August 31, 1843. North of Tampico.
Solano rode out an hour before good dark, for he had some tracking to do. Last night, somewhere to the north, he had heard a cougar squall. He wanted some assurance they wouldn’t encounter the beast in the dark, that it wouldn’t end up stalking their horses. At the same time, he hoped he wouldn’t have to shoot it. In the evening quiet, the sound of a shot would carry for miles. On the very heels of that thought came the eerie, womanlike scream of the cougar. Solano’s horse reared, nickering, and he had to force the trembling animal ahead. Somewhere another horse nickered its fear. Then, like an echo, there was a second, a third, and a fourth. The cougar was stalking a horse herd!
Solano reined up on the crest of a ridge, his eyes on the valley below. Even in the fading light, he could see several of the horses. They had paused midway of the valley, looking fearfully back the way they had come. Solano tied his horse securely, took his rifle from the boot, and started down the hill on the run. These horses were not behaving like wild ones, and Solano quickly decided they were not. There should have been a stallion, bringing up the rear, facing the danger. There was none. A few minutes more and it would be too dark to see. Or to shoot accurately. There was a rustling of leaves and underbrush, and Solano froze. Fifty yards ahead, to his left, was a huge uprooted oak. Supported by the root mass, the horizontal trunk of the tree rested well above the surrounding brush. Suddenly the cougar sprang to the trunk of the fallen tree, seeking to locate the fleeing horses. In the failing light it was Solano’s best and only chance. The big cat spotted him just as the Indian fired. With a screech, the cougar reared on its hind legs and toppled backward off the log. Solano waited, but there was no sound.
It was a bad situation. A wounded cougar was the most dangerous of all. If he went close enough to be sure of his kill, the cat might yet be alive, with strength enough to tear him apart. But he dared not wait. Solano ran to the very top of the fallen tree, climbed to the trunk and crept down it. The upended root mass kept the trunk high enough so it was unlikely the wounded cougar could reach him. It was barely light enough for him to see the tawny hide of the animal. He had shot the big cat through the head. It was a perfect shot, considering the poor light, and he swelled with pride. For a moment he forgot the horses, but only for a moment. He trotted back up the ridge, slid his rifle into the boot and swung into the saddle. It was dark, but he was going to find those horses the cougar had been stalking. He rode down the ridge and turned his horse along the valley in the direction the horses had gone. When his horse nickered, two others answered.
Solano rode on, and as he neared them, he began talking his guttural horse talk. While it said nothing, it meant much. Out of the darkness a big black nuzzled him familiarly. When he dismounted, more of the horses came to him. While it was too dark for him to see their brands, he suddenly knew what he was going to find come the dawn. Quickly he ran his hands over the flanks of several of the horses. His heart leaped when his fingers traced the familiar lines of the Winged M brand!
Solano was reluctant to leave, and the Mendoza mares clearly didn’t want him to. But they would have to wait while he carried this important information to Clay Duval. This was part of the Mendoza herd, in sufficient numbers that they would never have been abandoned. Unless the trail drive’s riders—including Clay Duval’s Tejano friends—were dead.
20
September 3, 1843. Monterrey, Mexico.
Long John had been right. By first light the three captives had been led out and prepared for the journey to Matamoros. Their hands were bound behind their backs, and once they were mounted, their ankles were tied together by a rope passed under the horse’s belly. This time there were no ropes around their necks, but soldiers still led their horses. Only once did Gil have a chance to speak to Rosa, and she didn’t respond. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she looked not to have slept at all. Another officer was riding with them, having been with the force at Monterrey. More and more it looked as though some high-level meeting was about to take place at Matamoros. When they eventually stopped for the night, three soldiers were detailed to guard the prisoners.
“Fergit what I said ’bout makin’ a run fer it on the trail t’ Matamoros,” said Long John glumly.
“Same treatment we got all the way to Monterrey,” said Gil, “All we got to look forward to is that ride to Mexico City.”
“You reckon we got a chance, then,” said Long John, “betwixt there an’ Matamoros?”
“A chance,” said Gil. “Nothing more.”
