The Warlords

by Matt Braun

  Scrivner was quick to elaborate. Pizana, he told them, was a strong advocate of Regeneración, the anarchist newspaper distributed from California. Regeneración denounced democracy as tyranny disguised, and called for abolishing private property rights to distribute the land equally to all people. Pizana had formed grupos, or discussion groups, among local Mexicans to preach the message of Regeneración. His scorn for gringos was known to everyone in Rio Hondo.

  “The man’s a rabble-rouser,” Scrivner went on. “Wouldn’t surprise me but what him and Vasquez are in this together. They’re two of a kind.”

  Gordon took Maddox and Ransom aside. “What do you think?” he asked them. “Maybe we should pay this Pizana a visit.”

  “Bet your boots, we should,” Ransom growled. “I’d lay odds he’s mixed up with these raids.”

  “Let’s not jump too quick,” Maddox cautioned. “For all we know, Vasquez and his boys are over there right now. We might get ourselves ambushed in the dark.”

  Gordon looked at him. “You’re saying tomorrow morning would be better?”

  “Long about first light ought to be just right.”

  They agreed to spend the night at Scrivner’s razed compound.

  The sky was dull as pewter, the horizon tinged with the rosy hue of sunrise. On either side of the road, the land was an almost impenetrable thicket of mesquite. There was an oppressive quiet to the dewy silence of dawn.

  The men were forced to stay on the road. The mesquite was impassable, the road like a tunnel through a thorny maze. They were dismounted now, leading their horses, not far from Pizana’s house. Ransom led a column of Rangers on one side of the road, and Maddox led another column on the opposite side.

  Sam Burnett, the town marshal, had told them the thickets opened onto an expanse of grazeland. The house was situated along the Arroyo Colorado, with the rear of the building facing the river. The front porch was perhaps fifty yards from the wall of mesquite, and there was no cover, nowhere to hide, once the thickets ended. Burnett, who was in Ransom’s column, thought Pizana had only one vaquero on the small ranch. Whether or not Vasquez and his raiders were there was anyone’s guess.

  Some distance from where the road opened onto rolling grazeland, two men were left to hold the horses. The others moved forward, wary and alert, until they were at the edge of the thickets. Ransom held up his arm, and they paused to scout the clearing to their direct front. The house was silent, no one in sight, and no sign of smoke from the kitchen chimney. In a corral off to one side, six horses stood hip shot and dozing in the silty light. A mix of relief and disappointment swept through the men. Vasquez and his raiders were not there.

  Then, suddenly, the crack of a rifle split the stillness. Gordon, who was behind Maddox, felt a whistling zzzzz as a slug seared past his head. The Ranger next in line grunted, a rosette of blood splotching his chest, and toppled into the road. The front windows of the house, which were open, erupted with muzzle flashes as two riflemen blasted away in a drumming roar. A second Ranger crumpled to the ground, and the others went flat, hugging the earth. Slugs buzzed through the mesquite like lead hornets.

  “Sonsabitches!” Maddox shouted. “They sold us out.”

  “Who?” Gordon yelled back.

  “Scrivner’s vaqueros,” Maddox said as a bullet kicked dust in his face. “Bastards warned Pizana.”

  “Spread out!” Ransom bellowed furiously. “Get off into the brush. Give ’em hell!”

  The Rangers wiggled into the mesquite on either side of the road. They snaked along on their bellies, snagged by sharp thorns, and finally managed to spread out on a rough line at the edge of the thicket. Within moments, a withering volley from their Winchesters rent the morning, interspersed by the booming whump of Gordon and Maddox’s shotguns. The windows of the house were blown out, raining shards of glass, and the front wall was pocked with a latticework of bullet holes. The house seemed to shudder under the impact of the barrage.

  The rifles in the house went silent. A child screamed, a squealing bleat of terror so shrill it overrode the din of gunfire from the thicket. An instant later, a woman appeared in one of the windows, slugs plucking at the sleeves of her dress. Her arms were flung out, her face ravaged with fear.

  “No mas!” she wailed in a crazed voice. “Madre de Cristo! No mas!”

