Next to me in the snack bar was an American, an elderly man, and obviously a rancher.
“Are you looking for something?” he asked.
“Yes, the sugar!” And he passed me the enamelled bowl.
“I didn’t mean that,” he said, smiling. “What I meant was, would you like to earn some money?”
“I always like earning money,” I replied.
“Have you ever cut out cattle?”
“I grew up on a cattle farm.”
“Then I’ve got a job for you!”
“Really?”
“A thousand head of cattle, sixty heavy bulls among them, to be driven three hundred and fifty miles overland.
“Agreed!” I shook his hand. “Where shall I meet you?”
“Hotel Palacio. At five. In the lobby.”
These cattle couldn’t be transported by rail for there were no facilities for that. And as to overland drive there existed only few roads, many mountain ranges had to be crossed, swamps by-passed, rivers forded. Grazing pasture and water had to be found every day.
“Three hundred and fifty miles?” I asked the rancher when we met to talk it over. “As the crow flies?”
“Yes, as the crow flies,” said the rancher. Mr. Pratt was his name.
“Dammit, boss, that might turn out to be six hundred.”
“Not so unlikely, but as far as I’ve figured, it might be possible to keep a fairly direct route.”
“What about pay?”
“Six pesos a day. I provide horse, saddle, and equipment. You got to cook your own food on the way. I’ll send six of my men to whom the animals are well used along with you. Indians. The foreman, a mestizo, will also go with you. He’s quite a good man. Reliable. I might perhaps trust him with the herd. But no. If he sells the herd on the way, and bolts, I could do nothing about it. His wife and children live on my ranch, but that’s no security!—you could search for the likes of him forevermore in this country. Besides, I wouldn’t like to give him so much money to carry about. On the other hand, I couldn’t send him off without money. There are so many expenses on the drive, it’s not fair to tempt any man that way. As for me, I can’t stay away from the rancho that long … the bandits’d be around the place before you could say knife. That’s why I’d like to get hold of a gringo like you to take over the drive.”
“Well, I don’t know if I’m as honest as you think. Not yet, anyhow,” I said with a laugh. “I, too, know how to bolt with a herd. After all, you’ve just picked me up in the street.”
“I judge a man by his face,” Mr. Pratt went on. Then, after a pause: “To be perfectly honest, I’m not trusting entirely to luck. I know you.”
“You know me? I can’t imagine how.”
“Didn’t you work for a farmer Shine?”
“I saw you there. And I have Mr. Shine’s word that I can rely on you. So you’ll have the contract, you’ll drive the herd, and I’ll advance you money to pay your daily expenses.”
“Very well! But what about the contract bonus?”
Mr. Pratt was silent for a while, then took out his notebook, made a few calculations, and said: “I’ve leased pastureland near the port, two miles from the main terminal market. It’s well fenced. There, I can wait for cattle-buyers to come to me, and I’ll probably get orders for several shiploads. If not, I’ll sell the herd in small lots. I’ve got a good and very reliable agent there who’s been working with me for years, and has always got good prices …”
“That’s all very well,” I interjected, “but what about my contract and bonus?”
“All right, for each head that you drive through, sound from horn to hoof, I’ll pay you sixty centavos extra. If your losses are less than two per cent, I’ll give you a hundred-peso bonus on top of that, plus your pay.”
“What about the losses?”
“I’ll deduct twenty-five pesos for every head lost above two per cent,” said Mr. Pratt.
“Just a moment,” I broke in. I made a few quick calculations myself on the margin of a newspaper. “Sold,” I agreed. “Let me have a note of the contract.”
He tore a leaf out of his little notebook, wrote the conditions of our contract in pencil, signed it and handed it to me. “Your address?” he asked.
“My address? That’s an awkward point!” (I really didn’t have an address.) “Let’s say right here, Hotel Palacio.”
“Okay. All right.”
“How do matters stand at present? Has the herd been cut out?”
“No, not a single head has been cut out, yet. There’ll be a few yearlings, but most of the herd’ll be two- and three-year-olds. Yes, a few four-year-olds, too. I’ll help you cut them out.”
“All branded?”
“All of them. No trouble there.”
“What about the leader bulls?”
“That’s your problem. You’ll have to see about them.”
“All right by me. I can manage to pick them.”
Mr. Pratt got up. “Now let’s have a drink, and then you’re going to have dinner with me. Afterwards, I’ve got some private business to attend to, before we leave for the ranch.”
What his private business was, that was no concern of mine. I’m not curious when it comes to private business. One of the many reasons why I am still alive.
