Paxton and the Lone Star (38 page)

Travis glanced at Don Raphael Sanchez. The Mexican sighed and folded his hands over his ample belly. “Word has come, Señor True—a letter from my brother—that there is a movement afoot in the capital to revoke all foreign ownership of land within a fifty-mile radius of San Antonio.” He noted True's shocked reaction and nodded his head. “Yes, I have reason to believe it is the truth. If it is, and if they are successful here, we can be sure they will try the same thing in Washington-on-the-Brazos, Anahuac, Brazoria, and other areas with dense colonist populations.”

Scott Campbell, who had risen to help himself to a second serving of pie, sank slowly onto the bench seat. “They wouldn't dare,” he said, flushing angrily.

“The Mexican government would dare anything, no matter how unlawful,” Travis said. “That's why we must be rid of it once and for all. We're Texans, damn it. Not Americans, not Mexicans. This land is
our
land. Unless we're such a bunch of yellow-bellies that we
want
to give it back.”

Joseph drummed his fingers on the table. True poured himself a shot of whiskey. Andrew watched his brothers, and said nothing.

“I endorse, with one important reservation, Señor Travis's view,” Don Raphael said, breaking the silence. “I think there is a good chance that it is not too late for words. There are voices in Mexico City speaking against us. If those voices can be neutralized—”

“Whose voices?” Scott Campbell asked, interrupting.

“Luther O'Shannon is one of them,” True replied before Don Raphael could speak. “Any bets?”

The Mexican nodded. “Santa Anna is not a man totally devoid of reason, though. He has been known to listen.”

“To one with the strength of his convictions,” Don Raphael said. “And shrewd enough to win a horse race by a nose.”

A cup crashed. Splinters of porcelain littered the floor at Elizabeth's feet. As the men's heads turned toward her, she stared at her trembling hands. “Excuse me,” she said, barely in control of her voice, and escaped behind the blanket that partitioned the bedroom from the rest of the cabin.

Footsteps approached the blanket and stopped. Elizabeth sat heavily on the bed, then lay back and held her hands tightly over her stomach. Her father was dead, her mother too. She and her sister were estranged. If True left she would be alone. “No!” she screamed in her head. Completely alone. “No no no no no no …”

But the men continued to talk. And despite all her efforts, she could not drown out their voices.

Elizabeth woke up when the door slammed. The light on the ceiling was dim and the night was quiet. A moment later, the blanket curtain was pulled back and True entered. “Are you asleep?” he whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“When are you leaving?”

“Do you know me so well?”

“When are you leaving?”

“I won't be alone. Don Raphael is going with me. Joseph volunteered to come too, but with Lottie pregnant—”

“When?”

True stared into the darkness. “Early next week,” he finally said, his voice low. “Monday, I think.”

“Six days. That's all we have.”

“Well …” He cleared his throat. “Less. I'm leaving for San Antonio tomorrow. Don Raphael helped us write a petition. I need to get as many signatures as possible before I leave.”

Her voice was bitter. “One day, then. One night.”

“I'm sorry, Beth. God, I'm sorry. But I'm sort of responsible, at least for O'Shannon's animosity. Someone has to do it. I … Ah, hell, Elizabeth. I don't know. I just feel it has to be me. The least I can do is try.”

Silence in a night shrouded with misgivings.

“Elizabeth?”

The still passing of the minutes.

“You will be here when I come back, won't you? You'll still be here?”

Silence.

And then from the covers, movement, her hand finding its way … into his.

Chapter XXVI

The journey took three weeks, to which were added two days when the rains forced Don Raphael and True to huddle in damp discomfort in a farmer's shack at the base of Xochimilco, around whose peak they had to travel to reach Mexico City. At last, after contending with raging streams, mudslides, fallen trees, and their own fatigue, the two men reached the city. The hour was late, the night dark. Estimo Sanchez, Don Raphael's brother, was not in when their carriage discharged them in front of a great white house that lay like a jewel at the edge of a park. Neither True nor Don Raphael complained; they left word with the staff and tumbled into the first real beds they had slept in for over three weeks.

