Lone Star Ranger #3

by James J. Griffin

  “Horses are downright smart, and what people think is stubbornness on a mule’s part is just his way of sayin’ what you’re askin’ him to do makes no sense, at least by his lights, or is mebbe even downright dangerous. Out here, a man needs to rely on his horse for his very life. Learn to read your horse. Watch Red’s ears, feel his muscles under you. Watch how he holds his head, even his tail.

  “As we ride along, I’ll tell you what to look for, and explain what the signs your horse is givin’ you mean. If you don’t learn anythin’ else from me, learn this much. Trust your horse’s instincts, fully and completely. If he balks, there’s almost always a good reason for it. What looks like solid ground to you might very well be a patch of quicksand, ready to swallow up both your horse and you. Your horse can sense that. He ain’t gonna get stuck in mud, get swept away in a river and drowned, or fall down a steep slope and break his neck, less’n he’s forced to by a rider who don’t know better, or thinks he’s smarter than his horse.”

  He leaned forward in the saddle and patted his horse’s neck. “Parker, here, has saved my hide more’n once by refusin’ to go into places I wanted. It took us a while to finally understand each other. But now, we know what each other’s thinkin’; leastwise, most of the time. After all, if you have to trust your horse, your horse also needs to know he can trust you. Comprende, Nate?”

  “Comprende.”

  “Good. Let’s get these animals movin’. We don’t want the rest of the men to get too far ahead. I’m gonna take down the rope, then bunch ’em up. You stay here, and if any of ’em try to get by you don’t let ’em. I doubt any of ’em will. They’d rather stay right here and keep on grazin’. But if one of them does, you said your horse was a cowpony, right?”

  “Yeah, he was. My brother Jonathan was a cowboy. Big Red was his horse, or at least he was—until Jonathan got killed.”

  “We’ll find those men who killed your folks and our compadres before much longer, Nate. You can bet your hat on that,” Phil said. “Meantime, Red’ll know what to do. If any of these broncs try’n get past him, just give him his head.”

  “All right.”

  Phil untied one end of the rope, gathered it, then untied the other end and hung it from his saddle. As he did, the animals in the remuda lifted their heads and pricked their ears sharply forward, watching him.

  “I’m goin’ in after ’em, Nate. You be ready.”

  “I will be.”

  “Good.”

  Phil rode into the arroyo and worked his way behind the remuda, bunching the eleven horses and four mules.

  “G’wan, get on up there,” he shouted, slapping the poppers, which were flat pieces of leather on the ends of his reins, against his leg for emphasis. With tossing of heads and snorts of protest, the animals slowly started out of the arroyo. Diablo, the black gelding which had belonged to Ranger Andy Pratt, before he was gunned down by the same men who murdered Nate’s family, tried to gallop ahead of the rest and run off.

  “Get that black devil, Nate!” Phil shouted.

  “Stop him, Red!” Nate pulled Red to the left to head off the racing black. Red broke into a run, cut off Diablo, and slammed into him, shoulder to shoulder. He nipped the black’s neck. Diablo stumbled to his knees, regained his footing, and stood, shaking himself off and blowing. Red stayed in front of him, his ears pinned.

  “Good job, Nate!” Phil called.

  “It was all Red,” Nate answered. “He knew what he was doin’.”

  “Yeah, but you had to start him in the right direction, and let him know what you wanted,” Phil said. “You’re gonna make a top hand wrangler. With a little seasonin’, if you ever quit the Rangers, you’ll be able to find a job wranglin’ horses on any ranch.”

  “You mean that?”

  “I sure do.”

  “Then, I’m grateful. Real grateful.”

  “Speakin’ of gettin’ practice, let’s get this bunch goin’. I’ll take the left, you take the right. Stay slightly behind ’em. They may try to run for a bit, but they should settle down right quick.”

  “I’ve got it.” While Phil shoved the remuda along, Nate worked his way behind them, then crossed to their right side. As Phil had said, for a few minutes the animals loped, but eventually settled into a jogtrot, then slowed to a walk.

