The Lone Star Reloaded Series Box Set

by Drew McGunn

  The last embers of the fire flickered briefly before going out. Hays stirred the coals with a stick and said, “It’s late. Tomorrow will be here soon enough. We’ll meet back here in ten days, hopefully one or both of our platoons will find a route with water.”

  ***

  The next morning, 1st Lieutenant Edward Brooks led his platoon across the river bed and veered away to the southwest. There were no trails to guide them. What trails they found belonged to those of creatures of the desert. They started and stopped so suddenly, Brooks couldn’t help puzzling where they came from and where they went. The further away from the river they rode, the more dust their horses kicked up.

  Dry arroyos, little more than bone-dry deep rivulets, crossed his path. They were created by storms and flash floods, as channels for floodwaters to flow back to the Pecos. Every attempt to follow one upstream resulted in fruitless backtracking, as each one invariably ended in the desert. After two days of blistering heat, the men and their horses were tired of the unforgiving Chihuahuan desert. Lieutenant Brook climbed down from his horse and pulled a map from his saddlebag. He penciled in the ending of the Limpia Mountains, as he saw them. His concentration was broken when a voice cried out.

  “Indians!”

  The pencil broke in his hand. One piece bounced off the saddle and landed in the reddish dirt. He swore and threw the other piece down then looked up. From the northwest a score of warriors casually rode toward them. “Steady boys. Let’s see what we’ve got before we get twitchy. First Sergeant, to me!”

  The company’s first sergeant had accompanied Lt. Brooks’ platoon, while Captain Hays had gone with the second platoon. The sergeant walked over, while holding his hat over his eyes as he tried to discern the warriors’ features. His pale blond hair had gone to gray years earlier, Sergeant Maartin Jensen was approaching fifty. He had served in one army or another for the better part of thirty years, first with the Danish army during the Napoleonic Wars then in the United States dragoons, before he finally made his way to Texas, lured by the promise of free land. Sometime after arriving, he decided he’d rather stay in the army until forced into retirement or killed by a Mexican bullet or a Comanche arrow. He wasn’t the best shot or the finest rider, but his ability to stay steady and calm when bullets started flying explained why Hays had selected him as senior non-commissioned officer of the Ranger company.

  The sergeant retrieved his carbine from the saddle scabbard and said with a strong accent, “What are your orders, Lieutenant?”

  Brooks wished he had a spyglass. Was he looking at Comanche, Apache, or some other tribe? He scanned his little command. Most of his Rangers were still mounted. “If you’re already on foot, stay afoot, and grab your carbines. Fall in by Sergeant Jensen. Those on horse, to me.” He swung back onto his mount and waited for the warriors to come closer.

  Six men, who were afoot, joined Sergeant Jensen, with their carbines in hand, pointing in the general direction of the approaching Indians. Another dozen mounted men lined up to the right of Brooks, their hands resting on the butts of their new model revolvers, waiting.

  When the Indians were less than a hundred yards away, the young Lieutenant saw they were wearing paint. “Hold fire, boys. Let’s wait to see if they’re up to any mischief.”

  From the center of the warriors, a single rider detached himself and with his left hand held before him, slowly rode toward the waiting Rangers. “Lieutenant, they’re just boys.”

  Sure enough, even though they were around three hundred feet away, he could see that despite the fearsome face paint, they were all teenagers. It was impossible to be certain, but he guessed they were between fourteen and eighteen. “Hold steady, let’s hear them out. It could be we’re dealing with some young bucks wanting to test their mettle by ranging south of the Red River. If they’re on their way to Mexico, I’d rather they keep right on going.”

  From the line of horsemen to Brooks’ right, one of the Rangers quipped, “Apart from us and some prairie dogs, I’m damned if I know who they’d be raiding here.”

  “If you’re going to talk in line, Reyes, why don’t you join me as we go find out if any of them speak English or Spanish.”

