Bandit's Embrace (The Durango Family)

by Georgina Gentry

  They walked toward the horses tied before the stage station cantina.

  “Nagnab it,” Petty ran his fingers through his tangled beard. “How we gonna track him across all of Mexico?”

  Ringo shrugged as he swung up on his gray gelding. “Same way we been doin’. How many fancy overo studs with blue eyes do you suppose there is below the border?”

  Big ’Un nodded. “That’s right, especially ridden by big, blond Texans? It may take us awhile, but for twenty-five thousand dollars, we got the time.” His saddle creaked as he mounted.

  Petty’s ugly mouth smiled. “Ain’t we, though?”

  He mounted and the three of them headed south at a slow canter.

  Colonel Mackenzie looked up from the dispatch Sergeant Murphy had just handed him. “God damn them,” he said. “God damn them to hell!” He threw the dispatch on his desk, paced his office.

  “Crossed the border again, did they, sir?”

  “Oh, don’t act so ignorant, Mike.” He knew Murphy would have read the dispatches on his way across the parade grounds. “A camp of poor Czech cedar choppers. Patrol saw the smoke and investigated. By then, those damned Kickapoo, Mescalero, and Lipan were headed back across the river to the safety of Mexico.”

  The beefy Irishman tipped his cap back. “Do you suppose, sir, we’re ever gonna get permission to go after them bloodthirsty redskins?”

  Mackenzie didn’t answer. He just tapped his deformed right hand against his desk nervously. Sheridan and the secretary of war were due at the fort sometime that day. Whatever it was that brought such highly placed men to this isolated country, it had to be important. “Don’t even think it,” he snapped. “To cross that border might bring on another war with Mexico.”

  Murphy sighed. “Beggin’ yore pardon, sir, if we could do it, it sure would suddenly make Union troops popular with the Texans. Them greedy merchants over at Remolino is makin’ a fortune dealing in Lone Star beef and horses.”

  “We all know that, Sergeant.” Mackenzie felt more irritable than usual today. His old war wounds were aching again.

  The red-faced Irishman smiled agreeably. Mackenzie knew his troops would follow him into hell. He wasn’t having trouble with jealousy and bickering as the hotheaded Custer was further north.

  “Sir,” Murphy said, “it must be very, very important for those two to be comin’ to this godforsaken spot.”

  “That’s not for us to speculate on.” Mackenzie frowned, and was immediately sorry for his irascibility. “We just do our duty, Sergeant.”

  There was a sharp rap at the door. Mackenzie turned. “Come in.”

  They both snapped to attention as General “Little Phil” Sheridan, President Grant’s man, entered along with the Secretary of War.

  “At ease,” Sheridan said. He was a short, stumpy man with long arms and a head too large for his body. “Good to see you, Ranald!”

  They shook hands, and Mackenzie nodded toward the sergeant. “Dismissed!”

  Murphy saluted sharply, left the office.

  Then Sheridan put the briefcase he carried on the desk, and introduced the Secretary of War. The three men stood listening to Murphy’s footsteps echoing down the hall.

  Sheridan pulled at his mustache, studying Mackenzie. “Aren’t you going to offer two tired, dusty men a drink?”

  “Certainly.” Mackenzie went to his desk, poured, handed each man a glass. “I suppose this isn’t a social visit?”

  The whiskey tasted fiery and at once lukewarm in the humid weather. He waited.

  Sheridan sipped his drink. For a long moment, he said nothing and the sound of soldiers drilling drifted through the window. “Colonel, have you guessed why we’re here?”

  Mackenzie’s heart beat faster. Hardly daring to hope, he looked at the rotund Secretary of War, who drank his whiskey and fiddled with the gold chain across his vest. Obviously the man was going to leave the responsibility to the military.

  Mackenzie said, “It’s not my place to question anything, sir. I just do my duty and carry out orders.”

  The cabinet officer sighed, ran his hand through his gray hair. “President Grant is tired of all this border bloodshed. The Texans are clamoring for him to take action.”

