Scent of Tears

by M. Juan Knecht

  Chapter Eight

  The year following the wedding disaster in San Francisco was, for me, an enjoyable one. Don Topo assigned me to improve the ground he controlled at the far end of the Chualar Canyon. Always progressive in his land management, Don Topo wanted some spring boxes constructed. Spring boxes allowed the cattle to utilize the country better during the dry months because the boxes gathered the water from a seep and let it fill until it ran into a pipe that was directed toward a trough. Without a spring box the spring would be trampled into a mud hole. Don Topo also desired a vaquero camp to be built where the crews could keep their horses during the yearly rodeos.

  The portly little patriarch had a fine understanding of human motivation. He spent a day riding the country with me, explaining what kind of vegetation to look for when locating springs. He never gave specific orders, but rather talked in general terms about how to build a spring box, where to construct the water troughs, and what kind of wood was suitable for making the pipe that would carry water from the spring to the trough. He left saying that he knew I’d construct enough spring boxes to double the amount of cattle the country would carry.

  I worked much harder under the burden of his expectation than I would have following specific orders.

  Building a spring box was back-breaking work. If you built the spring box too far down in the draw, the winter rains would wash it out; but the higher you went in the draw or on the side of the hill, the more rocks you encountered. Many a site was abandoned because the larger boulders kept me from digging a sufficiently deep enough hole to locate the box.

  By the time I was done, I knew the country better than the cattle who were born there. I’d spent so much time out in the canyons with my pick and shovel, I had names for the blisters on my hands as well as for the three hawks that patrolled the area.

  Don Topo also wanted a camp garden established that would provide a cheaper way to feed the vaquero crew. To this end, he assigned me an Indian woman to start a vegetable garden, and also instructed me to fence a small pasture for horses. The jewel of this ranch improvement was an anvil, bellows and blacksmith tools so there was a way to make hinges, shoe horses and construct wagon parts instead of going to town.

  A wagon load of rough-cut lumber and posts arrived every week for a month to supply the fence crew Don Topo hired from Monterey. They fenced off three acres and built a lean-to shed as well as a dirt-floor cabin with a wooden-shake roof.

  After the cabin was completed, a cook stove was delivered. The high point of our construction effort was when a set of iron hinges arrived for the door. I felt very proud of them, because most dwellings during that time had either rawhide hinges on the door or no door at all—just cowhide hanging over the entrance.

  The old Indian woman, Genero and I were the only full-time inhabitants at the Chualar Camp, as we came to call it. After the improvements were made and the various spring boxes were developed, Genero began traveling to the other ranchos owned by Don Topo to help with the cattle while I stayed in the Chualar country, pulling cattle out of bogs, putting out salt and shoeing horses. I also tried to keep track of where the cattle were and how many were being stolen.

  Stolen cattle could be replaced easily, but our forge and anvil could not, and they were what really concerned me. The forge and anvil had been ordered from Boston and brought around the horn on a sailing ship. Even the coal that heated the metal had been brought from the other side of the globe.

  There was a saying, “No iron, no hoof; no hoof, no horse,” and so I was very protective of our primitive blacksmith shop. Don Topo assured me that a forge and anvil were only attractive to someone who liked to work, and thieves don’t like to work. But I wasn’t so sure, so whenever I was gone from the camp for a long time I was constantly nervous someone might steal them.

  I went into Monterey several times a month to buy bags of coffee, salt and other essentials. I also bought salt for the cattle, because it was a way to control where the cattle made their range.

  There was a heavy freight wagon available, but the road to the Chualar Camp was very steep and it made of sense to pack in supplies rather that use the wagon. Anyway in the winter, the creeks were too swollen to cross with a wagon. My horse herd had, with Don Topo’s blessing, grown to ten geldings and three mares. Of course, that wasn’t counting Luna, who I considered more of a relative than a horse.

  It gentled the young horses to have supplies packed on them. Packing them also gave me plenty of motive to make sure they were tame, because if I spilled the supplies, I went without.

