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  Published by The Hartwood Publishing Group, LLC,

  Hartwood Publishing, Phoenix, Arizona

  www.hartwoodpublishing.com

  The Hardest Ride

  Copyright © 2013 by Gordon L. Rottman

  Digital Release: December 2013

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  The Hardest Ride by Gordon L. Rottman

  Out of work cowpoke Bud Eugen comes across Marta, a mute sixteen-year-old Mexican girl whose family has been killed by Indians. Bud reluctantly takes her along, even though he’s never had to accommodate another person in his simple life. He’s unable to find anyone willing to take her. In spite of his prejudices, Bud grows to like the spunky girl (and her excellent cooking).

  Eventually, they both find work on a border ranch. Here, the relationship between the girl and the young cowboy hesitantly grows. But banditos raid the ranch, kidnapping the rancher’s daughters and Marta. Bud, with twelve other men, pursue the banditos into the most desolate reaches of Mexico. Ambushes and battles with banditos, Rurales, and traitors are constant, and the brutal weather is as much a threat as the man-made perils. Life and death choices are made at every turn as one side gains the advantage, then the other.

  The rancher’s daughters are rescued, and the exhausted party turns back. But Bud presses on alone, against insurmountable oddsdetermined to fulfill an unspoken promise to Marta.

  Author Notes

  A commentary on geographical directions:

  When one speaks of the Texas-Mexico border or la Frontera and the Rio Grande or Rio Bravo—depending on which side of the border one resides—we tend to think of Mexico as “south of the border.” In a broad sense, this is true; Mexico is indeed south of Texas and the United States. However, a look at a map of the south-central Texas border region shows the Rio Grande flows southeast from the upper end of the river’s great loop, known as the Big Bend in West Texas, and snakes to the Gulf of Mexico. After the pursuit of El Xiuhcoatl (shee-oo-ko-ah-tl) and his banditos begins at the DeWitt Ranch (“the Dew”) south of Del Rio, Texas, the Texans cross the Rio Grande traveling due west even though they are “south of the border.” If they had kept heading west they would have reentered Texas in the Big Bend from the east.

  Towns, ranches, and places—south Texas and northern Mexico, 1886

  Chapter One

  When I started working for Barnabas Scoggins at the Triple-Bar up in Burnet County, I thought I knew something about punching cattle. Heck, been doing it since I was thirteen. I’d had to do something to make a living since leaving home pronto was a good way of staying alive. Ma didn’t much care for my “bastard ass.” It was either me or her.

  Then I met up with ol’ Pancho Salazar, I didn’t know so much about punching after all. It’s no secret vaqueros know just about everything there is about cowboying. A lot of good ol’ Texicans don’t like to own up to that, but they know it sure as Texas Hill Country cattle tanks dry up in August.

  When it came to roping, us Texicans only thought we could. Hell, those Mex ’queros could rope a full-run antelope underhanded from their horse, riding in the opposite direction and sitting the saddle backward.

  Ol’ Pancho was the caporal heading up the ranch’s ’queros. That old man with his big droopy white mustachio had eyes that looked into far distances seeing things none of us could. He knew more of the ways of the campero and the balance of the world than any meager cowpoke.

  I like how ’queros outfitted themselves with a bandana around their head to hold a sombrero on, short jacket, tight pants with a hundred buttons up the legs, and leather leggings, sheepskin chaps, gourd canteen, and always a big knife. Their hands are so tough they don’t bother with gloves.

  I got no idea why, but ol’ Pancho took a liking to me. That was strange because most them Mexes didn’t much rub elbows with us gringos. There wasn’t much tolerance between them and us Texicans. They worked with us fine, but we all knew they had about as much use for us as a dog does fleas. Their ways was just different. They didn’t say much; even the one’s what could talk American.

