The Red Ripper (23 page)

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Authors: Kerry Newcomb

BOOK: The Red Ripper
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“Some of these Texicans are a bold lot. Don Murillo Saldevar, Sam Houston, Stephen Austin, and more especially the ruffian William Wallace,” said Bradburn, reeling off the names of his enemies. “Men like him are not the panicking kind.” He had his own agenda in this and wanted to be certain his enemies did not escape Santa Anna's wrath.
“Wallace?” Paloma said, “Saldevar? … The names
are familiar. There is a woman,
Elle anda en las sombra,
a shadow walker with her cards.”
“Don Murillo's wife,” Bradburn told her, his tongue moistening his lips. Now there was a dessert he intended to sample. “You know them, Senorita Guadiz?”
“Our paths have crossed,” Paloma replied, shivering.
“Here, my dear; take my coat,” Santa Anna purred, draping his medal-bedecked coat over the woman's shoulders. But the cold she felt was the chill hand of fate, and the only protection against that was the reassuring presence of the pistol tucked in her belt and the knowledge that her brother was without peer with pistol or blade.
“You are most kind, señor,” she said. “And do not worry, General Cos. Men like my brother, Colonel Guadiz, are not so much worried of being watched but that our enemy might not stand and fight. We have chased some of these rascals before.” Paloma took a sip of brandy. The warmth spread to her limbs, and she closed her eyes in satisfaction. At that moment a commotion erupted at the perimeter of the encampment, and word soon arrived that the lancers had returned. Moments later, a scowling Juan Diego approached the general's tent. He nodded to the men, glanced in his sister's direction and shook his head, then removed his brass helmet with its horsehair plume and tucked it under his arm and saluted Santa Anna.
“Excuse my intrusion, Your Excellency, but with darkness we lost the trail. There were two men, though. They ran like rabbits before us. And their horses were in better shape than ours. We lost them on the Camino Real. No doubt we will find them again in San Antonio.”
Santa Anna frowned and his lips drew tight. The muscle along his jaw began to twitch.
“Then we shall deal with them later,” Paloma spoke
up, defusing the situation. “Victory is best when it is savored.”
Santa Anna glanced in her direction, slowly smiled, then stood and indicated the food set out for their enjoyment. “Come and eat, my gallant colonel.”
“
Gracias
, but I must see to my men first,” Guadiz said.
“I will walk with you,” Paloma interjected. The woman set her food aside and, excusing herself, hurried to her brother's side as he headed back through the camp.
Burly old Sgt. Cayetano Obregon emerged from the shadows and fell in step behind the twins. “Don't suppose you could bring along some of that brandy, ma'am?”
Paloma glanced over her shoulder, then, reaching inside her tunic, removed a small silver flask she had surreptitiously filled from Santa Anna's own decanter while the general was occupied with his meal. She tossed the flask into the sergeant's outstretched hands.
“Bless you, señorita. This will soothe these old bones of mine.”
“I am surprised you can feel those ‘old bones' through all the layers of fat.”
Obregon muttered beneath his breath. And yet staring down at the flask, he could afford to be forgiving. At Diego's command he hurried on ahead while the twins made their way toward the edge of camp, away from the glare of the campfires. Alone at last, Diego slowed his pace until they ambled side by side across the moonlit landscape. Coyotes howled in the distance.
“What is it, Paloma? … What mischief are you about?”
“Must I have news just because I wish to be with my brother?” the woman softly laughed.
Their boots made a crunching sound in the loose
rocks underfoot. His saber slapped against his thigh as he walked. Juan Diego was fiercely handsome. War had aged him, tested the bonds his sister used to “guide” him. He was more direct now and given to going his own way … until the headaches returned, and then only she could ease the pain.
“William Wallace … do you remember?”
Diego stopped and looked at her, oblivious to the impressive array of soldiers displayed before them. Many of the infantrymen had their wives and children living with them in their tents. To some it might have seemed odd to find children scampering and playing among the stacked muskets, saddles and lances, caissons and artillery. To these men, war was their occupation and the army was their home. It was the way of things.
