The Old Spanish Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “I’m purely gonna miss this river when we leave it,” said Les Brown. “There’s nothin’ like having ready water at the end of the day.”

  “Enjoy it while you can,” Don Webb said. “From the looks of the map, we’ll be seein’ some long dry stretches. We’ll just have to hope there are springs and maybe streams that somebody didn’t think was worth mentioning.”

  The night was divided into two watches. Red, Charlie, Arch, Eli, and Felton took the first, while Don Webb, Bob Vines, Jim Roussel, Les Brown, and Mike Horton changed with them at midnight. But they were not disturbed. The elevation was such that they could see the distant lights of Santa Fe.

  Griff had ridden to the western outskirts of Santa Fe, and watched from a distance as the herd crept northwest, along the Chama. Satisfied as to the direction they were traveling, he mounted and rode back to the cabin. Oliver and Seeco had arrived just ahead of him with the first load of supplies from the mercantile.

  “They’re takin’ what used to be the Old Spanish Trail,” Griff said, when he entered the cabin. “Give ’em a week, and we’ll follow.”

  “Bueno,” said Doolin. “Where do you reckon we should bushwhack them and take the herd?”

  “In the Mojave Desert,” Griff said. “The cattle will be thirsty and ornery, keepin’ the riders busy. Once we got control of the herd, Los Angeles ain’t that far.”

  “I like that idea,” said Quando. “It’ll be hell keepin’ all them varmints bunched along them mountain trails, with so many draws and arroyos where they can run.”

  “Quando,” Griff said, “tomorrow you and Lennox will ride to Santa Fe and bring back another load of grub and supplies. I’ll have a list ready.”

  “I’m sick of settin’ on my hunkers around here,” said Lennox. “Can’t we stay there at least long enough for a few drinks?

  “No,” Griff said. “We’re ridin’ out of here before we attract any more attention. Stay out of the saloons, and when you’re done at the mercantile, get out of town.”

  “If I’m any judge, we’re in for some rain,” said Red Bohannon, while the outfit waited for supper.

  “I’ve been rained on before, and I can take that,” Charlie English said. “It’s lightning that purely scares hell out of me. My daddy was struck and killed while herdin’ cows.”

  “It’s always a threat,” said Bob Vines, “and that’s when riders are most vulnerable. It’s during storms with thunder and lightning that we have to be in the saddle.”

  “I ain’t familiar with this country,” Eli Mills said, “and I was hopin’ we’d have a few days on the trail without a stampede. That won’t be likely, with thunder and lightning.”

  Rays of the setting sun flared red along the western horizon as they ate, and by the time the first watch was saddling up, there were jagged fingers of distant lightning.

  “It’s still a long ways off,” said Webb. “It’s unlikely it’ll reach us before sometime tomorrow or tomorrow night. Maybe it’ll rain itself out before it even gets to us.”

  He avoided the obvious, for every man knew that when the elements threatened, all of them would be in the saddle until the danger was past. The herd was strung out along the river, nipping at what graze there was. After several hours, the riders on the first watch reined up, resting their horses.

  “Besides the cookin’, I’m glad we took on them Mexican wranglers,” Arch Danson said. “They’re keepin’ the mules and the horse remuda separated from the herd at night, givin’ us at least some hope that if the herd stampedes, it won’t take the remuda and mules with it.”

  “I was thinkin’ the same thing,” said Eli Mills. “They’re a mite young, but I’d say they been over the mountain a time or two. They both got Henry rifles in their saddle boots.”

  Time dragged on, and it was near midnight when the silence was broken by the bawling of terrified cows. The uproar had begun among the grazing herd that was nearest the area in which Dominique and Roberto had secured the horse remuda and the mules.

  “Charlie,” Red shouted, “you come with me. The rest of you try to calm the herd.”

  Within seconds, Don Webb and his four companions had thrown aside their blankets and were in their saddles, joining Arch, Eli, and Felton as they sought to prevent a stampede. But before Red and Charlie reached the scene of the disturbance, there were two blasts from a rifle. The horses and mules hadn’t been disturbed, and the bawling of the cows had ceased. Both Mexican wranglers were mounted, their rifles in their hands.

