The Bandera Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Victoria had unharnessed her teams and was seeking to calm the big horses. Gil and the rest of the riders splashed across the flooded coulee at the bottom of the hill. The water was already belly deep on the horses. The longhorns and the horse herd had moved to the opposite side of the hill and begun to drift with the storm. Gil and half a dozen of the riders got ahead of the herd and started it milling. Estanzio and Mariposa were in the midst of the frightened horses, seeking to calm them. Thunder seemed to shake the earth. It began afar, rose to a crescendo, and finally rumbled away in the distance. Lightning speared the earth like great golden pitchforks. The longhorns began bawling their fear, until they could be heard above the crash of the thunder and the roar of the wind.

  Gil and the riders circled the herd, but it was raining so hard, Gil couldn’t identify the men nearest him. Just before a stampede, it seemed the cattle waited for something—a catalyst—that struck mutual terror into them all at the same instant. Gil held his breath, knowing the moment was coming. And there it was! On the ridge above them, lightning struck a huge, half-dead pine. The resinous old tree literally exploded, becoming a towering torch even the slashing rain couldn’t extinguish. The herd was off and running, not sure what they were fleeing, but hell-bent on getting as far from it as they could. Worse, their terror had reached the horses, and they quickly joined the stampede. Gil rode hard, three other riders on his heels, as they tried to get ahead of the running herd. Just when it seemed the cause was lost, providence took a hand. A few hundred yards ahead of the stampeding herd, lightning set off a second fiery torch, the equal of the first. The leaders of the stampede found themselves running toward something more fearsome than that from which they fled. The lead cattle began to turn, and the stampeding herd doubled back on itself. Gil and his riders pressed their advantage. They rode along the northern slope, and as the herd began to turn, the riders forced the leaders into the belly-deep water that had flooded the arroyo. When the longhorns hit the water, they slowed, and when they emerged on the south slope, they were turned back the way they had come. Gil and three other riders crossed the newly flooded arroyo floor, pushing the longhorns back upstream, toward their original graze. The horse herd had followed the cattle, Estanzio and Mariposa keeping them bunched.

  “Keep ’em moving!” shouted Gil.

  The herd—horses and longhorns—were returned to the slope, across the flooded arroyo, from which they’d stampeded. The rain had slacked to a drizzle, and from far off the thunder was a faint grumble. At last the longhorns and the horses were grazing. Gil, Van, and Ramon rode around the herd, trying to take a tally. Estanzio and Mariposa were working with the horses.

  “I can’t see we’ve lost any,” said Van. He looked at Ramon, and the vaquero shook his head.

  “I reckon we got through this with a whole hide,” said Gil. “I just hope we’ve done as well with the horses. Let’s go see.”

  “No lose caballo,” said Mariposa, shaking his head.

  Gil sighed. It was a miracle, and God knew they needed one. But how many more would they need before they again saw Texas and their Bandera range? When they rode back to their camp, there were more surprises. Victoria had managed to hold her three Conestoga teams. She had also built a fire, and had hot coffee waiting.

  “I got enough water in my boots to float a stern-wheeler,” said Van. “Now that we got all these critters settled down to graze, why don’t we just stay the night?”

  “I reckon we might as well,” said Gil. “Two more hours and we’d have to bed down again. I’m gettin’ me a feelin’ this may become the damnedest trail drive in the history of the world. We ain’t covered even twenty miles, and we’ve already had two broad-daylight stampedes.”

  “By the time we get to the border,” said Van, “Texas and Mexico may have signed a peace treaty.”

  “Not with our luck,” said Gil. “Maybe the day after we cross, but no sooner. We Austins never fill an inside straight. Remember Uncle Steve.”

  Again they night-hawked in teams of four, calming the horses and longhorns when distant cougars screamed. With hats, boots, and clothing again dry, and a good breakfast under their belts, they faced the new day in far better spirits. There were times when Victoria was cordial enough, and choosing such a time, Gil asked how far, leaving the Mendoza ranch, they must travel to reach Matamoros, Coahuila.

  “Almost two hundred miles,” she said. “Perhaps less, if you pass to the south of it.”