The following morning, after breakfast on his ranch, we saddled up and rode out to the prairie to see if I could pick out a horse for myself. These horses were born, bred, and raised out in the wide open; there was no horse stable on Mr. Pratt’s ranch, and so these horses were wild. They were shaggy, long-maned and long-tailed, though rather small; and they galloped off at the mere scent of man.
Two or three times a year these horses were rounded up, and driven into a corral close to the ranch. Here they were fed, and watered, so as to get used to man; they were tied up, bridled, saddled, and eventually mounted before being turned loose again on the range. And thus, with patience and care, the horses were kept this side of remaining wild. The trainers were careful never to break the horse’s spirit, nor hurt his pride, nor curb his natural mettle.
I picked out a horse, neither the wildest nor the tamest, but one which looked as if it would stand the strenuous trek. We closed in on him, lassoed him, and took him back to the ranch, where I left him to his peace, tied to a tree. Later, I threw him some grain, which he ignored. Then some fresh grass, which he likewise declined. So I let him go hungry and thirsty overnight. In the morning, I brought him more grass; but he shied off, to the end of his rope. Then I put some water in front of him, which he immediately tipped over as he wasn’t used to drinking from a bucket, for he’d drunk only from streamlets and rain pools.
In time I made him, or rather his hunger made him, feed and drink; and so he came to associate food with my presence. Within two days I could come up to him and pat him gently on the back. He trembled, but after a while the trembling ceased. I could not, of course not, spend all my time with the horse, only moments when we came to the rancho for meals; meanwhile we were very busy cutting out the herd.
When the horse had become used to me, I put a bitless bridle on him, with a bridle strap fastened outside around his mouth. If a horse hasn’t been ruined by rough handling, you can ride him without any iron in the mouth. In fact, he responds wonderfully; the assumption that you can master a horse only if you tear its mouth open, or dig its sides raw with a spur, is utterly false.
At last I saddled him. And every time I came to the ranch to eat, I tightened the straps. At the same time I pressed the saddle and put weight on it as if I was going to mount. Then I let down the stirrups, so they dangled freely and knocked against his flanks. Now I moved about as if to mount by putting a boot in the stirrup. At the first attempt, he kicked and danced away; but in a few days he was well accustomed to the knocking and dangling of the stirrups. Then I jumped on, got one leg over the saddle, and jumped off again.
All this time, the horse had been tied, sometimes on a long rope, sometimes on a short one. At last I ventured to mount. I blindfolded him and got into the saddle. He stood still and trembled all over his body. Quickly I jumped off, patted his neck and back, and kept up a flow of smooth talk. I mounted again. He turned, quivered, but danced and bucked only slightly; now he bumped against the tree, and so stopped altogether. I remained in the saddle and pressed my heels into his flanks. He became restless, but by now he realized that there was nothing to be afraid of, so I removed the blindfold. He looked about him. I, still in the saddle, spoke to him, patted him, reassured him.
Next, I had to discover whether or not he was suitable for riding. From the first day I had been tapping him gently on the rump with a switch, to accustom him to this signal. One day I mounted him, and winked to a boy nearby to untie him. The horse stood still, having no idea of what was expected of him. I tapped him with the switch. Nothing doing. Then he got a good sharp blow, and lo! he started off. I kept him under control, out on the prairie, where he could run freely. He ran, and even galloped, but I kept holding him back more and more, until he realized that this was a signal to stop or fall into a different gait. Through all this time of training, I managed to keep my patience, never to break his pride, and so this strong, shaggy three-year-old became a good horse. I called him Gitano, which means Gypsy.
Whether in the long history of mankind a colt had ever been trained for riding in a similar way before, I don’t know. Anyhow the way I had done it produced lasting results so my training system cannot have been so very wrong, after all. And now the herd had to be cut out. I possessed not the slightest notion what was meant by that and how it had to be done. Never in my life had I driven even as few as fifty cattle from one pasture to the next. Now, since Mr. Pratt was hawk-like, watching every move I made preparing the herd for the long march, I was forced to show off here and there. If you wish you may call it bluffing shamelessly. Perhaps you are right. If I had never tried bluffing at some critical occasions in my existence on earth I would have lost my life long, long ago.
My idea (if it was good or wrong, this I did not know) was to form a little group of the animals, sort of a family center of the whole transport around which smaller groups might gather and thus keep together more naturally—since cattle belong to the species of animals who for many good reasons prefer to live in groups or herds, as do dogs, horses, wolves, elephants, antelope, zebras, also fish.
