Scorpion (20 page)

“After I tend to some unfinished business in Saltillo.”

“And I will never see you again.”

“Never? Who can say?” Ben reached down and took her hand, lifted it to his lips and gently, gallantly, brushed her flesh with a kiss. “You are a good woman, Josefina Quintero. Any man would be lucky to have you at his side.”

The widow smiled and blushed at the compliment, but a tear spilled down her cheek. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I feel as if I betrayed him.” She continued to stare at Don Sebastien’s grave.

Ben shifted uncomfortably. He lifted his gaze and took in the dark browns and emerald hues of the Cordillera in the distance, where the plains ended and mysteries began. A man could love this land. Ventana was something to live and die for. Another time and place, he’d want to stay, for the land and for Josefina. But his path led elsewhere … it led away. The woman at his side laughed softly. Ben hadn’t expected that reaction.

“You’re trying to figure out how to tell me good-bye. Well, just say it.” A breeze sprang up and her unbound tresses streamed behind her. “You may think my tears a sign of weakness, but believe me, they’ll dry. The wind brought you into our lives, and it will carry you from us.
Vaya con Dios,
friend Scorpion, go with God.” She squeezed his hand and then pulled from his grasp and entered the gravesite where three generations of Quinteros awaited resurrection. Ben left her weeding the flowers she had planted at the base of her husband’s marker, and bathed in the sun’s golden glow.

Miles from Ventana, in the hills north of Saltillo overlooking the army encampment of Valentin Najera’s Army of Coahuila, Snake-Eye Gandy estimated the force to be five hundred to a thousand men. It was difficult to say for certain. One thing he knew: there were plenty of Mexicans down there, and though they looked bored and listless, a gunshot would galvanize them into action and there’d be hell to pay.

“We take them now or wait for night?” Cletus Buckhart asked half serious. Young and full of righteous anger, he was ready for a fight. His freckles seemed more prominent as his sunburned cheeks began to peel. The two men crouched beneath a limestone boulder on which a rattler had been sunning itself until Snake-Eye grabbed the reptile behind the head and tossed its writhing body over the hillside. Even chunky, good-natured Leon Pettibone and the seasoned veteran, Blue Napier, had been impressed at the sergeant’s cool confidence as they knelt on the rocky summit and assessed the situation.

The Army of Coahuila had made camp in the dogleg bend of two intersecting limestone ridges. Feeling secure in the certainty that the nearest enemy force was still near the border, the officers had posted only a scattering of guards to ride herd over the horses and cattle grazing on the prairie about a quarter of a mile from the main body of men.

“The old one said the general stays in Saltillo. We’ll attack the town under cover of darkness,” Gandy said, shifting his attention to the vaqueros watching the herd.

“How do we find the general, Snake-Eye?” Pettibone asked.

“Kill every Mex we come to and we’re bound to find him,” Buckhart growled.

“You’re riding for a fall, Cletus,” Gandy said. “Best you let it go. We’ll get Najera, but like Texas Rangers, not some pack of animals. Fight his way, and we wind up worse than he ever was.”

“Listen to this old bastard.” Napier chuckled gently. “Now and then he makes sense.” The grizzled Ranger was brown as a Comanche. Like Gandy, he was Texas born and reared. The frontier had left its mark on him, an indelible brand that set him apart from the likes of the city-bred officers who served in the army under General Zachary Taylor. Napier returned his attention to the vaqueros on the plain below.

“Pettibone, get on back to the rest of the men and bring them up after dark.” Gandy slid on his backside across the limestone shelf and, keeping under cover, worked his way over to Napier. “Blue, after sunset we might just help ourselves to that there herd. Reckon you could take one of them vaqueros alive and make him tell us where Najera hangs his hat in town?”

“Can a hawk fly?” Napier confidently replied. “No problem, Snake-Eye.” The Ranger tugged a bone-handled dagger from his boot. He ran a thumb across the razor-sharp blade and grinned.

