Trail Hand (8 page)

For the first time in my adult life I felt shame.

While I didn’t ask, it was evident from the boy’s expression that Wolf Tail was among the dead. Sprout took it all in without shedding a tear.

“I now ride with you,” was all he said for the next three days.

After that there was no being shed of the boy. Sprout stuck to me tighter than a hungry tick on a
brown dog. He wouldn’t have gone back to an Army fort now if I’d threatened him at gun point, so I ended up taking him south with me. At first my excuse was that nobody in these parts was likely to adopt a young Kiowa, regardless of his eye color, but after a while I truly began to favor his company.

The boy was a surprisingly fast learner.

I soon found myself having fun sharing what I knew with him. Since I’d never had a younger brother, I discovered, to my surprise, that it was not all take and no give. In fact, during the year and a half we rode together, Sprout taught me many things back, such as reading sign and trick riding, Injun style.

We continued on south and finally joined that cattle drive just north of San Antonio. Old Amos Simpson was in charge. Not surprisingly he was reluctant at first to take on a Kiowa, young boy or not. Fortunately his partner, Dave Randall, had served for a year with my uncle Zeke while in the military, under Doniphan, and recognized our family name.

In December of 1846, Colonel Alexander Doniphan and his Missouri Mounted Volunteers had ridden south from New Mexico to reinforce Wool’s division in northern Mexico. For nearly six months the Missouri Mounted trekked some 2,000 miles straight across Mexico to the Gulf Coast, winning battle after battle.

To hear Uncle Zeke tell it, they were a real rowdy bunch. “No uniforms, no pay, and no discipline, but no finer group of fighting men ever lived,” he’d bragged. “Doniphan was just a lawyer and amateur tactician, but he shore was one natural-born
leader. At Brazito we was surprised by Mexican forces, but Doniphan managed to beat them back in less than an hour. And later, in a battle outside Chihuahua, when we was outnumbered three to one, the colonel single-handedly turned what could have been a real disaster into total victory.”

Dave Randall later told me that he counted 300 dead Mexicans when the smoke finally cleared. The Missouri Mounted Volunteers had lost only three men.

“Amos, if this lad’s kin to Zeke, you can bank on his word,” Randall told his partner. “If he says there won’t be a problem with the boy and is personally willing to vouch for him, then, Injun or not, we’d best take him in. You know as well as I do that Zeke once saved my life, and, since I was the one who pulled you out of the Canadian that time back in ’Sixty-One, well, I guess that means you sort of owe him, too.”

Under the circumstances, it was hard to argue with Dave’s logic, so Amos finally gave in and hired us both. The men were apprehensive at first but any doubts about Sprout soon vanished and the novelty of having a friendly Kiowa scout eventually caught on. Over the next several weeks, the men began chipping in one by one with bits and pieces of clothing, although no one could ever break the boy of his habit of wearing moccasins.

Sprout learned to drive cattle, to rope and to brand, but, more often than not, Simpson used the boy to help out with what he knew best and enjoyed most, namely hunting and scouting. With Sprout along there always seemed to be an
extra rabbit, squirrel, or deer for the pot. We ate better on that drive than most, due in large part to the boy’s efforts.

A lot can happen when you trail with someone for over a year, and we eventually wound up as close as real kin. Sprout started nagging me for almost four months solid to help him get a sidearm and holster of his own. I finally broke down and promised to buy one at the next town we passed.

“I don’t know why folks are always referring to the patience of the noble savage,” I’d joke. “Hell, you’ve been pestering me more than a thirsty mosquito in summer. Look, Buffalo Grove is just ahead. I’m going after some supplies while Lucky gets our horses re-shod. After that maybe, just maybe, I’ll see about finding a six-gun for you.” The boy’s face lit up like a campfire.

Early the next morning Lucky Crawford, Sprout, and I rode to town, but as always the boy stopped cold about two miles out, refusing to go any farther. He had learned to trust the others in the outfit and was all right as long as we were alone on the trail, but even after all this time he avoided strangers and refused to go anywhere near a fort or town. Reluctantly we left him camped near a small creek, figuring we’d be gone no more than a couple of hours.

Once in town I ran my errands for the boss, and then headed over to the saloon, while Lucky saw to our horses.

We met later on at the pharmacy and bought some rolling paper and tobacco, and a bottle of oil of clove for Dave Randall’s sore tooth. It was there in the store that Lucky pointed out a Starr
Arms double-cocking.44 they had on display in their glass cabinet. It wasn’t the newest or most accurate piece I’d ever seen, but it was dependable enough. More importantly, the shop owner let me have it at a good price.

