The Bandera Trail Read online

  “Malo hombre, Solano?”

  “Senor Valverde,” said Solano.

  Before they could question him further, Solano swung into his saddle and kicked his horse into a lope.

  “It’s a safe bet,” said Van, “that Senor Valverde is on his way to the Mendoza ranch.”

  “So are we,” said Gil. “If Mendoza was ambushed on Valverde land, then why is Valverde welcome on Victoria’s spread?”

  “We don’t know that he is,” said Van. “All we’re sure of is that he’s headed that way. Maybe Victoria will greet him with a shotgun.”

  “Somehow I doubt it,” said Gil. “Solano’s pointin’ us toward something we need to know, something we haven’t been told. I reckon it’ll be to our advantage if we meet Senor Valverde in Victoria’s presence.”

  “I expect we’ll be about as welcome as a pair of bastards at a family reunion.”

  “I’m countin’ on that,” said Gil. “Let’s ride.”

  Lorenzo Esteban Valverde rode south, his thin lips set in a grim line. He was a small man in every sense, standing but an inch over five feet. His high-heeled riding boots didn’t add enough to his short stature to make any difference. He was barely forty years old, yet his hair had begun to thin on top, and he rarely removed his hat unless circumstances demanded it. He had the thin face and the furtive eyes of a weasel. His mother had died while he was young, leaving him at the mercy of a less-than-tolerant father. His mother had named him Lorenzo, and he had always hated it, preferring his middle name, Esteban. But for thirty years his father had referred to him only as Lorenzo. He always accentuated the first syllable so that it came out “LOW-renzo,” a constant reminder of the young man’s unimposing stature. When the elder Valverde had died, his only son had felt no remorse. Finally, if only by inheritance, he had become the patrono.

  Suddenly, Esteban Valverde was jolted back to reality by the nicker of a horse. He reined up. Angelina Ruiz trotted her horse out of a stand of scrub oak. She wore pants and faded shirt, riding astraddle, like a man. She reined up, hooked one leg around her saddle horn, staring at him silently. He could read nothing in her dark eyes, unless it was contempt. He rode on, thinking of Angelina. She was a good ten years younger than her sister, possessing an innocence that Victoria would never see again. If, indeed, she ever had. Angelina was but a snip of a girl, but there were times when she seemed older, wiser, and more the woman than Victoria. When Clay Duval had disappeared, it had been Angelina who had gone looking for him. When it suited his purpose, Valverde decided, he would tell the girl what had become of the foolish Tejano. Drawing near the ranch, he put Angelina out of his mind. He had little choice. Victoria waited for him on the porch, and there was no welcome in her eyes. When he was close enough to hear, she spoke.

  “Turn that horse around, Senor Valverde, and get off my range. You are not welcome here.”

  “I was welcome enough,” he sneered, “when your sainted Antonio was haunting the bordellos of Mexico City.”

  “You were not man enough to steal me from him, so you had him shot in the back. You’re a treacherous little beast.”

  “You are far short of the blessed virgin, yourself,” he snapped. “Your husband was not dead a month, and you were sleeping with a gringo, a Tejano.”

  “He was more a man than you and Antonio combined,” she said, “because I am expecting his child. You killed Clay Duval, didn’t you?”

  “Would it matter if I said I did not?”

  “It wouldn’t to me,” she said bitterly. “I wouldn’t believe you as far as I could walk on water. But it might make a difference to his friends. They are here to gather cattle, and if you had anything to do with the murder of their friend Clay Duval, I pity you.”

  “That’s why I am here,” he said. “Because of Duval’s Tejano friends. Through your dealing with them, you are risking the ire of the Mexican government, and the gringos are risking their lives. They must leave Mexico while they can. If they can.”

  “I’ll let you convince them of that,” said Victoria. “They’re coming.”

  Gil and Van trotted their horses into the yard. They only nodded to Victoria. Their eyes were on Valverde. It was Victoria who spoke.

  “Gil and Van, this is Senor Lorenzo Esteban Valverde. Senor Valverde, this is Gil and Van Austin. Senor Valverde brought a message, and since it concerns you Tejanos, I will allow him to deliver it himself.”

  The Texans eyed Valverde in silence. His saddle was silver-studded, as was his pistol belt. He wore a dark suit, white shirt, a flaming red tie, and highly polished riding boots. Ill at ease, he backstepped his horse until he faced the Texans. Then he spoke.

