Читать книгу Sun in Their Eyes - Monte Barrett - Страница 4

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“Wake up, Mist’ Jonty. That’s some kind o’ trouble,” the Negro was saying. “Wake up, wake up.”

Jonathan Kirk, lingering on the hazy border of sleep, burrowed deeper into the warmth of his blanket and tried to ignore the uneasy voice. It was the spatter of distant rifle fire which roused him. Alert now, he groped for his boots. The blaze had turned to glowing ashes and in the thinning gloom, men stirred busily among the horses.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“Somebody’s in plenty of trouble up ahead.” Sam Kemper’s deep voice rumbled like a drum in his throat. “Probably a wagon train, attacked by outlaws. We’ll have to move fast.”

Another flurry of shots emphasized the need for haste while the saddles were being cinched. Kemper, working harder than either of the Negroes, talked as he worked. His mind was busy on the problem ahead.

“Magee and I will take the lead,” he said. “Everybody keep close, and mind, no racket. There aren’t many of us. Our best bet is to take ’em by surprise.”

As they left the camp the Trace was still black where shadows tangled under the spreading trees. The men quickened their pace to a brisk canter as it grew lighter. The musketry ahead continued sporadically and had grown much closer when Kemper drew rein in a small clearing.

“Sounds as if they had ’em surrounded,” Magee suggested. “They’re probably waiting for broad daylight to make the final rush.”

Kemper handed his reins to Gabe. “We’ll leave the horses here with the servants and see if we can’t take a hand in this. Stick close together and don’t anybody start shootin’ till we know what we’re doing. You’d best reprime your guns before we start.”

A sound in the bushes to their right caused them all to whirl, guns ready. Motioning the others to wait, Kemper slipped forward to investigate. He was a towering man, six feet six and burly in proportion, but despite his great bulk he had the feline stealth of the woodsman. He vanished silently into the screen of greenery that outlined the copse. Almost immediately, he reappeared, beckoning the others to follow him.

They had stumbled upon the spot where the outlaws had tethered their horses. There were twenty of them. Apparently confident of their freedom of action in this lonely waste, they had left the animals unguarded.

It was only a few rods back to the spot where their own animals had been left and Kemper ordered the two herds united, instructing the servants to move them all to a new hiding place, several hundred yards on the other side of the trail and to the rear.

“We’ll make it as hard for ’em as possible, if any try to escape,” he observed tersely.

When they resumed the advance, Kemper and Magee were again in the lead. They were close enough now to hear the whine of an occasional bullet through the leaves above. Jonathan’s mouth felt dry. His palms were moist, and he wiped them on his shirt, the better to grip his rifle.

Kemper called another halt. “Wait here,” he ordered. “Magee and I will see what’s going on.”

“Wait?” Jonathan’s voice rasped with impatience. “This is no time for waiting. What’s going to happen to those people up ahead while we dawdle around here?”

Kemper eyed his little following briefly. There were only six in the party now that the servants were left behind. All were fidgety, impatient for action.

“Keep your powder dry, boys,” he advised quietly. “We’ve got to know which side we’re fightin’ on and how the land lays. You can depend on it,” he added, “we won’t waste time.”

Then, motioning to Magee, he left them. The two men quickly were lost to view in the forest. Ahead, bullets were spitting viciously, and a few droned around them, like singing insects. Jonathan had never been under fire before, but he recognized the menace of the sound. He regretted the impulse that had caused him to question the older man’s judgment. Kemper was a legend on this frontier. All during the long ride from Nashville, he had listened to the stories told of him. Kitchens, the wealthy planter, thought of his exploits as brawls.

“The man’s a trouble maker,” he had exclaimed one evening as they lounged about the campfire. Kemper’s cold blue eyes usually discouraged such discussion, but tonight he was absent on watch.

It was Magee who told of the West Florida revolt, headed by the Kemper brothers, and their unsuccessful effort to capture the Spanish governor.

“They’d have pulled it off, too,” he concluded, “if only the people had risen to help them.”

There were other tales. The Kempers had been kidnaped once and turned over to the Spanish for execution. The story of their escape and the revenge they exacted upon their betrayers was repeated for Jonathan’s benefit.

“It’s a wonder he hasn’t dragged us into a war with Spain before this,” Kitchens averred. It was obvious he did not agree with the general appraisal of these exploits.

