by Matt Rand
“The scouts are out. When they report back, they say everything is quiet.” He received sober nods, and he thought, They don’t know what they’re acknowledging any more than I do.
He started to turn, and a voice from across the street said, “O’Shaughnessy?”
He caught something in the voice that was not just a normal asking. The voice held a seeking, a locating. He let instinct rule him and left his feet in a wild dive. He lit rolling, and the pistol shot came with shocking suddenness. Its report slammed between the buildings along the street, and its spurt of flame was a brief illumination. The bullet pocked the earth beside Nelson’s head, sending a fan of stinging particles against his cheek. He pulled frantically at his pistol as he rolled, wanting to present no stationary target to this unseen assailant. The muzzle blast marked the man’s position. He stood in the deep shadows against the last building across the street.
Nelson’s pistol was in his hand. He rolled again, and the second shot nipped at his boot heel, sending a shuddering jar the length of his leg. He came up to one knee and threw a shot, letting memory of those powder flashes guide the bullet.
He heard a deep, coughing grunt, then the impact as a boot heel came down hard against the ground. The broken movements picked the man out of the shadow, and Nelson centered his aim in the middle of that reeling outline.
A long, tearing sigh followed his second shot. The dark figure slowly leaned forward, then pitched onto its face.
From down the street Nelson heard startled cries and the pound of feet. He heard them with only part of his mind. His main attention was fixed on the still figure before him. He straightened, and his gun muzzle never left the sprawled body. He moved cautiously toward it, thinking he had little to fear. The inertness of death had been in that falling figure.
He saw the pistol lying a few feet from the man, and toed it a safer distance away. He moved to him and looked down, his eyes blank. He put a boot under one shoulder and raised and turned the man onto his back.
Tribble was not dead, but he was dying. Nelson had too often heard that wheezing, strangling struggle for breath not to know it for what it was. He bent down, looking into the twisted face. Tribble’s eyes were closed, and blood poured from a corner of his mouth.
Tribble opened his eyes, and the vacant look disappeared as he recognized the face bending over him. “You made them laugh at me,” he muttered. “Damn—” A coughing spell arched and stiffened his body, and blood poured from his mouth. Then his face relaxed and his body slumped against the ground. Nelson heard the last tiny exhalation. It sounded like a tired, small sigh.
He straightened and stared at the dead man. The forces that drove a man were hard to understand.
Chapter Sixteen
Stevens’ horse was spent by the time he crossed the Cane River. Sixty-five miles were behind him, sixty-five hard, punishing miles, covered in less than a day and a night.
The lights of Natchitoches beckoned warmly before him, and he was scarcely aware of them. His body was numb with fatigue, but it had no power to dull the thoughts that tormented his mind. During those lonely miles, anger had crystallized into hatred. He remembered Melissa as he had known her in Natchez, so beautiful and so far away. He remembered the crushed girl in Nacogdoches, and his throat hurt. He had seen O’Shaughnessy’s interest building in another woman, and all he could do was wait, thinking Nelson would surely come to his senses. Why was it that one man wanted the unattainable, while another could have the very same thing and carelessly cast it aside? He swore deep in his throat.
Hatred made his eyes hard and brilliant. He could hurt O’Shaughnessy, hurt him as he had hurt Melissa. For each person had a vulnerable spot, and O’Shaughnessy’s was his dream. He could be hurt there, he could be smashed until his eyes were as dazed as Melissa’s.
He felt the stiffness in his horse’s walk and reached over and patted its neck. He would need another for the return trip to Nacogdoches. For he was going back. He wanted to see O’Shaughnessy’s face when the blow fell. And the hope that Melissa would look upon him with different eyes still flickered.
He passed the first buildings of the town, noticing at once the different air about it. It was dark now, and the houses and stores were lighted. People moved leisurely along the street, their voices free from tension as they spoke to one another. He knew a sudden nostalgia for Natchez. Melissa belonged there, and he belonged there. After her refusal of him, his restlessness made him believe he never wanted to see the city again. He had been wrong. By now, he thought, Melissa would be willing to return, and with him. His eyes gleamed.
