The Old Spanish Trail Read online

  “Anybody hit?” Webb shouted.

  “One slug parted my hair,” said Charlie English.

  “I’m not sure they intended to hit us,” Mike Horton said. “There’s plenty of cover, and they could have attacked before dark.”

  “I have an idea who they are,” said Webb, his eyes on Jim Roussel. “This may be just the start, and it’s a long way to California.”

  *A buscadera rig is right and left holsters, to accommodate two guns.

  2

  Hernandez and Doolin—the men who had fired on the herd—rode north of Santa Fe a few miles to a secluded cabin. In back of it was a corral and lean-to that provided shelter for the horses. Unsaddling their mounts, they loosed them into the corral with the other animals. The ten men within the cabin had already eaten and were drinking coffee from tin cups when Hernandez and Doolin entered. Griff, the leader of the bunch, spoke.

  “Where’s Pickford?”

  “Dead,” Hernandez replied. “He started a fight over a poker game, and the young gent he drawed against was chain lightning with a pistol.”

  “Damn it,” said Griff, “I’ve warned all of you to shy away from gun trouble in town. That’s all it’ll take to get the law interested in us. Did the sheriff question either of you?”

  “No,” Hernandez said, “but he took our names. There’s an inquest tomorrow, and we got to be there.”

  “The sheriff’s no fool,” said Griff. “He’ll start to wonderin’ how Pickford was able to drop a bundle in a poker game when he’s been hangin’ around town for months without a sign of work. Then he’ll start lookin’ slanch-eyed at everybody else of the same stripe. We got to ride out of here, pronto.”

  “Hell,” Doolin said, “I got a woman here.”

  “There’s women other places,” said Griff callously. “We’ve worked this territory dry anyhow.”

  “We got more’n thirty-five thousand, our last job,” Oliver said, “and the law ain’t got a clue. Ridin’ south, like we done, and splittin’ up, it’s all been blamed on renegades from south of the border.”

  “Them of you wantin’ to stay here will just have to take your chances then,” said Griff. “I’ve stayed alive by not pushin’ my luck. I’m going back to Los Angeles.”

  “Then I reckon I’ll stay on for a while,” Doolin said. “The hombre that gunned down Pickford is part of a outfit that’s got a herd of Texas steers south of town, on the Pecos, and there must be five or six thousand. They’d be worth fifty dollars a head in the mining camps.”

  “Damn,” said Oliver, “they’d be worth a pile. But how did you know about ’em?”

  Doolin said nothing, and it was Hernandez who spoke.

  “After Pickford was shot, we follered them five hombres,” Hernandez said.

  Griff was glaring at him suspiciously, and he was glad he hadn’t mentioned that he and Doolin had fired on the camp. After a prolonged silence, Quando spoke.

  “Might be reason enough for us pullin’ out of Santa Fe. If we can get our hands on that herd and drive ’em to the mining camps, we’d be set for life.”

  “Maybe that’s where this outfit’s takin’ ’em,” said Fedders. “This is mostly all sheep country around here. When they move out, we could foller along, lettin’ ’em do most of the work. Then when we’re far enough from Santa Fe, where there’s no law lookin’ at us, we can ambush that bunch and take the herd.”

  “Not bad reasoning, as far as it goes,” Griff said, “but you couldn’t unload that many cows in the mining camps south of here if every miner bought three.”

  “Maybe not,” said Doolin, “but there’s mining camps all over Nevada.”

  “And except for the Comstock, every damn one is hard-scrabble,” Griff said. “We was through most of ’em.”*

  “Well, hell,” Doolin said, “it was just an idea.”

  “Maybe a better idea than you think,” said Griff. “I can’t believe that bunch brought a herd this far, without some hope of sellin’ ’em. Tomorrow I aim to ride in and maybe find out where they’re headed.”

  “You think we can take the herd then,” Doolin said.

  “I don’t see why not,” said Griff, “if there’s a market. I want you and Hernandez to be there for that inquest tomorrow, but ride out when it’s done. The rest of you are to stay here until I learn something more about this trail herd.”

  Santa Fe, New Mexico. May 6, 1862.

