The Killing Season (25 page)

“There's pulque and goat's milk,” said Fisher. “I recommend the goat's milk. I reckon the pulque's about a hundred and forty proof.”

“I'll pass on both,” Nathan said.

They waited only a few minutes. At the sound of approaching horses, Pancho led them outside to greet the rest of the riders. They dismounted, all of them dressed much like Pancho. Some of them had cartwheel spurs with underslung chains that chinged with every step. They swept off their sombreros as King Fisher introduced them to Nathan.

“This is Juan Corona,” said Fisher. “He thinks like a wild horse, and the critter next to him is Hidalgo Allende, and he eats like one. Then there's Pedro Calzada and Jardin Panduro. They drink pulque instead of water, and manage to stay alive. God alone knows how.”

The Mexicans, comfortable with Fisher's humor, laughed uproariously. They looked approvingly upon the two loaded packhorses Fisher had brought, and Nathan began to appreciate the Texan's relationship with his neighbors across the river.

“Whoa,” said Fisher, “I almost forgot something.” Going to his horse, he removed a cloth sack from his saddlebag. This he gave to Pancho. “Coffee beans for Maria,” he said.

“Gracias,”
Pancho replied, starting for the adobe hut.

When Pancho returned, they mounted and rode south, Pancho leading the way. As they rode deeper into the country, there was a series of breaks—rough terrain—shot full of washes and gullies. On exposed ridgetops and dry slopes, there was no sign of life except occasional clumps of bristlecone pine. There was some cholla and prickly pear cactus. Finally they rode for more than a mile across a barren alkalai plain. At the edge of it was a spring. The horses dearly wanted to get to the water, but Pancho shook his head.

“Alkalai water,” said Fisher.

“I don't see how anything can live in this country,” Nathan said. “No graze.”

“There's graze and water in the mountains and the foothills surrounding them,” said Fisher. “That's where we're going. We won't get much done today, except set up camp.”

Pancho Gomez knew exactly where he was going, and three hours before sundown, he led them to a
cienaga,
a cool hollow overhung with willows. At the base of the slope was a spring with a runoff, fed by a never-ending fall of water from a rock crevice above.

“Good water,” said Fisher. “In this land, when you find a good spring, you stay with it, even if you have to ride fifty miles at day's end, gettin' back to it.”

It was a good camp, and the Mexican riders proved amiable companions. Even Cotton Blossom joined them for supper, a thing he rarely did when strangers were present that he hadn't gotten used to.

 

“It'll be a long day,” Fisher said, as they finished their breakfast coffee. “There's two or three canyons we can use, any of 'em a good two-hour ride from here. How handy are you with a double-bitted ax?”

“I can use it when I have to,” said Nathan, “but I've never had much of a liking for it.”

Fisher and the Mexican riders laughed. “Neither has any of us,” Fisher replied, “but it purely has a place when you're buildin' a catch pen. I brought three of the critters, so we can take turns. When we're done with you, Stone, you'll be an honest-to-God wrangler, a
cazador de caballada.
”

When they broke camp, nothing was left behind. Despite the friendliness of the Mexican riders, they were still in hostile territory. As they rode, King Fisher explained some of the problems they might encounter.

“Sometimes, catching the horses is the easy part. There are bands of thieves who will steal a horse from under you, if you'll hold still. As any of my amigos can tell you, one of their favorite tricks is to wait until a catch has been made and the horses gentled. Then they'll steal the herd, drive the horses across the border, and sell them.”

“That sounds like the
Comancheros
that used to steal cattle from Goodnight and other trail drivers, selling the cows to the military,” Nathan said.

“Good comparison,” said Fisher. “There's always a flock of thieving buzzards ready to swoop down and take what better men have paid for with sweat and callused hands.”

“Not this time,” Nathan said.

The canyon, when they reached it, seemed ideal, for there was a spring midway, with a substantial runoff.

“More work for us,” said King Fisher, “because we'll have to block both ends, but the good water will bring the herds to us.”

“This may sound like a greenhorn question,” Nathan said, “but how can you barricade both ends of the canyon without scaring the horses away? Hell, there ain't a horse alive that don't recognize a fence.”

