Trail Hand Page 4

  Pulling Chavez up by one arm, I proceeded to dust him off.

  “Sorry about that horse of mine, caporal,” I added quickly. “He always did have a nasty habit of kicking out like that. Hell, he’s even knocked me down on occasion.”

  Chavez caught on quickly. He may have been many things, but a fool was not one of them. He couldn’t let on to his boss what had really happened between us without getting himself in trouble for spying on Rosa, or for fighting over it.

  “That horse is a devil,” he said, staring straight at me. “I never even seen it coming.”

  “I was just leaving, Señor Hernandez,” I explained. “When the caporal came to see me off, he moved a little too close to my Morgan. The stallion bucked me off and kicked out at him.” I could see that Don Enrique was puzzled, but, since no one ventured to say any different, he had to accept it as so. “I assure you, señor, it won’t happen again,” I said while mounting up. “Con su permiso, I will see you in a few days,” I added.

  As I rode out, I could see Chavez recovering his pistol from the barrel, so I made very sure not to ride in a straight line.

  Chapter Four

  By the time the herd reached the border, my accounts in town were all settled. I stocked up on ammunition and said a quick good bye to Pili, who was surprisingly civil about the whole thing. Civil for her that is. She did scream something in Spanish about my gringo ancestry, and then indicated that I was a fool who didn’t know a good thing when he saw it. She also made it clear that from that point on I could forget about any more personal attention from her. At least this time I didn’t have to duck any flying kitchen supplies.

  Truth is, nothing could have pleased me more, because ever since returning from the hacienda, I couldn’t get Rosa off my mind. I never used to believe in love at first sight, but what I was feeling for her sure came awfully close.

  I started the next day at first light, scouting north, to get the lay of the land, before swinging back to meet the camp. I wasn’t at all surprised to find Don Enrique accompanying the drive, even at his age. He brought along about twelve riders, but had left his daughter behind in charge of the rest of the vaqueros working the hacienda.

  Chavez, as expected, was already in the saddle, and along with the rest of his men was driving a herd of about 1,200 horses. I hadn’t seen that many during my brief stay at the hacienda, but then again a wise man doesn’t always show his hand, something Señor Hernandez obviously knew all too well. He must have divided his herd into various remudas in order to fool the other rancheros, and to foil any attempts at rustling.

  Driving horses is a little different from working cattle, since they wander more and don’t bunch up as tight as steers do. Horses also tend to form their own little social orders. When you try to move them around out of place, they often get to kicking and biting, preferring instead to move in lines of their own choosing.

  While it’s true that God never created a creature as ornery as a range longhorn, horses on the trail can spook or stampede just as easily as cattle, and as many men have been injured working around horses as cattle.

  Longhorns can surely make a sane man jittery, but an unbroken cayuse can be just as unpredictable. That’s why a pony won’t go into a cavvy until it’s about four, and it isn’t till its sixth year that it finally calms down. Even so, no rider ever truly relaxes much around a working bronco till its about ten years old. Fortunately the men of the Hernandez outfit knew their jobs well and the drive started out fairly smoothly.

  “These are as fine-lookin’ horses as I’ve seen,” I commented to Gregorio, one of the outriders.

  “Tienen sangre española.” He nodded, saying it was the Spanish blood mixed in.

  From what I could make out with my limited Spanish, he was talking about an Andalusia strain and the effort Don Enrique had put into breeding them with local stock. It reminded me of how much Pa had wanted those Morgans to improve his own herd. Seems like regardless of language, true horsemen are the same all over.

  Some Eastern folk might think that trailing horses is glamorous and exciting, but for the most part it’s just plain hard work, and it starts early. Mornings are filled with a quick cup of coffee that varies in consistency from regular to glue, depending on the cook, and usually some biscuits that can either be eaten or used as wagon wheel stops.

  Fact is, I’ve been on drives where the food was so bad the men wondered if the stew was made from old boots, and one time on the trail we passed a marker that read: Here lies the cook. Shot him cause he couldn’t!

