The Black Jacks (29 page)

"I would be very much surprised if Caldero doesn't know about us already," said Houston.

That night, while they sat around a campfire cooking a pair of sage hens Houston had bagged from the saddle earlier in the day, Joshua shot suddenly to his feet and whirled, crouching, pistol in one hand and Bowie knife in the other. An instant later one of the horses whickered a warning. That the half-breed had been aware of the intruders even before the horses were did not astonish Tice. He knew how uncannily sharp Joshua's instinct for danger was, and he reached for his own weapons confident that trouble was imminent.

From all points of the compass men emerged from the night shadows and paused at the rim of firelight—dark, savage-looking men wearing sombreros and red sashes and
chaquetas
and leather chaps to protect their legs from the thorny underbrush of the
brasada
country. Each man carried a minimum of one rifle, a brace of pistols, and a knife.

Only Houston remained seated, apparently unrattled by the sudden visitation of seven well-armed, scowling ruffians. He spoke briefly to the men in Spanish. One of the Mexicans answered. Houston said something else and then looked up at McAllen.

"Relax, John Henry. These are Caldero's men, sent to do away with us. I told them who I was and that I wanted to speak with Caldero."

McAllen thought it unwise to take his eyes off the
bandoleros,
but he shot a slightly perturbed glance in Houston's direction. "And?"

"We're still alive, aren't we?"

As silently as they had come the Mexicans melted back into the darkness.

"Where are they going?" asked Tice.

"They'll be back at daybreak, Doctor. They won't go far, but they don't like Anglos well enough to share a night camp with us."

"That's wonderful," said Tice dryly. "I won't be getting much sleep tonight, knowing those fellows are lurking somewhere out there."

"Can we trust them?" McAllen asked Houston.

"I think so. We'd be dead now if they intended to kill us."

McAllen realized then why the general had insisted on coming along.
Without Houston here we'd be getting our throats cut right about now. . . .

The next morning the Mexicans returned at first light. Now they numbered six, and McAllen surmised that one man had been sent ahead to notify Caldero. They rode due south until late in the afternoon, the Mexicans in advance of McAllen and his three companions—another manifestation of their resolve to engage in no fraternization whatsoever with Texans.

In the lengthening shadows of day's end they came at last to an adobe hut located near a dry wash. Several horses were tethered to the shaggy cedar poles of a ramshackle corral.

Three men sat at a trestle table in the striped shade of the adobe's pole-roofed porch, sharing a jug. One of them rose as McAllen and the others drew near. He was a slender youth, wearing concho-studded pants, an embroidered
chaqueta
without a shirt, and a bandanna tied Indian fashion around his head to keep long, thick, jet-black hair out of his face. His glacier-blue eyes were narrowed to slits as they studied McAllen. Tice, and Joshua—finally coming to rest on Houston.

"You must be Sam Houston," he said. His English was good.

"And you must be Antonio Caldero."

Smiling, Caldero bowed with a melodramatic flourish. McAllen did not trust that wolfish smile at all.

"I hope you have a good reason for coming here, General," he said, "because I need a good reason for letting you and your companions live. My men, they do not comprehend. . . ."

Sam Houston dismounted. "I can assure you I didn't come down here for my health."

Caldero laughed. He relayed Houston's comment to his men, who also found it amusing. The ice was broken. McAllen felt a little better. Not a lot, but a little. He knew now how Daniel had felt in the den of lions, and thought he and his friends would need divine intervention, too, to get out of here alive if things went sour.

Chapter Twenty-eight

McAllen and Houston followed Antonio Caldero into the dirt-floored adobe hut. Whoever had lived here had abandoned the place long ago—in McAllen's opinion he should have known better than to try to carve an existence out of this desolate wasteland. Now Caldero used it as an occasional rendezvous point. According to Houston, Caldero by necessity led a nomadic life; it wasn't safe for him to stay in any one place for too long, especially north of the Rio Grande.

