Chapter Three
I spent a year in the Pacific Coast Mountains with Genero, learning about handling horses and catching renegade cattle. It was perhaps the best year of my life. I have read about people who hunt boars with a lance and who hunt mountain lions with dogs, but to me the greatest sport in the world is roping wild cattle in the brush. It is an art, a skill and a calling.
However, like all good things, my summer of catching wild cattle came to an end, and I was ordered to return to Monterey. Don Topo had a business selling fuel to the sailing ships moored in the bay, and so he put me to work for him by sending me out with a cart and an axe to cut firewood.
Living in the Topo Hacienda in Monterey wasn’t all bad. High cattle prices had allowed Don Topo’s supper table to rise to magnificence, and despite his wife’s objections, Don Topo insisted that I eat with the family. After I returned with my cart piled high with firewood in the evenings, I would sit down to a meal that boasted tea from China, steaks from the rancho and fresh vegetables from the garden. Between the excellent meals and the strenuous physical work of chopping and delivering firewood, I gained twenty pounds of muscle.
Spring came, and the green grass covered the hills again. I begged Don Topo to allow me to put down my axe and go back to the peaks and valleys of the rancho. I wanted to work with livestock, not spend my life on the wrong end of an axe.
He eventually relented, but I owed my reprieve from woodcutting to Lucinda. One morning, I’d been walking back from the church toward the house when I noticed Lucinda and her younger sister Pilar looking into the sky. They were both dressed in their Sunday linen. While Pilar looked like a child, Lucinda looked like a goddess. Though she was only sixteen at the time, her beauty robbed the sun of its light. I went over and looked up to the sky as well, curious about what had caught their attention.
Seeing me, Lucinda feigned delight. “Praise Jesus, Pilar, we are saved! Charlie has come to rescue your kite.”
Pilar’s eyes grew wide.
Lucinda pointed at the top of an immense pine tree, where a patch of white paper was barely visible.
“Charlie looks like a stick with pimples,” Lucinda told Pilar, speaking as if I were not standing next to them, “but at least he has enough sand to climb to the top of the tree and fetch our kite.”
“We can just buy a new one, Lucinda,” Pilar said, looking worried. “Don’t ask him to do this, please?”
“Be quiet. Let the raggedy orphan boy gather what huevos he has so he can become our knight in shining armor.”
When I didn’t move, Lucinda frowned and her lips became compressed. She nodded her head in my direction and raised her eyebrows. It was clear my hesitation was nothing more than cowardice in her eyes.
I took in a resolute breath and, with a defiant glance toward Lucinda, strode up to the tree and boosted myself up onto the lowest branch.
The climb was not difficult. I knew the important thing was not to look down. In less than five minutes I was at the very top of the tree, where the branches were smaller and swayed slowly. I momentarily lost my nerve, but when I heard Lucinda’s laughter rise up through the branches, the resolve flooded back into my heart.
Inching out on the limb that held the kite, I stretched out my hand until I caught the kite string. I drew the kite in and, clutching it to my chest, looked over the Monterey Bay.
The wooden pier that stretched out from the docks into the water appeared tiny, and the big ships looked like toys. People on the street seemed no bigger than ants. Without wanting to, I glanced down—and my blood froze. I clutched the tree trunk like a Chinaman holds his opium pipe.
After what seemed like hours, I heard Lucinda tell Pilar that I wasn’t as much of a man as she hoped and they needed to get home for dinner.
“Come down now, Charlie,” Pilar sobbed.
There was no alternative but to come down. No one was going to rescue me, however, my attempt to impress Lucinda made no sense unless I brought the kite back.
Holding onto the kite made it hard to climb down, but I was making progress until I stepped on a rotten branch, lost my balance and started the long, painful plunge back to earth. Halfway down I landed astride a stout branch, and nearly blacked out from the pain. I remained draped over the branch for a second, then slid off and continued my plunge, stout branches slapping at me all the way down until I finally crashed into the earth in front of the Topo sisters.
I lay there, grunting in pain and unable to speak.
Lucinda peered down at me, eyes wide, and Pilar peeked around her with tears glistening on her cheeks.
“Where is our kite, little boy?” Lucinda asked.
All the breath was knocked out of me, but there was no answer needed. Lucinda knew where the kite was.
