Читать книгу The Savage Breed - Randy Denmon - Страница 9

January 1836

Travis sat up in bed, shivering, and pulled the wool blanket up to his neck. A cold winter wind heaved at the wooden door, rattling its rusty bolt as the firm gusts whistled through the diminutive adobe house, fraught with cracks. He wiped the sleep out of his foggy eyes and looked over at a small cast-iron stove beside the bed. Mercedes was stoking a fire, only a quilt over her firm body.

“Come back to bed,” Travis mumbled. “I’ll go fetch some more firewood.”

“I’d love to, but I have to get up and get going. I have to go to Mass with my family today,” Mercedes replied, continuing to stir the fire. She looked over her shoulder and smiled at Travis. “I must ask for forgiveness for all my transgressions with you.”

“I’ve got to go see your father today myself. And then I have to go back to San Antonio.” Travis looked out the window at the gloomy, uninviting day, aglow with thick, white clouds whose bright glare stung his eyes.

“Do you have to go so soon?” Mercedes turned and kissed Travis on the lips before slowly crawling back into the warm bed. “Do you want me to draw you a bath?”

“No.”

“All this war talk scares me. I worry about you and my family. What will happen? Can’t we just go to Saltillo? There’s no war there. I’m sure my father could ensure you get a good post with the Regulares.”

“It’s not that simple, love. I’m a Texan. If Texas declares independence, I’ll be with Texas. After all, I am a Texas Ranger. And if I went to Mexico, I would be disgraced. I could never be a Regulare; they might force me to take up arms against the Rangers and Texans. I could never do that.”

“Why is all this happening? And you’re not a Texan, you’re a Mexican.”

“I was once an American, like most Texans. We came here while Mexico was a republic. Now it’s not. Santa Anna rules. The Anglos, myself included, will never tolerate that, or being forced to conform to Catholicism, or put up with these Mexican soldiers trampling on our rights, or any more of his tyrannical rules.”

Mercedes put her soft hand on Travis’s chest and began to gently massage his ribs. She looked up at Travis, a few silent tears forming in her deep, piercing eyes. “I am scared. I may never see you again. I cannot accept the thought of you fighting my family—or of something happening to you.”

Travis took in a deep breath and looked down at Mercedes’s long, feminine fingers stroking his chest. “There’s nothing I can do about it. Santa Anna shouldn’t have invaded Texas. But don’t worry so much. This all may turn out to be nothing. And if there is a fight, it will be against Santa Anna. Texans and Mexicans don’t want to fight each other. Texas has no animosity toward Mexicans—only the current Mexican government, which most Mexicans hate anyway.”

Travis grabbed Mercedes’s hand, and the two made eye contact. He sensed that his words carried little solace for her, and he reached over and ran his hands through her hair a few times, almost feeling the anxiety in her warm, tense scalp. “Don’t worry. I’ll never do anything to harm you. The sooner this is over, the sooner we can get married.”

Mercedes sniffled a few times, and wiped a tear from her faultless, pale cheek with the palm of her hand. She started to murmur a reply, but a loud bang on the door startled the two.

Travis’s heart skipped a beat as he sat up alertly, reaching over for his revolver, hanging holstered on the bedpost. “Who is it?” he yelled.

“It’s just me,” a muffled voice said through the door.

“Well, come in,” Travis said, relaxing and leaning back in bed as he watched the door open and Chase, bundled in a long overcoat, casually come into the room. “I wasn’t expecting you for a few more days.”

“Your week-long siesta’s over. Major Williamson is rallying the company in San Antonio the day after tomorrow,” Chase said bluntly. He removed his hat briefly and held it to his chest in deference to the young lady, then squatted by the stove to warm his hands. “You ready to go?”

“Don’t I look ready?” Travis answered, reaching over to the small table beside the bed and picking up his brass pocket watch. “I guess I don’t have any choice. Let me say my good-byes to the well-heeled señorita, and I’ll meet you at the old mission in an hour.”

