“Ricardo, no!” I yelled frantically. “Esperate …wait!” But it was no use, his gun was already drawn. He fired as I ducked left, and luckily he missed. I drew and fired, aiming low, hoping just to knock him off balance.
He was young and enthusiastic. After riding with him only a short time I’d grown fond of his good nature. I knew he was only reacting as any top hand would. He believed me to be the outlaw who had shot his boss, and he was protecting the brand. There was no way I was going to kill him if I could help it, but unfortunately for Ricardo I couldn’t let him keep on shooting at me, either.
My bullet caught his left thigh, spun him around, and knocked him down. I knew our gunfire would awake the dead, and in a minute or so every vaquero in town would be out in the street. My eyes caught sight of another horse tied to the hitching post at the end of the street, a big chocolate roan, saddled and waiting. I headed over to it, hitting the saddle on the run.
Just as expected, several vaqueros poured out of the cantina, pointing at Ricardo and shouting to one another. Their shots rang out behind me as I lit a shuck out of town at full tilt. I didn’t have time to look back, and had to gallop away with my feet hanging out of the short stirrups on that roan’s mejicano saddle. It was a full hour before I was finally able to stop to adjust them to my own length and to plan my next move.
The mejicano saddle on that roan was a large elaborate affair and in order to lengthen its stirrups to accommodate my feet, I had to untie long rawhide strings interwoven along the leathers. Rather than using snaps or buckles like those on my other saddles, these stirrup leathers laced up crosswise like a lumberjack boot. It took me several minutes just to figure them out.
I still had the saddlebags with me I’d taken from the store, but this saddle had its own leather mochillas built in behind the cantle of its seat. Instead of tying leather bags down behind the seat with straps like a Texas or Colorado saddle, the pouches on the mejicano silla de montar actually formed the entire rear part of the saddle.
After the way things had worked out so far, I knew I’d be riding this rig for a while, so I studied it carefully. The saddle seat was an uncovered wooden tree with a couple of wide straps crisscrossing over it and then disappearing down into the fenders and skirts. Unlike my saddle this one had a split up the middle similar to the McClellan seat the cavalry uses.
I’d once seen a similar saddle used by some trappers down from Canada, but I always thought it looked mighty uncomfortable. “Ball buster” is the expression some of the Army boys use to describe that type of saddle, but everyone admits it’s easier on the horse. That split up the middle almost had me thinking about going bareback, but the vaqueros seemed to favor it. Surprisingly I’d just rode a full hour without any appreciable side effects, so I decided to stop worrying, figuring it couldn’t be any worse than that old rawhide saddle I’d first left home on.
One thing I did fancy, however, was the pommel, or saddle horn. This one was a large, pure white, dish-like affair as broad around as my two hands would be with fingers fully open. The Texas roping saddles I was used to have a hard but much smaller pommel horn, suited for the type of work they’re used for. The big Mexican pommel on this saddle was made for longer reatas and a different style of cattle roping. It angled up higher and was much wider.
There was a Spencer rifle in the scabbard on the right side of the saddle and, I noticed with some amusement, a large machete in the sheath that hung from the left side pinned under the stirrup leather.
The gelding snorted and flipped his head up to shoo away a small bee buzzing around his ear. I had no complaints whatsoever about my luck in finding that cayuse all saddled and waiting. I’d admired his stamina and agility ever since I first saw Chavez working with him. As far as horses go, he was eventempered and remarkably fast.
One thing I did miss, however, was the feel of leather reins in my hand. Chavez had this roan fitted out with one of those colorfully braided but uncomfortably stiff rope affairs that come up short into a knot, right where I usually held my hands. By my way of thinking, the bit was also too harsh on the mouth, and I vowed to replace it the first chance I got with a Texas-style leather bridle and curb bit.
I started making plans. I’d promised Rosa to go after the herd, and that was one promise I aimed to keep. The problem was I had no idea where the horses would be by now. All I had to go on was the poker chip I’d found from The Golden Goose Saloon in Gila City, a pretty slim clue. It might just have been an old good luck piece, or its presence merely a coincidence. Maybe one of the rustlers had gambled there once and simply forgot to return the chip.
On the other hand it could mean the rustlers had passed through Gila City, and that they might return by the same route. Or if not, maybe someone around town could supply me with some bit of information that would be of help. I had no choice, I didn’t know where else to go, so I headed for Gila City.
Besides the fact that the poker chip was the only clue I had, there was the additional problem of what to do once I found the gang. One man can’t do much against that many outlaws, especially when they include the sort of cold-blooded killers who would slit a man’s throat from behind.
One thing more was certain. Chavez wasn’t the type to quit something once he got started. He believed me responsible for stealing his herd and almost killing Don Enrique. Now that I’d shot Ricardo, there wasn’t a single vaquero who’d believe me. They were sure to be fast on my trail, and I knew, if they caught me before I reached the herd, I’d swing from the nearest tree.
While I knew the vaqueros could be loyal friends, I was equally convinced that they’d be fearsome opponents. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made to use that fact to my advantage. I wouldn’t let them catch me, but nothing said I couldn’t let them follow.
In fact, a bunch of armed and angry mejicanos might just come in handy when I found the rustlers. That is, if I found the rustlers. The trick would be to keep well ahead of the vaqueros, all the while making myself so hard to follow that it would buy me enough time to investigate. Still, I had to do so without letting them lose my trail for good.
I was more grateful than ever for all the tricks Sprout had taught me, and hoped that Chavez and his men were good trackers. Good, that is, but not too good.
So, I started a game of cat and mouse. At times my trail would seem to disappear, while at others conveniently reappear just as suddenly. My tracks led into blind cañons, backtracked along rivers, and sometimes seemed to head off in several different directions at once. Ultimately, however, my trail led west. West toward Gila City.
Chapter Eleven
Funny how the mind works when you’re tired. I’d been riding for several days straight without stopping, with little water and even less food. I was being hunted by what could turn out to be a Mexican lynch mob. It was a toss up as to who was dustier, the horse or me, and to top it off, when I finally reached Gila City, there was a manure smell in the air so strong the odor reached me even before the town came into view. Normally the stench would have been damned disagreeable if not downright intolerable, but for some strange reason it just made me smile. It was a funny reaction, but I guess it reminded me of the time ten of us from the old L Bar got into an argument over different kinds of critter smells.