The Bandera Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “I almost miss the Mex soldiers,” said Van. “After dodgin’ ’em for most of a year, it seems like a bunch oughta come gallopin’ over that ridge.”

  Then, as though materialized by the power of suggestion, five riders came galloping over that very ridge.

  “Damn,” yelped Long John, grabbing his pistol. “Now look what ye done did.”

  Gil, Van, and Clay got up, thumbs hooked in their pistol belts. Ramon and some of the other riders stood ready. The five horsemen reined up, one of them walking his horse a few yards ahead of the others.

  “Howdy,” he said. “Name’s Wallace. Folks call me Big Foot, and I don’t fault ’em for that.”*

  Gil relaxed. These were Texas Rangers.

  “I’m Gil Austin, and this is my brother Van. This is our outfit.”

  “These other hombres,” said Wallace, “is Bell, Taylor, Gannon, and Wood. I knowed Steve Austin. Texas owes him plenty.”

  “He was our uncle,” said Gil, “and we have grants near Bandera Pass. It was some fight you gents had with the Comanches there last year.”

  “God,” said Wallace, “don’t remind me. It was a nightmare. Forty of us, and near a hundred of them. We lost five good men, every one a friend. But we got a bunch of them, includin’ their chief. You must be the gents Ben McCulloch was talkin’ about. Said a pair of his boys that fought Santa Anna at San Jacinto was goin’ into Mejicano land, to give Santa Anna a chance to get even.”

  “Bad timing, for him,” said Gil. “Somebody kicked him out before he got a shot at us. Cool your saddles, gents, and we’ll share bacon and beans. Sorry we got no coffee.”

  “Mucho gracias,” said Wallace. The Rangers dismounted, shucked their saddles, and allowed their horses to roll.

  “Soldados?” Rosa asked, suspicious.

  “No,” said Gil. “Texas Rangers. They’re with us. They fight with the soldados.”

  Wallace had introduced his men, and Gil had almost forgotten to introduce his outfit. He did so, dwelling on the fact that they were once the riders for the Mendoza ranch.

  “I’ve heard of the Mendoza horses,” said Wallace. “My God, with a bloodline like that, you can build a horse ranch that’ll be the envy of the whole frontier.”

  “We aim to,” said Gil. “We purely went through hell, gettin’ ’em out of Mexico. What’s the situation between the United States and Texas, and between Texas and Mexico?”

  “Damn Yankees in the Congress are trying to keep us out of the Union,” said Wallace, “but they can’t do it. Time’s soon comin’ when the Republic of Texas will be no more. We’ll be part of the United States. * As for Mexico, they still won’t recognize our independence. I look for war, especially now that Texas is about to become a state. We’ll have to give the Mex army a few more doses of what we give it at San Jacinto, and by the Eternal, we’ll do it. With or without the help of the United States. Sam Houston’s had about enough, and that’s the sentiments of every Texan.”

  Gil, Van, and Clay were hungry for news, and they enjoyed the exchange with the Rangers. In return, they found Wallace and his men intensely interested in a firsthand account of what they had experienced in Mexico. The Rangers listened in awe as the trio of Texans told of leaving afoot the very general who had overthrown Santa Anna, of the daring escape from the Matamoros outpost, and finally, the glorious stampede through the soldier camp and across the Rio Grande.

  “By the Almighty!” shouted Wallace in glee, “Sam Houston’s got to hear this!”

  Clay, Gil, and Van filled in the rest of the story, telling of the lack of soldiers and the unpopularity of Mexico’s continual strife with Texas.

  “It’s not the will of the Mexican people,” said Gil, “but the greed of the politicians in Mexico City. Santa Anna’s spent millions on parties and lavish living; that’s why the country’s broke. I believe he’s kept this war talk going as an excuse to tax the people and pillage the treasury. The Mexican people think of us as they thought of themselves before they finally got Spain off their backs.”

  “I like the way you gents kept your eyes and ears open,” said Wallace. “You got a good handle on all this. I believe Sam Houston will want to talk to all three of you. Will you go to Austin to meet with him?”

  “We’ll go,” said Gil. “Get word to us.”

