Lorenzo's Revolutionary Quest (16 page)

“Drink,” Chien d'Or said. “You'll feel better.”

Looking at his host over the lip of the gourd, Dunstan took a cautious sip. It stung a little when it went down, but warmed his insides like Jamaican rum. He drained the gourd.

Chien d'Or gestured for the woman to leave.

Eyes down, she raised the teepee flap and slipped out.

“You speak French,” Dunstan said.

“My father was French.” Chien d'Or rested his elbows on his knees. “For many days, we have followed the cattle drive and watched you and your son.”

For the first time, Dunstan thought about Thomas. “He isn't my son. He's my servant. Where is the lad?”

“Here. In camp. My wife saw the bull charge and pulled you to safety. She brought both of you here. Why do you follow the cattle?”

Dunstan shrugged. “To see where they go.”

Chien d'Or's eyes bored into Dunstan as if he could see his soul. “Tell the truth or I cut your lying tongue out.”

Dunstan believed he would do it. “My king does not want the cattle to reach the soldiers rebelling against him.”

“He wants the cattle for himself?”

“He wants proof the Spanish are helping American
rebels.”

Chien d'Or waved his hand scornfully. “I care not about the war.”

“Nor do I. I simply want to capture the man driving the cattle. He is my enemy.”

“Bannister is my enemy as well.”

“You know him?” Dunstan asked, surprised.

Chien d'Or spat on the ground in a gesture of disgust. “He killed two of my men and stole my cattle. I want them back. When you capture Bannister, what will you do with him?”

“I'll make him rue the day he was born.”

Chien d'Or smiled and nodded. Apparently, it was the answer he wanted to hear. “Bannister is yours to kill, but the big red bear with him is mine.”

“The boy and I will help you,” Dunstan said, “in return for our release.”

“No. The boy will make a fine warrior. I will let you go, but I keep him.”

It wasn't unusual for Indians to adopt boys into the tribe. Over the years, Dunstan had heard many stories to that effect. Thomas was bright. He would soon learn the language and customs of the Apache and succeed.

Thomas's freedom for his own. That was a trade he could live with. “Done,” he said, sealing the bargain.

Water crashed over huge boulders, so loud it blocked all other sounds.

Lorenzo remained on horseback and kept a respectful distance from the torrent sweeping debris downstream. He had to find a good place for the herd to cross. He followed the shoreline south to a spot where the river widened and swirled a little less furiously. To mark it, Lorenzo tied his bandanna around a tree branch.

He raced to the wagon and explained to the cook where to cross. Next, he pulled alongside Miguel. “When you get to the river, turn the herd south.”

“South!” Miguel said in exasperation. “First, we're going east, then west, now south. We're going in circles!”

“Just do it,” Lorenzo said wearily. He rode off, leaving Miguel in mid-grumble. Next, he visited each vaquero, explaining where to cross. He picked out three men to accompany him to the water's edge. By the time they arrived, the cook had attached ropes to the wagon's axle rod. They tested them to make sure they were snug, and passed them to vaqueros who swam them across.

On the opposite shore vaqueros lapped ropes around sturdy oaks edging the river.

The cook drove the wagon down the bank to the water's edge. Once it was afloat, men used tree trunks as giant pulleys to haul the wagon to shore. The mules swam until their hooves raked the sandy bottom. They hauled the wagon up the gentle bank.

Lorenzo, still on the west shore, breathed out a long
sigh of relief.

Cabezón appeared, along with point riders.

On the riverbank, cattle balked and bawled. They tried to turn away, but vaqueros forced them to plunge into the muddy river.

A short way upstream, Miguel and her horse splashed into the water. She angled toward the far shore.

Lorenzo knew what she was doing. The cattle would instinctively follow the swimming horse.

He stared at the swirling, muddy water. This was the first difficult crossing since his near drowning. Not until this very moment did he realize how terrified he was.

Suddenly, Red was by his side. “Ain't scared of a little water, are you?”

“Not me!” Lorenzo lied. He wondered if Miguel had told the men about his near-drowning.

“This is for your own good, Captain.” Giving Lorenzo a wicked grin, he slapped Piñata's rump.

The horse snorted and lunged forward.

Lorenzo felt panic rise when water soaked his legs and thighs. His heart galloped. He twisted in the saddle and shook his fist at Red. “I'll get you for this!”

Red laughed and plunged in after him.

Lorenzo locked his gaze on the distant shore. To his right, submerged cattle swam frantically. He tried to ignore their razor-sharp horns, flaring nostrils, and eyes bulging in terror.

Vaqueros swam their horses alongside the herd. Some remained on the riverbank, shouting and flailing their ropes to make sure stragglers entered the water.

Upstream, a dark mass in the river careened toward them. A shiver of fear passed through Lorenzo. After a moment, he realized it was a wild pig's bloated carcass. It struck the cows ahead of him and broke the continuous line of swimming cattle. Some turned away, trying to head back to shore.

Lorenzo jerked the reins and turned Piñata toward
them. If he didn't straighten the line, cattle, vaqueros, and horses could become tangled and drown.

Hooves churned desperately. Horns crashed together. Horses neighed. Lariat-waving vaqueros yelled and cursed.

