by Lou Bradshaw
“I’m a pretty poor hand at speech making… You sure you want to subject the audience to what I might say?”
“Nonsense, I’ve heard you speak before… Just be yourself and you’ll be fine. And I’m sure Don Carlos would be honored to have a good friend make the introduction.”
“Well,” I said, “I’d be happy to introduce him, although I’m sure he needs no introduction… Half the population of Taos County considers him somewhere between the President of the US and Pope.”
“That’s sort of the whole idea of having the Don as the guest of honor. The council wants to bring the two groups closer together. We want to emphasize that the celebrating of the Fourth of July is for all citizens, no matter where they came from or how long they’ve been here… If we can show the Spanish speaking population that we would honor one of their most revered members on the nation’s most revered holiday, then perhaps they will feel, in some way, a little more a part of the nation.”
“Mercy!” I said. “I only hope that I don’t have to do my part right after you speak.” He assured me that I would do just fine, no matter where I was on the program.
When he had finished his pitch and was satisfied I would be there with bells on, he bid me good day and went back to his business. Paul Cravins was a man of about thirty five years, with a handsome face and a physique that let him look good in almost anything he put on. But usually he was wearing a nice well made suit and a soft cream colored broad brimmed hat.
He would be what you call an entrepreneur, which means he knows how to make money by supplying things that folks wanted or needed. He had several small businesses in Taos, none of which would bring in a lot of money. But together, they accounted for what looked to be a sizable income.
I was just standing there watching my beer go flat, when Clarence McCoy moved into the space recently vacated by Cravins. He set his empty beer mug on the bar and turned to face me… I motioned to Barney to refill it.
“Blue,” he said, “I just so happen be between jobs at the moment, if you’d consider hirin’ someone who would never leave you in a pinch, but might get the itch to move on when the work gets too hard or too easy…. I know that don’t make much sense, but that’s the way I am.”
“Mac, you’ve been going from job to job ever since I come to New Mexico… And I know there’s not a rancher on the plateau that wouldn’t hire you back without a second thought. I’ve been waiting for a couple of years for a chance to take my turn at havin’ you in my bunkhouse…When do you want to start.?”
“How bout I get there for breakfast tomorrow? I got enough money left for an evening upstairs… But don’t you worry, boss, I’ll be ready for work tomorrow.”
I had no doubts about McCoy. He was the cowboy’s cowboy… Worked when work was needed and played when it was called for. He was one of them that Patty Anne had referred to. He’d spent more than one evening in the lock up for his excess playfulness… much like my brother Andy.
Once again, I stood at the bar musing over what Paul Cravins had said, when I looked to my left and saw what I thought was a vaquero, but he was different somehow. For one thing, he was smaller than most vaqueros… well he was shorter but thicker. He was dress in typical vaquero garb except he wore a white coarse shirt which was not tucked in but was held with a red sash around the waist. His skin color was dark but not as dark as most Mexicans, and his features were sharp. He didn’t have the least bit of Spanish and Indian mix that was prominent in many vaqueros. In fact this man could have come directly from Spain or France.
“Señor, I would be proud to call you Boss.” He said with a lilt to his accent that made the soft consonants of Spanish even softer.
“Where might you be from, friend?” I asked, even though it was a question one man seldom asks another out here. Accents intrigued me, and I was a curious type.
“Sonora.” He replied without the slightest hesitation, and then his face broke into a smile and he said, Ahh, Señor, you are confused because of my speech… I am Bosque, our language is similar to French. We are Frenchmen whose homes are claimed by Spain. My family came to Mexico several generations past. They were herders of sheep and goats.”
“Bosque, eh? Sort of like an Iberian Irishmen… I would suppose.”
He smiled a sad smile and said, “Si.”
