Trail Hand

by R. W. Stone

  Back home children learn not to stick their hands anywhere without looking first, but after a couple of hours of backbreaking labor I got a little careless. While trying to get a better purchase on a branch that just wouldn’t budge, I reached down under it without checking first. When Miguel’s horse pulled back, the rope snapped and I tumbled backward with the branch landing smack on top of me.

  I was completely pinned down when, to my horror, I discovered that I had been clearing the branches around an active rattlesnake pit. Two six footers were coiling, one close to my arm and the other near the calf muscle which had become exposed during the fall when my pant leg snagged.

  Trapped under that branch I had no way to reach my gun. The boot was pulled halfway off and my leg was within inches of the serpent. I screamed for help, kicking sand as the snake rattled, preparing to strike. Try as I might, I couldn’t free my arm. In fact that whole side of my body was caught tightly. Unable to move, my eyes were frozen on a pair of hideously curved fangs. I felt something fly by my face and a shot rang out.

  Almost simultaneously the first rattler was cut in half by the machete Francisco had thrown, while the other snake exploded from the impact of Miguel’s bullet. Thankfully Francisco had been right about Miguel; his draw was both fast, and accurate.

  After they had me free of the tree and had dusted me off, I pulled the blade free and offered it back gratefully.

  “You know, boys,” I said, handing over the machete, “after reconsidering things, I just may get me one of these. You’re right, they are kinda useful for working around snakes. Gracias, hombres.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “Don’t mention it, amigo.”

  I didn’t, but, as far as I was concerned from that point on, those two could call in their markers anytime and I’d see to it they were cashed.

  Reassured that I was all right, Francisco rode back to the others to act as guide while Miguel and I made preparations to stake out the camp. The valley was just as I’d remembered it, well sheltered and with plenty of running water.

  That evening was one of the most pleasant I can remember. The water was cool, the food good, and the weather even better. I remember how splendid the sun looked as it set that day, glowing soft orange as if the fire had gone from it. The moon was full, and shone brightly as wisps of clouds floated by. Even Chavez was in a good mood, although he’d never admit out loud that I’d been right.

  After dinner several of the vaqueros went over to Joaquin’s chuck wagon and retrieved the musical instruments they’d stashed there. In every group of mejicanos I’d ever known, there was always someone who played the guitar, and this bunch was no exception. In fact, most all of the men could pick a little, and soon music filled the night air, sometimes quiet and peaceful, sometimes loud and lively.

  Armando grabbed Chango’s arm and the two of them began prancing around. I tossed my sombrero in the ring and everyone started laughing as several others joined my half-baked hat dance.

  A short while later, stretched out listening to the men sing an old ranchero tune, called “El Cantador”, I complimented Ricardo on his fancy rope work.

  “I saw the loop you threw over that grulla trying to get away from you this morning. Nice job. I was sure he was going to beat it,” I said in broken Spanish.

  “Eduardo is really much better,” Miguel translated Ricardo’s words as he sat down alongside of us, holding a second plate of Joaquin’s special hot rice. “Arroz a la mejicana.”

  They called their friend over to join us.

  “Oye, Eduardo, ven acá y trae tu reata.”

  Eduardo came over, adjusting the knot on what had to be the longest lariat I’d ever seen.

  “¡Andale, Eduardo!” shouted Armando joining in the fun. “Show the gringo how it’s really done.”

  I have to admit I was impressed. Over the next ten minutes Eduardo made that rope dance a series of pasos that were a wonder to behold.

  Later that night, while pouring myself another cup of coffee I noticed Señor Hernandez sitting off to one side, alone, with an empty cup in his hand. Rather than waiting for him to get up, I took the pot over and refilled his cup.

  “Mind if I sit here with you a spell?” I said in Spanish, or so I thought.

  “‘Sentarme un rato’ means sit a while,” the don replied. “But you just asked me if you could ‘sentarme con una rata’ which translates as ‘may I sit with a rat?’ However,” he said with a grin, “the answer is yes, but only if we speak English. My ears are getting too old to suffer the agony of a beginner’s accent.”