“Ah, the
norte americano,
” Guadiz said, not bothering to mask his contempt. “El Destripedor Rojo. Such a meddlesome bastard. Too bad he escaped. I would have liked to have had him at sword's point.”
Paloma Turcios Guadiz grinned. Did she ever have news for him!
“NONE OF US ARE LOOKING TO BE MARTYRS.”
There are no simple “good-byes” in a time of revolution. Each separation carries the threat of permanence. Don Murillo tried not to think of such things as he paced the sitting room and waited for Chuy Montoya to bring his carriage around to the front of the hacienda. The room was charged with tension as the landowner and his wife vied with each other over who should stay and who must leave.
“The first Señora Saldevar did as I ordered. Why must you be so stubborn?” Don Murillo blurted out. He might as well have spent the last few hours arguing with the wall for all the success he was having.
“Because I am not the first Señora Saldevar,” Esperanza flatly replied.
“She knew her place.”
“So do I,” the young woman retorted, cheeks flushed, her black eyes bold, her mouth firm with resolve. She wore her riding clothes, a warm woolen dress of leaf green velour and high-buttoned boots. “But seeing as you refuse to bring me with you into the Alamo Mission, I shall stay here until the conflict is resolved. Then we will return to San Felipe together.”
Don Murillo threw his hands in the air and turned his back on her. He walked across the room and stood leaning on the hearth. He glanced around and saw Dorotea
tentatively position herself in the doorway. She seemed reluctant to intrude.
“Sister, come and talk some sense into my wife,” said Don Murillo.
Esperanza prepared herself for another onslaught. She was up to it. No one was going to change her mind. On this matter she was resolute. However, today Dorotea was full of surprises.
“I, too, will remain,” she said. “If it is your right to go, then it is ours to stay.”
Esperanza couldn't believe her own ears. Dorotea had never taken her side in anything. Ever since the marriage, Dorotea had been at odds with her sister-in-law. There had been no common ground. Now, all of a sudden, she was supporting Esperanza. It was becoming a day of “first.”
Don Murillo sighed, overwhelmed by the combined forces arrayed against him. Two stubborn women made a united front, which was two more than any man should ever have to confront. “I stand defeated. Stay. Both of you. Though it goes against my better judgment.”
“I have prepared a basket of tortillas and barbacoa,” Dorotea added, sensing the matter was settled. She had spent the entire morning in the kitchen, preparing coffee, chorizo, and eggs. It was the way she took her mind off her worries. The widow held up a woven basket covered with a small cloth to keep the contents warm. She hated this struggle, wanted no part of a revolution, and thought her brother rash and even foolish to jeopardize all he held dear. He was a man of substance with so much to lose.
“Put it on the floor of the carriage,” said Don Murillo. “Chuy's bringing it around front.”
“As you wish,” Dorotea replied, her features softened by concern for her brother's safety. Her black dress rustied
as she headed for the front of the house and vanished through the front door.
Esperanza allowed her gaze to drift across the bookshelves. All of this learning but no answers other than what she felt to be true in her heart.
Don Murillo stoked the log in the fireplace until flames danced along its gray-black bark. “Why are you doing this?”
“It is my duty, my privilege,” she replied. “Even a servant can have a sense of honor.”
He started to reprimand her, then reconsidered. He was tired of arguing, if indeed these were the final moments. “Well then, it is time,” he tenderly said. In his ruffled shirt, brocaded vest, waistcoat, and flat-crowned hat, the landowner looked as if he were on his way to the theater instead of a war. Only the brace of pistols thrust in his belt belied the image. It was a scene being repeated in varying degrees throughout the town. Men were kissing their loved ones, stealing one last embrace, doing what must be done in a time of conflict and conflagration.
He took her in his arms and held her close, kissed her willing mouth, breathed in the smell of her, memorized the feel of her. in his arms. He might need a memory of warmth in the days to come.
