Fire on the Plains (Western Fire) (29 page)

Realizing that Jenkins had just spoken to him, Ben turned toward the sheriff. As he did, a burst of near-blinding pain shot through his left temple. Gripping his saddle horn with both hands, Ben battled against a dizzy onslaught.

“Hey, Strong,
are you all right?”

“
I’m fine,” Ben hissed. He exhaled a deep, shuddering breath, the stabbing pain having mercifully subsided to a tolerable throb.

“
Okay, men. It’s time that we head back to town,” Sheriff Jenkins said to his posse.

Hoping
to rustle up a much-needed cup of coffee at the local cantina, Ben decided to ride into town with them. There was nothing that they could do to prevent Beaumont’s well-trained, well-armed cadre of soldiers from crossing into Mexico. And though Ben normally wasn’t one to back down from a fight, there was one incriminating detail that he’d failed to mention to Jenkins and the others – Lydia had willingly consented to go to Mexico. Which meant that she didn’t need to be rescued.

Hell, for all he knew, she came up with the idea
to go to Mexico all on her own.

As Ben grappled with the bitter sting of his wife’s betrayal, his headache intensified, the pain causing his
skull to feel like a melon split asunder. Last night, he’d felt a bond with Lydia, a love unlike anything that he’d ever before experienced. He would never have guessed that so soon after slipping a wedding band on her finger, she’d willfully betray him.

Moreover,
she’d taken the betrayal one step further, refusing to come home, completely turning her back on him. And not just him, but Dixie, as well. That she’d abandon her own daughter made no sense at all given how deeply Lydia loved—

Christ!

When he’d earlier inquired as to whether Lydia was concerned about Dixie’s welfare, she’d come damn close to losing her composure, stuttering and stammering as she fed him some hogwash about Dixie staying with her Uncle Avery. During the course of their seven week marriage, Ben had never seen his wife so discomposed.

God help
me. Why didn’t I realize it sooner?

Blinded by fury
, he hadn’t seen Lydia’s nervous equivocation for what it had been – a ploy to send him on his way as quickly as possible.

Thunderstruck by the realization, Ben wondered if all of the
assurances that Beaumont had given to him, promising to return Lydia to Texas, had simply been part of a well-crafted lie?

What if Beaumont had no intention of honoring his gentleman’s agreement?

Thrusting his right hand into the air, Ben signaled the other riders to a halt. The sudden motion incited a near-blinding burst of pain that radiated from his left temple. He swayed slightly, grasping the saddlehorn with both hands to steady himself.

“What’s the matter, Strong? You feeling al
l right? You’re looking a might piqued, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Ignoring
the sheriff’s remarks, Ben said, “I’m going to Mexico.”

“To get Beaumont?”

“No. To get my wife.”

Jenkins rubbed his whiskered jaw, a
hesitant look in his eyes. “While I’d like to help, you know that I’ve got no jurisdiction south of the border.”

“I don’t wa
nt your help,” Ben informed the sheriff point-blank. “Although I do want you to ride out to Avery Chadwick’s place and let him know what’s happened.”

That said, Ben tugged on
his horse’s reins and headed back in the direction of Beaumont’s camp. His plan was to watch from a safe distance. At the first opportune moment, he’d sneak in and rescue his wife. Hopefully, that time would arrive sooner rather than later. Until then, he wasn’t going to let Beaumont, or his armed caravan, out of his sight.

Reining his horse to a halt behind a clump of bushes, Ben pulled his spyglass out of his saddlebag. From his position on a distant knoll, he watched, undetected, as the renegade camp began to rouse itself to meet the new day. Unaware of the drama that
had recently unfolded in their midst, women started the breakfast fires, men tended to the draft animals, and children carried water buckets. Many of the faces Ben recognized.

To his heart’s dismay,
the one face that he longed to see was nowhere in sight.

Why
the hell did Lydia have to go behind my back and warn Beaumont?
Ben furiously wondered, unable to get her treachery out of his mind. As he continued to grapple with his wife’s betrayal, it felt as though someone was working him over with a pickaxe, the pain inside his skull intensifying with each bitter, acrimonious thought.

Damn
you, Lydia!

As God was his witness,
once he rescued his wife, he was going to make damned certain that she never again betrayed him.

But what if some dire fate befalls Lydia before I can rescue her? W
hat if I can’t save her in time?

