The California Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Yes,” said Gil, “I think we’ll risk a fire, but conceal it as best you can. I’d as soon not have any visitors.”

  It was a celebration of sorts, the trail drive reaching the San Simon. Exhausted as they all were, they stuffed themselves with fresh beef and pork, washing it down with plenty of strong, black coffee. As usual, Gil divided the night into two watches, but they were not disturbed. There was nothing more sinister than the yipping of coyotes. They had discovered the remains of the three steers and were spreading the news.

  “It purely gripes me,” said Van, “to bring ’em this far and then end up feedin’ ’em to coyotes.”

  “Do not dwell on what you have lost,” said Rosa, “but on all that you have left. And did you not have fresh steak for supper?”

  “The most expensive damn steak a man ever laid tongue to,” said Van.

  “Ye git tired of steak,” said Long John, “me an’ Bo can always git us another deer.”

  “I’m satisfied,” said Gil. “Like Rosa put it, let’s not complain about the three we lost, but be thankful for the many we didn’t lose. Remember how hopeless it all seemed, us racing with the sun, trying to reach water before dark? Well, we lost in one respect, but won big in another. The ground we covered in the daylight was ground that was behind us, when the herd stampeded. We were close enough to the river that the run was short. In a way, a trail drive is like a high stakes poker game, and sometimes the only way you can win is to cut your losses.”

  As though in applause, the coyote chorus chimed in, and they all had to laugh at the irony. Later, when they were into the second watch, Gil had a surprise awaiting him.

  “Tonight,” Rosa told him, “I was proud of what you said. You spoke like a man.”

  “It’s not a thing I customarily do, then,” he said.

  “No,” she replied. “In the ways you most needed to, you are growing up.”

  She was less than half his age, telling him he needed to grow up! He laughed, and the suddenness of it startled his horse. When he spoke, it was with none of the anger she had half expected.

  “Maybe I took your advice,” said Gil, “and done some thinkin’ on the little we lost, compared to all that we might have lost. I reckon it ain’t the nature of a cattleman to think that way.”

  “Remember that day in Mexico, after my madre and padre were murdered? When you found me, I was stark naked. Have you ever wondered why?”*

  “No,” he said. “You were doin’ your damnedest to shove a pitchfork into my gut, and that kind of took my mind off everything else.”

  “My madre had washed the only dress I owned, and it had not had time to dry. So when it comes to being thankful for what I have, instead of crying for what I do not have, or have lost, it is a lesson I learned early. You have not been so fortunate.”

  She was young in years, but in the ways that mattered, older than time. So profound were her words, he could think of nothing to say, and they rode on in silence.

  May 7, 1850. San Simon River, Arizona Territory

  Gil spoke to the outfit before breakfast.

  “I think we’ll take a day of rest here. Accordin’ to this government map, the next river is the San Pedro, and it’s a good fifty miles. There has to be water between here and there, even if it’s only a spring, but I don’t aim to go chargin’ out of here until I know how far it is to the next water. So we’ll spend today cookin’ and preserving some of this extra meat, while Mariposa and Estanzio ride ahead. From here on, we’ll have to concern ourselves with more than just water. I want to know where the potential danger lies—the drop-offs, the canyons, and how we are to get around them.”

  Mariposa and Estanzio were less than an hour out of camp when they reined up in a stand of pinion. Six riders passed, and there was no way they could miss the trail drive on the San Simon. Mariposa looked at his companion, and Estanzio shook his head.

  “Town hombres,” said Estanzio. “Hunt lawmen.”

  It would not be necessary for them to warn the camp, and when the party was out of sight, Estanzio and Mariposa rode west. This land—Arizona—seemed as strange to them as anything they had seen since leaving Mexico. Amid creosote bushes and greasewood, there was mesquite, pinion, and oak. Except for scattered sagebrush, one entire slope was dominated by giant cacti. These were multiarmed saguaros, most of them standing taller than a man on a horse. The Indians rode on in silent wonder. Cacti they had seen before, but nothing like these.

  When the six riders reined up, Gil was waiting to greet them. But he wasn’t alone. Van, Ramon, Bo, Long John, and some of the other riders were ready if they were needed.

