The California Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Ye know wher’ the cabin is,” said Long John. “Why don’t we jus’ be ther’ at daylight, an’ gun down the lot of ’em?”

  “Ten of us are going to be there at daylight,” said Gil, “but you’re getting ahead of me. While there were just six men at the cabin, there were more than two dozen horses in the corral. I’d like to know for dead certain how many men we’re up against. Sheriff Weatherford told me this old man Clanton has more than four hundred outlaws scattered around New Mexico and Arizona. If we can force one of the gang to talk, we can learn how strong they are. If they don’t show tonight, then we’ll just have to take our chances.”

  “If they do or don’t show tonight,” said Van, “you aim for us to go after them in the morning?”

  “We ride at two o’clock,” said Gil, “one way or the other. It’s twenty-five miles to the cabin. If there’s six or sixty, we’ll hit them before first light, and we’ll be shooting to kill.”

  * Trail Drive #1, The Goodnight Trail

  7

  Come dark, and time for the first watch, Gil sent six men to circle the herd. Mariposa and Estanzio were to remain afoot, circling the camp. A few minutes before midnight, the Indians captured one of the outlaws. Gil punched up the fire as Mariposa and Estanzio forced the captive ahead of them and into the light. Morgan Pinder had his hands bound behind his back. Estanzio carried the outlaw’s gun rig.

  “Well, Pinder,” Gil said, “we ain’t seen you since El Paso. Considerate of you to drop by. We know where you owlhoots are holed up, and we got a fair to middlin’ idea what you aim to do. But we want to hear it in your own words.”

  “Go to hell,” grunted Pinder.

  “It’s you that’ll be goin’ to Hell,” said Gil, “and a lot sooner than you expect, if you don’t talk. Now spill your guts, or I’ll have Estanzio or Mariposa spill them for you.”

  Pinder said nothing. Most of the other riders had gathered around, including Rosa. The next move was Gil’s. He merely nodded to Mariposa. The Indian didn’t bother unbuttoning Pinder’s shirt, but with his Bowie slit the garment from the collar down. While Mariposa ripped the shirt away, Estanzio loosed Pinder’s belt, dropping his trousers. Except for boots and hat, the outlaw stood there possum naked. Rosa gasped, but she didn’t turn away.

  “Now, Pinder,” said Gil, “maybe we can’t make you talk, but we can purely make you wish you had.”

  Pinder swallowed hard, but kept his silence. Mariposa moved behind the outlaw so he couldn’t retreat, while Estanzio drew his Bowie. He touched the tip of the huge blade to the hollow of Pinder’s throat, and as the knife moved down Pinder’s chest, it left a trail of blood. Pinder began to whine, fighting to free himself. Behind the outlaw, Mariposa applied some pressure, and Pinder screamed. Estanzio paused with the tip of his blade just above Pinder’s belly button.

  “Pinder,” said Gil, “that Bowie’s goin’ to keep travelin’ south. When it’s gone as far as it can go, it’s goin’ to slice off some parts you don’t hanker to lose. Even if you don’t bleed to death, you’ll have to squat when you go to the bushes.”

  Pinder knew it was no bluff when the tip of the Bowie’s blade again started to move, going deeper. He screamed.

  “That’ll do, Estanzio,” said Gil. “I believe the man’s goin’ to become more sociable.”

  “Damn you!” sobbed Pinder. “Damn you!”

  Again Estanzio stepped forward with the Bowie.

  “There’s six of . . . us,” Pinder gasped, “but Clanton’s sending . . . more.”

  “How many more?” Gil demanded.

  “I don’t know!” cried Pinder. “He never tells us nothin’ until the last minute. The others are ridin’ in tomorrow.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “We aimed for you to pay, before crossin’ our land and usin’ our water,” said Pinder.

  “Then you’d have let us go in peace,” said Gil.

  “Yes,” said Pinder.

  “You’re lying,” said Gil. “You’ve scouted us before, and you’re here tonight to see how well-prepared we are. You aim to gun us down from ambush, to take our horses and cattle.”

  “No!” shouted Pinder, but the look on his face gave truth to Gil’s words.

  “Estanzio,” said Gil, “hogtie this coyote so he can’t get loose. We’ll be riding in two hours, so nobody sleeps tonight. Four riders will stay with the herd, but the rest of us are going to be at that outlaw cabin before first light. Mr. Pinder will be going with us.”

