Across the Río Bravo

by R. W. Stone

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thad and Pedro had been riding southeast for a couple of weeks without encountering anything more than the occasional sheep or goat herder.

  “I don’t know how I could do that day after day,” Thad remarked after they rode by a solitary herder sitting on a small hill. There was no other sign of life as far as the eye could see.

  “Why not, jefe?” Pedro asked. Even as they chatted neither of the two ever stopped scanning the horizon, looking for potential signs of danger as they traveled farther south.

  “Oh, I reckon I’d go plumb loco from boredom just sitting there day in, day out. What do those herders even think about out here”—he made a sweeping motion with his hand—“in the middle of nowhere?”

  “They think small, jefe,” Pedro replied.

  “Small? Whatcha mean? Think small?”

  “Well, jefe, you always think big. You know, managing the ranch, growing the herd, and now how to save this boy for your friend. Big things. But these campesinos, they just think small.”

  “How so?” Thad asked. “I’m not sure I catch your drift.”

  “Well, they have more time to do nothing, so they notice the things around them,” Pedro went on. “Like how ants move before it rains, or why one goat jumps one way while another always jumps the other way. Small things.”

  “I guess I get it,” Thad replied, even though it was hard for him to comprehend. “If you don’t have anything to worry about, there’s nothing much to think about, right?”

  “Sort of like that, jefe,” Pedro replied, nodding. “But I think it is more like they just live in the moment and don’t think much about the past or future.”

  Thad chuckled. “Maybe I could do with a little more of that kind of attitude.”

  Pedro shook his head. “No, jefe, I think not. Then you wouldn’t be you.”

  Switching the reins to his left hand, McCallum pulled out his pipe from its pouch and filled its bowl with tobacco. Then he struck a match on one of the saddle conchos and lit the pipe.

  “Maybe you’re right, Pedro,” he said, puffing a cloud of smoke. “But then again, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad?” They both laughed as they rode along.

  * * * * *

  The next day Thad could feel that the black’s gait was different somehow. The horse was bobbing his head more, and as Thad rode, he felt his weight being shifted off to the side.

  “Hey, Pedro, ride up alongside and check out the black’s gait for me, would you?”

  “Sí, jefe. I can tell you already from here I can see he is favoring his right front leg. I have been watching for the last couple of miles,” Pedro replied.

  Thad shrugged and pulled to a halt. “Might as well have a look.”

  The men dismounted, and McCallum handed his friend the reins. He proceeded to lift the black’s leg, and then checked the shoe. There is an old saying: No foot, no horse. On the trail a lame horse is almost as good as no horse.

  Thad reached into his pocket and pulled out a special pocket knife that also housed a hoof pick in addition to two blades. He used the hook to clean the dirt off from around the inside of the horseshoe and the hoof’s sole.

  “Don’t see any quarter cracks or embedded stones,” Thad asked Pedro. “The horseshoe nails seem OK to me. Did you bring the hoof testers?”

  Pedro looked at his friend as if disappointed. “You would ever doubt that, jefe? Of course, I did. They are in the lead mule’s saddlebags.”

  Peralta walked the animals over to a nearby shrub and tied them off. He opened one of the saddlebags and removed a pair of flat-edged nippers and a hoof tester. He took McCallum’s place at the horse’s leg and, using the pliers and nippers, removed the shoe and nails and cleaned the hoof underneath.

  A hoof tester looks sort of like a pair of ice tongs, but, instead of having pick-like tips, they have small rounded ends. Pedro began to work carefully around the hoof, gently squeezing with the tester. Occasionally he would stop to clean and trim any excess hoof growth using a sharp, curved hoof trimmer.

  “We got lucky this time, jefe. I think it is just a stone bruise,” Pedro concluded.

  McCallum put his hand to his mouth and pulled out his pipe. He glanced around the area, checking for anything that looked out of place. He then used the pipe stem to point, gesturing at the hoof. “Still, even with a bruise he’s lame. What we need is a set of shoes with higher heels to keep his hoof off the ground till that bruise heals. And I know you don’t have a set of those in your bag.”