“Make it thirty minutes,” Chase said, and stood. He walked over to the bed and put the back of his hand on the cheek of the still-troubled Mercedes. “Too damn cold out there to hang around an hour…where in the hell did you ever find a beautiful, blond Mexican out here in the middle of nowhere? Much less get her to crawl in bed with you. She must have bad eyes.”

“Aw, I don’t know. Found her on the trail somewhere. Not sure she’s worth all the trouble. But her eyes are fine.” Travis stirred Mercedes’s hair playfully.

Chase smiled and looked down at Mercedes. “Don’t worry. I won’t let him get into any trouble that he can’t get out of. We’d both probably feel a lot better if you’d go back to Mexico where you’ll be safe.”

“Go on and get out of here,” Travis retorted loudly. “I need to get started. You know how difficult it is for women to say good-bye to me.”

Mercedes laughed, but tears again filled her glorious eyes. “Get him out of here before he keeps misbehaving and I banish him for good,” she said.

An hour later, Travis rode within sight of the small Agustin Mission, just outside of the almost deserted pueblo of Laredo. Ahead, beyond the town, lay the harsh chaparral and brush country of the Rio Grande Plain, destitute of water and fit for only meager cattle grazing and bands of outlaws, scorpions, and tarantulas. The scorpions and tarantulas caused as much fear in Travis’s mind as the shrewdest bandit; nightmares of these creepy creatures crawling in his bedroll had prevented him from having a peaceful night under the stars for years.

As his short, stocky, black and tan paint mustang dodged the thorn scrub and mesquite, Travis stared into the distance. It would be a hard and fast trip to San Antonio, which entailed traversing one of the most hostile and foreboding landscapes on the continent. Since the onset of strife between Texas and Mexico, the strip of land lying between the Nueces and Rio Grande Rivers had become totally devoid of law and citizens—save for a few isolated ranches.

As he adjusted his buckskin jacket and chaps, essential for riding the prickly plain, Travis finally saw Chase, visible atop his horse, at the mission’s gate. Travis’s mount clopped over a small wooden bridge, then loped toward Chase, who was loading his Colt. He had removed the revolver’s cylinder and was currently placing percussion caps into the chamber’s bored holes as he packed the powder charges and balls into place.

“Day after tomorrow—that will be a long, tough haul,” Travis said, removing a hanky from his pocket and polishing the shiny, two-inch Ranger badge affixed to his jacket.

Chase reinserted the cylinder into the pistol and sniffed the pure, cold desert air. “Traversing the brush with an idler like you won’t be easy, but we’ll make it.” He handed Travis half a loaf of hardened bread and lit a cigarette. “She’s too young and good-looking for you.”

“Women don’t ever get too young for us. We just get too old for them. I guess I’m aging with grace.” Travis grabbed a nine-inch knife, which had been secured to his waist, and cut the bread into a few mouth-sized chunks. He looked over at Chase’s horse, an antsy, long-legged bay mare, laden with two large water skins, two straw foliage sacks, and a mix of other weapons and supplies. Travis removed one of the water skins and a haversack filled with jerked beef, and secured them to his mount to lessen Chase’s load. “I guess we better get on with it. Let’s go see Rayo on the way out of town. We might make the Nueces by nightfall. We’ll be lucky if we don’t have to shoot a bandit or an Injun between here and there. Hope you loaded a couple of spare drums.” Travis spurred his mustang and trotted off, leading Chase.

It was only a casual ten-minute ride to the Hacienda de Rayo del Norte, and the two Rangers approached the ranch’s headquarters via a half-mile dirt drive sided by aged cottonwoods. Two expensive carriages and a few well-groomed horses were parked outside the grand, square limestone structure dominating the countryside.

Travis and Chase dismounted and looked around at the hacienda, a tidy arrangement of courtyards, corrals, and well-constructed buildings. A half dozen men loitered on the grounds: a few desperadoes, cattle hands, and two Lipan Indians, decorated with feathers and paint. Travis looked up atop a twenty-foot flagpole to see a Mexican flag fluttering, a rarity in these parts. “How many of the Mexican landowners are falling in line with the rebellion?”

