The Bandera Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Soldado bastardo!” she shrieked. “Soldado perra!”

  She thrashed about like a hog-tied longhorn, calling him names in Spanish at such a rapid rate, he couldn’t understand most of them. She had called him a soldier, one possible clue as to who had been responsible for what had happened at this isolated little cabin. Finally she began to tire, as he had known she must, until her struggling ceased. Her eyes met his, and he saw no fear in them; she had been subdued, but that was all.

  “Ninguno,” he said. “Ninguno soldado.” He pointed to her eyes, and then to his own. To his surprise, she spoke.

  “Quien es?”

  “Tejano,” he said.

  She only looked confused, and he realized his words didn’t fit what she was seeing. His face and hands were as brown as her own. He unbuttoned the front of his shirt far enough for her to see his white skin.

  “Tejano,” he repeated. “Nombre?”

  “Rosa,” she said.

  Could he trust her enough to loose her bonds? He put his finger on the knot in the rawhide that bound her feet. Then he let his eyes meet hers.

  “Paz?” he asked. “Rosa, Tejano, en paz?”

  “Paz,” she said.

  First he freed her ankles, massaging them. Then he loosed her hands and massaged her wrists. Now that he had made peace with the little catamount, the easy part was over. He must bury the dead—obviously her parents—and he wondered if she knew of their deaths. More important, had she accepted them? Had she been hiding in the barn all this time? He sighed. He must begin somewhere.

  “Habla?” he asked. “Soldados ayer?”

  Cat-quick, she rolled out of his reach. She was on her feet and gone before he could so much as move. He followed, realizing she was headed for the cabin, or what remained of it. So terrible had been the tragedy, she had put it from her mind, unable to come to grips with it. When he had spoken of the coming of the soldiers, the stark reality of it had come rushing back. She had halted a few yards from the mutilated bodies, a skinny brown waif in the hot August sun. A lump rose in Gil’s throat, and he could have wept for her.

  “Rosa,” he said.

  She turned to him, tears streaming, and the last barrier fell. She became just a little girl with more grief than her small shoulders could bear. She ran to him, and he knelt to receive her.

  “Padre,” she sobbed. “Madre.”

  She threw her arms around him, and he held her close. When there were no more tears, she lifted her eyes until they met his. Never in his life had he been so touched.

  “Desnudo,” she said. She seemed embarrassed by her nakedness, and he thought there was a flush in her cheeks. He led her back to the barn, to his horse. From his saddlebag he took one of Clay Duval’s flannel shirts. He slipped it on her, and it reached her ankles. The sleeves swallowed her hands. He buttoned the shirt, rolled up the sleeves, and stepped back to look at her. There was so much sadness in her, she was unable to smile, but her eyes told him he had earned her trust.

  “Pala?” he asked, pointing toward the barn.

  She said nothing, but turned toward the barn, and he followed her into it. She led him to a crude tack room where a few tools were kept. The old spade’s original handle was long gone. It had been replaced with an oak limb, with the bark still on. It would have to do.

  “Padre, Madre,” he said simply, holding up the spade.

  She knew. Tears made fresh tracks down her dusty cheeks. She needed something to occupy her while he dug the graves.

  “Tener hambre?” he asked.

  She nodded, and from his saddlebag he took some jerked beef and hardtack. He sat her down, her back against the barn wall, and left his canteen with her. Then he took the spade, and on the slope beyond the burned cabin, began the task that decency demanded. Thankfully, the soil showed evidence of recent rain, and while it was hot work, the chore didn’t take as long as he had expected. It was a crude burial, without even a blanket in which to wrap the bodies, but better than being left at the mercy of buzzards and coyotes. He filled the graves and mounded the dirt. He wished he had a Bible, but he didn’t. Since he couldn’t read the word over them, he recited the Twenty-Third Psalm, which was the only one he remembered in its entirety. Returning to the yard, he took the time to further study the tracks he had seen earlier. He followed them to a grassless area the riders had crossed as they had ridden away. There were tracks of fourteen horses, all of them shod. The trail led east, but something Van had said bothered him. If the men were soldiers—likely returning to Mexico City—it meant they had left Monterrey and were traveling southeast, toward Tampico. That meant the line of march given them by Victoria Mendoza was all wrong. That meant the trail drive was in immediate danger of encountering Mexican soldiers going to or from Monterrey!

