Scorpion (12 page)

Najera cleared his throat as a signal that Esteban was pressing his luck. The Yaqui slowly turned and followed his remaining granddaughters into the night. The general caught his consort by the arm and guided her forward.

“Do not be afraid,
querida,
the padre is nothing but a harmless, fat old man.” Najera glanced around the empty church. The whitewashed walls on either side of the sanctuary bore frescoes of the martyred saints. A row of candles, for the most part unlit, surrounded a poor box on three sides. Here a special offering might be made and a candle lit to symbolize the prayer.

“Why have you come here?” the priest asked. “If you wish to frighten me with threats and insults, so be it, I do fear you. I also fear you will one day overstep the bounds of decency and forever place yourself beyond the reach of Christ.”

Najera removed a buckskin pouch from his coat pocket, shook out a single silver coin and placed his donation in the box. He hefted the box and jostled its contents, saw that Marita was watching him, and returned the box to its place among the candles. He took one of the lighted tapers and proceeded to light an entire row of candles.

“You cannot buy the grace of God, my general,” said Father Rudolfo. “Nor is there a price on heaven. It must be earned.”

“Fortunately, I have you to pray for me,” Najera replied. “You do pray for me, don’t you?”

“Every day.”

“
Bueno.
I am in your debt.” Najera turned and walked back to Marita’s side. He lifted a few strands of hair and let them fall through his parted fingers. “As for earning heaven, what more can I do than shoulder the responsibility of defending my country against General Taylor’s army? I have made many sacrifices. My soldiers love me. And why? Because I am a river to my people.” The diminutive officer motioned for Marita to kneel at the altar rail. “She has come for Communion.”

Father Rudolfo glanced at the girl, who met his gaze for an instant then hurried down the aisle and knelt at the wooden rail separating the sanctuary from the rest of the church. In truth, the priest had been expecting the girl. Marita’s grandmother, old Esteban’s wife, had died three years ago to the day. Each anniversary of her death, the Yaqui and his granddaughters had made a special point of receiving Communion.

The priest joined the girl at the altar. He took her hand. “My child, do you seek absolution for your sins?”

“Sí, padre,” she answered. Her youth and beauty filled the priest with regret. Better she had been born homely as a cow than to be sought after by men like Valentin Najera.

Father Rudolfo bowed forward and spoke softly. “There is a place for you at Santa Maria Magdelene.”

“I am dead to my grandfather.”

“Even Lazarus returned to life through the will of God.”

Fire flashed in Marita’s eyes. “Return to being just another mission Indian? No! General Najera has made me much more. He loves me.”

“He has made you just another
puta.
” The moment the words escaped his lips, the priest regretted them. But once spoken, they could not be called back. Marita’s hurt expression moved him to pity. With a rustle of his brown robes, the priest left the railing, climbed the shallow steps to the altar, genuflected, opened the tabernacle and removed the chalice. He turned in time to see Marita hurrying up the center aisle. The door banged against the adobe wall and then creaked shut.

Najera clapped his hands together. “Bravo, padre.”

Father Rudolfo frowned and stared down at the chalice in his hands. His reflection danced across the gold surface. Confronted by his own failure, he returned the chalice to the tabernacle and left the altar in defeat. Najera slowly started up the aisle, but paused to look at the dejected priest.

“Now you see, if there is any villainy here at all, it lies within each of us.”

“I saw the jars. I know what they contain. Such cruelty is spawned by an evil heart.”

“It will teach the gringos the wages of fear, and they will think twice about bringing their armies against us.” Najera’s chest swelled with pride. The victory he had won on the road to Linares was but the first of many. “All that I do … I do for Mexico.”

“For yourself, don’t you mean?”

“One and the same, padre. When I have driven the norteamericanos back across the Río del Norte, who can say what the future holds. Santa Anna is sure to receive me with honor. In such times, a man can go far and accomplish much for himself.” Najera blessed himself with holy water, then barked an order to the men stationed by the door for them to rejoin their compadres in the churchyard. The dragoons saluted and vanished from sight. Najera dabbed his fingers in the water dish and smoothed his hair in place.

“That water has been blessed,” the priest said, lumbering up the aisle, his wide expanse brushing the pews to either side. “It is holy water. This church is holy ground. It is the house of God, yet you treat it with such contempt.”

