“Any last words, hombres?”
One of the men cursed him in Spanish, but the other said nothing. They glared at their executioners, their dark eyes reflecting their hate. In a single motion Gil and Van each slapped one of the horses on the flank, and they leaped forward. Their former riders were left kicking the air, turning slowly. Mariposa and Estanzio had caught up the rustlers’ horses. Gil and Van mounted and led out, the rest of the riders following. Nobody looked back.
“We’d better find a place to hide these horses,” said Van. “If there was fifteen of these skunks, we’ve got a big day ahead of us. Six horses on lead ropes will slow us down.”
“Good idea,” said Gil. “That pair each had a rifle, and since I don’t, I’m claiming one.”
“Then I want the other,” said Van. “Ramon, their pistols are foreign-made. Any of our riders with a similar gun can use their shells. Search their saddlebags too, when you get the chance. If none of us has a gun that’ll take their shells, then a couple of you take their pistols as extras.”
They found a secluded area along a creek, and picketed the six horses where they could water and graze. From there, they rode in an ever-widening circle, as Mariposa and Estanzio sought another trail. When they found it, veering to the northeast, Mariposa and Estanzio reined up and dismounted. There were the tracks of more than fifty horses.
“That’s a big piece of our herd,” said Van, “and the way they’re bunched, they’re being driven.”
The rest of them watched as Estanzio and Mariposa studied the tracks. They followed the trail on foot for a hundred yards, establishing the reliability of it, and then trotted back to their horses.
“Bandidos,” said Mariposa. He extended five fingers and then two.
“Seven of them,” said Gil. “This time we’ll have a fight on our hands.”
They had ridden less than an hour when they caught up to the lingering dust of the herd.
“Some of us could ride like hell,” said Van, “circle around and get ahead of them.”
“No,” said Gil, “we don’t split our forces. They can see our dust as well as we can see theirs. We’ll stay on their trail, forcing them to take a stand. When they do, we’ll try a flanking movement and maybe set up a cross fire.”
“They know they can’t escape by outrunning us,” said Van. “I’m surprised they haven’t set up an ambush.”
“Greasewood and scrub oak don’t offer much cover,” said Gil. “Anyhow, we got a pair of hawk-eyed Indians reading sign. They’ll let us know if somebody gets ideas and leaves the bunch.”
But the country was becoming more broken. They crossed a ridge and trotted their horses down a slope that had eroded to bare rock and where nothing grew but an occasional yucca. At the foot of the slope was a dry, shallow arroyo, and beyond that, a steeper, more hazardous incline led to yet another ridge. Along its backbone ran a marching column of jagged stone upthrusts that looked like broken, uneven teeth. Mariposa and Estanzio reined up at the foot of the slope. A rifle slug whanged off a stone a few feet ahead of them. They were still out of range.
“Ramon,” said Gil, “let’s try flanking these busardos and getting a couple of our riders behind them. Send Mariposa down this arroyo to the south, while Estanzio follows it to the north. We don’t know if it’s one man up there with a rifle, or the whole bunch. Tell Mariposa and Estanzio to work around behind them, on the other side of that ridge. If it’s just one bushwhacker, they can take him. If it’s all of them, tell Mariposa and Estanzio to cut down on them. That’ll give us a chance to get up this hill and hit ’em from this side.”
The Indians quickly departed, while the rest of the riders waited.
“They’ll expect us to try something like this,” said Van. “They figure they got an ace in the hole, and I’m wondering what it is.”
The answer came almost immediately. From the ridge behind them came the ominous crash of rifles. Lead kicked up dust all around them as they scrambled for cover in the shallow arroyo. Nickering in fear, their horses scattered. They were afoot, themselves caught in a deadly cross fire.
9
The arroyo in which they had taken cover was wide and shallow. There wasn’t enough depth to kneel or sit, so they ended up belly down on a flint-hard surface that was uncomfortably hot from the noon-high sun. Gil twisted himself around, but they were so strung out, he couldn’t see all his men.
“Anybody hit?” he asked. There was no affirmative response.
