by Matt Braun
“Garza,” Martinez hissed under his breath. “And the other one is Vasquez.”
Gordon moved out of the doorway, his Colt automatic in hand. Maddox was a step behind, thumb hooked over the hammer of his six-gun, and they hurried toward the corner. Vasquez saw them, his instincts suddenly alert, and he muttered a warning to Garza. The two men stopped in the pool of light from the street lamp.
“Alto!” Maddox ordered in raspy Spanish. “You men are under arrest. Abandono!”
Vasquez reacted on sheer reflex, cursing as he jerked a pistol from beneath his jacket. Maddox fired twice, the shots not a heartbeat apart, and Vasquez stumbled into the lamppost, then slumped to the ground. As he fell, Garza pulled a revolver from his waistband and brought the muzzle to bear. Gordon’s automatic roared three times, rapid blasts one upon the other, and the heavy slugs struck Garza in the chest. He staggered backward, dropping the revolver, and collapsed in the street. His eyes were open and vacant, fixed on nothing.
There was an instant of dungeon silence. Then Martinez darted from the butcher shop doorway. “Andale!” he rapped out. “We must get back across the bridge, and quickly. You are not safe here.”
Vargas tossed his vendor’s tray into the shadows, and joined them. They left the bodies under the streetlight and walked at a brisk pace toward the plaza. The gunshots would draw attention, and the immediate threat was the crowd of Garza loyalists in the cantina. Their lives were forfeit if they were caught.
The military authorities were no less a concern. If they were apprehended, General Nafarrate would use the killings to create an international incident. Gordon and Maddox would be presented as rogue law enforcement officers, acting as assassins for the United States government. Martinez and Vargas would simply be stood against a wall and shot.
Halfway up the block, Vargas suddenly drew a sharp breath, “Santo Dios!” he said in an urgent voice. “The men there, coming out of the consulate. It’s Mueller and von Kleist.”
Mueller and von Kleist emerged from the German Consulate and strolled toward the plaza. Gordon recalled they were staying at the Bezar Hotel, and it appeared they were on their way to dinner. His mind reeled with the possibilities for ending German involvement in the rebel movement, and eliminating any threat of war. He made a spur-of-the-moment decision.
“Hoyt, listen to me,” he said, his eyes on the Germans. “We’re going to take them prisoner.”
“What if they fight?” Maddox said. “Do we kill them?”
“Yes,” Gordon said without hesitation. “But follow my lead and don’t force a fight. I want them alive.”
The Germans were approaching the corner that opened onto the plaza. Gordon and Maddox increased their pace, Martinez and Vargas a few steps to the rear. They rapidly closed the distance, with Gordon behind von Kleist and Maddox behind Mueller. Gordon jammed the muzzle of his automatic into von Kleist’s spine.
“Don’t stop, don’t turn around,” he ordered. “I am an agent of the United States government, Colonel von Kleist. I arrest you for conspiracy to incite war.”
“Same goes for you,” Maddox said, jabbing Mueller in the back with his six-gun. “We just killed Garza and Vasquez, so it’s all over. Don’t try anything stupid.”
Von Kleist stiffened. “Whoever you are, you are fools. This is Mexico, and we are traveling under diplomatic immunity. You have no authority here.”
“Do exactly as I tell you,” Gordon said with ominous calm. “We are going to cross the bridge into Texas. If you resist, we will kill you. Understand?”
“You wouldn’t dare!” von Kleist snapped. “The Mexican government would have you shot.”
“Let’s hope it works,” Maddox said in a rough voice. “ ’Cause if it don’t, Colonel—you’re dead.”
The evening crowds were starting to fill the plaza. The strains of guitars drifted from nightspots and the tables at sidewalk cafés were packed with diners. Gordon and Maddox stayed close behind the Germans, their pistols concealed beneath their jackets. Three uniformed Rurales, officers of the Mexican state police, were standing on the opposite side of the plaza, alert to drunks or troublemakers. Von Kleist glanced at them, weighing the chances, and Gordon nudged him hard in the back. They moved on through the crowds.
