Trail Hand (9 page)

Logic told me that I wasn’t responsible for the crimes of a band of renegades, but I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I was somehow to blame. The more I dug, the harder the ground seemed. I was tired of burying friends and family.

Standing over Gregorio’s grave with shovel in hand started me wondering if someone would be as kind to me when my time came, and, judging by what I’d been through, there was a distinct possibility that could be sooner rather than later. Just as that thought crossed my mind, a rustling sound erupted from the bushes nearby, and a branch snapped. My right hand dropped to my side, but before my Colt broke leather, Bruto, one of Chango Lopez’s two mules, walked through the thicket and out into the open.

I was so relieved when he approached, I actually laughed aloud.

“You purt’ near scared the daylights out of me, old fellow,” I said, rubbing his forehead. “How in blazes did you manage to get away?”

His harness and bridle were still in place, with the reins trailing on the ground behind. I replaced them up over his back, so he wouldn’t step on them, and quickly checked him over. There were a few minor cuts and scratches but fortunately nothing major. Bruto was snorting anxiously, so I stroked his mane, trying to calm the both of us down.

Even though cowboys work mostly range-crossed grade horses, every rider I’d ever met had
a strong opinion about what they considered the best breed of horse. Cowboys will spend hours around a campfire arguing the merits of the wild mustang over the thoroughbred, or comparing Arabs to Appaloosas. While
vaqueros
are basically no different, Chango Lopez was especially particular about his choice. He rode mules.

In actual fact, Chango rode what had to be the biggest brace of jack mules in the Southwest. I’d seen large mules before when I hauled supplies to outposts in the Kansas Territory for Russell, Majors, and Waddell, but nothing like the pair Chango used. On a bet Rogelio once measured their front hoofs. They turned out to be twice as big across as those of the biggest gelding in the remuda.

Chango liked to alternate between the two mules, Bruto and Bobo, using one to pull his supply wagon while he rode the other. I’m not sure which job the mules preferred, but there couldn’t have been much of a difference, not given his size.

I once asked Miguel how Chango had come across a matched pair that big.

“Oh, he had them when we met him,” Miguel replied. “
Don
Enrique was returning from a sale in Tampico with a bunch of us when we come across Chango, alone, with that wagon and those two mules. His
padre
was a great
herrero
…you know, a blacksmith…but he was shot to death. A
bandido
everyone called El Tuerto once rode through their pueblo looking for someone to shoe his horse. When Chango’s father finish the job and ask for his money, El Tuerto shoot him, instead of paying. So Chango, he go look for this
assesino
, and later he find him in Los Senos del
Diablo, a very bad place near Saltillo. Even the
Federales
don’t go there.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Chango, he find this man in a
cantina
with two others, drinking tequila and playing the cards. El Tuerto had a gun, sure, but Chango had his father’s hammer. The other
bandidos
joined in the fight, too, but Chango…he used that hammer on them. They say you could slide what was left of those three under the door. Both mules and the wagon belong to the two men who were playing poker with El Tuerto. I guess Chango not feel like walking home, so he just took them. Chango didn’t any longer want to stay at home after his
padre’s
death, so he rode away to look for other job. After they met,
Don
Enrique give him a job and he has been with us ever since. But you know, nobody ever give him the hard time or make fun of his choosing to ride mules.”

Of that I had no doubt.

Bruto, the mule, stood quietly in front of me as I bent over to pick up the shovel I’d dropped when he surprised me. I laughed again, wondering who’d been more startled, him or me. Even though my nerves were still on edge, that’s not always a bad way to feel when you’re alone in the wild. It heightens the senses and keeps one alert for danger. At least this time it did, for, as I stood there in front of that mule, the sudden flicker of his ear and the toss of his head warned me something was wrong.

