Trail Hand

by R. W. Stone

  Six feet off the ground with a rider sitting calmly aboard, and this horse is kicking out backward like a mule! The cowboy attacking from behind was caught completely by surprise. Hit full force in the chest by both rear hoofs, he was flung from his chestnut like a rag doll. I hate to think how many ribs were broken. Every 4 Box rider who saw that move knew it was all over, and those who were still able immediately hightailed it for the next territory, our bullets flying after them.

  I stood there with my mouth hanging open as Chavez calmly rode up to me. I wasn’t sure how he would react to my presence amidst all this bloodshed. My hand rested on the butt of my pistol. It was empty, but at least he didn’t know that.

  “That was a hell of a trick, caporal,” I said, testing the waters.

  “Cabriol,” he replied. “I teach you sometime.” He suddenly broke into a grin, and tipped his hat back as Francisco and Armando rode up to join us.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, surprised at the change in attitude. “I was sure you’d think I was one of their gang. Figured you’d want to shoot me on sight. What made you change your mind?” I asked.

  “Sí, it is true, we did,” Francisco replied in English.

  “But, then Señorita Rosa try to convince us otherwise. Qué genio, what a temper! When she got through yelling, even the caporal stopped to think.”

  “We were going to hang you,” Armando added somewhat matter-of-factly. “But you are a hard man to catch.”

  “Sí, you were very clever. But the caporal began to wonder why you don’t just disappear completely. You know, compadre, sometimes your tracks were a little too easy to follow. So, when we seen you coming out of Señora Ana’s cabin, fighting with the others, we knew that the Señorita Rosa had been right all along,” Francisco added.

  I felt the tension drain from my body as my hand dropped back down to my side. We all returned to the cabin to check on the McFarlens and to tend to our wounded. I met up with Sonora Mason as he was climbing down from the barn.

  “I thought you said you weren’t headed this way,” I said.

  “Wasn’t at first. But my amigos and I thought you might need some help with those rustlers. Besides, we never were ones to pass up a good fight. No sense lettin’ you have all the fun,” he replied. “And who knows, now that he’s down a few men, Don Enrique might be in a mood to hire us.”

  “You? Work for a living?” I asked, surprised by the thought of it.

  “Truth is things been a little dry lately. Ranch work doesn’t seem as unattractive as it used to.”

  “Especially if you’re working for an outfit like Hernandez, right?” I added.

  Sonora just shrugged. “Care to put in a good word for us?”

  Looking around, I smiled and shook my head. “Don’t really think that’s gonna be necessary. You did a good enough job of it yourself. Thanks, hombre.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The Sharps is as accurate as it is powerful. That’s why it’s often referred to as “Old Reliable”, and, in the hands of an expert shot like Luke Pierce, it can be downright devastating. Pierce had holed up in a rocky notch halfway up a steep cliff with an open view of the valley I’d chased him into. He had a clear line of fire and was simply biding his time until I came into range.

  Unfortunately he seemed continually frustrated by the fact I had already backtracked several times, as if double checking the valley for something. Each time I turned away just before entering the range of his Sharps rifle. Luke Pierce was a careful man. He wasn’t about to spoil his chance to kill me by rushing his shot.

  For a solid week I had pursued him south until he finally decided to stop running and prepare an ambush. Pierce had no trouble recognizing me, even from his high perch, or so he thought. Fact is, at that distance, my hat and buckskin shirt made quite an improvement on Sonora Mason who was well mounted on my Morgan bay.

  Mason knew the area much better than I did, and had been helping me track Pierce all week. By the end of the third day Sonora had already guessed the exact spot Pierce would choose to make his stand.

  I was sitting on a ledge just above Luke Pierce, watching the whole show. I’d reached the summit above and behind his position a good two hours earlier, and had begun gradually working my way down. I rested a spell, watching from above while Pierce followed Sonora Mason back and forth in his sights.

  The anger welled up in me as I watched what otherwise would have been my own ambush taking place. Sonora carefully criss-crossed the valley once more out of range, but this time Pierce set his rifle down and picked up his canteen, allowing himself to take a drink.