“Silendo,” said one of the guards. He and his two companions came closer, and the conversation was finished for the night.
Depending on his horse talk to calm them, Solano quickly tallied the horses. He counted sixteen. While a few might have strayed, this seemed more the remnant of a stampede. Stalked by the cougar, this bunch had become lost. Could they be part of the trail drive the Tejanos had planned? Reluctant as he was to leave the newly discovered Mendoza horses, Solano mounted and rode south. Clay and Angelina would be waiting. He realized he was returning much later than usual, but if he knew Clay Duval, their journey was about to be delayed. Soldados or not, come first light they would be back-trailing the Mendoza horses. He rode in to find Angelina and Clay with their horses saddled, impatiently waiting for him.
“We heard the shot,” said Clay.
“Cougar,” said Solano. “Him hunt horse. Mendoza horse. Many.”
“They must be part of the trail drive,” said Angelina.
“I don’t see how,” said Clay. “They’re too far east. Victoria told me the soldiers from Mexico City travel right up the coast to Matamoros. Why in tarnation would Gil and Van bring the drive this far east? When they turn north, they’ll be headed straight for Matamoros.”
“Back-trail horse,” said Solano.
“I aim to,” said Clay. “We can’t do it in the dark, but we can start at first light. Solano, take us to these horses.”
Angelina had never seen Clay so excited. Although they couldn’t back-trail the horses until dawn, Clay Duval couldn’t wait to assure himself they were really there. Solano led out, and they followed. The horses had moved on down the valley until they had reached the runoff from a spring. There they grazed, and Clay Duval went from one to the other, greeting them like long-lost friends. Once it was light enough to see, they counted sixteen of the magnificent horses, every one bearing a Winged M brand on its left hip.
“Let’s ride,” said Clay.
Solano led out at a gallop. The horses had left a broad trail they could follow with ease. When Solano reined up, Clay and Angelina reined up beside him.
“Wait,” said Solano, and he rode on.
“He’s one smart Injun,” said Clay. “Mendoza horses or not, he aims to see we don’t ride hell-bent for election into trouble.”
Solano saw the two riders in time to avoid being seen by them. Waiting until they were well past, he fell in behind them. When he was near enough, he spoke.
“Buenos dias, hombres.”
Startled, Ramon and Estanzio turned, their hands falling away from the butts of their pistols when they recognized Solano. Quickly they rode toward him. Ramon offered his hand, and Solano took it. Estanzio, in a rare burst of enthusiasm, offered his hand. Gravely, Solano took it.
“Find horse,” said Solano. “Kill cougar. Follow horse tracks. Come.”
Solano wasted no time. For some reason he had yet to learn, the trail drive not only had not left Mexico, but seemed to have strayed dangerously off course. It involved Clay Duval’s Tejano friends; if they were not already dead, they soon might be. There was much talking to be done. In time Solano would know the dangers they faced and what must be done to overcome them, but the most immediate need was for Ramon and Clay to talk. There were glad cries of recognition from Clay and Angelina when Ramon and Estanzio reined up. Leaning out of her saddle, Angelina caught the startled Estanzio around the neck, and the Indian actually blushed.
&
nbsp; “Come on,” said Clay, “and let’s ride back to the horses. There’s a spring. We got some talking to do, and I reckon we’ll be a while.”
Reaching the spring, they dismounted and picketed their horses.
“Ramon,” said Clay, “you do the talking. Tell it all, includin’ why the trail drive’s so far east it’s practically in the lap of the Mex army. This ain’t even close to the route I planned.”
Ramon began by explaining they were already in the hands of the Mexican army, and that their southerly approach to Matamoros was a last-ditch effort to free Gil and Van.
“Ramon,” said Clay, “that took guts. It’s a smart move, maybe the only way, but you and your riders are risking your lives for a pair of Tejanos.”
“We Tejano outfit,” said Ramon. “No more Mendoza.”
“Victoria?” Angelina asked. “She is…”
“Dead, senorita,” said Ramon. As gently as he could, he explained what had happened.
