The Bandera Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “No,” said Sergeant Aguilla. “None of you are permitted to leave. It is an order.”

  “Then send one of your soldiers,” Ramon pleaded. “We must find water.”

  “There was water yesterday,” said Aguilla, “and water the day before, no?”

  “Si,” said Ramon resignedly.

  “Then why,” responded the arrogant Aguilla, “should there not be water today? Enough of your whining, borrica.”

  Ramon said no more, but when sundown came, there was no water. Despite Aguilla’s objections, Ramon pushed the herds as hard as he dared, hoping they might yet reach water. But darkness forced them into a dry camp, and it was a situation the herds refused to accept. The longhorns wouldn’t bed down, and their disgruntled bawling became an ominous dirge. Sergeant Aguilla behaved like a petulant child, demanding that the riders quiet the thirsty cattle. Ramon and his men remained in their saddles, not attempting to satisfy Aguilla’s foolish demands, but to avoid being left afoot when the stampede began. The day had been hot and oppressive, but when the moon rose, so did the wind. While it was just a gentle breeze from the south, it became as much a catalyst as a bolt of lightning during a storm. Whether the south wind actually brought the smell of some distant stream, or just revived the memory of last night’s deep-running creek, it was enough. Sergeant Aguilla’s roar of rage became a cry of fear as the longhorns, followed by the horse herd, came thundering toward the soldier camp. Men ran for their lives, falling behind rocks and climbing trees. The madness was contagious, and every soldier’s horse was caught up in the stampede. Their saddles, packs, blankets, and anything else in the path of the thundering herd suffered mightily. Ramon and his riders, knowing the futility of it, hadn’t tried to head the stampede. When the dust began to settle, and Sergeant Aguilla climbed down from a tree in which he had taken refuge, he found Ramon and the riders had followed the herd. Come the dawn, or whenever Aguilla and his men chose to follow, they would be walking. It had been a devastating stampede, and might require days to gather the scattered herds, but Ramon Alcaraz wore a satisfied grin. He welcomed the delay, and por Dios, the walk would be good for the arrogant Sergeant Aguilla!

  August 29, 1843. North of Tampico.

  Clay, Angelina, and Solano had just unsaddled their horses after riding most of the night. Without the cart slowing them down, a night’s travel not only covered many miles, it lessened their chance of discovery. Clay and Angelina had reached and passed a crucial milestone in their relationship, and both were aware of it. Secure in the knowledge that he wanted her, that she had a place in his life, Angelina brought up a subject she knew he was reluctant to talk about.

  “Gil and Van Austin came to Mexico because you asked them to,” she said. “When I freed you from prison, after I told you they had come, I expected you to go immediately to the Mendoza ranch. To go looking for them.”

  For a while he said nothing, and she feared that he wasn’t going to, that she had hurt his pride. When he finally responded, it was with a query of his own.

  “If I had done that—gone looking for them—would you have gone with me, knowing the risk you were taking?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I would have gone with you.”

  “I thought so,” he said, with a half smile, “and that’s one of the reasons I didn’t go. Right now, I’d bet the Mexican government would pay more for your head than for Sam Houston’s. Whatever I owed Gil and Van, it was too late to worry about. I owed you my life. How could I better repay you than by savin’ yours? How else could I do that, except by gettin’ you out of Mexico?”

  He had said exactly the wrong thing; he saw it in her eyes. In a single sentence he had reduced their relationship to his fulfilling an obligation. Irritated by his clumsiness, his poor choice of words, he took her by the shoulders and forced her to look into his eyes.

  “Damn it, girl, I didn’t mean that like it sounded. I didn’t mean I’m only takin’ you with me because you broke me out of the juzgado. I meant that it was too late to help Gil and Van, and that if I tried, I might lose you, without ever findin’ them. They’re the grandest pards a man ever had, but if it was you or them, they’d be goners. Can’t you see that?”