“The kid’s sure gonna light up when he sees that,” Lucky commented to me, smiling.

“Yeah, well he deserves it. He works hard.”

“Sure does. Say, you fixin’ to adopt him permanent like?”

“Never thought about it much. He’s a little old, ain’t he?” I asked.

“Nah. And come to think of it, you ain’t gettin’ any younger.” He laughed.

“Very funny. But, maybe you’re right.” I paused to think it over. “You know, now that you’ve brought it up, might be kinda nice to give the kid my name. I’ll think I’ll chew on it some.”

We rode back to the clump of trees near the creek where we’d left Sprout, but, as soon as we arrived, it was obvious something was very wrong. His horse was nowhere in sight for one thing, and there were buzzards circling overhead.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Lucky,” I said.

“I’m way ahead o’ you, partner.” His gun was already drawn and cocked.

We split up and rode into the trees from opposite directions. That’s when we spotted him, face down on the ground, dead. I dismounted and quickly hurried to his side. When I rolled him over, I found three horribly large triangular knife wounds, running right through his chest. It was as if he’d been speared clear through.

Lucky holstered his gun and dismounted.

“Whoever it was is long gone. Must have been
after his horse. See they’s two sets of tracks riding in, but three heading away to the south. The boy could have been napping…or maybe just thought it was us returning,” he added.

“They must have been riding double and saw a chance to steal his horse. He didn’t even have a chance, Lucky. Three men against one kid!”

“Who’d do something like that?” he asked sadly.

“I don’t know, but, one thing’s for sure, if I ever catch up with them, they’ll wish they’d decided to walk out of here, instead.”

“Hope to God I’m with you when that day comes.” Lucky turned back and pulled a small folding shovel out from his pack.

We buried Sprout among the trees, under a large overhanging branch. It was a clean peaceful spot, and the shade was nice and cool.

Lucky and I followed their tracks for several days until it began to rain and we were forced to turn back. We never did find those three. Even now, although all that was behind me, I still hoped our trails would someday cross so I could even things up for Sprout.

The small drop of blood that snaked its way into my left eye caused my eyelid to twitch, snapping me right back to the present. My head hurt and my neck ached, but the pain also served another purpose. It made me mad. Someone had bushwhacked me, stolen my horse, and caused another to die needlessly. I vowed to find the miserable coyote responsible and make him suffer.

I tried to stand up but my head was spinning so much I almost fell over backward. My stomach cramped, and it took a full minute or two before my eyes could focus again. For the moment, at least, it was clear that I’d have to worry more about survival than vengeance, so I knelt down, removed my knife from its scabbard, and began to butcher the dead horse.

Horse meat isn’t something I’d normally prefer for supper, but I knew it was going to be a long walk back to camp across difficult terrain, with no assurance of finding any game. Besides, in the shape I was in, even if I did find something worthy enough to take aim at with my handgun, I might not be steady enough to hit it.

I started a fire and cooked the meat. What I didn’t eat would be dried for the trail. I needed to regain my strength but my stomach felt as if it
were full of paint remover, and I had to fight to keep down the grub. I almost threw up the first couple of mouthfuls, but fortunately things settled down after a few more bites. I shook my head a little, wondering why Apaches and Frenchmen favor horse meat so much. But I had eaten worse and, in my condition, was grateful just to have meat available, regardless of what kind it was. I still wouldn’t consider it my favorite, though, not by a long sight.

Something inside of me was urging me to return to the Hernandez camp as soon as possible, but I decided it was better to take things slow, to be careful. The
mejicanos
have an old saying to the effect that being first to arrive isn’t near as important as knowing how to get there. It made more sense to go slow and return alive in one piece, than it did to die rushing into things, so I decided to get a good night’s sleep and leave the following morning.

At dawn the next day I started out on what promised to be a long, hard, uphill trek. By the end of the second day on foot, I knew something had happened to the rest of the
vaqueros
. Chavez and his men should have started the herd moving in my direction, yet there was still no sign of them. I had been gone about three days before getting shot, and although it was probably too early yet for anyone to be overly concerned about me, I knew the
caporal
. Chavez was a cautious man, but he was also one who would react swiftly at the first sign of danger. By now he should have at least sent someone to scout me out, and my trail shouldn’t have been too hard to follow.

While it was possible that
Don
Enrique and
Chavez had decided to double back to their original course, it was unlikely, being as how the
don
was not one to change his mind once a considered decision had been made. If, on the other hand Chavez had managed to convince him otherwise, they would have sent someone to let me know about it. That being the case the rider would have reached my position by now.

