Trail Hand

luck hadn’t completely run out, there had been better days, so by the time my drink was finished I’d already made up my mind to get out of town and back to work. I wanted to be out on the trail again, and these two vaqueros represented a glimmer of hope in otherwise dull circumstances.

One doesn’t just butt into a conversation with strangers, especially when they’re mejicanos, so I approached them cautiously. Their lingo might previously have presented a problem for me had I not picked up a little Spanish while hanging around the cantina owner’s daughter, Pilar. Unfortunately she was yet another reason I was anxious to head for the far country.

Unbeknownst to her father, “Pili” and I had been seeing each other for some time, although I often suspected I wasn’t the only one so honored. With her waist-length hair, sun-bronzed complexion, and full figure, Pili could attract a lot of attention, especially in a small town like San Rafael. That girl had the singular knack of making a fellow feel like he was the only man she’d ever desired, a feeling she created simply by glancing at him with a smile.

The problem was that her temper was usually as hot as her body. Seems Pili wasn’t content to keep things merely on a friendly basis, and I’d temporarily forgotten what most men supposedly learn at a very early age, namely that being completely truthful is not always the best course to pursue when dealing with an armed and angry girlfriend.

In fact, the last time we saw each other I almost got my head dented by a flying skillet, an assault I was lucky to survive. But all things considered, the Spanish I’d learned from her did come in handy, and I was now fairly sure that, if need be, I could at least make myself understood.

The two vaqueros at the next table were drinking beers laced with liberal amounts of freshly squeezed lemon, something the locals seem to favor doing to the suds served at Las Tres Campanas. Personally I just thought it put the finishing touches on what was already a god-awful brew, preferring instead to order drinks from bottles labeled by someone other than Felipe. I had Ramon pour me another mescal before heading over to their table. My glass was still in my right hand, the intent being to appear a little less threatening.

Once, in a Kansas City stockyard, I had tipped the weighing scales at 230 pounds. Consequently, at six foot three, my size sometimes had a rather nervous effect on others in town, regardless of what I did. This time I hoped that wouldn’t be the case since I was searching out work, not trouble. Even so, you never know about strangers, especially in a cantina south of the border. It’s a wise man who never takes anything for granted.

A couple of months earlier, for example, two drunken, out-of-work Texicans decided to take out their hostilities on a black cowboy who went by the name of Sonora Mason. I guess he just happened to be drinking in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Texicans had laid in wait for him, outside, and then jumped him from behind when he rounded the corner. They dragged him into a back alley and beat him so badly he coughed blood for three days.

The locals figured that the two just felt like beating up on someone, and didn’t much like blacks. I happened along shortly afterwards and heard someone moaning in the alley. What I found wasn’t a pretty sight.

With his eyes swollen shut and three busted ribs, Mason wasn’t in any shape to walk, so I carried him over to the doctor’s office. The next day I checked in on him and helped prop him up while the doctor wrapped his chest with some wet rawhide strips that hardened into a corset-like affair. The doctor also had me fill a prescription for a yellow tea called manzanilla with morphia added to it for pain. Surprisingly by the third day, in spite of the doctor’s warning to stay in bed for at least another week, Mason was up and around. The next morning he cut out of town early.

What those two Texicans didn’t know was that Sonora Mason trailed with a band of mejicano outlaws. “Muy malos” as they say. Rumor has it his group eventually caught up with the pair, and it’s been said that, when he got through revenging himself, Mason was satisfied that neither of the two would ever father any more children. Like they say, nobody takes anything for granted in a cantina.

Fortunately for all concerned, the two vaqueros acted friendly enough when I approached their table.

“Con permiso, caballeros,” I said in my best, although admittedly not very good, Spanish accent. “?Alguien habla ingles?”

As they turned to face me, their bodies shifted subtly so as to keep their holsters free of the table. These two were obviously careful, and experienced in the ways of things.

The one to my right was a head taller than his companion, and sported a small clipped moustache. He had broad shoulders, and a wide gray sombrero that hung back on a rawhide strap. The other vaquero was darker, clean shaven, and slightly thinner. Although neither of them could have yet reached their twentieth birthday, both their faces were heavily weather-beaten.

As I stood waiting for a reply, I noticed their eyes drifting down toward the holster on my hip, and then back up in surprise. By now I was used to this sort of stare from others because hung on my right hip was an ivory- handled Colt Navy .36-caliber, gold-and nickel-plated, and scroll-engraved. It must have presented a strange contrast to the rest of my clothes, which in my current economic state were far from elegant. What a saddle bum like me was doing with such a fine sidearm was a story in itself.

Back home, my father ran a small but efficient ranch. While we never had an abundance of any one thing, Pa always saw to it that our family never went without the necessaries. He worked hard and led a relatively quiet life, but never talked about his life before he married Ma. Even so I always suspected that before he settled down, Pa had ridden the river a time or two. I never knew a better man with rifle or knife, and back home the folks are all good!

Some years ago the county held a fair, complete with a shooting contest that offered a pair of presentation Navy Colts as first prize. This wasn’t any ordinary turkey shoot however, not with a matched brace of Colts as first prize. Actually there were several events that all had to be completed before a winner would be chosen. The bull’s-eye and distance accuracy trials narrowed the field a bit, but what really thinned the ranks were the moving target competitions.

In one event a whiskey jug was hung by a rope from a tree limb and then a large wooden board with a hole cut out in its center was placed in front. The trick was to hit the swinging jug through the hole in the board from 100 yards away. Other competitions entailed shooting objects thrown in the air, targets hidden behind other objects, and shooting increasingly smaller targets.

Pa and I naturally had to try our luck. I didn’t claim to be in his class, but when the finalists narrowed down to just the two of us, I could see a smile grow on his face. My old single-shot wasn’t near as fine as Pa’s repeater, but I had filed and shaped the stock to fit my shoulder better, and loaded my own shot.

The final contest was the hardest. This time the targets weren’t moving; the shooters were. A silver dollar was placed on top of a six foot long post that had a small notch cut into it to hold the coin upright. We were required to shoot at it from twenty-five yards out. It wasn’t a hard distance to make, unless you’re trying the shot while cantering by on horseback.

Of course, Pa won the whole match, but not by much. I was real proud of him, although I do admit to being a touch disappointed in my own performance. As much as I loved my pa, secretly I’d wanted to best him and prove to the family that I’d finally grown up. At the time I merely wanted to earn more respect, but I know now that growing up isn’t the same as being grown up. Respect isn’t won quickly; it has to be earned gradually.

Truth is, although that brace of Colts was a thing of beauty, I had never really had any false hopes about keeping them, even if I had been lucky enough to win. Everyone knows small-time ranchers don’t need fancy engraved shooting pieces, and it stood to reason that Pa would sell the brace for more livestock, regardless of which of us won.

Sure enough, not long after the fair ended, one of our neighbors, Jethro Hamilton, brought over some new Morgan horse crosses for our ranch. Pa had been eyeing them for quite some time, but he never had had the asking price before.

I hadn’t seen the velvet-lined gun box the Colts arrived in since the contest, so under the circumstances I figured Pa had been more practical about things than I would have been if our positions had been reversed. I truly never expected to ever see those pistols again.

About a month later, on my fifteenth birthday, I was flabbergasted when Pa handed me one of those Navy