The California Trail

by Ralph Compton

  There was nothing more to be said. The first watch mounted and rode out, pushing the strayed longhorns back toward the grazing herd. Gil and the rest of the riders saddled and picketed their horses. After that they could only wait—for their nighthawking to begin at midnight, or for the attack they believed was coming. Tension ran high, and as Gil had predicted, nobody would sleep. Outwardly they were calm, but as the night wore on, the second-watch nighthawks became increasingly aware that the attack, if it came, would take place in the small hours of the morning. Gil’s own nerves were on edge, and he reflected that going into battle never got any easier, whoever the enemy and whatever the cause. While a man was born with seeds of death within him, its being inevitable never enhanced its reality. These riders were more than just an outfit; they were his friends, and this night he might be leading some of them to their deaths. But had he any choice? This was the frontier, where violence was the rule and seldom the exception, where the greatest honor a man might possess was having it said “he rode for the brand.” Even if it became his epitaph. Midnight came, and before Gil and his riders began the second watch, he had some last words of caution for them.

  “Stay within sight of one another, but don’t bunch together. We can’t be sure they won’t come gunning for us, so don’t make it easy for them.”

  Gil tried to think of some way to keep Rosa out of the fray, but gave it up. Since the day she had caught up to the trail drive, she had resented his attempts to make it “easy” for her. The stubborn girl was determined to prove herself a worthy rider, if it killed her, and Gil feared it might.

  “Perhaps they will wait until just before the dawn,” said Ramon, riding close. “They will know we are watching, and they will wait until we are all weary from the long night.”

  “No,” Gil said, “I don’t think they’ll wait until just before the dawn, because there is no moon. They’ll know we’re watching, but I’m counting on them not knowing we’re waiting especially for them. No trail boss with the brains God gave a paisano would bed down a herd out here without nighthawks, but normally some of the outfit would be sleeping. Our edge, if we have one, is that every rider can be in the saddle at the first sign of attack.”

  Time dragged, and the long, hard drive to Papago Wells began to take its toll. A dozen times Gil was jolted awake, aware that he had dozed in the saddle. The harder he strove to remain awake, to be alert, the more surely his weary body betrayed him. But nothing brought a frontiersman to full awareness as quickly as gunfire, and such was the case with Gil Austin and his companions.

  Just as Gil had expected, the night riders came in from the north, shouting and shooting. Gil and the rest of the nighthawks kicked their mounts into a gallop, and by the time they reached the spring, the rest of the outfit was in the saddle. Amid the shouting, there was a scream of terror; a Bowie in the hand of one of the Indian riders had found a victim. The outlaws had been successful in stampeding at least some of the horses, but when Gil and his riders began throwing lead at the oncoming rustlers, a strange thing happened. The horse herd, with mounted, gun-wielding riders behind and in front of them, split. The horses ran east and west, leaving the surprised outlaws in a confrontation with not just the nighthawks, but the entire Texas outfit! It was more than they had bargained for, and they split their ranks, breaking east and west. While starlight made for poor shooting, Gil had seen several empty saddles.

  “Hold it,” Gil shouted. “Don’t ride after them.”

  If the outlaws didn’t scatter, which was likely, they could take cover and ambush the pursuing cowboys. The stampede had been aborted and the outlaws had lost some men. In the darkness Gil and his riders could do no more.

  “Gather ’round, Tejanos,” Gil said.

  One by one they reined up their horses near his. Estanzio and Mariposa approached on foot.

  “Bueno,” said Gil. “We gunned down some of them, but none of us were hit. I can’t ask for more than that.”

  “Some of the horses have run away,” said Rosa.

  “But not across the border,” said Gil. “We headed them, and we’ll round ’em up at first light. Even so, the whole herd didn’t run.”

  “No get ’em all,” said Estanzio. “Two Mejicano busardos die.”