  “Yes,” she said, and the light was back in her dark eyes. “This feeling is new to me, and for a moment, I was afraid…”

  “God knows, you have plenty to be afraid of, until we cross the border, but losin’ me ain’t any of it. What I said about throwin’ Gil and Van to the wolves for your sake was only to show how strong I feel for you. Like I told you, Gil and Van Austin are pards to ride the river with. They done their best to talk me out of comin’ here, horses or not, but we Duvals are the kind that thinks we can whip our weight in bobcats. Mule stubborn as I am, I’d sooner be throwed and stomped every day for the rest of my life than have Gil and Van throw their lives away, tryin’ to save mine. This is a long speech for a feller that ain’t very good at it, but since I committed myself to you, I want you to know I ain’t the coldhearted bastard I sometimes may seem. When we get to Texas, if Gil and Van ain’t there, then I reckon I’ll know why. It’s a thing that’ll haunt me the rest of my life.”

  It was a side of Clay Duval she didn’t know existed. She was touched by his sincerity and humility. She thought of the days, weeks, and months he had spent in a Mexican prison, accompanied only by the belief that he had led his friends to their deaths. She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her peon camisa before she spoke. Then she took him by the shoulders, as he had taken her.

  “Gil and Van Austin are strong men, Clay. Within a day after their arrival, I knew why you had sent for them. I left before the drive began, so I cannot be certain, but I believe if anyone could succeed, they will. As Victoria tried to intimidate you, so did she attempt to intimidate them, and again she failed. She went so far as to tell them she was carrying your child.”

  Despite herself, Angelina had wondered if there had been a shred of truth in that, if Victoria had indeed gotten herself in that condition. It would have been a difficult hold for Clay to have broken. She looked at him, but he couldn’t look at her. His face crimsoned, the color creeping down to his shirt collar. Hard as she tried not to, sire laughed, and was immediately sorry. Finally he spoke.

  “You didn’t believe that…did you?”

  “Of course not, even before she admitted it was a lie. Gil Austin called her a liar, said there was no child, and accused her of using that to get a hold on you. Not only did she admit to the lie, but cursed you for a perfect gentleman. Are you?”

  “Mostly,” he said, with a half grin, “but that might change once we get to Texas and don’t have the Mex army gunnin’ for us.”

  “I’ll take that for a promise,” she said, “and hold you to it.”

  Ramon and his men rode south to the creek where they had bedded down the herds the night before. They didn’t doubt they’d find their horses and cows somewhere along that creek, and while they could do nothing in the darkness, they would be ready at first light. But Ramon had an even better reason for following the stampede. The foolish soldados were afoot. Had he and his riders remained, the arrogant Sergeant Aguilla would have simply taken their horses, leaving him and his men afoot. Now the sergeant and his soldados would have no choice; they would have to walk a good twelve miles to reach the creek, Ramon grinned in the darkness. Perhaps the estupido soldado sergeant would learn something.

  Reaching the creek, Ramon and his riders rolled in their blankets and slept. As dawn approached, so did the weary Sergeant Aguilla and his soldiers. Ramon hadn’t bothered with a fire, since their packhorses had stampeded and all their supplies were a dozen miles away. Once they caught some horses to carry the packs, he would send for their supplies. In the gray first light, Ramon saw the soldiers coming. They stumbled along in a ragged line, making no attempt at formation. Ramon readied himself for Sergeant Aguilla’s anger, but Aguilla didn’t have the strength. Not only was he exhausted, he was dry. Along with the rest of the soldiers,
Aguilla headed for the creek. They all fell on their bellies, hung their heads over the low bank and satisfied their raging thirst. Ramon approached Aguilla.

  “Senor,” he said, “I must send riders with packhorses to bring our supplies. We have no food.”

  Ramon expected Aguilla to object, since the sergeant had refused his request to scout ahead for water. But Aguilla did not; he kept his silence, lifting his hand in dismissal. Ramon sent Pedro Fagano and Vicente Gomez to rope a pair of horses to carry the packs. The other riders hadn’t even saddled their horses, a thing that soon attracted Sergeant Aguilla’s attention. He got to his feet, scowling at Ramon.

  “The sun shines,” he said, “and you do nothing. Why do you not gather these animals for the trail?”

  “Because we are hungry,” said Ramon shortly. “We have had no food since yesterday at dawn. We will do nothing until we have eaten.”