  “Three weeks,” said Van, “if we can make ten miles a day.”

  But that seemed less and less likely. The storm of the day before had washed the sky a vivid blue and settled the dust, but two hours into the day’s journey, there was another delay. Gil rode back to meet the oncoming herds. He had Estanzio and Mariposa halt the horse herd, and then rode on to meet the longhorns. Pedro Fagano and Vicente Gomez rode up from their flanking positions and began heading the herd. Gil waited until the tag end of the herd caught up, then he beckoned to Ramon and Van.

  “What’s wrong with the damn wagon this time?” Van asked irritably.

  “Busted axle,” said Gil. “Rear wheel slipped off a stone and came down hard on another.”

  “I’ve heard these wagons come equipped with a spare axle,” said Van, “but if our luck’s runnin’ consistent, this wagon won’t have one.”

  “You’re dead right,” said Gil, “and there’s no wagon jack.”

  “One cancels out the other, then,” said Van. “If there’s no spare axle, then why would we need a wagon jack?”

  “Because we’ll have to lift that two-ton wagon without one,” said Gil, “after we’ve made a new axle.”

  “This fool wagon’s more trouble than the whole damn Mexican army.”

  The longhorns had settled down to graze, and the rest of the riders had ridden forward to see what was causing the delay.

  “Carro,” Ramon told them. “Eje.”

  There was no mistaking their looks of disgust. Their tolerance for the wagon was wearing thin. It was one thing, riding for the patrona, working the range, but this was something entirely different. It seemed more the indulgence of a whim, and the big wagon appeared more and more unnecessary.

  It was going to be a hell of a job, Gil decided, and they needed help. In Spanish and English, he conferred with Ramon. Among the vaqueros, wasn’t there several who were handy with tools? There were.

  “Manuel, Pedro,” said Ramon, beckoning. Quickly he explained to Manuel Armijo and Pedro Fagano what Gil wanted. They nodded their understanding but said nothing. Gil thought they showed little enthusiasm for the task. He wheeled his horse and headed for the wagon, followed by Manuel, Pedro, Ramon, and Van. Victoria climbed down from the box as they dismounted.

  “Here,” she said, “I found a hatchet that may be sharper than the ax.”

  “A grubbin’ hoe would be sharper than that ax,” said Van ungraciously.

  Gil nodded his thanks and walked around to the rear of the wagon. The others followed, and they all stood there looking morosely at the broken axle. It had given way near the hub, between the left rear wheel and the wagon box. Four heavy U bolts secured the axle to the Conestoga’s chassis.

  “This is purely goin’ to get interestin’,” said Van, “if she ain’t got tools to take them bolts off.”

  “Try looking in the tool chest,” said Victoria coldly, “if you think yourself capable of recognizing such a tool when you see it.”

  “Was I allowed to go through this rig,” said Van, just as coldly, “then I’m right sure I could recognize a wagon jack. Do you aim to lift this big bastard off the ground while we wrassle that axle loose?”

  Her face flushed, Victoria turned away. Gil silenced Van with a hard look. He was no less frustrated than the rest of them, and they already had problems enough.

  “We’ll have to find some flat stones,” said Gil, “and lift this thing high enough to build stone supports under each side of the wagon box. While the rest of you gather the stones,
I’ll cut us a tree to lift the wagon.”

  “It’d be quicker,” said Van, “just to ride back and get the last one we cut. Kind of tools we got, it’ll take half a day to cut another.”

  “You’d better hope not,” said Gil. “I’m goin’ to let you down a tree for the new axle.”

  Victoria had been right about one thing. The hatchet was sharper than the axe. Gil felled a tree and had a sturdy pole with which to lift the wagon before his unwilling helpers had found enough stones to place under the axle.

  “No rocks close by,” said Van, “except this big one she run over, that busted the axle.”

  The situation went from bad to worse. When they had enough stones to compensate for the missing wagon jack, they found that four men with one pole wasn’t sufficient to lift the wagon.

  “We lifted it out of the stump hole,” said Van. “Just three of us.”

