Trail Hand

by R. W. Stone

  “I’m leaving. I’ve no choice about that,” I said, stroking her hair. “But I’m coming back. That you can count on. I’m innocent, and now I’ve got a special reason to prove it, one more important than the law or my reputation. I’ve got you. Believe me, I’ll be back with the herd, or the money for it, or I’ll die trying.”

  “I believe you will,” she said quickly. “Try to reach my horse, querido, it’s over at the stable. You can ride away. If nobody else sees, maybe I can convince Chavez, later, that he was wrong about you.”

  I nodded back at her and rechecked the window.

  “Cuidate, carino,” she whispered as I darted out the door.

  The street was still empty as I headed toward the stable, but before I made it halfway across one of the vaqueros, Ricardo, suddenly emerged from the café across the street. He took one look at me and immediately went for his gun.

  “Ricardo, no!” I yelled frantically. “Esperate …wait!” But it was no use, his gun was already drawn. He fired as I ducked left, and luckily he missed. I drew and fired, aiming low, hoping just to knock him off balance.

  He was young and enthusiastic. After riding with him only a short time I’d grown fond of his good nature. I knew he was only reacting as any top hand would. He believed me to be the outlaw who had shot his boss, and he was protecting the brand. There was no way I was going to kill him if I could help it, but unfortunately for Ricardo I couldn’t let him keep on shooting at me, either.

  My bullet caught his left thigh, spun him around, and knocked him down. I knew our gunfire would awake the dead, and in a minute or so every vaquero in town would be out in the street. My eyes caught sight of another horse tied to the hitching post at the end of the street, a big chocolate roan, saddled and waiting. I headed over to it, hitting the saddle on the run.

  Just as expected, several vaqueros poured out of the cantina, pointing at Ricardo and shouting to one another. Their shots rang out behind me as I lit a shuck out of town at full tilt. I didn’t have time to look back, and had to gallop away with my feet hanging out of the short stirrups on that roan’s mejicano saddle. It was a full hour before I was finally able to stop to adjust them to my own length and to plan my next move.

  The mejicano saddle on that roan was a large elaborate affair and in order to lengthen its stirrups to accommodate my feet, I had to untie long rawhide strings interwoven along the leathers. Rather than using snaps or buckles like those on my other saddles, these stirrup leathers laced up crosswise like a lumberjack boot. It took me several minutes just to figure them out.

  I still had the saddlebags with me I’d taken from the store, but this saddle had its own leather mochillas built in behind the cantle of its seat. Instead of tying leather bags down behind the seat with straps like a Texas or Colorado saddle, the pouches on the mejicano silla de montar actually formed the entire rear part of the saddle.

  After the way things had worked out so far, I knew I’d be riding this rig for a while, so I studied it carefully. The saddle seat was an uncovered wooden tree with a couple of wide straps crisscrossing over it and then disappearing down into the fenders and skirts. Unlike my saddle this one had a split up the middle similar to the McClellan seat the cavalry uses.

  I’d once seen a similar saddle used by some trappers down from Canada, but I always thought it looked mighty uncomfortable. “Ball buster” is the expression some of the Army boys use to describe that type of saddle, but everyone admits it’s easier on the horse. That split up the middle almost had me thinking about going bareback, but the vaqueros seemed to favor it. Surprisingly I’d just rode a full hour without any appreciable side effects, so I decided to stop worrying, figuring it couldn’t be any worse than that old rawhide saddle I’d first left home on.

  One thing I did fancy, however, was the pommel, or saddle horn. This one was a large, pure white, dish-like affair as broad around as my two hands would be with fingers fully open. The Texas roping saddles I was used to have a hard but much smaller pommel horn, suited for the type of work they’re used for. The big Mexican pommel on this saddle was made for longer reatas and a different style of cattle roping. It angled up higher and was much wider.

  There was a Spencer rifle in the scabbard on the right side of the saddle and, I noticed with some amusement, a large machete in the sheath that hung from the left side pinned under the stirrup leather.

