The Alamosa Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Jim saw a puff of white smoke hanging in the air two hundred yards away. Flattening against his horse, he kicked it into a gallop and rode in a zigzag pattern toward the knoll below the little cloud of smoke. He drew his pistol and pointed it at the drifting white puff. If so much as a hair showed above the crest, he would blast it. He covered the two hundred yards in about fifteen seconds, charged around the knoll, then jumped from the saddle and rolled on the ground toward the cover of a nearby rock.

  There was no one there.

  Jim lay behind the rock for a long moment until he was absolutely sure he was alone. Then he moved cautiously over to where his attacker had waited in ambush. On the ground was the spent cartridge of a .44-40 jacked out of a Winchester by the assailant after firing. There were horse tracks nearby, and when Jim examined them, he was shocked to recognize the bar-tie shoe tracks of Ortega’s horse.

  The man who had shot at him was Ortega! But why?

  “Well, Senor Ortega, I don’t know what kind of a burr you got in your saddle,” Jim said aloud, “but I reckon I’m just the man to take it out.”

  Jim swung back onto his horse and began following Ortega’s tracks. The Mexican knew he was being tracked, and he did everything he could to throw Jim off. He rode across solid rock; he tied brush to his horse’s tail to drag out tracks; he cut and recut his own trail. But, grim-faced, and determined, Jim hung on doggedly.

  As he trailed Ortega, he wondered why Ortega had turned on them. Two possibilities came to mind. One was that, now that the horses were broken, Ortega might want to take over the herd for himself. The other possibility was that Ortega wanted the women, not for himself, but to sell to the bandidos. He knew that such an option wouldn’t be unthinkable for a man like Ortega.

  Jim trailed Ortega for the rest of the afternoon, until darkness fell. That night, he saw a campfire on the trail ahead of him. He was pretty sure it was a false campfire, set by the Mexican in hope of luring Jim into the camp. So Jim moved cautiously through the night until he reached Ortega’s fire. Looking around carefully, he saw that he had been right. Ortega hadn’t camped at that spot and had no intention of camping there.

  Jim continued until he came to a range of steep, rocky hills. He was certain Ortega wouldn’t try to navigate through there in the dark, and even if he did, Jim wouldn’t be able to follow his tracks. He decided that there was nothing he could do but stop and wait for the light of day.

  From the position of the stars, Jim supposed that it was about two o’clock in the morning. He had been sleeping lightly when something woke him up. He lay quietly for a few minutes, listening to the sounds in the night. Wind sighed through the dry limbs of a nearby mesquite tree, his horse whickered, but everything else was silent. Still, Jim sensed something amiss.

  Quietly, Jim rolled up his poncho, then stuck it under his blanket. That done, he crawled over to a small depression, slipped down into it, and looked back at his bedroll. From his position, it looked like someone was still in the blankets.

  There was a sudden flash of flame from a muzzle blast and the crack of a rifle shot. A puff of dust flew up from the bedroll. Jim knew that if he hadn’t moved, he would be dead now.

  Jim waited and listened. Finally, he heard what he was listening for. Someone was walking toward the camp, moving very quietly. Jim knew then that whoever it was, the would-be killer was coming in to finish him off at close range.

  He waited for the nocturnal assassin to take his second shot. When he did fire again, Jim used the flame from the muzzle blast as a target. Aiming at the upper right-hand corner of the flame pattern, Jim pulled the trigger.

  He heard a grunt of pain, then the sound of someone falling. Jim waited in the darkness.

  “Senor Robison,” the assailant called. The voice was racked with pain, but Jim recognized it as Ortega’s. “Senor Robison, you have killed me, I think.”

  “Why did you try to kill me, Ortega?” Jim asked. Playing it safe, he still did not show himself.

  “I thought it would be easier with you dead,” Ortega said.

  “Easier to do what?”

  “To kill the others and take your women and your herd. Oh, my belly. It hurts. I have never felt such a pain. You shot me good, Senor.”