  “Bueno,” said Wallace. “Now, since you’re going to be driving through South Texas for the next few days, there’s a problem you need to be aware of. God knows, the constant trouble with Mexico is a thorn in our side, but we’re here for another reason. With the Mex soldiers snipin’ at us, aitd us throwin’ lead at them, the damn Comancheros are taking advantage of us all. There’s one bunch—a good dozen of the bastards—that’s led by a pair of no-account Mejicano brothers, Manuel and Miguel Torres.”

  “I heard some talk of them in Mexico,” said Clay. “They’re not well thought of.”

  “Nor should they be,” said Wallace. “It’s one thing to drive Texas horses to Mexico, and Mex horses to Texas, but it takes real scum to steal human captives from their families.”

  “For ransom?” Gil asked.

  “Not necessarily,” said Wallace. “Some of the families have paid the ransom, but none of the captives have been released. Of course, they don’t limit themselves to any particular crime. I mentioned the human victims so you can see them for the sorry lot they are. They’ll be drawn to your herd of horses like flies to a honey jug, and I don’t mean just while you’re on the trail. Last few months, they’ve raised hell in and around San Antone, and your place won’t be that far away. Even after these horses are on your range, you’d best keep your powder dry. And that especially is true while you’re out here in the open. They won’t hesitate to come into your camp at night and slit your throats, or shoot you in the back from ambush at any time.”

  “Thanks,” said Gil. “My riders are partial to these horses, and have been through a lot for them. If this Torres bunch shows up on our range with ideas of takin’ our horses, you won’t be troubled with ’em. Just ride in, and we’ll show you the remains, whatever the buzzards and coyotes didn’t want.”

  “We’d be obliged,” said Wallace, with a chuckle.

  September 16,1843. The Republic of Texas, south of San Antonio.

  The Rangers stayed the night and rode out after breakfast. Gil moved out the herds, heading them northwest. Now that they were in Texas, without the constant threat of danger, Angelina set about making friends with Rosa. She made little progress. Rosa followed Gil everywhere, and when she wasn’t with him, she was tagging after Long John. She liked Van and Ramon, but she wasn’t all that fond of anybody else. To his regret, Clay tried teasing her. She became angry and said some things to him in rapid Spanish that left him embarrassed and the rest of the riders laughing. Gil had no idea what he was going to do with her. So far as he knew, she hadn’t had a bath, or her hair washed, since he’d found her at that desolate cabin. Angelina had said she wanted him for a friend; when they reached the Bandera range, he was going to test that friendship.

  When they found good water and graze and settled down for the night, they also found ashes from a recent fire. There were tracks of eleven horses, all shod, and they led north, toward San Antonio. Estanzio looked at the ashes and the tracks.

  “Hoy,” he said.

  “They spent the night here,” said Clay, “so that means they must have come a ways, with a ways to go.”

  “Them Comancheros, goin’ t’ San Antone t’ raise hell,” said Long John.

  “From what the Rangers told us,” said Gil, “the numbers are right. It’s late in the day, but come mornin’ I want to know for sure that this bunch kept goin’ the way they were headed when they left here. For tonight we’ll divide the outfit into two watches.”

  But they saw nobody, and heard only the distant cries of coyotes. At dawn, during breakfast, Gil told them what he had in mind.

  “We’ll take the trail as usual,” he said, “but I want Mariposa to trail those
eleven horsemen. They could have doubled back, and be layin’ for us.”

  “I go,” said Solano.

  “Next time,” said Gil.

  “Mariposa looks as much Mexican as he does Indian,” said Van, “and in Texas that can get a man shot. It ain’t a good idea, sending Mariposa, Solano, or Estanzio out alone. From a distance they could be gunned down for Mexicans.”

  “He may have somethin’,” said Clay. “We’ve been in Mexico so long, we’re overlookin’ the obvious.”

  “I reckon you’re both right,” said Gil. “Van, go with Mariposa, and if you meet any Texans, you do the talking.”

  Gil got the herds moving, while Mariposa and Van rode north. While Gil hadn’t set any limit on how far they should trail these riders, Van had set one of his own. When the sun was noon-high, if these riders had not changed direction, he and Mariposa would return to the trail drive. They had dismounted in a stand of cottonwoods to rest the horses when they saw the two riders. They were riding hard toward them. The front rider rode with a desperation that said his cause was lost. The pursuer gained rapidly, shaking out his loop as he rode. The front rider hit the end of the rope and was jerked brutally out of the saddle. Van wouldn’t have gotten involved, but the fallen rider was dragged to his feet and then knocked to the ground.