“I read the cards last night, while you slept,” she said, her cheek against his neck. He felt a tear moisten his flesh. Had she glimpsed his fate? Tears weren't a good sign.
“I do not wish to know,” he quickly stated. “Dust is our destiny. If not now, then it will be.” He brushed a strand of hair back from her moist cheek. “If that tear is for me, then I am happy.”
“Who else would it be for?”
“I know you care for me,” he said. “But you are
young and in the fullness of your years. I would never have blamed you if—”
She put her fingers to his lips. “No. Do not say it.” Her eyes were full and moist. “Mi amor,” she said. And meant it.
 
A straggling procession of wagons and mules loaded down with kegs of gunpowder, round shot, food, water barrels, and the last of the medical supplies hurtled up the Calle de la Mission, kicking up clods of dirt and a dusty haze that trickled into the cold blue sky.
Seated astride a sturdy mustang, William Wallace skirted the supply line and galloped on ahead to the Alamo. Sentries on the wall hailed the big man as he approached, but the gate failed to open.
A soldier perched squarely above the gate called out, “Halt! Who goes there?” and went so far as to brandish his rifle.
William reined in his mount and, shading his eyes, glared up at the man above. “Is that you, Mr. Kania?”
“Sure is!” the shopkeeper shouted down.
“Then you know me.”
“Orders are orders. Colonel Travis said I was to stop anyone from entering without they give the proper word of passage. You're supposed to say it.”
William slipped one of the pistols from his belt, cocked it, and drew a bead on the sentry. “How about I just shoot you off that damn wall?”
“That'll do!” the shopkeeper called down. “Come on through.”
Wallace rode on into the compound, looked about for Bill Travis, and found him overseeing the last-minute placement of a twelve-pounder cannon atop a corner redoubt.
“I want this gun to be able to sweep the road!” he
called out. “But we also need to be able to protect the main gate should it be breached.”
A cold north wind hounded the Texicans as they used every minute to bolster the defenses of the makeshift fort. Time was precious. Columns of swiftly riding dragoons, sent ahead by Santa Anna, were reported to be advancing on the town. Although Wallace had yet to engage a Mexican patrol, he had heard what sounded like gunfire reverberate in the foothills upriver.
A party of Tennesseans led by David Crockett had skirmished with a troop of Mexican cavalry two days' ride from San Antonio. Though only numbering a couple of dozen men, Crockett and his “Smoky Mountain boys” had acquitted themselves with distinction and sent the patrols scurrying to safety. Wallace had taken an instant liking to Crockett and found him a welcome addition to the garrison.
As William walked his mustang across the parade ground, he marveled at what Travis had accomplished. Over the course of the past couple of months the lawyer had proved himself to be a capable officer and engineer. Redoubts had been strengthened; sections of crumbling adobe wall had been reinforced with brick and timbers. He had molded the defenders into a real military unit, much to the chagrin of Bowie and the more vocal volunteers who didn't take kindly to rank and protocol and were accustomed to doing what they pleased when they pleased.
“Wallace, thank heavens you're here!” Travis exclaimed, scrambling down from the redoubt. The lawyer's once smooth, graceful hands were calloused and begrimed. His blue coat was smudged with dirt, the red sash about his waist faded and streaked with mud. His boots were spattered and scuffed.
Wallace's gaze swept over the walls and the mismatched group of defenders who intended to defy an
army that outnumbered them twenty-five to one. Mad Jack would have never stood for it. A freebooter never bucked the odds. He could imagine the old sea dog arguing they ought to slash and run and live to fight another day. But the men here were full of ideals, proud and ornery, and convinced they followed a noble cause.
There isn't a pirate among them,
Wallace thought,
and more's the pity.
A premonition of disaster had a strong hold on him.
Three days ago he had ridden in from the borderlands with word of Santa Anna's approaching army. Within hours the entire populace had heard the news. What followed was a night of endless-seeming debate that ended with Travis ordering the militia into the Alamo.
