The California Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “I wish to do my part,” said Rosa. “I will watch with the rest of you.”

  She half expected that to anger him, and in a way she hoped it did. Gil had been ignoring her, while shouting at Van and the other riders, and she was ready to see that justice was done. They had the rest of the night, and she would reach some kind of understanding with him before the dawn. With full responsibility for the trail drive, and with all the dangers of the trail, just keeping them all alive needed his undivided attention. Rosa walked around the circle of riders, speaking to them all. But when she returned, she said nothing to Gil. It was he who had a burr under his tail, and it was he who would make the first move. By the stars, it was well past midnight before he finally spoke.

  “Rosa?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “I reckon you know why I . . . I’ve been such a bastard the last day or two.”

  “No,” she said innocently. “Why?” She wouldn’t make it easy for him.

  He felt the need to talk, to air his frustration, but the very thought of it only added to his discomfort. Rosa was cutting him no slack, offering no encouragement, and that didn’t help.

  “Damn it,” he finally blurted, “I ain’t a man to live with loose ends, with somethin’ unsettled. We’ve got to resolve this . . . thing . . . between us.”

  “I want you,” said Rosa, “and you want me. This ‘thing’ between us is a thing you have placed there, and only you can remove it. It is you who chooses to think of me as a daughter when I am not.”

  “It’s more than that,” said Gil. “It’s . . . you’re so young, and I’m so old. . . .”

  “I am perhaps young in years, but I am old in my feelings, and I have the body of a woman. Should I live a hundred years, I will never become more complete than that.”

  “So it’s all up to me,” Gil said.

  “It is all up to you,” Rosa replied. “Would it be easier for you if I just cocked this pistol and shot myself?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” he growled. “Don’t be a damn fool.”

  “Then stop shouting at the other riders,” she said, “when it is me who bothers you. You accuse me of being a child, and it is you who behaves as one.”

  “Are you done with the tongue-lashing, mama?”

  “For tonight,” she said. “Now that the Indians are gone, I am going to take a bath.”

  “Where, in the spring? The runoff’s just about deep enough to cover your ankles.”

  “It is enough. I do not have to be up to my ears in water,” she said.

  “It don’t bother you that there’s thirteen men who might see you?”

  “In the dark? There is as much light from the moon as from a firefly. You do not look at me, but you are fearful that other men will.”

  Without another word Rosa started back toward the spring and the runoff beyond. Eventually she was far enough from the spring that even one of the riders coming for water wouldn’t have known she was there. She kicked off her moccasins, peeled off her shirt, and stepped out of the tight vaquero trousers. She was about to kneel in the little stream when she heard a footstep. She froze.

  “Gil, is that you?”

  “Why, hell yes, it’s me,” he growled. “Are you expectin’ somebody else?”

  She only laughed, and he didn’t know if that was good or bad.

  Gil scouted the area at first light. As expected, the bodies of the two Indians Mariposa and Estanzio had knifed were gone. The survivors had ridden north. They still could veer to the west, with the intention of laying an ambush, but Gil didn’t think so. Waylaying a party of white men was one thing, but when that party included a pair of lobo wolves like Mariposa and Estanzio, that was something else. Once the horse remuda had been led out, the herd following, Gil began his daily search for water. Few streams had been worthy of the map makers’ mention, and the trail drive would have to depend entirely on Gil’s daily quest for springs and lesser water holes. That day, they were forced to travel almost twenty miles to water, and a good fifteen the next day. For three weeks they saw no Indian sign. On April seventh they crossed the Salt River, 150 miles southeast of El Paso. Thirteen days later they crossed into southern New Mexico. They bedded down the herd on the Rio Grande, twenty miles north of El Paso. Near sundown two riders out of the west paused, looked at the herd, and rode on without stopping.

  April 21, 1850. El Paso, Texas

  “My God,” said Van, “we’ve been on the trail sixty-three days, and we’ve come only five hundred miles. That’s barely eight miles a day.”

  “Be thankful for the last three weeks of good weather, no storms, and no stampedes,” said Gil. “We could have done worse.”

  “Are we going to El Paso?” Rosa asked.

