The Red Ripper (24 page)

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Authors: Kerry Newcomb

BOOK: The Red Ripper
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“I don't rightly see how I would succeed where you failed, Don Murillo,” William said, uncomfortable with the subject.
“I am old, not blind. Who can we be honest with, if
not with our friends?” Don Murillo leaned forward, his features in sunlight. He brushed a hand through his thick white hair, then scratched at his neatly trimmed beard. “You and I both know she might listen to you, my young friend.”
Wallace lifted his eyes to the hills. Before the day was out they might be lined with troops. Now was hardly the time or place for this moment of truth. What did the
haciendado
suspect? Since the night when William had almost succumbed to temptation he had kept his distance from the Road of Sorrow and the house of Saldevar. “Don Murillo, I hope that you know I have never betrayed our friendship.”
“Of course,” Don Murillo replied. “I have never thought otherwise. That is why you have always been welcome under my roof, despite the fact that you are in love with my wife.”
“I have to find Bowie,” William said, eager to change the subject. He returned the sombrero to its proper place. The broad brim shielded his features from the bold glare of winter sunlight. “If you will excuse me, sir—”
“Vaya con Dios,” Don Murillo replied. At a flick of the reins the stallion started forward. The carriage rolled off in the direction of the mission, following the last of the freight wagons through the gate.
“You need help with Bowie?” Chuy asked as he rode past.
Wallace shook his head no. “Watch out for señor Saldevar,” he told the
segundo.
“Always,” Montoya replied.
 
A half hour later, after making inquiries at two other saloons and the local bordello, Wallace dismounted in front of Rita's Cantina and knew exactly who he would find inside. He stood in the middle of Calle de Soledad on the north edge of town and took a moment to peruse
the deserted-looking array of houses and storefronts. He was being watched. Townsmen and their families were hiding behind those bolted doors and shuttered windows. William could taste the fear. It was bitter on the tongue.
A pack of dogs started barking on the north edge of town. Something had alerted the animals, but the source remained unseen. The pair of horses tethered in front of Rita's ignored the dogs. Wallace recognized the geldings. One belonged to David Crockett. That figured. Bowie hated to drink alone.
“Are you planning on going in there?” David Crockett asked, rounding the corner of the cantina. Middle-aged, average in height, stocky, with muscular forearms and an infectious grin, Crockett and his Tennesseans had only been in town a few days, but already the man had a friend in William. Who couldn't like him? He'd been an Indian fighter, a congressman, a river brawler; he spun a good yarn and was a marksman without peer. “'Cause I'd sooner wrassle a bear and dip my ass naked in a honey tree than take a bottle of whiskey away from the likes of Jim Bowie when he's on a drunk.” In his black frock coat and gray woolen trousers tucked into his calf-high boots, Crockett might have passed for a preacher save for the beaver hat he favored, with an eagle feather tucked in the brim.
“So you've been waiting him out?”
“I haven't been able to come up with a better plan,” Crockett said.
“You have to know how to talk to him. That's all.” William walked across the street to a horse trough and nearby well. He removed the bucket from its rope and dipped the bucket into the trough. Wallace headed straight for the front door of the cantina. “I'll be back directly.”
He disappeared inside. A few seconds of stillness ticked past broken only by a dog barking and the lazy
whir of cabin bees overhead near the roofline. Suddenly Crockett heard a loud splash and an even louder howl of indignation. Moments later William hurled through the front door followed by Bowie, big and snarling and rawboned, soaked to the skin, his shaggy brown hair and sideburns plastered to his skull.
“Wallace! You son of a bitch!” He lunged at the Texican, who darted out of harm's way. Bowie crashed into the side of the building, staggered back, and noticed his audience. “Howdy, Crockett. Did you come by to drink with me? Good. I'll be just a minute. I got to kill me that redheaded bastard.”
“Are you certain we can spare him?” Crockett asked.
“What's that supposed to mean?” Bowie replied, drying his grizzled features on the sleeve of his shirt, which was already soaked to begin with.
“We might be needing the younker,” Crockett said.
“For target practice, maybe.”
“No, to help us with them.” Crockett was looking past Bowie, his steady stare focused on something up the street. Bowie lurched about, rubbed his eyes, growled. He stepped around Wallace, who had his back to the knife fighter. Bowie managed to focus on the smartly uniformed Mexican dragoons watching them from the edge of town, about a hundred yards up the street, where the grassland began.
