Trail Hand

Even though on the trail it’s essential to remain alert to the possibility of danger, eventually it becomes second nature. After a spell on horseback the mind stops fretting and life’s focus becomes much clearer. There’s just a oneness of man, horse, and Nature.

I’m not sure that it has to do with any special quality the horse might have, though. For one thing, they don’t react like pets do. A good dog, for example, practically lives to please its master. You treat it well and you’ll have a dependable friend for life. On the other hand, some of the hardest working trail horses I’ve known would bite, stomp, or kick you silly the first chance they get.

A true horseman never stops adjusting to a horse’s body or reacting to its mood. The trick is to relax, yet maintain control, and the rider who lets his guard down, more often than not, suddenly finds himself afoot. You can’t teach a horse dependability, either. A sorry cayuse will spook at every tumbleweed and step in every hole. I suppose that’s why it’s called horse sense—either a cayuse has it or doesn’t.

With a trail-wise horse, life can be downright pleasant. A good pony is sure-footed, agile, and alert. It will walk when it’s supposed to, stand if you want it to, and run like blazes when it has to. And that’s the way that Morgan bay of mine was. He was as sound as any horse I’ve ever had.

I’d ridden several hours without any signs of trouble, Indian, outlaw, or otherwise, and figured my current position to be about three days northwest of where the herd was camped. The Morgan could have gone on, but, since he was sweating heavily, I paused alongside the rim of a long gully that sloped off from my right, and down about forty feet.

The area was so hot, dry, and dusty it was a sure bet even the bay was daydreaming about the last creek we’d crossed. I know I was. We’d been searching for signs of water without much luck until finally I noticed the horse flaring his nostrils, as if he were taking a sudden interest in something. Up ahead was a small shallow depression that had formed underneath a smooth rock face overhang. From the way it looked, it promised to be a small collecting basin.

I was concentrating on that overhang when the Morgan suddenly pricked up his ears. The years had given me enough trust in that stallion to know something was wrong. His head turned quickly to the left and almost simultaneously I caught a glint of light reflecting off something metal on a ridge about 100 yards off.

Everything happened so fast I’m still not sure which came first. There was a puff in the dirt near me, and a sharp crack, a sound that could have only come from a rifle shot.

I turned in the saddle, drew my Colt, and fired. It was a long ways off to hit anything with a handgun, but mine was purely a reflex action. Turning suddenly like that must have saved me, but the only thing I really remember before everything went black was flinching in pain and grabbing for my head.

I came to, sprawled, face down, at the bottom of the gully, tortured by a loud buzzing sound that seemed louder inside my head than it did from its source, a nearby swarm of bees. Even dazed as I was, I knew it wouldn’t be smart just to sit up and start moving around. Whoever had shot me might still be around, and I had no way of knowing how long I’d been out.

The dust caked into my mouth and nose as I laid there playing ’possum. It seemed like a good half hour before even I dared open my eyes. After hearing nothing but those bees, I finally felt safe enough to roll over slowly and check myself. Putting a hand to my head, I found the whole right side covered with dried blood. There was no way to tell how much I’d lost, but at least the bones felt intact. Once again I was grateful for the hard head my ma always accused me of having.

Getting up was a chore, but somehow I managed. After taking stock, I realized my pistol was missing from its holster, and began anxiously searching around until I finally found it half buried in the dirt in front of me. The fall must have covered it over with dust.

I probably wouldn’t be alive now were it not for my angle of fall. Had my pistol been visible, it would surely have attracted too much attention to ignore. It stood to reason that whoever had bushwhacked me hadn’t bothered to enter the gully to make sure I was dead. There was plenty of my blood in the sand, but no boot marks other than my own were present, which confirmed my suspicion.

Head wounds tend to bleed more than other kinds, and many times appear worse than they actually are. That must have been the reason I was mistakenly left for dead. Regardless of how I looked, my head was pounding so bad I had a hard time convincing myself I wasn’t still going to end up dead, anyway. I felt downright critical.

Whether barely alive or not, I had lost a lot of blood and had no way of knowing if I was going to pass out again. One thing I did know, though— I had to reach water in a hurry. Unfortunately, in my condition, even the short climb back up that small incline was tough. Just crawling twenty feet winded me so much I had to pause repeatedly, and panted for several minutes at a time before finally reaching the top.

As I feared, my horse was gone and I was left alone, with no help in sight. Worse yet, there was no canteen. I stumbled forward a few yards, and then slid back down toward the overhang, following the sound of the bees. At first I didn’t see any sign of water, just that large rock balanced over a six foot round basin-like projection sitting right below the overhang. The bees were buzzing all around it.

After reaching it, I put my back against the wall and pushed hard with my legs against the edge of the rock. It took a couple of tries, but I finally managed to shove it over. Sure enough, a small pool of water had collected underneath.

I removed the bandanna from around my neck, and used it to soak my head. The water was warm and full of sand, but I wasn’t in any shape to be particular. I drank my fill, and then curled up under the overhang, falling asleep almost immediately.

I wasn’t really sure what time I awoke, or that it was even the same day for that matter. I drank again, this time as much as possible. When it comes to water, I’ve never believed in small amounts. As far as I’m concerned, it’s better to drink all you can, when you can, especially if you may not get another chance. That was especially true in my case since there was nothing around that might be of use to carry water.

I had a powder flask in my shoulder pouch that could have been emptied for that purpose, but it wouldn’t hold enough water for a good mouthful. More importantly, if I ran into whoever ambushed me, that gunpowder would be sorely needed.

I took a small rag out of my side pouch and ran it through the pistol barrel, using a small twig as a guide. I also checked the percussion caps, and removed what dust I could. The rest I cleaned with my shirt, after first plugging the cylinder chambers with some beef tallow I always carried in an old snuff box. Pa had taught me to use tallow or beeswax to seal the cylinder off so as to protect the powder from moisture, and to prevent accidental multiple chamber flashes. Flash….

I suddenly remembered having seen the rifle flash from up on the hill off to my left, so, after another short rest, it was the first place I headed. After about a seventy-five to a hundred yard climb up the ridge, I came across the body of a dead chestnut mare. Judging by the wounds, my pistol shot had fractured its right front pastern.

At that distance mine had been nothing but a fluke shot. It may have thrown the assassin’s aim off, and probably saved my life, but I regretted having hit the mare nevertheless. Whoever shot me finished her off with a head shot, and then stole my bay.

As I sat down next to that dead mare, I resolved to get even, regardless of what it took. I studied the area carefully, taking my time to read the signs. That’s when I was reminded of Sprout.

Chapter Seven

The memories came painfully back. Sitting there with the stench of death around me must have triggered the recollections. It, too, had all started with a dead horse. About five years earlier I had been riding south into Texas, alone, and trailing a piebald pack horse. There was word of a big cattle drive out of San Antonio, and I was hoping to sign on before it left.

The area I was riding through had a scarcity of game, and for the last two weeks I’d been forced to live off of old hardtack, and buffalo jerky so tough you could sole a boot with it. I remember it was early afternoon on a landscape that stretched flat out between two horizons.

Those new to the prairie always describe it as wide, but it’s more than that. It’s so big it hurts the eyes that