  “Step down,” said Gil, “if you’re of a mind to.”

  All the men wore Colts, and several carried rifles in saddle boots. But they didn’t have the look or the sweat of working cowboys, and from their dress, Gil decided they were town men. A tall, thin-faced man, apparently the leader, spoke.

  “I’m Vento Henneagar,” he said, “and we’re from Tucson. Our sheriff and his deputy lit out after a pair of greaser killers. One way or t’other, it’s time our boys was comin’ back, if they’re comin’.”

  “They won’t be comin’,” said Gil. “We buried them. I have some of their personal things in my saddlebag.”

  He removed from his saddlebag a pair of small leather pokes, which he passed to Henneagar. The tall man opened each, looked at the contents, and passed them to the other men. He then turned his attention back to Gil.

  “This pair of Mex gun throwers rode a at sundown,” said Gil. “Two-gun men. Neomo Zouave and a gent called Alfredo, which I’d guess was his brother. These coyotes had rode their horses to death, and tried to use a lawman’s star to wrangle fresh horses from us. When I challenged them, they drew on me, and we salted ’em down. Next morning we found your men and buried them. They’d been ambushed, shot in the back.”

  “We’re obliged,” said Henneagar. “I’d pin a medal on you, if I had one. It’s a pleasure to meet up with an outfit that knows what to do with thievin’, back-shootin’ killers. Texans?”

  “Texans,” said Gil. “While you gents see to your horses, we’ll put the coffeepot on the fire. We have fresh beef, and wild pig too.”

  Despite the grim news Gil had for the men from Tucson, they remained for a meal and passed on some valuable information about the trail ahead, and about the town of Tucson. Henneagar’s brother owned the livery. He also sold horses, mules, and when he could get them, cattle. There was a smithy who could supply horseshoes, and a pair of general stores to see to their other needs.

  “You’re maybe seventy miles from Cienega Creek,” said Henneagar, “and from there, maybe twenty miles from Tucson. True, you’ll have a fifty-mile run to the San Pedro, but there’s springs in between. Just come on, and I’ll spread the word there’s beef on the way.”

  Two hours after the riders from Tucson had departed, Mariposa and Estanzio returned.

  “Did you see the men from Tucson?” Gil asked.

  “We see them, they no see us,” said Estanzio.

  “They say we’ll find water twice between here and the San Pedro River.”

  “Find spring,” said Mariposa. “Mebbe not twenty mile.”

  “That’s good news,” said Gil. “For the next four days, the very worst we can expect is twenty miles.”

  “I wish we’d asked those gents from Tucson about the Indian situation,” said Van. “This is Apache country.”

  Gil turned to Mariposa and Estanzio.

  “No Injun sign,” said Mariposa. “No Injun pony track.”

  “All Apaches ain’t bloodthirsty killers,” said Long John. “Find ye a tribe what ain’t a fanatical bunch o’ war whoops, an’ they ain’t any better scouts in the world. Apaches is notorious fer not gettin’ along wi’ one another. Tribes has been knowed to join whites, fightin’ other tribes.”

  “You know all about Apaches, Long John?” Ramon asked.

  “Wal, not all,” said Long John, “but I k
now they’s some good’uns an’ some bad’uns. Me’n some other jaybirds was trapped by Apaches oncet. We was total surrounded, down t’ our las’ two er three loads.”

  “And they spared you?” Ramon asked.

  “Wal, no,” said Long John, with a straight face and a twinkle in his eyes. “Turned out t’ be a bad bunch, an’ they scalped ever’ damn one o’ us.”

  Everybody laughed, including Ramon. The vaqueros still didn’t fully understand Long John’s macabre sense of humor, and still fell victim to it. In the afternoon, Bo and Long John rode off up the San Simon a ways to try their luck fishing. To their own delight, and everybody else’s surprise, they came back with enough trout for supper. After they had eaten, Gil got out his logbook.

  “We’ve been on the trail eighty-one days,” said Gil, “and we’ve come a little less than seven hundred miles. That’s about eight and a half miles a day.”

  “Is not bad,” said Juan Alamonte.

  “A month ago,” Van said, “I’d have disagreed with you, but everything considered, I reckon we ain’t done too bad.”

