The Bandera Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Gil clenched his teeth, stifling a groan as he swung into the saddle. Leaving the lonely cabin and its macabre secret behind, they rode west. But suddenly the silence was broken by the plaintive braying of a mule.

  “He may be tied where he can’t graze or reach water,” said Gil. “Let’s find him and take him with us. We can always use a good pack mule.”

  “You got more feelin’ for a mule than for them three hombres we shot,” Van chided.

  “The mule didn’t beat me half to death and then try to sell me to the Mex army,” said Gil.

  From the darkness came a sound neither of the Texans had ever heard before. Estanzio had understood Gil’s words, and laughed.

  August 20, 1843. Mexico City.

  Angelina was late, and Antonio Mendez had allowed his impatience to get the better of him. As he paced the stone floor of the infamous dungeon, the sound of his footsteps seemed inordinately loud in the quiet. He wasn’t concerned about his supper; he could satisfy his belly anytime. He had another appetite, far more fierce, and he believed this night he might take the edge off it. Since he had shown her those squalid cells on the lower floor of the prison, Angelina seemed more taken with him than ever. She had begun staying with him longer than usual, and he sensed this was building up to an experience such as he had never before encountered. He’d taken to changing his uniform daily, and for the tenth time in as many minutes he finger-combed his dark hair straight back, smoothing it around his ears. He took the lamp from his desk, turned the flame as low as he could, and placed it on a stand near the door. He might have need of the desktop, and he cleared it with that in mind. Finally he sat behind the desk, where he could see out the open front door, through the series of gates.

  A cart passed, drawn by two mud-spattered black horses, a pelado walking beside them. The horses had been intentionally muddied, lest they be taken for more than just a working team. Solano had carefully muddied the Winged M brand that each bore on its left hip, while he had attired himself as a nondescript peon. His high-crowned sombrero had a wide, flopped-down brim, as though it had been rained on once too often. It virtually hid his face. He turned the team down the dusty road that ran alongside the prison’s high west wall. He halted the team, sat down with his back against the adobe wall, and tilted the sombrero over his eyes. But not so much that he couldn’t see the Cocodrillo café up the street. He watched Angelina come out, walk up the street, and he lost sight of her as she crossed to the prison gate.

  “Ah,” said Antonio, as he unlocked the outer gate, “come in, come in.”

  His heart pounded so fiercely, he feared she could hear it. When she was about to place his supper tray on the old battered desk, he took the tray from her and placed it on the leather seat of his swivel chair.

  “There is more room for us,” he said playfully.

  She said nothing. She leaned against the desk, flashing him a smile that he interpreted as an invitation. He leaned there beside her, boldly putting his arm around her shoulders. She wore a voluminous ankle-length dress, but it had a row of buttons down the back. His fingers found the first one. The buttons, and then the sash. She did nothing to discourage him as he fumbled with the first button. He was mentally cursing himself for his clumsiness, when the first button let go. He moved on to the second, then the third, until he reached the last one. His confidence rose to new heights as he felt bare skin. She wore nothing under the dress! He slipped his hand down her back, and reaching the bow in her sash, he tugged it loose. Cautiously he moved his eager hand below her waist. Suddenly she leaned forward, raising the hem of her skirt. He froze.

  “I am letting my garters down,” she said.

  He had no idea what she was talking about, and when she straightened up, he set about slipping the dress off her shoulders and the sleeves off her arms. But that wasn’t what she wanted. She had her right hand behind her, but with her left one she reached down and took the hem of the skirt, raising it high. Antonio Mendez caught his breath. He forgot about removing the dress. He lifted her until she sat on the edge of the desk, and then swiveled her around, stretching her out lengthwise. He fumbled himself out of his uniform trousers, banged his bare knee smartly against the corner of the desk, and straddled her. Her arms went around him, and he never saw the steel dagger she clutched in her right hand. Once, twice, three times, she drove it into his back. When she humped him off of her, he rolled off the desk and fell facedown on the stone floor.

