I knew it wasn’t smart to fly off at an outfit’s ramrod, but I could tolerate some things only up to a point. I stared straight back at Chavez.
“Miguel, tell the caporal he shouldn’t judge a man by how nice his face looks,” I said in a firm voice, an obvious reference to his scar.
Francisco stood quietly off to the side, looking at us in total disbelief.
Miguel looked even more uncomfortable at having been chosen to translate what I’d just said, but it was nothing compared to the look I got from Chavez. I continued on anyway, trying to remain expressionless.
“Miguel, tell him I know most all the routes north and west from here by heart, and I know where you’re headed. At this time of the year, if he doesn’t know where exactly the water is, he’ll need someone like me along. One last thing…tell him that, if a brand treats its men fair enough, I’ll give it as much or more as the next man.”
The caporal seemed to chew on things a while before replying to me in broken English.
“We shall see, gringo, and soon I think.” Before he could say any more, however, a tall gray-haired man approached us from behind. By the way the men reacted I knew right away he had to be Don Enrique Hernandez de Allende. Certain men almost immediately command respect by their mere presence. Señor Hernandez was clearly one of them.
Some Americans are always riding the mejicanos hard, especially those new to the Southwest, but I always found it an attitude hard to understand. I never expected any more or any less from others than what I was willing to give first. Most of the mejicanos I’d met seemed decent folk and many of their vaqueros were actually a far sight better ropers than some cowboys I know. In fact, I’ve seen vaqueros use the eighty-to 100-foot lassos like they were an extension of their own arms.
I always figured deep down most of us were pretty much alike, but while it’s a cinch I don’t descend from 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.
Señorita 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 María and I both speak your language, señor.” 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 señorita. 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 señorita was, too.
“My men know every part of Méjico 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.