The Bandera Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Pull them out,” he said. “No sense in fouling the water.”

  “Busardos rapido,” said Bola, pointing to the sky. Buzzards. They were birds of death, and they seemed to ride the very wind that carried the smell of it to them.

  After their run, the longhorns wanted to water and graze, but the cowboys wouldn’t let them. They rounded up the unwilling brutes and began driving them back in the direction from which they’d come. The herd grew as it moved along. Many of the longhorns had dropped out, likely having forgotten why they were running, and were grazing. But Gil guessed they had less than half their original gather. When they drew near their campsite, it was obvious much of the herd was still missing. Van, Ramon, and Mariposa had brought in a small bunch, but nothing like the number that had split away in a second stampede.

  “The creek shallows down to nothin’ up yonder,” said Van. “Our bunch split again, most of ’em runnin’ across the creek. We couldn’t possibly head the second bunch, so we had to settle for what we was sure of getting.”

  “Soon as we get these settled again,” said Gil, “we’ll go looking for the others.”

  “I hope this ain’t a taste of what’s to come,” said Van. “We ain’t even off Mendoza range.”

  “Wagon come,” said Mariposa.

  “Senora Mendoza,” said Van. “By God, our day’s complete.”

  Ramon shrugged his shoulders. In his dark eyes was what might have been agreement, but he said nothing. They waited for the wagon. Whatever Victoria had to say, they might as well hear it and be done with it. She reined the three big Conestoga teams to a stop. The wagon bows had been replaced, the canvas drawn tight, and the pucker tied.

  “I am ready,” said Victoria. “Why haven’t you gone for the horses, and where are the rest of the longhorns?”

  “We’ve been a mite busy,” said Gil. “The horses will have to wait until we round up the herd. The longhorns got restless.”

  “You let them run away,” she said, with a hint of amusement.

  “Ma’am,” said Gil, struggling to hold his temper, “in Texas we refer to it as a stampede. Nobody ‘lets’ it happen.”

  The rest of the outfit rode in, pushing another bunch of cows ahead of them. Gil turned to Ramon.

  “Take five men, Ramon, and get this bunch settled down to graze. Circle them like you’re night-hawking, until you know they’re goin’ to behave. The rest of us will get on the trail of those missing cows. Van, you stay with Ramon, in case Senora Mendoza decides to take over the camp. If you have to, remind her it’s a hell of a long ways to Texas, and that I’m bossin’ this trail drive.”

  Esteban Valverde was pleased. His riders had returned from Matamoros, and yes, there was a company of soldiers there. Besides that, there had been recent word from Mexico City that Santa Anna had placed a reward of one thousand pesos on the heads of all Tejanos who had escaped near Salada hacienda. That same afternoon, one of the men he had sent to watch the Mendoza ranch had returned.

  “Senora Mendoza go,” said the rider. “Carro go.”

  “Caballos?” Valverde asked.

  “Vaquero onico.”

  “Mendoza caballos,” said Valverde. “Muchos caballos.”

  “Mendoza rancho,” said the rider. “Caballos no go.”

  “Vaca?” Mendoza asked. “Muchos vaca?”

  “Estampida.” The rider grinned, spreading his arms expansively.

  Valverde dismissed the man and sat down to think. So the Tejanos had to round up their longhorns a second time, following a stampede. The men at the cow camp still had only the horses they rode, which meant they still must return to the Mendoza ranch for the horse herd. But Victoria had arrived at the cow camp with the wagon. It was precisely what he had been waiting for.

  July 3, 1843. Durango County, Mexico.

  Running a quick tally, Gil and Ramon found they were missing almost one thousand head.

  “For all the hard work we’ve put into this,” said Van, “that’s too many to lose. My God, we’re not even on the trail yet.”

  “We’ll take a couple of days and look for them,” said Gil. “Beyond that, we’ll have to consider the sense of it. Some of them may not stop until they’re back in the swamps and thickets where we found ’em to start with, and I’m not of a mind to go back and try to make up the difference with a new gather.”

  Leaving six men with the newly assembled herd, Gil took five riders with him and went looking for the missing longhorns. The first day, they found more than half. The animals had retained some sense of having belonged to a herd, and grazed in bunches. It was an advantage Gil hadn’t dared hope for.

