Free Trail Hand by R. W. Stone Page A

people, americanos .”
    That last one gave me something to think on.
       
    The following morning, as usual, I made preparations to scout ahead. I wanted to peruse the next water hole and planned to get an early start. While saddling my horse, I paused to chat with Miguel, who had already started what had now become his morning routine—boots, hat, coffee, a long shave, and then more coffee.
    “Which way you headed today?” he asked, splashing water on his face from a bucket perched on the chuck wagon tailboard.
    “Want to check up ahead, then swing over to the northwest and have a look-see. Make sure everything’s OK.”
    Miguel lathered his face using an old bone-handled shaving brush.
    “I swear, hombre , you have got to be the shavingest vaquero I ever met,” I joked. “And that goes for most cowboys, too,” I added.
    He adjusted a small mirror that hung from a nail on the side of the chuck wagon. “ ¿Tu cres, compadre? ” he asked, feigning surprise.
    “Do I mean it?” I replied. “You bet. Hell, most wranglers wouldn’t touch a razor on a trail drive, even if they were forced to at gun point. You been looking in that mirror, shavin’ and fussin’ with that moustache of yours every day since we left the border. Reckon you oughter have it right by now. Besides, ain’t no ladies out here to impress, you know.”
    He adjusted the mirror to keep the glare out of his eyes before replying. “ Cierto , but how do you say it…the cleanliness is next to God.”
    “Godliness,” I said, correcting him.
    “ Sí , godliness,” he responded, pointing in the direction of Inocente Vizcara, one of the other vaqueros in the outfit, who was just awakening. Admittedly Inocente’s unkempt beard did resemble a large bird’s nest.
    “OK, I don’t shave, so you want I should to look like that?” Miguel asked jokingly. “No, not me, I don’t want no birdies landing on my face.” He laughed, shaking his razor over at Inocente to emphasize his point.
    I swung into the saddle and took up the reins. “Well maybe you’re right after all, Miguel. How about saving me some of that soap for when I get back.”
    “You going very far?” Inocente asked as I rode by.
    “Three days or so, I reckon.”
    “ Cuidate, hombre ,” Miguel said, waving good bye, his soap brush still full of lather.
    “Thanks. You take care, too.” The last thing I remember seeing as I rode off was Inocente arguing with Miguel, and the morning sun reflecting brightly off his shaving mirror.

Chapter Six
    Following remote stretches of trail has always been what I enjoy most in life. There’s a quiet calm that always comes over a man after hours alone on horseback. The soft rhythmical creaking of the saddle combines with the occasional rattle of canteen or rifle swinging to or fro to create a peaceful melody.
    Strangely, even though riding is physically taxing, I’ve always found it mentally relaxing. Maybe because there’re no arguments, no worrisome chatter, no rules to follow, or aggravation.
    Even though on the trail it’s essential to remain alert to the possibility of danger, eventually it becomes second nature. After a spell on horseback the mind stops fretting and life’s focus becomes much clearer. There’s just a oneness of man, horse, and Nature.
    I’m not sure that it has to do with any special quality the horse might have, though. For one thing, they don’t react like pets do. A good dog, for example, practically lives to please its master. You treat it well and you’ll have a dependable friend for life. On the other hand, some of the hardest working trail horses I’ve known would bite, stomp, or kick you silly the first chance they get.
    A true horseman never stops adjusting to ahorse’s body or reacting to its mood. The trick is to relax, yet maintain control, and the rider who lets his guard down, more often than not, suddenly finds himself afoot. You can’t teach a horse dependability, either. A sorry cayuse will