The Bandera Trail

by Ralph Compton

  The tally finished, Gil compared their individual counts.

  “Twenty extra horses,” said Gil, “and three hundred longhorns. No brand on any of the cows, so they’re as much ours as anybody’s. But the horses all have brands. Mexican brands. I’m not sure some of them aren’t the army horses we took from Salazar that later got away from us in a stampede. I’d say these horses would have been taken across the border and sold, and if we got caught with ’em, it would be evidence enough to stretch our necks on the spot. We’ll leave the branded horses where they are.”

  In the late afternoon, Ramon and his riders drove the missing longhorns into the canyon. There were 504.

  “Caballos?” Gil asked.

  “Mañana, mebbe,” said Ramon. “Bola, Estanzio, and Mariposa find.”

  “No use in us waitin’ any longer,” said Van. “I’ll be plenty able to ride by tomorrow. When they get here with the mares, let’s take the trail again. What day is it, anyhow?”

  “August fifteenth,” said Gil, consulting his notebook. “We’ll plan on moving out the day after Ramon and his riders return with the rest of the horses. Ramon, from those outlaw saddles, help Rosa choose one for herself.”

  As Ramon had predicted, Bola, Estanzio, and Mariposa arrived the next morning just before noon, with the Mendoza mares.

  “That’s it,” said Gil. “Unless somethin’ changes my mind between now and then, we’ll move out at first light.”

  Following a hurried breakfast, they cut out the branded horses that were to be left in the canyon, hazing them toward the north end. Their own horses and the longhorns were driven toward the south end of the canyon, with four riders to hold them there. Gil and the rest of the outfit loaded the packhorses. Rosa had found a big iron skillet in the outlaw cabin. It had been a blessing in the frying of bacon and venison steaks, and a necessity in the making of flapjacks. She brought out the skillet, lest it be forgotten.

  “Take,” she said.

  Ready, they rode away from the lonely cabin, toward the south end of the canyon. Rosa fell behind. Gil dropped back and found her twisted around in the saddle for a last look at the cabin.

  “Leave bunk,” she said wistfully. In the short time they had been there, she had already begun to think of it as home.

  “When we get to Texas,” said Gil, “you’ll have a bunk of your own, and you won’t be leavin’ it behind.”

  The herds, well-watered and grazed, moved out readily. Once they were all clear of the canyon, Gil roped the posts and pulled down the fence.

  “The rest of you ride on,” he said. “I’m goin’ back and stampede those Mex-branded horses from here to yonder. If I don’t, they’ll follow us.”

  They rode east, eventually back-trailing along the path the stampede had taken. Reaching the once-dry creek from which the stampede had begun, they found the stream now had water. Following it to the point where they had been forced into dry camp, they headed the drive due north.

  “From my scouting before the stampede,” said Gil, “we know there’s water within a day’s drive north, but we need to know what lies beyond that. I’ll begin scouting ahead again tomorrow.”

  “You’d better have Estanzio boil us another pot of that Mex color,” said Van. “We’re startin’ to look like gringos again.”

  August 16, 1843. On the trail.

  While Gil hadn’t said so, these daily rides had become more than just a quest for water and graze. He had begun to suspect that the Mexican government had established a third outpost even farther to the east. A camp he didn’t know existed, a camp from which Captain Salazar and his company had departed. Salazar and his men had been too far eastward to have just left Monterrey, and Matamoros, Coahuila was out of the question. Gil decided he lacked some vital information, that there likely was no way their trail drive could reach the border without encountering Mexican soldiers. A third outpost made sense; there was entirely too much border to be secured by outposts at Monterrey and Matamoros, Coahuila. But if he knew the third camp’s location and they avoided soldiers on the march between camps, they still might slip between this third outpost and the one at Monterrey. Scouting far ahead, he could probably prevent their blundering into a camp unexpectedly, but he couldn’t protect the drive against discovery by soldiers on the move. His scouting two days ahead of the drive might in itself prove their undoing. The trail ahead—which had seemed safe enough two days ago—might be alive with Mexican soldiers by the time the trail drive progressed that far. And once the drive was discovered, they were trapped. There was no way they could outrun or outmaneuver the soldiers. They would be caught just as surely as Salazar’s small company had caught them. While they had shot their way out of Salazar’s clutches, that wouldn’t be possible against a larger force. The tables would turn, with Gil and his riders being gunned down. The trail drive would be entirely dependent on how convincing a story Ramon could tell, and the more Gil thought of that story, the less confidence he had in it. He had no idea what might happen when they were called on by Mexican authorities to explain the purpose of the trail drive and its destination. He could only scout ahead, hoping they might somehow slip between the soldier encampments without being spotted by soldiers on the move.