“Well, regardless, dinner is waiting.” She then took Pilar by the hand and led her away toward their house.
After a long while, I managed to stand up and limp back home. I was black with pine pitch and dirt but nothing seemed broken.
I was the last to arrive at the table. Dõna Inez frowned at me but it was hard to tell if her dark look was because I was late or because I hadn’t gotten all the dirt and pitch off my clothes.
At one point during the meal, Lucinda let out a short, high-pitched squeal and hit the table rapidly with both hands.
Everyone stopped eating and stared at her.
“Sorry,” Lucinda said. “I swallowed a pepper.”
Her family resumed eating again, until she let out another warble, this time sounding like a frightened goat.
When Don Topo demanded to know what she was doing, Lucinda looked at her sister and said, “It’s a sound Pilar and I heard this afternoon when Charlie lost his nerve and fell out of a tree.”
She once again imitated the cry I’d made as I fell.
Pilar glanced at me, then started laughing in spite of herself. Soon she was laughing so hard the milk she had in her mouth came out her nose. This caused Lucinda, who hardly ever even giggled, to break into peals of uncontrolled laughter.
Don Topo took one look at my burning face, and ordered Lucinda and Pilar from the table.
The next day, he told me I could go back to the canyons, and that he’d get another wood cutter. Without meaning to, Lucinda had saved me from the life I hated and allowed me to return to the life I loved.
Earlier that year, I had worked chopping wood for one month without pay in return for the pick of two young colts from Don Topo’s large band of horses. When the moon was right, Genero came out and castrated my two young stallions, turning them into geldings. They were then branded with the Topo Rancho crescent-and-spear brand. Don Topo had a small branding iron made up for me in the shape of a C, and I branded my horses with it underneath the Topo Ranch brand.
I was allowed to pasture my horses near Monterey on some property Don Topo owned. It was, I felt, the start of a good set of horses to ride at the cattle gathers. Not only did I have these two young horses, but Don Topo had also given me a bill of sale for Luna. It was almost worth the fall out of the tree, because now I could start training my colts to be cow horses.
Once Don Topo had made up his mind that I should go, no time was wasted and I left the following Monday. With Don Topo’s blessing, I pushed my little band of horses to the canyon to meet Genero and the other vaqueros. We would gather the steers to bring to the slaughterhouse, which had been erected near San Francisco.
My wages from cutting firewood had allowed me to invest in a larger, more ornate set of spurs, a new flat-brimmed hat and a sixty-foot riata. I started to study my shadow to enjoy the fine figure I cut, until, much to my embarrassment, Genero called me the “second coming of Don Tomasino.” I never looked at my shadow again, but my life as a full-fledged vaquero had begun.
After riding through the flats and arroyos looking for cattle, I would come back to the ranch. If there were any daylight left, I would gather my colts into the corral. First, with Genero’s help, I roped and choked each
one of them down, and then placed rope halters on their heads for them to drag along the ground. When they stepped on the lead rope, they would learn to give to the pressure on their nose. I’d use Luna to crowd them into a corner, then I’d reach down, grab a halter rope, and wrap the rope around my saddle horn.
Soon the young geldings had learned to be led. From there, they were taught about standing tied, and eventually they accepted the saddle blankets and then the saddle. I was proud of my little remuda, and proud of Luna for the calm presence she brought to the chore of gentling the colts.
One Saturday, I was dispatched to Monterey to buy sugar, coffee, and salt. By the time I returned, it was late evening, and a half-moon peered from behind the clouds. As I crested the last hill before dropping down to the bunkhouse, I nearly bumped into a horseman who was sitting on a dapple gray horse, staring at the pasture. His large roweled spurs and the heavy silver conchs that adorned his short chapederos gleamed in the moonlight, and his flat-brimmed hat was pulled down low over his eyes.
I followed his line of sight to where the remuda of ranch horses were grazing, and then returned my focus to him. ’He had a Henry rifle in the scabbard, two Navy pistols in holsters set over the horn of the saddle, and another pistol in his belt. A large knife was sticking out of his boot top.
The rider turned to look at me, but I still couldn’t make out his face under the flat-brimmed hat. He reined his horse around and simply walked off with a calm, familiar-sounding “buenos noches.”
I didn’t know what to do, so I rode down the hill toward the ranch.
