Trail Hand

by R. W. Stone

  “That would be their ramrod, Chavez,” I offered.

  “Iffen you say so. Anyway, this Chavez feller, he takes out a ceegar from his shirt pocket and lights up. Then he motions to the barkeep to buy this Morton feller a drink. Next this other Mex translates for him that they ain’t a gonna fight with ’em. Says they’s just passin’ through and ain’t lookin’ fer no trouble.”

  “I assume it didn’t help?”

  “Hell, no. This Morton, he just laughs, and starts bragging again to his friends about how many Mexican whores he’s had. Then he and some o’ his pals order all the Mexes out of the place.”

  “And they just took that?” I asked surprised.

  “Well, Ah’ll tell you. This Chavez feller shrugs his shoulders, and then turns to leave. But, see, he stops first to put out his cigar on the bar.”

  “Then what happened?” I asked. Chavez was hardly the mild-mannered type.

  “Oh, he put the cigar out all right. But as it turns out, he ground it right into the back of Morton’s hand. Well, Ah’ll tell you, that man yelped loud enough to wake the dead, and pulls up his hand in pain. Next thing ya know this Chavez feller grabs up the shotgun and clouts him right across the nose with it. Man, that Morton went down like he was pole-axed. After that the rest of them started swinging at anyone in sight. And them Mexes, they got this one big bald feller.”

  “Chango,” I said, nodding.

  “Whatever. Anyway, he grabs this one cowboy up over his head and throws him clear through the gambling wheel like he was a dart. Went right through the middle, flying headfirst. When the bodies started sailin’ through the windows is when Ah skedaddled out of there. Last Ah heard every table was broke, two cowboys lost an ear, and the barkeep got part o’ his nose bit off. One cowboy ’parently pulled a gun. They found him later under a table, with three holes in him, two in the chest and one in the gut. Right here.” He pointed to his belly, indicating the precise spot.

  “Any of them mejicanos hurt?” I asked.

  “Saw ’im ride out right afterwards. Couple of bloody noses and one fellow was cut a little on the arm, but nothing serious. Leastwise nothing Ah could see.”

  “How many riders were there?” I asked.

  “About twenty or so, Ah reckon.”

  “Seems they’re madder than I thought, to have brought that many.”

  “Son, mad don’t touch it. Just ask the fellers at the Golden Goose, or what’s left of it,” he said.

  “Any place left in town to get a drink now?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but Ah’d have to show you,” he answered, licking his lips in anticipation.

  “All right, you do that, and I’ll spring for the drinks.” I laughed. “And then we can talk to your brother-in-law about those supplies.”

  When we walked past what remained of the Golden Goose, I could see that Elijah hadn’t exaggerated. After that I was more determined than ever not to let those vaqueros catch up with me until I had a chance to find the herd and square things.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I left Gila City at first light, aiming for Fort Yuma.

  I rode hard and fast, trying to put as much distance between myself and the vaqueros as possible. This time I made no effort to cover my trail, since after a day or two it would be obvious to everyone where I was going.

  A week later I arrived at the Butterfield stage way station. It was the logical place to stop and rest, the food was good, and they didn’t water their drinks. I had hoped finally to clean up some before moving into California, but as usual it was not meant to be.

  After tending to the roan, I went into the station house. Since I’d run out of bacon three days earlier, visions of a hot steak, mashed potatoes, and biscuits flashed briefly through my mind. It was only briefly, though, for, as soon as I opened the door, the commotion inside wiped away any hope of a nice quiet meal.

  Inside eight heavily built drovers had a lone black cowboy trapped in a corner and were preparing to beat him up. One of the men had a bottle in his hand and was raising it to strike just as I entered. For some reason it didn’t surprise me one bit to find Sonora Mason on the receiving end, staring back at me from the corner. For the time being lunch would have to wait.

