The Bandera Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Dry,” said Van. “Like I been ventilated and everything leaked out.”

  Rosa had one of the canteens ready, tilting it so he could drink. When he had satisfied his thirst, Gil put a hand on his flushed face, and finally his throat.

  “Still not too much fever,” said Gil. “You have Rosa to thank for that. She’s spent the day keeping cool wet cloth on your face.”

  But Van’s eyes had closed and he said no more. Rosa looked at Gil, concern in her eyes.

  “Rosa, what you’re doing is a help,” said Gil. “Just go ahead, and when you get tired, I’ll give you a rest. While you’re doing that, Juan and me will get some supper started.”

  Gil, Juan, and Rosa ate flapjacks, beans, and bacon. Then they took turns until midnight, fighting Van’s fever with cold compresses. But despite their efforts, his temperature began to rise. Once more he opened his eyes, but they were empty of recognition. His speech became rambling, incoherent mumbling.

  “Medicina,” said Juan. “Pulque fix.”

  “When?” Gil asked. “How long? Do we have to wait a day and a night—a full twenty-four hours?”

  “Mebbe,” said Juan. “Mebbe no. Taste pulque.”

  They had finished collecting the maguey sap about two o’clock the previous afternoon. If the stuff had to ferment a full twenty-four hours, then they’d be waiting until afternoon of the approaching day. By dawn, Van had a raging fever. Juan tasted the fermenting pulque.

  “T’ree hour, mebbe,” he said.

  During the night, a cool wind had risen. Gil had used that as an excuse for Rosa to get some sleep, opening the door so that the restless Van might benefit. Now, as the sun rose with promise of another hot day, Rosa again began applying the rags soaked in cold water. But the fever didn’t relinquish its hold. They were an hour shy of noon when Juan Padillo pronounced the pulque potent enough for use. Gil used it sparingly, pouring some of it into the wound. He then made a cloth pad for front and back, soaking them in the powerful liquid. With Juan’s help, he forced Van to drink a little of what remained. Neither of the Austins were drinking men, and Van reacted violently. He lay there gasping for breath, his eyes open to mere slits.

  “What—is that?” he wheezed.

  “Pulque,” said Gil. “Considerably better than hundred proof, I reckon. I’ve doused your wound with it, but you’ll have to sweat out that fever. So while you’re able to understand me, I want you to down a slug of this stuff. I can’t afford to dribble it into you while you’re out of your head, because we don’t have enough of it to waste any. Here, drink.”

  Van took a long pull on the canteen, swallowed, and almost suffocated before he could take a breath.

  “My—God!” he finally whispered. “If I ever get shot again, leave me be. I’ll take my chances with the lead.”

  “You got a pretty good dose,” Gil said. “If your fever drops and you start to sweat, I’ll spare you the rest of it. But if I don’t see some sweat pretty soon, then you’ll get some more. It’s all we can do for you.”

  “You could just shoot me again.” He shuddered, closed his eyes, and Gil stoppered the canteen. Juan Padillo and Rosa had witnessed the ordeal.

  “Malo whiskey,” said Rosa.

  “Pulque,” Juan said, with a grin. “Whiskey no more so branch water.”

  “Van will say amen to that,” Gil said. “Powerful as this stuff is, maybe what he’s downed will be enough. He’s likely to have a headache that’ll hurt worse than bein’ shot.”

  An hour before sundown, Van began to sweat. Gil again used the pulque to saturate the pads that covered the entrance and exit wounds. Rosa came in.

  “Vaqueros come,” she said. “Caballos, vacas come.”

  Had Ramon and the rest of the outfit finished the gather so soon? They had not; he could see the frustration in their faces as they reined up before the cabin.

  “Fi” hun’red vaca, twenny-fi’ caballo, no find,” said Ramon. “Storm come, estampeda, mayhap.”

  Gil looked to the west, and the sun had set behind a cloud bank, coloring it a glorious mix of pink and red. They still were short both horses and longhorns, but if thunder and lightning was on the way, they very well might have also lost the horses and cows they’d managed to gather. Ramon had made the right decision, returning early with what he had.

  “Bueno, Ramon,” Gil said.

