by Ray Hogan
Rait smiled back. “Watch for gopher holes.”
“That mean you don’t care about having a lot of money?”
“Money’s all right. It’s the caring for it that bothers me.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry none. Learned a long time ago to avoid the gopher holes. Plenty of them around … not always in the ground.”
Kurt’s genial manner continued, but he said nothing about their guests. He was keeping them—the girl particularly—for himself, Adam figured. One thing he was thankful for. Hanover took great pains to allow no contact between them and the crew.
It came as a surprise, therefore, to Adam when, the third night after camp had been established, Hanover approached him with an invitation to dine with him and the de Aceras.
It was the first time he had heard the name of their fellow travelers, and he stood in silence, thinking of that and wondering at the sudden about-face on the part of Kurt Hanover.
“Thought you ought to be getting acquainted with these people,” the blockade runner explained. “I’ve had the Mex boy pitch me a tent and set up a table. Cook’s fixing up something special to eat.”
Adam glanced to where the shelter had been erected. It was off by itself, about halfway between the barouche and the chuck wagon—and well outside the camp.
“I’m hardly presentable to dine with a lady,” Adam said, not too receptive.
“Spruce up a bit. Razor in my kit. Won’t need to do much else.”
Hanover was insistent, and Rait finally agreed. Washing himself down from a bucket, he shaved, pulled on clean shirt and pants, and, after seeing to the placement of the sentries, went to Hanover’s tent.
The arrangements were elementary. Two planks had been placed side by side on wooden boxes and covered by a white cloth to serve as a table. A folding cot and two more boxes were chairs. An unopened bottle of brandy and a lantern graced the center of the spread.
“Not elegant, but practical,” Hanover said, uncorking the liquor. He poured a generous measure into a cup for Adam, another for himself. “Luck,” he said, and tossed off the drink as though it were water.
It was excellent brandy. Adam felt its warm glow almost before he set his empty cup on the table and realized he must proceed with caution. But there was no time for a second. The entrance to the tent filled suddenly, and Hanover’s ruddy face broke into a wide friendly smile. Adam turned to meet the visitors.
Kurt bowed deeply. “Mister Rait, I present the Señorita Angela de Acera … Señorita, my wagon master, Adam Rait.”
Adam’s breath caught. Tall, she had glowing black hair, dark eyes, and a skin like caramel cream. She wore a pale-blue dress, cut low in front, and had draped a filmy lace mantilla over her head and around her bare shoulders. Jeweled hoops dangled from her ears, and the yellow light from the lantern glittered against the large gem in a ring on one of her slender fingers.
But there was a coolness to her, a deep reserve that held him at arm’s length as she acknowledged the introduction, and he thought: The name fits … Angel of Steel.
“Her brother, Señor Hernando de Acera,” Hanover continued.
Rait transferred his attention to the man standing behind Angela. He looked different from the way he had on the road, heavier, and a bit older, perhaps. He was dressed in the conventional grandee style: slim black pants, slit up the sides revealing pure white linen underdrawers, white silk shirt, deep red sash wound around his waist—silver conchas and gold braid decorated his black-and-red bolero.
“My pleasure, señor,” Rait said, extending his hand.
Hernando’s response was limp. He moved on into the tent, paused while Hanover seated Angela on the cot so she would be next to him.
“Afraid accommodations aren’t what you’re used to,” Kurt said, making his apology.
“It is to be expected,” the girl replied, smiling. “One learns to accept when traveling.” Her words sounded stiff, unnatural.
Adam stepped to the box at the end of the table, opposite her, sat down. Hernando assumed the one next to Adam. Hanover took up the brandy again and poured. Standing, he lifted his cup, waited until the others did likewise.
“Salud!”
The three men downed their brandy; Angela merely sipped. Hanover turned then, went to the tent flap, brushed it aside, and shouted: “Sancho! We’re ready!”
Adam felt the girl’s eyes upon him and looked up at her. She lowered her gaze quickly.
He grinned. “How do you find the trip?”
“Very well.”
“Expect you miss the comforts of Mexico City.”
The observation appeared to startle her. “I was not aware you knew …”
“That you’re from there? A guess. I’d hardly expect you to be from anywhere else. I wondered about you traveling without a duenna, however. Not customary.”
“I am aware of my country’s customs,” she replied stiffly. “There was no relative available. And where a brother and sister are concerned—”
“Another toast!”
Hanover was back at the table, filling the cups again. He lifted his brandy high. “To the most beautiful señorita in Mexico … and Texas!”
Angela sipped. The men emptied their cups. Hanover seized the bottle by the neck, refilled. “To the Señor de Acera. May his health improve!”
Hernando didn’t appear to be very sick. Adam followed Angela’s example and only took a small swallow. He wished Sancho would come with food. Too much brandy on an empty belly …
Again Kurt Hanover served from the bottle. Rait feigned a swallow while he listened to the man’s thickening words that had to do with good luck and good health along the way. Finally Hanover sat down a bit solidly. Conversation lagged, the brunt of what little there was being borne by Hanover. Angela made occasional responses, as did Rait. Hernando remained wholly silent, almost to the point of sullenness; the brandy had hit him hard; his eyes were glazing and his mouth sagged.