“Damn good question,” Fisher replied. “I don't know what's the best way, but I can tell you how we do it. Wild horse herds always come to water at night or at dawn, so our work has to be done in between waterings, and the surroundings can't change drastically enough for the wild ones to notice. Contrary to what some folks think, a wise old mare is usually leading the herd, while the stallion brings up the rear. We can't close either end of the canyon more than maybe a third or less, and we do that gradually, over three or four days. Across the part we leave open, we dig post holes, carefully removing the dirt and concealing the holes with dead leaves or grass. Fence rails are made ready. When the herd is into the canyon, riders at both ends will get the posts in place and then rawhide the rails into position, four-high.”

“Sounds simple enough,” said Nathan. “The horses never challenge the fence?”

“Not often,” Fisher replied. “That stallion I was telling you about jumped the fence once, and we added a fourth rail. We ain't been able to catch him again.”

“No rain,” said Pedro Calzada. “Many
caballos
come here.”

“That bein' the case,” Fisher said, “we may have a chance at the big black.”

“You have to gentle the horses enough so they can be driven,” said Nathan. “How long does that take?”

“It mostly depends on how many we catch,” Fisher replied. “Could take as long as two weeks.”

Nathan said no more. He remembered the days in New Orleans when Eulie Prater had gone into the corral with an unruly black horse and had made friends with the animal just by talking to it. He wanted to observe the method King Fisher and the Mexican riders used with these wild ones.

 

The sun was an hour high before King Fisher was ready to begin work on the fence. The portion of the canyon whose walls were high enough to restrain wild horses was less than three-quarters of a mile in length.

“We'll use dead wood for a third of the fence at each end,” King Fisher said. “Horses are smart enough to know something's not right, if they can smell the sap of newly cut trees and limbs. A couple of windblown trees snaked into position is a good start.”

At the end of the first day, one entrance to the canyon was one-third blocked with a barricade of dead logs and brush higher than a man's head. Nathan had to admit it didn't look unnatural enough to frighten a horse.

“We'll wait another day or two to dig the post holes for the rest of the fence,” Fisher said, “giving them a chance to become used to the brush and log pile. Tomorrow, we'll go to the other end of the canyon and barricade part of that entrance. Then we'll have only to dig the post holes, cut the posts, and the rails.”

 

The building of the second barricade raised as much sweat and blisters as the first, and when it was finished, they set about cutting the necessary posts and rails. The heavy posts were ten feet long, and starting three feet from the bottom, were notched four times, two feet apart, where the rails would be secured with rawhide. There would be three posts and eight ten-foot-long rails required to close each end of the canyon. By noon of the third day, the posts and rails were ready.

“Now comes the hard part,” Fisher said, “and I only brought one post-hole digger, so we'll take turns. Hot as it is, we'll all do a little digging, so it won't be so hard on any of us. I'll go first.”

After breaking through a crust of
caliche,
there was hard clay, and before the first post hole was deep enough, every man was sweating. Dirt removed from the hole was put on a four-foot square of canvas, and taken away, lest the incoming herd be suspicious.

“Now,” said Fisher, when the holes were finally finished, “we'll cover all the ground around and near the holes with dead leaves. We want the ground to look as natural as we can make it. We'll be right here until we're ready to drive the herd across the river.”

“We can't go into the canyon,” Nathan said. “What about water?”

Hidalgo Allende pointed to the canyon rim.

“The water that forms the spring in the canyon originates on the rim,” Fisher said. “We'll water our mounts and get water for our own use up there. We must stay away from the spring where the wild ones go. There'll be a full moon tonight, and I think we'll just observe those who come to water, giving them a chance to overcome any suspicions they may have.”