  “ ’Afternoon, gents,” I said as loudly and forcefully as I could. “Just goin’ over to the bar here. Don’t mind me. I’m not lookin’ to interfere with your fun.”

  Caught off guard by my unexpected entrance, they all turned toward me and hesitated.

  “By the way, just what is going on here anyway?” I asked.

  “We’re about to brain us a smart-mouthed nigger,” replied the one brandishing the bottle. He was a fat, bearded lout missing all his front teeth. He wore an old buffalo-hide vest and a ten-gallon black hat with the brim turned up. “Any problem with that, stranger?” he asked threateningly.

  “Why would anyone have a problem with that?” I asked innocently. “Besides, anyone can see he’s the type that’s probably getting what he deserves,” I added. “Just look at those shifty eyes of his.”

  Sonora caught my wink after they turned back to him.

  “What’s that you say? Hey, you want to buy into this, too, asshole, or you just some big-mouth pansy with no stones to back it up?” Mason yelled across at me.

  “Well, now…. Boy!” I shouted angrily. “Just who the hell do you think you are, talking to me that way?” I spoke loudly, hoping further to distract the others. Stepping quickly away from the bar, I shoved my way through the crowd until I faced Mason, directly alongside the drover with the bottle.

  “You know,” I said turning to Buffalo Vest. “There’s only one thing I hate worse than an uppity nigger.”

  “Yeah?” he asked anticipating the joke. “What’s that?”

  “Having to fight a bunch of ignorant cowpunchers, instead of eating lunch!” My right elbow crashed into the side of his head. It wasn’t exactly the answer he’d expected.

  The next ten minutes still remain something of a blur. I vaguely remember Mason kicking the nearest drover in the knee, and then backhanding him as he doubled over in pain. I ducked low under a chair that was swung at my head by a bald type in an old soldier shirt. He was wearing tied down bat chaps that flared out widely at the bottom, so I grabbed for the chaps near his ankles, and then pulled as hard as I could while straightening back up. He was thrown backward off his feet, slammed through a table, and hit the floor flat on his back.

  Someone cuffed me behind the left ear hard enough to knock me forward into Mason. He stopped my fall, but, as I began to recover, he suddenly shoved me hard on the shoulders, causing me to drop back down again. Another drover coming up behind me ran smack into Sonora’s fist as Mason slugged right over my head directly into his oncoming face. The drover fell over backward like someone who’d just run into a wall.

  I turned around and side-by-side the two of us rushed into the remaining four. When it was all over, my knuckles were swollen, my lower lip split, and my left ear was bleeding. Sonora was holding his left shoulder where a broken bottle had slashed him and had another gash over his right elbow. The others looked a hell of a lot worse.

  We supported ourselves on what was left of the bar as I reached over, searching for a bottle.

  “Didn’t expect to bump into you,” Sonora said somewhat matter-of-factly.

  “Oh, don’t mention it. You’re welcome. Nice to see you again, too,” I said, gasping for breath. He just nodded back at me. “Care for some o’ this tarantula juice?” I asked. My head hurt like hell.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he replied.

  I poured him a long one, and then took a swig from the bottle. The effect of the alcohol on my split lip sent sparks flying through my body and right down to my boots.

  “Best be gettin’ outta here afore they wake up,” he suggested.

  I wasn’t about to disagree.

  We decided to make a quick exit after first grabbing some supplies from the station’s storeroom. Mason caught me tos
sing some money on one of the shelves and laughed at me.

  “Momma brought her boy up real proper, I see.”

  “Hey, get off my back, would ya. I got enough people after me as is without getting the stage line detectives involved.”

  “You being chased? That’s a new one.”

  “Long story, I’ll tell you about it later.”

  As we were leaving the station, Buffalo Vest groaned and started to sit up. Mason simply kicked him in the face as he stepped over him. The last thing I remember as we walked out the door was the sound of his head hitting the floor with a loud thud.