Any other time I probably wouldn’t have even noticed it, but that sixth sense of mine had suddenly begun to act up again. I listened carefully, but heard nothing unusual. Even so it seemed
that the mule was standing a trifle too still and he kept staring straight at me without blinking. Something was definitely wrong, but it was something I couldn’t put my finger on. I strained to hear, see, or even smell something, anything that might be out of the ordinary. It was while I was looking at that old jack that I finally caught the reflection in his eye. My blood almost froze at the realization that I was watching three Apaches closing in silently from behind, captured crystal clear in that mule’s big old round pupil.

They rushed me just as I turned, swinging that shovel. It caught the first one with a crushing blow to the side of his head that killed him instantly. There was still time to draw my pistol, and the Navy Colt bucked in my hand, sending a slug squarely into the chest of the second brave. Although a lethal shot, it didn’t stop his forward motion, and the Indian plowed right into me, knocking the gun from my hand and sending me spinning off to the side.

Fortunately his dead body landed on top of my gun, putting it out of reach of the last Apache. The fall also blocked the Indian from reaching me before I had a chance to recover, forcing him to cross over the body. Judging by the six-inch knife in his hand, it was only pure luck that had saved me from being gutted on the spot.

That luck was short-lived, however, since Apache warriors don’t waste time. This one turned back around to rush me, but I quickly reached down and pulled my Bowie from its boot sheath, forcing him back a step. It made him pause to reconsider as only fools rush someone with a blade. My stomach muscles tightened
as I remembered Uncle Zeke’s advice on knife fighting.

“Expect to get cut, and don’t ever play fair. Try to git outta there, but, iffen you cain’t, use whatever you can to win,’ cause in a knife fight the winner sometimes ends up in worse shape than the loser.”

This battle was now going to be one on one. Had there been any other Apaches around I’d surely have been dead by now. These three had probably fled the reservation and then later spotted the campfire. More likely than not they were only after the mule and some guns, but this Apache clearly wasn’t about to quit now. There was nowhere for me to go but right into it.

We circled, twisting and turning, thrusting and parrying, trying to feel each other out. Some men use a knife like a sword, slashing or jabbing, trying for the quick kill, but the more experienced ones make small circular slicing movements, keeping the blade in close. They prefer to cut up an opponent little by little, bleeding them out enough to make them helpless, before finally going in for the kill.

This Apache was strong and very determined, as most are. He had obviously used his blade many times before, but then so had I, and there was no way I was going to do anything foolish like kicking at him, which would risk a severed leg muscle. Nor would I just stand there facing him straight on.

All I offered my opponent was a constantly moving and well-guarded side view. Even so, his blade nicked my left arm twice, and a couple of times came uncomfortably close to my throat. We
locked grips once, but I managed to drop down onto my back while at the same time throwing my feet up into his chest. By holding onto his arms, I managed to flip him backward over my head. Although I came up fairly quickly, he had already jumped back to his feet in what wrestlers call a “kip up”. It was a beautiful move, but one I was in no mood to appreciate.

We traded blows for a while with both hands and feet. I managed to backhand him with my left hand while at the same time sweeping his legs out from under him with my foot. But once again he was quick to recover, and rolled out of my reach. I was tiring quickly, and the Apache began taking advantage of that fact by grappling more, all the time trying to wrestle the Bowie knife from my grasp.

Once again Uncle Zeke’s words came back. “Use whatever you can. Whatever it takes.” So I let the Apache lock up with me once again, and then fell to the ground in a side roll, taking him down with me. We rolled over several times and my face was pushed down into the ground before we finally pulled each other straight back up to our feet.

Neither of us let loose of the other the whole time, until we finally came to a stop and stared, face to face, at each other, arms outstretched and locked. When the Apache made eye contact with me, I shrugged as if to apologize. The Indian was staring me squarely in the eye with a puzzled look when I sprayed his face with all the dirt I’d swallowed when we’d rolled over.

Instinctively his hands jerked up to his face as he tried quickly to wipe his eyes. When he finally
looked back at me, it was with an expression of bewilderment. He looked slowly down to my Bowie knife, now embedded in his belly, and then back up at me. With his hand clutching the hilt, he fell over backward, dead.