Ten minutes later they approached the International Bridge. Mexican soldiers, members of General Nafarrate’s command, were stationed at the entrance to the bridge. Four gringos hardly rated a glance, for Anglos were back and forth between Matamoras and Brownsville at all hours of the day and night. Von Kleist and Mueller realized it was their last chance, and they tensed as they started past the soldiers. Maddox laughed and genially clapped his arm over Mueller’s shoulder. His voice was low and deadly.
“One peep and I’ll blow your backbone out. Just keep movin’.”
The opposite end of the bridge opened onto Elizabeth Street. The lights of Brownsville glittered under a full moon, and Gordon and Maddox relaxed, once more in Texas. Maddox kept the Germans covered while Gordon turned to Martinez and Vargas. He warmly shook their hands.
“Hector. Manuel,” he said with genuine feeling. “I want you to know I’m grateful for your assistance. We couldn’t have done it without you.”
“No es nada,” Martinez said modestly. “What we did tonight was a good thing. That is thanks enough.”
“Si,” Vargas said, beaming a grin. “I think life will be dull now. Aiiii chihuahua, what a night!”
They walked off toward the center of town. Gordon looked around, nodding to Maddox, who motioned the Germans in the opposite direction with his six-gun. Von Kleist thrust out his jaw.
“Where are you taking us?”
Gordon pointed. “See those gates, Colonel?”
“Ja.”
“Welcome to Fort Brown.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Sergeant Major O’Meara stood sipping a cup of coffee. Some three hours ago he’d been summoned from his quarters by the night orderly. Thirty years in the army hadn’t prepared him for what he found in the orderly room. He still couldn’t quite credit it.
The Germans were seated in chairs against the far wall. Their hands were cuffed in manacles, and two hard-faced troopers, their rifles held at port arms, stood guard. Von Kleist stared straight ahead, his features rigid, his pale blue eyes fixed on infinity. He looked like a man reading his own obituary.
Otto Mueller seemed dazed, somehow deflated. His thoughts were across the river, on the life that might have been, and Maria Dominguez. He wondered how she would hear of his capture, and how soon before she’d be sharing another man’s bed. She was a mercenary little witch, but he would miss her ardor, those passionate nights. He regretted that she would never see Berlin.
O’Meara studied them with open curiosity. As a soldier, he was fascinated by the war in Europe, and he’d read everything written about the vaunted German army. He knew the two men in manacles were officers, and he felt a grudging admiration for the chaos and terror they’d brought to the Rio Grande. Yet he was oddly disappointed that they had allowed themselves to be captured, and not a mark on them. He thought a true German would have fought to the death.
The door to the general’s office opened. Maddox stuck his head out and motioned to O’Meara. “Sergeant Major, bring ’em along. We’re ready.”
O’Meara led the way, trailed by the Germans and the two hard-faced troopers. He halted inside the office, shoulders squared. “General, sir!” he said in a bull-moose voice. “Would you like me to leave the boys to guard the Krauts? Wouldn’t be any trouble at all.”
“No, thank you, Sergeant Major.” Parker was seated behind his desk. “I believe Mr. Gordon and Sergeant Maddox are all we need. Hold your detail outside.”
“Sir!”
O’Meara marched the troopers through the door. When it closed, Maddox crossed the room and took a chair beside Gordon. Von Kleist and Mueller, hands manacled, were left standing before the desk. They held themselves at attention.
“C
olonel von Kleist. Captain Mueller.” Parker stared at them with a level gaze. “Were it within my power, I would have you taken out and shot. Unfortunately, I am obliged to follow orders.”
“General, I again protest,” von Kleist said curtly. “We are officers of the German Reich under the protection of diplomatic immunity. I insist we be returned to Mexico.”
“Colonel, you are now on American soil, and how you got here is not my concern. I hereby advise you that you have been charged with violation of the Neutrality Act.”
