Van, Teven, and Juan Semos crested the low ridge above the modest farm, likely rented by the tenant farmers from the Gasento Family. Juan Semos led the childhood friends into the outer, empty fields of the farm. Two outbuildings sat to their right beside a small corral of sagged fencing. The main house stood forty feet ahead and all was gripped in an unsettling silence in the clear morning air. Nothing moved within the eerie quiet save for carrion wing high above. Van touched his temple. Teven glanced over. Nothing good ever came of that pain.
Van reined his mount. “Where are the animals?”
Juan Semos sat, tense, in his saddle. His pinto whinnied and Van's mount answered.
Death. The horses knew. A heavy pall hung over the farm. Van sensed it too. Neither he nor Juan Semos carried weapons. Van touched the whip hanging on his saddle and Teven the walnut grip of his pistol, the unspoken communication forged between Van and Teven already in play.
Juan Semos pointed to the corral fence. Something hung off one of the posts. Carrion birds circled beyond the farmhouse over the dry fields to the east. The trio dismounted.
A broken form hung from the post.
Juan Semos eased the broken body down beside the corral post. An infant, not a year old, his head shattered. Teven surveyed the farm. Van paced, following the arc of the buzzards, black vultures most likely. Pointing. “Something’s out there.”
Juan Semos sighed. “I believe I know what we'll find Señor Van. We've entered the Comancheria.”
Teven frowned. “This far west? In Apache lands and Zuni?”
Juan Semos shook his head, walking toward the fallow fields. Van and Teven followed.
Less than a mile east of the farm, the trio found two more members of the family. Two heads exposed in the desert sands, their bodies buried up to the chin; eyelids removed, eyes seared by the burning sun. Both starved to death and picked at by coyotes.
Nearby, they located the women, what remained of them, pegged out naked, skinned, sliced, and mutilated.
“Comanche.” Juan Semos said, but Van already knew. Women led the torture process in Comanche society. The Comanche terrorised Mexico, and brought the expansion of Spanish territory to a halt. They stole horses to ride and cattle to sell, often in return for firearms. Other livestock they slaughtered along with babies and the elderly. They would want the herd and sell the men into slavery, to the Comancheros—families like the Gasentos.
Teven frowned. “Thought the Rangers drove most of the Comanche into reservations?”
“Some. But since the Americans began fighting each other, the forts lay empty and the Rangers are on their own once again.”
Van rubbed his face. “Let's give them all a proper burial.”
Death, it haunted Van, and he seemed unable to escape it.
*
Sende watched the latest vaqueros ride back to the herd on fresh mounts. Her brother approached as Sende returned to the remuda.
Hernan cast his head about and dismounted. He spoke in Spanish. “This is good, we can travel with the ranchers and perhaps work on their ranch. We'll never have to return here.”
Sende scowled. “What of our cousins?”
“Señor Van will likely hire them each year.”
Sende swiped her hand. “That doesn't keep them from the Escuridon.”
Hernan spat, waved his hands. “Don't say that name. They won't seek out vaqueros. We've more to fear from the Comanche and Apache.”
Sende turned away, rested her hand along the shoulder of a young, chestnut gelding. “All fear the Escuridon.”
*
Christian glanced at Marcos. The vaquero returned the brief glance in silence. The younger Har slumped in his saddle. Marcos was not a talker and Christian spoke English and French, but little to no Spanish. The vaqueros spoke only Spanish and regional, mestizo languages. Christian was bored, the gentle sway of his horse was monotonous. He considered riding ahead to speak with Nathan and thought better of it, his responsibility to oversee the herd remained his primary duty.
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Christian’s journey was unlike Van and Teven. Living in Normandy, in the older Du Har family estate, Christian pursued a life as a painter, yet, upon Teven and Van's return from the Crimea, the thrill of travel to America drew Christian.
He stood in his stirrups. His ass hurt. This wasn't exciting. The life of a drover smelled. Unending days of heat and thirst, dust and dirt. He looked over at Marcos. The vaquero didn't bother to return his gaze. With a sigh, Christian reached for his canteen. The water bottle almost empty, he took a swig and rode on with it held between saddle seat and pommel.
The valley stretched ahead so far the hills and mesas converged in the distance, a natural corridor hundreds of thousands of years old. The creek bed lay a mile ahead, the crossing of it, a challenge to meet. But for its proximity to last night's camp, Nathan proposed it as the next stop. The creek twisted its way out of the slopes to the north and crossed the valley on a wide, shallow course. Tall timber and cottonwoods followed the water course. That caused concern for a trouble-free crossing.
