by Lila Guzmán
“I’ll make him rue the day he was born.”
Chien d’Or smiled and nodded. Apparently, it was the answer he wanted to hear. “Bannister is yours to kill, but the big red bear with him is mine.”
“The boy and I will help you,” Dunstan said, “in return for our release.”
“No. The boy will make a fine warrior. I will let you go, but I keep him.”
It wasn’t unusual for Indians to adopt boys into the tribe. Over the years, Dunstan had heard many stories to that effect. Thomas was bright. He would soon learn the language and customs of the Apache and succeed.
Thomas’s freedom for his own. That was a trade he could live with. “Done,” he said, sealing the bargain.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Water crashed over huge boulders, so loud it blocked all other sounds.
Lorenzo remained on horseback and kept a respectful distance from the torrent sweeping debris downstream. He had to find a good place for the herd to cross. He followed the shoreline south to a spot where the river widened and swirled a little less furiously. To mark it, Lorenzo tied his bandanna around a tree branch.
He raced to the wagon and explained to the cook where to cross. Next, he pulled alongside Miguel. “When you get to the river, turn the herd south.”
“South!” Miguel said in exasperation. “First, we’re going east, then west, now south. We’re going in circles!”
“Just do it,” Lorenzo said wearily. He rode off, leaving Miguel in mid-grumble. Next, he visited each vaquero, explaining where to cross. He picked out three men to accompany him to the water’s edge. By the time they arrived, the cook had attached ropes to the wagon’s axle rod. They tested them to make sure they were snug, and passed them to vaqueros who swam them across.
On the opposite shore vaqueros lapped ropes around sturdy oaks edging the river.
The cook drove the wagon down the bank to the water’s edge. Once it was afloat, men used tree trunks as giant pulleys to haul the wagon to shore. The mules swam until their hooves raked the sandy bottom. They hauled the wagon up the gentle bank.
Lorenzo, still on the west shore, breathed out a long sigh of relief.
Cabezón appeared, along with point riders.
On the riverbank, cattle balked and bawled. They tried to turn away, but vaqueros forced them to plunge into the muddy river.
A short way upstream, Miguel and her horse splashed into the water. She angled toward the far shore.
Lorenzo knew what she was doing. The cattle would instinctively follow the swimming horse.
He stared at the swirling, muddy water. This was the first difficult crossing since his near drowning. Not until this very moment did he realize how terrified he was.
Suddenly, Red was by his side. “Ain’t scared of a little water, are you?”
“Not me!” Lorenzo lied. He wondered if Miguel had told the men about his near-drowning.
“This is for your own good, Captain.” Giving Lorenzo a wicked grin, he slapped Piñata’s rump.
The horse snorted and lunged forward.
Lorenzo felt panic rise when water soaked his legs and thighs. His heart galloped. He twisted in the saddle and shook his fist at Red. “I’ll get you for this!”
Red laughed and plunged in after him.
Lorenzo locked his gaze on the distant shore. To his right, submerged cattle swam frantically. He tried to ignore their razor-sharp horns, flaring nostrils, and eyes bulging in terror.
Vaqueros swam their horses alongside the herd. Some remained on the riverbank, shouting and flailing their ropes to make sure stragglers entered the water.
Upstream, a dark mass in the river careened toward them. A shiver of fear passed through Lorenzo. After a moment, he realized it was a wild pig’s bloated carcass. It struck the cows ahead of him and broke the continuous line of swimming cattle. Some turned away, trying to head back to shore.
Lorenzo jerked the reins and turned Piñata toward them. If he didn’t straighten the line, cattle, vaqueros, and horses could become tangled and drown.
Hooves churned desperately. Horns crashed together. Horses neighed. Lariat-waving vaqueros yelled and cursed.
Eventually, the herd swam in the right direction.
Struggling against the current, Piñata bumped into Red, making him topple off his horse and disappear under the froth.
“Red!” Lorenzo yelled.
Red’s head popped to the surface, inches behind Cabezón’s rump. Everyone cheered.
