The Bandera Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Better’n that,” said Van. “First thing I put my hands on was a couple pairs of clean, dry socks.”

  “I’m ahead of you,” said Gil. “In the saddlebags there’s a mess of hardtack and jerked beef. Besides that, there’s flint, steel, and punk, if we’re ever able to risk a fire.”

  “I’d risk one, if we had any coffee. My God, I’d swap my half of the ranch for a pot of good, hot coffee. Anything else?”

  “Powder, caps, and balls for the sleeve gun,” said Gil. “There’s needles, thread, fishing line, and a map of Mexico. It’s the one thing we need most of all. It’s hand drawn, but it’ll do. Once we know where we are, we can figure how we’re goin’ to get to Durango.”

  “I’m for stayin’ right here,” said Van, “until this storm’s done.”

  “We can,” said Gil, “but it won’t make much difference. I once read a book about Mexico. Some Spaniard wrote it, and he said that in some parts of this country, especially the rain forests, it rains nearly every day.”

  “Just our luck,” said Van. “With the ground always muddy, we’ll be leavin’ tracks. They may not know where we are, but we can’t be sure a company of Santa Anna’s boys won’t stumble onto our trail by accident. Even we don’t know where we are. We need the sun, the stars—something—to get our own bearings.”

  “Move over here where the light’s better,” said Gil, “and let’s study this map. We can use it to get some idea as to where we are.”

  Crunching hardtack and chewing jerked beef, the Texans sought some point of recognition on the crude map.

  “After leaving Matamoros, Tamaulipas,” said Van, “we don’t even know the names of the little villages we passed through.”

  “That won’t make any difference,” said Gil. “They’re not on Ortega’s map. The towns don’t matter that much when it comes to the movement of troops, but rivers do. See how he’s drawn in the rivers? After we left Matamoros, Tamaulipas, how many rivers—not countin’ this one—do you remember?”

  “Two.”

  “See this wiggly line, south of Matamoros, Tamaulipas? That has to be the first river. There, maybe fifty miles south, is the second. Just south of the second one is Salada hacienda, where we made our break. Now look at the third river. It’s just about as far south of the second one as we could have stumbled through the dark, on foot. Now do you see what I’m gettin’ at, and where we likely are?”

  “My God,” said Van, “we followed a river that runs into the Gulf of Mexico, near Tampico. Durango’s to the west, near the Pacific, and we’ve been gettin’ farther away from it. Are we ten miles west of Tampico, or a hundred?”

  “That’s one thing the map can’t tell us,” said Gil, “but if we’re figurin’ these rivers right, we have some sense of direction. With the wind and rain comin’ out of the west, we drifted before the storm, like cattle. So all the miles we walked, followin’ the break at Salada hacienda, we’ve been travelin’ east. But once we leave here, followin’ this river in the opposite direction, we’ll be headin’ toward Durango.”

  “If we follow this river as far as we can, and Ortega’s map is close to right, we ought to come out somewhere south of Durango.”

  “We won’t miss it by much,” said Gil. “There ain’t a whole lot between Durango and the Pacific. There’s Sinaloa, and to the south of it, Nayarit. They border Durango to the west, on the Pacific. If we see or smell the ocean, we’ll know we’ve gone too far. A turn to the northeast will take us right into the south of Durango.”

  “I’m glad you’re so good at figurin’ all this,” said Van. “I like to get my bearings from the stars, but these trees grow so close together, the limbs and leaves make a roof that shuts out everything but the wind and rain.”

  “I believe this is what the writers call a rain forest,” said Gil, “and from what I’ve read, it’s more common to central Mexico. It should lessen as we move farther north. But you’re right; with this green roof over us, we won’t be gettin’ any help from the sun and stars. That’s why it’s so almighty important that we follow this river. We’ll move out after dark, rain or not.”

  “Then I reckon we’d better get some sleep,” said Van.

  Exhausted, but out of the wind and rain, they had no trouble sleeping. Gil awakened first and crept near the entrance to their refuge. While there was still enough light to see, he wanted another look at the crude map. When Van spoke, his voice was startling in the stillness.

