“Reposo, entonces andar.”
Gil looked at Estanzio, and the Indian nodded. Gil and Van backed away. Torn and bleeding though he was, Mariposa wished to gather his strength until he was able to walk. And walk he did. He fought his way to hands and knees, and they could hear his labored breathing. Three times he tried to rise to his feet, and three times he sank back to his knees. But the fourth attempt saw him upright, swaying uncertainly, but on his feet. The clouds had been swept away by a rising wind, and the starlight was sufficient for them to make their way back to their camp. Mariposa walked slowly but steadily. Gathering wood in the dark wasn’t easy, but Van found a dead cedar and a rotted pine log, part of which was resinous. Once there were some hot coals, Gil made a bed of them and put on a bucket of water to boil.
“Since we’ve got a fire anyway,” said Van, “when you’re done heatin’ that water, I’m puttin’ on the coffeepot. We could all use some hot coffee.”
When the water was hot, Gil took an old undershirt that had once been Clay Duval’s and ripped it in half. Mariposa sat before the fire, probably in pain, but saying nothing. Gil went to his saddlebag and got the tin of sulfur salve. He then pointed to Mariposa, to the bucket of steaming water, and held up the tin of salve. It was the same medicine they used to doctor horses and cows, and the Indian was familiar with it. For a while he said nothing, made no sign. Would Mariposa’s pride lead him to refuse the little medical attention they had to offer? Estanzio said something to him, and Mariposa nodded his acceptance. When Gil had cleansed the bloody wounds, he applied the salve. It was all they could do.
Despite Gil’s efforts, by dawn Mariposa had a fever. His wounds were swollen and festered. Estanzio spoke to Ramon, and the little vaquero turned to Gil.
“Medicina,” said Ramon. “Estanzio find. Maguey cacto. Bueno medicina.”
Gil nodded. He had heard of the healing qualities of the maguey. He knew something must be done, or Mariposa would surely die from infection. Gil turned to Estanzio.
“Medicina,” he said. “Maguey.”
Estanzio nodded, mounted his horse and rode away.
“Well, Ramon,” said Gil, “it’s roundup time. Again.”
“Nort’,” said Ramon. “All cow, all caballo, nort’.”
“That’s a change,” said Van. “The trail drive’s headed north, and that’s the way the stampede went.”
“Don’t get too excited,” said Gil. “We’ll still have to drag the longhorns out of the brush, and no telling where we’ll find the horses. Mount up and let’s ride. When Estanzio returns with his medicina plants, he can be the doctor.”
But they weren’t destined to get away so easily. Victoria Mendoza had left her wagon and was headed their way.
“Damn,” said Van. “Granny Austin always said trouble comes in batches of three. First, Mariposa got chewed up, then all the horses and longhorns stampeded from here to yonder, and now Senora Mendoza is about to bare her fangs.”
Nobody said anything. Most of the outfit still stood in awe of her volatile temper. They all had a pretty good idea as to why she was there, and she fully lived up to their expectations.
“I see,” she said icily, “that you have again allowed the herds to run away. How many days will we lose this time?”
“Ma’am,” said Gil just as icily, “we’ll lose as many days as it takes to find them. Mariposa was hurt last night, when a cougar jumped him. With a big cat that close, a thousand riders couldn’t have prevented the herds from running.”
With that, he mounted his horse and rode out. The rest of the outfit mounted and followed. But Victoria wasn’t finished.
“Ramon,” she shouted, “come here. All of you come here. I am ordering you!”
Not a man responded. They rode on as though they hadn’t heard.
“Borrico,”* said Ramon, under his breath.
They had ridden north a dozen miles before they began finding bunches of grazing horses and longhorns. They were strung out along a deep, clear-running creek.
“Plenty of water and graze here,” said Gil. “Van, rope a couple of the horses to carry the packs, and ride back to the old camp. Tell Victoria to get that wagon headed this way. Take a horse for Mariposa too.”
“Mariposa may not be able to ride.”
“Then he can ride in the wagon,” said Gil. “Get going, or that blasted wagon won’t get here before dark.”
