Trail Hand

camp in search of a blanket.

I returned to cover the vaquero and then, using a plank torn off of Chango’s wagon, dragged his remains back to the campsite and began to dig a grave. I managed to rummage up a shovel out from under the wreckage. It was burned but still intact, and served its purpose.

The ground wasn’t especially hard, but the work was. I knew it wasn’t my fault, but guilt has a funny way of creeping into one’s bones. I was the scout for the outfit. It had been my job to pick a safe route, avoid trouble, and get the herd through intact. I had argued for the change of direction, chosen the campsite, and now my recommendations had led to all this. Good men were dead, others injured, and the lives of two good families were faced with ruin, all because they had trusted me.

Logic told me that I wasn’t responsible for the crimes of a band of renegades, but I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I was somehow to blame. The more I dug, the harder the ground seemed. I was tired of burying friends and family.

Chapter Nine

Standing over Gregorio’s grave with shovel in hand started me wondering if someone would be as kind to me when my time came, and, judging by what I’d been through, there was a distinct possibility that could be sooner rather than later. Just as that thought crossed my mind, a rustling sound erupted from the bushes nearby, and a branch snapped. My right hand dropped to my side, but before my Colt broke leather, Bruto, one of Chango Lopez’s two mules, walked through the thicket and out into the open.

I was so relieved when he approached, I actually laughed aloud.

“You purt’ near scared the daylights out of me, old fellow,” I said, rubbing his forehead. “How in blazes did you manage to get away?”

His harness and bridle were still in place, with the reins trailing on the ground behind. I replaced them up over his back, so he wouldn’t step on them, and quickly checked him over. There were a few minor cuts and scratches but fortunately nothing major. Bruto was snorting anxiously, so I stroked his mane, trying to calm the both of us down.

Even though cowboys work mostly range-crossed grade horses, every rider I’d ever met had a strong opinion about what they considered the best breed of horse. Cowboys will spend hours around a campfire arguing the merits of the wild mustang over the thoroughbred, or comparing Arabs to Appaloosas. While vaqueros are basically no different, Chango Lopez was especially particular about his choice. He rode mules.

In actual fact, Chango rode what had to be the biggest brace of jack mules in the Southwest. I’d seen large mules before when I hauled supplies to outposts in the Kansas Territory for Russell, Majors, and Waddell, but nothing like the pair Chango used. On a bet Rogelio once measured their front hoofs. They turned out to be twice as big across as those of the biggest gelding in the remuda.

Chango liked to alternate between the two mules, Bruto and Bobo, using one to pull his supply wagon while he rode the other. I’m not sure which job the mules preferred, but there couldn’t have been much of a difference, not given his size.

I once asked Miguel how Chango had come across a matched pair that big.

“Oh, he had them when we met him,” Miguel replied. “Don Enrique was returning from a sale in Tampico with a bunch of us when we come across Chango, alone, with that wagon and those two mules. His padre was a great herrero …you know, a blacksmith…but he was shot to death. A bandido everyone called El Tuerto once rode through their pueblo looking for someone to shoe his horse. When Chango’s father finish the job and ask for his money, El Tuerto shoot him, instead of paying. So Chango, he go look for this assesino, and later he find him in Los Senos del Diablo, a very bad place near Saltillo. Even the Federales don’t go there.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Chango, he find this man in a cantina with two others, drinking tequila and playing the cards. El Tuerto had a gun, sure, but Chango had his father’s hammer. The other bandidos joined in the fight, too, but Chango…he used that hammer on them. They say you could slide what was left of those three under the door. Both mules and the wagon belong to the two men who were playing poker with El Tuerto. I guess Chango not feel like walking home, so he just took them. Chango didn’t any longer want to stay at home after his padre’s death, so he rode away to look for other job. After they met, Don Enrique give him a job and he has been with us ever since. But you know, nobody ever give him the hard time or make fun of his choosing to ride mules.”

Of that I had no doubt.

Bruto, the mule, stood quietly in front of me as I bent over to pick up the shovel I’d dropped when he surprised me. I laughed again, wondering who’d been more startled, him or me. Even though my nerves were still on edge, that’s not always a bad way to feel when you’re alone in the wild. It heightens the senses and keeps one alert for danger. At least this time it did, for, as I stood there in front of that mule, the sudden flicker of his ear and the toss of his head warned me something was wrong.

Any other time I probably wouldn’t have even noticed it, but that sixth sense of mine had suddenly begun to act up again. I listened carefully, but heard nothing unusual. Even so it seemed that the mule was standing a trifle too still and he kept staring straight at me without blinking. Something was definitely wrong, but it was something I couldn’t put my finger on. I strained to hear, see, or even smell something, anything that might be out of the ordinary. It was while I was looking at that old jack that I finally caught the reflection in his eye. My blood almost froze at the realization that I was watching three Apaches closing in silently from behind, captured crystal clear in that mule’s big old round pupil.

They rushed me just as I turned, swinging that shovel. It caught the first one with a crushing blow to the side of his head that killed him instantly. There was still time to draw my pistol, and the Navy Colt bucked in my hand, sending a slug squarely into the chest of the second brave. Although a lethal shot, it didn’t stop his forward motion, and the Indian plowed right into me, knocking the gun from my hand and sending me spinning off to the side.

Fortunately his dead body landed on top of my gun, putting it out of reach of the last Apache. The fall also blocked the Indian from reaching me before I had a chance to recover, forcing him to cross over the body. Judging by the six-inch knife in his hand, it was only pure luck that had saved me from being gutted on the spot.

That luck was short-lived, however, since Apache warriors don’t waste time. This one turned back around to rush me, but I quickly reached down and pulled my Bowie from its boot sheath, forcing him back a step. It made him pause to reconsider as only fools rush someone with a blade. My stomach muscles tightened as I remembered Uncle Zeke’s advice on knife fighting.

“Expect to get cut, and don’t ever play fair. Try to git outta there, but, iffen you cain’t, use whatever you can to win,’ cause in a knife fight the winner sometimes ends up in worse shape than the loser.”

This battle was now going to be one on one. Had there been any other Apaches around I’d surely have been dead by now. These three had probably fled the reservation and then later spotted the campfire. More likely than not they were only after the mule and some guns, but this Apache clearly wasn’t about to quit now. There was nowhere for me to go but right into it.

We circled, twisting and turning, thrusting and parrying, trying to feel each other out. Some men use a knife like a sword, slashing or jabbing, trying for the quick kill, but the more experienced ones make small circular slicing movements, keeping the blade in close. They prefer to cut up an opponent little by little, bleeding them out enough to make them helpless, before finally going in for the kill.

This Apache was strong and very determined, as most are. He had obviously used his blade many times before, but then so had I, and there was no way I was going to do anything foolish like kicking at him, which would risk a severed leg muscle. Nor would I just stand there facing him straight on.

All I offered my opponent was a constantly moving and well-guarded side view. Even so, his blade nicked my left arm twice, and a couple of times came uncomfortably close to my throat. We locked grips once, but I managed