Buzzard Bait

Copyright 2013 W.E.Powelson

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Table of Contents:

Buzzard Bait

Copyright

Acknowledgments:

Introduction:

Chapter 1: Never Tote the Load of a Desert Pack Mule.

Chapter 2: Blue Liquid Gold

Chapter 3: Home is Where you Hang Your Hat!

Chapter 4: Breakfast on the Hoof.

Chapter 6: Eagle Pass and the Path to McBride's Gold.

Chapter 7: Across the Footbridge to Piedras Negras.

Chapter 8: On the Wings of Good News.

Chapter 9: Justice Rides to Black Rock.

Chapter 10: Austin Bound.

Chapter 11: Livin' Like Rich Folks.

Chapter 12: Roughin' it Like Rich - Po' Folk.

Chapter 13: Emil Packer to the Rescue (again.)

Chapter 14: It's about the Trip, Not the Destination . . .

Chapter 15: Waco Surprise.

Chapter 16: Playing for Their Supper.

Chapter 17: Bringing Milly into the Band.

Chapter 18: Too Big For Waco.

Chapter 19: Baton Rouge and then the World.

About the Author

Acknowledgements:

Thanks to Jenny Anderson in McMinnville, Tennessee for the proofreading and editing.

Introduction:

Sometimes a simple twist of the knife may also twist the hand of fate.

Chapter 1: Never Tote the Load of a Desert Pack Mule.

One-eyed Zeke felt like he was about to take his final breath as he lay beneath a Mesquite bush in a deep ravine. He was somewhere in the Texas desert, southwest of San Antonio.

Zeke was more-or-less lost and he had been for several days. He knew he was somewhere in the southwest Texas desert between San Antonio and Del Rio, but that's quite an expanse of territory. His only compass was the sun itself. He knew to keep it on his left shoulder in the morning and his right shoulder in the afternoon. What bothered him most was the one question that now begged an answer. Why was he here, of all places? There wouldn't be any gold out here! He was a prospector. Why wasn't he where the gold might be? Why here? The only answer he could offer was; Because he wasn't anywhere else.

Zeke the prospector swatted once at a fly, but it took all the energy he could muster as he lay in the very limited shade of the lone mesquite bush. He was savoring what might very well be his final breaths of life. Meanwhile the pesky fly was free to pester the young prospector as much as he wished. Poor Zeke looked virtually defenseless to the fly and he smelled as if he were dead already. The fly landed boldly on his forehead. Zeke didn't move a muscle.

An old Turkey Buzzard rode high on the currents of breezes above the hot desert floor. It was looking for a carcass on which to sustain itself for another day. The afternoon desert sun was relentless and oppressive. Dust devils swirled in three different locations within a one mile radius, appearing in every respect to be the illegitimate bastard offspring of the insufferable desert sun.

Faded blue and purple mountains appeared to loom somewhere on a far distant horizon, but the clear space between them and the horizon most likely meant they were probably only a mirage. Zeke had been headed towards them anyway, though he didn't know why. At the moment, they seemed to be a fading memory as he lay beneath the Mesquite, fourteen feet down in a gully.

Any nearby waterhole might as well have been on the moon and the last waterhole was now just a fading fantasy. A man can't trust his mind in torrid desert conditions such as this. Without a little water and nourishment Zeke was a prime candidate for the grim reaper. Buzzard bait! He lay perfectly still and closed his eyes as he sorted through the mangled memories that had brought him to this god forsaken point in his twisted and confused life.

He had left San Antonio in a hurry. The sheriff had leaked word that he wanted Zeke to visit the jailhouse for an extended stay, simply because some scatter-brained idiot had lost a horse about the time suspicious looking Zeke had passed by. So, here he was . . . for better or worse . . . and it was apparently for the worse!

Nothing much else but the dust devils and ghoulish buzzards aloft moved for miles around, except for the one pesky fly who had spotted what he figured would be the old buzzard's next meal. This time, the fly was proud to be the very first on the scene. All he had to do was wait and be patient . . . this meal would soon be all his.

