Clint leaned forward in the saddle and followed Ramón up a steep mucky path. The high mountains formed a dramatic backdrop to Ramón’s erect figure in the saddle. The horses labored, and their hooves clattered a staccato beat as they set themselves, clambered up a few steps, and set again. The animals were well lathered by the time they crested the rocky escarpment and were again in the shadowed glade of the heavy forest.
Ramón, a few yards ahead, slipped from the saddle and put his finger to his lips before Clint could speak. The vaquero loosened his lead rope from the saddle and tied the horse to a scrub oak, then quietly moved forward to crouch behind a granite outcropping. With his eyes barely above the edge, he peered into the next canyon.
Clint tied off his sorrel mustang and followed, careful not to make the slightest noise. As he looked over the ridge, he was surprised to see a large group of Indians lounging near a trickle of water in the shade of some canyon sycamores.
Ramón carefully backed away from the outcropping, and Clint followed.
When they got back to the horses, Ramón moved near and whispered, “Yokuts, from the interior valley. They are far from home, painted, and well armed. They must be a raiding party.”
“What are they after?”
“They’ve come many times before. They seek horses, and whatever else they can steal. Years ago, they took some women also. It was months before we got them back. We killed a score or more, but it cost us the lives of five good vaqueros. We must warn the rancheros.”
Clint mounted and followed Ramón, who retraced his path, quietly walking the animals until they reached the bottom of the rocky trail, then galloping.
They came to a narrow gorge where the trail dropped away steeply deep into a larger ravine. Ramón never hesitated, driving his horse forward. Clint pounded after, a few paces behind then jerked the rein as Ramón’s horse almost lost its footing.
The horse recovered and reared—and Clint realized why. Ramón lashed out with his romal and caught a surprised Yokuts brave with a stinging blow across the face.
The brave, temporarily blinded, jerked rein so hard that his horse backed into the one behind and both animals reared violently.
Ramón spun his horse. “vamos!” he shouted.
At the sight of four Yokuts, all armed with musket, bow, and lance, Clint turned his animal and gave him the spurs.
They were well ahead of the scouting party, clattering up out of the ravine, by the time the Yokuts braves collected themselves and gave chase. When they reached the top of the narrow trail, Clint reined off to the side behind a jutting outcrop. He had his reata in hand and was shaking out a loop when, Ramón raced by.
“Keep going!” Clint yelled. “I’ll slow them down.”
Unable to join him in the narrow space, Ramón spurred his horse up the trail. Clint sat his nervous mount, fingering the loop and listening to the sound of approaching hooves.
The Yokuts were bunched tightly as they passed Clint’s hiding place. Clint’s wide loop snaked out and caught both of the lead riders. He dallied the reata and rode into the trail behind the last brave, driving his animal back down the cleft behind the Indians.
The snap of the braided leather line almost jerked his horse off its feet and cut deeply into Clint’s thigh, but the game animal dug in, and both braves flew from the saddle directly into the path of the two who followed. Indians and horses collided, and the mustangs cried out and stumbled, throwing their riders onto the rocky trail in a cloud of dust.
Clint dragged the two painted riders through the tangled mass of screaming horses, men, and rocks until his sorrel mustang turned and backed stiff-legged, as if he had a bullock at the end of his reata.
On the trail above, Ramón saw the second pair of braves trying to regain their mounts and weapons. He spurred his horse viciously and galloped back down the trail, swinging his romal with deadly accuracy. As the braves tried to climb up the sides of the narrow canyon, he drove their horses in front of him until they were forced to trample the Indians Clint had caught in his loop.
“Leave the reata and ride!” Ramón shouted, scraping past Clint at a run.
Clint cast off his dally, spun his horse, and raced off down the trail. They rode for twenty minutes until they were high on the side of a ravine with a good view of their backtrail. Then they slowed the panting horses to a walk.
“You learn well, amigo,” said Ramón.
“I was lucky.”
“Did you see that one of those men carried a musket?”
“I didn’t have much time to check out their tack or their weapons. Didn’t get their names either. They didn’t seem to want to visit much.”
“It is the first time the Yokuts have been armed.”
“And now they’ve got a damn fine reata.” Clint felt more than a little disgruntled at the loss.
“I will get you another, amigo.”
Ramón and Clint turned their tired mounts back toward Rancho del Robles Viejos and Pueblo Santa Barbara. But their ears remained tuned to their backtrail, and their eyes scanned the trail ahead for an ambush.