The California Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “I’m Gil Austin, trail boss for a cattle drive. We’re aimin’ to spend a day or two at Tucson, but we’re a mite unsure of our direction. We met Vento Henneagar on the trail, if that means anything.”

  The door eased open enough for a skinny, bearded old fellow to emerge. He limped, seemed old enough to have come with the territory, and held onto what looked like a Hawken long gun.

  “Lot o’ folks knows Vento,” he grunted. “Don’t mean diddly.”

  Gil laughed. “I reckon, but my Texas outfit gunned down a pair of Mex sidewinders that had ambushed Tucson’s sheriff and his deputy. Vento seemed to take that as a favor, and told us to come on. Said his brother buys and sells livestock, and we hope to sell some cows, and maybe some horses.”

  “Wal, now,” said the old-timer, more jovial, “thet’s better. Vento’s my oldest boy, an’ he owns the mercantile. Gid’s the youngest, an’ he’s got the livery. Owns the livestock barn too. Me, I’m Jeremiah, too damn old an’ stove up fer anything ’cept keepin’ the varmints off the place. But by the Eternal, I can still shoot.”

  “You got the best there is,” said Gil. “A Hawken.”

  “Damn right,” said Jeremiah, pleased. “Git down an’ rest yer saddle.”

  “Like to,” said Gil, “and likely I’ll see you again before we move on, but I need to know where I am in regards to Tucson. I’ll need to get back to the trail drive and aim them toward the nearest water. Vento said that’s Saguaro Springs, a ways west of town.”

  “Reckon he’s right, if they’s that many critters in yer herd. Ridin’ west from here, it ain’t more’n three miles t’ town. Yer maybe six miles from the springs now.”

  “Thanks,” said Gil. “I won’t have to check out the water, but since I’m this close, I’ll ride in and say howdy to Gid and Vento. Keep that big Hawken loaded and handy.”

  “Keeno,” said Jeremiah Henneagar, standing a bit straighter. “Ride careful, Texas.”

  Established by the Spanish, Tucson was almost three centuries old, and it was considerably more than just a village. There were no mud huts, leantos, or temporary shelter. The very least of the structures was log, and a few were of seasoned, dressed lumber, freighted in from God knew where. A much more common building material was adobe brick. Many a roof was of pine or cedar shake, some of them greened over with moss, attesting to their many years of service. Vento Henneagar’s store was a low, lumber-constructed, flat-roofed building. It had the name across the false front in neat, black letters: v. HENNEAGAR’S MERCANTILE. If Vento ever had a son, Gil thought with amusement, they’d have to enlarge the building to get the boy’s name on the front. Vento Henneagar was alone in the store, since it wasn’t too far from the noon hour. He seemed shorter and heavier than Gil remembered, probably because he wore shoes instead of boots, and no hat.

  “Well,” he said, affably enough, “I see you made it. Any trouble?”

  “Nothin’ we couldn’t handle.” Gil grinned. “We strayed a mite too far south, and spent the night at a spring we didn’t know was there.”

  “I thought of that, after we left you,” said Henneagar, embarrassed. “It wasn’t that much out of your way, and would have made a good stop between Cienega Creek and here. But you know that now.”

  “No harm done,” said Gil, and changed the subject. “I rode in to say howdy to you and your brother Gid. I stopped by your house, and your daddy was about to bore me with his long gun until I convinced him who I was.”

  “Jeremiah and his Hawken.” Henneagar laughed. “That’s why we almost never have Indian trouble around here. You don’t believe it, just ask him.”

  Gil mounted and rode on down the dusty street toward the livery and the distant livestock barn. He continued to marvel at the town. Even the saloons looked to have been there a hundred years. One of them had a giant four-armed saguaro growing out front that was taller than the flat-roofed building. The place was appropriately named the Cactus Saloon. Another, blatantly catering to miners, called itself the Pick and Shovel. Quickly, a man turned from the doorway back into the dim interior of the saloon. For a moment he seemed familiar, like someone Gil should know. As he rode past, a few people watched him curiously from open doors. He dismounted before the livery, half-hitching his reins to the rail. The sign across the front simply said LIVERY, not mentioning the owner’s name. A lesser sign above the door said Blacksmith. Horses and mules shod. Gil stepped into a small but neat office, and found it empty. He was about to depart the way he had come in when a second door opened and he found himself facing the younger Henneagar. Gid’s features and build were similar to Vento’s, and Gil saw little difference between the two, except the years. And the sheriff’s star on Gid’s vest. Gil spoke.

