Vaquero

Vaquero
by Christopher Pelletier
copyright 2010

Juan’s stallion, Lightning, snorted and stamped his front right hoof several times on the ground, wanting to run and stretch his legs a bit. The cattle were minding themselves fine, just chewing on the grass. Juan looked to the herd and wondered if he should slip away with his friend for a quick gallop. The day was bright, and the air was fresh, so he reckoned it was as good of time as any to ride. Besides, the cattle were not going anywhere.

The pair broke away from the herd of 200 plus head of cattle and galloped up a green slope. Juan's straw sombrero fell back, but his chinstrap caught it from flying away to the ground. His long black hair tickled his cheek as the breeze tossed it in his face. The sun warmed him, and he felt joy from escaping the drudgery of watching his cattle.

At the peak of the incline, he surveyed his herd set against the landscape. No trees obstructed his view. The sea of grass just rolled on to the horizon in every direction as far as his eyes could see. He took a moment to look southeast towards the hacienda, in case bossman Manuel was riding out to him with some news or orders for the herd. Or maybe Paco had recovered from his fever and was galloping to help out once again. But the lack motion from that direction told Juan he was going to spend another day spent alone. He worried that he would start talking to Lightning as if he were a person if no one came soon.

As Juan took in the surroundings, it triggered a memory from five years ago when he was ten years old on a burro in the same area with Papa watching the herd. His papa had been ill at the time with a deep cough which sounded like he was drowning. But Juan's tough old man managed to do what he had been raised and taught to do by Juan's grandpapa—get in the saddle. It was the vaquero way. Juan's papa had explained many times it was the vaquero's solemn duty to protect the herds, no matter what. Even though the cattle were not theirs, the beasts were the vaquero's responsibility. Papa had learned the trade from Grandpapa, who had learned it from the missionary at San Ramon. Friar Gomez, Papa had said, treated Grandpapa strictly, because he was a mestiso. But father Gomez had taught him the two most important things in life: about the Lord and about being a vaquero. So Grandpapa found salvation through God and through work, despite his heritage.

Juan missed Papa, who had died from the cough and was delivered into the bosom of the Lord. All that Papa had left behind was Juan’s mother, tools for the trade, his horse, and an apology for the debt with the hacienda that Juan was expected to pay back.

The credit debt Papa had run up had no real meaning to Juan. When Juan had needs, he could fill them at the hacienda and simply add to the debt, which, from his understanding, he slowly paid off with his work with the cattle. As his needs were few, he figured he would pay it off by the time he got married, whenever that might be.

But for now, his mind was free of such worries. He had to focus on the job and protect the hacienda's beef. Usually the task proved easy, but from time to time, a pack of coyotes would try to snatch some calves. But Juan and Lightning would storm in like a conquistador on his mount and break any attempts at his herd. He grew quite proficient with his bullwhip, and could command the attention of any cow or coyote with it. At times, though, he wished he could have a lance, like Grandpapa had before him. But the church had forbidden vaqueros to carry them several years ago. He was only allowed a knife and whatever he could make from hides: reatas lariates, a pole with leather loops, or his bull whip.

Juan breathed in the afternoon air and, going against his second nature, closed his eyes, putting his face to the sun. The May afternoon was not as hot as it would be in two months later, so his cotton shirt was tied up, but his open leather vest flapped in the breeze. He allowed himself a moment to relax his guard and enjoy.

All sense of time had vanished. Ah, Mama and Papa, if only you were here to enjoy this fine afternoon with me.

The breeze brushed his face once more, but Juan sensed something was changing. Perhaps it was the way the cattle were bawling. He opened his eyes and saw three riders approaching the herd from the north: vaqueros by the looks of them but somewhat different. He stood on his wooden stirrups and squinted to get a better view to see if he recognized them. One of the riders pointed to Juan with a long pole in his hand as they continued their ride. Juan flicked his reins and rode to meet the strangers. The closer he got, the stronger the sinking feeling upset his stomach.

The three riders were dressed vaquero style, but carried the forbidden long lances with a blade at the ends. His own pole with a lasso attached was at his shelter some leagues off.

Juan rode up to the trio and said, "Buenos dias. Who—"

One of the riders in a burgundy felt sombrero raised his eight foot lance and held the blade close to Juan's face. Juan sat motionless and prayed Lightning would not suddenly move
towards the blade.