One-eyed Zeke had accidentally fallen into the deep ravine as he tried to lug all his possessions to somewhere other than this god forsaken desert. He had stubbornly refused to lose all his precious belongings to this unforgiving, endless waste of nothingness. His gear was all he owned in the world and he wasn't about to forfeit it to sand, dirt, cactus, mesquite shrubs and a few ghoulish buzzards.

Sary, his beloved Molly Mule and his only companion had died some ten million miles back. Yesterday seemed to be a completely different lifetime ago, when Zeke's future had suddenly taken a very ugly turn. Sary had died only yesterday, but when a man is this close to death himself, time slows down considerably. Sometimes it stops completely if the pain is intense enough. To one-eyed Zeke it seemed that time had stopped completely.

The hungry Turkey Buzzard folded wings and dove downward, then swooped low over the apparent corpse in the ravine. The ghoulish bird flapped its wings twice then rose again and circled in the currents above the gully. It was eyeing the lifeless old prospector with a hungry look. The buzzard had suddenly been joined by three more of its coterie, as if a call had gone out. Where did all those buzzards come from? How did they know there was a man in pitiful trouble down here in this Arroyo? Two of the buzzards landed just 20 feet from the scabrous prospector's feet and waited on the ground, looking like the ghouls they truly were.

The weathered prospector opened his eyes for a brief moment as he tried his best to formulate a survival plan. He was dizzy and completely out of focus. The entire world seemed to spin as he gathered what remained of his senses. How long had he been lying here, he wondered. Death would soon be a certainty if he didn't try to do something. He found a small stone within reach of his right hand. He grabbed it and tossed it at the two buzzards.

The errant stone woefully missed its mark. One buzzard only squawked angrily and moved a couple of paces closer as if in direct defiance. Just then two more buzzards swooped low and landed next to the others. It was as if perhaps the buzzards somehow knew that Zeke only had minutes of fight left in him. Their dinner was all but ready. It was nearly half cooked by the scorching sun. They were patiently waiting for the final signs of life to leave his weary and exhausted body. Zeke imagined the birds scrapping over his dead carcass. It caused a stir of survival instinct to rally within him. He wasn't quite ready to give up, yet.

It most likely had been an egregious error for old Zeke to try to salvage what little gear and possessions he could after Sary died yesterday morning. As he grieved the loss of his beloved pack-mule Sary, he had little choice but to load what he could from her packs and carry on to the southwest alone, on foot, through this godforsaken void of living Hell the devil himself wouldn't claim. Zeke was a strong man. He thought for sure he could carry Sary's load. He had been certain he was man enough to do it, but the desert heat was proving more formidable than he had anticipated.

Maybe he shouldn't have given Sary those precious final two sips of water! He cussed himself for that moment of sentimental weakness. It had already become an obvious fact by then that he had failed her anyway. It was just her time to go. The water wouldn't have made any difference and he could sure use it right now. It depressed him to think about it.

A little luck and good fortune was about all that could save him now. Luck and good fortune were the two things he hadn't encountered in more years than he could remember. Zeke had never been very lucky except for the little handful of nuggets he had found during the rush of 49 in California. It was now 1855 and those good old days in California were currently a distant anguished memory. His pockets were completely empty now.

Yesterday morning, one-eyed Zeke had loaded what he could onto his back as he said a quiet farewell and a prayer for dear Sary, his beloved pack mule. She had been his only companion for more years than he could remember. He was lamenting her loss as if she had been his next of kin: to him . . . she was. She was the closest thing resembling companionship he had known since before the big strike.

The sun had fallen to the 3:00 PM position. The west bank of the ravine where Zeke lay, was now offering a hint of shade and at least some small relief from the searing heat. One-eyed Zeke had cooled and rested a bit. The fall hadn't hurt him. He had meant to go to the bottom of the ravine anyway to seek anything resembling shade and rest, until the sun had set. Being a little more than weary, he had simply lost his footing on the way down the 14 foot embankment and tumbled to the bottom of the gully, pack-gear and all. After