Travis & Muldoon's Adventures On The Santa Fe Trail

By Jack Underhill

Two contemporary men burn out, quit their jobs, buy some horses and head west to find real life. It's a six week trip through the desert, and they have no idea of what they are getting into.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Underhill
• Release date: Sep 26, 2010
• ISBN: 9780982969342

Jack Underhill

Jack Underhill lives in Borrego Springs and Minneapolis, whichever is warmer or drier at the time. He's worked as an opal miner, magazine writer and publisher, television news director, and wood cutter and sawyer. When he was younger he ran with the coyotes at night and raised chickens by day. Till he went broke.

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Travis and Muldoon’s Adventures on the Santa Fe Trail

by

Jack Underhill

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 by Jack Underhill

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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ISBN: 978-0-615-44216-7

Augusta Wind Press

8301 Riverview Terrace

Minneapolis, MN 55432

www.augustawindpress.com

Distributor: www.itascabooks.com

Dedicated to Marilyn, Ben, Cristina and Zach.

And to the guardian angels of The Santa Fe Trail, among them Marc Simmons, Marion Russell, Myra Ellen Jenkins, Larry and Carolyn Mix, the Wheatley brothers of Clayton, NM, Kate and Josiah Gregg, Riddell, Twitchell, Kit Carson & C. E. Frank

Chapter 1

July 1973

THEY RODE OUT of Pillow’s ranch midmorning and reined the horses back to the Cimarron. Muldoon clawed dreamily at his beard as Travis went on about the getting them across the river. Muldoon nodded obediently when Travis turned in the saddle to make a point.

They rode past their worn-out and busted packhorse grazing among her new friends the other side of the fence they followed. Her dull black coat sparkled with the spray of circling ambulatory sprinklers drenching a nearby field of alfalfa.

Jeannie! Muldoon called. The spavined, ewe-necked, swayback, sickle-hacked, knee-sprung, dish-faced, undernourished old brood mare looked over at them, ears up.

Bye, darlin’, ‘bye. He raised his hat.

The overcast panhandle country looked even more parched than when the sun was out. The blown spray gave weight to the heat but did not cool. They were leaving everything at Pillow’s except what they could carry, strapped to the back of their saddles and in the saddlebags. Three, four weeks to Santa Fe.

The mare whinnied after them, the palomino and bay looked back and got kicked into a race to the river.

Maybe it was better this way. No more dragging her along by the lead and getting pulled out of the saddle when she set in. No more looking out from the camp in the evenings and seeing the poor thing standing in the same place she was unpacked hours before. All Jeannie’d have to do now is to fatten up and foal a few times more for the rancher who’d gotten her for some food and shoeing tools.

The bay stumbled and about went down, Travis lugging up on the reins but not before the losing stride.

Muldoon sat slumped in the saddle with one leg cocked over the horn, rolling a cigarette, palomino lathered and heaving. The patches of foam made him look like a pinto. Get off your horse and let’m breathe, Travis ordered. Sam lifted his gaze, and lit up.

Bastard almost went down with me, think he’s losing a shoe. Gonna look at it. Travis got down and took a hit from the canteen. Muldoon chuckled out the smoke.

If we throw a shoe out here it’s all over, Sam. He’s not going to make it on three shoes. Travis let down the bay’s leg, and squinted up at his friend. Right?

Seriously, it loose again?

No, but it might’ve been. You have to be prepared for stuff out here. I keep telling you.

You saying I didn’t win the race because your horse doesn’t have a loose back shoe, something like that?

I’m saying there was no contest. No race. But if there were I woulda won.

Mmmm. One of the lenses of your shades is cracked, you know that?

Has been since Point of Rock, Hawkeye.

They followed a cow trail through the bosque woods looking for the crossing Pillow said he took to the south pasture all the time. The Cimarron was surface dry but there were deep waters running down deep. In a dry year there was a five-to-ten foot crust of riverbed to ride across on, in a wet year the crust softened.