  “I’m Gil Austin, trail boss for a Texas trail drive. I met Vento a few days ago. My outfit gunned down a pair of killers who had ambushed your sheriff and his deputy. I see you won the star.”

  “Won, hell,” said the younger Henneagar, “we cut the cards and I lost.”

  He didn’t smile when he said it, and Gil changed the subject.

  “The herd’s on the way, and should be at Saguaro Springs by sundown. We aim to be here maybe a couple of days. Vento says you buy and sell livestock. We need to sell some horses, and maybe some beef. Interested?”

  “I’d be more interested in some good mules,” said Henneagar. “Beef, if the price is right. Horses, they’d have to be mighty cheap.”

  “Big Texas steers,” said Gil, “two-year-olds or better, ought to average twelve hundred pounds. I figure thirty dollars a head. Forty-five horses, Apache broke. Make me an offer.”

  “Seventy-five steers at twenty-five dollars a head. The horses I’d have to see.”

  “You have a deal on the steers,” said Gil. “Why don’t you ride out in the morning and look at the horses?”

  “I’ll do that,” said Henneagar.

  Gil took that for dismissal and turned toward the door.

  “Austin?”

  Gil turned back to face the livestock buyer turned sheriff.

  “You and your riders are welcome for as long as you care to stay,” said Henneagar, “but I want no trouble.”

  “None of my riders will start any trouble, Henneagar,” said Gil.

  Gil closed the door behind him and stepped out on the boardwalk. He wondered what had prompted the warning, but it didn’t matter. His promise had carried a warning of his own. While he and his riders wouldn’t start any trouble, neither would they run from it. A Texan was a breed unto himself, and while he might not have started the trouble, he would be there until the finish of it.

  Gil was elated to learn that his change in direction had been exactly right. When he left Tucson, he rode southeast, and within four or five miles he met the horse herd. He couldn’t see the longhorns, but he saw their dust; his riders were pushing them hard. Juan Padillo rode ahead of the horse herd to meet him. Juan grinned, anticipating the welcome news he saw in Gil’s expression.

  “We’re maybe four miles from town,” Gil said, “and the water’s three miles beyond. We’ll sell some steers for sure, and some horses maybe. Get the word to Mariposa and Estanzio. There’ll be more supplies, ammunition, clothes, horseshoes, and maybe eggs for breakfast.”

  “Bueno,” said Juan. He swatted his dusty hat against his thigh and rode ahead to meet the oncoming horse herd. Gil waved his own hat to Mariposa and Estanzio as he rode past the now visible lead steers. The herd was moving fast enough to keep the horse remuda in sight, and for just a moment Gil paused to speak to Ramon. The flank riders would get the word from Ramon, and Gil rode on to the drag. Van, Long John, Rosa, Pedro Fagano, and Vicente Gomez were riding drag. They whooped their excitement as Gil rode in among them, speaking loud enough for all to hear.

  “Only seventy-five cows,” said Rosa, “and it is almost two thousand dollars.”

  “It’s been so long,” said Van, “I didn’t know Texas steers could still be swapped for honest-to-God money. We’ve swap
ped beef for vegetables, ham, and frying chicken until I can’t imagine gettin’ anything else.”

  Gil laughed. “Get used to it. I only asked thirty, and settled for twenty-five. We’ll get three times that in the goldfields.”

