Chapter 36: TRIAL AND TRIBULATION
Condor Camp, morning... Operations were in high gear and running smoothly. As Scott rolled out and made ready for this, his second actual hands-on workday, he reflected on the previous day's events. His team had four hundred mothers plus babies isolated in the permanent holding corral and another four hundred cows bunched up halfway between there and the main herd. Sorting cows with calves out from the main herd wasn't all that much work but would've been a whole lot easier with different horses...
All in all, he hadn't done too badly considering both of his iron-mouthed remounts seemed to have no other raison d'etre than yanking their rider's arms out of their sockets, fighting the bit every step of the way. Their names were Ace and Diablo and Scott was convinced they both had it in for him.
Scott had automatically selected the two tallest horses in the pool... fine-looking rangy animals similar in conformation to the warm-bloods he'd taken to war with him from among his grandfather's hunters. (Sadly, two had been shot out from under him and the third confiscated by the Secesh officer who'd then remanded his wounded captive to prisoner of war camp.) Cipriano'd intimated that good looks didn't necessarily make for a good stock horse and pointed out two other animals (Cookie and Buck) better suited, he said, to what Scott would be needing.
Scott had taken one look at the unlovely pair recommended by the segundo and shuddered at a fleeting vision of himself hacking around Boston Commons atop one these ill-favored beasts. No thank you! Now he was stuck with two horses very pretty on the dance floor but not worth a Confederate dollar in the field. Should've taken Cipriano's advice.
Before Scott and Cheech had jogged out to the herd, the latter had observed the trouble the former was having keeping his mount in hand and had suggested Scott trade out the low-port globe bit he was using for a spade and curb chain. Oh no! Scott couldn't even consider treating a horse that cruelly! But this morning he managed to nick himself twice while shaving because his arm muscles were quivering like calf's foot jelly and he was certain those appendages were several inches longer than they'd been the day before. Should've listened to Cheech.
Vicente had commented that Charlemagne was too highly strung for close-in work with cattle although the part-Thoroughbred had done well enough on the fall drive when he could remain on the fringes of the herd. Better to leave Charlie behind and choose his third mount from among horses accustomed to range work and attuned to the wiles of cattle. Should've paid attention to Vicente.
This morning at dawn Cheech had informed Scott over breakfast that his next job was learning how to haze cows out of the holding pen, leaving only the calves. How difficult could that be? Lingering over a last cup of coffee before going to collect his first mount, Scott had been intercepted by Cochie, who wanted a word with him.
Though Scott thought he'd made it clear he had no authority over camp matters, the cocinero contradicted him. "Patrón not here. Vicente not here. Like or no, you jefe. The mens, dey look to you. It is expected. You are first son of house!"
Scott protested. "Everybody here knows more than I do about running a camp. How can I tell them what to do when I'm just learning myself?"
Cochie grinned. "Sure, dey know dat. But dey also know you oficial militar de caballería and go to universidad."
"Is there some reason you're making a point about this?"
The grin faded and Cochie announced that his bones were telling him trouble was on the way, that it would be up to Scott to deal with it unless Vicente returned or his father arrived... and, oh... by the way... the patrón was back from his travels and over in Hawk camp with two companions...
"So I've heard... what trouble?"
Cochie went on to explain the current state of affairs while Scott marveled over how it was possible for one man to keep track of everything going on, as though possessed of multiple pairs of eyes and ears that saw all and heard all...
The previous evening, having gone twenty-four hours without sleep, the head wrangler and the one called Ronnie had foregone supper and fallen directly onto their bedrolls fully dressed and completely exhausted. Jerry had ignored them the entire day, which was easy as all three wranglers were kept busy shuttling horses back and forth. There was absolutely no time to trade insults, threats or even glowers. Five animals hadn't passed shoe inspection so had been picketed aside until someone could attend to them. After supper the wrangler called Jimmy had politely asked Ken, the smaller Irishman, if he'd mind the remuda for an hour or two so Jimmy could help their budding blacksmith at the forge, but the redhead had only sneered and spit on the ground before walking away.