Meantime, we had started cutting out the herd. First, I cut out the bulls, looking for a leader bull. We cut and drove into the cattle corral the bulls I had picked, and I let them go hungry. I continued putting the herd, the two- and three-year-olds and the oxen, as well as the rest of the eighty bulls, into another enclosure. I examined every one to make sure that it was healthy enough for the long trek; and all these were fenced into a field so that they might get the herd feeling. When I had three hundred head in that enclosure, I believed the bulls were ready.
We drove them into the field with the picked herd, and the battle for leader began. The bulls who were indifferent to the honor got by themselves as far out of the way as possible, and the battle soon centered on five of them. The victor, still bleeding profusely, charged towards one of the cows in heat who pushed her way towards him. We attended to all the wounded bulls immediately; and after the victor had spent himself and returned to his herd senses, he too got his medicine. For if the wounds weren’t treated promptly, they’d soon be full of maggots, and it’d be a long and tedious job getting them out.
Worms, maggots, and ticks are a big problem with any herd, anywhere, but worst of all in the tropics. And if cattle start losing weight, their skin dries out, and deadens, and the lean cattle are in danger of being eaten alive by worms and ticks. Healthy animals, however, are attacked only by limited numbers of pests which can easily be kept under control.
Once we had cut out the thousand head of cattle, Mr. Pratt, a very generous man, gave me five extra healthy ones as replacements for those five in a thousand who were certain to fall sick or fail to survive the long drive.
Then I was given a hundred pesos cash in silver for transport expenses, besides some checks I could cash in case of emergency, and I was also given the delivery note to the terminal pasture. Then Mr. Pratt handed me a map.
The less said about this map, the better. You can put anything you like upon a map: roads, rivers, villages, towns, grasslands, water pools, mountain passes, and plenty more. Paper is patient, it won’t refuse anything; but though a river or a bridge appears on a map it doesn’t mean that you’re going to find it where it is supposed to be.
It was a real joy to hear Mrs. Pratt swearing; every other word was “son-of-a-bitch,” “bastard,” or “f——ing,” and more in the same beautiful strain. On a rancho like theirs, it could be damned lonely, and the nights were long, so you couldn’t blame her for living her life as intensely as existence on a cattle rancho permitted. How else was the poor woman to use up the surplus energy, which, had she lived in a village or town, would have gone into chatting and gossiping with the neighbors all day? To her, everything was son-of-a-bitch; her husband, I, the Indians, the fly that dropped into her coffee cup, the Indian girl in the kitchen, her finger that she cut, the hen that fluttered on the table and upset the soup pot, her horse that moved too slowly; yes, every object between heaven and earth was to Mrs. Pratt a son-of-a-bitch.
They had a phonograph and we danced nearly every evening. For a number of reasons, I preferred to dance with the Indian kitchen-maid; but Ethel, Mrs. Pratt, danced far better and we got onto such good terms that one night she told me quite frankly in her husband’s presence that she’d like to marry me if her husband should die or divorce her.
She was a fine woman, Mrs. Pratt, she certainly was, and I wouldn’t hear a word against her. A woman who can handle the wildest horse, swear to make a sergeant major wince, a woman before whom tough Indian vaqueros trembled and with whom bandits kept their distance, a woman who in the presence of her husband (whom she seemed to love) could quite soberly declare that she’d like to marry me if he died or left her—damn it, a woman like that could stir you even if you didn’t care much about the so-called weaker sex.
As we were leaving, Ethel Pratt stood on the long veranda and waved good-bye. “Good luck, boy! You’re always welcome on this rancho. Hey, Suarez, you dirty dog, you filthy son-of-a-goddamned-old-bitch, can’t you see that black one is breaking out, the son-of-a-bitch of a bull. Where are your f——ing eyes? Well, boy, good-bye!”
I waved my hat, and Gitano swept off with me.
Yes, we were off. We broke out. The yelling, the shouting, the calling, the high-pitched shrieking of the Indians; the sound of the short-handled whips cutting through the air; the trampling of hoofs and all the uproar as a column of beasts shied off, rushed away and had to be blocked in, lest it lost contact with the main herd.
The first day is always one of the hardest, so Mr. Pratt came along with us. The herd is still only loosely knit and a sense of belonging together does not develop until the transport has been under way a few days, until the herd knows the leader bull and gets the smell of mutual kinship. Then the family feeling, rather the herd feeling, emerges and the animals want to stay with their herd.
