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Authors: Kerry Newcomb

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BOOK: The Red Ripper
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Carlos reached across and caught him by the arm and forced him back into his chair. “I'll be the first to plow that field.”
“The hell you say,” Felix replied, frowning.
Silence filled the guardroom as the two men tried to stare each other down. Frijoles hardened in the skillet atop a wood-burning stove. Coffee and a stack of tamales wrapped in corn husks had yet to be distributed to the prisoners in the cells beyond the heavy oaken door at the rear of the guardroom. Tobacco smoke drifted between the two friends as Felix reached over and tapped a stack of cards on the tabletop.
“I guess this is the only fair way, old friend. High card takes first poke.”
Carlos stared at the deck before him. He mopped the perspiration from his features on the wrinkled sleeve of his uniform. It was either cards or pistols at close range and a trip to the local sawbones. “Why not?” He shrugged and cut the deck, turning up a nine of diamonds. He scowled and waited for his companion to make a move. Carlos glanced at Felix, who looked alarmed and was staring past his partner toward the doorway leading out to the parade ground and barracks. Carlos turned and discovered for himself what had captured his friend's attention.
Sergeant Obregon, his uniform streaked with blood, stood off to the side, allowing the individual behind him to fill the doorway. William Wallace towered over the men at the table. He tilted his hat back from his features, flipped aside his serape to reveal a brace of heavy-bore pistols trained on the jailers. The lust of battle had left him; what remained in that sun-bronzed face was an expression of implacable resolve and deadly purpose. Then he spoke.
“I've come for Mad Jack Flambeau. Any problems from either of you boys and I'll blow your damn arms off.”
 
The door at the rear of the guardroom opened onto a cheerless hall whose thick adobe walls radiated the dank coolness of the tomb. Indeed, the prisoners here had suffered a kind of burial. Behind rows of barred doors the miscreants, criminals, and others unfortunate enough to earn the enmity of the local authority endured long hours of punishment. Perhaps some had earned their fate. Wallace didn't care. He only brought release to one prisoner. Carlos Pilar needed little prodding from the pistol jammed between his shoulder blades to walk the gringo
right to Flambeau's cell. The jailer's hands trembled as he worked the iron bolt and slid it free. The door swung open, and lantern light spilled into the narrow confines of the cell.
Mad Jack Flambeau eased himself from his cot. Shielding his eyes, he stumbled toward the light. His finely tailored coat was stained with his blood. He had torn away the front of his shirt and bandaged his head where one of the guards had struck him a vicious blow. Despite his blurred vision, he could make out the identity of his rescuer. The hulking physique and red hair were impossible to mistake. The voice helped, too.
“You gonna stay for breakfast?” Wallace asked. His friend had suffered a grievous head wound. Mad Jack's features were caked with his blood. He looked dazed and unsure of his steps. Color crept to Wallace's cheeks. Now he had another score to settle with the governor and his kin.
Flambeau grinned, winced as pain stabbed through his skull, then gingerly felt beneath his crude bandage and prodded the lump above his right eye. “I think not,” he said, staggering from the cell, “much as I appreciate the governor's hospitality.”
Once the freebooter was clear, Wallace motioned for Obregon and the two jailers to take the Frenchman's place. The guards hurried inside. Obregon hesitated and started to object. A glance from Wallace warned him against such a mistake.
“You'll never leave Veracruz alive,” the sergeant muttered, his own wounds giving him grief.
“Say hello to the devil, you tub of guts,” William snarled and shoved one pistol into Obregon's side.
The sergeant hurried inside the cell. “And if you do escape, Juan Diego will come for you. Hear that, you old butcher? Captain Guadiz knows where you live, and he will come.”
“I am counting on it,” Mad Jack replied.
Wallace slammed the door shut and slid the bolt home.
“Free me, señor,” someone pleaded from one of the other cells. A chorus of entreaties echoed the muffled cry: “Free us. Don't leave us, amigo!”
Wallace ignored the outcry. He caught Flambeau as the man sagged against him and allowed him to sit for a moment to catch his balance. The delay permitted Wallace to hear his name called from the rear of the dismal corridor.
“Is that William Wallace?” a familiar voice called out, struggling to be heard above the other prisoners clamoring to be released.
“Austin?” William called out.
“Afraid so.” came the reply.
