* * *
As he eyed the dozens of Yokuts riders, Alfonso’s toothless mouth fell open. He scrambled across the barn to the boy and said in a reassuring voice, “Open the stalls. Let the horses run free. Then you hide, muchacho.”
There was little hope for himself, but at least the boy might be saved. As Muñoz ran from stall to stall releasing the horses, Alfonso saddled his old gray stallion. He had ridden many other stallions over the years but none finer than Gatogris, the Gray Cat, as he had called the horse for the eighteen years he had ridden him. When young, the stallion had been as quick as a puma. The old vaquero swung his leg over the dappled rump and settled into the familiar saddle, his musket in one hand, his reata in the other. “I will not die standing in the mud”, he thought. “I will die like a vaquero mounted, riding face-to-face with the devil. I will see if the savage can match a vaquero at his own game.”
To the ringing sound of eighty galloping horses, Alfonso spurred Gatogris out of the barn and spun toward the closest band of screaming savages. The old stallion, as proud as its rider, pranced and sidestepped while Alfonso studied the approaching horde. Like one of Cortez’s own, the gray bowed his neck and snorted as he took the light touch of the spur. Alfonso bent low in the saddle, driving the game Andalusian toward the oncoming braves.
He could hear the muskets of Luis and Rafael bark behind him, a salute to what he knew would be his final moments in the saddle. They would not have time to reload before the Indians fell on them. Ahead of him, twenty braves—lances, axes, and muskets raised—shouted into the wind, their lathered ponies pounding forward.
Alfonso and the braves closed. He raised his musket in one hand and fired as he saw the puffs of smoke from their guns and felt the slap of wind as balls whistled by. A stab of pain, and he was flung to one side, out of the path of a whistling feathered lance. A glance at his bloodied sleeve told him a ball had torn through the fleshy part of his arm. He threw the musket, sailing end over end, at the approaching Yokuts, and one was slammed from the saddle.
With an echoing thud, the proud old stallion drove into the band of Indians. Dust billowed. Alfonso, two Indians, and horses tumbled to the ground. The old vaquero regained his seat, and Gatogris was on his feet before the other braves could collect themselves to bring axes and lances to bear.
In seconds, Alfonso had his spinning reata in hand, and his loop snaked out. He caught a short, stout brave around the neck. A turn around the pommel, and he spurred the stallion away, jerking the surprised Indian from the saddle. The Indian was dead weight his eyes bulging, his neck broken, before he hit the ground.
Alfonso’s stallion dug in his heels and charged, still dragging the Indian behind since the old vaquero, blood streaming down his arm, was unwilling to abandon his precious reata.
Four braves, their horses not fettered by a dragging load as Gatogris was, quickly closed on Alfonso. With whoops of victory, they buried their lanceheads in his back. He pitched forward in the saddle, clung for a moment, then fell and rolled on the rough ground, snapping the shafts and tearing apart his chest cavity. A brave with fire in his eyes and an ax in his grasp leapt from his carved wooden saddle and straddled the old man.
With fading eyes, Alfonso saw the enemy over him and with final defiance, spat foamy blood in the warrior’s face. The warrior backhanded the blood away, screamed the death cry of his ancestors, and smashed the ax into the old mans skull. Blood turned the flowing mane of gray hair crimson.
The brave grunted in satisfaction and freed his bloodied ax. Even though the Mexican was an ancient one, killing this brave man who was an expert with the leather-that-captures would be a tale for the campfires.
Gatogris lay nearby, a lead ball buried deep in his muscular chest. Kicking, trying to regain his feet, he bubbled blood in a pink froth, marking his dappled coat, then stilled.
The braves regrouped to join the others who had gained entrance into the grand house.