Incident of the Pale Horse
Stampedes start for any number of reasons; lightning, thunder, the bark of a coyote, the howl of a wolf or a gun shot. Stampedes also start for no reason in particular. Edgy cattle spook at the drop of a hat, a harsh word, the rustle of a single leaf on a bush, the rattle of a tin plate or a sneeze. But it really doesn't matter how they start; it's how they finish that counts. I'm Gil Favor, trail boss and the way this stampede ended is a memory I can't shake.
A dust storm early on got the cattle nervous. As the day wore thin the steers became edgier and more fractious. By nightfall they were on a hair- trigger and although it really came to no surprise to the drovers when the herd started to run, the suddenness of movement shocked them all. In the end no one knew what had caused the stampede, but in the end it didn't matter.
"Stampede!" The cry roused men from their beds and within seconds they were up onto their mounts and into the fray, all available hands yelling, waving their lariats or hats while wildly spurring their horses on in the nearly futile attempt to out-run the cattle and turn the leaders. A sheer drop off lay to the east and if the herd wasn't turned they'd tumble over the edge to their deaths, like so many lemmings playing follow the leader in a mindless rush to outdistance what all creatures fear - the unknown.
Gil Favor tried to orchestrate maneuvers, shouting orders over the din, riding hard for the lead, but his mount was tired. Favor had no choice when the warning came; he'd saddled the closest horse, an animal worn out and footsore from a hard day. His voice hoarse from the yelling, Gil was fast giving up hope. The cliffs loomed closer and closer, visible in the brightening dawn and he was too far away to do anything more than pray.
Pete Nolan had been riding night hawk along with Rowdy Yates. They kept in touch across the herd by voice; each singing softly to calm the fretful cattle; each man in turn calmed by the presence of the other. Nolan's deep rich baritone echoed Yates' rendition of "Streets of Laredo" and there wasn't a man within hearing range who didn't mist up at the sweet haunting tune; "Oh beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly, sing the death march as you carry me along...for I'm a young cowboy and know I must die." For a while the ploy worked. The cattle seemed more restful, a few even chewing their cuds and settling onto the ground.
In the single beat of a heart all that changed. Without warning, Pete and Rowdy were separated by a roiling sea of panicked cattle running full out. Both knew what had to be done and both knew they were the only ones close enough to have even the faintest hope of getting the cattle turned.
Nolan sat the better horse and having the advantage of being lightly built he pushed ahead of Yates. Leaning forward in the saddle and spurring hard he pounded toward the lead steer. Pulling his six-gun, Pete fired into the air. The drop loomed close but he was certain to turn the cattle before then. Straining, spurring and firing, he finally succeeded in turning the leader. In doing so he got too close to the drop off; the fragile edge crumbled. Horse and rider disappeared over the edge.
At first Gil believed his tired eyes were mistaken or perhaps it was the dust obscuring the view; Pete hung silhouetted against the rising sun and then he just wasn't there! Favor thought he must've yelled, but wasn't sure. Pushing the roan to the limits of its endurance Favor rode toward the spot he'd last seen Nolan.
Below and beneath was a jumble of dark rocks steeped in shadow the sun had yet to reach. The scene unfolded as the sky brightened and anxiously, Gil searched for the fallen scout.
The pale coat of the dappled gray Pete had been riding came first into view, the animal quite obviously lifeless, its head twisted at an impossible angle. Death had come instantly.
Favor waited impatiently for the sun to illuminate the base of the ravine. "Hurry up, damn it! Hurry up!" he begged as if he had some special connection with nature and that she'd hear and obey and light would flood the dark places to reveal a living breathing man. "Come on, come on!"
Pete Nolan lay sprawled on his back and for all his trying, Favor couldn't tell if he was breathing or not. He certainly was not moving.
Frantically, Gil searched the edge for a place where he could ride down. He located it some hundred yards south. Rocks and debris rained into the ravine as horse and rider skidded to the bottom in a precarious and dangerous slide.
