The Bandera Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “You bloodthirsty little vagabundo,” said Gil. Juan Padillo laughed.

  Gil took Rosa back across the creek; he wanted Ramon, with his superb command of Spanish, to talk to her. Ramon quickly established a friendship, speaking to the child in Spanish. Then he turned to Gil.

  “Salazar, the capitán, ordered the killing,” said Ramon.

  In searching the dead Salazar, Juan Padillo had found something that he thought important. He crossed the creek and in the poor light from the fire dangled a small gold locket by a thin golden chain.

  “Madre!” cried Rosa, reaching for the locket. “Madre!”

  Padillo gave her the locket, and she sank to her knees, sobbing over it.

  “If there was ever any doubt,” said Gil, “that wipes it clean. We’d best get started; there’s a full night’s work ahead of us.”

  13

  “Ramon,” said Gil, “we have a hard night ahead of us.

  You’re able to talk to Rosa much better than I can; get some blankets, make Rosa a bed, and convince her it’s bedtime. She’s had some hard experience for one so young. Make a place for her near the herds, so the night riders can keep an eye on her. Tell her the horses and cows are ours, and that our riders will be close by. Tonight we’ll night-hawk in three watches, four riders at a time. There’s an almighty lot to be done before anybody sleeps.”

  Ramon had an earnest conversation with Rosa, and she didn’t want to go with him. She protested in Spanish, ran to Gil, and it was he who finally persuaded her to go with Ramon.

  “Congratulations,” Van chuckled, “you’re a daddy. You sure picked one hell of a time and place for it to happen. Ramon can talk to her just like I’m talkin’ to you, but it’s an ugly old Tejano she listens to.”

  “Whatever respect she has for me,” said Gil, “I earned it. She tried to run a pitchfork through my gut. God knows, we have problems enough, but I couldn’t just ride away and leave her there.”

  “Not a man of us would have,” said Van. “Besides, I don’t know what she could do that would drop us in a deeper bog hole than we’re in already.”

  Estanzio, Mariposa, and Bola came splashing across the creek, laden with weapons taken from Salazar and his men.

  “I purely don’t see how we can take any more guns with us,” said Van. “I’d bet every last one of these is a foreign make.”

  “More’n likely you’re right,” said Gil, “and we do have to draw the line somewhere. Any of our riders having similar weapons can likely use the extra ammunition, but we’ll have to dispose of the weapons. But that’s just part of it; we must also conceal the saddles and the bodies.”

  “That means some serious digging,” said Van. “You got any notion as to what we’ll use for tools?”

  “Soldiers on the move carry field packs,” said Gil, “like that bunch that grabbed us right after we crossed into Mexico. On the outside of those packs, they carried short-handled spades, for entrenching. Go over there and check out some of those packs. By then, Ramon should have returned, and we’ll decide how we’re going to conceal all these things that could put us before a Mex firing squad.”

  Ramon came down the far bank of the creek, crossing to join them.

  “Thanks, Ramon,” said Gil. “You sure she ain’t followin’ you?”

  “Pane querida, parte diablo,” said Ramon, with a laugh.

  “While we’re hidin’ the bodies and belongings of these dead soldados,” said Van, “let’s not overlook their horses. If we just turn ’em loose, I’d bet they’ll drift back to Monterrey, and with our luck, they’re all wearin’ Mexican brands.”

  “We’ll have to add them to our herd and take them with us,” said Gil. “Anytime we meet up with a company of soldiers between here and the border, I doubt it’ll make any difference. We already have so damn many problems, so much to explain, what’s a few horses with Mexican brands?”

  They found six of the soldiers had carried the short-handled entrenching spades as part of their field packs.

  “There’s eight of us,” said Gil, “so the two men not involved in the burying can look for places to dispose of extra weapons, saddles, and packs. Make the holes deep enough, in case some scavengers show up with diggin’ on their minds. But don’t mound the dirt; pack it tight, level it, and cover each place with leaves and brush.”

  “There’ll be a moon in a while,” said Van, “so I reckon there’ll be light enough for the digging. But we’ll need to hide the rest of this gear in whatever woods and brush we can find. All we’ll accomplish is getting ourselves clawed ragged on briars, thorns, and limbs. That part’s going to have to wait for first light.”