After putting away the supplies, I took the rigs off the pack horse and my saddle horse. Then I went into the bunkhouse and squatted down next to Genero’s bunk.
“Genero, wake up. I saw a rider on the hill.”
Genero groaned and struggled up on one elbow. He rubbed his face and yawned. “It’s the custom in California for people ride horses to get from one place to another.”
“He was looking at the horses in the pasture,” I said. “Why would he be doing that?”
“Could it have been one of the cattle buyers? Maybe they were riding back from Monterey like you were. It’s only a few hours before we have to get up. Could we look around in the morning?”
His comment was accompanied by rude suggestions from the other inhabitants of the bunkhouse to shut up or suffer the consequences. I went to bed.
In the morning, we discovered that someone had run off our entire remuda of ranch horses in the night. My two young geldings and Luna were gone, along with the rest of the saddle horses. Only the two horses kept in a corral close to the bunkhouse had escaped the thieves.
I was dispatched to tell Don Topo what had happened, while another vaquero was sent to the town of Gonzales to notify the sheriff. I rode through the canyons, heartbroken, thinking of the mare I had prized so highly. Now she was gone, and maybe for good.
On the way back to Monterey, it suddenly came to me that whenever I thought of the figure I’d seen on the hill, I was reminded of Tiburcio Vasquez—it was something in the set of his shoulders and his voice. Though I wasn’t acquainted with Tiburcio, unless I counted the night he’d hidden in the root cellar with me, I had seen him around Monterey enough to recognize his posture.
I found Don Topo at his house, eating dinner. He saw my obvious agitation and asked me what was wrong. When I gave him the news about the stolen horses, he just shrugged, but when I told him I was riding out to retrieve my mare and geldings from Tiburcio Vasquez, he took in a deep breath and pursed his lips.
Lucinda’s attention became focused on me when she heard Tiburcio’s name, but I didn’t attach any significance to it at the time. Lucinda even followed her father and I out onto the porch.
“Go back in the house. I have business to discuss with Charlie,” he said.
Lucinda glowered at me like I had ordered her back in the house but did as she was told. I took Don Topo’s insistence that we speak in private as a bad sign for Don Topo made it a habit to praise in public but chastise in private.
He wasted no time. As soon as Lucinda had closed the door, he turned to me and said, “Do you know how many horses I own? It would be remarkable if you did, because I don’t. I suspect there are eight hundred horses roaming around out there that belong to me. Now you want to get yourself shot over one thin, probably tick-infested mare and two broom-tailed colts? Are you loco, my son?”
I stood there in silence, not wanting to stand up to Don Topo, but unable to back down.
He stared at me for a whole minute and then finally said, “I’ll give you ten stud colts if you let this go.”
“I want my mare back,” I replied.
“Charlie, what makes you think you can even find your mare? Even if you find her, what are you going to do against four or five well-armed bandits? The only thing I foresee is you being gut-shot like a cur dog.”
“If I tell the bandits those stolen horses belong to you, they may give them back. You have the respect of everyone from Los Angeles to Yerba Buena.”
Don Topo scratched his silver hair above his ears. “They may give you the horses back…or they may just take the horse you’re riding and leave your remains in a ditch for the coyotes to eat. It is time you grew up, Charlie. Horse thieves don’t concern themselves with giving respect. It is at odds with their craft.”
Finally, Don Topo let out a heavy sigh. “If you must pursue this foolishness, take my best horse: the big bay gelding down at the livery stable. He’ll carry you further and faster than any horse on the coast. And have the maid prepare some jerky, some corn mush, and two canteens of water so you don’t die of thirst while you’re out searching for the bandits who will no doubt cut your throat.”
Don Topo shifted his sash and from somewhere beneath his bulk brought out a silver engraved compass. He handed it to me and peered into my eyes. “This came over from Spain many years ago,” he said. “It was given to me by my grandfather. I can never replace it, so you owe it to me to bring it back. You are hard-headed, Charlie. If you have no concern for yourself, think of my compass.”
“I’ll bring it back,” I said, tucking the compass into my vest pocket.
“Don’t disappoint me by getting yourself killed,” he said, then he shook his head at my foolishness then turned to go back in the house.
“You have many people who tell you things,” I said. “Has anyone said which young woman Tiburcio is courting?”
