The Bandera Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Behind the smashed wagon, Gil found Esteban Valverde. One of the big horses lay on Valverde’s lower body. He had fallen onto a stone outcropping and lay on his back. His face was a mask of crusted dried blood, and the stone beneath his head had been soaked with it. His arms were broken, the jagged ends of the bones having pierced the sleeves of his coat. There was no sign of life, and Gil turned away, sick. Then came a whisper of sound, ghostly in the silence, which chilled his blood.

  “Austin…”

  In an instant, Gil turned, his Colt in his hand. Esteban Valverde’s eyes were clouded with approaching death, but they were open, pleading. Gil holstered his Colt, moving closer, as again Valverde spoke in a whisper.

  “I…am paralyzed. Please…grant me…the mercy you’ve shown…the horses….”

  His eyes closed and he said no more. Gil drew his Colt and shot Esteban Valverde through the head. Holstering the Colt, he turned quickly away. There was more dust, as bits of sand and rock slid down from the rim above. As Gil again made his way past what was left of the wagon, the sun struck fire from something among the rubble that littered the canyon floor. Gil retrieved the object and it was heavy in his hand. It was an ingot of pure silver, like many more that must have spilled from the smashed wagon box. It was ill-gotten treasure, and those who had lusted after it now lay dead in its midst. In disgust Gil dropped the ingot and walked away. When he reached the horses, Estanzio had loosed their reins from the wagon wheel. Quickly the three of them mounted and rode away.

  As he rode, Gil tried to sort things out in his mind. What he had only suspected he now knew. Esteban Valverde had been a stuffy little man with a towering ego, and Victoria Mendoza had used him. Theirs had been an unlikely alliance, and there had been no romance, at least as far as Victoria had been concerned. Gil believed Valverde had murdered Senor Mendoza and hadn’t received the compensation he had expected. It had all the earmarks of a double-cross. Whatever she had been, he found himself regretting he hadn’t known Victoria under different circumstances. Not as she was, but as she might have been. Gil, Estanzio, and Mariposa quickly caught up to the trail drive, riding directly to point position, ahead of the horse herd. Ramon and Van waited, their eyes full of questions.

  “Estanzio and Mariposa put two of the horses out of their misery,” he told them. “The wagon’s buried under sand and rock it tore from the rim.”

  “Before the day’s done,” said Van, “every buzzard in Mexico will be down there. With Victoria gone, we’re in a far different position. As I see it, an almighty poor position.”

  “You’re seein’ it about right,” said Gil. “Soon as we reach water and get these herds settled for the night, we got some hard decisions to make. This involves you, Ramon; we’re going to need your help.”

  Ramon walked his horse closer, and Gil continued.

  “We’re no longer the Mendoza outfit, Ramon, but we’re still going to Texas. You don’t have to go with us—nor do any of the riders—unless you wish to. But you’re a bueno outfit, and I’d like every man of you to return to Texas with us, as our riders. Now this is what I want you to do. Talk to the riders, tell them of my wish, and we’ll speak of this again after we have reached water. Comprender?”

  “Comprender,” said Ramon. “No more Mendoza. Who b’long caballos?”

  It was a touchy question. They had 180 head of the finest horses in Mexico—maybe even the world—yet they had no legal claim to them. Gil sighed. It was a question to which every man in the outfit deserved an answer, and his response might determine whether or not these men remained with the trail drive. Deception was not the Austin way. He would tell them the truth. Win, lose, or draw.

  “Ramon,” he said, “Senora Mendoza promised us the horses we are riding, and a few for breeding stock, once we reached Texas. Now the Senora Mendoza is dead, unable to keep her promise. But what are we to do with these fine horses—these bueno caballos—if we do not take them with us? Do we turn them loose to fend for themselves among the cougars and wolves? Do we leave them to Santa Anna’s army, to be shot down in border skirmishes?”

  Ramon shook his head violently, sparks of anger in his dark eyes. Gil continued.

  “Ramon, you and the other riders have a right to some of these horses. Van and I own many thousands of acres of land in Texas. Enough for a magnificent rancho. I’m offering every man of you a piece of that, a share of these fine horses, once we get them to Texas. It is a chance for each of you to become more than, a beans-and-bacon vaquero. Comprender?”

  “Comprender,” said Ramon.

  Enough had been said. Ramon turned his horse and made his way back to the plodding longhorns.

  “That was some talk,” said Van. “You even impressed me. Do you reckon they’ll go for it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Gil, “but as it stands, they’re under no obligation to us. I’m countin’ on their feelings for the horses to influence them. One way or another, these horses are doomed unless we get them out of Mexico. They’ll be confiscated by the army, if nothing else. I’m countin’ on these men to understand that.”

  The herds were trailing well, and Ramon was able to approach the riders individually. After a while Van rode up to the point. He grinned at Gil.

  “If these boys don’t throw in with us,” he said, “it won’t be Ramon’s fault. He’s doing his best.”

  “I thought he would,” said Gil. “Without them, we don’t have a prayer.”

