Trail Hand Read Free Page A

pistol’s distance accuracy, and, by filing its sear and lightening the trigger pull, they made that Colt’s action work smooth as silk.
    Since that time I’d traveled a fair share, mined some, ate a lot of cattle dust, and tried to keep the trouble that always seemed to follow me around down to a minimum. I could ride most Western trails with my eyes closed, and many of the areas that I didn’t explore personally had been explained to me by scouts, hunters, and trappers I’d met along the way.
    I was smart enough to realize that most folks I’d meet would have something or other to offer,so I always tried to avoid a natural tendency to run on at the mouth. Even as a youngster I’d listened carefully to my elders. Some of the older men I’d met could describe places in ways not found in picture books and for the most part you could follow their words better than lines on a map. I remembered their words well.
    So, with my experience, I had no trouble convincing the two mejicanos that they wouldn’t find a better scout, and they agreed to introduce me to Señor Hernandez. Of course, the extra round of drinks I sprung for helped some, and early the next morning we left town together, heading south. I still rode the Morgan bay. After all we’d been through I wasn’t about to trade him.

Chapter Two
    During the ride out to the hacienda I had a chance to get to know the other two a little better. Miguel and Francisco like most vaqueros were of Mexican-Indian extraction. Francisco was from Jalisco, which was somewhere farther west, while Miguel was local. They’d been riding for Señor Hernandez for over five years, and seemed to be better off than most cowpokes I’d known.
    Although I’d found vaqueros to be just as good on horseback as any northern wrangler, their horses always seem smaller, thinner, and more loose-coupled than the Texas cutting horse tends to be. These two mejicanos , however, rode a dapple gray with a white star and stripe and a well-muscled strawberry roan that would look good anywhere. We were also leading four strong pack mules that had no problem carrying a rather heavy load of supplies. Señor Hernandez apparently took very good care of his men, and obviously appreciated quality livestock.
    Once we got out on the trail Miguel’s mood began to change; he wasn’t as talkative as he had been in town for one thing. I knew he was hung over a mite, but it was more than that. He seemed to be sulking about something. For a man just leaving town that usually meant girltrouble, but Francisco didn’t know who, and I wasn’t about to ask.
    We decided to leave Miguel alone until he was in a better mood, and meanwhile Francisco and I began to swap war stories. Francisco had grown up an orphan in a monastery whose monks were grooming him for the religious life, and it was there he learned both English and Latin. In fact, were it not for his having been sent to town on his thirteenth birthday, he’d probably be Father Francisco by now. It seems that he had been helping to load the mission’s wagon out in front of a general store, when a vaquero rode up and asked Francisco to tend his horse while he went inside to buy some supplies.
    “I always liked animals,” he told me, “but at the mission we had only a few old cows and a burro or two. Then this man come with his own horse that was, I thought, very big and…uh…beautiful. The vaquero was Indio like me, but, even so, he had this great big saddle and wore brand new clothes. When he came out of the store, he even tossed me some candy, and gave me cincuenta centavos for watching his horse. That was more money than I ever had all to myself.” Francisco paused to swat a blood-sucking tick off his horse’s neck before he continued on with his story.
    “After that, everything in the Misión de la Virgen was to me very dull, and I soon became…you know, aburrido .”
    “Bored?” I asked.
    “ Sí , that’s it. Two weeks later I sneaked out with