  “So are my men,” Mackenzie said, rubbing his clean-shaven face with the crippled hand. Two of his fingers had been shot away during a Civil War battle. “You should see what we have to bury. Sometimes, it’s hard to realize the remains were ever human. The Indians are paying us back for everything we ever did to them.”

  Sheridan scowled, paced up and down. “I heard what the Texans did to the Kickapoo at Dove Creek back during the war. Slaughter begets slaughter.”

  The Secretary smiled. “But Texans vote, Indians don’t,” he reminded them both.

  Sheridan walked over to the window, stared out. “What a desolate, isolated spot to have to serve in, Ranald.”

  “I serve where I’m needed.”

  The general laughed. “Spoken like a professional soldier! But you know, if I owned both hell and Texas, I’d rent out Texas and live in hell!”

  Mackenzie smiled. “The residents don’t feel that way. They’ve got an attitude they call Texas Proud. Natives like to say, ‘And on the eighth day, God created Texas’!”

  “They can have it, and welcome!” Sheridan said, draining his whiskey. “Give me a refill.”

  Still the same hard-drinking, tough leader he always was, Mackenzie thought as he nodded, then walked over to the desk to pour another drink. He looked at the cabinet member. “And you, sir?” Mackenzie looked questioningly at the gray-haired man who shook his head.

  Sheridan took the whiskey, smacked his lips, and sighed with gusto. “Ah, that’s more like it! Seems like a million years since we fought the Rebs, doesn’t it, Ranald?”

  Mackenzie nodded. “Out here, facing ambushes and war parties, it can seem longer than that.” With his old wounds troubling him, he sometimes felt as if he were eighty years old. Yet somehow he knew he’d never live that long. He and Custer had been two of the “boy generals” with brilliant war records. Now they were both stuck out in the hinterlands fighting savages. It wasn’t the same somehow. “I do my duty, sir, as did my father.”

  Sheridan sipped his drink thoughtfully, and Mackenzie knew they both thought of the commodore. More than thirty years ago, Ranald’s father had put down a mutiny on his ship, the USS Somers, and had hanged the three young sailors involved. One of them had been the son of another Secretary of War. The commodore had done his duty, and had been destroyed by doing so.

  The third man cleared his throat, and the runty general looked up as if remembering why he was here. “Aren’t you curious as to why we’ve come all this way, Ranald?”

  “I figured you’d tell me in due time.” Mackenzie went over to the window, watched his cavalry drilling. Bay horses four abreast. Chestnut horses. Black horses. Sorrel horses. And Captain McLaughlen’s gray horse unit stepped forward smartly.

  Sheridan favored him with a long look. “Ranald, we’re finally going to do it!”

  “Sir?”

  “The President has decided to take a chance on war with Mexico. He’s ordering you to get your regiment ready and, when it is, cross the Rio Grande and hit those Indian camps, hit them hard!” He pounded on the desk for emphasis.

  Mackenzie straightened, exuberant. “That was what I was hoping for, Phil. Why, when we get official orders—”

  “Ranald, there won’t be any official orders.”

  Mackenzie looked from one man to the other. The Secretary of War clasped his hands over his gold chain, avoided the colonel’s gaze. Sheridan glared back at Mackenzie almost in challenge.

  “I—I don’t think I understand.” He felt sick at the pit of his stomach. “General Sheridan, under whose orders and upon what authority am I to act? Have you any plans to suggest, or will you issue me the necessary orders for my action?”

  Sheridan pounded the table in a rage. “Damn the orders! Damn the aut
hority! You are to go ahead on your own plan of action, and your authority and backing shall be President Grant and myself.” He paused. “With us behind you in whatever you do to clean up this situation, you can rest assured of the fullest support. You must assume the risk. We will assume the final responsibility should any result.”

  “I see.” And he did, all too well. Mackenzie looked down into the whiskey in his glass. Behind him, he heard the sounds of the Fourth Cavalry drilling on the dusty Texas field.

  “We must protect the President,” Sheridan sputtered. “Surely you’re not so naive as to believe that dealings with other countries are always done at the diplomatic level. Anyone who believes that, or pretends to believe that, whether congressman or newspaper reporter, is either a liar or hypocrite.”

