The Red Ripper (22 page)

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Authors: Kerry Newcomb

BOOK: The Red Ripper
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Just as Esperanza had predicted, William “Big Foot” Wallace volunteered to be the eyes and ears of Houston's militia and stood ready to sound the alarm at the first sign of an enemy's approach. Throughout the winter, he ranged those borderlands—sometimes alone, other times with a trusted compadre—and followed the Rio Grande always searching the skyline for a telltale wisp of dust stirred by an advancing column of men. It wasn't long before his patience and perseverance were rewarded.
Now some folk claim Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna was a great general. He was wily and arrogant, true enough, and no man was ever more convinced of his destiny, more confident of his own invincibility. He reached Texas in mid-February and crossed the Rio Grande at Presidio. It was a glorious sight; five thousand lancers, dragoons, artillery, grenadiers, and infantry who had crushed a revolt in Zacatecas, broken
the back of a revolution in Coahuila, now had come to Texas to restore order and destroy anyone who stood in their path.
William Wallace was there to welcome them … .
“WELCOME TO TEXAS, YOU SON OF A BITCH!”
Wallace, had President Santa Anna dead in his sights. Then a drop of moisture seeped into the corner of William's eye and he blinked and rubbed it clear. He balanced the rifle on a tooth-shaped outcropping of granite, licked his thumb, and moistened the sight at the end of the barrel.
“
Mi amigo,
what are you fixing to do?” Roberto Zavala nervously asked, crouching alongside the big Texican.
“Doesn't seem right ol' Santa Anna should march all this way and not receive a proper greeting.” William adjusted his sombrero to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun overhead. Despite the chill wind, heat waves danced off the arid landscape. Save for the river itself and the trees nurtured by its proximity, this was a place of dry, harsh beauty. Even the column of men strung out along the Camino Real was dwarfed by the immensity of the terrain.
“That's an impossible shot from here,” Roberto observed.
“You're right,” William said with a wink. He glanced back at the column. Santa Anna had taken the lead and not bothered to post any skirmishers as he forded the river. The general expected no trouble and had turned the crossing into a ceremonial advance, hoping to inspire
his troops. “You stay here; I'll be back directly.”
“Have you lost your senses?”
Wallace jabbed a thumb in the direction of the horses they had ground-tethered in a dry wash. “Wait for me down in that gully, and when you see me come running don't dally.” He wiped his forearm across his face, dry-swallowed, then checked his rifle. The weapon was loaded and primed. Both men were as careworn and weathered-looking as the boots they wore. Their features were dust-caked, crow's-feet stretched around their eyes from squinting into the sun—hard faces, hardened hearts.
As Wallace stalked off across the uneven terrain, a spyglass in his hand, his thoughts wandered back to the day he had volunteered to ride patrol throughout the winter months. It had been a difficult decision, keeping a respectful distance from San Antonio and Esperanza Saldevar. But life was easier this way. Being in love with another
*
man's wife sure complicated things. Mad Jack would say, “A wise man knows when to keep his distance,” and the old sea dog would be right.
With Roberto Zavala at his side, Wallace crisscrossed the roads leading up from old Mexico. When their supplies ran low the two men trapped and lived off the land, hunting antelope, wild turkey, and white-tailed deer when the bacon and salt pork were gone. Texas winter brought days of bright sunlight and mellow temperatures, interspersed with a week or two of freezing temperatures when a blue norther struck and lashed the deserted hills with wind and rain and ice pellets that stung like buckshot. But Wallace was the kind of man born without an ounce of quit in him, so he endured. And Roberto was not about to abandon him.
However, with only enough coffee left for a couple of days and looking forward to their third evening meal of fried rattlesnake and boiled jicama root, the two men
reached a mutual understanding and had just decided to start back for San Antonio when they spied a column of dust spiraling up against the hard blue sky.
A herd of buffalo or an approaching army? Wallace and Zavala forgot about their dwindling supplies and tracked the dust to its source. William scrambled up a steep incline of loose shale and, removing his sombrero, eased the spyglass over the edge of a limestone ridge overlooking the Rio Grande. Before him was just about the prettiest army the big man had ever seen.