  “Got any more notions as to where we are?”

  “If Ortega’s map is accurate, and this is the river we think it is, we’re somewhere between Tampico and San Luis Potosi,” said Gil.

  “Right now, all we know for sure is east from west.”

  “That’s the straight of it,” said Gil. “The nearest town is San Luis Potosi, and Zacatecas will be somewhere to the northwest. Zacatecas borders Durango on the south.”

  “Once we leave the river, we’re goin’ to have one hell of a time keeping our sense of direction in the dark.”

  “San Luis Potosi and Zacatecas must be fair-sized towns, else Ortega wouldn’t have bothered writin’ them on his map. That being the case, there ought to be some kind of trail—maybe a wagon road—between the two towns.”

  “If San Luis Potosi’s big enough for Ortega’s map,” said Van, “there may be a company of Mex soldiers there. You aim to just walk in and ask the way to Zacatecas?”

  “Maybe,” said Gil, irritated. “You got any better ideas?”

  “Sorry, brother,” said Van. “Just tryin’ to look ahead at what we might be up against, so’s I can be ready.”

  “Try to look too far ahead,” said Gil, “and you’re likely to stumble over somethin’ close by. You can’t play out a hand until you see the cards you’ve drawn. This is a game where we can’t pass or fold; we’ll have to play out the string.”

  “Yeah,” said Van, with a grim laugh. “I know. But I can’t shake the feeling there’s a wild card we don’t know about, that when we face up our hand, the best we’ll have is a pair of deuces. So let’s grab the joker—otherwise known as Clay Duval—and get his neck out of whatever noose he’s got it into. Hopefully, without gettin’ ourselves strung up alongside him.”

  Gil grinned. “You’ve said it all. It’s dark enough; let’s go.”

  Their second night of freedom was no better than the first. Backwater from the river had filled each depression in the land, and time after time they stumbled into leafed-over bogs, finding themselves in water above their knees. Once Van got too close, the sandy bank gave way, and he took a tumble into the river itself. At dawn they found no shelter, and had to take refuge in an oak thicket on a ridge above the river.

  “I wish you’d been totin’ the pack,” said Van, “when I took that fall in the river. It just purely ruined the rest of the hardtack. It’s nothin’ but soggy mush.”

  “We’ll have to make do with the jerked beef,” said Gil. “Whatever’s left.”

  “Not much left. Today, it’s dinner or supper. There ain’t enough for both.”

  Hungry, wet, muddy, and without shelter, they found no rest. Gil tugged on his boots and got to his feet.

  “Come on,” he said, “and let’s be on our way. I purely don’t aim to just hunker here in the drizzling rain all day, and then spend another night stumbling through the dark. We need grub, and we won’t find it settin’ here.”

  They followed the river, rested occasionally, and saw nobody. In the afternoon the gloom began to lessen, and they became aware that the rain forest was thinning out. Soon they could see the low-hanging gray clouds.

  “Thank God,” said Van, “the sky’s still up there. I know that thicket’s been good cover, but I’m glad to be free of it. I feel like I’ve been let out of the calaboose.”

  Right on the heels of his words came the braying of a mule, and the Texans froze. The wind was in their faces, from the northwest, if their sense of direction was true. Finally they heard the creaking of wheels.


  “Come on,” said Gil quietly. “There’s a wagon road or trail close by.”

  They turned away from the river and, bearing north, made their way to the crest of a distant ridge. In the valley below, a trail stretched toward what had to be the northwest. Almost directly below them plodded a mule drawing a cart, its two wooden wheels creaking dismally. An old man trudged beside the patient mule, while the pigs in the crude cart grunted and squealed. But the scene below held their attention for only a moment. Their eyes were following the winding trail down which the old Mexican and his mule-drawn cart had come. Far away, rising above the tree-tops, was what appeared to be pinnacles of stone. They were twin towers, red against the gray of the sky.

  “It looks like side-by-side chimney rocks,” said Van.

  “It’s likely the towers of a church,” said Gil. “Some of the churches and cathedrals in Mexico were built under Spanish rule, during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. The steeples we’re lookin’ at are in or near San Luis Potosi.”*

  “Thanks to Ortega’s map,” said Van, “we know where we are. Now what?”