Pete hadn't stirred, but Favor saw that he was breathing, though by the wet gasping sounds, he was having difficulty doing so. Outwardly he seemed untouched, unscathed by the brutal fall aside from a scrape across his forehead and a slight trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. Crouching at Nolan's side Favor moved to lift Pete's head and shoulders up to rest across his legs in hopes of easing the troubled breathing.
"Don't move him!" Wishbone, witnessing the boss's harried scramble down into the ravine and knowing something was seriously amiss, had followed. Down off his horse the drive's only healer hurried to the fallen man. "He might be hurt inside, Boss. Best not to move him just yet."
At the familiar voice Pete opened his eyes, his attention moving languidly from Wishbone to Favor. "Did we turn 'em, Boss?" he whispered.
"You turned 'em, Pete." Favor replied. Searching his pockets Gil located a clean white handkerchief which he used to blot the blood from Pete's mouth. No sooner had he done so when it returned. Favor looked to Wishbone. He needed answers and expected them - now.
Wishbone leaned forward, meaning to check Nolan for broken bones. Before he could touch Pete's chest, Nolan grabbed the outstretched hand. The movement cost him and he paled, fresh blood at his lips. "No need for that, Wish."
Wishbone looked to Favor for orders. Gil nodded.
"Sorry, son; I'll be easy." At his first touch against the crushed chest and distended abdomen, Wishbone knew all he had to know. Pete was right. There was no need for an examination. "He's all busted up, Mr. Favor... bleedin' inside. There's nothin' I can do!"
Gil Favor's expectant expression changed into one of utter disbelief mingled with shock and sudden crushing grief. Wishbone knew exactly how the boss felt, for he felt the same way. Sitting, watching a friend die was the worst experience he could imagine and he could imagine plenty, but this feeling of absolute helplessness was a nightmare he'd wish on no man.
Pete's breathing grew more labored and this time when Gil gently lifted the scout's head and shoulders up onto his legs, Wishbone didn't prevent it. Instantly Nolan's breathing eased and the pain on his face lessened. The sun was now on them and Pete blinked at the brightness of it, turning his head to the side. Favor took off his Stetson and angled it so that it cast a shadow across the dying man's face.
The noise of falling rocks disturbed the silence as Mushy slid into view, dismounting before his horse came to a full stop. Between him and the three men lay the dead gray gelding and for a moment Mushy stood over the corpse, staring, pondering before he quickly made his way to the injured Pete. His friend looked terrible although there were few signs of outward injury. The scout's complexion was white as paper, sharply contrasted by disheveled dark hair and the smear of blood across his forehead. But the most frightening aspect of the situation lay in the expression mirrored on the faces of Mr. Favor and Mr. Wishbone. Mushy figured on how he'd never seen such unhappiness. He felt suddenly sick. His innocent childish mind took some time to put two and two together, but eventually he succeeded. "Mr. Nolan's hurt bad, ain't he? Ain't he, Mr. Wishbone?"
Sighing deeply, Wish got to his feet. Suddenly he was weary beyond words and feeling every single day of his age. Taking his helper's arm he steered the youngster some distance away.
"Mr. Nolan's gonna get better though, right? You gotta tell me!" Mushy's eyes filled with tears. Slow he might be, but usually his intuition was right on the money. "Somethin' almightly bad's goin' on and I got a right to know!" Mushy's voice rose with each sentence and although Wishbone tried to hush him, it was no use. The young man was worried and more than worried, deeply frightened.
"Come on over here and sit down, Mushy." Gently steering the youngster further away, Wishbone indicated a rock. "I need to talk to you."
Like the obedient child he was, Mushy sat, looking expectantly up into the cook's face, hands clasped in his lap, attempting to read something good in Wishbone's expression. All he read was anguish.
"Pete's hurt real bad, boy.. He ain't gonna live." Wishbone rested a work- worn hand on Mushy's shoulder, but the boy angrily shoved it off.
