Warriors of the Night (4 page)

Ben had started to comment that the woman beside him had the heart of a poet, when she turned toward the plazas and headed west along the Calle Dolorosa, the Street of Sorrow. By now the entourage had picked up quite a following. Children had become distracted from their play by the strange procession and now scampered along, peeking into the carriage at the blue-clad officer, then hurrying up ahead to pelt the captured Comanche with pebbles. Spotted Calf rode stiffly erect and would not deign to even so much as flinch at the abuse. Snake Eye managed to at last drive them off with a few well-placed slaps of his quirt upon the posteriors of the troublemakers. The children fell back to a respectful distance. But the townspeople continued to gawk as the Ranger, his prisoner, and the carriage rolled past.

The storefronts and walkways, roof lines and walls surrounding the plazas were in the process of being decorated, and when Ben inquired, Anabel told him about the fiesta coming up on the fifth of May. The whole town would be one big carnival. Everyone was excited and looking forward to the event. Farmers from the outlying area and people from the smaller settlements to the north and south would be coming to San Antonio to take part in the celebration.

“There will be much music, much dancing, much laughter, and the food…” Anabel closed her eyes a moment and then smiled. “Breathe in.”

The air was already heavy with the scent of baking bread and pies, spice cakes, and sugary preserves. As the day drew closer, nearly every street would be filled with mouth-watering aromas.

“Perhaps I might see you at the fiesta,” Ben suggested.

“Or sooner,” Anabel replied.

Before Ben could further pursue the topic, the carriage turned yet again and followed Snake Eye Gandy and his prisoner along the western edge of Military Plaza. They followed the street up to an impressive-looking rock house that had once served as the governor’s palace, before Texas became a republic. The single-story sandstone building housed the Ranger headquarters, as well as providing room for visiting dignitaries like Matthew Abbot.

Ben immediately recognized the retired general and Abbot’s son, Peter, standing with a lean, tough-looking individual whom Anabel identified as Capt. Amadeus T. Pepper, the commandant of San Antonio’s Texas Rangers. Ben noticed with some amusement how the half dozen blue-coated soldiers acting as Abbot’s personal guard stood opposite a few of Pepper’s Rangers. Each faction eyed the other with suspicion and cool disregard in the heat of the afternoon sun. To the soldiers under Ben’s command, these Rangers appeared to be no more than rabble. They were dressed like Indians, and smelled like them too. Of course, from the viewpoint of Pepper’s men, these bluecoats were about as fierce as puppies. The Rangers doubted there was one among the soldiers who could acquit himself in a running battle with war-painted hostiles.

A long, wide veranda, covered by a low roof of cane and dry grass, ran the length of the governor’s palace. Two
ollas,
clay cisterns containing cool water, were suspended from the roof poles in netting of braided hemp. A dipper had been hung by each of them. Honeybees and mud daubers were drawn to the puddles that collected on the sandstone flooring below each cistern.

The arriving procession soon became the object of everyone’s attention. The three Rangers, a rough-looking bunch armed with Colt revolvers and bowie knives, sauntered forward to greet Snake Eye Gandy and good-naturedly rib him about his traveling companions.

“Snake Eye, you always were the one could be counted on to bring in strays,” one said.

“Better’n sitting around here dusting flies from the sugar bowls,” Gandy retorted. “You know, Virge, if you ever eased your tired ass up out of a chair once in while, you might find there’s all kind of things a man can get into.” Gandy winked at the two men standing behind Virgil Washburn. “Things like chasing bandits and capturing renegade Comanches and rescuing pretty gals and brass-button toy soldiers.” Gandy tossed the rope to Washburn. “Better lock Spotted Calf here around back. I’ll see to him after I cut the dust.” He smacked his lips and dry swallowed.

Ben bristled at Gandy’s insult, but let it pass. Now wasn’t the time or place for a confrontation. He climbed out of the carriage and walked up alongside Spotted Calf.

“This man has a wound that needs dressing,” Ben said. “I assume there is a physician we can send around to check on him?”

“Doctor up a Comanche?” Virge Washburn exclaimed. He was a man of average height, solidly built, with that perpetual squint a man develops when he has spent most of his life outside beneath a western sky. Washburn glanced at Gandy as if debating Ben’s order.

Another voice spoke up. Captain A. T. Pepper walked around the horses. “See that our prisoner is cared for. I want some answers from him.”

