THE CALIFORNIA TRAIL
Copyright © 1994 by Ralph Compton.
Cover illustration by Bob Larkin.
Map illustration on cover by Dennis Lyali.
Cover type by Jim Lebbad.
Map by David Lindroth
ISBN: 0-312-95169-8
St. Martin's edition January 1994
Contents
Excerpt
Quote
Author's Foreword
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 2O
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Excerpt
GUNFIRE IN THE NIGHT
The long, hard drive to Papago Wells began to take its toll. A dozen times Gil was jolted awake, aware that he had dozed in the saddle. The harder he strove to remain awake, to be alert, the more surely his weary body betrayed him.
But nothing brought a frontiersman to full awareness as quickly as gunfire, and such was the case with Gil Austin and his companions.
The night riders came in from the north, shouting and shooting. Gil and the rest of the nighthawks kicked their mounts to a gallop, and by the time they reached the spring, the rest of the outfit was in the saddle. Amid the shouting, there was a scream of terror; a Bowie in the hand of one of the Indian riders had found a victim. The outlaws had stampeded at least some of the horses, but when Gil and his riders began throwing lead at the oncoming rustlers, a strange thing happened. The horse herd, with mounted, gun-wielding riders behind and in front of them, split. The horses ran east and west, and the surprised outlaws came face-to-face with the entire Texas outfit…
Quote
"When you've been throwed and stomped, get up, dust yourself off, and get back in the saddle. The worst that can happen is you'll get throwed and stomped again."
—Ralph Compton, 1993
Author's Foreword
For nine long years, following the infamous battle at the Alamo, Texans lived under constant threat of invasion by Mexico. Not until 1845, when the Republic of Texas became part of the United States, did the threat cease. But the inevitable war between Mexico and the United States had yet to take place. Until 1848 Mexico still claimed the territories of New Mexico and California, and refused to recognize the Rio Grande as the border between Texas and Mexico. The war was brutal, bloody, and short. A treaty of peace was signed on February 2, 1848, in the presidential palace at Guadalupe Hidalgo, four miles north of Mexico City. The terms were brutal, but quite simple: The United States wanted only what it had already seized, which were the territories of New Mexico arid California. And, of course, recognition of the Rio Grande as Mexico's border with Texas. The treaty was signed, the territories ceded to the United States, and the Rio Grande was recognized as the border. Mexico received a consolation payment of $15 million.
In California, in January 1848, gold was discovered at Suiter's Mill. Fearing the rush that eventually destroyed him, Sutter had tried to keep the discovery secret, and did for another year. But news leaked out, and by 1849 the rush was on. They came by the dozens, by the hundreds, LBV the thousands, and finally by the tens of thou-sands. Doctors, lawyers, preachers, farmers, scholars, illiterates, gamblers, dreamers, brave men, and cowards. By 1852 California's population had grown from 14,000 to more than 100,000, most of them tramping through the central valleys of the newly admitted state and up the slopes of the Sierra.
Mexico had relaxed many of the regulations the Spanish had imposed on California, allowing vessels under foreign flags to bring trade goods from England, China, France, and the United States. But the Californios needed something to trade, so they began slaughtering their longhorn cattle. Not for the meat, but for hides and tallow. Virtually overnight, the gold rush had created a need for the hundreds of thousands of longhorns that had been slaughtered for hides and tallow. In trade, the tallow brought six cents a pound, while the hides sold for as little as a dollar. Total profit from a cow might be as little as seven dollars, and no more than $8.50. The meat was left to rot, and there weren't enough scavengers to keep ahead of the terrible slaughter. A macabre joke was that vultures flew in. but were forced to walk away, being too gorged to fly. Sailing into the wind, a ship's crew could smell the stench hours before reaching port. Warehouses where hides had been stored were eventually abandoned. Nobody could stand the odor.
The beef that had rotted in the California sun was needed to feed the hungry miners. California had the gold, but Texas had the beef, and it was a one-time opportunity that some Texans were quick to recognize. Men with sand to attempt such a trail drive—those who lived to see the successful end of it—returned to Texas with the wealth that eluded most of the gold seekers.
