The Hardest Ride

by Gordon L. Rottman

  The wood fire smell was stronger. I heard a sound. A girl’s voice. Dang! That’s all I need, more injuns. A family maybe. Weren’t no war party with a girl.

  On hands and knees I creeped forward. Heard a man’s voice—real quiet.

  Peering under the sapling limbs, I made them out. Raising to my feet real slow like, I stood there, not moving, not making a sound.

  After a spell, the buck slowly turned to me. My rifle was pointed between his eyes. Still sitting cross-legged he raised his hands. The girl turned and gave a little squeak. The buck shaked his head, telling her not to move. It was only the two of them. He was in a grubby shirt and a loincloth over greasy buckskin breeches. She was wearing a raggedy blue dress with almost white strips. The buck was maybe sixteen, seventeen, the plump-faced squaw even younger. They were sitting in front of a brush-limb lean-to with a few blankets and deerskins. A tin of sweet taters sat between them.

  I jerked my rifle telling the buck to stand up and come with me. The squaw started wailing some chant. I motioned for her to stay put. The buck was plum scart. I took him back to Cracker. “You speak American?”

  He just looked at me.

  “¿Usted habla Mexicano?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, that don’t help, because I don’t.” I fished the airtights of Boston baked beans out of my saddlebag and dropped them on the ground. Nodding at them, I said, “They’re yours. Don’t come back to el rancho no más. ¿Comprende?”

  He nodded.

  “Now adios, y’all.”

  He picked up the tins without taking his eyes off of me and backed into the saplings.

  I looked at Cracker. “Don’t you say a damn word about this.”

  When I rode in before dark, Barnabas Scoggins asked me, “Ya git him?”

  “That buck was too far ’way when I sawed him. I give him a real scare,” I swung my rifle up taking aim at a pretend injun. “He’s still hightailing it like a coyote with a lit tail.”

  “Good job,” he said with a satisfied grin. In his view, we’d done our piece to protect the frontier citizenry from plundering savages.

  Tío Pancho looked sharply at me. He saw right through me. He had no love for injuns, but he knew what I’d done. He nodded. There’s times when a little clemency doesn’t hurt.

  »»•««

  Barnabas Scoggins poked at the coals in his stone fireplace. “You done real good by me these past three years.”

  Here it comes.

  “But I gotta cut you loose, son. Gotta let jus’ ’bout ever’one go. Time’s real tough.”

  “Yes sir. I understand.”

  “I’m only keeping on four hands through the winter; the ones been here longest.”

  That meant Tío Pancho was staying on, Red too. Good. They’d be the last men Barnabas Scoggins would let go.

  He was quiet for a spell poking around in the coals. “I done something to help you out. I got a pard down Laredo way. He owes me.” He chuckled. “He’s always saying we owe one another a lot, but seems he’s forever paying me back more than I him. Anyways, I sent him a letter saying I got a good hand needing winter work.” Taking a letter out of his jacket he said, “I got this a couple of days ago. He read it out instead of handing it to me for he knew I was a lot better reading trail sign than things on paper.

  “Mathew M. Picket, San Isidro Ranch, Laredo, Webb County, State of Texas, November 4th, 1886.

  “I have in hand a letter of introduction on your behalf from one Barnabas Scoggins. I am long acquainted with Barnabas and have come to respect his character and opinion. He writes that you are well suited to cow punching and horse peeling and holds you up as being of high character. He also writes that you possess a skilled gun hand and an eye for tracking. I can report that I do have need for a man with such talents. Straightly put, we could use another gun. As of late, our herds have been plundered by thieving scoundrels. We reason that these rustlers are Mexicali desperados from across the Rio Grande. After last April’s Election War in Laredo, there is no telling what will break loose hereabouts. If you want a job at the San Isidro and are able to meet me in Eagle Pass between November 20th and 26th, you can find me in residence at the Maverick Hotel. After I conclude my business there in the Pass, you are welcome to ride with me to the San Isidro in the comfort of my coach.

  “My best regards, Mathew M. Picket.”

  Barnabas Scoggins said he’d welcome me back in the spring unlessin’ I found the San Isidro to be a good home.

