California Trail

by Ralph Compton

  While the horse herd had been behaving well, the longhorns had not. But once they were allowed to assume their accustomed gait, they settled down. The drag riders removed dusty bandannas from their sweaty faces and fanned themselves with their hats.

  "I ain't complainin'," said Van, "but why didn't those hombres from Tucson tell us about this spring?"

  "The way we were headed at that time," said Gil, "I don't think it would have mattered. I expect we're some-where to the south of Tucson now. But we should be able to change direction and still reach Tucson within a day's drive. The important thing is, we have water for tonight."

  "So we takes this hellacious long day," said Long John, "an' makes two out'n it."

  "Looks that way," Gil said, "but it'll be easier on the horses, the longhorns, and us. We need that extra day, and the only reason we weren't takin' it was because we thought the next water was beyond Tucson."

  "We have not drifted far enough south, then," said Bo, "for tomorrow's drive to become a hardship."

  "I doubt it," said Gil. "I'll ride out at first light, find out just how far we are to the south of Tucson, and get us back on course. Right now, I couldn't be more satisfied. Some of a man's mistakes turn out for the best, thank God."

  He was looking at Rosa, but she seemed not to have heard. Gil rode on ahead, and catching up to the horse herd, decided to use the procedure that had worked so well at Cienega Creek. He gave the same orders to Estanzio, Mariposa, and Juan Padillo as he had the day before.

  "Give it another hour, and then take the horses on to the spring. It has a pretty good runoff, but the steers will hog it all. Water the horses and move them down the valley to graze. Once you've done that, split up and ride beyond the spring a ways. I didn't see any Indian sign near the spring, but I didn't take the time to ride any farther."

  Sundown was just minutes away when the longhorns reached the ridge from which Gil had first sighted the spring. While there was no betraying breeze, the water was close enough. Just as it had excited Gil's horse, it had a similar effect on the longhorns. Bawling their eagerness, the leaders tore off down the slope, the rest of the herd close behind.

  "I believe in givin' credit where credit's due." said

  Van, "and sending the horses to water ahead of the longhorns is a plumb good idea."

  "That it is," Long John agreed. "Them longhorn bastards would of gored half the hoss herd by now."

  Gil grinned at the unexpected praise and said nothing. When they got to the spring, Juan Padillo had unloaded the packhorses and had filled the coffeepot before the longhorns had invaded the spring. Van and Long John soon found enough wood for the supper fire.

  "Ramon," said Gil, "take a couple of riders, and as the longhorns drink, drive them off a ways. If they're still thirsty, let them drink from the runoff. I purely can't stomach drinkin' from a spring when there's a cow standin' belly deep in it."

  "I did not think a Tejano drank from a spring unless a cow was standing in it," said Rosa.

  The riders laughed, Long John howled, and there were rare grins from the usually impassive Mariposa and Estanzio.

  * * *

  May 17, 1850. South of Tucson, Arizona Territory

  "Let's move 'em out!" shouted Gil.

  So sure was he of their having drifted off course, he headed the drive to the northwest, and then rode out ahead of it. He would find the town, locate the water, and again change the course of the trail drive, should it be necessary. Yesterday they had traveled a good twelve miles. Added to today's drive would be the miles they had drifted to the south, but he didn't believe it would increase the distance enough to hurt them. Gil had ridden about ten miles when he heard the faint but distinct barking of a dog. He reined up, listening. He reasoned there wouldn't be an Indian camp so near the white man's town, so it had to be the cabin—or at least the camp—of a settler or rancher. He rode due north, and was rewarded when the yipping of the dog grew louder. Finally there was another sound that assured him he was, indeed, nearing civilization, it was the crowing of a rooster, and Gil grinned in appreciation as the fowl crowed again. He couldn't recall having heard a rooster crow since leaving Missouri, in '33. They'd had occasional eggs and fried chicken at the Bandera ranch only because Dorinda, Van's wife, had come from a farm. Since the Jabez farm was but a few miles south of San Antonio, Van was always swapping beef for eggs, poultry, pork, and vegetables. Pangs of guilt reminded Gil that Rosa had wanted chickens of her own and he had refused. He vowed, once they returned to Texas, that she would have the fowls, and a big red rooster to go with them. That was, if she returned to Texas with him. When he rode into a clearing, he found himself approaching a barn, and it was substantial, built from logs. In an adjoining corral there were four mules, sleek and well-fed. This must be, as Long John had once suggested, mining country, requiring "mule work."

