“Ah,” he said. “The beautiful Angelina. To what am I indebted for your presence? You have always gone to great lengths to pretend I didn’t exist.”
“I want to know something only you can tell me,” she said, ignoring the sarcasm. “Where is Clay Duval?”
“How would I know?”
“Because one of Victoria’s Indian riders told me,” she said. “Your men took him away, belly down over his saddle.”
“He’s been gone for months,” said Valverde. “Why the sudden interest in a nondescript gringo?”
“Perhaps I am only now discovering that Victoria does not want him.”
“And you do? Por Dios,” he sighed piously, “what does this Tejano possess that drives women mad?”
Angelina bit her lip, restraining her anger, but said nothing.
“So one man is not enough for Victoria.” Valverde chuckled. “She now has two fugitive Tejanos, and you are seeking the old one. Suppose I did know the whereabouts of the missing gringo; what are you prepared to offer me for the information?”
“What do you want?”
“Come into the house,” he said, with an evil smirk. “Perhaps I can think of something.”
April 25, 1843. The Mendoza ranch, Durango County, Mexico.
Nobody missed Solano until the outfit rolled out for breakfast. Then they discovered the Indian’s few belongings were gone, and so was his horse. The outfit was finishing a silent, somber meal, when Victoria came in.
“Have any of you seen Angelina this morning?”
Nobody said anything for a moment. Gil was the first to respond to her question.
“No,” he said. “Have you looked to see if her horse is gone?”
“I have,” said Victoria, “and it is. So are some of her clothes.”
“Then she’s with Solano,” said Gil. “He left sometime during the night, taking his roll.”
“Damn her!” said Victoria angrily. “Slipping off in the night, with an ignorant Indian!”
“We could trail ’em a ways,” said Van, “and get some idea where they’re headed.”
“Don’t bother!” snapped Victoria. “She’s old enough to make her own foolish mistakes. Finish the gather, so we can begin the trail drive. I want to leave this godforsaken country.”
Far to the south, Solano and Angelina trotted their horses, beginning a quest that might be in vain, and from which they might not return.
Esteban Valverde sought out two of his men he had come to rely on.
“To the south of the Mendoza ranch,” he told them, “riders are working the brush around the marshes and rivers, gathering longhorn cows for a trail drive north. Watch the gather, but do not allow yourselves to be seen. When it is near the time for the drive to begin, I wish to know.”
When the riders had gone, Esteban Valverde sat with his booted feet on the kitchen table, brooding. Since the day he had taken over the ranch, he had been financially destitute, the result of his trust in a double-crossing woman. Now, he vowed, he would soon take what was his, and Victoria Ruiz-Mendoza was going to pay. He did not fault himself, that he had virtually bankrupted the Valverde ranch, systematically stealing its wealth from his ailing father. The elder Valverde had spent the last several years of his life virtually blind. Esteban, wishing to know where he stood, had taken advantage of the old man’s affliction. To his horror, he had found a will naming his uncle—his father’s brother—as eventual executor. And there would be no altering it, for there was a letter from the despised uncle, and he had a copy. Within that will had been a provision for Esteban to have an “allowance,” doled out at his uncle’s discretion! Even in death the elder Valverde had made provisions for Esteban to remain a lacayo.
So Esteban Valverde had taken to converting every possible asset to Mexican silver. Then he had met Victoria Ruiz. Wishing to seem resourceful and bold in her eyes, he had shared his secret with her. Victoria had been impressed, assured him she had a perfect hiding place for the treasure. Once the old man was gone and the domineering uncle took over, Esteban and Victoria would be married. But as long as the elder Valverde was alive, Esteban would remain at the ranch, picking its bones as clean as he safely could. But it hadn’t worked out as he had planned. Just weeks before Esteban’s father had died, Victoria Ruiz had suddenly married a handsome Spaniard, Antonio Mendoza. Laughingly, she had told the stunned Esteban his stolen treasure had been her dowry, that it had been spent to stock the Mendoza horse ranch!