  Tío Pancho grabbed my shoulders, looked me in the eye and said they were getting a vaquero primo. I ain’t never been glad-backed like that. It was hard leaving him behind.

  I left after we’d driven the herd to Austin Junction. Tío Pancho told me to catch one of the half-wild burros to pack my gear. He said not to pick one with a bloated-looking belly and to stay away from ones looking like they were tippy-toeing because they had hoof frog infection.

  Free-ranging burros ain’t easy to rope, they being skittish. I ended up catching a one-eyed burro because it was easy to sneak up on his blind side.

  Chapter Three

  It was a long ride, about two hundred miles. I’d gone through San Marcos, New Braunfels—lotta square-heads there—then San Antonio. I’d stopped at a classy whorehouse on Matamoras Street—a gentleman’s club they called it. It was too fancy for my blood and wallet. They even had a printed menu with things I ain’t never heard of. One of them told what a painted lady would do to you with marbles in her mouth! I’d bought a too pricey drink and moved on, finding the White Horse Saloon a few streets back, what I think they call a disorderly house. A dollar for the comfort supplied by a fallen angel was more to my taste. Went through Castroville. That was some town, had a steam gristmill, cotton gin, brewery, and its own newspaper.

  Uvalde was next. About a day out, I spied vultures drifting in circles. The wind was coming out of the northwest, and I pulled the collar up on my dark gray duck coat. The road was muddy, and the only fresh tracks were Mex sandals, four or five, yep, five sets heading south. I smelled them before I saw them. It’s a sorta sweet smell, but not in a good way. There was the stink of blood, and shit too. It was making Burro nervous, but Cracker didn’t pay no mind.

  Through the brush, I could see something white on the ground. I knew what it was. There were four of them, a whole family, all laid out side by side. They were scalped, and their eyes poked out, and they were all stabbed up. Their throats were cut too, and they were full of bullet holes. The woman’s tits were cut off, and all of them were butchered up between their naked legs. I guess they’d been violated in every way. They didn’t look like people no more, just used to be.

  There was blood, clothes rags, and stuff all over the stirred-up ground. Over to the side was where the deed had been done. They’d been dragged to where they were laid out neat, father, mother, a boy, I don’t know, maybe ten or twelve years, and a little girl. I couldn’t look no more, could barely tell they were Mexes. It was like something I wasn’t meant to see, that nobody should see.

  “Damn injuns.” They go crazy sometimes for no good reason. I looked around and took out my rifle, laid it across my lap. They were killed a short time past. Doubtful any injuns were still around.

  I made out moccasin tracks. They were all over. There were a few .50-70 Government cartridge cases and some old .40-50 Sharps too, even some little .32 Long Rifles and four 12-gauge shells. I picked up the empty shotshells. A gunsmith would buy them for reloading. Riding out a little ways, I made a circle and cut the injuns’ trail. There were five, six of them heading southwest. They didn’t stay to the road. Well, I wasn’t going after them.

  Poor Mexes almost never had guns. They were easy pickings when the Lipan Apache or Tuintsundé Mescalero or whoever took it in their head to get themselves some clothes and gear and have some fun with Mex women…and men. “Damn savages!” I shouted to no one.

  The ground was as hard as rock and me with no shovel. The ground may have be
en rock-hard dirt, but there weren’t any rocks to cover them with. I rode on south. I was thinking about them laid out neat. Injuns sure as hell ain’t done it. Had to be that a Mex got away and come back, probably a kid. Imagine him having to see that and drag them over there. “Damn savages.”

  There wasn’t any sandal prints on the road. Maybe he headed back north. I’d not of noticed that as the tracks I’d seen before getting here were of no import, and I hadn’t studied them.

  I’d gone a ways, maybe a mile, and I noticed sandal prints, an older kid’s. He must of stayed to the brush before striking down the road. Poor kid. I picked up my pace, but I slowed for Burro’s sake, and because it came to me that if I caught up with the kid, what was I going to do with him? I guess I’d put him on Burro and give him to the first Mexes I run across or drop him off in Uvalde.

