Deadfall (9 page)

After several run-ins with some staunch segregationists—Confederate supporters who, in all likelihood, had never seen a free Negro—Tobias Stone went north and joined the United States Army. The main reason being that in the army, he could eat regularly and have a warm place to sleep.

Instead, he was ordered into battle. He fought in many bloody skirmishes during the war's final days, one time even avoiding capture only to find himself fighting in the muddy ditches once again.

Following the war's end at Appomattox, his company was moved west and split between the western fortifications where he would learn to fight and kill Indians.

Over the years Tobias Stone eventually ended up stationed at Fort Clark in west Texas, near the border with Mexico—and he was happy there with his own kind, the Seminole-Negroes.

At Fort Clark he also met the woman who was to become his wife. She worked as a washerwoman for the soldiers, keeping their union suits, socks, and uniform shirts clean with a weekly washing down at the nearby creek. She also beat the dust out of their greatcoats, pressing the uniforms until they looked like new. Her name was Ethel Rosa Johnson.

Sergeant Stone thought back to those days, so long ago, back to when he first laid eyes on his future wife.
She was so pretty
, he thought,
so sweet, so lovely
. And when he spoke to her that first time, she was so shy.

It had taken him over two months to convince her to stroll with him, another month before she would consent to go on a chaperoned picnic. And it would take an entire year until she finally accepted his proposal of marriage. Even then, it was six months again before the actual event would take place.

After their wedding, they had spent two wonderful years together, living in one of the married Negro enlisted men's private quarters at Fort Clark. A vermin-infested wooden hut, actually, just four walls with its windows open to the elements—plus the door was off the hinges.

But Tobias found the things he needed to correct those problems, and he was, in time, able to turn the quarters into a comfortable home for the two of them. A year later, their son had been born.

Rosa understood military life; she also had a great belief in the Almighty. She knew they would eventually be reunited in God's Glorious Kingdom, no matter what befell them.

“Whoooa-up,” said Pennell in his usual gruff manner. He held up a hand so the sergeant would pause, too.

“What is it?” asked Sergeant Stone, coming out of his thoughts.

Speaking in a low voice, Pennell whispered hoarsely as some flying desert insect buzzed around his left ear. “I seen something move. Over there,” he said, pointing toward a rocky configuration about fifty or so yards ahead. “It was a man,” he went on, “a Negro man . . . black like you. He ducked behind them rocks when he seen us coming.”

Sergeant Stone slowly withdrew his sidearm. He checked the chambers. At the same time, Pennell slid his rifle from its rough-leather scabbard, licking his thumb then wetting the hammer, out of habit.

“Was he armed?” whispered the sergeant.

Pennell shook his head. “I didn't see no weapons, but he could have friends. You wanna ride on over, or do you want me to try and get around behind him first?”

“There'll be no need for that,” said a raspy voice that came from directly behind them.

The two men turned abruptly to see the blued, twenty-eight-inch double-barrels of a Remington 10-gauge shotgun pointed directly at them.

Behind the gun was a Negro—black like Sergeant Stone, as Pennell had described—who wore the distinctive clothing of an Indian chieftain.

“You come with me,” said Billy July. “You are my prisoners. And please, gentlemen, if you will, hand me your weapons.”

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

The origins of the Seminole-Negro came about in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries when runaway slaves, along with free Negroes, turned south in desperation, toward the isolated swamps of Spanish Florida. They were seeking sanctuary from their white oppressors. They found welcomed refuge with a coalition of tribes known as the Seminoles—Indians who populated that remote region of tangled vegetation and sultry everglades.

Over the years, and through many intermarriages, the runaway Negroes became as the Seminoles themselves, taking on the culture of the Indians while still holding on to particular aspects of their ancient, African customs and adopted Protestant beliefs. They began to dress as the Indians and became excellent farmers, mainly because of their recent heritage as slaves. Many of them were from families who had worked in the fields for generations.

