Paxton and the Lone Star (60 page)

The Irishman had seen the handwriting on the wall by the time the initial charge had carried the barricade. Singlemindedly, he had fought his way back to his tent. The rebels were mad, of course, attacking in broad daylight, but he had to admit there was purpose to their madness and further, that they were going to win. Already, a melee swirled around his tent. He hacked his way through, and ducked inside to get his saddlebags. No sooner had he pulled them from under his bedroll than the tent flap ripped open and a Mexican in an officer's uniform stumbled in. The front of the officer's uniform was stained crimson. His throat had been slashed. Dying, he fell forward onto O'Shannon, who thrust the corpse aside just as a rough-and-tumble Indian fighter leaped into the tent.

“Remember the Alamo!” the Texian yelled. His eyes wild, his beard matted with gore, his dagger red to the hilt, he charged.

O'Shannon dodged the man's knife thrust and shot him in the face. Before the rebel hit the floor, the Irishman was crawling under the back of his tent, and looking for his horse.

True staggered through the dust and stumbled over corpses. The stench of death filled his nose, the awful sounds his ears. Rifle fire and tearing flesh. The dull thudding sounds of axes and tomahawks cleaving bones. War cries and screams. He was sick of killing, of the charnal work that surrounded him. It was a bad time to see O'Shannon.

The Irishman galloped past not ten feet away. True snapped off a shot with his pistol and missed, snatched up a musket from a dead Mexican and threw it away when he realized it was broken. A riderless horse galloped past. He caught the trailing reins and somehow managed to slow the frenzied beast and bring it under control. It was already almost too late. O'Shannon's horse had reached the edge of the camp and would be gone within another few seconds. But in that same instant, his stallion took two leaping jumps and dropped in its tracks. O'Shannon fell clear, rolled, scrambled to his feet, and disappeared in the heavy undergrowth that bordered Vince's Bayou.

The rest of the battle might as well not have been taking place. O'Shannon was the only thing that counted. True dodged his mount around and over obstacles, then pulled up at the edge of the trees and dismounted. The woods were murky and quiet, choked with vines and underbrush. The ground was soft and spongy underfoot. The sound of battle faded to a hush broken by the warning call of a jay. The air was heavy and fetid, tainted with the reek of powder. True reloaded his pistol, and began to follow the tracks that lay before him like a map.

“Here,” a voice said. “Over here.”

True turned.

Luther O'Shannon stood alone in a clearing. “I saw you. Could hardly believe my good fortune. And you brought me a horse.”

True hesitated, then pushed through a stand of blackberries into the open. He was tired. He was sick of butchery. He felt no elation in this confrontation. He only wanted it to end.

“That's it. Come closer,” O'Shannon chuckled. He held out his saber and cut a swath through the air. The blade, an extension of himself, leaped and darted with alarming dexterity. “I hoped we'd meet again. I owe you this one favor: to put you out of your misery.”

“You're a dead man, O'Shannon.”

“Really? Aren't we all?” He beckoned with the saber, and took a step sideways to more solid ground. “More to the point, how is your lovely wife, Elizabeth? Fine, I trust. She was when I left her. You
do
remember how that was, don't you,” he added in a mocking voice. “In a state of … disarray, shall we say?”

True did not launch a wild attack to put an end to the mockery. Instead, he stood and stared at O'Shannon and saw in him all the sickness and useless waste of hatred and depravity.

“Come, my young enemy. My saber against your knife. You bragged on it once. Let's test your merit and skill. I'll wager … why, my life! And yours, too.” O'Shannon sliced the air once more, then held his blade ready. “Be quick, then. En garde!”

True didn't move. Twenty feet away, he simply stood and raised his pistol.

O'Shannon paled. What about the duel, he thought, beginning to panic. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. The duel. A matter of honor. The final contest!

“Wait!” he exclaimed.

“I didn't come to fight you,” True intoned. “I came to kill you.”

And he fired.

EPILOGUE

The valley was as beautiful and secluded as Hogjaw had described, the promised grass as green, the water as sweet. Together, hand in hand, True and Elizabeth stood in the heavily loaded wagon and looked to the north along its length. “Any regrets?” True asked, pulling her to him.

It had been a long journey from the bayous of east Texas where Santa Anna's army had been broken and
el Presidente
himself, a beaten man, had been dragged before Houston to surrender all claims to Texas. Time and money had been spent collecting Eustacia and Tommy Matlan, Mildred Thatche and Kevin, Jr., and seeing that everyone returned to Agradecido with the wherewithal to take up their lives in the free and sovereign nation they proudly called the Republic of Texas.

“Except that those who died aren't here now to see it with us,” Elizabeth said.

“Andrew and Hogjaw are,” True said. A hot lump burned in his throat. “I swear they are. As long as we are here, they will be too.”

The morning was awash with the fragrance of cedar and wild clover crushed beneath the wagon wheels. The hills swelled gently to either side, then swept up to become rippled, amber bluffs. The river cutting through the center of the valley was the color of liquid sapphire, and matched the cloud-decked sky. Ahead was the
hacienda
Hogjaw had told Elizabeth about. Cream tinted walls, red tile roof. Abandoned, needing repair, waiting for life.

They stopped in front of the
hacienda
and climbed down from the wagon. Firetail nickered questioningly. “It's all yours,” True said, untying him and removing his bridle. “Go see what it's like, boy. Have a run!”

Elizabeth pulled off her bonnet. Her hair, gold as the sun, gold as the amulet that glinted at her breast, floated on the light breeze. A spirit of joy welled in her and she opened her arms, spread them wide as if to encompass all she looked upon.

“Yes!” she shouted, and then louder, loud as she could, “Yes!”