Travis trotted ahead of Muldoon and pulled up at a tunnel of cottonwoods along an eroded road heading down the north bank. He thought he could make out the outlines of the same road on the other side.

Oughtta be it. He pointed at bleached wood pilings of the washed-out narrow gauge trestle west of them, dug into a shirt pocket for a tear of map Pillow penciled on a paper bag.

Can’t be, Sam, pulling at his chin. ‘You’d go down before the middle. Hell, that’s the widest crossing I’ve seen along here. Look, you can see mud out there, bad mix. Can’t be it. Muldoon moved to the edge of the river bed. No."

This here’s the cottonwood arch, there’re the railroad pilings for the trestle bridge marked here. This is it.

Look, maybe he didn’t understand you. You were asking him where the Willow Bar Crossing was and he showed you the Conservation Service aerial maps. The map you got there must be for that, for where they used to cross when the trail was still in use 150 years ago. I mean, just look at it!

Travis swung out of the saddle and led his horse out onto the sandy bed. He tamped a booted foot down hard. Solid!

Tell me that twenty yards out.

Travis started out. You won’t make it, Sam called to his back.

Hey, this guy’s foreman here. He drew the map for where he crosses all the time. He held the paper up, not looking back. Sam was bad as the mare, having to be dragged along.

I have a feeling for the thing. It’s no good, Muldoon called.

The bay pulled up and set in as the sand began turning damp where Travis stepped. C’mon! He wrestled with the reins and finally smacked the animal on the nose. Maslow boogered, fell, got up, rolled his eyes and danced around some, hoof marks dampening.

Travis led him back toward the bank, into a half circle and back out again towards the south side. The sand began to give some more and his foot depressions seeped water. There was still more than half way to go. He went another few feet out of pride, began to sink in, and turned back quickly, stones squeezing up between his kidneys.

Back at the bank Travis gazed out over his tracks. Won’t hold us. Need a narrower crossing. He crumpled up the map and threw it away. Wonder why he told us to cross here? You think the underground flow might’ve risen?

His sense of humor, like telling us this is the Santa Fe Trail crossing when it’s only an old state road with the bridge gone. And all that bull about the Dalton family.

What makes you think it’s a state road?

Muldoon pointed at a rusted road sign fallen beside the dirt road.

What’s it say?

Take a look.

Too tired. What’s it say?

Keyes—10 miles.

So they make a state road on the ruts of the old trail. It showed up really clear on his aerial map.

Okay, let’s say it is, doesn’t mean we’re going to cross here, does it?

Can’t. Won’t hold us.

Look farther?

Unless you want to homestead here. Travis bided his time checking and adjusting belly strap, breast strap, rifle scabbard, lariat mounting, saddlebags, bedroll, canteen, stirrups and bridle. He’d already done this before they left the ranch. The water level’s come up a lot since last time he rode across here.

Since two days ago? That’s when he said him and Slim rode across, is what he said. Muldoon heeled Fang into a trot up the old road, turned west at the end of the tree arch and found another cattle trail he followed among the tamarisks and willows along the bank.

Travis cantered up in a few minutes. He treated us okay, fixed the horses up. Muldoon nodded. The river struck northwest at this point in the Trail, its headwaters up in Colorado, while this branch turned southwest toward Santa Fe. To go the mountain route you followed the river, to cross the desert you veered southwest.

The Cimarron had been with them since the beginning of the trip and they were glad to be getting rid of her. Same as Jeannie. We shouldn’t’ve pushed so hard. We were lucky to run into him, Travis said.

Sam tried the next crossing, picking out a narrow section with a dry sand mantle all the way across and island of willow in the middle. He stood at the edge trying to read the riverbed with intuiting senses that’d begun coming back to him the last two weeks. He led the horse out, the willows on the south bank fifty feet more. He jumped hard on the sand as he gained confidence. Nothing. He smiled back at Travis. This is it.