  “I want to talk to the sheriff,” said Gil, “and see if there’s anything he can tell us about the territory through New Mexico and Arizona. I’ll ride in tomorrow morning. Some of you can ride along if you like.”

  The following morning, Gil, Van, Long John, and Rosa rode into the salty border town of El Paso. There was a wagon yard with a freight shed from which a freight line operated, a blacksmith, a livery, several mercantiles, and nine saloons. Shifty-eyed men watched Gil and his companions suspiciously.

  “Some o’ these hombres,” said Long John, “looks like they could have their necks stretched on either side o’ the border.”

  “I expect they could,” said Gil. “That’s all the more reason for us to take care of our business, get back to the herd, and move on.”

  “I’m goin’ to the store,” said Van, “while you talk to the sheriff.”

  “We got no money,” said Gil. “What’s the use in looking?”

  “We’ll have money on the way back,” said Van. “You comin’, Long John?”

  Long John followed, and Rosa looked at Gil.

  “Oh, all right,” said Gil, “but stay close to Van and Long John.”

  The sheriff’s office and jail was across the dirt street from the wagon yard.

  “Sheriff Weatherford,” said the lawman.

  “I’m Gil Austin,” said Gil, taking Weatherford’s hand.

  Gil explained their destination, and then asked for advice and information.

  “You’d best beware of old man Clanton’s gang,” said the sheriff. “He’s called ‘old man,’ but he can’t be more’n twenty-five. Married this widder woman, an’ she already had four sons, near grown. There’s Isaac, Pete, Phin, and Billy.”*

  “Rustlers?” Gil asked.

  “Rustlers, killers, and God knows what else,” said Weatherford. “Clanton claims land in southern New Mexico, as well as southern Arizona. Not that he owns it; he just squats there, and nobody can make him move. He steals and sells stock on both sides of the border. The Rangers ran Clanton out of South Texas, thank God. I’ve heard the scutter’s got as many as four hundred gunslingers and border riffraff workin’ for him. There’s a pair of his rattlers, Morgan Pinder and Verd Connor, that’s in town. Rode in last night.”

  Suddenly there was a shot. Sheriff Weatherford kicked the chair back from his scarred desk and got up. He was a big man, gone mostly to fat, but he wore a thonged-down Colt that looked well-used.

  “Here we go again,” he sighed.

  He hitched up his pistol belt, and Gil followed him out to the street. Men, some of them mounted, had gathered outside the mercantile, the one to which Van, Long John, and Rosa had gone.

  By the time Gil and the sheriff arrived, somebody was shouting for a rope. Van and Long John stood with their backs to the log wall of the store, and both men had their Colts in their hands.

  “Break it up, gents,” bawled Sheriff Weatherford, “and if it ain’t expectin’ too much, somebody tell me what started this ruckus.”

  “Hoss thieves,” shouted a man, pointing to Van and Long John.

  “Sheriff,” said Gil, “these men are my riders, one of them my brother.”

  “Mebbe we oughta hang you too!” somebody shouted.


  “I’ll shoot the first man that uncoils a rope,” said Sheriff Weatherford. “Now who’s accusin’ who, and why?”

  “I’m claimin’ that lanky jasper is forkin’ a hoss belongin’ to my outfit,” said a hard-eyed, bearded man, his hand on the butt of his pistol.

  “Gil,” said Van, “he’s claiming the horse Long John’s ridin’—the sorrel with the pitchfork brand—is his.”

  “Pinder,” said the sheriff, “you don’t accuse a man without proof. What proof have you got? You Clanton riders ain’t even got brands on the horses you ride. Since when has a brand—any brand—meant anything to you?”

  “Sheriff,” said Gil, “let me talk to him, and you listen. Pinder, we took that horse from Indians, more than three hundred miles east of here, when we recovered horses the Comanches had stolen from us. Now, you show some proof the pitchfork is your brand, and maybe we’ll give you the horse. Show me just one of your horses with a brand like the sorrel’s.”

  “You got my word!” snarled Pinder.

  “Sorry,” said Gil. “I wouldn’t take your word it was rainin’ till I was neck deep in it.”

  Some of the other men looked at Pinder and laughed.