  Estanzio had shoved Pinder down with his back against a small tree. The outlaw’s arms were passed around the tree, and his hands securely bound. Gil and the other riders saddled their horses and rode out to join the nighthawks already with the herd. Rosa rode close to Gil, and she was silent longer than he had expected. Finally she spoke.

  “I have never seen such cruelty since the soldados murdered my padre and madre. They were mutilated—cut—like you would have cut this Morgan Pinder. Would you truly have allowed Estanzio to do that, to cut off this man’s . . . private parts? It would be more merciful to kill him.”

  “A bluff’s only good till somebody calls it,” said Gil. “If Pinder had not talked, Estanzio would have convinced him it was no bluff.”

  “Madre de Dios,” she cried, “suppose someone did that to you . . . cut off your private parts?”

  “I reckon I’d be squattin’ in the bushes too.” He chuckled. “Would that bother you?”

  “No,” she sighed, and he thought it was a little exaggerated. “You are of no use to me in that way. The good times, like tonight, we talk. The bad times, we shout and swear. I do not think we will ever go beyond that.”

  He almost laughed, but decided it wasn’t funny, and since he was unable to think of a suitable response, he said nothing.

  It was time to ride, and time to choose the four riders who would remain with the herd.

  “I want Rosa, Juan Padillo, Bola, and Vicente to stay with the longhorns and the horse remuda,” said Gil. “That’s every bit as important as what the rest of us are about to do. Actually, I’m leaving you short-handed, because I don’t know how many men we may find at this outlaw cabin. So I’m asking the four of you to take some risk, so that I can take a larger force with me. Are there any questions before we move out?”

  Gil had half expected some protest from Rosa, but there was none. She could hold her own with the trail drive itself, but this planned man-killing was something else, where hesitation went hand in hand with death. Had it not been for Rosa, Gil might have simply left the horse remuda and the herd unattended, taking the entire outfit. Perhaps Rosa and the riders left behind suspected this, but there had been no protest. They had respected Gil’s wishes. Gil led out. Van followed, with Morgan Pinder’s horse on a lead rope. Pinder’s hands were securely bound behind his back, and he was bare to the middle.

  Phin Clanton, never very pleasant, was in an especially vile mood. With ten men he had ridden all the way from Apache Creek, to join forces with the men far to the south. The large horse remuda and the huge herd of longhorns would have been motivation enough for what the gang was about to do, but there was another, stronger reason. Verd Connor had been one of old man Clanton’s most trusted lieutenants, and now Verd was dead. According to the one-sided story Morgan Pinder had told, Verd Connor had been needlessly gunned down by some Texas bastard who was trail-bossing a herd of Texas longhorns. Phin’s bloodthirsty daddy, N. H. Clanton, lived by his own perverted concept of Old Testament law, and this Texas outfit was going to pay for Verd’s death. Phin Clanton and his men had ridden in after dark, to find that Morgan Pinder, the damn fool, had gone gunning for the Texan who had killed Verd Connor. There were fifteen men in the small cabin, drinking and playing cards. Phin Clanton stood on the porch, leaning against an upright that supported the shake roof. Trig Rudolph, one of the men who had ridden in with Clanton, stepped out on the porch.

  “Why are you standin’ out here?” Rudolph asked.

 
; “Maybe I just like to breathe,” said Clanton, who didn’t smoke. “This damn shack could be afire, and there not be that much smoke.”

  “It’s near midnight,” said Rudolph. “Suppose Pinder don’t come back; you still aim to hit that trail herd at first light?”

  “What else can we do? Give Pinder another two hours; if he ain’t here, that’ll mean they got him. Without aimin’ to, he’s made it easier for us. Once they get Pinder and find out he’s alone, it’ll look like just what it is. Pinder’s pard was gunned down, so he went after the hombre that done it. If we was plannin’ anything else, why would we of let Pinder go stompin’ in and get the whole damn outfit on the prod?”

  Rudolph chuckled. “Smart. With Pinder out of the way, they won’t be lookin’ for nobody else. We’re ridin’ at two?”

  “Yeah,” said Clanton, “not quite two hours.”