“There is no ‘holy’ ground, no ‘holy’ water. And as for God …!” Najera quickly surveyed the interior of the humble church. “There is no one here but us.” Najera turned with a flourish and strode purposefully up the aisle, away from the priest. His parting remarks drifted back: “Rejoice, padre … the day may come when all of Mexico receives me as El Presidente.”

“On that day, I think Saltillo and Marita Two Ponies will be far from your thoughts,” the priest muttered.

“Continue to save souls, padre, and I will save the country.” The general disappeared through the doorway, determined to have the last word.

Poor Mexico, besieged from without and within, thought the priest. He braced himself on the back of a pew, his short, stubby fingers bloodless where he gripped the wood. “And who will save the country from you?”

Ben McQueen reached the barn just as General Najera emerged from the church and climbed into his carriage alongside Marita. The general and his dragoons wheeled their horses, Najera took his place in the lead, and Ben slipped quietly into the darkened doorway. He immediately sensed Zion’s presence as the black man shifted his vantage point and crossed over to him.

“Christ almighty, you scared me plumb to death. Where’d you take off to?”

“I went looking for someone,” Ben whispered.

“Who?”

“Me.”

“Have any luck?”

Ben shook his head. He watched as the soldiers trotted past. The moonlight illuminated the interior of the carriage, and he was able to make out the imperial countenance of Valentin Najera as he turned and glanced toward the barn, his features pale and bloodless. Though the general had not played a role in his dreams, Ben felt he knew this man. He retreated with Zion farther into the barn and remained there until the entourage had departed the churchyard.

Then Zion trundled over to the gray gelding and proceeded to saddle the animal. Ben examined the mounts they had bartered for and chose a solid-looking, mountain-bred roan mustang. He saddled the animal and led it out of the barn. Zion appeared leading his gray and a string of four horses. He would cut them free when they were clear of Saltillo. The two men turned and saw the padre outlined by candlelight in the church doorway. Ben and Zion rode across the yard and up to the priest, who raised his hand and blessed them.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Father,” Ben said, touching the brim of his sombrero.

“Be well, you old Bible thumper,” Zion added.

“God be with you, old friend, whether you want Him or not,” the padre said. He looked at Ben. “And God be with you, my son. May He heal your mind and grant you a safe journey back to the States.”

“Thanks, padre,” Ben said. “But I don’t reckon I’ll be going north after all.”

“What!?” Zion exclaimed.

“You can’t work Ventana by yourself. However many cattle Najera missed will have to be chased out of the brush. And you said it’s at least a two-man job. So I suppose I’ll hang around.”

“Madre de Dios!” Father Rudolfo blessed him. He had taken a liking to this man Alacron and broken bread with him. The padre could see that he was someone lost. And Father Rudolfo had a soft spot in his heart for the lost. It was said the priest of Saltillo had the soul of a shepherd, a quality that had endeared him to the local populace. “If Najera discovers the truth—my son, do you know what the general keeps in those jars in the courtyard outside the hotel?” The priest clapped his hands together. “You risk a terrible death, señor.”

“I’ll stay.” Ben was adamant.

“I don’t believe you have any love for the ranch,” Zion said, “but so be it, vaquero. My offer still stands. I can use the help.” Zion touched his quirt to the gray’s flank and the gelding headed for the street. Ben took up the rear, keeping the string of horses from lagging back. They rode through the moon shadow and lamp light. Sentries challenged them on the outskirts of town, but the two men leaned low over their mounts and soon were clear of Najera’s soldiers. On the outskirts of Saltillo the road branched to north and south. Zion glanced around to see if the norteamericano would reconsider his choice, but Ben never gave the road home a single glance. He had made his decision and was determined to confront his nightmares no matter what the cost. The answers he sought were here in Saltillo. And like the man said, it was indeed … his own funeral.