He pulled up beside a man and asked, “Where can I find Elisha Maddy?”
The man put speculative eyes on the jaded animal. He raised them, noticing the weariness in Stevens’ face, the dust thick on boots and clothes. “Come a long way, ain’t you?”
Stevens nodded impatiently. “Nacogdoches.”
“Well, now,” the man said, his eyes alight with interest. “We been hearing rumors that lots of trouble’s happening around there.”
Stevens said in a tired voice, “You haven’t been hearing rumors. If you’ll tell me where I can find Maddy—”
“Three blocks straight ahead. He’s holding a meeting in the square. Been talking nothing but Nacogdoches ever since he got here. Got a lot of people interested, too.” The man spat into the street and reflectively watched the dust ball up. “Lot of us ain’t crazy about having them Mexicans right up against us.”
Stevens lifted the reins and moved his horse on down the street. His eyes were filled with a wicked light. He would have to hide it when he talked to Maddy.
He heard the noise of the gathering while he was still two blocks away. The voice of the crowd swelled to a roar, then died, only to rise again with greater vigor. Stevens had heard that note in a crowd’s voice before. A blood note, he thought soberly.
He rode into the light of the torches, and more than a hundred men surrounded Maddy. Maddy stood on a box. His shock of tawny hair was mussed, and his eyes held the fanatic gleam of an orator carried away by his own words. He pounded the air with his fists each time he made a point, then waited for the crowd’s response. It never failed him.
Stevens heard disjointed phrases as he moved his horse through the slowly parting crowd. He heard, “Land. Good land, waiting for you. O’Shaughnessy promises—” Stevens’ lips curled. He had examples of O’Shaughnessy and his promises.
“Americans are being abused by Mexicans, deprived of their rights!”
The roar swelled, drowning his words. Stevens looked with curious detachment at the enflamed faces all about him. These men would readily ride to Nacogdoches.
He was almost to the box before Maddy saw him.
Maddy sprang from his box and rushed toward him. “Chauncey!” His voice boomed welcome. “Is Nelson ready? Has he sent for us?”
He threw up his hand, stilling the curious murmur. “Here’s a man straight from Nacogdoches. He’ll verify everything I’ve told you.” He looked at Stevens and said proudly, “There’s over a hundred men here, Chauncey. With guns. Two hundred more will join us when we’re ready to ride. Tell them. Tell them.”
Stevens stood straight in his stirrups. “There is no rebellion. Not against the Mexican government.” His voice had a carrying power, stilling the crowd.
They looked at him with mouths agape, their minds trying to contend with this unexpected veering of direction. Stevens glanced at Maddy. His face was shocked.
He made his words slow and distinct. “Nelson O’Shaughnessy has been proved a despot, trying to set up a kingdom to enslave his own colonists.” His face was sincere, and his words rang with truth. “The settlers have thrown him out and are negotiating with the Mexican government for the right to remain in Texas. They have to negotiate,” he said, his smile holding a sad, whimsical quality. “Saucedo is moving against them with a thousand troops. Austin has added five hundred men. Would Austin turn against another American with
out sufficient reason?” He slumped back into his saddle, the picture of weariness and dejection. “It’s best the people of Louisiana forget they ever heard of Nelson O’Shaughnessy.”
The mass of the crowd was breaking into individual groups. Stevens picked out some of the voices.
“Hell,” one man said, “it sure ain’t no use riding into that kind of a mess.” He shook his head. “Fifteen hundred men. And part of them Americans. Why, that’s an army.” They drifted away, talking among themselves, a deflated expression upon all their faces. A moment ago they had something clenched in their fists. When they opened their fingers, there was nothing there.
Stevens looked at Maddy, and that sad smile was on his face. “I have forgotten him,” he said softly.
The shock was still in Maddy’s eyes. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “Nelson was hard, he drove toward his dream. But I can’t believe him a despot.” He looked at Stevens, his eyes sick with the puzzle. “Yet it has to be believed. You were his closest friend.”