  “We lose many days,” said Pedro Fagano.

  “We did,” said Gil, “but we’ve lost hardly any stock.”

  “Whilst me an’ Bo was upriver fishin’,” said Long John, “we seen a rattlesnake was wider’n m’ leg. Rest o’ ye do as ye like, but me, I’m wearin’ my chaps an’ stuffin’ m’ britches legs into m’ boots from here on.”

  Everybody laughed dubiously. So adept was Long John, none of them could be sure when the lanky Cajun was being truthful or just running another sandy at their expense.

  “Bo,” Ramon asked, “is this Long John’s snake, or do you see it as well?”

  “It was as he says,” said Bo. “This time, Long John tells the truth.”

  “This time?” yelped Long John. “Ye implyin’ that I usually don’t?”

  When the laughter subsided, Bo continued. “Only on the Amazon have I seen a reptile so large. This one, this rattlesnake, I would judge to be twenty feet in length.”

  Bo was shy, rarely speaking, and his eloquence seemed strange. While he was every inch a cowboy, Gil Austin suspected the little man was much more than that. Most of the outfit laughed at the strange friendship that had developed between Bo and Long John Coons. The two men were opposites in every sense of the word. Bo, shy and quiet, was well-liked. Long John, loud, arrogant, often hostile, was only tolerated, and by at least one of the riders, not even that. Estanzio purely didn’t like Long John, and had been trying for months to engage the Cajun in a knife fight. Certainly Long John hadn’t discouraged it, but Gil had. Gil had an uneasy suspicion that if he left the two of them alone for any length of time, he’d return to find them cut to ribbons, one or both bleeding and dying.

  “It’s purely hard to believe there’s snakes as big as that,” said Van, “but I reckon in this wild country, anything’s possible. It’s just goin’ to be almighty hot, wearin’ leather chaps.”

  “Hot temporary,” said Juan Padillo. “Dead permanent.”

  Juan had begun to develop a cowboy sense of humor like a Tejano. He even got a laugh out of Long John.

  One thing a man learned quickly on the frontier, if he wanted to go on living, was that peace was never more than temporary. While this camp on the San Simon seemed secure, and they had seen no Indian sign, Gil remained as cautious as ever. He believed that when everything seemed the most tranquil, it was most prone to go to hell at any moment. That was why Gil always took the midnight-to-dawn watch. Nine times out of ten, when trouble came, it would be in the dark, small hours of the morning, when men were least prepared. Gil had made a change in the nighthawking, which some of the riders, including Van, didn’t like. While the rest of the outfit still split up into two watches, Mariposa and Estanzio spent the entire night with the horse remuda. Gil’s purpose was twofold. First, with the Indian riders securing the horse remuda, the rest of the nighthawks were free to devote their full attention to longhorns. Second, the horse remuda and the longhorns could be separated. On nights when the longhorns were skittish and troublesome, refusing to bed down, the horses picked up on it and acted accordingly. Gil believed that if the herds were separated, they’d be easier to control, that if one stampeded, it might not involve the other.

  “Suppose we got hit by horse thieves?” Van had asked. “There’ll never be more than two riders with the horses.”

  “Suppose you had cows and horses bunched together,” Gil had argued, “and with every nighthawk circling the combined herds. They’ll all be at different positions. How often will you have any two riders close enough to the horses to help in case of attack? Thieves would just wait until most of the nighthawks were farthest from the horses.”

  In Indian country they were more in danger of losing the horses than the longhorns. Gil believed they would soon vindicate his theory, or totally discredit it. The thing that made his plan so effective was the ability of Mariposa and Estanzio to virtually disappear in the darkness. However, that might be considered a flaw, inviting an attack, since the horse herd seemed unprotected. Gil dismissed that possibility, because horse thieves didn’t actually attempt to take the herd from under the noses of the nighthawks. That was suicide. It was less risky to just stampede the horses, and when the outfit rode in pursuit at first light, gun them down from ambush. That allowed the thieves to gather the horses at their leisure. That is, if the outfit was green enough to allow itself to be ambushed.

