Nueces Justice

by Greathouse, Mark

  “I may be carrying your child,” she told him softly.

  “What?” Whelan wasn’t sure he heard her. “What did you say?”

  “I’m pregnant,” she repeated. “It may be yours.”

  “Damn!” Was it his, Cavendish’s, or someone else’s?

  A curse was not exactly what Scarlett was looking for. She began to cry again. “What do I do?” she whimpered.

  Whelan slapped the side of his face as if to jolt his brain. “I’ve got to think this out, Scarlett,” he replied.

  What if it was his child? Could he take the mother to jail? The internal conflict he was dealing with was hurting his brain. He couldn’t show up in Corpus Christi with Scarlett Rose as a free woman. Yet, if he didn’t bring her in as his prisoner, he couldn’t save face over his earlier embarrassment over her escape from the cell in Nuecestown. If there was to be justice on the Nueces Strip, he had to bring her in.

  “Could the child be Cavendish’s?”

  It was a rough question for her given the emotions she was dealing with. “I don’t know. It’s either yours or his. No one else.”

  He had no choice. “I’m sorry. We’ll deal with this in Corpus Christi.” He pulled her over to the horse and forced her up into the saddle. He remounted, and they were on their way.

  She remained tearful. “Will we stop in Nuecestown?”

  “Probably.” He knew the circumstances would be quite different this time. He headed them south. In a few hours, they’d cross the Nueces River, well west of the ferry so as to avoid attention.

  ***

  Colonel Rucker was beside himself. He swore that as soon as he got his wounds cared for he’d head for Corpus Christi. He didn’t give a tinker’s damn what the optics might be. He wasn’t going back to Austin without the red-haired whore. He’d invested too much in her to let her go. Besides, he had a bigger reason to capture her.

  Rex and Stephen did not understand their father’s obsession. It all seemed like far too much trouble. Their father had already taken three bullets chasing this whore. It did not make sense. There had to be something they didn’t know. For now, though, they remained totally oblivious. It reflected a combination of youth and naiveté, exacerbated by the colonel’s secrecy.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Live to Fight Another Day

  Three Toes maintained a steady pace northward through what had become known as the Comancheria. It was a wide swath of Texas and a bit of New Mexico that encompassed virtually everything west of the 98th Meridian, running from north to south through Austin and San Antonio. The Comancheria was a no-man’s land for all but the hardiest and bravest souls. Comanche and Kiowa ran free across the region, and even desperadoes thought twice about risking their scalps.

  He hoped to join his fellow Penateka Comanche at Camp Cooper up on the Clear Fork of the Brazos River west of Fort Worth. He assumed that Long Feathers had already arrived and joined up with the Penatekas under Chief Ketumse. He had heard that, in accordance with a new treaty, they were to be taught farming. On the upside, there was plenty of water and supposedly good hunting.

  Three Toes was conflicted about the reservation. He was inclined to support many of his band that left Fort Cooper periodically to join hunting expeditions or to savage the frontier as marauding bands. He’d also heard that unprincipled traders were selling firewater to the Comanche. Heavy drinking of the white man’s whiskey invariably led to poor outcomes. The 2nd U.S. Cavalry had been sent in to keep order. Upon his arrival, Three Toes would seek word of a rival of Ketumse, Chief Sanaco, who was leading many Penateka away from Camp Cooper.

  He had been traveling for several days, passing Fort Mason near San Antonio. Just north of Fort Mason, as he was negotiating the beautiful hills of central Texas on the eastern portion of the Comancheria, Three Toes was surprised by a patrol of six blue coats. They were mounted U.S. Army troops under command of a wet-behind-the-ears second lieutenant fresh out of West Point. Three Toes had ridden up out of a valley and had been outside the line of sight of both he and the soldiers. All of a sudden, he was faced with a half dozen rifles aimed at him.

  The lieutenant was just a bit flustered. “Halt!”

  The patrol sergeant looked down and covered his mouth to avoid laughing.

  “Who goes there?”

  Three Toes had never before encountered this sort of situation. He raised one hand as a sign of peace. “Me Three Toes, chief of Penateka Comanche. I go to Camp Cooper.”