“Then it’s a pity he hasn’t succeeded,” Lieutenant Magee retorted. “What’s wrong with that? By God, sir, I’m sick of twiddling my thumbs on the frontier. If the Spaniards are looking for trouble, we can oblige them.”

“One war at a time,” the planter replied soberly. “According to the prints, we’ll be fighting England again before the year is out. And Lord knows, Napoleon’s given us just as much cause. He’s seized ten million dollars’ worth of American shipping in French ports.”

“And what has Madison done about it?” The lieutenant scowled into the flames. “What in God’s name will it take to make us fight? What have we got in Washington, anyway? A pack of old women?”

“If you’re aching to spill some blood, you’ll get your wish.” Kitchens picked his words with deliberation. “The Congress of 1812 is controlled by young men as impatient as you. Imagine, electing Henry Clay speaker on his first day in the House! He’s packed the important committees with youngsters who see eye to eye with him, men like John Calhoun and Felix Grundy. Youth in the saddle! There will be war.”

Jonathan respected Kemper, and his confidence in Lieutenant Augustus Magee was almost as great. The young officer, only three years out of West Point, was nearer his age and they had quickly become fast friends. Magee had spent his entire service on the unruly Spanish border and had acquired the habit of quick command which would have been forbidding but for the generous warmth of his smile. A man of only medium build, he had a trick of drawing himself erect as he spoke that often made him seem larger. His skin was fair and, where exposed to the sun, weathered red instead of tanning. Eager eyes, quick with expression, were the dominant feature of his face, and his dark hair, worn short in the new fashion, tumbled across his forehead in unruly locks.

Jonathan was fingering his rifle impatiently when his friends returned.

“They’re bandits all right,” Kemper commented briefly. “This party is putting up a good fight but we didn’t arrive any too soon.”

The men stirred restlessly, eager to move forward, but Magee halted them with a gesture.

“Spread out at ten-yard intervals,” he instructed. “We’ll swing around to the right—” he indicated his plan with a sweep of the arm—“and catch them in the rear.”

Clampit, the gambler, snorted with irritation. “What’s going to happen up yonder while we’re going through all these fancy maneuvers?” he objected. “Let’s get in there and help them.” He stepped forward, his long rifle at the alert, disregarding the lieutenant’s instructions.

It was Kemper who put an end to the dissension. “The lieutenant’s right.” His voice rumbled angrily. “Damnation! These folks have taken care of themselves for thirty minutes; they’ll manage for another one or two. If we follow this plan we’ve a damn good chance to wipe out these vermin.”

Kemper’s judgment commanded respect. The protests were stilled, and they silently spread out at the indicated intervals before moving forward. Kemper took his position on the extreme right of the line. Jonathan was on the left, next to Magee.

“Hold your fire as long as possible,” were the lieutenant’s final instructions. “Let’s wait until every man has a target lined up. I’ll give the signal.”

Cautiously they crept forward. The forest was fairly open here and Jonathan several times glimpsed an outlaw shifting his position from tree to tree. The defending party had been camped near a small stream and had taken cover in the undergrowth which crowded its bank. The bandits were gradually converging on this point, maintaining a steady fire to cover their movement. Jonathan kept Magee in view and was watching him, impatient for the signal. The lieutenant, however, was giving Kemper’s end of the line time to swing into position; it had the greater distance to go. They were close enough to see the situation clearly now. A large coach stood in a clearing near the embers of a dying campfire. Near it was spilled a man, his inert limbs grotesque. Some distance beyond, a number of horses, excited by the gunfire, were pulling at their picket lines.

Somewhere off to the right there was an angry shout, blurred by the snarl of bullets. The fire increased in intensity; pungent smoke drifted in lazy layers. Only an occasional shot replied from the defenders. Jonathan’s stealthy progress had brought him only a few yards behind two outlaws who faced the clearing ahead. Again he glanced uneasily toward Magee for a signal but the lieutenant did not notice.

The two brigands were alternating their shots, one loading rapidly while the other aimed. Then, while Jonathan stared, fascinated, they emerged from their cover and, crouching as much as possible, darted swiftly toward the coach. Their plan was apparent. The bandits were advancing here while their prey was being held under cover by the heavy musketry. Jonathan’s grip tightened on his rifle.

Then he was startled by a scream. Evidently a woman had taken refuge in the vehicle when the attack began. He caught only the white blur of her face at the window. The approaching outlaws, taking advantage of her presence, had so maneuvered that the coach was between them and the defenders along the stream. She was directly in the line of fire.