Van rode south, contemplating a possible clash with Victoria Mendoza. After her riders had ridden away in defiance, he had little doubt she’d be on the prod. He grinned to himself. Once they reached Texas, Senora Mendoza might not have any riders. He half hoped Mariposa wouldn’t feel up to sitting a saddle, so he could put the Indian in Victoria’s wagon. When he reached the old camp, Estanzio had returned. Apparently he had found the healing maguey and had applied a poultice to Mariposa’s wounds. Van dismounted. He pointed to the packhorses, to the Mendoza wagon, and then to the north. Estanzio nodded. Van then turned to Mariposa, pointing to the Indian and to the Mendoza wagon. Mariposa shook his head violently.
“Ninguno,” he said in disgust. “Squaw carro! Ninguno squaw carro! Mariposa caballo! Ninguno squaw carro!”
Van laughed. Having been mauled by the cougar, unable to help himself, Mariposa’s pride had suffered mightily. Admitting that he was too weak to fork a horse, and being forced to ride in a squaw wagon, would be the ultimate disgrace. Van rode on to the wagon. He’d as well get her started. Victoria had seen him talking to Estanzio and Mariposa and was waiting for him.
“We’re moving camp to another creek north of here,” he said. “It’s a good twelve miles. You’d best get started.”
He spoke quietly, not wishing to antagonize her. She seemed not to take offense, but went about harnessing her teams. Van crooked a leg around his saddle horn and watched her. He felt a little guilty, not helping her, but the memory of her volatile temper overcame his guilt. When she had the teams harnessed, he led out, and she followed.
Being short three riders, Gil rode alone, allowing the rest of the outfit to work in two-man teams. They found nearly half the horse herd almost immediately, but the others would be more difficult. He came upon tracks of four horses, and they were headed north, as though they had some destination in mind. Gil followed, and the land became less broken, more wooded. Bees droned over his head. There would be a creek or river not too far distant, a likely haven for some of the missing horses and longhorns. Then, shocking in the solitude, came a cold, familiar voice.
“That is far enough, Tejano. You are covered.”
Gil reined up, and his horse began cropping grass. It was a difficult situation, and he must buy some time. Gil spoke.
“You disappoint me, Velasco. Why didn’t you just shoot me in the back?”
“Por Dios, it was a temptation, gringo, but I could not bring myself to do it. You took the time and trouble to hang two of my amigos, so how could I not do as much for you? Step down, senor, and move away from the horse. I have the ropes with which you hung my amigos. Alas, I regret I cannot hang you from the same tree, but one must make do. Now get off the horse, gringo, or I will shoot you out of the saddle.”
10
Gil didn’t know if he was covered only by Velasco, or by all the remaining outlaws. But it didn’t matter; when the other man had the drop, one gun was enough. There was one thing he knew for a certainty: if he dismounted and surrendered his Colt, he was done. A few yards ahead, to his right, was a windblown pine. Its root mass was substantial, so there would be enough of a hole to offer some protection. Perhaps it was full of water, or worse, a haven for reptiles. But he preferred their company to that of the two-legged skunks gunning for him. He slapped the startled horse on the flank, and it bolted. Kicking free of the stirrups, he clung to the horse’s neck with his left arm, his left boot hooked over the saddle. Three rifles cut down on him, and he heard the slugs whine close. From somewhere ahead a fourth rifle began blasting. One slug burned the flank of the black,
while a second tagged the flying left stirrup. By then he was near enough to the uprooted pine, and he loosed his grip on the horse. He rolled with the fall, going feet first into the hole left by the fallen pine. To his relief, it was full of windblown leaves. He listened, but couldn’t hear the galloping horse. He knew the animal had been nicked, but he didn’t believe it was seriously hurt. If the rest of his outfit hadn’t been near enough to hear the shots, the horse was his only hope. The animal would return to their camp, and the empty saddle would be proof enough that he was in big trouble. But how long could he hold them off? He had only his Colt and the shells in his pistol belt, while the men stalking him were armed with rifles. It was an unpleasant fact quickly confirmed by Velasco.
“Enjoy the few moments you have gained, gringo. There are six of us, and we have rifles. The hole in which you hide will become your grave.”