  It soon started raining. I hoped it would stop by night, its usual habit. A cold night was one thing; a cold-wet one was another. I’d no idea how far it was to Uvalde. I might be sleeping out. Burro made a complaining noise. “What you fussing at, Burro? If you weren’t walking down this road you’d be standing around getting just as wet.”

  I tried not thinking much on what I’d seen back there and was hoping it wouldn’t come up tonight.

  Coming out a stand of blackjack oak, I spied a rider up ahead, a white man. We stopped a ways apart regarding one another. He looked tolerable, a lot older than me, a cowpuncher by his bearing and the look of his rig. “Howdy,” I said. “Any troubles behind you?”

  “Howdy, yourself. Nothin’ troublin’ back there. Hows’ ’bout for you?”

  “I runned across a Mex family, been butchered by injuns. The injuns headed off sou’west.”

  “That happens,” he said with little concern. It was only Mexes after all.

  We talked about how far back and how long.

  He looked around. He had a pistol on his left side and big old horse pistol in a saddle holster. “That’s been goin’ on ’round here. Like the old days. Some Company D Rangers over at Brackettville catched a batch of injuns, shot ’em up and hunged a couple.”

  “Good thing, that.”

  “It is.”

  “I been watching these sandal tracks,” pointing at them. “Looks like a Mex kid from that family. You run across him?”

  “Nope. I ain’t paid no notice. Ain’t seen nobody since outside Uvalde. That where ya heading?”

  “Yep. Any work thereabouts?”

  He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Maybe over west, but nothin’ ’round there. I guess nothin’ where ya come from?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That be fine. I ain’t lookin’. Headin’ home for a spell.”

  “Where’s home be?”

  “Waco. Ain’t been back to see the old woman for ten months.” He chuckled. “I justa hopin’ she ain’t strayed off, and I’ll havta round her up. But I’m expectin’ havin’ to do jus’ that,” he said with a long frown.

  I tried to laugh, but it didn’t come out. “About how far to Uvalde?”

  “Ya’ll make it by nightfall if ya press on.”

  “You have a good ride.”

  “You too.” I could smell his tobacco and wet leather.

  It was just another meeting of strangers on the trail, appreciated one day, forgotten the next.

  Chapter Four

  The rain had let up. I was minding the Mex sandal tracks close. I lost them sometimes where the rain washed them out, but I’d pick them up further down the road. I was watching them close, because if that punch ain’t seen that Mex kid, it meant he’d hid when the punch passed. It weren’t nothing to me, but it gave me something to think about instead of that sight back yonder. Just past a small wash the tracks went off the road to the right. A little further, they came back on the road. It’d been about an hour since I’d seen the old punch so the Mex kid wasn’t far ahead.

  Maybe he’d hear me coming and hide. That would be fine by me. I thought about singing and letting him know I was coming, but didn’t have it in me. That sight back yonder, you know.

  The tracks were clear since it stopped raining. Then they turned off the road to the right, just like before. He’d heard me. I untied Burro and snagged his lead rope around a bush. I don’t know what set me to go after the kid. Seems something told me to. Maybe because it stuck in me what he must of gone through and could use a little help. Don’t know why I gave a care. I dug my heels into Cracker’s sides and trotted into the brush. His tracks headed to a stand of trees. I bent low looking under the limbs, and Cracker started. The kid busted out of the trees and into the weeds. Cracker was hard after him. To the horse, it was like cutting a calf, I guess. I let him have the reins, and he jigged and jagged through the brush after him. I almost stopped short when I saw…“That ain’t no boy!”

  A girl hightailed for some thick brush with a big bag slapping on her side. That gal could surely scamper, until losing her feet and hitting the ground face-first. She scrambled up when Cracker slid to a stop with mud a spraying and his haunches on the ground. I came off of the saddle, slipped in the mud, and slid right into her, knocking her down again. She turned over and sat up.

  I got up on my knees. “Dang, girl! Look at me. I’m all covered with mud.”

  Even with the mud on her face I could see she was scart shitless and breathing hard. Her red eyes been crying. Grabbing her by the arm, I pulled her up. She tried to yank away, then kicked at me.

  “Whoa, niña! I ain’t going to hurt you.” She kicked again, making a growling noise in her throat. “Dang it! ¡Alto!” I pulled her over to Cracker with her tugging back like a roped calf. She even took a swing at me. Taking off the canteen, I handed it to her and said, “Clean off your face, niña. Lavate.”

