“Well, sir, when I got there, there were only a few men left—living in Hafer’s house like squatters, using it as a kind of hangout, living off his cattle and such. A big barn Hafer had built was burned down, and the place was pretty much deserted. I asked the men there what the hell happened to Hafer. They said there had been a big feud between him and this Caleb Sax—some neighbor to the south of him who’s part Indian.”
“I know who Caleb Sax is,” Byron sneered impatiently.
Kent squirmed in his chair. He didn’t like men like Byron Clawson. There was an element of evil to the man’s power that made him uncomfortable, but he had been paid well to go to Texas and get the facts.
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “At any rate, I guess at first the fight was over water. Hafer had diverted some from the Sax place to irrigate his own land for cotton. This Sax fella, he attacked Hafer’s men and tore up the dam Hafer had built and got his water back. But I guess things got really heated up when this Sax man’s son run off with Hafer’s daughter.”
Byron’s eyes widened and he leaned forward. “His daughter!”
“Yes, sir. Seems the two took a shine to each other and the next thing you know, the young man snatches her right off a boat Hafer had put her on to bring her back to St. Louis and they get married. Hafer went after her but couldn’t find her, so later he attacked Sax’s place and stole the son and Sax’s wife. He nearly killed the son—dragged him behind a horse. Said he’d return them when Sax brought him his daughter. Hafer was fumin’ mad because the Sax boy was Indian. At any rate, his plan didn’t work. Sax attacked in return. Somehow he knew just where his wife and son were being held. He got ’em back, and he killed a lot of Hafer men, burned the barn, too. And somehow Caleb Sax got in the house and killed Hafer. They found him stabbed to death.”
Kent shifted in his chair again. “I mean to tell you, sir, those men are right scared of this Caleb Sax. They said they’d never go up against him again. Said now that Hafer is dead, they don’t give a damn what happens. The Sax kid can have the girl for all they care. All most of them are concerned about is Mexico. They’re kind of waitin’ around to get in on the fightin’ when it starts. They even—”
“That’s enough!” Byron waved him off. “Go collect your money from my secretary. I want to be alone,” he said in a shaking voice. He turned his chair around so that the back of it was to the man. Kent rose, glad to leave. He hurried out without another word.
Byron stared out a window. Sax! Caleb Sax was alive and well and still kicking! What if he knew? He bet that Sax knew the real owner of that land was Byron Clawson. His son had been nearly killed. The man already hated him enough to kill him. This would only make matters worse. He hit the arm of his chair with his fist.
“Fool,” he grumbled, referring to Charles Hafer. “Goddamned fool! I never should have sent a goddamned farmer against someone like Caleb Sax!”
He whirled his chair and pulled open a drawer, taking out a bottle of whiskey and slugging some down. Caleb Sax! None of it had worked out as he had planned. Apparently Sax had more power in Texas than he thought, to get away with something that outrageous.
“He’ll not keep that power or that land for long,” Byron sneered. “If I have to go down there myself to get things going against the Indians, I’ll do it.”
Surely by now, with so many Southerners going to Texas, there were rumblings against the Indians. A natural hatred was already harbored for the Comanche. That was understandable. But somehow Comanche hatred had to be directed at all the Indians. Someone had to accent the fact that a lot of Cherokee were going there, most of them probably squatting on land that wasn’t even theirs.
That reminded him that there were men squatting on his own land. Squatters on Clawson land, living in the home Hafer had built with Clawson money! Now there was no one to watch over the property, no one to develop it. He took another swallow of whiskey. Hafer! He’d bungled everything!
He shoved the bottle back into the drawer. There was nothing he could do about it now. He was getting too involved in raising money and preparing to campaign for the primaries for governor. In another year they would be held. He couldn’t become well known in Missouri by running off to Texas. The land was still his. What could happen to the land? It was always there. Besides, things were getting too dangerous down there, what with all the trouble with Mexico.