  “I believe they’ll stick,” said Van, “but that solves only one of our problems. There’s purely no way we’ll ever get out of Mexico without havin’ to explain ourselves to the Mex army. Nobody cares all that much about the longhorns, so we might get around them, but not the horses. More than one cowboy’s bought himself a plot in boot hill because he had just one pony whose ownership was in doubt. Brother, we got a hundred and eighty of ’em, and my neck’s already itching from the feel of that rope.”

  “We can still use the story Victoria came up with, until we reach Matamoros, Coahuila. I aim to go over it tonight with Ramon. From here on, when there’s talking to do, especially to the army, Ramon will do it. Starting today, he’ll be the segundo—the trail boss—in charge of the drive. He will be representing the Mendoza ranch.”

  “Smart,” said Van, “up to a point, but when the Mex soldiers see our white skin and blue eyes, we’ll be dead as last year’s broom sedge.”

  “I aim to talk to Ramon about that too. Nothin’ we can do about our Anglo eyes, except keep our distance. But there must be some way that we can change the color of our skin. If there’s a plant or tree that’ll do the trick, I’m countin’ on Mariposa or Estanzio to know about it.”

  It was a long day’s drive. After sundown they reached the creek Mariposa had found. They boiled their coffee and doused their supper fire before dark, in time for Gil to talk to the riders before night-hawking began. Ramon opened the conversation without waiting for Gil.

  “We go,” he said, “Take caballos.”

  “Bueno,” said Gil. “The toughest part will be gettin’ past the soldiers. Here’s what I want you to do, startin’ now.”

  He quickly outlined his plan for Ramon to become trail boss and speak for the outfit. Then he asked for something—from tree or plant—that he and Van might use to darken their skin and light hair.

  “Mañana,” said Ramon. “When Estanzio ride.”

  Hearing his name, Estanzio looked at Ramon. In a few words Ramon told him he would be riding at first light to scout the next water. Along the way he was to gather what was needed to darken the skin and hair of the Tejanos. Estanzio nodded his understanding.

  August 6, 1843. Somewhere south of Monterrey.

  Estanzio rode out at dawn, seeking the nearest water. The rest of the outfit were saddling their horses. Van spoke.

  “From what Victoria told us—assumin’ that her figures are right—how far you reckon we are from Monterrey?”

  “A hundred miles, maybe. More’n halfway, if her m
iles are right. We want to pass somewhere to the west of Monterrey, far enough that we don’t attract any unwelcome attention from the outpost there. Since I’m not sure we can depend on the accuracy of Ortega’s hand-drawn map, I’m going to start ridin’ twenty miles ahead of the drive each day. In our concern for dodging Monterrey and bands of soldiers on the move, we could stumble into other villages we don’t know about. From here on, we’ll need to know for sure what lies ahead; not just the next closest water.”

  “I can see the need for bypassing Monterrey and dodging soldiers,” said Van, “but I think we’re leaning too much on what Victoria Mendoza told us. She said the Mex soldiers march up the coast, turning west just to the east of Monterrey, and that purely makes no sense. Why wouldn’t they just turn northwest at Tampico? It’s got to be two hundred miles closer.”

  “Ramon says that’s dry country, wet-weather streams, with little water.”

  “They could cross it at night,” said Van. “If they’re well-mounted, it wouldn’t be a strain on men or horses. What I’m gettin’ at, Gil, is the possibility that these Mex soldiers could turn northwest at Tampico, leavin’ us in their line of march. Not a week from now, and a hundred miles north, but right now.”

  “That’s another reason for me to ride twenty miles ahead of the drive every day. If the soldiers traveling north to Monterrey have been angling northwest out of Tampico, there’ll be some sign. Startin’ tomorrow, I’ll be scouting far ahead. For water, and any sign of the Mex army.”

  Estanzio returned, having located the next water, and brought with him a quantity of reddish-brown bark. Nothing was said, but when they reached the creek and bedded down the herds, Estanzio built a fire. He filled one of the pots almost full of water and hung it over the fire. When it began to boil, he shredded the bark with his Bowie and added the slivers to the boiling water. He allowed the stuff to simmer, stirring it occasionally. Finally he set the pot off the fire and allowed the mixture to cool. Van dipped his finger in the liquid, then touched the finger to his tongue.

  “My God,” he exclaimed, spitting and gagging. “This stuff could poison a man.”

  “No drink,” said Estanzio pityingly. “Shut mouth, shut eye.”

  Gil grinned. “Good advice. We’ll rub it into our faces, necks, ears, hands, arms, and hair. Then, if you like, you can drink what’s left.”

  The vaqueros chuckled at Van’s sheepish grin. While Estanzio and Mariposa didn’t laugh or smile, a twinkle in their dark eyes suggested they appreciated the cowboy humor.

  “Peel off your shirt,” said Gil, “and I’ll paint you with this stuff. Then you can do the same for me.”

  Gil dipped out a handful of the potent liquid and rubbed it into Van’s sandy hair. The effect was amazing. Next, Gil did the ears and the neck, saving the face until last.”