  Fortunately for us, there was none better than our cocinero, Joaquin. He usually prepared something real spicy, wrapped in tortillas, and his coffee was more than passable. Of course, the Hernandez boys never let on to him just how good they thought it was. Nope, quite the contrary.

  Joaquin always wore a red bandanna around his neck and was constantly wiping his sweaty forehead with it. Francisco and the other boys always kidded Joaquin by accusing him of using that bandanna to strain the coffee grounds. They often joked that, in order to get such a peculiar flavor, he must be squeezing it, sweat and all, back into the soup kettle when no one was looking.

  In general, they made Joaquin bear the brunt of the camp jokes, something I always thought was dangerous to do to the man who prepares your food. Joaquin, however, played to the part, constantly raising a ruckus or complaining to a deaf-eared Chavez.

  In reality, any one of the hands would have gladly given up his favorite saddle to keep him on as cook, and Joaquin worked as hard as anyone trying to prepare our meals the best he could. As for my part, I was pleased just to keep quiet and enjoy the grub, which I ate in formidable amounts.

  Joaquin’s chuck wagon was a covered, two-wheeled affair with four large water barrels tied to its sides. Aside from the usual assortment of pots and pans, it also carried an extra barrel of molasses. That’s why, by the eighth day out, our cook was nursing a sore head.

  Seems Joaquin had a habit of sleeping under his wagon at night with a few of the twenty some odd goats that trailed after him. One night the barrel leaked some of the syrup onto him while he slept. Joaquin awoke in a start, practically covered in ants, and bolted upright so fast he knocked himself out cold on the wagon axle. The goats didn’t mind lapping up the molasses, though, ants and all. We found them under the wagon, licking Joaquin’s head and face.

  After a short breakfast the ponies chosen to be ridden that day were bridled, brushed, and their hoofs picked out. Only a fool would ride a horse before checking hoofs and tendons first. Unfortunately, lifting and holding a horse’s four legs and picking out its hoofs first thing in the morning is not only hard on the back, it can be a real chore, especially if the horse isn’t the kind to stand still for it. Many is the time I’ve had a bite taken out of my backside by a nasty bronco.

  I was grateful that my Morgan bay always stood like a rock for me. Even so, he was strong, his legs heavy, and he had large hoofs for his size. He also had a nasty habit of swatting me in the face with that big tail of his every time I bent over.

  Saddles also have to be maintained. Most of the never-ending tack work is done in the evenings, but every now and then a cinch breaks or a rein snaps and has to be replaced. A rider’s tack is almost a part of him, and most of the outfit’s vaqueros were very attentive about keeping things in good shape. A good horseman soon learns to be a combination leathersmith and poor man’s tailor, not to mention farrier.

  Anyone who has ridden his bottom raw in a ragged misfit saddle, or has had a stirrup leather break on him at the wrong time doesn’t ever again get behind with his tack. Most working saddles aren’t all that fancy, but they do have to be comfortable, and sturdy enough to withstand the constant pull of both rider and rope.

  The extras in the kit are important, too. A torn saddle blanket thrown over a dirty burr-ridden hair coat will quickly rub a horse raw, cause fistulous withers, and leave his rider afoot. A working cayuse isn’t brushed for show, it’s done for hi
s health, as well as the rider’s.

  A cowboy’s boots are another item constantly in need of attention. In some places thorns will drive right through a boot toe if it’s in poor shape and can actually cripple the rider. Texican boots have a higher heel than the flat mejicano kind and slant inward more, probably to keep the foot from hanging up, or from shooting through the stirrup in case of being bucked. Mexican stirrups— tapaderos—sort of solve that in their own way.

  The vaqueros all had these round leather coverings on the front of their stirrups to help prevent this. I kind of liked the idea, so I asked Joaquin to help me sew on a makeshift pair of tapadero stirrup covers made from some spare dried-out cowhides. They weren’t as good-looking as the rest’s, but they sure did the job.