Red bobbed dangerously close to Cabezón, who was bellowing in rage. He sank under the water, he came out. He went under again and came out when Cabezón leaped up on the bank with Red still in tow.
Lorenzo laughed out loud when he realized that Red had hitched a ride to the riverbank by holding Cabezón’s tail.
Muddy and completely soaked, Red bent over at the waist and wheezed while Cabezón galloped off.
Relief showed on every face.
Red’s horse struggled up the bank, shook, and stood in the mud, dripping.
“¡Ay, por dios!” Soledad screamed. She pointed to the river.
A body, floating face down, was wedged between two boulders on a sandbar.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lorenzo kicked Piñata’s flanks, forcing the mare back into the rushing river. Red joined him. They swam to the sandbar and turned the floating man over. It was Ambrosio.
Lorenzo swallowed hard. Red’s face reflected deep sorrow.
With his friend’s help, Lorenzo managed to pull the body over his saddle. He thought of the words his father often said when a patient died: Life is fragile, a gift from God.
At some point, Ambrosio must have fallen off his horse, hit his head, and lost consciousness.
Piñata swam to shore, struggling under the corpse’s extra weight.
Everyone gathered around. Vaqueros, somber-faced and quiet, took the body and wrapped it in a blanket. Looking like lost children, they stared at their old friend’s lifeless body.
Lorenzo wanted to keep the men busy so they wouldn’t dwell on their friend’s death. “We can get two more leagues under our hooves,” Lorenzo said in a subdued tone, “and bury Ambrosio when we bed down for the night.”
With great reverence, the vaqueros moved supplies in the back of the wagon and placed the body inside.
Nightfall overtook them. Lorenzo called the latest halt ever. Men lit lanterns and moved around quietly in the dark to finish work. The cook prepared supper, although Lorenzo doubted that many would be in the mood to eat.
Several men set about digging a grave beneath a pine tree. That done, they laid Ambrosio to rest and shoveled dirt over him. Vaqueros and soldiers gathered large stones, piling them high over the grave to discourage coyotes and other scavengers from digging him up.
Everyone stood wrapped in thought.
“Someone should say a few words,” Miguel suggested.
“Padre Nuestro,” Lorenzo began. He paused and allowed time for the rest to recite after him.
They mumbled the Lord’s Prayer, then slipped away one by one.
That night, Lorenzo sat by the campfire and composed a letter to Ambrosio’s wife and eight children. He edged it in black and stashed it in his saddlebags. When they reached the rendezvous point, he would give it to one of the vaqueros heading back to San Antonio.
Of all his duties, Lorenzo disliked this one the most. How did you tell someone that a loved one wasn’t coming home?
The next morning, Dunstan stepped out of a teepee where he had spent the last twenty-four hours. Raindrops lashed his face. Surrounded by four French-speaking outlaws, he headed toward tethered horses.
He mounted up and wished he had a weapon. The men with him were armed with silent but deadly weapons that wouldn’t startle the cattle. Bows, quivers of arrows, lances, tomahawks, and knives were wise choices. Dunstan doubted that muskets or pistols would fire in this weather. There would be no way to keep powder dry.
Chien d’Or rode towar
d them, Dunstan’s sword dangling at his side.
Bloody cheeky, Dunstan thought. Not only does he steal my sword, he flaunts the theft.
Just then, Thomas stepped out of a teepee followed by Chien d’Or’s wife. He wore only a breechcloth and moccasins.
Dunstan felt a small twinge of regret to leave the boy behind. Thomas had served him well, but was no longer of any use. He locked eyes with the boy.
Betrayal and confusion radiated from Thomas. “God will not go with thee, Dunstan.”
He looked at the boy in disgust. What did he care about a nonexistent god? With Chien d’Or at his side, Dunstan spurred his horse and rode away from the village.
Lorenzo, with Red at his side, led the cattle drive through dense pines and hardwoods. This was the most difficult part of the trip so far. Nacogdoches lay about a league ahead, but to get there, they had to pass through a forest.
They left the woods and entered a clearing.
A black cloud roiling in from the northeast cast an ominous shadow over the landscape. It was about eight o’clock in the morning, but the sky looked like early evening.
