by R. W. Stone
Pedro Peralta in his younger days had been what northerners call a “peeler” and there was none better. A peeler is a specialist in breaking wild horses and retraining them into riding horses. Some peelers still favored the traditionally harsh techniques such as throwing the horse to the ground and hog-tying it to break its spirit, but not Pedro.
Instead, Peralta would construct a circular ring that he used for the horses he trained. He would walk the horses all day long inside the pen, constantly changing directions, and he talked to the horses until a bond was established. Sooner than anyone would ever believe possible, even the wildest of broncos would end up following him around like a big puppy. From that point on it was a relatively simple procedure for Pedro to teach them to accept both saddle and bridle.
Their ranch was never very large but it was profitable and the two men made a very good living. Thad would often ride out for weeks at a time on buying expeditions while Pedro tended to the ranch’s chores and supervised the other wranglers they had hired.
Eight years had passed and McCallum never regretted his decision. He was sure his friend Pedro hadn’t either. They had originally met when McCallum first rode into Deming to inquire about the small outlying ranch he had passed on the trail. It seemed abandoned and Thad figured, if it were for sale, it would serve his intended purpose.
During the ride into town his horse had begun to act up, but, although he checked him over, Thad couldn’t seem to identify the problem. When he finally rode up to the local bank, he couldn’t help but notice a middle-aged Mexican sitting on a bench over on the boardwalk, whittling a small stick.
Peralta had been a slender man, sporting a black mustache that protruded out from under a rather large, round, and embroidered sombrero that was typical of the vaqueros.
While he was dismounting, Thad’s horse began to shy again and started to whinny. Normally that horse was a very steady mount, so once on the ground McCallum ran his hands along the horse’s legs, checked the hoofs, and even opened his mouth.
Frustrated that he could find no obvious cause for the problem, Thad muttered to himself and left the animal tied to the hitching post while he entered the bank. Half an hour later Thad had a fairly good history of the town and the ranch in question. He knew he would be able to afford it if he decided to settle there.
His intention was to survey the town and get a feel for the local inhabitants, but as soon as he began to mount, his horse began to buck and whinny again.
“What the hell?” he asked himself, disturbed. Thad dismounted and stood there, looking at the horse, his hand stroking his chin in puzzled thought. “What’s got into you, boy?” he said aloud.
Without a word the Mexican vaquero got up, strode past him, and approached the horse. He put a gentle hand on Thad’s shoulder when he passed him as if to say, “Please, just get out of the way.”
The manner in which he did it sparked no hostility, but it did cause a great deal of surprise on McCallum’s part. He was a tall, strong man and straight of stature. He was an ex-sergeant and an ex-agency division boss. Being told to move out of the way was something Thaddeus McCallum was simply not accustomed to.
Peralta walked up to the horse, rubbed a gentle hand along the big animal’s neck, and then began removing its tack.
“Hey, now, wait a minute!” Thad protested.
The Mexican put up his right arm, signaling for McCallum to keep back, all the while petting the horse with his other hand.
“Un momento, señor. Please,” the vaquero said.
McCallum took a step back and watched the man with growing curiosity.
The vaquero worked his way back over the horse slowly, removing both the saddle and blanket. He carried them over to the boardwalk and flipped them over. He then stooped down by the saddle to inspect it, and after a moment he smiled. With a flick of his fingers he asked McCallum to come over.
“See here, señor?” he asked. “Right here?”
Thad McCallum took a close look, trying to determine what was wrong with the underside of his saddle. He ran his hand through the fleece lining on the saddle bottom and suddenly retracted it in pain. “Ouch! Damn it!” he cried.
Pedro began shaking the blanket and checking it over as well.
“These little things, they pinch the horse. That is why he give you the trouble, señor,” he explained. “There were some sand spurs nestled deep in the wool lining. These burs are small but they are a particularly nasty prickly part of certain weeds. Their thorns pinch whoever or whatever they brush up against and stick and sting like the devil.”
“Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” McCallum said, laughing. He extended a hand. Pedro took it, and they shook. The Mexican was somewhat embarrassed by McCallum’s exuberant thanks, and became even more so when Thad invited him to have a drink in the local tavern. He couldn’t help but consent. Thaddeus McCallum had always been a hard man to refuse.
Once inside the bar, a place aptly called the Watering Hole, the two men walked up to the bar. “Bartender, two beers please. Big and cold,” McCallum said.
The barman, a rotund and balding man wearing a dirty apron, seemed rather uncomfortable, as if he was put out for some reason. But, after a small shrug, he served them. Thad raised his beer and thanked Pedro once again.
“Should have figured that one out,” he said, referring to his horse. “I must have picked those burs up while camping out on the trail. Probably tossed the saddle down on a bush full of ’em. I’m usually more careful about such things.”
Pedro nodded. He believed the tall Yankee. “That blanket you use, she is still pretty good, but the cinch needs replacing,” he remarked. “It is … how you say … frayed. It, too, is rubbing your horse underneath.”
There is an old saying that goes to the effect that when things seem the most pleasant, life decides to crap on you. McCallum and Peralta had found kindred spirits. The two men both appreciated horses and tended to judge men by performance, not appearance.