  Suddenly Gil’s horse shied and reared. In an instant Gil had his Colt drawn and cocked. The horse was looking off to Gil’s right, where Gil could see little except scrub oak and brush. He listened for a while, and hearing nothing, rode on. Gil was uneasy, but would have been even more so if he’d turned back without knowing what had startled the horse. He had ridden less than a mile when again the horse shied, dodging the loop intended for it. But Gil wasn’t so lucky, being at a disadvantage when the horse reared. There was the hiss of a lariat, and a second loop pinned his arms, jerking him out of the saddle. The frightened horse galloped away. Gil fought the rope, trying to reach his Colt, but there were three of them with sticks and clubs. Keeping his head down to protect his eyes, he fought back. He buried the heel of his boot in somebody’s groin, and there was a satisfying cry of agony. But he soon became blinded by his own blood, and dizzy from the rain of blows to his head. It was a fight he couldn’t win. They would beat him till they broke his bones or crushed his skull. He ceased his struggle and went limp, as though unconscious. The blows ceased. Rolling him over, they bound his hands behind him. Then, as they were about to tie his ankles, they discovered his white skin.

  “Gringo!” shouted one of his attackers. “Soldados pay!”

  He didn’t understand the rest of their excited jabbering, but he did catch the words mañana, Meoqui, and Monterrey.

  Gil thought he remembered seeing Meoqui on their crude map. It was to the west of Monterrey, and would account for Captain Salazar’s company being farther west than they had any right to be. Apparently intending to rob him and take his horse, his captors now planned to take him either to Monterrey or Meoqui, claiming the Mexican government’s bounty on fugitive gringos. He lay still, listening, trying to make sense of their rapid-fire Spanish. Finally he heard the creak of wheels and the plodding of a horse or mule. One of them took his arms, another his ankles, and they dropped him flat on his back in the bed of the vehicle. Once they got under way, through his slitted eyes he could see the slatted sides of a two-wheeled cart, and the backside of the mule hitched to it. One of his captors walked beside the mule. He couldn’t see the others, but he could hear them. He was unable to fully open his eyes because of the dried blood, but he could see the sun wasn’t yet noon high. He hoped they hadn’t caught his horse. The empty saddle would be all the message Van and the riders would need. If he was to escape, it would have to be tonight; tomorrow they would take him to the nearest army outpost.

  Ramon was riding ahead of the horse herd, and it was he who first saw the riderless horse. Catching the lathered animal, he led it back toward the oncoming herd of longhorns. Van and Juan Padillo rode ahead to meet Ramon. There were no questions asked, and none needed. A riderless horse told its own story. It
s rider was dead, or in deep trouble.

  “Ramon,” said Van, “I’ll take Juan Padillo and Estanzio with me. If it’s more than we can handle, one of us will come for help. If you reach the next water before you hear from us, go ahead and bed down for the night. Keep your guns handy and every man on his guard. Once we find Gil, we may have to wait for dark to make our move. One way or another, you’ll hear from us before dawn.”

  Van unsaddled Gil’s tired horse and caught up a fresh one. Estanzio took the lead, followed by Juan Padillo and Van, leading the extra horse. Once the trio reached the place Gil had been dragged from the saddle and beaten, Estanzio had ho trouble reading sign. They rode east, trailing the mule-drawn cart, and as soon as they crossed a sandy bottom, Estanzio found the tracks of Gil’s three captors.

  “No soldado,” said Estanzio. “Mejicano pelado.”

  “Ladrons,” said Juan Padillo.

  “If they’re robbers,” said Van, “why didn’t they take the horse?”