  The two Rangers came to a stop halfway between the rest of the platoon and the young, mounted warriors. The lone rider approached from the Comanche. His horse was a majestic chestnut mustang. His face was painted white, with black stripes vertically overlaying the white paint. His long, black hair was braided down his back and his left hand remained outstretched. Despite the war paint, Brooks doubted the warrior was older than eighteen. In broken English, the warrior was the first to speak. “I, Naconah. I, we go to big river.”

  Knowing every eye was focused on him, Brooks chose his words with care, “Naconah, you are in Texas. The Comanche Treaty means you stay north of the Red River. Why are you here?”

  With a serious expression on his face, the young warrior shook his head. “No. Treaty say we not raid in Texas. We,” he paused, as he searched for the right words, “leave Texas alone. We go to big river.” He pointed south, toward Mexico. Then he shifted and pointed to himself and then to Brooks. “Peace.”

  Brooks looked back toward his men. They waited vigilantly as he and Reyes stood next to the youthful Comanche warrior. After a lengthy minute in which he sized up the young Comanche he finally nodded. “Fair enough, Naconah. You’re right. The treaty restricts you to no raiding in Texas.”

  The Comanche looked around at the parched Chihuahuan desert and said, “What to take? You hide something under rock?”

  For a moment, a young Comanche warrior and the Ranger Lieutenant shared a smile at the absurdity of the situation. Finally, Brooks replied, “Leave our rocks alone, Naconah. There are plenty of Mexican rocks on the other side of the Rio Grande.”

  Before returning to his comrades, the young warrior let out a long breath of relief. There was something reassuring that the young warrior had been just as nervous as he. Even so, neither Brooks nor his men rested easy until the band of Comanche had disappeared to the south.

  Over the next few days, Brooks’ platoon pushed to the southwest, but found little water that would sustain more than a few dozen men, let alone the battalion of cavalry heading west with Colonel Seguin. On the fifth day, they turned around and retraced their route, hoping Captain Hays and the other platoon had better luck.

  ***

  When Lt. Colonel Juan Seguin saw Captain Jack Hays at the final depot on the Pecos River on the 20th of June, he was delighted. The movement of the three hundred mounted soldiers had gone better than he had expected. Even the engineers building the military road were making good time and would soon arrive at the third depot. As he watched a physically exhausted Hays approach, a voice in the back of his mind echoed an expression he had heard Buck say, “You think everything is breaking your way, but just wait for it. The other shoe is about to fall.”

  The expression hadn’t made any sense until the night he and Buck had been touring the coastal fort in Galveston. They had stayed at the newest hotel in town. It was the tallest building on the island with three floors. They had been sleeping when they had been woken up by the heavy thud of a shoe hitting the floor above their heads. After a few seconds the second shoe thudded to the floor. Buck had chuckled and explained the expression carried an expectation of waiting for something troublesome to happen. As Hays drew nearer and Seguin saw the pinched expression in the other officer’s eyes, his delight fled, and he watched with apprehension for the other shoe to fall.

  After ducking under the open tent flap, Hays drew himself up and casually saluted. He was late returning from his effort to find the best route across the desert from the Pecos River to El Paso, and he looked like hell. The younger officer’s normally tidy beard was ragged and untrimmed. His eyes had dark circles under them and he looked like he had lost twenty pounds.

  Seguin waved him into a camp chair. “Dear God, man, what the hell happened to you?"

  Hays collap
sed into the chair, which creaked in protest. He took his battered, black wide-brimmed hat from his head, as sand and dirt fell to the ground. Seguin passed his canteen over to the younger officer and Hays tipped it to his lips and gulped the water, as he sought to slake his thirst. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and finally said, “Colonel, if I had me West Texas and Hell, I believe I’d rent this godforsaken land out and live in Hell.”

  Seguin raised his eyebrows. “Was it really that bad, Jack?”

  “If I said it was worse, I might get close to the truth.” Hays knocked some of the dust from his jacket before continuing. “Juan, I took one of my platoons west, looking for the most direct route to El Paso, and as God is my witness, there might be three watering holes within a hundred and fifty miles, if we’re going to be charitable about what we call a watering hole.”