  When in Monterey, I would stay with Don Topo and his family, and visit a little with Lucinda and her baby. Lucinda made a show of greeting me to keep up the pretense that we were husband and wife, but it was all for appearance’s sake. When no one was around, she gave me the same cold shoulder she had shown me since I was a child. I still slept behind the door to the root cellar.

  The child was named Patricio, but she called him Patty. He had curly black hair and black eyes with incredibly long eyelashes. He was a happy baby, and I imagined I could see Don Topo in him.

  Upon my return to Chualar Camp from one of these trips, I was alarmed to see a gaunt gray horse standing tied to the oak tree in front of the cabin. The horse was covered with dried sweat and wore an unfamiliar brand. I was distressed to see two rifles resting in scabbards on either side of the horse. I never went armed, except for a hunting knife. A heavy pistol or shotgun got in the way of catching cattle. To burden a horse that had been ridden as hard as the gray gelding with the weight of two rifles seemed outlandish. I hadn’t seen a saddle horse weighted down with this much armament since the last time I saw Tiburcio Vasquez sitting in the dark.

  I slowly opened the heavy plank door to the cabin and peered into the dim interior. Stretched out on the bed was a man dressed in black boots, black pants and a black cape, which he had wrapped around his body. His hat was adorned with a heavy silver band.

  Without stirring from his prone position or even looking at me he said, “Who are you?”

  “Who are you?” I replied, putting my hand on my knife. At that the figure shifted around so he could see me.

  “Charlie, it is I, Tiburcio. How have you been, my friend?” He slowly rose from the bed, swung his feet to the floor and stood up. He’d been sleeping with a pistol in his hand, and he stuck the weapon back in his sash and took an enormous stretch. His beard was longer and thicker than I remembered, but other than that he had not changed.

  “I have nothing of value here, Tiburcio. Only supplies and a little food, which you are welcome to.”

  “Nailing one board to a frame doesn’t make you a carpenter, but steal one horse and you are a horse thief for life,” Tiburcio said in a pleasant voice. “I am not here to relieve you of anything. As far as you having nothing of value, your friendship is of great value to me. We have a history together, and it looks like we will continue to cross paths. To celebrate our friendship, I have brought you a gift. But first, could I impose on you to make me some coffee? I rode all night and I’m worn out.”

  I put some kindling in the iron stove and lit it, then drew some water from the well and put it on the stove to boil. After I unsaddled my horse and unloaded the pack saddle from the other horse, I returned to the cabin. The water was boiling and Tiburcio was leaning against the wall as he watched the water bubble.

  Tiburcio walked out of the cabin then sat down on a stool. He leaned back against the wall. With a kind of dandyish elegance, he removed a toothpick from his vest and examined it like a man would examine a fine cigar before putting it between his teeth.

  I came out and handed him his coffee. He blew on it before taking a sip.

  “Gracias.”

  “De nada.”

  The porch was the latest addition to the cabin. It was made of rough cut blanks I had scrounged from the fencing crew. It made a great place to sit in the evenings.

  “Go get the rifle in the near-side scabbard, Charl
ie.”

  It occurred to me that he had come into my house uninvited, slept on my bed without taking off his boots, and was now ordering me about my own establishment. However, the tone of his voice was so friendly and his air of command so complete that I barely hesitated before I went out to his horse and got the rifle.

  “What you’re holding in your hand is a Volition Rifle. It’s one of the first functional repeating rifles to come to Monterey. You must always keep it clean or it will jam, but as long as it’s carefully maintained, you can depend on it.”

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “It’s a wedding gift, Charlie. It’s a gesture of friendship from me to you. I was very impressed when you came to our camp and asked for your mare back. You are fearless, and it’s always worthwhile to associate with people of courage. I brought you a box of ammunition as well. After I finish my coffee, we can walk down to the flat and I’ll show you how to shoot. My ability as a poet and dancer are only exceeded by my marksmanship.”

  It was an arrogant thing to say, but it didn’t sound like it coming from Tiburcio. It sounded like he was making fun of himself.

