The Bandera Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Gil and Van had traveled only a few miles from San Luis Obispo before halting for the night. They started early, stopping only when darkness and exhaustion overtook them. Eating sparingly of the food Father Elezondo had given them, they limited themselves to one meal a day. Near sundown of the fourth day, they paused on a ridge overlooking the village of Zacatecas.

  “If the padre was levelin’ with us,” said Van, “we’re 125 miles from the Mendoza ranch. We still have bread and cheese. You want to make do with it, or try our luck in town?”

  “We’ll wait for dark,” said Gil, “and pass up the town. It’s too near the Mendoza spread. Until we know the situation at Mendoza’s, we won’t know where we stand. We may have enemies we don’t yet know about, and I’d as soon they don’t know we’re here.”

  They passed wide, leaving the lights of Zacatecas behind, traveling as far into the night as their weary feet would take them. They were up before first light, plodding along the dim trail that seemed to stretch endlessly to the northwest.

  “If I live long enough to fork another horse,” said Van, “the man takin’ it will have to shoot me out of the saddle first.”

  “We’ve been afoot so long,” said Gil, “we’ll likely have to learn to ride all over again.”

  Gil and Van were five days away from Zacatecas, and two days without food. They had reached a grassy plain dominated by creosote bush and yucca. Just ahead, a welcome ribbon of greenery assured them of water. While they paused, a cow and calf appeared briefly, then quickly vanished into the brush bordering the distant stream.

  “Too far away to see their markings,” said Van, “but I’d give odds we’re on the Mendoza spread. We’re still a couple of hours away from good dark; maybe we can get there in time for supper.”

  “Look over yonder,” said Gil, “to the northeast. Buzzards. Something’s down or dead. It’s a mite out of our way, but we’d better take a look.”

  They reached the creek, found a shallow place and crossed. There was an abundance of cattle and horse tracks. Far to the north were irregular ridges of mountains that descended gradually to the plain, their slopes clothed with the dark green of conifers. The greasewood and yucca began to thin out, giving way to oaks and several species of trees unfamiliar to the Texans. By now they were near enough to see the circling vultures clearly.

  “They’re waitin’,” said Van. “Whatever they got their beady eyes on must still be alive.”

  They came upon a coulee from the low end, and it became deeper as they followed it. Rounding a turn in the gulley, they came suddenly upon a horse and rider. The horse was a magnificent black. The animal lay on its right side, its neck twisted at an awkward angle. On its left hip was a Winged M brand, and trapped beneath it was a rider who was dressed as a Mexican vaquero but had the distinctive features of an Indian. There was a bloody gash above his right ear, and from where they stood, Gil and Van couldn’t be sure the man still lived.

  “We’ll need another horse and a strong rope to get that dead one off of him,” said Van.

  “Since we’re lackin’ both,” said Gil, “we’ll have to think of something else. Maybe we can find a pole that’s long enough, and strong enough to lift the horse just enough to free his leg.”

  But all they could find was a dead cedar sapling that had been starved off a nearby rocky slope. Van hacked away the limbs, using the Bowie they’d taken from Ortega. When they slid down into the coulee, they found it still deep in mud from recent rain.

  “With all this mud,” said Gil, “he might have been spared broken bones, unless he came down on some rock.”

  The hapless Indian was pinned in such a position that they had difficulty getting the butt end of the cedar pole under the dead horse. Frustrated, they paused in their efforts, and found the Indian’s dark, expressionless eyes on them.

  “Salvor, amigo,” said Van.

  Suddenly there was an unearthly screech, not unlike the scream of a woman. A dozen feet away, on a rock outcropping overlooking the coulee, crouched a huge mountain lion! The animal’s attention was focused on the prey within the ditch, its long, snaky tail twitching in anticipation.

  “No sudden moves,” said Gil quietly. “Ease your Colt out, and when I give the word, we’ll both fire. Make the first shot count; I doubt we’ll ever get a second one.”

  The big cat roared, and they could see the rippling muscles begin to tense beneath the tawny hide.

  “Now!” said Gil. “Fire!”