  “What in thunder happened?” Red asked.

  “Gigantesco Oso,”* said one of the Mexicans.

  “You hombres handled him just right,” Red replied. “Gracias.”

  “A grizzly come across the river,” Red said, when he and Charlie had ridden back to join their companions. “Dominique and Roberto convinced him he didn’t want one of our cows after all.”

  “Fast thinking on their part,” said Bob Vines. “I reckon we could afford to lose a cow to the bear, but the varmint might have stampeded the rest of the herd, the horse remuda and the mules.”

  “This may be just a taste of what we can expect as we go on,” Don Webb said. “There may be cougars as well. We can’t let the quiet deceive us. We’ll have to ride continuously from one end of the herd to the other.”

  “We’ll have to do better than that,” said Red. “We kind of felt like the herd was safe enough on that side next to the river, when we should have kept ’em shy of it enough for us to ride a circle.”

  “He’s right about that,” Charlie said. “The bear come from across the river, and it was a near miracle that Dominique and Roberto was able to drive him back the way he come. If he’d run through the herd, they’d be scattered from here to yonder, the horse remuda and mules along with ’em.”

  “I’m ashamed of myself for not having thought of that,” said Don Webb. “Feel free to choose yourselves another trail boss if you want.”

  “Oh hell,” Charlie said, “none of the rest of us thought of it either until the bear showed up. We all just had some valuable experience without it costing us.”

  “We won’t make the same mistake again,” said Webb. “It’s time for the second watch anyway, and we’ll move the herd back far enough from the river for us to circle it.”

  “Bueno,” Red replied. “And as long as the herd’s bedded down along the river, we’ll start the first watch by movin’ ’em back, so we can ride a circle.”

  Webb and his companions rode along the river bank, forcing the longhorns well away from the water. For the rest of the night, the riders circled the herd and there was no further disturbance. With the dawn came a light breeze from the west, bringing with it the smell of rain.

  “Maybe we’ll luck out and it’ll come before dark,” said Jim Roussel. “Lightning don’t seem near as fearsome in daylight.”

  “No, but the thunder does,” Felton Juneau said, “and that’s mostly what sets the herd to runnin’.”

  They took the trail as usual, following the river, and the rain started shortly after the noon hour. But the storm had diminished, and while there was rain, the thunder failed to reach a level that would frighten the herd. Lightning flickered, but without the dark of the night for a back drop, it had little effect. The drive continued, for the wind had died and there was no driving rain tempting the longhorns to turn their backs to the storm. Skies had cleared to the west, and the rain ceased well before sundown.

  “That wasn’t bad,” said Eli Mills. “Maybe the trail ahead won’t be so bad after all.”

  Mike Horton laughed. “Give it a few more days. It’ll live up to our expectations.”

  He didn’t know just how right he would be . . .

  *Development of the Comstock Lode began in 1859, and over the next thirty years, more than six hundred million dollars in gold was taken from it.

  *Mountainous.

  *Gigantic bears.

  3

  Approaching Santa Fe from the south, two stranger
s rode in. After some hesitation, they approached the sheriff’s office and dismounted. They were a salty pair, each with a tied-down Colt. Sheriff Carpenter eyed them with interest when they entered.

  “We’re lookin’ for Wiley Pickford,” the older of the two said.

  “Wiley Pickford’s dead,” said Sheriff Carpenter. “What’s your interest in him?”

  “I’m Ben and he’s Curt. Wiley is our youngest brother. What happened to him?”

  “He started a fight in the Silver Dollar Saloon and was gunned down,” Carpenter said.

  “Who done it?” Ben demanded.

  “A gent name of Jim Roussel,” said Sheriff Carpenter, “and the fight was more than fair. Your brother called him a cheat and drew first. There were witnesses, including a couple of Wiley’s friends, and the court ruled it self-defense.”

  “We ain’t satisfied with that,” Curt growled.