  “What if Pinder shows up between now and then?”

  “That’ll mean he’s shot somebody, and the rest of the bunch will come foggin’ after him, and the fight will come to us. But Pinder won’t be here, so get ready to ride.”

  Gil called a halt to rest the horses. He judged it was three o’clock, and that they had ridden not quite half the distance to the outlaw cabin. As they mounted their horses and rode on, Gil became uneasy. There had been little wind. Now it had risen, turned treacherous, and was at their backs. Small sounds, even the creaking of a saddle, carried far in the still of the night. A sentry ahead, only half listening, might become aware of the riders well in advance of their arrival. Gil reined up, halting the column. He couldn’t ignore that premonition of danger that had served him so well in the past. Turning in his saddle, he spoke to Van, almost in a whisper.

  “Estanzio and Mariposa. Pass the word.”

  He would use the Indian riders as advance scouts. It was a smart move, but it came too late. Gil’s horse nickered, and it was all the warning they had. Every rider rolled out of the saddle, as the night erupted into a Hell of gunfire and a hail of lead. There was no time to even think of restraining the horses, and they galloped madly back the way they had come. Morgan Pinder’s horse was among them, Pinder hunched low in the saddle. Following the first deadly volley, but for the diminishing sound of the running horses, there was only silence. Not a man moved. The wind was against them, and the slightest sound might invite swift and certain death. The moon was down, and it was the kind of standoff that might continue until dawn, with neither side gaining an advantage. But the Texas outfit had an edge of which the outlaws were unaware. While Mariposa and Estanzio were unable to make Gil aware of their intentions, it didn’t hinder them doing what they knew must be done. Quietly, swiftly, Estanzio slipped to the south, while Mariposa crept northward, flanking the outlaws. While lead was unable to find its mark in the darkness, a deadly Bowie in the sure hand of an Indian had no such limitation.

  Suddenly, somewhere beyond Gil’s position, there was a scream of mortal terror, and then silence. Within seconds there was another scream, from yet another position. There was a chilling finality, a supernatural aura, about it all. Estanzio and Mariposa were perfectly capable of silent killing, but there was a time when fear itself became a weapon, and this was such a time. This was a tactic calculated to strike fear into the hearts of the outlaws, and it had the desired effect. The Clanton men began firing, not at the Texans, but at shadows. There was a yowl of pain as at least one of the outlaws was shot by a comrade. Gil and his riders held their fire, lest they hit Estanzio or Mariposa.

  “Damn it,” bawled Phin Clanton, “hold your fire!”

  No sooner had the frantic firing ceased, when Mariposa or Estanzio took another victim. Again the man was allowed a single terrified shriek before he was silenced forever. That was enough. The rest of the outlaws lit out for their horses, throwing caution to the winds. Gil and his riders didn’t move until Mariposa and Estanzio stepped out of the shadows.

  “Coyotes run,” said Estanzio. “We hunt?”

  “No,” said Gil, “we’d never catch them in the dark. Besides, you hombres handled it just right. They had us outnumbered, and were shooting from cover probably. Did anybody get hit when they cut down on us?”

  When nobody responded, Gil again spoke.

  “We’ll ride on back to the herd, then, granted that we can find and catch our horses.”

  “Morgan Pinder’s out there somewhere,” said Van, “unless he’s managed to get loose. I didn’t consider him important enough to get myself shot.”

  “I doubt he’ll be a problem to us,” Gil replied. “I’m wondering if maybe he didn’t come after us—or me—on his own. If he did, he won’t be on good terms with the rest of the gang. By the time we reach the camp, it’ll be time to eat and get the herd on the trail. Mariposa, I want you and Estanzio to trail that bunch of owlhoots, at least far enough to be sure we’re rid of them. I doubt they’ll still be at the cabin, but if they are, get the word to us pronto. If they rode out, trail them far enough to be sure they don’t circle and double back. The whole thieving bunch could be laying for us somewhere farther west.”

  This was the darkest hour before dawn, when the stars seemed anxious to recede to that faraway realm where they spent their daylight hours. It was a poor time for Texas cowboys to be afoot in search of their horses.

  “Damnation,” Long John groaned wearily, “I hope them hosses don’t run all the way back t’ camp.”

