The Bandera Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “My God,” said Van, “that’s somethin’ every man who even hopes to own a horse ought to see.”

  “Amen to that,” said Gil. “It’s something I want to learn and use, if we’re lucky enough to get back to Texas alive.”

  6

  June 25, 1843. Mendoza ranch, Durango County, Mexico.

  “Now’s the time to tie up any loose ends,” Gil told Victoria. “We’ll move out on July first, if all goes as planned. Until then, I aim to take the longhorns from both holding pens and bunch ’em on the north range. It’s time you got your wagon ready, and loaded with whatever you aim to take with you.”

  He needed no response, and got none. He’d about had enough of this high-handed, independent female. She could grease the wagon, harness and unharness the teams, and anything else she took a notion to do, all without his help. He joined the outfit as they were saddling their horses. They had seen him heading for the house, and they waited expectantly. Victoria had been on the prod ever since Angelina had left with Solano, and they all wondered what had been the result of Gil’s meeting with her. The Mendoza riders had become more at ease with Gil and Van, and they tried to communicate more in English. Even Estanzio and Mariposa. True, their speech was often broken and difficult for them, but it was a mark of respect and liking that wasn’t lost on the Austins.

  “Today,” said Gil, “we’re going to start moving the longhorns from the first holding pen to the north range. We’ll keep them bunched until they get the idea they’re a herd. Then some of us will drive the remaining two thousand from the second holding pen, and we’ll combine the two herds on the north range until we’re ready to begin the trail drive. If we can keep ’em bunched for two or three days, maybe they’ll settle down some before we take the trail.”

  “Is good,” said Ramon Alcaraz.

  The others nodded their agreement. No part of a trail drive was easy, but the first few days on the trail with a new herd was pure hell. Not only would the bunch-quitters be constantly breaking away while the herd was moving, they were just as likely to light out after the longhorns had been bedded down for the night. One restless old cow could start a stampede that would scatter the entire herd from hell to breakfast, costing the riders as much as a week, rounding them up. The wisdom of Gil’s plan was soon apparent. With the entire herd of five thousand, their task would have been near impossible. As it was, the three thousand longhorns from the first holding pen were almost more than they could handle. The weeks of captivity had done nothing to lessen the desire of the brutes to return to the wild state from which they’d been taken. Once the rails to the canyon enclosure were down, the trouble began.

  “Keep ’em bunched!” shouted Gil.

  Several riders had gone to the far end of the canyon and started the herd moving. Once free of the confining walls, the longhorns wasted no time exploding into half a dozen factions. But there were more followers than leaders, and it was all that prevented total disaster. Somehow, the riders managed to head the leaders, and when the brutes ran headlong into their followers, it created enough confusion to avert a stampede. The longhorns, having no leaders or sense of direction, began milling. On the north flank, Gil rode in among the brutes, popping dusty flanks with his doubled lariat. Van rode in from the opposite side. Finally they had a few longhorns lumbering northward, and the others followed. Gil and Van dropped out of the moving herd, riding opposite flanks. It was time to press their advantage. The drag riders would have to keep the stragglers moving, and Gil could hear the popping of lariats on bovine hide, sounding like distant pistol shots. Ramon and the rest of the riders were closing the ranks, moving them ahead. Dust clouds hung in the sky like smoke, seeming to dim the sun. Every rider wore a bandanna over his nose and mouth, but it wasn’t much help. Gil could feel the grit against his teeth and up his nose, while sweat runneled generous portions of it into his eyes. A dusty rider trotted his horse alongside Gil’s. It was Ramon Alcaraz.

  “Nort’,” he shouted. “Creek?”

  “Creek,” Gil shouted in response.

  With graze and plenty of water, it would be a good place to settle this bunch down while they emptied the second holding pen. Ramon galloped ahead. The creek itself would slow the herd, inviting them to pause and drink, but that wouldn’t be enough. There must be riders to head them, to start them milling. If they could be made to graze, with abundant water nearby, this might become a bed ground. It could be an important step toward the herd becoming trailwise, with fewer bunch-quitters. Half a dozen miles of choking dust had built the longhorns a powerful thirst, and they seemed willing enough to pause at the creek. On the far side of the herd, Van waved his hat, pointing toward the opposite side of the creek. Two riders followed him. They would discourage any of the longhorns who might be inclined to cross the creek. Gil trotted his horse wide of the flank, allowing the herd to spread out along the creek bank. He sighed. Once the animals drank, he’d know if they were in for trouble. Thirsty cows wouldn’t graze, but once they’d drunk their fill, they should settle down on the abundant grass.

  Gil slowed his horse until Van caught up.

  “They ain’t likely to wander away from that creek,” Van said. “God, I wish old Clay was here to throw in with us. For that matter, I just wish we knew he was alive.”

  “I believe he is,” said Gil, “and I think his friend Solano has gone looking for him.”

  “Angelina too?”

  “Why not?” Gil said. “Clay Duval’s the kind whose friends would go to hell for him.”

  “I reckon,” said Van. “Ain’t we livin’ proof?”