But the worst was yet to come. When the domineering uncle took over the Valverde ranch, little remained. Esteban caught hell for something he could not, dared not, explain. He got nothing but a bunk, his meals, and a hard way to go. But cruel fate wasn’t finished with young Esteban Valverde. Six months after his father’s death, the tight-fisted uncle died in his sleep. Every peso Esteban had stolen would have safely, legally, been his, had he but waited a few weeks! Now he had no idea where the silver was, but he was sure Victoria still had it. He saw her as a treacherous bitch who would betray any man, so he doubted Antonio Mendoza had known of the treasure. But Victoria had felt safe with him, and when he was gone, she had turned to the Tejano, Clay Duval. There seemed no end to her resourcefulness. Now that Duval was out of the way, his troublesome friends had taken over. Victoria Mendoza was using the Austins to get her out of Mexico, out of his reach, and she planned to take his silver with her. But she would not, Valverde vowed, if he had to kill her, and every man who rode with her!
Solano’s departure had a sobering effect on the outfit. Without saying anything to Victoria, Gil and Van circled the Mendoza spread to the south until they found the faint trail of the two horses.
“They’re ridin’ out on the same trail we followed from Zacatecas,” said Van. “I reckon Solano knows more’n he told us, but what do you think of him and the girl lightin’ a shuck together?”
“I think they have somethin’ in common,” said Gil, “and his name is Clay Duval. Remember what Victoria said, about Clay’s passion for horses? Clay’s a Texan, and Solano’s a Mex Indian, but their feeling for a good horse is the same. It says something for Clay Duval that he can claim a friend like Solano.”
“And a woman like Angelina,” said Van. “We may never see Solano, Angelina, or Clay again, but they’ll stand mighty tall in my memory.”
“For once,” said Gil, “Victoria said something that makes sense. The sooner we can finish this gather and get the trail drive under way, the better off we’ll be.”
“You aim to use a trail brand?”
“No reason to,” said Gil. “It’d be just a lot of hard work for nothing. With Spanish longhorns runnin’ wild and considered worthless, who’s going to dispute our claim to the herd? The Mex army won’t care a damn about the cows. We’ll have to give Valverde credit for one truth. We’re purely going to have a hell of a time convincin’ the soldiers we wasn’t part of that break near Salada hacienda, in February. While they won’t know who we are, or that we’re guilty of anything, they’ll know we’re Texans. That’ll be enough.”
After Angelina and Solano were gone, Gil and Van saw little of Victoria. It was as though she expected questions she didn’t wish to answer. But the Texans left her alone, continuing the gathering of wild longhorns. There was a wagon shed—actually no more than a lean-to—built against an outside wall of the barn. It was beneath this shed that Victoria’s Conestoga was kept. One evening after they’d unsaddled and rubbed down their horses, Gil and Van stopped at the shed to look at the Conestoga. So that the wagon would fit into the shed, the canvas had been stripped and the hickory bows removed.
“That’s a hell of a lot of wagon to haul from here to Texas,” said Van. “It’ll take all six of them big puddin’-footed horses to move it.”
“There’s somethin’ about that woman,” said Gil, “that purely ain’t ringin’ true. She wants out of Mexico pronto, and then won’t leave without taking a fool two-ton wagon. Before we’re done, I look for trouble, and this thing’s go
ing to figure into it.”
Van chuckled. “Maybe sooner than you think. Here comes the queen bee herself.”
Victoria said nothing. She just looked at them, a question in her eyes.
“Just havin’ a look at the wagon,” said Gil innocently. “It’ll need a good greasing, and we’ll have to soak and swell the wood of the rims.”
“You needn’t concern yourself with the wagon,” she snapped. “My father was a teamster, a bull whacker, and there’s nothing about this wagon that I can’t handle. That includes the greasing, the driving, and when necessary, the fixing. Leave it alone.”
With that, she turned and went stomping off toward the house.
The first holding pen for the rapidly growing herd of longhorns was a canyon through which ran a creek. It had been a simple matter to erect a six-pole-high fence at each end, so the poles could be let down for entry, then quickly replaced. But the time had come when they needed more room, more graze.
“Ramon,” said Gil, “you know this land. Find us another canyon or arroyo, with water and graze.”
The vaquero found an arroyo, but it had a shallow mouth, only deepening as it progressed. The shallow end required more fence. The outfit spent a weary two days digging post holes, cutting poles and posts, and securing the upper and lower ends of the new enclosure. They were horsemen, and anything that kept them afoot for two days vexed their souls.
“Now,” said Gil, when they were finally done, “this should hold the rest of them. Come the end of the month, we’ll run a tally.”
