Warriors of the Night (12 page)

Ben reached the Calle de La Mission and followed it north, keeping a greenbelt of cottonwoods and elms on his left, cactus and open ground on his right. The Calle de La Mission, despite its hard-packed appearance, was wheel-rutted and dotted with brown, silty puddles, and the roan’s shod hooves became caked with the yellow-brown clay as the mare carried Ben up to the ruined battlements and broken walls of the Alamo. Ten years ago, this same ramshackle mission fortress had been the scene of vicious fighting. Ben knew the story: After thirteen days of glory, a hundred and eighty valiant defenders gave their lives for Texas liberty, maiming Santa Anna’s army and leaving a legacy of courage for an entire nation to remember.

Ben McQueen headed for a breach in the south wall as voices carried to him across the rain-heavy air. There came a crash of pots and pans and the muffled curses of struggling men. Curiosity got the better of him, and Ben urged his horse to a brisk trot that covered the remaining few yards in a matter of seconds. He entered the breach, and the entire courtyard before the pocked facade of the church opened up to him. A hundred feet away, in the muddy environs of a peddler’s makeshift camp, four men were locked in mortal combat.

It was an uneven contest, waged in a campsite consisting of several loosely tethered horses, a cook fire and coffeepot, and a heavy freight wagon. Ben groaned as even from across the yard it was impossible to mistake Snake Eye Gandy. Fierce as a bantam fighting cock, the Texas Ranger struggled against overwhelming odds. He hit and gouged and twisted. His long reach landed blow after blow in a losing effort against two serape-clad Mexicans and a wiry, hook-nosed gentleman brandishing a stout hickory cane. The two Mexicans had finally succeeded in pinning Gandy’s shoulders to the side of the canvas-covered wagon.

Ben recognized the hook-nosed man with the cane from Peter Abbot’s sketches. It was Ashworth, the gun merchant. Ben hadn’t liked Ashworth on paper, and he didn’t much care for him in real life.

As Ben looked on, the gun merchant prepared to administer a vicious caning to Snake Eye Gandy. Not even the Ranger deserved such treatment. Against his own better judgment, Ben knew he was going to interfere. The lieutenant drove his boot heels into the roan’s flanks. The mare leaped forward, crossed one puddle, and splashed through another, dousing Ben with a fine spray of muddy water. Ben never slowed, but gave the animal plenty of rein and charged the wagon. Ashworth paused, cane in hand, arm raised. He struck Gandy a nasty blow to the collarbone. The Ranger sagged.

Before Ashworth could strike again, a squat, muscular hide hunter came lumbering through the arched doorway of the abandoned church. He was hitching up his pants when he noticed Ben McQueen. The hide hunter called out to Ashworth. Too late, the men by the wagon turned to face this threat. The mare leaped the campfire and crashed into one of Ashworth’s cohorts, pinning him to the side of the wagon. The Mexican dropped, the wind knocked out of him. The other released his hold on Gandy.

The Ranger seized the opportunity to free himself. He grabbed Ashworth and wrestled him to the ground. Ben kicked out and the toe of his boot caught the other hireling in the forehead and put him momentarily out of action. But Ben’s elation was short-lived, as the man from the church leaped up and caught him in a powerful bear hug and dragged him out of the saddle.

“Watch your backside, Brass Buttons,” Gandy shouted, clambering to his feet. He sounded jubilant, as if he was enjoying himself. The bear hug tightened around Ben’s midsection, driving the air from his lungs. Ben’s opponent, though smaller, had immense upper body strength; his arms felt as if they were made of iron, and the pressure he exerted was nigh unbearable.

The roan bolted out into the courtyard, away from the combatants. Ben decided his horse had showed remarkable good sense; if only he had done the same. Yet despite his own desperate circumstances, Ben found something to cheer about. Through pain-glazed eyes, he watched as Ashworth rose up behind Gandy. The Ranger was absorbed in Ben’s predicament. Gandy might have offered to help, but he was curious to see if the lieutenant could handle himself in a tight situation.

“You’ve got him now,” Gandy chuckled. He assumed Ashworth was unconscious. But the merchant in the mud-spattered frock coat knotted his fist and struck Gandy in the back. He’d been aiming for the base of Gandy’s neck, but mud in his eyes caused him to misjudge the angle of the blow. Nevertheless, Snake Eye howled in pain and stumbled forward.

“Watch your backside, you ugly son of a bitch,” Ben gasped through clenched teeth. If his ribs weren’t about to be crushed, he’d have enjoyed the last laugh even more.

Gandy stumbled forward, spun on his heels, and dove forward, burying his head in the pit of Cal Ashworth’s stomach. Both men lost their footing and tumbled into a shallow puddle of muddy water. Locked in a violent embrace, the two men disappeared beneath the wagon.

