OverTime 03: Slipping (First 70 Chapters)

Ch. 21: Cowgirl Lillabit (Lillabit)

I kicked Boy into a full gallop, gave him his head and trusted him to get us out of the way.

That's because I am an idiot.

He wheeled around so fast that I almost fell off again, but by scrambling for handfuls of mane and saddle, I didn't. I wouldn't. Then he charged away from Stampede #2, but directly ahead of them and, worse, angling vaguely downhill toward the other horses... and toward Stampede #1. This was way worse than a rock and a hard place. Was he an idiot?!

For maybe the first time I fully realized that no, Boy wasn't an idiot. He was just an animal. In animal panic, he apparently assumed the cattle had something valid to be running from, and he was jumping aboard their four-footed, herd-instinct, mass-hysteria bandwagon.

"No!" Letting go of the saddle leather to use the reins two-handed, at a full gallop, was the hardest thing I'd yet done on horseback. I did it, prayed I could stay aboard, and tried to neck-rein Boy into a U-turn. If I was careful, and if he didn't trip over any of the rocks or step in any holes or run off a low drop, we might find safety in the rough trough that still existed between both rampaging, prairie-eating avalanches of cattle before the two ever joined.

Valley Boy didn't like the idea--as far as he could probably grasp with his horsey brain, I was turning him toward danger. But I, with my human brain, was fairly sure that I'd rather be south of all the action than heading toward the initial stampede. In fact, I was so certain of it, my whole world became a suspended need to turn away.

Boy refused to neck-rein. In my desperation, I wrapped the reins around my hands and just plain hauled his head around to the right in the hope that he would follow it. I tried to haul it, anyway. Horses are awfully large, awfully strong animals. It took some hauling.

It occurred to me that the bit or bridle might snap under the force.

It occurred to me that I could die if that happened. Me and my baby both. I might have the responsibility of being an incubator, but I was pretty stupid about it.

And then, like that, the damned horse turned. I nearly tumbled down his off side from the force of it, but I grabbed mane with the hand that wasn't yanking as hard, kicked him with my stirrup yet again, and miraculously, got him running the direction he should.

At least, the one I hoped he should. And freakishly?

It felt kinda wonderful.

In the midst of all that danger, successfully hitting a full gallop in the dark gave me an adrenaline surge the likes of which I couldn't remember since I'd ridden a roller coaster. After days of behaving myself, trying to fit into some imaginary Victorian bride persona, I felt free. The speed and the wind and the noise soared through my veins, added confidence to my riding, sharpened my vision.

Stampede #2 started to veer more surely downhill--into us--but I whooped and shouted at them, reining one-handed so I could flap my yellow skirt in their direction. The steers bearing down on me veered away, rolling their eyes, too easily panicked by the sight of something feminine, and I laughed in crazed victory. Take that, you chauvinistic cows!

Horses continued to nicker and neigh, closer to me than ever before, and men to shout. The ground churned and horns clattered. More guns discharged.

One man stared at me for a frozen moment, wide-eyed, as he galloped by--his white face stood out from the grainy fog of dust, imprinted itself on my brain.

It wasn't a face I knew. Did that guarantee this wasn't our own herd, joining the chaos? Or did it just mean I couldn't recognize someone familiar in that split second of chaos?

The hellish heat of countless huge beasts in high blood made me sweat. There were so many of them! Thousands. And each cow not much smaller than a Volkswagon, with horns the length of skis.

Running.

We were all running now. Clearing the second herd with a whoop of triumph, I rode to a safe distance, slowed Boy, and chanced to look back at the larger spread of stampeding cattle on the trail, well below us but still there, seeming to go on forever, before I glanced back up at the more immediate threat. This was huge. This was out-of-control. This was...

...disaster on the hoof.

And God, I wanted to help some more--assuming I had helped at all.

Not your job, I had to remind myself, slowing Boy to a complete stop, on higher ground, fully clear for now. This is so not your job. Being an amateur, I could put more men in danger than I helped. Worse, I could endanger Baby.

But oh, how I hated not being of use to anybody else.

I'd wrapped the reins so painfully tight around my hand, to hold Boy steady, that not only did my hand burn but my fingers felt numb. I sat there on my shuddering horse, remembered to keep my heel down, and watched the snorting, grunting, dust-kicking beasts hurdle by like I would watch an endless freight train, on and on, and I knew I would remember this moment for the rest of my life.