But they didn’t stay together like a flock of sheep kept in order by a shepherd and a dog. For these cattle, born and raised on vast ranges among Mr. Pratt’s twelve thousand-headed herd, were accustomed to space, and they wanted to spread out, run loose. The dogs we took with us couldn’t make much of a showing, for they tired easily and could be used only for small jobs. Thus, it was a constant galloping back and forth, shouting and yelling.
I had a police whistle with me as a signal for the boys, the foreman had an ordinary whistle, easily distinguished from mine. I put the foreman at the head and I took the rear, as it afforded a better view of the field of transport, and it seemed easier to me to direct operations from there.
What more beautiful sight could there be than a giant herd of healthy half-wild cattle! There they were ahead of me, trampling and stamping, the heavy necks, the rounded bodies, the proud, mighty horns. It was a heaving sea of gigantic vitality, of brute nature herded along by one single purpose. And each pair of horns represented a life in itself, a life with its own will, its own desires, its own thoughts and feelings.
From saddle-height I surveyed the whole of this ocean of horns and necks and rumps. I could perhaps have walked on the broad backs of the animals across the entire herd up to the belled bulls in front.
The animals bellowed singly and in chorus. They quarrelled and pushed each other around. Shouts and calls went up. The bells clattered. The sun smiled and blazed. Everything was green. The land of perpetual summer. Oh, beautiful, wonderful land of everlasting springtime, rich with legend, dance and song! You have no equal anywhere on this earth.
I couldn’t help singing. I sang whatever came into my head, hymns and sweet folk airs, love songs and ditties, operatic arias, drinking songs and bawdy songs. What did I care what the songs were about? What did the melody matter? I sang from a heart full of joy.
And what magic air! The hot breath of the tropical bush, the warm sultry sweat of the mass of moving cattle, the heavy vapors from a near-by swamp, wafted to us by the wind.
Thick droves of buzzing horseflies and other insects circled over the trotting herd, and dense clouds of glittering greenflies followed us to settle on the dung. Blackbirds accompanied us in whole flocks, lighted on the backs of the beasts to pick ticks and bugs from their hides. Untold thousands of creatures lived off this mighty herd. Life and life! … everywhere nothing but life.
Our march took us over country roads for a few days, with fields and pastureland on either side fenced in with barbed wire. Of course such pastures can’t be used without the owner’s consent, so our herd had to graze along the roadsides, which proved to be ample, and there were sufficient water pools still filled from the rainy season.
When cars or trucks or pack caravans passed along the roads there was quite some performance, for we had to push the herd to one side; but the cattle would break away, wheel around, and hightail it singly or in groups for several miles. Then we’d have to give chase and round them up, drive them into the herd again.
It was even more complicated when we came to open pastures where other cattle were grazing in herds, often without herders. Sometimes these herds mixed in with ours, and had to be sorted out again; on one occasion, this took practically a whole day, for we couldn’t drive off a single head of another rancher’s cattle. Had we done so, it would have led to unholy difficulties for which I, and in the last resort Mr. Pratt, would have been held responsible.
Sometimes, we couldn’t get rid of straying animals. They insisted on following us, because they took a liking to our bulls perhaps, or liked the smell of our herd. I was always supposed to know at a glance if a stray animal got in with our herd, or one of ours lagged behind; but the brands and markings were often very similar and almost illegible. The foreman with an Indian driver was supposed to chase other herds away before our herd approached them; but it often happened that a few dozen head of our own would manage to scamper off with the other herd. Then the mix-up would be hell on hooves, and we’d be soaked with sweat and have throats like sandpaper before we got them all sorted out again.
For a general to take an army overland is child’s play compared with the task of transporting a thousand head of half-wild range cattle across undeveloped, half-civilized country. Soldiers can be told what’s expected of them. Herds of cattle cannot; you have to do everything yourself. You are the superior and the subordinate in one.
At around five in the afternoon we usually called a halt, depending on whether we’d reached grazing land and water. The animals could hold out without water for one day provided they had fresh grass; two days, if they had to; but on the third day water had to be found. If I couldn’t find water, I’d often let the herd run freely and they’d find it by themselves; but such water might be so far off our main line of advance that we’d lose a day or so.
We set up two camps at night, one in front and one in the rear. Fires were lighted, coffee made, beans or rice cooked, camp bread was baked, and dried meat eaten with it. Then we wrapped ourselves in our blankets and slept on the bare ground, with the sky for cover, our heads upon our saddles.
I posted two watches, with reliefs, to keep jaguars away and to keep the herd together. There are cattle who like to nose around at night just as some men do; and of course all the animals are up long before dawn, grazing. We gave them plenty of time for this, as well as a long rest at high noon.