  It was a good move, securing the stock they already had, well ahead of the impending storm. But there was a negative side Gil didn’t mention. He didn’t need to; Ramon was well aware of it. The storm would wipe out all tracks, lessening their chances of recovering the rest of the missing stock. But Ramon wasn’t finished; there was yet a chance.

  “Estanzio and Mariposa stay,” he said. “Find caballo, find vaca. Then come.”

  Despite the grim report, Gil chuckled. The Indian vaqueros refused to give up their prized horses so easily. If they could be found, Mariposa and Estanzio would find them, waiting out the storm and riding until they again picked up the trail. Lagging behind, Bola rode in, leading a skittish horse that bore the carcass of a freshly killed deer. Its throat had been cut, and Gil didn’t have to wonder how Bola had accomplished such a feat. The storm struck just before midnight. Howling wind swept through the canyon, driving blinding sheets of rain before it. The creek soon overflowed its banks. Whoever had built the cabin had not only built it sturdy, but had laid its foundation on stone, raising it several feet above the canyon floor. Thunder was a continuous drumroll of sound. Jagged tongues of lightning—blue, green, gold—licked into the canyon. Horses and longhorns huddled fearfully against the canyon walls, too frightened to run if there’d been anywhere to run. The awesome spectacle seemed to come from everywhere, leaving no escape. The riders grinned as Rosa crawled into her bunk and covered her head with a blanket. If the world was about to end, she didn’t want to see it. At the height of the storm, Van awoke.

  “My God,” he groaned, “it’s hot in here. With all the fire and brimstone outside, I was afraid I’d cashed in and the Devil was about to slap his brand on me.”

  “Later, maybe,” Gil said, “but not tonight. Are you hungry?”

  “I don’t know. Right now, I just want water. Gallons of it. I’m dry as a tumbleweed.”

  “More pulque?” Juan Padillo questioned cheerfully.

  “Come near me with that,” Van threatened, “and when I get my hands on a gun, I’ll shoot you.”

  Estanzio and Mariposa found the trail they were seeking just before dark. There would be no moon, and a storm was building somewhere west of the Sierra Madres. They could do no more until dawn; they found a bluff facing east, its overhang sufficient to shelter them from the impending storm. Come the morning, there would be no tracks to follow, but they would ride until they caught up with the trail that must eventually appear in the aftermath of the storm. The old trail, until darkness had stolen it from them, had been due north. Once the storm had passed, they had little choice but to continue riding north until they either struck a new trail or concluded the herds had stampeded before the storm. All the missing Mendoza horses had been mares, which left Estanzio and Mariposa with but one conclusion. The northbound trail they had discovered just before dark had confirmed their suspicions. The tracks had been a mix of shod and unshod horses, with tracks of a single unshod animal trailing the herd. It had taken the vaqueros some time to sort it all out, for the trail had been totally eclipsed in places by cow tracks. Mariposa and Estanzio squatted in the dark, chewing jerked beef.

  “Salyaje stallion steal Mendoza mares,” said Estanzio. “Them go with unshod salvaje herd. Vacas follow caballos.”

  “Si,” said Mariposa.

  They were agreed the Mendoza mares had become part of a wild horse herd, trailed by a domineering stallion. The remnant of the longhorn herd, being accustomed to trailing the horse herd, had followed. Unchecked, the horse herd would soon leave the longhorns behind, and they could be recovered without difficulty. But the wild stallion might take
them on a run when they went after his newly acquired mares. Mariposa and Estanzio hadn’t been all that concerned about the missing cows, but now that they knew where the animals were, Ramon should be told. Estanzio spoke.

  “Mañana, find track. Trail caballo, trail vaca. I tell Ramon, we follow. Ramon take vaca, us trail caballo.”

  Before going after the horses, they had an obligation to the outfit to see that the longhorns were recovered. Their chase might take many days, ending with them having to shoot the troublesome stallion. Estanzio waited until the storm blew itself out. He then mounted his horse and headed for the distant canyon.

  The vivid lightning had given way to darkness, the thunder was only a distant rumble, and the wind had died to a whisper. The patter of rain on the shake roof of the cabin was pleasant. Gil knelt before the fire, a venison steak broiling at the end of a long stick. Once Van had satisfied his thirst, he was hungry.