  “Those of you who have to be in town for the inquest, go ahead,” said Don Webb, “and when it’s finished, come on back here. You’ll stay with the herd while the rest of us ride in and load up with supplies and grub.”

  The five of them saddled their horses and rode out, aware that Webb’s caution was intended to prevent further trouble in town. While nothing more had been said to Roussel, he knew his standing had diminished. Not because he had defended himself, but because he had taken part in a poker game in a strange town among strangers. The youngest rider in the outfit, he silently vowed to be more cautious in the future and to redeem himself in the weeks and months ahead. They dismounted before the sheriff’s office half an hour before the appointed time for the inquest.

  “It’ll be held at the court house,” Sheriff Carpenter told them.

  So as not to attract undue attention, Griff waited until time for the inquest to begin before riding into town. Knowing Winkler to be the most likely buyer of livestock in Santa Fe, he stopped there first. The adjoining corral was full of longhorn cows and Griff used them as an excuse to question Winkler.

  “I heard there was a passel of longhorn cows bein’ sold,” said Griff. “You buyin’ all of them?”

  “No,” Winkler replied. “Just two hundred.”

  “Where’s the rest of ’em? I might be interested in some, if the price is right.”

  Winkler laughed. “It won’t be. They’ve had an offer from a dealer in Los Angeles for three times what I paid.”

  “Just my luck,” said Griff. Elated, he mounted his horse and rode away. He had all the information he needed.

  “In view of the testimony by witnesses,” the judge said, “this court accepts the plea of self-defense. Case dismissed.”

  Sheriff Carpenter waited until the five Texans had left the court house. He then spoke to them quietly.

  “Do you gents aim to be here awhile?”

  “No,” Bob Vines said. “We’ll be leaving tomorrow at first light.”

  “I don’t aim to seem inhospitable,” said Carpenter, “but it might prevent more trouble. We know Pickford had at least two friends and maybe more. The court’s accepting a plea of self-defense likely won’t impress them.”

  “We’re considering that,” Vines said, “so we’re leaving a mite earlier than we intended to. Texans don’t run from a fight, but we can’t see having more gun trouble when there’s nothing to be gained by it.”

  “That’s a wise decision,” said Sheriff Carpenter approvingly. “I wish more hombres on the frontier felt that way.”

  Vines and his companions rode back to the herd.

  “The few supplies we already have will have to go into our saddlebags,” Don Webb said. “I want all six mules with empty packsaddles.”

  When each mule bore a packsaddle, Webb and his four companions saddled their horses and headed for Santa Fe, leading the pack mules.

  “We might as well go to Winkler’s for the grain,” said Webb. “Then we’ll know how much more we’ll have room to take with us.”

  “Good thing you went ahead and bought your grain,” Winkler said. “Starnes didn’t get as much as he wanted.”

  “Then he’s lucky he ain’t got as far to go as we have,” said Red Bohannon. “Was you able to find them two Mexican wranglers for us?”

  “Dominique and Roberto,” said Winkler. “They was in town last night. Been layin’ around a sheep camp with some friends of theirs, and they seemed interested in goin’ to California. Especially if they’re bein’ paid. I told ’em to be here this mornin’, and I’m
surprised they ain’t. They’ll be along, I expect. How much longer will you be here?”

  “Until tomorrow at first light,” Webb said. “We’re south of here, on the Pecos.”

  “I’ll send ’em along,” said Winkler. “There was another gent here a while ago, asking about your herd. Talked like he was interested in buying.”

  “He didn’t tell you his name, I reckon,” Webb said.

  “No,” said Winkler, “and I didn’t ask. He seemed disappointed when I told him you’ve got a buyer for your herd in Los Angeles.”

  When they had loaded their grain and headed for the mercantile, Red Bohannon spoke.

  “I got my doubts there’s anybody around here interested in Texas cattle, even if we’d sell at twenty dollars a head.”

  “What I was thinking,” Charlie English said. “He didn’t have to tell the varmint where we was goin’ from here.”

  “No,” said Webb, “but it won’t make any difference. “It won’t take a Comanche scout to follow a herd the size of ours.”

