Trail Hand Read Free Page B

just the clothes on my back, and walked to the mercado in the town plaza. I found Señor Hernandez there with his men and begged him forwork. He was about to have one of them take me back to the mission, but when that one touched me, I punched him in the stomach.” Francisco laughed. “He was much bigger than I, but it knocked his wind out.”
    “And you still got the job?” I asked, stating the obvious.
    “ Señor Hernandez pretended to be very mad with me at first, but then he started laughing. He said while I would probably make a poor vaquero , I would surely be worse as a priest. I have been with him ever since.” Francisco grinned and added. “And after knowing the women, I think he was right.”
    I grinned, nodding in agreement as we rode along.
    That night we camped near some cottonwoods and settled down to supper and the usual fireside coffee. Miguel seemed to be in a better mood.
    “Miguel, you learn your English in a mission, too?” I asked.
    “No,” he replied. “I learned it in Tejas and Colorado.”
    “Really? Worked up there, did you?”
    “ Sí . About four years ago. Señor Hernandez often trades with a Meester Boocanon….”
    “The same Buchannon who owns the Double Deuce spread?” I interrupted.
    “
Sí
, that’s the one. You know him?”
    “Only by reputation.”
    “ Bueno . I was asked by Don Enrique to ride with the Double Dooze for six months while they moved stock north. They were short some men, so Don Enrique loaned me to them, as a vaquero .”
    Miguel got up and removed a short sword froma leather sheath that was tied to the side of his saddle and began to cut some firewood. I’d noticed that nearly all the vaqueros carried one.
    “Always figured those swords were a bit too cumbersome. Seems to me they’d get in the way,” I said, my curiosity showing again.
    Miguel shook his head. “The machete is really very practical. We use it for cutting firewood, and for chopping heavy underbrush. It is also good against snakes…when you do not wish to make noise or cannot shoot and”—he waved the sharp blade under my chin— “it can be a very deadly weapon.”
    “I see what you mean,” I said uncomfortably.
    Miguel smiled and tossed a pile of wood on the fire while Francisco broke out the coffee and beans.
    “Even so, I think I’ll just stick with this,” I said, patting my Colt fondly.
    It wasn’t long before Francisco asked the inevitable questions about the Navy pistol. After I told him about my pa, he slowly took out his revolver and offered it over. It was a small.38 Smith & Wesson revolver with a spur trigger and bobbed hammer.
    The finish was worn and the wood grips slightly cracked, but the barrel rifling was still good. It was clean and well-oiled. Had there been anything other than friendly curiosity about my firearm I would have known it by now, so I didn’t mind letting him examine the Colt.
    “If you don’t mind the question…you have had to use this before?” he asked innocently. “I mean in a battle?”
    I nodded, but didn’t answer him aloud.

    “Miguel is very fast, but I myself have never had to draw on another,” he said, turning the Colt over in his hands.
    “Let’s hope it stays that way, compadre ,’ cause it’s true what they say. No one ever really wins in a gunfight.”
    I left it at that as we returned our pistols to their rightful holsters. We sacked out a short time later, after first checking on the horses. Before falling asleep, I pondered Francisco’s last question, remembering the first time I was forced to draw in anger.
    Shortly after leaving home I rode through a small town called Bensonville, on the way to Abilene. There was a saloon that caught my eye, called the Rusty Nail. I tethered my horse, went in, and ambled up to the bar peaceably. After all I’d ridden, I was dog tired, and hadn’t figured on drawing any attention, but before I’d even finished my first beer, I was braced by an older cowboy sporting a brown