“I don’t know who you be, soldier blue, but I’ll learn you to mind your own business from now on,” the hide hunter growled in Ben’s ear. “Ain’t nobody ever broke loose of Lester Harlan.”

Ben McQueen could believe it. He grabbed at Harlan’s wrists and tried to break his hold, but the hide hunter’s ironlike hands were clasped together as if they’d been forged that way. Without oxygen, Ben’s strength was fading. He was losing consciousness, but he had one last chance. He doubled over and lifted Harlan onto his back. The hide hunter refused to break his bear hug even when his feet left the ground. With no way for Harlan to gain leverage, Ben turned and worked his way over to the campfire, then fell forward while rolling onto his right shoulder. Ben landed on his back, smack-dab in the middle of the campfire, with Lester Harlan between him and the flames. Ben spread his legs to help pin Harlan to the flames. He wrinkled his nose at the stench of burning buckskin. Harlan began to struggle and curse, while Ben resisted losing consciousness. Suddenly, Harlan had had enough. As the flames reached his backside, he released his rib-crushing embrace and shoved Ben aside.

Harlan bellowed. Streaming smoke from his blackened buckskin shirt and breeches and singed hair, he scrambled toward the nearest mud puddle and plopped down into it. He groaned, then sighed in relief.

Ben rolled to his knees and sensed movement behind him. The three years he’d spent back East had dulled those rough-and-tumble fighting skills developed during a childhood spent among Choctaw, Cherokee, and Creek playmates. But it was coming back to him. One of the Mexican hirelings had left the fight. The man staggered off across the courtyard, clutching his sides. The man Ben had kicked was still in the picture, though. Momentarily stunned, the Mexican gathered his strength and slid a knife from a boot sheath. Ben reached for his revolver. It was no longer tucked in his belt. He must have lost it when Harlan dragged him from horseback.

The Mexican grinned and darted forward. He was a dark-skinned, boyish-faced rogue with the haughty air of youth about him. The knife gleamed wickedly as he feinted, then attacked. Ben scooped up a handful of horse droppings and threw it in the young man’s face, catching him wide-eyed and openmouthed.

The Mexican halted in his tracks, dropped his knife, and clawed at his features. He spat excrement, doubled over, and retched. He had to cling to the side of the wagon for support, and when his spasms subsided, Ben grabbed him by the scruff of his coarsely woven shirt and cocked a right fist, ready to flatten his attacker’s nose.

“No, se
ñ
or. Por favor…”
the young man weakly pleaded. “Not in the face. Think of the señoritas. Have pity on the señoritas who love me.”

Ben paused, his fist ready. Then he muttered, “Oh hell,” and, with his left hand, slammed the hireling’s head against a wheel rim. The Mexican slid down the spokes and came to rest, senseless, his head pillowed on the iron hub, legs doubled beneath him.

“You’re a real hellion when you get riled, Brass Buttons,” Snake Eye said. He rose up at the end of the wagon and stepped over a singletree, dragging Cal Ashworth in his wake. He draped the unconscious gun merchant over the singletree. “Story has it, Crockett died over yonder, fighting to the end. I wasn’t about to leave this bastard lying there.” Snake Eye was soaked head to foot. His glass eye and its coiled snake peered ominously through a mask of mud. “You’re a pitiful sight, Lieutenant.”

Ben stared down at his uniform. One sleeve was torn. His coat and trousers were matted with mud. He shrugged. “You aren’t exactly the belle of the ball.”

“No. Reckon I ain’t,” Snake Eye admitted. He shifted his gaze. “Lester Harlan, is that you?”

The hide hunter struggled to stand in the puddle. The seat of his pants had been burned away and his coat was black, and patches of skin showed through the holes in his clothing. Harlan wiped the silt from his eyes. Recognition came instantly. “Gandy,” he muttered.

“What the hell are you doing with the likes of Cal Ashworth?” Gandy asked.

“Ashworth never told me it was you we was after,” Harlan replied, eyes lowered.

“You’re a lying dog, Lester Harlan,” Gandy retorted.

The crestfallen rogue seemed to sag, as if gravity itself were pulling him into the earth. “I got robbed by Mescans over in Taos. Took my packhorses and half a year’s worth of pelts and buffalo hides.” He stared glumly at his benefactor, belly-down across the singletree. “Reckon it was a bad call,” he muttered. He glanced at Ben. “You’d’ve never broke free if you hadn’t tripped me in the fire.”

Ben shrugged. He felt no need to trade brags with the man. The hide hunter looked the worse for wear, and that was enough for McQueen.

“What now?” asked Harlan.