Sombra Joey and Ronnie were still suffering shift changeover lag. Neither was on his best game today. In addition, Sombra Joey had only this morning got around to letting Cochie replace his torn stitches and at the latter's insistence was wearing a leather cuff to protect his forearm—not only uncomfortable but hampering flexibility in his roping arm.
By now it was all over camp how someone had sliced the seat out of Jerry O'Doul's drawers while he slept. He'd been promising to all who'd listen how he was going to pound that scrawny halfbreed piece of shite wrangler to a bloody pulp and take his scalp to boot. Cochie predicted that the big Irishman—with the cunning of a predator circling prey in a weakened state—was biding his time to exact retribution. They'd best keep an eye on him, Cochie warned, or someone was going to get hurt.
As a consequence of this discussion, Scott was on higher alert than he otherwise would have been when he went to collect his ride right at shift change, paying close attention to facial features and body language when formally introduced to Jimmy Hanson and Ronnie Goldman. They were kids... young boys with unmarked, unlined cherubic faces. Scott suddenly felt old and weary... and sad. In the war he'd commanded companies of children just like these... and he hadn't been very much older himself. Jimmy and Ronnie bloomed with the exhuberance of youth and high spirits. Obviously they both were well-fed, well-adjusted boys from happy homes to which they'd be returning when roundup was over.
O'Doul's and Kelly's faces, on the other hand, were etched with their years and hard lives, and their slump-shouldered posture advertised their disappointment with life in general. Scott actually felt sorry for them even as, sullen-faced and sulky, they were holding their own privately whispered exchange at some distance. One could smell the belligerence rolling off them in addition to the literal reek of unwashed bodies. Cochie was probably right. They were up to no good.
The head wrangler was an enigma. Again Scott was struck by the eerie resemblance to his brother—the same body type, wide shoulders tapering to narrow hips; the same easy panther-like grace in the way he moved, despite the limp; the same softly-modulated speech pattern. Johnny looked a little older, more mature, than his chronological age... but that was to be expected—he'd gone directly from street-tough urchin to case-hardened young adult gunfighter. Of course, Scott reflected, he'd done pretty such the same—from nursery to classroom to young gentleman of leisure, from there to war and back to scholar and gentleman. Neither one of them had been allowed to experience what should have been their carefree teenage years.
This Sombra Joey may look like a teenager, but his actions and speech were those of an older man. Both he and Johnny exhibited the sort of defensive reserve a man constructs when he has something to hide. Scott was still mulling all this over as he and Charlie clattered over the bridge and around the pavilion toward the pens.
Scott's next tutor, Silvio Pino, quickly demonstrated the value of a well-trained cutting horse. Charlie didn't fall into that category. Scott spent the next hour ineffectually chasing cows around in circles, making a mental note to acquire a good cutting horse before next roundup.
By midmorning they had four hundred panicky calves bawling to get out of the pen and four hundred distraught cows bellowing to get in. The branding station was fired up and ready to go, the ground crew standing by. Silvio's co-tutor, Nestor Calderón, eyed Scott's skittish mount and flat out told him to get another horse.
Trotting Charlie up to the pick-up point on the rise overlooking the remuda, Scott joined three hands with saddles at their feet, exclaiming and gesticulating at something happening down in the pasture. Instead of peacefully grazing, most of the horses were frenziedly milling about, snorting and tossing heads. A lone rider was zigzagging along the northern perimeter of the herd, gamely attempting to keep animals from banding up and making a break for it.
The commotion taking place dead center of the pasture appeared to be a fight in progress between the other two day wranglers, one of them much larger than the other. At this distance Scott couldn't make a positive identification but was sure the bigger one had to be Jerry.
"What's going on... uh... ¿Qué pasa?" Scott inquired of the closest man. The vaquero replied in broken English that they'd been smoking and waiting for their horses to be brought up when Sombra Joey, who'd ridden down to fetch them because the irlandés estúpido grande was ignoring them, suddenly diverted from his path over to the other man and said something to him. As they were looking on the bigger man had lashed Sombra Joey across the face with his quirt. The two had grappled and fallen off their mounts, disappearing into the crush of horses surrounding them.