  She glared at me, more mad than scart now. She yanked the canteen away and splashed water on her face, never taking her eyes off me.

  She was a little thing, not even five-foot high. She looked about like any other peon girl wearing a long-sleeve brown shirt, long, coming down over her hips, and a heavy black wool skirt and flannel petticoat. She had a waist-long brown cape with a square head hole. It was sewed up all fancy-like in red, orange, and tan thread. A brown wool shawl was wrapped over her head. Everything she wore was pretty grubby and smelled of wet wool. The bottom of that skirt and petticoat were all muddy. A big tow sack was slung over her shoulder with everything she owned, I guessed. Must of weighed as much as her.

  She handed me the canteen and stepped back, still glaring at me. She looked to be an ornery little toughie.

  Set in her oval face with high cheekbones were big brown eyes so dark they looked black being made more so by heavy black eyebrows. She had a wide straight nose and a small mouth, but her lips were full and dark. It didn’t look like she’d ever smiled, not that I could blame her owing to recent events. I had no idea how old she was, not being around girls. Maybe twelve, maybe eighteen for all I knew.

  She didn’t look so scart now, but glared at me all mean like. I never paid no attention to Mex gals. I mean I’d seen some good-lookers, but they weren’t my kind. They had their ways, and I had mine. I’d never paid much mind about them having their own troubles and the things they liked and didn’t like. This little gal was kind of pretty, but had a flint-hard edge.

  “Now what am I going to do with you?” It would be easy to just ride off. She wasn’t my problem. All she had to do was keep walking, and she’d find her own kind somewhere.

  She stood there waiting for me to make up my mind. She even looked like it was no matter to her for me to ride off. Heck, she was probably hoping that’s what I’d do.

  So that’s what I did. I hung on the canteen and climbed onto Cracker. “Well, fine then. Adiós, niña.” Her expression didn’t change. I trotted back to the road. As I rode, something was troubling me. “She ain’t no concern of mine.” Don’t know if I really meant it.

  Then I remembered what ol’ Bill Tuckworthy once told me. “Ya don’t see no lone Mex g
als out ’cause ifin ol’ Pedro finds one they’re reckoned whores. They’ll jus’ have their way wit’ ’em. Some good ol’ boy Texicans’ll do the same.”

  I thought about that little gal and what’d happened to her family and what could happen to her. “It ain’t no matter to me,” I remindered myself loudly.

  I knew full well what’d happened to that Mex woman back there, and that little one too, maybe only four or five years old. Even trying not to think on it, it made me belly-sick. Picking up Burro, I turned south onto a long straight stretch. I looked back. Nothing. “There’s right and wrong,” I told Cracker. “Maybe I should take her along, but she’d only slow me down. She don’t want nothing to do with me anyways. Hell, she’s just a Mex. Got more Mexes ’round these parts than white men, chinks, niggers, and micks and injuns all together.”

  I moseyed on. “There’s right and wrong,” I reminded Cracker. I looked back again and saw her trudging down the road. Sure looked small out here. “Well, shit.”

  Cracker snorted.

  I stopped, and she kept coming. Took a while, but she finally came up on me and just kept going right on past without even a “Buenos tardes.” Didn’t even look at me.

  I kept going, staying even with her. “Would you like a ride?” I pointed back at Burro. “Ride, niña, el burro?” Burro blinked his one eye.

  She kept going, paying me no mind.

  I trotted ahead a little and dismounted. She tromped on by, and I caught hold of her tow sack’s strap. She turned on me like a wildcat, threw up an arm, and twisted out of the strap smoother than a snake slipping into a gopher hole. The dang thing was heavy with blankets and a big crock pot.

  Backing away a couple of steps, she stood there, all the less than five-foot of her, crossed her arms and glared at me. She stuck an arm out for the bag, but I held on to it. Stamping her foot, she jabbed a finger at me. That girl’s surely mean-looking with little creases between her eyes when she’s pissed. I smiled and slung the bag onto Burro. I patted Burro’s rump. “Ándale, niña.”