In the early 1800s, the United States decided they needed the Florida lands for themselves. They made war against the Seminoles, which by then included the Seminole-Negroes.

When the Spanish eventually turned Florida over to the United States in 1819, the Seminole resistance began to dwindle, and when it became clear that runaway slaves were continuing to defect to the Florida Indians, the U.S. government decided that the Seminoles must be moved for good. They passed the Indian Removal Act in 1830. The tribes revolted. Several wars ensued, with the Seminole-Negroes fighting alongside their brothers of the Seminole Nation. After eight years of brutal fighting, and with many battles lost to overwhelming American odds, the remaining Seminole Indians and the Seminole-Negroes surrendered. They were eventually moved west to Indian Territory.

Later on, in the Territory in the late 1840s, after many disagreements with the neighboring Creeks and with no help at all from Washington to rectify these disagreements, the leaders of the tribes led the Seminoles, and the Seminole-Negroes, out of the United States and into Mexico. It was there, across the Rio Bravo, that they chose to settle.

Once they were south of the border, the Seminole-Negroes were given the name
Mascogo
by the Mexicans living in the area. For years to come they would continue to fight alongside the Seminole Nation, warding off attacks by hostile Comanche tribes, Lipan Apaches, and even a few bold slave traders.

Not only did their color, and the name
Mascogo,
distinguish them from the Seminoles, but their way of thinking would also separate the two groups.

In 1856, following a devastating smallpox epidemic, the Seminole Nation negotiated a treaty with the U.S. government. It guaranteed them their own reservation—so they slowly began to migrate north, leaving the
Mascogos
behind.

Following the War between the States, a series of Indian raids were taking place along the border with Texas. The U.S. government, remembering the Seminole-Negroes and their aggressiveness in battle, reached an agreement with some who had remained in Mexico. They were promised their own reservation in Indian Territory if they would serve as U.S. Army scouts until the raids had been eliminated. Most of the
Mascogo
men joined up, bringing their families along with them. They would be assigned meager dwellings on unusable government land close to the army post at Fort Clark. And when their services as scouts were no longer needed, and the promises made to them all but forgotten, those who survived either migrated north to Indian Territory or drifted back south into Mexico, settling near the little town of Nacimiento in the state of Coahuila.

 

 

“What do you make of him?” asked Mitchell Pennell in a gruff whisper as he and Sergeant Stone rode along slowly, their hands tied in front of them so they could rein their own horses. The burro had now been tied to Mitch Pennell's saddle by its lead rope. They were reluctantly following Billy July, the black man with the shotgun who dressed himself as an Indian chief.

Stone shook his head. “I dunno,” he answered quietly. “Fort Clark, where I'm stationed, has quite a few Seminole-Negro troops. But I never seen one dressed like that man is dressed. He looks to me like one of my own kind. But he ain't. I can plainly see that. Can't you?”

Pennell shrugged. “Injuns, black folks, they're all the same to me. Only thing making me follow this man is that dad-blamed scattergun he's carrying . . . plus these ropes around my wrists.”

“You two don't have to be talking so secretive back there,” Billy July called out, throwing a warm glance back at his prisoners. “Why don't you ride on up here, closer, so we can all get to know one another better?”

When neither the sergeant nor Pennell responded, he turned again, stopping directly in front of them. He raised the shotgun. “Either nudge those horses on up here next to me,” he demanded, “or I'll blow both those animals out from under you, and you can walk.”

Billy July waited as the two men caught up to him. When they were all together, he kicked his horse and continued on his way. The two Americans did the same.

“Now,” Billy July continued, “since I already know all about you two . . .”

“You . . . know all about
us
?” said Mitch Pennell.

“Of course I do,” answered Billy July with a slight smile on his lips. “I've been following you ever since you crossed into Coahuila with your friends. And when you all split up, I decided to follow you two and listen in on your conversations every time you found a reason to talk.”

“Mr. July,” said Pennell, “why don't you tell us about you? About what's a black man doing all the way down here in Mexico? And why are you wearing that Injun fu-madiddle, instead a' dressing like me and my friend here?”