After several days, I had lost only one bull. He had been fighting and got so badly gored that we had to slaughter him. We cut out the best meat, sliced it thinly, and dried it in the broiling hot sun. To make up the loss of this one bull, a cow had calved the night before, and this presented us with a new problem. The little calf couldn’t make the trek, but we didn’t want to kill it. We wanted him to keep his noisy young life, and we felt sorry for the mother cow who licked her baby so lovingly. So I took the calf first on my own horse, then passed it to other riders about every half hour.
This little calf became our pet. He was a joy, and it was always a touching sight when we handed him down to his mother, who always ran near the rider holding her calf. There was always a great licking, mooing and lowing at these reunions, where the little calf went at her udder and she was almost beside herself with joy. When he got heavier we had to load him onto a pack mule.
If too many cows had calved, it would have been impossible to show the mothers this consideration; but it happened three times more and I could never bring myself to kill the little ones.
Ingratitude is so much a part of human character that it is best to take it for granted and not feel hurt by it. Nature on the other hand is grateful for the smallest services we render her. No animal or plant ever forgets the drink of water it receives at our hands, or the handful of fodder that we may give it. And so did the little calves and their mothers present their gratitude, although unknowingly, to us for the charity we had shown them.
We came to a large river and neither we nor the guide could discover a ford. Farther downstream we found a ferry. But the ferryman demanded so much a head that the crossing would have been too costly; and I had yet to face the cost of other rivers, ferries, and toll bridges that had to be used, regardless. While I was bargaining with the ferryman, the herd rushed on upstream for another three miles. Here we stopped for two days, because the grazing was very good. Here they bathed, standing in the water for hours on end, ridding themselves of the various vermin that perished in water.
After two days of rest, we still had to cross the river. We started to drive them over, but as soon as they felt the incline of the river bed, they turned back; though the river wasn’t very wide, there were deep channels.
At last I hit on an idea. Taking our machetes, we chopped down some small trees and made a raft. We tied the lassoes into one long line and an Indian swam across with one end of the line. We tied the other end to the raft, as well as a second lighter line for pulling it back. I packed one of the calves onto the raft, the Indian pulled it over and landed the calf. We pulled the raft back and we sent a second calf over; in a few minutes we had all the four calves on the other side.
They stood over there alone, pathetically wobbling on their spindly high legs and set up a chorus of wretched mooing. It sounded pitiful. And if the mooing of those small, helpless creatures went straight to our hearts, how much more did it affect the mothers. The little ones had cried out only a few times when one of the mothers took to the water and swam across. Soon, the other three mothers followed. There was an affectionate reunion. But we hadn’t time to watch it for much hard work awaited us.
Now the mother cows were mooing, because they were separated from the herd; they were afraid, and longed to be reunited with their kith and kin. The bulls listened to the mooing for a while and then began to swim over. The leader bull was not among them. Only younger bulls had crossed over, probably thinking they now had a chance to found a new empire on the other side away from any interference from the older bulls. The jealousy of the older, bigger bulls was thus aroused, including the leader bull. They snorted and rushed over to teach those precocious young greenhorns a lesson.
The water cooled them down, however, and by the time they got to the other side they lost the urge to fight, although they had been snorting so fiercely from the opposite bank. Now that the bulls were over, the cows had no intention of spending the rest of their lives with no bulls around; as they were in the habit of following the bulls everywhere, they followed them now. Soon the water was full of snorting, splashing cattle doing their best to swim across. It was a fine confusion of horned heads and of thrusting, monstrous backs.
When the going got perilous, some of them turned back, and this was the moment when we had to take a hand. If we let the timid ones turn back, half the herd might follow; they were all fighting, unable to keep a straight course in the swift water, and milling about and heading for any bank. So we went in with our horses, shouting, using our whips, heading them all across, across, and across to the other side. Three of them swam too far downstream, drifted out of our reach, and were swept away, lost to us.
These three were the sum total of our losses at this crossing. It was cheap at the price, for they weren’t much good anyway, they’d made trouble on the transport, they were slackers, and the fewer slackers in any troop, the better. Now we let the herd have a good rest while we made camp for the night. That night one of my two-year-olds was killed by a jaguar, though none of us heard a sound of it. The carcass and paw-marks told us the story next morning.
In every respect, I got off lightly. Crossing by means of the small ferry would have taken a week, and would have cost hundreds of pesos; and even at that, I’d have suffered losses. Cattle might have jumped off the ferry or fallen victim to more jaguars or alligators had we stayed so long by the river. Thus, the pesos I saved went towards my earnings and bonus.