  The lieutenant had not been fully briefed on Camp Cooper, which was a few days’ ride to the north. “Surrender. You are my prisoner.”

  The sergeant couldn’t contain himself any longer. He’d been on several campaigns fighting Comanche, Kiowa, and Kickapoos. He knew of Camp Cooper. “If I may have permission to speak, lieutenant?”

  “What is it, sergeant?”

  “Sir, this redskin is likely telling the truth. The Penateka band has been on the reservation at Camp Cooper for more than a year. I expect the chief is telling the truth.”

  The lieutenant had observed the aftermath of an Indian raid about a week earlier. The vision of the tortured victims was deeply embedded in his mind. “How do we know he’s not a spy?”

  The sergeant shook his head. “That’s not how they work, lieutenant. If he was leading a raiding party, he wouldn’t be out here alone, much less falling into a chance meeting with a U.S. Army patrol. I respectfully suggest that you let him pass.”

  Three Toes waited patiently. He tried to appear as unthreatening as he could, though it was difficult, given that he had a quiver full of arrows, bow, and lance featuring several scalps. He certainly was not looking for a fight, especially considering the rifles aimed at him. He hoped that his string of three ponies would be a hint that he was traveling in peace.

  The lieutenant had no idea how he should treat the situation. On the one hand, he’d been told that the only good Indian was a dead Indian and, on the other, he was favored with such an overwhelming advantage that to kill the chief would be tantamount to murder. He knew that charges could be brought against him, though they weren’t likely to stick. Finally, after what seemed like ages, he gave his order. “Men! At ease! Let the Comanche pass.”

  Three Toes continued on his way. As he rode past the lieutenant, he stared at the soldier’s face as though to memorize it. Three Toes liked to remember these sorts of things, as they could be useful at some future time.

  The lieutenant for his part would not forget the close encounter with a Comanche chief. It was an education for him. At some later time, he would surely learn of Three Toes’ impressive exploits.

  ***

  Next morning, following his arrival in San Antonio, Colonel Horace Rucker penned a note to his wife to let her know where he was and that he was extending his stay. He didn’t mention his wounds, as that would surely drive her to near apoplexy. He decided to let Rex and Stephen ride north to deliver the note, with a promise not to reveal his condition. He’d given them just a little exposure to the nature of armed conflict that would benefit them at West Point. He saw the delivery as a chance for his sons to have a mission of sorts. Most important, it helped preserve his secret. He suspected they were wondering about what drove him to undertake what seemed like a foolhardy pursuit.

  The boys departed after purchasing a good horse for their father. They were in a light-hearted mood, owing to being out from beneath their father’s iron fist, and looked forward to the trip home.

  The colonel rejected the advice of the doctor to get some rest and made preparations to ride to Corpus Christi. His right arm was necessarily placed in a sling, making mounting and dismounting a challenge. His biggest concern would be bleeding if he reopened the sutures. Three bullets had passed through him. None threatened vital organs. It could be said that the colonel was leading a charmed life.

  His sons had chosen a mature, well-trained steed for him. The horse was even sensitive to pressure from the colonel’s knees. It had apparently been a cutting
horse at some point used by cowboys to cut cattle from the herd. In any case, the colonel was comfortable in the saddle and he took the road south at a pace that was fairly easy on horse and rider.

  ***

  Luke and Elisa said their vows before Doc that morning. Bernice, Agatha, and Dan, the stable boy, served as witnesses. The closest priest was several days ride away, so Doc had to suffice. They’d get the priest to stop by, if and when he made one of his rare visits.

  The wedding was about as memorable an affair as could be created on short notice in a little place like Nuecestown. Happiness was far too rare a commodity on the Nueces Strip to let any of it go to waste. In addition to a bridal bouquet of bluebonnets, Bernice and Agatha had enthusiastically decorated the wagon with flowers for the occasion. Even the mules were decked out with flowers.

  The newlyweds headed back to the farm in the rig drawn by that pair of trusty old mules. Luke resisted the temptation to identify the flowers the ladies had used for decoration.