  3

  Gil and Van fired, and blending with the roar of their Colts came the welcome thunder of rifles. The fusillade caught the lion at the start of his leap, and the big cat plummeted into the coulee, where he lay still.

  “Thank God for the gents with the rifles,” said Van, “whoever they are. I purely don’t believe we could have dropped that big devil with our Colts.”

  There was the clatter of galloping horses. The riflemen were approaching. The three riders reined up their horses at the brink of the coulee, and two of them had the same Indian features as the man pinned under the dead horse. The third man seemed neither Indian or Mexican, but in other respects the trio were much the same. Each man rode a spirited, hot-blooded horse, wore a high-crowned, wide-brimmed hat, and the colorful sashes and neckerchiefs of the vaquero. They sat on ornate Mexican saddles with trapaderos, and their rough-out leather chaparrejos were silver-studded. Gil and Van looked first into the three pairs of dark, expressionless eyes, and then into the ominous muzzles of three rifles.

  “Friends,” said Gil. “Amigos.”

  The Indian rider trapped under his dead horse became aware that Gil and Van might be in some danger from the newly arrived trio. The Indian lifted his hand as though to stay the rifles of his three comrades, and for the first time he spoke.

  “Ninguno! Ninguno! Dos Amigos!”

  It made an immediate difference. The three mounted men returned their rifles to their saddle boots, and the rider who seemed neither Indian or Mexican uncoiled his lariat. He dallied it about his saddle horn and dropped the loose end into the coulee. Gil caught the rope and knotted it around the hind legs of the dead horse. Slowly the rider took up the slack, moving the animal enough for the Indian to free himself. But for the bloody gash on his head, the man seemed unhurt. Apparently without broken bones, he struggled to his knees, and Van helped him to his feet. Gil loosed the rope from the dead horse, and was about to free the saddle, when the Indian rider shook his head. While the very last thing a Texan would have done was leave his saddle, Gil and Van made no further moves, waiting. The newly freed Indian grabbed the rope, and his companions lifted him out of the coulee. The rope was then dropped a second time for Van, and a third time for Gil. Beyond a doubt they were on the Mendoza range. Each of the three horses bore a Winged M brand. For the moment, thanks to their attempted rescue, Gil and Van had been accepted as friends. The two Texans saw nothing in the dark eyes of the vaqueros except curiosity. Finally one of the men spoke.

  “Tejanos?”

  Gil and Van nodded. Then, in careful Spanish, Gil attempted to explain their reason for being in Mexico, on the Mendoza range. The vaqueros listened in impassive silence. Only once did fleeting recognition touch their dark eyes, at the mention of Clay Duval’s name. Once Gil had finished, without speaking a word, the four men seemed to reach a decision. The rider who had spoken to them mounted his horse, and the Indian they’d rescued from the coulee swung up behind him. Then the second and third vaqueros mounted, one of them nodding to Van, the other to Gil. Each of the Texans mounted behind one of their benefactors, the Winged M riders sent their horses trotting toward the northwest. With the three horses carrying double, the vaqueros took their time, and it was almost an hour before they came within sight of the ranch buildings.

  They approached slowly enough for the Texans to fully appreciate the massive spread. The ranch house was of cedar logs; long, low, and rambling. It was isolated from the barns, corrals, and bunkhouse by stately oaks. Far beyond the
house, through the trees, they could see horses grazing behind a six-rail-high pole fence. But despite the grandeur of the spread, it was momentarily lost to Gil and Van Austin. Their eyes were on the slender woman who had stepped out the door and stood waiting on the porch.

  Raven-black hair curled down to her shoulders. Except for the red brocade on her bolero, and a matching red sash, she was dressed all in black. She wore a flat-crowned, narrow-brim black hat with chin thong. The stovepipe tops of her black leather riding boots were circled with red stars, and her velveteen vaquero breeches looked to have shrunk since she’d put them on. Clay Duval’s decision to remain in Mexico began to make sense to Gil and Van Austin. The vaqueros reined up, dismounting only after she had nodded her permission. Gil and Van dismounted, removing their hats as the riders had. The vaquero who had first spoken to Gil and Van now spoke for them all. In rapid Spanish he explained, and when he had finished, she spoke in a low, musical voice.