  “That’s it, Pinder,” said the sheriff. “I’d suggest you mount up and ride. You done wore out your welcome.”

  “I’ll ride when I’m ready,” shouted Pinder, “and I ain’t ready!”

  Pinder had lost his support, mostly a saloon crowd, and he backed away. But he still had his eyes on Gil when he spoke.

  “Nobody calls Morg Pinder a liar an’ goes on breathin’. This ain’t over.”

  “It is in this town,” snapped Sheriff Weatherford.

  “Anytime you’re ready, Pinder,” said Gil, “and I’ll have somebody watching my back.”

  Van and Long John holstered their Colts.

  “Get our horses,” said Gil, “and let’s get out of here. Where’s Rosa?”

  “She was in the store,” said Van, “when we come out here to see what this Pinder was shoutin’ about.”

  But there was no sign of Rosa in the store. The storekeeper was a thin little man in a white apron that might never have been washed.

  “There was a girl in here,” said Gil. “Where is she?”

  “I . . . I dunno,” stammered the little man. “One of them Clanton riders took her out the back way. She was kickin’, fightin’, an’ cussin’, an’ I—”

  “And you let him take her?” snarled Gil, grabbing a fistful of the man’s dirty apron.

  “I—He said she . . . was his gal. I—I couldn’t do nothin’.”

  Gil was out the back door on the run. There was an alley with nothing but run-down, uninhabited store buildings. Gil heard what would have been a scream if it hadn’t been shut off. He ran to the first door, but the building had been closed, the door barricaded from inside.

  “Rosa!” he shouted, “where are you?”

  She did not—perhaps could not—cry out. Her response was a choked-off sob, but it was enough. A sagging door stood partially open, and Gil kicked it the rest of the way. Rosa’s shirt lay on the dirty floor, and her breeches were down around her ankles. Her captor stood behind her, his right arm circling her middle, his other hand over her mouth.

  “Let her go,” said Gil, “and back away.”

  “Who’n hell are you, her daddy?”

  “Close enough,” said Gil grimly. “Now let her go, and pull your iron.”

  Rosa looked dazed. Blood oozed from a cut above her left eye. But she suddenly became a fighting fury. She bit the hand that covered her mouth, and unable to free herself by struggling, she went limp and slid to the floor. The big man went for his pistol, but he was off balance and died with the gun in his hand. Gil shot him just above his fancy belt buckle, and he fell on his back, raising a cloud of dust.

  Rosa sat on the floor, trying to get her arms into the sleeves of the shirt, but making a poor showing. Gil holstered his Colt, got her on her feet, and Rosa gave up. She threw her arms around him, sobbing wildly. Gil took her by the shoulders and shook her till her teeth rattled.

  “Damn it,” he snapped, “save that for later! Did he do . . . anything . . .?”

  “No,” she sobbed, “but he . . . he was going to.”

  “Let’s get your clothes on; I’d as soon all of El Paso didn’t see you jaybird naked. We’ve got to get out of here, and out of this town.”

  He got the shirt on her, found it was inside out, and had to start over. Rosa bent down to pull up her trousers and almost fell on her face. Gil got them up and buttoned, barely in time. Sheriff Weatherford stepped through the open door, and other men followed. Among them was Morgan Pinder, and beyond him, Van and Long John.

  “The bastard shot my pard!” bawled Pinder. “Verd’s dead!”

  “Sheriff,” said Gil, “he took Rosa, and if there’s any doubt in your mind as to what he aimed to do, then we’ll let her tell it to the court.”

  The evidence was damning. The dead man still gripped his pistol, and Rosa had a bloody gash above her left eye. Not a man on the frontier would condemn Gil for the shooting, and Pinder knew it. Just for a moment he let his hate-filled eyes bore into Gil. Then, without another word, he pushed through the other men and was gone.

  “By God, Austin,” said Sheriff Weatherford, “you purely know how to raise hell and prop it up on the edge. You just shot Verd Connor, one of the Clanton gunslingers.”

  “And I’d do it again,” said Gil. “What do you aim to do?”

  “Give you some good advice, my friend. Get your outfit together and ride, and it ain’t a good idea to close your eyes till you’re in California.”