  “Nate,” Phil called, “You’ll find out horses and mules have a peckin’ order. There’s always one or two of ’em which leads the herd. In this bunch we have here, Molly, the big bay mule out front, is the boss. She’ll put any of the others who challenge her in their place. When Molly’s bein’ used, Pete, that chestnut gelding who was Tad Cooper’s mount, takes charge. The others all know their places. Now, this ain’t really a proper remuda, since we’ve only got eleven horses and four mules in it. On a cattle drive, there’d usually be a lot more mounts. Mebbe only a couple of spare mules for the chuck wagon, though. In fact, that’s why we have the extra mules. George’ll switch out animals every other day.”

  “Seems to me these are plenty enough to keep track of,” Nate answered.

  “I reckon you’re right,” Phil said, with a laugh. “It’s also not a bad idea for you to get to know each one by name. Like I just said, the big mule out front is Molly. The other mules are Bonnie, who’s right behind her, then Jake and Jill. I don’t imagine I’d have to explain to you how to tell Jake and Jill apart.”

  “I don’t reckon,” Nate said. A slight smile played across his lips as he recalled the day Jonathan brought Big Red home, and Nate had to ask him whether a gelding was a boy or girl horse.

  “Somethin’ funny, Nate?” Phil asked.

  “Yeah, a bit. You might get a laugh out of this. When Jonathan came home with Red, here, I didn’t know the difference. I had to ask Jonathan if Red was a boy or girl.”

  Phil threw back his head, slapped his leg, and laughed uproariously. By the time he stopped, tears were rolling down his cheeks.

  “I’m sorry, Nate. Hope I didn’t embarrass you, laughin’ so hard. Boy howdy, you were right. That gave me a good laugh. I reckon you can tell a mare from a gelding from a stud horse now, though, huh?”

  “I sure can.”

  “Good. Now, as far as the horses, the palomino, that’s the gold-hided horse, is Macy. Behind him, the mouse-colored one, we call that a grulla, is Dakota. Then, followin’ behind we have Andy’s Diablo, Tad’s Pete, Pecos, Bill’s Harley, Tex’s Waco, Tim’s Ramon, Ed’s Brazos, Girl, the mare which belonged to that horse thief whose carcass Jeb Rollins and you hauled in, and finally Charcoal, the steeldust gray.”

  The horses which belonged to the six murdered Rangers had been added to the remuda. Being a Ranger’s horse was almost as dangerous as being a Ranger itself, so spare horses were always needed.

  “Good thing that Andy’s horse has the white mark down its face,” Nate said. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be able to tell him and Carl’s Diablo apart. Kind of a coincidence, two black horses in the same outfit, with the same name.”

  “Not so much as you might think,” Phil said. “Diablo means devil in Spanish, as you probably already know. There’s lots of horses in these parts named Diablo, and for some reason a lotta men who own a black horse seem to like to call it Diablo.

  “Now, as far as that white mark, that’s a blaze. If it was just a spot on the forehead, it would be a star. A narrower blaze would be a strip, and a white spot on the nose a snip. White up to the fetlocks, which is kind of a horse’s ankles, is a sock. Higher than that it’s a stocking. And a cayuse with a mostly white head is called bald-faced, except if it’s a white horse, of course. Knowin’ all that will come in handy some day, when you’re lookin’ for some renegade’s horse, or some cowboy is describin’ his stolen bronc to you.

  “There’s lots more I can teach you about horse colors and markings. Right now, though, let’s get these animals movin’ a bit faster. Take your rope off your saddle.”

  “You mean my lariat?” Nate asked.

  “Well, yeah, but do
n’t ever call it that, less’n you want to be taken for a real greenhorn. It ain’t a lasso, either. Lasso is what you do with a rope, when you catch somethin’ with it. Not that you should ever say you’re gonna lasso anythin’. As far as any cowboy is concerned, it’s a plain old rope. And you rope a cow. You don’t lasso it. Same way, it don’t matter whether it’s a steer, a bull, a heifer, or a cow. Far as ranchers and cowboys go, when you’re roundin’ up a herd or drivin’ it to Kansas, all cattle are cows.”

  “Thanks, Phil. That’ll help keep me from makin’ a fool of myself.”

  “Por Nada. It’s nothing. Now, untie the latigo, that’s the leather strap holdin’ your rope, and take the rope in your left hand. You might have to switch your reins to your right, but you need to hold your rope on the side facin’ the remuda.”