  Rosa still sat with her back to the log wall of the barn, and in the hot August sun had fallen asleep. What in heaven’s name was he going to do with a child—a female at that—on a trail drive? Lead might fly at any time. But what choice did he have? If she had kin, this was no time to go looking for them; his very life was in peril as long as he remained in Mexico. Rosa would have to go with them, and at some better time and place he would decide what to do about her. He gently awakened the sleeping child, and with her in the saddle in front of him, he rode out. It would take some time, but he decided to follow those tracks that led east. At least for a while. He circled around so that Rosa wouldn’t have to see the new-made graves, and picked up the trail a mile east of the burned cabin. Slowly but surely the trail veered to the southeast, confirming his suspicions. He turned, riding west until he judged he had traveled three miles, and then headed due south. He urged his horse into a fast gallop, feeling the need to return quickly to the outfit.

  Van Austin was uneasy. Despite himself, he kept looking to the southwest, where a veritable cloud of buzzards swirled above that distant canyon of death. You’d think the varmints had some kind of signal, and that their families and friends from around the world had flown in for the occasion. Van had begun to wonder what was keeping Gil. It seemed he’d been gone long enough to ride to Matamoros, Coahuila. The herd was moving well, so Van trotted his horse to point position and rode beside Ramon.

  “Senor Gil,” said Ramon, “long time.”

  “Too long,” said Van. Ramon said no more, but he didn’t need to. Clearly, he too was concerned with the length of time Gil had been gone. Van was about to return to his own position when they saw the riders coming from the northeast.

  “Soldados,” said Ramon.

  “Comin’ from Monterrey,” said Van. “Ramon, you know what to say. You are the trail boss, responsible for delivering these horses and longhorns to the Mexican army, at Matamoros. Whatever they say or do, insist on taking the trail drive on to the next water. Whatever you do, don’t let ’em provoke you into a fight. We can’t afford for these soldados to see me up close, so I’ll ride back to the drag. I’ll warn the rest of the riders to follow your lead. Once I’ve got the trail drive and its dust between me and these soldados, I’ll circle around, ride north, and find Gil. Take the herds on to the next water and bed them down for the night. If these soldados get suspicious and maybe decide to hang around, don’t look for me and Gil until after dark. We’ll work our way back and then decide what to do.”

  Ramon eventually counted fourteen riders. The lead man began waving his hat, the signal to stop the drive, but Ramon kept it moving. Van needed time to warn the other riders, to reach the drag, and to get away without being seen. Finally the column of soldiers turned due west, crossing the path of the trail drive. Ramon could ignore them no longer; he swept off his hat, signaling a stop. He rode forward, and the Mexican officer advanced to meet him, his captain’s insignia flashing in the westering sun. Ramon slumped in his saddle, his sombrero tilted over his eyes. The captain looked upon him with contempt, and when he spoke, it was in English.

  “I am Captain Miguel Salazar. What is the purpose of this caravana, and where is it bound?�
�

  Ramon kept his silence, apparently thinking. Or sleeping. It was a total lack of respect, and Captain Salazar was furious.

  “Look at me, peasant, while I am speaking to you!”

  Slowly, Ramon lifted his hunched shoulders and lazily tilted the sombrero back on his head. “No comprender,” he said.

  Irritated, Salazar repeated the question in Spanish. Ramon told him the prepared story, insisting that they must reach water before dark. The vacas and caballos had been long without water.

  “You lie,” snapped Salazar. “Santa Anna has been deposed, and runs like the dog he is!” He then pointed to the cloud of buzzards circling above the distant canyon and, his eyes boring into Ramon’s, he spoke.

  “Busardos,” he said. “Millions of busardos. So much death demands that it be investigated. You come this way; perhaps you know the cause?”

  “Vaca, caballo sediento,” said Ramon.

  “Ah,” said Salazar sarcastically, “so noble a cause must not be delayed. For your safety, I think we will accompany you to Matamoros, Coahuila. I wish to assure myself that these vacas and caballos Santa Anna has so generously provided are received by the Mexican army. Already you are near water; drive on. What attracts the busardos can wait. The dead do not wander.”

