Officers were treated with formal respect, almost a requirement, especially for those forts far out in the backcountry. It was intended as a reminder of the privileges U.S. Army officers were entitled to—no matter where they were or how lonely the post in which they found themselves.
“Thanks,” Jake said as the bartender slid the mugs in front of them. They carried their drinks to a table by the window, then went into the dining room to the buffet table to get their food.
Back at their table, Jake looked up at Laszlo and said, “Elizabeth asked me to find someone who could fix her house, repair the damage so she can move back in. How are you at work like that?”
“I built my own vardo,” Laszlo said.
“Nice work. I’m impressed. So I can tell her you’d be interested in the job?”
“I’d be interested in any job,” Laszlo replied. His eyes filled and he looked away quickly.
“Good,” Jake said with a smile. “This week we’ll go out to the house and see what all needs to be done.” His expression then turned serious. “Now let’s go talk to Colonel Gordon and see what he wants us to do about Diego.”
The next day, on a narrow strip of beach on the Mexican shore, Major Chavez and General Diego, both wearing civilian clothes, walked their horses into the Rio Grande near Socorro, downstream from El Paso.
Diego, an excellent horseman, led the way across.
Chavez followed, chafing at his position. He should have been leading, not Diego. Chavez knew the route; the general did not. He swallowed his irritation, knowing full well that generals don’t like following lowly majors.
When they’d reached the other side, Diego looked for an easy way up the riverbank to the road.
“Which way, Major?” Diego asked.
Chavez smiled. “Follow me, General,” he said, pulling around Diego and starting up an incline so steep, his horse lunged like a mountain goat. At the edge of a road at the top, he looked down at the general. Diego nodded, kicked his horse hard, and leaped up the bank to the top.
Looking around, Diego said in disgust, “More sand. So, how far to El Paso?”
“Fifteen miles maybe,” Chavez said. “This is called the Old Road. It’s not as good as the new one, lots of deep ruts, but it has advantages. Few people use it, so we won’t be noticed. And if we stay on it, we can miss El Paso completely and ride on to Lloyd Madison’s house.”
“And how far is Madison’s from El Paso?” Diego asked.
“Three miles, no more,” Chavez answered.
General Diego nodded.
“We’re wasting time,” he said. “Let’s head out.” Then he gave his horse another powerful kick.
El Paso
“This is it.” Elizabeth leaned forward and pointed to a white house with black shutters, set well back off the road and overlooking the juncture of the Rio Grande and, upstream, the bubbling rapids where the Little Pine Creek flowed in.
Jake turned the buggy through the main gate and drove up the lane to C. E. Kaufman’s house.
Kaufman, a prominent attorney in town, had offered his home and grounds to the Wesley Women’s Society, which was sponsoring a town picnic that included educating the women about weapons.
Jake glanced at the paper in Elizabeth’s lap.
The headline read, Texas Rangers Teach El Paso Women to Shoot. Elizabeth had run two articles on it, giving the time and date of the picnic. Men were invited to the picnic, but the lesson on weapons afterward was for women only, the article said, offered for their and their families’ protection.
“Good advertising for the paper as well as your picnic,” Jake said. He chuckled. “Still don’t understand how you talked Kaufman into this gun picnic idea.”
“Shhh, don’t call it that. I met him in church. You were with me the day he and his wife introduced themselves, remember?”
Jake nodded. “Don’t remember you asking him to do this, though.”
“I didn’t then. His wife stopped by the paper the next week, and I suggested it.” The buggy went over a rut then, and she bounced up and down in the seat. “I’m so excited. I hope it goes well.”
People were coming from every direction—ranch wives, farm wives, women who felt vulnerable when they were alone. A few who lived in town came, well-dressed women wearing gloves and big hats.
Out on the road, a line of wagons, buggies, and men on horseback waited to turn in through the gate.
Sergeant Gus Dukker in a purple- and yellow-striped shirt manned the gate, directing the drivers to park in a field at the other end of the picnic area. Being a Ranger, with a gun on each hip, he was also checking the occupants of each buggy or wagon to make sure no troublemakers showed up.