As the trailing end of Stampede #2 rumbled down the hillside, I turned to watch the larger, more distant stampede on the trail below. This one took even longer--again like a train, as if I was a child by a railroad track, overwhelmed by the power and the noise, until finally the passing of car after car lulls me into thinking there is no end to it. I wondered if there was an end to this stampede.

If our cattle had joined them, fresh and rested, could there be?

Animals bellowed, hoofbeats reverberated... and then I thought, it's slowing.

At first I rejected the thought as mere wishful thinking, but then I realized it was true. There seemed to be some sort of blockage further east on the trail. The head of the stampede had been turned to the left, toward the river, then doubling back toward the animals that still followed the leaders, as if the sea of cattle were a huge dog chasing its tail. Milling the herd, they call that. I could make out the ragged, triumphantly shrill shouts of the cowboys bullying their steers into this maneuver. Of course, once the cattle turned in far enough, there was no place for them to go, and they had to stop.

First they just slowed like rush-hour traffic, no room to move but wanting to hurry anyway. Finally, trapped by their followers, they stopped bumper to bumper in what must be cow confusion. One moment I had a ringside seat to Hell. The next, near silence and cow complaints throbbed in my ears like phantom drums on the drive home from a rock concert.

It had been real, was real. It had been amazing.

And I sooo wasn't supposed to be this close to it.

I couldn't see either our camp or our herd, now--hoping ours wasn't the one that had nearly run me down. The only cattle I could see milled far below on the trail--lumbering, top-heavy animals, all snarled together closer than I'd ever seen cattle kept except in the railroad pens in cow towns. Now that they were no longer running, it was hard to believe they ever had. That many cattle? There were clearly thousands, far more than ours alone. How could they all have up and done something that crazy?

Around them circled the occasional, mounted cowboy.

I considered riding down there to look for my husband, to get a head count on the boys. Now that the worst had passed, I needed to make sure he was okay. Of course he would be. He was Jacob Garrison, trail boss extraordinaire. But still....

One little thing stopped me. Okay, several things, not the least being how angry Jacob might be at me, if he learned I'd gotten so close. Yes, I desperately wanted to see him again, to confirm he was all right. But at this moment, he probably had more compelling worries. This was his job, and the best thing I could do for him just now was stay out of his way and not resent it.

That was one thing.

Another was that on the tiniest chance he was looking for me, he would probably start near Schmidty's wagon. I couldn't worry him by being gone, if he really looked.

(Would he? Look for me?)

But the main thing, honestly, was the awful, growing fear, I wouldn't find him. If I went down there, and he wasn't anywhere... or worse, I found what was left of him...!

Nope, I would never, never be ready for that. Denial may not be a great psychological ploy, but it sure helps make decisions. I turned Valley Boy southward, in the general direction that I hoped lay our herd--or at least the remnants of the chuck wagon, if our herd had joined the run--and I started for the closest thing I had to a home.

It took a long, worrisome while. Stupid nighttime. The half moon just barely held blindness at bay. What I wouldn't give for some stadium lights.

As my adrenaline surge faded, I realized I was trembling. I prayed almost wordless prayers full of thank-you's and please's.

The brighter stars began to make themselves known through the silent, settling dust. Crickets started to chirp again. The wind felt good, after the stampede's heat. I coughed, and realized how full of dust my mouth and nose were, and I wondered how thirsty the men must be, with their front-row seats on this ride.

That just led back to wondering if everyone had survived unhurt. Shorty. Milton. Romero. Benj....

Don't go there.

My route took me across the impromptu trail of the second stampede, the one that had come closest to flattening me like a slow shopper at Filene's Basement. I saw grass churned into clotted earth, and I saw an oddly-shaped, shiny-wet mound, big and dark on that less-dark dirt. By placing the shape and paleness of a horn, I realized with a lurch of my stomach that this had once been a cow.

No, I really couldn't let myself think.

What with all that not thinking, imagine my surprise when I topped a rise and came across a bunch of maybe sixty or more steers, standing with their heads down as if with regret--penitent beeves--and shuddering from exertion. One lone rider, small against all those cows, watched them, slumped in his saddle while his horse stood, dead still, its head also hanging. The rider was croaking out something to the tune of "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean." The main chorus seemed to be about "roll on little dogies," which didn't seem a particularly good command just now. "Stand still, little dogies" would make more sense.

I didn't recognize the rider's small size or shape, and I struggled not to feel disappointed. That would mean acknowledging that thing I feared but wouldn't admit.