  “Why did you turn on us, Ortega?” Jim asked, calling from the dark.

  Ortega took a few more wheezing, gasping breaths. Then the sound stopped.

  “Ortega?”

  There was no response. Slowly, Jim moved through the darkness toward the place from where he had heard Ortega’s voice. When he got close enough, he could see the Mexican lying on his back. His pistol was on the ground beside him, and both hands were folded across his belly, as if trying to hold back the pain. His eyes were open, and though they reflected light from the moon, they had a glassy, lifeless look about them. Moving closer still, Jim nudged Ortega with this foot. Then he knelt beside him for a closer look.

  Ortega was dead.

  Chapter 19

  It was evening of the following day before Jim reached civilization. The night creatures called out to each other as Jim stood looking toward the small Mexican village. A cloud passed over the moon, then moved away, bathing in silver the little town that rose up like a ghost before him. A couple of dozen adobe buildings, half of which were lit, fronted the town plaza. The biggest and most brightly lit building was the lone cantina at the far end of town.

  Inside the cantina someone was playing a guitar, and Jim could hear the music all the way out in the hills. The guitarist was good, and the music spilled out a steady beat with two or three poignant minor chords at the end of each phrase. An overall, single-string melody worked its way in and out of the chords like a thread of gold woven through the finest cloth. Jim liked that kind of music. It was a mournful, lonesome music, the kind of melody a man could let run through his mind during long, lonely nights watching over a herd.

  Jim was somewhat hesitant about riding into the village. Although his outfit badly needed beans, rice, bacon, salt, and coffee, he didn’t want a repeat of what had happened to them at Escalon. On the other hand, if he didn’t get some supplies soon, they would all starve before they got out of Mexico.

  He checked his pistol. It was loaded and slipped easily from its sheath. Then, clucking at his horse, he began riding slowly toward the town, being especially alert as he rode in.

  He heard a dog’s bark, a ribbony yap that was silenced by a kick or a thrown rock. A baby cried, a sudden gargle that cracked through the air like a bullwhip. A housewife raised her voice in one of the houses. Even though Jim couldn’t understand the language, he could understand the tone, as the woman shared her anger with all who were within earshot.

  Jim stepped up onto the porch of the cantina, then pushed his way inside. Because he was the only American in the place, he drew instant attention. However, if anyone had any ideas toward causing him any trouble, they didn’t show it. Instead, they gave him no more than a perfunctory glance, then returned to their own conversations. The conversations of two dozen men, speaking in Spanish, was a cacophony of undecipherable sound, though none of it seemed threatening.

  “Do you have any whiskey?” he asked the bartender.

  “No, senor. Tequila.”

  “All right. Tequila.”

  The bartender reached for a bottle and a glass, then poured the drink. He slid the glass across the bar to him.

  “Dos pesos, senor,” he said, holding up two fingers.

  Jim paid for his drink. “You speak English?” he asked.

  “Sí, I speak English.”

  “Some pards and I are trailing a herd of horses back up to the States. We need some supplies: rice, beans, bacon, flour, coffee—that sort of thing. Is there a store in town where such things can be bought?”

  “Sí, senor. But the store is closed now. It will open mañana.”

  “I’d like to get the stuff and start back tonight,” Jim said. “Any chance the store owner will open tonight?”

 
“Sí, I think he will open tonight. But it will cost more money.”

  “Then I will wait until morning,” Jim said. He tossed the drink down, then tapped the glass, indicating that he wanted another. The bartender filled it, took his money, then walked away to wait on another customer.

  “Senor,” a voice called.

  When Jim looked toward the sound of the voice, he saw a boy of about twelve who was sweeping the floor behind him

  “I can get the things you need for less money than you can get them in the store,” the boy offered.

  “How much less?”

  “Much less. You will see,” the boys aid.

  “All of it? Beans, rice, bacon?”

  “Sí,” the boy answered after each item, nodding his head.

  “Salt, pepper, coffee, flour?”

