Chapter 6

Leaving Tucson we rode northwest along the right hand side of the Santa Cruse River. At this time of the year, calling it a river was a bit of an exaggeration, but I knew that when it rained in the high country it would earn the name. So we knew better than to camp in the river bed, no matter how tempting. I kept a wary eye on the distant Santa Catalina Mts. off to our northeast. If any trouble came, it was a fair bet that it would come from there. Several bands of Apaches were known to roam and raid through that area, and we would look like easy pickings.

The second day out of Tucson, we started to see longhorns grazing on both sides of the river. As we made our usual noon stop to wait out the heat of the day, two men rode up. Following the custom of the day one of them called out, “Hello the camp.”

Also following custom, I replied, “Ride in and have some coffee.”

With that they dismounted, put their mounts on long leads so they could graze, and walked up with their hands out. They introduced themselves as cowhands working for a Mr. Jeffers who moved a herd in from Texas and was hoping to get established in the area. He expected a lot of growth in Tucson now the war was over, and wanted to get in early. I introduced my group and invited them to coffee and biscuits with bacon. With big grins they ate and drank with gusto.

“So,” I asked, “where’s the Jeffers ranch located?”

Jed, the elder of the two, said, as he waved his hand about, “Well, all of this is open range. Mr. Jeffers’ claimed land and ranch house is about five miles downstream, near the small settlement of Marana. But, I’ll tell ya, if you go see him you best take a big napkin with you.” Then both of them broke out in good natured grins.

“Ok, I’ll bite,” I said, “why the napkin?”

“Well, Mr. Jeffers makes his money off cattle, but what he loves is horses. When he sees those two, he’ll start drooling all over you.” As he spoke he indicated Brownie and Paint with his chin. “I know that his stud is a great horse, but the herd needs new blood, and those two would fill the bill.”

Rory interjected, “Jim, we could use a few more mounts so we don’t overwork ours. Perhaps we could make a deal with Mr. Jeffers.”

“I was thinking the same thing,’ I said. “So boys, about five miles downstream?”

They said yes, gave us their thanks, and went back to work. We broke camp and headed downstream.

Later that afternoon, we rode up to the ranch. A few hands were working with horses in a corral. I was glad to see that they agreed with my methods. Rather than breaking a horse to get it to follow orders, you train it. It may take a little longer but you end up with a better mount.

A middle aged couple were watching from chairs on the porch of the ranch house. As we pulled up they rose to greet us. After all around greetings they invited us to join them inside. Mrs. Jeffers, who insisted that we call her May and her husband, John, put a platter of doughnuts, that she called bear claws, on the table and poured us, and her two daughters, each a mug of lemonade.

At my surprised expression, she said, with a smile, “Last week a man came by with a wagon of lemons from California. He said he was going to make a killing in Tucson with them. He may, but we traded a side of beef for two bags, and have been drinking lemonaide since.”