He had as much right to have survived as anyone I knew, right?

The cowboy glanced toward me slowly, as if it were a great effort to move his head--until his eyes widened, and he sat straight up in his saddle.

His horse didn't move, just stood there and trembled.

"Ma'am?" And he dragged off his hat, leaving a swath of clean forehead over his thick, dusty mask, trying to look respectful even as his breath dragged in and out of his chest. Sweaty hair streamed into his eyes and dripped trails down across his young, dirty face--I could tell because of how the sweat reflected the moonlight.

It seemed like I should say something, so I said, "Hello."

"I ain't dead," he rasped, and his high voice had the hoarseness to it that comes from too much shouting. "Am I?"

"Not that I can tell." Something in his voice, or maybe his incredibly clean shave for a middle-of-the-night trail drive, made me take a closer look, and I realized this was the youngest cowboy I'd ever, ever seen. Younger even than sixteen-year-old Clayton. No wonder he didn't have whiskers--was he even thirteen years old? Twelve?! "Are you all alone?"

"Reckon," he said. When I waited for more he added, like a boyish boast, "In all the ruckus, this bunch musta broke off from the main herd. I jest stuck with 'em. Didn't know I was full in charge 'til I got 'em stopped."

Except it wasn't a boast. Here he sat with maybe five dozen cows. I mean, steers--bigger than cows. He had gotten them stopped.

Alone! Unless maybe me flapping my skirt at them had helped.

"So what are you going to do? I mean...." On the one hand, I had to get back to our wagon before I panicked anybody. On the other hand.... "Do you need some help? Guarding them, I mean?"

His eyes widened. "Ma'am?!"

Maybe I should have realized how ludicrous my suggestion would seem to him, but his amazement disappointed me. I hadn't suggested herding the animals; just circling them and singing. Surely even an amateur like me could do that much. "I didn't say I could do itwell. I just thought... there being only one of you... what are you going to do?"

"Keep 'em...." He cleared his throat, poor kid. I thought mine was dry? "Keep 'em settled 'til dawn, I reckon. Once the sun's up, I'll figure out which way the trail lies, and the rest of the herd. I don't think I crossed the trail."

I pointed. "The main trail's that way. Last time I looked. I'm not sure about your herd, though."

"Oh," he said. "Thank you kindly."

We continued to stare at each other, each of us an oddity to the other. I noticed the slim frailty of his shoulders, and how visibly he was shaking. The poor kid was exhausted.

I asked, "Are you sure I can't help?"

"Who are you?" he demanded--then ducked his head. "Ma'am. Pardon me fer bein' so bold...."

Cute kid. "Nah, it's a fair question. I'm Eliz-- Mrs. Garrison. Mrs. Jacob Garrison. I'm heading for our chuck wagon right now. At least... I am if it's that way." And I pointed.

"Garrison's camp's that way?" he asked, and I nodded hopefully. "That must be where the extra riders come from," he explained, his voice still painfully rough. "We gone fer miles, longer'n any stampede ever, after the second herd joined in. I near 'bout figured them steers had us beat. Suddenly there's two men ain't of my acquaintance, riding fresh horses and turnin' the herd. That's when this here bunch split away." He took a deep, shaky breath; rubbed his dirty sleeve over his dirty forehead, and I began to wonder if all of his trembling was due to exhaustion after all. "Don't know if you could comprehend, Ma'am, but I weren't never so glad to see men on fresh horses in my life."

I thought I could comprehend just fine, and I felt a small glow of pride in the Trail G crew ... even as I worried, yet again, for their safety. "Well... if you don't need anything else...?"

His eyes brightened pitifully. "If'n... if'n you see any riders from the Bar N, would you tell 'em I'm here? These here are Block-K cattle, so my crew won't look for 'em. They'll likely sit tight 'til sun-up, but still...."

"I'll do that," I assured him. "Pleased to meet you....?"

"Willie," he introduced, and started to raise the hand with the hat to his head, before he remembered he already held it and dropped it to his chest again. "Willie Pratchett, ma'am. Likewise." He grinned, clearly embarrassed. "I'm sure glad you ain't the ghost."

"There's a ghost?" That, I did not expect. I was supposed to be living in a western, not a horror movie.

"Sorry, ma'am. Ain't meant to scare you. A drover on our crew, collectin' strays t'other night, told me he seen a ghost lady, all white. Likely he was teasin' me."