  “I don’t suppose that will ever change,” Mackenzie said softly. “A hundred years from now, those same people will react with shock and surprise when a president they don’t like does something they always knew was going on.”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  Mackenzie looked at him. “You realize that if my mission is a failure, if my troops get captured, we’ll probably all be lined up against a wall and shot by Mexican authorities.”

  Sheridan looked away. “I didn’t say it would be easy, Ranald. That’s why we picked you. Worse than that, this is to be a hit-and-run raid. You’re to destroy those villages, bring back hostages to the Indian Territory. That way, the warriors will have to give up and move onto the reservation to reclaim their families. You’ve got to get in and get out before the Mexicans or the Indians can organize retaliation.”

  Mackenzie frowned. “That means if I have many wounded, I may have to leave them behind for the warriors to torture.”

  The silence seemed heavy. “That’s right, Ranald. You see this must be a victory with few losses. And until you’re ready to move, secrecy is of the utmost importance. It must not leak out to the Democrats who would use it to crucify President Grant in the newspapers. Worse yet, if the Mexicans and Indians hear of it, they’ll be ready and waiting for you.”

  Mackenzie felt his thin shoulders sag with the responsibility. Murphy and Lieutenant Carter were the only ones he would tell until the raid.

  Sheridan pulled at his mustache. “If your raid’s a success, you’ll have President Grant’s gratitude. You’ll be a hero.”

  “And the Democrats will try to steal the glory from a Republican President.” But if it were a failure? The government would plead ignorance and the Democrats would take after Grant like a chicken after a june bug.

  “I leave the limelight to Custer,” Mackenzie answered; “he courts it so. I only do my duty. Medals and headlines mean nothing to me.”

  He saw the admiration in the Secretary of War’s eyes. “Mackenzie, you’re a soldier’s soldier. You always get the job done and seldom get publicity.”

  The colonel laughed. “I don’t care. Probably die alone and forgotten.”

  Sheridan looked at him. “You’ve never married, have you?”

  Mackenzie’s heart seemed to ache with the memory. He took another drink. Sometimes he thought about her a lot. Sometimes he blended the imaginary with reality until he wondered if he were losing his mind. “There was a girl once. She married another man. I’ve given my life to the service and my country.”

  “Your country thanks you,” Sheridan said. “You got good scouts?”

  Mackenzie finished his drink. “Three white ranchers from along the border who’re tired as hell of having their stock stolen. Then there’s a bunch of Seminole-Negro scouts under Captain Bullis. The Seminoles are originally from Florida, but they’ve become enemies of the Apaches; eager to raid them for the glory and a little loot.”

  “Seminole-Negro?”

  Mackenzie nodded. “That tribe helped hide runaway slaves in the swamps. Some gradually intermarried.”

  Sheridan reached for the briefcase he’d brought in. “We’ve got a lot of plans to make, Ranald! You haven’t much time to get your regiment ready, get your scouts out. The United States Cavalry is going to give those savages below the border the surprise of their lives!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Amethyst paced her room, remembering the sight of Bandit drawing the red-haired girl into the library and closing the door. She fought a terrible urge to confront Monique or whatever her name was, have it out with her.

  She shook her head. No, she couldn’t do that without looking like a jealous shrew. Besides, it would be humiliating for her father’s fiancee to know Amethyst had found out about the pair. Didn’t they think they were clever, though! Between them, that ambitious twosome obviously planned to end up with each other and in control of both fortunes.

  I will find Papa, she thought, tell him. Again she shook her head, reconsidered. Monique would lie of course, as would Bandit, if confronted with the truth. The tall redhead might even convince Papa that his daughter was being spiteful because Monique had wanted to send her off to the convent school. But Amethyst couldn’t stand by and let these two get away with their rotten scheme. What could she do?

  Twisting the small amethyst ring over and over, she considered all the possibilities. Was there any chance that pair might run off together?

