Trail Hand

the wall, and plan the ascent. It didn’t look especially steep or dangerous, but I wasn’t about to risk breaking my neck in a fall.

I made sure my gun was tied down tight, and then reversed the spurs on my boots to project downward past the heels, hoping they’d give me better traction during the ascent. My hands had become well calloused over the years, but as an added precaution I removed an old pair of work gloves from the bottom of my shoulder pouch. Then, using my boot knife, I carefully cut away the fingers and trimmed the leather from the glove arm down to the wrist. When I’d finished, I had two gloves that hopefully would protect my hands from the sharp rock, while at the same time leaving my fingers free to grasp with.

I chewed a few strips of dried horse meat for energy and took several deep breaths before beginning the ascent. As worn down as I felt, I was grateful the climb went well. It turned out the slope wasn’t very steep after all and there were plenty of wide crevices for hands and feet. Within two hours I had easily reached a position just below the summit. With my goal finally in sight I felt a renewed surge of energy and rushed quickly toward the top. A little too quickly perhaps.

Suddenly, as I swung my body over to grab for another handhold, the wall around me suddenly collapsed. Once committed there was no way back. Rock and gravel peeled away and in one terrible, gut-retching instant I found myself dangling in mid-air, facing out away from the wall. I was suspended totally by my right arm, my hand wedged into a small crack in the rock face.

I tried to dig in, flailing back with my heels, but the hard rock had given way to a sandy, loose gravel that wouldn’t allow me to gain a decent purchase. Desperately I threw my weight across my shoulder and succeeded in rolling over to a toe-in position, face flat against the wall. For the moment, at least, I needed to rest.

My grip was firm enough, but I knew it wouldn’t last forever, so I searched around anxiously for another hand-or foothold. The wall had magically transformed itself into such a soft smooth surface that nothing within reach would support my weight. There was one small projection nearby that offered some hope, but it was off to my left and several feet above my head, just fatally out of reach.

I tried to control my breathing, calm down, and think. My knife wouldn’t help since the whole area was now much too sandy. I thought about using my holster, but even if I could manage to unbuckle and rebuckle it with one hand, the belt would be too wide and awkward to be of any use. Trying to pull my body up with my right arm still wouldn’t allow me to reach that one small outcrop, and I couldn’t swing my legs up to it. I looked up at that rock helplessly. There it was, solidly embedded in the wall, projecting out only a few feet from the top, but just enough out of reach to spell my downfall. And that would be precisely the correct word I thought grimly— downfall.

Sand shifted into my face, forcing me to reach over with my left hand to wipe my eyes, face, and neck free of debris. When my fingers drifted across the shoulder strap holding my travel pouch, my heart skipped and I breathed a small sigh of relief. There might still be a chance.

I put the strap in my mouth so as not to risk dropping it as I eased it off over my head. My hat was hanging over my back by its tie string, but fortunately they didn’t tangle. Grabbing the bag in my left hand, I let go of my bite and examined the pouch strap. It was braided rawhide and an integral part of the pouch, easily able to support my weight, for a short time at least.

I began to swing the strap while holding firmly onto the bag. It took several attempts before I was able to shift my position enough to throw overhead, but then just as suddenly as hope is given, it can be taken away. The rock face began shifting again under my right hand and I watched in terror as the slit began to open. Desperately I began to swing, throwing that strap furiously, over and over again, hoping for a miracle. My scream echoed from the canon walls as my right hand broke away from the rock.

It took several seconds before I even opened my eyes. It felt like my heart had jumped into my throat and my ears pounded, but I was alive, suspended by the pouch strap wrapped around my left hand. Luckily it had caught the projection on the last throw. Not about to wait for anything else to go wrong, I flung myself over, quickly grabbed hold with my right hand, and pulled myself up to solid rock. The bag itself made a good foothold, allowing me to push on over the top.