"Probably he was." It felt downright criminal to leave this child all alone in the night, especially after one of his "friends" had told him stories. But it would be an insult to his authority and his cowboy abilities to help him against his will, especially since, unlike him, I knew almost nothing about herding cattle. And these tired, penitent steers didn't look to be going anywhere.

Besides, if someone were looking for me....

Wow, did I wish we could make a simple phone call, or send a text message, to check in.How r u?

Ok c u soon.

I was still safe and happy in 1878.

But was he?

I continued in the direction of the chuck wagon--what I seriously hoped was the direction of the chuck wagon. If I didn't find it soon, I would have to do what Willie had done; just quit moving until the sun's light helped make more sense of the Platte Valley's shadowy swells.

Better that, than ride halfway to Wyoming. Or South Dakota. Or maybe Colorado.

It helped me to find the North Star. Weeks ago, before Julesburg, Jacob had shown me how to locate it. To judge from the Big Dipper's handle--which moves counter-clockwise like a kind of timepiece--it was barely midnight.

Dawn waited a long, long way off.

The quiet seemed surreal, contrasted against the madness of earlier. I noticed how badly my hands hurt; I'd rubbed blisters and torn one open, and on my left hand the reins, where'd I'd wrapped them for a better grip, had practically grown into my flesh--I couldn't see colors, but my hand felt badly bruised.

This may sound strange, but I didn't feel especially frightened. I had Valley Boy with me and, unlike my car back home, Boy was a person. Sort of. He certainly seemed able to see more than I could, circling spiky sprays of yucca or rocks and the occasional cedar tree that seemed to loom out of nowhere. I would have driven right into them.

He was also now mouthing his bit a lot more than usual, like a teenager snapping gum.

Oh no, I thought with a sinking sensation--and had a clear, instant-replay of myself hauling on the reins, dragging his head around by physical force instead of neck-reining the way I'd been taught. In pulling so hard I bruised myself, I must have hurt his mouth! Poor Boy!

If I weren't so leery of dismounting before we found camp, I would have jumped off then and there to check him out... but self-interest won out. I had Baby to protect, and I honestly wasn't sure if, drained as I felt, I could remount on my own. But I told him how sorry I was, promised to have the Boss help him as soon as I could, and left a lot of slack in the reins as I rode.

Just as I'd about decided to stop, and to wait out the rest of the night alone, we topped another rise--and I caught glimpse of a campfire well to my right. That was not where I'd imagined camp being, but it seems that "almost" counts not only in hand grenades and horseshoes, but in wandering the dark Nebraskan countryside at night. I'd gotten close enough for the firelight to draw me the rest of the way in.

Of course, that fire could belong to Indians, or outlaws, or any number of unsavory types ready to attack me on approach ... but no. It really was our camp. Our chuck wagon. My tent.

Even better? I could make out our stinky herd of two-thousand cattle hanging out like some great, horned lake, still safely bedded down a football-field's length away.

They hadn't stampeded. Another herd had--to judge by what Willie said, maybe two--but not ours.

Good cows! Good Garrison cows.

Schmidty was back at work, making coffee, though it was seriously the middle of the night by now. As I rode closer, he surprised me by addressing me for the first time in days. "Where you been?"

"Staying safe," I assured him--it was more or less true--and made sure to dismount a respectful distance from the wagon. "Have any of the men come back?"

He said, "Nope," and went back to grinding the coffee. The crank grinder was mounted to the side of the chuck-wagon, like an old-fashioned pencil sharpener on a classroom wall.

"There's a boy about a mile or so from here, holding some cattle. I'd like to take him some coffee when it's ready, or at least some water."

"Nope."

I was tempted to just do it anyway, except for three problems. One was that I doubted my ability to actually find Willie Pratchett again, especially in the dark, despite his dozens of cattle. Another was that I selfishly wanted to stay here, waiting for my boys... and as Jacob often pointed out, anyone who chose to ride the trail chose the hardships that came with it.

Even a twelve year old. Welcome to the 19th century, Mrs. Garrison.

Most important, though, was that Valley Boy was still working his mouth as if I'd fed him peanut butter. I decided to not even send him back to the remuda, and instead hobbled him by the wagon mules before taking off his bridle and saddle. With him nearby, I would remember to ask Jacob to look at him as soon as he got back.

Please get back.

I paced. I gave Boy a hat-full of water and a feedbag of oats, by way of apology, glad that he wasn't too hurt to eat...
And then Boy and the mules whickered loudly in the direction of the trail, and a distant horse answered. Soon, I heard approaching hoofbeats!

