What the water didn't inundate, the wind carried away, and authorities said they simply cannot say when most of the 9,800 people who live on this stretch of the Gulf Coast can return.

Not that they'll find much worth returning to.

The storm destroyed up to 80 percent of the houses south of the Intracoastal Waterway, a shipping channel that divides the county in two, officials said. About 6,000 people live on the south side, and it could be weeks before the roads are cleared and a month or more before the power is back.

"It's just a mess out there," said John LeBlanc, the county's assistant director of emergency preparedness.

It's such a mess that Army Lt. Gen. Russ Honore, who led the military response to Hurricane Katrina, showed up on Monday to have a look around and direct the cleanup, a scene that would look like "Apocalypse Now" meets "Rawhide" before day's end.

Honore arrived in a sleek black Chevrolet Suburban, the windows as dark as his sunglasses and the air conditioning on high. He emerged puffing on a big cigar as one helicopter after another -- four Army Black Hawks and two Navy Sea Stallions -- landed behind him. Their rotor wash was enough to knock over anyone unprepared for it, but it provided a welcome, if brief, respite from the soggy heat.

With his cigar in one hand and a map in the other, Honore, 57, who is nicknamed the "Ragin' Cajun" by his troops, posed for a few pictures and asked who was in charge. He offered firm handshakes and hearty hellos all around and then promised all kinds of help as aides scurried about, writing things down and yelling orders into a satellite phone.

A couple dozen Marines and soldiers from the 82nd Airborne stood at ease nearby.

"We've got medical, we've got search and rescue," the general barked. "We've got a lot of capability here. A lot of stuff is going to start happening."

A few people looked around at each other with puzzled expressions on their faces. One man turned to another and said, almost under his breath, "What's he talking about, search and rescue? We did that yesterday. Ain't no one out there."

County officials said just four people had decided to ride out the storm at home, and they've accounted for two of them. They're still looking for the other two.

So it isn't people who need to be found and rescued.

It's cattle.

Cameron Parish is a rural county, and those who don't earn a living in the oil and gas industry earn it by fishing, shrimping or ranching.

There are thousands of cattle in the county, and there simply wasn't time to move them all to higher ground. Those that survived the storm are scattered everywhere, stranded amid the flooding and growing weaker by the day.

Ranchers from throughout the area have joined together to help round them all up, sorting them by symbols branded into their hides -- such as J8, TM and Circle M. On Monday morning, ranchers found about 35 roaming near a bridge on Highway 27, a road that cuts through marshland that Rita has turned to lake. The road used to lead straight to the coast but now is so flooded that it ends several miles inland.

"Ooh, they're pissed," Mikey Lejeune, who lost his home and 30 head of cattle in the storm, said of the cows and steers ambling toward them. "They're hungry, too."

A dozen cowboys -- real cowboys, with battered boots and rusty spurs, sweat-stained hats and big gold buckles worn smooth with time -- jumped on their horses and rode away, the hooves of their horses clopping on the hot asphalt of the highway.

Most showed little interest in stopping to talk to news reporters, or even providing their names, and let it be known that they viewed members of the media as pests.

The plan was to round up the cattle and lead them into a corral the cowboys had erected on the road, then load them onto trailers.

It all went as well as might be expected when dealing with animals as dumb as cattle, and the cowboys led the herd -- some black, some brown, some black and white, some brown and white -- over the bridge without any trouble.

But then the cattle saw the trailers, and the cowboys behind the trailers, and the battery of soldiers behind the cowboys eating MREs at the side of the road, and they scattered.

"Whoa! Whoa!" one cowboy yelled "Ah, they're going into the water!"

"Who's got an airboat?" another one shouted. "Get a boat in the water!"

A minute later, an airboat -- an aluminum skiff with a big fan driven by a V8 engine -- roared to life and sped away into the marsh, soaking everyone behind it.

As a man wearing a dirty ball cap and three days' beard steered, a cowboy in jeans and a tattered plaid shirt swung a lasso and roped a steer by the horns as someone yelled "Git 'im!"

The cowboy had no sooner led the steer ashore and into a trailer when Honore pulled up at the scene, reporters in tow, and ordered a young soldier he called "Tiger" to pull over. The general strode purposefully toward the cowboys -- most of whom ignored him, too busy rounding up cattle -- puffing on his cigar.

"How are you men doing here?" the general asked.

"Just fine, sir," a cowboy replied.

"Good. Good," Honore said. He found an older man in glasses and a neat Stetson who seemed to be in charge.

"We've got more cattle up the road a bit," the general said. "I've got a bunch of Marines up there helping some fellows from the USDA round them up. Do you need any help?"

The man said no, thank you, he thought they had it under control. The general nodded and made a comment about the man having a fine horse.

"I love this stuff," Honore said. "My degree's in agriculture. I love it."

The man in the Stetson invited the general to join them this morning if he'd like to saddle up and help round up more cattle. Honore accepted.

"Now don't give me some old plug," he said. "I'd like a nice horse."

The cowboy promised the general his finest horse. Honore puffed on his cigar and said thank you.

E-mail Chuck Squatriglia at csquatriglia@sfchronicle.com.

This article appeared on page A - 1 of the San Francisco Chronicle