A hot, muggy wind whipped around Piñata. Thunder rumbled like a herd of cattle on the run. Greenish-black clouds filled the sky. A continual light display slashed from sky to earth.
Lorenzo studied the towering cloud with a sense of growing anxiety. “If you see a funnel shape, Red, speak right up.”
Red shot him a quizzical glance. “A funnel?”
“I take it you’ve never seen a tornado.”
“You got that right.”
“My father and I were in one once. The wind bent trees to the ground.”
“And if I see a funnel, what do I do?”
“Find a hole, hunker down, and pray.”
Miguel approached on horseback.
“Have you ever seen a tornado?” Red asked Miguel.
“More times than I care to remember.” Miguel studied the blackening sky. “We are going to feel the wrath of God today.”
General Washington stopped by a split-rail fence and surveyed the lead-gray sky. He patted his horse’s neck and breathed deep. The air smelled of rain. A ride always put him at ease and gave him time to think. He needed to return to camp soon, but the sight of shoeless, hungry soldiers depressed him. Foraging parties went out on a daily basis. Finding supplies was difficult. To make matters worse, after the Battle of Brandywine, the British had captured supply depots at Valley Forge.
The air chilled and the general pulled his cape tight around his shoulders.
Washington wondered how Lorenzo was faring with the herd coming from San Antonio. The mission was a long shot, but the Spanish had been one of the most dependable supply sources so far. Nine thousand pounds of gunpowder, medicine, cloth, and other supplies had arrived three months earlier. The Spanish had been generous with money as well. Washington dipped his head and prayed that cattle would arrive safely.
The air crackled with electricity.
Lorenzo, Miguel, and all the men placed leather covers over their gunlocks to protect the powder from the rain.
All at once, luminous balls of light appeared above the herd. They hovered over the horn tips of the cattle and flickered blue and yellow.
“Good Lord!” Red whispered. “What is that?”
“St. Elmo’s fire,” Miguel replied. “Some call it fox fire. I saw it years ago on a trip to Spain. We were at sea, and those lights appeared at the ends of masts and spars. It was like ghosts holding little lanterns.”
A blinding light suddenly blazed to the left.
Piñata bounced sideways and snorted. It was all Lorenzo could do to keep her from bolting.
The entire herd bellowed in fear. A deafening sizzle hissed behind them. Wind-driven rain slashed at them like tiny knives. A huge tree split down the middle. The ground shook. Another lightning bolt darted through the sky.
Hundreds of hoofs drummed over the rolling countryside. The stampede Lorenzo had dreaded for so long had begun. And it was headed straight for him.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lorenzo pulled hard on the reins to turn Piñata. She didn’t need the extra inspiration and bolted away from the cattle at full speed.
Lorenzo glanced over his shoulder. They were gaining. Rain stung his face like pebbles. Lorenzo’s only hope was to ride with the herd and, at some point, force them to circle.
Piñata stumbled on rain-slicked grass. Lorenzo’s breathing quickened. If Piñata threw him, he would be trampled by fear-crazed cattle.
From all directions, cattle surged around them. Lorenzo and Piñata rode in the midst of galloping hooves and clattering horns.
Cattle coursed around the wagon, a canvas island in a sea of horns and hide.
Piñata’s hooves hammered beneath Lorenzo. It was a dangerous race, but he sensed she actually enjoyed it. She drew ahead of the lead bull, easily jumped a creek, and scrambled up the opposite side.
Cattle flowed over the bank like a canoe shooting the rapids, splashing through shallow water, and leaping ashore.
Piñata reached the top of the hill and braced herself for the steep downward angle.
Lorenzo allowed himself a backward glance. For the first time he realized Miguel was riding the left flank of the herd. Private Dujardin was on the right.
The cattle ran at top speed. After a while, the head bulls spent most of their energy and fear. They slowed.
Piñata adjusted her speed, going from a gallop to a lope.
The rest of the herd was nowhere to be seen. It had been impossible for the vaqueros to keep the herd together in the stampede. Lorenzo assumed it was now broken into smaller droves. He sighed. It might take days to gather the herd.