  “Likely you’re right,” said Gil. “Let’s move our camp farther up the creek, nearer the herds; it’ll take some doing to cover the sign we’ve left here already. Ramon, tell the boys across the creek to leave those packs for now; let’s get the hard part behind us. When you made Rosa’s bed, did you tell the night riders what happened and what’s to be done?”

  “Si,” said Ramon. “Rosa want soldado caballo, but no like soldado rig. She ride bareback.”

  “What he’s sayin’,” Van laughed, “is that he promised Rosa one of the soldier horses to get her to sleep.”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” said Gil. “That’s all we’ve got a blessed plenty of, is horses, saddles, and cows. This is going to be a hard night; let’s get started.”

  Ramon crossed the creek. When he returned, he brought with him their five riders and the short-handled soldado tools they needed for digging. The full moon had risen above the distant horizon, further illuminating the ghastly scene across the creek. With a sigh of resignation, they listened while Gil told them what must be done.

  August 10, 1843. Mexico City.

  Antonio Mendez enjoyed his work. The ring of keys he carried on his belt gave him a sense of power. Each day at sundown he became God, in the sense that he controlled the lives of all the unfortunates within the stone depths of the infamous dungeon. While the pay was a pittance, there were certain benefits. For some reason nobody had ever explained to him—perhaps it was the poor pay—the night guard at the dungeon was brought his supper each day at sundown. While the Cocodrillo was a poor excuse for a café, the food wasn’t bad, and there was always plenty of it. But the food, its quality or the lack of it, didn’t matter. What excited him was the querida who brought it! She was a dark-haired beauty, a good ten years younger than he, but he had begun to charm her. What else could it be? She had taken such an interest in him, she wished to be shown through the forbidding stone corridors of the prison that was in his charge. Ah, it was time for her to arrive! He must unlock three massive iron gates to reach the courtyard, and a fourth that was the only entrance through the adobe wall surrounding the dungeon. She waited at the fourth gate, and by the rules was not allowed to proceed any farther. But who was going to know? Once he locked the gates behind her, they were safe, and she was his for as long as he could entice her to stay.

  “Ah, Angelina,” he said, flashing her what he considered his most captivating smile.

  She returned his smile, following him through the gate. She carried a cloth-covered tray and an earthen jug of hot coffee to which she often added something more potent. When at last they were in the inner sanctum and all the gates had been locked, she placed the tray and the earthen jug on his battered desk.

  “Eat,” she urged, “before it is cold.”

  “Ah,” he said, as eloquently as he could, “I would much prefer to feast my eyes on you.”

  “You can do that while you eat,” she said. “I’ll be here. Remember, you said you’d show me the prison today.”

  “I remember,” he said, his ardor somewhat dampened, “but it is far too enormous for a single visit. Perhaps just some of it today?”

  “Then take me through the halls where the gringo dogs are kept, the border ruffians captured by our glorious General Santa Anna.”

  He sighed. It was the part of the priso
n he liked the least. Those “gringo dogs” she spoke of had been there for months, many of them in chains, yet they still glared at him in grim, fire-eyed defiance. They seemed to know something he did not, and it never failed to unnerve him.

  “If that is what you wish to see,” he said, “I will escort you.”

  He led her down winding stone stairs to the basement, where there was never any sun, never a breath of fresh air. There were two long rows of barred cells, with a stone-floored corridor between them. They walked slowly, their footsteps producing a ghostly echo. There were four lamps; one at each end of the corridor, and two more midway, one on each side. The caged men stared at Angelina as though they couldn’t believe their eyes. Their beards and hair were long and unkempt, their only garment ragged trousers. Antonio tried to walk faster, to end the tour as quickly as possible, but Angelina lagged behind. At first she didn’t recognize Clay Duval, and if he recognized her, he gave no immediate sign. Like the others, he had a beard and shaggy, matted hair. He looked at her with empty, expressionless eyes, and Angelina wondered if they’d broken his mind. But no! He waited until Antonio had turned away and Angelina was about to. Then the dirty, bearded derelict closed one eye in a slow wink.

  “Now,” said Antonio, when they had reached the end of the corridor, “are you satisfied?”

