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Authors: Kerry Newcomb

BOOK: The Red Ripper
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“I reckon there's not much point in asking Mr. Bradburn about that shipment of mine he's holding in Anahuac,” Wallace muttered. “If you'll permit, I shall escort you back to the cantina.”
Esperanza studied him a moment, displeasure slowly melting, giving way to the affection she felt for this redheaded wonder. Gradually a smile brightened her face.
“Ah well, my benefactor …
mi amigo
… what am I to do with you?” she asked.
“Walk with me, señora. Just walk with me,” he said.
And Esperanza held out her hand.
“AND I DON'T PLAY GAMES.”
“She dances by the light of the desert moon;
she sings her songs where wild roses bloom.
Sad songs on the lovely wind remind me of Corrinna.
O Corrinna mi se levanté de la noche, canta para mi.”
 
Chuy Montoya had a pleasing voice, made slightly coarse from too much drink and too little sleep. But he played the guitar passably well, and on this soft summer's night the ballad seemed to fill the night with memories of love lost or unattainable. William Wallace relaxed and let the conversation wane allowing himself a moment of the heartache he had learned to live with.
Fire consumed the last of the timber. Dying flames lapped at the night air. Coals cracked open, and miniature explosions sent a column of fiery embers coruscating from the pit to the starlit sky. A small group of hardy souls remained to appreciate the beauty. Most of the crowd dispersed soon after Bradburn gathered his escort and rode out of town with nothing more than a curt farewell to the local dignitaries.
But the troublemakers are here,
Wallace noted, somewhat bemused by the recent turn of events. One thing was certain: he had forged no friendship with the alcalde this day. Wallace eased back against the ladder-back
chair and stretched his long legs out before him as he contemplated the remaining Texicans and listened to the melancholy lyrics of the lone guitarist seranading the dancing embers.
 
“O Corrinna mi se levanté de la noche, canta para mi. O Corrinna, my rose of the night, sing for me.”
 