Jonathan waited no longer. Taking quick aim at the first of the bobbing figures, he fired. Then, without pausing, he dashed forward with a shout, brandishing his empty rifle. He knew a fleeting satisfaction as he saw the first of the running bandits go down. The second, caught by surprise, hesitated uncertainly and glanced back. Jonathan’s rush had carried him into the clearing and now, as the bandit took careful aim at him, he realized his folly in charging with an unloaded weapon. It was too late to turn back. Swinging his clubbed gun, he hurled it toward his adversary with all his strength. It was a desperate chance and it failed. The weapon hurtled harmlessly over the man’s head.

Somewhere along the line Jonathan’s charge had been observed. A bullet snarled past. Another droned into the turf beneath his speeding feet.

Then, to his surprise, he saw the man in front of him drop his leveled weapon. He was close enough to glimpse the look of incredulity on the outlaw’s face as his knees folded under him. The youth had never watched a man die before and his slow wilting astonished him. It was only after his antagonist had fallen that Jonathan became aware of the rifle fire behind him when his companions swung into action. Stooping swiftly, he retrieved the loaded weapon of the dead man. But when he turned to join his comrades in the melee it was already too late. The fight was over. The attack in the rear had taken their opponents completely by surprise. Those who hadn’t fallen in the first volley had fled. Magee and Clampit were the first men he encountered.

“Come on back with me, you two,” Magee ordered brusquely.

“Back?” Jonathan remonstrated. “Let’s follow ’em.”

“They’ll try to get back to their horses,” Magee explained, starting off at a brisk trot. “If you value that darky of yours, you’d better hurry.”

Jonathan fell into step behind him without further objection.

Magee posted them about the picket line, carefully preparing an ambush for any stragglers who might make their way back here. In the distance could be heard a few shots as Kemper and the others maintained the pursuit, but soon even this died away. Evidently the rout had been complete, for although they maintained their vigil there for more than an hour, no one returned. It was only after he was convinced of this that Magee permitted them to mount and, driving the captured horses before them, proceed to the camp.

They were greeted with scrupulous punctilio by a Spaniard short of stature and wearing a rotund paunch below several extra chins. This made his low bow a surprising flourish. His teeth gleamed whitely between a waxed mustache and a small, pointed beard, which gave him the appearance of a fat Mephistopheles. His long black cape was tossed back over one shoulder, revealing its scarlet lining, and was caught at the throat with a gold chain. His high black boots were fashioned of leather soft as doeskin. He had turned from Kemper to greet the newcomers.

“Don José Bernardo Gutierrez de Lara at your service, gentlemen.” He spoke in flawless English. “Minister to the United States from the New Philippines.”

Magee looked puzzled. “A minister from the New Philippines?”

“He’s been telling me they’ve had a revolution in Mexico,” Kemper explained, “headed by a man named Hidalgo. This gentleman was sent to the States to represent the new republican government.”

“We heard about it down on the border—” Magee turned to the stranger—“but our news was that the rebellion had been crushed.”

“Unfortunately that is true.” Don Bernardo shrugged. “Hidalgo has been slain, but the idea of liberty, that cannot be erased from the minds of men.... But I forget myself, gentlemen.” He turned to his companion. “Allow me to present Don Miguel Salazar, my friend and traveling companion. We are both greatly in your debt. You arrived just in time.”

Don Miguel Salazar, from the white ruffles at his throat to the silver buckles of his shoes, was turned out as if for a formal occasion. His coat was of black brocade, handsomely laced at the cuffs. His breeches were of black satin and his hose, of the same color, were silk. His dark hair was sleekly brushed and tied in a queue. He was a man of middle years, whose face was slightly pocked, and this was revealed more clearly when he smiled. As evidence of the part he had so recently played against the outlaws, there was a smudge of gunpowder across his cheek.

“We were glad of your help,” Don Miguel acknowledged, “but we would have defeated them in the end. I was sure of it once we beat off their initial attack.”

“They were just getting ready to rush you when we came in,” said Jonathan.

Don Miguel smiled but his eyes remained cold. He, too, wore a waxed mustache but no beard. “We were expecting them,” was his terse reply. “That’s why we were holding our fire.”

“How many men did you lose?” It was Magee who asked.

