Chapter 29: ON THE TRAIL WITH SCOTT

Lancer Ranch, late afternoon between camps... The older brother had decided he might as well start out with the closest camp and work his way counterclockwise. Nothing much was going on at Eagle yet, with most of the crew still out scouring the hills for cattle. Since the terrain there was nothing but hills and canyons, they'd be at it for a while.

The camp boss, Chili Gomez, seemed to be under the impression that the number one son had been sent there to spy on him and report back to the patrón. Scott tried to assure the man he was there merely as an observer, to learn... not to throw his weight around. But Chili had remained unconvinced and delicately hinted that perhaps Señor Scott might find more interesting things to observe elsewherre. So Scott had spent the night and after breakfast had cut out for Hawk.

Hawk had only a few hundred head rounded up so far—their recovery area included a higher percentage of cattle hiding out in the tule marsh. It would be another day or so before they'd start branding, after they'd winnowed out other folks' branded animals. Leonardo Valdés was slightly friendlier, but wary, seeking Scott's opinion on everything from the trivial (was the stew adequately peppered?) to the serious—to the tale of woe involving ears being lopped off by a demented indio, which had been relayed by Miguel Vega, driver of the supply wagon that had earlier delivered a transferee from Condor. Valdés conveyed his indignance at having this temporarily disabled wrangler, Carlos Ecchevarria, foisted off on him. Why did he have to sacrifice one of his own perfectly healthy men to satisfy the needs of Condor camp? He strongly indicated his expectation that Señor Scott do something about this state of affairs when he got there!

Ears? Were knife fights and detached body parts issues Scott was supposed to address or adjudicate? Again, he tried to explain that he had no authority and wasn't in charge of anything. In the end he promised to look into the matter and left it at that. That seemed to satisfy the man.

Pointing Charlemagne north, Scott headed on to Condor, letting the rangy beast set his own pace as his dispirited rider was in no hurry to find himself being rebuffed by the next camp boss as well. Scott honestly had no idea why these men—so kind and helpful to him over the past months, eager and willing to show him anything he asked about the workings of the ranch—should suddenly prove distant and so obviously distrustful of his presence.

What Scott didn't understand... couldn't have known... was this: Chili Gomez and Leo Valdés and others just like them had lived the majority of their adult lives under the oversight of rich landowners like Murdoch Lancer. They were comfortable in their respective niches of the hierarchy because they knew exactly what was expected of them. They didn't mind occupying lower social positions than white people because they'd been lower still when the previous owners—titled, blue-blooded arrogant Spaniards—were in charge. Those stiff-necked old hidalgos regarded their peons as living property bound to the land, no better than medieval serfs. A responsible Anglo rancher such as Murdoch Lancer recognized his as valuable employees and strove to provide comfortable living and working conditions. A peon with a weather-tight home, a contented wife and healthy, happy children would go the extra mile in the discharge of his duties. His loyalty would be secured.

Cipriano Melendez, Vicente Serrato, Elfredo Cruz, Chili Gomez and Leo Valdés were five of the eighteen stalwarts who'd stuck by their patrón against the would-be land pirates. They'd lived on this land their entire lives and literally considered their blood as one with the soil under their feet. Yes, they'd been accommodating of the two new Lancers... not so much because they liked them (which they did), but because helping the sons adjust and learn was in the best interest of their patrón, whom they revered. But routine ranch life was one thing... life in the cow camps quite another.

Excepting Cipriano and Vicente, who knew better, the others assumed that once away from their home turf the sons would no longer be estudiantes but white-men-in-charge, ranking much higher than themselves. The sons would be doing the telling and they in turn would be doing the doing instead of the other way around. No wonder there was confusion on their part when Señor Scott insisted he didn't have any orders for them.

There were other reasons for their reluctance to parcel out instructions to Scott, and it had to do with Murdoch Lancer's stated preference for non-white personnel. More often than not, the white men Murdoch had from time to time hired as camp bosses allowed their power to go to their heads and ended up abusing their Mexican underlings, verbally and sometimes physically. Conversely, those hired as range riders very often turned on their Mexican bosses, whom they considered inferior beings. The Lancer boys had been around for only three-quarters of a year. Who knew in which direction they might lean once out from under the patrón's thumb and watchful eye?

Scott wasn't so much interested in the rounding-up part as in what happened afterward. He'd never seen an animal castrated or branded or ear-notched. He'd never tasted that seasonal delicacy known as mountain oysters, although he'd heard a lot about them and knew what they were. He yearned to be one of the boys and part of the cattle workers' fraternity.

There was a certain harmony to being a member of a well-oiled team that resonated with the former military officer who'd once worn with pride a uniform of blue and gold. Later on the uniform had been the gray and magenta of Harvard University's Base Ball Club. Even now he wore a team uniform of sorts, if not 'color-coordinated' with the other players—cotton duck trousers and cotton shirt; cotton longjohns and wool socks; the ubiquitous bandanna; leather vest and leather gloves; chaparreras; high-heeled boots and roweled spurs with pajados.

The only major variation from what everyone else wore (mostly sombreros) was his gray replica beaver-felt Hardee-style hat, center-creased with a braided leather hatband, brim pinned up on the left side with a silver and boar-bristle ornament. If only his Boston cronies could see him now they wouldn't know what to make of him! And they'd be positively stupified that he'd gone unwashed and unshaven for three whole days... not to mention that he now considered his gunbelt and holstered pistol as necessary accessories to his daily wear.

Scott didn't daydream often so he was startled to suddenly find that while his mind had been wandering, so had his horse. They weren't anywhere near the stage road he was supposed to have picked up between camps and the sun was lowering. Hellfire and damnation! It took him a good long while to get his bearings. It was near dusk by the time he finally reached Condor, where all was relatively quiet. Many of the day crew were already turning in. A few hardy souls were seated at trestle tables under the pavilion, playing poker by lanternlight, cleaning guns that didn't need cleaning or saddles that did and chewing the fat.

Cochie had set aside a surprisingly palatable supper for Scott (with a conspicuous absence of beans in any way, shape or form—Cochie'd been forewarned that Scott hated beans!), sent one of the assistants to prepare a washstand with clean hot water, and personally conducted the First Son to a sleeping place that had been fitted up for him near the chuck wagon.

Scott's request to meet with Vicente Serrato was met with the news that Señor Vicente had been unexpectedly called away to Falcon camp but would be back in the morning. The other individual with whom he wished to speak was on remuda duty. Too tired anyway to pursue the matter, Scott decided it could wait until morning and was asleep in two minutes.