by R. W. Stone
Before we arrived, Miguel had mentioned that his caporal got that scar preventing a robbery attempt in town, taking a knife meant for Don Enrique. The man obviously rode for the brand in the Western sense, which was something I could appreciate, so I stood quietly next to Miguel as Francisco introduced me.
After looking me over, Chavez turned to Francisco and rattled off something in Spanish a little too fast for me to catch. Most of the nearby hands began to chuckle.
“He says pretty men with fancy guns belong in carnivals, not on working ranches,” Francisco explained.
It was fairly obvious that his taunting me was some sort of test, a way to size me up.
I’ll be the first to admit that my sandy-colored hair highlighted what some considered rather boyish features, even for my size. The fact that, before riding into the hacienda, I’d changed into my favorite shirt probably didn’t help much, either. I wore it for comfort and practicality, but it was an elaborately stitched mountain-style fringed buckskin, and may have looked out of place. Since some of the men were still laughing, I figured something needed to be said if a yanqui like me was ever to get any respect.
I knew it wasn’t smart to fly off at an outfit’s ramrod, but I could tolerate some things only up to a point. I stared straight back at Chavez.
“Miguel, tell the caporal he shouldn’t judge a man by how nice his face looks,” I said in a firm voice, an obvious reference to his scar.
Francisco stood quietly off to the side, looking at us in total disbelief.
Miguel looked even more uncomfortable at having been chosen to translate what I’d just said, but it was nothing compared to the look I got from Chavez. I continued on anyway, trying to remain expressionless.
“Miguel, tell him I know most all the routes north and west from here by heart, and I know where you’re headed. At this time of the year, if he doesn’t know where exactly the water is, he’ll need someone like me along. One last thing…tell him that, if a brand treats its men fair enough, I’ll give it as much or more as the next man.”
The caporal seemed to chew on things a while before replying to me in broken English.
“We shall see, gringo, and soon I think.” Before he could say any more, however, a tall gray-haired man approached us from behind. By the way the men reacted I knew right away he had to be Don Enrique Hernandez de Allende. Certain men almost immediately command respect by their mere presence. Señor Hernandez was clearly one of them.
Some Americans are always riding the mejicanos hard, especially those new to the Southwest, but I always found it an attitude hard to understand. I never expected any more or any less from others than what I was willing to give first. Most of the mejicanos I’d met seemed decent folk and many of their vaqueros were actually a far sight better ropers than some cowboys I know. In fact, I’ve seen vaqueros use the eighty-to 100-foot lassos like they were an extension of their own arms.
I always figured deep down most of us were pretty much alike, but while it’s a cinch I don’t descend from nobility, Don Enrique sure must have. He stood almost eye to eye with me, even at my six foot three. His back was ramrod straight, and, although he was in his sixties, I didn’t see one ounce of fat on his body. He wore a large gray sugarloaf sombrero, an embroidered jacket, and a red waist sash.
There were solid silver conchos running down the sides of his velveteen pants that were probably worth more than I would earn in a year. Somehow, though, they didn’t look flashy on him, but were rather more like something he’d earned. The don’s eyes were steel gray, and it was a sure bet they noticed everything that went on around him.
In spite of Don Enrique’s commanding presence, it was hard for me to pay much attention to anything other than the sight beside him. The woman standing off to his left was truly a vision. Dark black hair, green eyes, and a fair complexion would stir any man under the right circumstances, but this was different.
Señorita Hernandez was about the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, real life and pictures included. Her eyes seemed to stare right through a man. She stood by her father’s side, wearing a black skirt and a charra-style blouse that highlighted a figure women would fight over, and men would gladly die for.
They say that cowboys pride their hats so much they dress from the top down and undress from the bottom up. Maybe so, but that afternoon my flat brim flew off into my hands with a sweep that would have made my ma proud.
“Mucho gusto,” I said, offering her my best smile.
Before she could reply, Don Enrique abruptly spoke out. “My daughter Rosa María and I both speak your language, señor.” He was polite, but still the tone was there, as if cautioning me about his daughter and reminding me I was still a stranger.
I caught his drift and simply nodded back at him.
He turned to listen to his caporal, who strategically placed himself between the two of us before replying. I caught enough to understand Chavez was explaining who I was and how I was looking for a riding job. What I couldn’t figure out was whether he was giving me the benefit of the doubt, or ending things before I even got half a chance.
Meanwhile, I was content just to exchange smiles with the señorita. I had time to reconsider the caporal’s joke about pretty men, but, right then and there, I was glad to have inherited my pa’s looks. I only hoped the señorita was, too.
“My men know every part of Méjico from here to Chiapas, joven, but few have traveled much in what is now your country.”
My concentration reluctantly shifted back as Don Enrique addressed me directly.
“Of late we have little reason to trust your countrymen, but Francisco and Miguel both speak well of you. We plan to leave here within the week, so, if you still wish to hire on, you may join the vaqueros in the bunkhouse.” He gestured to a long building off to the far right.
“Thank you, sir, I will,” I replied. “But since I wasn’t sure of the if or the when of the job, I’ll just stay the night. First thing in the morning I’ll head back to town. Left some things that’ll need tending to first,” I explained. “Then, if it’s all right with you, I’ll join the drive when you cross over, just north past town.”
