In 1981, my
riding partner, Rick Dailey, and I learned that a Mexican bandit was crossing
the border near Arivaca, AZ and raiding the ranches and outlying
homesteads. Rick’s grandparents lived
near that small town and were concerned that they would be next. Their neighbor
had been hit twice in a month; the latest, erlier that morning. Rick and I volunteered to check it out.
Rick and I
loaded our horses in the gooseneck trailer and drove to Arivaca. We visited with Gramps and Granny and then
saddled up and rode to their neighbors.
We scouted around and found the tracks of an unshod horse; the one the
bandit had ridden. We spoke with the
neighbors and had a pretty good idea where to look. We were about to chase down
the crook when a deputy sheriff arrived. He was a joke. When he found out what
we were planning, he threatened to arrest us.
We laughed and just rode away. He
didn’t follow because there was no road; just a trail off through the high
desert.
Looking
back, I believe this Vega-Vega guy had been watching us all along. We didn’t pay attention to his tracks and
rode right into an ambush. His first shot hit the pommel of Rick’s Saddle. It ricocheted past my ear. I have no idea about his second shot. We both
bailed off and looked for some cover. I
had my Winchester, Rick his pistol. Had the shot been true and not deflected by the
saddle horn, Rick would have been killed. We fired in the general direction of the
ambusher. When no shots were fired in
about ten minutes, we slipped back to our horses and returned to Gramps and
Granny. The cop was waiting for us and
again threatened to arrest us for interfering with his duty.
Rick wanted
to pound him into the dust. I felt the
same way but used some of the legal jargon I had somewhere in my cranium to
disarm the fool. I reminded him that lawyers made a good living suing police for wrongdoings. He backed down and took the arrest threat
away. He issued a personal treat, however. I signaled Rick to keep quiet. The deputy went away and we planned our next
moves. We were determined to get this
Vega-Vega Bandit.
Here's a peek:
Slowly their adversary came toward them. He kept them in his sight at all times, and
was prepared shoot if either partner made a move toward his gun. The man was alone. He was Mexican, but his English was very
good. He still had the Spanish accent,
but it was clear that he’d had some education.
He was bigger than most Mexicans were.
He wasn’t tall, standing around 5’8” but massive shoulders and a barrel
chest made him appear formidable. A
broad grin crossed his face when he visually inventoried their camp. He held the rifle on them and ordered each to
lie face down in the sand. RC didn’t
respond as quickly as the bandit liked, so the Mexican fired toward him, and RC
flung himself to the ground.
“I do not joke you,
Señors. I can kill you where you lie if
you do not do as I say.” He spat
angrily.
“What do
you want?” RC asked.
“Everything
you gringos own,” he laughed.
Curtis could see the man out of the corner
of his eye. The bandit felt that he was
safe from authority way out here. He was
casual but alert as he examined the items still left lying on the ground. He found Curtis’ pistol and stuffed it into
his waistband. He wore camouflage
trousers, surplus combat boots, and a long sleeved knit shirt. He took his time saddling Curtis’ horse. Not once did he allow either of his victims
out of his sight. When he attempted to
put the saddle on the mule, he had a problem.
The ornery cuss never did like the feel of the packsaddle, and usually
threw a fit when the britchen was put under his tail. Rather than risk either RC or Curtis jumping
him, the man ordered Curtis to do the task.
Curtis obliged, but contemplated every move to figure any way that he
might have an opportunity to attack the robber.
The Mexican bandit never gave him a chance. He stood away from Curtis and was able to
cover them both with his rifle. He
enjoyed watching the mule taming.
Finally, with both horses and the mule loaded, the bandit ordered each
man to empty their pockets and throw the contents to him. Complying with his instructions, RC begrudgingly
tossed the man his wallet, which contained over three hundred dollars in
cash. Curtis had to turn over the ounce
of gold he had panned earlier in the morning as well as the hundred and fifty
in his pockets. The Mexican outlaw left
the loose change in the sand and mounted RC’s big Grey gelding. It was obvious to the partners that the thief
was an experienced horseman. He led the
other horse and mule out of the arroyo and when he topped the ridge, snapped
two shots in their direction to discourage any thoughts of pursuit.
Rick and I
spent the night with his grandparents in Arivaca and set out the next day to
track the bandit to wherever he might have holed up for the night. We found where he’d cut and restrung the
barbed wire fence that separated the US from Mexico. We foolishly went on through. We rode for a
mile into Mexico and then came upon a stream.
We discovered a cave near the stream.
The hoof prints and dung from his horse were all over the area. The cave was evidently where he’d spent the
night. It appeared to be well used by
wetbacks as well. Disposable diapers
suggested the cave had been recently used.
While I poked
around the cave, Rick scooped and filled a saddle bag with black sand he’d
gathered from the stream bed. He was always prospecting. We followed Vega’s trail a few miles further into
Mexico. We were wary of an ambush. One
of us always scouted ahead; we leapfrogged into the uncharted territory. I kept lobbying for us to turn back. It seemed like the logical thing to do. Rick was still peeved about the bullet that
destroyed his saddle horn and almost took his life.
We were so
concerned about being ambushed again that neither of us had considered watching
our back trail. Trouble came to us from
that direction. Not from Vega-Vega but
two other guys. (we couldn’t
agree; Rick thought they were wannabe illegal’s -- I thought they were bandits) One had
a pistol, the other a rusty old butcher knife.
I was the closest to the pair when we turned around. I spurred my horse into the guy with the
knife and kicked him in the face as he fell to the ground. Rick and his horse Guthrie rode down the guy
with the pistol; he was running away. The
bandit tried a snap shot at Rick as he disappeared over a ridge. The shot missed but evidently hit the saddle bag full of sand; we found
the slug later in the week when we panned that sand for gold dust. A lot had leaked out of the bullet hole. Rick
swore it was the good stuff we lost. We skirted the area around the cave and
stream to avoid running into any other people.
They all seemed pissed at us…
Neither
Rick nor I went back that cave or stream on the Mexico side of the border. Nothing was heard from Vega-Vega. There was a
rumor flitting around that two cowboys snuffed his ass. (I learned years later
that Vega Vega had been captured in Hermisillo, Mexico and spent 10 years in prison.)
I wrote the novel PARTNERS with some modified
scenes that sorta-kinda depicted our real life encounter. The book was published by an unknown
publisher and was a huge failure. HUGE! I’d sold my ranch and was heavily
invested in a weekly newspaper when the ‘blue lines’ were sent to me to proofread. I didn’t even look at them and the book was
published missing an entire chapter. I
rewrote it years later and it happened to be published at the same time the
movie “Broke-Back Mountain” was being hyped.
It was a movie about two gay cowboys.
Everyone assumed PARTNERS WAS THE ROOT OF THAt STUPID MOVIE…another
failure! Damn!