Eventually they forced the cattle to circle. Little by little the ring grew smaller and tighter until the cattle stopped moving altogether.
Mud-splattered from head to toe, Miguel and Dujardin stopped in front of Lorenzo. He felt as grimy as they looked.
Dujardin held a handkerchief out to catch the rain, then mopped his face. “Where are we?”
“We’re lost,” Miguel replied.
“We’re not lost,” Lorenzo said. “We just don’t know where we are.” He looked all about for landmarks but didn’t see any. He pondered what to do next. The missing vaqueros and soldiers knew to head up the King’s Highway to Nacogdoches. But which way was Nacogdoches? He knew the stampede had taken him south of the King’s Highway, so he decided to head due north until he crossed it.
Miguel took the lead while Dujardin and Lorenzo drifted to the rear. It was just the three of them with fifty cattle at the most.
They traveled on and on. The landscape reflected the gray dreariness of the cloud cover. Lorenzo hoped the sun would break through and dry the ground.
A horse snorted to the right. Lorenzo tensed, then relaxed to see Soledad trot forward.
“Have you seen Red?” she asked.
“No, sorry,” Lorenzo said.
“I’m sure he’ll show up soon,” Miguel said brightly.
“Do you know where the rest of the herd is?” Lorenzo asked.
She shook her head.
Lorenzo cleaned sludge from his musket’s flash pan as best he could, but knew the weapon would be useless until it stopped raining.
He glanced about. Everyone looked as depressed as he felt.
”You said there were five hundred head!” Chien d’Or exclaimed.
“There were!” Dunstan answered in a desperate voice. “Five hundred! Easily!” He estimated that there were no more than fifty cattle in the valley below. Where were the rest? This would hardly endear him to Chien d’Or. He had to remain useful to him in order to stay alive.
The three rain-soaked vaqueros guarding the cattle slouched in their saddles as if they were too weary to maintain a proper lookout.
“Fancy that,” Dunstan said in a moment of sudden understanding. “They’ve been through the rainstorm. Chances are, their weapons are useless.”
&
nbsp; Chien d’Or’s eyes bored through him a moment, as if judging his sincerity. After a long moment, he conferred with his friends in French.
They nodded, dismounted, and eased downhill. Armed with bows and arrows, they moved from tree to tree, peeping out cautiously, careful not to be seen.
Dunstan stayed on the ridge with Chien d’Or and watched them inch toward the vaqueros and ready their bows.
“Maintenant!” Now! one of them ordered. In unison, they shot arrows.
Two vaqueros were struck full in the chest and toppled off their horses. The third man was luckier. An arrow protruded from his side. He managed to pull his pistol and aim it, but nothing happened. He holstered the weapon. A second later, an arrow found his chest.
“Yes!” Dunstan exclaimed. “I was right! Their guns are useless.”
Two Frenchmen herded cattle away while the other two remained on the field to retrieve useful items from the corpses.
“I am pleased,” Chien d’Or announced.
“Good,” Dunstan said. That meant he stayed alive a little longer.
Two hills later, they found cattle in a meadow with grass up to their bellies.
Dunstan remained on a hillside with Chien d’Or while two Frenchmen readied their bows. So far, they had plucked off every soldier and vaquero they encountered.
In the valley below, terror-filled horsemen looked up and saw outlaws armed with bows and arrows gallop toward them. They abandoned the cattle and fled for their lives.
A volley of arrows flew through the air. Men screamed. A long wail pierced the still air, as if someone were dying in agony.
One horseman swerved and veered as he galloped off.
Dunstan straightened and shaded his eyes with his hand. The man was about the same size and build as Lorenzo Bannister. “That looks like Bannister!”
Chien d’Or ignored him and drew an arrow from his quiver.
The rider made it to the top of the hill before Chien d’Or’s arrow pierced his side. He slumped and disappeared over the ridge.
Dunstan clenched his hands in rage. Chien d’Or had broken his promise to capture Bannister alive. Dunstan doubted that Chien d’Or would keep his promise to free him when the cattle were captured. He had to escape. Now.