The grounds had been decorated with red, white, and blue streamers and hand-lettered signs. Balloons were tied to every table and handed out to the children. From the far side of the grounds came shouts of laughter. A blue haze rose when another string of firecrackers went off.
“The people of El Paso have done everything right,” Jake said to Elizabeth. “To someone passing by, it looks like a town picnic.”
“Which it is,” she said.
“But with a difference. There’s more weaponry at this picnic today than in some entire towns.”
Sheriff Bud Wagner, his wounded leg propped on a bench, sat with Deputy Morgan at a table laid out with guns under a sign that said, Law Enforcement.
Women in long white aprons worked at a yard-long griddle borrowed from a local restaurant and hung over a wood fire. Sausages and Red Hots sizzled.
Next to the griddle, a side of beef turned in a huge fire pit. Peppery steam swirled and rose from it, stinging their eyes. From time to time, Reverend Sam Lewis painted it with more hot sauce.
The old national flag of what used to be the Republic of Texas—red, white, and blue with a single star—fluttered proudly alongside the Stars and Stripes.
Jake pulled up with the buggy, helped Elizabeth down, and unloaded boxes of rifles and ammunition. Six Rangers from D Company rode in right behind them. They tied up their horses and Jake’s buggy and came back to get the teachers’ tables set up. Each table displayed an assortment of rifles and pistols. Rangers would demonstrate care and handling of the different types of weapons. Out in the field behind a barn, paper targets had been set in a line.
One table was already surrounded by ladies and girls, all of them smiling at the young officer in the dark blue Cavalry coat and sky blue trousers so familiar on the frontier. The broad yellow stripe down each trouser leg announced his officer status, as did the wide-brimmed black campaign hat trimmed with gold and tipped up at the side.
Lieutenant Mark Taylor, the officer who had brought the telegram to Jake the day Elizabeth was kidnapped, waved to Jake as he passed.
Jake came over and nodded at the girls gathered around the table. “Glad you came in uniform,” he said to the lieutenant. “It shows everyone how neighborly El Paso and Fort Bliss are.” He smiled, lowered his voice and added, “And the ladies seem to love that uniform.”
Ignoring Jake’s comment, Lieutenant Taylor said, “As you can see, I brought a Springfield military rifle and two Army Colts for my demonstration. By the way, thanks for asking for me. My captain was very impressed.” He grinned. “That pretty lady with you a minute ago—at the next table—is that Elizabeth Evans?”
Jake turned, glanced at Elizabeth, who was talking and laughing with one of his Rangers. “That’s her,” he said.
“No wonder you were so determined to get her back.”
Jake laughed, clapped Taylor on the shoulder. “And I’m going to keep her away from you in that uniform.”
“Anyone with property to protect, over here, please,” a Ranger called. Behind him, the deputy sheriff had set up a blackboard. People crowded around. The Ranger and the sheriff drew roads in and out of El Paso and sketched in the Rio Grande for reference. They circled properties that might be at risk.
At one of the Ranger tables, Fred Barkley s
tripped a rifle. In half a minute he’d taken the weapon completely apart. Next, he took out the firing pin, the spring, all while explaining what each piece did. Then, just as quickly, he put the pieces back together. The women gathered around, listening to him describe each step.
He showed a woman how to hold the rifle, get comfortable with it, then pass it along to the woman next to her. After everyone had a chance to hold the gun and sight it, then came the actual shooting at targets. A Ranger stood behind each woman taking a turn, holding her left elbow and guiding the rifle against her shoulder.
“Why that’s not hard at all!” one said, lining up for a second turn.
Confident and smiling, some of them sought out Elizabeth, who was standing in the next line for her third chance with a Winchester Model 1886.
The afternoon flew by. Finally, Jake cast an anxious look at the setting sun and called an end to the target practice.
Over the groans and pleas to shoot a while longer, he said, “For shooting, you need good light. Remember, ladies—always think safety.”