  “Leave it alone,” snapped Sheriff Carpenter. “Wiley Pickford was drunk, and whiskey has a way of clouding a man’s mind. From what I learned, he had lost a pile of money at the poker table, and then he made the mistake of losing his temper.”

  “We ain’t here for no Bible-thumping,” Ben said. “Where can we find this Jim Roussel that done the killing?”

  “He’s no longer here,” said Sheriff Carpenter. “He’s with a trail herd, and they started west a week ago.”

  The Pickfords left the sheriff’s office without a word.

  “We didn’t get the names of them hombres that was with Wiley when he was shot,” Curt said, as they mounted their horses.

  “Won’t make no difference,” said Ben. “We want that varmint that’s with the herd, and if they ain’t been gone but a week, we won’t have no trouble follerin’ ’em.”

  “Then we’d better go to the mercantile and load up on grub,” Curt said.

  “We ain’t in a hurry,” said Ben. “A herd of cows won’t cover that much ground, and we want that bunch far enough from town that the law don’t get involved after we’ve paid off this Roussel for killin’ Wiley.”

  “I’m almighty tired of this place and not bein’ able to ride into town,” Doolin said.

  “Yeah,” agreed some of his companions.

  “All of you just shut the hell up,” said Griff. “I’m segundo here, and I say we’ll wait another week before we ride, and it won’t be into town.”

  “Hell,” Bullard growled, “at least let one of us ride in and bring back some whiskey.”

  “Maybe I will,” said Griff. “But none of it goes with you when we ride after that trail drive. It was Pickford bein’ drunk that got him killed and likely aroused suspicion toward the rest of us.”

  Southwestern Colorado. May 17, 1862.

  “We’re nine days out of Santa Fe,” said Don Webb. “It’s time we had a look along our back trail. When we reach the foothills of the San Juans, we’ll find us a high point and see if anybody’s following.”

  “I reckon you’re expecting company,” Jim Roussel said.

  “I am,” said Webb.

  He said no more, nor did he need to, for it had been Roussel’s gunplay in town that had triggered their suspicions. When breakfast was over and the pack mules were ready, the herd took the trail, approaching the foothills of the San Juans. Before the end of the day, the elevation would be sufficient for Webb to see for many miles along their back trail. They milled the herd at noon, taking time to rest the horses. Webb spread out the map.

  “Looks like this river plays out somewhere before we reach the San Juans,” Bob Vines said. “Could be a water problem.”

  “Since we’re not sure,” said Webb, “I think we’ll bed down the herd wherever the river ends, even if it means a short day’s drive. That will allow me to get an early start in the morning, looking for water.”

  “I don’t see anything on that map but rivers,” Mike Horton said. “There must be some springs and lesser streams.”

  “Maybe,” said Webb, “but this territory’s new to us, and we can’t be sure. Besides, as I scout ahead for water, I’ll be looking for Indian sign. Indians will know we must have water, and what better place for an ambush?”

  “Yeah,” Red Bohannon agreed, “and if the herd’s thirsty, they’ll be the most ornery and hard to handle as we approach water.”

  It was an indisputable fact of trail driving. They moved on, and as they drew nearer to the San Juans, the river began to diminish. Two hours before sundown, Webb signaled the riders to mill the herd. Here they would bed down for the night, lest the next water be too distant for the herd to reach it. Once the herd had settled down, Webb swapped his tired horse for a fresh one from the remuda.

  “Mind if I ride along with you?” Red Bohannon asked.

  “Saddle a fresh horse and come along,” said Webb.

  They rode away toward the foothills.

  “I reckon Roussel’s a mite put out that you didn’t ask him to ride along,” Red said.

  “He’s young and he’ll get over it,” said Don. “He about halfway thinks I’m holding a grudge for that shooting in Santa Fe, and he’s looking for me to prove otherwise.”

  “Which you don’t aim to do,” Red replied.

  “No,” said Don. “He’s already been weaned, or he should have been.”

  They rode on, eventually reining up near a stone outcropping.