He leaned back, reassuring himself that he was safe by reminding himself that Caleb Sax surely wouldn’t take the time to stop and come to St. Louis to kill him—not now—not with a whole family to support and the danger of war with Mexico. War! Yes. Perhaps the son of a bitch would be killed if there was a war. That was a pleasant thought.
Somehow Caleb Sax had to die, or Byron Clawson would never get a good night’s sleep. Now the danger of Caleb wanting his skin was even greater. Why on earth hadn’t Hafer just killed the man? Surely he could have had him assassinated somehow.
“Stupid goddamned fool,” he muttered again. “I never should have told him it was worth more to him to destroy Sax financially and get him run out of Texas. I should have ordered him killed outright.” The damned Indian always managed to win, to survive everything Byron threw at him, whether it was physical or mental torment. He stood up, going to look out the window.
“I’ll get you yet, Caleb Sax,” he growled in a low voice, speaking to nothing but the window. “I’ll get you first.” His eyes filled with tears of pure fear, and he shivered with the thought of Caleb alive and now aware that Byron had sent Charles Hafer to harrass and destroy him. As long as Caleb was alive, Byron could never be happy. He blamed Caleb for all his bad luck: for losing Sarah and her money; for his ugly, crooked nose.
“Perhaps I’ll have to meet the enemy face to face after all and have it over with,” he muttered aloud.
Yes. Surely there was a way to do that without dying. Not in combat. Lord knew he could never defeat Caleb Sax in combat. But maybe there was a way to look the man in the face and still defeat him. He would find a way. And Clawson set out to do just that.
Chapter
Nineteen
* * *
It was 1835 when Santa Anna began an all-out campaign to “tame” the Americans. Surrounding provinces were secured by Mexican troops, their own militia disbanded. Military garrisons were established throughout Texas as a warning to the settlers. He hoped that the Mexican troops would in themselves be enough of a threat to settle the anger of the Americans, who were outraged that Santa Anna had declared their constitution invalid. Santa Anna did not like reform. He did not agree with trial by jury. He did not believe in religious tolerance, nor with the use of English in legal documents. The Americans were becoming too “American.” They should obey Mexican law.
A group of merchants at Anahuac were arrested for creating opposition to heavy import taxes. Texans gathered in great numbers afterward in San Felipe to discuss what they should do about the merchants. More men joined the militia. William Barret Travis, a fiery young lawyer recently come to Texas, gathered together twenty-five men and a cannon and left San Felipe to attack the Mexican troops at Anahuac and demand the release of the merchants. Only one cannonball was fired, and the Mexican officer in charge fled with his forty-four men.
The merchants were released, but Texans were so torn over war or peace, and so worried about what the full Mexican army could do to them, that Travis returned to San Felipe to discover that most of the settlers were angry over his actions, declaring he had acted rashly. A letter of apology was immediately dispatched to the Mexican government.
But Santa Anna and the brother-in-law he had put in charge of Coahuila y Texas would have none of it. The Americans had dared to act against the Mexican government! Santa Anna demanded Travis be turned over for arrest. The Americans would not do it. They were upset with Travis, but they would not hand over one of their own to be shot by a firing squad.
Things were getting to the point of “fight or submit.” Americans took hope in the lead
ership of Sam Houston, and in the return, in September of 1835, of Stephen Austin, more than two years since his arrest. Austin reinforced their courage and determination, describing Santa Anna as a “bloody monster,” and declaring that war was their only recourse. The Mexican commander at San Antonio, Colonel Domingo de Ugartechea, sent a detachment to Gonzales to take back a small brass cannon given the settlers for defense against Indians. The Texans at Gonzales, angered that the Mexicans would dare to come and take away a needed weapon, sent out messengers to help them defend against Ugartechea’s men. Their call for help was quickly answered, and the Mexican troops were met by one hundred sixty settlers and their long rifles. The Mexicans appeared and the Texans opened fire.
On October 9, 1835, a small troupe of Americans attacked Mexican soldiers at Goliad, who were stationed there to guard some powder and shot. The Mexican soldiers, mostly criminals themselves, who were poorly fed and poorly paid, surrendered readily. They had no desire to fight the determined and independent Americans.