  “Everything,” the boy promised.

  “When can I get it?”

  “Tonight,” the boy said. He looked around the cantina, as if to make certain he wasn’t being overheard. “Are you hungry? I will show you where you can get a good meal. While you are eating, I will get the things you need.”

  “Where will you get them?”

  “I know a place,” the boy replied mysteriously. He leaned the broom against the wall. “Come with me. I will show you a good place where you can eat while you wait.”

  “I was just going to get something to eat in here,” Jim said.

  The boy shook his head. “No, you do not want to do that,” he said. “The food here is not so good as it is at Mamacita’s.”

  “Mamacita? Your mother?”

  “Not my mamacita,” the boy replied. “The café—it is called Mamacita’s.”

  The idea of eating in a restaurant rather than in a cantina was very appealing to Jim.

  “All right,” he said. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that. I’ll eat my supper while you get the supplies I need and bring them to me.”

  “Come with me, senor.”

  From the moment Jim set foot inside the restaurant, he knew he had made the right decision. The aromas were so enticing that they made his stomach rumble. He felt the contrasting emotions of eager anticipation and a terrible sense of guilt. Here he was, about to enjoy a good meal, while those he had left behind were on their last strips of jerky.

  A large, smiling woman greeted him. She was wearing an apron that was dusted with flour, chili powder, and perhaps half a dozen other spices and condiments.

  “Buenas noches, senor,” she said pleasantly.

  The boy, who had said his name was Pancho, spoke to the woman and she nodded.

  “I told her you do not speak Spanish,” Pancho explained. “If you will tell me what you want, I will order for you.”

  “How about a steak, chili, and coffee?” Jim asked.

  Pancho gave the order. Then as the woman headed for the kitchen, the boy told Jim he would go get his supplies now.

  “Maybe you had better wait until I’ve had my supper. Then you can take me there,” Jim suggested.

  “No, senor, that will not be good,” Pancho replied, shaking his head.

  “Why not?”

  “Because the man who owns the store will not sell to a gringo.”

  “I see. So you want me to trust you with the money—is that it?”

  “Sí, senor.”

  “What if I give you the money and you ske daddle?”

  “Qué?”

  “Run away,” Jim explained. “If I give you the money, how do I know I’ll see you again?”

  The boy shook his head ardently. “Senor, I will not run away,” he said.

  “It’s easy for you to say that, Pancho, but I’ve never seen you before. I can’t just turn my money over to you without some assurance that you will come back with the goods.”

  “You do not have to give me the money now. Give me the money when I bring the supplies to you.”

  “Are you telling me the storekeeper will let you have it without having to pay for it first?”

  Pancho smiled. “Sí.”

  “Well, then you must be pretty trustworthy after all. All right, Pancho. If you can do that, gather up what I need, meet me back here, and I’ll pay for it,” Jim promised.

  Nodding, Pancho left on his errand.

  A few minutes later, the woman brought Jim’s meal. It was as delicious as promised, and after he finished his supper, he asked for a plate of tamales, not because he was still hungry, but because the food was so good.

  As the woman headed for the kitchen to fill Jim’s order, Pancho opened the back door and came in, carrying two large cloth bags.

  Jim smiled at him. “Good for you, Pancho. You did it.”

  “I think maybe you should pay me now,” Pancho said.

  “All right. How much was it?”

  “One hundred pesos.”

  Jim whistled softly. “One hundred pesos? That’s a little steep, isn’t it? I thought you said you were going to be able to save me money.”

  “Fifty pesos,” Pancho said.

  “Whoa, now, that’s quite a difference. So which is it? One hundred pesos or fifty pesos?”

  “Will you pay one hundred pesos?” Pancho asked.

  “No.”

  “Will you pay fifty pesos?”

  “Yes.”

  Pancho smiled and nodded his head. “Then it is fifty pesos.”

  Jim took the money from his pocket and handed it to Pancho. “I have to tell you, Pancho, there is something a little fishy about this whole transaction.”