  “Bueno,” said Gil. “We shot some of them out of the saddle too. We hurt them enough that I don’t look for them to bother us again. Besides, we’re not that far from first light. Those of us on the second watch had better be gettin’ back to the herd. Mariposa, you and Estanzio stay with the rest of the horses. Come daylight, we’ll go after the scattered ones. All of you from the first watch are welcome to the little sleep you can get before time to roll out.”

  “No sleep for so long,” said Juan Padillo, “I forget how.”

  “Ye kin go wi’ me, then,” Long John said. “I aim t’ scout aroun’ an’ see how many o’ them bastards we kilt, besides them two the Injuns got.”

  “Count me in,” said Van. “A little sleep’s worse than none.”

  Most of the riders from the first watch agreed, and while Gil and his nighthawks rode back to the longhorn herd, the others searched for the dead.

  “If there be two more Mariposa and Estanzio with the horses,” said Pedro Fagano, “that be enough. The others of us could protect only the cows.”

  “They’s somethin’ purely devilish ’bout them Injuns,” said Long John suspiciously. “They’s somethin’ on-natural ’bout the way they comes out’n the dark at a man, an’ him never knowin’ what’s took ’im.”

  Van laughed. “Count your blessings, Long John. They’re on our side.”

  “Makes no never mind,” said Long John stubbornly. “I ain’t trustin’ nothin’ er nobody I cain’t understand.”

  They found two of the outlaws, one dead and the second close to it.

  “We ought t’ git a rope,” Long John said, “an’ finish what the lead started.”

  “He won’t last that long,” Van said, kneeling beside the wounded outlaw. “You’re done for, mister. You got anything to say, any last words?”

  “Only this, gringo,” gasped the hard-hit man. “You have killed me, but my hermano, Perra Guiterro, lives. He . . . will make . . . you . . . pay.”

  It was a dire prediction from a dying man, and it had a sobering effect on the riders. Before any of them could speak, the outlaw was dead.

  “He was very young,” said Juan Padillo.

  “Young coyotes grows inter older coyotes,” Long John said. “This’n won’t be raisin’ no hell in his later years.”

  “Perhaps we should remember the name,” said Manuel Armijo. “This Perra Guiterro must be the leader of the outlaws.”

  “We’ll remember to tell Gil,” said Van, “but I can’t see them coming after us again. We’ve cost them four men, and they have nothing for their efforts.”

  “To the Mejicano,” said Vicente, “blood ties are strong. Perra Guiterro may be the leader of this band of outlaws.”

  “He’ll bleed jus’ like these other coyotes,” said Long John. “What kin the rest of ’em do t’ hurt us?”

  When the answer came, Long John wasn’t going to like it. . . .

  By dawn the scattered horses had returned, for this was the nearest water, and they were thirsty. When it was light enough to see, Gil sent Mariposa and Estanzio to follow the separate trails of the outlaws. At some point they would come together, and when they did, Gil wanted to know where the band of rustlers went from there. The Indian duo soon returned, and their report wasn’t surprising.

  “Them meet,” Mariposa said, pointing south. “Ride on, same way.”

  “Back to Mexico,” said Van. “They don’t aim to follow us, then.”

  “They won’t have to,” Gil said. “They can dip into Mexico, ride east until they reach the Rio Colorado, and then ride north to Yuma. For them it’s maybe a seventy-mile ride. It’ll be a hundred twenty miles for us, because we have to have water every twenty miles.”

  “Madre de
Dios,” said Rosa, “they would ride that far, seeking vengeance for those who have died?”

  “There’s no accounting for what a man will do, where his kin are concerned,” Gil said. “This is a violent land. An hombre with enough of a mad on might ride a thousand miles. I’d say until we’re out of Arizona Territory, well away from Mexico and into California, those outlaws could be a threat.”

  From Papago Springs the drive turned north, seeking San Cristobal Wash. So far, Vento Henneagar’s directions had proved accurate. Once they reached the wash, with its spill-off from the Gila River, they would have sure water all the way to Fort Yuma.