What I had saved at this river-crossing, I owed to my dear little calves. The love we had shown to them and their mothers had been bountifully repaid.
The cattle drive would not have seemed the real thing without bandits or rustlers. In fact, as each day passes, you feel rather surprised if they don’t show up. A big cattle transport like ours can’t take place in a vacuum. Dozens of men see it; it gets talked about, and you never know what pair of eyes is a scout for a band of cattle-thieves or bandits.
One morning we met them. They came riding along quite innocently and might have been ranch hands riding to market or looking for work. They approached from our flank.
“Hello!” called the leader. “Any tequila?”
“No,” said I. “No tequila. But we’ve got some tobacco. You can have some.”
“All right. We’ll take it. Got any maize leaves?”
“We can spare two dozen.”
“We’ll take them too. Well, now, what about money? The transport must have money for ferries and toll bridges.”
Things were getting hot. Money. “We’ve no money with us, only checks.”
“Checks rubbish. Can’t read.”
They talked among themselves, and then the spokesman came riding alongside. “About the money. We’ll look into that.”
He searched my pockets, the saddlebags, saddle, and gear. No money. He found only the checks, and had to admit that I spoke the truth.
“We could do with some cows,” he decided.
“I could do with some myself,” I said, “I’m not the owner, I’m only in charge of transporting these cattle.”
“Then you won’t be hurt if I take out one or two for myself.”
“Go ahead,” I agreed, “help yourself. I’ve one good cow, but with a lame foot. She’ll be in milk in three months. You can cure the hoof, it’s not bad.”
“Where is she?”
I had her driven out, and he liked her. All this time, the transport had been moving on, for it couldn’t be halted by a word of command, like an army, particularly since there was no grazing. The rustlers obligingly rode along beside me.
The leader said: “Well, you’ve given me one, and now it’s my turn to pick one out for myself.”
He picked one, but he didn’t know much about cattle; and I didn’t mind losing the one he picked.
“Now you can pick one out for me,” he granted.
I did so. Then he picked himself another one.
This time he took one of the milk cows.
“Now it’s your turn again, señor!” he called.
I had to have my little joke. I called the man who was carrying the milk cow’s calf on his saddle. “Here you are, the little one in the bargain,” I said, handing the little calf over to him. He was well satisfied with the bargain, and let the calf pass for a fully grown animal. But he wasn’t acting out of generosity. Oh no. Many Indians can’t milk cows; or they can milk the cow only if the calf is sucking. The milk must practically flow by itself, as if she’s giving the milk to her calf. So, the calf was a welcome gift to that man. He could now get milk from the cow for his family, or for sale.
It was his turn to pick out another cow.
When they rode away, they had seven cows and one calf. Which cost me a hundred and seventy-five pesos. Of course, the possibility of bandits was duly considered when I made the contract with Mr. Pratt; and it was only a question of how I’d deal with the bandits. It’s best to bargain with them, as with businessmen, and employ diplomacy, too, for they might well have driven off with fifteen, instead of seven and a half.
It all counts up as business expense; like freight demurrage. It was a business risk, such as a derailed train, a ship wrecked or burned, which would be the end of the transport. In this country, at that time, no rancher insured his herd, and no insurance company would issue a policy except at impossible rates. Bandits were a business risk, just as depot, freight, feeding, watering, taxing and licensing might be in other regions. Here, the total risks are rivers, mountains, mountain passes, gorges, sandy regions, waterless routes, bandits, jaguars, rattlesnakes, copperheads, and, if worst comes to worst, a cattle epidemic which might be caught from contact with other cattle met on the march.
Here, the cost was borne by the vastness of everything: the land, the herds, the breeding, the increase. Mr. Pratt’s twelve thousand head were not among the largest herds of his region. Bandits and rustlers were just another factor. Of course, one can shoot at bandits, or threaten to call the military. Some fools may do that. You can always see it done very nicely, in films: three dozen bandits fleeing from one smart cowboy. In the movies, yes; in reality, no. In reality, it’s quite, but quite, quite different.
In reality, bandits do not gallop off so easily. It is the birthright of bandits to take what they need. Three hundred years of slavery and subjugation under Spanish overlords and Church domination and torturers couldn’t but demoralize the most upright people on earth. My bandits were pleased that they got everything so easily, so pleasantly, with such genial conversation, including my little calf-joke. So we all were pleased.
Now we had to make a long detour, for a biggish town lay on our route, and no grazing ground near it. We had to make our way up a river cut, and then cross a range of mountains, la Sierra.