Why hadn't they tried to break it up, Scott asked.
The vaqueros stared at him as if he'd lost his mind and all three started babbling at once. And miss the entertainment? Not only was it unmannerly to interfere in a fistfight, they had better sense than to get involved when one of the combatants was an Anglo.
Scott briefly thought about pulling rank and ordering the three back to work... but... well... they couldn't without their horses, could they? Reluctantly he urged Charlie down the hill and into the fray. By the time they'd pushed and shoved their way to the clearing in the middle of the herd, Jerry O'Doul was laid out, knocked silly, and the head wrangler was sitting on the ground with his elbows on his spread-apart knees, head in hands. Scott dismounted and walked a few steps over to him.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. Gimme a sec..." Jody looked up then. Blood leaked from his nose and welled from a long,thin stripe on the left side of his face extending from nose to ear.
Scott nodded toward O'Doul. "Dead?"
"Nah. He'll come around in a minute or two." Jody pushed himself up to his feet and stood unsteadily, using his bandanna to wipe his nose.
"How did this start?"
"Called him twice on using a whip. Aimed to take it away from him."
"The spectators up there say he hit you first."
"Doesn't matter who did what first."
"I imagine he had it coming. What can I do to help?"
"Help me get my horse."
"Sure. C'mon up."
Scott remounted and gave Jody a hand up behind him.
It wasn't hard to spot two saddled horses in the sea of bare backs. When they reached Cookie, Jody transferred. "If you'd catch up Jerry's... he should be awake now."
"You're pretty beat up... maybe you'd better let Cochie have a look at you and rest for a while."
"No. Can't leave Ronnie on his own. And there's men waiting..."
"I can take over for you... just pass the word so Cheech can get another roper..."
"No... I'm good... just get Jerry's horse."
"How do you know which ones they want?"
"My job to know." With that Jody clicked to Cookie once and they oozed away through the sea of horses like a hot knife through butter.
Scott looked around for one or the other of his remounts but couldn't find either of them. As most of the animals were bays or chestnuts with white facial and leg markings, Scott wondered not for the first time how the wranglers could distinguish one from another. By the time he ascended the rise and stripped the saddle and bridle from Charlie, sending him to rejoin the herd with a slap on the rump, Jody had arrived with three remounts on catchropes which he handed over to the vaqueros.
Scott was about to ask for Ace to brought up when Jody slid off his gelding, which Scott now recognized as the ugly roan he'd rejected.
"Take this one."
"He's... ah... not one of mine."
"He is today."
"Who says?"
"Cookie's the best cutting horse on the ranch. Give him a loose rein and he'll do the work. You just ride."
"What if I don't want him?"
Jody shrugged. "If you prefer cramps..."
"How do you...? Oh... I suppose Cochie told you..." Having to grip reins so tightly yesterday that he'd squeezed the blood from his fingers, Scott had been unable to sleep due to unending severe cramps in his hands. He'd had to wake up Cochie in the middle of the night to beg for liniment.
"I'll take him." Scott already had the bridle in his hand and Jody shook his head.
"No bit. Gotta ride him with the hackamore he's already wearing... got a mouth like velvet. Easy to handle long as you don't saw his mouth."
"Okay." Scott saddled up and mounted while Jody held Cookie's head.
"One other thing..." Jody said, handing up the reins with what Scott could have sworn was almost a smile. Almost.
"Make sure that off-rein is snugged before you get on or off. If you're leading, hold him by the head at arms length. Don't let him get behind you. He's bad to bite and he'll take a hunk outta anything he can reach if he gets a chance."
One other thing? "Thanks for the warning."
"Don't walk too close behind him, either... and keep an eye on his near hind leg. He's a kicker... backwards and forwards just like a cow."
"I suppose he bucks like a bronco as well?" Scott asked dryly.
"No... he don't buck. But he will lay down on you if he thinks you're not paying attention. I'd stay away from low-hanging limbs, too."
"I see... easy to handle. Uh huh." Scott rode off wondering what Sombra Joey considered a difficult horse.