  “We lifted one corner of it,” said Gil, “with the three teams pulling. The horses can’t help us here; we’ll have to raise the whole damn rear end. That means another pole, and some more strong backs.”

  Her mad worn off, Victoria returned. Gil turned to her.

  “You’d as well unhitch the teams,” he said. “We won’t be going anywhere before sometime tomorrow.”

  “But there’s no water here.”

  “Then we’ll move on to the nearest water and good grass. You can ride one of your horses. We’ll finish tomorrow what we’re unable to do today.”

  “No,” she said, “I won’t leave the wagon.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Gil. “There’s cougars around. I won’t spend the night in a dry camp, with no graze, for the sake of this damn wagon.”

  Gil didn’t wait for her to explode. He turned to Ramon.

  “Ramon, ride back to the herd and get three more men. Van, you stay with the wagon. The rest of us are goin’ to cut another tree, for a second pole.”

  “Cut one about the right size for that new axle,” said Van. “When we’re done usin’ it to lift the wagon, we can make the new axle from it.”

  “Brother,” said Gil, in the first good humor he’d enjoyed all day, “there is hope for you, after all. Like Granny always said, we Austins are brighter than we look. While we’re gone, take that big wrench and break the nuts loose on the U bolts holdin’ the axle.”

  “We’re leavin’ the herd almighty short-handed,” said Van.

  “This will either work or it won’t,” said Gil, “and it won’t take that long, either way.”

  When Manuel, Pedro, and Gil returned with a second pole, Ramon, Juan Alamonte, Domingo Chavez, and Vicente Gomez were there.

  “Now,” said Gil, “we’ll build a pile of these flat stones under each side of the wagon box. They’ll have to be high enough that we’ll only need to add one or two more to the pile once we lift the wagon. We need the wheels off the ground just far enough to remove them. Now we’re ready to put the butt end of these poles under the rear of the wagon. With four of us to a pole, we’ll lift the wagon just high enough to take the rear wheels off the ground. We’ll need to hold it there only until another stone or two has been placed under each side of the wagon box.”

  “Makes sense,” said Van, “but with all of us mannin’ the pry poles, who’s going to lay the extra stones to keep the wagon wheels off the ground?”

  “The one person we have to thank for all this,” said Gil. “Senora Mendoza, we need your help.”

  Victoria took her time getting there.

  “It’s going to take all of us to lift the wagon,” Gil told her. “When we do, you’ll need to put another stone or two on each of the piles we’ve built under the wagon box. Wedge them tight as you can; we must keep the rear wheels of the wagon off the ground.”

  She nodded, saying nothing. Gil took two of the largest stones, placing one before each of the front wheels, to prevent the wagon from rolling when the rear of it was lifted.

  “Now,” said Gil, “let’s see if this is going to work. I’ll take one pole, and Van, you get the other. The rest of you split up, half with me, half with Van.”

  The butt ends of the poles were placed on the ground beneath the wagon axle, one on the inside of each rear wheel. The men got in position, their shoulders under the poles, and when Gil gave the order, they put all their strength to the task. The big wagon rocked forward against the stones that blocked the front wheels, and slowly the rear of the Conestoga began to rise.

  “That’s far enough,” Gil panted. “Let’s see if we can hold it there until the extra stones are in place.”

  Quickly Victoria built up one side and then ran to the other. Gil was watching when she got to her feet.

  “Now,” he said, “let it down easy.”

  Slowly they let the wagon down, until its undercarriage rested on the two piles of stones. The extra ones Victoria had added kept the rear wheels of the wagon maybe three inches off the ground. It was enough.

  “We have maybe enough time to pull the wheels and get that broken axle off before sundown,” said Gil. “Let’s get it done.”

  Van had already loosened the bolts securing the axle, and once the rear wheels were off the ground, removal of the broken axle wasn’t difficult. Gil studied the axle, comparing it to the size of the heavy cedar from which he hoped to hew a replacement. Already the sun had dipped behind the Sierra Madres, and only a rosy glow remained.

  “It’ll be dark pretty soon,” said Van. “No way we can finish this today.”