"NO! You're wrong, Mr. Wishbone! You're wrong!" he shrilled. "You can fix him up! You fix up everybody! Remember when Rowdy broke his arm? You mended it. And when Mr. Quince broke three ribs? You fixed 'em! And.and when I got snake bit, you fixed that too! You can do it, Mr. Wishbone! I know you can!"
In a soothing voice and with a shake of the head Wish put the idealistic youngster's notions into proper, painful perspective. "Not this time, boy. He's bleedin' inside his belly, bleedin' to death where it don't show. I ain't no doctor, Mushy. I can only do so much. I ain't but certain a real doctor could even help. Much as I don't wanna say it - much as you don't wanna hear it, Pete's dyin'."
"You're a liar! Mr. Nolan ain't gonna die! He can't die! Other people die, but not him and not you nor Rowdy nor Mr. Favor neither! Other folks die!" Frustrated and already grieving for what he knew he must lose, Mushy allowed his emotions free reign.
All attempts to calm the young man were useless. He had to cry it out and he did. Sniffling and wiping tears back across his sleeve, Mushy looked over to where Pete Nolan lay.
"You can help him, ya know," Wishbone offered.
"Me? How can I help, Mr. Wishbone?" Mushy sniffled again, but made a brave attempt to control his feelings.
"Sit with him. Talk to him. He'd like that, Mushy. Come on." Wishbone urged the youngster to his feet, firmly steering him in the right direction.
Mushy sat cross-legged at Pete's side as close as he could get without touching the wounded body, glancing at Mr. Favor as if for the okay. It was given.
"Mr. Nolan, it's me, it's Mushy."
With difficulty Pete opened his eyes. Through blurred vision he couldn't help but notice how forlorn and lost Mushy appeared and his heart ached in commiseration. Mushy was a good, decent kid whom Pete truly liked and he hated to be the cause of such suffering. An idea sprang to mind. "Mushy, I'm glad you're here. There's something I'd like you to do."
Those few words took more strength than Pete imagined and he'd had to pause between nearly every one for breath, but there weren't many more to go. "Take care of my old buckskin. You were always partial to him and he likes you just fine. He won't miss me if he's got you for company."
Incredibly, Pete smiled which led the young man to believe anything was possible. "But you ain't gonna die, Mr. Nolan! You're a tough old cowboy!" Mushy picked up Pete's hand up, holding it firmly between both of his own. It was cold and the youngster rubbed it gently between his warm ones. "You're a tough old cowboy," he repeated firmly.
Had he the strength, Pete would've laughed. To a kid Mushy's age thirty- eight must seem old if not ancient. In fact it was the prime of a man's life and Pete was most loath to leave it so soon and so suddenly. At least this way there was no time for regrets. "I'm not so old as all that and not so tough either, I reckon. Will you take Buckey? I'd surely count it a favor."
Mushy nodded, but for the tears he couldn't look up, instead staring hard at the ground and trying not to blink. "I can do that, Pete." For the first time since meeting Pete Nolan, Mushy didn't think to add the mister. Perhaps it was because he'd never felt so close to him before.
Pete lay quietly for some moments, as if gathering strength. Finally he gazed up into Gil Favor's face and in a voice almost too soft to hear admitted, "I'm awful tired, Boss."
Favor bit his lip and swallowed the lump in his throat, "Sleep for a while then, Pete. I'll get somebody to take over for ya, but just 'til you're back on your feet. We got no slackers in this outfit."
Ever so slightly, Pete nodded, closing his eyes. Soon the labored breathing ceased. Wishbone rested a hand against the still chest. "He's gone, Boss," he murmured.
Favor didn't answer. It took a moment for him to realize that he still shaded Pete's face with his hat. Without a word he placed the banged up Stetson back where it belonged, tugging the brim down low.
Up on the rim a lone rider watched. He'd been watching for some time and listening. The sound of voices carried and he knew what had transpired below without having been there. In a clear unwavering voice he began to sing. It was "Streets of Laredo," also known by another, more fitting title, "The Dying Cowboy's Lament." It was Rowdy Yates' tribute, his gift, his goodbye.
