Trail Hand

things.”

“You should be very proud of him,” I replied. “This is one of the most pleasant places I have been to in quite a long while.”

“Si, I am very proud.” She nodded. “It has been very hard for Papa. My mother died when I was born and he was forced to raise me alone.”

“I lost my folks a while back, too. I’m sorry.”

Rosa came closer to the railing at the end of the verandah as we continued to converse. She explained why the drive was so important to her family. Don Enrique’s only other living relative, a younger sister named Ana, had married an American, apparently an ex-military man, and had moved to California with him. The two of them were now struggling to build up a new ranch from scratch. Unfortunately Rosa’s aunt had written that of late land grabbers were trying to force them out and steal their ranch.

“California was once our land,” Rosa said bitterly. “Now they treat californianos and mejicanos like they somehow don’t belong.”

Sadly I couldn’t disagree with her.

“Fortunately for us, though, horses are badly needed right now in that whole area. The economic success their sale will bring should allow my uncle to fight the others off,” Rosa added. “But, meanwhile, mi tia says they are just barely getting by.”

“If you don’t mind my asking…why doesn’t your pa just send them the money?” I inquired. “With a big hacienda like this he should be doing well enough to afford it.”

“My father has a lot…uh…como se llama …tied up in livestock, and he has spent much trying to develop new line crosses. Also, mi tio is a very proud man. He simply would not take charity, even from family. So it was my idea to let my uncle sell our horses in his part of California, where the prices are higher, and then split the money with my father. That way they both will profit. But, you see, our problem will be the difficulty of taking so many horses such a distance through your country.” After a brief pause she added: “That is why my father needs a good scout. I do hope you will be of help.”

I couldn’t possibly say no to those eyes, or to her smile, and quickly assured her I would do my best.

We continued to talk for a short time longer. Rosa always stayed in the light on her side of the railing as was only proper for a senorita in her situation. I could tell that the more we talked, the more uncomfortable she became, perhaps fearing her father might intrude, or think it improper for her to be alone with a man so long.

As for me, I could easily have stayed there all night listening to the sound of her voice, but after a while I began to have a rather strange feeling. It was sort of like having someone staring at the back of my head. It first started after I heard some leaves rustle behind us. Although I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, I was still bothered by a strange something I just couldn’t explain.

If someone was prowling around out there, I didn’t want the senorita involved. Besides, a fellow ought to know how to court a woman without overstaying his welcome, so I soon bid her a good night, repeating my promise to do my best.

I returned to the bunkhouse by a different path and noticed nothing unusual. Even so, I have a sixth sense about some things, one I’ve grown to trust. I couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that we had been watched.

The next morning found me up early. It was already so hot I worked up a sweat just currycombing my horse and picking out his hoofs. I’d thrown my saddle on the bay and was in the process of cinching it up when I felt a strong tap on my back. I turned to find the caporal almost flat against my face, looking madder than a rabid dog.

Vaqueros usually wear large spurs with long spiked rowels that are individually designed. They are much larger than the Texican kind and somewhat awkward to walk in, so vaqueros often remove them when afoot. This time the caporal wasn’t mounted. Chavez had come up on me quietly and without his spurs, so I knew something was definitely wrong.

“Hear me good, gringo. You do not go near the Senorita Rosa. You do not talk to the senorita. You do not even think of her! ?Me comprendes, gringo?”

His tone made it instantly clear that it had been either him or one of his men who had been watching us last night. It was also plain that he was either very jealous or dangerously overprotective. Either way he was in one foul mood.

“You don’t even know me,” I answered defensively. “Besides, don’t you think it’s a little early for this sort of thing?” I was trying to buy enough time to distance myself a little from him. “And, anyhow, isn’t what I say and do around the senorita her business, not yours?” I added more firmly.

That last one was definitely the wrong question to ask at the time. After all, I was a stranger, a trail hand, and a gringo to boot.

Not surprisingly Chavez reacted quickly and angrily. Even though I was sort of expecting it, Chavez threw his punch so fast it still caught me off guard. If I hadn’t been backing up, those fists of his would have had me out for the count. As it was, I only partially slipped a punch that clipped me hard on the ear and caught part of my cheek. After hearing bells for a second, I knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

Although I can throw a fair punch myself, I’ve always preferred to use my size advantage by wrestling whenever possible. Rather than slugging things out and breaking knuckles on someone’s face, I’ve found that most men don’t fight well once down on the ground. Furthermore, I’d left my holster hanging on my saddle horn while Chavez on the other hand was still armed.

I took a few punches that, for the most part, I managed to block with my shoulders, and then appeared to stagger forward, setting myself up for his roundhouse right. Just as I’d counted on, Chavez swung hard, but I dropped down unexpectedly, slipped under his punch into a crouch, and shoved forward.

Caught full force in the gut with my shoulder, Chavez lost his wind. I grabbed him with both arms and spun him around as he fell. He hit the ground and rolled quickly back up, only this time without the revolver I’d snatched up out of his holster.

The caporal hesitated and glared at me, unsure of how best to proceed. I was mad enough to want things to continue, but only now on my terms. Without taking my eyes off of him, I unloaded the cylinder onto the ground and tossed his pistol into a nearby barrel. Then I raised both my hands up with a come- and-get-it gesture.

He spit and rushed straight at me, full force. As he bore down on me, I turned just slightly and dropped to my left knee, with my left hand high and my right low.

Unable to stop, Chavez fell onto my back, and I sent him cartwheeling over my shoulders, feet high, and flat onto his back. It would have been enough to knock the average man out, but it only winded him a little. Before he recovered, however, we heard a loud shout from behind us.

“?Hombre! ?Que pasa aqui?” Don Enrique was just rounding the corner when he’d called out.

Pulling Chavez up by one arm, I proceeded to dust him off.

“Sorry about that horse of mine, caporal,” I added quickly. “He always did have a nasty habit of kicking out like that. Hell, he’s even knocked me down on occasion.”

Chavez caught on quickly. He may have been many things, but a fool was not one of them. He couldn’t let on to his boss what had really happened between us without getting himself in trouble for spying on Rosa, or for fighting over it.

“That horse is a devil,” he said, staring straight at me. “I never even seen it coming.”

“I was just leaving, Senor Hernandez,” I explained. “When the caporal came to see me off, he moved a little too close to my Morgan. The stallion bucked me off and kicked out at him.” I could see that Don Enrique was puzzled, but, since no one ventured to say any different, he had to accept it as so. “I assure you, senor, it won’t happen again,” I said while mounting up. “Con su permiso, I will see you in a few days,” I added.

As I rode out, I could see Chavez recovering his pistol from the barrel, so I made very sure not to ride in a