Scorpion (22 page)

“You were right, Zion, the general’s back,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” the segundo replied. He had labored all day to fortify the hacienda and ensure that the rifled muskets, shotguns, and Allan revolving pistols were cleaned, primed, and loaded. Struggling until well after sunset, he and Pedro had stacked wood a lantern’s throw from the hacienda, all the better to illuminate a field of fire if the need arose. “But I wish to the Almighty I’d been wrong,” Zion added. What was the general up to now? Najera’s effrontery continued to stagger the former slave. One thing for certain, the general hadn’t come to pay a social call.

Pedro was already on the roof. Elena, a crack shot, was guarding the back of the house. Isabella, struggling to keep a brave front, stood behind Josefina, clutching her stepmother’s dress. She jumped when the general’s voice rang out loud and clear.

“Señora Quintero! I will talk to you.”

Zion slowly exhaled. “Reckon I’ll see what the good general wants.”

“No. He’s asked for me,” Josefina said, walking across the room to the front door. Zion caught her by the arm, but she twisted free and confronted him. “Your place is on the roof with Pedro.” She took up a double-barreled percussion shotgun and cradled the weapon in the crook of her left arm, then smiled at Isabella.

“I am not going to my room,” the girl defiantly stated, just in case the woman harbored any intention of sending her there.

“Your father taught you to load?”

“Sí. And shoot.”

“Then your place is here. And whatever happens … I love you, Isabella.”

Zion had heard about all he could take. “Goddamn it, señora—” But his argument died on his lips when Josefina waved him to silence.

“If Ventana is to belong to Isabella and myself, then it’s high time I did more than wring my hands and complain.” Josefina tugged the latch, opened the door and left the hacienda. Her boot heels crunched the crushed rock as she left the porch. Coyotes in the distance howled at the moon as she approached the circular drive where Najera and his dragoons waited.

“Señora! Ah, here you are.” Najera sat erect on his horse. He was the epitome of formality and looked every inch the saviour of Mexico that he envisioned himself to be.

“The hour is late for you to come calling, Valentin,” Josefina said. In the glare of the lantern light she seemed fragile as fine china; however, the shotgun added a darker element to the illusion.

Najera nodded to one of his orderlies, a stern-looking horseman who rode back along the column and returned with Father Rudolfo. The padre seemed thoroughly embarrassed at the part Najera was forcing him to play.

“The hour is never too late for the union of a happy couple,” Najera said. “Soon I must bring my army to Monterrey. Time, unfortunately, does not allow for a proper courtship.”

“What are you saying?” Josefina blurted out, confused and taken aback.

“Find a proper wedding dress, my dear. We will be married within the hour.”

“You’re mad,” Josefina retorted. “Padre?”

Father Rudolfo held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I have tried to reason with him,” he said. “But he refuses to listen.”

Josefina frowned and advanced on the horsemen, her features livid. She stabbed a finger at the general. “Marry you? Take in holy sacrament my husband’s murderer? How dare you? Ventana will never be yours. Never!”

The woman’s outburst was like a slap in the face to the general. He momentarily recoiled, then regained his composure. Her accusation, not to mention her refusal of his marriage offer, caught him off guard. His aristocratic features became more mottled and ugly the more he dwelled on her reply.

“Leave us, padre,” Najera said in an ominous tone. “It seems you have no business here. Return to Saltillo.”

“I don’t think so.” Father Rudolfo eased his great weight out of the saddle and left the horsemen. “I think my presence here is essential. I should like to hear more of what Señora Quintero has to say concerning the death of Don Sebastien.” He nodded to Josefina, motioned for her to join him, and continued on into the hacienda. Josefina started to follow him, but Najera wasn’t finished. The general, smiling grimly, nodded to his orderly, who unrolled a document and proceeded to proclaim its contents.

“In this time of conflict between our two nations, I, General Valentin Najera, do hereby authorize myself to act as legal guardian of Isabella Quintero and do hereby establish control over Ventana, acting in the girl’s best interest and conducting the girl’s affairs until Isabella comes of age and is taken in marriage. Josefina Quintero will receive safe escort to the border, where she will be delivered to the embrace of her own countrymen.” The orderly sniffed and swallowed, then glanced at the dumbstruck woman over the top edge of the document.