  “So you are the Austins,” she said, in English. “I am Victoria Duval.”

  If she had chosen her words for shock value, she wasn’t disappointed. But Gil and Van said nothing, nor did the vaqueros. They were waiting to be dismissed, and she turned to them.

  “Since you’ve met some of my riders,” she said, “allow me to introduce them. This hombre,” and she gestured toward the man who seemed neither Mexican or Indian, “is an Argentine gaucho. A South American cowboy. He answers to Bola, or just Bo. He has an unusual skill that you must see to believe. “This,” and she turned to the Indian who had been trapped in the coulee, “is Solano. The hombre to your left is Estanzio, and to your right is Mariposa.”

  She nodded to the four and, dismissed, they turned to the horses. The Indian, Solano, again rode double, and they headed for a distant barn.

  “Supper will be ready within the hour,” said Victoria. “I will show you to your quarters. You are in need of privacy, a change of clothing, soap, and hot water.”

  “All of that,” said Gil, “and we’ll be obliged. But it’ll have to wait. You know why we’re here. Let’s set on the porch awhile, and talk about Clay Duval. I reckon we owe him that.”

  “Very well. He said you would come, but I expected you much sooner.”

  “The Mexican army changed our plans some. Where is Clay?”

  “I do not know. He disappeared three months ago. I fear he is dead.”

  “Gunned down from ambush, perhaps, like Senor Mendoza?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I don’t reckon that matters,” said Gil. “Let’s just say it’s no secret the late Senor Mendoza didn’t cash in from old age. Now you’re sayin’ Clay may be dead. I’m guessing the same hombre that gunned Mendoza likely done the same for Clay, and for the same reason. Maybe he got too close to something somebody else wanted.”

  “Such as?”

  “You, maybe,” said Gil.

  She slapped him. Hard. He said nothing, but his eyes chilled to blue ice and never left hers. Shaken, she turned away from him. Finally she spoke.

  “I…I’m sorry. I had no right to do that. Forgive me. I suppose you are entitled to your doubts and suspicions.”

  “You are—were—Clay’s wife, then?” Van asked.

  “I am expecting a child,” she snapped. “What do you think?”

  She had not answered Van’s question, but put them on the defensive with one of her own. It was a frustrating situation, destined to become more so as it progressed. But the tension and the silence were broken by a petulant voice from the doorway.

  “Victoria, must you swoop down on every available man in the world, without allowing lesser mortals a chance?”

  She wasn’t much out of her teens, if that. Her dark hair was in braids, like an Indian’s, and her multicolored gown reached to her sandaled feet.

  “This,” said Victoria, more irritated than embarrassed, “is my sister, Angelina Ruiz. Angelina, this is Gil and Van Austin.”

  Beyond the introduction, Victoria had little to say, assuming a tight-lipped silence. But Angelina quickly took up the slack.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” said the girl. “Clay was going to take us to Texas, but got himself killed before we could go.”

  “Almighty inconsiderate of him,” said Van. “That was one of his worst faults, gettin’ himself killed just when you needed him.”

  “Let’s put this talk aside until after supper,” said Gil. “Me and Van’s been too long without grub. Besides, it’s time we washed up, and spent a few minutes with a good razor.”

  “Angelina,” said Victoria, barely civil, “I will show the Austins to their quarters. Please see that the cook sets extra places at the table.”

  There was the clatter of hoofs as Solano rode out. Again he straddled a big black, but the horse was without a saddle. The Indian was going for his own rig, taking a spade with him. When he had removed his saddle, he would cave in the sandy bank of the coulee on the big black. Although his mount was lost to him, he would spare it the final indignity of becoming food for buzzards and coyotes.

  It was ironic that the clothes Victoria brought Gil and Van had belonged to Clay Duval.

  “I purely hate it for Clay’s sake,” said Van, “but we need these duds. We were just about in rags, and I’d lay odds there ain’t a six-foot-five Mejicano anywhere in Mexico with two extra pairs of britches.”