The patrol's scarlet tunics and horsehair helmets shimmered in the sunlight.
“Who the hell invited them to the party?” Bowie grumbled.
The patrol loosed a volley in the direction of the three men. Puffs of black smoke and orange flame spewed from their carbines, the short-barreled rifles favored by Santa Anna's mounted troops. The rumble of the guns reverberated down the street.
“Looks like they're playing your favorite song,” Wallace
said, swinging up into the saddle. Crockett and Bowie weren't far behind.
“I don't think I want to stay for the dance,” Bowie declared. He darted back inside the cantina only to re-emerge with a pair of rifles. Crockett had his own. Bowie tossed a rifle to Wallace. “Try one of these. It'll reach further than those pistols of yours.”
Wallace caught the long rifle in midair. “Maybe we can get them to lower their guns and palaver with us.”
The dragoons charged, rifles blazing, sabers flashing in the sunlight.
“Then again, maybe not,” he added.
Crockett fired. The unexpected boom of his rifle made Wallace jump. One of the dragoons tossed his carbine into the air, clutched his chest, and pitched from horseback. He crashed through a hitching post and rolled onto his side, where he stuck, propped against the wood. The patrol charged them. Wallace and Bowie glanced at each other and then raised their rifles. They fired in unison. Two more of the dragoons dropped from horseback, bounced off the hard-packed earth, their bodies rolling over in the street, arms and legs flailing wildly until they came to rest upon the hard ground. They'd ridden a long way to die.
“Mine hit the ground first,” Bowie boasted.
“Mine rode the taller horse,” Wallace countered.
“Like hell!” Bowie growled.
Lead slugs fanned the air, thudding into the dirt around them. An olla dangling near the front door of the cantina exploded into a thousand shards, spraying water everywhere. Slugs glanced off the earth and ricocheted off porch supports and thudded into shuttered windows. “Maybe you two ought to settle your differences later,” Crockett suggested.
“Works for me,” Wallace said, pointing the mustang toward the river and the mission fortress beyond. The
mustang was born to run. William leaned forward in the saddle and gave the animal his lead. But Bowie and Crockett weren't far behind.
The three men plunged through the river, forded the shallows, fought their way up the opposite bank and out onto the clearing and the open plain, all the while running a gauntlet of gun smoke.
From his vantage point atop the gate, Pvt. Robert Kania, the storekeeper, saw the three horsemen riding flat out across the meadow and turning onto the mission road. He grabbed a spyglass and studied the riders being pursued by the patrol until he recognized the big man with the long red hair streaming in the wind, his sombrero dangling between his shoulder blades from the thong about his throat. He remembered Wallace's earlier admonition.
“Close the gate?” a man said from below.
“Hell, no!”
Travis and Don Murillo hurried up to the redoubt with Chuy Montoya right alongside them. “It's Wallace. And he's bringing Bowie and Crockett,” Travis said.
To the rear of the three men, the dragoons fanned out across the grassland and tried to cut the three off from the mission.
Within the Alamo, the Texicans were flocking to the walls eager to catch a glimpse of the action. Travis ordered covering fire laid down, and several marksmen stationed above the gate alongside Kania opened fire. Don Murillo suggested a taste of the nine-pounder might give the Mexican patrol something to think about. Under his direction a crew swiftly prepared the gun. Saldevar corrected the elevation and then touched a firebrand to the priming powder. The cannon bellowed and sent a round shot over the heads of the three Texicans. It landed with a thud and exploded a few yards in front of the dragoons. Horses shied and reared and tossed several
of their riders, including the officer in charge, onto the ground.
A cheer went up from the men on the wall. The dragoons halted their mounts and began to mill about while the captain and his subordinates recovered their horses. The marksmen on the mission walls continued to pepper the hapless dragoons with gunfire that left another couple of men writhing with flesh wounds. It wasn't long before the Mexican patrol abandoned the chase and withdrew beyond the range of the Texicans' long rifles.
Minutes later, Wallace won the race, dashing through the gate into the makeshift fortress. Bowie and Crockett weren't far behind. The defenders crowded around the three men and clapped them on the back. Someone produced a jug of whiskey that got passed around and drained. Wallace waved to Kania. The storekeeper nodded and shouted down for a pair of sentries below him to close the gate.