“You’ll find it properly dated,” Najera said. “Your household staff and
el negro
will accompany you, of course. Raúl Salcedo will deliver the girl to my rancho. I have a housekeeper who will look after Isabella in my absence.”

Josefina was so astonished, words failed her. As the orderly returned to his position behind the general, a thousand arguments, hurled epithets, and defiant retorts flashed through Josefina’s mind, but the only defiance the widow could offer was a simple, blunt, “No.” And then stronger … “No!”

At a word from Najera, Raúl dismounted and left the column of dragoons. Josefina turned the shotgun on him and cocked it. She retreated toward the house as he approached.

Raúl never broke stride. Instead his gaze bore into the woman’s eyes. The shotgun trembled in her grasp. “Señora, think how much trouble you bring on yourself. Stand in the way of
El Jefe
and you will die. And for what? Land? Look around you. It is just dirt. That’s all. Just dirt. Think. You will be dead, never to feel the sun warm your face again or the wind caress your hair, eh?”

He was close now. Fifteen feet away. Then twelve, ten. Now just a pace or two. She was within his reach. His voice hypnotic, holding her entranced as he reached for the shotgun and grabbed it by the muzzle.

“Hold it right there! Najera, call off your hound!” Zion, musket in hand, leaned over the edge of the roof and took aim at the general. The segundo’s warning elevated the tension. Embers crackled, dry timber split with a resounding crack as the hungry flames continued to feed among the burning stacks of timber.

“Think about it, Najera,” Zion continued. “You make a pretty target in the firelight.”

But Najera wasn’t the only one. Raúl saw his chance. The segundo’s eyes were trained on Najera, leaving himself at the gunman’s mercy. Raúl retreated a step from Josefina and found the right angle for an easy head shot. He palmed his right pistol and took aim.

Josefina had never fired a gun, much less ever killed a man. There wasn’t time to consider the moral dilemma, to wrest with the philosophical aspects on the sacredness of life. She squeezed both triggers. The shotgun roared, its recoil shoving her backward. Twin loads of buckshot nearly cut Raúl Salcedo in half at the chest. He was blown out of one boot and flung several feet in the air, then slammed into the earth, dead before he hit the ground in front of the dragoon’s spooked horses.

“Run, Josefina! Run!” Zion shouted. He fired but missed Najera as the dragoons scattered around the ranchyard and rushed to the general’s aid.

Josefina turned and, lifting the hem of her dress, bolted toward the front door as the padre rushed out to help her. She stumbled into his arms. Shielding her with his broad, round body, the padre all but dragged the visibly shaken young widow inside the hacienda. A bullet clipped his side, a second creased his neck. Once in the comparative safety of the walls, Father Rudolfo collapsed in a cushioned parlor chair while Elena Gallegos hurried to patch his wounds, both of which were thankfully superficial.

Valentin Najera brought his startled mount under control and rode the animal out into the center of the ranchyard. His men, led by Mariano Rincón, gathered around him. The mestizo appeared visibly shaken by Salcedo’s death. This was bad. This was very bad, he thought. A bullet whirred past his ear. Rincón snapped off a shot toward Zion and Pedro on the roof of the hacienda. The general drew his saber and held it aloft. After sweeping the blade in an arc, he pointed it at the hacienda as if to call down the wrath of God upon its defenders, concealed behind the shuttered windows and rooftop battlements.

“Kill them,” Najera said. His expression was a mask of cold, murderous rage beneath the shiny brass visor of his lancer’s helmet.

“What about the girl,
El Jefe?
” Rincón asked. He had the unsettling notion he was looking into the face of a man on the precipice of sanity with one foot poised to step over the edge.

“All,” the general replied. He stood in his stirrups and his voice rang out with the intensity of a man consumed by hatred for those who had defied him. There was no question about his orders. “Kill them all!”

The townspeople of Saltillo, huddled in the safety of their homes, would never forget the night the Texas Rangers came to call. Streets and alleys were choked with cattle and horses. Jacals were flattened. Wagons were overturned and porches demolished, sheds crushed, and the few remaining chickens scattered. However, the hungry residents, their larders stripped bare by Najera’s troops, thronged to the street with knives and fifty-year-old long rifles, and soon the cattle began to disappear by twos and threes. The already panicked beasts were killed and butchered where they fell. The streets ran red with blood, much to the delight of the citizens, who ignored the Texans in their haste to feed themselves and their families.