  I examined the rifle in my hands. I’d never owned one before. Don Topo provided food and supplies for his employees, but he drew the line at buying them firearms and liquor.

  Being hungry from my ride I took some hanging jerky from the cupboard and then heated four tortillas from the stack left by the old Indian woman. I wrapped the jerky with the warm tortillas, and divided the food onto two plates. Without further conversation, we finished our repast.

  After the meal and another cup of coffee, Tiburcio climbed slowly to his feet and walked off the porch to his horse.

  “Do you want to water your horse?” I asked.

  “You may water him after I leave.”

  I started to ask what he was going to leave on, then realized I’d just been informed of a horse trade.

  “Will there be a group of men with weapons riding up and asking me where I got him from?” I asked.

  “He isn’t stolen, Charlie. He just needs a little rest. I have a bill of sale for him from a Mexican who raises gray horses near the Tejon Pass. Every time I ride to Los Angeles, I stop and buy a horse from him. His horses are well bridled and expensive, but he gives me a good price, because, after all, would he prefer to sell them to me, or have me steal them?”

  Tiburcio took a box of cartridges from his saddlebags and gestured for me to follow him.

  We walked away from the cabin, down the hill into the flat. Tiburcio picked out a tree, took the silk scarf from his neck, and tied it onto a low-hanging branch. Any bullets that hit the scarf would move it.

  That afternoon, he taught me how to shoot the rifle. First he demonstrated, explaining to me in low, confident tones how to control my breathing and how to gently squeeze the trigger until the rifle fired. I’d never seen Tiburcio dance, and thankfully he’d never written me any poetry, but he was a first-rate shot, no error. He was patient with his instruction, and when we were done I was a much better shot than I had been when the lesson began.

  Afterward, on our way back up the hill to the cabin, I caught a sorrel gelding for Tiburcio. The horse had white stockings and a wide white blaze running down his face, and he looked better than he was, but Tiburcio was only using him to get from one place to the next. I figured he didn’t need to take a better horse. Besides, his gray horse looked used up, perhaps even broken down, so I felt no shame trading Tiburcio the low end of my saddle horses.

  “Could you draw me up a bill of sale for your horse, if it isn’t too much trouble?” he asked.

  I confessed to not having any paper, only the receipt from the dry goods store in Monterey.

  “That will do,” Tiburcio said, and went to get a quill pen from his saddlebag.

  He wrote out the bill of sale with my name at the bottom and then presented it to me to sign. I’d been taught how to sign my name but didn’t know how to read well enough to know what the bill of sale said. For all I knew, I was signing over the rancho.

  Don Topo had sent a tutor to stay at the camp several months prior with instructions to teach me to read. Topo’s thinking was that I could be of much more use to him if I were literate. However, although I attended to my lessons in the evenings after each day in the saddle, the tallow candles didn’t illuminate the lessons very well. The tutor, a dandy from Spain, only stayed a week before the scorpions, ticks and rattlesnakes drove him back to Monterey. About all I had learned was how to pronounce the alphabet and sign my name.

  Nevertheless, I figured it didn’t matter so I scratched out what passed for my signature.

  “This pretty sorrel horse isn’t going to buck me off, is he?” Tiburcio asked. He looked out in the pasture at my other geldings, as if he might prefer a different horse.

  “I’d tell you if he had any bad habits. Besides, nothing here on the ranch would present a challenge to a renowned horseman such as yourself.”

  A smile passed over his face, and he took his rig off the gray gelding and saddled my sorrel. He put his bit in the horse’s mouth, then holding the reins moved the horse into a circle. It was something a rider did to limber a horse up when they didn’t know or trust a horse. Tiburcio spoke quietly to the sorrel, then mounted.