Gandy needed to hear nothing more from the man. He found a plug of tobacco in the pocket of his greasy-looking buckskin shirt, stuffed it in the inside of his cheek and began to chew as he watched Pettibone work his way along the bluff toward a grove of oaks and cedars where they’d left their horses. Blue Napier tilted his hat low to shade his features and stretched out alongside Gandy. Cletus Buckhart glared at both men. How could they just sit here in the sun and wait? He wanted to do something, anything but wait. He slapped his fist into the palm of his hand and both of the older Rangers looked around at the nineteen-year-old as if he were some child they had to humor. Buckhart’s cheeks reddened and he found an excuse to avoid meeting their eyes. He suddenly found a column of ants marching past his boot to be of immense significance.

For the young, time’s always wasting, Snake-Eye thought as he studied the cluster of whitewashed adobe buildings that was Saltillo. It crawls past slower than the insects underfoot. The passing years had a way of changing a man’s perspective. Now it seemed the seasons slid past on greased skids. And try as he might, there was no slowing them down. Whatever memories of childhood he held were viewed with a kind of dispassionate interest, as if his past belonged to someone else.

General Valentin Najera knew what must be done. The decision had come to him as he enjoyed an early dinner on the hotel balcony overlooking the
mercado.
Earlier in the day he had resolved to set aside his personal problems and spend the daylight hours finalizing the preparations that needed to be made before he marched his Army of Coahuila to Monterrey. A supply train needed to be put together to feed his army while it was on the move. His vaqueros had brought in a herd of mules while the remainder of his personal guard were requisitioning food and grain from the townspeople. His strategy worked. Halfway through dinner, Najera realized that the solution to his problems was really very simple.

Father Rudolfo huffed and puffed and climbed the stairs to the balcony. Despite Raúl’s attempts to block the padre’s progress, the priest would not be denied access to the general and complained repeatedly that Najera must speak to him.

“Sorry, General,” the young gunman remarked from behind the padre. Raúl pointedly resisted looking at Marita, who had been invited to dine with Najera and appeared to be once more in the general’s good graces, though at the moment the girl sat sullenly at his side. Najera had confided in the girl, indeed he had boasted of his intentions. To Marita’s intense displeasure, she no longer figured in the general’s immediate future.

Najera waved Raúl aside. “All is well,” Najera said. “I was about to send for the good padre anyway. Order Tolliver and Dobbs to join Major Granados and the lancers at the encampment before morning. See that the dragoons are ready to ride tonight.”

Father Rudolfo gave Salcedo a look of vindication as the gunman departed. Then he turned to confront the general.

“Valentin, the people of Saltillo have given what they can spare. Why do you send your men from house to house stealing what little our people have left? The corn will not be harvested for at least another month. Food will be scarce. They need what they have. Why do you inflict such hardships on those you claim to protect?”

“Claim?” Najera glanced at the empty stalls of Market Square. Word had spread that the Army of Coahuila was preparing to march. The merchants and outlying farmers had avoided gathering in the
mercado.
No one wanted to see their goods confiscated by roving details of Najera’s dragoons. As far as the townsfolk were concerned, today the soldiers had a license to take whatever they wished. Their lack of patriotism enraged the general. “Tomorrow, I and my soldiers will be marching north to join with General Arista in defeating the americanos,” he said through clenched teeth, eyes smoldering. “I do this to spare Saltillo the indignity of being occupied by Taylor’s troops. And yet this ungrateful populace would begrudge my men food!?”

“Save your bluster, Valentin. I knew your father. He was a good man and would never condone this treatment, especially of the campesinos and old Esteban’s people, who suffer the most and have the least to spare.”

“Priest, they are sheep. It is for me to shear them. That is how it has always been and will always be.” Najera paused to allow the turbulent seas of his passion to grow calm. He poured a glass of wine for himself and one for his guest. “But that is not why I intended to have you brought to the hotel. Here, we drink a toast.” He slid the glass of wine across the table and motioned for the priest to join him.

Father Rudolfo eyed the officer suspiciously. “What for?”

“Why … to wish me health and happiness on the occasion of my marriage. You will perform the ceremony before I leave to assume command of my soldiers.”

“Marriage?” The general’s command caught the priest completely off guard. He looked from Najera to the girl at his side. Marita sullenly stared at the untouched meal set before her. Flies had begun to circle the congealing sauces on her plate.

“Oh good heavens, no,” Najera said, reading the padre’s thoughts. “Not her.” Najera ran a finger along Marita’s cheek and then beneath her chin. He tilted her head. She was quite lovely, and he might consider bringing her to bed for one last romp if he had the time.

