The Old Spanish Trail Read online

  “Them two slipped up on us,” Red Bohannon said. “When we take the trail again, I’d say we ought to see if there’s anybody else about to surprise us.”

  “You’re right,” said Don. “It’ll give us a chance to be sure the Pickfords don’t get the idea of doubling back, gettin’ ahead of us, and settin’ up an ambush.”

  “That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Red replied. “I can’t imagine us bein’ there in Santa Fe without some varmints takin’ an interest in this herd.”

  “Neither can I,” said Bob Vines. “It’s just a question of when they come after us.”

  “Anybody with that in mind won’t be in any hurry,” Don said. “They won’t have to be too bright to know we’re bound for California, and if they have plans for the herd, I can’t imagine them tryin’ to take it until we’re a lot closer.”

  “Makes sense to me,” said Charlie. “Let a bunch of dumb Texans do most of the work, and then when we’re within hollerin’ distance of Los Angeles, they’ll try to take over.”

  “That bein’ the case,” Red replied, “it’s all the more reason we need to know if they’re trailin’ us. Then before they come after us, we’ll go after them.”

  Webb laughed. “You’re readin’ my mind, Red. Once we know we’re being followed, we’ll go after them long before they come after us. Once the herd’s moving, I’ll ride back for a look at our back trail.”

  When the herd settled down, Red moved into the point position, allowing Don to ride along the back trail. He had to ride a considerable distance before finding a vantage point from which he could view the area they had traveled the day before. All he could see was the two faraway dots that had to be the Pickford brothers. Don mounted his horse and caught up with the herd.

  The Pickfords had stopped just long enough for Curt to bandage Ben’s wounded arm.

  “I ain’t done with them,” Ben snarled.

  “Next time you call out Roussel, you’ll be by yourself,” said Curt. “Neither of us is any match for him with a pistol. Wiley’s dead and gone, and us bein’ gunned down won’t change nothin’.”

  “I wanted him to know who we was and why he was bein’ gunned down,” Ben said.

  Curt laughed and Ben swallowed his anger. They rode on, and when they reached the stream where they had camped the day before, they dismounted to water and rest their horses. Suddenly a cold voice spoke from a nearby thicket.

  “Turn around, keepin’ your hands where I can see ’em.”

  Careful to obey the command, Ben and Curt turned around to face a cocked Colt. The hombre who had the drop on them was armed with two Colts, the second one holstered and tied-down on his left hip.

  “We’re headin’ for Santa Fe,” said Curt. “You got nothin’ on us.”

  “You wasn’t headin’ for Santa Fe yesterday,” the man with the gun said, “and it wasn’t no hoss fly that bit your amigo on his gun arm and took his pistol. Now the two of you start walkin’ downstream.”

  The outfit had made their camp well away from the trail, beneath a stand of trees that would dissipate the smoke from their fire. Eleven men rose to their feet, their hands near the butts of their Colts. Griff spoke.

  “What you got there, Hernandez?”

  “Them two that’s been ahead of us, I reckon. Looks like they met up with the bunch they was after and was persuaded to ride back to Santa Fe. Leastwise, they say they’re goin’ there.”

  “Who are you,” Griff demanded, “and why was you trailin’ that Texas outfit?”

  “Ben and Curt Pickford,” said Curt, “and our business was personal.”

  “Haw, haw,” Quando said. “If you was goin’ to rustle the herd, I reckon you must of done somethin’ wrong.”

  “It ain’t none of your damn business,” said Ben.

  “I think it is,” Griff said, drawing his Colt. “Now you tell us the straight of it, or I’ll bust your other arm.”

  “One of that outfit gunned down our brother in Santa Fe,” said Curt sullenly. “We was out to avenge him.”

  “Ah,” Griff said, without sympathy. “You was outgunned and run off with your tails between your legs.”

  “We ain’t finished with them,” said Ben.

  “They already got that Texas bunch watchin’ their back-trail,” Hernandez said. “I say we ventilate the both of ’em, before they foul things up any worse.”

  “Not so fast,” said Griff. “We can’t trail that bunch all the way to California without them knowin’ we’re followin’ them. While these gents ain’t no better with a pistol than Wiley was, I’d gamble they can drive cows and hold their own in a bushwhacking.”