  I wasn’t about to wait for another chance, so I swung forward off the ledge, dropped down, and landed right in front of Pierce. He reacted quickly, springing to his feet and at the same time flinging himself backward out of the way of my punch.

  I hit him running, plowing into his gut with my right shoulder. Pierce went down hard, but, as I grabbed for his neck, he kicked sideways catching me behind my left knee. His kick caught me off guard, forcing me to roll over twice before I could regain my balance.

  I stood back up and turned to face him, but Luke was already heading for his rifle, which had fallen on the ground on the far side of a waist-high rock.

  I flung myself toward him, but Pierce reached the rifle before I did and grabbed it up on the run. He took several more steps before finally stopping at the edge of the cliff, turning quickly toward me while at the same time cocking the Sharps.

  I was at a dead run aiming straight for him. When suddenly faced with the muzzle end of a loaded rifle, I knew I could no longer stop in time to take cover. There was no choice but to continue running forward, as fast as I could. Just as Luke’s finger tightened on the trigger, I flung myself down, diving forward with my arms stretched out. Pierce fired as I dived over the rock.

  I had somersaulted down into a barrel roll scarcely in time, so close I could feel the rifle’s muzzle blast a bullet the length of my back. Coming out of the roll, I jumped to my feet, took four or five steps forward, and launched myself, this time with both boots out in front. My flying kick caught Pierce squarely in the chest, knocking him backward off his feet.

  I fell flat on my back, landing hard with my legs dangling over the edge of the cliff. Luke hit the ground a lot farther down. Gasping and panting I quickly dragged myself back a foot or two and went limp. It was several minutes before I finally stopped shaking, regained my wind, and was able to get up. I looked over the edge and saw Luke Pierce, or what remained of him, crumpled on the rocks below.

  After returning to San Gabriel, Sonora and I rejoined the rest of the men at the McFarlen Ranch. Chavez had moved the herd back to town and an auction had already been announced. Fortunately, as it turned out, those horses brought the highest sale prices ever recorded in that part of the state.

  The bank was to have a new manager, too. Seems Mr. Norwell became convinced after a brief discussion with McFarlen that it would be better for his health to reside in some other climate. “Any other climate but this one,” I believe was how McFarlen put it. Not surprisingly the bank became very supportive of Norwell’s decision to resign, especially after learning the profits from the McFarlen sale wouldn’t be deposited in their bank until after a new manager was appointed.

  Chavez and the rest of his men were becoming increasingly anxious to return home, so the caporal decided to telegraph Señor Hernandez. Don Enrique was informed of our success, but unfortunately Chavez also had to include a list of the men we’d lost. I accompanied the caporal to the telegraph office and was pleased but somehow not surprised to find there was now also a new operator. Luis B. Jacobs had suddenly taken ill and decided to leave town, coincidentally disappearing about the same time as the bank manager, Mr. Norwell.

  Rosa Maria telegraphed us back from San Rafael. Her father was recuperating well, but was not yet able to make the trip into town. However, he was delighted at the good news and gladly gave Chavez permission to retur
n whenever the caporal felt the McFarlens could handle things on their own. Rosa also asked Chavez to give me her regards and mentioned both she and her father were anxious to thank me in person.

  Given the Spanish constraints for proper behavior, simple regards was about all one could expect from the daughter of a hacendado, but I could read between the lines. She hadn’t forgotten me, and, as far as I was concerned, that was more than enough.

  As anxious as we all were to return to Mexico, we were equally sorry to have to part company with the McFarlens. Ana had become something of a second mother to many of the men, and a better cook we never met. Even as busy as Mr. McFarlen was rebuilding his ranch and organizing the sale of the herd, he always had time to help the men with their own individual problems, such as making sure Chango got the necessary medical attention to help him recover.

  He personally vouched for us in town so there wouldn’t be any problems refitting for the trip, and he let everyone know there was a standing job offer for any of the men who might someday decide to return.