Christian watched from the north side of the drive as Marcos and the point riding vaqueros entered the treeline with Red, the lead steer. As Christian feared, the clusters and thickets of timber along the creek separated the cattle into smaller groups out of view of Red.
As the swing and flank riders funneled the longhorns through the thickets, Christian rode around and ahead of the herd, through the timber, and emerged at the edge of trees to the gentle thrum of the melt waters. The creek stretched twenty feet across, bordered by slick, rounded rocks and smaller stones smoothed by the unceasing cascade of water. White in the center with the rush of the spring runoff, the depth of the creek was nonetheless shallow. Nathan's marker hung from a tall cottonwood above the best point to ford the waterway.
The brief tranquility of the moment passed as the first cattle and riders broke through the trees.
“Make ready for the crossing.” Christian shouted above the din. Marcos nodded, his eyes fixed on the lead steer as Red approached the water's edge. Christian watched the steer with tense anxiety as the sound of fallen branches and brush under hoof grew louder, along with the frustrated calls of the vaqueros among each other. Red paused at the edge of the creek and stopped.
Impatient, Christian crossed the ford, his mount taking care on the uneven creek bed. Rounding his horse on the other side, he glanced at Marcos. The point rider returned his stare from the far shore with his usual stoic silence. Stoic was being polite, Marcos was downright aloof, the vaquero unsettled the younger Har brother. Christian turned his attention to the steer. Red stood as before, at the edge of the creek, breathing in the smell of the mountain water. More cows emerged from the treeline and the swing riders with them for tens of feet up and down the creek, and Christian felt the press of the herd.
“They may scatter at any moment.” Christian wiped his hand up his forehead, pushing back his hair and hat.
Red looked up at him. Christian met eyes with the beast and the two considered each other. As if decided, Red seemed to choose the best place to take the herd across and stepped into the water. Christian suppressed the urge to cheer, to cheer and swear, as one by one the herd followed.
*
“It's getting late and there's little to no supplies we can take, or should. Best we ride ahead of and meet the herd.” Van said as they walked back from a makeshift family plot for the murdered farmers.
Teven gestured toward Van. “Don't like it.”
“Like what?”
Teven scoffed, his hand waved, dismissive and tapped his head. “You know full well. The pain since we arrived.”
Van's temples pulsed with a dull pain. The ache began after cresting the low ridge beyond the farm. The discomfort grew, his head throbbed.
Teven untied the reins of his horse. “Never a good sign. Not in the Crimea or since.”
Juan Semos stood in confusion. “Que?”
Teven hefted himself up onto the saddle. “Intuition.” He patted his mount. “A horse sense, if you will. Though we didn't call it that in the Andrew.”
Juan Semos’ head moved from horse to horse. The animals appeared calm. “You somehow sensed something is wrong?”
Teven nodded. “He did, and it was. We found the family, dead. I ask then, what haven't we found? Comanche? This far west? Do you see anything unusual?”
Juan Semos placed a foot in his stirrup. “Those poor souls died days ago.”
Van touched his cheek and worked his jaw. The pressure remained. “As I said, best we make our way back to the herd.”
Van and Juan mounted their horses and saw the lone Comanche atop the ridge.
Van’s hand went to his whip and Teven fingered his pistol grip. Juan Semos turned to Van. “We can't outrun them.”
Van nodded. “How many?”
“If this is a raiding party, there will be seven or more. As many as ten, no greater.”
“Bad odds. They must have been watching us, or else saw some hint of the herd.” Teven said.
Van shrugged. “We ride around the ridge, let him watch, there’s only the one we see.”
Teven tapped the side of his forehead with his finger. “Ah, but you know.”
Juan Semos clicked his tongue. “They're fierce horsemen, they are unlikely to be hidden on the valley floor. Not among the the sage and rabbitbrush. They will challenge us in the open.”
Teven adjusted his pistol and spurred his mount forward. “We'll see.”
The trio entered into a canter, as a gallop might trigger some reaction from the sentinel. They rode around the far edge of the ridge toward their approaching herd. There was little sense in avoiding the cattle drive. Anyone in as many miles saw signs of the herd. Their numbers might not be greater than whatever Comanche tribe stalked them, and the young warriors who sought to make their place in Comanche society, but there was no avoiding the herd. Van's only concern was triggering a stampede—all could be lost.
Van raised a hand and reined to a stop.
Teven turned to Juan Semos. “Here we go.”
Van rounded his mount. “Back to the farm. We make a stand among the buildings.”