  “Damn right we can,” Curt said. “We want satisfaction, and if we can’t have it in a fair fight, we’ll take it any way we can get it.”

  Griff laughed. “Maybe you should throw in with us. We aim to take that herd, and we can’t do it with any of that Texas outfit alive.”

  “We want only one man,” said Ben. “If we join you in ambushing the outfit and taking the herd, what’s in it for us?”

  “A thousand dollars for each of you when we sell the herd,” Griff said.

  The Pickfords looked at one another, careful not to betray their thoughts. There was no doubt they were being offered a pittance, but the alternative might well be a couple of hunks of lead. Ben’s arm needed time to heal, he needed a Colt, and they must consider some means of bettering their lot.

  “We’ll ride with you,” Curt said. “We’re wantin’ vengeance, and we’ll take it any way we can get it.”

  “Bueno,” said Griff. “But you got to be patient. We don’t aim to take over the herd till it’s near Los Angeles. If you ain’t had breakfast, there’s grub.”

  “We didn’t bring much grub,” Curt said. “We wasn’t plannin’ on trailin’ ’em all the way to California.”

  “We got enough,” said Griff. “There’s coffee on the fire. Bullard, break out a slab of bacon from one of the packs.”

  “I didn’t have nothin’ but bandages to fix Ben’s arm,” Curt said.

  “I got whiskey in my saddlebag,” said Griff. “You’ll need to pour some of that on the wound, and if there’s fever, he’ll have to drink a slug of it later on.”

  There were some black looks directed at Griff when he handed Curt one bottle of the whiskey that had been off limits to the gang. But Griff seemed not to notice, and Curt doused the bandage on Ben’s upper arm with almost a third of the whiskey. The rest he returned to Griff. The outlaws sprawled on their bedrolls, sipping coffee, apparently in no hurry. Ben slept while Curt eyed the outfit with caution and distrust.

  Following the appearance of Ben and Curt Pickford, there was no more difficulty as the herd moved on toward the Colorado. When the outfit gathered for supper, Don spoke to them.

  “Tomorrow, I aim to ride on to the Colorado. Keep the herd movin’ at a good gait and maybe we can reach the river by tomorrow night.”

  The following morning, before the herd took the trail, Don spent some time with the Mexican horse wranglers, questioning them about the Colorado. Dominique and Roberto drew lines on the ground, and by the time Webb rode out, he had some idea where the banks of the river might be low enough and the water shallow enough to cross the herd. But he had ridden less than five miles when, topping a ridge, he found himself facing more than a dozen mounted Indians. Before he could make a move, his horse nickered and one of the Indian ponies answered. Wheeling his horse, he kicked it into a gallop. Behind him, he could hear the thump of hooves and the screeching of Indians. There was a light breeze out of the northwest, and hoping his distant partners would hear, Don drew his Colt and fired three times. There was no answer, and he rode desperately on, knowing he could not reach the herd in time . . .

  “Mill the herd!” Red Bohannon shouted, reining up and waving his hat.

  “Why?” Bob Vines asked, reining up his galloping horse.

  “Three shots somewhere ahead,” said Bohannon. “Don’s in trouble.�
��

  Vines wheeled his horse and galloped away, knowing that seconds counted. The rest of the outfit—except for the Mexican wranglers—soon came on the run, Vines in the lead. There were no questions, for they could hear the distant rattle of gunfire. Don Webb was fighting for his life . . .

  “You’ve done your best, old fellow,” Webb said to his heaving horse. Drawing his Henry rifle from the boot, he tumbled out of the saddle, taking cover within a scattering of rocks. None of them were more than knee-high, forcing him to go belly-down. It was poor cover at best and would suffice only for as long as it took the Indians to surround him. He could hear their shouts of glee as they began to circle, saving their arrows for the finish that seemed only minutes away. But suddenly there was a clatter of hooves and the roar of rifles as Webb’s Texas companions bought into the fight. Webb scrambled to his knees and began firing at the retreating Indians. Les Brown had caught up Webb’s horse and passed him the reins.