  “Soon as it’s dark enough,” said Gil, “we’re going to follow that trail. When we reach town, we’re goin’ to that church and talk to the padre.”

  “You don’t think he’ll call the law on us?”

  “No,” said Gil. “Why should he? We need food; who else can we turn to, if not the padre?”

  “I don’t know,” said Van, and then he laughed. “Remember what Granny Austin used to say? That neither of us would ever set foot in a church until the devil was on our trail and we had nowhere else to go?”

  The church towers had been visible from miles away, and by the time Gil and Van could see the lights of town, they were exhausted. For a while they just looked at the great church, uncertain as to how—or if—they should approach it. The cathedral itself was dark, except for what might have been a single interior lamp that shone dimly through its massive oval windows. Next to the church was a magnificent building, no less imposing than the church itself. Gil and Van approached the massive doors that must have been a dozen feet high. On the stone wall to the right and left of the doors, a globed lamp guttered. On the left hand door was a silver plaque, upon which was engraved OBISPOS PALACIO.

  “The Bishop’s Palace,” said Gil.

  He rapped the heavy door with the big brass knocker half a dozen times without response.

  “Damn,” said Van impatiently, “why don’t they open this door? There’s never been two more perfect targets than us, right between these two lamps.”

  Finally there was the distant, hollow sound of footsteps. One of the big doors swung back silently, and they found themselves facing a man with the high cheekbones and obsidian eyes of an Indian. He wore a dark robe and said not a word.

  “The padre,” said Gil. “Take us to the padre.”

  Still the Indian said nothing, but stepped aside, allowing them to enter the foyer. He then closed the door and retreated down the hall.

  “Maybe we’re supposed to follow him,” said Van.

  “No,” said Gil, “I don’t think so. We’ll wait.”

  “How do we know somebody won’t sneak out the back way and bring the law?”

  “We don’t,” said Gil.

  But they hadn’t long to wait. The little man who came down the long hall toward them wore a long black robe that reached to his sandaled feet. Except for a fringe of hair just above his ears, he was totally bald.

  “Hablar inglés?” Gil asked.

  The padre nodded. Gil told him their names and explained their reason for being in Mexico. He told of their capture by soldiers, and of their escape. He didn’t mention the killing of Ortega.

  “I am Father Elezondo,” said the padre, “and this is the church of Guadalupe. What do you wish of me, senors?”

  “The promise of your silence,” said Gil, “some food, and directions to the Mendoza ranch, in the south of Durango.”

  “You have my promise,” said the padre, “but it is late, and the cook has gone. I was about to have some hot coffee. Aside from that, I fear I can offer you only leftovers from supper. I am sorry.”

  “Don’t be, Padre.” Gil grinned.

  They followed the padre to the kitchen, and when they had seated themselves at what was probably the servants’ table, he poured them steaming cups of black coffee from the pot on the stove. He then set about bringing them food. He began with a haunch of roast beef and a sharp knife, bidding them cut their own portions. He brought two loaves of bread, half a hoop of cheese, and a pot of cold boiled potatoes.

  “That’s all there is,” said the padre. He poured himself a cup of coffee, fetched a backless, three-legged stool, and joined them at the table. He said no more. There was a twinkle in his eyes as he watched them wolf down the food.

  “Padre,” said Van, when he could eat no more, “that’s enough to make me a churchgoin’ man.”

  “Amen to that,” said Gil. “Now, if we ain’t imposin’ too much, what can you tell us about the Mendoza ranch?”

  “Senor Mendoza is dead,” said the padre. “It was a tragedy, for he was yet a young man, with a beautiful wife.”

  “What happened to him?” Van asked.

  “He was shot to death in an ambush. The killer has never been found.”

  “This friend we’re lookin’ for is interested in the Mendoza horses,” said Gil.

  “Ah,” said the padre, “they are hotbloods. The military swears by them. I have heard that Santa Anna himself owns three of them, and will settle for nothing less.”

  “What about cattle?” Gil asked. “Did Mendoza run any longhorns?”