  “Another day like this,” said Van, “and we’ll have them all.”

  “Yeah,” said Gil, “but we won’t have another day like this. I expect the rest of ’em to be scattered from here to yonder. They may have made it as far as their old stomping grounds, to the south of Mendoza range.”

  The second day’s search turned out about as Gil had predicted. The bunches of grazing longhorns became smaller and fewer, finally disappearing. They were reduced to searching the thickets, and finding but one or two cows, and often none at all.

  “Damn it,” said Gil, “let’s take what we have and go. We could spend the rest of the year beating the brush and not find a hundred more.”

  So they took the small bunch of cows they had found, and started back to join the rest of the herd. Gil took a quick tally of the final gather.

  “By my count,” he said, once the longhorns were again one herd, “we’re short 175 head. Tomorrow morning we’ll ride back to the Mendoza corrals for the horse herd. The following morning, at first light, we’ll take to the trail. We’re goin’ home to Texas, to Bandera range.”

  “I feel some better,” said Van at breakfast, “like maybe the devil ain’t put a curse on this herd, after all. Seemed almighty quiet last night; wasn’t even a coyote around.”

  “They were out there,” said Gil. “Weren’t they, Ramon?”

  The little vaquero nodded at Gil, but when he looked at Van, he let his chin drop and emitted a faked snore. The predators had been there, he implied, but the Texan had slept through them. Everybody—even the Indians—had a laugh at Van’s expense, and he laughed with them. It was the first evidence Gil had seen that these men had a sense of humor, the first time he’d ever heard them laugh. Laughter was good for a man, and Gil had a gut feeling there wouldn’t be much of it on the long trail north. And it was just as well he didn’t know how thoroughly justified that feeling was. When breakfast was done, he turned to Ramon.

  “It’s time to go for the Mendoza horses, Ramon. You, Pedro, Manuel, Estanzio, and Mariposa, saddle your horses. Everybody else will stay here with the longhorns. When I’ve had a word with Senora Mendoza, we’ll ride.”

  As usual, there was no sign of Victoria. He wondered what in tarnation she had in the Conestoga, besides maybe a bed. He went around to the tailgate of the wagon and found the canvas pucker drawn tight. There remained a small aperture, but the interior seemed as dark as a cow’s gullet. While he could see nothing, he had no trouble hearing the snick as she eared back the hammer of the pistol.

  “Put your head in here,” she said coldly, “and I’ll shoot you.”

  “Ma’am,” said Gil, just as coldly, “if I was fool enough to be taken by you, I ought to be shot. We’re goin’ after the horses, and we’ll be taking the trail at first light tomorrow.”

  7

  July 5, 1843. On the trail north.

  Gil approached Victoria Mendoza as she was harnessing the three teams of Conestogas to the cumbersome wagon. On the frontier it was unthinkable for a woman to do such work if there were a man available, but there were exceptions, and Victoria Mendoza was one of them. Once aware of his presence, she stopped what she was doing and faced him. He noticed she now carried a Colt tucked under her sash, beneath her short bolero. She said nothing, perhaps with yesterday’s hard words fresh on her mind, waiting for him to spea
k. She had once accused him of bluntness, so he didn’t beat around the bush.

  “You said you could keep up with the herd, so I aim for you to stay ahead of it. The wagon will give the horse herd and the longhorns something to follow. When you’re ready, move out.”

  He turned away without another word, pausing at the rope corral where the mendoza horses had been gathered. Mariposa had given him a count of 194, predominantly blacks and grays. They were nothing short of spectacular, and in Texas they’d be worth more than every cow in Mexico. His intuition warning him, he turned. Mariposa and Estanzio were appraising the horse herd like proud parents. The Indians nodded. They seldom spoke to him, nor did they now, but the white man and red men shared common ground. While their lives were so different the gap might never be completely bridged, for the moment they shared something words could never have expressed. Gil had plans for the Indian riders. He nodded to them, pointed to the horse herd and then to Victoria’s wagon. Estanzio and Mariposa nodded their understanding. They were to take charge of the horses, the herd following the wagon. Van rode up, leading Gil’s horse.