  “Rider come,” said Ramon.

  Juan Padillo put out the candle and they waited, their hands on the butts of their pistols. Without the lightning, the night was pitch-black. Standing to one side of the door, Ramon cracked it enough to see out.

  “Is Estanzio,” he said.

  Quickly Estanzio told them of the wild horse herd, of the stallion’s stealing their mares, and of the trailing remnant of the herd of longhorns.

  “None of this surprises me,” said Gil, “except those fool cows trailing along after a wild horse herd. Estanzio, how many wild caballos, how many Mendoza?”

  “Salvaje,” said Estanzio, raising his hands twice, fingers spread. “Same Mendoza, but fi’ more.”

  “That’s bad news,” said Van. “If that stallion’s got only twenty in his bunch, he ain’t goin’ to give up them twenty-five new mares without a fight.”

  “Him dead,” said Estanzio, “him no fight.”

  For a while nobody spoke. It was an extreme measure, a thing none of them liked to think about, but time was their enemy. They were on a trail drive, fraught with uncertainty and danger. Gil broke the silence.

  “Five days,” he said. “It’ll be that long before Van’s able to ride. You have until then to convince this salvaje caballo to give up our mares.”

  “I’ll be able to…” Van began, and paused. Estanzio knew they must recover the Mendoza mares, but he didn’t want to shoot the gallant stallion.

  “I’ll be able to ride by then, I reckon,” Van said.

  “Estanzio,” said Gil, “take Bola with you; this might be more difficult than you think.”

  “Get cow?” Ramon asked.

  “Take three men with you,” said Gil, “and go with Estanzio. While he, Mariposa, and Bola catch up to this band of horses, take your men and turn that bunch of longhorns back this way.”

  “I take Vicente, Pedro, and Manuel,” said Ramon.

  “Those outlaws had horses and cows in this canyon when we got here,” said Van. “Are we claimin’ them?”

  “That’s what we’re going to decide in the next few days,” said Gil. “We’ll have trouble enough gettin’ across the border, without having stolen stock in our herd. Any horse or cow in this canyon that’s wearin’ a brand goes free. They can find their way home, or just wander forever, as long as they can’t be tied to us.”

  Estanzio and Bola rode out at first light, followed by Ramon, Vicente, Pedro, and Manuel. Juan Padillo, Juan Alamonte, and Domingo Chavez remained in the canyon.

  “The four of us,” said Gil, “are going to tally the horses and cows that were in this canyon when we took over. The horses won’t be a problem, but longhorns look pretty much alike. While we’re about it, we’ll count them all. Just keep track of any that’s wearin’ brands. We’ll back them out of the total, and know how many we’ve gained. Don’t worry with cropped ears; we can get around that. Do all of you have a pencil?”

  Each man dug in his pocket for his stub of pencil. Many a rider who couldn’t read or write knew his numbers and could copy brands. Gil handed each man two blank pages he’d torn out of a tablet.

  “Don’t bother copying brands,” said Gil. “If a cow or horse is branded, I don’t care what the brand is. When we’re done, we’ll compare tallies and see where we stand.”

  By the time Estanzio and his riders reached the bluff where the Indian vaqueros had waited out the storm, Mariposa was gone. His trail was plain, leading due north, and they followed it at a gallop. The first evidence of the longhorns they found was a profusion of tracks in a scrub oak thicket, where the herd apparently had taken refuge from, the storm. As a result of the heavy rain, every gulley—most of them normally dry—was bank-full. The riders had covered only a few miles when they began seeing grazing longhorns. They rode on, intending to get beyond the farthest ones, gathering the rest as they drove south. Estanzio and Bola continued north, leaving Ramon and his riders to gather the errant longhorns. Estanzio looked at the ground only occasionally. There would be no tracks of the wild horse herd until they were beyond the path of last night’s storm. Mariposa’s trail continued north. He was gambling the horse herd hadn’t turned either east or west before or during the storm. If they didn’t soon sight the herd or find tracks, they’d have to assume the herd had stampeded, probably to the east, the wind at their backs. Then they must spend tedious hours riding a widening circle, until they struck a new trail, tracks left after the storm’s passing. If Mariposa didn’t soon see some evidence the wild horse herd had continued north, he would begin to circle, seeking to cut the new trail. He was leaving a plain trail, knowing that if he began his circle to the east, Estanzio would circle west. The wet weather streams became less frequent, until finally they were beyond the swath of last night’s storm. Estanzio and Bola rode down a grassy slope, and in the sand at the bottom was the trail they sought. Estanzio read the tracks, and from the strides of the horses, it seemed they had simply run off and left the trailing longhorns. Estanzio decided the horses, frightened by the thunder and lightning, had stampeded, seeking only to escape the storm. Wherever they were, they would be tired. Once Mariposa sighted the grazing herd, he would not move alone. They found him waiting at the foot of a ridge, his nearby horse cropping grass. Estanzio and Bola reined up.