Chuy's calloused fingers flew across the strings. There were moments when he fumbled a fret, but not many. And when it came time for a rousing “Ai-ai-ai-yi,” Wallace and Jesus Zavala were only too happy to chime in, leaving the
segundo
to grin and nod with satisfaction. Mournful love ballads were a communal experience.
Wallace studied the colonists and adventurers circling the fire. He felt at home in the company of men such as these. Sam Houston carried himself like a man running for office; his voice had a stentorian ring. But the ex-congressman from Tennessee and the rakish barrister, Bill Travis, both seemed like men who could be counted on if push came to shove.
Zavala, the blacksmith, raised a jug of home brew in salute to Wallace. Here was a man with a deep sense of loyalty. The day Wallace rode in to San Felipe with the children he had rescued from the Comanche had forged a lifelong friendship. Neither Jesus nor his wife would ever forget. The blacksmith might be a simple man who lacked a proper education, but he had no use for corrupt officials and nothing but contempt for the likes of John Bradburn and the government that had appointed him.
Wallace shifted his gaze to another unlikely pair of insurrectionists. Even the usually conservative owners of Kania's Mercantile, Kenneth Albert Kania and his son, Robert, had begun to advocate the colonists' taking matters
into their own hands. The hardship of dusting the empty shelves of their mercantile while their trade goods languished in Anahuac waiting for them to bribe Bradburn had transformed these two unassuming clerks into firebrands. Like many of the colonists, their politics were formed from personal experience.
Don Murillo, seated to Wallace's right, produced a bottle of Madeira from a cloth bag he'd brought with him to the cantina.
“
Mon ami
,” said Mad Jack, “you have been holding out on us.”
Don Murillo poured a measure for himself and then passed the bottle around to his companions. “I was going to use this to bribe the alcalde. But Señor Bradburn left in such a bad temper I never got the chance.” The
haciendado
had sent Esperanza back to the hotel while he remained at the Flying Jib to support Stephen Austin, who had continued to defend his decision to return to Mexico City. Although Don Murillo echoed Austin's sentiments, diplomacy was needed now more than ever. It seemed even señor Saldevar lacked the conviction of his beliefs. “Bradburn's conduct was most peculiar,” Don Murillo added, with a glance in Wallace's direction. “To come all this way and leave so abruptly.”
“Yes, it was most peculiar,” Travis added, helping himself to the wine, his darkly handsome features keen with interest. “I guess the alcalde has never fallen into a river before.” He looked around at the other men, then offered the bottle to Austin.
Stephen Austin, feeling more isolated then ever, declined to drink with a wave of his hand. “Bradburn was a poor choice for magistrate. I cannot fathom why he was appointed to the post.”
“Perhaps because he was such a poor choice,” Houston replied, not one to pass up drink.
“Santa Anna is trying to back us into a corner, where
we have no choice but to resist,” Travis added.
“It really isn't fair,” Kenneth Kania said. “My son and his family, all of us, have settled this land. We have built something here.”
“Pa's right,” Robert interjected. He was a large man, heavyset, a fair-haired individual with a mind for facts and figures. “But where do we go from here? Do we bring our protests to General Cos in San Antonio or trust in Mr. Austin's audience with Santa Anna? How do we proceed? Do we dare force the matter in Anahuac? What would be the consequences?”
“Clever people and shopkeepers,” Wallace said with a grin, “you weigh everything.” The big man turned to Austin, who was preparing to retire for the night. “You have no business putting yourself within Santa Anna's reach, old friend.”
“I will do what has to be done. I can catch a ship out of Anahuac and be back no later than August.” Austin stood, shook hands with Don Murillo, then stared at Wallace. “I want you to promise me you'll wait until I return before deciding on a course of action.”
“Bradburn might not let us.”
“Keep away from Bradburn. Santa Anna is no fool. I can make him listen to reason. Promise me there will be no trouble between you and the alcalde until I return.” His gaze swept over Houston and Travis, the Kanias, and Zavala, the blacksmith, before settling on William Big Foot Wallace. The brawny frontiersman was the key; folk had a way of following his lead. He could be the catalyst for war or peace. “I'll have your word on it.”
Wallace scowled and tried to look away, then grudgingly came around. “So be it. Bradburn will get no trouble from Big Foot Wallace.”
Austin nodded, satisfied. “You'll see I'm right. All of you.” He glanced in the direction of the lingering flames.
Shadows mottled his features, contorted his expression, gave him the appearance of a man in torment. Then he left the circle of light and walked off into the darkness.
 