All these small victories of the proud and bold Texans fueled their craving to be rid of Santa Anna’s cruel dictatorship. The Texas revolution had begun …
Tom Sax was among the men who fought to keep the cannon at Gonzales. He wanted a fight. He needed a fight.
He had left the ranch. Caleb understood. Tom had to get away from familiar things. But Caleb knew it wouldn’t be long before he would also have to leave. War seemed inevitable.
Tom missed his father, miserably. Yet it was more miserable to stay around where he’d had those few months with Bess. Every day he had to look at the newly built but unused cabin. Every day he had to see the little graveyard on the hill. Every day was torture. Maybe he would die fighting Mexicans. It would be an honorable enough way to go. But somewhere deep inside he knew that some day his feelings would probably change. And he knew what it would do to his father if something happened to him.
Tom sat smoking, listening to Stephen Austin, their chosen leader. The poor man was ill. It was obvious his prison experience had nearly broken him. He looked terrible, and he coughed a lot. But the men had asked him to lead them, and he had agreed, for he loved Texas more than his own life. That was the strange part about it. They all loved Texas more than their personal comfort, their very lives. He realized how much he must love it. It had taken Bess from him, yet here he was, fighting for this cruel land.
What made a man do that? Mostly stubborn pride, he supposed. No man wanted to get “licked.” He’d fight for Texas, then maybe he would leave it. But it would not be easy leaving his father. Maybe he was too dependent on the man. Except for his early years living with the Cheyenne, Caleb Sax and Texas were all Tom had ever known. He was twenty-two years old and had never been anywhere, except the one trip he made to St. Louis back in ’32, where his name in the paper had attracted the attention of Sarah Sax and helped her find Caleb. He didn’t even remember being with the Cheyenne as a baby.
But Tom hadn’t cared much for the bigger cities in the East. If he left Texas, maybe he would go deeper into the wilds of the mountains to the north and west. Maybe he’d dig deeper into his Indian heritage, maybe even live among them. There had to be some way to get over Bess. The ache raged through his soul in cruel waves of sorrow that washed over him without warning, leaving the terrible crushing feeling on his chest again. He must not think about it. He must not think about all the hell he had gone through to have her, only to lose her to disease, something he could not fight. It made Tom feel so helpless. He guessed that was why he was here. Here he could physically fight something, vent his grief on the Mexicans.
There was not time to think about it now. Austin was telling the three hundred or so men present that he intended to attack San Antonio, a bold move indeed. There were fourteen hundred Mexicans at San Antonio; uniformed, trained men. Tom studied the American volunteers, mostly dressed in buckskins. Some wore boots, some only moccasins. Most were independent men who were difficult to lead, biting at the bit to “kill a Mexican”; rash men ready to do rash things.
Tom himself was among the ninety or so men led by Jim Bowie, a seemingly skilled, brave man who carried an unusually large, fancy knife and knew how to use it. Tom liked him and trusted him. The fiery young attorney, William Travis, who had won the victory at Anahuac, was also among them. They were all looking for a fight and Tom wanted one as much as any of them. Anything to keep from thinking about Bess. It was October 1835 when they all left for San Antonio, where they hoped to occupy a Spanish fortlike mission there called the Alamo.
* * *
Caleb lay sleepless. Tomorrow he would go to the convention in San Felipe and join with the others under Sam Houston’s leadership, as they all discussed what to do. Already Stephen Austin and his men had been attacked outside San Antonio. In the ensuing battle, sixty Mexicans had been killed and only one Texan. Now the Texans were entrenched around the city but had not attacked, aware that their numbers were far too small. They were waiting for instructions and help from the rest of Texas, under Sam Houston. There would be a meeting first.
He lay beside Sarah in a bunkhouse on Handel property, a bunkhouse that was empty, deserted by men who had volunteered. Caleb’s own ranch sat quiet, only a few Cherokee left to watch over things, including Jake Highwater. Most of Caleb’s horses had been sold to be used by the militia, which was short in supply of everything. The few horses left could be watched by Jake and the four or five men left.