June 1, 1843. The Mendoza ranch, Durango County, Mexico.
Ramon, Gil, and Van ran separate tallies and compromised on a total of 4500 longhorns.
“July first, at the latest,” predicted Van.
“We’ll set our sights on that,” said Gil. “There’s a pile of things to do. There’s more than two hundred horses, and every one ought to be reshod. Even then, some of ’em will be barefooted before we get to Bandera range.”
Ramon got the attention of Estanzio and Mariposa. When the Indians had reined up their horses and dismounted, Ramon turned to Gil.
“Nex’ mont’,” said Ramon, “they shoe hoss, gentle hoss, some each.”
“Good idea,” said Gil. “The rest of us will rope longhorns. Way it looks right now, we’ll be ready to move ’em out July first.”
Ramon knew his men, and the plan worked well. Estanzio and Mariposa spent part of their day gentling the horses that were ready, and the rest of the time reshoeing those in need of it. Finally, there was the need for supplies for the trail drive, and Gil was forced to meet with Victoria.
“We travel to Zacatecas twice a year,” she said, “and it is nearing the time when we normally go. Send Pedro Fagano and Vicente Gomez. They know where the pack saddles are. They will take four packhorses.”
“Why don’t they take the wagon?”
“I said,” she repeated, “they will take four packhorses!”
She turned away, leaving Gil standing there. He stepped out on the front porch, closing the door behind him. He found Ramon, gave him the order, and the segundo went looking for Pedro and Vicente.
“Gil,” said Van, “I purely hate settin’ out on this trail drive with only a Colt. Since these boys are goin’ after supplies, have ’em get us some rifles, if there’s any to be had.”
It was a good idea, but Gil doubted it would be possible in a village such as Zacatecas. When he mentioned it to Ramon, the vaquero shook his head.
“No long gun,” he said. “Soldados take.”
It made sense. The military had gobbled up all the weapons. There were no rifles—and probably few other weapons—to be had. They would have to make do, and might be lucky to have ammunition for their Colts. That was going to be a problem. The Texans needed percussion caps and powder. The Mendoza riders all had pistols, but some of them were foreign-made, coming from England, France, or Spain. While they all depended on percussion caps, every weapon was different. But Sam Colt offered the frontiersman an edge. Percussion caps could be dipped in varnish and waterproofed. You could swim a river and the Colt would still fire.
Gil and Van soon had reason to be thankful for having made friends with Ramon Alcaraz. Knowing they lacked rifles, and aware of their concern that they might not have sufficient ammunition for their Colts, Ramon went to the bunkhouse and returned with a canvas sack. He, too, had a Colt, and the sack was three-quarters full of the curious percussion caps the Texans were in need of.
“Thanks, pardner,” said Gil, “but let’s try Zacatecas first. If Vicente and Pedro come back empty-handed, we’ll have to depend on you.”
Vicente and Pedro rode out the next morning, each leading two packhorses. With them they took the list that Ramon and Gil had carefully made up the night before. Victoria hadn’t mentioned money, nor had Gil, since he and Van had none to offer. Hopefully, the Mendoza ranch had a line of credit in the village. As far as Gil Austin knew, neither of the riders going for supplies had taken money to pay for them. Now that they were within a few days of actually beginning the trail drive to Texas, to Bandera range, Gil had that old prickly, uneasy premonition that always dogged him just before everything went to hell in a handcart.
Esteban Valverde was about to dispatch a pair of his riders to Matamoros for supplies and information.
“Without seeming too inquisitive and drawing attention to yourselves,” he said, “try and find out where the soldiers will be encamped for the next several months. I also wish to know if all the gringos who escaped near Salada hacienda have been recaptured. If they have not, ask if the price on their heads still stands.”
He watched the men ride out, wringing his hands in anticipation. The trail drive must begin soon, and when it did, Esteban Valverde would be ready. His outfit outnumbered the Mendoza riders ten to one, and he would have his men armed to the teeth.