  Gid Henneagar watched Gil ride away, and he shifted his pistol belt, the unaccustomed weight of the Colt bothering him. He was no gunman, and while he had accepted Gil’s promise at face value, he’d be uneasy with this Texas outfit in town. He had known Texans before, and they were all men with the bark on, willing to fight at the drop of a hat. If you didn’t have a hat, they’d loan you one, and then drop it for you. While they might not start trouble, they’d sure as hell finish any that came their way. Tucson’s reluctant sheriff already had one potential troublemaker in town. A saddle tramp had ridden in a few days ago, had begun haunting the saloons and taking more than his share of winnings from the poker tables. He wore a tied-down Colt and had the look of a killer. He apparently had no intention of leaving, and the town had begun to look questioningly at its new sheriff. What could he do? There were no laws against gambling, and for that matter, none against “slick dealing,” unless the victim had a fast gun to back up his charge. While there had been a few complaints, none of the miners felt froggy enough to jump the visiting hardcase. Just maybe, thought Sheriff Henneagar, he might welcome this Texas outfit after all. Once they sold some steers and had some money, they would visit the saloons. He could imagine, with some satisfaction, these Texas cowboys buying into a poker game and having this slick-dealing Morgan Pinder clean them out. Sheriff Henneagar grinned to himself.

  Morgan Pinder, standing in the doorway of the Pick and Shovel saloon, had immediately recognized Gil Austin as he rode toward Henneagar’s livery. Pinder had hastily retreated into the dim interior of the saloon, hoping that the Texas trail boss hadn’t recognized him. Hate flamed anew in Pinder. He had been tortured and humiliated by the Texan, and, afraid for his very life, forced out of the Clanton gang. Now he would have his revenge. He had no doubt the Texans would be in town for a day or two, and he vowed a pair of them would die. One was the high-handed trail boss, and the other was that Indian bastard who’d used a Bowie on him.

  Once the trail drive was near Tucson, Gil sent the horse remuda ahead, so they would reach the springs well ahead of the longhorns. There they would again be watered and driven to graze before the longhorns arrived. It was one of those rare good days when the big Texas steers were not thirst-crazed and were driven in an orderly fashion to the water.

  “Any of us goin’ to town tonight?” Van asked.

  “No reason for us to,” Gil said. “We’re broke. Gid Henneagar’s goin’ to ride out in the morning to look at the horses and deal with us for the longhorns. Tomorrow afternoon, and maybe tomorrow night, we’ll all have a chance to go in and buy what we need.”

  * William Becknell opened a trade route from Missouri to Santa Fe in 1821. The first “Missouri” mules were brought into the southwest over what was to become the famous Santa Fe Trail. Half a century after Becknell’s initial journey, the Santa Fe Railroad followed the same route as had the trail.

  17

  Nothing disturbed the silence of that first night near Tucson. Even though they would be here several days, habit had them all up and about before first light.

  “Estanzio,” Gil said, “you and Mariposa decide how many horses ought to be reshod. Any shoe that may wear thin before we reach the goldfields, let’s replace it now. We’ll take some extras with us to replace thrown shoes, but let’s head off as many as we can, by replacing them here. First thing we’ll do, once we collect for the steers, is replenish horseshoes and nails.”

  “Bueno,” said Mariposa. “No shoe Apach’ hoss?”

  “No,” said Gil. “We have entirely too many horses, and with Mendoza breeding stock, I can’t see wasting time with anything less. Once you know how many must be reshod, the rest of us will help you.”

  Neither Mariposa or Estanzio said anything. With the help of Solano, they had prepared the horse remuda for the trail. Gil had a suspicion the pair wanted to replace all the spent shoes themselves. It would be hot, dirty work, and they’d get no argument from the rest of the outfit. But Gil always felt guilty when the Indian duo undertook such a task, although he knew the pride they took in the horses.

  When Gid Henneagar arrived, he wasn’t alone. Vento was with him.

  “I’d like to look at those steers,” said Vento. “Might take twenty-five myself and make it an even hundred, if you’ll part with that many.”

  “No problem,” said Gil. “Got forty-five Apache horses too. All broke to ride, far as we know.”

  “Didn’t know the Apaches was hoss traders,” Vento said.

  “We didn’t trade for these.” Gil grinned. “More like a gift. Apaches stampeded our horse herd one night and took half our remuda. When we took our horses back, we took theirs. Partly for our trouble, but mostly to keep them off our trail. Texans don’t usually hold with horse thieving, but we occasionally make exceptions.”

  Vento laughed, appreciating the boldness of the act. Gid, who didn’t seem like the laughing kind, managed a grin. He left them, going to take a closer look at the horses.

  “Be worth more,” said Vento, “if they was mules.”

  “That’s what Gid already told me,” Gil said.