Don Bernardo glanced appraisingly at his party. In addition to the companion he had just introduced, there were a lank, bearded woodsman clad in buckskins, obviously an American guide, and three Mexican servants, all of them armed. “One of our servants was killed in the first volley,” he continued, “and my secretary, Pedro Andrada, fell later. There seems to be another missing.”

Salazar grunted as he too surveyed the group. “That Luiz!” His voice was contemptuous. Then he clapped his hands sharply and called “Luiz” in a loud voice. When this had no result he turned to another of the servants and spoke in a sharp rattle of Spanish. It was the first time Jonathan had heard the tongue and he did not think it pretty the way this man spoke it.

“I know Luiz,” Salazar turned to explain. “Fernando will find him.”

Salazar was proved right. Presently Fernando returned followed by the missing Luiz, an obese fellow, whose oily skin now betrayed his mental anguish.

“Cobarde!” Salazar’s voice was a lash.

The man protested in voluble Spanish to which Salazar finally brought an abrupt end by slapping him across the mouth.

The fight had proved disastrous for the outlaws. The twenty captured horses gave evidence of their number. Of these, three had fallen to the Spaniards’ fire before Jonathan’s premature charge. Five more had been killed by the rescue party and the man shot by Jonathan had been wounded in the shoulder and made prisoner.

“We’d have bagged the whole lot if you hadn’t lost your head.” Magee turned to Jonathan, his voice severe.

The youth looked at him in astonishment. “Lost my head? They were charging the coach. I heard a woman scream.”

Magee’s eyes were stormy. “It was agreed you weren’t to fire until I gave the order,” he retorted. “Had you waited, not a damn one would have escaped. And besides,” he accused, “you charged with an empty gun.”

The criticism came as a surprise to Jonathan. His initial battle had left him with a feeling of exhilaration. During the period of waiting he had been nervous, haunted by the fear that he might not measure up to the accepted pattern of bravery. Once the fighting had started, that had passed. He had become so engrossed in the duties of the moment that there had been no time for self-searching. Only after the action was ended had he had time to realize that his doubts had been groundless. He had been secretly pleased that this had been so.

Perhaps the lieutenant guessed his feeling. It hadn’t been too long since his own first experience under fire. At any rate he robbed the criticism of some of its sting now with a ready smile and a hearty clap on the shoulder. “But it was a grand charge. You’ll make a good fighting man if you ever learn to obey orders.”

Magee questioned the prisoner, a saturnine fellow with several days’ growth of beard obscuring the harsh lines of a cruel mouth. His brows were shaggy and from beneath them small, close-set eyes glittered beadily. His hands were bound behind him and he had been propped against a tree while Pedro, Don Bernardo’s manservant, dressed his shoulder wound with clumsy care. The man refused to answer any questions.

“Let me handle him,” Salazar interposed. “I can make him talk.”

Magee shook his head. “I could handle him myself if he weren’t wounded,” he said. “No matter, we’ll take him into Natchez and let the authorities there hang him.”

The magnificence of the Spaniards’ traveling equipment had attracted the attention of all. There were four well-matched coach horses in addition to several mounts. Don Bernardo Gutierrez rode a handsome gray and Salazar’s horse was a sleek chestnut with light mane and tail. There were several other horses of lesser quality. The coach attracted the most attention of all. It was a thing of beauty in spite of its cumbersome size, shaped somewhat like an inverted bell and slung to the frame by massive straps. There was no driver’s box, only a platform in the rear where the grooms might ride. Evidently the carriage was driven by postilions. Even the red dust of the Trace did not hide its sleek blackness. The mountings were of silver and the owner’s arms, of the same metal, decorated the doors. A quantity of baggage was stoutly strapped on its top. Jonathan had never seen its like, even in Virginia. His curious glances were observed by Don Bernardo.

“But we forget!” the Spaniard exclaimed. “Perhaps Señorita de Lerdo will join us?” The question was directed to Salazar. “I am sure the gentlemen would like to be presented.”

Don Miguel rapped smartly against the shiny panels. A throaty voice answered from within. A curtain had been rigged behind the windows of the coach for privacy. There was a rapid interchange of voluble Spanish before Salazar rejoined them. With a slight bow toward Jonathan, he said, “She will join us presently. I am requested to present El Rubio, the gallant gentleman who charged so bravely to her rescue.” He seemed amused and Jonathan felt himself flushing hotly.

