Bud & Me Read online

  “Just keep your boots on, Temp,” was all he said. Bud was a good brother, and we teased each other and laughed a lot along the way.

  “Will we see any vinegaroons?” I asked him. They were the three-inch long scorpions that thrived in the hot dry stretches of West Texas and New Mexico.

  “Just keep your boots on.” Bud kept telling me.

  When we met Dad at Cross Roads, we figured out he was hoping the ride across Oklahoma would discourage us about making the long ride to Santa Fe.

  “How was your ride, boys?” he asked. We told him it was fine.

  Since we were still eager for the ride to Santa Fe, Dad attempted to entice us to stay at the ranch in another way. He proposed to give us a wild horse riding exhibition. However, we were too excited about the prospect of adventures on the trail to change our minds.

  “I’d love to see it Dad,” I said, “but it’ll have to wait until we get back from New Mexico.” After all, we were in a hurry to be on our way.

  Bud was firm with Dad, too, holding him to his word. Finally, Dad could see he was licked. The next two days we prepared for the trip, estimating how far to ride each day and pinpointing the best places to spend the night. At last, we were ready.

  “Don’t push your horses,” Dad said firmly, as we saddled up. Then he handed Bud a copy of the New Testament, saying, “Bud, carry this with you, and above all, both of you say your prayers at night.” In unison, we both replied, “Yes sir!”

  Bud carefully wrapped the New Testament in a silk handkerchief and put it in his saddlebag. At last, we spurred our horses and were off, on the first leg of our great adventure. We felt pretty big, riding away from the farm while our Dad and our sisters—Kitty Joe, Johnnie, Goldie, and Pearlie—waved goodbye. Maybe having all those women around made us more eager to seek out adventure, for Bud and I were always ready for a new one. We never thought about being afraid, but we often were tired, dirty, and discouraged.

  Bud left riding Dad’s white Arabian, Sam Bass, and I was on Geronimo, a half-Shetland named after the famous Apache warrior. Even though Geronimo was a pony, I was too short to mount up in the usual fashion and had to climb something, preferably a porch, and then slip into the saddle. When dismounting, if no porch or fencepost was handy, I generally slid down Geronimo’s left front leg, rather than take the long drop to the ground. Even so, we were two tough cowpokes, out to see the countryside, and completely ignorant of the trouble that lay ahead.

  On our first day, we saw a ranch house about noon. The lady of the house fed us a fine meal, but her husband was doubtful when we said we planned to make it all the way to Estelline, some 50 miles away, by nightfall. As we rode away, I asked Bud if he thought we could make it.

  “If we don’t,” he said calmly, “we’ll just sleep out under the stars.”

  As we plodded on through the afternoon, the soil grew sandier and the horses slowed their pace. By evening, scrub mesquite trees were silhouetted against the pink sky of sunset. We thought we were still a long way from the Red River and from Estelline.

  “Look, Temp,” Bud said, pointing to the sky, “there’s the Milky Way, and over yonder’s the Big Dipper.”

  “And this,” I answered, “must be the Red River.” In the darkness, we’d almost ridden into the river without seeing it. Dad had warned us about dangerous pockets of quicksand in it, so we rode up and down the river bank for several minutes, looking for wagon tracks. It was just too dark to see them.

  “Well, let’s just go ahead,” Bud said. “Sam Bass can get us across.”

  “Course he can,” I agreed.

  I reined over so that Geronimo could follow directly behind Sam Bass. Still, I thought it was a bad omen when an owl hooted just as we started into the water. Grimly, I wondered what it would be like to go down with a gurgle in a patch of quicksand. But Sam led us to safety, carefully picking his way across. We didn’t have much experience, but Dad’s old wolf-hunting horse was smart enough to make up for what we lacked.

  We were so late arriving in Estelline that we had to wake the livery man to take care of our horses. Bleary-eyed, he asked, “What are you boys doing out so late?”

  “We’re on our way to Santa Fe to visit the Governor in his new house.” I said, over my shoulder as we sauntered down the street to the hotel.