  I’d been on the T-Bar only a week the first time Pancho talked at me. I’d shot at a water moccasin with my rifle. Killed it, but the slug bounced off a rock and took a chunk out of ol’ Pancho’s cantle, right behind his butt. Shooting his saddle set his horse to bucking and threw him, truly an embarrassing state for that old scallywag. I knew he was rankled when he pointed his Colt Navy conversion at me and said, “I gonna chute joo, pendejo.” I truly feared he was, but instead he just made a long solemn speech in Spanish, ending it in American, “Joo ain’t got nothing under joo hat but hair, gringo.”

  The second time he had words for me was weeks later when some of us were shooting tins and bottles. Something I’d got going because I believed in lots of practice throwing lead. Ol’ Pancho looked at my Winchester rifle and Remington revolver, after asking if I were going to “chute” at him again, and said, “Joo like dee long-barrel guns.”

  “I do. The further off I can shoot them injuns, the better for me.”

  “That good, but I like to look them een dee eye when they die.”

  I knew he meant that.

  Seeing both my guns were .44-40, he said, “That good joo guns chute same bullet.”

  “That’s true,” I agreed. It made things easier, two guns, one cartridge.

  Pancho started telling a tale. “Me and Red, many year ago, indios come at us. Red make mistake, try to load his .45 Colt bullet into Winchester .44 like joos. He scared,” Pancho laughed, but he paused like he was seeing that day in his head. “Eet go een, but stick, no work. Red throw that damn carabina down, so I peek eet up. Use el cuchillo to take out side-plate screw, take out bullet, and put plate on.” He was going through the motions like he’d just done it.

  I tried to see that in my head, him standing there all levelheaded and backing out a little screw with a jackknife with whooping injuns riding at him.

  “I load with correctas bullets, keel muchos indios.”

  Red, who’d taken two arrows and a bullet that day nine years ago, said, “That old turd shot down six of ’em redskins. Scalped ever’one of ’em. Ax him to show ’em to ya.”

  I did. Ol’ Pancho had nineteen scalps.

  When I hit a tin with my first rifle shot at a hundred paces, ol’ Pancho took an interest in me. There was something else happened that I didn’t pay no mind to, but Pancho took notice. One evening I found a calf what lost its mama. It was so weak I’d had to carry it back to the herd across Vaaler Creek. Never did find its mama, but found another cow that let it suckle.

  “Bueno, gringo,” was all he said. But he winked, and that meant something. I guess most cowpokes woulda put the calf out of its wretchedness.

  Pancho taught me how to break a bronco using patience and gentleness, not be a bronc fighter doing more harm than good. I learned how to ma
ke hackamores, to braid lariats from rawhide and mare’s tail hair, shoe horses, to tie all sorts of knots—“Eef joo can’t tie good knots, tie lotta knots”—how to rope from all angles, braided a cuarta—the horseman’s short whip—and he helped me build my own double-rig Mex saddle with a gourd horn. He told me to carry a buckhorn-handle—for a better grip—six-inch hunting knife on my right hip. Showed me how to use it for a tool and for fighting. Made me pack my revolver on my left side, forward of the hip to draw easier when horsed.

  That old man taught me to track. We spent a lot of time following deer trails and just about anything else on four legs, two legs too. He’d tell some of the Mex kids on the T-Bar to hightail it and give them a head start before I started tracking. He made me pay them a penny apiece. Heck, they’d of done it for free. It was a game to them. Them little scamps could surely lead me into some tough places to follow them.

  There was something else he taught me, and I ain’t even realize it back then. We’d be sitting at the fire, and he talked about hunts of animals and men and injuns. He’d say something like, “I keel and hurt many peoples, but I deed not like eet, except dee indios. There ees too much pain een dee world.” He peered into the dancing fire like he was looking way back in time. “There ees too much pain, and a good man does not make more pain for peoples, unless they deserve eet. Do joo know what I mean, Güero?” He’d started calling me that. It means someone with light hair. Mine’s kind of sandy.

  “I don’t rightly know. I guess you mean don’t hurt no one you don’t have to, or treat people right, like you’d wanna be.”