The Otaxaca Regiment took the lead in their white tunics and blue trousers. The Zacatecas Regulars, in red coats and white trousers, came next, followed by the Coahuila Brigade in blue tunics and faded red britches. Mounted dragoons garbed in the red-and-black uniforms of Santa Anna's personal guard surrounded the general. A formidable troop of hard-riding lancers in green coats, white pants tucked into thigh-high black boots, and brass helmets with horsehair plumes scouted the perimeter. Gen. Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna rode at the center of all this activity. He was resplendent in a scarlet-and-gold tunic, dark blue trousers stitched with silver thread, medals gleaming upon his chest, and on his head a magnificent
chapeau bras,
a broad black hat embroidered with gold thread, upturned at the sides, and crowned with a thick presentation of white plumage.
Wallace followed a deer trail that led up through some loose shale to the top of a bluff several hundred feet closer to the column of soldiers snaking along the south bank of the Rio Grande. The column crossed the muddy expanse at its low point and threaded their way north into the golden hills. Wallace brought out his spyglass and focused on the man in the lead.
El presidente'
s image filled the eyepiece. An arrogant, forceful man of average height, his black hair was brushed forward to conceal a receding hairline. Confidence radiated from
him like warmth from the sun and spread to the men under his command.
Wallace shifted his focus, played the lens across the faces of the men marching toward him. “Cos,” he muttered beneath his breath as the general's combative image materialized out of the dust. And there was Bradburn, looking haggard and uncomfortable, his great bulk astride a mouse brown dun. William wasn't surprised. The two men had taken an oath on their honor never to return to Texas. It seemed honor was in scarce supply south of the Rio Grande.
A flash of sunlight caught Wallace's attention, and once again he swept the ranks and was forced to squint against the glare of the sunlight on the tips of the lances as a troop of cavalry forded the river and plunged through the sluggish waters and up the north embankment. William thought he recognized the uniforms and turned his spyglass on them.
The muscles along his jawline began to twitch; his mouth went dry as he recognized the officer directing the horsemen to take the point and fan out in several directions. The features were unmistakable, even though they were partly concealed by his horsehair-plumed brass helmet. Wallace's jaw dropped. The officer's name rolled off his tongue as easily as a muttered curse. “Juan Diego Guadiz.” Even as he spoke the words, the man rode out of range and disappeared behind an embankment. William heard his brother's ghost whisper in his ear, “
And now you know
…”
Wallace set the spyglass aside and shouldered his rifle. The gunshot rang out across the landscape, echoed off the rugged walls, repeated like a withering volley of gunshots. Santa Anna's pride and joy, his beloved, imperial-looking hat, was blown from his head and ripped apart by the impact of the rifle ball and landed beneath the iron-shod hooves of the horses behind him,
who proceeded to trample the remains into a shapeless mass. The general jerked backward as if he had been hit and slid from the saddle, landing on his rump in the dirt. He clutched his tunic, half-expecting to see blood spurting from a wound, then scrambled to his feet, tripped over his saber, and fell face forward, landing in a most undignified position.
“Welcome to Texas, you son of a bitch!” Wallace shouted, standing atop the ridge. His voice rang out across the brakes, shouted from the heart, from the violence of his memories. He spun on his heels and cradling his rifle trotted downslope, slipping in the shale, steadying himself with the butt of his rifle, scrambling, twisting, reaching solid ground. He stopped to catch his breath, then straightened and closed his eyes and roared out, “Guadiz!”
The name exploded from the depths of his soul, the cry of a man in torment, enraged as the memories and the guilt flooded back. His brother's murderer, up from the south and out of the past. William wanted to stay. But now wasn't the time or place. To linger was to court disaster—he had business elsewhere. The people in San Antonio must be warned. Santa Anna's army was too big to resist. Texas was going to need a lot more volunteers. There were some hard days ahead.
He had to run now. Run from Guadiz as he had before.
No, it isn't the same,
William told himself.
I am a different man. This is my country, my land; Juan Diego Guadiz is the stranger. And when the time comes, no army on earth will spare him a day of reckoning.
Wallace could imagine the commotion surrounding Santa Anna as the troops hurried forward to protect him. The dragoons and lancers must be scouring the hills in search of the sniper. The image quickened his pace, and it wasn't long before he scurried along the arroyo and arrived alongside Roberto Zavala.