“Muy bien, as you wish, joven.”
Don Enrique seemed satisfied, but I could tell Chavez was far from pleased. That was understandable. A ranch foreman likes to know more about the men he rides with than what I’d offered Chavez, but I hoped he’d cool off once we hit the trail and began working together. In the meantime, I tried my best to connect with Rosa without appearing overly attentive. Riding away without getting better acquainted with her would be hard for me, but there was little I could do other than hope to leave her with a good first impression.
After I put my horse up, one of the ranch hands, a short stocky lad named Rogelio, showed me to the bunkhouse. Buildings on the hacienda were constructed a little differently from those on northern ranches. Up north they tend toward sod roofs and dirt-floored houses, with walls made from logs chinked with clay. The cracks are usually patched with leftover newspaper and the shacks heated with iron stoves.
Down here things were much different. Both the bunk and chuck houses were long, one level, tile-roofed affairs. Their adobe walls were cemented with mud about four to five feet thick, which tends to keep things cooler in summer. There weren’t any indoor stoves here, either, since it was usually much too hot. Instead, the cooking was done in clay ovens, or hornos, kept just outside the buildings.
The hacienda supported a lot of women sirvientas, who were kept busy washing, sewing, and tending to their young. Out in front of the bunkhouse sat an old ranchero who had to be ninety if he was a day. During the whole time I spent on the hacienda he just sat there on a cut-out keg, quietly watching the others and smoking the remnants of a cigarette whose ashes kept falling into his lap. From the size of that pile of ashes I’d say he smoked quite a few during the day.
I didn’t really expect any fancy lodgings, but the evening spent in the bunkhouse was surprising
ly comfortable. Living in another territory can be unsettling enough, but on top of that I was starting work with strangers who all spoke a foreign tongue. If it weren’t for the vaqueros’ sense of humor and Miguel’s help with the translating, I would have been completely lost.
Rogelio directed me to a slat cot in the far corner, and then shoved a wooden tack box next to it to store my kit. He then pointed out various aspects of the hacienda and introduced me to a few of the other hands. Miguel and Francisco still had to unload the supplies we’d brought, but, since I felt out of place just standing around, I decided to lend them a hand.
Unloading four pack mules and storing supplies wasn’t all that hard, but it did cause me to work up quite an appetite. When combined with a full afternoon’s work, the smell from those hornos helped remind me it was near dinnertime and, judging from the growling sounds emanating from Miguel’s stomach, it was plain I wasn’t the only hungry one.
As soon as the last box of nails and spools of wire were stored, we hurried back, anxious to get first crack at the chow. Even taking my hunger into account, the chuck house meal was still real tasty, with lots of refried fríjoles, big soft tortillas, and cheese mixed in.
Mejicanos favor lots of jalapeño chile peppers and pile them high on everything. I’ve always been one willing to follow local customs, but this time I carefully avoided the jalapeños, remembering a whole day on horseback spent nursing the burning effects of those hot peppers on my poor gringo stomach. I wasn’t anxious to repeat it.
After dinner the vaqueros settled down to the usual bunkhouse chores. Some cleaned tack, a few played cards, one told tall stories, and another played the inevitable guitarra. I decided to walk off dinner and took a stroll around the hacienda.
The Hernandez main house was situated right where the river curved and the water had a pleasant cooling effect. But more importantly, having a river wrap around behind the house as it did served as a natural barrier against unwanted or unexpected visitors. I reasoned that it would make the house an easy place to defend, in case of attack.
I felt no need to sneak around, but over the years I’d developed a tendency to position myself in shadows, or with my back to something solid, a habit that has saved my hide on a number of occasions while alone on the trail. I soon found myself standing under a nearby tree, admiring the layout of the house when Señorita Rosa suddenly appeared on the verandah. She stood there silently looking up at the evening sky, occasionally running her fingers through her long silky hair.
I watched silently for a while before finally speaking out. Apparently she hadn’t noticed me.
“Buenas tardes, señorita,” I said softly while slowly emerging from under the tree so as not to startle her. Evidently it didn’t work, for she gasped rather loudly.
“Didn’t mean to frighten you,” I said apologetically. “I was just admiring the hacienda when you came outside.”
“It is all right,” she replied in English. “You took me somewhat by surprise, although I have to admit that is usually not easy to do to me. I have lived on the trail many times with my father and try to notice such things.”
“You should be very proud of him,” I replied. “This is one of the most pleasant places I have been to in quite a long while.”
“Sí, I am very proud.” She nodded. “It has been very hard for Papa. My mother died when I was born and he was forced to raise me alone.”
“I lost my folks a while back, too. I’m sorry.”
Rosa came closer to the railing at the end of the verandah as we continued to converse. She explained why the drive was so important to her family. Don Enrique’s only other living relative, a younger sister named Ana, had married an American, apparently an ex-military man, and had moved to California with him. The two of them were now struggling to build up a new ranch from scratch. Unfortunately Rosa’s aunt had written that of late land grabbers were trying to force them out and steal their ranch.