Caleb was now an active volunteer. There seemed to be no choice. He was a Texan, and Tom was also out there fighting. But he worried what this war would do to the ranch. He hadn’t even got any money for the horses he’d sold to the militia; only promissory notes from a penniless new government. But he trusted they would make good on the notes. In the meantime, after this was over, he would simply start over. He could always start over. It seemed that was the story of his life.
James, now over two years old, slept in a cot nearby. Lynda and Cale slept in the main house with the Handels. Jess slept in a small shed nor far away. He would go with Caleb to San Felipe in the morning.
Caleb turned to Sarah then, and she to him, as though both sensed at just the right time what they must do.
He met her mouth and she returned the kiss with unusual savageness for his gentle woman. He was immediately on fire. They had made love already tonight but once was not enough. He would go to San Felipe tomorrow, perhaps march out that very day and not be back for a long, long time. His lips moved to her full breasts.
“Come back to me, Caleb,” she wept. “Please, please come back to me!”
His only reply was to meet her mouth again, searching deeply as he moved on top of her. How long would it be before he did this again? What if he never came back? Who would care for her, love her?
It was the same for her, the worry, the wonder. It was all so wrong and unfair. Why did there have to be war? Everything seemed to be crumbling around them. Lee and John were dead, and poor Bess. Tom was off fighting somewhere, and the ranch sat making no money. Fate was again dealing its unpredictable hand to the Saxes.
Caleb told himself at least he still had the land. They would all go back some day. They would, after a while, all be happy again. There would be no more war in Texas.
He surged inside his woman with possessive determination. Sarah! God, how he hated leaving her. She arched up to him in return, wanting to remember this moment, every part of him, remember how it felt to be made love to by this man. No greater fear plagued her than losing him again after spending so many years apart.
At the main house Lynda also lay awake. Jess Purnell would leave tomorrow. Why had she been so mean to him? Why had it been so difficult for her to let herself care? Yes, it hurt to love and lose. But suddenly it seemed perhaps it would hurt more to lose a man without ever showing him she loved him. Over and over he had expressed his love to her. But she refused his advances, ignored her own needs, pretended they were not there. How terrifying it was to think of lovi
ng again! Especially now. Tomorrow he would leave.
Maybe he would never come back. And if he didn’t, how would she feel then? He would die without ever knowing her love in return. She turned on her side. Her father liked and trusted Jess. Even little Cale liked him; loved riding on Jess’s shoulders, ran to him as though he were his father every time he saw him.
She thought about his friendship, his beautiful, powerful body, the tender blue eyes and thick, sandy hair. She thought about the strong hands, the brilliant smile, the tanned face. He might die, never knowing that deep inside she really did feel love for him. But it was so terrifying to admit to that love.
She lay in torment. Which would be worse? Loving him, giving herself to him, and then having him die like Lee? Or letting him go off alone and lonely, his dying thoughts being of her, the woman he loved but never could have? What if he was wounded? Wouldn’t he struggle to live if he knew she loved him and was waiting for him to come home? Or would he will himself to die because he was sure he never could have her? Surely this very moment her mother and father were making love, sharing those last wonderful, intimate moments together. Her father would leave knowing his woman loved him, leave with a determination to return to that woman, leave with much more courage in his heart because he had a real purpose.
She sighed and sat up. Maybe she was a fool. She pulled on her robe and went through a curtained doorway to the outer room, leaving a soundly sleeping Cale in her bed. The Handels slept in another room. Lynda walked on bare feet to the front door, her mind reeling with indecision.
She walked outside and over to an abandoned shack where she knew Jess slept. She reached the doorway and hesitated, turned. She wasn’t even sure what she had expected. But just to wish him luck and tell him she loved him was risky. Just admitting it meant caring again, the risk of the awful loneliness again. It had been two years since Lee died. Two years. And it had taken her all this time to get over it, to feel like a whole person again. But she had never gotten over that loneliness. How could she take that chance again?
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