Billy July chuckled. “When we get to where we're going, I suppose you'll find out the answer to that. Plus anything else you might be wondering, as a matter of fact.”

He laughed again, this time much heartier than before.

As the threesome continued on, the echoing peels of Billy July's vigorous jubilation rang loud and clear across the desolate, desert landscape.

 

 

Don Roberto Acosta y Castro, and his estate foreman, Luis Hernandez, along with a number of the Don's best fighting men, had reached the two-story adobe building. The remains of the two campsites belonging to those who had been there most recently were still in evidence.

The Don had his men dismount, then the premises were searched thoroughly until they regrouped again at the front, around Don Roberto and Luis. Nothing unusual had been discovered except for the fact that Armendariz, and his unruly band, had camped there earlier. After they had moved on, evidence showed that a second group of horsemen had arrived. They also made their camp among the adobe ruins.

“What do you make of it?” Don Roberto asked Luis.

“Two parties . . . camped so close to each other, one after the other,” said Luis, “can only mean that there are others, besides us, who are following the trail of Armendariz and his gang.”

“Is it possible that this second group of riders could be
Rurales
?” asked the Don.

“I do not think so,” said Luis. “But we must make sure that the men are aware of the possibility that they could be
Rurales
. We don't want to be getting into an altercation with the federal police.”

Don Roberto nodded, agreeing with his foreman.

“Do you think maybe we should make our camp here for the rest of the day?” said Luis.

“I do not know why not,” said Don Roberto. “These men we follow leave many tracks behind them. Those tracks will still be here in the morning if we do not follow them now. Tell the men we will camp here,” the Don continued, “we might just find some other clues if we keep our eyes open.”

 

 

Charley Sunday and Roca Fuerte sat cross-legged beneath a jagged overhang on the bank of the Rio Sabinas. They were sharing some dried jerky and watching the afternoon sun shine down on the storm clouds that had been hovering for days on the western horizon.

After the discovery of the wagon, the two men had set out in several different directions looking for the woman they figured had been the wagon's driver. When none of the trails they had chosen panned out, Fuerte decided they should continue on toward the northwest. And if they happened to run across her tracks again, they would investigate.

“Any chance of finding a town of some size before nightfall?” asked Charley as he opened a tin of peaches with his penknife.

“You must be tired of sleeping with the scorpions,” said Fuerte, chuckling. “Well, I am thinking that we might run across a small village in a day or two.”

“But not by tonight,” said Charley, plopping a couple of pieces of fruit into his mouth, then drinking some juice directly from the can.

“No,” said Fuerte, “not tonight.”

Charley handed the can of peaches to his friend, who immediately slipped more fruit slices into his mouth. Charley took off his jacket and rolled it into a ball. He placed it behind his head to be used as a pillow. He lay back, closing his eyes.

“We will rest here now, is that your plan, Señor Charley?” asked Fuerte, devouring the last several slices of peach before drinking the remainder of the juice.

“Yes, Roca,” said Charley without opening his eyes. “I figure if we get a little shut-eye now, we can make twice the distance if we travel after dark.
And
we won't have to bake all day in the Mexican sun like we've been doing ever since we left our camp by that adobe house.”

Charley winced before continuing. “I just wish we could find us a place with a real nice featherbed every now and then. I got me this kink in my get-along that's really been bothering me.”

“Ah, Señor Charley,” said Fuerte, “you have had that old kink in your get-along ever since we rode together on opposite sides of the river. You are just getting soft in your old age, that is all.”

“I suppose you're right, Roca, I suppose you're right,” mumbled Charley as he pulled his hat down over his eyes. “Now get yourself some sleep. We'll be heading out again just as soon as the sun goes down.”

Fuerte buried the empty peach can in the sand, using his boot. Then he settled back on his own rolled jacket next to Charley. Before he allowed himself to drift off, he, too, pulled his hat's brim down over his eyes.