  The gelding snorted and flipped his head up to shoo away a small bee buzzing around his ear. I had no complaints whatsoever about my luck in finding that cayuse all saddled and waiting. I’d admired his stamina and agility ever since I first saw Chavez working with him. As far as horses go, he was eventempered and remarkably fast.

  One thing I did miss, however, was the feel of leather reins in my hand. Chavez had this roan fitted out with one of those colorfully braided but uncomfortably stiff rope affairs that come up short into a knot, right where I usually held my hands. By my way of thinking, the bit was also too harsh on the mouth, and I vowed to replace it the first chance I got with a Texas-style leather bridle and curb bit.

  I started making plans. I’d promised Rosa to go after the herd, and that was one promise I aimed to keep. The problem was I had no idea where the horses would be by now. All I had to go on was the poker chip I’d found from The Golden Goose Saloon in Gila City, a pretty slim clue. It might just have been an old good luck piece, or its presence merely a coincidence. Maybe one of the rustlers had gambled there once and simply forgot to return the chip.

  On the other hand it could mean the rustlers had passed through Gila City, and that they might return by the same route. Or if not, maybe someone around town could supply me with some bit of information that would be of help. I had no choice, I didn’t know where else to go, so I headed for Gila City.

  Besides the fact that the poker chip was the only clue I had, there was the additional problem of what to do once I found the gang. One man can’t do much against that many outlaws, especially when they include the sort of cold-blooded killers who would slit a man’s throat from behind.

  One thing more was certain. Chavez wasn’t the type to quit something once he got started. He believed me responsible for stealing his herd and almost killing Don Enrique. Now that I’d shot Ricardo, there wasn’t a single vaquero who’d believe me. They were sure to be fast on my trail, and I knew, if they caught me before I reached the herd, I’d swing from the nearest tree.

  While I knew the vaqueros could be loyal friends, I was equally convinced that they’d be fearsome opponents. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made to use that fact to my advantage. I wouldn’t let them catch me, but nothing said I couldn’t let them follow.

  In fact, a bunch of armed and angry mejicanos might just come in handy when I found the rustlers. That is, if I found the rustlers. The trick would be to keep well ahead of the vaqueros, all the while making myself so hard to follow that it would buy me enough time to investigate. Still, I had to do so without letting them lose my trail for good.

  I was more grateful than ever for all the tricks Sprout had taught me, and hoped that Chavez and his men were good trackers. Good, that is, but not too good.

  So, I started a game of cat and mouse. At times my trail would seem to disappear, while at others conveniently reappear just as suddenly. My tracks led into blind cañons, backtracked along rivers, and sometimes seemed to head off in several different directions at once. Ultimately, however, my trail led west. West toward Gila City.

  Chapter Eleven

  Funny how the mind works when you’re tired. I’d been riding for several days straight without stopping, with little water and even less food. I was being hunted by what could turn out to be a Mexican lynch mob. It was a toss up as to who was dustier, the horse or me, and to top it off, when I finally reached Gila City, there was a manure smell in the air so strong the odor reached me even before the town came into view. Normally the stench would have been damned disagreeable if not downright intolerable, but for some
strange reason it just made me smile. It was a funny reaction, but I guess it reminded me of the time ten of us from the old L Bar got into an argument over different kinds of critter smells.

  We’d been driving cattle toward Kansas for over a month and had stopped for the night. After the usual evening pleasantries we were bedding down when Frank Kendall bent over to move his saddle. Frank’s rump was practically sticking right in Pinto Ward’s face when he broke wind. Damned if Pinto didn’t fall over backward trying to get out of the way. He was so mad Pinto would have shot Frank right on the spot were it not for the rest of us laughing ourselves half to death.

  That, of course, started the boys off on a night-long debate on the virtues of different animal leavings. As expected, most of the cowboys were convinced that cow patties smelled the sweetest, whereas those of us who worked as wranglers sang the virtues of the noble steed’s road apples. The buffalo chip was discussed, but for argument’s sake, and since there wasn’t an Indian among us at the time, the buffalo was left in the same group as cattle.