This trail drive, with its Texas longhorns bound for the goldfields, would take the same perilous route the Butterfield Overland Express would follow a dozen years later. From South Texas to the Pecos River, across the plains of southern New Mexico and Arizona, to southern California. Eighteen hundred miles of treacherous rivers, hostile Indians, Comancheros, outlaws, stampedes, desert, sandstorms, and rattlesnakes the size of a man's leg. It was a poison-mean land where a man fought the elements and his own kind, and death was cloaked in so many forms, it staggered the imagination. It was a ride through Hell that few men lived to talk about. Those who did—mostly leather-tough Texans, handy with a Bowie and fast with a Colt—called it the "California Trail."
Prologue
September 1, 1849
Gold had been discovered in California! Gil Austin rode out of San Antonio, bound for Bandera Range and the vast Box AA ranch he shared with his brother Van. Tucked into his saddlebag was a copy of the newspaper in which he had just read of the gold strike, and his heart leaped with excitement. Gil had not been smitten with "gold fever," a man's usual reaction to such news, but with the possibilities surrounding the discovery. It was the last two or three paragraphs of the newspaper account that had interested him. Miners were flocking to California by the thousands, and there was a critical shortage of beef. In Texas the problem facing them was exactly the reverse. There was a blessed plenty of beef, but a critical shortage of gold. A man didn't sell a cow, he was forced to swap it for something he could use.
According to the newspaper, a small herd of cattle driven from Oregon to the goldfields had sold for two hundred dollars a head. Other herds, even those less than prime, not a cow had gone for less than seventy-five dollars. For a thousand head, that was $75,000! Four thousand head would bring more than a quarter of a million dollars! Anxious to share the news with his brother Van, Gil kicked his horse into a slow gallop. As he rode, he allowed his mind to drift back over the years, recalling when he, Van, and their amigo, Clay Duval, had left Missouri to become part of the American Colony. Clay had been twenty-one, Gil nineteen, and Van a year younger.
The American Colony, after a disastrous beginning, was saved in 1825, when Stephen Austin—uncle to Gil and Van—had gone to Mexico City and received permission from the Mexican government to colonize millions of acres along the Brazos and Colorado rivers. Stephen had received 67.000 acres of land, and had managed to secure grants for his nephews next to his own. Gil and Van h
ad taken their grants in 1833, and when Stephen had died in 1836, they had taken his grants too. In all, they had more than 75,000 acres, but the irony of it was, they had been lacking the cattle and horses necessary for the ranch they wanted.
In Mexico there had been an abundance of longhorn cows, valued only for hides and tallow. To the south of the State of Durango, Antonio Mendoza had raised fine blooded horses. Despite a conflict with Mexico that would lead to war, Clay Duval had been determined to ride south on a twofold mission. He planned to deal with Mendoza for breeding stock, and with Mexican ranchers for longhorn cattle. But when Clay reached the Mendoza ranch, he found that Mendoza had been ambushed, and that Victoria, his beautiful but conniving widow, was involved in a questionable relationship with Esteban Valverde, an unscrupulous neighbor. Victoria had wished to flee Mexico, and in return for safe passage back to Texas, had offered Clay Duval the horses and cattle he had wanted.
In the fall of 1842, Gil and Van Austin had received a letter from Clay, asking for their help. In December, Gil and Van had already ridden south. Barely across the border, they had been captured by Mexican soldiers. Facing prison, they had broken loose, making their way afoot to the Mendoza ranch. Gil and Van arrived to find
Clay Duval missing and Victoria Mendoza more eager than ever to escape Mexico. Her loyal riders—eight Mexican vaqueros, and three Mexican Indians—had joined Gil and Van in gathering five thousand long-horns. Angelina Ruiz, Victoria's young, rebellious sister, had believed she knew where Clay Duval was, and accompanied by the Indian, Solano, had ridden away in the night.