Sancho finally appeared with Felipe in tow. They brought tin plates of fried meat, small corn cakes, and tart chopped greens, gathered, no doubt, along the road that day by the aged cook. There was thick Mexican chocolate to drink—a welcome change for Adam from the bitter coffee substitute. Hanover stayed with the brandy.
The meal brought the occasion to life, and before it was over talk had swung to Mexico and the struggle for power between Maximilian and Benito Juárez.
“The French’ll find they got a scrap on their hands,” Hanover said, having difficulty with his tongue. “They jus’ better be figuring on that.”
“It is unjust,” Angela said, dabbing at her lips with a small square of lace. “The Mexican people are fortunate to have so noble a man dedicated to their interests. Only he can bring about the reforms that will eliminate ignorance and poverty.”
“You are a royalist, I take it,” Adam said, not the least surprised. The ricos, enjoying their palatial estates and the luxuries of the court, knew on which side of the bread the butter was spread.
Angela shook her head, setting the jewels in her earrings to twinkling. “I have no politics. I speak only as one who observes.”
“Then you ought to be able to see that the Mexican people—or the people of any country for that matter—should have the right to choose their own government.”
Angela’s dark brows lifted. The smooth flesh of her shoulders stirred beneath the mantilla. “As I say, I have no politics.”
“Way it was meant to be!” Hanover broke in heartily. “Pretty woman’s got no business mixing in work that’s a man’s. More important things she can be doing,” he added, fixing his eyes meaningfully upon her.
Angela did not flinch under his leering stare, only smiled.
Hanover reached for the brandy. The bottle was empty. Leaning back precariously, he obtained another from a box at the end of the cot. Po
uring a quantity into the girl’s cup, he filled his own, and then looked questioningly at Rait.
“Reached my limit,” Adam said. “Time I was excusing myself, anyway. Want to take one more look around camp.”
Hanover grinned broadly. “Way he is … always watching out for me … good man. I was telling him only today he’s my heir … like a son. Just might end up making him my son.” Kurt paused, pointed an unsteady finger at Hernando. “Mind putting the señor to bed, Adam? Be doing me and the lady a big favor.”
Rait nodded, got to his feet. He glanced at Angela. She seemed to have no intention of leaving. Stepping in behind de Acera, he pulled him upright. Hanover, stumbling over his own boots, made his way to the tent flap, held it back.
Supporting de Acera, Rait murmured his good nights to Angela and Kurt and then half carried, half dragged Hernando to the barouche. Its door was open and Martinez had already curled up in the forward seat.
Shifting around the Mexican or Spaniard, whichever he was, Adam lifted him onto the cushion and straightened him out as much as possible. Hernando was limp, out cold. He’d feel like all the devils in hell were pounding anvils in his head when morning came and it was time to travel.
Closing the door, Rait turned. Against the wall of Hanover’s tent the lantern silhouetted the two occupants. Angela still sat at the makeshift table. Kurt was leaning over her, speaking earnestly.
The blockade runner was losing no time with his young señorita, Adam thought, as he moved off through the trees. The camp was asleep and Hernando was dead to the world. He had her all to himself.
But an hour later, when he returned to check the dying embers of the fire, Rait found Angela waiting there.
Chapter Seven
Surprised, Adam threw a glance to Kurt Hanover’s tent; the lantern, turned low, still burned. He could see the man seated at the table, elbows crooked, head slung forward. Something had misfired.
Rait crossed to where the girl was staring off into the night. In the pale starlight her skin appeared darker, richer—her eyes much larger.
“Seems you left the patrón’s board … and bed … a mite early,” he said, light scorn coloring his tone.
She shrugged. “Your opinion of me is of small consequence.” And then in Spanish she added: “The thoughts of a North American dwell always on the pleasures of the body.”
“A double pleasure I assure you, my lady,” Adam replied, also in the flowery tongue, “when beauty such as yours is encountered. What happened? Was there too much brandy?”
She was staring at him, surprised and startled. “You understood my words?”
“Is it so unusual? You speak English.”
“True, but few of your countrymen trouble themselves to learn my language. Yes, there was too much brandy.”
“A pity.”
“Your pity is for his sake, or mine?”
“For him, perhaps. He made great plans.”
She tugged at her mantilla. “You are a grand gentleman,” she said icily.
Adam laughed. “Was that not what this was all about? You also had plans. If not, you would have taken leave when I carried your brother to his bed.”
“I was aware of my actions.”
“I am sure of that. It is unfortunate the brandy was so strong. But do not grieve. There will be other nights.”
She studied him coolly. “You have opinions … not necessarily correct. What sort of woman do you believe me to be?”
“If I spoke truthfully, you would undoubtedly slap my face.”
“Very possibly, because you would be wrong.”
“Not likely. I had no difficulty placing you and your brother. A family once rich, now without funds. You seek a return to the good life. A man with much money, such as Hanover … although a gringo … is the answer.”
“Again you are mistaken. Money has no meaning.”