Another few feet and the surface of the sand around him began to undulate.

How is it where you are? Travis asked, not seeing.

Muldoon stepped to the side, the sand nearly sucking off a boot. Tenderfoot broke through, the small hooves so fine for the sand hills of Kansas and Oklahoma not so fine now. When Sam pulled up on the reins he went in.

He saw a hoof coming at him and felt it hit his head and went dumb for a bit. He blinked awake sinking into a puddle with the horse over there bucking in and out of the quicksand toward the bank, a taut lariat dug in deep around his neck. The palomino found solid footing and trotted over to Travis who worked the loop off his neck and rode out towards Muldoon, coiling the rope back and shaking out a loop for another throw. He was going all the way under! He swung down from the saddle and walked out to where his steps began puddling. You okay? I threw for him because he was going down fast.

Yeh. Muldoon patted the sand under his arms and tried to smile. To Travis it looked like he’d been sawed in half at the rib cage and set up out there. Didn’t look now like he was going down any deeper. He chatted out the loop, got his momentum and tossed, missed, coiled it back in.

How’s your gout? He shook out another loop. The waters helping it any? Travis couldn’t keep the smile back. Sam, you really look funny. I oughtta get the camera. You got a minute? I mean, who’s going to believe if we don’t have a picture? You’re stable.

Trav! Muldoon croaked.

Hold on, hold on. He tossed again and missed.

You get the horse the first time, Muldoon said.

Bigger head. Wait. Maybe I can walk it to you. Travis flipped his end of the rope at the same time that Muldoon kicked down into the river as hard as he could to lunge for it. The flipped parabola of the lariat skimming along the surface got to the loop and jumped it just out of Muldoon’s reach as his hand came down after it.

Next one for sure, Travis promised. Muldoon had started to sink again, the sand moving up over his chest. He stopped thrashing for a moment to see if he would stabilize but the awful sensation of sinking was too much and he bunched up, trying to explode out of there on musclepower. The loop landed in spitting distance splashing alkali water into his face. Travis flipped the rope again. When the rope jumped into Muldoon’s hand he jerked it so hard it tore out of Travis’ hands. Trav dived after it, hands and knees breaking through, rolled onto his back and kept rolling till he was yanked around by the knot at the end of the lariat coming up against his fist. His horse was still ten feet away. Travis left the rope and dashed for the bay now swinging around to get the hell out of there.

Travis relaxed, held out an open hand and repeated the animal’s name softly, smiling with all his teeth, Maslow glancing back over his rump. Travis reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a few 30-30 rifle cartridges. Sugar, Maz, sugar. C’mon boy. Yeh, that’s it, come and get it. The horse lifted his nose high to see if he could smell anything like sugar in the air. Travis moved slowly. Easy Mazzies, c’mon, sugar here, blow yer leetle head off, sweetheart, if you run off, that’s it, easy now. He grabbed the reins just as Sam screeched for him, spooking the bay, and swung into the saddle as the big animal wheeled around toward the trees. Travis cut the spurs in hard leaning him back toward the river, swinging down for the lariat as they went past and scooping it up.

Hold on, Sam! Travis gave the rope a quick couple of wraps around the horn and started backing Maslow up. Get it in your hands, Sam. You gotta get it in your hands, not your teeth!

Muldoon tried working the lariat around under his arms, sliding down another half foot to where he was neck level with the river.

Okay, here goes! Travis reined the horse backward, keeping the tension. Hang on! Muldoon’s chest pushed against the sand in front of him and he couldn’t breathe. So what? Hang on. Hang on.

The horse pulled and the riverbed pulled. Things inside him snapped and sprung as the riverbed fought to swallow him. He had the rope at a bad angle but didn’t care. Pull!