  The trip back to Mexico, thankfully, was uneventful. We made good time, arriving at the hillsides overlooking San Rafael early in August. Ricardo, who had stayed behind at the hacienda while his leg healed, came riding up to meet us. The men all cheered as one, knowing they were home at last.

  “¿Hola, Ricardo…que hay?” shouted Chavez, greeting the young vaquero.

  Ricardo looked over at me and then back at Chavez, groping for an explanation.

  Señorita Rosa was right all along about him, Chavez explained, answering Ricardo’s doubts about me.

  “Lo siento, Ricky,” I quickly added. “You left me no choice.”

  “Yo tambien,” he said, rubbing his leg. “My leg is better.”

  Chavez then asked about his boss.

  “Don Enrique is much better now and is on his way here. He should join us soon,” Ricardo answered in Spanish. He then rattled off something too quickly for me to follow.

  “He mention whether or not anything’s happening in town?” I asked Francisco.

  “No, mucho,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders. “You know, that pueblo, she never really changes much.” He winked at Armando, who was sitting off to my side on a buckskin mare named Canela, and added: “Except that Señorita Rosa is already there in San Rafael with some of our men.”

  Armando grinned and slapped me on the back. “I know at least one vaquero who will be glad to see her, eh?”

  “That’ll be enough,’ Mando,” I said, feigning displeasure. I turned back to face Chavez.

  “Caporal, it’s been a long ride to get back to where we started from. You still have a problem with my seeing Rosa?”

  “Perhaps we should finish that fight we had at the hacienda, eh, gringo?” Chavez answered slowly, staring ahead in thought. “You know…for the benefit of the men.”

  “¿Tu crees?” I groaned. “That really what you want?”

  He turned in the saddle, adjusted his sombrero, and shook his head. “They say the hunter learns to respect his prey. Well, I have argued with you, and I have hunted after you. Even so, I end up fighting at your side. And now I ride with you. I know Rosita all her life and only want what is best for her. If she feels you are best for her, I will no longer disagree.” He offered me his hand. “Although only God knows what she sees in you,” he added, laughing.

  Relieved, I shook with him and replied: “You are a hard taskmaster, caporal, but any man would be proud to count you among his friends.”

  “So are you two going to spend all day long here grinning at each other, or are we going into town?” Francisco asked impatiently.

  “Well, I don’t know about you vaqueros, but the first thing I’m gonna do is take a bath and finally get a shave,” I replied, rubbing my chin.

  Chavez looked at me, and then back at the rest of the men. “¡Yo no!” He flicked his hand up to his mouth in the universal gesture for drink, and shouted: “¡Vamos a la cantina, muchachos!”

  “¡Adelante, caporal!” they yelled almost in unison.

  Before I knew what was happening, I was alone sitting on my horse in a swirl of dust. When it cleared, I found myself looking down on a bunch of wild mejicanos racing ahead at a dead run toward town. Or rather, I should say, straight for Las Tres Campanas. I shortened my reins some and cantered the bay leisurely after them.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  There was only one bathhouse in town, but I was determined at long last to take advantage of the opportunity and clean up some before anything else happened. As long as we smelled the same, none of the men paid much attention, but, after all the time we’d spent on the trail, no decent woman would want to be in the same room with us.

  I for one decided not to meet Rosa Hernandez again until I’d washed the topsoil off and scrubbed my face clean. Trail-wise or not, someone of her upbringing would be used to the finer things in life, and, if I was to have any chance with her father, I’d have to start looking the part. Or at very least make sure I smelled better than a used saddle blanket.

  The local bathhouse wasn’t much when viewed from the outside. The inside wasn’t any better, looking more like an old barn than anything else. Were it not for all the soapy water sloshed on the floor and a table full of half dried towels, the place might easily have been mistaken for an old abandoned shack.

  There were four rooms that consisted primarily of large sheets hung from iron hooks that were bolted into the rafters. The owner was a heavy-set, elderly Irish-Mexican named Paco Fitzhugh. Although Paco supposedly ran the place, all he really ever did was sit in a rocking chair at the entrance and rake in the money. All of the physical work was done by two young boys, Pablo and Mario, who cleaned towels, mopped floors, poured water, lit the customer’s cigars, and made runs across the street to fetch drinks from the cantina.