  “Vento says we’re twenty miles east of San Cristobal Wash,” Gil told them, “but I want to push the herd just as hard as ever. I aim to ride out and scout the area ahead.”

  By the time the sun was noon high, Gil judged they had done well, with at least half the day’s drive behind them. But as the day wore on and the longhorns grew tired and thirsty, the riders would have the usual fight on their hands. From what Vento had told him, Gil suspected that once they’d reached San Cristobal Wash, they might have to follow it awhile before the water became substantial enough for the herd to drink. Once the stream spilled off from the Gila, it flowed south some forty miles. The farther it went, the less it became, until it petered out entirely. When the Gila ran bank full, the farther and deeper ran the spill-off. Though their proposed drive to San Cristobal was twenty miles, the farthest end of the wash might be dry. But since Gil couldn’t be sure, he hadn’t mentioned it to the outfit. That was one of the things he needed to know, lest their twenty-mile drive take them to a dry wash. If the south end was dry, he had two options, either of which meant a longer, harder drive. He could keep the drive moving northwest, and follow the wash until there was water, or he could change direction, reaching the wash farther to the north. The better of the two, he decided, was to change direction, reaching the wash where there would be water, somewhere to the north. But he could make no decision until he knew at what point along the San Cristobal Wash there was water. He kicked his horse into a fast gallop, and when he eventually reached the tag end of the wash, he found that his caution had been justified. There had been water here, even high water at times, but there was none now. The sand wasn’t even damp. This was a thing Vento Henneagar couldn’t have foreseen, although he had suggested that it might be the case. With a sigh, Gil turned his horse due north. He would have to follow this dry wash. He knew of no other water near enough to save them, unless they returned to Papago Wells, and that was unthinkable. Reining up, he rested his horse, considering the worst of all possibilities. This damn wash, he reflected, could be bone dry all the way to the Gila River. Gil looked at the westering sun, estimating the time, and a tiny movement caught his eye. Bees! He watched until he spotted two more of the little creatures winging their way south. There was water ahead!

  At first there was only a shallow, stagnant pool where the dry earth had begun to swallow the stream. He rode almost two miles before the water became deep enough to suit their need, and it would be even farther before there was a flowing stream. Standing water, while better than nothing, was a poor prospect; the first few steers would muddy it beyond redemption. Gil judged he had ridden north four miles since reaching the dry wash. There was but one choice. From where he was, he must ride as straight a line as he could, back to the herd. They dare not drive to the dry end of the wash and follow it five or six miles to water. After resting his horse, Gil allowed the animal to drink. He then rode out in a fast gallop, angling to the southeast, hoping the drive hadn’t moved far enough westward that he would miss it.

  Meanwhile, with the cantankerous longhorns on their worst behavior, the riders had their suspicions. Especially Long John.

  “Ye calls it a river, a creek, er even a branch,” Long John growled, “but not a wash. Back in the bayous, a wash an’ a gully’s the same, an’ the only time they’s water in either of ’em is right after a rain. Nex’ day, they’s so dry, ye could unroll yer blankets an’ sleep there.”

  “I’ve been thinking that same thing myself,” said Van, “and I don’t doubt Gil has. Remember, he told us to push the herd just as hard as ever, while the instructions he got from Vento Henneagar says it’s a twenty-mile drive. My big brother’s smarter than he looks, thank God.”

  Bo laughed, and the conversation ended as more bunch quitters decided the back trail looked better than the trail ahead.

  When Gil came within sight of the horse herd, he estimated he’d ridden at least ten miles. It was two hours past noon, and that would be two hours they had lost. He quickly explained the new direction to his Indian riders, and the need for it.

  “Take the horses on to water,” said Gil, “and make way for the longhorns. They’ll likely hit the water on the run.”

  Ramon only nodded after Gil had explained the situation to him. There was nothing to say. They had to make up a difference of two hours, and it was going to be hell with the lid off. While there was some mild bitching from the rest of the riders, they accepted the grim news more with resignation than anger. Gil tried to soften the blow.