True woke early and with little sense of where he was. Sleepily, he pulled back the curtains and saw that his room looked onto a balcony that ran the length of the house. Beyond the wrought-iron railing, a high carpet of trees obscured the city, beyond which, outlined against the predawn light, rose the majestic mountains that had, in ancient times, protected the abode of the gods. It was too damn early to be overwhelmed. Still blurry-eyed, he stumbled back to his bed and, luxury of luxuries, fell immediately to sleep again.

The sun was streaming through the windows when he woke the second time. Rested and alert, he reveled in the scent of clean sheets and the cool spring breeze that wafted through the open window. A man was standing on the balcony, his back to True's room. He puffed languidly on a cigar and rocked on his heels, rocked and watched the clouds clip the mountaintops and the new day freshen. Soon he was joined by Don Raphael. From their greeting, True assumed the man was Estimo, a belief confirmed when the two men embraced warmly.

They had laid out a robe for him. True rose, then explored until he found a small room where he could relieve himself. A wash basin full of water scented with lemon sat on the stand next to his bed. When he had washed, he donned the robe and, ready to face the day, walked onto the balcony.

“Ah! Our
norteamericano
friend joins us. You are Señor Paxton, my brother tells me. Welcome to Mexico City—and my house.”

Estimo was a leaner, younger version of his brother, to whom he bore a distinct facial resemblance. Raphael completed the introductions and the three sat down to coffee, fresh rolls, sweet butter, and preserves in the European style to which True had become accustomed at the Alabaster House in Charleston. The coffee was flavored with hints of chocolate and cinnamon and tasted altogether refreshing. The croissants and sweet rolls were exquisitely baked, soft and flaky and still hot.

“My eldest daughter tells me you met last night,” Estimo said in heavily accented English. “And that she regrets very much that you are married. Do you like the coffee? It is blended especially for me.”

“Very much,” True answered, deciding to treat the comment on Estimo's daughter as a social nicety and let it go at that. He spread butter on a roll, sipped appreciatively at his coffee. “A far, far cry from what I've grown used to. I think I could very easily become spoiled.”

Pleased, Estimo laughed and refilled True's cup. “Tell me,” he asked, leaning back and lighting a fresh cigar. “What do you think of our city?”

“I'm afraid I've seen practically nothing of it,” True responded. “We arrived late, it was dark, and I was very tired. I certainly got an impression of life, though—people bustling all over the place.”

“Yes. Many people and many more to come. All seeking peace and prosperity, of course. The pot at the end of the rainbow, I think you say, which they seldom find.” He shrugged and puffed on his cigar. “Ah, well. Men strive to survive and endure, and must be content with that which is given them.”

Estimo didn't look as if he had too many worries in that regard, True thought. If anything, he was probably much better off than Don Raphael. Lord only knew how much it cost to maintain the style of life to which he was obviously well-accustomed. “Unfortunately,” True said, “that which has been given is too often taken away in the next breath.”

“Clever!” Estimo said, at the same time sharply clapping his hands. A maid appeared immediately, took away the coffee pot, and left another in its place. Steam rose from the spout and drifted lazily upward for a foot before the breeze whisked it away. “You turn a philosophical observation into harsh reality. Clever. You were right, Raphael. Your
norteamericano
friend is not a patient man.”

“There's no time for patience,” True pointed out. He gestured back to his room. “I carry a petition signed by a lot of people who are afraid they're going to lose most of what they've paid and fought for. They're good people who want nothing more than to prosper and to live in peace, as you have pointed out. At the same time, I have a home and a wife that I miss, and the sooner I return, the better. I'm sure you understand I mean no disrespect.”

“Of course not. You speak words I too have said in my time.”

“Then down to business,” True said with a sideways glance at Don Raphael.

“Very well.” Estimo sat back, twirled the silvered tips of his extravagant moustache, and pondered. “Today is Thursday. A week from next Tuesday, I shall announce your arrival to the proper authorities.”