"Buenos dias, amigo," said the lance bearer. He looked in his mid-twenties, had a thin moustache of whiskers covering his top lip, and strands of black hair hanging from his tanned chin. The scar on his right cheek ran from his left eye to his ear. His dirty clothes were that of a common vaquero, but his red sash, leather vest and hat were of higher quality. He also had several rings adorning his fingers.

Juan sat in his saddle in silence. The other two riders went to work gathering the cattle by taking a bull, allowing the rest of the herd to follow. Juan's dry throat finally croaked out, "What are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious, amigo? We are taking your cattle with us."

"But you can't."

The lance got closer to his throat. The rider said, "I’m Pedro La Morta, and I can see from the look on your face you’ve heard of me."

Who hadn't? Stories had it that La Morta was a vaquero turned robber and cattle rustler. He had not only taken cattle, but also lives of victims, or so the rumors went. The last known whereabouts of La Morta were further north. Juan cursed his incredibly bad luck which brought the bandit so far south. "Yes, I have heard of you, senior."

"Good. Then you know my reputation," he said with a wicked smile. "Have no fear, amigo.
I’m not in the habit of killing boys like you, no matter what they say."

"They say the devil got you."

"Perhaps he did."

La Morta scrutinized Juan some more, then dropped the point of his lance. With a thrust, he plunged the steel into Lightning's throat. Juan's horse went down with a pitiable last whiney, rolling his rider to the ground. Juan’s leg was almost pinned under his dying friend. Then Juan looked up into the leering eyes of La Morta who said, "You see, I don’t kill boys. Horses... well, I have no problems with killing them."

The bandit turned his horse and started after the herd that his two companions drove. He looked backto Juan and said with a wry smile, "Best you find a new profession, amigo. This one can be dangerous."

La Morta grabbed the wide brim of his sombrero and gave a little nod. Then he was gone among the strolling hooves of cattle.

Juan sat next to Lightning, stroking his dead horse.

If only Paco had been there. Maybe they could have protected the herd. Well, maybe La Morta

would have killed Paco, as he was older. Best he was not there.

As Juan watched the remnants of the herd trail off over a hill, the shock of what had just happened started to fade, and he was left with the thought of what to do next. The bossman was not there to give any orders.

Juan expected he would be whipped for losing the cattle. He failed in his duty as vaquero, and he failed his father who had taught him what he knew, and perhaps even God would not forgive that. At least, Juan thought he was beyond forgiving himself.

Lightning was dead at his feet, but there was nothing that he could do to change that. He would feel sad for his friend, but the grieving had to wait. The cattle were stolen and he knew what had to be done. He gathered his lariates, his whip, and his pole, then followed the well-blazed trail leading north. From experience, he knew it would be slow going. Maybe they could do five miles before nightfall, and chances are the bandits would be lazy and not push on into the night.

So, Juan stalked the herd, trying to stay out of sight of the bandits.

What am I going to do when I catch up? Oh, Papa, if you can, give me some help. If only Paco were with me…

His prayer buried itself in his heart. He crossed himself and moseyed on after the herd. He kept them in sight, and when nightfall came, he positioned himself on a slope keeping low.

The bandits did just as he thought they would. A small shelter made of tanned hides had been stretched over their standing lances. One of the bandits started a campfire, and they had slaughtered one of the cattle. Mescal flowed down the bandits’ throats as they gorged on cooked meat in an impromptu feast. Juan's stomach growled just imagining the succulent taste of the fresh beef. He realized he had not eaten since the morning. The jerky and water bladder in his saddle bags would have helped. But he would have to content himself by staying still and planning in the darkness what to do next.

The bandits' carefree ways showed them to be in no particular hurry. They must have thought they had gotten away with the cattle and were rejoicing over their new plunder. As the evening progressed and the fire's flames started to dim, one of the bandits took out a guitar. The
raucous noise of their singing filled the cool air. They laughed and praised themselves, clapping themselves on the shoulders. Juan wondered if he had ever been as happy as they were. Perhaps La Morta spoke the truth when he said to get a new profession.

The music died off, and the belches grew less frequent, and all turned to quietude with the occasional popping ember and shuffling of horses or cattle. The party was winding down, and
they got up to turn in for the night in the shelter. Opportunity was at hand.

But what to do?

Juan scratched his chin and looked up at the star-filled sky. Fortune granted him a moonless night, so he would have the cover of darkness. He knew what he had to do.

With great caution, so as not to spook the herd, he made his way to the horses. The bandit’s snores ripped through the tent. One of the horses gave a warning whiney and Juan froze. But
no one stirred in the tent. He thanked God for the liquor they had drunk. Juan dreaded the next step in his plan, but he had no choice. He unsheathed his blade and looked at the bandits’ mounts. There was a chocolate one, a white one with brown patches, and a black one that looked a lot like Lightning. That would be his new horse as payback.