It is night, they’re across the Cimarron from Feather’s, Muldoon on his back across the fire pit from the sleeping Travis. He’s replaying the quicksand thing again and sipping from the bottle. That was the worst feeling, sinking into the earth with his own weight collaborating with the riverbed, Travis joking, and pulling out the goddam horse before him, watching out for his investment first, then Sam if there was time.

It was the old man back in Ulysses who told them about this very thing. The old sherry head was psychic. What else had he warned them about?

They’d driven into downtown July 4th looking for a place to pasture the horses and camp out. Someone said to look up the sheriff and ask about using the rodeo grounds. They found him on the main street at a gas station sipping a can of soda and joking with a few old timers. The sheriff explained that the rodeogrounds belonged to the township so he was in no position to give permission. The town council would have to decide, but most of them were away for the long holiday weekend.

C’mon, Ben, let’m camp out there! one of the old men said. Ben shot him a shut-up look and trailed his gaze over the two strangers. Muldoon’s full beard and heavy, tall bulk stuffed into ragged, shabby clothes entertained him for a moment but it was Travis he gave attention to, mouth shrouded with a sparse and droopy shredded- wheat mustache, gingham blouse, canvas pants, big dish Concho belt, Old Pawn silver and turquoise bracelets, necklaces, and thick strands of brass hishi around his neck.

Muldoon spoke up. Travis is a professor and I’m a Westerns writer. Sort of. I mean we’re not tramps or hippies or anything. People moseyed in next to the pumps where they stood. We’re gonna ride the Trail to New Mexico. To Santa Fe. The sheriff looked around at the others with him. Our plan was to start at Pawnee Rock, but I got us lost, took a wrong turn somewhere and...

Ben crossed his arms over his chest. If it was up to me, I’d say yes. But it isn’t.

Just up to you to say no, right, Sheriff? Ben squinted at the twin reflections of himself in Travis’ silvered shades.

That’s right, son.

Ben couldn’t have been much past 30. Travis easily had 10 years on him.

A pickup load of girls jammed into the cab tooted the horn to get through to the pumps. Ben ignored them. Using that tone of voice on the Law isn’t helping you at all. You want a place to stay I suggest you check out the city dump. But you’ll need a permit to move in. He nodded curtly and ambled off, his supporters following along.

Travis and Muldoon moved out of the way to let the girls by. The younger men from the small crowd stayed on waiting for the two men to justify their interest. Any of you guys know of a place we can stay? Travis asked.

The young men exchanged looks and ante’d up polite bits:

You know of a place, Bob?... Wisht I did.... Stay at my folks place only they kicked me out.... Y’all know about the party out at the sump after the dance?... Daniels has a place not far out, might stay there....Naw, Daniels’ dead, Bob... Zat so, when’d he die?...Where you been, turkey?... Stay at the Blue Sands Motel, maybe.... Yeh, but Maude don’t like horses in her beds."

When laughter and bits of cross conversation eventually led away from the problem at hand, Travis broke in. There’s got to be a place. We have horses been in the trailer two days. There’s a million acres out there, someone... He pointed east.

Wheat fields, someone said. Well, I don’t know any place here in Grant County, lotta people gone for the Fourth, another said. The others shuffled around and yah’d. The girls finished gassing up, pulled by close to toss out some teasing and revved rpm’s to peel off a screaming hot strip for them.

Get a beer ‘fore the big dance. You come on down when you find a place, one of the guys said to them.

In a few seconds they were left with some good lucks and the scent of burned rubber lingering in the hot, muggy air.

You handled that swell, Trav. They started back to the truck a few blocks away. How come you get so cold with people? You might as well’ve slapped the man.

Shut the hell up, Sam! Travis cocked a fist and Muldoon stopped dead in his tracks. Violence not on a page unstrung him. That he had a hundred pounds and six inches of height on Travis made no difference.

Young punk talking down to me like that! Town Council, my ass.

Chapter 2

Old Man & The Trail

they ran into the old man who’d spoken up for them coming out of a liquor store, and he tagged along.

