Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (34 page)

      
In the melee, one of Grazer's friends swept Rafael's feet from under him. Lew threw his two-hundred-twenty-pound body toward his fallen enemy, but Rafael rolled free.

      
Both men rose, panting and covered with sawdust and mud from the floor. Rafael had lost his club. Grazer's hands clenched into enormous fists as he advanced with murderous intent. Rafael knew he must avoid those fists, but that was not so easily done. He dodged with the practiced instinct of a fencer, looking for an opening. There were vital points that caused pain with a rapier; so, too, they must hurt if hit with fists.

      
Grazer caught him a wicked blow to his midsection, luckily just missing the solar plexus. Nonetheless, he was in agony as he struggled to stay on his feet and avoid another roundhouse swing at the same time. Gritting his teeth, he took a breath and ducked Grazer's next punch, at the same time landing one of his own on the big man's temple. His knuckles throbbed wickedly, but the blow staggered Grazer for a few seconds. Not wanting to lose the initiative, Rafael followed through with another solid body punch.

      
Grazer let out a whoosh and a muffled oath as the air left his lungs, but he stayed on his feet and recovered in time to land a telling blow to Rafael's left eye. Both antagonists were well bloodied.

      
By sheer dint of will, Rafael stayed on his feet and kept returning the punishing blows of Grazer, but he was growing too groggy and exhausted to dodge and feint. The sheer size and bulk of his enemy was beginning to tell.
I can't fall. Once I'm down, he'll trample me like a wild boar.

      
Quite a few of the onlookers were impressed with the slim young Creole's tenacity. When Grazer made a final lunge and carried them both to the floor once more, several men yelled for the dude. This time, however, his roll to the side did not work. Lew kept his hold on Rafael and began to rain punishing blows to his face, holding the limp figure up by his shirtfront. Rafael was out cold.

      
When one of Grazer's friends, the small weasely man called Acuff, tossed him his knife, just as a low voice, punctuated by the clicking hammer of a blunderbuss, interrupted the action. “The dude fought ya fair, which is more'n I kin say fer you 'n yer pals helpin' ya, Grazer. Ya beat him. Now leave it be.”

Chapter Nineteen

      
The room quieted suddenly as men cleared a path for Cherokee Joe De Villiers. The small, wiry man's British blunderbuss was a lethal weapon. The men in the bar knew Joe kept its flaring muzzle loaded with rusty nail heads. His eyes shifted from Grazer to his two friends, Acuff and Ryan.

      
Slowly, feeling the crowd's sentiment shifting to join De Villiers in his support of the unconscious Creole, Lew Grazer let him drop onto the dirt floor and rose to sheathe the knife.

      
“I got no quarrel with yew, Joe. Dandyman here's been taught a lesson in frontier fîghtin, I reckon.” He grimaced at his own split lip, throbbing skull, and aching gut.

      
“ ‘Pears ta me, fer someone half yer weight, the kid did a pretty considerable o' damage, Lew,” Joe said genially. He motioned to two men standing near the Creole, who was beginning to stir. “You boys haul him out ta my horse.” Turning his attention back to Grazer, he spat a wad of tobacco on the floor and said, “Give th' dude a few more lessons 'n he jist might beat ya, Lew. ‘Specially if n ya git caught without yer
compañeros
here ta back ya.”

      
The laughter from the tavern faded as Joe moved silently up the street with the semiconscious form of Rafael Flamenco draped over his horse.

* * * *

      
Rafael could smell coffee and something else cooking, pungent and strong. When he struggled to sit up, pain shot through his midsection. “Aaugh!” With a muffled moan through bloodied, cracked lips, he collapsed again.

      
Footsteps crunched softly across the dry grass and a low voice spoke in strangely accented English. “Didn't figger ya'd be awake so quick. Better if’n ya sleep. Here, drink this.”

      
Something bitter tasting was forced between his parched lips and he slipped once more into unconsciousness, knowing he'd heard the voice before, unable to remember where.

      
Joe De Villiers looked at the young man. Both eyes were swollen shut, most of his teeth were loose, a nasty gash ran down his jaw, and several ribs were probably broken. Knowing the healing power of sleep and some efficacious Cherokee herbal remedies, Joe hoped the kid would rest easy until nightfall, and let the poultices do a little toward taking out the pain and swelling.