  * Billy Clanton died October 26, 1881, during the gunfight at the OK Corral.

  6

  “Ireckon,” said Van as they rode out of El Paso, “we ain’t made the trail ahead any easier, gettin’ on the outs with this Clanton bunch.”

  “Wal, hell,” growled Long John, “ye cain’t own up t’ hoss-stealin’ an’ git yerself strung up jus’ t’ keep a bunch o’ owlhoots happy. Me, I ain’t about t’ take the rap fer somethin’ I ain’t done.”

  “That puts you right alongside me, Long John,” said Gil.

  “I seen a gent pull that rustlin’ trick oncet b’fore,” said Long John. “Feller that was called a thief went ahead an’ give up the hoss, tryin’ t’ head off trouble. They wasn’t no proof agin him, but when he give up the hoss ’thout a fight, he got the name of a hoss thief. After that, he was robbed blind, and they wasn’t nothin’ he could do. Nobody looks fer one hoss thief t’ steal from another.”

  “I can understand that,” said Gil. “Take the name of a thief, and when your own stock’s stolen, nobody believes you.”

  “It’ll be near noon when we get back to the herd,” said Van. “Do we move out and go as far as we can, or wait until morning?”

  “We’ll wait till morning,” said Gil. “This may be the last chance we’ll have to wash our clothes and blankets for a while. Besides, I’ll have to use the rest of today, ridin’ as far ahead as I can, lookin’ for water. This map shows almost no water in southern New Mexico. We’re going to have to depend more and more on our own scouting.”

  When they reached the herd, Gil saddled a fresh horse. For the first time since leaving El Paso, Rosa spoke to him.

  “I’d like to ride with you,” she said.

  Gil nodded, saddled her another horse, and they rode west. When they had ridden an hour, they stopped to rest the horses.

  “This country is very dry,” said Rosa. “What will we do when there’s more than a day’s drive from one stream to the next?”

  “Unless there’s Indian sign,” said Gil, “we may just push on, and not stop for the night until we reach water. A thirsty herd won’t bed down or graze, so keepin’ the drive moving won’t be any worse than tryin’ to hold ’em in dry camp.”

  Rosa unbuttoned her shirtsleeves and rolled them up to her elbows.

  “I expected you to stay
in camp and wash clothes,” said Gil.

  “I have none to wash except what I am wearing,” said Rosa. “I will have to wait for the night to wash, and then cover myself with a blanket until my clothes are dry.”

  “Why in tarnation did you light out for California with only the clothes you were wearing?”

  “I brought other clothes,” said Rosa. “I find that I have grown around the middle since I last wore the other pants, and now I cannot button them. My other shirt has no buttons.”

  He laughed, and she found it a pleasant alternative to his usual moods.

  “It amuses you that I am so fat I have no pants that will fit, and that my only other shirt has no buttons?”

  “It amuses me that you’re so damn perfect in some ways,” he said, “and so far from it in others. At the risk of soundin’ like a fool, why would you bring an extra shirt that has no buttons?”

  “It had buttons,” she said, “but Indians caught me, and one of them tore my shirt open.”

  That got his attention, with the near disaster in El Paso still fresh on his mind. Laughter forgotten, he seemed as grim as ever.

  “But he did . . . nothing else?”

  “That is all,” she said. “I killed him.”

  “Why didn’t you put up that kind of fight in El Paso, before that owlhoot stripped you naked?”

  He had given her no credit for saving herself from the Indians, only condemning her for not having accomplished the same feat a second time, when a burly man had knocked her senseless with a pistol barrel. His remark had been cruel and insensitive, and he was immediately sorry. Rosa turned from him, leaning against her horse, her chin on her saddle. He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. Her eyes were closed, but that didn’t hinder the big silent tears that rolled down her cheeks. He held her close, unable to think of anything to say, and it was a long while before she spoke.

  “He hit me . . . with his pistol,” she said, “and I was not aware that he was . . . was taking off my clothes. When you called, I . . . I barely heard you. I fought him when he first took me, but he was too strong for me. I . . . I am sorry you had to shoot him because of me. Now we will have his friends after us.”