“I find that difficult to believe. A carriage overturned without reason, in a place where it will be found by a man who hungers for a beautiful woman—”
“Do you think me beautiful, Adam Rait?” she cut in.
The question was so abrupt, so simple and childlike, that Adam squirmed. “It would be a lie if I said I did not.”
“A thousand thanks. It is a compliment even if it came from you in the manner of a tooth being pulled.”
He folded his arms and stared down at her. “There is also another matter … I do not think you are Spanish or Mexican, at least wholly. There are words used by you—”
“I am half,” she said, again cutting him short. “My father is of Spain, a descendant of the conquerors.”
“I would believe you grew up in this country.”
“New Orleans. I was eighteen when we returned to Mexico City. I say returned because my parents lived there before my birth. Your curiosity is now satisfied?”
He grinned. “Much of it. There is still one thing … I am right about Kurt Hanover and his money?”
Angela placed her profile to him. The warmness of the night had placed a faint sheen of moisture on her cheeks. “It is as good a reason as any.”
She had finally admitted it. He guessed he should say something to Hanover about it, and then decided the man was old enough to look out for himself.
“I suppose … if money is of such great importance.”
“There is little today of importance,” Angela said heavily. “Everywhere one finds war … your country as well as mine. We are all concerned with survival.”
“And for survival you are willing to pay any price.”
“You speak as would a priest … and on this night I have no wish to listen. Walk with me, Adam Rait. I cannot sleep and I am weary of standing.”
She turned without waiting for him to agree, moved off into the grove slowly. Adam, the pressures building steadily within him, fell in beside her, and for several minutes they strolled in silence through the soft, dappled shadows under the trees. Somewhere in the distance a dove cooed mournfully.
“A lonely cry,” Angela murmured. “Do you know about loneliness, Rait? I think not. For men there are always things that can be done.”
“A man knows loneliness,” Adam replied simply.
“But of a different nature,” she said, switching suddenly to English. “It’s not the helpless sort of thing a woman faces. A woman is forced to sit by, watch everything that means something fall around her … and being helpless can do nothing about it. Can you understand what I’m trying to say?”
“A little.”
“Well, it’s what I mean. It’s a special kind of loneliness, and I don’t expect you to understand. No man can …”
She halted beneath a huge chinaberry. Locking hands behind her back, she leaned against the thick trunk, gazed up through an opening in the branches to the star-studded sky.
“A man has his own kind of problems,” Rait said. “Guess he just handles them in a different way.”
“Meaning he doesn’t auction himself off to the highest bidder as a solution … as you imply that I’m doing.”
“Your words, not mine.”
“But your thoughts. What else can a woman offer? She has only herself—her body—with which to barter.”
“She can fall in love with some man, marry, and make a home, have kids.”
Angela shook her head. “Not every woman’s cut out for that kind of life.” She looked squarely at Rait. “Do you think I am?”
He reached out suddenly, seized her by the shoulders, pulled her tight against him. He felt the press of her firm breasts and thighs against him.
“I don’t know … and maybe don’t give a damn,” he said in a taut voice, sliding his hands down the curve of her back. “Right now I—”
He broke off, feeling the blunt, hard muzzle of a derringer digging into his belly. Stepping back, he gave her a bleak s
mile. “You won’t need that.”
Angela shrugged, and returned the weapon to a pocket in the folds of her dress.
“Seems you don’t intend to let anything get in your way.”
“You’re right, Adam Rait,” she answered quietly. “Nothing stands in the way of what I have to do.”
Turning, she started back for the camp. Adam watched her retreating figure for several moments and then followed. When he reached the clearing, she had disappeared into her own tent. He glanced about. All was quiet; even Hanover had forsaken his place at the table and was now sleeping on his cot.
Chapter Eight
Rait was awake long before sunrise. He walked stiffly to the fire where Sancho was throwing together the morning meal, poured himself a cup of coffee. Taking a swallow, he swore, spat what was yet in his mouth, tossed aside the remainder, and again expressed his opinion of the Yankees and their blockade.
Joe Denver and the teamsters were rousing; beginning to hustle the teams into position, they filled the clean hush with a steady run of cursing and sharply echoing slaps. The men were no longer tossing their blankets into the supply wagon, he noted. Now they were folding them to make seat cushions.
He had wondered how long it would take them to solve their discomfort. The vehicles were all hard tails, having been constructed without springs—in the interests of a lower point of gravity and also to avoid a source of breakage under heavy loads. The teamsters had complained continually, but that would cease now.
“The horse Ed Vernon was showing you is lame for sure,” Joe Denver said, stepping away from his team and allowing his relief man to finish up. “Reckon there ain’t no chance of him coming out of it … not with these loads.”
“Use one from the remuda,” Adam said. “I’ll trade him off next town we reach.”
“Ain’t no horseflesh worth having left in this country,” Rube Waterhouse, driver of the column’s second wagon, said as he tugged at a trace. The big gray, standing half in line, did not move. The teamster straightened up. “Back, you slough-footed, slab-sided son of a bitch!” he bellowed in a voice that could have been heard in Galveston.