Trail Hand

McFarlen nodded to me, tears welling in his eyes. The room was in ruins and several of the men were already wounded.

“Boys, what say we go out on our feet, fighting? At least we can try to give the McFarlens a chance!” I shouted at the others.

“I’m with ya, mister,” one of them replied. “Anything’s better than this.”

A few other cowboys nodded. They all fired a round or two, and then bunched up behind me at the door.

“When we spring this door, you two cover the missus,” I said, pointing to the pair on my left. “Try to block Davies’s line of fire and let the McFarlens slip out around back. The rest of you head with me to the corral. If we can get into the horses, maybe we can scatter things up and use ’em for cover.” I tried to sound more optimistic than I really felt.

We let go another volley as McFarlen pulled the bolt on the door. Seven of us poured out the door, firing as we went. I had my Henry in my hand and the Navy Colt fully loaded in my holster. I levered another round and fired the rifle.

We made it through the door and onto the verandah, but not much farther.

Davies and his men had left the cover of the trees. They had chosen that very moment to remount and were now charging down on us. One man dropped on my right, shot in the leg. We were firing as fast as we could, but they kept on coming. There was no place for us to go, so we spread out in the open all along the verandah.

I was so mad I didn’t care about dying just as long as we took some of the 4 Boxers with us. I didn’t expect I’d have to wait very long for my time to come when, all of a sudden, I heard a loud Comanche yell in the distance off to our left.

Riding down off the ridge and heading for us at full tilt was a solid line of vaqueros, standing in the stirrups and firing as they rode. I never saw a more glorious sight, and several of the ranch hands shouted their relief.

I fired my rifle at the nearest 4 Box rider, sending him off his horse and into a corral log. The arrival of all those vaqueros at the same time as the 4 Box attack was purely coincidental, but it sure caught them off guard.

Davies didn’t know where to turn first. Instead of finishing off a few lone ranch hands, his men now found themselves trapped between a solid row of rifles on one side, and twenty charging vaqueros barreling down on them from another.

Several cowboys were immediately shot off their horses and an instant later it became one big free-for-all. Once everyone collided, the vaqueros began using their machetes. Up close, it wasn’t a pretty sight.

I fired my Henry point-blank into a rider coming straight at me. He took it right in the chest, toppling off backward in a sort of slow roll.

Off to my left I noticed Chango Lopez on foot, pursuing a Davies man who, to my horror, turned suddenly and shot him point-blank in the side. For an instant I could see the look of terror on the cowboy’s face as Chango, seemingly unaffected, grabbed him up in those big arms of his and crushed his skull.

At this point everything was up for grabs.

I emptied my rifle and dropped it on the porch. Charging into the fracas, I tried to find Luke Pierce. I turned straight into a second group of horsemen charging down at us. Davies must have held Pierce and thirty or so others in reserve, and they’d waited until now to attack. The element of surprise created by the vaqueros’ arrival was about to be eliminated, overcome by the sheer force of numbers.

With almost military precision Pierce galloped his men in a straight column along the edge of the long barn, about 100 yards from the main fight, and then wheeled left to face us. A company of Rangers couldn’t have executed the maneuver any better.

“Damn,” I grunted. “Look out, boys, they’re charging!” I shouted to those around me.

“?Atras, muchachos!” a vaquero called out.

Pierce and his men spurred their horses, and almost as one they leaped forward at us. I was on foot, surrounded by horses and falling bodies. Even if we had had more men, there wasn’t time to bring enough guns together to stop the charge. I swear I caught Luke Pierce staring at me with an evil grin on his face. It must have been obvious to him that he had us dead to rights.

The 4 Box line was galloping straight at us about twenty-five yards away when I noticed a movement on the roof of the long barn, right behind Pierce’s men. Fifteen men suddenly stood up and simultaneously fired one tremendous volley. The blast was so loud I flinched, but surprisingly the fire was directed downward, right into the back of that charging line of men and horses. Instantly about half of the men were shot out of their saddles, and several horses flipped horribly, end over end.

I looked back up to see a line of Mexicans on the roof, whistling and jeering as they continued their withering fire. Sonora Mason stood in the middle of them, laughing.

“I’ll be damned,” I muttered, waving up to him.

Luke Pierce miraculously survived the volley, managing to turn his horse at a dead run and flee the scene. I caught a glimpse of Brett Davies trying to escape, but I ran around him and blocked his path. Davies pulled up short once he recognized me.

“You son-of-a-bitch!” he shouted, spurring his horse in an attempt to run me over. Davies came on so fast I was forced to fan my pistol from the draw, slip shooting from the hip. The first bullet took him in the right eye and, as he raised his hands up in reflex, the second and third slammed into his chest. His horse was jerked back by the pull on the reins and fell over on him, crushing an already dead body.

I looked around, realizing that the tide now had turned in our favor. Several of the cowboys and a few vaqueros were dead, but even though both groups were still mixed together in fierce fighting, it was clear the 4 Box brand was losing.

Over to my left a cowboy was about to use his rifle to club McFarlen from behind. I pulled my Bowie from my boot sheath and threw it right to the hilt into his back. Davies’s men evidently intended to go down fighting.

Wheeling to my right, I found Chavez alone, fighting off three cowboys. He was mounted on a large gray with a long dark mane and tail, but the 4 Box riders had his horse trapped between them. One was blocking the front while the other pressed his horse in from behind. A third cowboy was keeping Chavez busy on his right. They were too far away for me to reach in time, especially on foot. Since I had emptied my Colt and was now without knife or rifle, all I could do was wait for the inevitable outcome. I stood there watching the fight as a helpless observer.

It was obvious the caporal was doomed. There was no way he could react in time to protect himself from a three-sided attack. At least none that I could think of.

Just then Chavez drew his machete out from its sheath, and with a loud yell struck out violently to his right, embedding the blade into the nearest cowboy’s neck. As the remaining riders in front and behind were preparing to shoot, his horse did something I’d never seen before, or since for that matter.

That gray rose up on its haunches, sort of like a dog begging, and launched itself straight up in the air. Chavez actually seemed to be part of his mount. I have seen Comanches do some incredible things on horseback, but nothing like this.

The front hoofs knocked the cowboy right off his horse, which then spooked and immediately hightailed it out of there with its rider angling behind, hung up in his stirrup. And as if that weren’t enough, the gray, which was now up in the air and horizontal, kicked straight out backward like a mule.

Six feet off the ground with a rider sitting calmly aboard, and this horse is kicking out backward like a mule! The cowboy attacking from behind was caught completely by surprise. Hit full force in the chest by both rear hoofs, he was flung from his chestnut like a rag doll. I hate to think how many ribs were broken. Every 4 Box rider who saw that move knew it was all over, and those who were still able immediately hightailed it for the next territory, our bullets flying after them.

I stood there with my mouth hanging open as Chavez calmly rode up to me. I wasn’t sure how he would react to my presence amidst all this bloodshed. My hand rested on the butt of my pistol. It was empty, but at least he didn’t know that.

“That was a hell of a trick, caporal,” I said, testing the waters.

“Cabriol,” he replied. “I teach you sometime.” He suddenly broke into a grin, and