When I curled up that night, I decided to cut due east in the morning and then head south, rather than simply backtracking. It would mean several days of hard climbing over much more difficult ground, but it would save me considerable time. Besides, I now wanted to approach the camp from high ground, with a clear view of what I was heading into.

A couple more days of hard but uneventful travel finally brought me to the base of a vertical rock face on the far side of the cañon where the
vaqueros
had been camped. To save time I’d cut cross country, but now, assuming the outfit was still camped in the same place, I would have to scale that one final wall.

As a boy I loved to climb anything in sight, be it tree, hill, or the barn out back. Right now, though, I was tired and nowhere near enthusiastic about the uphill climb, so I sat down for a good fifteen minutes to rest, study the wall, and plan the ascent. It didn’t look especially steep or dangerous, but I wasn’t about to risk breaking my neck in a fall.

I made sure my gun was tied down tight, and then reversed the spurs on my boots to project downward past the heels, hoping they’d give me better traction during the ascent. My hands had become well calloused over the years, but as an
added precaution I removed an old pair of work gloves from the bottom of my shoulder pouch. Then, using my boot knife, I carefully cut away the fingers and trimmed the leather from the glove arm down to the wrist. When I’d finished, I had two gloves that hopefully would protect my hands from the sharp rock, while at the same time leaving my fingers free to grasp with.

I chewed a few strips of dried horse meat for energy and took several deep breaths before beginning the ascent. As worn down as I felt, I was grateful the climb went well. It turned out the slope wasn’t very steep after all and there were plenty of wide crevices for hands and feet. Within two hours I had easily reached a position just below the summit. With my goal finally in sight I felt a renewed surge of energy and rushed quickly toward the top. A little too quickly perhaps.

Suddenly, as I swung my body over to grab for another handhold, the wall around me suddenly collapsed. Once committed there was no way back. Rock and gravel peeled away and in one terrible, gut-retching instant I found myself dangling in mid-air, facing out away from the wall. I was suspended totally by my right arm, my hand wedged into a small crack in the rock face.

I tried to dig in, flailing back with my heels, but the hard rock had given way to a sandy, loose gravel that wouldn’t allow me to gain a decent purchase. Desperately I threw my weight across my shoulder and succeeded in rolling over to a toe-in position, face flat against the wall. For the moment, at least, I needed to rest.

My grip was firm enough, but I knew it wouldn’t last forever, so I searched around anxiously for
another hand-or foothold. The wall had magically transformed itself into such a soft smooth surface that nothing within reach would support my weight. There was one small projection nearby that offered some hope, but it was off to my left and several feet above my head, just fatally out of reach.

I tried to control my breathing, calm down, and think. My knife wouldn’t help since the whole area was now much too sandy. I thought about using my holster, but even if I could manage to unbuckle and rebuckle it with one hand, the belt would be too wide and awkward to be of any use. Trying to pull my body up with my right arm still wouldn’t allow me to reach that one small outcrop, and I couldn’t swing my legs up to it. I looked up at that rock helplessly. There it was, solidly embedded in the wall, projecting out only a few feet from the top, but just enough out of reach to spell my downfall. And that would be precisely the correct word I thought grimly—
downfall
.

Sand shifted into my face, forcing me to reach over with my left hand to wipe my eyes, face, and neck free of débris. When my fingers drifted across the shoulder strap holding my travel pouch, my heart skipped and I breathed a small sigh of relief. There might still be a chance.

I put the strap in my mouth so as not to risk dropping it as I eased it off over my head. My hat was hanging over my back by its tie string, but fortunately they didn’t tangle. Grabbing the bag in my left hand, I let go of my bite and examined the pouch strap. It was braided rawhide and an integral part of the pouch, easily able to support my weight, for a short time at least.

I began to swing the strap while holding firmly
onto the bag. It took several attempts before I was able to shift my position enough to throw overhead, but then just as suddenly as hope is given, it can be taken away. The rock face began shifting again under my right hand and I watched in terror as the slit began to open. Desperately I began to swing, throwing that strap furiously, over and over again, hoping for a miracle. My scream echoed from the cañon walls as my right hand broke away from the rock.

It took several seconds before I even opened my eyes. It felt like my heart had jumped into my throat and my ears pounded, but I was alive, suspended by the pouch strap wrapped around my left hand. Luckily it had caught the projection on the last throw. Not about to wait for anything else to go wrong, I flung myself over, quickly grabbed hold with my right hand, and pulled myself up to solid rock. The bag itself made a good foothold, allowing me to push on over the top.