For obvious reasons I didn’t hang around the camp any longer. I briefly considered going after the rustlers alone, but it was out of the question. I had almost no supplies, little ammunition, and the mule wasn’t fast enough to catch the herd. San Rafael was the only logical place to go since there I could remount, reëquip, and find help. Riding Bruto would be slower than a horse, but at least he was solid and dependable, and would get me back to town. Once I managed to climb up on that enormous back of his, that is.

We must have been quite a sight; a
gringo
riding bareback on a big jack mule, weighed down with canteens and assorted bean sacks all tied to a wagon harness. Although the trip back to San Rafael wasn’t all that hard, when we finally arrived in town a little past noon, I was again on foot. I had been leading the mule for the last half hour, on account of his having thrown a front shoe hard enough to crack the hoof. I couldn’t help wondering what else would go wrong. After all I’d been through, a blacksmith’s own mule goes and cracks a hoof on me! It made me remember that old saying about the cobbler’s kid’s shoes.

After watering Bruto at one of the troughs scattered
along the street, I left him hitched to a post outside of the livery with instructions to take good care of him.

I wanted to clean up, change clothes, and get something to eat, so I headed for the mercantile store, just down the street about four buildings away, on the side opposite the town’s only boarding house. The street was fairly deserted, but that wasn’t unusual for this time of day.

Folks around these parts like to
siesta
, so things usually quiet down from noon until early evening. Those that weren’t asleep were probably inside the
cantina
drinking or outside of town at the local social club, partaking of whatever pleasures of the flesh were available, heat allowing.

I was dog tired and hungry to boot, so, after entering the shop, the first thing I did was pull a large can of sliced pears down off the top shelf. Prying it open with a clasp knife the owner kept tied to a nail for such purposes, I gulped all the juice, and then used the point of the knife blade to pull out the pears. That sugary juice hit the spot and felt better than anything I could remember for quite sometime.

I finished the pears and took a box of ammunition off the counter and pocketed it away in my shoulder pouch. The storekeeper went by the name of Sam Martin. We’d been on good terms before, but, since he was usually a talkative sort, I found it strange that I’d been in the store almost ten minutes without him saying a word. He just kept staring at me from behind the counter like I was a ghost or something. I was about to ask him for a little extra credit toward a new pair of pants and a shirt, when Rosa Hernandez walked in.

After all I’d been through, she was more than just a sight for tired eyes, so I walked over and smiled. I was going to ask about her father when she suddenly smacked me right across the face with her riding crop.

“How dare you! How could you, after we all trusted you?” she cried. Rosa was about to hit me again even though I was still stunned from her first quirting.

“Hey, what was that for?” I said, grabbing her forearm in defense.

“You dare ask me that after what you did to my father and his men? You knew how important that herd was to us! Let go of me.” She was struggling to get her arm free, while at the same time kicking my left shin, hard.

“
Ouch!
Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Someone bushwhacked me out there and left me for dead. Here, just look at my head if you don’t believe me.” I let go and pointed. “And I mean up here on top, not where you just whipped me.”

“Rodrigo was there when you rode in and ambushed our men. The man who led the thieves was masked, but Rodrigo recognized you nevertheless. The big
gringo
with the bay horse is what he said.” She was still angry, although maybe now not quite as much.

“I swear to you, Rosa, it wasn’t me. Think about it, would it make any sense for me to come back here if it had been?” I asked. “The man who shot me and stole my horse was obviously part of the gang that rustled your herd. He left me for dead out there. It was all I could do to get back here in one piece. Trust me, I would never do anything
that would bring you or your father any harm.” I was speaking more softly now.

She looked at me and raised her eyebrows slightly as if reconsidering the situation.

I raised my hands up to her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I’m telling you the truth.”

“Even if I were to believe you, Chavez would not,” she said after a moment of hesitation. “He is mad because after you convinced my father to change directions, you rode safely away. He says you had planned all along to leave them there in a trap.”

“Well, now you know he’s wrong,” I said firmly. “Maybe I can talk to him or your father. What do you think?”