  “I am suggesting that you leave Mexico immediately, for Victoria’s sake, and for your own. The Mexican authorities will be harsh on her if she is caught harboring Tejanos.”

  Gil kneed his horse uncomfortably close and, as he spoke, looked the Mexican in the eye.

  “You’re hidin’ behind a woman’s skirts, Valverde, and threatening us with the Mexican army. Why don’t you stand up on your hind legs and say what you really mean? That any man gettin’ too close to Victoria risks bein’ shot in the back by you or one of your hired gun hawks?”

  It was the kind of deliberate insult a man couldn’t ignore. Esteban Valverde went for his gun, but the weapon never left his holster. He hadn’t seen Gil Austin’s hand move, yet he found himself looking into the black bore of the Texan’s Colt. Cold sweat beaded Valverde’s brow, and he moved his hand carefully away from the butt of his gun. He seethed with shame and fury, for he owed Gil Austin his life. The Texan could have shot him dead. Briefly his eyes touched Victoria’s, and he could see the laughter in them. Damn her, she knew what this was costing him! It was Gil Austin who broke the silence.

  “You came here with a warning for us, Valverde, now I’m going to send you home with one of your own. We came to Mexico lookin’ for Clay Duval. Whether we find him or not, we aim to get somethin’ out of the trip. We’ll be taking a herd of longhorns back to Texas, and our business here is no business of yours. We’re not in the line of march for Santa Anna’s troop movements, so the Mexican army shouldn’t be a problem until we’re near the border. If soldiers show up here, we’ll know who sent them—you, Valverde, and before I leave Mexico, I’ll personally gut-shoot you.”

  “You are dead men,” said Valverde, with as much contempt as he could muster. “Driving a herd of longhorn cows through the wilds of Mexico is the work of a dozen good riders.”

  “I have promised them the loan of my riders as far as the border,” said Victoria.

  “You are still dead men,” said Valverde, with obvious relish. “Santa Anna is a vengeful man. On the eleventh of February last, 176 captive Tejanos escaped near Salada hacienda. Two Mexican officers were killed. Seventeen of the Tejanos were never recaptured, and Santa Anna will have no trouble believing the two of you are part of that elusive seventeen. Already there is a price on your heads.”*

  “We’ll take our chances,” said Gil. “Just see that you remember my warning. If the soldiers find us on their own, that’s one thing, but if they find us with your help, you’re dead. Now ride out, and don’t come back. Next time you reach for a pistol, I’ll kill you.”

  When Valverde had ridden away, Gil and Van dismounted.

  “He is a dangerous man,” said Victoria.

  “I’d give some long odds,” said Van, “that he had Senor Mendoza ambushed, and that he knows what happened to Clay.”

  “With that in mind,” said Gil, turning to Victoria, “I reckon it’s time you told us what your relationship is with Valverde. Since there’s a better than average chance he murdered your husband, and likely disposed of Clay, why are you on a first name basis with the little sidewinder?”

  “He was crushed when I married Antonio,” she said, “and I felt sorry for him. Nothing more.”

  “Sorry,” said Van, “but I don’t believe that, Senora Mendoza.”

  “Neither do I,” sai
d Gil, “and it is Mendoza, isn’t it?”

  “Damn you,” she shouted, “you’re just like Clay. He—”

  “He wanted to know what kind of hold Valverde has on you,” said Gil.

  “Yes,” she said, refusing to look at him. “He said unless I…left here, he wanted nothing more…to do with me.”

  “Not even after you told him about the child,” said Van.

  She kept her head down, saying nothing.

  “There is no child,” said Gil. “There never was.”

  “No!” she snapped, turning on him. “He was a perfect gentleman, damn him! Like you, he slept in the bunkhouse, and when he wasn’t with the vaqueros and Indians, he was with the horses. He gave me nothing. No—”

  “No hold over him,” said Van.

  “No!” she cried in fury. “He thought there was something between me and Esteban Valverde. Only when I promised to leave here, to go with him, did he write, asking your help. He had begun to believe in me, and then—”

  “Then Valverde got to him,” said Van.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He swears he didn’t shoot Clay, or have it done.”

  “If Valverde killed Mendoza to get to you,” said Gil, “he wouldn’t hesitate to kill again, for the same reason. Was that your only feeling for Clay—just a means of escaping Valverde?”

