Ralph Compton: The Alamosa Trail

Jim, Tennessee, and Barry found Frankie and Cal just before noon. It was Barry who saw the black mound in the snow. They had seen hundreds of such mounds since leaving the bunkhouse this morning, but there was something unusual about this one. Barry pointed to it.

“What do you fellas think that is?” he asked.

“Another dead cow, I suppose,” Tennessee replied.

“I don’t know,” Barry said. “It looks different.”

“Those are horses,” Jim said.

“Horses? What are horses doing out here?”

“That has to be Frankie and Cal,” Jim said. He urged his own horse to gather as much speed as it could in the snow. The other two men did the same, and given the circumstances, they covered the two hundred yards rather quickly.

When they got there, they saw that the horses were dead, but their positions on the ground weren’t random. The two horses were lying on the ground, almost perfectly aligned, back to back.

“Look at that. These horses have been shot,” Tennessee said, pointing to wounds in the animals’ heads.

Jim began scraping away some of the snow. Beneath the snow was a poncho, stretched across the two horses. “Look here,” Jim said. “They made themselves a shelter. Frankie! Frankie! Cal! Are you boys all right?”

There was a slight movement under the poncho, the remaining snow slid to one side; then the little piece of rubberized tarpaulin was lifted. Frankie stuck his head up and blinked a few times at the brightness of the sun.

“I never thought I’d see the day when I would say this, but you three boys are about the pretti est sight I’ve ever seen,” Frankie said.

“Frankie, are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Frankie said. The smile left his face and he looked back down into the little sheltered area. “But Cal didn’t make it.”

“Didn’t make it?”

“He died during the night,” Frankie said.

It took three months before they were able to round up all the cattle. This particular roundup was different from any roundup they had experienced before, however, because this time the cattle they were collecting were dead.

The cowboys tied ropes to the legs of the dead cows, then pulled them to one of several central locations. Once they had them gathered they would pour kerosene on the bodies, then burn them. For several weeks the air smelled of charred flesh, not just on Trailback, but throughout the entire West.

Most of the cowboys knew what was coming long before Angus Brookline told them. They could tell when he brought the table out and set it up for that last payday, that their jobs were over. Normally, there were broad smiles and wisecracks on payday, but not on this day.

As they gathered around the table, Jim looked at these men he had worked with for the last few years. He had worked at several ranches over the years, but none better than Trailback. Even though Brookline was the manager and not the owner, he was a good man to work for. He knew cattle, he knew ranching, and he knew men. He hired only good, honest workers, and treated them well.

Jim looked out at the cowboys who were awaiting their final pay. There were Frankie, of course, and Tennessee and Barry. Standing over by the fence were the only two brothers on the ranch, Hank and Chad Taylor. Standing near the two brothers were Ken Keene, Gene Curry, and Eddie Quick.

As the cowboys stood around waiting to be paid, they talked to each other in low tones, almost as if they were at a funeral. And in a way, Jim thought, they were: the funeral of Trailback Ranch.

As soon as Brookline had the table and his money box in position, he looked out over the outfit.

“Boys,” he began. “I don’t have to tell you what’s comin’. I can see in your faces that you already know. I sent a cablegram to the ranch owners back in England, tellin’ them that you boys are the finest outfit I have ever had the pleasure of working with, and if they ever planned to get back into ranchin’, they couldn’t do any better than to keep you on.” Brookline sighed. “But they didn’t see it that way. They are not only letting all of you go, but they’re letting me go as well. This is the last payday for us all.”

“What the hell, Mr. Brookline, why are they letting you go?” Jim asked. “They have to have someone to watch the ranch, don’t they?”

“They’re sending someone out from New York to take my place,” Brookline said. “But he’s not comin’ out here to watch the ranch—he’s comin’ out to sell it.”

“They must be crazy, selling a spread like this,” Chad Taylor said.

“Yes, well, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about that,” Brookline said. Then, for the first time since coming out to set up the pay table, he smiled. “But I’m happy to tell you that I was able to get them to agree to a bonus for you boys, for all the hard work you did in roundin’ up the dead cattle and getting rid of ’em. You’re all getting ten dollars more this month than you’ve been getting.”

Although the men were saddened by the fact that this would be the last time they would draw any money from Trailback, the twenty-five percent increase in their pay put them back in good spirits, and soon, it was almost like the paydays of old.

Chapter 3

After the final pay off at Trailback, the cowboys scattered in all directions, some going alone, others traveling in pairs or in large groups. Tennessee Tuttle joined Barry Riggsbee, and the two men rode off to New Mexico to look for work around Santa Fe. Jim Robison and his cousin Frankie headed for the ranchland around Ama rillo. The largest single group of cowboys to stay together was Hank and Chad Taylor, Ken Keene, Gene Curry, and Eddie Quick.

After three days of riding on the range, they found themselves in the little town of Tarantula. Tarantula was like hundreds of other towns all across the West. Served by a railroad, it had two streets, one parallel to the tracks, the other perpendicular to them. The streets were dusty, filled with horse droppings, and lined with false-fronted buildings. As usual in such towns, the largest and most prosperous-looking buildings were the two saloons.

The boys tied up in front of the first saloon they saw, then went inside. The saloon was crowded, but there was enough room for them to step up to the bar and order a beer.

“We’ve got to be careful about how many of these we buy,” Hank said. “Seein’ as how we’ve got no job, we’d better take care of our money.”

“Somethin’ will turn up,” Eddie said.

“What if it don’t?”

“Somethin’ will turn up,” Eddie said again. “It always does. I’m lucky that way. And as long as you boys are with me, you’ll be lucky, too.”

“Ha!” Ken said. “If you ain’t as full of shit as a Christmas turkey.”

“Wait a minute, fellas,” Hank said, interrupting the banter. He nodded toward two men who were standing at the other end of the bar. “Listen to what those hombres over there are talkin’ about.”

“I’m tellin’ you, Cannonball is the fastest horse I’ve ever seen,” one of the men was saying. “He can outrun jackrabbits, coyotes, wolves, and any horse that’s ever been borned.”

“You ain’t tellin’ me nothin’. I’ve seen him run,” the other man replied. “How much money have you won with that horse now?”

“Near on to a thousand dollars, I reckon, but I can’t get nobody to race him anymore.”

“Do you blame them? Betting against Cannonball is like a body throwing their money away.”

Hank, Ken, Eddie, and Gene looked over at Chad.

“You hear that, Chad?”

“Yeah, I heard it.”

“Well, what do you think? You think Thunderbolt can beat him?” Thunderbolt was Chad’s horse.

“I don’t know,” Chad answered. “I’ve never seen this fella’s horse run.”