  The Rangers lowered their weapons, staring at the tragic figure framed in the window. “Hold your fire!” Ransom ordered. “The fight’s done over, boys. Let’s take that house!”

  The men warily stepped out of the thickets as the woman disappeared from the window. The screams of the child racketed across the clearing as they advanced on the house, cautiously moved onto the porch. Maddox burst through the front door, his shotgun leveled, Gordon and Ransom on his heels. A dead man lay sprawled in the front room, his shirt drenched in blood, one eye punched through the back of his head by a slug. A boy of fourteen or fifteen cowered in a corner, his tear-streaked features frozen in shock. The woman crouched on the floor, her arms clutching a boy nine or ten years old. His left leg was shattered below the kneecap, his eyes glazed with pain. He moaned in terror as the Rangers stormed through the house.

  Gordon pulled out his handkerchief and applied a tourniquet to the boy’s leg. The boy whimpered, tears pouring down his checks, and the woman looked at Gordon, her eyes steely with malice. “Barbaro!” she cursed him savagely. “Hijo de puta gringa!”

  The ferocity of her hatred made Gordon back away. Maddox stopped beside him, gazing down at the boy. “Damn shame,” he said bitterly. “The kid catches a slug meant for his old man. Pizana’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Gordon repeated. “Gone where?”

  “Looks like he skedaddled out the back door and hit the river. I doubt we’ll find him.”

  “How do you know it was Pizana? Who’s the dead man?”

  “Hired help,” Maddox observed. “Burnett says he’s Pizana’s vaquero. Got himself killed for nothing.”

  Gordon shook his head. “We had them outnumbered ten to one. Why did they wait and fight? Why didn’t they run?”

  “Well, I reckon that’s the way with fanatics. I found stacks of this stuff over in the corner.”

  Maddox held out a handbill for the Army of Liberation and a copy of the anarchist newspaper, Regeneración. The headline article on the front page of the newspaper was a diatribe directed to Mexican revolutionaries. He loosely translated the opening text of the article.

  “ ‘Monopoly of the land by the few and exploitation of the poor by the rich are the misery of the working class. Better to die on your feet than to live on your knees.’ ”

  “Strong stuff,” Gordon said. “Pizana must be a true believer.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” Maddox agreed. “ ’Course, he didn’t stick around to die.”

  “Maybe he will next time.”

  “You figure there’ll be a next time?”

  “Wouldn’t there be for you? If somebody shot your son?”

  Maddox nodded. “You’re startin’ to think like a Mexican.”

  “Hoyt, I’d say it’s about time.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Gordon awoke late that afternoon. A warm breeze ruffled the curtains on the window, and he lay for a moment staring at the ceiling. Images of the disaster at Pizana’s ranch played out in his mind, and he again heard the boy’s terrified screams. He thought it was all such a waste.

  The boy had been taken to a doctor in Rio Hondo. Gordon and the Rangers were finishing a late breakfast at a local café when Sam Burnett returned from the doctor’s office. The boy’s leg was mangled from the knee down, and the doctor saw no alternative but to amputate. None of the men felt any pride in the work they’d done that day.

  The Rangers returned to Brownsville late in the morning. Gordon and Maddox walked to the hotel, where they separated and went to their rooms. Neither of them had slept in some thirty hours, and the stress of the gun battle, with two Rangers killed, left them spent. Still, even though he
was exhausted, Gordon tossed and turned, tangled in the sheets, his sleep restless and fitful. He couldn’t shake the thought of a young boy without a leg.

  The sun was dipping westward when he finally rolled out of bed. He padded barefoot into the bathroom, his bloodshot eyes staring back at him in the mirror. After he shaved, he took a long, steamy bath, all the time wondering where things had gone wrong. The three raiding parties had eluded pursuit and left behind burned-out ranches and five killed. He told himself it wasn’t the way to fight a war. Or win one, for that matter.

  Once he was dressed, he considered having dinner with Maddox. Then he decided against it, not certain he wanted to rehash their abortive expedition to Rio Hondo. Downstairs, he ate a solitary meal in the dining room, his vigor somewhat restored by a blood-red steak and three cups of black coffee. As he ate, his mind moved to Hector Martinez and Manuel Vargas, and the latest from across the river. He hadn’t heard if Garza had returned to Matamoras.