  Little boys generally do not like to go to sleep, but Bud and I raced for bed that night. I won, so he had to turn out the lamp. I was just getting comfortable, my head snuggled into the soft pillow, when Bud remembered Dad’s instruction. I was roused from the covers to kneel beside my brother and join him in saying our prayers.

  The next morning we were rested and ready to go. But it was a hot day’s ride, and I drank plenty of the gyp (gypsum) water found in that area of the Panhandle. By evening, I felt awful. Gyp-water, it seems, causes diarrhea.

  We spent the night in Turkey, Texas, but the next morning I had doubts about riding. Bud forced a big dose of foul-tasting castor oil down my throat, but it only made things worse. Consequently, I had to get down off Geronimo every two minutes all day long. One time I slid down Geronimo’s front leg so fast that I sprained both my ankles. Bud was so worried about me, he tried to give me more castor oil, but I refused that treatment in no uncertain terms.

  About noon we came to Quitaque, a town so small, there was only a mercantile store, a blacksmith shop, and a few houses. I rolled off Geronimo onto the porch of the mercantile store, and while Bud watered the horses, I hobbled into the store on my swollen ankles. It was hot, and I was glad to be out of the sun.

  When Bud came in, he bought some peaches and crackers. Feeling better, I ate some of them, and drank the last of my strawberry pop. Then I spied a candy jar. Suddenly, I felt quite recovered, and I persuaded Bud to buy some candy for later in the day.

  After we left Quitaque, it wasn’t long before we came to the Caprock where the land stretched out before us for miles and miles, flat as a tabletop. I was feeling much better by now, and Bud and I began to talk and laugh.

  “Wait ‘til Dad hears about you and that gyp-water,” he said. “I’ll bet he’ll laugh.”

  “You’d better not tell him!”

  “What if I do?”

  I thought about it for a minute. There wasn’t much I could threaten Bud with, he was much bigger and stronger, and could lick me any time he wanted to.

  “You just better not,” I said weakly. Then I changed the subject. “Look, there’s some water.” I pointed to a shimmer in the distance.

  “I wish it was,” he laughed, “but it’s only a mirage.”

  I squinted and looked again, hoping he was wrong. The afternoon was hot, and I was thirsty, but Bud was right. There wasn’t a drop of cool water for miles around. We each drank a sip from our canteens, but the water was hot and didn’t taste very good.

  We slowed the horses so they wouldn’t get tired, and began to look for a shady place to rest. Everywhere we looked on that vast plain, there was nothing but cactus and tumbleweed. An occasional tarantula scurried for cover as we rode by, and dry dust rose beneath the hooves of our horses. The land was flat and monotonous, and I was parched with thirst. I wanted to stop, but Bud kept on riding...and I followed.

  Finally, we came to Silverton, and had our first brush with notoriety. When we handed the livery man our horses, he asked if we were the Abernathy boys. By the time we got to the hotel, people gathered around, wanting to know about our adventures. Bud told them about the gyp-water, which got me pretty riled up.

  The heat was unbearable the next few days, and we couldn’t see much change in the countryside as we rode from the Texas Panhandle into New Mexico. Maybe the jackrabbits were a little bigger, the rock outcroppings more frequent, and the desert flowers more plentiful, but it was still hot and dry and flat.

  Late one afternoon we came to Portales, but the people didn’t seem friendly, so we decided to ride on for awhile before we stopped for the night. In a couple of hours we came to a deserted adobe house, its
roof caved in from weather, or time, or both. Although it was a shaky shelter, we were determined to stay the night.

  While Bud fed and hobbled the horses, I limped around on my still-sore ankles and built a campfire. Bud got a can of beans from his saddlebag, and we heated them over the fire. After supper, Bud poked around in the house with a stick to make sure there were no snakes, and at last, we settled down for a good night’s sleep.

  Next morning, we figured it would be a scorcher, so we started early. By 10 a.m. it was already hot. We rode until about two in the afternoon, sure that we would see a farmhouse any minute. Sagebrush and sandhills were all that we saw, and the sandy trail made traveling doubly hard for the horses.

  My face felt as if it were on fire, and I could see that Bud was just as miserable. When I checked my canteen, the water was boiling hot. I had resigned myself to dying in the desert, when Bud saw a buggy in the distance, heading our way.