* * * *

      
“How long have I been out?” Rafael squinted to see through the narrow slits of his swollen eyes. A campfíre danced orange and yellow in front of him and a man sat on the other side of it.

      
“Near a day, I reckon,” Joe replied as he reached to pour a cup of coffee. When he rose and walked over to Rafael's pallet to give it to him, the younger man let out a painful oath as he tried to sit up too fast.

      
“Watch them ribs. I wrapped ‘em, but I spect they's broke. Cuda been worse. You wuz plumb lucky. Got real
puha,
yessir.” He chuckled at some private joke and handed the cup to the young Creole. He grinned when Rafael almost dropped it because of the stiffness in his knuckles. Doggedly he held on and began to sip,

      
“I certainly do not feel lucky,” he said gingerly, feeling to see if any teeth were missing. Sacred Blood! Not an inch of him was undamaged!

      
“You'll mend right 'nough. Fer a New Orleans fancypants, ya got grit, boy. Stood up ta Lew better 'n I seen many a old hand do.”

      
Rafael looked at his benefactor. He was medium height, rather more wiry than slim with very dark skin and shoulder-length straight black hair held back with a calico headband. “Who are you and why did you save me?” He rubbed his head. “At least I think I remember that you did.”

      
Joe laughed. “Yep, reckon I dragged ya outta there. Fool thing fer a feller dressed like you ta do—go inta the Rattler 'n order a drink, ‘specially in a ferrin accent. I'm Joe De Villiers, Cherokee Joe De Villiers. Another Louisiana Frenchy, only not like you. Guess I helped ya out cuz I liked yer spunk, er mebbe I don't like Lew Grazer.”

      
Rafael smiled painfully. “I am in your debt in any case, Monsieur De Villiers. Rafael Flamenco is my name. Why do they call you Cherokee?”

      
“Cuz I'm a breed. Know thet might not set too good with most Creoles; but now thet ya come ta Texas, I reckon ya’ll have ta make do. My ma was Cherokee 'n my pa was a French trapper.”

      
Rafael nodded. He noted the man's hawkish features and the reddish cast to his complexion. Joe wore greasy buckskins and a beaded rawhide necklace. “As you said, this is Texas and I can make do. However, if you hadn't stopped Grazer, I wouldn't be making do at all. If your father was French, you should speak his language. Do you?” he asked, openly curious. De Villiers’s accent puzzled him.

      
”
Oui
. I also speak Cherokee, English, Snake, 'n pretty passable border Spanish. Fer an uneducated feller, I'm a wonder,” he answered guilelessly.

      
Rafael burst out laughing, then quickly subsided as his cracked ribs and split lips protested. “I too speak Spanish, French, and English. What is Snake?”

      
Joe grunted. “Snake's lingo is th' most useful one fer tradin' 'mongst all plains Indians. Snakes is really two tribes, leastways fer th' last hunnert years er so since they split. Up north, they's called Shoshones. Their enemies th' Utes give 'em another name when the southern bands wuz first movin' onta th' plains after buffalo—Koh-mahts. Means enemy. Kinda stuck. Only now everyone jist says Comanche.”

      
Rafael grunted. “Them I've heard of.”

      
De Villiers laughed. “Ain't everybody. Fiercer, more cunnin' horse Indians never lived.”

      
“I take it you've traveled among them,” Rafael said, fascinated, for he'd heard horror stories about the Comanche on his first visit to Texas last spring.

      
“I traded some horses with ‘em. They ain't like my ma's people, er most others. They don't let outsiders live with ‘em, nor use their women neither. Ya interested in tradin' with th' Comanche?”

      
“I doubt it, but I've heard they roam on my land. When I begin to reclaim it, I may need to deal with them—peacefully, I hope,” Rafael replied.

      
“Comanche don't do much o' nothin' peaceful,” Joe scoffed. “They don't reckon anyone owns land neither”

      
“That's not what my Great Grandfather Flamenco's land grant from the king of Spain says,” Rafael replied with a superior grin.

      
“Anyone been livin' on it lately—like in th' past fifty years er so?”