Jim Bowie, cantakerous as ever, retired to one of the town's many cantinas and had not been seen since. Meanwhile the townspeople waited, many of them unsure where their loyalties lay. The euphoria of independence had begun to wear off the closer Santa Anna came.
“I begged, borrowed, and outright stole all the powder and shot in the town,” the big man said, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the wagons. “I figured you'd find a use for it.”
“Yes indeed,” Travis replied. Despite the dust and his weary countenance, he remained a dark and dashing figure, like someone's aristocratic son playing at war, caught up in the romance of the struggle. “I know you think this is a foolish gamble. Santa Anna commands a vastly superior force.”
“I've little stomach for a stand-up fight. At least not until Santa Anna gets whittled down to size. You'll feel the same way once you see what we are up against.”
Travis cleared his throat and removed a folded piece of parchment from his vest. “I just received a dispatch from the volunteers over in Goliad. They're on the way
to join us. Once they arrive we can make a real fight of it. And Stephen Austin writes that volunteers are coming in every day and joining Houston's army. But Sam's going to need us to buy him some time while he whips his command into shape.”
Wallace considered the young colonel's arguments. He didn't mind risking his neck; he just wanted it to be for good reason. “I reckon we can slow General Santa Anna and maybe even give him a bloody nose. I'm game. Just so long as you know when it's time to turn Mother's picture to the wall and make a run for it,” Wallace told him. “And live to fight another day.”
“We understand each other. None of us are looking to be martyrs.” Travis glanced about to check if anyone else was within earshot. He lowered his voice. “Perhaps you could find Colonel Bowie. I sent that Crockett fellow after him, but I fear whiskey has a similar hold on the Tennessean.”
“I'll run them to cover,” William said. “Don't judge Bowie too harshly. Keep in mind he will do his part when the time comes.” He touched the brim of his sombrero as a gesture of farewell, turned his mount, and started back through the main gate. He waited for a pair of wagons to ease through, then rode through the arched entrance and headed for town.
Wallace had only gone a few hundred yards when he recognized Don Murillo's carriage rumbling across the bridge, breaking from the emerald shadows beneath the trees, and rolling toward him up the mission road. William couldn't help himself. He had to check to see whether the carriage held one person or two. He glimpsed the
haciendado
alone in the carnage, shielded from the north wind by a black leather frame. The carriage was pulled by a dappled stallion with white stockings and a blazed face. Chuy Montoya rode a few paces behind the carriage. The remainder of the vaqueros either
had been dispatched to East Texas or were already within the walls of the Alamo. The
segundo
sat slouched in the saddle, a quirt dangling from his wrist. He was a man of few words but direct action.
Wallace cut across the road and intersected the carriage. He removed his sombrero out of deference and respect for the older man. The air turned brisk with every gust that tousled Wallace's unruly mane.
“Good afternoon, señor Saldevar.”
“Well now, I think I recognize the red hair. Yes, by heaven, it is William Wallace. You have been too long a stranger, my friend.”
“I hoped you and your wife might return to San Felipe before the trouble starts.”
“Too late. It's begun. However, I believe I have earned the right to join Colonel Travis at the Alamo. Chuy and I cannot allow you and the others to have all the fun,” said Don Murillo. “Then again, once he arrives, perhaps Santa Anna can be made to listen to reason.”
“Only at gunpoint,” William replied. “The man I saw crossing the Rio Grande looked about as reasonable as a starved panther. Roberto Zavala would tell you the same thing, but I sent him back to San Felipe to, help look after his family.”
“A wise move. I wish I could convince Esperanza to wait for me in East Texas. But she refuses to leave San Antonio as long as I am here. Although Santa Anna is not the kind of man to make war on women and children, still I am worried. Perhaps you could talk some sense into her, persuade her to take my sister and return to our ranch up north. She is especially fond of you. Stop by my house and reason with her.”

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