  That night we camped about twenty miles west. The cut on Sonora’s shoulder looked pretty bad so I offered to fix it.

  “Got anything to work with?” I asked.

  “Check my mochila, back of the saddle. Should be a sewing kit in there.” I looked in his saddlebag and found some old buttons and a couple of needles, but no thread.

  “Looks like I’m going to have to improvise a might,” I said, walking back to his horse. I began pulling tail hair. Then I poured a little of the whiskey into a cup, dropping in both the needle and horse hair. I tossed Sonora the bottle. “Here, wash that wound with this.”

  He looked at me apprehensively while removing his shirt. “You sure you know how to do this?” He grimaced as the alcohol ran over the cut on his shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, I learned how from my uncle Zeke. He’s a leathersmith back home, and, judging from the look of this hide of yours, it shouldn’t be much different from the leather we worked on.” I removed the needle and hair from the whiskey cup.

  “Just you remember this hide is my skin. It ain’t no saddle, you know.”

  “ ’Course not,” I replied, threading the needle. “A good saddle’s worth a whole lot more.”

  “Very funny.” He flinched as I began to sew, but I had to hand it to him again. It took a long time to get that wound stitched up, and it had to hurt, but he didn’t complain once; he just sat there and took it in stride.

  When I finished, I poured some more whiskey over the wound and bandaged it with an extra shirt I’d found in his mochila.

  “You know, I’m getting a little tired of nursemaiding injured renegades all the time,” I joked.

  “Didn’t nobody ask you to jump in,” he replied.

  “That all the thanks I get for saving your sorry ass?”

  “Hell, there was only eight of them. Could’ve handled things myself.”

  “Well, I’ll remember that the next time around.”

  “Hombre, I don’t know about you, but I hope there won’t be a next time.” He started laughing, and I joined in.

  “Shoulder or no shoulder, you get to cook dinner tonight,” I said, throwing more wood on the fire. “What’s in those cans, anyway?”

  Mason eyed the supplies carefully. “You’re in luck. We have a wide selection. Canned tomatoes and beans or canned beans and tomatoes.”

  “I’ll have the beans and tomatoes,” I sighed.

  “Good choice. As it turns out, they’re my specialty.”

  “Didn’t expect to find you in these parts. Last I heard you were down around Zacatecas,” I said.

  “My friends were for a while, but I had some personal business to attend to at the fort.”

  “Anything to do with those drovers?” I asked.

  “Nope. They was just a few mule heads that didn’t want to drink while there was a gentleman of color in the establishment.”

  “Some folks are just downright impolite,” I replied.

  “Truth is, I’m visiting a friend of mine, a sergeant with the Tenth Cavalry.”

  “The buffalo soldiers? I didn’t think they were posted at Yuma.”

  “They’re not,” he replied. “But my friend is with a special troop on detached duty.”

  “Must be quite a friend for you to come this far out of your way just to say hello.”

  “He is. His name’s Freeman, Nathaniel Freeman. After Pa escaped from the plantation he was slavin’ on, Nate helped him make his way into Mexico where he finally met my mama. Nate was real kind to me after they both died.”

  “Sounds like a good man. So how come you didn’t end up joining the Army like him?” I asked.

  Sonora ladled a thick mess of overcooked beans into my tin. As they dripped down onto the plate, he looked up at me and smiled.

  “Hombre, no way! Not for me. Have you ever tasted how bad that Army cookin’ is?”

  I looked down at the glob on my plate, and then back up at him. “Of course,” I replied. “I understand…completely.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  During the ride to the fort the next day Sonora got to philosophizing on one of his favorite subjects, namely those who wanted to make him conform to their way of doing things.

  “Ever notice how some folks are always tryin’ to tell you how to act?” he asked.

  “Sure, there’s always someone like that around, so?”