  “Sorry, jefe. No can do.” Pedro shrugged sadly.

  “Well, we still have a distance to go and I don’t want to ruin him. Any ideas?”

  Pedro thought for a moment. “We might be able to pad it with something to keep the bruise from making contact with the ground.”

  “The question is how. You think wrapping the whole hoof with something might work?”

  Peralta shook his head. “Wouldn’t be thick enough and he’d probably wear it right off. Let me think.” He walked over to the mules and pulled off a leather saddlebag. He stared at it a moment, and then removed the contents from the bag on one side and shifted them into the other side. Then, using his pocket knife, he cut off the empty saddlebag’s big flap.

  “This should be thick enough, jefe. We put it under the sole and right over the horseshoe. The pressure from the shoe and the horseshoe nails will keep it in place. The leather pad, it should protect the sole against stones and help prevent any more pain, I think.”

  “At least until we can find a farrier to put on corrective shoes,” Thad added, nodding his approval.

  “Maybe there will be one in the next pueblo,” Pedro replied.

  “Hope so. I like this horse.”

  Pedro then set the leather flap on the ground under the horse’s hoof. After tracing out the hoof’s border, Pedro cut part of the flap away. When he was finished nailing the thick piece of leather under the hoof, there was now a molded pad in place to protect the bottom of the horse’s sole.

  “That ought to do it, Pedro,” McCallum observed. “Nice job.”

  “Gracias, jefe. But even so, we should take it slow until we get new shoes made, and maybe reshape the heels a mite.”

  McCallum remounted slowly. He shifted himself in the saddle and raised himself up and down, testing the black’s reaction. When he was confident it was all right, he said, “Well, then we best get going. No sense in wasting more time.”

  * * * * *

  Unfortunately, it was four more days before they finally rode into a small town. This one was called Los Potros. It was a toss-up as to who or what was dustier, the horses, the men, or the town. Los Potros was five blocks long and, with the exception of a small plaza that was circled by a cobblestone walkway, there wasn’t much to recommend the place.

  Such plazas were supposed to be the center of activity and they were always well cared for. Many even had a good deal of decorative stonework. It seemed to McCallum that almost every town he’d seen south of the border had such a town square, which, as far as he could tell, was only used on Sundays when the town’s young men and señoritas congregated, passing the time by walking around in circles. Thad guessed this was some part of the courting ritual, but it didn’t make any sense to him. In fact, he wondered why the young men even showed up since the señoritas were always accompanied by their chaperones. And the chaperónes were always elderly females, probably relatives, whose dour expressions could peel bark from a tree. Apparently, they were there to keep the men away and protect the honor of the girls. The few chaperónes he’d seen would have come in handy going up Kettle Hill—they’d have scared the pants right off the enemy.

  The two riders pulled up to a small water trough and dismounted. They let their horses and pack mules drink their fill before tying them to a nearby hitching post. Both men removed their hats, dipped their kerchie
fs in the water, and wiped their faces and hair free of dust and dirt as best they could.

  As he was shaking the water out of his hair, McCallum saw three men talking to each other at the end of the street. He couldn’t help but notice that the trio seemed to be glancing in his and Pedro’s direction.

  Nudging his partner, Thad whispered to Pedro, “Don’t be too obvious but check out those three to your right. They seem just a mite too interested in our livestock.”

  Pedro casually put his kerchief and sombrero back on as he sneaked glances at the group. Before he could form any sort of impression, however, the three men turned, mounted their nearby horses, and rode out of town.

  “Revolucionarios maybe?” Thad asked. “Think they could be from the group we’re looking for, Pedro?”

  “I don’t know, jefe,” he replied, shrugging. Peralta adjusted his hat. “Could be. On the other hand, maybe they’re just simple vaqueros working for a nearby hacienda.”

  McCallum shook his head. “I don’t know. They spent an awful lot of time checking us out.”