“I think I busted both my knees,” said Van, “when I took a dive into this ditch, and it ain’t even enough cover for us to return their fire, without gettin’ our ears shot off. Lucky for us it’s just six more hours till dark.”
“We won’t last that long,” said Gil. “We can’t defend ourselves from here. All of you keep your heads down. It all depends on Estanzio and Mariposa. When they cut loose, that’s our cue to hit that slope on the run. We’ll top that ridge with our guns smoking.”
Gil twisted over on his back, and using a slender dead branch, lifted his hat into view. Rifles blasted immediately from both ridges. While his action may have seemed foolish and futile, it might serve them in two ways. It would further encourage his riders to make good use of the scant cover they had, until time to make their move. Also, the double fusillade was all the warning Mariposa and Estanzio would need. They were now well aware that the rest of the rustlers were forted up on the opposite ridge, and that Gil and the Mendoza riders were caught in a cross fire. Not a breath of air stirred. The shallow ditch in which they concealed themselves had eroded down to bare rock, and Gil could feel the heat of it through his shirt. The sweat dripped off his nose, off his chin, and he sleeved it out of his eyes. The sun bore down with a vengeance, and they had no water. Their canteens had been thonged to their saddles, and their horses had gone God knew where.
“Them Injuns have been gone an almighty long time,” said Van.
“They’ll do it their way,” said Gil. “When they cut loose, we’ll charge this bunch at the top of the hill. Just don’t let any grass grow under your feet. Those on the ridge behind us are in range, and when we make our move, we’ll draw their fire. We’ve got to get out of their range and up that hill before this bunch ahead of us recovers from the surprise Estanzio and Mariposa will lay on ’em.”
The first two shots came so close together, one seemed the echo of the other. Mariposa and Estanzio had arrived.
“Come on!” Gil shouted.
They were on their feet, zigzagging up the slope, and the fire from the ridge behind them was heavy. But the rustlers were shooting downhill, at rapidly diminishing targets. Firing continued from somewhere ahead of them, as Mariposa and Estanzio presented a new threat to the outlaws. Gil and Van had rifles now, and they topped the ridge shooting. The outfit had fanned out and every man was firing. Once their comrades had begun their attack, Estanzio and Mariposa had ceased firing, lest they hit some of their own men. Gil and the rest of the outfit gunned down five of the rustlers, while the last two disappeared in the scrub oak toward the bottom of the slope.
“Two of the bastards got away,” said Van.
“No, they didn’t,” said Gil. “Estanzio and Mariposa are down there.”
On the heels of his words, there were two quick shots from downslope. There was no further sound, no movement, until Mariposa and Estanzio trotted out of the scrub oak. Each man carried an extra rifle and pistol belt. Gil waved his Stetson at them. Then he walked to the crest of the ridge so he could see the opposite one, but there was no sign of the outlaws. Again he turned to the field of battle, and found his riders collecting pistols, shell belts, and rifles.
“That’s nine of ’em,” said Van, “includin’ the two we strung up. The rest are hightailin’ it, like the yellow coyotes they are. Are we goin’ after them?”
“Not if they’re making a genuine run for it,” said Gil. “If they couldn’t take us with fifteen men, I don’t expect them to try again, with less than half that
number.”
“Velasco escaped,” said Van, “unless he was one of the pair that Mariposa and Estanzio gunned down. I’m bettin’ we ain’t seen the last of that skunk.”
“You’re likely right,” said Gil, “but we’ll have to deal with him when our trails cross again. With horses and longhorns scattered over half of Mexico, we’re goin’ to purely have our hands full for a while.”
“Caballos,” said Ramon.
Juan Padillo, Pedro Fagano, and Domingo Chavez had brought the seven horses belonging to the dead rustlers.
“Some of you take their horses,” said Gil, “and go look for ours. While you’re about it, see if you can locate the horses these thieves were taking.
“Busardos come,” said Mariposa.
The big black birds had already begun to circle, waiting their time.
“Them damn buzzards,” said Van. “They draw more attention than smoke signals. Too bad we can’t bury this bunch of no-account varmints, so’s the buzzards don’t arouse too much curiosity.”