“Welcome, gentlemen!” Travis called out from the redoubt. “You're safe now.”
Wallace looked around at the pitifully small force of Texicans occupying the mission and couldn't help but compare them to the army he knew was just over the horizon. Safe. More like trapped. But damn if he wasn't in good company.
“SOONER OR LATER WE ALL ANSWER FOR OUR DEEDS.”
Esperanza and Dorotea stood on the balcony of the hacienda and watched the advance guard of Santa Anna's army file through the street. A brown haze settled over the town, limiting the visibility. Even from the balcony they could only see for a few blocks. The noise was ominous—tramping feet, jangle of harness, officers barking their orders to the enlisted men. Row after row of infantry passed along the Calle Dolorosa, their bayonets gleaming in the sun. Long lines of mule-drawn supply wagons followed the foot soldiers. And from the sound of things, provisions were being confiscated at every shop. It was only a matter of time before the Saldevar hacienda was approached. The women watched that dreadful parade of dragoons, lancers, and infantry throughout the afternoon. Eventually the dust churned up by the army became unbearable, and the women sought respite within the hacienda.
Dorotea began to pace the front sitting room, her hands fidgeting with a lace kerchief, her mouth a grim slash that made her seem all the more severe. Esperanza retired to the kitchen and hung a kettle over the fire. Dorotea sought her out.
“I have behaved badly toward you,” she said, as if making an announcement. The older woman glanced down at her trembling hands and clasped them together
for strength. “I was afraid you would put me out of the house, turn my brother against me. I had nowhere else to go.”
Esperanza crossed the kitchen and handed the woman a loaf of crusty bread. “We shall have some with our coffee.” Dorotea realized that by her actions Esperanza was telling her that no apologies were necessary. Dorotea had just begun to slice some bread when someone began to hammer at the front door. She dropped the knife and placed her hand to her lips to stifle her own outcry. Esperanza rose from the table and hurried toward the front of the house. She managed to unbolt the door before the soldiers hammered it loose from its hinges with their rifle butts.
Esperanza threw a shawl around her shoulders and stepped outside. The soldiers retreated a few paces and allowed her to confront an old acquaintance, Col. Juan Diego Guadiz. The officer remained in the street, flanked by a detachment of dragoons—impassive men in dark green waistcoats and horsehair-plumed hats, sabers rattling at their sides as they awaited the colonel's orders.
Paloma Guadiz, imperiously erect, lithe and dangerous, dressed as a vaquero, folded her slender hands across the pommel of her silver-embossed saddle. Her dun gelding shook his head and chewed the bit in his mouth. The horse was eager to keep moving. Diego's sister maneuvered her way out of her brother's shadow, smiled, and touched her braided quirt to the brim of her hat. Esperanza had never seen such cold eyes in another person. Even Juan Diego, for all his arrogance, paled in comparison. Esperanza shivered despite herself and dug deeper into her shawl.
Two of the dragoons parted and allowed John Bradburn to dismount and approach the woman in the doorway. The former alcalde bowed and removed his hat,
revealing his sunburned scalp and wispy strands of hair. His thick features positively beamed.
“
Buenos tardes, señora,
” Bradburn said. “Well now, this is splendid. Simply splendid.”
Esperanza ignored the Englishman, whom she considered a lackey, and gave her attention to Juan Diego. The colonel glanced at his sergeant, Cayetano Obregon, and the brute grinned and dismounted with Guadiz and followed him over to the woman. Bradburn was shunted out of the way and left, scowling at the intrusion. Whatever ideas he had been entertaining were of no importance to Juan Diego and his sister. Obregon walked past Esperanza and, using his carbine for a lever, pried loose one of the shutters and peered into the house. He looked back and shrugged. Paloma walked her mount forward and allowed the gelding to crowd Esperanza.
“Where are your husband and the
norte americano,
Wallace?” asked Juan Diego.
Esperanza said nothing. Guadiz repeated the question. Still, Esperanza refused to answer him. Paloma leaned down and lashed the woman across the face with the quirt. Don Murillo's wife staggered back from the blow. The braided rawhide left an ugly welt from the corner of Esperanza's eye to the base of her neck.