  The herd of horses we were trailing wasn’t yet shod, but those cayuses in the vaqueros’ remuda had to be. Horseshoes protect hoofs from the rider’s extra weight by keeping the animal’s soles and heels up off of rough terrain. Even with shoes on, however, hoofs still have to be regularly filed free of sandcracks, and soles protected from penetrating wounds. There’s an old saying— “No feet, no horse.”—and, as important as that Morgan stallion was to me, I was glad we had a good smith along with us.

  One of the biggest and surely fattest of our group was the vaquero they all called Chango. He was about thirty, bald as an egg, and, when he walked, it was with a sort of half limp, half shuffle. Without a doubt Chango had the flattest feet I ever laid eyes on. He also had a constant twitch in his left eye, and it took me a few days to figure out why.

  Chango Lopez had apparently been the outfit’s blacksmith for years. He was a big man, but always stood somewhat bent, having spent practically his whole life stooped over an anvil or some horse’s leg. His hands were so big that a hoof seemed to disappear in them, and, given his size, it wouldn’t have surprised me a bit to learn he shaped his horseshoes by bending old railroad ties, cold. In spite of his tremendous size and strength, however, Chango had good hands when it came to shaping and fitting shoe to hoof. He was never rough and took great pride in his attention to detail when pounding hoof nails.

  Sometimes simply holding onto the leg of a cayuse that’s being shod isn’t enough, especially with a skittish mare or a mean bronco. One morning, after about a week and half out, I found Chango tying up a large and obviously cantankerous chestnut mare.

  When a blacksmith can’t get a horse to stand still, he’ll often throw an assortment of ropes and nooses around its girth, neck, and leg. Done right it will act as a combination pulley and pressure snare. This way he can both lift the leg and at the same time, by snugging the rope, immobilize the animal.

  The rope has to be pulled tight, but with Chango’s arm size that shouldn’t have presented much of a problem. I had been getting ready to scout ahead, but as I rode past him, I couldn’t help notice he was limping even more than usual.

  “¿Que te pasa, hombre?” I inquired, gesturing to his foot. “Is it broke?” I asked.

  “Sí, es mi pie,” he answered, pointing first to his toes and then to a large grulla gelding that apparently had stomped his left foot the day before. It was a toss-up as to which of Chango’s feet had been broken more over the years. It also explained the presence of his highly guarded pocket flask.

  With the exception of some medicinal whiskey that was kept locked up in the chuck wagon, Chango Lopez was the only one on the trail Don Enrique allowed to drink. Although we all liked a good shot whenever possible, none of the vaqueros dared argue the point with the don. Instead, everyone simply shrugged Chango’s ration off as a pain reliever we were glad not to have need of.

  Chango was putting the final touches to his snugging harness and tying down the main knot when I noticed the shine on the rope he was using.

  “It’s new, right?” I asked with a sense of foreboding.

  “¿Sí, porque?” he asked, looking up at me questioningly. Just then the knot slipped. As slick as it was, that new rope wouldn’t hold the knot, and it practically smoked as the whole affair came unraveled. The big chestnut’s hoof dropped point first, falling straight down like an axe blade. Chango took the whole weight of that mare’s leg right on top of his bad foot.

  “¡Aii cabrón!” he screamed, and I didn’t blame him one bit. The whole left side of his face screwed into a grimace as he fought back the pain. As I rode away, I now understood his facial twitch, and vowed silently to myself never to take up blacksmithing for a living.

  Joaquin and Chango excluded, things had gone well for the rest of us so far, and everyone quickly fell into a routine. Even the herd was behaving as well as could be expected.

  All the horses were rounded up every morning and grouped tightly for the drive. Nobody rides nice and straight on a drive, but rather everyone constantly weaves back and forth, in and out, in order to keep a herd in order. Horses are spookier than cattle, and even a trail-wise cayuse will occasionally try to buck its rider. That’s one reason Westerners ride their saddles deeper than Easterners do, and longer legged.

  The problem Western riders face is that they not only have to be able to work in the saddle, but also to relax. After several months of riding, a cowboy, wrangler, or vaquero develops a sort of round-shouldered, slouched-back, and bowlegged appearance from long hours in the saddle.