Several of Caldero's
bandoleros
came in, too, but he sent them right back out again. They protested—they didn't trust the Anglos and feared for their leader's life. But they obeyed. Caldero struck McAllen as a man who would administer harsh punishment to anyone who practiced disobedience. Besides, he seemed supremely confident in his own ability to handle any situation. No doubt he was a real hand with the pistols stuck buccaneer-fashion under the red sash that encircled his waist. Apparently the red sash had some significance, McAllen had noticed that all the Mexicans who rode with Caldero sported them.

The three of them—Houston, McAllen, and Caldero—sat on empty barrels at a rickety table, a jug of
aguardiente
between them. Houston declined a drink, explaining that he was practicing temperance in keeping with the promise he'd made to Margaret. McAllen didn't like the taste of the anise-based liquor, but he took a drink so as not to offend their host. Caldero indulged in a long swig from the jug. It might have been water for all the effect it seemed to have on him. Then he lit a cheroot by the flame of a tallow lamp. The windowless hut was dark and gloomy and McAllen heard something scuttling about in the back corner, but he couldn't tell what it was. Wreathed in acrid blue smoke, Caldero propped his booted feet on the table, his big-roweled Chihuahua spurs gouging the old gray wood.

"So tell me, Houston. Why have you come so far to see me?"

"To ask a favor."

"What makes you think I would do any Texan a favor, even you?"

"Don't you think you ought to find out what it is before you decide not to do it?"

Caldero shrugged indifferently. "I will listen, because at the moment I have nothing better to do."

"We've come to ask you to intercede on our behalf to free a young woman from the Comanches."

Caldero's piercing blue gaze swung to McAllen. "Your woman, no doubt,
señor."

"She will be when I get her back."

"The Comanches took her during the big raid two months ago," said Houston. "I'm sure you've heard all about that."

"It made me very happy."

"A lot of innocent people got hurt," snapped McAllen.

"Easy, John Henry," advised Houston.

Caldero smiled and shook his head. "There is no such thing as an innocent Texan."

"I guess I ought not to be surprised that you think so," said McAllen bristling, "since your own men make no distinction between man, woman, or child when they attack our homesteads."

"We attack your settlers because they are trespassers. We make an example of all Anglos who dare to steal land that does not belong to them. And you must admit, our methods are effective. How many Texan farms did you see between here and the Nueces, eh?"

"Your methods are barbaric," replied McAllen.

"Really? I have also heard about the murders of the Comanche chiefs in San Antonio de Bexar, and of the attack on their encampment, where many
innocent
women and children were also slain. I am thinking that the look on your face tells me that you yourself were present,
señor."

"I was," admitted McAllen bluntly. "And I don't like what happened there any more than I like what you and your men do."

"Gentlemen," Houston said with a sigh, "it's very entertaining to watch a couple of young bulls go at it head to head, but it really isn't accomplishing anything."

Caldero took another drink of
aguardiente.
"You are right, General. Your friend and I, we are much alike. I am thinking that one day maybe we will have to settle our disagreement. But not today. Today you have come to ask a favor of your enemy. But I cannot see why I should do this thing for you."

"Maybe because you're a romantic at heart," suggested Houston.

Caldero laughed and slapped the table with the flat of a hand. "You are right. I am a romantic. I am glad you did not say I should do this because I owed you a favor. If you had saved the lives of my men it might be so. But you did not save them."

"I wasn't trying to save their lives. All I wanted was for them to get a fair trial. No doubt they would have been hanged anyway. But at least it would have been a legal execution."

"A fine distinction," mused Caldero dryly, "and one that I am sure would have been wasted on them. But, even if I were to do this thing, there are many Comanche villages. Do you know which band took this woman?"

McAllen brandished the broken shaft of an arrow from beneath his dusty black shell jacket and handed it to Caldero, who glanced at the fletch and the markings and nodded.

"Quohadi," he said.

"The Antelope band?" asked Houston.

"Sí.
They live on the Llano Estacado."

"So will you help us or not?" pressed McAllen.

"What will you do if I say no?"

"I'll find her myself. No matter how long it takes—or how many of your Comanche friends I have to go through."

Caldero looked long and hard at McAllen, and knew this grim and determined man meant every word he said.