Here, it was getting cool. There was plenty of water about, but grazing was getting tight and the animals were eating leaves from the trees. Tree foliage was as filling as grass, and seemed to make a pleasant change for the cattle. As I watched them stripping the leaves off trees so neatly I couldn’t but believe that cattle in ancient times may not have been prairie and steppe beasts, but beasts of the forest, living off shrubs and low-branched trees, in woods that have nearly disappeared while tall high-growing trees have survived.
The moutain-crossing was laborious, for these range cattle were not used to mountain trails. Two lost their footholds, one of them a magnificent young bull. He went down with his cow just as they were merrily copulating. A tragedy of love. We could see them lying in the gorge below, smashed. For all that, I’d anticipated more falls.
We had two cases of snakebite, too. One morning we noticed that two of the cows had swollen legs; examination showed the fang-marks. But the cows had been lucky, evidently not fatally infected with the venom. We treated the wounds by cutting them open, bathing them in pure alcohol, and applying tourniquets above the wound. We had a two-day halt, once that crossing was behind us, and the cows picked up well. I was glad to be able to save them.
That evening two Indians started a terrible argument as to what kind of snakes those had been. One maintained for rattlesnakes, the other insisted on copperheads. I settled the dispute, which threatened to become serious, by drawing a parallel: “Castillo, if you were shot at, or worse, shot dead, it wouldn’t matter to you whether you were shot with a revolver or a rifle, would it?”
“Seguro, señor, this doesn’t matter. Shot is shot.”
“There you are, muchachos, the same goes for cows. They’ve been bitten by posionous snakes, by rattlers or coppers. It hurts. As for the rest, they don’t give a damn.”
“You’re right, señor. A poisonous snake. Who cares what kind?”
They found my dictum so clever that they turned from snakes to curability of snakebites, discussing all kinds of herbs and Indian remedies, and so their quarrel petered out.
One day at sunrise when we were calling the signal to start off, I rode up onto a hill to see beyond the herd, and decide on our direction. From hilltop, I could see church spires in the distance.
Laid about with dawn’s shimmering gold, the end was in sight!
Our troubles were over. In that town over there, bathed in golden sunlight, joy awaited us. I left the herd on the prairie, ordered camp pitched, galloped into town and wired Mr. Pratt. It was evening when I got back to camp, where the fires were blazing and the two vaqueros on guard watch were riding leisurely about singing the animals to sleep.
To man, who has always been a diurnal creature, there is something indescribably uncanny about the tropic night; and tropic nights are also uncanny to diurnal animals. In the evenings, small herds gather round the rancho house to be near man, knowing that man is their protector. During the weeks after the rainy season when mosquitoes and horseflies zoom through the air, thick as swirling dust, the cattle come home from the prairies to congregate around the rancho house, expecting help. But you can’t help them because you’ve wrapped your own face and hands in cloth to protect yourself against the evil sprites of the tropical hell.
Even great herds on their home ranches get restless at sundown. They surround the huts of the vaqueros, and the watches ride around them, singing, throughout the night, and the animals lie down to sleep. Some of the big breeders leave it to the vaqueros to sing or not, for some think it’s unnecessary. But cattle not sung to sleep are restless the whole night through, lying down for ten minutes, then getting up to prowl around and rub against the others for companionship. The cattle are then sleepy next day, and feed less than cattle sung to sleep, and hence take longer to fatten into shape. During transports, singing is even more essential, for cattle are even more restless, having to lie as they do on strange earth.
So I had my men sing every night, and they did it willingly. As the men rode slowly around them, singing, the cattle would lie down with a feeling of absolute security; drowsily the cattle would follow the singing rider with their eyes, moo and low, sigh gigantically, and settle to sleep. The more singing through the night, the better. For the cattle felt reassured that nothing could happen to them, as man was near to shield them from all dangers, including jaguars and mountain lions. I might add that my own kind of cowboys’ singing would keep away anyone who adored music. My own singing, for instance, was regarded as the eighth wonder of the world, but not as music.
A front watch was no longer necessary as the river guarded us and the flanks needed only the two regular watches; I took the foreman from the front, so we could all spend the last evenings together. Later, while the men smoked and chatted around the big fire, I saddled up and rode watch along the herd, singing, whistling, humming, calling to the cattle.
Clear as only the tropic night can be, the blue-black sky arched over the singing prairie along the river. The glittering stars studded the velvet night with gold. Dozens of falling stars streaked the heavens, as if winging from the high lonely dome in search of love or to give love, so unobtainable in those lonely heights where no bridge spans the void from one star to the other.