“About half. Each half is more stirred up about the other than either is about the Texans.” Chase paused and smiled. “Got a regular blood feud going on. It probably won’t be settled any time soon.”

Sided by Chase, Travis entered the house, passing through the spacious entrance hall. The fifty-year-old Javier Rayo stood in his large, plush living room sipping a glass of cognac from fine crystal. To the casual eye, he looked the part of a haciendado—short, wiry, and proud, with jet-black hair and skin browned from exposure. He was covered with ostentatious and colorful aristocratic riding clothes, apt for a horse parade but hardly fitting for trudging the backcountry.

“Good morning, Señor Rayo,” Travis said, politely stopping at the far side of the room. He looked up briefly at the portraits of three generations of Rayos adorning the walls, the bronze Spaniards all eying him.

“Would you like a drink? Good French brandy,” Rayo said in accented English. He walked toward the two Rangers.

“No. I won’t be drinking for a while…From the looks of things, I guess you’ve taken sides.” Travis looked at Rayo’s midnight eyes; as always, they were intense, rowdy, brash, and outgoing.

“I’ve not only taken sides, I intend to take up the fight against these treasonable rebels,” Rayo continued, stopping in front of Travis and squaring his shoulders.

Travis stood quietly for a few seconds before speaking. “I’m sorry that you’ve come to that decision. It’s the wrong one. I wish you would side up with us. Texas could use good men like you. The cause is just. And I hope we can still be friends.” Travis extended a hand. “But if that’s your decision, I won’t pester you further.”

Rayo accepted Travis’s hand cordially and offered a handshake to Chase. “I actually wanted to make you two an offer…to fight for Mexico. Your skills are exemplary. Mexico would like to keep you in her service. Of course, you would never be asked to take up a fight against Texans, but we need tough men to suppress some of the other areas of the country that have revolted against Mexico City.” Rayo paused and thought solemnly for a few moments. “You could be greatly rewarded—maybe a land grant. You two could have a good life, a lot better than trolling these dusty trails protecting your scalps.”

Travis listened to the words, not at all wanting to hear them. He faced the Mexican jefe with an outward show of indifference. But in fact, deep inside, he had spent months struggling internally with this, flipping and flopping back and forth. Would he fight for what he believed in or join the Mexican army? Technically, he currently served at the pleasure of the Mexican government. But he had finally decided he had only one choice, the only one he could live with. But he was sacrificing much. And he knew Rayo had an ace in the hole, his alluring, almost entrancing daughter. Could he ever really tell her no or say good-bye to her?

“No, I’ve made my mind up. I’m with the Anglos,” Travis answered, and looked at Chase, who nodded in agreement.

“Can I get you boys anything before you go: food, water, fresh horses?” Rayo said.

“I think we’ve got what we need,” Travis answered as a set of footsteps caught his attention. He turned to look. “Good morning, Francisco.”

“My son will ride with me,” Rayo proudly said, putting his arm around the young man as he approached.

Travis gazed at Francisco, only twenty years of age. He was in tailored riding clothes, similar to his father’s, with a red bandana around his neck. Francisco was a good-looking lad, with black hair and pale skin. Travis often thought he looked like Spanish royalty, like an aristocrat, whatever that meant. And Francisco acted the part, his manner refined, charming, and gregarious. It was not hard for Travis to imagine that many a young lady was easily wooed by his well-kept appearance. In fact, Travis had always been fond of Francisco, thinking the young man reminded him of himself in his youth—or at least his own image of himself. “How are you, my amigo?”

“Well, and you?”

Travis took a deep breath, for the first time he felt himself getting jittery around these men whom he might soon be fighting. He felt that way especially about Francisco, who had so much to lose. He liked him so much. Did the young Mexican have any idea what might be ahead?

“It is good to see you.” Travis extended his hand anew to Rayo, then to Francisco. “So long, my fine friends. I sure hope, and I pray to God, that I don’t see you two anytime soon, especially through a gun sight.”

“I hope not,” Rayo said, lifting up his glass of brandy. “But if we do, it won’t be personal.”