  “Well, it’s not every day a tall gringo rides into a place like this,” Pedro noted. “Could be they’re just curious about you. Anyway, they’re gone now.”

  Thad took a piece of licorice out of his pocket and popped it in his mouth. “Guess you’re right. Maybe I’m just overly cautious, but something about them made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.”

  “You worry too much, jefe,” Pedro chuckled. “Better to save what little hair you have left, I think.”

  “Wise ass,” McCallum replied, squinting his eyes in mock anger.

  “Come on, jefe. They’re gone now. Stop worrying. What say we go into that cantina and wet our whistles?”

  Thad glanced around. “Might as well. Let’s get something to eat, too. I don’t think there’s anything else to do here. It’s not Sunday and, even if it was, I don’t feel much like walking in circles.”

  Pedro frowned. Sometimes his jefe said some rather strange things that he didn’t understand.

  La Cabrita was a typical small town cantina. It had a half a dozen or so tables scattered around a small room with a slatted wood floor. There was a long, curved bar at the far end directly across from the door. Half of the bar was dedicated to selling bottles of mescal, tequila, or homemade beer, while the other half served as a makeshift kitchen complete with clay pots filled with refried beans, rice, and boiled chicken. On the floor behind the bar was a small tortilla oven with a chimney that ran up the wall and out the roof.

  Despite the humble nature of the town, the cantina was very clean and filled with wonderful aromas. There were the usual hand-painted pictures representing the local landscape and several old guitars hanging on the walls at different angles.

  The two chose a table that was positioned by the wall, giving them a clear view of the room while protecting their backs. A rather plump matron waited on them. Pedro ordered two beers, chicken and rice soup, and some tortillas. The food was served with slices of lemon that were meant to be squeezed into the soup and over pieces of chicken. Thad never did understand the fascination with lemon the people south of the border all seemed to have. They squeezed it over meat, in their soups, with shots of tequila, and even put it on the rims of beer mugs, along with a layer of salt. Personally, he preferred doing without it.

  On the table were three small bowls filled with hot sauce. One was red with spicy chili pepper granules in it, the other was similar, but green and much hotter, and the third contained something Pedro called mole. He pronounced it “molay” and it tasted sort of like spicy chocolate.

  McCallum could never understand why ketchup had never caught on in Mexico. Hell, they certainly had enough tomatoes on hand and in his opinion ketchup was a lot tastier. More importantly it didn’t aggravate his dyspepsia. Back in the States, Thad put ketchup on just about everything he ate. One time, he almost got booted out of a friend’s Thanksgiving dinner after requesting ketchup for his turkey and dressing. He was lucky the fellow’s wife hadn’t hauled into him with the carving knife she had in her hand.

  Halfway through their meal in the cantina McCallum brought up the issue of the Villaistas. “Shouldn’t we ask around and see if anyone knows the whereabouts of this Pancho Villa?”

  At the sound of Villa’s name, the bartender put down a bottle rather loudly and several patrons turned to look at the two strangers.

  Pedro put a finger to his lips to indicate caution.

  “Remember, jefe, not all the people in these small towns are on his side. We don’t want to raise any unnecessary suspicion until we understand who and what we are dealing with. People in such towns like this, they are usually wary of everyone. The government, revolutionaries, strangers … everyone.”

  “You think spreading some money around town might help?” McCallum asked.

  “That depends, jefe. It might if they have no connection to the general. But if they are on his side and suspect we are here to do him harm, or if they think we are working for the government, dinero or no, they would kill us without hesitation.”

  “Can’t we just explain we’re looking for a friend?” Thad asked.

  “Sure, if they believe us. If they don’t, we might never see our ranch again,” Pedro said, shaking his head.

  “So, what do you reckon we should do?”

  “Finish our lunch. Then I will ask around town by myself. If the wrong people hear a tall gringo mentioning that name again, well, maybe we don’t even get to finish this splendid feast,” Pedro said, waving his hand over the dishes of food on the table.

