The Bandera Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Well, now,” he grinned, “like I always said, you Austins are brighter than you look. Don’t just stand there like a dumb cowboy, introduce us to the beautiful lady.”

  Van did. They rested the horses, and while they waited, Estanzio found Van’s horse. The animal was rested, dry, and cropping grass. Van and the girl again rode double, this time at a slower gait. Eventually they met Mariposa with fresh horses, and with Van’s horse on a lead rope, Van and the girl rode the fresh mounts. Shorthanded, unsure of what brand of trouble Van and Mariposa had encountered, Gil had halted the drive until he knew what the problem was. When the riders returned, Van included, Gil sighed with relief. Van dismounted and helped the girl.

  “This is Dorinda Jabez,” said Van. “The Torres boys had plans for her, but she got loose. When I tried to help her, Manuel objected, and I had to shoot him. That upset the others a mite, and they got mean.”

  The trail drive moved on, and Dorinda Jabez rode with it. While Gil was aware that her family should know she was well, he was reluctant to send her home immediately. The Torres gang was out there somewhere, probably seeking revenge, and it made sense to take her with them. Once they were on the Bandera range, Gil reckoned Van would jump at the chance to take her home.

  26

  September 20, 1843. Cotulla, Republic of Texas.

  South of the village of Cotulla, Gil headed the trail drive due north. It would take them almost fifty miles west of San Antonio. Cotulla consisted of a general store, a saloon, and a blacksmith shop.

  “We can get some coffee beans here,” said Van.

  “No, we can’t,” said Gil. “We got no money.”

  “We’ll swap them a cow,” said Van, “or a horse.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Gil. “We’re not more than a hundred miles south of our Bandera range. I want these horses and cows settled on our graze, without drawin’ unnecessary attention to them. We didn’t leave owing anybody, so we’ll have a line of credit in San Antone. We’ll ride there for the supplies we’ll need.”

  They passed to the west of Cotulla, making their camp twenty miles north, on the Frio River. When it came Van’s turn to night-hawk, he had begun taking the second watch, and Dorinda Jabez was riding with him. Gil had raised no objection, nor had he more than spoken to her since her arrival. She had been friendly to them all, especially so to Angelina and Rosa. But there were nights when she walked her horse alongside Van’s, circling the herd for an hour or more, neither of them speaking. She had told Van little about herself, except that she came from a farm, rather than a ranch. Van knew she had some feeling for him beyond mere gratitude. When he helped her mount or dismount, her hand always clung to his a little longer than it needed to. Van had begun to think beyond these nights on the trail drive, beyond the time she would return to her home. Tonight, she seemed closer to him than ever.

  “This is so peaceful,” she said. “If only Mama and Daddy knew I am alive and well, I could ride like this forever. I think I would like a change of clothes too,” she added.

  “The next decent river where we bed down for the night,” said Van, “we can find a private place for you to take a bath. I’ll stay back a ways,” he added hastily, “and see that nobody bothers you.”

  “I’ll do that,” she said, “on one condition. I don’t want you too far away; I wouldn’t feel safe.” She spoke softly, almost in a whisper.

  She reined up her horse. When he moved his near and leaned toward her, she met him halfway….

  Another day’s drive took them to the confluence of the Frio River and Hondo Creek. For two days they followed Hondo Creek for forty miles, until it veered west, toward the little town of Hondo.

  “If my memory’s anywhere close to right,” said Gil, “we’re thirty miles south of Bandera range. If we get an early start and push hard, we’ll be home tomorrow night.”

  September 24, 1843. The Bandera range.

  “Ramon,” said Gil, “we’re on our range, and there’s plenty of it. Just anywhere ahead you can turn the longhorns loose. The horses too. Startin’ in the morning, we’ll work from can till can’t, branding the longhorns. Van will take Dorinda home. He’ll be taking two packhorses with him, and on the way back he can stop in San Antone and load up on supplies. We’ve got a blessed plenty to do, but once these longhorns are wearin’ brands, we’ll let our next project be the building of a bunkhouse.”