  Elisa, for her part, simply sat as close to her new husband as she could. She stroked the amulet that Three Toes had gifted her with. Perhaps it did contain some sort of power, as her life had suddenly seemed to have turned magical.

  Upon arrival at the cabin, Luke jumped down and then helped Elisa alight. He grabbed the reins to lead the mules to the stable but stopped short, as though incredulous at himself for what he was about to do. He wrapped the leads around the hitching post, turned to a momentarily bewildered Elisa, and drew her to him. She tilted her face upward and found her lips melting into his. He swept her into his arms and carried her across the threshold.

  Elisa had made new bedding, and the blissful couple was quickly absorbed into the folds of blankets and linens. She responded eagerly to his caresses. She’d never been so touched by a man before, yet natural urges came surging from her inner core. His kisses lifted her into paroxysms of ecstasy.

  Luke’s hands explored her, caressing her sweetness as he’d imagined only in his dreams. His lips sought every inch of her lithe, yielding body.

  “Lucas…Lucas, I want you so…” she whispered. She thought she’d explode if he didn’t take her virginity…now. She opened herself to her man and took him completely to her.

  “My God, but I love you, Lisa…” His words trailed off in a deep kiss and a heightened urgency as he pushed ever deeper.

  Exquisite sensations coursed through their bodies. Explosions, spasms, more gentle caresses, parting, and laying back as though in some dreamscape. It was as though they had been transported to some heavenly realm. No words were spoken. They didn’t need to be. It had been all they’d ever hoped for, all they’d ever yearned for. Elisa had her real man, and Luke had his loving woman. It was a Godly match.

  Luke emerged a couple of hours later to unhitch and stable the mules, then quickly returned to the cabin and Elisa’s passionate kisses and loving arms. Luke had done right by her. He could easily have pressed his advantage and had his way with her before they married, but his Irish upbringing and God-driven morals wouldn’t allow it. It was about as idyllic as could be imagined there on the edge of the Texas frontier.

  Calling it the edge might be debatable, as the frontier at that time was ill-defined. It wasn’t a straight line of demarcation whereby you simply crossed from one side to the other: frontier on one side, civilization on the other. Slowly, inexorably, it would move westward. Luke and Elisa aimed to be part of moving the frontier westward.

  Next morning after breakfast, Luke revealed a wedding gift. He blindfolded her and led her out to the corral alongside the stable. There stood a beautiful chestnut mare, saddled and ready to ride.

  “For me?” She was giddy with joy as she walked over and hugged the steed’s muzzle.

  “Every self-respecting rancher needs a horse, Lisa Dunn.” It hit her that it was the first time she’d heard her new name from her husband’s mouth. She was now a Corrigan-turned-Dunn.

  “I’m not quite a rancher yet, Lucas.”

  “Mount up,” he told her as he mounted the grey stallion. “We need to take a little ride.”

  They rode for about ten minutes until they crested a low hill with an expansive view of the gentle grasslands spread before them. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. One, two, three…there were eight longhorns grazing on her farm…er, ranch.

  Her jaw dropped. She looked from the longhorns to Luke and back again. “Lucas Dunn, you are an amazing man.”

  Luke uncharacteristically blushed a deep crimson. “I hoped you’d be pleased.” He brushed his finger playfully aside his mustache.

  She wanted to leap from her saddle and hug him. It was all so very real. She’d lost so much, but now her world had radically changed in a wonderful way. It taught her never ever to give up, so long as there was hope. Her dreams were becoming reality.

  The only concern she faced was her brother Mike’s prolonged recovery. The snakebite had taken its toll, and it was possible the boy might never be quite right.

  But, for now, there was wedded bliss to enjoy, to be free of life’s realities for some finite time. They immersed themselves in their love.

  ***

  Whelan coincidentally rode through Nuecestown, but later in the morning and well after the wedding. In fact, he had no idea that Luke and Elisa had wed. The streets were empty, which suited him and Scarlett just fine. They were striving to avoid encountering anyone who might bring up the gun battle with Perez’s Caballeros Negros and the killing of Dirk Cavendish. Whelan was determined to forget the performance of his posse, plus the stigma of having allowed Scarlett to escape.