The coach straps creaked uneasily and as the door swung open there emerged, backward and with ponderous effort, a huge woman in black. Her progress was slow. At first there was visible only an enormous expanse of black dress which seemed involved beyond remedy in the doorway. Having eventually extricated herself, the woman turned to face them. She had no neck, rather a succession of chins which merged into the more than ample proportions of her black-swathed body. Her complexion was swarthy, there was a mole on one fat cheek, and several stray whiskers, grizzled and wiry, adorned the first of her chins. She smirked at them as if conscious that her entrance had been a disappointment.

“So this,” thought Jonathan, “was my lady in distress!”

However, placing a small footstool beneath the high step, she turned expectantly toward the coach, and the youth caught his breath as he glimpsed the girl who peered from the door. Only her head was visible, a small black beaver hat perched pertly on golden hair. When she stepped through the door that had wedged the older woman so tightly, she seemed almost fragile. His first impression had been delightful, but he was even more entranced as she emerged. Her hair had a lustrous sheen, heavy lashes fringed her wide brown eyes and her skin was tawny. There was no other word for it. She wore a green cloak, ornamented with black braid which gave it a military look and emphasized her coloring. She was looking at Jonathan, a smile on her full red lips.

“And this is the gentleman who rescued me. Present him, Miguel.” Her voice was low-pitched, with a soft musical quality.

It was obvious that Salazar had forgotten the name. He hesitated. Magee bowed gallantly.

“Mr. Jonty Kirk of Virginia, señorita,” he said.

“This is my ward, Señorita Teresa de Lerdo.” Salazar completed the introduction.

“La del Pelo de Oro,” the fat woman added gutturally. It was as though she had appended a title.

“Jontee—” the girl rolled the word on her tongue—“a very strange name. But nice. I have you to thank, señor, for your gallant charge. Just when we think we are lost—” she shrugged her shoulders daintily toward Salazar—“El Rubio comes to my rescue.” She extended her hand toward Jonathan and with quick impulse he bowed, pressing it to his lips. He straightened up in time to glimpse a knowing leer on the face of the fat serving woman.

After a brief council the two parties decided to merge forces for the remainder of the journey. They were forty miles from Natchez. The outlaws, now afoot, could not be far away and their force was strong enough to cope with either party singly. They might make some effort to recover their horses.

Teresa de Lerdo rode in the coach with her maid Maria. Fernando, one of Salazar’s servants, rode postilion on one of the lead horses, while the obese Luiz, whose cowardice had been exposed by Salazar, stood on the box behind with José, a wiry little Mexican of indeterminate age, one of Teresa’s servants. The fellow had a queer trick of cocking his head and, because of a pair of badly crossed eyes, always seemed to be looking where he wasn’t. He had a rifle propped before him on the roof of the coach and, according to Salazar, had shot straighter than he looked during the recent fracas. Don Bernardo had another servant, Pedro, a rugged, square-built Mexican whose grizzled hair made his weather-beaten face appear even more bronzed. He rode directly behind his master, a rifle across his saddlebow. The last member of their party was Giles Brady, a Kentuckian, whom they had engaged as a guide for the journey. He was a competent woodsman who, with Kemper, Magee and Jonathan Kirk, formed an advance party to guard against surprise. The Negroes herded the captured horses behind the coach and were followed by the others as a rear guard.

The precautions proved adequate and the day was uneventful. Natchez was less than twenty miles away when camp was struck that night.

Jonathan had looked forward all day to continuing his acquaintance with Teresa de Lerdo. He had carried the memory of her loveliness with him through all the dusty hours. But it wasn’t to be. It was his turn to mount the first guard, redoubled tonight, and he ate the supper his servant fetched to his solitary post, mocked occasionally by sounds of laughter from the camp.

Journey’s end lay only one day away and he looked forward to Natchez. In his saddlebag was a letter from his father to Colonel Winthrop Sargent. The two men had served together in the Revolution, Sargent as a colonel of the Massachusetts Line and Kirk as a captain of Virginia Rifles. “We were good friends and he was ever a man of judgment, Jonty,” his father had said. “Now he’s been governor of the Mississippi Territory; he’ll know better than most the situation there and the value of the land.” Jonathan could still remember his mother’s anxious face across the table as his father had added, “You’ve a keen mind if you’ll only use it, lad, but you’re too often quick on the trigger. I’d like you to be advised by Colonel Sargent.”

“Quick on the trigger, is it?” His mother had laughed. “He’s your son, Will, with your own red hair. He comes by it naturally.”