They were halfway into enjoying their beers when two drovers got up from their table and butted up to the bar right next to them. The larger of the two men gave Pedro a dirty look, and then turned to face McCallum.
“We don’t cotton to sharing our drinks with no greaser,” he said. The other drover laughed loudly. They both wore long wide chaps and carried their revolvers in low-hanging holsters, Texas style.
Thad readjusted himself so that his back was square to the bar, his beer mug held tightly in his left hand, waist high. He nodded his head in the direction of the barman.
“Greaser? Not sure I catch your drift. This bartender seems nice and clean, except maybe for his apron. His complexion seems fine to me. Now, I know for a fact that my friend here uses hair tonic, not grease, so just who the hell are you referring to? Me, perhaps? You think I’m greasy?”
Pedro just stood there, shocked.
The drover, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, looked the stranger up and down, appraising him. What he thought he saw was just another grizzled old man. Judging by his response, maybe he was even a little touched.
True, the gent did carry a Colt Single Action revolver that was often referred to as a Peacemaker, but those days out West almost everyone carried a sidearm, so he didn’t put much stock in it.
What the cowpoke failed to notice, however, was that the holster, although admittedly fairly worn, was exceptionally clean and well oiled. He also didn’t stop to consider that the wood grip on the man’s Colt—while not as fancy or engraved as the pistol Colonel Roosevelt had used going up San Juan Hill—was worn to a shine with years of constant use. A smarter or more experienced man would have known that wood doesn’t get like that unless it has been handled countless times.
“You didn’t answer my question, sonny. You saying I’m greasy?” Thad asked angrily.
The question took the drover a mite by su
rprise, but when he realized he was being ridiculed, it quickly got his dander up.
“If you are with that one, you are,” the young drover replied rudely, nodding his head in the direction of Peralta.
“Because you are young, stupid, and a bigot, and because it is obvious to me you were raised improperly, I will give you one chance,” Thad growled. “But only one, mind you. Back on out of here and get lost, and no harm will come to you.”
Out of the corner of his eye McCallum took note of the second drover’s position. Pedro hadn’t moved and was standing as still as a statue. His arms were crossed in front of him and he was totally silent.
McCallum didn’t have a clue as to whether he could count on any kind of help from Pedro. Thad remembered an adage he favored: When in doubt rely on yourself first and yourself second.
“Why, you feeble old man,” the cowpuncher said, “who the hell do you think you are giving orders to anyway? You who don’t even act like no decent white man.” With that he went for his gun.
McCallum simply extended his left arm and then brought it down hard. He was still grasping the beer mug tightly when he did so. Just as the cowboy was pulling his gun upward out of his holster, the thick beer glass smacked the drover’s gun hand right on top, behind the knuckles.
There are enough small bones and pressure points in the center of the top of the human hand that it doesn’t take much to cause severe pain when it’s hit just right. The pain can be excruciating.
The cowboy winced, fumbled his revolver, and finally dropped it. When he glanced up, he was staring at the business end of a Colt .45. In fact, he was more than staring. The gun in the older man’s right hand was pressed dead center between his eyes.
Looking to his side, McCallum saw that Pedro had finally uncrossed his arms and was now pinning the second drover against the bar by the neck. Peralta’s right arm was clutching a rather large machete that just moments before had been hanging unobtrusively from the left side of his belt.
“Back up!” McCallum ordered. He pressed the pistol even harder against the drover’s forehead. The man began walking backward, very slowly, one step at a time. Pedro Peralta followed Thad’s lead, putting pressure on the machete lodged across the neck of the other drover as he, too, began walking toward the door.
Once McCallum exited the tavern and reached the end of the boarded sidewalk, he paused. His Colt remained tight against the man’s head. He slowly pressed harder and harder. The drover, who at this point was more terrified than ever before in his life, began to arch his body backward, trying to get away from the business end of the pistol’s barrel.
When McCallum decided the cowpoke had learned his lesson, he simply pressed the pistol barrel forward with force and the cowboy, now both scared and off balance, lost his footing and fell backward off the boardwalk, landing hard on his back in the dusty street.
Thad turned to watch the vaquero wave his big machete in the air, instructing the other drover to pick up his friend and leave.
“Guess we should finish that beer now, don’t you think?” McCallum said with a smirk. “Then perhaps we should talk about ranching some horses.”
Since that day, Pedro Peralta had been his constant companion. McCallum eventually bought the ranch and together over the years they had built it up into a very profitable enterprise. They became successful quickly and the Rough Rider Ranch, as it was called, was currently doing a steady business in breeding, breaking, trading, and selling both draft and riding horses throughout the state.
Now, as they sat eating dinner, McCallum said, “Pedro, I’m gonna be taking a little trip down to the border area so I’m gonna need you to see to things while I’m gone.”
“Haven’t I always?” Pedro replied. “You going to buy more stock? We’re pretty full up now as it is.”
McCallum took a sip of coffee and shook his head. “Nope. This time I’m doing a favor for an old friend. Seems his son’s done gone and got himself misplaced somewhere around Columbus. My friend wants me to ride down and check on the lad to see if he’s all right. It’s probably nothing, but I’m obligated. I have to go.”