  “Joo not so dumb as joo act, Güero.”

  “Gracias…I guess. Eh, I like your boots,” feeling like I had to pay an accolade back.

  “Can I trust joo, Güero? Can I take joo word for truth?”

  “With you, Tío, you can bet on it.” I’d started calling him Tío, means uncle in Mex.

  “Not right answer.”

  “It’s not?”

  “Nope.” After a long wait, “Any man should be able to trust joo word.”

  That was just like Tío Pancho, to tell it like it is. You can’t get the water to clear up until you get the pigs out of the creek.

  One time we were hunting whitetails on a ridgeline. “How do joo know to do dee right thing, Güero. Eet ees hard some time to see what ees right.”

  That was a tough one. “I guess I’d have to see how it’ll shake out, go with my gut feeling.” I looked at him, wondering if I got it right.

  Tío Pancho looked thoughtful. “Almost right, Güero, almost.” He didn’t say nothing for the longest damn time. He could be madding like that.

  “Almost right, Güero. Don’t go by joo gut feeling. Go by joo corazón…heart.”

  “My heart?”

  “You will know eef joo are dee man, I think.”

  That was the day I felt gooder about myself than I’d ever had. I hadn’t been much raised to think that.

  One day Tío Pancho told me about a bear cub what lost its mama to a hunter. “All ’lone, Cub wander the woods ’til Boar Bear find eet.” He looked solemn. “Boar bears alway keel cubs, but this bear deed not. Eet teached Cub to hunt, find berries, to fish, how to hide from men.”

  Pancho crocked his leg around his saddle horn and lit up his pipe. “Boar Bear understand Cub was not of lesser value because eet small and helpless.

  “One day Cub got loss from Boar Bear. Eet was afray, but eet hunt for food on own. A puma found Cub and follow eet. Cub saw Puma across da creek and deed like Boar Bear had teached eet. Cub stood and raised eets arms over head and try to roar. Eet only sound like leettle yelp. But Puma, she run off. Cub was proud for scaring off Puma, but he turn around and behind him was Boar Bear, standing there with his arms spread wide.”

  Ol’ Pancho sat his horse for a long piece watching the dying sun pink the clouds. “Eet ees important to protect something what cannot protect eetself. Only real hombre can do that.”

  Chapter Two

  Barnabas Scoggins sometimes doled out peculiar jobs. October was my turn to ride the fence line. Nothing curious about that, but he’d been arguing with ol’ Cap Hooper of the Four Stakes about whose spread was bigger. It appeared the ancient deeds were of dubious repute with suspicions previous owners may have moved fences. I sided with my boss, it being the shrewd thing to do, and I sure didn’t much trust that old conniver Hooper.

  He was called “Cap” because he’d been a captain in somebody’s army. Some said he’d been a sea captain, but I knew he didn’t much like crossing rivers aboard his horse, and that didn’t sound like something a sea captain would find objectionable. Since he never admitted what army he’d been in, I suspected he was on the side that wore federal blue in the War of Secession. The former Four Stakes owner, Isaac Scales, didn’t come home from a visit to Virginia with the 5th Texas Infantry. Cap Hooper had showed up about a year after Appomattox with a deed and a closed mouth.

  No matter. The two ranchers decided that measuring out their spreads’ perimeters with a twenty-vara chain would take too long plus they knew us punches would take some shortcuts doing such a tiresome chore on foot. Instead, they’d each have one of their punches ride the fence line to count posts and be kept company by a punch from the other spread to keep things honest. I drew Coop Doolin from the Four Stakes with us both marking down posts. Another pair counted Four Stakes’ posts. Whoever had the most posts obviously had the bigger spread. We were to make a tick mark in a tablet for each post, four marks and then a crossed one for the fifth. They didn’t trust us to figure them up, and I sure didn’t make the effort. I will say there were a lot of pages, and I wore that pencil down to a stub. Took two days.