  Angelina put her dress in order, then took Antonio’s discarded trousers and removed the key ring from his belt. She had purposely been late, so that it would be dark before she made her move. She went to the lamp and turned up the flame, lest its dimness arouse suspicion. Then, the ring of keys in her hand, she ran for the stone stairs that led to the basement cell block. The men stared at her like silent, bearded specters, as she ran down the stone corridor to Clay Duval’s cell. She said nothing, nor did he. Gripping the iron bars, he watched as she tried key after key. She was down to three untried ones, her heart in her throat, when the lock finally clicked open. Clay Duval swung the barred door back and stepped out.

  “Give me the keys,” he said.

  “You’re going to free the others?”

  “I am,” he said, taking the ring of keys. “I’d be a poor excuse for a human being if I didn’t.”

  “Then let me have some of them,” she said, “and I’ll help. I’m scared, and I want us to get out of here.”

  “No,” he said, “these are keys for the entire prison. There’s maybe a dozen men down here; it won’t take us that long. I’ll do it.”

  “God bless you, ma’am,” said the first man, stumbling from his cell. He looked at Angelina as though she’d descended from heaven, wearing wings.

  There were similar expressions from the others. Once they were out of their cells, Clay had some advice for them.

  “That’s all we can do for you, pardners; you’re on your own. Go as far north tonight as you can. Hide by day, travel at night. Get yourselves some Mex duds, if you have to rob a clothesline. Vaya con Dios.”

  They all took the stone steps two at a time. Angelina took the keys and, with trembling hands, unlocked the gates that led to freedom. She and Clay waited until the rest of the men had vanished into the night. Then, as they exited each gate, they locked it behind them. Once outside, they kept within the shadow of the outer wall until they reached the cart where Solano waited. The Indian got to his feet and without a word took the Texan’s hand. From the cart, Angelina took peon clothes for herself and for Clay.

  “Here,” she told him, “get into these, and then get in the cart, under the straw.”

  “What are you goin’ to do with the keys?” he asked.

  “I’ll take them with me, I hope this is the only set they have.”

  17

  Gil, Van, Estanzio, and Juan Padillo reached camp without incident. Gil was bloody, battered, and bruised, but he dared not start a fire. His need for hot water was overshadowed by the possibility that a fire would attract unwelcome attention. He slept poorly, and was up before first light.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d be able to get up without help,” Van said.

  “I wasn’t all that sure of it, myself,” said Gil. “Soon as it’s light enough for a fire, I’ll heat some water and at least wash off the dirt and blood.”

  “Estanzio’s ready to boil us another pot of that Mex color,” said Van, “but I reckon we ought to wait a day or two, until you’ve had a chance to heal. That stuff in an open wound might poison you.”

  Gil dug out Ortega’s now tattered map, seeking to find Meoqui. Ramon had been told of the possibility of a third military outpost, and had joined Gil and Van for a look at the map. Finally they found Meoqui a few miles south of Chihuahua.

  “If Monterrey is two hundred miles west of Matamoros, Tamaulipas,” said Van, “this Meoqui has to be more than three hundred miles northwest of Monterrey.”

  “That’s a good guess,” said Gil. “N
ow that puts us in the position of having to squeeze between Meoqui and Monterrey, without alarming either outpost.”

  “Mayhap we can,” said Ramon. “Is far between.”

  “I’m not as concerned with the location of the outposts,” said Gil, “as I am troop movement between them. Soldiers on their way to or from Meoqui could stumble on to us at any time, or we could ride right into them.”

  “Border soldados too,” said Ramon.

  “True,” said Gil. “Soldiers on their way to or from Meoqui are only part of our problem. Those who have been fighting along the border must eventually return to Meoqui or Monterrey. Even if we’re able to slip past both outposts, there may still be soldiers between us and the border.”

  “From here to the border,” said Van, “we’ll be in constant danger of encountering soldiers, but I’m ready to have a go at it. I purely don’t like having an ax hangin’ over my head, never knowin’ when it’s gonna split my skull.”