Stampedes start for any number of reasons; lightning, thunder, the bark of a coyote, the howl of a wolf or a gun shot. Stampedes also start for no reason in particular. Edgy cattle spook at the drop of a hat, a harsh word, the rustle of a single leaf on a bush, the rattle of a tin plate or a sneeze. But it really doesn't matter how they start; it's how they finish that counts. I'm Gil Favor, trail boss and the way this stampede ended is a memory I can't shake.
A dust storm early on got the cattle nervous. As the day wore thin the steers became edgier and more fractious. By nightfall they were on a hair- trigger and although it really came to no surprise to the drovers when the herd started to run, the suddenness of movement shocked them all. In the end no one knew what had caused the stampede, but in the end it didn't matter.
"Stampede!" The cry roused men from their beds and within seconds they were up onto their mounts and into the fray, all available hands yelling, waving their lariats or hats while wildly spurring their horses on in the nearly futile attempt to out-run the cattle and turn the leaders. A sheer drop off lay to the east and if the herd wasn't turned they'd tumble over the edge to their deaths, like so many lemmings playing follow the leader in a mindless rush to outdistance what all creatures fear - the unknown.
Gil Favor tried to orchestrate maneuvers, shouting orders over the din, riding hard for the lead, but his mount was tired. Favor had no choice when the warning came; he'd saddled the closest horse, an animal worn out and footsore from a hard day. His voice hoarse from the yelling, Gil was fast giving up hope. The cliffs loomed closer and closer, visible in the brightening dawn and he was too far away to do anything more than pray.
Pete Nolan had been riding night hawk along with Rowdy Yates. They kept in touch across the herd by voice; each singing softly to calm the fretful cattle; each man in turn calmed by the presence of the other. Nolan's deep rich baritone echoed Yates' rendition of "Streets of Laredo" and there wasn't a man within hearing range who didn't mist up at the sweet haunting tune; "Oh beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly, sing the death march as you carry me along...for I'm a young cowboy and know I must die." For a while the ploy worked. The cattle seemed more restful, a few even chewing their cuds and settling onto the ground.
In the single beat of a heart all that changed. Without warning, Pete and Rowdy were separated by a roiling sea of panicked cattle running full out. Both knew what had to be done and both knew they were the only ones close enough to have even the faintest hope of getting the cattle turned.
Nolan sat the better horse and having the advantage of being lightly built he pushed ahead of Yates. Leaning forward in the saddle and spurring hard he pounded toward the lead steer. Pulling his six-gun, Pete fired into the air. The drop loomed close but he was certain to turn the cattle before then. Straining, spurring and firing, he finally succeeded in turning the leader. In doing so he got too close to the drop off; the fragile edge crumbled. Horse and rider disappeared over the edge.
At first Gil believed his tired eyes were mistaken or perhaps it was the dust obscuring the view; Pete hung silhouetted against the rising sun and then he just wasn't there! Favor thought he must've yelled, but wasn't sure. Pushing the roan to the limits of its endurance Favor rode toward the spot he'd last seen Nolan.
Below and beneath was a jumble of dark rocks steeped in shadow the sun had yet to reach. The scene unfolded as the sky brightened and anxiously, Gil searched for the fallen scout.
The pale coat of the dappled gray Pete had been riding came first into view, the animal quite obviously lifeless, its head twisted at an impossible angle. Death had come instantly.
Favor waited impatiently for the sun to illuminate the base of the ravine. "Hurry up, damn it! Hurry up!" he begged as if he had some special connection with nature and that she'd hear and obey and light would flood the dark places to reveal a living breathing man. "Come on, come on!"
Pete Nolan lay sprawled on his back and for all his trying, Favor couldn't tell if he was breathing or not. He certainly was not moving.
Frantically, Gil searched the edge for a place where he could ride down. He located it some hundred yards south. Rocks and debris rained into the ravine as horse and rider skidded to the bottom in a precarious and dangerous slide.