  “Good idea,” he said. “With the longhorns followin’ the horse herd and the wagon, most of us can ride the flanks and the drag. Who’s ridin’ the point?”

  “I am,” said Gil. “I want you at the other end.”

  “Me? At drag? Why can’t I ride point, while you take the drag?”

  “Like you said,” Gil grinned, “I’m the firstborn, so I have privileges. Besides, I’m trail boss.”

  “You’re lookin’ for trouble,” said Van, seeing through the humor.

  “I am,” said Gil, “and it could come from ahead or behind. I have no idea what to expect, and I’ll feel better with you at my back. I aim to stay ahead of the wagon, for several reasons.”

  “When trouble comes, you reckon it’s goin’ to involve Victoria and the wagon?”

  “I don’t know,” said Gil, “but I have my suspicions. She’s carrying a Colt under her sash. I don’t question that, with what may be ahead of us, but I can’t help wonderin’ if it’s because she knows something that we don’t.”

  “We’ll be strung out for a long ways,” said Van, “with a herd of horses and this many longhorns. Any hombres wantin’ to cause us grief could hit us at one end, without the other bein’ aware of it. Could be that’s what they have in mind. If anything busts loose at drag, I’ll fire warning shots.”

  “Make that a warning shot,” said Gil. “We’re not that flush with shells. Besides, we may be lined out so far, a shot can’t be heard from one end to the other. It’s a chance we’ll have to take.”

  Although there were many horses, they had been gentled and trailed well. The two Indian riders had worked with so many of them, it was like a gathering of friends. Gil had counted on that, and it set his mind at ease, insofar as the horses were concerned. He was doubly thankful for the ease with which the horse herd took to the trail, because he feared the longhorns were going to more than make up the difference. When the drive was under way, with the flanks and drag covered, Gil rode ahead of the herd, past the horse herd, and caught up to the wagon. He rode past without speaking to Victoria. As he recalled, Matamoros was northeast of Durango, at the extreme southwestern tip of Coahuila County. Victoria had mentioned only Matamoros and Monterrey, so he had no idea what else lay ahead of them. While the poor map he had agreed with what Victoria had told him, he recalled the map of Ortega’s had only the larger towns and villages. It showed only Durango County, and Gil had learned from Ramon that there was actually a village called Durango, not too many miles south of the Mendoza ranch. Why had Victoria Mendoza insisted on sending men to Zacatecas for supplies when Durango had been much closer? There was just a hell of a lot that didn’t add up where Victoria Mendoza was concerned, and Gil decided that when he finally got the total, he wasn’t going to like it.

  Gil took out Ortega’s map, now tattered and wrinkled, and studied it. Since Matamoros was a favorite rendezvous point for the Mexican army, they must veer far enough east to bypass the town. Even then, they had three hundred miles of hazardous trail before they could cross into Texas. Just getting past Matamoros wouldn’t free them of the Mexican army, he thought glumly. They might meet soldiers retreating from border clashes, or be overtaken by fresh troops, marching northward out of Mexico City. They hadn’t traveled more than four or five miles when Gil missed the distant rattle of the wagon. Looking back, he could scarcely see it, but he could tell it wasn’t moving. Wheeling his horse, he trotted back to the wagon and found Victoria standing helplessly beside it. So much for her defiant vow that she could fix anything that happened to it. It wasn’t difficult to spot the trouble. The huge left rear wheel had slid into what likely was a leaf-hidden hole left by a rotted stump. The wagon had tilted, raising the right rear wheel more than a foot off the ground. Victoria waited grimly, obviously prepared for a tongue lashing, but Gil wanted no more verbal fights with her.

  “I’ll get some help,” he told her. “We’ll have to get a pole under that wheel. Don’t be pushin’ the horses; leave ’em be until we lift the wheel.”

  She was furious because he wasn’t, casting him a black look as he rode away. He recalled a stream a mile or so back. It would be a good place to halt the drive while they freed the disabled wagon. By the time he reached the creek, he could see the oncoming horse herd. He removed his hat with a downward sweep, the signal to halt. Leaving Mariposa and Estanzio to hold the horse herd at the creek, Gil rode back to meet the longhorns. They were fortunate, being so near water and graze. He looked at the sun, and decided they’d be lucky if they freed the wagon in time to travel any farther before sundown. Gil had ridden only a few hundred yards when the longhorns came into view. Again he swept off his hat, and Ramon kneed his horse into a trot, riding to meet him.