Don Topo put his hand on the door frame and turned back to me. “That isn’t a bad question, Charlie. The answer won’t help you find your mare, but at least you are trying to think things out before you ride off. I’ve heard that Tiburcio is pledged in marriage to Anastasio Garcia’s sister. Tiburcio and Anastasio ride together. Do you know where the Garcia Rancho is?”
“I believe so.”
“Well, don’t go there. No one stole those horses to use them on the ranch. That is too much like work. They will likely sell them to the miners north of Sacramento. They will be able to drive them fifty miles the first day, and won’t stop until they feel safe. Then they will rest the horses so they will be in good flesh and bring more money. Anastasio Garcia’s uncle has a ranch near Tres Pinōs. Ride to the ranch, make a five-mile circle around the headquarters, and look in the canyons. That is your best chance of finding your horses.”
I impulsively stepped forward and embraced the rotund little man. It seemed to take him by surprise. He finally patted my shoulder before turning to go back in the house.
I took my saddle to the livery stable and put it on Don Topo’s big, elegant gelding. The horse was so tall I had to jump to catch the stirrup.
Once on board, I guided him out into the darkness, wondering if Don Topo was sending me off on a wild goose chase just to keep me from getting hurt. However, what he said made sense. Having no better plan, I headed north with a burning desire to retrieve my mare and geldings.
I should have had many contacts to call on within
the Spanish Community, since through my mother I was related to half of the Hispanic population in the state, and some of those people might have heard where the horses had been taken. But my Spanish blood did me little good. Because of my father’s name, Horn, and my green eyes and nearly blonde hair, I was rarely acknowledged as a relative.
The more I thought about it, the more I thought Don Topo was right: the bandits hadn’t stolen the horses to keep them but to sell them, and the closer they got to the gold mines, the more money the horses would bring.
I rode the King’s Highway, pushing the big gelding as fast as I thought prudent, only briefly stopping at running creeks to let him drink and rest for a minute while I reset the saddle. We alternated between trotting and walking for the rest of the night, guided by the stars.
In the darkness, I passed through the tiny settlement of Tres Pinõs and kept on some five miles until I came to the Garcia Rancho owned by Anastacio’s uncle. When I saw the headquarters, I veered right to make a big circle around the ranch.
Just a short distance from the road, I smelled smoke and headed for the top of a small hill to get my bearings.
As we neared the top, my horse raised his head and nickered softly. I dismounted and tied him to a pine tree, and then continued as quietly as I could on foot.
As I crested the hill, I heard the rustling of livestock down in a flat on the other side of the hill. The smell of a campfire became stronger, but I still could not see it.
Under the half-moon, I crawled crept down through out of the brush to where the horses were being held. Squatting on my haunches, I located the nearest vaquero sitting propped against a tree: he was in a location to stand watch but instead had gone to sleep.
I whistled softly, and one of the horses raised its head. To my delight, it was Luna, my beloved mare.
Filled with relief, I stood up to look closer—and something struck me behind the ear hard enough to knock me to the ground. The loud ratcheting of a pistol being cocked sounded in the still night air.
A voice ordered me to my feet, but as I started to obey, a spur-adorned boot stepped on my neck and forced me back down.
“I don’t know who you are or what you want,” a gruff voice said, “but the trigger on this weapon is faulty. You could be shot even if you don’t make any sudden moves, but you will most certainly be shot if you do.”
A large hand grasped the back of my jacket and pulled me to my feet. The barrel of the pistol dug into my back and I was pushed back up the hill to where I had tied my horse.
My captor untied my horse and motioned for me to walk down a trail, toward the flickering light of the camp.
The two figures sitting by the campfire looked up as we approached, and my captor shoved me down on the ground before them.
“Why were you doing, skulking around in the dark?” he asked.
Turning to look at him, I saw a very large and muscular Californio with a black beard. His fierce visage made me wish for a moment that I’d taken Don Topo’s offer of the ten colts and stayed in Monterey. I figured, judging from his size alone, that this man must be the widely feared and justifiably hated outlaw Antastacio Garcia.
One of the men seated by the fire spoke up. His voice was refined and almost feminine. “Stand closer to the fire so I can see your face.”
I got up from the ground and moved to the campfire.