“Forget that,” said Gil. “Rocky as this ground is, you’d need blasting powder to crack the surface. We have our hands full, tracking down horses and longhorns.”
“I told you Texas and Mexico would sign a peace treaty before we get to the border.”
“You may be right,” said Gil, “and I hope they do. God knows, we don’t have anything else going for us. Let’s ride.”
They finished the day still missing sixty head of horses. Victoria was furious.
“You will find them!” she shouted. “Even one of them is worth more than every one of your miserable cows!”
“Maybe,” said Gil calmly, “and we’ll find them if we can. But we’ll be looking for them while we gather longhorns. We start the cow hunt tomorrow.”
July 23, 1843. Mexico City.
A hundred Mexican soldiers were about to depart for the long march north. There was instant pandemonium in the street when a crate fell from a cart and broke, loosing live chickens. The squawking, cackling birds ran in every direction, while the soldiers slapped their thighs and laughed at the spectacle. Patient burros bore hogskin bags of maguey sap—known as agua miel—which, when fermented, would become a volatile Mexican liquor called pulque.*
While the town square and portions of the capital city were festive, Mexico City had its dark side. Here, the streets were not cobblestone, but dirt. Dusty when dry, muddy when it rained. Here, the poor eked out only an existence, and hope was just one of the many things they lacked. Along these nondescript back streets were the cheap rooming houses, rundown cafés, dirt-floor bars, tamale vendors, brothels, and beggars. One such street was a dead end, and there crouched a forbidding building whose stone had weathered from gray to an appropriate macabre black. It was the infamous dungeon, a rat- and lice-infested hole where political prisoners and enemies of those in power lived. And died. Texans captured by Santa Anna’s army were marched south, and those unfortunate enough to reach Mexico City alive were sent to the dungeon.
The prison was fully enclosed by an adobe wall a dozen feet high and a fourth of that thick. On the inside of these walls, to the height of a man, the adobe had been pocked by hundreds of rifle balls. It was mute testimony to the men who, for crimes real or fabricated, had been backed against the walls and shot to death. The nearest café—perhaps the worst of a bad lot—was the Cocodrillo.* It was half a block down a rutted street, a slab-sided, unpainted building with a rough bench under the roof overhang, which passed for a porch. The lone man who slouched on the bench seemed neither young nor old. He wore neither boots nor sandals, but deerskin moccasins. His hat tilted over his eyes, he appeared to sleep, to see nothing. But he saw everything. Solano waited. Inside the Cocodrillo a very fat Mexican woman had just hired a cook, and attempted to explain to the girl her many duties.
“Puesta del sol, comida con guarda, calabozo. Comprender?”
“Comprender,” said Angelina Ruiz. At sundown she would take supper to the guards at the dungeon.
July 25, 1843. On the trail.
Five days north of their near disastrous stampede and the fight with the Mexican horse thieves, Gil was still wary. He didn’t believe they’d seen the last of Francisco Velasco and what remained of his gang. Gil talked to Ramon, and they continued with four riders until midnight, then doubled their force until dawn. Although Estanzio and Mariposa were part of the second watch, they spread their blankets near the horse herd and spent the first part of the night there. The hours before midnight was when trouble was least expected, but hardly a night passed when they didn’t hear the distant cry of a cougar.
“No matter how far away they are,” said Van, “the varmints purely make me nervous.”
“You could say that for the horses too,” said Gil, “but when you can hear ’em, that’s when they’re the least dangerous. Too bad the horses don’t understand that. The times we don’t hear ’em, I always wonder if it’s because they’re downwind, stalking the horses.”
An hour before dark a storm blew in from the west. While there was wind and rain, there was no thunder or lightning. There wasn’t even enough shelter to have a fire, so they had no coffee. The riders hunkered in the rain, eating cold biscuit and jerked beef.
“Nobody’s sleepin’ dry tonight,” said Van, “except Senora Mendoza. Was this what she had in mind when she insisted on bringin’ that big wagon?”