Wallace's long-legged strides brought him to the far corner of the governor's jail. Moments later a second door was flung open to permit Stephen Austin to emerge, somewhat disheveled but none the worse for his ordeal.
“I was on my way back across town to rejoin señor Saldevar at his sister's hacienda when I was set upon by men who I believe are in the governor's employ.” Austin stopped next to an olla half-filled with cool spring water and drank his fill. “Santa Anna resents the fact I have the ear of
el presidente.
I should have never allowed myself to become separated from Murillo and his escort. He, too, has many powerful friends.”
Wallace was only half-listening to Austin. His focus was on Mad Jack Flambeau. The Frenchman's head wound needed a proper dressing. And Wallace knew just the place to go for help.
“Can you take us to señor Saldevar's?” he asked. They might be able to find help for Flambeau. And there was always the possibility of a chance meeting with Don Murillo's lovely “child-bride,” Esperanza Saldevar.
“I know the way. And there will be safety in numbers.”
“When the governor and his nephew discover what has happened this night,” Flambeau muttered, “no one will be safe in Veracruz. Guadiz will never forget you now.” He placed his hand on Wallace's arm and followed the younger man out of the darkness and into the light.
The lanterns in the guardroom did not offer much illumination, but it was better than where Flambeau had been.
“I RECKON THE ANSWER TO THAT IS IN THE CARDS.”
My sister is an excellent nurse,” said Don Murillo, standing in the doorway of the hacienda. “It is one of the reasons I have asked her to join us in Texas. She can be meddlesome, but there comes a time when it is good to have family close by. Dorotea is alone now, since her husband's death. A change might be just what she needs.” Don Murillo was enjoying a flour tortilla wrapped about a link of spicy chorizo sausage. Indulging his appetite, he took a moment to dwell upon the past. Dorotea's husband had been a physician, a generous man who treated his practice as a ministry, much to the detriment of his finances. The house by the sea, this plot of land along the shore, some livestock, and the trade goods the mestizos had left in exchange for his services were all the legacy of a decent life cut short.
“We sail within the week. I should like to see my sister settled at the ranchero before the end of the year.” He unwrapped a second tortilla from a cloth bundle and invited his guest to partake.
William was more thirsty than hungry. He gulped down his third dipper of spring water from the olla. Fighting might be a dry business, but inaction was the more difficult burden. It was impossible to relax. Wallace continually shifted his stance and paced the porch
like a caged animal, his features a restless mask of shadows and light.
Humidity was on the rise. A damp mist drifted across the obsidian surface of the bay and stole ashore on silent cat feet to prowl the distant streets. Wallace nervously checked the road into town, what he could see of it. A groan from the house distracted him. He glanced past señor Saldevar and caught a glimpse of Mad Jack slumped in a cane-backed settee being tended to by Don Murillo's sister, a tall, big-boned woman whose stern visage and gruff demeanor were hardly becoming to a sister of mercy.
Dorotea Saldevar v Marquez and Don Murillo's willowy young wife were a study in contrasts. Esperanza, kneeling at the Frenchman's side, was warm and sultry and full of life. Dorotea wore her bitterness like a shroud around her heart. It was clear she begrudged even this simple act of kindness toward a stranger. As William looked on, Esperanza dabbed a cool cloth across the Frenchman's cheeks, eyes, and throat. She spoke in soothing tones and stroked his face and hands. William had to envy his injured friend. It was worth a bludgeon to warrant such a ministering angel.
As much as he enjoyed observing the
haciendado's
nubile bride, William forced himself to look away. He made his way along the front porch until he found a better vantage point from which to watch the shore road leading off toward town. The hacienda had been built on the outskirts of Veracruz, set apart from town like an unwanted child, nestled amid a cluster of palm trees with a panoramic view of the moon-dappled bay and, farther along the point, the sinister black fortress that guarded the seaport.
The hacienda's pink adobe walls had endured sea and sand, hurricanes and blistering heat. It was resilient as its mistress. Dorotea Saldevar v Marquez had lost her
world with her husband's death. But like the sea, she remained.
“Someone's coming,” William observed, staring off toward the dimly lit streets of the city. A horseman rode toward them at a gallop. He sat low in the saddle, hunched forward, his serape streaming behind him like the wings of a hawk. Wallace drew his pistol, dropped his left hand to the knife hilt at his waist, straightened to his full height, and resolved he wouldn't be taken without a fight.
