blankets. He stopped at the edge of the light. Lazy fools, not a one stood guard. A man whispered a groan. Brantmeyer’s gaze cut in that direction.
Pain stark in his body, a cowhand inched towards the fire. On silent feet Brantmeyer walked to the man. He crouched down. It was Dagger. Brantmeyer hissed and the man stilled.
“What’s going on?” Brantmeyer said.
In shallow breaths, Dagger said, “Killed us.” Sad eyes stared at Brantmeyer. “You... helped them?”
“No.” He touched his head. “Reckon they creased me.”
Dagger grunted. He smiled and gave a small laugh.
“Knew it. Too honest for your own good.”
Crouched by Dagger, Brantmeyer said, “Where’s the rest of the boys?”
“Dead... or worse. Come out of the sun. Dawn.” He swallowed and whimpered.
A man stirred near the fire.
“Hush,” Brantmeyer said. He took Dagger’s arm, drawing him from camp and into the brush. He rolled the man over. “Dagger?”
Blue eyes stared at the sky and yet stared at nothing.
“Dagger?”
Head bowed, Brantmeyer pressed a hand to the stark face and closed the eyes.
Grim and bitter, he moved back to the horses. His cousins, dead. Funny, to think of Emanuel being dead when the man was so filled with life. Raoul, Johnny Blue, Cat Johansson, Mr. Williams, Chicken and the rest. Uncle Daniel and his jug of liquid fire. All dead. He choked and stumbled, catching himself.
The horses greeted him with quiet voices, snorting at raw blood on his clothes.
Brantmeyer switched tack to a fresh horse. He climbed in the saddle and sat the butt of the rifle on one thigh. It was folly to do aught but leave. First, he had to find the rest.
The horses circled the camp. The back trail was torn up from running cattle. He came to a body and stilled. It was crushed and broken, but the clothes said it was the coosie’s hood, little Andy. Brantmeyer took a slow breath to kill the nausea. Andy was barely eight. The next three were together. They had been shot. Two more were so mangled by cattle he could not say who they were.
He found the cousie dangling from a tree. The chuck wagon was wrecked, one of the team still in harness, its neck broken. Near him was Johnny Blue. The man had been gutted by a knife.
Eyes closed, Brantmeyer tipped his head back. He choked and sagged over the side. Acid shot from his mouth to spatter over the ground.
In a few minutes, his stomach settled enough to wash his mouth out and drink a little. The cork was popped back in place.
Brantmeyer spun the horse and charged up the trail.
When he came to the herd, he screamed, whipping them from their bedding place with the rope. Longhorns surged up already running. He circled them, screaming and cursing them, forcing them inwards to the camp.
A man shrieked. A second wailed. He was thrown in the air and grabbed a cow by the horns. The cow stumbled and both disappeared in the dust. Fire flashed. The rifle jerked up and Brantmeyer fired. A horse screamed stumbled into the cattle.
The herd slowed, milling now. Cows dodged out of his way. Brantmeyer urged the horse to slow, to circle back. For a moment, the gelding resisted. With a scowl, Brantmeyer tugged on the reins. The gelding snorted, prancing under him.
They turned, picking their way through crushed brush to a body. Not one of the boys. Brantmeyer went on. He found three more of the gang. A black shadow brushed his face.
He glanced up. To his surprise, the sun was just below the horizon. Buzzards circled, their shadows sweeping over the ground. With them to help, he found more dead. One was crushed against a tree and whimpering. The sombrero on his head was black with silver thread.
The man lifted a hand, pleading.
Brantmeyer leaned over the horn. He reached down and tore his hat from the man’s head, clapping it back in place and scowled at a bolt of pain.
“Lisle, hey,” Brantmeyer said.
“Boy, help... me.”
“To a rope, maybe.” He looked away. “Mister, how many were there, come to do murder.”
“Wasn’t... murder.”
Brantmeyer pulled off the sombrero and tipped his head to the man.
“What’s this, mister? Why? You all could have joined up. Shoot, we asked if you’d come.”
“Fifty cents a day and found.” Lisle’s face twisted.
“Good wages. Better than most would pay. You could have signed on with a share of beef. Mama did.” Buzzards moved lower in the sky. “So did all of us. Free for the taking, them ladinos.” He leveled a cold look at the man. “A hundred a head them 49’s is paying.”
Lisle grimaced, clutching at his stomach. He slid to one side. Brantmeyer tossed the sombrero at him.
“You wanted it bad enough to die for,” he said, his voice soft. “Take it and to hell with you.”
#
A row of graves lay in a neat mound near the chuck wagon. Uncle Daniel’s hat twisting in his hands, Brantmeyer stood with his head bowed.
“I ain’t good at words, Lord, but please greet them as Your sons. We were maybe not the best men You ever made, but kept our hope in You, Amen.”
He scrubbed his face of moisture and swung up in the saddle. With him were nine horses, each loaded with one of the crews’ effects.
Running the horses in a tight circle, he ran them over the graves to pack the earth against hungry coyotes and to mask them from grave robbers.
His duty done, Brantmeyer headed the horses east, back to home and the weeping of mothers.
A stoneware jug lay shattered next to the ruins of the wagon. He glanced at it and, unbidden, a grin stretched his mouth.
Ah, laws, yeah. The reason the cousie ignored the theft of his comfort. It was to celebrate Brantmeyer’s fifteenth birthday. By gum, he was near old enough to vote.
The sombrero swept off his head and Brantmeyer gave the jug a low bow from the saddle. He lifted the reins and the horse stepped out. Brantmeyer stared straight ahead.
The words came slowly at first, and then the song was strong and hard to honor friends he left behind.
“To all the boys who won’t be home, God rest ye, gentlemen. O, to all the boys for whom mothers weep, God rest ye, gentlemen. The sky is open to wide, staring eyes, God rest ye, gentlemen. Listen now as cattle moan and the lobo cry, God rest ye gentlemen. O’ the day it comes, I’ll lie near you, God rest us, gentlemen...”
#
Note: Long before Chisholm, Texans ran cattle to California for the China trade, then to hungry 49’s. Modern I-10 follows the general trail with good feed and water all along the way.
If any doubt Brantmeyer’s age, please remember the Cherokee, Maltzberg, was trail boss, breaking trail with 3,200 Longhorns to the goldfields of Colorado when he was fourteen. Legend states he lost no men or horses, and that’s a rarity even today.
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