“They wouldn’t give you the chance,” Rosa replied, shaking her head.

I glanced around uncomfortably. If the
vaqueros
were as worked up as Rosa described, they’d likely shoot first and ask questions later. The last thing I wanted was to be forced into fighting men I’d ridden with, especially those I’d grown to respect.

I went to the window and checked the street. It was almost deserted, except for a passing buckboard and a woman on her way to the seamstress. Thankfully none of the
vaqueros
was anywhere in sight.

“I can’t just stay here waiting for them to come over and lynch me.”

“If you can get to your horse and ride out of here, maybe I could meet you somewhere? After I explain things to my father,” she offered.

I shook my head. “I don’t want you in the middle of this. Besides, I don’t have a horse, mine
was stolen, remember? I had to ride in on one of Chango’s mules.” I looked quickly around the store, and then grabbed a pair of saddlebags down off the shelf. After cramming as much as I could into them, I turned to Rosa. “I’ll have to let you pay for this now, but I swear I’ll be back to settle things. You have my word on that.”

She looked into my eyes. “I believe you. Don’t be foolish. Just go away now, quick, and don’t come back.”

Years of hard work and loneliness suddenly came to a head. Under different circumstances there might have been a chance for a good life here with someone who mattered. I don’t know why, but I somehow felt there still could be. Rosa made my heart ache every time I saw her, but it was a good kind of ache, the longing kind. She was a woman who any man would be proud of, yet any chance I might have had with her was about to be destroyed by a rotten dry-gulcher and a band of murdering horse thieves.

On impulse, I grabbed her in my arms and, before she had a chance to object, I kissed her, hard and long. There are some things that just happen, things you can’t control. At first she was surprised, but she soon relaxed into my embrace and kissed me back. My heart raced.

“I’m leaving. I’ve no choice about that,” I said, stroking her hair. “But I’m coming back. That you can count on. I’m innocent, and now I’ve got a special reason to prove it, one more important than the law or my reputation. I’ve got you. Believe me, I’ll be back with the herd, or the money for it, or I’ll die trying.”

“I believe you will,” she said quickly. “Try to
reach my horse,
querido
, it’s over at the stable. You can ride away. If nobody else sees, maybe I can convince Chavez, later, that he was wrong about you.”

I nodded back at her and rechecked the window.

“
Cuidate, carino
,” she whispered as I darted out the door.

The street was still empty as I headed toward the stable, but before I made it halfway across one of the
vaqueros
, Ricardo, suddenly emerged from the café across the street. He took one look at me and immediately went for his gun.

“Ricardo, no!” I yelled frantically. “
Esperate
…wait!” But it was no use, his gun was already drawn. He fired as I ducked left, and luckily he missed. I drew and fired, aiming low, hoping just to knock him off balance.

He was young and enthusiastic. After riding with him only a short time I’d grown fond of his good nature. I knew he was only reacting as any top hand would. He believed me to be the outlaw who had shot his boss, and he was protecting the brand. There was no way I was going to kill him if I could help it, but unfortunately for Ricardo I couldn’t let him keep on shooting at me, either.

My bullet caught his left thigh, spun him around, and knocked him down. I knew our gunfire would awake the dead, and in a minute or so every
vaquero
in town would be out in the street. My eyes caught sight of another horse tied to the hitching post at the end of the street, a big chocolate roan, saddled and waiting. I headed over to it, hitting the saddle on the run.

Just as expected, several
vaqueros
poured out of the
cantina
, pointing at Ricardo and shouting to
one another. Their shots rang out behind me as I lit a shuck out of town at full tilt. I didn’t have time to look back, and had to gallop away with my feet hanging out of the short stirrups on that roan’s
mejicano
saddle. It was a full hour before I was finally able to stop to adjust them to my own length and to plan my next move.

The
mejicano
saddle on that roan was a large elaborate affair and in order to lengthen its stirrups to accommodate my feet, I had to untie long rawhide strings interwoven along the leathers. Rather than using snaps or buckles like those on my other saddles, these stirrup leathers laced up crosswise like a lumberjack boot. It took me several minutes just to figure them out.

