“¿Sí, porque?” he asked, looking up at me questioningly. Just then the knot slipped. As slick as it was, that new rope wouldn’t hold the knot, and it practically smoked as the whole affair came unraveled. The big chestnut’s hoof dropped point first, falling straight down like an axe blade. Chango took the whole weight of that mare’s leg right on top of his bad foot.
“¡Aii cabrón!” he screamed, and I didn’t blame him one bit. The whole left side of his face screwed into a grimace as he fought back the pain. As I rode away, I now understood his facial twitch, and vowed silently to myself never to take up blacksmithing for a living.
Joaquin and Chango excluded, things had gone well for the rest of us so far, and everyone quickly fell into a routine. Even the herd was behaving as well as could be expected.
All the horses were rounded up every morning and grouped tightly for the drive. Nobody rides nice and straight on a drive, but rather everyone constantly weaves back and forth, in and out, in order to keep a herd in order. Horses are spookier than cattle, and even a trail-wise cayuse will occasionally try to buck its rider. That’s one reason Westerners ride their saddles deeper than Easterners do, and longer legged.
The problem Western riders face is that they not only have to be able to work in the saddle, but also to relax. After several months of riding, a cowboy, wrangler, or vaquero develops a sort of round-shouldered, slouched-back, and bowlegged appearance from long hours in the saddle.
I once met a gent who rode one of those miniature English-style saddles. Sort of a small-skirted seat with a low cantle, and no fenders or pommel. It looked more dressing than anything else, kind of like a flat filled-in McClellan with small metal stirrups hanging down. It might have been real comfortable for a little girl, but at the time the bunch of us watching figured the dude riding it would last about two days on a real trail drive before his back went out on him. That is, of course, if he could stay on a Western bronco for more than a minute or two.
Western horses are different from those back East. They tend to be shorter coupled, with more muscle and rib bone than fat and finish. A good Western cayuse is bred for stamina, trail sense, and harsh climates, and a cowboy will often forgive a cantankerous horse if it’s sure-footed or good with cattle. Only someone who is a rider can truly appreciate the relationship between man and horse. It’s different than with a dog, or any other critter for that matter. A rider must care for and respect his mount, for their lives depend on one another.
According to whom you talk to, horses are either intelligent creatures, or the dumbest beasts on earth. For one thing they’re the only animals dumb enough to drink themselves to death, and will run till they drop dead. At the same time, there isn’t a gate built that a horse can’t eventually open. I once saw a cayuse actually get down on all fours and crawl out from under a fence, and they aren’t supposed to be able to do that.
Whether it’s smart as a whip or dumb as an ox, the horse is the one animal a cowboy will give his life for and it’s the same with vaqueros down south. Funny thing, I’ve known some of the toughest and meanest men to cry for a whole week after having to shoot their injured cayuse, while on the other hand some nice quiet types can put a horse down and get another as easily as changing a pair of pants. It’s hard to figure.
Without a horse some parts of this country are certain death. Guess that’s why, when you stop to think about it, horse thieving is a hanging offense, whereas bank robbing or cattle rustling just gets jail time, if that.
I remember hearing of one outlaw who’d almost made a clean getaway when his horse broke a leg. Since his shot had given him away, some of the men in the posse about to hang him wondered why he’d bothered to stop and shoot the horse.
“You must have known the sound of that gunshot would tip us off,” they’d said. “You would have gotten clean away otherwise. That shot meant sure death, so why’d you do it?”
“Wasn’t any other way to play it. Couldn’t just leave him like that,” was all he’d answered, but it was explanation enough.
No drive gets started until the working ponies are checked over and any problems attended to, and ours was no exception. After all, you can’t herd animals from a wagon top; our ponies worked as hard as we did.
So for the next three weeks we continued our daily routine. Don Enrique left most decisions up to Chavez, who unfortunately hadn’t yet changed his attitude toward me. He did allow me a free rein to ride where I wanted, but, since he often criticized my recommendations, I tended to report directly to Don Enrique whenever I could.
Early every morning I rode ahead to scout the terrain, not returning till about midday. I usually repeated the process in late afternoon, returning for dinner just after dusk. At dark, after bedding my horse down and having dinner, I’d walk the camp perimeter and check the sentries, enjoying the evening quiet and the cool night air.
Night on the trail can be a combination of pure pleasure and nervous tension. The sky might be clear and full of stars, but when trouble comes, it will usually start between dusk and dawn.
Some folks believe Indians won’t attack at night, but that applies only to certain tribes, and even those that don’t fight in the dark have nothing against scouting around, making plans, or picking off an isolated straggler. The same holds true of outlaws, most of whom prefer to hit and run.
The Hernandez night riders always circled the herd either talking quietly among themselves or singing, partly to calm the animals, but mostly to let their presence be known. It’s good to remember not to ride up on someone unannounced on a drive, since to do so often risks a bullet through the chest.
Sometimes in the evening I’d wander a couple hundred yards out to relax under a rock ledge or cottonwood overlooking part of the camp. I tried to imagine someone stalking it from various angles, and then I’d check out any place I thought might bring trouble. It’s a wise man who learns to relax whenever possible, but on the trail a scout soon learns to do so with one eye open. It’s smart because, aside from Indians and rustlers, there’s also wildlife to worry about, like cougars and prairie wolves.
You can’t take the elements for granted, either. Even the driest areas can suddenly be hit by storms with lightning so bad it’ll spook a herd or send a flash flood roaring down a newly formed gorge, taking rider and cayuse along with it. I’ve seen some of the flattest driest spots in the Southwest suddenly turn into a solid sea of mud during such squalls.
Unfortunately that’s precisely what happened shortly after we turned west. It was mid-afternoon on a fairly level and open plain. I was scouting ahead. Armando was riding drag with Ricardo, and the rest of the men were scattered around, working the horses from their usual places.
Contrary to what some folks might believe, most herds, be they horses or cattle, are best driven at only a modest pace. The more experienced vaqueros usually ride point, keeping the herd on its course or veering the animals during directional changes. Swing riders work just behind them, but slightly off to the sides, and they are followed, farther on back, by flankers who try to stop the animals from straying and retrieve those that succeed. Following just behind them are drag riders, who constantly push the herd as well as dealing with any slow or injured animals.
Joaquin Gutierrez and Chango Lopez usually rode well behind the drag riders until mealtimes, at which point they drove up past the herd to set up for chow. Out of habit Joaquin would bed down every night up ahead of us, with the chuck wagon’s tongue pointed forward in the direction of the next day’s journey.