The echo played among the bluffs, returned, darted out once more to find its way through distant valleys and meadows and hidden hollows.

“Welcome home,” True said, at her side.

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, “home.” His arms came around her, her head rested against his chest. “Welcome home.”

The wind touched them. The wind passed by and danced across the land to dally with the tall grasses and, wild and free and waiting to be discovered a single, perfect yellow rose.

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CHAPTER I

Wind blew through the trees surrounding the clearing, rattling branches and carrying other night sounds—the whine of insects, the rustle of small animals moving about in the brush, the occasional whinny of a horse or growl of a dog. Parked around the large clearing were a score of Gypsy wagons so sturdily built that they were actually small houses on wheels. The wagons were decorated with colorful drawings of unicorns and flowers, wheels and stars, birds of every color and plumage, and were festooned with bits of bright cloth that fluttered like pennants in the breeze. The horses that pulled the wagons were penned nearby in a rough makeshift corral. Strong, heavy beasts that might once have carried knights into battle, they were content now to rest after their long day's journey. In the center of the clearing, where the remains of a large fire were banked for the night, coals winked like jewels and ghostly trails of smoke undulated upward to be whisked away by the night breeze.

Though there had been a great deal of activity earlier in the evening, tranquillity now settled over the clearing. Most of the Gypsies were asleep in their wagons and in tents that had been pitched nearby, for the wanderers were tired after traveling most of the day from Kent's Grove to the Chiltern Hills and then setting up their encampment. They would be well rested in the morning, ready to prepare for the spring fair and festivities.

All was not peaceful and quiet in one of the wagons, however. Both of its occupants were asleep in narrow beds that folded out from opposite walls, but one of them rolled uneasily from side to side, restlessly tossing her head, tangling her long, thick auburn tresses. She was young but ripe with the bloom of womanhood, as was obvious when, moaning and writhing, she threw back her blanket, revealing a full figure in a thin nightdress.

The violent dreams that crowded in on her as she struggled and tossed filled her sleep with a fear so intense that her breath quickened and the blood raced in her veins. Even as she dreamed, she sensed that the cause of her fear was real and quite close, but it was so well hidden in the shadows of her nightmare that she could only cringe from the specter and never actually see its source. Violence and fear were not all that she sensed, though for there was a man, too, whose face she couldn't make out, but whose presence in the dream served as a calming influence. He had about him an aura of passion, of great strength; he seemed capable of both boisterous laughter and icy rage. She sensed that he was full of everything that made the pageant of life fascinating.

Who are you?
she asked.
Who are you? Speak, I pray you!

He gave no answer. Uninvolved, he seemed poised on the brink of her life, waiting for … what? The proper moment?

Then let me see your face, good sir, that I may know it when the time comes
.

Her fear gradually departed, slowly dissipating like the last vestiges of an ugly storm. In its place, where the man stood, dark shadows rushed in to hide his face, then pulsed outward, soon dispelled by a glowing light that, increasing, became a … tree! A tree, tall and golden, entwined with golden brambles rising like a phoenix from the ashes of her fear.

What does this mean? I beg you tell me, what does this mean?

The image of the tree grew and swelled until there was no room for anything else in the Gypsy girl's mind. A low moan escaped from her throat and she thrashed about more violently. There was nothing frightening about the tree, but a sense of overwhelming power flowed from the image, filling her dream and washing away everything else with the cleansing strength of a rushing river.…

“Adriana!” a voice hissed in the darkness of the wagon. “Wake up, Adriana! What is wrong?”

Adriana bolted awake and her green eyes snapped open. Powerful hands gripped her arms and relief flooded through her as she recognized the familiar shape of her brother, Giuseppe, leaning over her. She took a long, shuddering breath and willed the pounding of her pulse to slow. “I was … dreaming,” she said raggedly, reaching up to clutch his hands and taking comfort from the grip of his blunt callused fingers.

“Do not worry, little one,” Giuseppe said softly. “Your visions have never caused you harm. Nothing will harm you. Have I not always taken care of you?”

“Yes, Giuseppe,” Adriana said, nodding as she sat up. The throbbing in her skull gradually subsided, and she put her arms around her brother and hugged him quickly. “I will be all right now. You can go back to sleep.”

Giuseppe's dark square-jawed face betrayed his concern. “You are sure?”

“Yes,” she promised. “I am sure. Just visions. For myself, I think, but I cannot tell yet.”

He stood and rested a hand on her shoulder as he lingered at her side. “Your moan awakened me. I was frightened to see you in such torment—I thought perhaps you were sick.”

Adriana shook her head and looked up at him. “At first there was fear and terror, but then came a man in shadows and a golden tree.” She paused, realizing how little sense she was making. “Do not worry, Giuseppe. I will sleep now.”

Giuseppe's teeth gleamed as he smiled down at her. “You know best, little one. I am nearby if you need me.”

With a nod, Giuseppe went back to his bed, and Adriana reclined once more on her thin mattress. Her eyes remained open, however, staring into the darkness. She lay quietly until she was certain that Giuseppe's breathing had settled into the deep, steady rhythm of sleep. Then she pushed her blanket back again, swung her legs out of bed, and stood on the wooden floor of the wagon. Despite what she had told Giuseppe, the vision of the tree and the brambles was still as vivid as if it had been printed on her brain. Moving soundlessly, she went to a small window set into one wall, pushed back the curtain, and peered into the night, as thick with shadows as her dream. This was not the first time she had had strange, unexplainable dreams. Usually something about them came true later on. The people who paid their shillings to have their palms read in her tent might scoff at what she told them, but often there was truth in her words. How she knew these truths, and why she had been chosen for this gift, were questions she could not answer. But she knew. She knew.