Hey, you boys find anything yet? He grabbed Muldoon by the bicep, half running to keep up with him. Hold it, son, dammit, don’t move so fast. Here, have some of this. Muldoon stopped and took the bagged pint bottle. Take a slug, c’mon, the old man smiled. He smelled cidery and of burnt wood. Travis walked on a few paces before he stopped to wait.

Well, Ben’d let you go out to the rodeo grounds if you’d give him more time. Your bud there riled him.

Muldoon nodded. He rubbed his nose on the back of his hand and glanced under his brows over at Travis. Travis jerked his head in the direction of the truck.

Take a drink, it’s sherry, the old man said. Gallo dry sherry. He watched with a critical eye as Muldoon lifted the bottle and lipped a sip. More. You can take more. Take a swallow, c’ mon. Muldoon sucked down a quarter of the bottle and nodded his thanks. You really gonna ride the Trail?

All the way to Santa Fe. Tomorrow we buy us a pack horse and the rest of the stuff we forgot, so we oughtta get out by the sixth.

The old man drank, screwed the top back on, and dropped the pint into a pocket of his overalls. See Sturges at the tackle shop about the horse. He’ll fix you up with something good. How come you wanta ride the Trail?

Muldoon looked over at Travis for an answer and Travis turned away. Muldoon shrugged. I don’t know, hell of it I guess.

My granddaddy come out the Trail back in 1865, the old man said, just after the war. He was from Atlanta. Came to settle.

That so? Muldoon answered politely.

Yep. And back when I was a kid we used to ride the Trail over to Keyes in the Oklahoma panhandle to visit my family on my mother’s side, who was a good part Cherokee, and the ruts are still there. Dust Bowl covered over some but you won’t have trouble following. Even where they’re covered the grass grows thicker over the ruts. Travis moved in a little closer.

"Not many people on the Trail now, though. Boy Scouts sometimes hike over to Middle Springs near Elkhart. And the Sheriff’s posse now and then from Missoura. Few years back they come this way saying they’re riding the Trail, had campers and such and trucks hauling horses past the bad spots. Wives and kids with ‘em, real outing. They’d get the horses out where the Trail comes near the highways. You see these signs saying ‘Route of the Santa Fe Trail’ along the asphalt, but it don’t come nearer than three, ten miles, keeps the tourists happy, though there’s no truth to it. The signs. But here it does cross 270 to Hugoton and they was on the way to Wagonbed Springs to saddle up and ride the part from here and Middle Springs, like what the Boy Scouts take. The wives and younger kids took the trucks and trailers and kitchens and all down to Point of Rock near Middle Spring to wait.

This was the longest stretch the sheriffs chewed off and when they was finally back to the women and children two days, three days later, two of them bit the dust with coronaries, two dead from a drunken shoot-out over a piece of overcooked steak, and the rest was staggering with the wobblies from the Cimarron’s water. Real alkali, see. The old man looked pointedly at Muldoon’s gut, then smiled up at him. You got the sho’ders of a football player and the gut of a Jap wrestler. How old’r you?

Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight the end of this month.

Stick with the dry sherry. Drink this and you’ll stay trim. Like me.

Jesus, Travis said.

It’s hot as Hades out there this time of the year. In the old days not a soul’d take on the Trail in this heat, not enough water for the draft animals, even the oxen. But there’s windmills and stock tanks now, so maybe you’ll make it. 120 down by the bridge yesterday. Get out where there’s no wind and it gets higher. Hurt the horses more’ n you. Keep’m out of the river water, drops’m quicker’n hell. See, water runs bitter there. Sweetens up near the panhandle. And they’s quicksand. If you go in, the horse’ll try to use you as a stepping stone out. I’ve been in, I’ll tell you, long time ago, when I was younger, younger’n you even. We used to ride over to Keyes to visit my ma’s family. A good part Cherokee. He sipped from the bagged bottle.