  “We met these females less than two hours ago,” said Gil. “Maybe I’m bein’ some previous in my feelings, but I can’t get away from the idea they aim to use us the same as they were usin’ Clay.”

  “You got the straight of it,” said Van. “But at least Angelina’s honest about it. Victoria ain’t as obvious, but she’s proddin’ us in the same old direction. She didn’t come right out and say she expects us to take up where Clay left off, but she didn’t waste any time tellin’ us she’s going to have a child. Now, we can’t leave old Clay’s kid in this godforsaken part of the world, can we?”

  “I reckon not,” said Gil, “if we’re sure it’s his. But was he actually married to this woman? I could believe the child’s his, if there is one, but I’m purely havin’ trouble swallowing the idea that he’d bogged himself down in double harness for the rest of his life.”

  “There’s just one thing I’m sure of. Our old pard’s roped us into one hell of a mess. If we take up where he left off, we purely can’t leave these two women here and go back to Texas. Trouble is, it’ll take somethin’ close to a miracle just gettin’ ourselves out of here alive. Taking two females along, the odds get downright scary.”

  “You’re only lookin’ at half the problem,” said Gil. “I’m not sure we’ve been told the truth about Clay, I doubt we can trust them if we end up with our backs to the wall, and I’m having trouble believin’ Clay promised to take them with him. I think what Victoria Mendoza hasn’t told us would have made a difference to Clay, and I think it’ll make a difference to us.”

  “Then you don’t aim to take them to Texas?”

  “I don’t know,” said Gil. “I’m sayin’ let’s don’t commit ourselves one way or the other. I got me a gut feeling that if Clay’s dead, whoever got him may come after us, for the same reason.”

  “And you aim to give him a chance.”

  “Exactly,” said Gil. “I think we’ll pick up where Clay left off, and go on making plans for this trail drive. Before it’s done, I think we’ll have some answers. Such as what happened to Clay, and why Victoria’s so almighty eager to leave Mexico.”

  There was a knock on their door. It was Angelina, calling them to supper. When Gil and Van stepped into the hall, the girl viewed their clean-shaven faces and slicked-down hair with new interest. The Texans had long been without food, and in deference to their hunger, there was no conversation during the meal. But once it was finished, Gil had questions of his own.

  “In his letter,” said Gil, “Clay told us he aimed to drive two hundred head of horses, and maybe five thousand longhorns to Texas. He must have had some
plan. Do you know what he had in mind?”

  “The year before my husband…died,” said Victoria, “we drove a hundred head of horses and five hundred longhorn cows to Matamoros. It is from there that Santa Anna launches most of his attacks, and it is to there that his forces return for regrouping. Captives are taken there, before being sent on to Mexico City. The horses were for officers in the Mexican army, and the cows were beef to feed the soldiers and captives. We were paid well for the horses, but nothing for the cows. It was Clay’s belief that we might safely drive our herds as far as Matamoros, Coahuila by having the authorities believe that these horses and cows were again being supplied for use by the army.”

  “But from Matamoros, Coahuila,” said Van, “it’s still three hundred miles to the nearest point we can cross the border.”

  “Clay was aware of that,” said Victoria. “From there, he said we would have to make a run for it.”

  “My God,” said Gil, “how do you make a run for it with a herd of longhorns, when you’re lucky to travel fifteen miles a day?”

  “Maybe not that far, with the wagon,” said Angelina, all too innocently.

  “Wagon?” Gil looked from one woman to the other, in total disbelief.

  “A Conestoga,” said Victoria, “and we must take it. If I’m departing Mexico forever, there are some things I cannot leave behind.”

  “Did Clay know this,” Van asked, “that you aimed to take a wagon?”

  “Well…no,” said Victoria. “We…never got that far, before he…”

  “That kills Clay’s plan dead in its tracks,” said Gil. “How do you aim to convince the Mexican army you’re only taking horses and cows to Matamoros, when you’ve got a Conestoga loaded to the bows with your worldly goods?”

  “I don’t know,” said Victoria defiantly, “but I’m not going unless I can take the wagon. I’ll drive it myself. You can’t travel any faster than the longhorns, and I can keep up with them.”