“Then who?” the priest demanded.

Najera smiled, satisfied. Victorious. “Josefina Quintero.”

O
LD ESTEBAN LOOKED UP
from the church steps where he had been standing for the better part of an hour, turning back the local mission Indians as they arrived for evening services. The padre always concluded his midweek liturgy by dispensing the contents of the poor box as fairly and judiciously as he could. But tonight there would be no mass. The disappointed families turned away from the church and filed toward the front gate.

Ben McQueen rode through the gate and past the faithful who headed dejectedly toward the jacals, where they lived in close proximity to the church. Ben pointed his gelding toward the church and the Yaqui maintaining his lonely vigil on the steps. Bats swept across the evening sky while an owl in the bell tower voiced its distinctive, questioning cry. Veils of silvery moonlight washed the front of the church. Overhead, a vast array of stars stretched from horizon to horizon. Old Esteban listened to the owl and shuddered as the horseman approached.

“Esteban …” Ben pushed back his sombrero to reveal his features. “Do you know me?” He wore a coarsely woven, loose-fitting cotton shirt, a faded brown woolen poncho, and nankeen breeches tucked into his Army-issue boots. After a moment the Yaqui’s eyes widened with recognition.

“You came here for the horses,” said the old man. The Yaqui had no feelings concerning the war. His world was the mission and Father Rudolfo, who spoke to him of Jesu Christi, son of the All-Father. But he remembered that Ben had treated him courteously, with respect, and behaved the same way toward his granddaughters. “You looked different then.”

“I darkened my hair and skin. My mind was clouded then, but no longer,” Ben said. The gelding, a bay with three dark stockings, shifted and pawed the earth. McQueen tightened his grip on the reins and allowed the animal but a little slack. “I must speak with the padre.”

“He is not here.”

“Where is he? There are two men I must find. Americanos. They are bad men who must answer for their crimes.”

Esteban frowned and his voice cracked as he spoke. “The padre went to the Casa del Noche to speak with General Najera. Now he and the general are both gone. They left Saltillo with the soldiers.” Esteban’s leathery hands trembled as he shuffled down the steps to stand alongside Ben’s gelding. The old man reached up and caught one of the reins. “I looked through the window of the cantina and saw the ones you seek. Perhaps they are still there.”

“Gracias,”
Ben replied. There had been no sentries guarding the approaches to town. Although he had avoided the main road and ridden overland to reach the town, once entering the streets, it was plainly evident that something had drastically changed. “What has happened here? Even the guards are gone, and no lancers patrol the streets.”

“The Army of Coahuila marches to Monterrey. They leave at dawn.” Esteban shook his head. “But the padre would not go with them. His place is here. And General Najera has no use for such a good man as Father Rudolfo.” The Yaqui glanced up as Ben freed the reins from the old man’s grasp. Suddenly, in the distance, they heard a thunder of gunshots. Ben and old Esteban looked in the direction of the black hills where the main army was encamped.

“Now what?” Ben muttered. He was beginning to feel that there was more happening than anyone was aware of, that he had ridden into the heart of a whirlwind. He backed a few steps from the Yaqui and nodded in farewell. Even if hell were breaking loose and death waiting for him at the end of the street, so be it. There was no turning back. The medal he wore, the legacy of his family’s honor, had brought him to Saltillo for the last time—not for vengeance, but justice. He heard the owl’s solitary ghostly call and glanced up at the bell tower. Like the Yaqui, the Choctaw also believed the bird was the harbinger of death. Doomed was the poor soul who heard the owl call him by name.

“You know …” old Esteban said, sensing the americano shared the ancient beliefs.

“Yes,” Ben said. “I too have walked in the old ways and danced among the bones of the rain.” McQueen touched his heels to the flanks of the skittish bay, and the horse cantered off at a brisk clip, bearing its rider toward a deadly rendezvous.

Old Esteban watched the horseman disappear into the night. He blessed himself with the sign of the cross, and for added protection dug a medicine pouch out of his coat pocket and hung it around his neck. A cloud drifted across the moon’s bald face, and suddenly the definition between light and darkness became less pronounced. The two merged. And the owl took flight.