  “They won’t,” said Gil. “Not with loose reins. Most western horses are trained to ground-tie. You didn’t take the time to loop your reins around the horn, did you?”

  “Reckon I did,” said Long John sarcastically. “I allus see that m’ hoss is took care of proper. ’Specially when a bunch o’ owlhoot bastards is busy throwin’ lead at me.”

  “Long John don’t ride Mendoza horse,” said Juan Alamonte. “Sorrel Long John ride, he be on his way to camp.”

  “That’s right,” said Van, with a laugh. “Long John’s ridin’ that stray with a pitchfork brand that nearly got us hung in El Paso. That cayuse may not stop runnin’ till he hits the Pecos.”

  Despite their predicament, they laughed, but Long John had the last laugh. Before it was light enough to see more than a few feet, they heard a horse cropping grass. It was the sorrel with the pitchfork brand.

  “Wal,” chuckled Long John, as he mounted, “be seein’ ya’ll in camp.”

  The rest of the riders hunkered wearily where they were and waited for Long John. When he returned leading three horses, Mariposa, Estanzio, and Pedro Fagano had mounts. The four men rode out, and within a few minutes had returned with the rest of the horses. Long John had found the twisted rawhide thong that had bound Morgan Pinder’s hands. The Cajun dismounted, dropped the rawhide at Estanzio’s feet and grinned at the Indian.

  “Somebody,” said Long John, “dint tie that jaybird none too tight.”

  “Mebbe you no like?” Estanzio’s tone was mild, but his eyes had narrowed to slits. He was border-shifting his Bowie from one hand to the other.

  Long John whipped out his own Bowie, matching Estanzio’s movements and grinning at the Indian.

  “Enough of that,” Gil snapped. “Have your fun some other time. Mount up and let’s ride. Unless you find something we need to know, Mariposa, you and Estanzio wait for us at the outlaw cabin.”

  They reached camp to find that Rosa had breakfast waiting. When they had eaten, Gil spoke to them.

  “It’s twenty-five miles to the next water, and that’s where the outlaw cabin is. I know it’s another long drive, but there’s no help for it. We’ll be in the dark a good part of the way, because we’re gettin’ a late start. We don’t know where that bunch of outlaws went. We don’t know if they’ve given up on us, or if we’ll have to fight at some other time and place. On the frontier, when there’s any doubt, be ready to fight. Estanzio and Mariposa are following the owlhoots, so that we don’t ride into an ambush. Unless the outlaws have returned to that cabin, I don’t look for any trouble out
of them. Ramon, I’ll help you with the horse remuda. Let’s ride!”

  Gil pushed the herd as hard as he could, and although they had taken the trail three hours late, by two o’clock in the afternoon the drive had traveled more than ten miles. But the outfit was thirty-four hours without sleep, and it began to tell. Rosa dozed in the saddle, and other riders had taken to slapping themselves in the face with their hats. At the present pace, it would be midnight before they reached the creek where the outlaw cabin was. Without Mariposa and Estanzio, Gil and Ramon had their hands full with the packhorses and remuda.

  “Outlaws be gone,” said Ramon. “Mariposa and Estanzio not return.”

  “Yeah,” said Gil, “and so far, that’s the only good news. That, and the fact the herd ain’t havin’ one of its ornery days.”

  “Maybe we push ’em harder,” said Ramon.

  “Maybe,” said Gil, “and maybe they’d just get cantankerous and take up their old bunch-quitting habits. Let’s leave well enough alone.”

  “Soon be rain,” said Ramon. “Longhorns trail better without so much sun.”

  It was true. Clouds had begun rolling in at mid-morning, and the sky was overcast. There were signs that the rain might come without the thunder and lightning that raised hell with a trail drive. They were moving due west, and it was from the west that most of their storms came. Longhorns tried to run away from thunder and lightning. A stampede would cost them as much as two days gathering the scattered herd, and a third day making up the wasted miles the spooked longhorns had run in the opposite direction.

  “Rain’s comin’,” said Van, who had ridden up from the flank. “Bad news for Mariposa and Estanzio. Even they can’t follow that outlaw trail after a good gully washer.”

  “Maybe they won’t have to follow it any farther,” said Gil. “All I want is that those owlhoots are going to keep riding. I’m hoping our hombres will know for sure before the trail’s rained out.”