  There were a couple of boys from Tennessee who actually claimed they preferred the smell of pig droppings to all others, and it took half the night for them to convince us they were really serious.

  We finally stopped arguing when Chester Martin shouted: “Sheep! Sheep stinks the worst, and ain’t no one convincin’ me otherwise!”

  The fact we had spent the better part of three hours trying to decide which manure smelled the best, not the worst, seemed to have eluded him. But then again, it seemed an honorable way for us all to agree on something, even those who had never even seen a sheep. Besides, nobody on that drive wanted to be the one to disagree with Chester Martin. It was hard enough getting along with Ches when he was in a good mood, without risking getting him into a bad one, so we all unanimously agreed—sheep stinks the worst!

  I remember that bunch as always arguing about something stupid, but we did have good times together. Now, with all there was to worry about, I found myself daydreaming about something that silly. Funny how the mind works sometimes.

  As I rode into the southeast edge of town, the livery was the first building that appeared. It was about as dirty as everything else there. Piled all around the stable were several twelve-foot-high stacks full of old urine-soaked hay and horse droppings, not to mention several thousand stable flies.

  There was a circular corral out in front made of split logs nailed to a dozen or so vertical poles, but there wasn’t a single straight post in the whole ring. Out in back was a long rectangular lean-to shack with about thirty standing stalls and a half dozen box stalls.

  I rode up to a trough made from an old barrel that had been cut lengthwise and turned on its side, and watered the horse. An old bearded groom was brushing out a chestnut gelding hitched to one of the corral posts. I noticed the man wore an old black stovepipe hat that had a rather sizable chunk torn out of it.

  I dismounted, loosened the cinch, and pulled the saddle.

  The old man caught me glancing at his hat, spit, and grinned back at me. “A swaybacked hammer-headed old jack took a bite out of it about a year back.”

  I nodded, wondering why he hadn’t bothered to buy another hat. But then again, he didn’t bother to swat away the flies that were constantly landing on him, either.

  “You the owner here?”

  “Am now. Previous one got shot after selling a blind grulla to the wrong feller. Ah told him he ought to give the money back.” He shook his head. “Guess he learned the hard way…the customer’s always right.’ Specially when he’s holdin’ a double-barreled sawed-off. The name’s Lijah. Just toss your tack on that pole over there. You need anything special?”

  “Well, I’d like him brushed down, and when you feed him, mix some corn in with the hay.”

  “Cost you extra.”

  “Figured as much,” I said, tossing him a coin. “I may be leaving soon, so how about making sure he’s saddled back up again after he’s cooled off and fed.”

  Elijah spat a stream of tobacco juice from his chaw and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Looks like he’s been rode hard.” He dried his hand on the front of his shirt. Judging by his shirt it must have been a regular habit.

  “Maybe so, but it don’t mean I want him put up wet.” My reply was meant to insure things got done right. “By the way, is there a saloon around here called The Golden Goose?” I asked.

  “Sure is, if you feel like blowing all your loot.” He used his hat to point with. “Go on down about four buildings and turn left. You cain’t miss it.” I must have looked worse than I thought because he added: “Some folks clean up and shave at the Chinaman’s place. Up the street over there, second building.” Obviously he wasn’t one of them.

  Right then a wash would have felt swell, but with Chavez and his men hot on my trail I couldn’t spare the time. At least for now I’d have to stay just as I was.

  Elijah began untying the chestnut. When I started to leave, he turned the horse back toward the stable. The EH brand on the gelding’s rump caught my eye as he swung around.

  “Say, how about that,” I said. “I have a friend that rides a gelding just like that one. Swear they could be twins. Even has the same three socks.”

  “That so,” Elijah said. “Small world, ain’t it?”

  “Well it probably isn’t my friend’s. Short fat friendly chap with wide sideburns?”

