Trail Hand

Unfortunately he was the second son. So you see my uncle inherited all the family lands. It seems that with our people one either works the land, joins the army, or becomes a priest, and my father was not the sort to spend his life in a church.”

“So he joined the army.”

“Si. He was a captain with the mounted Lancers. Eventually he came to Mejico and married. As a boy I remember how he read with disgust the letters from home, and the discussions with my mother about how my uncle was ruining the land and mismanaging things. I vowed someday to create another hacienda, one where my father could finish his days doing what he most loved, raising fine horses.

“I have been blessed with many things during my life, not the least of which was Rosa’s mother. My beloved wife Gloria worked, struggled, and fought by my side, year after year, until we finally established a fine ranch, one my father could be proud of. One that would bring honor to our name. I even imported horses from Andalusia, the finest in the world.”

“I won’t argue that point with you, Don Enrique.”

“Gracias.”

“And then he joined you, your father? He helped you finish breeding this herd?” I asked.

“Unfortunately no. Papa died the very same month that the horses arrived. It was not a good time for us. My wife also died that year, soon after giving birth to Rosita.”

“I’m sorry. I know how much it hurts to lose one’s family.”

“Were it not for Rosa Maria, I might have given it all up, but having a daughter to care for gave me instead more determination. I wanted to leave her something important. Wealth and power are important, si, but they are not everything. I also wanted Rosa to have a sense of honor and pride, and a sense of obligation to others.”

“If you’ll allow me, sir, from what little I know of her, I think it’s safe to say you succeeded at that.”

Don Enrique smiled and nodded. “Rosa has worked the hacienda alongside of me all her life, and I am proud to say the vaqueros respect her as much as they would any man.”

“Well, Chavez for one sure seems awfully protective of her,” I added, remembering the clout he’d given me. “Mind if I ask you if there’s anything between the two of them? You know…romantically?”

“?El caporal y Rosa? No. They are more like brother and sister. Chavez’s father worked for me as my first caporal, and the two children grew up together. I am not sure who fell off more horses or who had more black eyes as a child,” he said, laughing, “but I do remember they were constantly fighting, as most siblings will. When his father died, Chavez took his place as caporal. He is very protective of us both, especially of Rosa, I will admit, but he is engaged to another girl named Caridad Luz. I love him as I would a son and I owe him a great deal more than loyalty. I owe him my life.”

“I understand that he got that scar in a knife fight?”

“Si.” Don Enrique sighed heavily and stared off into space. He hesitated so long I wasn’t sure if he was going to continue or not, but he finally took another sip of coffee and explained.

“Some time ago we were taking money to our bank when a band of thieves attacked us. Chavez’s father was shot down right in front of his son, and I in turn shot the outlaw.” As he spoke, Don Enrique’s right arm brushed instinctively against his revolver. “But two others rushed me from behind and knocked the pistola from my hand. They had knives, and one of them would have surely killed me on the spot had not Chavez suddenly thrown his own knife into the man’s back. He then fought the other one barehanded.”

“And that’s when he got cut?”

“Si. But even so he still fared better than the other. Chavez killed that ladron with his own knife. From what they tell me his fiancee, Caridad, has been very understanding and still loves him very much, but sadly Chavez has not been the same man since the wound.”

“A little too much on the serious side?” I suggested.

“It is understandable. I suppose one cannot blame him much for that. But he is a good man and an excellent caporal.”

“I guess you’re right,” I said. “But he sure doesn’t give new folks much of a chance.”

“I forgot to mention”—Senor Hernandez paused— “the thieves at the bank…they were of your people, americanos.”

That last one gave me something to think on.

The following morning, as usual, I made preparations to scout ahead. I wanted to peruse the next water hole and planned to get an early start. While saddling my horse, I paused to chat with Miguel, who had already started what had now become his morning routine—boots, hat, coffee, a long shave, and then more coffee.

“Which way you headed today?” he asked, splashing water on his face from a bucket perched on the chuck wagon tailboard.

“Want to check up ahead, then swing over to the northwest and have a look-see. Make sure everything’s OK.”

Miguel lathered his face using an old bone-handled shaving brush.

“I swear, hombre, you have got to be the shavingest vaquero I ever met,” I joked. “And that goes for most cowboys, too,” I added.

He adjusted a small mirror that hung from a nail on the side of the chuck wagon. “?Tu cres, compadre?” he asked, feigning surprise.

“Do I mean it?” I replied. “You bet. Hell, most wranglers wouldn’t touch a razor on a trail drive, even if they were forced to at gun point. You been looking in that mirror, shavin’ and fussin’ with that moustache of yours every day since we left the border. Reckon you oughter have it right by now. Besides, ain’t no ladies out here to impress, you know.”

He adjusted the mirror to keep the glare out of his eyes before replying. “Cierto, but how do you say it…the cleanliness is next to God.”

“Godliness,” I said, correcting him.

“Si, godliness,” he responded, pointing in the direction of Inocente Vizcara, one of the other vaqueros in the outfit, who was just awakening. Admittedly Inocente’s unkempt beard did resemble a large bird’s nest.

“OK, I don’t shave, so you want I should to look like that?” Miguel asked jokingly. “No, not me, I don’t want no birdies landing on my face.” He laughed, shaking his razor over at Inocente to emphasize his point.

I swung into the saddle and took up the reins. “Well maybe you’re right after all, Miguel. How about saving me some of that soap for when I get back.”

“You going very far?” Inocente asked as I rode by.

“Three days or so, I reckon.”

“Cuidate, hombre,” Miguel said, waving good bye, his soap brush still full of lather.

“Thanks. You take care, too.” The last thing I remember seeing as I rode off was Inocente arguing with Miguel, and the morning sun reflecting brightly off his shaving mirror.

Chapter Six

Following remote stretches of trail has always been what I enjoy most in life. There’s a quiet calm that always comes over a man after hours alone on horseback. The soft rhythmical creaking of the saddle combines with the occasional rattle of canteen or rifle swinging to or fro to create a peaceful melody.

Strangely, even though riding is physically taxing, I’ve always found it mentally relaxing. Maybe because there’re no arguments, no worrisome chatter, no rules to follow, or aggravation.