Stevens shrugged, and the gesture said more than words. “I couldn’t see more people hurt, Elisha.”
The last of the crowd was passing out of the radiance of the torches. The square looked lonely and deserted. A breeze blew across it, rustling the dead grass.
“There goes the end of the help from Louisiana,” Maddy said. “It will be almost impossible to arouse them again.” He looked at Stevens and tried to smile. “Men have been mistaken before,” he muttered. “What will you do now, Chauncey?”
“Rest the night, then move on someplace else,” Stevens answered. He turned his horse and walked it from the square. Maddy walked at its side. His step was heavy, his head bowed.
* * * *
Hunter rode into the Indian village, exultation singing in his veins. After years of promises to his red people, they were at last coming true. His eyes sharpened as he noticed signs of recent revelry in the village. Sullen-faced braves watched him, and their faces bore evidence of brawling. He saw bruises and cuts, and one man’s arm hung useless at his side. He saw two smashed whisky kegs, their staves broken and splintered. Several tepees had been overturned and smashed, and a squaw sat in the litter, rocking back and forth, holding the body of a dead child to her breast.
Hunter’s eyes darkened. Indians could never handle whisky, and the sullen faces of the watching men said they had drunk far too much.
Hunter asked for Fields, and a man shook his head. “Not here. Over there.” He pointed to a wigwam a dozen yards away.
Hunter felt a chill of presentiment. Liquor alone had not put all the meanness in the man’s eyes.
Bowles stepped out of the wigwam. His arms were crossed on his chest. His eyes held a cold glitter as he watched Hunter.
The evil feeling of dread grew in Hunter. Bowles was a jealous man, jealous of any authority and popularity that reached beyond his. Hunter should have spent more time in pacifying the man, he should have included… He pushed the thoughts aside. This was for all of them. Bowles would not block his people’s welfare because of personal feelings.
Hunter asked for Fields, and Bowles grunted, “Dead. Head was split by a tomahawk. Too much whisky last night.”
Hunter’s eyes disclosed his shock, then they veiled over. “Why?” he asked softly.
Hatred flashed in Bowles’s eyes. “He talked with a split tongue,” he said savagely. “As you do. Why don’t you go, Hunter? Go back to your white brothers. And never come back.”
Hunter slowly turned his head. Two men held flintlock rifles trained on him.
He looked back at Bowles, and his eyes were sick. “You’re throwing away the hopes of your people,” he said desperately. “You’re—”
“Lies!” Bowles screamed. “Lies like Richard Fields made. Go!” He gestured savagely with an arm.
Hunter slowly turned his horse and rode out of the village. The two men with rifles rode a dozen yards behind him. Hunter’s lips worked silently.
He rode for better than an hour, expecting a shot in the back at any moment. It flayed a man’s nerves; it was the kind of torture an Indian loved.
He stopped at a stream to let his horse drink. He started to look back at the Indians, and the shot sounded almost in his ear. The heavy slug smashed into his shoulder, knocking him from his horse and into the stream.
The horse squalled in terror and whirled. It galloped away, its hoofs drumming its fright.
Hunter staggered to his feet. The water was more than waist deep. It ran from his face and shoulders, and he brushed the hair from his eyes with his good hand. He stared into the muzzle of the second flintlock. The Indian’s face held no emotion as he moved back the flint and fired.
The impact of the bullet knocked Hunter back into deeper water. For a few moments his body floated. His face was turned toward the Indians, and the eyes seemed filled with reproach. Then the current turned the body face downward, and it slowly sank from sight.
Chapter Seventeen
Saucedo said, “Surely you can see that this O’Shaughnessy is a madman.” His voice was soft but very insistent.
Austin pulled at his fingers. His face was worried.
Saucedo went on: “Has there been trouble between us? No. The trouble has been made only by that crazy one. He wants to be a ruler, and Mexico cannot have such on her land.”
Colonel Chacón, Saucedo’s second in command, said, “It can make Mexico suspicious of all Americans.” He was a plump man with a heavy, round face. His eyes moved constantly, darting from face to face, from object to object.