You know of a place to stay the night? Travis asked, talking away from them.

You come in a little closer maybe. Don’t like having to shout. Travis moved in a few more steps. Place to keep horses, he said.

Maybe down by the grain elevators, next to the tracks. There’s some grass, no one’ll bother you there. Follow this street back to the train tracks, you’ll see the elevators to your right, south of the main street.

I’ll look into it. Thanks. Travis cleared his throat and looked at Muldoon. You finished yet?

Where’d you get that hat? the old man broke in, speaking to Muldoon. Looks like what ol’ Spencer Tracy used to wear. He reached up to touch the ragged brim of Sam’s fedora.

Dog brought it home one day. Muldoon took it off and showed the man the holes.

Hot hat, boil your brains out there. Need a straw hat, like your bud here. And them pants’re no good, made of plastic, won’t breathe, tear to bits on the brush out there, brambles and thorns, tear your legs up and then fry’m. Need heavy denim, overalls maybe. What size waist you got?

Muldoon, I’m leaving. You coming?

Had a son like you, the old man smiled. Big, not as much gut, though. He might’ve had a pair’d fit you, let out the waist eight-ten inches. But he’s dead.

Oh, Muldoon said.

Killed in the war.

Korea? Muldoon realized he had killed the pint. I’m sorry, I’ll go in and...

No need, son. The old man fished a fresh pint up out of another pocket. The Second War. He was a paratroop. Krauts got’m. He twisted off the top and handed it to Muldoon who shook his head and held up a hand. Killed his mother. He was our on’y son.

Sorry, Muldoon said. Second World War? The old man drank and nodded.

He’us big as you but tough. Only man ever licked Charlie Spinet. Charlie roo’d the day he put a hand on Karen McAllister. She woulda married my son if he’d lived, but he dint. They was childhood sweethearts, he never come back from overseas. An’ she married Charlie after all. Hell, the Sheriff you talked to is their kid. Ben. Ben was in the Marines. Charlie never did have to go to the war because he was a on’y son too. But Ben had to go. But he wanted to, you see.

He slipped the bottle back into its place, sniffed, and joined Travis’ studied vigil over the dark street for a while. Ted was a paratroop. Army. He patted Muldoon on the arm.

Well, Muldoon began.

Well, son, and he grabbed Muldoon’s hand in both of his, You’ll ride the Trail sure as shootin’. You’ll do okay and that stomach’ll come right off. I don’t know about your bud here, he’s got high blood pressure or sumpin, you can see the veins standing up off his forehead like to burst even here in the dark. You tell’m you can go, now, that’s okay, and he can settle down. Tell’m.

The old coot walked off crossing his arms back over his butt and said Night through the open door of the liquor store as he passed. He half turned. You watch out for Injuns, Perfesser! Hear they’s on the warpath and you might get that yeller hair lifted. He cackled and disappeared around the corner.

They found a grassy place down by the railroad tracks to spend the night, decided against letting the horses out. The mare just might take it into her head to fight loading again in the morning. Travis poured oats into the truck feedbin, had a drink of grain alcohol mixed with Tang and water, cocooned himself into his down sleeping bag despite the awesome heat, and caterpillared his way beneath the truck.

Hours later Muldoon still sat in the cab of the truck, notebook in lap, trying to write by starlight. He had managed, July 4th. Ulysses. Terrified. The horses snorted, clunked around the stall, blew and were quiet. Travis moaned from beneath the floorboards, croaked something, and was quiet.

Damn! 500 miles. Couldn’t be done. How could he have let himself be talked into it? In the last 15 years five miles was the most he’d ever ridden a horse at one time, and that crippled him up so bad for days he felt the need of a cane to get around. 120 degrees? What did water boil at? And there must be a thousand barbed wire fences between Ulysses and Santa Fe, so they’d spend most of the trip just looking for gates or stepping wire down and stapling it back up. It was insane!

Muldoon