Eventually, the herd swam in the right direction.

Struggling against the current, Piñata bumped into Red, making him topple off his horse and disappear under the froth.

“Red!” Lorenzo yelled.

Red's head popped to the surface, inches behind Cabezón's rump. Everyone cheered.

Red bobbed dangerously close to Cabezón, who was bellowing in rage. He sank under the water, he came out. He went under again and came out when Cabezón leaped up on the bank with Red still in tow.

Lorenzo laughed out loud when he realized that Red had hitched a ride to the riverbank by holding Cabezón's tail.

Muddy and completely soaked, Red bent over at the waist and wheezed while Cabezón galloped off.

Relief showed on every face.

Red's horse struggled up the bank, shook, and stood in the mud, dripping.

“
¡Ay, por dios!
” Soledad screamed. She pointed to the river.

A body, floating face down, was wedged between two boulders on a sandbar.

Lorenzo kicked Piñata's flanks, forcing the mare back into the rushing river. Red joined him. They swam to the sandbar and turned the floating man over. It was Ambrosio.

Lorenzo swallowed hard. Red's face reflected deep sorrow.

With his friend's help, Lorenzo managed to pull the body over his saddle. He thought of the words his father often said when a patient died:
Life is fragile, a gift from God.

At some point, Ambrosio must have fallen off his horse, hit his head, and lost consciousness.

Piñata swam to shore, struggling under the corpse's extra weight.

Everyone gathered around. Vaqueros, somber-faced and quiet, took the body and wrapped it in a blanket. Looking like lost children, they stared at their old friend's lifeless body.

Lorenzo wanted to keep the men busy so they wouldn't dwell on their friend's death. “We can get two more leagues under our hooves,” Lorenzo said in a subdued tone, “and bury Ambrosio when we bed down for the night.”

With great reverence, the vaqueros moved supplies in the back of the wagon and placed the body inside.

Nightfall overtook them. Lorenzo called the latest halt ever. Men lit lanterns and moved around quietly in
the dark to finish work. The cook prepared supper, although Lorenzo doubted that many would be in the mood to eat.

Several men set about digging a grave beneath a pine tree. That done, they laid Ambrosio to rest and shoveled dirt over him. Vaqueros and soldiers gathered large stones, piling them high over the grave to discourage coyotes and other scavengers from digging him up.

Everyone stood wrapped in thought.

“Someone should say a few words,” Miguel suggested.

“
Padre Nuestro,
” Lorenzo began. He paused and allowed time for the rest to recite after him.

They mumbled the Lord's Prayer, then slipped away one by one.

That night, Lorenzo sat by the campfire and composed a letter to Ambrosio's wife and eight children. He edged it in black and stashed it in his saddlebags. When they reached the rendezvous point, he would give it to one of the vaqueros heading back to San Antonio.

Of all his duties, Lorenzo disliked this one the most. How did you tell someone that a loved one wasn't coming home?

The next morning, Dunstan stepped out of a teepee where he had spent the last twenty-four hours. Raindrops lashed his face. Surrounded by four French-speaking outlaws, he headed toward tethered horses.

He mounted up and wished he had a weapon. The men with him were armed with silent but deadly weapons that wouldn't startle the cattle. Bows, quivers of arrows, lances, tomahawks, and knives were wise choices. Dunstan doubted that muskets or pistols would fire in this weather. There would be no way to keep powder dry.

Chien d'Or rode toward them, Dunstan's sword dangling at his side.

Bloody cheeky, Dunstan thought. Not only does he steal my sword, he flaunts the theft.

Just then, Thomas stepped out of a teepee followed by Chien d'Or's wife. He wore only a breechcloth and moccasins.

Dunstan felt a small twinge of regret to leave the boy behind. Thomas had served him well, but was no longer of any use. He locked eyes with the boy.

Betrayal and confusion radiated from Thomas. “God will not go with thee, Dunstan.”

He looked at the boy in disgust. What did he care about a nonexistent god? With Chien d'Or at his side, Dunstan spurred his horse and rode away from the village.

Lorenzo, with Red at his side, led the cattle drive through dense pines and hardwoods. This was the most difficult part of the trip so far. Nacogdoches lay about a league ahead, but to get there, they had to pass through a forest.

They left the woods and entered a clearing.

A black cloud roiling in from the northeast cast an ominous shadow over the landscape. It was about eight o'clock in the morning, but the sky looked like early evening.

A hot, muggy wind whipped around Piñata. Thunder rumbled like a herd of cattle on the run. Greenish-black clouds filled the sky. A continual light display slashed from sky to earth.

Lorenzo studied the towering cloud with a sense of growing anxiety. “If you see a funnel shape, Red, speak right up.”

Red shot him a quizzical glance. “A funnel?”

“I take it you've never seen a tornado.”

“You got that right.”

“My father and I were in one once. The wind bent trees to the ground.”

“And if I see a funnel, what do I do?”

“Find a hole, hunker down, and pray.”

Miguel approached on horseback.

“Have you ever seen a tornado?” Red asked Miguel.

“More times than I care to remember.” Miguel studied the blackening sky. “We are going to feel the wrath of God today.”