  I laughed in agreement, but, however bad my accent might sound, I was intent on improving it, as well as my vocabulary.

  “I don’t stay a beginner long at most things I set my mind to,” I said proudly.

  “Muy bien. I think you will find Castellano, our original Spanish, to be a rich and descriptive tongue. One that is, in fact, even more logical than your own language.”

  “How’s that?” I asked defensively.

  “For one thing, the English always put their descriptions before the object of conversation. In Spanish we say…‘la casa blanca, cuadrada y grande,’…or ‘the house that is white, square, and large.’ However, in English, you start out, instead, by describing something that has not yet been identified…the big, square, white…”—he paused— “house. You see, it is backward.”

  “Well, you might have a point. I never thought about it like that,” I said, pondering the idea. “But then, on the other hand, I never had any problems understanding English, and I’ve been speaking it since I was a kid.” It was a lame joke at best.

  “Of course.” He smiled. “But even you will have to admit, it makes more sense to put the noun before the description. Makes the language more sensible and easier to learn.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” I said, anxious to change the subject, “how did someone like you, someone so learned, choose to settle in these parts? Seems like you’d have been more comfortable in the city.”

  “My family originates from Sevilla, in Spain. There it is the custom for the inheritance to go to the older son. My father was the best horseman in the region and was well educated in both breeding and ranch management. Unfortunately he was the second son. So you see my uncle inherited all the family lands. It seems that with our people one either works the land, joins the army, or becomes a priest, and my father was not the sort to spend his life in a church.”

  “So he joined the army.”

  “Sí. He was a captain with the mounted Lancers. Eventually he came to Méjico and married. As a boy I remember how he read with disgust the letters from home, and the discussions with my mother about how my uncle was ruining the land and mismanaging things. I vowed someday to create another hacienda, one where my father could finish his days doing what he most loved, raising fine horses.

  “I have been blessed with many things during my life, not the least of which was Rosa’s mother. My beloved wife Gloria worked, struggled, and fought by my side, year after year, until we finally established a fine ranch, one my father could be proud of. One that would bring honor to our name. I even imported horses from Andalusia, the finest in the world.”

  “I won’t argue that point with you, Don Enrique.”

  “Gracias.”

  “And then he joined you, your father? He helped you finish breeding this herd?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately no. Papa died the very same month that the horses arrived. It was not a good time for us. My wife also died that year, soon after giving birth to Rosita.”

  “I’m sorry. I know how much it hurts to lose one’s family.”

  “Were it not for Rosa María, I might have given it all up, but having a daughter to care for gave me instead more determination. I wanted to leave her something important. Wealth and power are important, sí, but they are not everything. I also wanted Rosa to have a sense of honor and pride, and a sense of obligation to others.”

  “If you
’ll allow me, sir, from what little I know of her, I think it’s safe to say you succeeded at that.”

  Don Enrique smiled and nodded. “Rosa has worked the hacienda alongside of me all her life, and I am proud to say the vaqueros respect her as much as they would any man.”

  “Well, Chavez for one sure seems awfully protective of her,” I added, remembering the clout he’d given me. “Mind if I ask you if there’s anything between the two of them? You know…romantically?”

  “¿El caporal y Rosa? No. They are more like brother and sister. Chavez’s father worked for me as my first caporal, and the two children grew up together. I am not sure who fell off more horses or who had more black eyes as a child,” he said, laughing, “but I do remember they were constantly fighting, as most siblings will. When his father died, Chavez took his place as caporal. He is very protective of us both, especially of Rosa, I will admit, but he is engaged to another girl named Caridad Luz. I love him as I would a son and I owe him a great deal more than loyalty. I owe him my life.”

  “I understand that he got that scar in a knife fight?”

  “Sí.” Don Enrique sighed heavily and stared off into space. He hesitated so long I wasn’t sure if he was going to continue or not, but he finally took another sip of coffee and explained.