Don Murillo found Esperanza awake, seated in a chair by the window, reading by the light of an oil lamp. The room was upstairs, on the northwest corner of the building overlooking a back street and a grove of pine trees that blocked a view of the river. A gentle breeze made the hotel room bearable. The
haciendado
closed the door to the hall and crossed the room, shrugged off his coat, and, with a sigh, stretched himself out onto the bed.
“Even the best room at the Whiteside Hotel is no better than our servants' quarters. Forgive me, my dear.”
“I am no stranger to servants' quarters,” Esperanza replied. The room was sparsely furnished with a hand-hewn dresser and a smaller table with a washbasin and pitcher. The chair she was seated in was solid but una-domed; like the bed, it was serviceable and comfortable enough.
“But you are not a servant,” Don Murillo replied, a note of chill in his voice. Any reference to her past offended him, even more so when it came from her. “You are my wife.”
“Yes. I only meant—”
“I know what you meant. For the past five years I have known what everyone meant,” the man snapped. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. “I am sorry. These old bones are tired, and I fear I have had too much to drink. You are such a good girl. You brought life to a heart wrapped in mourning. But, my child, these are troubled times. This is man's work. Do not concern yourself.”
Esperanza bit her lower lip to keep from speaking the first reply that came to mind. She calmed herself, breathed deep, considered her response, then spoke. “Texas is my home, is it not?”
“Of course, my dear. Now lie here beside me. Sleep,
pobrecita.
Rest your pretty head.” Don Murillo yawned, then laughed softly. “But first help me with my boots, eh? Por favor.”
Esperanza rounded the bed and with a tug and a pull managed to free her husband's feet from his boots of Spanish leather. Her husband held out his hand, and she crossed to his side and placed his hand in hers.
“Chuy had nodded off. So our friend señor Wallace walked with me from the cantina,” he said. “William was worried for me, making my way across town at night. He says I drank too much. Maybe I did. But when we were alone I asked him and still he would not tell me. What happened with the alcalde?”
“Nothing.”
“I watched you leave with Señor Bradburn. I should not have let you go. I have never liked the alcalde. But he must be tolerated. And humored. Your charm has a way of bringing out the best in such men.” The
haciendado
searched his wife's expression. “And maybe the worst.”
“Nothing happened,” Esperanza said. To confess Bradburn's inappropriate behavior could place her husband in danger. She was loath to instigate a feud between Don Murillo and the authorities. Her husband had enough enemies in Mexico City what with his support of the colonists.
“I think this is the only time you have lied to me,” her husband remarked, caressing her hand. “You walk to the river with Bradburn; he returns soaked to the skin and in a foul mood. Shortly after, you appear, but this time in the company of William Wallace. I think maybe the alcalde had help falling into the river.” Don Murillo closed his eyes. His breathing grew even, steady, smoothing his way into uneventful sleep.
Esperanza placed her husband's hand under the sheet.
She stepped around the bed, glanced at the open window. Something drew her across the room to brush aside the curtains and glance down toward the rear of the hotel.
Against the velvet shadows of night stood William Wallace, etched by moonlight, white scarf streaming in the wind. The tall, rangy Texican removed his sombrero and bowed, placing the broad-brimmed hat upon his chest. Esperanza smiled and, hesitating, waved, then pulled the curtains closed. She shed her dressing gown and climbed into bed alongside her husband.
Don Murillo stirred, rolled on his side, his arm draped possessively across the woman's bosom. Esperanza grew still. Don Murillo was a good man who had treated her with nothing but kindness. If he woke and wanted her, he would find her willing and affectionate. Because she loved her husband.
She did love him.
She loved him.
Better to stare at the ceiling and try to sleep and force herself not to think forbidden thoughts of how it might be, of how it should never be.
Her husband stirred. His hand sought hers in the night, and she clung to him for fear of what might happen if she let go.
 
Lucky stirred and glanced up at Wallace as he approached the front door of the cantina. The dog, refusing to budge, wagged his tail and then tried to get comfortable. William glared at the hound. “Move, you lazy sack of bones. You aren't the only one who's tired around here.”
The dog held his ground. William nudged the animal with the toe of his boot. Another man would have lost his foot up to the ankle. In this case, Lucky seemed to
issue a long-suffering groan and dragged himself out of the doorway, permitting Wallace to enter.
Mad Jack had the place to himself. Hanneke had already retired for the night, leaving the old sea dog to sit in his rocker by the cold hearth and have a last cup of coffee appropriately laced with dark rum from the Frenchman's private stock. He held a cup out to Wallace, who sat in an identical rocker across from his friend.
“You, too, have been holding out.” Wallace took a sip and eased himself against the ladder-back frame. He glanced around, checking the room for Jim Bowie.
“He's out in the barn, sleeping it off.”
“Nice of you to be hospitable.”
“A man like that, I want to know where he is at night. Especially if he's on the prod.”
“I've heard of him, never met him. But it seems like there is bad blood between us all the same.” Wallace shook his head. Some men were hard to figure.
“It has nothing to do with you,
mon ami
,” Flambeau said. “I heard from Chuy there's been a smallpox epidemic down south, below Veracruz. Bowie sent his wife and children to Guadalajara for safekeeping. He thought the mountains would be safe. The fever spread and they died. He blames himself, been drinking and fighting ever since. Maybe he sees calling you out as a way to escape what's eating at him.”

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