“You’ll get them,” Gandy said in a matter-of-fact manner. He dismounted as the brave was led away. The Ranger fixed Ben in his glass-eyed stare, then snorted in disgust and helped himself to a dipper of water.

“I will want a full report from you later,” Pepper said. His upper lip was hidden by a thick, bushy brown mustache. He tended to tug and twist the ends when deliberating.

“Yes, sir,” Gandy replied. His features were shaded by a battered hat that he immediately tilted back until it hung down his back by a leather thong. The scarred, scalped part of his skull looked sunburned and made him appear even uglier than usual. “Just as soon as you finish playing nursemaid to these here bluecoats.”

“Nursemaid? Indeed, my good sir,” Matthew Abbot objected. He was short and stocky, white-haired and bull-necked. He had fought the British at the Battle of New Orleans and crossed swords with pirates on the Carolina shores. Sweat beaded his creased features and glistened in his close-cropped white beard. The retired officer didn’t like Gandy’s attitude and was determined to make his position known. Behind him, Peter Abbot, a slim, bespectacled man who seemed elegant despite his dusty garb, studied Anabel with keen interest. For the first time since arriving in this interminable wilderness, Peter Abbot was actually happy his father had insisted he accompany him to Texas.

But before Peter could approach the carriage and introduce himself to the señorita, Matthew Abbot blocked his path in order to confront the Ranger.

“See here, Mister… what is it? Gandy? I have undertaken this appraisal of the Republic’s military preparedness at the request of both your own president, Anson Jones, and James Polk, President of the United States. No less than Sam Houston has blessed my efforts. If Texas is annexed as the twenty-eighth state, there will no doubt be war with Mexico. The United States Army is extremely interested in how you Texicans handle yourselves. Well, sir, if rudeness was a crown you’d be king!”

Gandy seemed nonplussed by Abbot’s outburst. He hooked a thumb in his gun belt and glanced over at his captain.

“I believe you owe our guest an apology, Ranger,” Captain Pepper suggested, tugging at his mustache. “General Abbot has come to us in an official capacity. These are delicate times. I expect you to show the general the same respect you show—uh—” Pepper stammered, and his voice trailed off. Damn, he couldn’t think of anyone Gandy showed much respect for. He was a quarrelsome individualist, a man who went his own way and asked nothing of anyone. Sometimes he could be downright infuriating. But the vast country west of San Antonio was ugly, mean, and ruthless, and it required those same qualities in the men who dared to ride its lost and lonely places. “Well… just show him some respect.”

Gandy shrugged and kicked at the dirt. Then the wiry Indian fighter smiled, though no one was fooled by the pretense. “Beggin’ your pardon,
Mister
Abbot. But if you want to know how a Texican handles himself in a fight, just ask Spotted Calf… or maybe Brass Buttons over there.” Gandy made a halfhearted attempt at a salute, then turned and ducked through the door.

Color crept into Ben’s stubbled cheeks as Matthew Abbot, Captain Pepper, and the soldiers nearby focused their attention on him. He didn’t appreciate being put on the spot. Fortunately, Anabel came to his aid. She left the carriage and approached the porch.

“Excuse me,
Capitan
. May I say something?”

Amadeus Pepper quickly doffed his hat. The unmarried sister of San Antonio’s own Father Esteban had been the center of speculation since her arrival from Mexico City, and talk hadn’t stopped. She was one of the most sought after young women in the town.

“Why, certainly, Señorita Obregon.”

“I foolishly went alone to visit a family north of town. The Comanches tried to capture me. The lieutenant saved my life and with Mr. Gandy fought off an entire war party. Both men behaved gallantly.”

Ben looked at her in disbelief. She never ceased to amaze him. What exactly was she up to? Then again, what did it matter? He was beginning to enjoy her surprises. It sure kept things from getting dull. And by heaven, he certainly liked her version of the incident better than his own.

“I thank you for your candor, my dear,” Matthew Abbot said. He took her hand and patted it, then bowed slightly before releasing her into Ben’s good graces. “Lieutenant McQueen, please escort this young woman safely to her home.”

“My pleasure, sir,” Ben replied.

“I assure you I am perfectly safe here in town,” Anabel said. “And we are practically neighbors, for I live with my brother there in the hacienda alongside the church, just across the plaza.” Anabel noticed a look of disappointment cross Ben’s face. That was just what she wanted. “However, I suppose a soldier ought to obey the orders of his commandant,
sí
?”