  “Him fraid,” said Estanzio. “Loop miss, him run.”

  “They took Gil with them,” said Van. “That means they have plans for him. We may not have much time.”

  “Soldados pay for Tejano,” said Juan Padillo.

  Van didn’t doubt the correctness of that judgment. They must find and free Gil before he was sold to Mexican soldiers for the bounty. Even now one of his captors might be on a fast horse, bound for the nearest outpost.

  Gil had a thumping headache, and if there was a place on him that did not hurt, he didn’t know where it was. It seemed hours before the old cart creaked to a stop. His eyes were so crusted with dried blood, he could see just enough to tell it was still daylight. If his horse had returned to the trail drive, there was still a chance he might be found. Somebody let down the slatted tailgate of the cart, took him by the ankles, and dragged him out. He stiffened his neck to prevent his already throbbing head from being slammed against the ground. Once he was out of the cart, two of the men carried him into a cabin. Through slitted eyes he could see the log walls, but once inside he could distinguish nothing in the dim interior. They dumped him unceremoniously on the floor, on his back, his hands still bound uncomfortably behind him. Then a door closed, and all he could hear was the muffled sound of voices. His lips were bloody and swollen, he had bitten his tongue, and his thirst was all but unbearable. Despite his bruised and bloodied condition, he slept, awakened by the cramping of his upper arms and the pain in his bound wrists. He turned his head as far as he could, trying to study his surroundings. The room had no windows, but a thin beam of sunlight leaked through one wall. It had to be a west wall, the bit of light creeping in where the elements had stripped away the mud chinking between the logs. It wasn’t much, but at least he would know when it got dark. Only then could he hope for rescue.

  Estanzio stepped up the pace. While they likely wouldn’t be able to help Gil until after dark, they must find where he was being held, and under what circumstances. The wind was out of the northeast, and with less than an hour of daylight left, they smelled wood smoke. Estanzio raised his hand in silent signal, halting his companions. The three of them dismounted, and Estanzio passed his reins to Juan. He would scout ahead on foot. He was gone only a few minutes. When he returned, he pointed to the westering sun.

  “We wait,” he said. “Cabaña.”

  Estanzio had said little, and what he had not said was significant. Gil was being held in a cabin. Estanzio hadn’t observed any of the men who were Gil’s captors, so it must be assumed they were in the cabin. There was little they could do until darkness made it possible for them to approach the cabin without being seen.

  “Leave caballo here,” said Estanzio.

  He led them to the edge of a clearing where they could see the cabin from concealing brush. What had once been a lean-to had fallen to ruin, and the place looked to have long been abandoned. It had bothered Van that Gil’s abductors might be poverty-stricken Mexican farmers, seeking a windfall from the government. Now it seemed probable that the trio were thieves who had set out to rob Gil, had discovered his identity, and had chosen the abandoned cabin to hole up for the night. But for the promised bounty, taking Gil captive made no sense. Had it been only nine months since they had left Texas? To Van Austin, it seemed a lifetime ago. The killing had begun with the Mexican captain, Hernandez Ortega, and it seemed that each incident begat another. It seemed that in every bend of the trail it was shoot or be shot, that they must gun men down like dogs, or suffer the same fate themselves. With their enormous herd of longhorns and the blooded Mendoza horses, they had a fortune on the hoof, yet they were fugitives, with a price on their heads. Van had grown weary of the killing, and with each passing day, he wondered if the end of it would come with their own deaths.

  “Tiempo,” said Estanzio.

  It was time for them to go and do what they must to free Gil. Once the sun dropped behind the Sierras, it was a matter of minutes until the purple shadow took possession of the land. Van saw no barn, no shelter of any kind, and he wondered what had become of the mule and cart. The three of them circled through the covering underbrush and came in behind the cabin. There seemed no way inside. What passed for a back door didn’t look very promising. They discovered the place had no windows, had never had any. In the front and on each side there were shutters. When the weather permitted, they were opened. When closed—and they were closed now—they were latched from the inside. The wind had died; smoke drifted lazily from the chimney.

  “No way we can bust in there,” said Van, “without taking a chance on bein’ cut down with a hail of lead. Or they might just shoot Gil.”

