Trail Hand

tipped his hat back as Francisco and Armando rode up to join us.

“I don’t understand,” I said, surprised at the change in attitude. “I was sure you’d think I was one of their gang. Figured you’d want to shoot me on sight. What made you change your mind?” I asked.

“Si, it is true, we did,” Francisco replied in English.

“But, then Senorita Rosa try to convince us otherwise. Que genio, what a temper! When she got through yelling, even the caporal stopped to think.”

“We were going to hang you,” Armando added somewhat matter-of-factly. “But you are a hard man to catch.”

“Si, you were very clever. But the caporal began to wonder why you don’t just disappear completely. You know, compadre, sometimes your tracks were a little too easy to follow. So, when we seen you coming out of Senora Ana’s cabin, fighting with the others, we knew that the Senorita Rosa had been right all along,” Francisco added.

I felt the tension drain from my body as my hand dropped back down to my side. We all returned to the cabin to check on the McFarlens and to tend to our wounded. I met up with Sonora Mason as he was climbing down from the barn.

“I thought you said you weren’t headed this way,” I said.

“Wasn’t at first. But my amigos and I thought you might need some help with those rustlers. Besides, we never were ones to pass up a good fight. No sense lettin’ you have all the fun,” he replied. “And who knows, now that he’s down a few men, Don Enrique might be in a mood to hire us.”

“You? Work for a living?” I asked, surprised by the thought of it.

“Truth is things been a little dry lately. Ranch work doesn’t seem as unattractive as it used to.”

“Especially if you’re working for an outfit like Hernandez, right?” I added.

Sonora just shrugged. “Care to put in a good word for us?”

Looking around, I smiled and shook my head. “Don’t really think that’s gonna be necessary. You did a good enough job of it yourself. Thanks, hombre.”

Chapter Twenty-two

The Sharps is as accurate as it is powerful. That’s why it’s often referred to as “Old Reliable”, and, in the hands of an expert shot like Luke Pierce, it can be downright devastating. Pierce had holed up in a rocky notch halfway up a steep cliff with an open view of the valley I’d chased him into. He had a clear line of fire and was simply biding his time until I came into range.

Unfortunately he seemed continually frustrated by the fact I had already backtracked several times, as if double checking the valley for something. Each time I turned away just before entering the range of his Sharps rifle. Luke Pierce was a careful man. He wasn’t about to spoil his chance to kill me by rushing his shot.

For a solid week I had pursued him south until he finally decided to stop running and prepare an ambush. Pierce had no trouble recognizing me, even from his high perch, or so he thought. Fact is, at that distance, my hat and buckskin shirt made quite an improvement on Sonora Mason who was well mounted on my Morgan bay.

Mason knew the area much better than I did, and had been helping me track Pierce all week. By the end of the third day Sonora had already guessed the exact spot Pierce would choose to make his stand.

I was sitting on a ledge just above Luke Pierce, watching the whole show. I’d reached the summit above and behind his position a good two hours earlier, and had begun gradually working my way down. I rested a spell, watching from above while Pierce followed Sonora Mason back and forth in his sights.

The anger welled up in me as I watched what otherwise would have been my own ambush taking place. Sonora carefully criss-crossed the valley once more out of range, but this time Pierce set his rifle down and picked up his canteen, allowing himself to take a drink.

I wasn’t about to wait for another chance, so I swung forward off the ledge, dropped down, and landed right in front of Pierce. He reacted quickly, springing to his feet and at the same time flinging himself backward out of the way of my punch.

I hit him running, plowing into his gut with my right shoulder. Pierce went down hard, but, as I grabbed for his neck, he kicked sideways catching me behind my left knee. His kick caught me off guard, forcing me to roll over twice before I could regain my balance.

I stood back up and turned to face him, but Luke was already heading for his rifle, which had fallen on the ground on the far side of a waist-high rock.

I flung myself toward him, but Pierce reached the rifle before I did and grabbed it up on the run. He took several more steps before finally stopping at the edge of the cliff, turning quickly toward me while at the same time cocking the Sharps.

I was at a dead run aiming straight for him. When suddenly faced with the muzzle end of a loaded rifle, I knew I could no longer stop in time to take cover. There was no choice but to continue running forward, as fast as I could. Just as Luke’s finger tightened on the trigger, I flung myself down, diving forward with my arms stretched out. Pierce fired as I dived over the rock.

I had somersaulted down into a barrel roll scarcely in time, so close I could feel the rifle’s muzzle blast a bullet the length of my back. Coming out of the roll, I jumped to my feet, took four or five steps forward, and launched myself, this time with both boots out in front. My flying kick caught Pierce squarely in the chest, knocking him backward off his feet.

I fell flat on my back, landing hard with my legs dangling over the edge of the cliff. Luke hit the ground a lot farther down. Gasping and panting I quickly dragged myself back a foot or two and went limp. It was several minutes before I finally stopped shaking, regained my wind, and was able to get up. I looked over the edge and saw Luke Pierce, or what remained of him, crumpled on the rocks below.

After returning to San Gabriel, Sonora and I rejoined the rest of the men at the McFarlen Ranch. Chavez had moved the herd back to town and an auction had already been announced. Fortunately, as it turned out, those horses brought the highest sale prices ever recorded in that part of the state.

The bank was to have a new manager, too. Seems Mr. Norwell became convinced after a brief discussion with McFarlen that it would be better for his health to reside in some other climate. “Any other climate but this one,” I believe was how McFarlen put it. Not surprisingly the bank became very supportive of Norwell’s decision to resign, especially after learning the profits from the McFarlen sale wouldn’t be deposited in their bank until after a new manager was appointed.

Chavez and the rest of his men were becoming increasingly anxious to return home, so the caporal decided to telegraph Senor Hernandez. Don Enrique was informed of our success, but unfortunately Chavez also had to include a list of the men we’d lost. I accompanied the caporal to the telegraph office and was pleased but somehow not surprised to find there was now also a new operator. Luis B. Jacobs had suddenly taken ill and decided to leave town, coincidentally disappearing about the same time as the bank manager, Mr. Norwell.

Rosa Maria telegraphed us back from San Rafael. Her father was recuperating well, but was not yet able to make the trip into town. However, he was delighted at the good news and gladly gave Chavez permission to return whenever the caporal felt the McFarlens could handle things on their own. Rosa also asked Chavez to give me her regards and mentioned both she and her father were anxious to thank me in person.

Given the Spanish constraints for proper behavior, simple regards was about all one could expect from the daughter of a hacendado, but I could read between the lines. She hadn’t forgotten me, and, as far as I was concerned, that was more than enough.

As anxious as we all were to return to Mexico, we were equally sorry to have to part company with the