  McCallum nodded solemnly in agreement and took another spoonful of the soup. “Fine with me. Just be careful about who and how you ask.”

  Pedro put some chicken into a tortilla and rolled it up. “Oh, trust me, jefe, I will.”

  “While we’re at it, maybe we can track down a decent farrier.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  That evening Jeff Shaw went looking for Mercedes. Jeff knew it was a foolish thing to do, for if Julio Cardenas even suspected his intent, he would die a quick death despite the general’s warnings to his right-hand man. But Jeff Shaw was a young man in love and simply couldn’t help himself.

  No longer closely guarded during the day, Jeff was allowed to wander somewhat freely around the camp. After all, there was no point in keeping him tied up. Villa just made sure Jeff was not allowed access to the horses or weapons. Still, even if he did escape, his odds of success were slim to none. Jeff had been repeatedly informed that a gringo would stand out like a sore thumb in this region, and he had been led to believe that all the people in the region were Villaistas at heart. Jeff did his best not to bother the men, and Villa’s men, seeing how the general seemed to favor this gringo, basically left him alone.

  Jeff found Mercedes leaning against a tree on the outskirts of the camp. She seemed to be lost in thought. Back in the center of camp a few of the men had begun playing guitars and the music drifted in the air.

  Mercedes gasped slightly when Jeff approached. He in turn thought that he had never seen anything as beautiful as the vision of this woman with the stars shining above her.

  “What are you doing here? Are you crazy?” she exclaimed. “If Julio finds you are here alone with me, he will kill us both.”

  Jeff smiled at her. “Guess so, but it’s crazy to be in love,” he whispered. “There I said it. I can’t help it. I’ve fallen in love with you and don’t care who knows.”

  Mercedes shook her head. “You’re just young and away from home. Maybe you got a hold of some locoweed. You should go.”

  Jeff took a step closer and put his hands on her shoulders. He felt her shudder as he looked into her eyes. Gathering up his courage, he pulled her to him and gave her a long kiss.

  Instead of pulling away, Mercedes relaxed into his arms. When he stopped, she raised her hand up a
s if to slap him, but then dropped it in surrender. Jeff kissed her again. “Still want me to go?” he asked softly.

  Mercedes smiled and put a finger to his lips. “Sí, I want you to go, but only for your own safety. Julio will be looking for me and he must not see you here.”

  The thought of Julio being near her filled him with a burning hatred.

  “I can’t stand the thought of that animal being around you,” Jeff hissed.

  “You must go. Don’t worry I will think of some way to get you to safety,” she explained.

  “Know this, I’m not going anywhere without you, not now, not ever,” Jeff said.

  Mercedes leaned in and gave him a kiss before shoving Jeff back toward camp. “Go now.”

  Jeff went reluctantly, but when he glanced back, she was still looking his way. He now knew she cared about him, too. Of that he was sure. What he didn’t know was that she was wondering what in the world she had gotten herself into and why she had ever allowed herself to fall in love. And with a gringo!

  Chapter Sixteen

  After their meal, Thad and Pedro split up. Thad made a big show of checking the horses and mules, adjusting their saddles and packs to stall for time. Pedro wandered into the general store on the pretext of buying tobacco and some canned goods for the trail.

  Everyone knows there are three places to pick up local gossip. One is the town saloon or cantina, another is the town barbershop, and the last one is the shebang or general store. After explaining how he came to be riding with an Americano, sticking with the story that he was helping him acquire horses, Pedro eventually learned that Villa’s men hadn’t been seen in this town for over a year.

  “Well, any news?” Thad asked when his friend returned.

  “There are rumors that a couple of weeks back Villa’s men fought the American army at Nogales,” Pedro replied.

  “How’d it go?” Thad asked his friend.

  “Half the town thinks Villa won and the other half thinks he lost. Villa is supposed to be operating to the southwest of us, maybe on the way to the city of Chihuahua. But it’s all rumor. Some think he might head east.”