  “Am I to live in the bunkhouse?” Angelina asked innocently.

  “I reckon,” said Gil, just as innocently, “unless Clay had some other arrangement in mind.”

  “Looks like we’ll all be living in the bunkhouse,” said Van.

  They had come within sight of their cabin, and smoke spiraled from the chimney. Ramon and the riders had begun scattering the longhorns on the new range, and the horses were already grazing.

  “Come on, Van,” said Gil. “The rest of you hold back until we find out who’s squattin’ in our place.” They dismounted and approached on foot.

  Before they reached the house, the door opened and a man stood there with a shotgun in the crook of his arm. A pistol belt sagged low on his right hip, the weapon’s shiny walnut grips attesting to frequent use. The man raised the muzzle of the shotgun. Gil reined up, Van following suit. The wielder of the shotgun had shaggy black hair, many days’ growth of matching whiskers, and the nondescript clothes he wore looked as though they hadn’t been washed—or changed—since the flood. His eyes were cruel, and he spoke through clenched teeth.

  “Git offa our place,” he grunted. “You ain’t welcome here.”

  “Friend,” said Gil coldly, “you got that turned around all wrong. This is our place, and it’s you that’s not welcome here. You have fifteen minutes to get out of our house and off our grant.”

  A second man had moved in behind the first, and the newcomer presented no better appearance than his companion.

  “You aim to make us go, I reckon,” said the man with the shotgun.

  “No,” said Gil, “we’re giving you a choice. You can leave here, alive and breathing, or you can stay, graveyard dead and not breathing.”

  “We been here eight months,” said the second man, in a whining voice.

  Van had moved to Gil’s right, and stood with his thumbs hooked in his pistol belt.

  “You quit yer claim,” the second man continued. “You got no right…”

  But Gil wasn’t listening to him. His eyes were on the man with the shotgun. It was coming, and he was ready. When the shotgun roared, throwing its deadly charge where he had been standing, Gil was belly down, his pistol smoking. The shotgun fell clattering down the steps, and the second man was driven back by the body of the first. Gil got to his feet, moved to the side of the door and waited. He had bolstered his pistol. Van had not moved.

  “Don’t shoot no more,” cried the voice from inside the cabin. “I—I’m comin’ out.”

  He stepped out slowly, his bedroll under his arm, his right hand up shoulder high.

  “You have ten minutes,” said Gil, “to saddle and ride.”

  Gil and Van watched him run to the log barn, three hundred yards away. When he rode out, he led a second saddled horse. Some of the other riders had advanced, Clay Duval leading Gil’s and Van’s horses.

  “While it’s still light,” said Gil, “some of you take that skunk somewhere and plant him. There’s shovels in the barn.”

  Cautiously, Gil made his way into the cabin. It was a mess, as he had expected. Some of their meticulously made furniture had been broken up and used for firewood. He found the other four rooms in no better condition. When he again reached the front door, the body of one of the former tenants was gone.

  “I reckon,” said Van, “we’ll be rollin’ in our blankets on the ground another night or two. They been keepin’ hogs in there?”

  “It would be cleaner if they had,” said Gil.

  That first night on the Bandera range, they dropped their bedrolls between the house and the barn. There
would be long, hard days ahead, as they laid out the anticipated horse ranch and branded the longhorn cows. But before any of that was done, Gil intended to resolve the ownership of the Mendoza horses. He began by repeating the offer he had made Ramon Alcaraz and the Mendoza riders, promising them working shares in the proposed horse ranch.

  “I reckon,” said Gil, “I promised Ramon and his bueno vaqueros something that don’t rightfully belong to me. While Victoria Mendoza is dead, Angelina Ruiz is alive and well. In Victoria’s words, Van and me would get the horses we rode, some breeding stock, and the longhorn herd, once we reached Texas. Now, we can’t honestly claim any more than that. Angelina, do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I understand. Clay and I have talked about it, and I will allow him to explain my feelings.”