  Ramon nodded. One way or another, there was going to be trouble. He waved his hat to the flank riders, and they passed the signal along. When it reached the drag riders, the longhorns slowly lurched into motion. The horse herd moved out under the direction of Estanzio and Mariposa. Ramon was relieved when Salazar led his column of soldiers into position a hundred yards ahead of the horse herd. The captain didn’t wish to eat dust. Ramon walked his horse back to the flank, sending Juan Padillo ahead to ride point. Reaching the drag, Ramon sent Domingo Chavez to replace Juan at flank. He then turned his anxious eyes to the south, where trail dust hung in the air like yellow clouds. Desperately, Ramon wished to talk to the Texans before they bedded down the herds. But he could see no riders; only an empty plain, and the dust of their passing….

  Van rode hard, unsure as to how perilous a situation they faced. He crossed the creek where the herds would bed down for the night, and three or four miles beyond, he met Gil. His eyes went wide at the sight of Rosa, but his questions must wait. Quickly he told Gil of the arrival of the soldiers.

  “Much as I hate to admit it,” said Gil, “you were right. This bunch is evidently on their way south, and for sure they aren’t going through Monterrey to the coast. They rode southeast, and that means we’re in the path of all soldiers approaching Monterrey or leaving it.”

  “I’m wonderin’ if this bunch wasn’t on their way to have a look at that canyon,” said Van. “Must be a million buzzards, and you can see ’em for miles. Now, where’d you get the little lady?”

  “Found her hidin’ in a barn,” said Gil. “Some sneaking, murdering soldados killed her mama and daddy. Mutilated them with knives so bad, it would’ve turned a Comanche’s stomach. Rosa, here, says it was soldiers. I trailed ’em a ways. Far enough to learn there’s fourteen of the bastards, and it has to be the same bunch that discovered our trail drive.”

  “I told Ramon we might not ride in until after dark, if these jaybirds decide to hang around. We can’t have ’em looking too close at us. I’d say the drive wasn’t more than a couple of miles away from water, when we got stopped. By the time we get back, Ramon will have the herds bedded down. These Mex soldiers may be suspicious, but they won’t have any reason to keep an eye on our riders. Yet. Maybe we can circle around and ride in from the south. We can picket our horses, and when it’s dark, move in with our outfit. We need to know what we’re up against.”

  “Quien es?” Rosa asked, pointing at Van.

  “Hermano,” said Gil.

  They rode far enough to the west so that when they turned south, the smell of their dust or the sound of the horses wouldn’t announce their coming. They crossed the creek, and when they had ridden three miles to the south of it, rode to the east until they reached the still-dusty path the trail drive had taken.

  “The cover kind of thins out up ahead,” said Van. “We’d best rein up a mile or so from camp. You and Rosa stay with the horses, while I mosey in and talk to Ramon. I warned him to back away from any trouble with them.”

  “If they’re still there,” said Gil, “with intentions of staying awhile, there’s going to be trouble. If they’d kill and rob a dirt-poor peasant, what wouldn’t they do for some of the Mendoza horses? I aim to take these varmints by surprise, and kill two birds with one stone. We’ll rid ourselves of them and their threat to the trail drive, and we’ll make them pay for the two poor souls they murdered. Tell Ramon to keep our riders away from the soldiers. Tell him these men are killers, and that we have proof of it. Once you’ve talked to Ramon, you and me are going in close enough to accuse these bastards of murdering Rosa’s mama and daddy.

  “That’ll blow the lid off.”

  “I aim for it to,” said Gil. “A guilty man won’t talk; he’ll go for his iron. Tell Ramon to keep our riders out of our line of fire, and ready to cut loose when we open the ball.”

  Van moved out at dusky dark. The wind, what there was, was out of the northwest. Gil could smell smoke; that meant a cook fire. They would do well to time their approach and arrive during supper. He took a blanket from his roll, draped it over Rosa’s shoulders, and sat her down with her back against a pine. He knelt beside her, searching for words that would keep her there until he and the outfit had completed their deadly task.

  “Rosa,” he said, “esperar con caballos. Tejano volver pronto.”