  “Yes,” said Angelina.

  They started back down the long corridor toward the stone steps. Clay’s cell was near the middle of the corridor, with one of the guttering bracket lamps on a stone abutment outside his cell. There were ridges in the floor where the stones joined, and it was over one of these that Angelina appeared to stumble. She fell to her hands and knees just inches from the barred door of Clay Duval’s cell. Concerned, Antonio sought to help her to her feet, and she gave him her right hand. In her left, against the stone floor, she clutched a thin piece of paper, folded many times into a tiny square. When she got to her feet, the bit of paper remained there. The concerned Antonio’s eyes missed it, but the ever vigilant ones of Clay Duval did not.

  August 8, 1843. On the trail, south of Monterrey.

  “Before we move out,” said Gil the next morning, “let’s go over this area one more time. There must be no evidence of what happened here last night.”

  “We meet any more Mex soldiers,” said Van, “I hope we don’t have to gun them all down. It gets a mite tiresome, bein’ on the trail all day and then diggin’ holes all night.”

  “We won’t have to do it again,” said Gil. “We had an edge last night, and we were lucky. Did you check the Mex horses for brands?”

  “All branded,” said Van, “but all different. Likely each man’s personal mount. I just hope we’re long gone from Mexico before somebody stumbles on all them guns and saddles we’ve tried to hide.”

  Ramon brought up a bay horse, and Rosa straddled it bareback as though she belonged there. She wore a pair of old vaquero breeches from which a good part of the legs had been cut away. Far too loose at the waist, they had been drawn tight with a red sash and made to fit. Her short jacket was also too large, but her eyes sparkled with pride. Ramon returned to Gil his shirt, which Rosa had been wearing.

  “Better for ride caballo,” said Ramon.

  “How do you know she can ride?” Van asked, with a grin.

  “Mulo,” said Rosa indignantly. “Mulo.”

  “Move ’em out, Ramon, when you’re ready,” Gil said. “I aim to ride far ahead, like I did yesterday, and see what’s out there.”

  Gil rode north. He had begun to notice a change in the country as they traveled. The region was more arid, with oak and cedar more dominant. There were other hardwoods, new to him, that he had learned were mahogany and ebony. It fitted a pattern he’d begun to notice, insofar as Mexico’s streams were concerned. They were invariably shallow. Not once since this trail drive had begun had they forded a stream deep enough to present a problem. In less arid regions it was no problem; frequent rains kept creek-and riverbanks full. But in this northern country, where rain was less frequent, a shallow stream might dry up to sun-cracked, stone-hard mud before the next rain.

  Gil estimated he had ridden fifteen miles when he came to a creek. Or what was sometimes a creek, for it was dry, not a hint of moisture in the sun-cracked mud. It was shallow, like the others, and there was an accumulation of debris along the banks to suggest an occasional overflow. It could flood during heavy rain and be dry a few days later. He feared that might be the case with many of the streams ahead. He rode another ten miles without finding water. Worried, he continued, and by his calculation, he had ridden more than thirty miles before he finally reached a creek in which there was water. It too was on its way to becoming a dry bed, unless there was rain. The water was shallow, no more than hock deep, but it would be enough. If they could reach it. His horse was thirsty, wanting to get to the water, but he rested the animal until it could safely drink. Then he mounted and rode south, the bearer of bad news. They were facing a fifteen-mile drive this day, with a dry camp at the end of it, and a second fifteen-mile drive tomorrow before reaching water. Up to now they had been fortunate, and Ramon wouldn’t be pushing the herd, but that would change when Gil delivered his unwelcome news. The miles they failed to cover today would only seem longer and far more difficult tomorrow. When Gil met the drive, he judged they were still less than halfway to the first dry creek he had discovered. Ramon rode ahead to meet him.

  “Dry camp, Ramon, and a good fifteen miles from there to the next water.”

  “Malo,” said Ramon. “Muy malo.”

  The horse herd was trailing well, so Mariposa and Estanzio rode forward. Gil shook his head to their unasked question. They shook their heads and turned back to their positions. They didn’t have to be told to step up the pace of the drive. Gil rode on past the horse herd and around the plodding longhorns. What had begun as a normal day was about to change.