“Answer my brother when he speaks to you,” Paloma snapped.
Esperanza glared at the woman. Paloma raised the quirt yet again. Esperanza knelt as if cowering, dug her fingers beneath the roots of a prickly pear cactus that had sprouted up through the dry earth, tore a pad free, and, ignoring the barbs in her own hand, slapped the cactus against the gelding's belly. The animal leaped away, arched his back, and began to violently buck and paw the air. Paloma could not remain in the saddle. The gelding sent the woman sprawling, much to the muted amusement of some of the dragoons. Juan Diego's sister
staggered to her feet and dragged a pistol from her belt.
“No,” Guadiz said, hurrying to intervene before she ruined his plans. He stepped into the line of fire, turned his back on his sister, and offered his hand to Esperanza.
The woman stood unaided. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. He advanced on her and Esperanza gave ground until the back of her skull slapped against the wall of the house. She could go no farther.
“I have another way of making you talk. Shall I show you?” He leaned forward and licked the trail of blood from her chin. His left hand crept up to grope her breast. The horsemen in the street exchanged glances and wondered just how much they were going to be able to see. Any one of them would have gladly exchanged places with their colonel.
Esperanza closed her eyes and forced herself not to feel what was about to happen. She would not give the soldiers the pleasure of seeing her cooperate, even if it meant sacrificing … everything.
“Don Murillo and William Wallace are in the mission!” Dorotea blurted out from the doorway. “
Por favor
, leave her alone!” Her cheeks were streaked with tears. She could bear it no longer. Esperanza's silence was a gallant gesture, but it had to be stopped. Dorotea knew her brother would never forgive her if she allowed this to happen.
Juan Diego nodded and stepped back. “Well now, that wasn't so difficult.” He winked at Cayetano Obregon. “Personally, I was counting on a little more stubbornness. Too bad.” He turned back toward the señora.
Esperanza spit in his face.
Obregon gasped and retreated a few paces. He did not want to be in harm's way when Guadiz exploded in a violent rage. Dorotea, who had tried to see Esperanza spared punishment, looked physically ill.
Juan Diego wiped the spittle from his forehead and
cheek with a silk kerchief. “Five years is a long time. Perhaps you have forgotten who I am.”
“I know you,” Esperanza said.
“Good.” He held the kerchief up to her face, crumpled the fabric into his fist, and dropped it at her feet. “Then you know you will answer for this insult.”
“Sooner or later we all answer for our deeds,” she remarked.
Juan Diego looked over at his sergeant. “Take her inside. Deploy the men about the house. There is a walled garden out back. If anyone tries to visit Señora Saldevar; kill him and bring me his head. And be on your guard. I will be back to check on her.” Juan Diego swung about and walked back to his horse. “She is not to be harmed. At least, not yet.”
“Now see here. Why don't I remain with these ladies? I daresay your behavior is hardly appropriate,” Bradford said. The Englishman had entertained his own ideas of occupying Esperanza's time. He firmly believed in his ability to charm his way into her affections.
“You will come with me.”
“Why? I am no soldier.”
“No, but Santa Anna wants you to learn. He has no use for an Englishman anymore. The
norte americanos
no longer think of you as one of their own.” Guadiz enjoyed watching the man squirm. “I shall place you with the pickets, at the front, where you can watch your compadres. I wonder if they will have your courage?”
Bradburn paled at the notion. He had not fired a gun in anger in years. Now he was being thrust into the middle of a war. Guadiz was mocking him. In that moment, Bradburn began to feel something he hadn't experienced in a long time. Shame.
“I shall remain at the hacienda,” Paloma announced. “I am tired and would like to wash the dust from my limbs.”
A look of alarm flashed across her brother's face. Paloma wore an expression of innocence that didn't fool him for a second. “Paloma …” He had his own plans for the wife of a traitor.
“She has nothing to fear from me. Trained servants are difficult to find,” Paloma told him. “Now go. And be careful,
hermano.
Everything will be well.” The woman motioned for Obregon to accompany her. The brutish sergeant looked toward Juan Diego, who nodded his permission. The burly soldier fell in step behind Paloma as she sauntered toward the front of the hacienda, paused briefly in the doorway, then looked back at Esperanza, who cradled her injured hand. “Hurry along, señora. A servant once, a servant you shall be again.”

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