“And so I know whereof I speak,” his father had growled, pressing the yellow Virginia tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with a broad thumb.

Jonathan Kirk, the fourth stalwart son at Redfields, was twenty-one. The stories which drifted up the Trace of the rich plantations at Natchez and of the fertile acres there still in virgin timber, ripe for the taking, had stirred his imagination. There had been many discussions about the projected journey during the long evenings of the previous winter. His mother first had opposed it. “Is there no more land in Virginia?” she had queried.

“Not virgin land, at frontier prices,” Jonty had objected, “and they say this is the richest land in the world, pure silt, like the Nile Delta.”

Dark stories of the Trace and of the outlaw bands who made its travel dangerous had filtered eastward, too, but that had only whetted Jonathan’s appetite for the adventure, and his father finally had given his consent. Three horses had been provided for the journey: Jonathan’s own bay gelding, King, and the black mare Bonnie as an alternate mount and to carry the two round Trace trunks which had been made for the journey; Gabe—for it was decided that Jonty should travel in the dignity befitting his family—was to accompany him as his servant, mounted on a rawboned sorrel. Gabe’s hair was grizzled, but the years had not bent his powerful frame. “He’s known Jonty all his life,” Will Kirk had said. “The boy will come nearer listening to him than anyone else we could send. Gabe might keep him out of trouble sometime.”

At Nashville, Jonathan had joined the party Benjamin Kitchens was organizing to ride down the Trace. Kitchens was a wealthy Natchez planter, and was confining his company to horsemen only. Wagons would require three times as long to make the journey. It was roughly five hundred and fifty miles from Nashville to Natchez. Wagon trains made the trip in around forty days, more often more than less, depending upon the weather and circumstances. Horsemen had made it in ten days with a change of mounts and few camps, but this was a pace few could maintain.

There were six in the group who had joined forces for protection against Indians and outlaws. Kitchens had welcomed Jonathan. The fact that he was a Virginia planter’s son, traveling with his own manservant, and with a letter of introduction to Colonel Sargent, had been sufficient introduction. Johnny Durst, sandy-haired, rawboned youngster from Texas, had joined them next. He was an agent for the well-known trading firm of Barr and Davenport, in the far-off Spanish country that he persisted in pronouncing Te-has, as though it were spelled with an h instead of an x. In spite of his youth, he was obviously a man of responsibility.

These, with Kemper and Magee, had made five. The other member of their party was of a different stamp. Had they not spent several fruitless days waiting for additions to the group, he probably would not have been included. None of them liked Dan Clampit, but they were chafing at the delay.

He had approached them in the common room of the tavern as they lingered over supper, a man of slight build, his clothes of somber black but of rich material. His linen was spotless. Jonathan saw him first and noticed the unwholesome pallor of his thin, expressionless face.

“I understand you gentlemen are making up a party to ride down the Trace,” he began, bowing slightly.

Kitchens studied the man briefly before replying. “We are riding to Natchez,” he acknowledged.

“New Orleans is my destination.” The stranger gave no hint of recognizing the challenge in the older man’s tone.

“We are a group of friends,” Kitchens finally said. “It would be necessary for us to know something about any man whom we invited to join us.”

“I am Dan Clampit,” replied the newcomer. His face remained a stony mask as he added: “I’m a gambler.”

“Eh?” The planter’s blank face betrayed his astonishment.

“A gambler,” Clampit repeated evenly.

“Well, I hardly think ...” Kitchens began uncertainly.

“Would you have liked me better had I lied about it?” The man’s voice was soft. “I might have told you I was a merchant and none of you would have been the wiser.

“A strong party will be to your advantage; getting to New Orleans will be to mine,” he continued. “I’m well mounted and I’m a good shot. After all, that’s the important thing, isn’t it?”

“Another rifle,” had been Kemper’s terse comment.

Still Kitchens hesitated before voicing his decision. “We leave at dawn. Each man to provide his own provisions and equipment. We’re traveling light. If you care to come, your rifle will be most welcome.” He accented the word rifle, leaving no doubt as to his personal feelings.

Clampit merely shrugged, his face still expressionless. “I’ll be ready,” he said, and walked away.

By the time Durst came to relieve Jonathan at his post, Teresa had already retired to her coach for the night. The men were still awake about their fire, however. The talk was of Texas. It was Lieutenant Magee’s favorite theme, one to which he returned again and again, and tonight he had a new audience. Don Bernardo Gutierrez leaned forward, listening intently.