I reached down for the pouch and pulled it up after me. Rolling over, I clutched it to my body and went limp. The last thing I did before passing into a deep sleep was give that old beat-up leather pack a long, hard kiss.

I must have laid there a full hour or so before I was finally able to continue on. I got up and brushed myself off, grateful the climb was over. It was downhill all the way now, with a clear view of the valley below.

Unfortunately, before I got even halfway down into the valley, I knew the camp had been deserted. Buzzards circled the corpses of several dead horses and what little was left of Joaquin and Chango’s wagons had been burned into two ashen piles.

Tracks left by the herd led out of the valley and away to the southwest. I found still others made by a smaller group heading back southeast, opposite our original direction. The double sets of furrows behind this second group spoke volumes. After the camp had been attacked and the herd rustled, the vaqueros must have turned back toward San Rafael, carrying their wounded on horse-drawn travois.

I came upon three fresh gravesites, not far from the burned out wagons. Inscriptions had been crudely carved into a piece of wood nailed to a tree branch. The first one read simply: JOAQUIN GUTTIEREZ—NUESTRO COCINERO Y AMIGO.

I shook my head sadly and moved on to the other two. The sentiment on these markers was quite different. asesino y ladron was all that had been recorded, but then murderer and thief said it all anyway.

I rummaged around the remains of both wagons and found two sacks of beans that were only slightly singed, and half a sack of cornmeal. There were also three or four canteens lying around that could still hold water. There weren’t any horses left alive and the only rifle I could find was too badly damaged to be of any use.

I scavenged what little I could from the camp while all the time looking for clues as to how the attack had occurred and who might be responsible. The herd had trampled most of the area and any remaining sign had been spoiled by the fire.

It did seem, though, that the vaqueros had been caught totally by surprise, and I found that very unusual. This valley wasn’t known to many others, and I couldn’t understand how a band of outlaws that big could have approached the herd without Don Enrique’s men noticing.

Chavez always made a point of making sure the night rider stayed awake in order to prevent something like this from happening. I wondered what had happened to that rider.

It wasn’t long before I noticed a clump of scrub brush that didn’t match its surroundings. Although most of the dead horses and goats were scattered at the other end of camp, the buzzards seemed to be paying an unusual amount of attention to that same patch of scrub. As I neared it, the smell was so bad I knew right off that I’d found the missing sentry.

I pulled my bandanna up over my face, and then kicked the bushes back. The flies were so thick I had to back off and grab a hunk of brush to shoo them away. I found what I’d expected but it was of little comfort. One of the mejicanos lay curled on the ground with another dead body alongside. The vaquero had part of his head crushed in, probably by a rifle stock, and it took me a moment or so before I realized it was Gregorio.

I couldn’t recognize the other. He was obviously an American, but no one I’d ever met. From what I could tell, Gregorio had been jumped while riding the herd, and had been knocked from his horse. They must have tried to knife Gregorio, instead of shooting him, so as not to alert the rest. Taking on a vaquero with a knife is never a good idea, however, even by surprise at night, and Gregorio had very good reflexes.

The cowboy laying there had a six-inch blade sticking out of his chest and an empty sheath on his belt, so it figured that, when they had struggled, Gregorio must have disarmed his attacker and then turned his own knife back on him. Although this one got what he deserved, another of the bastards must have clubbed Gregorio from behind.

I rolled the dead outlaw over and searched him for identification, for some clue as to whom he was or whom he rode with. Unfortunately there was nothing in his pockets except an old tobacco pouch, a bent hoof pick, and a poker chip from a place called the Golden Goose Saloon, in Gila City. Not much to go on.

Without giving it much thought, I pocketed the poker chip and rolled the outlaw out of the way. Others might be more charitable about such things, but I wasn’t about to waste my efforts burying him. Gregorio, however, was my friend and deserved better, as does any good man who goes down fighting. I wanted to bury him alongside of Joaquin, but, given the condition the body was in, it would have been hard to carry him by hand, so I went back to