      
“No. My grandfather went to New Orleans in 1779 to seek a bride. He married Louise Beaurivage, who convinced him she would languish in a strange land. He never returned,” Rafael said. “I imagine there's little left of the stone house his father built, but the land has a good water supply and abundant wild horses and longhorn cattle roaming free. I intend to rebuild it.”

      
Joe scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Since th' People—Comanche—moved onta th' Texas plains, they kinda spread out—beat th' other Indian groups 'n drove the Mexicans out. Ain't been no white settlers able ta stand up ta 'em in my lifetime. Whereabouts is yer place?”

      
Rafael grimaced in embarrassment. “I have maps, but I'm not certain. I need a guide who's familiar with the land northwest of the Brazos River.”

      
De Villiers whistled low. “Could be smack in th' middle o' th' plains where th' People roam free. Say, ya got a map?”

      
“Back in my room at the tavern.”

      
Joe grunted. “When yer movin' easier we'll take us a look-see.”

      
“Could you guide me there? I now realize I'm a ‘greenhorn,’ ” Rafael said with chagrin, recalling his stupidity on the previous night.

      
Joe gave him a measuring look. “Yep. Might could be. I been mustangin' on th' plains fer years. Got me no long-thought-out plans.”

      
Over the next several days Joe and Rafael formed the unlikeliest of friendships. The tough half-breed was quick and shrewd, possessing a subtle sense of humor and great empathy. Rafael knew he had much to learn about his adopted land, and a man like De Villiers could teach him, as well as guide him to his property.

      
Joe described Texas weather and the lands to the west inhabited only by migrating bands of Indians. He explained how he captured wild horses and broke them to saddle. De Villiers demonstrated more of practical healing skills than most physicians in New Orleans and understood Texas history better than Rafael's university professors. Joe knew weapons and survival. Realizing dueling pistols and rapiers would not be useful in Texas, Rafael wanted to learn how to use fists, knives, and long rifles.

      
“First ya gotta leave yer broke bones ta heal,” was Joe's reply to the request. “Then we'll see. I 'spect ya got it in ya ta fight ta win. You ever kill a man?”

      
“Yes,” was the terse reply.

      
“Thought so.”

* * * *

      
Joe watched in approval while Rafael squatted at the campfire and ate spitted rabbit roasted whole over the coals. By the end of the week he was able to ride to town with Joe.

      
He paid his room bill at the tavern, collected his gear, and brought it to Joe's camp. They examined his old maps that night by firelight.

      
Joe spat a wad of tobacco from his mouth and considered the map. “Yep, pretty country. Yer right ‘bout th' water, mustangs, 'n longhorns.”

      
“You've been there—seen it?” Rafael's interest was excited. At first, the land grant had been only a base from which to search for Deborah. Gradually, it had become more. It would be a home to bring her to, a new start for them both.

      
“I know the land. Kinda isolated. Not many Comanche cause there ain't many buffalo. Thet's not ta say it'll be easy pickins. You know thet?”

      
“Let's just say I'm beginning to learn,” Rafael said, stroking the scar forming over his left eyebrow.

      
Inside three weeks, they had crossed the Trinity and the Brazos Rivers, which were at low water in the dry, fall weather. The pine and hardwood forested land around Nacogdoches gradually gave way to rich black soil and oak savannah. They passed by stands of giant cottonwoods in river basins. Interspersed between the lush woodlands were vast stretches of rolling plains where the kaleidoscopic herds of wild horses and longhorn cattle ran free, legacies left centuries earlier by ill-fated Spanish explorers.

      
“You could ride all the way across Europe and not see as varied a landscape as we've passed through,” Rafael said as they stopped to rest their horses in a lush canyon.

      
“An’ this is only halfway ‘cross Texas,” Joe replied laughingly. “Farther west it gets real flat, hot 'n dry. Lots more cactus 'n strange-shaped mountains. Bleak but sorta beautiful, too, with all them bright red 'n purple colored rocks.”

      
“Are there springs like this everywhere—even in the desert?” Rafael bent over painfully, favoring his aching ribs, to cup his hand and drink the clear sparkling water rushing down the canyon.