  “I told her an Austin would give up the shirt on his back,” Clay grinned, “if he wasn’t sure he was entitled to it. Now, think on what I’m about to tell you, and save the bullyraggin’ for later. Once things are shaped up around here and the cows are branded, me and Angelina are going to San Antone and stand before a preacher. She knows more about me than anybody alive, and she’s still willing; I got to hog-tie her permanent, before she changes her mind. Now, in view of that, Angelina wants to go ahead with the original plan, with every Mendoza rider getting wages and a working partnership in the new ranch. We want a piece of it ourselves, and Angelina has just one other wish. In memory of all that was, so that nobody forgets the origin of the bloodline, she wants us to register and continue the Winged M brand.”

  Gil grabbed the startled Angelina and kissed her long and hard.

  “Whoa,” shouted Clay, “we’re only sharin’ the horse ranch!”

  They yelled, pumped Clay’s hand, slapped him on the back, and Dorinda caught Angelina in a sincere embrace. Everybody got into the spirit except Rosa, and when most of the excitement had subsided, she took one of Angelina’s hands to get her attention.

  “Bebe?” she asked. “Nino? Baptizar?”

  Rosa thought they were going before a priest to baptize a child! The uproar started all over again, and even Clay was embarrassed. Angelina took it in good humor, and caught up Rosa before she could say anything else.

  “Senor Clay and I are going to marry, Rosa. I will cut your hair, give you a bath, and make you a new dress.”

  “No!” shouted Rosa, kicking to get loose. “No want cut hair, no want bath, like britches! Why Rosa be punish when you marry?”

  “By God,” said Long John admiringly, “a genoowine Texas cowpuncher in the makin’!”

  When the merriment had died down to a dull roar, Van spoke.

  “I still aim to take Dorinda home tomorrow; if everybody’s going to San Antone in a few days, is there any reason why I have to take more than one packhorse? Nobody’s goin’ to miss seein’ old Clay get a ring put through his nose, so why don’t I just bring enough supplies to last maybe two weeks?”

  “I reckon we can live with that,” said Gil, “but there’s some things we must have. We all look like we come up dry after nine months on the grub line. I’ll get with Ramon, and we’ll make a list of what the riders need. Angelina, you make up a list of what you’ll need for yourself and for Rosa.”

  “I ain’t doubtin’ our credit’s good,” said Van, “but we don’t have two bits among us. Why don’t I ask around and see if we can get a decent price for some of these longhorns?”

  “Good idea,” said Gil. “I reckon we can cull two or three hundred head, and we can drive them in when we go to see Clay and Angelina get tangled up in double harness.”

  At dawn Van saddled a horse for himself and one for Dorinda Jabez. From what the girl had told him, Van figured it at about a sixty-mile ride. Dorinda already seemed like one of them, and it was difficult for them to let her go. Angelina hugged her and invited her to the wedding. Rosa wept, and Gil invited her to return as often as she could. They rode out, Van leading a packhorse and doubting it could carry all the goods that Gil and Angelina had requested.

  “You didn’t need to bring an extra horse,” said Dorinda. “You could have used the one I’m riding for a packhorse.”

  “No,” said Van, “the horse you’re riding is yours. The saddle too.”

  He half expected her to object, but she accepted it in the spirit in which it had been offered.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ve never owned a horse before; we have mules.”

  “You ride well,” he said.

  “We’re from Kentucky,” she said, “and we had friends who raised horses. Beautiful horses. That’s where I learned to ride, and I have missed them.”

  “You have a way with them; I’ve seen you with the Mendoza herd.”

  “If I had—or was near—such a herd,” she laughed, “I’d be tempted to get myself a blanket and sleep with them.”

  They were three hours reaching San Antonio, and bypassed it to the west.

  “I may be making a big mistake,” said Van, “by not stopping in town and gettin’ myself some new clothes, I look like a saddle tramp. I’d like to make a good enough impression on your mama and daddy, so they’ll allow me to see you again.”