“Oh, damn her,” said Angelina, through tears, “for involving herself with Esteban Valverde, and damn him for being the rotten little weasel that he was!”
When Angelina had recovered from the shocking news, Ramon continued. He planned to use the presence of the soldados to get the trail drive near Matamoros, and then dispose of his military escort for the run across the border.
“That’s as good a plan as anybody could come up with,” said Clay, “but it could stand some improving. First, we must know when the soldiers leave Matamoros with Gil and Van, and then we need to know how many soldiers we’re up against. Once they’re within a few miles of the trail drive, then we need to rid ourselves of Sergeant Aguilla and his men. Then we ride north, taking that southbound bunch by surprise, freeing Gil and Van. That done, we’ll drive the herds all night, north toward the border. We’ll stampede ’em hell for leather, right through Matamoros if we have to.”
“Is good,” said Ramon.
“Except for one thing,” said Angelina. “Ramon and his men have a soldier escort. None of them can ride north, watching for soldiers heading south with Gil and Van.”
“No,” said Clay, “but we can. It’ll be up to us to tell Ramon when to eliminate his soldiers, when to move north to join us.”
“I ride ahead each day,” said Ramon. “Look for water.”
“Bueno,” said Clay. “The day we are to make our move, we will meet you somewhere ahead of the drive. After dark, Solano and me will join you. We will then do away with your soldiers however we must, and ride north to free Gil and Van. Remember—when you’re scouting for water, I’ll be somewhere ahead of you. Tell the rest of the riders what we’ve planned. Tonight, we’ll ride around the drive and travel north. We’ll learn as much as we can about the situation at Matamoros. Maybe we can find out how many soldiers will be going to Mexico City.”
“I could take a job in a café,” said Angelina, “and listen to the soldiers talk.”
Clay only looked at her, but the look in his eyes surpassed anything he might have said. Her mischievous smile faded.
“I never been so damn tired o’ layin’ on my back in my life,” Long John grumbled.
“You talk their lingo,” said Van. “Ask our guards to back us up to the trunk of a tree. Beats layin’ all night with rocks and gravel diggin’ into the back of your skull.”
Long John made his request, and to his surprise the guards complied. Actually, they were backed up against the lightning-blasted stump of a tree, but it stood a dozen feet high and was sturdy. They dozed. At first light, before breakfast, the pompous Major Farias, accompanied by another officer, came to view the captives. Farias said something, and the men laughed. When they turned away, Long John spat in their direction.
“God,” said Long John piously, “I ain’t a religious man, ain’t a prayin’ man, but some’eres down the road, jus’ gimme my Bowie and a minute with them Mex buzzards.”
Their second day on the trail was no better or worse than the first. What hurt Gil more than their predicament was Rosa’s puffy eyes and thin face. The child had been thin as a fence rail when he had first brought her to camp, and he had enjoyed watching her cheeks fill out. Now she looked gaunt as a half-starved lobo wolf. He didn’t believe they were denying her food; she just wasn’t eating. He tried to think of some means of escape, but his mind was blank. There seemed no way. Even if he, Van, and Long John somehow broke loose, there was Rosa. What would become of her? If he left her there, her thin face and sad eyes would haunt him as long as he lived. He believed she was being kept in the officers’ tent at night. Farias had believed she was Ramon’s child, and perhaps Ramon would be allowed to take her. But once the trail drive reached Matamoros, Gil feared that Ramon and the rest of the riders might also be sent to prison in Mexico City. Worse, they might be executed at Matamoros.
September 5, 1843. Matamoros, Tamaulipas. Military outpost.
The village of Matamoros was somewhere north of the military outpost. While there was no stockade, the post had some order about it and was much more impressive than the facility at Monterrey had been. There was a long, low log building that included an orderly room, the commanding officer’s office and his living quarters. Next to that was a log building with iron-barred windows, which housed prisoners until they could be sent to Mexico City. Next to the guardhouse was a long, low barracks for soldiers recuperating from wounds, bound for Mexico City or en route to the outposts at Monterrey or Meoqui. A fourth building beyond the barracks provided quarters for officers.