“Somehow, I doubt it,” said Gil. “Anybody that ain’t prepared to be rained, snowed, sleeted, and hailed on, purely don’t belong on a trail drive.”
They fully expected to spend a wet, miserable night, with little or no sleep. The rain ceased sometime after dark, but the heavy gray clouds remained. The night was so black, the moon and stars might not have existed. Adding further to the misery of that desolate night, a dense, clammy fog settled over the land.
“Espectro noche,” said Estanzio. He nodded to Mariposa, and the two of them disappeared in the foggy night.
“Spirit night,” said Gil. “Their old superstitions are gettin’ to ’em. They’ll likely spend the night with the horses.”
“I kind of understand how they feel,” said Van. “It’s like the world just rolled over, and we’re lost in the clouds. We’ve had five good days in a row, and I’m a mite uneasy. Hell’s bells, I’m worse’n Granny Austin. When things kinda bottom out, I wonder why. I feel like…well, like there’s somethin’ out there that’s just waitin’ for us to stop and try to catch our breath.”
While Gil didn’t admit it, he felt a little uneasy. But he put it from his mind, telling himself they’d fallen prey to old Indian superstitions and myths. But later on he wouldn’t be so sure. For that was the night the cougar came….
The horse herd grazed on the south side of the creek, while the longhorns had been bedded down on the north side. There was a light breeze—no more than an occasional breath of air—from the northwest. A predator stalking the herds would come from the south, approaching its prey against the wind. Estanzio and Mariposa reached the first of the grazing horses. There Mariposa waited, while Estanzio trotted down the creek to the opposite side of the herd. Each would walk a horseshoe pattern around the grazing horses, but neither was ever far from that vulnerable south flank. Every few minutes they’d meet there, as they walked in opposite directions. They paused at every meeting, listening for any sound that seemed alien to the night. They had just parted when the attack came. The cougar sprang from the fog-shrouded darkness without warning, sinking its claws into Mariposa’s back. The snarling cat on top of him, the Indian went belly down. His Bowie was on a leather thong, down his back, out of his reach. The nearest horse sounded an alarm, nickering wildly, and the herd lit out across the creek.
It being early in the night, only four riders were circling the herds. With the terrified nicker from the horse, the rest of the outfit was in their saddles and riding. Even above the thunder of the stampede, Gil could hear the snarling and screeching of the cougar. He kicked his horse into a run
toward the sound, his rifle ready. The clouds had parted and there was just enough light for him to witness the terrible struggle. The cougar had dug its claws into Mariposa’s back and shoulders. Estanzio, being unable to shoot, had straddled the snarling cougar like a bucking bronc. The Indian had his left arm locked around the beast’s neck, and had wrapped his legs around its lean flanks. In Estanzio’s upraised right hand was his Bowie, as again and again he plunged it into the body of the cougar. With the big cat sandwiched between them, there was no way Gil could shoot without risking hitting Estanzio or Mariposa. But Estanzio’s thrusts were taking a toll. The cougar seemed to pause in its struggle, and Estanzio took advantage, driving the big Bowie deep into the animal’s throat. It was the beginning of the end. Estanzio let loose his death grip on the dying cougar, rolling free. He lay there panting, exhausted. Some of the other riders had arrived, and Gil hadn’t even noticed.
“My God,” said Van, in awe. “I’ve never seen anything like that in my life!”
There was no time for talk. With Van’s help, Gil dragged the cougar’s lifeless body off and away from Mariposa.
“Diablo felino,” said Estanzio. He drove his Bowie into the ground to clean it. He then knelt beside the silent Mariposa.
“I hope most of that blood’s from the cougar,” said Van.
Mariposa’s shirt and jacket were slashed from shoulder to waist. Quickly Estanzio tore the material away, revealing the extent of the wounds. They were ugly and deep. The vicious teeth had torn into the shoulders and the back of the neck.
“We’ll need hot water,” said Gil, “and that means a fire. Damn the Mexican army, and anybody else that comes faunching around.”
Mariposa groaned and tried to get up. Gil and Van knelt to help him, but the Indian spoke.
The Bandera Trail Page 12