  She pursed her lips, frowned. Why should they do that when they were on the verge of controlling all this money and could still see each other on the sly? If only she could think of a way to make them want to leave Mexico . . . to make them so miserable they’d forget the marriages and return to the United States. A plan began to form in her mind. Sí, that might work. Both of them struck her as very proud people; they wouldn’t take well to humiliation.

  The old Falcons would be sad if Bandit left, of course. For a minute, she wavered. No, this was for their good, too. Amethyst flounced over to sit down at her desk. Better they should go back to hoping their real son might someday show up than to let this greedy, rotten fake take control of their ranch and money.

  She reached for a pen, paper. Papa. Poor Papa. He’d be so sad if Monique left, but he’d get over it. There were many plump, delightful widows in the local population who’d always been interested in Papa.

  Nibbling the end of the pen, she thought about what she was going to do. Sí, her plan was cruel and hard-hearted, but worth it if it got the two rotten lovers out of Mexico. For only an instant, she thought about how personally humiliating the gossip would be to her. The whole state of Coahuila would laugh if the Texan and Papa’s fiancee ran off together. Let the fools laugh. Wasn’t that better than having her and Papa married to two faithless spouses who slipped around to see each other?

  For a split second, a pain caught at her throat as she imagined Bandit and the redhead together. Of course it wasn’t jealousy! Why, Amethyst was only properly indignant because the two were faithless and without honor. Honor was very important to the Falcons and Durangos. She and Papa could manage together, and eventually they would each find someone. Amethyst would pray that a miracle would happen and the real Falcon heir would return.

  Although she had never believed it before, she now decided that the end justified the means, and wrote the first name on her list with a flourish. Monique probably had been around enough to pretend she was part of elegant society, but Amethyst had a feeling Bandit didn’t know one fork from another. She was about to heap cruel humiliation on him in the hope that it would cause him to realize he could never fit into her life, to flee back to Texas.

  A party. A dinner party in honor of the two engagements. Considering her guest list, what could be more cruel? Industriously, she bent her head over the invitations. It took her several hours to complete them. Then she instructed a servant to have a vaquero ride to the various homes and ranches, delivering them.

  She took another look at her guest list, having a slight qualm of conscience. Then she imagined Monique in the Texan’s arms and hardened her heart.

  Later Papa looked at the list of names with horror, his three chins jiggling as he
shook his head. “These invitations have already been sent? Daughter, why on earth would you invite more than a dozen of the dullest, most snobbish and arrogant people in all northern Mexico? You’ve always disliked these people.”

  “But they’ve all already accepted!” Amethyst shrugged, making her eyes widen in innocence. “You don’t approve, Papa? Why, I’m sure Tony and Monique will be delighted.”

  Bandit leaned back in his chair on the patio, smiled with warmth at the old señor and señora as they finished their morning coffee.

  She held a note in her shaking hands. “Isn’t that nice? Your fiancee is giving a dinner party in your honor. I wish I felt well enough to go.”

  The old man ran a hand through his silver hair. “In that case, I’ll send my regrets, too, Mamá.”

  “Amethyst is giving a dinner party in my honor?”

  “Sí, here’s your invitation, son.” The old lady handed him the note.

  Bandit looked from the elegant paper to the purple bougainvillea blooms on the trellis overhead. Somehow, he smelled trouble. What could that little rascal be up to? He hadn’t seen her or talked to her in several days. He’d been out riding the vast holdings with old Falcon. When Bandit had ridden over to see her, he’d been told politely but firmly by the servants that Señorita Durango was busy and sent her regrets.

  You’re too suspicious, Bandit, old boy, he thought, reaching for a cigar. She’s thought it over, craves your body, and is going to keep the secret and marry you. A sense of relief flooded his soul. He struck the match on the sole of his boot. But just what was he going to do about this mess involving Mona and Romeros?

  Señor Falcon shook his head. “Strange,” he muttered, sipping his coffee. “I ran into Muñoz from Remolino yesterday. He said something about how delighted he was to be invited to the party.”

  The señora’s mouth opened in surprise. “Amethyst invited that money-grubbing upstart to her dinner party? Why he is a social climber, one of the coldest, most snobbish people! Why would she invite him?”