  “When I tell them what you did for me, they may not let you leave. Besides, I’ll have something to say about that. I’ll be twenty-two on my next birthday. I can’t go to Angelina’s wedding unless you come and get me. I doubt Daddy will let me out of the house alone after this.”

  “He shouldn’t,” said Van. “This Miguel Torres didn’t get a look at me, won’t know who I am or where to find me. But he knows where they found you. I think he’ll want somebody to pay for his skunk of a brother, and I’m almost afraid to leave you here without protection.”

  “I can’t tell you how much it means, having you feel that way, but you have so much to do on your ranch, I’d feel guilty if I kept you here too long. But I do want you to stay the night. You can start early in the morning, stop in San Antonio, and still be home before dark.”

  They reached the Jabez farm with three hours of daylight remaining, and the place seemed deserted.

  “It’s early,” said Dorinda, “and they’re still in the fields. Perhaps you’d better wait here and let me find them. I’ve been gone so long, I know they’ve given me up for dead. I’d like a little while alone with them.”

  “I understand,” said Van. “I’ll take the other two horses to the barn and rub them down.”

  He watched her ride away toward the fields he could see in the distance. The house and the barn had been constructed of logs, and one looked as roomy as the other. The barn had a full loft partially filled with hay, and above the open end an iron pulley hung from the roofs extended ridge pole. From somewhere a cow bawled, and he could hear the distinctive prattling of hens. He looked everything over with appreciation, his mind’s eye recalling the glorious days when Grandpa Austin had been alive. His had been just such a place as this, and the memory that swept over Van brought a lump to his throat. Finally he saw them coming across the fields. Leading the horse, Dorinda walked beside her mother. The plow—or whatever the mules had been hitched to—had been left in the field. The mules were, still in harness, and a big man walked behind them, the reins looped around his neck. When they were close enough, Dorinda dropped the horse’s reins and ran to Van.

  “Van,” she cried, “this is my daddy and my mama.”

  Without a word the big man grasped Van’s hand and almost wrung it off. There was gray in his hair and in his moustache, and the Texas sun had burned him brown as a Mexican. There were traces of tears on his dusty cheeks, and he had to swallow hard before he could speak.

  “May God bless you for bringing her home to us,” he said in a husky voice. “I’m Eben, and this is Matilda.”

  Despite the graying hair that crept out beneath Matilda’s bonnet, Van could see an older version of Dorinda. He offered her his hand, but she seemed not to see it. She flung her arms around him in silent gratitude.

&nbs
p; “Matilda,” said Eben, “you and Dorinda go on to the house. We got a horse to look after, and the mules to unharness. We’ll be along.”

  Following Eben, Van led Dorinda’s horse on to the barn. He shucked the saddle, and while he rubbed the animal down, Eben unharnessed and tended to his mules. Finished, they paused hi the dim interior of the barn.

  “Sir,” said Van, “I’m sorry we kept her so long, but we were winding up a trail drive from Mexico. From where I found her, it wasn’t safe, taking her across South Texas, with the Torres gang still on the loose.”

  “Thank God you did keep her. Three times in the past week or so, there’s been a rider here. He always came late at night, and I didn’t know what more they wanted from us. I dared not speak to Matilda. Now I know they’ve come back for her, to steal her away again.”

  His voice trembled with a mix of emotion and anger. Van made a quick decision, and his hand gripped the arm of the older man.

  “Mr. Jabez—Eben—I promise you they won’t take her again, if I have to gun them down to the last man.”

  “You care for her very much,” he said, “and she cares for you. I saw it in her eyes when she spoke of you.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Van. “I aimed to talk to you. I’ll be callin’ on her.”

  “Young man, in affairs of the heart, do not delay. On the frontier, in this land which is not even part of the United States, a woman needs a strong man. The Rangers are few and scattered. The alcalde in San Antonio is no lawman. I am a farmer, and no gunman. They took Dorinda—eleven of them—and I did not resist. Had I done so, I would have died without saving her. I feel less a man, a coward, and I tell you this for my daughter’s sake. They must not take her again.”