  The two men Esteban Valverde most trusted returned to report on the trail drive.

  “Continue your vigil,” Valverde told them. “They must yet drive the rest of the herd to the creek. When Senora Mendoza rides north to join the drive, I wish to know.”

  “The Senora Mendoza,” said one of the riders, “is preparing a carro.”

  “Ah,” Valverde said, “a wagon. That pleases me. Once they are on the trail, I think we shall take the carro away from them.”

  “There are many of us,” said the rider. “Let us take it now.”

  “No,” said Valverde, “we shall wait until they’ve begun the drive. With thousands of wild cattle, the riders will be widely separated, with little time or concern for the carro. I wish to speak to Senora Mendoza of a debt long unpaid. I believe seizing the carro will satisfy the debt.”

  Gil had the outfit set up camp on the opposite side of the creek from the grazing herd. The night was divided into three watches, each consisting of four riders circling the herd. But for the yip of coyotes and an occasional faraway howl of a wolf, the silence of the night was unbroken.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Van as they gathered around the breakfast fire. “We just bedded down this bunch, and they didn’t rattle a hoof all night. It purely ain’t natural.”

  “I’d have to agree with that,” said Gil. “Let’s don’t crow too much, too soon. We ran this bunch hard, and when they got here, they were thirsty and ready to graze. But this mornin’ we got none of that goin’ for us. They ain’t hungry, they ain’t so dry their tongues are hangin’ out, and they just might take a notion to go south. I hope I’m wrong, that they’ll stay as calm today as they were last night, because most of us will have to bring the rest of the herd from the second holding pen. Van, I want you, Ramon, Vicente Gomez, and Juan Padillo to stay with this bunch. Circle them just like you were night-hawking. If this herd will behave themselves as well as they have so far, it may have a calming effect on the others.”

  Gil led out, followed by Juan Alamonte, Manuel Armijo, Domingo Chavez, Pedro Fagano, Bola, Estanzio, and Mariposa. They reined up at the Mendoza ranch house, and only Gil dismounted. He rapped on the door, and it was a while before Victoria answered his knock. She said nothing. Gil didn’t beat around the bush.

  “We’re going for the rest of the herd,” he said bluntly. “We’ll bed them down at the creek to the
north of here, and tomorrow we’ll be ready for the horses. When you’re ready to move out with the wagon, I want you ahead of the rest of the drive. But drive wide before you reach the creek. I don’t want you crossing anywhere within sight of the herd. I don’t want to risk the sight or sound of the wagon spooking those longhorns.”

  “Are you finished?” she asked shortly.

  “Yes,” he said, just as shortly.

  Without another word she closed the door. Gil mounted and, with the others following, led out. Long before they reached the lesser arroyo and the rest of the herd, Mariposa pointed to the distant specks, black against the blue of the sky.

  “Busardos,” said Mariposa. “Muerte.”

  It was an unfailing sign of death, the circling buzzards, and they found what had attracted them, just beyond the fenced mouth of the arroyo. It was what was left of a cow.

  “Cougar,” said Mariposa, even before they dismounted. He swung out of the saddle and quickly found the big cat’s track.

  “One of you rope that carcass,” said Gil, “and drag it well into the brush. The rest of the bunch may already be spooked out of their minds, but let’s not make it any worse.”

  Gil rode to the farthest end of the arroyo, and found that he was right. When the first of the longhorns saw him, they lit out, their tails up. But there was no help for it now. He rode on toward the lower end of the arroyo, the longhorns fleeing ahead of him. He knew he had to get beyond them and head them back toward the other end, where the fence had been let down. Even when the remains of the lion-kill had been dragged away, there would remain the smell of blood and of the big cat itself. They’d be lucky not to have a stampede on their hands as soon as the longhorns hit the mouth of the arroyo. But his riders would be aware of the danger. It was up to him to keep the herd bunched, running close. Give an old mossy-horn too much daylight between himself and the brute ahead, and the old bastard was likely to lose his sense of direction and bolt left or right. Cows tended to follow other cows, but when the gap got too wide, that could change in an instant. Longhorns continued to shy out of his way, and Gil got beyond the herd. Doubling his lariat, he kneed his horse into a lope.

  “Hieeeyaaah,” he yelled. “Hieeeyaaah!”

  He didn’t need the doubled lariat. The longhorns ran like the devil and all his minions were in pursuit. But they must reach the mouth of the arroyo and be through it before the cougar scent and the smell of blood spooked them out of control. He caught up to the herd, lest the tag end begin to slow, but they didn’t. They left the arroyo on the run, and since they ran north, the riders didn’t try to head them. Wisely, they galloped along at the flank, lest any of the brutes sought to quit the bunch to left or right. But the leaders continued north, and those behind seemed content to follow. Once they ran out their fear, they’d be easier to handle. It was rare that a spooked cow’s urge to run could be utilized to a cowboy’s advantage. It had almost been worth losing a cow to a cougar. The herd began to slow, and Mariposa dropped back to drag. He looked at Gil; the grin did not reach his lips, but it was in his eyes.