Pete hadn't stirred, but Favor saw that he was breathing, though by the wet gasping sounds, he was having difficulty doing so. Outwardly he seemed untouched, unscathed by the brutal fall aside from a scrape across his forehead and a slight trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. Crouching at Nolan's side Favor moved to lift Pete's head and shoulders up to rest across his legs in hopes of easing the troubled breathing.
"Don't move him!" Wishbone, witnessing the boss's harried scramble down into the ravine and knowing something was seriously amiss, had followed. Down off his horse the drive's only healer hurried to the fallen man. "He might be hurt inside, Boss. Best not to move him just yet."
At the familiar voice Pete opened his eyes, his attention moving languidly from Wishbone to Favor. "Did we turn 'em, Boss?" he whispered.
"You turned 'em, Pete." Favor replied. Searching his pockets Gil located a clean white handkerchief which he used to blot the blood from Pete's mouth. No sooner had he done so when it returned. Favor looked to Wishbone. He needed answers and expected them - now.
Wishbone leaned forward, meaning to check Nolan for broken bones. Before he could touch Pete's chest, Nolan grabbed the outstretched hand. The movement cost him and he paled, fresh blood at his lips. "No need for that, Wish."
Wishbone looked to Favor for orders. Gil nodded.
"Sorry, son; I'll be easy." At his first touch against the crushed chest and distended abdomen, Wishbone knew all he had to know. Pete was right. There was no need for an examination. "He's all busted up, Mr. Favor... bleedin' inside. There's nothin' I can do!"
Gil Favor's expectant expression changed into one of utter disbelief mingled with shock and sudden crushing grief. Wishbone knew exactly how the boss felt, for he felt the same way. Sitting, watching a friend die was the worst experience he could imagine and he could imagine plenty, but this feeling of absolute helplessness was a nightmare he'd wish on no man.
Pete's breathing grew more labored and this time when Gil gently lifted the scout's head and shoulders up onto his legs, Wishbone didn't prevent it. Instantly Nolan's breathing eased and the pain on his face lessened. The sun was now on them and Pete blinked at the brightness of it, turning his head to the side. Favor took off his Stetson and angled it so that it cast a shadow across the dying man's face.
The noise of falling rocks disturbed the silence as Mushy slid into view, dismounting before his horse came to a full stop. Between him and the three men lay the dead gray gelding and for a moment Mushy stood over the corpse, staring, pondering before he quickly made his way to the injured Pete. His friend looked terrible although there were few signs of outward injury. The scout's complexion was white as paper, sharply contrasted by disheveled dark hair and the smear of blood across his forehead. But the most frightening aspect of the situation lay in the expression mirrored on the faces of Mr. Favor and Mr. Wishbone. Mushy figured on how he'd never seen such unhappiness. He felt suddenly sick. His innocent childish mind took some time to put two and two together, but eventually he succeeded. "Mr. Nolan's hurt bad, ain't he? Ain't he, Mr. Wishbone?"
Sighing deeply, Wish got to his feet. Suddenly he was weary beyond words and feeling every single day of his age. Taking his helper's arm he steered the youngster some distance away.
"Mr. Nolan's gonna get better though, right? You gotta tell me!" Mushy's eyes filled with tears. Slow he might be, but usually his intuition was right on the money. "Somethin' almightly bad's goin' on and I got a right to know!" Mushy's voice rose with each sentence and although Wishbone tried to hush him, it was no use. The young man was worried and more than worried, deeply frightened.
"Come on over here and sit down, Mushy." Gently steering the youngster further away, Wishbone indicated a rock. "I need to talk to you."
Like the obedient child he was, Mushy sat, looking expectantly up into the cook's face, hands clasped in his lap, attempting to read something good in Wishbone's expression. All he read was anguish.
"Pete's hurt real bad, boy.. He ain't gonna live." Wishbone rested a work- worn hand on Mushy's shoulder, but the boy angrily shoved it off.