Earlier, von Kleist and Mueller had been interrogated at length. Apart from name and rank, they admitted nothing, claiming assignment as attachés to the consulate in Matamoras. Parker and Gordon, operating jointly, exchanged a flurry of coded telegrams with the State Department, the War Department, and the Bureau of Investigation. Secretary of State Robert Lansing, at the direction of President Wilson, had ultimately decided on the charges to be brought. The official story was that von Kleist and Mueller had been captured while fomenting insurrection in Brownsville.
“I believe that completes our business,” Parker told them. “You will be transported by train to Washington, where formal charges will be lodged. Frankly, gentlemen, I hope they hang you.”
“One question, General,” von Kleist said, a note of skepticism in his tone. “Is it true Augustin Garza is dead?”
“Deader’n a doornail!” Maddox woofed a great belly laugh. “Your shot at a war just went to hell in a handbasket.”
Von Kleist made no further comment, as though he’d finally accepted the truth. After O’Meara and the guard detail were called in, the Germans were marched off to the post stockade. Parker waited until the door closed and then slumped back in his chair. His gaze shifted from Maddox to Gordon.
“Irony is hardly the word,” he said with a cryptic smile. “You broke every rule in the book, and you’ll probably receive medals. Off the record—just between us—was it really necessary to kill Garza and Vasquez?”
“Yessir, it was,” Maddox said. “Any man worth shootin’ is worth killin’. Wasn’t like they gave us a choice.”
Gordon smiled. “Lucky we stumbled across von Kleist and Mueller. Except for them, we’d probably be cashiered out of the service.”
“Nonetheless, I congratulate you,” Parker said. “Your initiative was exemplary, and never more timely. You’ve saved our nation from war.”
“General—” Maddox paused with a nutcracker grin. “Speakin’ for me and the Rangers, we won’t mind a little peace and quiet. We’ll go back to catchin’ horse thieves.”
“Sergeant, if I may say so, more’s the pity for horse thieves.”
“Yessir, you’re right, just like old times.”
General James Parker thought hanging bandidos was an acceptable compromise. Far preferable to war.
The moon was sinking westward in a starry sky. As Gordon approached the little house by the river, he saw a light in the window. His pulse quickened and he couldn’t suppress a smile. She’d waited for him.
Guadalupe opened the door at his knock. She pulled him inside, throwing her arms around his neck, and kissed him long and tenderly on the mouth. When at last they parted, she was breathing heavily, her cheeks damp with tears. Gordon gently wiped them away.
“What’s this?”
“Hector and Manuel were here after you left them at the bridge. They told me everything.”
“Well, you know yourself, Hector and Manuel tend to exaggerate. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds.”
“You might have been killed.”
“No, not while the light burns in your window. I’m like a moth to flame.”
“Now you jest.”
“Only to see you smile.”
She led him into the parlor. A single lamp burned on a small table by the sofa and the house was quiet. She seated herself beside him on the sofa and he looked around at the rooms dappled in shadow. A strange sense of vacancy came over him.
“Antonio’s asleep?”
“Oh, yes—” she paused with a beguiling grin—“I left him with Señora Alvarez, next door. She will keep him for the night.”
Gordon glanced at her. “You’ve never done that before. Why tonight?”
“Because you are leaving in the morning.”
“What makes you think that?”
“A woman knows these things.”
“Well—” Gordon hesitated, momentarily undone by her intuition. “I’ve been ordered to deliver the Germans to the authorities in Washington. We leave on the morning train.”
She scooted closer, slipped beneath his arm. “Hector told me how you took the Germans by surprise and forced them to cross the bridge. That was very brave of you.”
“I’d say it was more on the order of luck, good for me and bad for them. Tonight was my night.”
“Washington is very far away. How will you manage all that time? Aren’t the Germans dangerous?”
“Not all that much.” Gordon stroked her hair, the scent of her nearness somehow sweet and exotic. “General Parker assigned me an escort of soldiers to guard the Germans. We won’t have any problems.”
“What time is your train?”
“Not till eight.”
She snuggled closer. “Then we have all night.”
