Trail Hand

throughout the valley.

I dived down into that pool as far as I could, but never did reach bottom. An underground waterspout continually pushed crystal clear water upward, nourishing the whole pasture. It was an untouched piece of paradise.

Today I was in the mood for a little fun, so, after mentally reassuring myself of the entrance route, I challenged the two vaqueros to a race.

“Miguel, Francisco…catch me if you can!”

We galloped along almost until the very last minute at which point the Morgan veered toward the entrance to the valley. With the two vaqueros following my lead, the three of us raced full speed at what happened to be a solid wall of thickets.

I could see Miguel’s look of confusion and the growing panic on Francisco’s face. They kept expecting me to stop, or at least swerve, but I just leaped ahead, letting the Morgan have his head. When we finally reached the thickets, the two hauled back on their reins so hard Miguel’s horse dug a trough in the ground, and Francisco was thrown clear off his saddle.

The Morgan and I raced through a patch we knew to be safe, jumping a trunk on the ground and running through the shrubs covering the entrance to the valley. When I called out to them, Miguel and Francisco must have thought they were hearing a voice from the great beyond. When they finally realized they weren’t really hearing a ghost, after all, they let fly a stream of commentaries that I wouldn’t care to hear repeated at a Sunday goin’ to meetin’.

After we had a short look-see around the valley, it took us about two hours to clear the entrance of trees and branches, enough to make room for the wagons and the rest of the herd. Francisco and I hobbled our horses while Miguel tied a rope to his saddle horn, using it to help pull several trunks and other large rocks out of the way.

Back home children learn not to stick their hands anywhere without looking first, but after a couple of hours of backbreaking labor I got a little careless. While trying to get a better purchase on a branch that just wouldn’t budge, I reached down under it without checking first. When Miguel’s horse pulled back, the rope snapped and I tumbled backward with the branch landing smack on top of me.

I was completely pinned down when, to my horror, I discovered that I had been clearing the branches around an active rattlesnake pit. Two six footers were coiling, one close to my arm and the other near the calf muscle which had become exposed during the fall when my pant leg snagged.

Trapped under that branch I had no way to reach my gun. The boot was pulled halfway off and my leg was within inches of the serpent. I screamed for help, kicking sand as the snake rattled, preparing to strike. Try as I might, I couldn’t free my arm. In fact that whole side of my body was caught tightly. Unable to move, my eyes were frozen on a pair of hideously curved fangs. I felt something fly by my face and a shot rang out.

Almost simultaneously the first rattler was cut in half by the machete Francisco had thrown, while the other snake exploded from the impact of Miguel’s bullet. Thankfully Francisco had been right about Miguel; his draw was both fast, and accurate.

After they had me free of the tree and had dusted me off, I pulled the blade free and offered it back gratefully.

“You know, boys,” I said, handing over the machete, “after reconsidering things, I just may get me one of these. You’re right, they are kinda useful for working around snakes. Gracias, hombres.”

“It was nothing.”

“Don’t mention it, amigo.”

I didn’t, but, as far as I was concerned from that point on, those two could call in their markers anytime and I’d see to it they were cashed.

Reassured that I was all right, Francisco rode back to the others to act as guide while Miguel and I made preparations to stake out the camp. The valley was just as I’d remembered it, well sheltered and with plenty of running water.

That evening was one of the most pleasant I can remember. The water was cool, the food good, and the weather even better. I remember how splendid the sun looked as it set that day, glowing soft orange as if the fire had gone from it. The moon was full, and shone brightly as wisps of clouds floated by. Even Chavez was in a good mood, although he’d never admit out loud that I’d been right.

After dinner several of the vaqueros went over to Joaquin’s chuck wagon and retrieved the musical instruments they’d stashed there. In every group of mejicanos I’d ever known, there was always someone who played the guitar, and this bunch was no exception. In fact, most all of the men could pick a little, and soon music filled the night air, sometimes quiet and peaceful, sometimes loud and lively.

Armando grabbed Chango’s arm and the two of them began prancing around. I tossed my sombrero in the ring and everyone started laughing as several others joined my half-baked hat dance.

A short while later, stretched out listening to the men sing an old ranchero tune, called “El Cantador”, I complimented Ricardo on his fancy rope work.

“I saw the loop you threw over that grulla trying to get away from you this morning. Nice job. I was sure he was going to beat it,” I said in broken Spanish.

“Eduardo is really much better,” Miguel translated Ricardo’s words as he sat down alongside of us, holding a second plate of Joaquin’s special hot rice. “Arroz a la mejicana.”

They called their friend over to join us.

“Oye, Eduardo, ven aca y trae tu reata.”

Eduardo came over, adjusting the knot on what had to be the longest lariat I’d ever seen.

“?Andale, Eduardo!” shouted Armando joining in the fun. “Show the gringo how it’s really done.”

I have to admit I was impressed. Over the next ten minutes Eduardo made that rope dance a series of pasos that were a wonder to behold.

Later that night, while pouring myself another cup of coffee I noticed Senor Hernandez sitting off to one side, alone, with an empty cup in his hand. Rather than waiting for him to get up, I took the pot over and refilled his cup.

“Mind if I sit here with you a spell?” I said in Spanish, or so I thought.

“‘Sentarme un rato’ means sit a while,” the don replied. “But you just asked me if you could ‘sentarme con una rata’ which translates as ‘may I sit with a rat?’ However,” he said with a grin, “the answer is yes, but only if we speak English. My ears are getting too old to suffer the agony of a beginner’s accent.”

I laughed in agreement, but, however bad my accent might sound, I was intent on improving it, as well as my vocabulary.

“I don’t stay a beginner long at most things I set my mind to,” I said proudly.

“Muy bien. I think you will find Castellano, our original Spanish, to be a rich and descriptive tongue. One that is, in fact, even more logical than your own language.”

“How’s that?” I asked defensively.

“For one thing, the English always put their descriptions before the object of conversation. In Spanish we say…‘la casa blanca, cuadrada y grande,’…or ‘the house that is white, square, and large.’ However, in English, you start out, instead, by describing something that has not yet been identified…the big, square, white…”—he paused— “house. You see, it is backward.”

“Well, you might have a point. I never thought about it like that,” I said, pondering the idea. “But then, on the other hand, I never had any problems understanding English, and I’ve been speaking it since I was a kid.” It was a lame joke at best.

“Of course.” He smiled. “But even you will have to admit, it makes more sense to put the noun before the description. Makes the language more sensible and easier to learn.”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” I said, anxious to change the subject, “how did someone like you, someone so learned, choose to settle in these parts? Seems like you’d have been more comfortable in the city.”

“My family originates from Sevilla, in Spain. There it is the custom for the inheritance to go to the older son. My father was the best horseman in the region and was well educated in both breeding and ranch management.