  Gil’s big pot of water had begun to boil, so he peeled off his shirt, and with some of the rags Rosa had used on Van, began soothing his hurts. His upper arms and shoulders were a mass of purple bruises, and from the way it felt, his back didn’t look any better. His face and head had taken the worst punishment, and as he washed away the dried blood, some of the cuts began to bleed again. Without a word, Rosa took some of the rags, soaked them in the hot water, and began cleansing the cuts and bruises on his back and shoulders. When breakfast was over, the riders began saddling their horses, preparing to take the trail. Gil’s sore muscles screamed in silent protest when he hoisted the saddle. Van was watching.

  “Sorry we don’t have a wagon for you to ride.” He grinned.

  “I might be tempted to take advantage of it,” said Gil. “I feel like I’ve been pawed by a grizzly. That bunch jumped me before I found water for tonight, so if I’m going to scout ahead for today and tomorrow, I’ve got some ridin’ to do.”

  Ramon pointed the drive north, and Gil rode out ahead of it. When he reached the place he’d been roped out of his saddle, he was only three or four miles from where they’d bedded down the herds the night before. Reining up, his eyes searched the sky to the east, where stood a lonely cabin with its three dead men. This time there were no telltale buzzards. He didn’t know what he expected to see, and when he saw nothing, he rode on. Before he found water, he had ridden almost fifteen miles. It was a shallow stream, but it got deeper as he rode toward the source. It was the runoff from a spring, and he rode westward, along the south bank. Eventually he reached a surprisingly large pool at the foot of a rock outcropping. He reined up, viewing the deep, clear water with a frontiersman’s appreciation. But when his eyes roamed to the far side of the pool, he caught his breath. He saw the partially burned embers of a recent fire. Gil rode up a low ridge, circled the spring, and came down on the other side of the pool. He left his horse far enough away so as not to spoil any tracks. Even from where he stood, he could smell the damp ashes from the dousing of the fire. The previous visitors hadn’t been gone that long. He easily found tracks of a dozen shod horses, where they had approached the spring from the northwest, and where they had departed, toward the southeast.

  If the riders continued in the direction they were headed, they would pass to the north of the trail drive. He followed the tracks to the point where he had first reached the stream, and they continued southeast. He turned north and rode on. They would have water tonight, but he wanted to stay two days ahead of the drive. Once he was certain there was water for the herds, he could concern himself with other things. Such as dodging the Mexican army.

  August 21, 1843. Mexico City.

  Carlos Arista arrived at the dungeon to assume his duties for the day, and found the gates locked with nobody to let him in. It wasn’t the first time, and he cursed Antonio Mendez for a fool. How many times had Antonio partaken of pulque, forcing Carlos to awaken him from a stupor? Carlos had shouted until he was hoarse, without result. He was tempted to just return home, allowing Antonio Mendez to awake if and when he chose, but he dared not. Antonio, bastardo that he was, would claim that Carlos Arista had not shown up for work. Each of Antonio’s bouts with the bottle was worse than the last, and Carlos vowed this was going to be the end of it. Since this was a military prison, authorities at the presidential palace would become involved. Since Santa Anna’s ouster, there was a new prison director, and Carlos was afraid of him. He was the kind who might behead the bearer of bad news. Carlos did not know how to report the problem to the military; besides, the presidential palace was four miles distant. Suddenly he saw a way out. He hurried to the home of Hidalgo Gonzales, the alcalde.

  “You suspect Antonio Mendez is sleeping off a drunk,” said Gonzales, “and you wish me to summon the prison director to awaken him?”

  “I do not know that he sleeps,” said Carlos desperately. “I do not know what is the matter with him. I wish only to do my job, without trouble from the new presidente and the milicia.”

  Gonzales sighed. How well he understood. The city’s officials had, at best, a shaky alliance with the liberals who had wrested control of the government from Santa Anna. Suppose there was something wrong at that miserable dungeon, and he, the alcalde, did not report it?

  “Let us try once more,” said Gonzales. “If we are still unable to arouse this Antonio Mendez, then I will call on the prison director.”