  “Just be thankful,” he said, “that I got back to you in time to change direction. If we’d driven on to the wash and then had to turn north, we’d be fifteen miles away instead of ten. They way we’re headed, there are no bluffs or deep canyons. The horses will be watered and out of the way, so the steers can break loose and run the last two or three miles without harm.”

  Wearily they pressed on, fighting the unruly herd, and it was a relief when the longhorns smelled the water. In a bawling, thundering fury, they ran.

  20

  May 27, 1850. On the Gila River, sixty miles east of Fort Yuma

  San Cristabal Wash offered adequate water for the two days it took the Texas outfit to reach the Gila River. For the first time since leaving their Bandera range, they were able to follow a stream. No longer did the specter of a dry camp hang over their heads. It was an unaccustomed luxury, pausing where darkness found them, without the lack of water creating a crisis. The Gila proved to be a clear, fast-running stream with an abundance of fish. The dawn of their first day on the Gila saw Bo and Long John ride in with a deer.

  “Por Dios,” said Rosa, “with a river so close, it is like another world. There are no thirsty cows running away, there are fish, deer, and a chance to rest.”

  “From here on to Fort Yuma,” said Gil, “and once we reach California, I think we’ll travel parallel to the coast. While we can’t use water from the sea, there are plenty of freshwater streams flowing into it. Accordin’ to our map, there are lakes too. Where water’s concerned, I believe the worst part of the drive is behind us. But as we near the goldfields, I expect there’ll be other problems, such as thieves and killers.”

  “Nothin’ diff’runt ’bout that,” said Long John. “Them wasn’t ’zactly a bunch o’ pussycats that hit us las’ time.”

  June 1, 1850. Fort Yuma, Arizona Territory

  Just after noon of their fifth day on the Gila, they bedded down the longhorns in the triangle where the Gila and Rio Colorado joined. Within sight, on a rise above the west bank of the Colorado, they could see Fort Yuma. Oddly, there was no stockade, and half a dozen men—soldiers—watched them. The sun reflected off brass, and Gil identified one of the bluecoats as an officer.

  “First off,” said Gil, “some of us need to ride up there and satisfy their curiosity. Who wants to go with me?”

  “I wish to go,” said Rosa.

  Ramon laughed. “Rosa has my old Colt revolver. She wishes to shoot soldados.”

  “That is not true!” cried Rosa. “I wish to see if there is a store.”

  “Come on, then,” Gil said. “Anybody else?”

  “I’ll go,” said Van, “just to see somethin’ besides longhorn rumps.”

  “I go too,” said Pedro Fagano. “I have never seen an American soldado fort.”

  “Wal,” said Long John, “I reckon they�
�ll be ’nough o’ ye here wi’ the herd, so’s me an’ Bo kin git in some fishin’. This Colorado River is bigger an’ deeper. No tellin’ what we might ketch out’n there.”

  “Whatever it is,” Rosa cautioned, “see that you clean it.”

  Gil, Rosa, Van, and Pedro mounted and headed for the fort, less than a mile distant. Bo and Long John rode across the Gila and turned their horses down the east bank of the Colorado. Mariposa and Estanzio had already begun an examination of the horse remuda, checking each animal for loose or worn shoes. The rest of the riders, heads on their saddles and hats over their faces, stretched out and dozed in the evening sun.

  When Gil and his companions arrived, three soldiers were waiting. Without dismounting, Gil performed his introductions. One of the soldiers, wearing dress blues and captain’s bars, responded.

  “I’m Captain Tilden Norris, post commander. The gentleman on my right is Lieutenant Maynard, and on my left is First Sergeant Gannon. You are welcome to dismount, and welcome to Fort Yuma, such as it is.”

  “Thanks, Captain,” Gil said. “I’d like to talk to you about the country ahead of us, and my riders want to visit your store, if it’s permitted.”