“Absolutely.” Ben offered her his arm and proceeded to escort her back to her carriage. Peter Abbot hurried to catch up to the officer. Anabel looked at him, her eyes filled with curiosity. She saw some resemblance between Peter and the general.

“Ben, if you will do me the honors.” He flashed a handsome smile at the dark-haired beauty who was arm in arm with Lieutenant McQueen.

“Señorita Anabel Obregon… I regret to introduce you to Peter Abbot, General Abbot’s son and, by reputation, the scourge of young ladies from Boston to Baltimore.”

“Pay no attention to my friend,” Peter countered as he glared at the officer with mock hostility. They had been good-natured rivals throughout their friendship of the past three years. Peter was older by five years, but it was Ben who always seemed to be extricating General Abbot’s prodigal son from one predicament after another. “He does me an injustice. A sin for which our heavenly father will no doubt punish him.” And pointedly ignoring Ben’s look of displeasure, Peter fell into step alongside the señorita.

“I doubt the three of us can fit in the carriage,” Ben said, trying a new tactic.

Peter caught up the reins to the mare as they walked past. “No problem. We can walk. A few extra minutes will help us all get better acquainted, don’t you agree, señorita?”

Even Anabel seemed a little flustered. But she smiled graciously. “Of course.” The plaza was nearly devoid of townspeople. It was as if everyone in town was holding back, waiting for the day of fiesta before they would reappear in force. Some farmers had come in with baskets of dried peppers and fresh onions and sacks of dried corn to be ground into meal.

Still, they kept to the street and rounded Military Plaza. Those merchants decorating their shopfronts nodded in greeting as the attractive young woman walked past with the tall, rawboned young officer on her right and the proud, dapper gentleman on her left. A pair of matronly women intercepted Anabel and her escorts on the north side of the plaza. Anabel stopped and exchanged pleasantries and introduced Ben and Peter to Aurelia Moreno and Hilda Grummond, two of San Antonio’s leading citizens. Come next morning, Anabel had no doubt that the news of her adventures and arrival arm in arm with the
norteamericanos
would have spread throughout the town, embellished no doubt by the fertile imaginations of the town’s two gossips.

“I am Father Esteban Obregon, Anabel’s brother,” the priest said as he met them in the courtyard of the house that served as his rectory and home to his sister and her devoted woman servant. The padre was a man of average height, with narrow shoulders and a thickening girth that he kept firmly circled with a braided cord. He wore the coarse brown robes of a Franciscan. His eyes were kindly though deep set in a face burned brown by the sun. His black hair was thinning, but he kept his bald spot covered by a brown cap. His hands were covered with mud, his fingernails caked with dirt. Behind him the courtyard wall had been recently patched with adobe mud. A trowel lay beside a clay jug of water. The padre’s robes were mud-spattered and his knuckles were scraped. Before he could invite Ben and Peter into the house, the front door flew open and Carmelita, a round-figured woman in a black cotton dress and black blouse trimmed with scarlet stitchery, came waddling out into the courtyard and hurried through the cactus garden to embrace Anabel. The woman started to sob and carry on, as if Ben had brought her a corpse instead of a young woman, safe and sound.

“I heard stories that the Comanches had been sighted back in the hills. A thousand times I blamed myself for letting you go. A thousand times I prayed for your safety,” the woman exclaimed. Her cheeks were smudged with masa meal. The aroma of peppers and beans and corn tortillas clung to her like a cloak.

Anabel hugged the woman who had all but raised her. In Carmelita’s warm embraces, in the tucking into bed and the lazy afternoon stories, the moments of closeness in the kitchen, in the shoulder to cry on and the softly spoken words of comfort, Anabel had found the love a cold and distant mother had failed to provide. Her father had loved her, but his hatred of the Texans overshadowed his affections for his daughter. She had watched Don Luis become consumed with bitterness. And yet, his resolve had never wavered. When Santa Anna took Maria de Tosta to wife, the fortune and destiny of the Corderos became irrevocably linked to that of Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, now languishing in Havana with his bride, Anabel’s cousin.

“I suppose we had better allow you to get some rest,” Ben said. He shook hands with the padre, who seemed relieved at the officer’s suggestion.