Given that
Mexico was in the midst of a bloody revolution, anything could happen once Beaumont and his wagon train crossed the Rio Grande. While currying favor with the Mexican emperor might secure Beaumont a governorship, it was sure to make him unpopular with Maximilian’s enemies, of whom there were many. From what Ben had read in the newspapers, northern Mexico was a Juarista stronghold. He didn’t have to glance at a map to know that Beaumont was leading his caravan straight into the lion’s den.

And here
he sat, forced to observe from afar . . . just as he’d done when his brother Ethan had been killed on that snowy Virginia battlefield.

As he was suddenly sucked into
a riptide of despair, Ben had the unnerving sensation that the horrific episode was happening all over again. While he continued to stare at the caravan in the distance, blood-drenched images from Ethan’s death scene began to swirl in his mind’s eye. Even though Ben knew that he was peering at an arid Texas landscape, he kept seeing a snow-laden Virginia field. Just he kept seeing a red blood stain against a snowy landscape. And kept hearing the agonized shrieks that had broken the still silence of that January morn.

In the next instant
, as if he’d been hit by unseen sniper fire, Ben’s entire body suddenly jerked, the pain in his head so excruciating, he swayed in the saddle. Dizzy, he lurched to one side, somehow managing to land upright as he fell from his horse. Although soon enough his legs gave way beneath him, his body hitting the ground with a heavy-weighted thud.

Sweet Jesus! I
t was happening again, wasn’t it?

His mind, his body, even his soul, were under assault, about to be blasted to hell and back by the same dark stupor that felled him several weeks ago.

The last time that he’d succumbed to the darkness, he’d been out for two day. The time before that, three days had passed before he’d come to. This time around, he couldn’t spare three minutes, let alone three days. In three days’ time, Beaumont would be on the other side of the Rio Grande. Four days hence, he could be on his way to Mexico City. Or Veracruz.
Or God only knows where.

Glancing
heavenward, Ben clasped his hands together and prayed. As hard and fast and fervently as he could.

‘Give me the strength, dear Lord, to overcome this dark, malignant fever.
Give me the courage to—’

The pain
! He
had
to let go of the pain he realized suddenly.

The pain of remembrance. The pain of
shameful recrimination. The pain of heartache. Heartache over Ethan’s death. Heartache over Lydia’s betrayal. He had to let go of it all. He had to trust the better angels. If he didn’t, the demons of war would win and everything would have been for naught – Ethan’s death, as well as his love for Lydia.

Love
.

That’s what he had to
train his thoughts on. He had to focus on the love that he bore for Lydia . . . and the love that she, in return, bore for him. For despite all that had happened, he had to believe, he
did
believe, that Lydia still loved him.

Holding
his wife’s image in his mind’s eye, Ben shoved himself to his feet. Mercifully, the pain in his head began to subside. A few moments later, feeling as though he’d been raised from the dead, he swung himself back into the saddle.

As he
watched the sun unfurl its crimson cloak against the morning sky, it occurred to Ben that for the first time since his brother’s death, he’d taken on the dark demons and come out the victor.

Ben reined
his horse to a halt. Reaching for his water canteen, he took a moment to relieve his parched throat. His thirst satisfied, he then yanked his Henry rifle out of its scabbard. He didn’t waste any time checking the magazine. He already knew that it was fully loaded.

With
the rifle hoisted against his shoulder, he slowly walked down the main thoroughfare of what looked to be a dusty, rundown Mexican town. While he detected a few fearful faces behind a few shuttered windows, by-and-large the entire town of San Leandro was caught in the somnolent throes of the afternoon
siesta
.

Since crossing the Rio Grande earlier
in the day, he’d been treading lightly, nursing an uneasy feeling that
something
was about to happen. Now that he knew what that ‘something’ was, it had him worried as hell.

A few hours ago, he
’d watched from afar as Beaumont, Lydia, and a small coterie of rebel soldiers rode away from the encamped wagon train. Heading due west, they’d traveled to a large, heavily guarded mansion. Given that the renegade colonel had his six military supply wagons in tow, Ben surmised that Beaumont was rendezvousing at the mansion with Maximilian’s agents. He’d also surmised that rescuing Lydia from the mansion would be no easy feat. Not only were the grounds fortified with an eight-foot high stucco wall, but there was a troop of imperial guards stationed at the residence.

And because of that, Ben now stalked the streets of San Leandro.

