Chapter Nineteen

Fifteen months later

July, 1880

Dear Charity,

Thank you for your letters – you can’t know how much I look forward to receiving them.

I’m sorry I’ve not written back for so long. It’s been a hard drive with little time for writing. By the time we’ve bedded the cattle at night and bunked down ourselves, we’re fair exhausted and we’ve still got a watch to do before sunup. Ethan once said I’d be so tired that I’d learn to fall asleep in the saddle while my horse kept right on circling around the herd, and he was right. But more about the drive later.

Firstly, I was mighty relieved to learn that Pa’s leg was doing well, but I’m sorry he’s out of sorts for much of the time. That’s not like him. I’m sure that when he accepts it’s better to walk with a stick than not walk at all, he’ll return to his old self.

You know I’m counting on you to tell me if you think I should come home, don’t you? The drive ends in about six weeks, and I’d planned to go up to Ogallala and work out the winter months on one of the ranches there, but I could return to Carter instead.

The way I figure it at the moment, though, is that Pa’s over the worst, and the money I’m sending home is more useful than me being there, an extra mouth for Ma to feed, more clothes to wash and all that. And I’m not sure what I could do that’s not already being done. I know you real well, Charity, and I know you’ll be doing everything you can to help with Pa.

But if you think I should come back, I’m sure I could work for Seth again. He always said he’d find a place for me if I returned. I’m trusting you to tell me what’s best to do.

So to get back to the drive. Like I said, it’s a difficult drive, but on the whole I’m enjoying it. Riding sixteen to eighteen hours a day in the Texas heat isn’t easy, not for us and not for the cows. We do early and late drives to avoid the midday sun, and we often let the cattle lie down and rest for an hour or more, but even so, by mid-afternoon they’re restless. It’s hard on our horses, too, and we have to change mounts four times a day so they don’t get exhausted.

The terrain we’ve been crossing is also a challenge. One day we’re driving through a canyon, and the next across a low mountain range. It’s interesting land, but not easy for droving, and it certainly isn’t land I’d want to settle in. With the dry air and scorching sun, the earth’s as hot and tired as we are, and there’s dust everywhere. When you look back, you see clouds of dust for twenty miles. I’ve had to wear a bandanna over the lower part of my face for most of the drive.

As you can imagine, water’s a problem. Not long ago, we drove across a wide open mesa for days without finding so much as a single drop of water. A few times at first, we were able to dig a well, but our mounts got the water, not us. Washing was the first thing we gave up, despite the heat. I won’t describe what we smelt like, or how dirty we were.

After three days of no water, we began to be afear’d. The cattle wouldn’t graze any longer or lie down – they just wanted to move on. They were becoming harder to control, and started milling all over the place, not seeming to know where they were going. And they were lowing something awful. We’d never seen them like that, and then it hit us – they were going blind.

That shocked us to the core. We knew we had to get them to water real soon or they’d not get their sight back. We’d no idea how much further we’d have to go to find water, but we knew we’d passed a lake several days earlier, and we turned round and went back. After a couple of days, you could see from the way the cows started moving that instinct was telling them there was water ahead.

When they reached the lake, they waded in till the water covered their flanks, and just stood and moaned a while, drinking little. Then they came out and lay down, and then went back and drank some more. And when they’d done with the water, they grazed. Seeing them recover like that was a real good feeling. Needless to say, we took a different route out of there.

We’ve seen Indians, but as I told you we’d be crossing Indian Territory, that won’t be a surprise. The boss paid the local tribes a toll of ten cents a head for the right to cross their land, and we went through without any trouble.

One of the hardest things we’ve had to do so far was get the cattle across a large creek. I know that doesn’t sound that hard, but remember we’re driving half-wild Texas Longhorn cattle, and they can be real contrary and stampede at nothing. Also they’re stubborn beasts.

We’d got them across two large rivers and a number of small creeks, and each crossing had gone okay, except for the last small creek when they’d got a bit bogged down. Not long after being mired like that, we reached a large creek, and they must have remembered what happened before because the moment they put their hoofs on the soft earth at the water’s edge, that was as far as they would go.

It took us almost three whole days to get them across. But by the end of those days, I’d picked up a skill I’d never expected to learn on a drive, and it could come in real useful in the future.

Because we just couldn’t get the cows into the water, and because there was a slight risk of them getting mired again, the boss said we’d have to make a bridge. No one had heard of that happening before, and we thought we’d never be able to build one. But we did.

We got a load of brush from the trees and piled it from one side of the creek to the other to make a foundation. Then we cut down cottonwood logs, put them on top of the brush, filled every chink and gap with sod and dirt and pounded it down real hard. And we had a mighty fine bridge.

But the cattle had never seen a bridge before, and refused point blank to go over it. The remuda crossed without a problem, but not those cows. In the end, we gave up for the day, settled down for the night and let the cattle graze. We figured that if we waited till the sun was high the following day, the cows would be well grazed and sleepy, and they’d just walk across.

We figured without their stubbornness, and we had to spend another night on the wrong side of the river.

It was looking as if we were going to be spending a third night there, when one of the drovers had a bang-up idea. He suggested finding a cow and a calf, roping the calf around its neck and pulling it on to the bridge. If we dragged it across the bridge, he said, and tightened the rope all the time, it’d keep on bellowing, and nothing stirs range cattle as much as the bellowing of a calf, so the cow and the rest of the herd would surely go after it.

It worked. They were so eager to get to the calf they didn’t know if they were walking on a bridge or on land.

Building that bridge taught me how to build a house, if ever I wanted, or at least a soddie. But like I said before, I won’t be building it in Texas or in Indian Territory. They aren’t the sort of places I want to live. It’s still green fields and rolling hills for me.

You’ve probably guessed I’m seriously thinking about setting up a ranch of my own one day. But not for a while – I’ve more things to learn, and I’ll need more money than I’ve got at the moment. But that’s the way my thoughts are going.

I’d better stop now. It’s almost time for my watch. Ethan and I are on the first watch tonight.

But before I finish, I just want to say I’m glad that Chen Sing is letting you carry on going to their home. I’d been worried that when he got back from China, he might stop you visiting, but not so, I see. Their ways are different from ours, but they seem good people, and Chen Fai has shown himself to be a good friend to you. I’ve not forgotten that thing about your ma’s grave.

I feel sorry for him having to take a woman he doesn’t know for a wife. I wouldn’t like that at all.

Don’t ever stop writing to me, Charity, will you? Your letters make me feel close to home, and I’m interested in everything you say about the Chinese way of doing things. I should tell you more often than I do that I get a real warm feeling when the boss hands me a letter from you.

But it’s not just getting news from home that makes me appreciate your letters – it’s more than that. You know I’ve always felt a person should have friends. Seth Culpepper’s my friend. So is Ethan Grey. And so are you, Charity. You’re a very special friend. I can talk to you about anything and everything, and I know you’ll listen.

I hope you’ll always feel you can say the same about me.

Your good friend,

Joe