  “You aren’t intending to shoot me in the back when I ride away, are you, Charlie? We all appreciate irony but... I give you a rifle, help you with your marksmanship, and then you shoot me.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Who knows? Worse things have been done in the name of love. I hear Lucinda’s child is mine. But you are aware of the circumstances: I was with her before Don Topo arranged your marriage, so I have shown you no disrespect. Still, logical thought isn’t always around when a beautiful woman like Lucinda is concerned.” Tiburcio reined the horse around and then paused.

  “Lucinda is as dangerous as she is beautiful,” he said. “A man, even a man such as myself, needs to be careful around her. I know she was disappointed in me after I left her in the family way and became engaged to Anastacio’s sister. If I attempted to become intimate with her again, she’d cut my throat and drink my blood to avenge the insult. I assure you, I pose no threat to your marriage.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about shooting you in the back. I do wonder, why you don’t become a vaquero? It’s an enjoyable occupation to me, and California is a big place. Life on the run must get old.”

  “I often ask myself that very question, Charlie. The outlaw life loses its charm, especially in the winter when it rains. It seems I stay wet for months, and the pisano’s food, though it is given to me with love, is often of poor quality. I don’t enjoy sleeping on the ground either.”

  Tiburcio shifted in the saddle, then twisted his torso to see what the horse would do. For a daredevil bandit, he was careful with himself. Satisfied the horse wasn’t going to buck he continued on.

  “If I did decide to quit my life as a bandit, Monterey isn’t the place to do it. There are too many hard feelings over what happened the night Hardmount was killed. I’ve never killed a man, but if I stay around Monterey, I might be forced to start.”

  “California is a big place, Tiburcio.”

  He reined the horse around both ways. The horse wrung his tail, then responded in an adequate, if less than enthusiastic, manner.

  “I like to visit with you, Charlie. Why don’t you ride with me to the main road?”

  “The horse won’t buck, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I trust you. I just like to have someone halfway intelligent to talk to. It’s a long horseback ride from here to Santa Rosa. Ride a ways with me and we can visit.”

  I was tired from my trip to Monterey and craved a nap. However, Tiburcio had brought me a present, so I caught another horse and saddled up.

  We’d only gone half a mile when I chanced to see the most amazing feat of agility and physical prowess I’d ever seen. We were walking our horses down the narrow t
rail that led back to the road, discussing the merits of different types of riggings for saddles. Tiburcio was ahead of me, partially turned in the saddle to emphasize a point he was making. Suddenly a coyote burst out of the dense brush and snapped at Tiburcio’s new horse. The startled horse dropped his head and went to bucking, catching Tiburcio off-guard and throwing him into the air. As Tiburcio sailed through the air, arms and legs flailing for balance, he drew his pistol and shot the coyote dead. He landed in a crouch, pistol in hand.

  We looked at each other for a second... and then Tiburcio smiled, straightened up, and put the pistol back into its holster.

  “You assured me the horse didn’t buck.”

  For a moment my heart went into my throat, but then the outlaw smiled.

  “No telling what a horse will try and do when something tries to bite him,” I said, letting out a breath. “I’ve never seen a coyote act that way.”

  Tiburcio walked over and peered down at the dead animal. He prodded the coyote’s shoulder, near where his bullet had gone through its lungs.

  “Perhaps the animal was rabid. See how his ribs are sticking out?”

  The riderless horse was standing a short ways away. I trotted around him, gathered up the reins and led him back to Tiburcio, grateful that the horse hadn’t stepped on the reins and bent the bit.

  Tiburcio looked the horse over carefully to see if he had suffered a bite. After a moment, he climbed back on, then looked at me and smiled.

  “You got the better of me on this horse trade, Charlie. That doesn’t happen often. Adios, my friend.” He touched the sorrel with his spurs. The horse gave a jump, Tiburcio gave a little laugh, and then without further ado gave the horse his head and trotted off`.

  I’d never seen a man draw and fire a pistol with such accuracy standing still, let alone while he was flying through the air. I was starting to understand why the much more physically imposing Anastacio Garcia had let Tiburcio give me back the my horses that night at the outlaws’ camp. A man who can shoot with such accuracy from any position doesn’t invite serious argument.

  Scent of Tears