 
Esperanza spied him through an open front window. Despite his common garb, the red-haired
norte americano
was obviously born of a brave heart. He seemed almost regal in bearing. The back of her neck began to tingle, and she glanced around to find Dorotea studying her. The widow obviously disapproved of her sister-in-law's interest in the redheaded stranger.
“This Wallace has captured your fancy.” Dorotea frowned disapprovingly. “Your conduct is unbecoming the wife of a man like Don Murillo. Besides, the gringo is as common as you were before you married my brother.”
“Mon Dieu,” Mad Jack drowsily corrected. “You are no student of history. He is a Wallace and sprouts direct from a branch of Scottish kings.” Mad Jack adjusted the bandage circling his forehead.
Esperanza flashed her sister-in-law an “I told you so” look and then returned her attention to the man looming large in the window. She felt a kinship for William in that the two of them shared Dorotea's censure.
“Ahem!” Mad Jack cleared his throat. “A little more of that brandy wouldn't hurt.”
Esperanza returned to Flambeau's side and poured a measure of brandy into a cup and offered it to the old freebooter. Mad Jack grew pale, shook his head, rubbed
his eyes, and stared blankly past the cup. He blinked several times; then a helpless expression came over him. Esperanza placed the cup in his outstretched hand. He closed his eyes, took a couple of swallows, grimaced, massaged his closed eyelids with thumb and forefinger, then chanced a second look and found he could focus on her sweet face. She started to speak. He placed a finger to his lips.
“Don't tell him.”
 
Wallace steeled himself for what was to come. The lust for battle still smoldered within. What had he read among the pirate's stolen tomes? “If it be not now, yet it will be,” he whispered, remembering the Bard. “The readiness is all.”
“I see him, too,” Don Murillo spoke up. “Excellent, my young friend. You have eyes like a Comanche. And a spirit just as wild, I think.” The
haciendado
joined Wallace at the corner of the porch and placed a restraining hand on the big man's gun arm.
“Descanse.
Relax, my young friend. It is only my
segundo,
Chuy Montoya. I sent him into town.”
William returned the pistol to his belt but kept a watchful eye on the shore road, half-expecting to see a troop of Juan Diego's lancers in hot pursuit. Montoya reined in his mount before the front of the hacienda, showering the steps with sand as he alighted and slung the gelding's reins through an iron ring on the hitching post. The
segundo.
was a short, stocky individual, with sunburned features the color of tanned leather, shaggy black hair, and a goatee that masked his scarred jawline. There was a swagger to his walk and a reckless energy given to men of purpose. He was armed with a pistol and carried a short-barreled rifle slung over his shoulder. There had to be a dagger hidden on his person.
Montoya removed his sombrero as he approached
Don Murillo. Beads of sweat spilled down from his receding hairline. He mopped his brow on his sleeve. Bushy black sideburns framed his guarded expression. A heavy mustache hid his upper lip.
“Que noticias?” Murillo said, anxiety creeping into his tone of voice. “What is happening in town?”
“An alarm has been sounded at the governor's palace. Many soldiers are milling about. I saw the governor's nephew through my spyglass. He looked furious.” The vaquero grinned and shifted his gaze to William Wallace, recognizing a
simpático
in the big man. The
norte americano
was armed to the teeth. A brace of pistols were holstered in a bandolier draped across his broad shoulder. The Castilian blades were nestled in their buckskin scabbards at either side. “You may have worn out your welcome in this town, señor.”
“An easy thing to do these days,” said Don Murillo. “God help Texas if Santa Anna ever becomes president. It is only Bustamente who stays the general's hard hand. Chuy, continue your vigil. Be our eyes in town.”
“As you wish.” Montoya nodded to Don Murillo and started back to his horse. “I will keep watch along the road. If you hear a pistol shot—”
“I know it'll be time to root hog or die a poor pig,” Wallace said.
Montoya chuckled knowingly. He touched the brim of his sombrero in salute, then took the porch steps two at a time, gathered the reins in his left hand, and leaped astride his horse. The gelding responded to his touch, backstepping, pawing the earth, and then, obedient to his rider, charging off into the night.