  Carlos was waiting nervously before the gates of the dungeon when the new prison director arrived. Santo de Alimosa glared at Carlos Arista in disbelief. Finally he spoke.

  “There is but one set of keys?”

  “Si,” said Carlos. “Antonio Mendez has them. If there are others, perhaps General Santa Anna…”

  His voice trailed off, as he realized what he had almost said. Just the mention of the ex-dictator’s name could put some thoughtless wretch before a firing squad. But the new prison director was lost deep in his own gloomy thoughts. For an insane moment he wondered if the diabolical Santa Anna had somehow brought this calamity upon him. Everybody—perhaps even his comrades within the new regime—would be laughing at him, for now he must suffer the embarrassment of breaking into his own prison! Por Dios, he vowed he would make an example of this pelado, this Antonio Mendez. If not the firing squad, then perhaps a public whipping….

  Many miles north of Mexico City, a peasant-garbed Solano walked beside the cart, while a poorly dressed Angelina rode within it. In this first gray light of dawn, Solano was seeking a sanctuary where they might conceal themselves during the daylight hours. They traveled north, toward Tampico. When they reached a shallow stream that angled away toward the gulf, Solano turned his team westward. The stream bed deepened into an arroyo. Gangling Clay Duval was climbing out of the hay-filled cart even before it stopped moving. He wore peasant clothing, a flop-brimmed hat, and Indian moccasins.

  “I don’t aim to sound ungrateful,” he said, “but this is the worst damn ride I ever took. I need a critter I can wrap my legs around, even if it’s a Missouri jack without a saddle.”

  “Better cart than juzgado,” said Solano.

  The Indian didn’t waste words. Angelina laughed. The cart had been her idea, and they’d had little money, even for that. Solano was more than justified, for he had hated Mexico City.

  “Amigo,” said Clay, with a chuckle, “you purely know how to humble a man. If I had to crawl to Texas on my hands and knees, I’d be better off today than I was yesterday.”

  They had just the bare essentials. Even if they’d dared risk a fire, there was no need for one. Hardtack and jerked beef never spoiled, as long as it was kept dry, but there was no improving it. Once they had finished their meager meal, Solano stretched out on the shaded bank of the stream, tipped his sombrero over his eyes, and slept.

  “I brought a razor,” said Angelina, “so I can cut your hair. I can rid you of the beard too, but it’ll have to be without soap, and in cold water.”

  “I’d sacrifice some hide to have my face feel c
lean again,” said Clay. He removed the rough peon shirt.

  First she cut his hair, trimming it close above the ears and in the back. But the months-long beard wasn’t easily conquered. When she had finished, he splashed cold water on his face, washing away the blood from the many cuts. Despite his discomfort, she laughed.

  “I feel like I been in a knife fight,” he said, “and everybody had a knife except me.”

  Nothing disturbed the solitude except the chatter of birds, and the munch-munch-munch of the picketed horses cropping grass.

  “Now,” he said, “soap or not, I aim to find a place in this branch where the water’s deep enough to wash off this prison stink.”

  She followed.

  “I aim to get jaybird naked,” he added. “You still want to come along?”

  “Haven’t I earned the right?”

  “I reckon you have,” he said.

  After leaving the spring, Gil rode another twenty miles before finding suitable water. It was almost a two-day drive, and he had visions of another dry camp. He had ridden a hundred yards north of the creek when he made an alarming discovery. A large party of riders had come this way, riding northwest. The horses were shod, and the tracks appeared days old. But there was something more. At first he thought they were wagon tracks, changing his mind when he could account for only two wheels. A two-wheeled cart? If these had been soldiers—and he was virtually sure they had been—they’d use pack mules or horses. The terrain was far too rugged for cart or wagon. Whatever the thing was, it had been heavily loaded, for the wheels had cut deep tracks. The wheels were set close together, the rims wider than those of Victoria Mendoza’s Conestoga. Suddenly, like twin bolts of lightning, it hit him. These were the tracks of a carriage-mounted, horse-drawn cannon, and this almost had to be the route the Mexican soldiers were, taking to the farthest outpost at Meoqui!