“There’s something about the Texas country that gets into your blood,” Magee said. His eyes gleamed across the flickering blaze. “It isn’t just one kind of country, it’s every kind: rolling hills, fertile valleys, great forests and open plains that stretch out beyond the horizon. It gives you the feeling that there’s no limit to its space.” He brushed the tumbled locks back from his forehead with an impatient gesture. “Damn it, I didn’t aim to make a speech. The trouble is, you don’t get the feeling of it until you see it. Today, Texas is just a name that most people haven’t even read on a map. Someday it will be an empire.”

“Empire?” queried Kitchens.

The young officer nodded. “Empire,” he repeated. “Those rich valleys will be dotted with farms. And there will be towns surging with people.” He paused, and then added, “Americans, Anglo-Saxon Americans.”

“That’s very reminiscent of the way Aaron Burr spoke three or four years ago,” remarked Benjamin Kitchens gravely. “I don’t like this talk of empire. It has an unpleasant ring in American ears. In Burr’s case, it brought disaster to a brilliant career.”

“Burr had a vision,” replied Magee soberly. “Someday it will come true. Perhaps he used the wrong means; that may have been his mistake. But time will prove he was right about the destiny of our frontiers.”

“We still have plenty of room in Louisiana and Mississippi Territory,” the planter declared. “We’ve thousands of miles of undeveloped frontier country. We don’t have to encroach on Spanish territory.”

“You haven’t seen the Texas country,” retorted Magee.

“You are right, Lieutenant.” The firelight fell on Don Bernardo’s eager face. His eyes were two glowing coals of light. “Texas has a great future. And it is nearer than you think.”

Magee turned slowly. “Maybe I think it is pretty damn close,” he retorted.

The two men exchanged glances in which there was more question than challenge. That seemed to end the conversation. It was late. Dusty miles stretched ahead on the morrow. Soon they were all rolled in their blankets and the camp was silent.

Three fires smoldered ruddily in the darkness. Around one were stretched the sleeping forms of Jonathan Kirk’s party; Don Bernardo Gutierrez and Salazar slept at the second with the coach drawn up near by; the third had been for cooking and here the servants of both outfits shared the warmth. Between it and the picket line where the horses foraged quietly, sat the prisoner, bound to a small tree, the firelight reflected in his glittering eyes. The two sentries on watch were posted some distance away, one on either side of the camp. All was quiet save for the uneasy movement among the horses, a subdued background of normal sound.

In the glow of the third fire only one figure moved. It rolled deep into the surrounding shadows and then was still. Presently it stirred again. A twig snapped and once more it was motionless. There was a longer interval of waiting this time. Luiz, crawling now, backed more deeply into the gloom. From time to time his head swayed back and forth like a turtle’s as he scanned the motionless camp. He had reached the prisoner now. The outlaw’s beady eyes had never wavered from this stealthy shadow. Luiz crouched beside him.

“How much did you say, señor?” he whispered.

“Three hundred dollars—gold.”

Luiz shrugged. Even in the dark, he tried to conceal the avaricious gleam in his eyes under drooping lids. “It is still only a promise, señor. Where will I find it?”

“It’s in a money belt around my waist.”

With fat trembling fingers Luiz found the belt. Crouching there in the darkness he felt first of the money.

The prisoner waited expectantly but nothing happened. “Well?” he asked finally.

“I was just thinking, señor, if I untie you now, how easy it would be for you to cut my throat and take back your money.” Luiz still was enjoying the touch of the coins against his pudgy palm.

“If you don’t untie me now I’ll tell your master. When he finds the gold on you he’ll have you flogged within an inch of your life.” The prisoner’s voice grated coldly.

“Patience, señor,” Luiz temporized craftily. “I’ll earn the gold.”

Cautiously Salazar’s servant once more crept toward the blaze. He did not resume his place in the circle, however. Instead, while still a safe distance from its glow, he scooped out a small hole in the loose loam into which he thrust the money belt. This he recovered and marked the spot with his shabby boot. Then, silently still, he crept back to the prisoner. A knife blade glinted against the prisoner’s thongs.

Luiz watched, still gripping his knife fearfully, until the prisoner melted into the blackness of the forest. Then he returned to his precious cache. There he fastened the belt against his body, smiling through lips still bruised from Miguel Salazar’s blow earlier that day.