“There goes a man with the bark still on,” William reflected aloud. Don Murillo and his vaqueros were a capable bunch of men but few in number and hopelessly outnumbered this far from home. William did not wish to bring any harm down on Saldevar for harboring Mad
Jack and himself and was preparing to voice his concerns when Stephen Austin emerged from the hacienda. With a whiskey under his belt and a full belly to settle his nerves Austin was ready for whatever came next. He had washed the dust from his features, donned a fresh shirt borrowed from Murillo's wardrobe, and helped himself to the tortillas and beans in the kitchen.
“Any news?” the Texican asked, rounding the corner of the porch. He looked none the worse for his recent ordeal and was obviously grateful to have been released so soon after his incarceration. William Wallace had been a godsend.
“We haven't long. Juan Diego will probably come,” Murillo said. “However, you are under my protection here and, through me,
el presidente's.
No doubt Guadiz will claim your arrest was all a mistake. He will offer you his sincerest apologies. That is his way, and General Santa Anna's.” Murillo stroked his silvery goatee, sighed, shook his head, and shifted his gaze to William. “However, I cannot offer you sanctuary, my young friend. Captain Flambeau is a pirate. Your loyalty to him has placed you outside the law and earned the governor's enmity.”
“You have done enough for us already, Don Murillo,” William said. “And if fortune permits, one day I will repay your kindness.”
“Well, there is something I can do,” Stephen Austin replied, drawing an oilcloth packet from his coat. “If it wasn't for you there's no telling how long I would have been the governor's ‘guest.' Here is a map of my land grant. I've set aside a tract of land along the Brazos River for you.” Austin placed the map in William's hand. “It'll be waiting.”
The big man opened the packet and stared down at the hastily scrawled deed with its crude but legible delineation
of the property granted him. A place in Texas … the dream Samuel had died for.
“Quit this fracas. Join us. We are building something in Texas and have need of men like you. And you'll be beyond the governor's reach and among friends.” Stephen held out his hand. His was a tempting offer. But …
“My thanks. But I still have business in Veracruz,” William replied. “Perhaps one day.” He tucked the packet inside his coat pocket. “Tell Captain Flambeau I'll bring the horses around. When he's finished with the ladies he might choose to join me, before he winds up with his head decorating Juan Diego's lance.”
Wallace stepped off the porch and rounded the hacienda, leaving his tracks in the sand all the way to the weathered corral where they had left their mounts. Saldevar's own animals, including Esperanza's sleek black mare, began to nervously circle as Wallace approached. William spoke in a low, soothing tone that served to quiet the skittish animals.
In the corral Wallace lost track of the minutes as he prepared his own and Mad Jack's horse for the long ride home. He checked the cinches on each saddle, apportioned the gear, and, as an afterthought, cleaned the hooves of each animal with the tip of one of his knives. Despite his preoccupation, Wallace caught a scent of jasmine and rosewater and, wrinkling his nose, glanced up from his labors as Esperanza entered the corral. She wore a pale blue dressing gown and a voluminous russet-colored cape that concealed her slender frame.
The woman's black mare immediately hurried to her side and received an appropriate treat from her outstretched hand. Esperanza stroked the animal's pink muzzle and the white blaze between her eyes. Then with a push and gentle pat on the mare's neck she sent the horse on her way.
William crossed his long arms, relaxed, and just drank
Esperanza in. Moonbeams became her, playing soft on her delicate oval features, highlighting her long black tresses with quicksilver. Esperanza was poetry and passion, ice and desire, all in a single gliding silhouette. And she was someone else's.
“Ma'am?” Wallace nodded, touching the brim of his sombrero. He glanced over her shoulder and spied Dorotea watching them from a side window. In her black veil and widow's weeds, Murillo's sister resembled a brooding raven bathed in the glow of lamplight but untouched by its warmth. Wallace indicated the stern sentinel with a glance. “Your sister-in-law disapproves of me.”
“And my behavior,” Esperanza said. “She thinks I bewitched Don Murillo into marrying me so soon after the death of his first wife.” The woman cradled a leather packet in one hand and with the other stroked the muzzle of Wallace's roan gelding. “My mother was a servant in his house. I grew up in his hacienda. For a time he looked upon me as a daughter. Then he began to think of me as something more.” Esperanza lowered her face and looked up at Wallace. A man could willingly drown in the twin pools of her eyes. “Dorotea thinks I should have no life but to serve my husband. Fortunately, Don Murillo does not share her beliefs.”
“He is a kind old gentleman,” William replied, working in a reference to Murillo's age. It seemed unseasonably warm.
BOOK: The Red Ripper
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