  The tips they made might have provided the boys with a decent living, if only Fitzhugh had let them keep some. Unfortunately Paco Fitzhugh also owned the house where the boys’ mother lived, and claimed their tips as part of her rent. The fact that their mother, a short fat woman named Consuela, also did his cooking and cleaning didn’t seem to matter much to him, either.

  Fitzhugh liked to take things easy, and owning the bathhouse was an easy way for him to make a living. All he needed was a place for customers to bathe, water, towels, and soap. At least that’s the way he saw it. So he had the building built as quickly and cheaply as possible. Once it served his purpose, he wasted no more time on it.

  The bathhouse was such a rough cut and dirty affair the first sight of it made folks south of the border wonder how he could attract clients, let alone turn a profit, even if it did provide the only indoor bath for over 800 square miles.

  What made the Fitzhugh bathhouse profitable, aside from his criminal frugality, were the tubs. The Fitzhugh bathtubs were legendary in these parts. Those four tubs had come all the way from France, originally shipped through Vera Cruz and destined for some governmental residence in Mexico City.

  As the story went, one of the local Vera Cruz hotel owners, a fellow named Carlos Fonseca, had a friend on the loading dock who owed him money. Shortly after their arrival, boxes containing four bathtubs were conveniently misplaced. Although the authorities investigated for several days, the boxes were nowhere to be found. Leastwise nowhere in the warehouse district. The officials, however, neglected to check Fonseca’s hotel on the outskirts of town.

  Fonseca might have had a chance to enjoy those tubs himself had it not been for the hotel’s gaming table. Carlos liked to sit in on some of the poker games run out of his hotel’s own card room. He fancied himself a sharpie, but Paco Fitzhugh was better. Fonseca, after a run of questionable bad luck, put up the tubs which were still in their shipping crates, as collateral, and promptly lost.

  Rather than hanging around Vera Cruz and possibly risking unpleasant consequences, Fitzhugh wisely loaded the crates in two freight wagons and rode away the same day. It was originally his idea to
head for Los Angeles, but, before hitting the border, his wagons broke down. Being more lazy than ambitious, Paco simply unloaded the tubs and set up shop. Over the years the rest of the town grew up around his bathhouse and the nearby cantina.

  As I stretched out in a tub full of hot water, I marveled at its French craftmanship. Each of the four tubs was long enough even for someone my size to lie down in. The ends sloped gracefully upward to provide a headrest and the sides curved outwards, thick enough to serve as armrests. The bronze tub had relief work all along its edges. Dragons and knights in battle were depicted on two tubs, while Cupids, angels, and clouds highlighted the other two.

  The soap was more pumice than lather, but Mario and Pablo kept a fire going out back and hot water was available at all times. Drinks were provided for a price, although it was usually three times that of the cantina across the way. Every customer who ever took a bath at Fitzhugh’s felt like he’d died and gone to heaven, although few cowpunchers ever entered more than once. It seems most were either unwilling to meet the high price Fitzhugh charged, or preferred to spend their pay on wild women, drinks, or cards, in that order.

  Over the years, most of my baths had consisted of river crossings, flash floods, or sudden rainstorms. When I was younger, though, my ma was especially particular about family cleanliness. Neither my sister nor I liked to sit still for church service, but Ma insisted we attend every Sunday. Naturally we had to clean up before, lest folks think she was raising a pack of little savages. I can still remember her bending me over a rain barrel with a washcloth in hand, exclaiming— “I knowed it! You’re trying to grow apples back here!”—as she scrubbed my ears clean.

  I had to fight to keep from falling asleep right there in the tub, but although I could easily have asked Mario for another tub full of hot water, I remembered that Fitzhugh charged by the hour, by the tub, and by the towel. Finally I decided enough was enough. Besides, a man shouldn’t get used to too much luxury—doesn’t build character, or so my cash poor friends are always quick to point out.