P
ART CURLY WOLF, PART
mountain lion, deadly as a rattler, and unpredictable as a Texas twister, that was Snake-Eye Gandy. There wasn’t one of his fellow Texas Rangers who’d deny the description fit. These days Gandy was a sergeant … again, a rank he rarely held longer than a few months before being broken back to a regular Ranger for insubordination. Rank didn’t much matter to a man like Gandy. And it didn’t much matter to the men who rode with him. From the blood-soaked Nueces Strip to the Big Bend, the crusty, battle-scarred Indian fighter had earned the reputation of a man to ride the river with, an hombre the younger Rangers wanted on their side when the chips were down.

To say Snake-Eye Gandy was ugly was like calling the sky blue. It didn’t do it justice. This long-armed range buster had seen thirty-one winters, stood five-foot-seven with his boots on, and carried a pair of Patterson Colts riding high on his hips. His silver-streaked black hair covered only part of his skull. The rest was a wrinkled plateau of scar tissue, the legacy of a Comanche who had tried to scalp his victim before checking to see if the man was dead. Gandy had killed his red-skinned assailant and pried his own bloody hair from the dead warrior’s grasp. Later Gandy wove his severed locks into a braid which he sported as a topknot.

Some years back Snake-Eye Gandy had been blinded during a skirmish with Mexican raiders. His left eye was glass now. A coiled rattlesnake had been painted on the orb, and Gandy had mastered a wide-eyed stare that inevitably caused both friend and foe alike to shiver and recoil in horror. A life lived for the most part outdoors had left his features weathered and wrinkled as the Texas hills.

Three days out from Matamoros, with General Zachary Taylor’s warning still ringing in his ears, Gandy knelt beside his gelding and studied the scuff marks on a headstone-sized chunk of limestone, and shading his eyes, scrutinized the dry wash leading up the wooded hillside. He glanced over his shoulder at the two dozen Rangers who had followed him out of occupied Matamoros in direct disobedience of Army orders. Like Gandy, they were men “with the bark on” who didn’t give a damn about such things as orders. Some of their own were missing. They aimed to find them or learn their fate. Gandy motioned for his second in command, Cletus Buckhart, to bring the goatherd forward. Buckhart was a dark man clad in buckskin breeches and a loose-fitting Mexican shirt, standard dress for most of the Rangers, who avoided uniforms whenever possible.

Buckhart was nineteen and already the veteran of several border skirmishes. He could ride like a Comanche and fight like the very devil, the basic requirements of any man who wished to join the Texas Rangers. Buckhart cast a slender shadow, for he was a lean man, almost scrawny-looking, but tough as rawhide. At the age of fifteen he had seen his parents slaughtered by bandits from south of the Río Grande. The experience had hardened him against all people of Latin descent. For him the war was an opportunity to avenge his parents. The battle for Matamoros had been just the beginning for Cletus Buckhart.

Buckhart’s prisoner was a white-haired hermit the Rangers had chanced upon by a spring a couple of miles back down the trail. Buckhart gave the bearded goatherd an extra shove that sent the old man sprawling. Gandy frowned and walked back to help the fallen man to his feet.

“That will be enough, Cletus.”

“I ain’t doing nothing, Snake-Eye.”

“Just back off and leave him be.” Gandy proceeded to dust off the frightened goatherd, then spoke to the man in Spanish. “We mean you no harm, Grandfather. My compadre has much anger in him, but he will do as I say.”

“He is not the first rude young man I have ever met, and I doubt he will be the last,” said Jesus Cavasos as he struggled to stand on his bruised limbs. The venerable hermit seemed old as the wonderful country in which he had chosen to live out his days. His eyes were bright, though tinged with sadness, for he had known war and revolution and the evil that men do in times of violence. For that reason he had chosen to live apart from others. “Personally, I prefer the company of goats,” Cavasos added.

“So do I, from time to time.” Gandy chuckled. “But today I must find my friends. Two weeks ago they left to scout the road to Linares, and now you tell me they have all been ambushed and killed by General Valentin Najera.” Gandy kicked at the loose gravel beneath his boot. “I go to see with my own eyes.”

“Would that I had not, sir,” Cavasos said.

“Do we go up the wash?”

The goatherd nodded and pointed a bony finger straight up the gradual incline, where a rockslide had carved a path through the trees, leaving a swath of cleared, broken ground about seventy feet wide. The rockslide had blocked the road to Linares and dammed a creek several hundred yards down the slope, forcing the waters to carve a path around a jumble of fallen timber.