It was late afternoon when Chavez and the general turned into the lane leading to Madison’s house. Chavez took him up to the barn first, which was dark and empty inside. No horses; they’d been hauled away. No chickens and no dogs, for they’d been disposed of, also.
“All the curtains are pulled. The place looks deserted,” Diego said, riding back to the house. “Was it like this when you were here?”
“Not at all. I just assumed the woman was still living here. There was also a child and a housekeeper. Now, no one.”
Frowning, Diego walked up the steps to the front door. Locked.
He threw his shoulder against it several times until finally the lock gave way and the door swung open.
They stepped inside and looked around.
“What happened in here?” Diego asked.
“When my men saw that Lloyd Madison was gone, they got all angry. And this”—Chavez swept his hand at the overturned furniture and broken lamps—“was the result of that.”
“This is why the Evans woman left. Thanks to your men, the place is almost unlivable.” Diego smacked his hand against the wall and swore. “Why didn’t you tell me what we’d find before we came all the way out here?” He snapped his head up. “I don’t suppose you know where Elizabeth Evans lives now?”
Chavez’s eyes grew wide and he shook his head.
“I didn’t think so,” Diego said, and stormed out the door and down the front steps. He mounted his horse and started down the lane for the road back to Socorro.
Whistling under his breath, Laszlo headed down the Old Road for the cutoff to El Paso. Strange . . . The two riders a quarter mile ahead weren’t there a minute ago. He looked around. He’d passed no houses and no roads for the last mile. There were none except the lane he was coming up on, the driveway to the Hoopa Lady’s house. He’d ridden into town with Jake and Elizabeth this morning to help unload chairs for the weapons demonstration this afternoon. Jake pointed out her house as they went by.
On impulse, he turned into the lane and trotted up to the house. Quiet. Everything seemed all right.
Not quite.
The front door stood wide open.
Laszlo didn’t get off his horse. Instead, he turned him around and took off at a gallop back to the Old Road. As he came up behind the two men, he noticed the saddles—Mexican military saddles. And he’d seen both of the men before, but in Mexican uniforms.
Chavez and Diego.
Bad news for the Hoopa Lady.
He took the road along the river through El Paso and out to the picnic, where he swung off his horse to look for Jake and Elizabeth.
“Jake! Jake!” he called, waving his arms over his head.
Jake hurried over. “What’s wrong?”
“I just saw him!” Laszlo said, breathless. “He’s here. Diego’s here!”
“We’re going to arrest them,” Jake said.
He talked quietly to six Rangers, the sheriff and his deputy, all circled around the Law Enforcement table. Every man was wearing guns.
Gus shook his head. “Diego and Chavez may just show up here. They think no one knows them. They’re wearing civilian clothes, and both speak English. Even if they didn’t speak English, it wouldn’t be noticed in El Paso. More people speak Spanish than English here, anyway.”
Gus clapped a hand on Laszlo’s shoulder. “My friend here says the general is without his usual mustache. Major Chavez has a scarred right cheek. Let’s spread out, and keep our eyes open. Any doubts, spread the word to Fred or me. Not Jake; they know Jake. But as far as we know, they don’t know us.”
Wide-eyed, Elizabeth pulled at Jake’s arm. “Surely they wouldn’t come here.”
“They might. But don’t worry—we’ll be ready for them.” Jake turned to Laszlo. “Take Elizabeth someplace safe and keep her out of sight.”
“Where can we go, Hoopa Lady?” Laszlo asked, leading her aside.
Elizabeth looked around and shrugged. “Not inside the Kaufman house. There are children in there.”
“There’s no place else around here, except for maybe the barn,” Laszlo said.
“The barn’s too close to other people. Those men have guns.” Her lips pursed. “The woods . . . I see lots of big trees and bushes.”
“Or we could go back to the Annex. There are Rangers there.”
“And meet the Mexicans on the way? Not on your life,” Elizabeth said.
Moments later, Diego and Chavez rode up the long driveway of the Kaufman house.
