Trail Hand

A lot can happen when you trail with someone for over a year, and we eventually wound up as close as real kin. Sprout started nagging me for almost four months solid to help him get a sidearm and holster of his own. I finally broke down and promised to buy one at the next town we passed.

“I don’t know why folks are always referring to the patience of the noble savage,” I’d joke. “Hell, you’ve been pestering me more than a thirsty mosquito in summer. Look, Buffalo Grove is just ahead. I’m going after some supplies while Lucky gets our horses re-shod. After that maybe, just maybe, I’ll see about finding a six-gun for you.” The boy’s face lit up like a campfire.

Early the next morning Lucky Crawford, Sprout, and I rode to town, but as always the boy stopped cold about two miles out, refusing to go any farther. He had learned to trust the others in the outfit and was all right as long as we were alone on the trail, but even after all this time he avoided strangers and refused to go anywhere near a fort or town. Reluctantly we left him camped near a small creek, figuring we’d be gone no more than a couple of hours.

Once in town I ran my errands for the boss, and then headed over to the saloon, while Lucky saw to our horses.

We met later on at the pharmacy and bought some rolling paper and tobacco, and a bottle of oil of clove for Dave Randall’s sore tooth. It was there in the store that Lucky pointed out a Starr Arms double-cocking.44 they had on display in their glass cabinet. It wasn’t the newest or most accurate piece I’d ever seen, but it was dependable enough. More importantly, the shop owner let me have it at a good price.

“The kid’s sure gonna light up when he sees that,” Lucky commented to me, smiling.

“Yeah, well he deserves it. He works hard.”

“Sure does. Say, you fixin’ to adopt him permanent like?”

“Never thought about it much. He’s a little old, ain’t he?” I asked.

“Nah. And come to think of it, you ain’t gettin’ any younger.” He laughed.

“Very funny. But, maybe you’re right.” I paused to think it over. “You know, now that you’ve brought it up, might be kinda nice to give the kid my name. I’ll think I’ll chew on it some.”

We rode back to the clump of trees near the creek where we’d left Sprout, but, as soon as we arrived, it was obvious something was very wrong. His horse was nowhere in sight for one thing, and there were buzzards circling overhead.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Lucky,” I said.

“I’m way ahead o’ you, partner.” His gun was already drawn and cocked.

We split up and rode into the trees from opposite directions. That’s when we spotted him, face down on the ground, dead. I dismounted and quickly hurried to his side. When I rolled him over, I found three horribly large triangular knife wounds, running right through his chest. It was as if he’d been speared clear through.

Lucky holstered his gun and dismounted.

“Whoever it was is long gone. Must have been after his horse. See they’s two sets of tracks riding in, but three heading away to the south. The boy could have been napping…or maybe just thought it was us returning,” he added.

“They must have been riding double and saw a chance to steal his horse. He didn’t even have a chance, Lucky. Three men against one kid!”

“Who’d do something like that?” he asked sadly.

“I don’t know, but, one thing’s for sure, if I ever catch up with them, they’ll wish they’d decided to walk out of here, instead.”

“Hope to God I’m with you when that day comes.” Lucky turned back and pulled a small folding shovel out from his pack.

We buried Sprout among the trees, under a large overhanging branch. It was a clean peaceful spot, and the shade was nice and cool.

Lucky and I followed their tracks for several days until it began to rain and we were forced to turn back. We never did find those three. Even now, although all that was behind me, I still hoped our trails would someday cross so I could even things up for Sprout.

Chapter Eight

The small drop of blood that snaked its way into my left eye caused my eyelid to twitch, snapping me right back to the present. My head hurt and my neck ached, but the pain also served another purpose. It made me mad. Someone had bushwhacked me, stolen my horse, and caused another to die needlessly. I vowed to find the miserable coyote responsible and make him suffer.

I tried to stand up but my head was spinning so much I almost fell over backward. My stomach cramped, and it took a full minute or two before my eyes could focus again. For the moment, at least, it was clear that I’d have to worry more about survival than vengeance, so I knelt down, removed my knife from its scabbard, and began to butcher the dead horse.

Horse meat isn’t something I’d normally prefer for supper, but I knew it was going to be a long walk back to camp across difficult terrain, with no assurance of finding any game. Besides, in the shape I was in, even if I did find something worthy enough to take aim at with my handgun, I might not be steady enough to hit it.

I started a fire and cooked the meat. What I didn’t eat would be dried for the trail. I needed to regain my strength but my stomach felt as if it were full of paint remover, and I had to fight to keep down the grub. I almost threw up the first couple of mouthfuls, but fortunately things settled down after a few more bites. I shook my head a little, wondering why Apaches and Frenchmen favor horse meat so much. But I had eaten worse and, in my condition, was grateful just to have meat available, regardless of what kind it was. I still wouldn’t consider it my favorite, though, not by a long sight.

Something inside of me was urging me to return to the Hernandez camp as soon as possible, but I decided it was better to take things slow, to be careful. The mejicanos have an old saying to the effect that being first to arrive isn’t near as important as knowing how to get there. It made more sense to go slow and return alive in one piece, than it did to die rushing into things, so I decided to get a good night’s sleep and leave the following morning.

At dawn the next day I started out on what promised to be a long, hard, uphill trek. By the end of the second day on foot, I knew something had happened to the rest of the vaqueros. Chavez and his men should have started the herd moving in my direction, yet there was still no sign of them. I had been gone about three days before getting shot, and although it was probably too early yet for anyone to be overly concerned about me, I knew the caporal. Chavez was a cautious man, but he was also one who would react swiftly at the first sign of danger. By now he should have at least sent someone to scout me out, and my trail shouldn’t have been too hard to follow.

While it was possible that Don Enrique and Chavez had decided to double back to their original course, it was unlikely, being as how the don was not one to change his mind once a considered decision had been made. If, on the other hand Chavez had managed to convince him otherwise, they would have sent someone to let me know about it. That being the case the rider would have reached my position by now.

When I curled up that night, I decided to cut due east in the morning and then head south, rather than simply backtracking. It would mean several days of hard climbing over much more difficult ground, but it would save me considerable time. Besides, I now wanted to approach the camp from high ground, with a clear view of what I was heading into.

A couple more days of hard but uneventful travel finally brought me to the base of a vertical rock face on the far side of the canon where the vaqueros had been camped. To save time I’d cut cross country, but now, assuming the outfit was still camped in the same place, I would have to scale that one final wall.

As a boy I loved to climb anything in sight, be it tree, hill, or the barn out back. Right now, though, I was tired and nowhere near enthusiastic about the uphill climb, so I sat down for a good fifteen minutes to rest, study