  “I’m obliged,” said Webb. “They took me by surprise, and I thought sure I was done for.”

  “You’re almighty lucky Red’s got dog ears,” Bob Vines said. “He heard your shots, but nobody else did. We just took his word, ridin like hell until we heard you shootin’ at the varmints.”

  “We’d better get back to the herd,” said Don. “It’d be just our luck for them to use me to draw the rest of you away, and then start a stampede.”

  There was no sign of the Indians, and the herd was grazing peacefully.

  “They may give us hell from here on to the Colorado,” Mike Horton said. “With that many in a scouting party, there may be a camp close by.”

  “I won’t be surprised,” said Webb. “But are they Utes or Paiutes?”

  “If our map means anything, they’re Utes,” Bob Vines said. “We shouldn’t run into the Paiutes until we’re almost out of Utah Territory.”

  “It’s gonna be almighty risky for one man to separate himself from the rest of the outfit,” said Charlie English. “Don, I reckon you’d better not get more than a mile or two ahead of the herd, as long as we’re in Ute and Paiute territory.”

  “Like hell,” Don said. “We got to have water, and that means somebody’s got to ride ahead. I’m trail boss, and that somebody is me. I’ve fought Comanches and still have my hair, and I can’t see the Utes and Paiutes bein’ any worse.”

  “We’re fairly certain the Colorado’s not more than a day’s drive ahead,” said Bob Vines, “so why don’t we just push the herd as hard as we can and get there before dark?”

  “I reckon we can do that,” Don Webb said, “but why ride all around a problem, when we know we’ll have to face it sooner or later? Just keep the herd movin’, and Indians or no Indians, I aim to ride ahead to the Colorado.”

  Nobody argued with him, and after saddling a fresh horse, Webb rode out.

  “He’s Texan to the bone,” said Charlie English.

  “Yeah,” Red Bohannon agreed. “Sometimes I think they ain’t completely satisfied unless they’re down to their last handful of shells and surrounded by Indians or outlaws.”

  “Thank God for ’em,” said Bob Vines. “It was that kind of men that raised the stars and stripes over Texas.”

  With Bohannon riding point, they soon had the herd moving again, every rider listening for the distant rattle of gunfire that meant Indian trouble.

  Webb rode cautiously, his Henry rifle ready, avoiding any cover that might conceal a band of Indians. But as he had suspected, it seemed they didn’t expect him to again ride ahead of the herd, following his narrow escape. His confidence grew as he rode on, and his horse soon quickened its gait, for the wind brought the distinctive smell of water. When he finally reached the Colorado, he looked upon it in awe, for the banks were even more forbidding than he had expected. His thirsty horse was struggling to get to the water, as impossibly distant as it seemed.

  “Damn it, horse,” said Webb, “you’d break your fool neck gettin’ down there. We got to find a place where the bank ain’t straight down.”

  Webb rode southwest along the river, seeking a place where it was possible to reach the water. Dominique had insisted that a herd of sheep had watered and crossed somewhere to the south, and with that to encourage him, Webb rode on. He had ridden at least five miles before he reached the place he believed the Mexican wrangler had recalled. Sometime in the past, there had been a rock slide. Huge boulders had tumbled into the river, leveling the bank and filling the river bed to the extent that the water was shallow. Webb rested his horse, and when the animal could safely drink, led him to water. While the one bank had been reduced to the extent that the herd could get to the water, they still must climb the opposite bank. Shaking his head over that improbability, Webb rode back to meet the herd, and found them nearing the end of the diminishing stream they had been following. He waved his hat, signaling the outfit to head the lead steers and mill the herd. When the longhorns had settled down, the outfit joined Webb to hear what he had to report. Quickly he told them.

  “We don’t dare take ’em on to the Colorado without some means of gettin’ them down to the water and up the opposite bank,” Webb concluded. “Way it looks right now, they’d smell the water and stampede. They’d run right off that high bank and we’d lose the whole damn herd.”

  “I’d suggest levelin’ that high bank down some,” said Bob Vines, “but we have no tools for digging. All we have is an axe.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Webb said, “and it might be enough. While that other bank is almighty steep, there’s plenty of rock along the rim. Suppose we were to cut some heavy poles, and using them for leverage, started a rock slide?”