We talked a few minutes, and I asked to see his horse. So he took me outside and showed me his animal. It was a particularly unremarkable pony, but it was well taken care of. His saddle was old but in good shape, and the lariat hanging from his saddle was as good as any I’d seen in a long time. When I got to his rifle in the boot I said, “Permiso?” He nodded permission, and I lifted it from the scabbard. Then I worked the lever halfway and sniffed. I could smell the oil, and I smiled.
“What should I call my new vaquero?”
“My name is Pepino Vascion, but down along the border country they just called me Pepé Jones.”
“Well, Pepé Jones, would you care to start right away… We can just about make it for supper, or you can come out in the morning… unless you have something to take care of first.”
“Everything I own is tied behind my saddle… I am ready…. Boss.”
Chapter 7
Patti Anne was pleased when I told her that Clarence McCoy was going to be gracing our bunkhouse at last, “I was beginning to think we were lepers the way he had avoided working here.” She told me later that evening.
“I guess it was one of those cases where his needin’ a job and our needin’ a man never locked in together.”
“And that Pepé Jones, why Ben… he’s absolutely adorable. I could just sit and listen to him talk all day… Is that his real name?”
“Oh no, he’s got another one that don’t suit him at all. But I’d venture to say half the men in New Mexico aren’t walking around with the names their mamas gave ‘em.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She said as she went off to check on the little ones.
I went into that room she calls my office and went through some of the papers sent by Jasper Stewart from time to time. He won’t take that Special Deputy US Marshal’s badge back, no matter how many times I’ve handed it to him. And to be honest, it has come in handy from time to time in a country full of wild lands and wilder men.
Then I found it… a notice to be on alert for Pepino Vascion. I thought the name was familiar. He was wanted for questioning by the Mexican Fedarales. To be questioned by the Fedarales was almost a guaranteed ten years of hard labor… or a firing squad. I read the charges and found them rather vague and open ended. He wasn’t wanted in the US, so I wasn’t going to take any action. We had a perfect working relationship with the Fedarales. They ignored our requests, and we ignored theirs.
Figured I’d have a talk with him in the morning and suggest that he keep his real name between us. They had chased him for over two years, and he was still on the loose. So I figured he could handle himself when he had to.
I had two tough new hands, and when you add those to the three I already had it made a good outfit. Rafe Baker was the weakest link in the crew. Delgado was solid and would stand. Tom Grayson… Gracy was tough as nails. He’d proven himself on trail drives… he had sand. Rafe Baker was a cattleman… no more… no less. He did what he had to for the sake of the job. I had seen him back off twice, but he knew cattle.
If I could pick up one or two more good men I’d be in business. Clarence McCoy showed up in time for breakfast just as he’d promised. That’s the kind of man he was. He may not have slept more than seven or eight minutes the night before, but he’d stick in the saddle all day long. After breakfast, I called a meeting in the open air courtyard, which the whole hacienda was built around.
“You fellas all know each other except for Pepé Jones here… so introduce yourselves to him and get to know him. Delgado, you’re still in charge of the horses. That hasn’t changed. But there are a couple of changes taking place. First off, we’re going to start moving cattle into two groups cente
red around water. I’d like it if no steer has to walk more than three or four miles for water. When the grass gets thinned out, we’ll move the herds to fresh grass. I’ve been rather lax in letting the cattle roam at will, but I’d like you boys to be able to tell when one… two… or a bunch seems to be missing.”
“The second change is I’m naming Gracy as the first foreman the MB connected has ever had…. If he will accept it, and if he does, you’ll be taking your assignments from him.”
“Any questions?” Nobody had any so I dismissed the men. “Gracy, would you mind waiting for a few minutes? Pepé, would you come to the office?”
He followed me into the office, and I told him to take seat while I pulled out the alert from the Fedarales. Handing it to him, I explained that I was a sometime Federal Officer, and as such I got a lot of flyers and wanted notices.
“Do you want me to leave, Señor?”
“That depends on what you tell me… The US Marshal’s Office has no warrants on you. But I’d like to hear your story.”