  “Mus’ be lots o’ minin’ here,” said Long John. “That’s mule work.”

  “Yes,” said Vento, “and a good mule’s worth fifty dollars. Most of ours are trailed in from Santa Fe.”

  When Gid Henneagar returned, he didn’t look too enthusiastic about the Apache horses.

  “Five dollars a head,” he said. “At that, they may die of old age in my corral.”

  “You got a deal,” Gil said. “We’ll drive them in, along with the steers.”

  “The traders will be in from Santa Fe in July,” said Vento. “Maybe you can trade them for some mules.”

  “Maybe,” said Gid. Clearly that’s what he had in mind, and he cast a warning look at Vento, who laughed.

  Gil appeared not to notice, and the pair rode back toward town.

  “He’s a horse trader,” said Van, “and he’ll double or triple his money. We might do the same, if we took that bunch of ponies on to the goldfields.”

  “Maybe,” said Gil, “but they’re more trouble than they’re worth. We’re selling beef, because that’s what’s needed. Be our luck for every jaybird in California to already have a horse.”

  “For twenty-five more cows and the horses,” said Rosa, “it will become a fortune. It is almost three thousand dollars.”

  “I’ll divvy the money from the sale of the horses among all of you,” Gil said. “That’ll be about nineteen dollars for each rider, and since we’re selling a hundred steers, I’ll add enough to that so each of you will have seventy-five dollars. That ought to make a visit to town worthwhile. But we don’t all go at the same time. Those of you who drive the steers and the horses to Henneagar’s corral can do your town visitin’ while you’re there. Soon as I make a deal for horseshoes and nails, I’ll be ridin’ back to camp. There’s a pile of work to be done.”

  While the riders cut out a hundred head of steers and rounded up the Apache horses, Gil caught up a pair of packhorses. He had decided Rosa would go to town first, because he didn’t want her there after dark. With her, he was sending Van, Long John, Ramon, Juan Padillo, Bo, and Vicente Gomez. He wanted the majority of the outfit back with the herd before dark. Town held no interest for Mariposa and Estanzio. They would remain in camp to see that the horses were properly reshod. Fortunately there was more than enough horseshoes and nails to keep them busy until Gil could return with what he intended to buy.

  “Come on in the office,” said Gid Henneagar once the horses and the steers were safely in his corrals.

  Gil and the riders had gotten plenty of attention driving the horses and longhorns through town. This was the frontier, all right, Gil thought. Ten o’clock in
the morning, and all the saloons were open.

  “Vento arranged for me to pay for his steers along with mine,” said Gid. “You’ll have to take gold. We got no confidence in anybody’s paper out here.”

  Gil laughed. “My kind of town. Now I’ll do some business with you. We have forty horses that need to be reshod. I’ll need shoes and nails.”

  While Henneagar went about supplying Gil’s needs, Gil went out to the corrals and gave each of the riders their promised seventy-five dollars.

  “Now,” said Rosa, “I can buy some new clothes for Bo, to replace those I have ruined.”

  “Me,” said Long John, “I’m gonna buy me ’nother Colt. Man cain’t have too many Colts.”

  “New boots for me,” Van said. “Moccasins are better than barefooted, but I purely feel like a digger Injun without my boots.”

  “Remember,” said Gil, “the rest of the outfit will want to spend some time in town. Give it three or four hours and then give the others a chance. Go easy in the saloons.”

  Gil took his two packhorses and rode to Vento’s store. He could go back to the livery on his way out of town. On pages torn from a tally book, he had listed what they needed to replenish their supplies. For the first time in years he was not buying on credit, or limited only to items for which there was a dire need. He knew of only two things Mariposa and Estanzio would want from the white man’s store: tobacco and rock candy.

  Gil had just passed the Pick and Shovel saloon, when there was a shot, and the slug snatched the hat off his head. He piled out of the saddle, Colt in his hand, running toward the saloon. The shot had drawn one man to the door, but when he saw Gil coming, he ducked back inside. Thinking it unlikely the shot had come from within the saloon, Gil headed for the rear of the building. He smelled burnt powder and found boot prints, but that was all. He kicked open the back door of the saloon and stepped inside.

  “What’n hell’s goin’ on?” shouted one of the three men at the bar.