  “All right.” Nate untied the rope and lifted it off his saddle.

  “Good. Have you ever worked with a rope at all?”

  “No, I can’t say as I have. I’ve never even touched this one since I got Red back.”

  “Then I’ll have to start right with the basics, Nate. You see the rope’s coiled up. Do you see the little loop at one end, which the rope passes through?”

  “Yeah, I see it.”

  “Good. That’s called the honda, although some men call it a hondo. Don’t make any difference. That’s how you build your loop. You shake out your rope, let as much as you think you need slide through the honda, and start twirlin’ your rope right to left, buildin’ your loop as big as you need. Then you toss it and catch the critter you want. We’re not gonna worry about that quite yet, though. We’ll work on ropin’ in camp.

  “Which reminds me, the first chance you get, buy yourself a pair of good, sturdy, leather gloves. When you’ve got fifteen hundred pounds of longhorn tied to the other end of your rope and pullin’ it through your hands, you sure don’t want it burnin’ all the skin off your palms. You might want to buy some chaps to protect your legs, too.

  “And another thing you never want to say, unless you want to again be taken for a green tenderfoot, is ‘chaps’. Chaps is pronounced ‘shaps’, like it starts with ‘sh’. It’s short for the Spanish ‘chaparejos’. Mexican vaqueros used them first, then American cowboys adopted them. A good pair of chaps’ll protect your legs against the thorny plants we’ve got all over Texas.

  “However, all I want you to do right now is take that rope and slap it against your leg, while talkin’ to the horses. Tell ’em to pick up their pace. You can also wave it around, if you’d prefer. Just so those broncs get the idea you want ’em to move faster. Watch how I do it.”

  Phil took his rope and slapped it against his thigh. “Heeyaw, git up there, you lazy sons of guns. Molly, get ’em movin’. C’mon, git goin’.” He urged Parker closer to the remuda, shoving the laggards along.

  On his side, Nate swung his rope back and forth. “Step lively there, Red,” he urged. “Get Charcoal movin’.”

  The steeldust was hanging behind the other animals, and drifting off to the right. Nate loped Red up to him. With a nip on the rump, Red chased Charcoal back to the remuda. The steeldust squealed at the sting of Red’s teeth, and half-heartedly kicked at him, but resumed his place in the herd.

  “Good work, Nate,” Phil praised. “Now, let’s keep ’em movin’.”

  ****

  As the sun climbed higher in the sky, it beat down mercilessly on both man and beast. After an hour, Phil and Nate had caught up with the rest of the company. They kept the remuda to its rear, just behind the chuck wagon.

  Ordinarily, the wagon would be out front, to keep dust and dirt from settling on the supplies. However, with the danger of attack from outlaws or renegade Indians ever present, Captain Quincy ordered George to stay behind the company, both for his own safety, and to prevent any attackers from shooting and killing the mules pulling the wagon, thus blocking the trail, making the Rangers easy targets, but themselves much harder to hit.

  “Better go easy on that water, Nate,” Phil cautioned, when Nate took another drink from his canteen. The water it contained was now warm, almost hot, but still soothed Nate’s parched throat and lips. “We won’t be stoppin’ for another couple of hours, and even then there’s no promise we’ll find water. What you’ve got might have to last you until tonight, or even sometime tomorrow. You’re gonna have to learn how to pace yourself, and drink sparingly.”

  “I guess you’re right. I’m just awful thirsty,” Nate said. Nevertheless, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, recapped the canteen, and hung it back from his saddlehorn.

  A short while later, Phil stood up in his stirrups. He unbuttoned his denims, then turned sideways.

  “Phil, what the heck are you doin’?” Nate asked.

  “I’ve gotta pee,” Phil explained. “It’s a lot easier to pee off your horse while he’s movin’, rather than stoppin’, gettin’ down, goin’, then gettin’ back on and catchin’ back up to the others. And you sure don’t want to hold up your entire outfit just to stop and pee.”

  “Seems awful tricky,” Nate said.

  “Nah, it’s not all that hard, once you get the hang of it,” Phil said. “The hardest part is keepin’ your balance. It’s better if you learn to swing your right leg over your horse and just stand in one stirrup, too. A lotta men won’t do that. They’ll just stand up, turn to one side, and aim as best they can. The problem with that is you usually end up dribblin’ down your horse’s shoulder… or your own leg. Smarter to do it like this.”