  Seguin glanced down at a map detailing what topographers had previously recorded of western Texas. The space between the Pecos River and El Paso was short on details. “I take it you marked them on your map?”

  Hays rooted around in his jacket’s interior pocket and produced a small map, where the watering holes had been marked. As Seguin added the locations to his own map, he measured the distances and finally grumbled, “We’re going to need to have water casks for the infantry, next spring. That’s too far to march infantry with so little water. But setting that aside, Jack, do you think we can take our battalion across that wasteland?”

  “Would I want to? No. But can we do it? Yeah, I believe so. But we need to take every bit of water from here that we can haul. It’s still going to take us a week to get to El Paso, and I’m blind about the last fifty miles. We turned around about three quarters of the way.”

  Seguin tersely nodded. “Then we had best get moving. We’ll rest today and tomorrow. We’ll ride out on the Twenty-second.”

  ***

  It took eight days rather than seven for Seguin’s three hundred mounted men to cross the Chihuahuan desert. Seguin was with the lead company that arrived on the north bank of the Rio Grande on the last day of June 1841. Across the river, he could see the town of El Paso del Norte, where the Mexican flag fluttered in the warm, southern breeze. As the long, drawn out column filed down to the river, the horses and their riders spread along the eastern bank where the mounts were able to drink for the first time in nearly a day. As his own horse drank from the river, Seguin looked across at the bustling town of El Paso del Norte, founded by the Spanish in the mid-seventeenth century. It looked like a fine town, only slightly smaller than San Antonio. On his side of the Rio Grande were the few dozen adobe huts of the tiny village of Ysleta, populated by a couple of hundred people descended from the Pueblo tribe to the north.

  There was no point in delaying things. He called an officer over to him and gave an order. A few minutes later, from the small mission chapel in Ysleta, a large Texas flag was raised. Seguin and his command had come to enforce the Treaty of Bexar.

  He turned and looked back across the river at the Mexican flag, flying over the government building in the town’s central plaza. He recalled how fondly his father had spoken of the flag in the years after the constitution of 1824 had been adopted. That dream had died, crushed under the boot heel of Santa Anna and his cronies as they destroyed the dream of a federal republic, replacing it with a central dictatorship. He thought, “The flag may be the same but the government, sadly is not.”

  He turned, grinning as the large Texas flag nearly dwarfed the small mission church over which it flew. For the past six years, the entire Seguin family had dedicated their lives and their fortunes for the success of the nation flying that flag. Where he had not been able to muster any emotional response when looking across the river, that lone star flag, rustling in the breeze, gave him a sense of pride and ownership.

  Hays rode up, waving his arm at the town across the river. He and a few of his men had acted as advanced scouts, arriving the previous night. “We’ve scouted across the river, Colonel, and can confirm they may have a couple of hundred soldiers in town. Like as not, they’re armed with those old British trade muskets old Santa Anna seems to favor. Give the order and we’ll be across the Rio Grande in no time flat.”

  The breeze picked up, causing the Mexican flag on the other side of the river to unfurl, billowing in the wind. The sight riveted both men’s eyes to the foreign flag. After a moment, Seguin shook his head. “Regrettably our orders only include the portion of El Paso on this side of the Rio Grande, Captain.”

  He tried to put on a smile as he waved toward the ramshackle village of Ysleta. “This part of El Paso is part of the Republic of Texas, and over there, is the Mexican part of El Paso. President Crockett was explicit that we are not to go any further than the boundary lines stipulated in the Treaty of Bexar.”

  As they turned and walked away from the river, Hays perked up, “Now that we’re here, they can’t help but notice our calling card.” His eyes swiveled toward the large Texas flag flapping noisily as the wind picked up.

  Chapter 3

  The horses clambered up the steep trail which meandered alongside the east bank of the Rio Grande River, as the riders followed the trace northward. As Captain Hays led his Rangers north along the Camino Real de Tierra Adentro, the old road running from Santa Fe, south to Mexico City, pebbles and small rocks slid down from the route, splashing into the river below. Along the stretch of the trail, the pathway was only a few feet wide, forcing the men to lead their horses single file.