“Don’t say it like that.” Gordon tilted her chin. “You make it sound like our last night.”
“I knew you would go away one day. I just hoped it wouldn’t be so soon.”
“No, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m going to take you with me.”
“What?” She pulled away from him. “Take me where?”
“Not tomorrow,” Gordon said, suddenly flustered. “I want you to be my wife and come to Washington. You and Antonio. I thought you understood.”
“Oh, querido mio, I cannot do that.”
“What are you talking about?”
She looked beautiful but sad, a subdued butterfly. “I am Mejicano, a simple peasant woman. There is no place for me in Washington.”
“Of course there is,” Gordon insisted. “You would be my wife.”
“And would I be accepted by your friends? A woman who knows nothing of dress or fine manners? Would they not laugh at me and pity you, the man who married a peon? Tell me it is not true.”
“Once they get to know you, they’ll say I’m the luckiest man in the world. You’ll see I’m right.”
“And Antonio?” she asked, her voice clogged with emotion. “Would they accept him, let the little brown Mexican play with their children? You know they would not, and I cannot do that to my son.”
“I—” Gordon shook his head. “Listen, we’ll work it out somehow. People aren’t as bad as you think.”
“Te amo,” she said fiercely. “I love you and I want to be with you, always. But, yes, even in Texas, people are that bad. Washington would only be worse . . . especially for Antonio.”
Gordon was stunned. All this time he had just assumed there was nothing that could stand in their way. But the matter of race never occurred to him, and now, in some dark corner of his mind, he knew she was right. Texans were outspoken, perhaps more honest about their prejudice. Anyone not of Anglo blood was simply inferior.
In Washington, people were more subtle, but their prejudice was no less real. Anyone of color, mostly blacks, was consigned to menial work, porters and maids, the servant class. A Mexican, though an oddity to easterners, would still be viewed as a dark-skinned foreigner, an inferior. Guadalupe and the boy would never be accepted.
The truth was often hard, sometimes repugnant, and it gave Gordon pause. He was forced to consider, all too suddenly, the depth of his emotion for this woman. In his witless certainty, he’d asked her to sacrifice, and now he had to ask himself, what was he willing to sacrifice? How important was she to him . . . to his life?
Somehow, though he’d never posed the question, he’d known all along.
“We’ll live in Texas,” he said, never more certain of anything. “I’ll get a tran
sfer, or maybe just quit. There are lots of law enforcement agencies.”
Her smile was bleak. “Texas is not the place for you, caro mio. Whatever you feel now, we both know it is true. You would never be happy here.”
“No, I’ve thought it through, and my mind’s made up. The only place I’ll be happy is with you. Nowhere else.”
“What seems clear today is often our regret of tomorrow. You need time to think about it.”
“You won’t get rid of me that easy. I’ll take the Germans to Washington and then catch the first train back here. Let’s not talk about it anymore.”
“Si, no more talk.”
She took his hand and led him into the bedroom. A spill of lamplight from the parlor washed them in an umber glow as they undressed each other. He pulled her into a tight embrace, and she prayed it would not be the last time. Yet her heart told her the truth.
She knew he would never return.
The train chuffed steam at trackside. A warm morning sun, bright as brass, rose higher in a cloudless sky. Passengers hurried to board the coaches.
Gordon and Maddox stood on the depot platform. They watched as four armed troopers from Fort Brown marched von Kleist and Mueller to the express car. The Germans were manacled at the wrists and hobbled with leg irons around their ankles. The express car, where mail and other valuables were stored, was the most secure car on the train. The prisoners would be locked inside on the ride north.
“Maybe they’ll try to escape,” Maddox said with a dry chuckle. “Give you an excuse to shoot ’em.”
“Not much chance of that,” Gordon said. “I was ordered to deliver them safe and sound.”
“Your bosses in Washington ought to take a lesson from the Rangers. Not a lot of justice puttin’ those two behind bars.”
“I think the idea is to send a warning to Kaiser Wilhelm. Let him know he can’t mess around in our backyard.”