I tried to stand up but my head was spinning so much I almost fell over backward. My stomach cramped, and it took a full minute or two before my eyes could focus again. For the moment, at least, it was clear that I’d have to worry more about survival than vengeance, so I knelt down, removed my knife from its scabbard, and began to butcher the dead horse.
Horse meat isn’t something I’d normally prefer for supper, but I knew it was going to be a long walk back to camp across difficult terrain, with no assurance of finding any game. Besides, in the shape I was in, even if I did find something worthy enough to take aim at with my handgun, I might not be steady enough to hit it.
I started a fire and cooked the meat. What I didn’t eat would be dried for the trail. I needed to regain my strength but my stomach felt as if it were full of paint remover, and I had to fight to keep down the grub. I almost threw up the first couple of mouthfuls, but fortunately things settled down after a few more bites. I shook my head a little, wondering why Apaches and Frenchmen favor horse meat so much. But I had eaten worse and, in my condition, was grateful just to have meat available, regardless of what kind it was. I still wouldn’t consider it my favorite, though, not by a long sight.
Something inside of me was urging me to return to the Hernandez camp as soon as possible, but I decided it was better to take things slow, to be careful. The mejicanos have an old saying to the effect that being first to arrive isn’t near as important as knowing how to get there. It made more sense to go slow and return alive in one piece, than it did to die rushing into things, so I decided to get a good night’s sleep and leave the following morning.
At dawn the next day I started out on what promised to be a long, hard, uphill trek. By the end of the second day on foot, I knew something had happened to the rest of the vaqueros. Chavez and his men should have started the herd moving in my direction, yet there was still no sign of them. I had been gone about three days before getting shot, and although it was probably too early yet for anyone to be overly concerned about me, I knew the caporal. Chavez was a cautious man, but he was also one who would react swiftly at the first sign of danger. By now he should have at least sent someone to scout me out, and my trail shouldn’t have been too hard to follow.
While it was possible that Don Enrique and Chavez had decided to double back to their original course, it was unlikely, being as how the don was not one to change his mind once a considered decision had been made. If, on the other hand Chavez had managed to convince him otherwise, they would have sent someone to let me know about it. That being the case the rider would have reached my position by now.
When I curled up that night, I decided to cut due east in the morning and then head south, rather than simply backtracking. It would mean several days of hard climbing over much more difficult ground, but it would save me considerable time. Besides, I now wanted to approach the camp from high ground, with a clear view of what I was heading into.
A couple more days of hard but uneventful travel finally brought me to the base of a vertical rock face on the far side of the cañon where the vaqueros had been camped. To save time I’d cut cross country, but now, assuming the outfit was still camped in the same place, I would have to scale that one final wall.
As a boy I loved to climb anything in sight, be it tree, hill, or the barn out back. Right now, though, I was tired and nowhere near enthusiastic about the uphill climb, so I sat down for a good fifteen minutes to rest, study the wall, and plan the ascent. It didn’t look especially steep or dangerous, but I wasn’t about to risk breaking my neck in a fall.
I made sure my gun was tied down tight, and then reversed the spurs on my boots to project downward past the heels, hoping they’d give me better traction during the ascent. My hands had become well calloused over the years, but as an added precaution I removed an old pair of work gloves from the bottom of my shoulder pouch. Then, using my boot knife, I carefully cut away the fingers and trimmed the leather from the glove arm down to the wrist. When I’d finished, I had two gloves that hopefully would protect my hands from the sharp rock, while at the same time leaving my fingers free to grasp with.
I chewed a few strips of dried horse meat for energy and took several deep breaths before beginning the ascent. As worn down as I felt, I was grateful the climb went well. It turned out the slope wasn’t very steep after all and there were plenty of wide crevices for hands and feet. Within two hours I had easily reached a position just below the summit. With my goal finally in sight I felt a renewed surge of energy and rushed quickly toward the top. A little too quickly perhaps.
Suddenly, as I swung my body over to grab for another handhold, the wall around me suddenly collapsed. Once committed there was no way back. Rock and gravel peeled away and in one terrible, gut-retching instant I found myself dangling in mid-air, facing out away from the wall. I was suspended totally by my right arm, my hand wedged into a small crack in the rock face.
I tried to dig in, flailing back with my heels, but the hard rock had given way to a sandy, loose gravel that wouldn’t allow me to gain a decent purchase. Desperately I threw my weight across my shoulder and succeeded in rolling over to a toe-in position, face flat against the wall. For the moment, at least, I needed to rest.
My grip was firm enough, but I knew it wouldn’t last forever, so I searched around anxiously for another hand-or foothold. The wall had magically transformed itself into such a soft smooth surface that nothing within reach would support my weight. There was one small projection nearby that offered some hope, but it was off to my left and several feet above my head, just fatally out of reach.
I tried to control my breathing, calm down, and think. My knife wouldn’t help since the whole area was now much too sandy. I thought about using my holster, but even if I could manage to unbuckle and rebuckle it with one hand, the belt would be too wide and awkward to be of any use. Trying to pull my body up with my right arm still wouldn’t allow me to reach that one small outcrop, and I couldn’t swing my legs up to it. I looked up at that rock helplessly. There it was, solidly embedded in the wall, projecting out only a few feet from the top, but just enough out of reach to spell my downfall. And that would be precisely the correct word I thought grimly—downfall.
Sand shifted into my face, forcing me to reach over with my left hand to wipe my eyes, face, and neck free of débris. When my fingers drifted across the shoulder strap holding my travel pouch, my heart skipped and I breathed a small sigh of relief. There might still be a chance.
I put the strap in my mouth so as not to risk dropping it as I eased it off over my head. My hat was hanging over my back by its tie string, but fortunately they didn’t tangle. Grabbing the bag in my left hand, I let go of my bite and examined the pouch strap. It was braided rawhide and an integral part of the pouch, easily able to support my weight, for a short time at least.
I began to swing the strap while holding firmly onto the bag. It took several attempts before I was able to shift my position enough to throw overhead, but then just as suddenly as hope is given, it can be taken away. The rock face began shifting again under my right hand and I watched in terror as the slit began to open. Desperately I began to swing, throwing that strap furiously, over and over again, hoping for a miracle. My scream echoed from the cañon walls as my right hand broke away from the rock.
It took several seconds before I even opened my eyes. It felt like my heart had jumped into my throat and my ears pounded, but I was alive, suspended by the pouch strap wrapped around my left hand. Luckily it had caught the projection on the last throw. Not about to wait for anything else to go wrong, I flung myself over, quickly grabbed hold with my right hand, and pulled myself up to solid rock. The bag itself made a good foothold, allowing me to push on over the top.