“Come on, kid, what’ll it be? Iffen you’re not gonna hand that gun over, you better go for it, ’cause I don’t aim to let you leave here with it. A fancy Colt like that ought to go real nice on my hip.”
I thought he talked too much and was still hoping to get away without having to kill him. Looking over to the bartender, I nodded back over at the cowboy.
“Barkeep, if I shoot someone so stupid he forgets to remove the holster thong from his pistol hammer before a draw, you reckon it would be held against me?” I could clearly see his pistol actually was untied, but hoped he might not be so sure. I was counting on the effect of all that booze.
Sure enough, the cowboy glanced down to his hip, giving me all the time I needed. When he looked back up, my Navy Colt was leveled at him, its barrel pointing right between his eyes.
“Be thankful you’re still alive mister,” I said angrily. “I’m not looking for any more trouble, so just put your arms up and leave ’em there.” I backed sideways out of the saloon, keeping the rest in sight, and quickly headed to my horse.
I was young and inexperienced, and naïvely thought that had ended things, so I didn’t pay much attention to the taunting laughter that grew from the saloon as I mounted up. My gun was now holstered and I was turning to ride away when a shot rang out from behind, and a bullet grazed my vest. I whirled the bay, drew, and fired. Before I knew what had happened, I’d emptied five rounds into his chest.
It was over in an instant. I had killed a man. He was a drunkard who had shot at me while my back was to him, but I felt bad nevertheless. In the years since that time I’ve often wondered if a smarter man would have handled things differently.
At the time nobody questioned my innocence, but, although I rode out of town without looking back, I knew that I’d lost something there in the street. What was left of my youth died with that drunken cowpoke.
The fire burned low and an owl hooted nearby, returning me to the present. Francisco and Miguel were already snoring, so I pulled my blanket up over my neck and rolled over. It wasn’t the first time I’d fall asleep reliving that shoot-out, but, as always, I hoped it would be the last.
Chapter Three
The next morning the three of us rose early and, after a quick breakfast, rode on south. We made good time over the next few days, and, when we finally crested the hills overlooking the hacienda, I could see for myself why the Hernandez outfit was able to raise such fine stock.
Nestled deep in a small valley was a stretch of lush grass pasture spreading out in all directions, and a river that curved along the eastern and northern borders of the ranch. That type of situation is rare for a country that tends more toward mesquite, chaparral, and dry barren stretches.
Don Enrique had settled the only fertile terrain in the surrounding area, and had managed it well. More importantly, though, in order to run a ranch this big, he had to have held it through the years against all comers. In those days a man called his own only what he was able to defend, and, as we rode in, I pondered the fact that Don Enrique had defended much. He would likely be a powerful man to contend with.
Once through the hacienda’s gate, my first impression was that things were being run efficiently. I noticed right off that the fences around the remuda were in good shape, solid and well-built. There’s always work to be done on a ranch, and, judging from the condition of the grounds around the stable, it was obvious that none of the Hernandez vaqueros was allowed to loaf for very long.
When we tied up our horses in front of the nearest corral, I noticed an amansador breaking in some new horses. Up north they call wranglers who earn their pay saddle-breaking raw broncos “peelers”. Miguel claimed that down here the vaqueros who worked as amansadores passed down their knowledge about bronco busting from one generation to the next. Whether true or not, it was clear this mejicano knew his job as well as any peeler I’d ever seen.
Some believe in taming a mustang by repeatedly throwing it down with their rope until it’s dazed, and then riding it hard with spurs and quirts until it’s exhausted. It’s a quick but hard technique, one my pa never favored. Although this particular amansador sported the usual high, spiked Mexican rowels, and carried a short leather quirt, I was glad to see them rarely used, and then only to stop the bucking from getting out of hand.
The other vaqueros working with him were a well-coordinated team. I noticed one of them throwing what northern wranglers call a hoolihan loop—twirling the lariat onto the horse’s neck from the ground up. It usually works better than an overhead throw, which can often spook a horse.
A hacienda is like a small community and its owner is frequently viewed by the rancheros who live there as almost a father figure, be that good or bad. Rather than troubling himself with the routine work involved in running a ranch, the hacendado usually delegates authority to a caporal who in turn is responsible for supervising the rancheros and vaqueros in their day-to-day chores.
This outfit was run by a caporal, named Chavez, who took his job very seriously. It was obvious, right off, that he wasn’t half as personable as the other vaqueros I’d met so far. In fact, he didn’t even bother to dismount when I was introduced. At first I took no offense, figuring that was just in keeping with his position. Although most vaqueros love to ride, a caporal practically lives in the saddle. After a while, riding, instead of walking, becomes a matter of pride.
Chavez sat astride a large sorrel gelding and stared down at me. He looked me over like someone being sold a lame mule, and not particularly happy about it to boot. He was not a very tall man, was dark-complected, and sported an oversize moustache. His left hand carried a long bullwhip, and the obvious size of his forearms suggested that he would be very proficient with it.
He also wore a utility knife sheathed in a garter strap tied halfway up his leather leggings. Almost all the men did, but I suspected the difference would be in his ability to use it for things other than cutting rope. Chavez had a large scar running straight down the left side of his face, which he tried to conceal by wearing a wide flat sombrero with the brim cocked down at a slant.
Before we arrived, Miguel had mentioned that his caporal got that scar preventing a robbery attempt in town, taking a knife meant for Don Enrique. The man obviously rode for the brand in the Western sense, which was something I could appreciate, so I stood quietly next to Miguel as Francisco introduced me.
After looking me over, Chavez turned to Francisco and rattled off something in Spanish a little too fast for me to catch. Most of the nearby hands began to chuckle.
“He says pretty men with fancy guns belong in carnivals, not on working ranches,” Francisco explained.
It was fairly obvious that his taunting me was some sort of test, a way to size me up.
I’ll be the first to admit that my sandy-colored hair highlighted what some considered rather boyish features, even for my size. The fact that, before riding into the hacienda, I’d changed into my favorite shirt probably didn’t help much, either. I wore it for comfort and practicality, but it was an elaborately stitched mountain-style fringed buckskin, and may have looked out of place. Since some of the men were still laughing, I figured something needed to be said if a yanqui like me was ever to get any respect.