  After dinner, it occurred to him that there was no need to wait to be contacted. He could call on Guadalupe, and even if Hector and Manuel weren’t there, she could brief him on the latest news. Then, amused by the thought, he admitted to himself that he would be just as happy to find Guadalupe alone. She was pleasant, undeniably attractive, and he remembered she had always made it a point to sit beside him when he’d met with the men. The night suddenly looked brighter.

  Gordon weighed taking Maddox along. He finally concluded there was no reason to take Maddox, particularly if Guadalupe was alone. If there was any news of immediate value, he could relay it later, and looking at it another way, three was a crowd. Never one to fool himself, he realized he was rationalizing, cutting Maddox out in the hope that the evening might turn into something more than shoptalk. He wasn’t sure it would lead to anything but he’d always been an optimist about such matters. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  Shortly after eight o’clock, he knocked on the door of the little house by the river. Guadalupe answered, her features pleasantly surprised when she saw him standing in the spill of light from the doorway. “Buenas noches,” she said with an engaging smile. “I didn’t know you were coming by.”

  “Neither did I,” Gordon said awkwardly. “Guess it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Thought there might be some news.”

  “Please, come inside.”

  She stepped back and he moved into the small parlor. Antonio, her son, was on the floor, playing with his wooden pony. He laughed, climbing unsteadily to his feet, and tottered toward Gordon. She scooped the boy up in her arms.

  “We didn’t expect you,” she said. “Hector and Manuel were here for supper, but they have returned to Matamoras. They hoped to learn more tonight.”

  Antonio waggled his chubby fingers, his eyes fixed on Gordon. They stared at one another a moment, and Gordon’s smile dissolved into a somber expression. “Sorry,” he muttered. “You were saying they hoped to learn more—?”

  “Perdoname, por favor,” she broke in. “I was just putting the baby to bed. Won’t you sit down?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Gordon took a seat on a small horsehair sofa. She disappeared into the bedroom, and he heard the boy making happy, unintelligible noises. His gaze strayed around the parlor, furnished with the sofa, two carved wooden chairs, and a small shrine, with a statue of the Virgin Mary, along one wall. To the rear of the room, in the dining area, the lamp on the table was extinguished. He recalled that the house was always immaculately clean.

  Guadalupe returned shortly. She seated herself in one of the chairs, studying his sober look a moment. “You appear troubled,” she said, genuinely concerned. “Did Antonio upset you somehow?”

  “No—” Gordon faltered, passed a hand across his eyes. “I was just reminded of another boy, an older boy. He lost his leg this morning.”

  “The boy in Rio Hondo?”

  “Yes . . .how did you know that?”

  “Everyone in town has heard of it,” she said in a sad voice. “The Rangers talk, and soon it is known to all Mejicanos. You don’t blame yourself, do you?”

  “No.” Gordon hesitated, shook his head. “Yes, maybe I do. I keep thinking I might have done something differently. Stopped it somehow.”

  “You must not blame yourself. I have seen men at their worst in the Revolución, and the death of a child is nothing to those who make war. That is why I brought Antonio to Texas.”

  “Sergeant Maddox told me your husband was killed in the fighting at Matamoras. I never had the chance to say I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Con el favor de Dios.” She crossed herself, touching her hand to her lips. “If God wills it, we must accept and go on. I cannot live in the past with my grief. Nor should you regret what you cannot change.”

  “Yes, that’s good advice,” Gordon said. “Women are wiser than men.”

  “Now you flatter me.”

  “Flattery is easy where you are concerned.”

  “Señor—”

  “I would be pleased if you call me Frank. May I call you Guadalupe?”

  “Si,” she said with a shy smile. “You asked about Hector and Manuel. There is some news.”

  “Oh?” Gordon said. “Has Garza returned?”

  “No, he has not. But Matamoras is a place of rumor, and few secrets. There is talk he has gone to Monterrey to raise his army.”

  “Are these rumors to be trusted?”

  “Hector believes so.” She paused, her features serious. “There is another strange thing.”

  “Strange in what way?”