  This night, the horse remuda was three-quarters of a mile downriver from the longhorns. Far enough, Gil believed, so that a disturbance among one herd might not affect the other. There was one point on which not a man in the outfit disagreed. If night riders spooked the horses, it took far less time to recover the horses than to gather the longhorns. But let the longhorns stampede with the horses, and it meant at least two days shot to hell. Maybe longer, depending on what direction the brutes decided to run.

  The moon had already set, and the stars had begun to distance themselves from the coming dawn. It was that darkest hour when a man’s night vision simply was not enough, and it was at that moment the night riders hit the horse herd. There were shots, shouts, and a clatter of hoofs. But there were cries of anguish too. Sudden as the attack had been, Mariposa and Estanzio hadn’t allowed the thieves to escape without payment. Every rider followed Gil’s prior orders, remaining where he was. Gil found it difficult to follow his own orders, wanting to ride to the aid of Estanzio and Mariposa. It was the most deadly, the most effective means of countering a surprise attack. Keep your own forces stationary, deploy a few good men, and let them kill anything that moved. Some of the longhorns had lumbered to their feet, but for a change the wind was friendly. It carried the sound away from the cattle, and after a few anxious moments, they settled down. Gil sensed rather than saw one of the Indian riders.

  “Some horse run,” said Estanzio. “Third, mebbe. Mejicano thieves. Two die.”

  It was the facts, simply stated, but every man recognized the accomplishment. Long John acknowledged it.

  “Wal, we got t’ give our segundo credit fer knowin’ what he’s doin’. If we all had a gone skalleyhootin’ after them thieves in the dark, we wouldn’t of got a one. Likely, we’d of ended up shootin’ at one another.”

  “Cows no run,” said Ramon. “Is biggest blessing of all.”

  “Soon as it’s light enough,” said Gil, “we’ll go after our horses.”

  He said no more, nor did he need to. Every man had a lariat on his saddle, and every man knew how to tie a thirteen-knot noose.

  The outfit waited impatiently for first light, riding the moment the Indian riders could pick up the trail. There had been eleven rustlers, the swift action of Mariposa and Estanzio having reduced their number to nine. Gil had taken Mariposa, Estanzio, Long John, Bo, and Vicente Gomez. There would be no pitched battle, where they would have to face all the rustlers at once. The thieves couldn’t gather the scattered horses in the dark, and working fr
om first light, there simply wouldn’t be enough time. There had to be an ambush, calculated to slow the pursuers, lest they ride blindly into it. Gil Austin welcomed the ambush. The sooner they eliminated it, the sooner they could recover their horses and bring this chase to a close. His instructions to Mariposa and Estanzio were simple.

  “Once you know where the ambush is, circle them and come in from the south. I doubt they’ll leave more than three or four men. Once you’re near enough, cut down on them, and we’ll advance. I’ll call them our once; after that, it’s shoot to kill.”

  The first shots came quickly, perhaps not seeking a target, but to warn Gil the ambush had been located. It also was calculated to shake the confidence of the outlaws. Caught in a cross fire, they could no longer devote all their attention to the back trail. The outlaws had holed up behind some rocks, and once they were within rifle range, Gil reined up. While all his men had rifles, the reloading time made them impractical for close fighting.

  “Long John,” said Gil, “you and Bo take your rifles and put some lead in amongst those coyotes. While you’re reloading, Vicente and me will give ’em another dose.”

  There was return fire from three rifles, and that told Gil what he most wanted to know. They faced three men, and they also had to reload. Gil and Vicente fired their rifles into the outlaw stronghold, but there was no return fire. Gil dismounted, the others following.

  “This is gettin’ us nowhere,” said Gil. “They know we’re out here, and that’ll give Mariposa and Estanzio an edge. Boot your rifles, fan out, and we’ll advance on foot. If we can’t overrun them, we can draw their attention, givin’ Mariposa and Estanzio a chance.”

  The four riders spread out, using what cover there was. The slope was dotted with greasewood and yucca. Gil had drawn his Colt, and when he thought he saw some movement, he sent lead screaming in among the rocks. His three companions followed, and the outlaws behind the rocks returned the fire. It was time for a challenge.

  “You hombres in the rocks,” shouted Gil, “drop your guns and come out. You’re finished.”