The first week of July 1843, the seemingly impossible trail drive had moved out, heading north. Victoria Mendoza had insisted on driving a wagon; a big, mysterious Conestoga. On the trail, in a final confrontation with Esteban Valverde, Victoria's teams had stampeded. The ill-fated wagon had gone over a canyon rim, taking Victoria Mendoza and Esteban Valverde with it. Thus Gil and Van had been left with the famous Mendoza horses, and a herd of almost five thousand longhorns, but the trail north had been fraught with danger. Mexican soldiers had been strung out for five hundred miles along the border, with military outposts at Meoqui, Monterrey, and Matamoros. Gil had found and taken in an orphaned, naked little Mexican girl they had known only as "Rosa." In a clash with Mexican soldiers, Gil and Van had been captured. Some of the soldiers had been left with the trail drive, instructed to take it to Matamoros, while the others had taken Gil and Van to the outpost at Monterrey. There they had been reunited with Long John Coons, a knife-wielding Cajun they had left in charge of their land grant on Bandera Range.
Gil, Van, and Long John had been taken to the outpost at Matamoros, a few miles south of the border. Unknown to Gil and Van, Angelina Ruiz and Solano had found and freed Clay Duval from a prison in Mexico City. The trio had then traveled north, toward the border, and had caught up to the soldier-escorted trail drive bound for Matamoros. Clay Duval had managed to rid the drive of the soldiers, and had devised a plan to free Gil and Van from the guardhouse at the Matamoros outpost. In a daring rescue, Clay had blown the roof off the guardhouse, freeing Gil, Van, Long John, and other captive Texans. But Mexican soldiers had gotten ahead of them and had gathered near the border. Gil, Van, and Clay had then stampeded the herd of long-horns and Mendoza horses, driving them through Mexican forces, and had reached the Texas side of the Rio Grande.
But the danger hadn't been over. Rangers in South Texas had warned them of the infamous Torres gang, that the Torres brothers—Manuel and Miguel—might come after the Mendoza horses. But their fight with the Torres gang had taken place for an altogether different reason. Van and Mariposa—the Indian—had followed a mysterious trail that had proven to be that of the outlaws, and Van had caught Manuel Torres with a girl the gang had stolen from her home on the Atascosa River, south of San Antonio. Van had been forced to kill Manuel Torres, and eventually his brother Miguel, who had sought revenge. The hazardous trail drive from Durango, Mexico, to Bandera Range had been a journey bordering on the impossible, an adventure of a lifetime. Clay Duval and Van Austin, Gil decided, had been particularly blessed in a way that had eluded him.
The girl Van had rescued from the Torres gang—Do-rinda Jabez—was now his wife, and young Van was almost two years old. Clay Duval, surprising nobody, had married Angelina Ruiz, and their daughter, Christabel, was the very image of Angelina. Clay was in full charge of their horse ranch—the Winged M—and he and Van had homes of their own. Gil sighed. He was now thirty-five years old, sleeping alone, with no other prospect in sight. His one salvation was that he didn't have to eat his own cooking. He was always welcome at Clay's or Van's table, and he was still the only man in young Rosa's life. Although unsure of her age, Rosa thought she was twelve, at least, and she spoke English like a Texan, born and bred. She was also an excellent cook, having been taught by Dorinda. Angelina set a good table, but Van, the lucky dog, had snared himself a farm girl from Kentucky. When Gil rode in, Rosa came running to meet him. Her dark hair curled neatly to her shoulders, and while she wore a dress when she absolutely had to, her usual garb was tight-legged vaquero breeches, loose-fitting shirt, and the moccasins the Indian riders were always making for her. She had retired the mule she had ridden from Mexico, and had her pick of the horses, loving them all. Gil had broken her from swearing in rapid-fire Spanish, only to find that she had developed it more eloquently in English. Now, he swung out of his saddle, grabbed Rosa, and kissed her on the cheek.
"Always on the cheek," she fussed. "When am I to receive a real kiss?"
"When you're thirty-six." Gil laughed. "Have you started supper?"
"No," she said, "I wish to eat with Van and Dorinda."