  “Stay here, Mariposa,” said Van.

  The rider who had done the roping was so involved in the beating of his lesser opponent, he didn’t immediately see Van. When he did, he was stooped over the second rider, who lay facedown.

  “That’s enough,” said Van.

  The man’s hand was on the butt of his pistol when he changed his mind. Van had drawn and had him covered. He was Mexican, with a knife scar that ran from the corner of his mouth along his left jaw, so that he wore a permanent lopsided grin. He wore a two-gun rig, and the haft of a knife was visible above his belt. He had cruel eyes, and he shuffled his feet like an angry bull. He looked as though he was working himself into a state where he might draw one or both pistols, and Van dared not take his eyes off the man. Finally the Mexican spoke.

  “Senor, this is none of your business.”

  “For the love of God!” cried the rider on the ground, “please help me!”

  A slender, dark-haired girl was on her hands and knees, blood dripping from her smashed nose and mouth. It was a distraction that almost cost Van his life. He still had his pistol in his hand, and it was all that saved him. A slug burned its way along his ribs, just under his left arm, and he shot the Mexican twice, just above the haft of the knife in his belt. The man flopped on his back and didn’t move. Van bolstered his pistol and knelt beside the girl. He took the rope off and helped her to her feet. He saw Mariposa coming on the run, leading Van’s horse and the one the girl had been riding. With his help, she got shakily to her feet.

  “The others will be coming!” she cried, her voice shaking. “You just killed Manuel Torres. When I got loose, he came after me, because they—he—said I belonged to him.”

  “You’re not with him by choice, then.”

  “Dear God, no!” she cried. “I am Dorinda Jabez. They stole me from my home on the Atascosa River, south of San Antonio.”

  Without a word Van led her to her horse and helped her to mount. He swung into his saddle, following the girl as they galloped to catch up to Mariposa. The girl kept looking back, searching with fearful eyes for the expected pursuit. Mariposa set the pace, his horse at a slow gallop. They couldn’t travel as far as fast, but it was an enduring gait. Any faster and their horses would be spent and lathered in half an hour. Van studied the girl. She didn’t look a day older than Angelina, and she wore her hair short. From a distance that was why he hadn’t known she was female. The old shirt she wore was too large, but as he helped her mount, he discovered that beneath it she was very much a girl. She wore tight-legged riding breeches, like a Mexican. She had blue eyes, and but for the bruises, a fair complexion. He grinned. Ten damn Mexican outlaws on his trail, and he had taken the time to notice the color of her eyes.

  “They’re coming,” cried the girl desperately. “They’re after us!”

  He looked back, and they sure as hell were coming. But at a gallop that would soon have their horses lathered and spent. The question was, did he, the girl, and Mariposa have enough of a lead to stay out of rifle range until these renegades had exhausted their horses? He began looking ahead, seeking some cover, if they had to make a stand. Not much of a stand, he thought grimly, two rifles against ten. They might get close enough for the outfit to hear the gunfire, but could he and Mariposa hold them off until help came? He could hear the distant popping of rifles. They were still out of range, but their eagerness was getting the best of them. Wallace and his Rangers were looking for these bastards along the border, and they had, that very night, reached San Antonio. Just when he thought the situation couldn’t possibly get any worse, it did. The girl’s horse stepped in a hole, and she again was flung to the ground. Van didn’t even have to examine the horse. Eventually it would be all right, but now it limped. He leaned out of his saddle and gave her a hand up behind him. Mariposa had reined up, waiting. He seemed calm, in no hurry. Van reflected on all the months he had known Mariposa and Estanzio, and not once had he seen any evidence of fear, or even alarm. This very moment Mariposa might be only minutes from death, yet he waited patiently until they caught up. The girl was slender, trim, but it was still a double load for the horse. Van leaned forward, listening. He prayed he wouldn’t hear the animal heaving for air, but he would if they continued at this pace. He was only delaying the inevitable. Already Mariposa was holding his horse in check, so that they could keep up to him. Van urged the horse ahead until they were riding alongside the Indian. Wordlessly, Van pointed to some rock outcroppings ahead, and there they reined up. Van dismounted, taking his rifle from the boot.

