Trail Hand

straight line.

Chapter Four

By the time the herd reached the border, my accounts in town were all settled. I stocked up on ammunition and said a quick good bye to Pili, who was surprisingly civil about the whole thing. Civil for her that is. She did scream something in Spanish about my gringo ancestry, and then indicated that I was a fool who didn’t know a good thing when he saw it. She also made it clear that from that point on I could forget about any more personal attention from her. At least this time I didn’t have to duck any flying kitchen supplies.

Truth is, nothing could have pleased me more, because ever since returning from the hacienda, I couldn’t get Rosa off my mind. I never used to believe in love at first sight, but what I was feeling for her sure came awfully close.

I started the next day at first light, scouting north, to get the lay of the land, before swinging back to meet the camp. I wasn’t at all surprised to find Don Enrique accompanying the drive, even at his age. He brought along about twelve riders, but had left his daughter behind in charge of the rest of the vaqueros working the hacienda.

Chavez, as expected, was already in the saddle, and along with the rest of his men was driving a herd of about 1,200 horses. I hadn’t seen that many during my brief stay at the hacienda, but then again a wise man doesn’t always show his hand, something Senor Hernandez obviously knew all too well. He must have divided his herd into various remudas in order to fool the other rancheros, and to foil any attempts at rustling.

Driving horses is a little different from working cattle, since they wander more and don’t bunch up as tight as steers do. Horses also tend to form their own little social orders. When you try to move them around out of place, they often get to kicking and biting, preferring instead to move in lines of their own choosing.

While it’s true that God never created a creature as ornery as a range longhorn, horses on the trail can spook or stampede just as easily as cattle, and as many men have been injured working around horses as cattle.

Longhorns can surely make a sane man jittery, but an unbroken cayuse can be just as unpredictable. That’s why a pony won’t go into a cavvy until it’s about four, and it isn’t till its sixth year that it finally calms down. Even so, no rider ever truly relaxes much around a working bronco till its about ten years old. Fortunately the men of the Hernandez outfit knew their jobs well and the drive started out fairly smoothly.

“These are as fine-lookin’ horses as I’ve seen,” I commented to Gregorio, one of the outriders.

“Tienen sangre espanola.” He nodded, saying it was the Spanish blood mixed in.

From what I could make out with my limited Spanish, he was talking about an Andalusia strain and the effort Don Enrique had put into breeding them with local stock. It reminded me of how much Pa had wanted those Morgans to improve his own herd. Seems like regardless of language, true horsemen are the same all over.

Some Eastern folk might think that trailing horses is glamorous and exciting, but for the most part it’s just plain hard work, and it starts early. Mornings are filled with a quick cup of coffee that varies in consistency from regular to glue, depending on the cook, and usually some biscuits that can either be eaten or used as wagon wheel stops.

Fact is, I’ve been on drives where the food was so bad the men wondered if the stew was made from old boots, and one time on the trail we passed a marker that read: Here lies the cook. Shot him cause he couldn’t!

Fortunately for us, there was none better than our cocinero, Joaquin. He usually prepared something real spicy, wrapped in tortillas, and his coffee was more than passable. Of course, the Hernandez boys never let on to him just how good they thought it was. Nope, quite the contrary.

Joaquin always wore a red bandanna around his neck and was constantly wiping his sweaty forehead with it. Francisco and the other boys always kidded Joaquin by accusing him of using that bandanna to strain the coffee grounds. They often joked that, in order to get such a peculiar flavor, he must be squeezing it, sweat and all, back into the soup kettle when no one was looking.

In general, they made Joaquin bear the brunt of the camp jokes, something I always thought was dangerous to do to the man who prepares your food. Joaquin, however, played to the part, constantly raising a ruckus or complaining to a deaf-eared Chavez.

In reality, any one of the hands would have gladly given up his favorite saddle to keep him on as cook, and Joaquin worked as hard as anyone trying to prepare our meals the best he could. As for my part, I was pleased just to keep quiet and enjoy the grub, which I ate in formidable amounts.

Joaquin’s chuck wagon was a covered, two-wheeled affair with four large water barrels tied to its sides. Aside from the usual assortment of pots and pans, it also carried an extra barrel of molasses. That’s why, by the eighth day out, our cook was nursing a sore head.

Seems Joaquin had a habit of sleeping under his wagon at night with a few of the twenty some odd goats that trailed after him. One night the barrel leaked some of the syrup onto him while he slept. Joaquin awoke in a start, practically covered in ants, and bolted upright so fast he knocked himself out cold on the wagon axle. The goats didn’t mind lapping up the molasses, though, ants and all. We found them under the wagon, licking Joaquin’s head and face.

After a short breakfast the ponies chosen to be ridden that day were bridled, brushed, and their hoofs picked out. Only a fool would ride a horse before checking hoofs and tendons first. Unfortunately, lifting and holding a horse’s four legs and picking out its hoofs first thing in the morning is not only hard on the back, it can be a real chore, especially if the horse isn’t the kind to stand still for it. Many is the time I’ve had a bite taken out of my backside by a nasty bronco.

I was grateful that my Morgan bay always stood like a rock for me. Even so, he was strong, his legs heavy, and he had large hoofs for his size. He also had a nasty habit of swatting me in the face with that big tail of his every time I bent over.

Saddles also have to be maintained. Most of the never-ending tack work is done in the evenings, but every now and then a cinch breaks or a rein snaps and has to be replaced. A rider’s tack is almost a part of him, and most of the outfit’s vaqueros were very attentive about keeping things in good shape. A good horseman soon learns to be a combination leathersmith and poor man’s tailor, not to mention farrier.

Anyone who has ridden his bottom raw in a ragged misfit saddle, or has had a stirrup leather break on him at the wrong time doesn’t ever again get behind with his tack. Most working saddles aren’t all that fancy, but they do have to be comfortable, and sturdy enough to withstand the constant pull of both rider and rope.

The extras in the kit are important, too. A torn saddle blanket thrown over a dirty burr-ridden hair coat will quickly rub a horse raw, cause fistulous withers, and leave his rider afoot. A working cayuse isn’t brushed for show, it’s done for his health, as well as the rider’s.

A cowboy’s boots are another item constantly in need of attention. In some places thorns will drive right through a boot toe if it’s in poor shape and can actually cripple the rider. Texican boots have a higher heel than the flat mejicano kind and slant inward more, probably to keep the foot from hanging up, or from shooting through the stirrup in case of being bucked. Mexican stirrups— tapaderos —sort of solve that in their own way.

The vaqueros all had these round leather coverings on the front of their stirrups to help prevent this. I kind of liked the idea, so I asked Joaquin to help me sew on a makeshift pair of tapadero stirrup covers made from some spare dried-out cowhides. They weren’t as good-looking as the rest’s, but they sure did the job.

The herd of horses we were trailing wasn’t yet shod, but those cayuses in the vaqueros’ remuda had to be. Horseshoes protect hoofs from the rider’s extra weight by keeping the animal’s soles and heels up off of rough terrain. Even with shoes on, however, hoofs still have to be regularly filed free of sandcracks, and soles protected from penetrating wounds. There’s an old saying— “No feet, no horse.”—and, as important as that Morgan stallion was to me, I was glad we had a good smith along with