"Why not with Clay and Angelina?"
"I love Angelina like a sister," said Rosa, "but I am sick of the damn chili peppers."
"Rosa!"
"She puts them in everything except the coffee," said Rosa. "Tejano want Tejano grub."
"Every day you sound more like Long John Coons," said Gil. "Come on, I'll saddle you a horse."
Gil hoisted her up to the saddle and they rode on to the barn and the corrals. Gil had built a cookhouse and had hired a cook, a garrulous old man with a peg leg, known only as "Stump." He had been to sea, had scars from every waterfront dive from New Orleans to the West Indies, and could swear in five languages. Rosa adored him and his bloodthirsty tales. It was near suppertime, and the riders had gathered at the bunkhousc. Of the original Mendoza outfit, Gil still had eight riders. There was his segundo, Ramon Alcaraz, along with Juan Alamonte, Manuel Armijo, Domingo Chavez, Pedro Fagano, Vicente Gomez, Juan Padillo, and an Ar-gentine known only as Bola, or "Bo." The Mexican Indian riders were unsurpassed as gentlers of horses, and the three—Solano, Mariposa, and Estanzio—were with Clay Duval at the horse ranch. Of course, there was the enigmatic Long John Coons. Gil wasn't sure why he had allowed the Cajun to stay, or why he had wanted to. Every rider—even the Indians—spoke English now, but only one man in the outfit seemed to consider Long John a friend. Bo, the Argentine who threw a three-headed bola like most men used a lariat, had found something to like about the Cajun. It had become a most unusual alliance, Long John a lanky giant of more than six feet, and Bola only an inch or two above five, even in his boots.
Van had seen Gil and Rosa coming, and when they rode in, he was waiting on the porch. Rosa dismounted and ran to scoop up little Van, who was about to fall off the porch trying to reach her.
"Light and come in," said Van. "We just happen to have a pair of extra places at the table, and you know Dorinda—she always cooks enough to feed everybody on the Bandera spread."
Gil took his time dismounting, allowing Rosa to go on into the house. What he was about to propose was going to create one hell of a furor, and he wanted to talk to Van without interruption from Rosa and Dorinda. From his saddlebag Gil took the newspaper, folded to the story about the discovery of gold in California, and without a word passed it to Van. His brother read it quickly, then read it a
gain. With his half grin, he looked at Gil for a long moment before he spoke. When he did, it was to ask a question.
"How big a trail drive you got in mind, and how many riders?"
"Four thousand head," said Gil, "and all the riders except you, Clay, and Solano. You and Clay will have to hire some riders for the ranch. This is an opportunity that won't come again, and we have to make up for the lean years. God knows, if it hadn't been for the horse ranch, we'd have starved."
"There's just been a change in plans," said Van. "I'm going with you. Clay just got elected to hire some riders and segundo the Bandera spread."
Chapter 1
Once Gil and Van Austin had agreed upon the trail drive to the California goldfields, they wasted no time in approaching Clay Duval with the proposal.
"You're right," said Clay, "this is somethin' we can't afford to pass up. If the kind of money they're talkin' about is for real, this one trail drive could set us up for life. We'd never have to sell another cow. Trouble is, I don't knew if I should fee! flattered that you're leavin' the Bandera spread in my hands, or insulted that you reckon you can take a herd of longhorns on such a drive without me."
"Take it as a compliment." said Gil. '"Remember the last trail drive,, when the both of us ended up in a Mexican juzgado? Next time, it may be a California juzgado. We may need you on the outside, with a keg of powder."*
"Don't laugh," said Van. "He may be more right than he knows. We're only lookin' at the potential reward of such a drive, without considering all we may have to survive to reach it. We could hire a segundo and the riders to look after the ranches, the longhorns, and the horses, but there's more at stake than that. I want to know that little Van and Dorinda are safe, all the time I'm away."
"And there's Rosa," said Gil.
"Whoa," said Clay. "She's your querida. She'll grab a horse and light out after you. You want me to rope her out of the saddle and hogtie her till you get back?"
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