I studied the darkness, saw a rider and recognized -- Ropes.

"Woo-hoo!" he cheered, swinging off his horse without even stopping it. "That was one humdinger of a stampede!"

Shorty rode in behind him. Then came Milton, all of them laughing and talking. That had to be good news, didn't it? They wouldn't be laughing....

Unless they just didn't know.

I ran to them, remembering to hold my skirts down near the horses. "The Boss! Milton? Shorty? Have any of you seen the Boss? Is he okay?"

They pulled off their hats, shedding dirt.

"Yes, ma'am," answered Shorty. "Boss is jest fine, Mrs. Garrison. Pulled the slickest trick I ever saw in a stampede!" And they all started talking over each other, something about charging the cattle.

For a minute, I could barely hear them over a wave of dizzying relief. Just fine. Jacob was just fine. And...

"What about Benj?" I asked. "And Tomas?" Tomas was so young!

"Boss done a nose count afterward," Milton assured me. "Ever'one is clear."

Ropes laughed again. "Boss had us charge the stampede, ma'am! Ain't never saw nothin' like it."

Two more riders approached, and my pulse sped--but it was just Romero and Jorge, closely followed by Juan. They, too, acted like they'd just had front-row seats at a Super Bowl football game, and a winning one at that.

"Did you see them beeves rollin 'their eyes, when they saw us comin?" demanded Romero, and the others began talking over each other. When Tomas arrived, unscathed, he was as excited as the rest. Clayton drove in some fresh horses, and the boys made a rope "corral" for them, but only the older riders were quick to choose their new mount.

From what I could make out, the Trail G riders had played some kind of deadly game of chicken with a freaking stampede. It had been my husband's idea. My husband had led the charge. And the cattle had turned first.

"What if it hadn't worked?" I tried to ask, between bringing tin cups of coffee to the boys. Jorge and Juan and Milton drank fast, handed me back their mugs, and headed out for our herd. Not long afterward, Lee and Swede rode quickly in, as anxious to hear what had happened as I was, and the boys began the story again.

I noticed how Clayton turned away from talking with Tomas to fill in Lee, which seemed odd, since Clayton hadn't been at the stampede.

Tomas's face fell.

"If the cattle don't turn, they just as like run you over," admitted Shorty.

"Then why risk it?"

It was Benj's familiar voice that called out of the darkness, "Now Mrs. Garrison, we risk it for a few reasons."

I spun, my heart in my throat -- and here he came, Jacob riding strong and silent beside him.

"We stop another crew's stampede 'cause they'd stop one of our'n," Benj went on. "We do it so our cattle don't join theirs. Stampedes leave dead animals, and dead animals draw predators that could go after our herd next."

Jacob got close enough that I could see his face -- and he was watching me.

Benj said, "Mostly, though, we turned 'em left because if they turned right, they coulda run right over you and the camp and your husband here weren't about to let that happen. Now boys, this ain't no quiltin' bee and you've got a job to do. We're doublin' the night guard but the rest of you'd best get some rest, 'cause we're helpin' with a roundup come sunrise."

It was odd, hearing him giving the orders. The men immediately obeyed, all the same.

Jacob kept watching me, even as he dismounted. Clayton sat on his horse nearby, a rope around the neck of Jacob's gray gelding, but for a long moment, Jacob barely looked at the horses.

When he did--which meant looking away from me--it felt strangely abrupt, as if a song had suddenly stopped playing.
Jacob started shifting his blanket, saddle, and bridle from the one horse to the next, the way he did at least three or four times a day... and he kept glancing back at me.

So I headed his direction, carefully guarding my skirts so they didn't scare any more animals.

"You risked every man with you to protect me?" I asked.

"And the herd." Jacob slapped the mare he'd been riding toward the remuda, holding the reins of the gray so it couldn't run off with her. He began to tighten the straps on his saddle. "And the camp."

I said, "And me."

So he stopped his busy work and turned toward me. "And you."

My trembling from earlier that night returned in a completely different way, deeper and more emotional. Something significant had changed--and I decided to push my advantage.

"We were in the middle of a conversation when the stampede interrupted us," I reminded him.

He nodded, hesitated a moment--then he handed the reins of his gelding to Clayton. "Picket him," he instructed the stunned nighthawk. "Got business with my wife."

And with his distinct, cowboy walk he came to me, took my hand in his, and led me to our tent.