  Jack Hays slid his eyes upward, a trickle of perspiration ran down his forehead. The hatband was soaked with sweat in the hundred-degree, July heat. Three days out from Ysleta, the terrain was rocky, as a narrow strip of fertile land quickly gave way to the rugged Las Sierras de los Mansos, a narrow mountain range, running north of Ysleta for thirty miles. His eyes returned to the map spread over the saddle horn, it looked like his force was still a week away from Albuquerque. More sweat trickled down his face and he grumbled, “What the hell was Juan saying? It’s a dry heat, he said. I know where he can shove this dry heat.”

  As the trail followed the contour of the river, it meandered into a long, narrow valley, where tall grass rustled in the hot southerly breeze. A few cottonwood trees grew along the river’s bank. A piercing cry brought him back to the moment, thoughts of Seguin’s dry heat forgotten. The two Rangers tasked with scouting ahead raced back toward him. “Captain, there’s a bunch of Indians ahead, across the river!”

  Around a wide bend in the river, on the opposite bank, a band of Indians rode into view. From his saddlebag, Hays grabbed a spyglass and brought the scene into focus. At a glance, he guessed there were more than a hundred men, women, and children. From the clothing they wore, they didn’t look like Comanche, although it had been a few years since he had seen any Comanche against which to make comparison. At the head of the band, riding a mustang stallion was a swarthy, mustachioed man, wearing a sombrero and a serape. As he edged the mustang into the torpid river, the man waved at the Rangers. While the Indians waited on the Mexican side of the river, the man with the sombrero forded the Rio Grande, the water rising no higher than his stirrups at the midpoint

  When he came ashore, Hays called to his men, “Let’s see what we have here, boys. As you were.”

  The Rangers settled back in their saddles, warily eyeing the rider as he approached Hays. In the fashion of the plains Indians, he held his palm open, left hand extended, as a sign of peace. Underneath the multicolored serape, he wore a waist-length brown jacket and tan muslin shirt. His pants were the color of roasted coffee beans, as were his boots. He reined in before Hays and said, “Hello, Señor Capitan. I am Francisco Ruiz of San Antonio. I didn’t expect to find Texas soldiers this far to the west, but you and your men are a happy sight.”

  By name and appearance, there was something vaguely familiar about Francisco Ruiz, but for the moment, it escaped Hays, so he waited for the other man to continue. “I was appointed by President Crockett to seek out my frie
nds back there,” Ruiz gestured across the river at the Indians. “If you would like, I have my commission in my saddlebag.”

  “That would be appreciated, Señor Ruiz.”

  As the Mexican reached into his saddlebag, Hays allowed his hand to drift toward the butt of his revolver. Ruiz’s eyes stayed on Hays and his hand slowed as he reached into his nearest saddlebag. He smiled warmly as he brought out a letter wrapped in wax paper. He handed it over to Hays, who unwrapped the letter and saw President Crockett’s unmistakable signature at the bottom of the lengthy epistle. As he read the letter, Hays learned the president had appointed Ruiz as Indian agent to the Mescalero tribe of the Apache people and had tasked him with offering the Mescalero a tract of land in west Texas.

  Behind the letter he found a map of the western part of the Republic. In the bend of the Rio Grande River, between El Paso and the Pecos River, several thousand square miles were marked with the initials ALC penciled in.

  Hays looked up from the map, “Senor Ruiz, what is an ALC? I’m not familiar with it.”

  Ruiz smiled apologetically, “You should thank the Cherokee for that, Capitan. President Crockett said to me and several associates of mine who routinely trade with the Lipan Apache south of San Antonio in the disputed territory, to provide the Apache a similar offer to what the Cherokee have built for themselves. With the aid of the Texas Land Office and bank, we bundled up a half-million-acre tract in the bend of the Rio Grande and have chartered a holding company, which owns the land. It’s called the Apache Land Cooperative. More than a few of Flacco’s people have expressed an interest and we hope to bring as many as fifteen hundred of the Mescalero to live on this land, if they’re willing.”