Houston leaned forward. "Caldero, you know me. I've always tried my best to keep peace with the Indians. Even the Comanches. That hasn't been easy, since they've always raided our farms and settlements."

"As I said before, it is because you Tejanos are trespassers."

"I'm running for president again," said Houston, "and once I've replaced Lamar I'll try my damnedest to stop this war. More killing won't solve anything. If you help us find this girl and get her back, a lot of lives will be saved. And that will bring us one step closer to peace."

"You're taking the wrong tack with this man, General," decided McAllen. "He's not the least bit interested in peace."

Caldero puffed vigorously on his cheroot. "I tell you what, Houston. If I help you, you must do something for me in return."

"What might that be?"

"You will state publicly that the Nueces River, in your opinion, forms the southern boundary of your so-called Republic of Texas."

McAllen stood up in a hurry. "Let's get out of here, General."

"Hold on, John Henry."

McAllen was incredulous. "You're not even going to consider that—are you?"

"Caldero," said Houston, "you know I could never do that."

"I know that now. Just as I know now that you are a man of honor, whose word can be trusted."

So it had been a test,
mused McAllen as he sat back down. Had Houston agreed to Caldero's spurious condition the bandit leader would have known he was lying, and that would prove Sam Houston was the kind of man who would say anything a person wanted to hear. And that, in turn, would mark him as an unreliable, unscrupulous man, a man without integrity. Though a bandit, Caldero had a code of honor he tried to live by.

Caldero took another drink. "I tell you what I will do," he said at last. "I will try to find out where this girl is." He pointed at McAllen. "But if I do locate her, you will have to go and get her. It will not be without risk. But then you don't care about that, do you?"

"No, I don't."

"You will have to give something of equal or greater value to the warrior who owns her, if he chooses to trade."

"I realize that."

Caldero nodded. "What is this woman's name, and what does she look like?"

McAllen told him.

"And where can I get word to you?"

McAllen told him about the plantation at Grand Cane.

"Go there," said Caldero. "Wait for word from me. It may take weeks. Months. I may never find her. She might be dead."

"No. She's alive."

"Wishful thinking? We shall see."

Riding away from the adobe hut, stirrup to stirrup with Houston, and with Joshua and Dr. Tice coming along behind them, McAllen didn't say a word until they were deep in the
brasada
scrub and out of Antonio Caldero's sight.

"I'm glad you came along, General," he said. "If you hadn't, Caldero would have been shooting at me instead of talking to me."

"I'm not sure I've done you any favors, John Henry. This is a dangerous proposition. You'll probably lose your life before it's over with."

McAllen didn't think he needed to explain to Houston that if he didn't find Emily his life wasn't worth holding on to anyway.

"I want to know one thing," said Tice. "Why did Caldero agree to help? What does he have to gain?"

Houston and McAllen glanced at each other.

"Damned if I know, Artemus," said McAllen.

"It's either ego or gratitude, I suppose," said Houston.

"I don't follow," admitted Tice.

"Either he's doing this just because he has the power to, and wants to show us he has that power, or he's grateful to me for what I tried to do for his men a few years ago."

"He didn't sound grateful to me," said McAllen.

"Regardless of what he said, I'll wager Caldero was bothered more than a little by the way his men were executed. They were treated like common outlaws. I doubt that Caldero sees himself or his followers in that light and would appreciate it if others didn't, either."

"Why
did
you try to get those
bandoleros
a fair trial, General?" asked Tice. "All it accomplished was to foster hard feelings between you and the Rangers."

"Because I knew even then that Antonio Caldero was a force to be reckoned with. I knew those men would die no matter what I did. But since I'd have to deal with Caldero sooner or later, I didn't think it would hurt to have a card up my sleeve."

"I declare, General," said Tice, chuckling, "you could teach old Machiavelli a thing or two."

Houston was thoughtfully silent for a while. Then he glanced at McAllen.

"John Henry, the day may come when I have to send you and your Black Jacks down here to take care of Caldero and his bunch. I don't know if anyone else could do the job. Could you do it?"