nobility, Don Enrique sure must have. He stood almost eye to eye with me, even at my six foot three. His back was ramrod straight, and, although he was in his sixties, I didn’t see one ounce of fat on his body. He wore a large gray sugarloaf sombrero, an embroidered jacket, and a red waist sash.
There were solid silver conchos running down the sides of his velveteen pants that were probably worth more than I would earn in a year. Somehow, though, they didn’t look flashy on him, but were rather more like something he’d earned. The don’s eyes were steel gray, and it was a sure bet they noticed everything that went on around him.
In spite of Don Enrique’s commanding presence, it was hard for me to pay much attention to anything other than the sight beside him. The woman standing off to his left was truly a vision. Dark black hair, green eyes, and a fair complexion would stir any man under the right circumstances, but this was different.
Senorita Hernandez was about the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, real life and pictures included. Her eyes seemed to stare right through a man. She stood by her father’s side, wearing a black skirt and a charra-style blouse that highlighted a figure women would fight over, and men would gladly die for.
They say that cowboys pride their hats so much they dress from the top down and undress from the bottom up. Maybe so, but that afternoon my flat brim flew off into my hands with a sweep that would have made my ma proud.
“Mucho gusto,” I said, offering her my best smile.
Before she could reply, Don Enrique abruptly spoke out. “My daughter Rosa Maria and I both speak your language, senor.” He was polite, but still the tone was there, as if cautioning me about his daughter and reminding me I was still a stranger.
I caught his drift and simply nodded back at him.
He turned to listen to his caporal, who strategically placed himself between the two of us before replying. I caught enough to understand Chavez was explaining who I was and how I was looking for a riding job. What I couldn’t figure out was whether he was giving me the benefit of the doubt, or ending things before I even got half a chance.
Meanwhile, I was content just to exchange smiles with the senorita. I had time to reconsider the caporal’s joke about pretty men, but, right then and there, I was glad to have inherited my pa’s looks. I only hoped the senorita was, too.
“My men know every part of Mejico from here to Chiapas, joven, but few have traveled much in what is now your country.”
My concentration reluctantly shifted back as Don Enrique addressed me directly.
“Of late we have little reason to trust your countrymen, but Francisco and Miguel both speak well of you. We plan to leave here within the week, so, if you still wish to hire on, you may join the vaqueros in the bunkhouse.” He gestured to a long building off to the far right.
“Thank you, sir, I will,” I replied. “But since I wasn’t sure of the if or the when of the job, I’ll just stay the night. First thing in the morning I’ll head back to town. Left some things that’ll need tending to first,” I explained. “Then, if it’s all right with you, I’ll join the drive when you cross over, just north past town.”
“Muy bien, as you wish, joven.”
Don Enrique seemed satisfied, but I could tell Chavez was far from pleased. That was understandable. A ranch foreman likes to know more about the men he rides with than what I’d offered Chavez, but I hoped he’d cool off once we hit the trail and began working together. In the meantime, I tried my best to connect with Rosa without appearing overly attentive. Riding away without getting better acquainted with her would be hard for me, but there was little I could do other than hope to leave her with a good first impression.
After I put my horse up, one of the ranch hands, a short stocky lad named Rogelio, showed me to the bunkhouse. Buildings on the hacienda were constructed a little differently from those on northern ranches. Up north they tend toward sod roofs and dirt-floored houses, with walls made from logs chinked with clay. The cracks are usually patched with leftover newspaper and the shacks heated with iron stoves.
Down here things were much different. Both the bunk and chuck houses were long, one level, tile-roofed affairs. Their adobe walls were cemented with mud about four to five feet thick, which tends to keep things cooler in summer. There weren’t any indoor stoves here, either, since it was usually much too hot. Instead, the cooking was done in clay ovens, or hornos, kept just outside the buildings.
The hacienda supported a lot of women sirvientas, who were kept busy washing, sewing, and tending to their young. Out in front of the bunkhouse sat an old ranchero who had to be ninety if he was a day. During the whole time I spent on the hacienda he just sat there on a cut-out keg, quietly watching the others and smoking the remnants of a cigarette whose ashes kept falling into his lap. From the size of that pile of ashes I’d say he smoked quite a few during the day.
I didn’t really expect any fancy lodgings, but the evening spent in the bunkhouse was surprisingly comfortable. Living in another territory can be unsettling enough, but on top of that I was starting work with strangers who all spoke a foreign tongue. If it weren’t for the vaqueros’ sense of humor and Miguel’s help with the translating, I would have been completely lost.
Rogelio directed me to a slat cot in the far corner, and then shoved a wooden tack box next to it to store my kit. He then pointed out various aspects of the hacienda and introduced me to a few of the other hands. Miguel and Francisco still had to unload the supplies we’d brought, but, since I felt out of place just standing around, I decided to lend them a hand.
Unloading four pack mules and storing supplies wasn’t all that hard, but it did cause me to work up quite an appetite. When combined with a full afternoon’s work, the smell from those hornos helped remind me it was near dinnertime and, judging from the growling sounds emanating from Miguel’s stomach, it was plain I wasn’t the only hungry one.
As soon as the last box of nails and spools of wire were stored, we hurried back, anxious to get first crack at the chow. Even taking my hunger into account, the chuck house meal was still real tasty, with lots of refried frijoles, big soft tortillas, and cheese mixed in.
Mejicanos favor lots of jalapeno chile peppers and pile them high on everything. I’ve always been one willing to follow local customs, but this time I carefully avoided the jalapenos, remembering a whole day on horseback spent nursing the burning effects of those hot peppers on my poor gringo stomach. I wasn’t anxious to repeat it.
After dinner the vaqueros settled down to the usual bunkhouse chores. Some cleaned tack, a few played cards, one told tall stories, and another played the inevitable guitarra. I decided to walk off dinner and took a stroll around the hacienda.
The Hernandez main house was situated right where the river curved and the water had a pleasant cooling effect. But more importantly, having a river wrap around behind the house as it did served as a natural barrier against unwanted or unexpected visitors. I reasoned that it would make the house an easy place to defend, in case of attack.
I felt no need to sneak around, but over the years I’d developed a tendency to position myself in shadows, or with my back to something solid, a habit that has saved my hide on a number of occasions while alone on the trail. I soon found myself standing under a nearby tree, admiring the layout of the house when Senorita Rosa suddenly appeared on the verandah. She stood there silently looking up at the evening sky, occasionally running her fingers through her long silky hair.
I watched silently for a while before finally speaking out. Apparently she hadn’t noticed me.
“Buenas tardes, senorita,” I said softly while slowly emerging from under the tree so as not to startle her. Evidently it didn’t work, for she gasped rather loudly.
“Didn’t mean to frighten you,” I said apologetically. “I was just admiring the hacienda when you came outside.”
“It is all right,” she replied in English. “You took me somewhat by surprise, although I have to admit that is usually not easy to do to me. I have lived on the trail many times with my father and try to notice such