  Coop Dolin nor anyone else caught on that the fence dividing the two spreads, which had to be counted twice, had been set by Barnabas Scoggins, and maybe moved just a little, and the posts were about twelve feet apart as were all the Triple-Bar’s fences. The Four Stakes’ other fence lines’ posts were set some fifteen, sixteen feet between them. I didn’t say nothing to nobody, but after they summed up all those tick marks the Triple-Bar was declared way bigger. There were substantial bets involved, not only by the owners, but the hands too. I made six dollars off that.

  »»•««

  The next month we were finishing up the fall roundup. In a couple of days we’d head them down to Austin Junction for loading on a train. That would only take a few days, and some of us punches would be laid off. I was hoping to stay on; I’d been kept on the last three years.

  It was our last day before heading the herd to the Junction. We’d make a last sweep for stragglers. It’d been a lean year, and Barnabas Scoggins needed to round up every head we could. We’d be up at dawn, but maybe an hour before the sun peeked over the trees, there was a sudden ruckus at the kitchen. All the hands, excepting Smedley Eskrine, who had to be blasted out of his sack with dynamite, came scurrying out, guns waving all over. Lucky nobody got shot.

  The cook was yelling, “Yit a yun, yit a yun, there’s a yang of inyuns runnin’ ’way!” Arnfried Bachmeier couldn’t pronounce g. That kraut was all excited because he’d scart off a whole war party raiding the kitchen for groceries.

  There ain’t been many injuns seen for some time hereabouts. ’Course some folks were expecting an uprising because Geronimo had surrendered way over in Arizona a couple of months past.

  With the sun up, I found tracks left by one pair of moccasins and a trail of airtights of white waxed beans and tinned cow juice lying in the weeds.

  Barnabas Scoggins told me, “We can handle what’s left to round up. Go git that renegade.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bachmeier gave me some beefsteak sandwiches for dinner and a couple of airtights of beans. “Ifin ya stays out tonight.” I wolfed down my bacon, biscuits, and grits and got my rifle.

  After saddling Cracker, my big old dark bay, I set off following the tracks through the dewy weeds. He had a two-hour start on me. The trail led northwest into the Balcones Cany
onlands, a place of dense oak, ash, and juniper crisscrossed by hills and gullies and open patches. I had to cut a fence and didn’t know whose land I was on. I found an airtight of apple butter. That wouldn’t do me much good if I stayed out tonight.

  What was I to do when I caught the redskin? I was sure Barnabas Scoggins expected me to shoot him. He didn’t cotton to thieving, and he sure as blue blazes didn’t a give hoot for thieving, trespassing injuns. I knew he sure as heck didn’t want me bringing him back. I don’t know, maybe I could just scare him off. ’Course I had to consider the injun might try and bushwhack me. I kept my pistol in hand. Heck, in the Canyonlands he could be laying for me at tomahawk reach.

  I had no regrets shooting an injun doing dire mischief, but this one had only made off with some airtights of grub. He ain’t hurt no one, yet. Before long, the trail was harder to follow. There weren’t any dew on the ground leaves under the trees. I’d crouch low, and the light slanting through the trees highlighted his tracks pressed into the matted leaves. On upslopes, I could make out foot scuffs, and one time, when I thought I’d lost him, I found some tiny mushrooms he’d brushed and spread their yellow dust. That’s when I smelled oak smoke.

  There was next to no wind, and I had to ride back and forth on a line until I could figure the direction it was coming from. Taking my rifle, I tied Cracker next to a big ol’ double oak I hoped I could find again.

  I saw no smoke, only the dim smell. The injun knew what he was doing, not that I’d expect an injun of not knowing. He was deep in trees and keeping the fire small, probably on low ground where most smoke would stay. He wasn’t using any green, wet, rotten, or sappy wood. Hardwood smoked less than softwood.

  I slipped through the brush quiet like a mouse. I checked the ground before each step. I stayed low, turned sideways to slip between saplings. Finally, I duck-walked to stay low enough to see under the limbs.