Saucedo flashed him a warning glance. This was not the time to put words too bluntly; it was not the time to use a club, when a switch would do.
Payne lounged easily in a chair across the room. His eyes were amused as he watched the play of emotions on the three faces. Austin would come in with Saucedo. He could do nothing else, if he wanted to hold what he had.
He drawled, “O’Shaughnessy’s dangerous to all of us. He’s been stirring up the Indians. I’ve seen that myself.”
Saucedo pointed to the Fredonia declaration before Austin. “Señor Austin can read that for himself. O’Shaughnessy writes plainly of his treaty with the Indians.” His eyes flashed. “Treaty, he calls it. It is an insane alliance.” Payne said shrewdly, “He’ll be handing out guns to those redskins. He’ll be cutting them loose, if he’s not stopped. No American home in Texas will be safe. There’ll be a lot of women and children butchered.”
Austin’s face paled, then he hit his desk with a heavy blow of his fist. He said in a flurry-filled voice, “He will be stopped. For the good of all of us.”
He stood up, a tall, dominating figure. “I’ll talk to my people. I can promise you two hundred or more of them will ride with you. They’ll be ready in a day or two.” He strode toward the door, the length of his stride speaking of the anger driving him. He stopped at the door and said, “I think I can promise you De Witt will feel the same as I do.”
Saucedo listened to the fading footsteps and sighed. He smiled faintly at Colonel Chacón. All the way to San Felipe de Austin, he had believed Austin would join with him, but for a moment the issue had hung in the balance. Both he and Chacón knew the value of the troops with them. Ten shots by determined men could send them fleeing in wild disorder. He needed Austin’s men. The Americans were tough; they would put bone into the backs of the Mexican troops.
Payne said, “I can raise a hundred or more around Nacogdoches. When they hear you’re marching, they’ll flock around.”
Saucedo looked at him with veiled eyes. He wished he could say he was certain of this American. At times the man’s words had a false ring. He did not understand Americans. Perhaps he never would. He put his mind on the immediate problem of Nelson O’Shaughnessy.
* * * *
Nelson looked back at the red-and-white flag floating from the trimmed pine pole as he rode out of town. Leah had sewn that flag. Snapping in the breeze, it waved a proud defiance. He rode at the head of thir
ty men and turned them toward the south. As a security measure, it was best to have large groups doing the scouting. He wished he knew where Saucedo was. He wished he knew what Payne was doing. Stevens should have been back from Natchitoches, but there was no report of him. He also worried about Hunter’s absence. Did the man have the control over the Indians he said he had?
He slumped in the saddle, but his eyes were alert. They probed the horizon, swinging from side to side. The countryside was quiet, too quiet. The earth and the sky waited in a dead silence.
They stopped for a brief rest at noon, ate the tasteless cold food, and moved on. Eyes watched for the dust clouds that would mark the movement of a large body of men, and the sky remained empty.
The unending watchfulness made eyes red-rimmed and strained and twanged a man’s nerves. Nelson thought, It would be almost a relief to see something, anything to fill that emptiness. He saw the dust cloud at the same time that a dozen voices cried, “There! To the southwest!”
He reined up, and from the slight elevation he watched the cloud move toward them. It took many hoofs to raise a cloud that size.
He heard the restless stirrings and the clicking of weapons and turned his head. “We’ll make no fight here. If it’s Saucedo and his troops, we’ll ride back to Nacogdoches.” The town could be turned into a fort. They could sally forth from that fort after mauling Saucedo’s men. He had seen Mexicans fight before. Once they were broken, they would flee in disorder, never stopping until they crossed the border.
He could see the riders making the dust cloud now. A large number, perhaps fifty or sixty of them. They grew in size, and he could pick out individual men and animals.
Those riders were Americans, not Mexicans. He leaned forward, his body a rigid line.
His voice was hoarse with relief as he said, “I know Lukens and Casket. I talked to them in San Felipe de Austin. Austin has sent his men to join us.”
Stiff, dust-caked faces broke into grins, and voices were light as talk broke out among them. The clouds were not black forever.