  “Ride,” he told the girl. “Mariposa will take you to our outfit and send some help. I’ll stand them off and buy you some time.”

  “No,” she said, sliding off the horse. “The horse is already tired from carrying the two of us. I won’t leave you to…to their mercy, after you saved me. I can shoot. Ask your friend to let me use his rifle, and we’ll both stand them off. Then he can ride for help without me slowing him down on a tired horse.”

  It was a magnificent thing to do, and it made perfect sense. Mariposa snatched his rifle from the boot and handed it to her. He plucked off Van’s hat and dropped his extra ammunition into it. He passed the hat to Van and without a word kicked his horse into a fast gallop. From his own saddlebags Van added to their ammunition and passed the hat to the girl. Looping the reins around the saddle horn, he sent the tired horse trotting away, out of the possible line of fire. There it could cool off while he and the girl fought for their lives. Following her to the fortress that had to secure them until help arrived, he found there wasn’t as much cover as he had hoped. They could fire from their knees, but that was all. Once the outlaws worked their way around behind, there would be even less cover. It would force them belly down, just to avoid being hit, with little or no chance to return the fire. Her nose had stopped bleeding, and despite their perilous situation, she possessed a calmness that he lacked.

  “Have they harmed you?” he asked. “I mean…besides the times I saw him hit you.”

  “No,” she said. “The—That would have come later. That’s why I ran; I’d rather be dead than violated by that beast. That hurt, when he roped me off the horse. My rump feels like it’s been beaten with a singletree.”

  There was no pretense about her, and he grinned at her frankness. He was brought swiftly back to the present when lead sang off the rock face that shielded them. It was only to get their attention.

  “Listen to me, gringo. I am Miguel Torres, and you have murdered my hermano. For that you are going to die. Surrender and we will spare the girl. If you do not, then she will die with you.”

  Before Van could respond, the girl took matters into her own hands.r />
  “I’d die,” she shouted, “before I’d live with dogs like you!”

  “Torres,” Van yelled, “if you’re the malo hombre you think you are, then prove it. Just you and me, without your perras to protect you. I will kill you with a knife, with a gun, or with my hands. It is your choice.”

  “You are the fool, gringo. You take the chance because you have nothing to lose. I prefer to kill you at my leisure, without risk to myself.”

  There it was. They’d be given no quarter, and taking his lead from the girl’s response, Van wouldn’t ask any.

  Mariposa rode at a fast gallop, a thing he seldom did because it soon exhausted a horse. But this was an emergency. Normally squaws said or did little that impressed him, but when the dark-haired one had taken his rifle to side Van against the outlaws, Mariposa had been touched by her courage. It was the only way in which she could have gotten to him, and he vowed she wouldn’t die. He listened for shots, knowing that when the shooting began, he had little time. When he judged he was near enough that his own shots might be heard by the trail-drive riders, he drew his pistol and fired three times, deliberately spacing the shots. His heart leaped when somewhere ahead three quick shots answered him.

  “Trouble,” said Gil. “Clay, pick four men and ride.”

  “Estanzio, Solano, Ramon, and Long John,” said Clay.

  Clay led out, and they rode hard. By the time they met Mariposa, they could hear the rattle of gunfire somewhere ahead of them.

  “Torres,” said Mariposa. It was enough.

  Clay and his riders rode at a fast gallop. Mariposa slowed his tired horse and rode on. He would get fresh horses for Van and the girl, and return.

  The Torres gang fired their first volley, and then a second, accomplishing nothing. It was a standoff the outlaws wouldn’t allow to continue, and their silent rifles told Van that he and the girl were about to be caught in a deadly cross fire. But it didn’t happen. When the rifles cut loose again, somewhere to the rear of their position, Van heard the horses running hard. The riders were well out of range, headed northwest. The outlaws had found themselves in a potential cross fire between Van and the girl and riders coming from the south. When Clay and his riders reined up, Van and the girl stepped out to meet them. Clay looked at the dark-haired girl and then at Van.