  “Bueno estampida,” he said.

  It was the only time on this trail drive that any rider would be able to make such a claim. They kept the longhorns moving, resorting to popping their flanks with doubled lariats when those at the tag end began to slow. The longhorns bellowed in protest, but kept moving. But there was a tan-and-white-spotted bull that was determined to quit the drive. Twice Gil headed the brute, forcing him back into the herd. When he broke away a third time, Gil rode after him, shaking out his lariat. Mariposa saw what Gil had in mind, and followed, swinging his own lariat as he rode. Gil looked back, and, assured he had a backup rider, threw his loop. It caught the bull by the horns, just as Mariposa snared the hind legs with his underhand cast. The Indian’s horse dug in, standing fast. When the slack went out of Gil’s lariat, the bull was thrown, helpless between the two cow horses. Gil left his saddle on the run, securing the bull’s forelegs with piggin’ string, while Mariposa tied the hind legs. The riders removed their lariats, leaving the bellowing, struggling bull to hook the air in his fury. By the time a rider returned and freed the troublesome bull, the animal would have exhausted itself, and could be led with a horn loop. It was bothersome, roping and hog-tying the brute, but better than having it continually quitting the herd. Such behavior was a bad influence, and the successful bunch-quitter soon began to attract followers.

  The riders pushed the herd, swatting the stragglers with their doubled lariats. Once they neared the creek where the first bunch grazed, the second herd could slow of its own accord. Finding themselves among grazing longhorns, Gil hoped the second bunch would mingle with the first. It almost worked. A lead bull in the newly arrived bunch hooked a grazing bull on the outer fringes of the first herd. Whether accidental or intentional, the results were the same. The two brutes took an instant dislike to one another, and a horn-clacking battle ensued.

  The combatants were caught between the original herd and the newly arrived one, so the riders were unable to get to them. The drawing of blood was inevitable; when it happened, the cowboys could tell. One animal bawled in fear and confusion, and that led to a cacophony as others joined in. The riders could do little, except try and head the herd when it began to run. Gil backed his horse away, and he could see the others doing likewise. They dared not get caught in the stampede. To do so would risk a horse falling and a rider being trampled. In addition to the danger, it was impossible for riders to head a stampeding herd if they were trapped in it. Their only chance lay in out-riding the running cattle and getting ahead of them. The worst stampedes of all were those when the herd split. There was no time to make decisions, shout orders, to divide the outfit. A rider’s position, perhaps his life, depended on where he was when the herd started to run. When a herd split, half the stampeding cattle might run unchecked because the riders were in no position to head two herds, each taking a different path.

  While the Mendoza riders were good men, Gil and Van Austin had never worked cattle with them before and didn’t know the extent of their cow savvy. When the inevitable occurred and the longhorns began to run, they split along the creek. Part of the herd lit out toward the east, while the other part headed west. Gil was ahead of the bunch running west, and he was aware of riders galloping along behind him. Only a fool rode directly into the path of a stampede, depending on his presence and that of his horse to halt the running cattle. There was but one way, and that was to gradually “bend” the herd into a horseshoe, turning it back on itself until the cattle began to mill. Gil looked over his shoulder, recognizing Bola, Juan Padillo, and two more distant riders. Gil kneed his horse nearer the lead cows. He must ride close enough to turn them, but not near enough to endanger himself or his horse. When the beasts tossed their heads, a horse running neck-and-neck was in danger of having his throat pierced by a lethal horn. Closer and closer Gil rode, bearing down on the lead cows. Since they were running parallel to the creek, they’d have to be forced into it, but even that might not stop them. While the creek ran shallow in places, the banks were high enough that the longhorns couldn’t readily climb out. Gil’s horse knew what was expected of him, and he shouldered into one of the lead cows, shoving it into a running mate. Seeking to escape the horse, the longhorns veered to the right, nearer the creek. From the corner of his eye Gil caught glimpses of the riders behind him. They rode closely enough to prevent the running longhorns behind him from widening their ranks and running him down. Again Gil’s horse pushed closer to the leaders, forcing them toward the creek. Suddenly they came to a bend where the creek turned to Gil’s left, opposite to the direction the herd was running, putting the creek directly in their path. Barely in time, Gil’s horse drew away as the lead cows went over the bank, into the creek. It still might not end the stampede, Gil thought grimly. The rest of the damn fools might turn away, follow the bend in the creek and keep running. But it wasn’t too difficult to confuse a cow. While the leaders splash
ed about in the water, as though unsure as to why they were there, those who followed paused in confusion. Ahead of them, their former leaders were trying to get out of the creek, or calmly drinking from it. It was more than the rest of the bunch could comprehend, so they turned away and began cropping grass along the creek bank. The longhorns in the creek wandered downstream, seeking banks low enough for them to climb out. But there were two who weren’t going anywhere. They had been first over the edge, and their necks were broken. Juan Padillo pointed to them, a question in his eyes. Gil nodded, lifting his coiled lariat.