  Gil rode past the barn, and by the time he could see the log house beyond a stand of oaks, the dog had discovered him. Gil rode on, reached the yard and reined up. The house was as substantial as the barn, the morning sun reflecting off a glass windowpane. Smoke curled lazily from a stone chimney, and there was a long porch that covered three-quarters of the front of the log house.

  "Hello the house!" Gil shouted.

  There was no immediate response. Finally the front door eased open a little, and it was a foregone conclusion that whoever stood behind it had a gun. This was still very much the frontier. Gil needed more than a simple hello. He tried again.

  "I'm Gil Austin, trail boss for a cattle drive. We're aimin' to spend a day or two at Tucson, but we're a mite unsure of our direction. We met Vento Henneagar on the trail, if that means anything."

  The door eased open enough for a skinny, bearded old fellow to emerge. He limped, seemed old enough to have come with the territory, and held onto what looked like a Hawken long gun.

  "Lot o' folks knows Vento," he grunted. "Don't mean diddly."

  Gil laughed. "I reckon, but my Texas outfit gunned down a pair of Mex sidewinders that had ambushed Tucson's sheriff and his deputy. Vento seemed to take that as a favor, and told us to come on. Said his brother buys and sells livestock, and we hope to sell some cows, and maybe some horses."

  "Wal, now," said the old-timer, more jovial, "thet's better. Vento's my oldest boy, an' he owns the mercantile. Gid's the youngest, an' he's got the livery. Owns the livestock barn too. Me, I'm Jeremiah, too damn old an' stove up fer anything 'cept keepin' the varmints off the place. But by the Eternal, I can still shoot."

  "You got the best there is," said Gil. "A Hawken."

  "Damn right," said Jeremiah, pleased. "Git down an' rest yer saddle."

  "Like to," said Gil, "and likely I'll see you again before we move on, but I need to know where I am in regards to Tucson. I'll need to get back to the trail drive and aim them toward the nearest water. Vento said that's Saguaro Springs, a ways west of town."

  "Reckon he's right, if they's that many critters in yer herd. Ridin' west from here, it ain't more'n three miles't' town. Yer maybe six miles from the springs now."

  "Thanks," said Gil. "I won't have to check out the water, but since I'm this close, I'll ride in and say howdy to Gid and Vento. Keep that big Hawken loaded and handy."

  "Keeno," said Jeremiah Henneagar, standing a bit straighter. "Ride careful, Texas."

  Established by the Spanish, Tucson was almost three centuries old, and it was considerably more than just a village. There were no mud huts, leantos, or temporary shelter. The very least of the structures was log, and a few were of seasoned, dressed lumber, freighted in from God knew where. A much more common building material was adobe brick. Many a roof was of pine or cedar shake, some of them greened over with moss, attesting to their many years of service. Vento Henneagar's store was a low, lumber-constructed, flat-roofed building. It had the name across the false front in neat, black letters: V. HENNEAGAR'S MERCANTILE. If Vento ever had a son, Gil thought with amusement, they'd have to enlarge the building to get the boy's na
me on the front. Vento Henneagar was alone in the store, since it wasn't too far from the noon hour. He seemed shorter and heavier than Gil remembered, probably because he wore shoes instead of boots, and no hat.

  "Well," he said, affably enough, "I see you made it. Any trouble?"

  "Nothin' we couldn't handle." Gil grinned. "We strayed a mite too far south, and spent the night at a spring we didn't know was there."

  "I thought of that, after we left you," said Henneagar, embarrassed. "It wasn't that much out of your way, and would have made a good stop between Cienega Creek and here. But you know that now."

  "No harm done," said Gil, and changed the subject. "I rode in to say howdy to you and your brother Gid. I stopped by your house, and your daddy was about to bore me with his long gun until I convinced him who I was."

  "Jeremiah and his Hawken." Henneagar laughed. "That's why we almost never have Indian trouble around here. You don't believe it, just ask him."

