P E R D I T I O N
Sandoval Plains, Perdition Valley
Conditions: Heavy Winds and Rain;
Severe Thunderstorms and Lightning; High Probability of Tornados
April 4th, 1880
Prairie storms - the bane of the rancher. Black clouds, heavy with darkness and rain and energy, poured over the White Mountains, tumbling and rumbling into Perdition Valley. What had been a blizzard for the highest reaches of the White, had now bred with the warm Arizona air to turn into a turbulent storm for the plains and playa and rock below. Sheets of rain battered the hills, flooded the Sandoval and swelled its adjoining creeks. The few trees that dotted the land were prey to sudden strikes by lightning, sounding as though they were the report of a Sharps, as the bolts shattered through the still-dry trunks. And the thunder, the slow rumbles and the vicious cracks that filled cattle and cattlemen alike with anxiety.
For all of the thunder and lightning, muddy plains and floods, what any experienced rancher hates - above all - is darkness. The heavy clouds obscured the sun, casting the fringes of MacGuire land under a sun-less sky. The rain poured endlessly, in a massive torrent that flew into the eyes, clammed the skin, and distorted the perception of the land. For a herd to be caught in such a storm, the best anyone could hope for would be a hassle.
Down on the field, amid the chatter of rain and the thunder above, cattle bleated out in fear amid the darkness. A desire to flee competed with a desire to seek safety in numbers; thus, the dumb animals were running amok in a muddy field. The Hereford/Texas Longhorn crossbreeds, called "MacGuires" by the hands, were hardy beasts, yet still frightened by the inevitable thunder storm. Out in the rain and mud and darkness, it was even worse as the creatures ran in every which way, often falling and sliding in the mud. Among the chaos, with yellow-shining lanterns rocking around, the Riders of Black Dove rode among their herd. Close to twenty in number, they whipped in and around the scattered cattle, hollering a collection of curses and commands to spur the cattle together.
That was the goal of Scott Turnbull, as he and his brown-and-white painted Thoroughbred, Dahlia, cantered about the chaotic scene. His rope - a lasso - was gripped tightly in his hands, the rope leading down to a steer which reluctantly followed its captor. Scott could barely make out the dark mass some five yards ahead of him, but the sounds of grunts and moo'ing from the cattle let him know that he was on track. Some of the cattle were already congregating in a stationary herd, save for their nervous shuffling in the mud.
"Pick it up there, girl!" Scott shouted to his horse, tapping her right side with his black riding boot. He gave a jerk to the steer, and the two animals under his charge picked up their pace as they closed in on the herd. He could feel the tension in the rope as he pulled the massive animal along, the bovine but a child being led by its guardian. Scott felt even more tension as the steer drew closer to the herd, and looked to see the animal rejoining the herd. His right hand took hold of the reigns, and the dark figure had positioned itself beside of Scott; thus, he leaned down and freed the beast.
There is one scared beast, returning to the fold, Scott thought to himself as he gathered his rope back into a coil. The Boss looked around at the scene. Riders were still chasing cattle, and the cattleman was beginning to grow more nervous. Where's Lynn and Seth? At the tail end of that thought, Scott noticed a figure some ten feet away. He could clearly see the hook, even amid the rain and darkness. With a tiny kick and a pull with his reigns, he brought Dahlia up alongside the mobile Jayhawker.
"Bauer!" Scott shouted over the environmental carnage. "I need you to take another Rider with you, scout out the Moze Trail and see if the creek's flooded it over! If so, get us another route back to the ranch!"
The Moze was the primary route back to Black Dove, about a mile or two in length for the journey. If its identically-named creek had swelled up, then there was no uncertainty that the Moze Trail would be flooded over and unusable. If that was the case, then it was on Seth Bauer and whichever Rider he chose, to find a clear path for the herd. Scott knew the guy; he wasn't the greatest wrangler, but his scouting ability was more than suitable for such a mission.
The Riders were gathering up the scattered cattle, as Scott broke ranks with Bauer. His next appointment: Lynn. The woman would admittedly be harder to find than Bauer, but she was just as important to the success of the herd returning to Black Dove without one head unaccounted for. Above the pattering of the rain, and the howl of the wind, Scott roared a command.
"McSoy! Keep this herd stuck right here! Use the Riders to help you keep 'em corralled! I'm gonna help with the stragglers!"
Scott took off ahead of the herd, and amid the storm, heard frantic whimpering and cries. He snapped his head left and right, looking for the source. Scott undid the lantern from his saddle, and Dahlia trotted slowly around as her rider scanned the area. Then, in the dim glow of the lantern, he saw it.
Four calves, not more than a month old, wallowed in agony within a playa. Unlike the rest of the prairie, with solid ground and rock and clay beneath it, playa was sand. In torrential downpours, those playas quickly transform into pits of quicksand. The calves had all followed one another in, and were now desperately kicking and moving about in a futile quest to escape the quicksand.
Scott narrowed his eyes, and tied the lantern back down to his saddle while stopping just beside the pit. If the calves were to survive and avoid being buried alive, he would need help.
"BUFF, BULL, GEORGE, GET YOUR ASSES OVER HERE PRONTO!" he roared.
6:30 PM
Kitchen Parlor, Black Dove Ranch
Conditions: Slightly Overcast, Light Winds, No Rain
April 4th, 1880
The Colonel took a sip of his whiskey, eyes fixed upon the great black clouds hanging in the distance. His mouth moved slightly, from side to side, as if he was swishing the amber liquid around in his mouth. The old soldier stood atop his porch, sand whisping about on the ground below him. He was nervous; someone who knew him for a while, like Murphy, could tell as such by the swishing.
His clothes betrayed little of his anxiety; a tailored French dress shirt in a tasteful white, a burgundy dress vest, pressed brown pants, a a pair of tan calfskin riding boots, complete with a pair of British Army-issued spurs. A Webley RIC sat in a black leather shoulder holster underneath the Colonel's left armpit, the stainless steel frame barely exposed, while the ivory grip of the weapon was there for all to see. A short tumbler, bearing in it some brown liquid, rested in his right hand.
The Colonel knew what was happening. His herd was caught off-guard by the storm; it had appeared suddenly as the herd was out grazing. Scott and Lynn and Bauer were on scene, but he still felt a nervous tension in his stomach. After one last swish of the whiskey, MacGuire gulped the fluid down and turned to face the glass French doors that led into the kitchen building.
"God be with 'em," he muttered under his breath as he entered the stone building.
Mealtimes at Black Dove bore a mixture of the communal and the exclusion. Meals were often shared between groups, or solitary individuals eating in their quarters, although the kitchen parlor room was often a place for hands to come by for a quick bite, or to socialize. The square room was spacious, big enough for a large pool table and five circular tables arranged around the room. A counter opening up to the kitchen bore shelves of alcohol behind it, and taps of various beer brands; the de facto bar for Black Dove. Watercolors of the Liffy, and those of great battles the place of story and memory, dotted the white stone walls of the room.
MacGuire scanned the room. A few hands, some Riders and some of them serving in other capacities, paid no need to their boss as the scant number of them sipped their beer and silently played cards. A handful of them gave respectful nods as the Colonel passed among the tables, approaching the counter. He stared at the two swinging saloon doors - the ones leading to the kitchen. He sniffed the air, hoping to catch a whiff of dinner.
"Sergeant Stafford, may I ask what you are preparing?" his Brogue was low, almost growling, but anyone could perceive that his tone was not one of agitation. "Those boys and girls out there, they need a hearty meal, yeah?"