  “Some time ago we were taking money to our bank when a band of thieves attacked us. Chavez’s father was shot down right in front of his son, and I in turn shot the outlaw.” As he spoke, Don Enrique’s right arm brushed instinctively against his revolver. “But two others rushed me from behind and knocked the pistola from my hand. They had knives, and one of them would have surely killed me on the spot had not Chavez suddenly thrown his own knife into the man’s back. He then fought the other one barehanded.”

  “And that’s when he got cut?”

  “Sí. But even so he still fared better than the other. Chavez killed that ladrón with his own knife. From what they tell me his fiancée, Caridad, has been very understanding and still loves him very much, but sadly Chavez has not been the same man since the wound.”

  “A little too much on the serious side?” I suggested.

  “It is understandable. I suppose one cannot blame him much for that. But he is a good man and an excellent caporal.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I said. “But he sure doesn’t give new folks much of a chance.”

  “I forgot to mention”—Señor Hernandez paused— “the thieves at the bank…they were of your people, americanos.”

  That last one gave me something to think on.

  The following morning, as usual, I made preparations to scout ahead. I wanted to peruse the next water hole and planned to get an early start. While saddling my horse, I paused to chat with Miguel, who had already started what had now become his morning routine—boots, hat, coffee, a long shave, and then more coffee.

  “Which way you headed today?” he asked, splashing water on his face from a bucket perched on the chuck wagon tailboard.

  “Want to check up ahead, then swing over to the northwest and have a look-see. Make sure everything’s OK.”

  Miguel lathered his face using an old bone-handled shaving brush.

  “I swear, hombre, you have got to be the shavingest vaquero I ever met,” I joked. “And that goes for most cowboys, too,” I added.

  He adjusted a small mirror that hung from a nail on the side of the chuck wagon. “¿Tu cres, compadre?” he asked, feigning surprise.

  “Do I mean it?” I replied. “You bet. Hell, most wranglers wouldn’t touch a razor on a trail drive, even if they were forced to at gun point. You been looking in that mirror, shavin’ and fussin’ with that moustache of yours every day since we left the border. Reckon you oughter have it right by now. Besides, ain’t no ladies out here to impress, you know.”

  He adjusted the mirror to keep the glare out of his eyes before replying. “Cierto, but how do you say it…the cleanliness is next to God.”

  “Godliness,” I said, correcting him.

  “Sí, godliness,” he responded, pointing in the direction of Inocente Vizcara, one of the other vaqueros in the outfit, who was just awakening. Admittedly Inocente’s unkempt beard did resemble a large bird’s nest.

  “OK, I don’t shave, so you want I should to look like that?” Miguel asked jokingly. “No, not me, I don’t want no birdies landing on my face.” He laughed, shaking his razor over at Inocente to emphasize his point.

  I swung into the saddle and took up the reins. “Well maybe you’re right after all, Miguel. How about saving me some of that soap for when I get back.”

  “You going very far?” Inocente asked as I rode by.

  “Three days or so, I reckon.”

  “Cuidate, hombre,” Miguel said, waving good bye, his soap brush still full of lather.

  “Thanks. You take care, too.” The last thing I remember seeing as I rode off was Inocente arguing with Miguel, and the morning sun reflecting brightly off his shaving mirror.

  Chapter Six

  Following remote stretches of trail has always been what I enjoy most in life. There’s a quiet calm that always comes over a man after hours alone on horseback. The soft rhythmical creaking of the saddle combines with the occasional rattle of canteen or rifle swinging to or fro to create a peaceful melody.

  Strangely, even though riding is physically taxing, I’ve always found it mentally relaxing. Maybe because there’re no arguments, no worrisome chatter, no rules to follow, or aggravation.

  Even though on the trail it’s essential to remain alert to the possibility of danger, eventually it becomes second nature. After a spell on horseback the mind stops fretting and life’s focus becomes much clearer. There’s just a oneness of man, horse, and Nature.