  “There’s a hump that must go up thirty feet,” Red said. “Maybe we can reach the top of that.”

  “I aim to try,” said Webb, “and then you can take a look, but one of us will have to stay with the horses. We haven’t seen any Indian sign, and that’s when they’re the most dangerous.”

  Red remained with the horses. Don managed to find enough finger- and toeholds to reach the top of the huge stone monument. The sun to his back, he had an excellent view of the river for many miles. But squinting his eyes into the distance, he saw nothing that aroused his suspicions.

  “See anything or anybody?” Red asked.

  “Nothing,” said Don. “When I get down, you can take a look.”

  “My eyes ain’t that much better than yours,” Red replied. “I can’t see sweatin’ my way up and down that rock for nothing. Supper should be near done by the time we get back to camp.”

  They mounted their horses and rode back to the herd.

  “Anybody trailin’ us?” Bob Vines asked.

  “I reckon not,” said Don, “but that don’t mean they won’t. They’ll know the herd can’t travel more than a few miles a day. They have plenty of time.”

  The herd again took the trail at first light, and when they had settled down to their usual gait, Don Webb rode on ahead, seeking water and watching for Indian signs. While the trail hadn’t been in use in recent years, there was still plenty of evidence of past use, for rocks had been chipped and dislodged by many hooves. To Webb’s surprise, the trail took an unexpected direction, winding somewhat to the south, along a lower elevation. He had ridden not more than a dozen miles when he came upon a stream, and a few hundred yards beyond that, another stream. He followed the second one to the southwest, and the two soon joined.* There were no Indian signs, and elated, he crossed the second stream and continued riding west. Eventually he turned back, content with his discovery. He had found these uncharted streams, and it was proof enough there might be others. The rest of the outfit, upon hearing his report, shared his enthusiasm.

  “Another twelve miles then,” said Bob Vines.

  “No more than that,” Webb assured him, “and there’s pretty good graze between the two streams. The trail—what I’ve seen of it—seems to follow the southern perimeter of the San Juans. The territory may get mean as we go deeper into it, but the presence of water where we expected little or none is a promising sign. Texas longhorns can take a hell of a beating, if they have water and a little graze.”

  It was a truth that none of them disputed, and with renewed vigor, they pushed the herd on. Having had water and some graze the night before, the longhorns offered littl
e resistance, and the drive reached water well before sundown.

  “Good water,” said Les Brown, “but this don’t seem wide or deep enough to be called a river. Maybe that’s why the map don’t show it.”

  “Maybe not,” Red Bohannon said, “but hombres ridin’ this trail don’t give a damn if it’s a river or a spring branch. What we need to know is where we can find water. These varmints that draw maps has got a lot to learn.”

  “Si,” said one of the Mexican wranglers who had been listening. “Dos rio oeste.”

  “Two more, west of here?” Webb asked.

  “Si,” said the Mexican. “Dominique and Roberto come this way. Dos año.”

  “Two years ago?” Red asked. “To California?”

  “Si. Drive sheep.”

  “That must be the sheep drive Winkler was tellin’ us about,” said Red. “Three thousand of the wooly varmints, and if they made it, our cows can.”

  “Are you Dominique or Roberto?” Webb asked.

  “I am Dominique.”

  Without fanfare, Don snatched the Mexican’s sombrero drew his Colt and shot a hole through the crown of the hat. He then returned it to Dominique’s head.

  “I’ll buy you a new hat when we reach California,” said Don, “but between here and there, I want to know which one of you is which. Do you know of other water that may not be on the map?”

  “Si,” Dominique said.

  “Then I’ll be talking to you or Roberto before we begin each day’s drive,” said Don. “Comprende?”

  “Si,” Dominique said.

  Roberto had heard enough of the conversation to know what Webb was asking, and he nodded his agreement.

  “Who ever would have expected that?” said Bob Vines. “I’d bet neither of them is even eighteen, and they’ve already been down the trail from Santa Fe to Los Angeles.”

  “I reckon we struck gold when we hired them two,” Red Bohannon said.