“Obligated, jefe?”
* * * * *
McCallum thought back to a stinking jungle on the way to Santiago, Cuba. In 1898 the First United States Volunteers were known as Wood’s Weary Walkers, named after Colonel Leonard Wood, the unit’s first commander. When Wood was promoted to overall command, his second in command, Colonel Theodore Roosevelt, took over the brigade. The volunteers later began calling themselves Roosevelt’s Rough Riders, a name that finally stuck with them for good.
Recently promoted Brigadier General Leonard Wood was studying a map that had been stretched open over the lowered tailgate of a supply wagon when a corporal appeared with a message from Colonel Roosevelt.
“Corporal Shaw reportin’ with a dispatch from Colonel Teddy,” he said.
Always a stickler for rules, General Wood looked over his shoulder at the soldier with a stern expression on his face. “You mean Colonel Roosevelt, don’t you, Corporal?”
“Yes, sir. Begging the general’s pardon. Colonel Roosevelt s-sent this for you,” Shaw stammered, handing over a crumpled envelope. He then politely took several rather exaggerated steps back and promptly bumped into his old friend, Sergeant Thaddeus McCallum.
“Ouch! Say, watch whose foot you’re stepping on, you clumsy fool.”
Shaw looked back and grinned. “Hard not to step on those big clodhoppers of yours. They’re always in the way. So, Thaddeus, how ya been?”
McCallum spit off to his left and grinned. “Oh, you know, breathing in and out. Can’t complain.”
Shaw nodded his head. “You could, but you wouldn’t. Leastwise not in front of the general.”
“So, what’s up with the dispatch?” Thad asked.
“Oh, Colonel Teddy’s gone and got himself in another fix, I reckon. Seems like after the Hill them Spaniards would have up and quit, but they’s just fallin’ back and snipin’ at us. Like a dog nippin’ your heels, I guess. The colonel wanted to try and circle around ’em, but went and got caught himself. Now he needs some backup.”
“Must be tough,” McCallum replied.
“Colonel Teddy would have gone and done it all by his lonesome if he thought he had half a chance.” Both men laughed.
“Hey, you two, cut the chit-chat and come over here,” General Wood commanded. He pointed out a spot on his map. “Look here. I need you two to break through to Colonel Roosevelt’s unit … here … and bring him this message.” He paused to look up at both men.
“Sergeant McCallum, I’m sending you along so that when Corporal Shaw trips and shoots himself in the foot, you can carry the message on the rest of the way. It has to get through or we may lose a lot of very good men.”
The two men looked at each other and grinned.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but when he does, is it all right with the general if I put the corporal out of his misery before I move on with the message?” McCallum joked.
General Wood grinned back. “Sure. Just see to it that the message gets through or I’ll put you out of your misery. Understood?”
Both men snapped to attention and replied, “Yes, sir!”
An hour later the two men took off from the camp at a run. They were traveling light, having opted to leave their rifles back in camp to lessen the load. They both knew that if they did run into the enemy, two rifles wouldn’t change the outcome much, especially in thick jungle brush. Instead, they chose to take extra canteens. Water in the Cuban heat was often more important than bullets.
After two and a half hours of running, they stopped for a short five-minute rest.
“You sure we shouldn’t have brung them rifles with us?” Corporal Shaw asked. “What if we get there and there is a full-fledged battle. What then?”
Sergeant McCallum thought
a moment. “If there is a big fight, then I’m sure there will be plenty of rifles on the ground we can pick up and use.”
Al Shaw nodded his head glumly. “Guess you’re right. Ready to go, Sarge?”
McCallum took a small swig from his canteen, replaced the cap, and nodded. “Last one there’s an old marine.”
Almost an hour later they were slowly working their way through some heavy brush when McCallum stepped near the tangled base of a large mangrove tree. “Dammit, that hurt.”
Corporal Shaw pulled his machete from its sheath and chopped the head off a large thin snake. “Cuban racer,” he announced grimly.
“They’re poisonous, aren’t they?” Thad asked. He already knew the answer.
“Yep, but at least there’s good news and bad news.”
“What’s the good news?” the sergeant asked.
“They are poisonous but they usually don’t kill people your size.”
“So, what’s the bad news?” McCallum asked. He was worried.
“Well, out here in the jungle gettin’ real sick is the same as bein’ dead. That leg of yours is goin’ to get big and sore mighty fast. You won’t be able to travel far unless we do something real quick about that venom.”
McCallum knew what would come next. “Well, just leave me and go on. You got to get that message to the colonel.”
After forcing McCallum to sit down, Corporal Shaw took out a small pocket knife and cut open Thad’s pant leg to expose the bite. It was already beginning to swell. He then struck a match and began to heat the knife’s blade over the fire.
“Any chance it was a dry strike?” McCallum asked. Sometimes, when a snake bites, the venom fails to be injected into the victim.
Shaw shook his head. “Not judgin’ by the swellin’ and discoloration, Sarge. No way.”
“Well, what the hell you waiting for? You’re burning daylight.”