  Phil swung his right leg over Parker’s back and stood with his left foot in the stirrup, bracing himself with his right hand on the saddlehorn to keep his balance.

  While his chestnut plodded along, he relieved himself, then when finished swung his leg back over Parker and got his right foot back in the stirrup. He rebuttoned his denims, then settled back in his saddle.

  “See, Nate. Nothin’ to it.”

  “As long as you don’t fall flat on your face.”

  “Well, there is that,” Phil said. “You sure don’t want that to happen if you can help it. Besides the chance of gettin’ hurt, it would be downright embarrassin’.

  “And by the way, that’s another reason to go sparingly on your water when we’re on the trail. You won’t have to pee so much if you limit your drinkin’. The less intake, the less outflow.”

  “I get it. And I’ve gotta agree with you, Phil. Fallin’ off my horse while peein’ would sure enough be embarrassin’, to say the least. In fact, I’d venture it would be downright mortifyin’,” Nate answered. “Charcoal!”

  Once again, the steeldust had quit the remuda. Nate sent Red charging after him.

  2

  Despite the heat, the Rangers made good time. They reached Menardville shortly after three o’clock. Captain Quincy had hoped to keep their animals in the abandoned Spanish mission compound on the east side of town, which served as a corral for some of the vast cattle herds being driven to market on the north and west trails.

  However, the compound, which could hold up to three thousand head, already held a good number of cattle, meaning there was no room for the Rangers’ animals. Instead, the captain arranged to set up camp at the north edge of town, on a patch of ground between the livery stable and the San Saba River.

  He also made arrangements with Julio Menendez, the stable owner, to put up all the horses and mules in two of his corrals for the night.

  Once the animals were groomed, grained and watered, and munching on hay, Quincy gathered his men around him.

  “All right, boys, this is the last town you’ll see for quite some time,” he said. “I’m turnin’ you all loose for the night. Buy whatever supplies you think you’re gonna need for the next week or ten days. Get yourselves baths, haircuts, shaves, if you want. Have yourselves a good supper, go to one of the saloons for a few drinks, spend some time over a deck of cards or visitin’ with a woman, if that’s your pleasure.

  “Since this’ll be your last cha
nce to relax and have fun for the foreseeable future, I’m not settin’ a deadline for any of you to be back in camp. The time until sunup tomorrow is yours.

  “However, I expect all of you to be on your best behavior. You’re in town now, and each and every one of you represents the Rangers, and the state of Texas. You saw all those cows bein’ held at the old mission when we rode into town. That many cows means there’s a lot of cowboys in town, and where there’s a lot of cowboys in off the trail, there’s usually a lot of trouble, and we want no part of that.

  “So, that means no gettin’ drunk, no bein’ too rowdy, and no fightin’, unless someone else starts it first. And if any of you do get so drunk you’re not ready and able to ride come first light, you’ll have me to answer to. And I will make your life miserable, count on that. Is that understood?”

  “Perfectly, Cap’n,” Lieutenant Bob Berkeley answered. “Are you comin’ into town with us?”

  “I’ll be along in a while,” Quincy explained. “I’ve got a couple of reports I want to finish up, so I can mail them this afternoon. Let the town marshal know we’re here, Bob.”

  “Of course, Cap’n.”

  “Good. So, unless there are any questions, company dismissed.”

  “I’ve got one,” George said. “What do you mean, ‘good supper’, Cap’n? Ain’t my grub good enough for you?”

  “George, I’m certain I speak for every man here when I say you’re the finest camp cook in the Rangers,” Quincy answered. “But even you can do only so much cookin’ off the back of a wagon, with limited supplies. I’m sure you’ll appreciate a night off, lettin’ someone else do the cookin’ and waitin’ on you for a change.”

  “Well, as long as you put it that way…”

  “Fine, George. Now, as I’ve already said, company dismissed. Get out of here.”

  “Yes, sir!” Bob answered. “Boys, let’s head for town!”

  “We’re on our own for the rest of the night, Nate,” Hoot shouted, with a whoop. “C’mon, pardner, let’s get goin’. We’re wastin’ time just standin’ here.”