  “I reckon we’ll have to keep a close eye on our back trail,” Felton Juneau said.

  “Friends of the varmint Jim Roussel shot,” said Mike Horton. “I wish he wasn’t a long-time amigo. We could string him up.”

  Webb laughed without humor. “Jim’s pistol-pullin’ likely had something to do with it, but if they’re interested in the herd, we couldn’t have escaped them. Thieves are drawn to plunder like buzzards to a carcass.”

  In a somber mood, they reined up before the mercantile.

  “The way things is goin’,” said Bohannon, “one of us had best stay out here and keep watch as we load the mules.”

  “Do that,” Webb said. “The rest of us can tote out the supplies and grub. Last thing we need is for some hombres to ride off with our mules.”

  The five of them spent two hours arranging and rearranging the loads, balancing them to lessen the strain on the mules.

  “We’d best buy two or three tins of sulfur salve,” said Charlie English. “A packsaddle can rub a mule raw before you know it.”

  “You’re right,” Webb replied, “and we were about to forget that.”

  When Webb returned from the store, he had three tins of the salve and eight quart bottles of whiskey.

  “I see you’re familiar with the ways of pack mules,” said Felton Juneau.

  “Considerably,” Webb said. “Never tote anything in gallon jugs. Bust a jug and you’ve lost a gallon. Bust a bottle and you’ve only lost a quart.”

  “Si,” said Arch Danson, “and never load ’em all on one mule. I’ve seen the varmints hunker down and roll with a packsaddle.”

  When the mules had been loaded and the packs secured, they mounted their horses and headed for the herd. As they departed, Griff watched with more than casual interest and with considerable satisfaction. He then rode away to join his companions to the north of town.

  “Well,” said Doolin, when Griff arrived, “what did you learn?”

  “All I needed to know,” Griff said. “They have a buyer for the herd in Los Angeles and that’s where they’re bound. Some of ’em just left town with six loaded pack mules.”

  “They’ll likely be takin’ the trail tomorrow then,” said Hernandez.

  “I expect they will be,” Griff said, “but we don’t have to be in any hurry. In fact, I’m plannin’ for us to stay maybe a week behind them. We can’t have them spot us on their back-trail, because they’ll know why we’re there.”

  “Yeah,” said Ibanez, “and if they’re goin’ the way I expect ’em to, there’ll be places for an ambush every hundred yards.”

  “The Old Spanish Trail,” Rodriguez said. “Montañoso.”*

  “It’s hell with the lid off,” said Griff, “but when the time comes, that’ll work to our advantage. There’s no better place in the world for an ambush.”

  “Includin’ Pickford’s, we got only two extra horses,” Kenton said. “That won’t be near enough to pack grub for all of us. That herd’s likely to be on the trail three months.”

  “We can fix that easy enough,” said Bullard. “All we got to do is find us a sheep camp where they got horses, and take ’em.”

  “Not until we’re ready to ride,” Griff said. “If the law comes lookin’ for horse thieves, we’d better be long gone. We’ll load our pack horses here, not in town. We’ll ride in, two of us at a time, until we got all the grub and ammunition we need. We don’t want anybody knowin’ there’s a bunch of us aimin’ to ride out. That sheriff is nobody’s fool, and we can’t afford for him to get curious as to what we got in mind.”

  When the Texans returned to the herd with their loaded pack mules, Dominique and Roberto were there. Winkler had been right. The two of them were identical, right down to their dress. Their trousers were black, with tight legs, while their matching vests were gold embroidered. Black, polished high-heeled riding boots and wide-brimmed sombreros completed their attire. They seemed not more than a year or two out of their teens, and they swept off their sombreros to greet the new arrivals.

  “The Señor Winkler send us,” said one of them.

  “Wranglers,” Webb said.

  “Si,” they replied in a single voice.

  “You look so much alike,” said Webb, “how are we to know which of you is which?”

  They looked at Webb in a manner that implied they were willing to forgive him of his ignorance. Finally one of them spoke.

  “When you call Dominique, Dominique come. When you call Roberto, Roberto come. Comprende?”

