Trail Hand

vaquero was Indio like me, but, even so, he had this great big saddle and wore brand new clothes. When he came out of the store, he even tossed me some candy, and gave me cincuenta centavos for watching his horse. That was more money than I ever had all to myself.” Francisco paused to swat a blood-sucking tick off his horse’s neck before he continued on with his story.

“After that, everything in the Mision de la Virgen was to me very dull, and I soon became…you know, aburrido.”

“Bored?” I asked.

“Si, that’s it. Two weeks later I sneaked out with just the clothes on my back, and walked to the mercado in the town plaza. I found Senor Hernandez there with his men and begged him for work. He was about to have one of them take me back to the mission, but when that one touched me, I punched him in the stomach.” Francisco laughed. “He was much bigger than I, but it knocked his wind out.”

“And you still got the job?” I asked, stating the obvious.

“Senor Hernandez pretended to be very mad with me at first, but then he started laughing. He said while I would probably make a poor vaquero, I would surely be worse as a priest. I have been with him ever since.” Francisco grinned and added. “And after knowing the women, I think he was right.”

I grinned, nodding in agreement as we rode along.

That night we camped near some cottonwoods and settled down to supper and the usual fireside coffee. Miguel seemed to be in a better mood.

“Miguel, you learn your English in a mission, too?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “I learned it in Tejas and Colorado.”

“Really? Worked up there, did you?”

“Si. About four years ago. Senor Hernandez often trades with a Meester Boocanon….”

“The same Buchannon who owns the Double Deuce spread?” I interrupted.

“Si, that’s the one. You know him?”

“Only by reputation.”

“Bueno. I was asked by Don Enrique to ride with the Double Dooze for six months while they moved stock north. They were short some men, so Don Enrique loaned me to them, as a vaquero.”

Miguel got up and removed a short sword from a leather sheath that was tied to the side of his saddle and began to cut some firewood. I’d noticed that nearly all the vaqueros carried one.

“Always figured those swords were a bit too cumbersome. Seems to me they’d get in the way,” I said, my curiosity showing again.

Miguel shook his head. “The machete is really very practical. We use it for cutting firewood, and for chopping heavy underbrush. It is also good against snakes…when you do not wish to make noise or cannot shoot and”—he waved the sharp blade under my chin— “it can be a very deadly weapon.”

“I see what you mean,” I said uncomfortably.

Miguel smiled and tossed a pile of wood on the fire while Francisco broke out the coffee and beans.

“Even so, I think I’ll just stick with this,” I said, patting my Colt fondly.

It wasn’t long before Francisco asked the inevitable questions about the Navy pistol. After I told him about my pa, he slowly took out his revolver and offered it over. It was a small.38 Smith & Wesson revolver with a spur trigger and bobbed hammer.

The finish was worn and the wood grips slightly cracked, but the barrel rifling was still good. It was clean and well-oiled. Had there been anything other than friendly curiosity about my firearm I would have known it by now, so I didn’t mind letting him examine the Colt.

“If you don’t mind the question…you have had to use this before?” he asked innocently. “I mean in a battle?”

I nodded, but didn’t answer him aloud.

“Miguel is very fast, but I myself have never had to draw on another,” he said, turning the Colt over in his hands.

“Let’s hope it stays that way, compadre,’ cause it’s true what they say. No one ever really wins in a gunfight.”

I left it at that as we returned our pistols to their rightful holsters. We sacked out a short time later, after first checking on the horses. Before falling asleep, I pondered Francisco’s last question, remembering the first time I was forced to draw in anger.

Shortly after leaving home I rode through a small town called Bensonville, on the way to Abilene. There was a saloon that caught my eye, called the Rusty Nail. I tethered my horse, went in, and ambled up to the bar peaceably. After all I’d ridden, I was dog tired, and hadn’t figured on drawing any attention, but before I’d even finished my first beer, I was braced by an older cowboy sporting a brown leather vest, stovepipe chaps, and a holster worn low on his hip, Texas style. From his actions it was obvious that he was mean drunk.

“Well, lookee here, boys. Junior got all dressed up to go drinking with the men. Say, how about this?” he added, noticing my gun. “What’s an overgrown kid like you doing with a fancy shootin’ piece like that, anyway?” His breath was as loaded as his gun was.

I turned away, trying to ignore him, but he wasn’t about to let it go. Pulling on my shoulder, he spun me around.

“Don’t turn your back on me when I’m talkin’, you miserable pup.”

Things were souring a little too quickly. I looked around anxiously for some help, but there was no sign of a sheriff, and nobody in the place looked even the least bit concerned. In fact, the rest of the men actually seemed to be enjoying the show.

“Look, mister, I ain’t looking for trouble, so, if it’s all the same with you, I’ll just be leaving.”

When he blocked my way I realized that mine clearly had been the wrong approach. He was playing the bully, and all I’d succeeded in doing was to convince him that he could get away with it. Drunk as that cowpoke was, I wasn’t about to change his mind.

“Afore you leave here, just hand over that hog-leg to someone who can put it to good use,” he said, slamming his beer mug down on the bar top. He wasn’t leaving me an out, but at least I had been careful enough to make sure my back was covered by a corner post.

Although I had no way of knowing if his friends would back him in a shoot-out, it appeared that, for now, he was the only serious threat I’d have to deal with. The rest seemed content just to watch the fun. He wasn’t very bright and I figured his drinking might give me an edge, so I stood my ground, and quietly stared back at him.

“Come on, kid, what’ll it be? Iffen you’re not gonna hand that gun over, you better go for it, ’cause I don’t aim to let you leave here with it. A fancy Colt like that ought to go real nice on my hip.”

I thought he talked too much and was still hoping to get away without having to kill him. Looking over to the bartender, I nodded back over at the cowboy.

“Barkeep, if I shoot someone so stupid he forgets to remove the holster thong from his pistol hammer before a draw, you reckon it would be held against me?” I could clearly see his pistol actually was untied, but hoped he might not be so sure. I was counting on the effect of all that booze.

Sure enough, the cowboy glanced down to his hip, giving me all the time I needed. When he looked back up, my Navy Colt was leveled at him, its barrel pointing right between his eyes.

“Be thankful you’re still alive mister,” I said angrily. “I’m not looking for any more trouble, so just put your arms up and leave ’em there.” I backed sideways out of the saloon, keeping the rest in sight, and quickly headed to my horse.

I was young and inexperienced, and naively thought that had ended things, so I didn’t pay much attention to the taunting laughter that grew from the saloon as I mounted up. My gun was now holstered and I was turning to ride away when a shot rang out from behind, and a bullet grazed my vest. I whirled the bay, drew, and fired. Before I knew what had happened, I’d emptied five rounds into his chest.

It was over in an instant. I had killed a man. He was a drunkard who had shot at me while my back was to