I reached down for the pouch and pulled it up after me. Rolling over, I clutched it to my body and went limp. The last thing I did before passing into a deep sleep was give that old beat-up leather pack a long, hard kiss.

I must have laid there a full hour or so before I was finally able to continue on. I got up and brushed myself off, grateful the climb was over. It was downhill all the way now, with a clear view of the valley below.

Unfortunately, before I got even halfway down into the valley, I knew the camp had been deserted. Buzzards circled the corpses of several
dead horses and what little was left of Joaquin and Chango’s wagons had been burned into two ashen piles.

Tracks left by the herd led out of the valley and away to the southwest. I found still others made by a smaller group heading back southeast, opposite our original direction. The double sets of furrows behind this second group spoke volumes. After the camp had been attacked and the herd rustled, the
vaqueros
must have turned back toward San Rafael, carrying their wounded on horse-drawn travois.

I came upon three fresh gravesites, not far from the burned out wagons. Inscriptions had been crudely carved into a piece of wood nailed to a tree branch. The first one read simply:
JOAQUIN GUTTIEREZ—NUESTRO COCINERO Y AMIGO
.

I shook my head sadly and moved on to the other two. The sentiment on these markers was quite different. asesino y ladrón was all that had been recorded, but then murderer and thief said it all anyway.

I rummaged around the remains of both wagons and found two sacks of beans that were only slightly singed, and half a sack of cornmeal. There were also three or four canteens lying around that could still hold water. There weren’t any horses left alive and the only rifle I could find was too badly damaged to be of any use.

I scavenged what little I could from the camp while all the time looking for clues as to how the attack had occurred and who might be responsible. The herd had trampled most of the area and any remaining sign had been spoiled by the fire.

It did seem, though, that the
vaqueros
had been
caught totally by surprise, and I found that very unusual. This valley wasn’t known to many others, and I couldn’t understand how a band of outlaws that big could have approached the herd without
Don
Enrique’s men noticing.

Chavez always made a point of making sure the night rider stayed awake in order to prevent something like this from happening. I wondered what had happened to that rider.

It wasn’t long before I noticed a clump of scrub brush that didn’t match its surroundings. Although most of the dead horses and goats were scattered at the other end of camp, the buzzards seemed to be paying an unusual amount of attention to that same patch of scrub. As I neared it, the smell was so bad I knew right off that I’d found the missing sentry.

I pulled my bandanna up over my face, and then kicked the bushes back. The flies were so thick I had to back off and grab a hunk of brush to shoo them away. I found what I’d expected but it was of little comfort. One of the
mejicanos
lay curled on the ground with another dead body alongside. The
vaquero
had part of his head crushed in, probably by a rifle stock, and it took me a moment or so before I realized it was Gregorio.

I couldn’t recognize the other. He was obviously an American, but no one I’d ever met. From what I could tell, Gregorio had been jumped while riding the herd, and had been knocked from his horse. They must have tried to knife Gregorio, instead of shooting him, so as not to alert the rest. Taking on a
vaquero
with a knife is never a good idea, however, even by surprise at night, and Gregorio had very good reflexes.

The cowboy laying there had a six-inch blade sticking out of his chest and an empty sheath on his belt, so it figured that, when they had struggled, Gregorio must have disarmed his attacker and then turned his own knife back on him. Although this one got what he deserved, another of the bastards must have clubbed Gregorio from behind.

I rolled the dead outlaw over and searched him for identification, for some clue as to whom he was or whom he rode with. Unfortunately there was nothing in his pockets except an old tobacco pouch, a bent hoof pick, and a poker chip from a place called the Golden Goose Saloon, in Gila City. Not much to go on.

Without giving it much thought, I pocketed the poker chip and rolled the outlaw out of the way. Others might be more charitable about such things, but I wasn’t about to waste my efforts burying him. Gregorio, however, was my friend and deserved better, as does any good man who goes down fighting. I wanted to bury him alongside of Joaquin, but, given the condition the body was in, it would have been hard to carry him by hand, so I went back to camp in search of a blanket.

I returned to cover the
vaquero
and then, using a plank torn off of Chango’s wagon, dragged his remains back to the campsite and began to dig a grave. I managed to rummage up a shovel out from under the wreckage. It was burned but still intact, and served its purpose.

The ground wasn’t especially hard, but the work was. I knew it wasn’t my fault, but guilt has a funny way of creeping into one’s bones. I was the scout for the outfit. It had been my job to pick
a safe route, avoid trouble, and get the herd through intact. I had argued for the change of direction, chosen the campsite, and now my recommendations had led to all this. Good men were dead, others injured, and the lives of two good families were faced with ruin, all because they had trusted me.