  Gil mounted and rode on down the dusty street toward the livery and the distant livestock barn. He continued to marvel at the town. Even the saloons looked to have been there a hundred years. One of them had a giant four-armed saguaro growing out front that was taller than the flat-roofed building. The place was appropriately named the Cactus Saloon. Another, blatantly catering to miners, called itself the Pick and Shovel. Quickly, a man turned from the doorway back into the dim interior of the saloon. For a moment he seemed familiar, like someone Gil should know. As he rode past, a few people watched him curiously from open doors. He dismounted before the livery, half-hitching his reins to the rail. The sign across the front simply said livery, not mentioning the owner's name. A lesser sign above the door said Blacksmith. Horses and mules shod. Gil stepped into a small but neat office, and found it empty. He was about to depart the way he had come in when a second door opened and he found himself facing the younger Henneagar. Gid's features and build were similar to Vento's, and Gil saw little difference between the two, except the years. And the sheriffs star on Gid's vest. Gil spoke.

  "I'm Gil Austin, trail boss for a Texas trail drive. I met Vento a few days ago. My outfit gunned down a pair of killers who had ambushed your sheriff and his deputy. I see you won the star."

  "Won, hell," said the younger Henneagar, "we cut the cards and I lost."

  He didn't smile when he said it, and Gil changed the subject.

  "The herd's on the way, and should be at Saguaro Springs by sundown. We aim to be here maybe a couple of days. Vento says you buy and sell livestock. We need to sell some horses, and maybe some beef. Interested?"

  "I'd be more interested in some good mules," said Henneagar. "Beef, if the price is right. Horses, they'd have to be mighty cheap."

  "Big Texas steers," said Gil, "two-year-olds or better, ought to average twelve hundred pounds. I figure thirty dollars a head. Forty-five horses, Apache broke. Make me an offer."

  "Seventy-five steers at twenty-five dollars a head. The horses I'd have to see." you ride out in the morning and look at the horses?"

  "I'll do that," said Henneagar.

  Gil took that for dismissal and turned toward the door.

  "Austin?"

  Gil turned back to face the livestock buyer turned sheriff.

  "You and your riders are welcome for as long as you care to stay," said Henneagar, "but I want no trouble."

  "None of my riders will start any trouble, Henneagar," said Gil.

  Gil closed the door behind him and stepped out on the boardwalk. He wondered what had prompted the warning, but it didn't matter. His promise had carried a warning of his own. While he and his riders wouldn't start any trouble, neither would they run from it. A Texan was a breed unto himself, and while he might not have started the trouble, he would be there until the finish of it.

  * * *

  Gil was elated to learn that his change in direction had been exactly right. When he left Tucson, he rode southeast, and within four or five miles he met the horse herd. He couldn't see the longhorns, but he saw their dust; his riders were pushing them hard. Juan Padillo rode ahead of the horse herd to meet him. Juan grinned, anticipating the welcome news he saw in Gil's expression.

  "We're maybe four miles from town," Gil said, "and the water's three miles beyond. We'll sell some steers for sure, and some horses maybe. Get the word to Mariposa and Estanzio. There'll be more supplies, ammunition, clothes, horseshoes, and maybe eggs for breakfast."

  "Bueno," said Juan. He swatted his dusty hat against his thigh and rode ahead to meet the oncoming horse herd. Gil waved his own hat to Mariposa and Estanzio as he rode past the now visible lead steers. The herd was moving last enough to Keep the horse remuda in sight, and for just a moment Gil paused to speak to Ramon. The flank riders would get the word from Ramon, and Gil rode on to the drag. Van. Long John, Rosa, Pedro Fagano, and Vicente Gomez were riding drag. They whooped their excitement as Gil rode in among them, speaking loud enough for all to hear.

  "Only seventy-five cows,"' said Rosa, "and it is almost two thousand dollars."

  "It's been so long," said Van, "I didn't know Texas steers could still be swapped for honest-to-God money. We've swapped beef for vegetables, ham, and frying chicken until I can't imagine gettin' anything else."

  Gil laughed. "Get used to it. I only asked thirty, and settled for twenty-five. We'll get three times that in the goldfields."