“It was an old story, Señor… I came upon four Fedarale soldiers raping a thirteen year old village girl. I killed one, wounded one and the others fled. In the two years they hunted me, I killed one more and wounded several others. I cannot go back to Sonora.”
“I figured it might be something like that… Make yourself at home. Tell Delgado, you’ll need several cowponies…. He’ll take care of you.”
We walked out together and I got Gracy’s answer… he wanted the job. It came with a raise in pay and his own private quarters in the bunkhouse, which wasn’t worth the extra work he’d have to do, but he was happy. I’d been to the rail head twice with Gracy, and I had confidence in him.
As I walked into the kitchen, Patty Anne and Maria were just finishing the dishes. Patty Anne watched me pour myself a cup of coffee and took it and I poured myself another. That seemed to happen a lot.
She sat across from me and just stared at me. Finally she said, “I suppose you’re pretty proud of yourself… taking my suggestions and improving on them”
“Not at all. I’ll give you all the credit. The main thing you did was open my eyes to the fact that we’ve got a lot of stock, and all of it is valuable and needs to be protected. Bunching the cattle was Juan’s suggestion… and you suggested asking him.”
She smiled the sweetest of smiles, and somehow, I figured I’d come out ahead.
I’d received a telegraph message a few weeks earlier that a horse Texas horse breeder would be paying me a visit on his way to California. I was expecting him at almost any time.
He showed up a few days after the MB had a new foreman and two new hands. Joe Thatcher was a middle aged man with a healthy and prosperous look about him. He had arrived in Santa Fe by train and came to Taos on the stage. His plan was to continue his journey by rail until he reached the Colorado River, and from there take the Bradshaw Road… the mail route on to the coast. He was hoping to buy land there and move his operation.
He was stunned by the Prince and wanted to buy him. I told him there were a few horses on the ranch that were not for sale, and the Prince was on top of that short list. To show him the kind of animal that was sired by the big buckskin, I took him to the pasture which held the yearling stallion and his future harem. We leaned on the rail fence, while Delgado went back into the canyon to usher them out into the open.
He brought them up to the gate and ran them back and forth to show them off. Thatcher was pleased with the kind of offspring the Prince produced, but his eyes kept straying to the little cowpony tagalong that had become mascot of the bunch.
“Blue, how’d you come by ol’ Toad?”
“Toad?”
“Yeah, that little blaze faced bay… he’s wearin’ my brand.”
“A young fella tried to ride him up a slope a might to hard and lost his seat. He fell about a hundred feet. I buried him up in the canyon where he died. The gelding fell in with this bunch and they kinda adopted him… If he’s yours, I’d be happy to pay you for him… he kinda keeps this bunch calmed down.”
I told him how these horses had been stolen and how the horse guard got spooked and ran. He told me the man had worked for him and, when he left, he left in a hurry and took the pony in lieu of wages owed. He also told me that when they were breaking Toad, he had a peculiar way of jump starting that looked like a frog hopping.
“Henry said he had a job waitin’ for him and a friend from El Paso with some big horse breeder here in Taos. I wondered if it might be your outfit. I didn’t know of any others in the area.”
“There’s none that take it seriously. A few good mares around but no stallions of note. The Prince services a few of the Domingo mares, but that’s all. And Juan Domingo keeps the foals for his own stock.”
Thatcher left the next morning after placing an order for two fillies and a colt from the yearling’s get. His story about Henry and his little gelding and the connection to El Paso gave me a name, but that was about all. There was still a lot I didn’t know.
I decided to take a ride over to visit this Thoroughbred breeder, Mr. Glenn Battles. He had moved onto the old Granger place, which was off to the west beyond the Tucker ranch. When old Pete Granger died, they couldn’t find any heirs, so the county finally sold it for taxes. Battles moved in a year or so ago with a few hands and some longhorn stock. Our paths had never crossed, and I hadn’t made the effort to go visiting.