Gil said nothing. He had protection only as long as his adversaries fired from ground level. It was possible they might stand in their stirrups and angle some lead in at him. If that failed, they might step from their saddles into the lower branches of a tree and shoot at him from there. He must draw their fire, hopefully raising enough hell to attract the attention of his outfit.
“Velasco,” he taunted, “you are no malo hombre, but a chicken-livered bastardo. You feed with the busardos, and your madre is a mula.”
His tirade had the desired effect. One side of his hole was protected by the upraised root mass of the fallen pine. Velasco and his men took to shooting at the huge clump of roots, trying to ricochet lead from it. One such slug, mostly spent, burned a gash across the small of his back. Mostly they succeeded only in showering him with dust and dirt from the root cluster. It was a standoff that wouldn’t last much longer. Most of the fire had come from the south and southwest. Once he had quit the horse, the rifleman to the north had joined the others. They covered him in a half circle, with the root mass of the pine to his back. To the west there was a clearing, and beyond that, some black oaks. They were well-limbed and leafy. While brush and scrub pine obscured the lower trunks and branches of the oaks, he could see the upper branches. Eventually he saw some of the leaves move, and knew his time was short, for there was no wind.
“Tejano,” shouted Velasco, “it is your last chance. You will come out of that hole, or you will die in it.”
“Then I will die in it, Velasco, you asno, you perro.”
He scrunched down as far as he could, as the four riflemen in the oaks cut down on him. One slug snatched away his hat, a second burned across his shoulder, and a third tore a bloody furrow along his left thigh. They were well out of range of his Colt; without a rifle, he was at their mercy.
“Close, eh, gringo?” Velasco chuckled. “Shall we try once more?”
Gil said nothing. Dust mingled with the sweat that soaked his shirt and dripped off his chin. It was the last draw, and he had no hole card. He hunkered down as far as he could as the rifles roared. Having prepared himself for another devastating volley, it was a moment before he realized this fire wasn’t directed at him. Lead clipped the leaves as Velasco’s men were gunned out of the oaks. Gil leaped out of the hole and ran to meet his outfit. He met Bola and Ramon loping their horses toward him.
“Shoot busardos,” said the grinning Ramon, pointing to the oaks.
“Velasco,” said Gil. “Did you get him?”
Ramon shook his head, pointing north. “Run like coyote.”
“Not this time,” said Gil. “Not fast enough, or far enough. Let me have your horse.”
Without a word, Ramon dismounted, and Gil took the reins. He swung into the saddle and kicked the horse into a run. Ramon turned to the still-mounted Bola.
“Go,” he said, pointing toward the hard-riding Gil.
Bola nodded, urging his own mount into a run. Soon his horse was neck-and-neck with Gil’s. He raised his right hand, in which he held the bola, and Gil nodded. They rode on, already tasting the dust of Velasco’s passing. Ramon’s horse was lathered, and Gil realized the animal had been ridden hard as Ramon and the outfit had come to his rescue. But Velasco’s mount would soon tire in the murderous July heat. They splashed into a creek that ran belly deep on their horses. Soon they were out of the wooded area, and there was greasewood-dotted prairie as far as they could see. At first there was only dust, but as they began to gain, they sighted their quarry. Velasco saw them and began quirting his weary horse.
“Let’s move in,” shouted Gil. “You bring down the horse, and I’ll take care of Velasco.”
As they drew nearer, Velasco twisted around in his saddle and fired two shots from his pistol. This having no effect, he holstered the weapon and again took to quirting the horse. Bola urged his mount all the more, drawing ahead of Gil. When the gaucho judged himself close enough, he began swinging the three-headed bola like a lariat. Released, it went true, wrapping itself about the hind legs of Velasco’s horse. The horse screamed and went down in a cloud of dust. Gil drew up and dismounted, waiting for the disheveled Velasco to get to his feet. They stood twenty yards apart, Gil’s thumbs hooked in his pistol belt.
“Now, Senor Velasco,” he said, “we’ll see how tall an hombre you are in a fair fight. When you’re of a mind to, pull your iron.”
Bola had freed Velasco’s horse, and led the exhausted animal away.
“You are the fool, gringo,” said Velasco, with a nasty laugh. “I have killed many men. Not in all of Mexico is there one who is my equal.”