  A traveling salesman was driving the buggy, and he’d been smart enough to wrap his canteen in a wet burlap bag, so the water was cool. We drank breathlessly and then, at his insistence, bathed our faces. That sweet water tasted and felt better than any I have ever known. He told us about a water hole near a clump of trees not much farther to the west, and we rode on, encouraged and refreshed.

  We stayed at the water hole a long time, lying on our stomachs in the mud, drinking the cool water alongside our horses.

  Then, in the late afternoon, we rode several miles farther and drained the fresh water from our canteens, still battling the heat.

  By the time we stopped to camp for the night, we were both completely worn out. After a light supper of bacon and bread, we settled down for some sleep. Bud put his lariat around our saddle blankets to keep the snakes and vinegaroons out—an old cowboy trick.

  About two hours later, I was awakened by a loud explosion right by my ear. As soon as I sat up, Bud was beside me, with the shotgun Dad had given us for emergencies. It was raised to his shoulder for another shot.

  “What’s the matter?” I shouted.

  “It was a big wolf, Temp. Get up and get some wood, and build the fire up to keep the wolves away.”

  I looked out into the darkness. As my eyes adjusted, I could see the glow of wolf eyes. Several big lobos were circling us about 30 feet out. I had no desire to collect firewood with neighbors like that looking on. But I figured Bud knew best, and it had to be done. Bud fired another shot as I ran for the wood and sped back, throwing several branches on the fire. The flame blazed, and Bud said he thought that was enough wood. Thank goodness!

  When Bud told me to go back to sleep, he sounded very much like a grown man in control. But I still peered into the darkness, searching for the gleaming eyes. Bud must have stayed awake all night. Next morning I found huge paw prints all around our camp, and I realized how much I appreciated my big brother.

  We rode into Roswell the next day. It was just like Silverton—everybody seemed to know all about us. As we rode down the street, some men in front of the newspaper office hailed us to ask about our experiences along the way. The editor of the newspaper even invited us to stay at his house, and we gladly accepted. We stayed in Roswell several days, exploring the surrounding Pecos Valley. Here were the apple and peach orchards Dad had described. We were captivated by the perfect rows of trees and irrigation systems.

  From Roswell, we rode north, leaving that lush valley for the barren kind of country we’d ridden through earlier. This time however, we could see mountains far ahead of us, colored with deep purples and blues. The mountains gave us something to look forward to.

  About mid-afternoon, the sky turned dark, and I looked at Bud, waiting to hear how he planned on getting us out of the storm. Al he said was, “It looks like we’re fixin’ to get wet, Temp.” I wouldn’t have minded that. A little rain shower never hurt anyone. But when it came, the rain was mixed with hail. Bud dismounted and crawled under Sam Bass for protection, and I slid down Geronimo’s leg and followed Bud’s example. But Geronimo was so short, there wasn’t much room under him for me. And to make matters worse, he craned his neck way around, and put his head under his body with me.

  I expected the hail to slow down after a bit, but it just came down harder. We couldn’t see any shelter, until a flash of lightning showed us a hole in a hillside to our left. Bud said we’d have to hightail it up there to avoid having our skulls crushed by the hail-stones. After he boosted me into the saddle, we galloped full speed, straight for the mouth of the cave. With lightning crashing all around us and hailstones pitting the ground, the horses ran hard and fast. They were as eager to find shelter as we were. We slept out the storm in that safe, dry cave.

  About noon the next day we came to a ranch house, and were invited to stay for lunch. After washing up on the porch, we went in to sit at a table covered with a white linen cloth and a bountiful supply of good food. I felt like a prince. After lunch, the rancher’s wife suggested we take a siesta, which we did. When we awoke, the rancher had our horses saddled and ready for us.

  “Stay clear of any horse herd you come across the next several miles,” he told us, explaining that he was breeding mules. Each herd consisted of about 20 mares and one male donkey. “Some of those jacks would just as soon bite you as look at you,” he laughed. “If you see any of the herds, give ‘em at least a half mile or more leeway.”

  “My daddy’s name is Jack,” I said, giggling, “and he’s not so mean.”