  It was something even the stubborn Aguilla couldn’t deny, for he and his men were also weak from hunger. They had been about to prepare supper when the stampede had destroyed their camp. Still, they might have eaten from Ramon’s supplies, had Sergeant Aguilla not allowed his anger to get the best of him. Furious, his only thought was to get his hands on the vaqueros who had ridden away, leaving him afoot. Gathering his men, he had ordered an immediate march southward, in pursuit of the riders. As his anger had cooled, he had regretted his hasty decision, for they had not a drop of water among them. Every man’s canteen had been thonged to his saddle, and while their saddles had survived to some extent, their canteens had not. How was he, Sergeant Aguilla, to explain the destruction of their equipment to Major Farias, when their assignment had been so simple? Why hadn’t the sergeant been told those foolish vacas would run away when they had no water? Por Dios, he had been told! Recalling Ramon’s plea that he be allowed to scout ahead for water, he became furious all over again. This vaquero, this pelado, had made a fool of him, but he would pay, Sergeant Aguilla vowed. Sometime before they reached Matamoros, he would pay.

  Before they had much-needed food and hot coffee, the sun was more than two hours high. Once they had eaten, Sergeant Aguilla—almost civil—asked Ramon to have the riders round up the soldiers’ horses. Once the animals had been found, Aguilla detailed seven of his men to return to last night’s campsite. There they would recover saddles and anything else that might have survived the stampede. Each man must ride bareback, leading an extra horse, and there were complaints from those chosen to go. Ramon noticed all seven men were the conscripts. Sergeant Aguilla played favorites; when the time was right, it might be used against him. Ramon and the riders spent the rest of the day gathering the horses, and come sundown, some of the herd was still missing.

  Gil and Van looked at the unappetizing supper that had been left inside the stockade gate. They had three bowls of watery stew, tortillas, a jug of cold coffee, a trio of pewter cups, and three wooden spoons.

  “Better eat,” said Long John. “This is some improvement over the usual. I reckon they’re puttin’ on a special feed in yer honor.”

  “If this is better than usual,” said Van, “I’m glad we didn’t get here any sooner.”

  They finished it all, even the weak, cold coffee. Long John piled the empty bowls, cups, the jug, and the spoons by the stockade gate.

  “You’re mighty accommodatin’,” said Van. “Make ’em come in after that stuff. Might be a chance to bust out.”

  “You reckon I didn’t think o’ that?” said Long John. “They don’t come in. They’s two hombres; one t’ git the dishes, an’ one with a rifle. The gent with the rifle tells ye to bring the stuff near the gate, put it down, an’ back away. I reckoned I’d make a run fer it betwixt here an’ Matamoros. But from in here, fergit it.”

  At first glance Gil and Van had seen nothing within the three-sided shelter except the bench along the back wall. But once their eyes had become accustomed to the poor light, they saw some thin, dirty straw ticks on the dirt floor beneath the bench. Gil nudged them with the toe of his boot.

  “Less’n ye got a tough hide,” said Long John, “I’d leave them mats alone. Full o’ fleas an’ other varmints, all of which bites. Sleep on the dirt floor an’ make the bastards come lookin’ fer ye.”

  The three captives stretched out on the hard floor, using their boots for a pillow. Despite the primitive conditions, they slept, to be awakened well before first light by the opening of the stockade gate.

  “Breakfast,” said Long John, when the gate had closed. “Means we gon’ be leavin’ here. They ain’t never fed this early afore.”

  “From hearin’ ’em talk,” said Van, “you got any idea how far we are from Matamoros?”

  “I’d figger it at two hundred mile,” said Long John. “Heard one of ’em say I wasn’t worth a three-day ride.”

  “Your luck just ran out,” said Gil, “because this Major Farias that grabbed us is in a hurry to show us off. I have a strong suspicion that the coyote takin’ Santa Anna’s place is already at Matamoros, or on his way.”

  “Damn,” Long John swore, “we might not git sent t’ Mexico City.”

  “I reckon you’ll be disappointed,” said Van.

  “Disappointed an’ dead,” said Long John. “You ruther they’d back ye agin th’ wall at Matamoros an’ fill ye full o’ lead, er throw ye in that prison in Mexico City?”

  “Either way,” said Van, “your trail comes to an end. The dungeon just takes longer.”

