Trail Hand

“Remove whatever he has of value to send his family,” Chavez added.

“Yo me encargo de eso,” Armando offered, drying his tears.

Several of the men dismounted after Joaquin brought back some shovels from his wagon. The rest turned their mounts around and returned to the herd.

A half hour later Senor Hernandez led a small ceremony for Jorge Morales. The men stood silently in a half circle around the grave, their sombreros in hand as the words were read. The manner in which the Morales boy died had touched each one of us, partly because of the sudden violence, but also because of its utterly random nature. While dying in a stampede or during a gunfight might be considered hazards of the line of work we’d chosen to pursue, Jorge’s completely random death was a reminder that no man truly has control over his own life, only what he does with it.

Don Enrique’s words were a comfort for those who believed there is a greater purpose to death than man could ever comprehend. As far as I was concerned, though, it was enough just to be grateful that he had died quickly and without much suffering. Jorge’s family would have proud memories of a boy who grew quickly to manhood, and who died while doing his job well. That’s as much as anyone can hope for.

As soon as the don finished, Chavez ordered everyone back into the saddle and moving. As always there was work to be done but it was good therapy, and over the next few days we made good time. True to form Chavez drove the herd as well as the men hard, leaving little time for sorrowful contemplation or remorse.

Chapter Five

Unfortunately, over the next few weeks, the working relationship between Chavez and myself failed to improve. I had yet to gain his trust and that was making my job increasingly difficult, especially since having come to an impasse over how best to proceed with the herd. It was my job as scout to find the safest route, but as usual I had a hard time convincing the caporal to listen to reason.

Chavez impressed me as a hard worker and his physical courage was beyond question, but, try as I might, I just couldn’t say yes without his no, or offer a “hi” without his “bye.”

Most of the men eventually accepted me well enough, and I’d become downright friendly with Miguel and Francisco, but it seemed that no amount of “yes, sirs” or “no, sirs” was ever going to change the caporal’s attitude toward me. Things finally came to a head one hot afternoon while trying to explain our differences to Senor Hernandez.

Chavez, Don Enrique, and I were sitting horseback about a mile and a half in front of the herd.

Don Enrique looked straight ahead while he spoke. “My caporal does not agree with you, joven.”

“Well that doesn’t surprise me,” I said, glancing at Chavez. “It won’t be the first time.”

The caporal shifted in his saddle, his increasing anger obvious.

“We should continue as planned,” he said to his jefe.

“Sorry to disagree, Senor Hernandez, but going straight on ahead wouldn’t be very smart,” I argued.

“And why not? The map suggests otherwise,” he asked.

“Maps don’t always tell you the whole story. Look, I know this area. While it’s true that both the military and the stage line use this trail, so does the Brazelton gang, and about a half dozen other outlaws. Not to mention the White Mountain Apaches. You might have heard that the Indians have been quiet lately, and in actual fact they probably respect the truce a hell of a lot better than we do, but still you never know. I’m paid to worry about such things and I think there still might be a few hotheads who’d just love to raid a herd like this. But more importantly, if we follow this route relying solely on that map, you’ll find the next five days to be mighty thirsty ones. Up ahead it’s almost totally devoid of good water. Trust me, it’s a bad stretch.”

“But, as you say, the stagecoach and the Army feel it is the best way.” Senor Hernandez was a cautious man.

“I don’t trust him, jefe,” Chavez chipped in his usual estimation of my worth.

I tried hard to ignore him. “The Army travels a hell of a lot better armed than we do. And remember, the stagecoach line doesn’t have to water twelve hundred thirsty horses. A six-up stage moves a whole lot faster than our herd will and you know it.”

“So what do you suggest?” Don Enrique asked.

“That we turn north for the next few days.”

“?Norte? Esta loco el gringo,” muttered Chavez. “And lose more time?” he added, glaring at me.

“Maybe we’ll lose a few days, but we’ll save a lot of horses. See, I know a small canon north of here that’s not on the map. It’s blocked from view by some bluffs and the entrance is probably covered with overgrown brush by now. But there’s plenty of water fed from an underground stream, or well, of some kind. I found it by accident a while back and even in midsummer there was more than enough water to go around. Fact is, if I’d gone straight ahead, it’s not likely I’d be here talkin’ to you. I’d be dead of thirst. Look, I figure we can cut back southwest from there. So don’t worry. More likely than not we’ll make up whatever time we lose having to detour north from here.”

“I don’t like it,” Chavez said, wiping his hand slowly across his brow. It was evident his anger had lessened and that he was rethinking the situation. At any rate the final decision rested with Don Enrique.

“We will do as our scout recommends,” he said after some consideration. Turning to Chavez, he added: “One should not ask for an opinion unless he is ready to follow it. We will camp here for now and then drive the remuda to this canon.”

“Si, senor, as you wish.”

Turning back to me, Don Enrique continued on. “I want you to ride out and survey the area. I do not want to send my men blindly into danger.”

“You won’t be sorry,” I replied.

“We better not be,” the caporal added, remaining true to form.

Later, Francisco, Miguel, and I rode out in search of the canon I’d described to Don Enrique.

A few years earlier I’d been forced by circumstances to change directions or face the consequences. At the time the circumstances and the consequences just happened to be one and the same, namely a band of angry Apaches itching for a big white man to torture. I’d found myself stranded among them with an empty canteen and no way back to the last water hole. Even so I still counted myself lucky. Apaches don’t usually give any warnings. Fact is, most of the time you don’t even know they’re around until an arrow flies by your head.

I’d spotted them at night entirely by accident, almost stumbling right into the Apache rancheria while trying to find a place to bed down. To this day I don’t know why they didn’t catch me. Maybe it’s true what they say about how God protects the dumb and innocent.

At any rate, I knew those Apaches would pick up my trail come morning, so before they caught onto me, I hightailed it out of there as fast as I could, changing directions so often that even my horse was confused. And that’s when I came upon the entrance to the valley. Well, actually the Morgan stallion spotted it first. He was as thirsty as I was and must have picked up on the smell of water.

At first it was hard to make out the entrance, but since the bay was tugging hard at the reins, I let him have his head and just sat back. I always trusted that horse’s judgment more than that of most men I knew. As usual he didn’t let me down.

Once we made it through the thickets that overgrew the entrance, the valley opened up like the petals of a flower. Stretching out for at least four and a half miles was a thick field of grass and a creek that originated from a pool situated at the base of a large rock overhang. Water spilled over from the pool and ran downhill spreading