Trail Hand

McFarlens. Ana had become something of a second mother to many of the men, and a better cook we never met. Even as busy as Mr. McFarlen was rebuilding his ranch and organizing the sale of the herd, he always had time to help the men with their own individual problems, such as making sure Chango got the necessary medical attention to help him recover.

He personally vouched for us in town so there wouldn’t be any problems refitting for the trip, and he let everyone know there was a standing job offer for any of the men who might someday decide to return.

The trip back to Mexico, thankfully, was uneventful. We made good time, arriving at the hillsides overlooking San Rafael early in August. Ricardo, who had stayed behind at the hacienda while his leg healed, came riding up to meet us. The men all cheered as one, knowing they were home at last.

“?Hola, Ricardo…que hay?” shouted Chavez, greeting the young vaquero.

Ricardo looked over at me and then back at Chavez, groping for an explanation.

Senorita Rosa was right all along about him, Chavez explained, answering Ricardo’s doubts about me.

“Lo siento, Ricky,” I quickly added. “You left me no choice.”

“Yo tambien,” he said, rubbing his leg. “My leg is better.”

Chavez then asked about his boss.

“Don Enrique is much better now and is on his way here. He should join us soon,” Ricardo answered in Spanish. He then rattled off something too quickly for me to follow.

“He mention whether or not anything’s happening in town?” I asked Francisco.

“No, mucho,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders. “You know, that pueblo, she never really changes much.” He winked at Armando, who was sitting off to my side on a buckskin mare named Canela, and added: “Except that Senorita Rosa is already there in San Rafael with some of our men.”

Armando grinned and slapped me on the back. “I know at least one vaquero who will be glad to see her, eh?”

“That’ll be enough,’ Mando,” I said, feigning displeasure. I turned back to face Chavez.

“Caporal, it’s been a long ride to get back to where we started from. You still have a problem with my seeing Rosa?”

“Perhaps we should finish that fight we had at the hacienda, eh, gringo?” Chavez answered slowly, staring ahead in thought. “You know…for the benefit of the men.”

“?Tu crees?” I groaned. “That really what you want?”

He turned in the saddle, adjusted his sombrero, and shook his head. “They say the hunter learns to respect his prey. Well, I have argued with you, and I have hunted after you. Even so, I end up fighting at your side. And now I ride with you. I know Rosita all her life and only want what is best for her. If she feels you are best for her, I will no longer disagree.” He offered me his hand. “Although only God knows what she sees in you,” he added, laughing.

Relieved, I shook with him and replied: “You are a hard taskmaster, caporal, but any man would be proud to count you among his friends.”

“So are you two going to spend all day long here grinning at each other, or are we going into town?” Francisco asked impatiently.

“Well, I don’t know about you vaqueros, but the first thing I’m gonna do is take a bath and finally get a shave,” I replied, rubbing my chin.

Chavez looked at me, and then back at the rest of the men. “?Yo no!” He flicked his hand up to his mouth in the universal gesture for drink, and shouted: “?Vamos a la cantina, muchachos!”

“?Adelante, caporal!” they yelled almost in unison.

Before I knew what was happening, I was alone sitting on my horse in a swirl of dust. When it cleared, I found myself looking down on a bunch of wild mejicanos racing ahead at a dead run toward town. Or rather, I should say, straight for Las Tres Campanas. I shortened my reins some and cantered the bay leisurely after them.

Chapter Twenty-three

There was only one bathhouse in town, but I was determined at long last to take advantage of the opportunity and clean up some before anything else happened. As long as we smelled the same, none of the men paid much attention, but, after all the time we’d spent on the trail, no decent woman would want to be in the same room with us.

I for one decided not to meet Rosa Hernandez again until I’d washed the topsoil off and scrubbed my face clean. Trail-wise or not, someone of her upbringing would be used to the finer things in life, and, if I was to have any chance with her father, I’d have to start looking the part. Or at very least make sure I smelled better than a used saddle blanket.

The local bathhouse wasn’t much when viewed from the outside. The inside wasn’t any better, looking more like an old barn than anything else. Were it not for all the soapy water sloshed on the floor and a table full of half dried towels, the place might easily have been mistaken for an old abandoned shack.

There were four rooms that consisted primarily of large sheets hung from iron hooks that were bolted into the rafters. The owner was a heavy-set, elderly Irish-Mexican named Paco Fitzhugh. Although Paco supposedly ran the place, all he really ever did was sit in a rocking chair at the entrance and rake in the money. All of the physical work was done by two young boys, Pablo and Mario, who cleaned towels, mopped floors, poured water, lit the customer’s cigars, and made runs across the street to fetch drinks from the cantina.

The tips they made might have provided the boys with a decent living, if only Fitzhugh had let them keep some. Unfortunately Paco Fitzhugh also owned the house where the boys’ mother lived, and claimed their tips as part of her rent. The fact that their mother, a short fat woman named Consuela, also did his cooking and cleaning didn’t seem to matter much to him, either.

Fitzhugh liked to take things easy, and owning the bathhouse was an easy way for him to make a living. All he needed was a place for customers to bathe, water, towels, and soap. At least that’s the way he saw it. So he had the building built as quickly and cheaply as possible. Once it served his purpose, he wasted no more time on it.

The bathhouse was such a rough cut and dirty affair the first sight of it made folks south of the border wonder how he could attract clients, let alone turn a profit, even if it did provide the only indoor bath for over 800 square miles.

What made the Fitzhugh bathhouse profitable, aside from his criminal frugality, were the tubs. The Fitzhugh bathtubs were legendary in these parts. Those four tubs had come all the way from France, originally shipped through Vera Cruz and destined for some governmental residence in Mexico City.

As the story went, one of the local Vera Cruz hotel owners, a fellow named Carlos Fonseca, had a friend on the loading dock who owed him money. Shortly after their arrival, boxes containing four bathtubs were conveniently misplaced. Although the authorities investigated for several days, the boxes were nowhere to be found. Leastwise nowhere in the warehouse district. The officials, however, neglected to check Fonseca’s hotel on the outskirts of town.

Fonseca might have had a chance to enjoy those tubs himself had it not been for the hotel’s gaming table. Carlos liked to sit in on some of the poker games run out of his hotel’s own card room. He fancied himself a sharpie, but Paco Fitzhugh was better. Fonseca, after a run of questionable bad luck, put up the tubs which were still in their shipping crates, as collateral, and promptly lost.

Rather than hanging around Vera Cruz and possibly risking unpleasant consequences, Fitzhugh wisely loaded the crates in two freight wagons and rode away the same day. It was originally his idea to head for Los Angeles,