  “No go in,” said Estanzio. “Them come out.” Before they could respond, he was gone, swallowed by the gathering darkness.

  Van and Juan waited, suspecting what Estanzio had in mind, and when he returned, he confirmed it. He had his lariat and two big clumps of grass he’d pulled up by the roots. He circled around the cabin to the end where the chimney was. Juan Padillo and Van moved to within a few yards of the front door and drew their pistols. Estanzio built his loop and dropped it deftly over the chimney. Quickly he tied two piggin strings together, tied each end to a clump of the grass, and hung the pair of them around his neck. Aided by the lariat, he “walked” up the chimney until he could grasp the top edge of it. From there he pulled himself onto the roof. Once he had stuffed the two big clumps of grass into the narrow maw of the chimney, he loosed his lariat, crept down the roof to its lowest point, and dropped to the ground. By the time he joined Juan and Van near the front of the cabin, his handiwork had begun to pay off. The front door slammed open and the trio stumbled out, coughing, wheezing, and cursing. Van put a slug into the wall beside the door, and it got their immediate attention.

  “You’re covered,” shouted Van.

  One man threw himself toward the cabin’s open door, and Juan Padillo’s shot cut him down. The other two broke for the corner of the cabin and the shadow it afforded. There was no help for it; Van and Estanzio fired together, and it was over. Estanzio dragged the dead man out of the cabin door and went to check on the other two, while Van and Juan headed into the cabin to find Gil. The only light they had was from the fire. The cabin had but three rooms, only one of which had a door, and it was closed. Van kicked it open, and in the poor light from the fire, his first look at Gil was a shock.

  “I hope you’re in better shape than you look, big brother.”

  Gil said nothing. His throat was dry as a saddle blanket, and his tongue felt like an oversized hunk of wood. Being totally numb, his arms and legs no longer hurt. Van rolled him over and slashed the bonds on his wrists, while Juan Padillo freed his ankles. With the door open, smoke had fogged up the room. Van took Gil’s shoulders, Juan Padillo his feet, and they carried him, out into the cool of the night. Stretching him out on the ground, they began massaging his wrists and ankles. But at the sound of approaching horses, they were on their feet, pistols drawn. Then they relaxed. Estanzio rod
e his horse and led the other three. Dismounting, he took his canteen from his saddle, unstoppered it, and knelt beside Gil. He took a little of the water but had trouble getting it down. Finally he was able to drink deeply, and then he spoke.

  “Never…been so dry…in my life.”

  “When you feel up to it,” said Van, “you’d better walk around some.”

  “I heard shootin’,” said Gil. “All of them?”

  “Yeah,” said Van, “and they might not have been armed. I feel kinda bad about it.”

  “I don’t,” said Gil. “They purely beat the hell out of me. If you kill a man with a club, he couldn’t be deader if he’d been shot. They aimed to sell me to the Mex army for the bounty.”

  “For thieves,” said Van, “they didn’t have much savvy. They hauled you here in a cart, leavin’ a trail Granny Austin could have followed without her spectacles.”

  “They didn’t expect to be followed,” said Gil. “I couldn’t understand much of what they said, but I picked up one piece of information. While they were talking of selling me to the soldiers, I heard them speak of Monterrey and Meoqui. That means there’s a third outpost at Meoqui, somewhere northwest of us. That’s why Captain Salazar and his company found the isolated cabin where Rosa lived, and why they were far enough west to run into us. They had left Meoqui, riding southeast. By scouting ahead, we can avoid the outposts themselves, but not the soldiers on the move. If Salazar was bein’ honest with us, if Santa Anna’s no longer in power, then our story about takin’ these horses and cows to him purely won’t work. And we don’t know who’s taking his place.”

  “Anybody but a pair of damn mule-stubborn Tejanos that still believe in Santa Claus,” said Van, “would just surrender and be done with it. If you can ride, we need to move out. I told Ramon some of us would get word to him before he takes the trail in the morning.”

  “I can ride,” said Gil, “but before we go, drag those three hombres into the cabin. We’ve left a trail of buzzards all the way from Durango County.”