  “I do not think so, and it is strange that you should ask. Following Senor Mendoza’s death, I have heard that Senora Mendoza has begun gathering a herd of longhorn cattle. But for the hide and tallow, they are worthless. Except, of course, the fierce bulls for the arena.”

  “How far are we from the Mendoza spread?” Van asked.

  “Perhaps two hundred fifty miles,” said the padre. “A terrible journey for one afoot.”

  “We have no choice,” said Gil. “We have no money to buy horses, if they were available. Besides, a pair of Tejanos buyin’ horses would attract all kinds of attention, and that could be the death of us.”

  “I do not believe you are in danger from my people, Senor Austin,” said the padre. “I do not believe the Mejicano begrudges you your independence. It is only twenty years since we ourselves were freed of Spanish rule.”

  “I expect you’re right, padre,” said Gil, “but the politicos in Mexico City sing a different song. As long as they send soldiers to shoot at us, we’ll be shootin’ back.”

  “It is the radicals,” said the padre. “They conscript our young men, make zapadores* of them, and force them to fight for a cause in which they do not believe. I fear there will be a great war in which many of my people will die.”

  “I fear you are right,” said Gil, “and while we have no fight with your people, your military won’t leave us be. That’s why we asked for a promise of silence from you, because we don’t know where the soldiers are.”

  “I fear for you,” said the padre. “Not while you are among my people, but for the time when you must cross the river back into your country. I urge you to find your friend, if he still lives, and go.”

  “You think he may be dead?” Van asked.

  “I am sorry,” said the padre. “I should not have said that. I have heard rumors of a Tejano who rode south seeking the Mendoza ranch, nothing more. What I meant to say, senors, is that these are dark and bloody times when any Tejano riding into Mexico may die here. The hour is late. You are welcome to stay the night if you wish.”

  “Mucho gracias, Padre,” said Gil, “but we should go.”

  “Very well,” said the padre. “Northwest of town is a wagon road—actually, little more than a trail—that will take you to Zacatecas. It is a distance of perhaps 125 miles, roughly halfwa
y between here and the Mendoza property. I regret that I cannot offer you mounts, but we are a poor people.”

  “We understand, Padre,” said Gil. “Are you familiar with the Mendoza brand?”

  “It is the Winged M,” said the padre, “known throughout Mexico.”

  Gil and Van departed the church of Guadalupe just after midnight. The padre had insisted they take what remained of the food, along with several more loaves of bread the cook had likely baked for the next day.

  Avoiding the town, they circled until they found the trail they sought. The rain had ceased, and but for a cloud bank far to the west, the sky was fair. While there was only a sliver of moon, the starlight made the difference, and they had no trouble finding their way across the plain.

  “Another two hundred fifty miles afoot,” said Gil. “Ten more days, at least.”

  “You’re figurin’ twenty-five miles a day. We won’t make even half that, stumbling through the dark.”

  “Startin’ tomorrow,” said Gil, “we’ll travel by day. We can still follow this trail, while keepin’ our distance from it. Any village along the way—such as Zacatecas—we’ll approach after dark. I think the padre was right. We’ll be safe enough from here to the Mendoza ranch. It’s when we try to leave Mexico that hell’s likely to bust loose.”

  “That padre didn’t tell us all he knows,” said Van. “My ears perked up when he said Mendoza was killed from ambush. What for? Raisin’ horses? Without sayin’ it, the padre believes Clay may have been killed. But I reckon you noticed that.”

  “Yeah,” said Gil, “I caught it. He almost said Clay may have been gunned down for the same reason Mendoza was. That kind of fits what Clay didn’t tell us. Something spooked him. He ain’t the kind to run from a fight, but he’s no fool. He wouldn’t hang around to eat honey while the bees are in the hive.”

  “It’ll be just our luck,” said Van, “for Clay to have cashed in his chips, and us hoofin’ it halfway across Mexico for nothing.”

  “Oh, it won’t be for nothing,” said Gil grimly. “Clay Duval had his faults, but he was a man to ride the river with. If he’s dead, the bastard that done him in is goin’ to pay. In spades.”