  “My trail ain’t come to no end,” said Long John, “till I’m stone dead, planted, an’ the devil’s dabbed his loop on me. They ain’t a juzgado in the world what can’t be broke out of, if’n a man’s hell bent on it.”

  “Glad you feel that way,” said Gil, with a grim chuckle. “They give us a choice of bein’ shot at Matamoros or bein’ thrown in prison, then I reckon I’d agree. I choose the prison.”

  It was macabre humor, and Long John said no more. Gil hoped he hadn’t got on the bad side of the Cajun; he didn’t need any more enemies.

  “I do not know for sure the distance from Mexico City to Matamoros,” said Angelina. “While I worked at the café near the prison, I heard some of the soldiers speak of the journey. If what they said is to be believed, it is almost six hundred miles.”

  “We must have covered half of that,” said Clay Duval. “When we’re within a day’s ride of Matamoros, we’ll circle it to the northwest and cross the border into Texas.”

  “Texas,” said Solano. “No soldados, no fight?”

  So seldom did the Indian speak, he had taken them by surprise. Clay laughed.

  “No soldados,” he said, “but plenty fight. There’s horse thieves, cow thieves, claim jumpers, gun throwers, gamblers, and Comanches.”

  “Go,” said Solano, pleased. “Fight.”

  “In Mexico,” said Angelina, “we have only the milicia to fear. When we have crossed the border, we will have to fight the whole world.”

  Clay laughed. “Maybe, but not all at the same time. Besides, we’ll have help. Texas has an army. We beat hell out of Santa Anna at San Jacinto. Then there’s the Texas Rangers. Just last year, they had a bloody battle with the Comanches in Bandera Pass.”*

  “There may yet be war between your country and Mexico,” said Angelina. “Besides all those others, we may still have to fight the Mexican army.”

  “There’ll be war,” said Clay, “before there’s lasting peace.* Have you changed your mind about goin’ to Texas?”

  “No,” she said, “it is your country, and it will become my country. If we must fight, then we will fight. In war or in peace, I shall be there beside you.”

  “Bueno,” he said. “It’s frontier now, but one day the fighting will be done, and the stars and stripes of the United States will fly over Texas from the Red River to the Rio Grande.”*

  “You make it sound so glorious,” she laughed, “how could I not wish to become a part of it?”

  Ramon and the riders took their time with the gather. When
Sergeant Aguilla swore at him because of the delay, Ramon stood up to him.

  “Senor,” said Ramon coldly, “it is you who has made this gather necessary. Each night the caballos and vacas are without water, you are inviting the estampeda.”

  Sergeant Aguilla was a man not accustomed to making mistakes, or taking the blame for them when he did. He glared at Ramon for a long moment before he spoke.

  “There is truth in what you say,” he grudgingly admitted. “Hereafter, you will be permitted to send a rider ahead to find water, but see that you reach it before the night. I will not tolerate another delay such as this.”

  Some of Ramon’s riders and several of Aguilla’s men had come close enough to hear the concession, and they grinned openly at Aguilla. He silently cursed them for laughing at him, and himself for having given them a reason. These vaqueros knew what they were doing, he decided, and lest he continue making an asno of himself, he would have to allow them freedom to do their work.

  September 2, 1843. On the trail.

  The third day of their gather, Ramon made a decision. They were still missing sixteen of the Mendoza horses. Most of them were from that bunch of mares they had rescued from the wild stallion, and Ramon had no intention of losing them again. Taking Estanzio with him, he followed the creek to the east. It didn’t make sense that the rest of the horse herd had stopped at the creek while these wandering few had gone on. But apparently they had. Estanzio led out, following their tracks eastward along the creek. After three or four miles the trail veered off to the southeast, becoming more southerly as it progressed. At that point the horses had started to run. Estanzio reined up land dismounted, Ramon following. The cougar tracks were faint but distinct, overlying the tracks of the fleeing horses.

  “Him scare horse,” said Estanzio. “Then him follow.”

  It began to make sense. The mares had grazed along the creek, had drifted away from the rest of the herd, and had been frightened by the cougar. They mounted their horses, and Estanzio led out at a gallop. They were three days behind; unless the mares had literally outrun the big cat, the damage had already been done.