Shortly after moonrise they took a position on the canyon rim from which they could see the spring and both their brush barricades. The moon rose higher, a silver globe that mantled the rugged, broken land with a spectral glow. They waited for what seemed hours, shifting their positions occasionally to rest tired, cramped muscles. The first sound of their coming was so slight it might have existed only in imagination. But no! There it was again. Then, appearing silver in the moonlight, they could see the trailwise old white mare nearing the partially brush-barricaded canyon mouth. For a long moment she stood there, keening the down-canyon breeze, like a wolf. Finally, when she half turned to the waiting herd, the sound that came from her throat wasn't quite a nicker. It was more a rumble. And then the others came. There were sorrels, bays, duns, chestnuts, browns, blacks, grays, and grullas. A solid black stallion brought up the rear, nipping at the flanks of the stragglers. The watching men hardly dared breathe as the horses—thirty or more—made their way to the water. The majestic stallion remained where he was, lifting his head toward the canyon rims, seeming to sense the presence of danger. Not until the rest of the herd had drunk their fill did he approach the water, and even as he drank, he raised his head occasionally, listening. The white mare started back the way she had come, most of the herd following. The few that lingered received a painful nip from the stallion. They left as quietly as they had come, fading into the distance. Only then did anyone speak.

“My God,” said King Fisher, “did you ever see the like?”

“He reminds me of a black I once knew,” Nathan said. “He ran like the wind and in a quarter-mile run, could outrun anything on four feet. I'd bet all I ever hope to own that this big black could do as well or better.”

“Damn it,” said King Fisher, “I've got to have him. If I could take him to the races at San Antone on July fourth, I could bust every tinhorn gambler in south Texas.”

“Diablo,”
Jardin Panduro said.
“Caballo de muerte.”
¹²

“Si,
” the other Mexican riders agreed.

“Maybe,” Fisher said, “but I don't believe there's a horse alive that can't be gentled, if it's done right and you take enough time.”

“You may not have that much time,” said Nathan, “unless you aim to spend the rest of the summer here in this canyon. It'll be a hell of a ride back to your place, if you're fightin' that big black on a lead rope all the way.”

“Si, si,”
the Mexican riders agreed.

King Fisher said nothing. He got up and stomped back toward the distant canyon in which they had picketed their horses.

“No
diablo caballo,
no mucho
pesos,”
said Pancho Gomez.

“Whoa,” Nathan said. “You only have to catch the horse. You do not gentle him. If we catch this
diablo caballo,
will our trap hold him?”

“Per'ap,” said Pancho Gomez.

“Then let's get him,” Nathan said. “I want to see what our Texas amigo can do with him, if it does take all summer.”

The following day, time dragged, for the riders had time on their hands, waiting for nightfall. King Fisher seemed preoccupied, and said little. Nathan suspected he had on his mind the elusive black stallion. It was frustrating enough, not having been able to catch the black, but once captured, suppose he proved impossible to tame? They had supper well before dark, doused the fire, and picketed their horses in a canyon a good distance away from the canyon where the wild horses came to drink.

“Nathan,” said Fisher, “you'll stay with Juan Corona, Hidalgo Allende, and me, at the upper end of the canyon. Pancho, you'll take Pedro and Jardin, and cover the lower end. With any luck, the herd won't show until after moonrise. Wait until they begin to drink before you make your move. Get those posts in place pronto. Once they discover we've got both ends of the canyon covered, there'll be some confusion, and that's all the advantage we'll have. We'll have just a matter of seconds to place the posts and secure the rails.”

The Mexican riders said nothing, nor did they need to, because they had done this before. Nathan kept his silence, believing he was still on the bad side of King Fisher for having been so outspoken the day before. At dusk, they all took their assigned places, far enough back in the brush that there was no chance of discovery. Then they could only wait for the arrival of the herd. The full moon rose, bathing the rugged landscape in silver, and still they waited. The moon had already begun its descent when there was a sound near the mouth of the canyon, a sound so slight they almost dismissed it as imaginary, a trick of the mind. Then, seeming almost ghostly, they could see the wise old white mare picking her way down the canyon. Reaching the partial barrier they had erected, she paused for what seemed an eternity. Would she enter? Finally she did, sounding her approval, which was somewhere between a grunt and a nicker. Behind her came the herd, followed by the black stallion, ever wary. Fisher didn't move until the mare had reached the spring and the stallion was well past the place where the fence would be raised.