  “Nah,’ way off.” He shrugged. “This one’s a tall thin sort with a full beard. Carries a big bone-handled knife in a chest rig. You know…the kind they call an Arkansas toothpick. Rode in with two others. Kind of a hardcase iffen you ask me.” Apparently rethinking what he’d just said to me, a total stranger, he quickly added: “But then again ain’t none o’ my business.” He quickly disappeared with the gelding back into the barn.

  It wasn’t far to the saloon, but the street was so miserably dusty I reconsidered stopping for that bath. I ended up deciding against it, though. For me to earn the confidence of rustlers and bushwhackers I’d have to give the impression of someone on the run. Well, at least that much was true, I thought to myself grimly.

  I paused at the front of the saloon and peered through the double doors before entering. The Golden Goose was anything but golden, the same being true of the rest of Gila City.

  At one point the town had boomed, the mines attracting fortune-seekers from all over. But that was years ago. The glory days had long passed, and those that hadn’t already left town were probably now too far down on their luck to get out. Either that or they stayed on in order to prey on the misfortunes of others, like vultures cleaning a carcass.

  Whoever owned this saloon was obviously more interested in stripping the remainder of his customers of their money than in building new business. That was made clear enough from listening to the number of complaints and curses coming from the gaming tables I passed on the way to the bar.

  The place was in total disarray, and the stench of stale beer was thick enough to cut with a Bowie. In its day the saloon may have been high tone, but no longer. The carpeting was faded and torn, the mirror over the bar cracked, and most of the stairs leading up to the second floor were warped. The piano player at the far corner was doing a fair job of “Steamboat to Natchez”, especially considering his piano had two keys missing.

  At the other end of the bar, alongside the wall, was a large barrel of water with a gourd ladle, and next to it a side of beef on a spit. A loaf of hard-baked bread and a knife lay on a small table right under a sign that read: Sandwiches. Eat at your own risk! I drank some water from the barrel, rather than ordering a hard drink from the bar. For what I had in mind I would need what little money I kept stashed in the neck bag I always carried under my shirt.

  I was so hungry I cared more about quantity than quality, and cut myself a large, hopefully clean hunk of beef from the spit, and slapped it on the bread. They were right about the risk, both the bread and the beef turned out to be about as tough as the room I
was surveying.

  There were about twenty round gaming tables in the place. At the center table four men were playing poker, and, from what I could see from behind, the cowboy in the middle fit the description Elijah had given me of the one riding the EH-branded gelding.

  My plan was simple enough. After joining their game, I would try to make them believe I was broke and out of luck. Maybe I could get in the position of playing them for a job. If they were convinced that I was on the run and let me join up, there was a chance they might lead me to the herd. Or, if the horses had already been sold, then maybe I could use them to track the money.

  There was nothing to lose. My name had to be cleared or I’d never have a chance with Rosa, and I still had the vaqueros to deal with. I knew Chavez wasn’t the kind to quit, and I had no desire to repeat a showdown with men like Miguel, Armando, and Francisco.

  As soon as one of the players busted out of the game, I walked over to their table.

  “Closed game or can anyone sit in?” I asked.

  The tall thin man in the middle wore a broad flat sombrero and wide leather wrist straps. The bone-handled knife slung across his chest was at least fourteen inches long and double-bladed. The two flat sides of the blade had been built up, with high supporting ridges that seemed sharp enough to cut with. The whole affair tapered wickedly to a thick point.

  When that cowpoke looked up at me, my blood froze. Hanging around his neck was a Kiowa talisman on a rawhide thong, a hand-sewn beaded affair representing an eagle. Such a necklace was supposed to ward off evil, and protect one from harm. Each design was unique and especially designed by a certain medicine woman. I knew all this because the talisman that cowboy was wearing had once belonged to Sprout.

  Staying calm after seeing that eagle was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I wanted to fly right across that table and rip his liver out with my bare hands, but, since I had to find out where the herd was, for now it would have to wait.