  * * *

  Gid Henneagar watched Gil ride away, and he shifted his pistol belt, the unaccustomed weight of the Colt bothering him. He was no gunman, and while he had accepted Gil's promise at face value, he'd be uneasy with this Texas outfit in town. He had known Texans before, and they were all men with the bark on, willing to fight at the drop of a hat. If you didn't have a hat, they'd loan you one, and then drop it for you. While they might not start trouble, they'd sure as hell finish any that came their way. Tucson's reluctant sheriff already had one potential troublemaker in town. A saddle tramp had ridden in a few days ago, had begun haunting the saloons and taking more than his share of winnings from the poker tables. He wore a tied-down Colt and had the look of a killer. He apparently had no intention of leaving, and the town had begun to look questioningly at its new sheriff. What could he do? There were no laws against gambling, and for that matter, none against "slick dealing," unless the victim had a fast gun to back up his charge. While there had been a few complaints, none of the miners felt froggy enough to jump the visiting hardcase. Just maybe, thought Sheriff Hen-neagar, he might welcome this Texas outfit after all. Once they sold some steers and had some money, they would visit the saloons. He could imagine, with some satisfaction, these Texas cowboys buying into a poker game and having this slick-dealing Morgan Pinder clean them out. Sheriff Henneagar grinned to himself.

  * * *

  Morgan Pinder, standing in the doorway of the Pick and Shovel saloon, had immediately recognized Gil Austin as he rode toward Henneagar's livery. Pinder had hastily retreated into the dim interior of the saloon, hoping that the Texas trail boss hadn't recognized him. Hate flamed anew in Pinder. He had been tortured and humiliated by the Texan, and, afraid for his very life, forced out of the Clanton gang. Now he would have his revenge. He had no doubt the Texans would be in town for a day or two, and he vowed a pair of them would die. One was the high-handed trail boss, and the other was that Indian bastard who'd used a Bowie on him.

  * * *

  Once the trail drive was near Tucson, Gil sent the horse remuda ahead, so they would reach the springs well ahead of the longhorns. There they would again be watered and driven to graze before the longhorns arrived. It was one of those rare good days when the big Texas steers were not thirst-crazed and were driven in an orderly fashion to the water.

  "Any of us goin' to town tonight?" Van asked.

  "No reason for us to," Gil said. "We're broke. Gid Henneagar's goin' to ride out in the morning to look at the horses and deal with us for the longhorns. Tomorrow afternoon, and maybe tomorrow night, we'll all have a chance to go in and buy what w
e need."

  Chapter 17

  Nothing disturbed the silence of that first night near Tucson. Even though they would be here several days, habit had them all up and about before first light.

  "Estanzio," Gil said, "you and Mariposa decide how many horses ought to be reshod. Any shoe that may wear thin before we reach the goldfields, let's replace it now. We'll take some extras with us to replace thrown shoes, but let's head off as many as we can, by replacing them here. First thing we'll do, once we collect for the steers, is replenish horseshoes and nails."

  "Bueno," said Mariposa. "No shoe Apach' hoss?"

  "No," said Gil. "We have entirely too many horses, and with Mendoza breeding stock, I can't see wasting time with anything less. Once you know how many must be reshod, the rest of us will help you."

  Neither Mariposa or Estanzio said anything. With the help of Solano, they had prepared the horse remuda for the trail. Gil had a suspicion the pair wanted to replace all the spent shoes themselves. It would be hot, dirty work, and they'd get no argument from the rest of the outfit. But Gil always felt guilty when the Indian duo undertook such a task, although he knew the pride they took in the horses.

  When Gid Henneagar arrived, he wasn't alone. Vento was with him.

  "I'd like to look at those steers," said Vento. "Might take twenty-five myself and make it an even hundred, if you'll part with that many."

  "No problem," said Gil. "Got forty-five Apache horses too. All broke to ride, far as we know."

  "Didn't know the Apaches was hoss traders," Vento said.

  "We didn't trade for these." Gil grinned. "More like a gift. Apaches stampeded our horse herd one night and took half our remuda. When we took our horses back, we took theirs. Partly for our trouble, but mostly to keep them off our trail. Texans don't usually hold with horse thieving, but we occasionally make exceptions."

  Vento laughed, appreciating the boldness of the act. Gid, who didn't seem like the laughing kind, managed a grin. He left them, going to take a closer look at the horses.