But the other two horses were a problem. If he let them live, at least two bandits could chase after him. He had to kill the animals. The paint stood closest, and Juan looked into its big eye, which reflected the embers of the dying fire. Its eye was watery, like it was crying, as if it knew what was coming up. Juan bit his lip and brought the blade to the horse’s throat. His hand trembled, and he could not break from the horse’s sorrowful gaze.

Juan managed to close his eyes, and then let the blade slice. The leather tether which held the horse to a stake dropped to the ground.

It was free, as was his conscience. He cut the tether of the brown horse, too, and gave it a smack on the rump.

After a moment's search in the dark, he found the saddles piled together and he cut straps of two of them. He grabbed the last one and put it on the black horse. With a fluid movement and a swinging leg, Juan mounted his new horse. At first, it tensed its muscles with the new rider, but Juan soothed it with gentle strokes on its neck and flanks, whispering the calming
words that his father had taught him to say to uneasy horses. It gave in without a struggle.
He was up and ready to go.

A kick of his heels and a click of his tongue got the new horse in motion. Juan pulled the reins and went around the herd scanning for Max, the lead bull. It stood a head taller with larger horns than the other bulls, so even in the dark Juan could spot the familiar form. He coaxed the horse to the bull and lassoed the monster around the neck. He then took a leather line from the saddle and tethered the horns. With a couple tugs, the bull gave way and followed the horse, and the rest of the herd soon followed the leader. Juan drove them in a southerly direction.

He looked at the position of Venus and realized he did not have much time left until dawn, and he hoped the night's drinking kept the bandits asleep longer than usual.

Although a forlorn hope, he prayed the other horses had run far away, and La Morta would just leave him be. But he knew that was too much to wish for. He kept pressing the herd up a slope.

Dawn brought a sky the likes of which only God could paint. The fiery reds and oranges blazed in the sky. Rain was going to fall soon, he knew. The mare’s tail clouds from the day before gave the telltale sign, too. But the rain was not going to help him this morning. Only luck.

Juan stole a glance back over his shoulder and saw that his luck had just run out. The three bandits rode on two horses straight towards him.

Juan's throat tightened and his stomach had a sickly feeling. The blood flowing through his head pounded. He stopped his horse and watched the riders approach him by weaving through cattle. Juan felt like he was in a bad dream. The sun hid behind a blanket of clouds. He had hoped it might have been a clear day, like yesterday, giving him the advantage of the sun at his back when the trouble started.

The bandits called to their horses to stop. Then La Morta rode up on the paint within fifteen
feet of Juan. The bandit's face was tense at first, but softened after a moment. La Morta actually smiled and laughed. The other two bandits on the saddle-free brown horse looked confused.

"Buenos dias, amigo. It seems you’re a clever one. I like that. We woke up and found the cattle
gone, our two horses scattered and our saddles tampered with. Your ears would have burned with the curses those two had said. I have to say that I, too, said a few choice words. But we couldn’t curse your name because we didn’t know it."

The two companions chuckled.

"It's Juan," he said, not so much out of defiance but out of a courtesy to his enemy. If he was
killed today, the stories would be told that Juan Ramirez stood up to La Morta and did his father proud...

"Well, Juanito, you have guts, I'll give you that." La Morta raised his lance with his scythe blade pointing forward. This is it, thought Juan. I’ll join Lightning and my parents soon.

"Tell you what… How about you join us?"

The companions looked as shocked as Juan felt, but they dared not contradict their boss. La Morta gave them a glance as extra motivation to keep quiet.

"Well, what do you think? We go around and take from the Spaniards to make ourselves and our families happy. How does that sound?"

Juan did not expect the offer. "You actually give to others?"

La Morta shrugged and said, "Well, sometimes…when we have extra."

The companions snickered and ribbed each other. Juan furled his brow. "It doesn’t seem likely that you help anyone but yourselves."

"What difference does it make? The Spaniards helped themselves to our land and our people! You and I are both mestiso. We have no rights in their eyes and are no better than animals. They rob us of our days and give us a pittance in return. Do you have the life debt?"

The words brought Papa to mind.

"I see that you do, Juanito. Tell me, is that fair? You have to pay back the debt of your father
and his father before. They keep you locked and bound to them like a slave. That will fall upon your children, too, someday if you have any."