“A week from …” True blanched. “But that's almost two weeks from now! Isn't there any way—”

“This week is nearly over and the people I need to talk to will be unavailable, I'm sure,” Estimo explained, as if talking to a child. “Next week is Holy Week, so of course nothing will be done then. I'm afraid the Monday after Easter Sunday is never a very good day—so much to catch up on.” He nodded. “Yes, the Tuesday after next is the earliest.”

Easter week, True thought, his spirits sagging. What a time for him to arrive! And what would he do for twelve days? See the sights? Twiddle his thumbs? Doleful, he stared at his croissant and wished it were one of Elizabeth's biscuits. Croissant be damned, there had to be some quicker way. Had to!

But there wasn't. The days dragged on in idle luxury. No matter how much he wanted to be done with his business and away, it was remarkably easy to sleep late, eat well, and spend hours just ambling through the park. Dinner was usually at nine, and always attended by a score or more friends of Estimo and Eulalia, his wife. Holy Week was a whirl of parties and balls and parades, during which True twice caught glimpses of, but thankfully never encountered, Luther O'Shannon. The weather was beautiful, the city exciting. Voices in a multitude of languages argued, appealed, insulted, laughed, chattered, gossiped, tying and untying the timeless human bonds of existence. Dogs barked, goats bleated, roosters crowed no matter the time of day, chickens squawked and flapped furious feathered retreats from the turmoil of the street. Wagons lumbered and streaked past, creaky and clattery; stately carriages rolled by in stern displays of opulence. Vendors, beggars, the common man and the prince all rubbed elbows in kaleidoscopic whirls of color. The bells of the cathedral worried flights of pigeons into the air with their pealed messages of forgiveness and hope, of resurrection promised and life hereafter. And then Good Friday. Accompanied by Don Raphael, True watched the altar of the cathedral as the priests stripped it bare, and walked the silent gray streets devoid of life, in mourning for the crucified Christ. Saturday, a deluge inundated the city, and Sunday morning, as if on cue, the day of Resurrection dawned clear as bells that pealed forth the good news.

The next two days were the worst. Monday, because it seemed as if something should be happening, Tuesday because Estimo simply disappeared. True paced his room and the balcony, prowled the halls, tried to concentrate on the one book in English he'd found in Estimo's library. Nothing worked. Estimo didn't reappear in the house until nearly dinner time. “Well?” True asked nervously.

“Next Tuesday,” Estimo said, beaming. “You have been granted an audience at two in the afternoon with
el Presidente
Santa Anna himself.”

“Excellent!” Raphael exclaimed, in contrast to True's disappointment. “The sooner the better for us, I say.”

“The first appointment is for True Paxton alone. We have been granted an audience three days later. The president wishes to discuss the matter of the
norteamericano
colonists separately from that which concerns the Sanchez family and ranch.”

“But we came together,” Raphael protested. “Our causes are allied. The same man speaks against us both.”

Estimo shrugged. “Of course, my brother, but I was in no position to argue. “The wheels grind slowly. These matters take time and patience. In any case, it is of no importance. I have given much to Santa Anna's cause, and he will listen closely to us—unless, of course, he has discovered I also supported Senor Bustamente.”

“My Spanish,” True said. “It hardly exists. Will there be someone there to translate for me? Could you do it?”

“The president has his own translators, I'm afraid.” Estimo laughed and clapped True on the shoulder. “But don't worry, my friend. All these things will be taken care of in due time. Remember, you have another week to suffer. In the meantime, I have spent a busy day, it is almost nine o'clock, and I believe dinner is waiting.” He gestured for True to lead the way into the dining room where the rest of the family and that night's guests waited. “Gentlemen?”

The week crawled. True didn't know whether he was more bored or more worried. Elizabeth would be alone for another month at the rate things were going. Joseph and Scott were watching out for her, to be sure, but only from a distance. It was that distance—those two miles—that bothered him. A gun couldn't be heard from two miles away. Or a scream. If she got sick, or if Indians chanced by … No, he commanded himself over and over again, you can't keep thinking that way. Think about something else. Food, drink, walks. The sights of the city: the ragged children; the beautiful señoritas in their brightly colored skirts and dazzling white blouses; the old crone who begged at the corner of the park; the three legged dog that trotted past the house every afternoon at four o'clock precisely. Anything …