He was fast. Almighty fast. But his first shot was high, snatching Gil’s hat like invisible fingers. While the Texan’s draw was a split second behind Velasco’s, his action was deliberate, his aim true. The heavy slug caught Velasco high in the chest, between the lapels of his fancy braided jacket. Velasco blasted a second shot into the ground at his feet, then fell flat on his back in the dust.
“Maybe you were the fastest in all of Mexico,” said Gil to the dead man, “but speed ain’t worth a damn if you don’t hit what you’re shootin’ at.”
Bola collected Velasco’s weapons and ammunition.
“Gracias,” said Gil.
They mounted, and with Bola leading the extra horse, rode back to join the outfit. Ramon and the other riders had located the outlaws’ picketed horses and had taken their weapons and ammunition.
“We’re just a couple of hours from sundown,” said Gil. “With all the shootin’ goin’ on, any horses or cows will have rattled their hocks out of here. We’d as well ride on back to camp and get a fresh start tomorrow. We’ll have Van and Estanzio with us then.”
“Bueno dia,” said Ramon. “Pistoleros muerto. Cezar vaca, cabatto en paz.” When Ramon was excited, he reverted totally to Spanish.
It had been a good day, Gil thought. They had rid themselves of the Velasco gang, but would they be allowed to hunt their horses and cows in peace? When they had again gathered the scattered herd and continued the drive north, every day would bring them closer to a confrontation with the Mexican army. He wished he had some idea as to the status of the conflict between Texas and Mexico.
A few minutes before dark, Victoria Mendoza drove the wagon into camp, accompanied by Van, Estanzio, and Mariposa. Gil wasn’t surprised to find Mariposa in the saddle. The Indian wore no shirt, but rode with a blanket over his shoulders to protect his wounds from the sun. The three riders dismounted, Mariposa slowly, carefully.
“I think I insulted him,” said Van, with a grin, “when I suggested he ride in the wagon. He’d have mounted that horse if it had killed him.”
Mariposa rarely said anything. The little communication Gil had had with him had been through signs and a few Spanish words. He wanted to know how Mariposa felt, so he spoke to Ramon.
“Tell him I asked about him,” said Gil.
Ramon spoke to Mariposa and then to Estanzio, who had learned some English. Estanzio surprised them all when he spoke directly to Gil.
“Bueno,” said Mariposa. “Him tough like hell.”
Gil
told Van of their fight with Velasco’s gang, while Ramon tried to explain it to Estanzio and Mariposa.
“Bueno,” said Mariposa.
The following morning they were ready to ride at first light. Weak as he was, it took some doing to keep Mariposa out of the saddle.
“Chewed up and clawed as he is,” said Van, “he still wants to ride. I reckon he’ll make a good Texan. If we ever see Texas again.”
“We’ll get there,” said Gil. “There’s plenty of weapons and ammunition, thanks to Velasco’s bunch bein’ so well-armed. We picked up six more saddle horses and two packhorses.”
“That’s a hell of a pile of guns,” said Van. “We get the Mex army after us, we’ll have some tall explainin’ to do.”
“We get the army on our tail,” said Gil, “and we’ll have some shootin’ to do. We may need all those guns. I’d leave some of them, but they’re Spanish, English, and French makes. That’d make some of the ammunition useless, and I can’t see givin’ that up.”
“Why don’t you turn on your Austin charm,” said Van, “and sweet talk Senora Mendoza into haulin’ all this extra firepower in the wagon?”
“No, thanks,” said Gil. “I have bad feelings about that wagon. We’ll take Velasco’s canvas tents, wrap the extra weapons so they’ll ride well, and use packhorses.”
Their first day of searching produced 110 horses, and a thousand longhorns. Victoria Mendoza wasn’t satisfied with so many horses still missing, but when she glared at Gil, he glared right back.
August 1, 1843. On the trail.
After five days they had gathered 4600 longhorns and 180 horses.
“That’s it,” said Gil. “We could beat the brush for a year and not find any more. We’re movin’ out in the morning at first light.”
“Senora Mendoza will do a burn that’ll make Hell look like a cook fire,” said Van.
“So be it,” said Gil. “No more horses, no more cows. Ramon?”
The Bandera Trail Page 13