Rogelio directed me to a slat cot in the far corner, and then shoved a wooden tack box next to it to store my kit. He then pointed out various aspects of the hacienda and introduced me to a few of the other hands. Miguel and Francisco still had to unload the supplies we’d brought, but, since I felt out of place just standing around, I decided to lend them a hand.
Unloading four pack mules and storing supplies wasn’t all that hard, but it did cause me to work up quite an appetite. When combined with a full afternoon’s work, the smell from those hornos helped remind me it was near dinnertime and, judging from the growling sounds emanating from Miguel’s stomach, it was plain I wasn’t the only hungry one.
As soon as the last box of nails and spools of wire were stored, we hurried back, anxious to get first crack at the chow. Even taking my hunger into account, the chuck house meal was still real tasty, with lots of refried fríjoles, big soft tortillas, and cheese mixed in.
Mejicanos favor lots of jalapeño chile peppers and pile them high on everything. I’ve always been one willing to follow local customs, but this time I carefully avoided the jalapeños, remembering a whole day on horseback spent nursing the burning effects of those hot peppers on my poor gringo stomach. I wasn’t anxious to repeat it.
After dinner the vaqueros settled down to the usual bunkhouse chores. Some cleaned tack, a few played cards, one told tall stories, and another played the inevitable guitarra. I decided to walk off dinner and took a stroll around the hacienda.
The Hernandez main house was situated right where the river curved and the water had a pleasant cooling effect. But more importantly, having a river wrap around behind the house as it did served as a natural barrier against unwanted or unexpected visitors. I reasoned that it would make the house an easy place to defend, in case of attack.
I felt no need to sneak around, but over the years I’d developed a tendency to position myself in shadows, or with my back to something solid, a habit that has saved my hide on a number of occasions while alone on the trail. I soon found myself standing under a nearby tree, admiring the layout of the house when Señorita Rosa suddenly appeared on the verandah. She stood there silently looking up at the evening sky, occasionally running her fingers through her long silky hair.
I watched silently for a while before finally speaking out. Apparently she hadn’t noticed me.
“Buenas tardes, señorita,” I said softly while slowly emerging from under the tree so as not to startle her. Evidently it didn’t work, for she gasped rather loudly.
“Didn’t mean to frighten you,” I said apologetically. “I was just admiring the hacienda when you came outside.”
“It is all right,” she replied in English. “You took me somewhat by surprise, although I have to admit that is usually not easy to do to me. I have lived on the trail many times with my father and try to notice such 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.”
“Sí, 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 tía 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 tío 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 señorita 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 señorita 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 Señorita Rosa. You do not talk to the señorita. You do not even think of her! ¿Me comprendes, gringo?”