Knowing that he would need assistance in order to rescue his wife, Ben had decided to make friends with Maximilian’s enemies, the Juaristas. A short while ago, from his vantage point on a hilltop overlooking the town square, he’d spied a small outfit of Mexican
chinacos –
rebel insurgents – milling about. That’s when the seeds of a plan had begun to take root.

Suddenly catching sight of
a sleeping Juarista, the man sprawled under the shade of a canopied doorway, Ben cocked his rifle.

“Wake up,” he
ordered as he kicked a loaded revolver out of the sleeping man’s hand.

Startled
, the Mexican pushed his sombrero to the back of his head. At seeing the barrel of Ben’s rifle menacingly aimed at his forehead, the man quickly jumped to his feet. Clearly of the opinion that he wasn’t long for this world, the Mexican fearfully waved his right hand over his head and chest, making the sign of the cross.

“Do you speak any English?”
Ben asked the Juarista.

“
Sí, sí
,” the man sputtered.

“
Good. I want you to take me to the officer in charge,” Ben ordered as he stepped into the street, his rifle still aimed at the other man’s head.

Tentatively moving out of the doorway, the Juarista instinctively put his hands in the air as he led the way down the dusty street, Ben two paces behind him. With the town fast asleep, he couldn’t have timed his arrival better. So far, his plan was going without a hitch.

As they approached a walled courtyard, the crumbling stucco covered with sweet-smelling jasmine, Ben made a point of placing the end of his rifle barrel against the back of the other man’s skull.

Worried that he might be walking into a trap, Ben said in a low
ered voice, “One false move and I’ll blow your head off your shoulders.
Comprende
?”

Wordlessly, the Juarista nodded.

Motioning toward the wrought iron gate, he indicated that he wanted his captive to open it. When, a few seconds later, he stepped into a courtyard garden, Ben encountered two uniformed officers seated at an expansive stone table.

Visibly
surprised, both officers lunged to their feet. Ben immediately swung his rifle in their direction as one of them made a move for his sidearm.

“Unless you want your guts splattered all over the supper table, I wouldn’t do that,”
Ben warned. While he hoped that it wouldn’t come to that, he was fully prepared to pull the trigger, if need be.

Placing a hand on the back of his first captive’s shoulder, Ben shoved him toward the
other two, enabling him to put all three men in his rifle sights.

“
Which one of you is the ranking officer?” When a tall, mustachioed man gave a perfunctory nod of the head, Ben said, “Good. Then, you’re the one that I want to talk to.”

“Talk away, senor. You are the one holding the rifle, are you not?”

Instantly liking the other man’s calm, soldierly manner and wry sense of humor, Ben got right to the point. “Not far from here, my wife is being help prisoner by a man named Percy Beaumont, an ex-Confederate colonel who’s wanted by the American government.”

The other man shrugged his shoulders, a baffled look on his face. “And what does this have to do with me? I know
neither your wife nor the Confederate officer of whom you speak.”

“I need your help if I’m to rescue my wife,” Ben bluntly informed him. “While I can sneak in and rescue her all on my own, I’m gonna need help covering my flank while we make our way back to Texas. Beaumont has a well-trained troop of men at his disposal and I don’t want them hunting us down before we can cross the Rio Grande.”

The officer smiled, clearly amused. “You ask a lot,
senor. Particularly since I also have a whole troop of men at my disposal . . . just outside this garden wall.”

“All of them sleeping like babies,” Ben countered, knowing
that he had the upper hand, at least temporarily. Hoping to secure the other man’s cooperation, he said, “Beaumont is about to turn over six wagonloads of weapons, including a Gatling gun, to Emperor Maximilian’s agents.”

The other man’s eyes instantly narrowed
“You are certain of this?”

“Damn certain.”

Ben’s affirmation incited a heated debate between the two Juarista officers. Clearly, the munitions were of great interest to them.

Deciding
that it was time to play his hand, Ben said, “This is the deal: if you agree to help me, you can have the weapons. I suspect there are enough repeating rifles in the cache to outfit an entire regiment. All I want is my wife.”

Again, the two officers deliberated on the matter
. A few moments later, they vigorously nodded, having evidently reached a consensus.

The
mustachioed officer took a step in Ben’s direction. He then clicked his boot heels together as he held out his right hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Colonel Hector Eduardo Montoya. And this is Major Sanchez.”

“Pleased to meet you.”
Ben lowered his rifle to shake the man’s proffered hand. “The name’s Ben Strong.”

“Where exactly is your wife being held
captive?” Montoya asked him.