  “Carro,” said Gil.

  That was sufficient. They were halting the drive because something was wrong with the wagon. Ramon understood. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders, which might have meant anything. He wheeled his horse and rode back to the herd, waving his hat, calling the flank riders forward. When the horse herd and the longhorns had been settled along the shallow creek, Gil, Ramon, and Van rode ahead to free the bogged-down wagon.

  “Rear wheel hit a stump hole, I reckon,” said Gil. “With a good, strong pole, we can lift the wheel out, putting the other on the ground long enough for the horses to pull the wagon free.”

  “I hope her highness remembered to bring an ax,” said Van. “I purely hate hackin’ down trees with a Bowie knife.”

  “I’d as soon do that,” said Gil, “as have another fight with her. She’s expecting us to raise hell over this delay, and then she’ll pounce on us like a gut-shot wolf. Let’s just get the wagon out of the hole as quick as we can.”

  “Noche pronto,” said Ramon.

  “He’s right,” said Van. “It’ll be dark or close to it by the time we get that prairie schooner back in business.”

  “I reckon we’ll just make camp back there at the creek,” said Gil, “and try to do better tomorrow. We haven’t even made ten miles.”

  Reaching the tilted wagon, they dismounted.

  “We’ll need an ax,” said Gil.

  “In the toolbox, on the side of the wagon,” Victoria said.

  While there was an ax, it wasn’t sharp. In fact, it hadn’t been sharpened in a long time, if ever. They found a dead cedar, as big as a man’s leg, and Van took first turn with the ax. After half a dozen blows, with barely a dent in the tree, he paused for breath.

  “Here,” he said, handing Gil the blunted ax. “When it comes my turn, I’ll use the Bowie. It wasn’t such a bad idea, compared to that ax.”

  They were successful in lifting the bogged wheel out of the hole, and in so doing lowered the other wheel to the ground. When Victoria popped the whip, the Conestogas leaned into their harness, and the wagon was free.

  “Turn it around,” said Gil, “and drive back to
the creek. We’ll go no farther today.”

  Gil divided the night into three watches, and they night-hawked in teams of four. In the darkest hour, before dawn, there was the chilling scream of a cougar. The horses nickered in fear, and didn’t fully settle down until first light. Breakfast over, Gil and Van loaded the four packhorses. It was a morning ritual that nobody liked.

  “What burns my carcass,” said Van, “is that we got this big wagon rattlin’ along, and we still have to unload and load these packhorses. What do you reckon she’s got in that wagon, anyhow?”

  “I don’t know,” said Gil, “and I don’t care. Was I you, I wouldn’t get too interested. I told you she’s carryin’ a Colt, and I don’t think she’d mind shootin’ either of us.”

  Victoria again took the lead. The longhorns had begun to settle down, to become trailwise. But there were still bunch-quitters, keeping the flank and drag riders busy. By noon a mass of thunderheads had gathered to the west, and there was faraway lightning.

  “It’s goin’ to be another short day,” said Van, “but we’d best be lookin’ for a place to wait out that storm. I’m bettin’ it ain’t more’n two hours away.”

  It was a valid argument, and they barely found a place that offered a little protection. Water wasn’t going to be a problem, so they stopped on the lee side of a hill, beneath an upthrust of rock. There was graze for the horses and cattle, but the animals showed little interest. It was a bad sign when horses and cattle became spooky just ahead of a storm. That meant thunder and lightning. Gil and Van Austin were used to the dry summers of South Texas, where summer storms were rare. So they weren’t prepared for the fury that roared across the Sierra Madres, bringing thunder, lightning, wind, and rain. At the foot of the hill where they’d found shelter, the coulee had been dry. But in a matter of minutes it became a raging torrent, tossing tree stumps, logs, and debris before it. The thunder and lightning came closer.

  “Come on,” Gil shouted, “let’s ride!”