  For a moment she said nothing, and he thought she was asleep. But her hand found his in the dark. “Si,” she said.

  Van returned as quietly as he had departed.

  “That bunch is gathered around a fire big enough to roast a longhorn,” said Van, “and they’re passing around a bottle. I couldn’t get that close, but Ramon says they’re all armed with pistols and saddle guns. The tall dog in the brass collar is Captain Salazar, and when Ramon told his story, the captain lost all interest in that horde of buzzards that’s been botherin’ me. Salazar told Ramon that Santa Anna’s been kicked out. He called Ramon a liar, and aims for his company of soldiers to follow the trail drive on to Matamoros, Coahuila. Just to be sure it arrives safely.”

  “Well, that tears it,” said Gil. “Let’s be done with it.” He touched Rosa’s blanketed head to reassure her, and they departed. He hoped the presence of the two saddled horses would inspire confidence in the girl, that she wouldn’t feel abandoned and come looking for him.

  “Salazar’s bunch is on the other side of the creek from our riders,” said Van. “Ramon played the Mex peasant, discouraging any mixing.”

  Gil could see the unnecessarily large fire long before they were within pistol range. It was foolish for men to sit and stare into the fire; it destroyed their night vision, blinding them to an attacking enemy. Perhaps it was because the soldiers felt superior to the Mexican vaqueros and saw no danger in them. After all, their enemy was the foolish Tejanos who raided villages along the border.

  “Whoa,” said Gil in a whisper, halting. “If there’s a shoot-out, we’ll end up with horses and longhorns scattered from here to Tampico.”

  “I don’t think so,” Van whispered back. “Ramon’s way ahead of us. He intentionally moved the herds up the creek as far as he could, because he’s disturbed by Salazar and his men. The herds might run, but it’s a chance we’ll have to take.”

  They moved on, coming out a hundred yards up the creek from the noisy soldiers. Gil and Van moved down the south bank of the creek, using brush for cover. The brush began to thin out, but they were well within pistol range. While Gil could see nobody else on their side of the creek, there was a brief glow from a cigarette somewhere beyond the limits of his night vision. His outfit was there, and they were ready. Gil took a deep breath and flung the challenge in their faces.

  “Salaza
r, we have evidence that you and your men are killers. We have a witness. I’m ordering you to surrender, or suffer the consequences.”

  The effect was instantaneous. Every man went for his gun, some of them falling to the ground and rolling away from the fire. Gil and Van dropped to their knees, providing lesser targets, as slugs whipped the air over their heads. But the surprise had been total, the cowboys ready, and their fire deadly. Gil saw Salazar take three slugs, each of them puffing the dust from his fancy coat.

  “Matar soldado bastardos!” said Rosa.

  Gil grabbed the child and pulled her down beside him. It was a miracle she hadn’t been hit. He was sorely tempted, in the midst of a gunfight, to pause long enough to spank her. But the fight was over. The scene across the creek was total destruction. Gil’s riders trotted in out of the night, their pistols still in their hands.

  “Bueno, Ramon,” said Gil. “Bueno.”

  From somewhere up the creek, a cow bawled.

  “Uh-oh,” said Van, “we took the first hand, but we’re about to lose the second one.”

  “No estampeda,” said Ramon. “Juan, Manuel, Domingo, and Pedro pacificar vaca, caballo.”

  “Ramon,” said Gil, astonished, “I could kiss you for sending riders to calm the herd, but I ought to scalp you for leavin’ the rest of us to face that bunch of killers, outnumbered two to one.”

  “Ventaja,” said Ramon.

  “Sorry, big brother,” said Van, “but he’s right. We had a hell of an edge, includin’ the element of surprise, and shootin’ from the dark. Ramon, you’re a muy bueno segundo.”

  “Sorry, Ramon,” said Gil. “I shot from the hip. That was a fine piece of work. Where’s Rosa?”

  Vicente Gomez, Juan Padillo, Estanzio, Mariposa, and Bola had crossed the creek and by the light of the fire were searching the dead soldiers and taking their guns. Juan Padillo had taken two pistols off the body of the captain and was going through Salazar’s pockets. Rosa looked on with grim approval. “Matar soldado bastardo,” she said.