After breakfast and a short session with Gracy, I saddled Smoke and headed out the gate and pointed his nose west. Roughly an hour and a half later, I found myself wondering if I was lost. I had only been to Granger’s place once about five years ago, and things looked different then. The trail seemed to be more over grown with weeds and brush. The bluff was there on my right… that hadn’t changed, but things still seemed different.
Then it dawned on me, the grass was tall, and the weeds and brush had gone to seed last fall. Old Pete kept enough stock to keep the brush and weeds in check. There wasn’t a cow, calf, or steer in sight… anywhere. That didn’t mean anything; he could have them almost anywhere on the range. But most of this range was in sight from the house, barring what would be blocked by trees along the creek. I could see a few horses off in the distance but no beef.
Topping out a slight hill, I could see the house on a knoll about a quarter mile away. The two big cottonwoods were still there providing plenty of afternoon shade. This Battles fella may have let his range go to seed, but the house looked better than when I’d last seen it. As I got closer, I could see that the weeds and brush surrounded the yard and was encroaching… A cow with four stomachs can feed on almost anything that won’t poison them, and they will. It takes a lot of grass to supply the nutrition required to keep any animal that large healthy and growing. They’ll feed constantly if feed’s available.
There hadn’t been any cattle to speak of for some time on this ranch. He may have lost them over the winter, but it wasn’t a bad winter. It was just peculiar. That’s when I saw him sitting on the wide front porch. He had been watching me ride up.
I pulled up at the hitch rail and hailed him, “Howdy, I’m looking for Mister Battle… You be him?”
“I am, sir, and who might you be?” He had a rich deep voice and a familiar accent, which I was trying to place. Then it dawned on me, he had the same accent as my friend, Max Bell who grew up on the lower Mississippi River…. This man was from the Deep South.
“The name’s Blue… Ben Blue. Of the MB connected… over near the Sangre de Cristos.” I sat my horse and waited for an invitation to dismount.
“Ahh… Yes, a name I am familiar with but have not had the pleasure of meeting… Won’t you step down, and join me here in the shade?”
His speech told me that this man was not only from the south, but he was from a cultured background. His words were formed and delivered in a way that a person couldn’t help but hear and understand them clearly.
“Would you care for something to drink, Mi
ster Blue?”
“No thanks, and please call me Ben… everybody does.”
“What brings you to this side of the plateau, Ben, besides giving that magnificent animal some exercise?”
“Well,” I said, “I’m something of a horse breeder, and I hear that you have some fine Thoroughbred mares… I’ve read some grand things about the breed, and thought I might be in the market to add one or two to my breeding stock.”
“I would entertain the idea, but unfortunately, my mares were stolen from the stable a month or so ago. They would certainly produce some fine foals if paired with a creature like your gray… I can see some Arab features in him. It is too bad he’s been gelded.”
“When I took him from the wild, I also took his brother. The Prince is larger and has better lines. He was set to challenge the old stallion, and I have no doubt he would have replaced him… he has never been ridden and probably never will be. But this one is a great ride.”
“That’s too bad about your mares… that long ago, they could be anywhere. Do you have plans to restock?”
“If all goes well, I’ll be back in the horse business again, soon.”
“I hope you will, Mister Battles.” I stood up to leave, and he walked me to my horse. He was going over Smoke with a fine tooth comb. We shook hands and I was getting ready to mount up when I heard a voice from the side of the house.
“Say, Battles, what did you want to do about tha…” The voice took on a form as I recognized the face coming around the corner of the porch. It belonged to a disagreeable looking soul with a permanent scowl and two missing front teeth.
When toothless looked up and saw me, his hand slapped his hip by instinct, but there wasn’t a holster or six-gun hanging there. My Colt was already out, and I kept it in my hand as I pulled into the saddle, then I dropped it into the holster.
“Barney, the bartender at the Silver Dollar has your gun for safe keeping… you can pick it up next time you’re in town.”
Chapter 8