Gus, the official greeter, welcomed them, gave each a balloon and a small Texas flag. Other than himself, there wasn’t a Ranger in sight.
A drum roll sounded. The leader chinned his fiddle and called, “Yee-HAW! Grab your lady, here we go. Grab her now, boys, and do-si-do.”
Gus said, “You’re just in time for the dance, gentlemen.”
Under a yellow awning next to the barn, the Franklin Mountain Boys, in boots and Stetsons, led into a fast hoedown.
Gus pointed to the trees that lined the side of the big yard. “Tie your horses over there, and enjoy the music.”
The two men looked at each other, nodded, then swung down and began leading their horses toward the trees.
“Look around. Do you see the Evans woman?” Diego asked Chavez.
“No. Not yet.”
As they approached the trees, Diego glanced back at Gus and wrinkled his forehead. “I’m sure I’ve seen that man before. Recently. In Mexico.”
Chavez looked back. “Let’s leave, then. If you’re right, they know us, and won’t let us out the way we came in. I know this area. The woods end at a creek that empties into the Rio Grande, but there’s a drop-off and the water’s too deep. We have to follow it upstream and cross where it’s shallow, then find the Grande on that side.”
Diego got back on his horse and rode slowly into the trees, as if looking for a place to tie the horse. Chavez was right behind him. When they were well into the woods, they kicked their horses into a run.
A shot whistled overhead, tearing through the leaves, followed by another. Jake, hidden until now, ran from tree to tree, chasing them through the woods, firing above their heads. He didn’t want to kill them. The government needed them alive for prosecution, not only in the United States but in Mexico, too.
Dodging the trees, Diego headed for the drop-off to the creek up ahead. As they drew nearer to the creek, they slowed, looking for some way across. There, the creek was deep and wide with steep banks.
Jake jumped out from behind a tree and dragged Diego off his horse. Diego swore and swung at him. On the way down, Diego fumbled for his pistol, but dropped it as he yanked it out.
Jake punched him in the face—a short, hard jab. Diego’s head snapped to the side. Jake pulled back to hit him again.
From behind, hard steel struck the back of Jake’s head and buckled his knees. A red burst of fire and pain exploded behind his eyes. He knew it was a pist
ol butt from the way it felt.
The world tilted. The sky swirled, a blur of clouds and treetops. Slowly he fell onto his face.
“Get back on your horse, General,” he heard Chavez say, the words sounding distant.
“After I kill him.”
“No! A shot will give us away. We’ll come back later, and you can finish him off then.”
“Don’t you give me orders. I’ll do as I please.” Then, cursing and rubbing his jaw, Diego mounted up, and the two rode off.
Hearing them leave, Jake moaned, struggled to move.
On her stomach under a thick, scratchy bush, Elizabeth put a finger over Laszlo’s lips. She placed her mouth against his ear. “Go get the others,” she said.
Laszlo pushed himself out backward, then ran for the clearing.
Elizabeth rushed over to Jake. “Lie still. Let me see what’s wrong.”
He looked up into her eyes. Elizabeth, her arm around his shoulders, bent over him with a concerned frown.
“Don’t look so worried, darlin’. I’ll live.” His broad Texas accent thickened, dragged out as slow as sorghum. “I’ll be all right.”
But the skin around his eyes tightened as he winced in pain. He clenched his teeth, and then his face relaxed, his eyes glazed over and he passed out.
She went down on her knees beside him. He lay deathly still, his face the color of chalk. The back of his head was bleeding and a knot was growing. He was big, heavy, and out cold. She jerked her head up at a noise in the trees, and the stumble of her heartbeat raced in her ears. They were coming back to kill him. Her too.
Her mind jumped from one idea to another. Think! Think! They were close to the top of the high bank, maybe six feet above the water.
She stretched his arms down straight at his sides and pulled and tugged until he was at the brink. She looked at the creek below. Farther than she’d realized. She put one hand on his belt, the other on his shoulders.
River to Cross, A Page 18