Relieved that
his new comrade didn’t inquire as to how Lydia came to be held hostage, Ben said, “She’s at a big mansion about five miles west of here. Do you know it?”

“
Sí
. It is known as
Casa de Paradiso
. The House of Heaven.”

“Well, then, you know that the whole compound is surrounded by an eight
-foot high wall. If you’ve got enough ropes handy, maybe your men could scale over the top of it.”

With a shake of the head, Montoya rejected the plan outright
. “Instead, we will march right through the front gate.”

This time is was Ben who shook his head
. “Beaumont has a Gatling gun at the ready. His men will mow you down before you can reach the gate.”

“Not if he thinks
that we are Imperial dragoons.”

“And why would he think that?” Ben asked
. He knew that Maximilian’s troops didn’t wear sombreros and dun-colored britches.

“Maybe because we have a wagonload of blue imperial uniforms that we recently confiscated. What do you think, Senor Strong
? It is a good plan,
sí
?”

Damn good, no doubt about it.

“Hell, it worked for the Trojans,” Ben replied gamely, relieved that he’d found himself an ally with enough balls to take on Beaumont and his men. “In fact, it’s such a good plan that I’m going to rustle me up a uniform, as well.”

“No offense,
senor. But with your limited command of Spanish, it would be too risky for you to masquerade as an Imperial soldier.”

Ben smiled broadly.
“Which is why I’m going to be dressed in gray and whistling
Dixie
.”

Finding
the perfect Reb had been no different than luring a bear into a trap, Ben having to patiently wait until a tall enough Southerner strolled past his hiding place just outside the walled
Casa de Paradiso
. Once that happened, confiscating the man’s uniform had been easy. It had only taken a blow to the back of the head, a tug here, a yank there, and the gray tunic and britches were his.

Glancing at the late
-day sun, Ben knew that he only had thirty minutes until Colonel Montoya’s men started to rain artillery fire around the periphery of the mansion. According to the plan that he and Montoya had hatched, the diversion would enable the disguised Juaristas to snatch Beaumont’s munitions. And, more importantly, the ensuing chaos would enable him and Lydia to escape the mansion undetected.

As he
approached the heavily fortified compound of
Casa de Paradiso
, Ben tried his utmost best to look like he had every right to be there. Wrongly assuming that he was a bona fide Confederate, the Imperial guards at the front gate immediately granted him entry without even bothering to stop Ben and ask him his name.

Quickly perusing
the premises, Ben could see that the compound was a veritable swarm of activity, blue-clad soldiers rushing to-and-fro. Although no one paid him any mind, he nonetheless kept to the shadows. If he inadvertently ran into Percy Beaumont or any of his southern renegades, he’d be laid low in a heartbeat, Beaumont having warned him not to pull any ‘quixotic’ stunts. And while Ben didn’t know if riding into a well-armed stronghold of Imperial soldiers garbed in a stolen Confederate uniform qualified as ‘quixotic,’ it was definitely a foolhardy act.

But he was
, by his own admission, desperate. And desperate men tended to behave in a reckless manner.

Suddenly c
atching sight of Percy Beaumont conversing with several Imperial officers, Ben veered his mount in the opposite direction to avoid detection. His plan was to get in and get out with no one the wiser. To hell with the bounty money. All he wanted was his wife.

A few moments later, he reined his horse in front of a
palatial, Spanish-style mansion. The instant he dismounted, a young boy clad in loose, dun-colored peasant garb leapt forward to take the reins from his hands.

Ben smiled, hoping to put the kid at ease. “You wouldn’t happen to know where they’re keeping the American
senora
, would you?”

T
he boy gave him the once over. “
La senora con los cabellos roja
?”

‘
Roja.’
Ben knew that word meant ‘red.’

“Yeah, the lady with the red hair. Do y
ou know where I can find her?”

The boy wordlessly
gestured toward the second story of the imposing mansion.

Nodding his thanks, Ben glanced over his shoulder. Not seeing any Rebs lurking
in the vicinity, he strode through the mansion’s porticoed entryway, swinging open the ornately carved door as if to the manor born. No sooner did he step inside the elaborate foyer than he heard approaching footsteps. As he scurried over to a shadowed corner, Ben reached for his Colt revolver.

In the next instant,
a Mexican soldier entered the foyer carrying a supper tray. Hoping that the unsuspecting soldier would lead Ben to his wife, he gave the man a few seconds lead before following him up a winding staircase.