“If the lieutenant here ain’t got any druthers, you can skedaddle.” Gandy cocked an eye toward Ben, who had to admit that Texans were a peculiar lot. Ben had the feeling he was being tested one more time. He couldn’t shake the sensation. He walked over to the hide hunter and looked him straight in the eyes. Ben’s ribs ached from the bear hug, but knowing he had bested the man left him elated. The altercation had served a useful purpose after all. It had given him a glimpse of his true self. Beneath the air of civility he had acquired back East lurked the mixed-blood Choctaw whose ferocity no formal education would ever tame. Part of him would forever heed the call of a raven.

Ben leaned toward Harlan and spoke in a quiet, ominous tone of voice.

“I don’t ever want to see you again.”

Anger flared in the hide hunter’s eyes, but he held himself in check. There was something unsettling about the lieutenant. Ben’s breath fanned Harlan’s cheek like the kiss of death. Menace seemed to crackle from McQueen like lightning. Harlan, once struck, wasn’t about to chance trouble a second time. He gulped and nodded in agreement and lumbered over to the tethered horses. He saddled the first nag he came to and rode off toward Old Town.

Ben and Snake Eye retrieved their mounts. The lieutenant recovered Virge Washburn’s Patterson Colt and wiped the mud from the cylinder as best he could. The gun needed to be broken down and given a good cleaning. He tucked it in his belt and swung up astride the roan.

The man draped over the singletree moaned and rolled into the dirt. Gandy rode up alongside the lieutenant.

“Leave him lie. I reckon he’s been paid for damn near busting my shoulder with that cane,” the Ranger said. Gandy brushed back his topknot and settled his sombrero on his head.

“He’ll probably try again sometime,” Ben remarked.

“Yeah.” Gandy rubbed his knuckles, winced, and then chuckled. “I can hardly wait.” He studied the old and crumbling walls surrounding them. Gandy took on an almost wistful expression and grew silent. Perhaps he was hearing the bugles of yesteryear. Then Gandy returned to the present and studied the lieutenant, who patiently waited at his side. “How come you dove into this fracas? There ain’t been love lost betwixt us. I’d have been tempted to ride on and let a proud, troublesome son of a bitch like myself get what’s coming to me.”

“Maybe I was tempted,” Ben grinned. “Then again, maybe you aren’t the only man who listens to ghosts.”

I
T WAS A QUARTER
till noon when Ben McQueen came tramping up through the cottonwoods after bathing in San Pedro Creek in the arroyo behind the governor’s palace. He stopped in his tracks. What the devil? he thought. His uniform was missing. Despite its ragged, mud-stained appearance, Ben had hoped that Toby’s mother might be prevailed upon to make his coat presentable again. He’d left his shirt, trousers, and long johns to dry on a mesquite bush. Now all that remained were his long johns, which he quickly donned. He searched beneath the bush and found his socks and boots, much to his relief. But the rest of his clothes were nowhere to be seen. He began to suspect the hand of Snake Eye Gandy in this and decided the hell with diplomacy, he was going to shoot the bastard and be done with it.

A twig cracked behind him and shattered a pleasant reverie in which Ben rehearsed dispatching Snake Eye Gandy straight to perdition. No doubt the devil had a berth marked for the Ranger. Ben suspected that Snake Eye could probably teach Ol’ Scratch a trick or two in the process.

Ben glanced behind him and spied Toby on the path leading down to the creek. The boy’s arms were filled with clothing: a fringed buckskin shirt, faded nankeen breeches, a worn leather gun belt and holster, a bear-claw shot pouch, a couple of broad-brimmed hats, and a Patterson Colt revolver.

“Got you some clothes, Lieutenant. Yessir, Mr. Gandy told me to take your coat and all to my ma to fix up. Told me to see you was dressed proper.”

“Proper for what? A war dance?” Ben eyed the garments with skepticism. They were hardly regulation attire, but then this was hardly a regular situation. It was Texas. “Thanks,” he said, and lifted the load out of Toby’s embrace.

“Mister—General Abbot said for you to hurry. He got someone for you to meet,” Toby added.

The shirt and trousers were a little loose on Ben but would shrink some when wet. One of the hats was too small, but the other settled properly on his head. Ben buckled the gun belt so that the holster rode high on his left thigh, the Patterson Colt butt forward and in easy reach of his right hand. The bear-claw pouch held a spare cylinder already loaded with powder and shot, the chambers dabbed over with bear grease to prevent sparks from igniting the other loads when one was fired. The pouch also contained a small canister of black powder and a couple of dozen lead balls wrapped in oilskin. Ben handled the Patterson Colt. It was identical to the weapon Virge Washburn had loaned him. The walnut grip rested easy in the palm of his hand. The gunmetal was cool to the touch. He slid the eight-inch barrel into the holster. Gandy was a difficult man to figure. Maybe this was Snake Eye’s way of making peace.