  “These jacks are different. Don’t expect them to treat you as nice as your poppa does.”

  Bud and I were laughing and braying like donkeys as we rode away from the ranch.

  After a couple of miles, we topped a rise and there, only about a quarter of a mile ahead of us, grazed a small herd of the rancher’s mares. One jackass must have spotted us at exactly the same moment that we saw him and his girlfriends. He started straight for us at a quick run, braying and baring his big, ugly teeth.

  We turned our ponies and kicked them in the sides, hollering “Get-up!” Geronimo couldn’t keep up with his short legs, so Bud soon got way ahead of me. Bending low over the horse’s neck, I felt like a jockey in a big race with high stakes. The jack’s bray sounded like a foghorn, and I could tell he was gaining on me. After we’d raced more than a mile, Bud finally looked back and saw that I was in real trouble. He turned back and gave Geronimo a couple of swats on the rump to try to speed him up.

  The jackass kept coming. Looking over my shoulder, I could see that he was only several yards behind me and gaining fast. His big teeth looked menacing, and his bray convinced me that he was excited about the prospect of taking a good “chomp” out of my five-year old tender hide.

  Just then, Bud saw a gate and shouted, “This way, Temp!” He galloped to the gate and opened it to let Sam, then Geronimo and me through. At the last minute, he snuck through on foot and slammed the gate, just as the jack arrived. That jackass hung his head over the fence, flapped his big ears, and heehawed as if to say, “You won’t be so lucky next time!”

  Watching that fool donkey pitch and bray on the other side of the fence, I felt extremely lucky. Bud and Sam Bass had come to my rescue once again.

  That afternoon, we rode over a high sand dune, came to a rail-road track and crossed it, but somehow couldn’t find the trail we’d left. When an Indian rode by, we thought he’d be a big help, but, with head held high, he rode right on by us as though we weren’t there. We were in Navajo and Pueblo country now. These Indians were different from Quanah Parker and the Comanches we knew back home. They were proud and regal, but I wished they were more friendly.

  We met many Indians on the

  way to Santa Fe.

  Night comes on quickly in the mountains, and even though we’d finally found the trail again, it was obvious we were not going to make it to the town of Mesa before dark. When we stopped for the night, I gathered pinon wood and started a fire while Bud made a startling discovery. Wouldn’t you know it—we’d left town witho
ut buying food supplies. All we had between us was a few pieces of candy. We went to sleep hungry that night, and it was our own fault.

  Next morning we got an early start to get to the next town. We needed food and drink for ourselves and our horses. We rode through arroyos, rocky foothills, and rough terrain. When we finally came upon the town of Vaughn, we were tired, hungry, and thirsty, and out of sorts. I was never more glad to see a town in my life. We took our time watering the horses and buying provisions, and we promised each other we’d never make that same mistake again.

  Not long after we left Vaughn the horses were having to work harder. The trip to Santa Fe was uphill now. The scenery seemed to change with each passing mile. More Indians passed us, and in the distance we saw sheep herders tending their flocks. Two more days’ ride put us in Santa Fe.

  We rode into the plaza just two weeks after we’d left home.

  New Mexico wouldn’t become a state until 1912, three years after our trip. But Santa Fe was the territorial capital, and the capital building was the largest and tallest building in town. We headed straight toward it.

  Governor George Curry was a former Rough Rider who’d been with Teddy Roosevelt in Cuba during the Spanish-American War. He made us welcome in his elegant new house, even to the extent of letting me slide down the polished stair rail until I bruised my rear a bit. At dinner, we swapped yarns. Governor Curry told us about the gallantry of the Rough Riders as they fought the mosquitoes, mud and malaria, in addition to Spanish soldiers. We told him about the perils of gyp-water and mad jackasses.

  The next day we toured Santa Fe, wearing new clothes the Governor had gotten for us. It was a nice city with adobe buildings, and big cottonwood trees in its square, different looking from other places we’d seen. Then he took us to the capital and introduced us to his staff. We shook hands very formally, but it really wasn’t a formal visit. The Governor wired Dad, “The kids are here and are as fat as pigs. Come out.”