  I’m not sure that it has to do with any special quality the horse might have, though. For one thing, they don’t react like pets do. A good dog, for example, practically lives to please its master. You treat it well and you’ll have a dependable friend for life. On the other hand, some of the hardest working trail horses I’ve known would bite, stomp, or kick you silly the first chance they get.

  A true horseman never stops adjusting to a horse’s body or reacting to its mood. The trick is to relax, yet maintain control, and the rider who lets his guard down, more often than not, suddenly finds himself afoot. You can’t teach a horse dependability, either. A sorry cayuse will spook at every tumbleweed and step in every hole. I suppose that’s why it’s called horse sense—either a cayuse has it or doesn’t.

  With a trail-wise horse, life can be downright pleasant. A good pony is sure-footed, agile, and alert. It will walk when it’s supposed to, stand if you want it to, and run like blazes when it has to. And that’s the way that Morgan bay of mine was. He was as sound as any horse I’ve ever had.

  I’d ridden several hours without any signs of trouble, Indian, outlaw, or otherwise, and figured my current position to be about three days northwest of where the herd was camped. The Morgan could have gone on, but, since he was sweating heavily, I paused alongside the rim of a long gully that sloped off from my right, and down about forty feet.

  The area was so hot, dry, and dusty it was a sure bet even the bay was daydreaming about the last creek we’d crossed. I know I was. We’d been searching for signs of water without much luck until finally I noticed the horse flaring his nostrils, as if he were taking a sudden interest in something. Up ahead was a small shallow depression that had formed underneath a smooth rock face overhang. From the way it looked, it promised to be a small collecting basin.

  I was concentrating on that overhang when the Morgan suddenly pricked up his ears. The years had given me enough trust in that stallion to know something was wrong. His head turned quickly to the left and almost simultaneously I caught a glint of light reflecting off something metal on a ridge about 100 yards off.

  Everything happened so fast I’m still not sure which came first. There was a puff in the dirt near me, and a sharp crack, a sound that could have o
nly come from a rifle shot.

  I turned in the saddle, drew my Colt, and fired. It was a long ways off to hit anything with a handgun, but mine was purely a reflex action. Turning suddenly like that must have saved me, but the only thing I really remember before everything went black was flinching in pain and grabbing for my head.

  I came to, sprawled, face down, at the bottom of the gully, tortured by a loud buzzing sound that seemed louder inside my head than it did from its source, a nearby swarm of bees. Even dazed as I was, I knew it wouldn’t be smart just to sit up and start moving around. Whoever had shot me might still be around, and I had no way of knowing how long I’d been out.

  The dust caked into my mouth and nose as I laid there playing ’possum. It seemed like a good half hour before even I dared open my eyes. After hearing nothing but those bees, I finally felt safe enough to roll over slowly and check myself. Putting a hand to my head, I found the whole right side covered with dried blood. There was no way to tell how much I’d lost, but at least the bones felt intact. Once again I was grateful for the hard head my ma always accused me of having.

  Getting up was a chore, but somehow I managed. After taking stock, I realized my pistol was missing from its holster, and began anxiously searching around until I finally found it half buried in the dirt in front of me. The fall must have covered it over with dust.

  I probably wouldn’t be alive now were it not for my angle of fall. Had my pistol been visible, it would surely have attracted too much attention to ignore. It stood to reason that whoever had bushwhacked me hadn’t bothered to enter the gully to make sure I was dead. There was plenty of my blood in the sand, but no boot marks other than my own were present, which confirmed my suspicion.

  Head wounds tend to bleed more than other kinds, and many times appear worse than they actually are. That must have been the reason I was mistakenly left for dead. Regardless of how I looked, my head was pounding so bad I had a hard time convincing myself I wasn’t still going to end up dead, anyway. I felt downright critical.

  Whether barely alive or not, I had lost a lot of blood and had no way of knowing if I was going to pass out again. One thing I did know, though— I had to reach water in a hurry. Unfortunately, in my condition, even the short climb back up that small incline was tough. Just crawling twenty feet winded me so much I had to pause repeatedly, and panted for several minutes at a time before finally reaching the top.