Snake-Eye Gandy, feeling like a damn fool, rode into what was left of the
mercado.
Cattle were milling among the ruined stalls. Several horses had stopped to drink at the spring-fed stone cistern in the center of Market Square. Children had emerged to watch the Rangers with a mixture of awe and curiosity before being summoned by parents to lead the livestock home. It was better than any celebration. For the first time in many weeks there was plenty of food to eat. The citizens of Saltillo were not about to pass up this opportunity. Cletus Buckhart, Blue Napier, and Leon Pettibone rode up to Gandy with their guns drawn, but no one to fight. They searched the buildings and rooflines in vain for any indication of a threat.

“What the hell’s going on?” Buckhart growled, spoiling for battle. “I ain’t fired at nothing but the moon.”

“It appears we may be too late,” Blue Napier said as he reloaded his pistol. Other Rangers were slowly entering the square.

“There’s a fire by the hotel over yonder,” Pettibone said. Since the oil in the jars and the grisly content each jar contained provided a perfect medium for a blaze, the back wall was completely engulfed in flames.

“That’s the general’s headquarters,” Snake-Eye remarked. “C’mon.” He led the way around the perimeter of the
mercado
and, followed by his three hard-riding companions, walked his mount up to the front of the Casa del Noche. Another half-dozen Rangers took up the flanks as the clouds of smoke drifted across the front of the hotel. The night air was already hazy with the settling dust in the aftermath of the stampede. Gandy tilted back his hat and called out in a loud, rasping voice that had all the warmth of a hacksaw.

“General Valentin Najera!”

Ten Patterson Colts were cocked as one, a distinctly ominous sound.

“He’s not here, compadres,” came the reply from within. Then a tall, broad-shouldered figure appeared in the doorway, rising out of the black interior into the firelight, into the hard merciless faces of the Rangers, these riders of vengeance who would not be denied.

“My God,” Snake-Eye muttered when he recognized the red hair and square-jawed features of Ben McQueen.

“But I know where to find him.”

L
IEUTENANT BEN MCQUEEN WAS
back where he belonged, riding hell-for-leather across the rolling plains of Old Mexico, with Snake-Eye Gandy and the Texas Rangers at his side. Saltillo was behind them now. The Rangers had arranged themselves in a single line on horseback while Blue Napier read a psalm over the ashes of their massacred comrades. Then as one the Rangers took up the pursuit of Valentin Najera. No one attempted to impede their progress; the populace was busily replenishing their stores. Several of the townsmen, led by the mayor, had captured several of the horses and were busily driving the cattle out of town. The townsmen were determined to conceal the livestock in various arroyos, where it was hoped they would go unnoticed and serve to feed the populace when the Army of Coahuila had officially left for Monterrey.

With the wind in his face and a fresh horse beneath him, charging to the rescue of Josefina Quintero, Ben would not have changed places with anyone in the world. This was what he was born to do, this was the legacy of every McQueen. Deep in the territory of an enemy, McQueen, Gandy, and the other daredevils from Texas were out to stop a tyrant. Nothing and no one was going to stand in their way.

But even heroes have to water and rest their mounts. About an hour’s hard ride from Saltillo, Ben led the Rangers to a wallow he had passed on his previous visits to town. The sides of the wallow, though slick, were gradually inclined and permitted a careful man to walk his mount down to the shallow pool of spring water, a muddy pond transformed by moonlight into a disk of incandescent silver.

“I never figured you for dead,” Gandy said, dismounting at the edge of the wallow. Ben dropped down beside his irascible friend and watched the others descend past them to the spring. Ned Tolliver, dour, downcast, and nursing a bruised skull, halted in front of McQueen. Tolliver’s wire-rimmed spectacles were bent and sat unevenly on the bridge of his nose. His hands were bound at the wrists, but he still paused to glare at Ben, until Leon Pettibone nudged the traitor in the back with a revolving rifle.

“I wish I hadn’t filed the trigger on this here rifle of mine,” said Pettibone. “It tends to go off all of a suddenlike.” He nudged Tolliver a second time and the man proceeded on down to the spring.