  “Now,” he said, “shut yer eyes, and shut yer mouth—for a change.”

  When he was done, it was still light enough for Van to see his Mejicano reflection in the creek.

  “My God,” he said, “I won’t have to worry about bein’ shot by the Mex army. If we ever get to the border, the Texans will fill me full of lead.”

  “We’ll just have to get close enough for them to see the blue of our eyes,” said Gil. “There’s still your arms and hands to be done, but you can do them yourself. Look at my hands.”

  He held them up, and they were the hands of a Mexican vaquero.

  “I’ll get started on you,” said Van, “and do the parts you can’t reach. Then we can both do arms and hands.”

  The transformation was remarkable. But for their blue eyes, they might have been born Mexican.

  “Estanzio,” said Gil, “gracias.”

  Estanzio and Mariposa were uncomfortable with praise. Theirs was a world where one did what needed doing and expected no commendation. Estanzio nodded.

  “By God,” said Van enthusiastically, “I’m startin’ to believe we actually can pull this off. If I just don’t forget and talk like a Tejano, or get close enough for ’em to see my eyes.”

  “Shut mouth, shut eye,” said Estanzio.

  “That Injun’s goin’ to be almighty hard to live with,” said Van, “when he learns some more English.”

  Gil rode out at first light the following morning. He had begun to suspect the poor map they had, showing only the larger towns, might well be deceiving them. There might be lesser villages ahead, each with an alcalde eager to gain favor with the Mexican army. He didn’t believe the Mexican people would be a danger. But this trail drive, with the magnificent Mendoza horses and the thousands of longhorns, was a thing of such magnitude that it would be remembered and spoken of. He was more convinced than ever that his riding far ahead of the drive was the only insurance they had against their stumbling onto some unexpected village or isolated cabin. He had ridden what he judged to be twelve miles when he found a suitable stream to bed down the herds at the end of the day’s drive. If he rode another ten miles, he would have a knowledge of the trail two days ahead. When he decided he had ridden far enough, and was about to turn back, he saw a thin tendril of smoke against the blue of the sky. It was what he expected and feared. Gil rode on, determined to discover the source of the smoke.

  Gil reined up at the edge of a clearing. There was a chimney, but the smoke he had seen didn’t curl from it. The lonely looking mud-and-stick chimney was all that remained of a cabin. It had burned, and the spiral of smoke came from an ember that had not yet died. There was brush between him and the site, so he could see little else. Then his eyes drifted to a poorly constructed log barn, some distance from the house. He could see the shake roof, but only parts of the log walls through the trees and bushes. It never paid to ride in blind, so he circled around, coming in with the barn between him and the burned cabin. He dismounted, leaving his horse behind the barn, and started around the crude building. By the time he reached the corner, he knew this was no accidental fire. A few yards from where he stood was the bloated body of a mule. It had been shot through the head.

  Cautiously, Gil followed the path from the barn to the smoldering ruins of the cabin. Once he was able to see the yard, he froze, sucking in his breath. It was a scene of wanton, brutal murder. The man’s hands were still bound behind him, and he’d been shot in the head. So had the woman. Both had been stripped, and mutilated with knives. It was a thing so heinous, so totally depraved, it would have made a Comanche envious. But he knew that it wasn’t the work of Indians, when he found the tracks in the sandy yard. Every horse was shod, and from the nighttime tracks left by crawling things, he decided the atrocity had taken place in the late evening of the day before, probably after sundown. That accounted for the buzzards not having arrived, but they were on the way. He could see them wheeling around against the blue of the sky. Somehow he would have to bury these unfortunate people; they had been degraded enough. He wondered if they even owned a pick or shovel. He had started for the barn when his horse nickered. It was a frightened nicker, and Gil drew his Colt as he ran.

  Whoever had disturbed the horse would have heard him coming, and when he rounded the corner of the barn, he was prepared to fire. He had expected maybe an Indian, a thieving Mexican, or even a soldier, but not the little bundle of fury that charged him. The thin little girl was maybe seven or eight, and stark naked! There was hate in her eyes, and a three-tined pitchfork in her hands.

  12

  Her small face a mask of hatred, she ran at Gil with every intention of driving the fork into his belly! Barely in time, he sidestepped the thrust and grabbed the handle of the pitchfork. But she was stronger than she looked, and boiling over with hate, so it wasn’t easy wresting the deadly tool from her grasp. When he finally did, he flung it away, only to have her fly at him again, her fingers splayed out like the bared claws of a bobcat. He caught her by the arms, and she kicked him in the belly with a bare foot. He seized both her wrists in his left hand, holding her at arm’s length while he fumbled at his belt for a piggin string. She ki
cked him in the face, but he kept his grip, turning her around so that her back was to him. Again he reached for a piggin string, and feeling a bit guilty, managed to bind her wrists. For lack of a better way, he got her on the ground belly down, straddling her while he bound her ankles. That done, he rolled her on her back, and she spat in his face.