His tone made it instantly clear that it had been either him or one of his men who had been watching us last night. It was also plain that he was either very jealous or dangerously overprotective. Either way he was in one foul mood.
“You don’t even know me,” I answered defensively. “Besides, don’t you think it’s a little early for this sort of thing?” I was trying to buy enough time to distance myself a little from him. “And, anyhow, isn’t what I say and do around the señorita her business, not yours?” I added more firmly.
That last one was definitely the wrong question to ask at the time. After all, I was a stranger, a trail hand, and a gringo to boot.
Not surprisingly Chavez reacted quickly and angrily. Even though I was sort of expecting it, Chavez threw his punch so fast it still caught me off guard. If I hadn’t been backing up, those fists of his would have had me out for the count. As it was, I only partially slipped a punch that clipped me hard on the ear and caught part of my cheek. After hearing bells for a second, I knew this wasn’t going to be easy.
Although I can throw a fair punch myself, I’ve always preferred to use my size advantage by wrestling whenever possible. Rather than slugging things out and breaking knuckles on someone’s face, I’ve found that most men don’t fight well once down on the ground. Furthermore, I’d left my holster hanging on my saddle horn while Chavez on the other hand was still armed.
I took a few punches that, for the most part, I managed to block with my shoulders, and then appeared to stagger forward, setting myself up for his roundhouse right. Just as I’d counted on, Chavez swung hard, but I dropped down unexpectedly, slipped under his punch into a crouch, and shoved forward.
Caught full force in the gut with my shoulder, Chavez lost his wind. I grabbed him with both arms and spun him around as he fell. He hit the ground and rolled quickly back up, only this time without the revolver I’d snatched up out of his holster.
The caporal hesitated and glared at me, unsure of how best to proceed. I was mad enough to want things to continue, but only now on my terms. Without taking my eyes off of him, I unloaded the cylinder onto the ground and tossed his pistol into a nearby barrel. Then I raised both my hands up with a come-and-get-it gesture.
He spit and rushed straight at me, full force. As he bore down on me, I turned just slightly and dropped to my left knee, with my left hand high and my right low.
Unable to stop, Chavez fell onto my back, and I sent him cartwheeling over my shoulders, feet high, and flat onto his back. It would have been enough to knock the average man out, but it only winded him a little. Before he recovered, however, we heard a loud shout from behind us.
“¡Hombre! ¿Que pasa aqui?” Don Enrique was just rounding the corner when he’d called out.
Pulling Chavez up by one arm, I proceeded to dust him off.
“Sorry about that horse of mine, caporal,” I added quickly. “He always did have a nasty habit of kicking out like that. Hell, he’s even knocked me down on occasion.”
Chavez caught on quickly. He may have been many things, but a fool was not one of them. He couldn’t let on to his boss what had really happened between us without getting himself in trouble for spying on Rosa, or for fighting over it.
“That horse is a devil,” he said, staring straight at me. “I never even seen it coming.”
“I was just leaving, Señor Hernandez,” I explained. “When the caporal came to see me off, he moved a little too close to my Morgan. The stallion bucked me off and kicked out at him.” I could see that Don Enrique was puzzled, but, since no one ventured to say any different, he had to accept it as so. “I assure you, señor, it won’t happen again,” I said while mounting up. “Con su permiso, I will see you in a few days,” I added.
As I rode out, I could see Chavez recovering his pistol from the barrel, so I made very sure not to ride in a 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 Señor 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 española.” 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!