Angelina Ruiz and Solano reached Zacatecas and continued riding southeast until they reached the Panuco River, a few miles west of San Luis Potosi. Solano knew the country, and led out, following the river east, toward the coastal town of Tampico. A day’s ride from San Luis Potosi and they would turn south, toward Mexico City. They rode in silence, Angelina plagued with doubt. Had Valverde been truthful with her? Was there a chance Clay Duval still lived? Vivid in her mind were the terrible tales she had heard of the dungeons in Mexico City. They were infested with lice and rats, and it was more merciful for a man to fall before Mexican rifles than to face a slow death languishing behind cold, gray walls of stone. If all these grim possibilities were not enough, the girl suffered pangs of guilt for having revealed Victoria’s plans to Esteban Valverde. But she had told him only what he already suspected; that in return for helping the Austins gather a herd of wild longhorns, Victoria would travel with them to Texas. Victoria was a woman capable of making her own decisions, and if she wished to leave Mexico, who was Esteban Valverde to say that she could not? Angelina knew little of Victoria’s relationship with Valverde, except that Esteban seemed so obsessed with Victoria, he was unwilling to see her go. But Victoria was going, and what could Valverde do to stop her? Nothing, Angelina decided.
Gil and Van kept a daily tally of the gather, and when they had roped another 550 longhorns, Gil called a halt. Their total for the gather stood at 5050 head, and with the anticipated loss, it was enough. Vicente and Pedro had returned from Zacatecas and had fulfilled Ramon’s prophecy. No long guns were available. They had, however, managed to find a keg of powder. Ramon eyed it with satisfaction. With his percussion caps, they could load enough shells for their Colts. The riders with other makes might have a problem, if they lacked anything but powder, but it was something that could not be helped.
With most of the horses shod, and the longhorn gather completed, there was little to be done before the drive took the trail north. Estanzio and Mariposa needed but a few days with the horses they were gentling, and once begun, it was necessary that the process be completed without interruption. The
y were all men of the saddle, with a horseman’s appreciation of the skill of the Indians working with the horses, and they gathered near the breaking corral to watch. Gil and Van Austin paid particular attention, for they envisioned a horse ranch in Texas, begun with Mendoza breeding stock. Mariposa and Estanzio had progressed with their current horses to the point where the animals must become accustomed to a rider’s weight. Beyond that—the last step—would be the horse’s acceptance of a saddle.
This day there were only two horses in the corral. Mariposa approached one, and Estanzio the other. The horses stood their ground, showing no fear. The riders stroked the animals, talking the familiar horse talk. This time each of the men carried a saddle blanket over his arm. Each horse was allowed to sniff the blanket, to become familiar with it. The blankets were then placed gently across each animal’s broad back. Gaining the horse’s trust was not enough. The Indian understood, as perhaps few white men ever did, that what an unbroken horse most feared was anything on his back. It was a well-founded fear, born and bred into the animals, the result of attacks by the cougar and other predatory beasts. It was fear that must be met and dealt with before a horse would accept any burden, even a saddle blanket.
Once the saddle blankets were accepted by the horses, the animals were but a step away from being gentled to the saddle. They must yield to the weight of a rider without fear, without flinching. It was a final step in the Indian gentling process. Estanzio and Mariposa began the day as usual, by spending some time with the horses, talking to them, and finally by placing the saddle blanket on the back of the horse. Once the animals had accepted the saddle blanket again, it was time for the ultimate test. They must learn to bear the weight of a rider. Mariposa rested his extended arms on the saddle blanket, across the horse’s back. This was something new, and the animal turned its head and looked at him. Again the Indian spoke to the horse, and it seemed to relax, seeing no harm in the gesture. Finally, holding his arms rigid across the animal’s back, Mariposa lifted his feet off the ground, putting all his weight on the horse. Surprised at the unaccustomed burden, the animal backstepped, turning its head. But there was only his newly discovered friend, who caused him no pain, meant him no harm. Mariposa let his feet down, taking his weight off the horse. When he repeated the action, again putting his weight on the horse, it remained calm. Repeatedly the Indian applied his weight, allowing the horse every opportunity to resist. But it did not. With startling swiftness, Mariposa was astride the horse. It sidestepped, startled, but the Indian leaned forward and spoke to it. Again the horse calmed, and when Mariposa spoke to it again, the animal took a few faltering steps. Finally, with more words of encouragement, the big horse trotted around the corral. The horse had been broken without breaking its spirit. Estanzio had progressed with his own mount in a similar fashion. The Indian riders removed their saddle blankets and, with some final words for the horses, left the corral. The rest of the Mendoza riders said nothing; they’d seen it all before. But Gil and Van Austin had not.
The Bandera Trail Page 7