  “Well, it just seems to me that we was a country supposed to be formed by runaway folk, like them pilgrims. They just wanted to be left alone, ya know. Nowadays it seems like we got more political parties and do-gooder temperance groups telling us what to do, than we got people actually doin’ it. Hell, I even heard there’s some place in Kansas what won’t let you carry a gun in town. You hear about that?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I did. They call it a deadline. Anyone passing over it has to check his guns with the sheriff or he gets arrested.”

  “So what you think about that,” he asked.

  “Well, I’ll tell you. My uncle Zeke used to be in the military for a while and studied a little law. According to him, we all got individual rights, you know, ones no one can take away. My uncle said that somewhere in the Constitution, or the Bill of Rights, or something, it says we all got a right to keep and bear arms.”

  “Right, but what about those badges what try to take them away?”

  “Uncle Zeke said there’s a part in there to protect us against a corrupt government. Funny thing, but he says the Constitution don’t actually grant rights…we already have them…it just spells them out clearly. Seems when the Constitution was written and they got to talkin’ about folks protectin’ themselves, they used a very specific word…infringement.”

  “ ’Fringement? What’s that?”

  “Zeke says it means the government can’t mess with your right to carry. ‘The right to bear arms shall not be infringed,’” I quoted.

  “Well, some folk say that you can keep your gun, but just can’t wear it. Says it’s better for the town,” he pointed out.

  “I once asked my uncle a similar question. He says the founding fathers didn’t set things up so our rights could be tromped on in the name of a supposed greater good for the majority. See if it’s an individual right, like the right to free speech or to protect your family or home, it’s still a right, regardless what the local star says. Funny thing, I hear the bank in that town you mentioned has already been robbed four times, and the sheriff never caught any of the robbers.”

  “That figures,” Sonora remarked.

  “Well, my point is in a town just across the state line they had a couple of stick-ups, but the townsfolk were all armed. The robbers didn’t even clear the main street before being caught.”

  “Makes sense,” Sonora agreed. “You know someone’s got a gun an’ another ain’t, you gonna rob the one what ain’t.”

  “Bet you dollars to donuts those that obey the deadline are all law-abiding citizens. You know…the kind you wouldn’t have to worry about anyway.”

  “ ’Course they is. Hell, man, why do you think they call them outlaws,’ cause they don’t obey the law.”

  “Well, someday I hope to hang my gun up, Sonora. But rest assured, when I do, it will still be hanging within reach.”

  “You bet. By the way, you know that cayuse o’ yours is favoring his leg?” he added.

  “I know. He’s been a little off all morning. Right
front, I think.”

  “Best have it looked at when we get to the fort.”

  “I will. How far you figure we still got to go?”

  Sonora squinted a little and rubbed his eyes. “Oh, about another two hours, Ah reckon.”

  He was right as usual, almost to the minute. As we rode through the gate, a sentry quickly looked us over and waved us by. Sonora stopped to ask the private about his sergeant friend.

  “Sorry,” the trooper replied. “I’m new on the post, don’t know everyone yet. You might ask over at the sutler’s store, though. By the way, your friend’s horse seems to be favoring his leg.”

  “We know,” I answered. “You suppose someone here might be able to check him out?”

  “That I can help you with. Doctor Chapman’s our vet’nry, and a good one to boot. Anyone can put a horse right, he can.”

  “Thanks,” I replied as he pointed the way for us.

  We looked for Dr. Chapman as instructed in the main horse barn. A long white jacket hanging on a nail identified the stall where we found him examining a large black gelding. The veterinarian was a tall, solidly built man with a full beard that was starting to gray. He wore a long church bell-shaped stethoscope around his neck, had his sleeves rolled up, and was using a large magnifying glass to inspect a horse’s right eye. A shorter, slightly balding trooper was busy writing something down in a small notebook while the doctor dictated.

  “…small nebula in the temporal quadrant of the right eye and an active corneal ulceration in same location on the left. Eyelids, sclera, and pupillary reflex appear normal. Got all that, Corporal?”