There was some settlement in the Smoky River Valley which must be avoided, as in years past serious enmity had been engendered between settlers and drovers in consequence of the ravages of Texas fever among native cattle.I was riding on the left point, and when within a short distance of the trail, one of the boys called my attention to a loose herd of cattle, drifting south and fully two miles to the west of us.It was certainly something unusual, and as every man of us scanned them, a lone horseman was seen to ride across their front, and, turning them, continue on for our herd.The situation was bewildering, as the natural course of every herd was northward, but here was one apparently abandoned like a water-logged ship at sea.
The messenger was a picture of despair.He proved to be the owner of the abandoned cattle, and had come to us with an appeal for help.According to his story, he was a Northern cowman and had purchased the cattle a few days before in Dodge.He had bought the outfit complete, with the understanding that the through help would continue in his service until his range in Wyoming was reached.But it was a Mexican outfit, foreman and all, and during the storm of the night before, one of the men had been killed by lightning.The accident must have occurred near dawn, as the man was not missed until daybreak, and like ours, his cattle had drifted with the storm.Some time was lost in finding the body, and to add to the panic that had already stricken the outfit, the shirt of the unfortunate vaquero was burnt from the corpse.The horse had escaped scathless, though his rider met death, while the housings were stripped from the saddle so that it fell from the animal.The Mexican foreman and vaqueros had thrown their hands in the air; steeped in superstition, they considered the loss of their comrade a had omen, and refused to go farther.The herd was as good as abandoned unless we could lend a hand.
The appeal was not in vain.Detailing four of my men, and leaving Jack Splann as segundo in charge of our cattle, I galloped away with the stranger.As we rode the short distance between the two herds and I mentally reviewed the situation, I could not help but think it was fortunate for the alien outfit that their employer was a Northern cowman instead of a Texan.Had the present owner been of the latter school, there would have been more than one dead Mexican before a valuable herd would have been abandoned over an unavoidable accident.I kept my thoughts to myself, however, for the man had troubles enough, and on reaching his drifting herd, we turned them back on their course.It was high noon when we reached his wagon and found the Mexican outfit still keening over their dead comrade.We pushed the cattle, a mixed herd of about twenty-five hundred, well past the camp, and riding back, dismounted among the howling vaqueros.There was not the semblance of sanity among them.The foreman, who could speak some little English, at least his employer declared he could, was carrying on like a madman, while a majority of the vaqueros were playing a close second.The dead man had been carried in and was lying under a tarpaulin in the shade of the wagon.Feeling that my boys would stand behind me, and never offering to look at the corpse, I inquired in Spanish of the vaqueros which one of the men was their corporal.A heavy-set, bearded man was pointed out, and walking up to him, with one hand I slapped him in the face and with the other relieved him of a six-shooter.He staggered back, turned ashen pale, and before he could recover from the surprise, in his own tongue I berated him as a worthless cur for deserting his employer over an accident.Following up the temporary advantage, I inquired for the cook and horse-wrangler, and intimated clearly that there would be other dead Mexicans if the men were not fed and the herd and saddle stock looked after;that they were not worthy of the name of vaqueros if they were lax in a duty with which they had been intrusted.
"But Pablo is dead," piped one of the vaqueros in defense.