“What’s your name?” the man asked, rising from where he was seated, and I recognized him: Tiburcio Vasquez. He wore black pants, a white shirt and one of the Navy because of, and because their size allowed a man to draw a pistol or knife unnoticed. The coats were cut long enough to fall below the knees.
He regarded me with mild curiosity. Behind him, on the horn of the saddle he’d been resting against, rested a black hat with a low crown and flat brim.
“My name is Charlie Horn. I was in the root cellar at Don Topo’s house the night the vigilantes were searching for you.”
“And I rode away from you two nights ago when we met on the ridge,” Tiburcio said. “I remember you now. What brings you to visit us tonight?” To my relief, his tone was pleasantly conversational.
“He didn’t come to visit. The little whelp was spying on us. But his days of skulking around will end tonight,” ,”Anastasio Garcia said, his rough voice breaking through the crisp night air.
“You accidentally took a mare that Don Topo gave to me. I favor her very much. I have come to ask for her return, along with the return of the other Topo horses..”
Tiburcio broke into a string of low curses.
“Tiburcio,” Anastasio said, putting up his hands in a gesture of surrender, “only the gray horse had Topo’s brand. I thought the rest belonged to the Yankee cattle buyer. For all I knew, Topo had sold the Americans the gray horse. They were all in the same pasture, and it was dark.”
It sounded like an apology, or at least acknowledgement of a mistake.
“If we give you back the horses,” Tiburcio said, “what will you say when you get back to Monterey?”
Obviously, this question was of a delicate nature. If I answered it wrong or if the brigands didn’t believe me, they would cut my throat.
“I am here for my mare, who I am very fond of, but if you want to give me the other horses that also belong to Don Topo, naturally I will take them. As far as I am concerned, the horses wandered off and have been recaptured.”
“We will be seeing this little rat in the witness box in a Yankee court if we don’t shut his mouth now,” Anastacio said, much to my dismay.
“I doubt Charlie would testify against us. Anastacio has nothing to fear on that count, does he, Charlie?”
I took a breath and hoped I sounded sincere. “This was all a misunderstanding.”
“Bueno.” Tiburcio said, adjusting the Navy coat around his shoulders. “Now I will help you catch your mare.”
Anastacio rounded on the smaller man. “Did someone make you the boss while I was taking a shit in the bushes? I say we cut this whelp’s throat and keep his fine gelding. He’s nothing more than a gringo kid who’s going to put the sheriff on us.”
If he was trying to scare me, he was doing a fine job of it. I tried not to let it show.
But Tiburcio Vasquez did not appear frightened. Despite being fifteen years younger and sixty pounds lighter, he held his ground. “We don’t kill paisonos,” he said, speaking in a reasonable voice, as if what he wanted to do was already agreed upon, “and we don’t steal our countrymen’s property. Besides, Charlie is very brave to come here unarmed and ask for our help. Always treat brave men with respect. We are all brave men here.”
Tiburcio had spoken with the warmth and charm that had kept the native people on his side his whole life, but Anastasio wasn’t convinced.
“Why take the stinking horses if we’re just going to give them away to the first snot-nosed kid who shows up with a halter rope?” he yelled.
“We made a mistake, and now we are making it right. Don Topo is a relative of mine and of yours as well. Are we animals who steal from family?”
Tiburcio received no answer.
“Charlie,” he said, “I didn’t mean to take your mare. She came along with the other horses. I have to admit, you have shown great courage in coming here. I usually don’t do something so foolish unless it involves gold. If you are that foolhardy, perhaps you should put down your axe and join us as we right the wrongs perpetrated on our people by the Yankees?”
“It would be too exciting a life for me,” I replied in a level voice. “I don’t have the fortitude to be a highwayman.”
“Or the balls,” Anastasio muttered from across the fire.
Tiburcio frowned at him. “Most likely he simply realizes that our life is a hard one, and one that offers nothing but the promise of a bitter end. Once you start down this road,” he said with a certain amount of resignation, “it is hard to turn back.”
I nodded with an idiot’s enthusiasm at Tiburcio’s observations. I want
ed to get back on the road before this gang of desperadoes changed their mind about cutting my throat.
“I feel certain we will meet again,” Tiburcio said, and then, true to his word, he told me to follow him to help gather my horses.
Scent of Tears