“The way I see it, if Santa Anna wants to be president of Texas he's got to run for the office just like everyone else!” Wallace breathlessly exclaimed, grabbing the reins from Zavala.
The younger man looked perplexed. “I heard the shot.” Zavala asked, “What happened to the general? Did you ‘elect' him?”
“No.” A smile of grim amusement flitted across Wallace's face as he pictured Santa Anna, his hat shot away, panicked, fumbling with the saber and landing facedown in the dirt. “But I nominated him pretty good.”
 
Santa Anna warmed himself by the fire in front of his tent and took comfort in the fact that his army was across the river and secure for the night. He took comfort in the skill of his officers and the morale of his men, comfort in the warmth of the fire, the meal his servant had prepared, the French brandy gleaming coppery gold in the crystal decanter on the walnut table next to his camp chair. It was good brandy, its bouquet so intense that the mere act of inhaling its aroma left a taste on the palate. These things were good and appeased him. The general found solace in the knowledge that he commanded the most formidable host in all of Texas and that he had never known defeat. He was proud of himself and all that he attained, and if anyone mentioned the incident along the riverbank and the indignity he had suffered at the hands of an unknown assailant the general would have the fool shot.
“Come, Paloma; drink to your brother's health. He should be back soon and with good news to report,” said Santa Anna to the woman seated by the fire. He leaned forward and poured a measure of brandy for Juan Diego's twin sister. His gaze roamed her lithe body, barely concealed by the vaquero's jacket and tight breeches. He envisioned running his fingers through her black hair
that was gathered back in a tight bun and concealed beneath an ocher bandanna. If she hadn't been the niece of his old friend and supporter, the governor of Veracruz, Santa Anna would have ordered her to his bed long ago. Alas, this one would have to come willingly. Well, no matter; time was in his favor. After all, he was
el presidente.
What woman could resist him?
General Cos cleared his throat and then held out his plate as the president's servant began to serve the dinner—catfish braised in butter, peppers and rice, frijoles, tortillas fried crisp and drizzled with honey. The air was permeated with the aroma of the cook fires radiating out in a wheel-like pattern from the general's tent—so many pockets of fire that is seemed as if the hillsides and riverbank, like the obsidian sky overhead, were strewn with stars. The common soldiers were only too glad to make a meal of beans and tortillas with a few links of chorizo sausage fried up for good measure to spice up a cold night.
“Speak up, Martin; what is on your mind?”
Cos considered his options and tried to make the best of a bad situation. He wasn't about to address the sniper, at least not directly. He glanced in Bradburn's direction. The rotund Englishman was wolfing down the food as if it were his last meal on earth. He glanced up from his plate when he sensed Cos staring at him.
“John and I are concerned by what has happened,” Cos said.
The blood drained from Santa Anna's features, and his expression grew stern. Bradburn appeared horrified that his name had been dragged into the discussion. He could see no benefit in a confrontation with the president of Mexico. Santa Anna was already thin-skinned when it came to his reputation.
“What do you mean?”
“We have lost the element of surprise.”
Santa Anna stood and looked around him at the troops fanned out along banks of the Rio Grande. His breath clouded the air with every exhalation. The temperature was falling as the barren hills released their warmth to the cloudless sky. The moon rose behind a vast array of broken ridges and the spiny supplications of the ocotillo cacti that grew in rich profusion in the arroyos and dotted the slopes.
“Look about you,” he addressed his brother-in-law. “What do you see?”
Bradburn rose to the occasion and interjected a remark: “An invincible army.”
Santa Anna nodded, pleased. “Precisely,” he replied. Cos glared at the Englishman, but Santa Anna clapped Bradburn on the back. “You are a perceptive man. When I drive the rabble out of San Antonio, perhaps I shall make you alcalde.”
That had been Cos's position along with governor. The general decided to repair the damage. “I only mention this in case you might want me to lead a force of dragoons and lancers and storm San Antonio and occupy the town before you get there.”
“Well done,” Santa Anna chuckled. “You are a brave man after all, Martin. But that will not be necessary. I intend to arrive in full force. I want to impress these Texicans … before I kill them.” A disheartened foe was a beaten one. “Let them see us. Let them watch us sweep toward them like an oncoming tide.”

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