  “I brought your horse around back, senor,” Pancho said. “I think maybe you should take your supplies and go now.”

  “What do you mean, go now?” Jim asked. “I just ordered a plate of tamales.”

  Even as he was explaining the situation to Pancho, a plate of steaming tamales was set on the table.

  “I think you will not have time to eat your tamales,” Pancho said. Without being offered one, Pancho picked up one of the spicy cylinders of ground meat, slipped it from its corn husk wrapping, and began eating.

  “Pancho, why must I leave now?”

  “I think you will not want to be here when the storekeeper discovers some of his things are gone.”

  “What the hell? Pancho, did you steal these vittles?”

  “Sí,” Pancho said in a matter-of-fact voice. “It was easy,” he added.

  “Take it back,” Jim said, holding the sacks toward him. “Take it all back.”

  At that moment, there was a loud commotion out on the plaza. A man was shouting, but because he was shouting in Spanish, Jim had no idea what he was saying.

  “I think it is too late to take it back now,” Pancho said, reaching for another tamale. “I think maybe you had better go quickly. Everyone heard you talk about getting supplies when you were in the cantina. Now when they see you with these things, they will think you are the thief.”

  Jim realized that Pancho was right. There was no way he could talk his way out of this, and even if he could, it would be at Pancho’s expense.

  On the other hand, he had more than an ample supply of the goods he needed, and he had gotten it at a bargain rate. And if his horse was behind the café as Pancho had promised, then it shouldn’t be that difficult for him to get away.

  “Is my horse really behind the café?” Jim asked.

  “Sí, I brought him there myself. If you go quickly, you will get away before anyone else can get a horse.”

  “All right,” Jim said, hefting the two bags. “I’ll take your advice and get out of here.” He started toward the back door, but just before he left, he turned toward the boy. “I’ll give you this,” he said. “You are an enterprising young man, Pancho . . . Pancho what? What is your last name?”

  “Villa,” the boy said with a broad smile. “My name is Pancho Villa.”

  Chapter 20

  Jim Robison was a very welcome sight when he rode into camp carrying two large cloth bags filled with groceries.

  “This is wonderful!” Katie said
as she began taking inventory of the food Jim brought with him. “What did you do? Buy out the store? There’s chili powder, cinnamon, onions, dried apples, dried peaches, raisins, cornmeal, molasses—all sorts of things.”

  Jim had no idea that young Pancho Villa had been so thorough in his “shopping.” He hadn’t even bothered to look into the sacks, so quickly had he left the little village.

  “I thought a few extra things might be nice,” he said.

  “I’ll show you just how nice it can be,” Katie said. “Girls, help me out here. No more beef jerky. Tonight, we eat well.”

  “Oh, Lord, Miz Katie,” Frank said, rubbing his stomach after the meal that evening. “I know I said I wasn’t ready to settle down with any one woman, but I swear if I could find one that cooks like this, I might be tempted.”

  Katie laughed. “Well, thank you, Frank. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  True to her promise, Katie and her daughters had prepared a veritable feast that evening. She had made a main course of beans, rice, onions, and bacon, liberally seasoned with chili powder. In addition to the main course, she had baked an apple pie and flavored it with cinnamon and molasses. The meal was washed down with copious amounts of coffee.

  After paying homage to Katie and her daughters for preparing such a banquet, the four young men settled down with a final cup of coffee and a smoke. It was a time of contentment for all of them, and though Jim didn’t put it into words, he realized that this was what he liked best about being a cowboy.

  He knew that people who lived in town could also have a good meal, a cup of coffee, and a pipe or a cigarette. But he also knew that, without the hard life of a cowboy to isolate such moments, there was no way anyone could enjoy them nearly as much as he did.

  “I’ve been giving this business about Ortega some considerable thought,” Frank said as he used a burning brand to light his rolled cigarette. “What do you reckon he was really after?” Frank asked.

  “He said he was after the women and the horses,” Jim said.