Читать книгу The Savage Breed - Randy Denmon - Страница 8

San Antonio, Republic of Mexico, September 1835

Travis nonchalantly strode up to the sturdy, stucco walls of the governor’s palace. It was a cool, fall evening, perfect for the annual celebration of independence. Loitering outside the handsome residence, a couple dozen patróns talked in their best outfits—men in light, white jackets, ladies in their finest evening dresses, priests in their black cassocks, soldiers in their gaudy uniforms. Atop the white ramparts, guarding the building on all sides, colorful red, green, and white regalia, illuminated by a score of burning torches, fluttered with the soft breeze and made the residence stand out dramatically against the dingy and dull backdrop of the town.

Travis tipped his hat to several people he recognized as he entered the house, which was so full of gaiety, the chattering and gossip filled his ears before he crossed the threshold. Two young soldiers, clad in meticulous uniforms, stood at attention at the entrance. Travis paused at a large mirror in the foyer to scrutinize his dress and tidy his disposition. He removed his hat and spent a few minutes admiring himself—his youthful, thirty-year-old face; his long, combed brown hair; his blue eyes; and his tall, lean figure all made up his affable, optimistic appearance. He adjusted his beige coat and pulled up his matching slacks until their position passed his inspection. Travis certainly enjoyed advertising his easy, comfortable nature.

He finally brushed his thin mustache a few times and turned to inspect the large ballroom. The floor was full, alive with the motion and noise of bodies, ladies’ hand fans, and servants. Behind the crowd, a five-piece military band strummed patriotic songs. A short mestizo man, dressed in a nice white jacket and carrying a tray of drinks, offered Travis a glass of wine that he accepted.

As Travis scanned the ballroom for familiar faces, he caught sight of the woman in the crowd. Her green eyes stood out against her pure white skin and long yellow hair. She turned and made eye contact, eyes wide and round, penetrating, even from across the room. She moved elegantly toward him, emerging from the crowd. Travis noticed her long, fine lines and well-proportioned hips, cloaked with a long, proper skirt containing a slight slit that occasionally exposed a supple lower leg with her easy stride.

As the woman moved closer, her face gained life, and with it, more attractiveness—sumptuous female perfection. Her lashes were long, dark, and full of life. She returned Travis’s stare with a spunky smile, causing Travis to bashfully turn away. But he continued to feel the weight of her stare. He could sense her getting closer. He looked back around to find himself face to face with her. Her collar was tall and stiff, signifying something proper, he thought. And her mannerisms were dignified. She stepped closer with polite correctness and extended a silent hand.

Travis returned the gesture, quietly appreciating the lovely woman for a few moments.

“I could not help but notice you admiring me from afar,” the woman finally said in perfect English. “Thought I’d introduce myself. My name is Mercedes Rayo.”

“You’re as beautiful a female specimen as I’ve seen in these parts,” Travis said self-assuredly. He politely bowed. “I’m—”

“Lieutenant Travis Ross…the famous Indian fighter. And I’m sure you’ve seen many women much more beautiful than I.”

Travis recoiled from his bow and took a sip of wine. “Well, I must confess. Your candor complements your looks.”

Mercedes giggled and her eyes danced with amusement.

“Your laugh is wholesome and unabashed,” he said, “a slip of etiquette, but very enticing…I hate crowded places. Too noisy in here. You want to go out to the veranda?”

Mercedes nodded, and Travis led her a few paces to a door. Outside lay the idyllic and star-filled Texas night. Travis lit a cigarette while Mercedes sat down in a chair, folding and smoothing her dress over her thighs. “Your English is excellent,” he said. “Where are you from?”

“Coahuila. A proud Mexican. And you?”

“England, but I grew up on the Sabine River.” Travis paused, thinking as he ashed his cigarette into one of the immaculate flower beds abutting the patio. “Are you daughter of Javier Rayo?”

“I am.”

“Then you’re a very wealthy woman.”

“Yes. That is if you measure wealth in only tangible things, such as land.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been on the east coast with my aunt. I’m on my way to my father’s ranch in Laredo.”

“A proud Mexican. That’s rare around here. What do you think of all the talk of war?”

“There’s no talk in my family. We’re Mexican through and through. My father fought in the War of Independence. Mexico has rewarded him well. I just wish all the problems would go away…and I could meet a handsome, dashing Ranger who would sweep me off my feet.” Mercedes grinned mischievously and rolled her eyes.

Travis stood speechless, staring at the woman like a man does when he thinks he might be looking at the right woman for the very first time. This one oozed a sort of smoldering passion that intrigued him. He turned and walked to a colonnade. He rested his shoulder on the stucco column and looked out from the palace to the limestone walls of the Alamo fortress, a quarter mile across the San Antonio River, its white face illuminated by lanterns. He turned to look at the other imposing structures of the town: the San Fernando Church and the Bexar Customs Exchange, an imposing monolith of stone, four stories tall. In the distance, he saw the other Spanish missions, all imposing edifices with tall spires and bell towers, marvelously lit and standing commandingly over the mass of rickety adobe shacks.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Mercedes said, walking up beside him.

“Yes.” Travis turned away from the town to look at Mercedes.

She brushed her hair back and held her head up to face the cool breeze.

“Does a few minutes on the patio with a handsome, dashing Ranger get your temperature up and juices flowing?”

Mercedes bowed her head, trying to hide a laugh.

“These parties aren’t really for me,” he said. “You want to go for a walk along the river?”

“I don’t know. That might be a tad much. I only just met you. I don’t know if I’m ready for that—might overheat. Especially if you’re as chivalrous and quick-witted as the local papers make you out to be.”

“Most of that is exaggerated, but not all of it.” Travis laughed, reaching out and grabbing Mercedes’s willing hand. He then stepped off into the darkness of the night.