  “Sounds like our only hope,” said Mike Horton.

  “We’ll have to leave the herd here, where there’s water and graze,” Webb said, “and as much as I don’t like the idea, we’ll have to divide the outfit. We’ll need some strong backs to pry those boulders loose, and even then, we don’t know that we can.”

  “Then let’s start today,” said Jim Roussel.

  “I aim to,” Webb replied. “We’ll try to make do with four men. Bob, I’m leaving you in charge of the herd. Jim, Red, and Charlie, you’ll come with me. If we don’t finish the job today, we’ll swap places with some of the rest of you tomorrow.”

  With Red carrying the axe, they rode out. This certainly was no time to divide their forces, and strong on the mind of every man was the possibility that hostile Indians might attack one or both parties. But there was no help for it, and they were determined to complete the task as quickly as possible. When the four men reined up, Webb’s three companions looked doubtfully at the opposite bank.

  “This can’t be the place Dominique claims them sheep crossed,” Jim Roussel said.”

  “I know that,” said Webb, “but we don’t know how far downriver that is. What we do know is that we can’t drive five thousand longhorns along this river for any distance, without some or all of the varmints goin’ over the bank, however steep it is.”

  “Even if we can level that bank down some, we still got a problem,” Charlie said. “All them cows will be scramblin’ for water at the same time. Some of ’em will have to drink and be drove across to the other side, to make room for the others. Not more than five hundred of ’em at a time, I’d say.”

  “One damn problem at a time,” said Webb. “We got one thing on our side. The herd’s got water where they are, and when they get here, they won’t be half dead with thirst. I’d say your idea is possible, and that’s how we’ll do it. We’ll drive them here five hundred at a time, after we’re sure we can water and cross that many, without the varmints killin’ themselves or gorin’ one another.”

  “Before we can do anything else, we have to get ourselves and our horses over to that other bank,” Jim Roussel said, “and we can’t do it here.”

  “No,” said Don Webb, “but we can get our horses down to the water from this side. We’ll ride along the river bed until we find a brea
k in that opposite bank.”

  They had no idea how far they might have to ride, and while none of them spoke of it, the danger was obvious. Leading their horses down to the water, they mounted and rode in single file, Don Webb leading. They had ridden only a few yards when an Indian arrow thudded into the riverbank just above Don’s head. Another grazed his horse and it reared, nickering in fear and pain. While Don sought to calm the horse, Jim, Red, and Charlie had their Henrys in action. The attackers were on the high northwest bank of the river, and as they attempted to loose more arrows, deadly lead from the rifles cut them down. Out of the saddle, Don managed to turn his frightened horse back the way he had come, allowing his companions to fire without fear of hitting him or his mount. As suddenly as it had started, the attack ended, no damage having been done except the painful gash along the flank of Don Webb’s horse.

  “Red,” said Don, “let me have your horse and you take mine. The three of you get out of here and ride along the bank, keepin’ watch. I’ll continue downriver until I find a place where we can get the horses and ourselves up the opposite bank.”

  The trio returned to the point of the rock slide and led the horses out of the river. Red took a tin of sulfur salve from Don’s saddlebag and applied a generous amount of salve to the bloody furrow in the horse’s flank. The three of them then mounted and rode along the river bank, while Don continued riding along the river bed.

  “Up yonder,” Charlie said, pointing. “I’d bet that’s where the sheep crossed.”

  The depth of the riverbanks diminished until Don had no difficulty leaving the water, without having to dismount.

  “We’d be a bunch of damn fools, making a crossing of our own, with this one already here,” said Jim Roussel.

  “Maybe,” Don Webb conceded, “but this is nearly ten miles downstream from where the old trail crosses. We’ll still have to get the herd down here before they smell water.”

  “We’ve been headin’ straight for the river,” said Charlie. “From where we are now, we can ride back to the herd, breakin’ a trail. Then we can drive the herd to the southwest, comin’ at the Colorado from an angle. The banks are low enough along here for most of the critters to drink all at the same time.”