  The outfit laughed uproariously, while Dominique and Roberto only looked confused.

  “From here to California, a hundred dollars for each of you,” said Webb.

  “Si,” they replied in a single voice.

  But then either Dominique or Roberto said, “No cook.”

  That got the attention of the Texans.

  “Tarnation,” Mike Horton shouted, “can you cook?”

  “Si,” they replied.

  Bob Vines laughed. “I think we’re missin’ something here. For a hundred dollars each, we’re gettin’ a pair of wranglers. If they’re expected to cook, the ante goes up.”

  “Si,” said the Mexicans with straight faces.

  “How much?” Webb asked. “Another fifty dollars each?”

  “Si,” they replied.

  “If they can cook,” said Bob Vines, “I’ll pay ’em out of my share.”

  “No,” Webb said, “if they can handle our horse remuda and the pack mules on the trail and do the cooking as well, then we’ll all pay them. Not an extra fifty dollars, but a full hundred dollars extra. Does anybody object to that?”

  “My God, no,” said Mike Horton.

  The rest of the outfit quickly shouted their approval. Webb looked at the Mexican duo, and with wide grins, they nodded their approval. Nothing more was said, and when it was time to begin supper, Dominique and Roberto attacked the chore with the enthusiasm and skill that soon convinced the Texans they were about to get their money’s worth. They had bought a second two-gallon coffee pot, and well before supper was ready, there was plenty of hot coffee. The meal, complete with sourdough biscuits, was something to remember.

  “We owe Winkler for sending Dominique and Roberto to us,” Mike Horton said.

  “I agree,” said Don Webb, “as long as they can do their job as wranglers and still have the strength and ambition to cook like they did today.”

  “No reason they can’t,” Red Bohannon said. “All they got to do load and unload the pack mules, and see that the horse remuda and the mules keep pace with the herd. If they wasn’t doin’ that, it’d be that much harder on the the rest of us, and we’d still end up doin’ our own cooking.”

  “It’s hard to argue with that,” said Webb. “They’re off to a good start, and none of you is any stronger for them than I am. A man can live with a hard trail if there’s good grub along the way.”

  “Damn right,” Charlie English said, “an
d when it comes to cookin’, I reckon the only incentive any of us has had was to keep from starvin’.”

  While it was still light enough to see, Don Webb opened up the yellowed newspaper to the full-page map of the Old Spanish Trail. The rest of the outfit gathered as close as they could, and they were encouraged, for the map was well drawn, complete with rivers.

  “It looks good at the start,” said Bob Vines. “There’s a river flowin’ in to Santa Fe from the northwest. Looks like it goes all the way to the San Juan Mountains.”

  “I’m looking beyond the San Juans,” Webb replied. “It says Ute Indian Territory. And over there in southwestern Utah, it says Paiute Indian Territory. Could be a double dose of trouble.”

  “From what we’ve heard,” said Red Bohannon, “the trail’s not been used all that much in recent years. Maybe the Indian situation has changed.”

  “About like it’s changed in Texas,” Felton Juneau said. “The Comanches are worse than ever.”

  “Maybe Red’s right,” said Webb. “We’ll likely have to find out for ourselves and just be prepared. From this map, I’d say we’ll be well beyond the San Juans before we reach Ute territory.”

  “That’s the way to stay alive in Indian territory,” Bob Vines agreed. “Just expect one of ’em behind every rock, bush, or tree.”

  After breakfast, Dominique and Roberto loaded the pack mules while the rest of the outfit saddled their horses.

  “Head ’em up and move ’em out,” Don Webb shouted.

  The herd lurched into motion. The riders headed them to the south of Santa Fe. Dominique and Roberto expertly moved the horse remuda and the pack mules in behind the drag, and the herd soon reached the Rio Chama, which flowed in from the northwest. At that point, with the leaders following the river in an orderly fashion, Don Webb rode far ahead. Fifteen miles later, he turned back, having seen nothing but some bear tracks. Their first day was far better than any of them had expected, but the herd had become trail-wise before reaching Santa Fe. Supper was excellent, and the outfit looked with favor upon the two young Mexicans, for their performance on the trail had been more than adequate.