  “Salvaje caballos.” Mariposa pointed toward the crest of the ridge.

  “We take Mendoza caballo,” said Estanzio. “No take salvaje caballo. En tiempo.”

  Mariposa mounted his horse and the three of them rode to the top of the ridge. There was no hope of keeping their presence a secret. They would first try to ride down the herd, to cut but their mares. Failing in that, they’d have to dispose of the stallion. One way or another. The stallion, a big gray, saw them coming. He began nipping the flanks of his charges, nickering his impatience with their slow response. The Mendoza mares were farthest away, the wild bunch between them and the pursuing riders. Leaving Bola at the rear, Estanzio and Mariposa flanked the herd on opposite sides, seeking to drive a wedge between the mares and the wild horses. But the big gray stallion had expected that. He was everywhere, biting and nickering. Before Estanzio and Mariposa could split the herd, the stallion bunched them, driving the wild horses among the Mendoza mares. He was immediately on the heels of the stragglers, forcing them into a gallop. In turn, they crowded the front ranks, until the entire herd was in a mad gallop. Bola reined up, waiting for Estanzio and Mariposa to join him. This was new to him; he would follow their lead. Estanzio handed him a yard-long length of strong rope.

  “We catch,” said Estanzio. “Hobble hind legs.”

  Bola nodded. They’d never catch their mares as long as the stallion was free to control them. The trio kicked their horses into a gallop. The stallion could travel no faster than the herd, and the riders soon caught up. Mariposa and Estanzio took the lead, building their loops, riding straight for the big gray stallion. Mariposa’s loop went true, snaring the animal’s head, while Estanzio’s underhand toss caught the hind legs. His nicker a mix of fear and anger, the stallion went down in a cloud of dust. Ea
ch rider backed his horse away from the stallion, taking up the slack in his catch rope. Bola was out of his saddle in an instant, securing one end of the rope to each of the stallion’s hind legs. He could stand and take short steps, but he couldn’t spread his hind legs enough to rear. The stallion exploded, floundering like a hooked fish, snapping at the empty air like a mad dog. The riders backed away, allowing the horse to exhaust itself enough for them to loose their lariats and flip them free. That accomplished, the trio galloped away after the horse herd.

  Without the big stallion nipping at them, the herd had begun to graze. Before they were close enough to alarm the horses, Mariposa and Estanzio separated, again flanking the herd. Bola continued to advance. Without the stallion there to alarm them, the Mendoza horses didn’t fear the riders. But the wild horses ran nickering away. Their fear was contagious, but the Mendoza mares hadn’t moved quickly enough. Mariposa and Estanzio were between them and the retreating wild horse herd. There were twenty-six mares, and without the stallion’s influence, they surrendered meekly. “Once the three riders had their recovered herd bunched, they took a wide half circle around the hobbled stallion. The big gray horse was on his feet, but he made no move toward them, nor did he nicker after the departing mares. Before they rode out of sight, Estanzio paused and looked back. Like a big gray statue, the stallion stood looking after them. Estanzio rode on. Had it been another time, another place, he thought, it might have ended differently.

  The stallion lay down and began chewing at the rope that hobbled his hind legs. Eventually he would free himself, but it would take him several hours, and by then the mares would be well out of his reach. When finally the last strand of rope parted, the big gray horse got to his feet and shook himself. For a moment he stood looking south, the direction his departing mares had gone. Slowly, he set out on the trail of his old herd…

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