  “Dry camp tonight,” Gil yelled to the nearest flank rider. Those on the other side couldn’t hear him, but he would get to them after he spoke to the drag riders. Van was at drag, along with Bola, Domingo, and Pedro.

  “Dry camp tonight,” Gil told them. “We’ll have to make fifteen miles today, and at least fifteen tomorrow.”

  “It purely ain’t possible,” said Van.

  “We’re going to have to make it possible,” said Gil. “The farther north I rode, the drier the land became. There may be more dry camps. We’ll push on tonight until it’s too dark to go farther. Won’t matter where we bed ’em down if there’s no water. And they won’t graze if they’re thirsty.”

  “Then we’d better night-hawk six of us at a time, in two watches,” said Van.

  “Yes,” said Gil, “and when it’s your turn to sleep, don’t even take off your hat. Leave your horses saddled and picketed close by. In a dry camp, always expect trouble. Then if it comes, and you’re ready, you’ll have some small chance of dealing with it.”

  They moved on. Two hours before sundown the sun slipped behind a cloud bank far to the west. The backbone of the Sierra Madres stood stark against the splash of red on the western horizon.

  “Illuvia,” said Ramon. Then he thought of the English word. “Rain.”

  “Maybe,” said Gil, “but when?”

  Ramon shrugged his shoulders. Even if it came tonight, it might fall short of them, ending somewhere west of the Sierras. It was almost too dark to see when they reached the first dry creek, the fifteen-mile point Gil had established. The horses and cattle surged into and across the dry bed. They knew it was a creek bed, and they sensed a cruel trick had been played on them. Finding there was no water, the thirsty longhorns began bawling in frustration.

  “Keep ’em moving,” Gil shouted. “Keep ’em bunched, and move ’em away.”

  Since there was no water, the horses and longhorns had to be moved beyond any suggestion of it. They had to forget the dry creek they had just crossed. The riders drove the thirsty, restless animals half a mile north and tried to bed them down
. They managed it with the horses, but the longhorns milled about, stretching their necks toward the south, bawling like lost souls viewing the pits of Hell. Six of the riders immediately began circling the longhorns, lest their rebelliousness spread to the horses. But the cattle wouldn’t graze, nor would they bed down.

  “If there was a moon,” said Gil, “I’d take them on. They’d be no worse off on the trail, and we’d be that much nearer water.”

  “Mayhap it come to us,” said Ramon.

  The cloud bank to the west had lost its red. The absence of the setting sun had left the clouds a dirty gray, and they seemed closer. Even as they watched, golden tongues of lightning flicked from the heavens. The wind was out of the north, rising.

  “I hope you’re right,” said Gil, “but it may not get here in time to be of any help to us. If the wind shifts to the west—or even the northwest—then God help us. Once this bunch gets the scent of water, even if it’s rain and fifty miles away, they’ll rattle their hocks out of here. Every cowboy in Mexico couldn’t hold them.”

  In less than an hour the lightning had moved markedly closer, and was accompanied by a distant rumble of thunder.

  “No rest for any of us tonight, amigos,” said Gil. “Might as well catch up fresh horses and all of us take to the saddle. We may not get any of the rain, but we’re goin’ to get the thunder and lightning, and it won’t take much to light the fuse. All that longhorn powder keg is waitin’ for is a spark.”

  But the spark wasn’t necessary. The wind continued to rise, shifting to the northwest, and with it came the torturous scent of distant rain. The mournful lowing of the longhorns became a mad frenzy. As one, they turned their noses west and thundered into the night, seeking the water the treacherous wind promised. The horse herd was caught up in the hysteria, and there was no heading them. Some of the riders managed to get ahead of the stampede and then had to ride for their lives to avoid being trampled. The riders could only rein up, listening, as the stampede rumbled on. What was the use in galloping their horses after a herd that couldn’t possibly be headed? They were unfamiliar with the land, and in darkness a horse and rider might pitch headlong into a hidden arroyo. So they listened helplessly as the thunder of the stampede was lost in that of the approaching storm. The bitter irony of it struck them, along with the first few drops of rain. Within minutes they were drenched with torrents of it. In less than an hour the once dry creek bed was a raging torrent. The thunder and lightning began to diminish, but the rain did not.