La Morta's words made sense, though Juan could not imagine a family of his own yet. He remained silent.

"You have the choice of a happy life with us or a hard life with your cattle. If you choose the hard life, then you are a fool, for you will not live to see tomorrow. With us, you will
see many days with wine, women, and song. What do you say?"

Juan scratched an itch on the side of his head. If he had any food in his stomach, he would have thrown it all up. Although the morning air was cool, sweat started to bead on his forehead. The moment of reckoning was at hand. He loosened a string on his belt which held his black and white braided whip in place and mentally prepared to grab his knife. When La Morta came, Juan would give as good as he got. He said, "Stealing isn’t only a crime against man, it’s a crime against God. These cattle are not yours for the taking, nor are they mine to give. It's my job to
protect them from people like you. I’ll try to do my best to be true to God and my father, rest his soul."

La Morta shook his head and looked down. "So, this is your answer then? There’s no coming
back from the trail you are riding down, amigo."

Juan stared at La Morta showing no emotion, as he had none inside. His mind had left his body, his fear had passed. There was only the moment of him, La Morta, the other bandits, and the cattle, all under a gray sky.

"So, be it, Juanito. I’ll send you to God now. H’ya!"

La Morta spurred his horse, and the spotted stallion jumped to life, lunging forward and digging into the turf as it propelled itself up the slope. La Morta's lance's blade pointed straight at Juan's head.

Patience, Juan told himself. Wait, wait.

Although the horse was charging, the slope slowed it down a lot. Juan judged the distance and grabbed his whip. In a flash it unfurled from its coil and snapped out like a serpent's tongue, lashing out and cracking just in front of the paint carrying La Morta. The horse reared up, whinnying out of surprise and fear.

Juan swung the braided leather whip around his head, leaned forward, flicked his wrist, and cracked the whip once more while aiming for La Morta's hand. This time the horse bucked its head up in the way and the leather connected with its left eye. The stallion flung itself back, crying out in pain, and gravity pulled it down the slope. La Morta clutched on to the crazed animal to keep from falling off, but the horse fell onto its back, landing on the screaming La Morta.

Through all of the commotion, Juan thought he could hear the snapping of bone, but he was unsure if it came from the horse, La Morta, or both.

After an anxious moment, the horse got up. However, La Morta would never rise again. Juan bowed his head, closed his eyes, and felt a tear slip through his tightly closed lids.

Juan's hand flew signing the cross again and again for the young man that he had just killed.

God forgive me. Papa, I hope I did the right thing. I didn’t want this. La Morta brought it on himself. I hope his departed spirit can forgive me.

When he lifted his head and opened his eyes, he saw La Morta's men bickering. The bandit sitting behind jerked the sleeve of the rider in front, and they turned and rode off without a glance or word. Perhaps they would be back for revenge. Perhaps they would go elsewhere and find a new boss and make the same mistakes. Juan did not care. They left him alone, and that was more than he had expected.

The body of La Morta lay in a broken heap. Juan tied up the horse to the lead bull and dug a gravewith his knife and hands in the soft turf. Rain started to fall, but Juan kept digging until it was deep enough. Papa's grave was rectangular, as he remembered, but La Morta's was more of oval-shaped. Juan dragged the soaked body, dumped it into the hole and filled it with the musty-smelling wet earth.

La Morta's lance rested on the wet grass nearby. Juan went over to it and, with several painful attempts, managed to break the haft over his leg. He lashed the shorter piece to the longer one to form a cross-bar and plunged the blade deep into the freshly dug earth. If La Morta were alive, he would have felt that.

The rain slacked off, and he knelt in the muddy mess on the ground, clasped his hands together, and bowed his head. With all of his heart he yearned for forgiveness for what he had done. Only God could forgive him, he had learned from a young age. He just wanted a sign that he could be forgiven for killing a man.

Tears rolled down his cheeks. Juan had an emptiness growing within his heart. He had no comfort. His head sunk low, but a nudge on his shoulder caused him to look up wide-eyed,
thinking it was the bandits. As he looked up, it was the paint stallion that he accidentally got in the eye. It prodded at Juan, beckoning him to stand up.

Juan grabbed the reign dangling under the horse's chin and pulled himself up. He stroked the horse's strong jaw covered with wiry fur and patted the side of its face. He looked at the mark that his whip had left and moved his hand to touch it, but the horse backed up a few steps, and Juan waited.

Please, forgive me...

The horse approached Juan and nestled its large head on Juan's chest. The tears would not stop. Juan knew he had been forgiven.