“California was once our land,” Rosa said bitterly. “Now they treat californianos and mejicanos like they somehow don’t belong.”
Sadly I couldn’t disagree with her.
“Fortunately for us, though, horses are badly needed right now in that whole area. The economic success their sale will bring should allow my uncle to fight the others off,” Rosa added. “But, meanwhile, mi tía says they are just barely getting by.”
“If you don’t mind my asking…why doesn’t your pa just send them the money?” I inquired. “With a big hacienda like this he should be doing well enough to afford it.”
“My father has a lot…uh…como se llama …tied up in livestock, and he has spent much trying to develop new line crosses. Also, mi tío is a very proud man. He simply would not take charity, even from family. So it was my idea to let my uncle sell our horses in his part of California, where the prices are higher, and then split the money with my father. That way they both will profit. But, you see, our problem will be the difficulty of taking so many horses such a distance through your country.” After a brief pause she added: “That is why my father needs a good scout. I do hope you will be of help.”
I couldn’t possibly say no to those eyes, or to her smile, and quickly assured her I would do my best.
We continued to talk for a short time longer. Rosa always stayed in the light on her side of the railing as was only proper for a señorita in her situation. I could tell that the more we talked, the more uncomfortable she became, perhaps fearing her father might intrude, or think it improper for her to be alone with a man so long.
As for me, I could easily have stayed there all night listening to the sound of her voice, but after a while I began to have a rather strange feeling. It was sort of like having someone staring at the back of my head. It first started after I heard some leaves rustle behind us. Although I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, I was still bothered by a strange something I just couldn’t explain.
If someone was prowling around out there, I didn’t want the señorita involved. Besides, a fellow ought to know how to court a woman without overstaying his welcome, so I soon bid her a good night, repeating my promise to do my best.
I returned to the bunkhouse by a different path and noticed nothing unusual. Even so, I have a sixth sense about some things, one I’ve grown to trust. I couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that we had been watched.
The next morning found me up early. It was already so hot I worked up a sweat just currycombing my horse and picking out his hoofs. I’d thrown my saddle on the bay and was in the process of cinching it up when I felt a strong tap on my back. I turned to find the caporal almost flat against my face, looking madder than a rabid dog.
Vaqueros usually wear large spurs with long spiked rowels that are individually designed. They are much larger than the Texican kind and somewhat awkward to walk in, so vaqueros often remove them when afoot. This time the caporal wasn’t mounted. Chavez had come up on me quietly and without his spurs, so I knew something was definitely wrong.
“Hear me good, gringo. You do not go near the Señorita Rosa. You do not talk to the señorita. You do not even think of her! ¿Me comprendes, gringo?”
His tone made it instantly clear that it had been either him or one of his men who had been watching us last night. It was also plain that he was either very jealous or dangerously overprotective. Either way he was in one foul mood.
“You don’t even know me,” I answered defensively. “Besides, don’t you think it’s a little early for this sort of thing?” I was trying to buy enough time to distance myself a little from him. “And, anyhow, isn’t what I say and do around the señorita her business, not yours?” I added more firmly.
That last one was definitely the wrong question to ask at the time. After all, I was a stranger, a trail hand, and a gringo to boot.
Not surprisingly Chavez reacted quickly and angrily. Even though I was sort of expecting it, Chavez threw his punch so fast it still caught me off guard. If I hadn’t been backing up
, those fists of his would have had me out for the count. As it was, I only partially slipped a punch that clipped me hard on the ear and caught part of my cheek. After hearing bells for a second, I knew this wasn’t going to be easy.
Although I can throw a fair punch myself, I’ve always preferred to use my size advantage by wrestling whenever possible. Rather than slugging things out and breaking knuckles on someone’s face, I’ve found that most men don’t fight well once down on the ground. Furthermore, I’d left my holster hanging on my saddle horn while Chavez on the other hand was still armed.
I took a few punches that, for the most part, I managed to block with my shoulders, and then appeared to stagger forward, setting myself up for his roundhouse right. Just as I’d counted on, Chavez swung hard, but I dropped down unexpectedly, slipped under his punch into a crouch, and shoved forward.
Caught full force in the gut with my shoulder, Chavez lost his wind. I grabbed him with both arms and spun him around as he fell. He hit the ground and rolled quickly back up, only this time without the revolver I’d snatched up out of his holster.
The caporal hesitated and glared at me, unsure of how best to proceed. I was mad enough to want things to continue, but only now on my terms. Without taking my eyes off of him, I unloaded the cylinder onto the ground and tossed his pistol into a nearby barrel. Then I raised both my hands up with a come-and-get-it gesture.
He spit and rushed straight at me, full force. As he bore down on me, I turned just slightly and dropped to my left knee, with my left hand high and my right low.
Unable to stop, Chavez fell onto my back, and I sent him cartwheeling over my shoulders, feet high, and flat onto his back. It would have been enough to knock the average man out, but it only winded him a little. Before he recovered, however, we heard a loud shout from behind us.
“¡Hombre! ¿Que pasa aqui?” Don Enrique was just rounding the corner when he’d called out.