  He was still conflicted about Scarlett. There was a fifty-fifty chance that the child growing in her belly was not his. But what if it was? They’d deal with it in Corpus Christi if they could manage to arrive there safely.

  Whelan remained disconcerted by whatever had driven Colonel Rucker to pursue Scarlett. He had already asked her if she knew. Twice, she offered essentially the same answer. “I don’t know. He seemed to know things about me before I even got to his ranch.” Together, they wondered what in the recent past was so all-fired important that the colonel would risk life and limb as well as the lives of his sons.

  Late afternoon, they pulled up in front of the Corpus Christi sheriff’s office. A few folks noticed them riding in, and they couldn’t miss her being in manacles and tied to the horse. Curious. Whelan dismounted and untied Scarlett. He took her out back to the privy before bringing her inside to the jail cell.

  Once she was secured, he tipped his hat, turned, and stepped toward the door. “I’ll be back. I must let the solicitor know that I’ve brought you back.” He stopped before leaving. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Water, food…a bit of whiskey?”

  Whelan chuckled. He was relieved that they’d completed the journey from Austin. He’d rustle up some grub for Scarlett, but intuitively figured the whiskey was not advisable.

  On his way to the solicitor, he debated about telling him that Scarlett was with child. He certainly dared not admit that it might be his.

  He knocked and walked into the solicitor’s office. “Bill, how are you doing? Busy?” He knew that there was very little going on as to legal matters other than minor offenses. “I’ve got an important case for you.”

  William Stokes prided himself on knowing just about all that was going on in Corpus Christi. What had he missed?

  “I went up to Austin and recaptured Dirk Cavendish’s partner in crime, that red-haired Laredo whore Scarlett Rose.”

  Stokes raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Seriously?”

  “Yep, but there’s a problem you should know about.”

  Stokes looked at him inquisitively. “What’s that, George?”

  Whelan chuckled, but quickly turned serious. “She’s got a bun in the oven, Bill.”

  “Damn. We can’t hang her.” Stokes shook his head at this new dilemma. “That’d be sort of like killing two people.”

  “
We could get that Apache witch women to get rid of it for us.”

  Stokes was amazed at Whelan’s suggestion.

  The sheriff had considered it as an option, but surprised even himself that he’d brought it up. “You’re right, Bill. It might upset some folk.”

  “Let me think on this. As I recall, she helped rob the bank, shot and killed one of our citizens, and then escaped jail.”

  “I think Cavendish took the credit for the murder, Bill. As to the escape…” Whelan hesitated. “Bill, I must admit it was my fault. I let my guard down, and she took advantage.”

  Knowing Whelan as well as he did, Stokes quickly surmised what sort of advantage Scarlett had taken. “Okay, then she’s an accessory to these crimes.”

  Whelan was relieved. He now knew that her punishment would be lighter. She’d avoid the hangman’s noose. He thanked the solicitor and headed back to his office, stopping at the boarding house to dig up some grub for the two of them.

  He knew intuitively that, as her pregnancy progressed, it might entail further needs for her care. He may have been a seemingly heartless slime when it came to the whores of Corpus Christi, but he wasn’t a total lost soul. The possibility that he was responsible for her condition weighed heavily on him. Would the baby look like him or look like Cavendish? He didn’t even consider the possibility of a third contributor to her pregnancy. Women seemed to know.

  ***

  Carlos Perez groaned. He’d been given some water about the time Luke initially deposited him with Sheriff Stills. He pretty much was unable to eat, as he suffered from both the pain of his wounds and the accompanying nausea. His breathing was labored in large part thanks to the arrow still in his chest. The arrow had been there for several days now, and he was lucky major infection had not set in. He’d lost weight for sure.

  Stills had one of the locals fetch the butcher. He was as close to a doctor as could be found in Laredo. The butcher was a Mexican-American who had chosen to stay in the U.S. after the Callahan incidents. Of course, he spoke Spanish, which was important, since Perez understood no English.