  “Everyone knows of the raids last night. Luis Vasquez has not returned to Matamoras. Hector thinks that is unusual, very unlike him. Vasquez is one to crow of his victories.”

  “Hector may be right,” Gordon agreed. “Is there talk of where Vasquez has gone?”

  “Nada,” she said simply. “He had just disappeared . . . like Garza.”

  “I’d have to say that’s bad news. A man should keep his enemies close.”

  “Yes, where they can be watched.”

  Gordon laughed. “You prove my point. You are indeed a wise woman.”

  “And you are a flatterer.” Her eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth. “May I offer you a cup of coffee?”

  “Only if you call me Frank.”

  “Now you tease.”

  “I was never more serious in my life . . . Guadalupe.”

  “I will think about that,” she said with a vivacious smile. “The coffee will be ready in a moment.”

  “I have all night.”

  “Now you flatter yourself.”

  Gordon was glad he hadn’t brought Maddox.

  The sun was like a fiery ball lodged in the sky. Early morning was a busy time along Elizabeth Street, with merchants opening for the day and businessmen hurrying to their offices. A burly deliveryman carried a block of ice, hooked with steel tongs, into the soda fountain shop.

  Gordon and Maddox walked east toward Fort Brown. The air was redolent with the fragrance of bougainvilleas, vibrant purple and red leaves surrounding the stalks. Flocks of green parrots, perched in willow trees, sat dozing in the steamy warmth of the morning. A listless southerly breeze drifted across the river.

  Maddox had thus far stifled his curiosity about last night. Over breakfast, Gordon had briefed him on the latest intelligence from Martinez and Vargas. But something in his manner, perhaps his tone of voice, betrayed him when he mentioned having met with Guadalupe alone. Maddox, though he suspected more than he’d been told, was too much the gentleman to ask.

  Fort Brown was bustling with activity. On the parade ground, tents had been pitched to house the added troops posted to the garrison. Cavalry patrols, returning from a night on the border, passed mounted details headed upriver for daytime reconnaissance. Outposts on the upper Rio Grande maintained around-the-clock patrols that linked with those from Fort Brown. The 12th Cavalry Regiment now had four thousand men guarding the border.

  Sergeant Major
O’Meara greeted Gordon and Maddox as they entered regimental headquarters. He rapped lightly at the post commander’s office and announced them as they went through the door. General Parker was seated behind his desk, reading summaries of reports telegraphed from distant field units. His features were slack, rimmed with fatigue, and he nodded to them with a tight smile. He appeared to have aged in the past ten days.

  “Good morning,” he said, as they seated themselves. “Sergeant Maddox, please accept my regrets for the loss of your two Rangers. Unfortunate, very unfortunate.”

  “Yessir, it is,” Maddox said solemnly. “ ’Specially since we never got within a country mile of Luis Vasquez.”

  “I know exactly how you feel. None of my patrols so much as caught sight of the raiders. They slip back and forth across the river like phantoms.”

  “General, we’re lucky we only lost seven, including the Rangers. It could’ve been lots worse.”

  “No doubt you’re right,” Parker conceded. “What about this Pizana fellow you tracked down? Do you think he’s involved with the rebellion?”

  “If he’s not, he will be,” Maddox said. “Anybody that kills two Rangers better hightail it into Mexico.”

  Gordon nodded. “We feel fairly certain he’s one of Garza’s men, at the very least a recruiter. We found Army of Liberation handbills in his home.”

  “Anything new on Garza?” Parker asked. “I assume your agents still have the German consulate under surveillance.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Gordon replied. “We received a report last night that Garza’s thought to be in Monterrey. There’s speculation that he went there to raise a substantial number of men.”

  “Makes sense,” Maddox added. “Monterrey’s always been a hotbed of revolutionaries. He’ll find plenty of men willin’ to join the cause. They’d jump at the chance to kill a few gringos.”

  Parker looked concerned. “When you say a ‘substantial number of men,’ what does that mean? Do you have any idea as to a number?”

  “Nothing as yet,” Gordon said. “Of course, there’s all this talk of invading Texas. So I think Garza would try for five hundred, probably more.”