"NO! You're wrong, Mr. Wishbone! You're wrong!" he shrilled. "You can fix him up! You fix up everybody! Remember when Rowdy broke his arm? You mended it. And when Mr. Quince broke three ribs? You fixed 'em! And.and when I got snake bit, you fixed that too! You can do it, Mr. Wishbone! I know you can!"
In a soothing voice and with a shake of the head Wish put the idealistic youngster's notions into proper, painful perspective. "Not this time, boy. He's bleedin' inside his belly, bleedin' to death where it don't show. I ain't no doctor, Mushy. I can only do so much. I ain't but certain a real doctor could even help. Much as I don't wanna say it - much as you don't wanna hear it, Pete's dyin'."
"You're a liar! Mr. Nolan ain't gonna die! He can't die! Other people die, but not him and not you nor Rowdy nor Mr. Favor neither! Other folks die!" Frustrated and already grieving for what he knew he must lose, Mushy allowed his emotions free reign.
All attempts to calm the young man were useless. He had to cry it out and he did. Sniffling and wiping tears back across his sleeve, Mushy looked over to where Pete Nolan lay.
"You can help him, ya know," Wishbone offered.
"Me? How can I help, Mr. Wishbone?" Mushy sniffled again, but made a brave attempt to control his feelings.
"Sit with him. Talk to him. He'd like that, Mushy. Come on." Wishbone urged the youngster to his feet, firmly steering him in the right direction.
Mushy sat cross-legged at Pete's side as close as he could get without touching the wounded body, glancing at Mr. Favor as if for the okay. It was given.
"Mr. Nolan, it's me, it's Mushy."
With difficulty Pete opened his eyes. Through blurred vision he couldn't help but notice how forlorn and lost Mushy appeared and his heart ached in commiseration. Mushy was a good, decent kid whom Pete truly liked and he hated to be the cause of such suffering. An idea sprang to mind. "Mushy, I'm glad you're here. There's something I'd like you to do."
Those few words took more strength than Pete imagined and he'd had to pause between nearly every one for breath, but there weren't many more to go. "Take care of my old buckskin. You were always partial to him and he likes you just fine. He won't miss me if he's got you for company."
Incredibly, Pete smiled which led the young man to believe anything was possible. "But you ain't gonna die, Mr. Nolan! You're a tough old cowboy!" Mushy picked up Pete's hand up, holding it firmly between both of his own. It was cold and the youngster rubbed it gently between his warm ones. "You're a tough old cowboy," he repeated firmly.
Had he the strength, Pete would've laughed. To a kid Mushy's age thirty- eight must seem old if not ancient. In fact it was the prime of a man's life and Pete was most loath to leave it so soon and so suddenly. At least this way there was no time for regrets. "I'm not so old as all that and not so tough either, I reckon. Will you take Buckey? I'd surely count it a favor."
Mushy nodded, but for the tears he couldn't look up, instead staring hard at the ground and trying not to blink. "I can do that, Pete." For the first time since meeting Pete Nolan, Mushy didn't think to add the mister. Perhaps it was because he'd never felt so close to him before.
Pete lay quietly for some moments, as if gathering strength. Finally he gazed up into Gil Favor's face and in a voice almost too soft to hear admitted, "I'm awful tired, Boss."
Favor bit his lip and swallowed the lump in his throat, "Sleep for a while then, Pete. I'll get somebody to take over for ya, but just 'til you're back on your feet. We got no slackers in this outfit."
Ever so slightly, Pete nodded, closing his eyes. Soon the labored breathing ceased. Wishbone rested a hand against the still chest. "He's gone, Boss," he murmured.
Favor didn't answer. It took a moment for him to realize that he still shaded Pete's face with his hat. Without a word he placed the banged up Stetson back where it belonged, tugging the brim down low.
Up on the rim a lone rider watched. He'd been watching for some time and listening. The sound of voices carried and he knew what had transpired below without having been there. In a clear unwavering voice he began to sing. It was "Streets of Laredo," also known by another, more fitting title, "The Dying Cowboy's Lament." It was Rowdy Yates' tribute, his gift, his goodbye.