  “I think we can,” said Gil. “In fact, I aim to.” He turned to Ramon.

  “Ramon, I’ll need Van, Manuel, and Pedro here to help me. The rest of you ride back to the herd. It’s been a while since we crossed a creek, so we’re due one. Send Mariposa or Estanzio to scout ahead. If there’s water close enough, drive the horse herd and the longhorns to it. If there is none, we’ll stay where we are, in dry camp. We’re goin’ to replace this axle if we have to do it by firelight. I don’t aim to start another day with this hanging over our heads.”

  Ramon rode back to the herd, taking Juan Alamonte, Domingo Chavez, and Vicente Gomez with him.

  “We’re going to need a small fire,” said Gil. “Just enough to see what we’re doing. Manuel, you and Pedro get us a fire going, while Van and me shape this new axle.”

  After cutting the cedar the right length, they did nothing more than shape the ends so that the hubs would fit and groove the wood in the right places to secure the U bolts. The rest of the “axle” still had the bark on. It was rough work, but it would do. They were pounding the wheels in place when Mariposa rode in from the north. He looked at Gil, shaking his head. There was no water near enough. After a hard day, they were stuck in a dry camp, without even coffee.

  8

  July 9, 1843. On the trail.

  The entire outfit was up and about an hour before first light. There had been little sleep. The horses had been restless in their thirst, and the longhorns had refused to bed down. They had milled about, bawling their misery.

  “This is my fault,” said Gil. “I should have stuck to my first decision, trailed the stock to the nearest water and then fixed the wagon.”

  “Well,” said Van, “next time—if there is one—we’ll know how to handle it. I can’t blame you for wantin’ to stay with that wagon and be done with it. We’d already lost a day because of it, and I’d have hated to have it drag over until today. Soon as it’s light enough, let’s hit the trail.”

  “I aim to,” said Gil. “We’ll pass up breakfast, and eat when we reach water. Get the word to the riders, and I’ll wake her majesty. I’m not of a mind to wait while she harnesses the teams.”

  Gil rapped on the wagon’s tailgate with the butt of his Colt.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to harness your teams and be ready to move out in ten minutes.”

  He didn’t wait for her response, if there was one. He didn’t want to hear it. He found the outfit ready to ride. Van had saddled Gil’s horse
. Victoria took him at his word. She had harnessed her teams and moved out, even before the longhorns took the trail. Estanzio and Mariposa led the horse herd in pursuit of the wagon, while the other riders drove the restless longhorns into line.

  “Every critter in the bunch is goin’ in a trot,” said Van. “They seem to know we’re going to water.”

  “Thank God there’s no wind,” said Gil. “One little breeze with the smell of water, and we’d have a stampede like you’ve never seen.”

  Gil sent Estanzio ahead, and the Indian returned with the welcome news there was a creek not more than two hours away. But by the time they were within a mile or two of the water, the thirsty cattle sensed or smelled it, and there was no holding them. Gil and Van got ahead of the running herd, but there was no slowing or stopping them. The Texans had to ride for their lives. The Mendoza horses, seeing a solid wall of longhorns thundering toward them, yielded to their own panic, and the stampede was on. The horse herd quickly caught up to the wagon and split around it. The longhorns followed the same path, and it was all that prevented some of the animals being crippled or killed as they fought to reach the water at the same point. Instead they fanned out along the creek for a mile.

  “Come on,” shouted Gil, “we’ve got to get the horses out of there!”

  The horses were in danger of being gored by the thirst-maddened longhorns. Mariposa and Estanzio were already hazing the horses out of the water. They and their mounts were in danger, because some of the longhorns hadn’t yet reached the water and were fighting their way toward it. The animals would vent their rage on whoever or whatever stood in their way. The creek bank was congested with cattle, all fighting for water in the same limited area. Following Gil’s lead, the riders doubled their lariats and started swatting longhorns. It had an effect. Those unable to reach the water were forced down the creek, where they could drink. Slowly the riders took control. Some of the horses had been raked with horns, but with some sulfur salve to protect them from infection and blow flies, they would heal. It was late afternoon before the last longhorn had drunk its fill and was content to graze.