On the grassy flats, only glowworms and fireflies were visible. But invisible life sang with a million voices and made music like that of violin, flute, and harp … and tiny cymbal, and bell.
There lay my herd! One dark rounded form next to the other. Lowing, breathing, exhaling a full warm heavy fragrance of natural well-being, so rich in its quiet earthiness, such balm to the spirit, bringing with it such utter contentment.
My army! My proud army which I’d led over river and mountain, which I’d protected and guarded, which I’d fed and watered, whose quarrels I’d settled and whose ills I’d cured, which I’d sung to sleep night after night, for which I’d grieved and worried, for whose safety I’d trembled, and whose care had robbed me of sleep, for which I’d wept when one was lost, which I’d loved and loved, yes, loved as if it had been of my own flesh and blood!
Oh, you who took armies of warriors over the Alps to carry murder and pillage into lands of peace, what do you know of the joy, the perfect joy, of leading an army!
The next morning, the salt transport came out. I’d given them salt only once during the whole march; for it’s not wise to risk salting unless you’ve plenty of water for them the same day, and the next. Now, however, they took salt and drank water to their fill, so they took on such a magnificent plump appearance, like soldiers with new uniforms. Their hides, well-rubbed, gleamed, as if lacquered. Yes, I was proud of my transported herd.
In a few days, Mr. Pratt arrived with his cattle-agent.
“Damn it all, man,” the agent kept saying. “That’s some cattle. They’ll sell like hot cakes in cold season.”
Mr. Pratt kept shaking my hand. “Boy oh boy, how did you do it? I didn’t expect you until the end of next week. I’ve already sold four hundred head. There’s another breeder on the way, and if you’d have been late, the price would have been lower, for this market can’t take two thousand head in one week. Come on, I’ll drive you into town. The foreman can manage the herd now.”
In town, we settled accounts, and I had hundreds of pesos in hand. Still, he stood me to a real dinner.
“If I get a good price,” said Mr. Pratt, “I’ll give you another hundred pesos as an extra bonus. You’ve earned it. You got off lightly with those damned bandits.”
“I must tell you, honestly,” I admitted, “one of the bandits I knew personally, a certain Antonio. Once I picked cotton with him. He saw to it that I got off lightly.”
“That’s just the point. You must have good luck. Everywhere. Whether you breed cattle, drive them, or take a wife …” He burst out laughing. “Tell me, boy, what did you do to my wife?”
“Me? To your wife?” The food stuck in my mouth, and I thought I turned pale. Women! They can act so irresponsibly! They get all sorts of notions into their heads; out of the blue, they may get a confession jag. Could she possibly have spilled the beans? She didn’t seem the type …
“When your wire arrived, she really raved. ‘There you are! See what a wash-out you are! A dead loss. But that boy gets the herd over, as if he was carrying it in a hamper slung on his pommel. Just like you couldn’t ever do. This fellow’s got something, the f——ing son-of-a-bitch!’ ”
“For goodness’ sake, Mr. Pratt, you’re not thinking of divorce?”
“Divorce? Me? Whatever for? Because of a trifle like that?”
He gave me an odd smile. If only I knew what it meant.
“No. Why should I get a divorce? Are you afraid I might?”
“Yes,” I confessed.
“But why?”
“Because your wife said she’d marry me …”
“Oh. Yes, I remember her saying that, and if she says she’s going to do a thing, she does it. But why are you squirming like that? Scared? Don’t you like my wife? I thought that …”
I didn’t let him finish that one. “I like your wife very much,” I confessed rapidly. “But … please don’t get a divorce! If I did marry her, it wouldn’t be a bad thing, perhaps, but I really don’t know what I’d do with a wife, I beg your pardon, what I should do with your wife …”
“What you’d do with any woman!—Give her what she likes.”
“That’s not the point. It’s something else. I don’t know how I’d get on as a married man.” I tried hard to make it clear to him. “Understand, I’m only a vagabond. I’m incapable of staying put on my arse. And I couldn’t drag my wife along on my travels. Nor could I stay put, and sit at a proper table with a proper breakfast and a proper dinner every day. No! My stomach wouldn’t stand it, either. Now, if you’d like to do me a favor …”
“Anything you like. Granted,” he said, good-naturedly.
“Don’t divorce your wife. She’s such a good wife, such a beautiful, clever, brave wife! You’d never get another like her, Mr. Pratt.”
“I know that. That’s why I wouldn’t get a divorce. I never thought of such a thing. I don’t know how you got such nonsense into your head! Come off that, now, and we’ll go celebrate the end of your cattle contract.”
And off we went.