Gil, Van, and Long John were taken immediately to the guardhouse. It had a corridor down the middle, with four cells along each side. There were iron bars from floor to ceiling, heavy iron-barred doors, and in each cell near the ceiling, a small barred window. The window was so small, even without the bars, a man couldn’t have gotten his head through. Each cell was large enough for four men, and the three captives were locked in the first one on the right. The rest of the cells were empty. From the one tiny barred window, they had a view of the soldiers’ barracks. There were low wooden benches along three sides of the cell. The benches were wide enough to sit on or sleep on, but there wasn’t even a flea-infested straw tick. In one corner of the cell was a slop jar that had been used often but emptied seldom.
“Will ye look at that,” said Long John in disgust. “They’s room enough fer ’em t’ slide the grub under the door. How they ’spect a man to bust outta here?”
“We won’t be busting out of here,” said Van, “unless you got a keg of black powder in your pocket.”
Gil stretched out on one of the broad benches, his hat over his face. He was weary of Long John’s bitching about things that couldn’t be helped, and Van’s humorous responses. He dozed, awakening when somebody shoved their supper under the barred door. There was stew and tortillas, with one small improvement. The coffee was still warm. They ate quickly before total darkness engulfed them. There was but a single lamp in the building, near the front door, and the flame guttered low.
Gil slept on the bench along the back wall, beneath the little barred window. Far into the night, he sat up. Something had awakened him. He sat there for a moment trying to recall the sound. Finally he decided it had been a dream, or his desperate imagination, and lay down. No sooner had he put it out of his mind than he heard it again. It was soft, metallic, insistent. Somebody was tapping on the iron bars that secured the window! Quietly Gil got up, noiseless in his bare feet, and stood on the bench.
“Who are you?” he asked softly.
“Solano,” came the whispered response.
“Solano,” Gil whispered excitedly, “how…what…?”
“Leave juzgado,” Solano whispered. “Be ready. We come. Solano, Ramon, Estanzio, Senor Clay. Here talking paper.”
Gil took the piece of paper between the bars. Standing on tiptoe, he managed to look out the small window, but there was nobody in the starlit night. Solano was gone. Quietly he slipped down to a sitting position on the bench. But for the folded
paper in his hand, it all might have been a dream, and he couldn’t even read it until dawn. For the first time, his heart swelled with hope. Clay Duval was alive, ramrodding the outfit, with Ramon, Solano, Estanzio, Mariposa, and all the others siding him! He felt like shouting. He slept no more, waiting for the first gray light of dawn to creep into the cell. Finally, by standing on the bench, there was light enough from the small window to read the message. Clay had written:
Pards, Solano will watch for them to take you south. When time is right, we will eliminate soldiers with trail drive. Then we’ll free you.
There was no signature, but none was needed.
Van sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Why are you standin’ up there?” he asked.
“Reading a note from Clay Duval,” said Gil calmly. “Solano brought it last night.”
“What?” Van shouted.
“Quiet, damn it,” hissed Gil.
Long John Coons was awake, looking at them owl-eyed.
“Here,” said Gil. “Read it for yourself. You too, Long John.”
They read it again and again. Long John was the first to speak.
“I cussed you gents right smart after ye was gone six months, leavin’ me with no grub an’ at the mercy o’ yer bastard neighbors. Reckon I was a mite hasty. I’ll make it up to ye. Oncet we git out, I’ll go back an’ gut-shoot them that makes it hard on ye.”
“You do any shootin’ on our behalf,” said Gil, “save it for the time we make our break, and help us fight our way across the border.”
Clay, Angelina, and Solano had ridden wide of the trail drive, and had found a secluded stream a few miles south of the outpost at Matamoros. They set up camp, and Solano rode north. He watched the soldier caravan ride in from the west, and observed Gil, Van, and an unidentified third man being taken to the guardhouse. Then he rode back to camp and reported to Clay Duval. Clay had written a message, and far in the night, when the soldados slept, Solano had delivered it. The following morning, Clay rode south and met Ramon as he scouted ahead of the trail drive for water.
The Bandera Trail Page 26