Fortunately for us, there was none better than our cocinero, Joaquin. He usually prepared something real spicy, wrapped in tortillas, and his coffee was more than passable. Of course, the Hernandez boys never let on to him just how good they thought it was. Nope, quite the contrary.
Joaquin always wore a red bandanna around his neck and was constantly wiping his sweaty forehead with it. Francisco and the other boys always kidded Joaquin by accusing him of using that bandanna to strain the coffee grounds. They often joked that, in order to get such a peculiar flavor, he must be squeezing it, sweat and all, back into the soup kettle when no one was looking.
In general, they made Joaquin bear the brunt of the camp jokes, something I always thought was dangerous to do to the man who prepares your food. Joaquin, however, played to the part, constantly raising a ruckus or complaining to a deaf-eared Chavez.
In reality, any one of the hands would have gladly given up his favorite saddle to keep him on as cook, and Joaquin worked as hard as anyone trying to prepare our meals the best he could. As for my part, I was pleased just to keep quiet and enjoy the grub, which I ate in formidable amounts.
Joaquin’s chuck wagon was a covered, two-wheeled affair with four large water barrels tied to its sides. Aside from the usual assortment of pots and pans, it also carried an extra barrel of molasses. That’s why, by the eighth day out, our cook was nursing a sore head.
Seems Joaquin had a habit of sleeping under his wagon at night with a few of the twenty some odd goats that trailed after him. One night the barrel leaked some of the syrup onto him while he slept. Joaquin awoke in a start, practically covered in ants, and bolted upright so fast he knocked himself out cold on the wagon axle. The goats didn’t mind lapping up the molasses, though, ants and all. We found them under the wagon, licking Joaquin’s head and face.
After a short breakfast the ponies chosen to be ridden that day were bridled, brushed, and their hoofs picked out. Only a fool would ride a horse before checking hoofs and tendons first. Unfortunately, lifting and holding a horse’s four legs and picking out its hoofs first thing in the morning is not only hard on the back, it can be a real chore, especially if the horse isn’t the kind to stand still for it. Many is the time I’ve had a bite taken out of my backside by a nasty bronco.
I was grateful that my Morgan bay always stood like a rock for me. Even so, he was strong, his legs heavy, and he had large hoofs for his size. He also had a nasty habit of swatting me in the face with that big tail of his every time I bent over.
Saddles also have to be maintained. Most of the never-ending tack work is done in the evenings, but every now and then a cinch breaks or a rein snaps and has to be replaced. A rider’s tack is almost a part of him, and most of the outfit’s vaqueros were very attentive about keeping things in good shape. A good horseman soon learns to be a combination leathersmith and poor man’s tailor, not to mention farrier.
Anyone who has ridden his bottom raw in a ragged misfit saddle, or has had a stirrup leather break on him at the wrong time doesn’t ever again get behind with his tack. Most working saddles aren’t all that fancy, but they do have to be comfortable, and sturdy enough to withstand the constant pull of both rider and rope.
The extras in the kit are important, too. A torn saddle blanket thrown over a dirty burr-ridden hair coat will quickly rub a horse raw, cause fistulous withers, and leave his rider afoot. A working cayuse isn’t brushed for show, it’s done for his health, as well as the rider’s.
A cowboy’s boots are another item constantly in need of attention. In some places thorns will drive right through a boot toe if it’s in poor shape and can actually cripple the rider. Texican boots have a higher heel than the flat mejicano kind and slant inward more, probably to keep the foot from hanging up, or from shooting through the stirrup in case of being bucked. Mexican stirrups— tapaderos—sort of solve that in their own way.
The vaqueros all had these round leather coverings on the front of their stirrups to help prevent this. I kind of liked the idea, so I asked Joaquin to help me sew on a makeshift pair of tapadero stirrup covers made from some spare dried-out cowhides. They weren’t as good-looking as the rest’s, but they sure did the job.
The herd of horses we were trailing wasn’t yet shod, but those cayuses in the vaqueros’ remuda had to be. Horseshoes protect hoofs from the rider’s extra weight by keeping the animal’s soles and heels up off of rough terrain. Even with shoes on, however, hoofs still have to be regularly filed free of sandcracks, and soles protected from penetrating wounds. There’s an old saying— “No feet, no horse.”—and, as important as that Morgan stallion was to me, I was glad we had a good smith along with us.
One of the biggest and surely fattest of our group was the vaquero they all called Chango. He was about thirty, bald as an egg, and, when he walked, it was with a sort of half limp, half shuffle. Without a doubt Chango had the flattest feet I ever laid eyes on. He also had a constant twitch in his left eye, and it took me a few days to figure out why.
Chango Lopez had apparently been the outfit’s blacksmith for years. He was a big man, but always stood somewhat bent, having spent practically his whole life stooped over an anvil or some horse’s leg. His hands were so big that a hoof seemed to disappear in them, and, given his size, it wouldn’t have surprised me a bit to learn he shaped his horseshoes by bending old railroad ties, cold. In spite of his tremendous size and strength, however, Chango had good hands when it came to shaping and fitting shoe to hoof. He was never rough and took great pride in his attention to detail when pounding hoof nails.
Sometimes simply holding onto the leg of a cayuse that’s being shod isn’t enough, especially with a skittish mare or a mean bronco. One morning, after about a week and half out, I found Chango tying up a large and obviously cantankerous chestnut mare.
When a blacksmith can’t get a horse to stand still, he’ll often throw an assortment of ropes and nooses around its girth, neck, and leg. Done right it will act as a combination pulley and pressure snare. This way he can both lift the leg and at the same time, by snugging the rope, immobilize the animal.
The rope has to be pulled tight, but with Chango’s arm size that shouldn’t have presented much of a problem. I had been getting ready to scout ahead, but as I rode past him, I couldn’t help notice he was limping even more than usual.
“¿Que te pasa, hombre?” I inquired, gesturing to his foot. “Is it broke?” I asked.
“Sí, es mi pie,” he answered, pointing first to his toes and then to a large grulla gelding that apparently had stomped his left foot the day before. It was a toss-up as to which of Chango’s feet had been broken more over the years. It also explained the presence of his highly guarded pocket flask.
With the exception of some medicinal whiskey that was kept locked up in the chuck wagon, Chango Lopez was the only one on the trail Don Enrique allowed to drink. Although we all liked a good shot whenever possible, none of the vaqueros dared argue the point with the don. Instead, everyone simply shrugged Chango’s ration off as a pain reliever we were glad not to have need of.
Chango was putting the final touches to his snugging harness and tying down the main knot when I noticed the shine on the rope he was using.
“It’s new, right?” I asked with a sense of foreboding.