  I once met a gent who rode one of those miniature English-style saddles. Sort of a small-skirted seat with a low cantle, and no fenders or pommel. It looked more dressing than anything else, kind of like a flat filled-in McClellan with small metal stirrups hanging down. It might have been real comfortable for a little girl, but at the time the bunch of us watching figured the dude riding it would last about two days on a real trail drive before his back went out on him. That is, of course, if he could stay on a Western bronco for more than a minute or two.

  Western horses are different from those back East. They tend to be shorter coupled, with more muscle and rib bone than fat and finish. A good Western cayuse is bred for stamina, trail sense, and harsh climates, and a cowboy will often forgive a cantankerous horse if it’s sure-footed or good with cattle. Only someone who is a rider can truly appreciate the relationship between man and horse. It’s different than with a dog, or any other critter for that matter. A rider must care for and respect his mount, for their lives depend on one another.

  According to whom you talk to, horses are either intelligent creatures, or the dumbest beasts on earth. For one thing they’re the only animals dumb enough to drink themselves to death, and will run till they drop dead. At the same time, there isn’t a gate built that a horse can’t eventually open. I once saw a cayuse actually get down on all fours and crawl out from under a fence, and they aren’t supposed to be able to do that.

  Whether it’s smart as a whip or dumb as an ox, the horse is the one animal a cowboy will give his life for and it’s the same with vaqueros down south. Funny thing, I’ve known some of the toughest and meanest men to cry for a whole week after having to shoot their injured cayuse, while on the other hand some nice quiet types can put a horse down and get another as easily as changing a pair of pants. It’s hard to figure.

  Without a horse some parts of this country are certain death. Guess that’s why, when you stop to think about it, horse thieving is a hanging offense, whereas bank robbing or cattle rustling just gets jail time, if that.

  I remember hearing of one outlaw who’d almost made a clean getaway when his horse broke a leg. Since his shot had given him away, some of the men in the posse about to hang him wondered why he’d bothered to stop and shoot the horse.

  “You must have known the sound of that gunshot would tip us off,” they’d said. “You would have gotten clean away otherwise. That shot meant sure death, so why’d you do it?”

  “Wasn’t any other way to play it. Couldn’t just leave him like that,” was all he’d answered, but it was explanation enough.

  No drive gets started until the working ponies are checked over and any problems attended to, and o
urs was no exception. After all, you can’t herd animals from a wagon top; our ponies worked as hard as we did.

  So for the next three weeks we continued our daily routine. Don Enrique left most decisions up to Chavez, who unfortunately hadn’t yet changed his attitude toward me. He did allow me a free rein to ride where I wanted, but, since he often criticized my recommendations, I tended to report directly to Don Enrique whenever I could.

  Early every morning I rode ahead to scout the terrain, not returning till about midday. I usually repeated the process in late afternoon, returning for dinner just after dusk. At dark, after bedding my horse down and having dinner, I’d walk the camp perimeter and check the sentries, enjoying the evening quiet and the cool night air.

  Night on the trail can be a combination of pure pleasure and nervous tension. The sky might be clear and full of stars, but when trouble comes, it will usually start between dusk and dawn.

  Some folks believe Indians won’t attack at night, but that applies only to certain tribes, and even those that don’t fight in the dark have nothing against scouting around, making plans, or picking off an isolated straggler. The same holds true of outlaws, most of whom prefer to hit and run.

  The Hernandez night riders always circled the herd either talking quietly among themselves or singing, partly to calm the animals, but mostly to let their presence be known. It’s good to remember not to ride up on someone unannounced on a drive, since to do so often risks a bullet through the chest.

  Sometimes in the evening I’d wander a couple hundred yards out to relax under a rock ledge or cottonwood overlooking part of the camp. I tried to imagine someone stalking it from various angles, and then I’d check out any place I thought might bring trouble. It’s a wise man who learns to relax whenever possible, but on the trail a scout soon learns to do so with one eye open. It’s smart because, aside from Indians and rustlers, there’s also wildlife to worry about, like cougars and prairie wolves.