I still had the saddlebags with me I’d taken from the store, but this saddle had its own leather
mochillas
built in behind the cantle of its seat. Instead of tying leather bags down behind the seat with straps like a Texas or Colorado saddle, the pouches on the
mejicano silla de montar
actually formed the entire rear part of the saddle.

After the way things had worked out so far, I knew I’d be riding this rig for a while, so I studied it carefully. The saddle seat was an uncovered wooden tree with a couple of wide straps crisscrossing over it and then disappearing down into the fenders and skirts. Unlike my saddle this one had a split up the middle similar to the McClellan seat the cavalry uses.

I’d once seen a similar saddle used by some trappers down from Canada, but I always thought it looked mighty uncomfortable. “Ball buster” is the expression some of the Army boys use to describe that type of saddle, but everyone admits it’s
easier on the horse. That split up the middle almost had me thinking about going bareback, but the
vaqueros
seemed to favor it. Surprisingly I’d just rode a full hour without any appreciable side effects, so I decided to stop worrying, figuring it couldn’t be any worse than that old rawhide saddle I’d first left home on.

One thing I did fancy, however, was the pommel, or saddle horn. This one was a large, pure white, dish-like affair as broad around as my two hands would be with fingers fully open. The Texas roping saddles I was used to have a hard but much smaller pommel horn, suited for the type of work they’re used for. The big Mexican pommel on this saddle was made for longer reatas and a different style of cattle roping. It angled up higher and was much wider.

There was a Spencer rifle in the scabbard on the right side of the saddle and, I noticed with some amusement, a large machete in the sheath that hung from the left side pinned under the stirrup leather.

The gelding snorted and flipped his head up to shoo away a small bee buzzing around his ear. I had no complaints whatsoever about my luck in finding that cayuse all saddled and waiting. I’d admired his stamina and agility ever since I first saw Chavez working with him. As far as horses go, he was eventempered and remarkably fast.

One thing I did miss, however, was the feel of leather reins in my hand. Chavez had this roan fitted out with one of those colorfully braided but uncomfortably stiff rope affairs that come up short into a knot, right where I usually held my hands. By my way of thinking, the bit was also
too harsh on the mouth, and I vowed to replace it the first chance I got with a Texas-style leather bridle and curb bit.

I started making plans. I’d promised Rosa to go after the herd, and that was one promise I aimed to keep. The problem was I had no idea where the horses would be by now. All I had to go on was the poker chip I’d found from The Golden Goose Saloon in Gila City, a pretty slim clue. It might just have been an old good luck piece, or its presence merely a coincidence. Maybe one of the rustlers had gambled there once and simply forgot to return the chip.

On the other hand it could mean the rustlers had passed through Gila City, and that they might return by the same route. Or if not, maybe someone around town could supply me with some bit of information that would be of help. I had no choice, I didn’t know where else to go, so I headed for Gila City.

Besides the fact that the poker chip was the only clue I had, there was the additional problem of what to do once I found the gang. One man can’t do much against that many outlaws, especially when they include the sort of cold-blooded killers who would slit a man’s throat from behind.

One thing more was certain. Chavez wasn’t the type to quit something once he got started. He believed me responsible for stealing his herd and almost killing
Don
Enrique. Now that I’d shot Ricardo, there wasn’t a single
vaquero
who’d believe me. They were sure to be fast on my trail, and I knew, if they caught me before I reached the herd, I’d swing from the nearest tree.

While I knew the
vaqueros
could be loyal friends, I was equally convinced that they’d be fearsome opponents. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made to use that fact to my advantage. I wouldn’t let them catch me, but nothing said I couldn’t let them follow.

In fact, a bunch of armed and angry
mejicanos
might just come in handy when I found the rustlers. That is, if I found the rustlers. The trick would be to keep well ahead of the
vaqueros
, all the while making myself so hard to follow that it would buy me enough time to investigate. Still, I had to do so without letting them lose my trail for good.