  It was a brutal question, and he expected her to either ignore it or to explode in anger. But she surprised him.

  “You Tejanos are very blunt,” she said. “Clay was like that. He hated pretense, and now that you have met Esteban Valverde, I suppose nothing will suffice, short of the truth. I despise the man. He has hounded me since I was fifteen. I thought I was free of him, once I had married Antonio Mendoza, but I was not. Antonio ate, slept, lived, and breathed horses. So great was his skill with them, he was wined and dined in Mexico City. The military swore by the Mendoza horses, and Antonio delivered them to outposts all over Mexico.”

  “And I reckon Valverde took to comin’ around, when he knew Mendoza was away,” said Gil.

  “Yes. I suppose I was flattered, but I had no intention of becoming involved with him. I don’t even like him. But he refused to leave me alone. When Antonio was killed, Esteban Valverde became such a pest, I knew I must be rid of him.”

  “That’s about when Clay Duval showed up,” said Van.

  “Yes,” she admitted, “and when it came to horses, I saw a lot of Antonio in Clay.”

  “But Clay wasn’t so blinded by the horses,” said Gil, “that he couldn’t see this problem with Esteban Valverde. You aimed to use Clay to escape Valverde.”

  “Of course I did,” she snapped. “But I wasn’t expecting Clay to do it for nothing, anymore than I’m expecting you to.”

  “I reckon,” said Van, “it’s a good time to ask what you have in mind for us, once you’re in Texas.”

  “What do you want?”

  Van looked at Gil, and Gil spoke.

  “The horses we’re riding, some breeding stock, and the longhorns.”

  “What choice have I, except to remain here, to be hounded by Esteban Valverde? But what of me? Is there a place for a single woman, where you are taking me?”

  “You won’t be a single woman for long,” said Van. “There are few women on the frontier.”

  “But we still have to get there,” said Gil, “and Esteban Valverde strikes me as a vengeful bastard. I wouldn’t put it past him alerting the Mexican army, just for the hell of it.”

  “Don’t allow him the opportunity,” said Victoria. “Play by his rules. Stalk him, and when the opportunity presents itself, kill him.”

  The following morning, Gil and Van joined the Mendoza riders as they continued beating the brush for wild longhorns. A three-year-old bull had just been run out of a thicket, and lit out across the plains, Juan Padillo and Mariposa in pursuit. Padillo’s lariat snaked out, snaring the animal with a perfect horn loop. Riding backup, Mariposa was about to cast his underhand loop for the hind legs when disaster struck. The rut was only inches deep, but the lip of it crumbled under the forefeet of Mariposa’s horse. The animal stumbled, rolled headlong, and the Indian barely managed to free himself from the saddle. That left the treacherous bull caught only by a horn loop. His hind legs were free, his tail was up, and killing was on his mind. Juan Padillo could loose his horn dally, saving himself and his horse, but what of the hapless Indian? Mariposa was struggling to his feet. Gil and Van were the nearest riders, and they urged their horses into a run.

  “Get another loop on him,” shouted Gil, “and hold him steady. I’ll come in from behind and try to throw him.”

  Van swung his lariat, made his throw, and settled a second loop over the bull’s horns. Van’s horse backstepped, taking up the slack, while Padillo’s horse did the same. The furious bull bucked, bellowed, pawed the ground, and hooked the empty air with his lethal horns. Gil rode as near as he dared, dodging the bull’s flailing hind legs, and launched himself from the saddle. He locked his arms around the brute’s horns and slid to the ground, twisting the animal’s neck. Twice the bull flung its huge head, and twice Gil’s feet left the ground. A third vicious toss of the head would have broken his grip. But slowly, surely, he forced the bull to the ground, and it flopped down in a cloud of dust. Quickly, another rider secured the brute’s hind legs, while Juan Padillo tied the forelegs. Gil rolled free and got to his feet, unharmed but for cuts and bruises. Mariposa joined them, leading his horse, both of them limping. The Indian had a bloody nose, but he grinned at Gil. None of them spoke, but words weren’t necessary. Nobody had been seriously hurt, but with a rider down and a bull loose, every man was aware of what might have happened. It didn’t matter that some of them were Indian, some Mexican, and some American. It was a thing that drew them together, further diminishing their differences, making them an outfit.

  Riding back to the ranch, they came up on some enormous gray horses grazing along a creek.

  “My God,” said Van, “look at the size of them! They got feet as big as dishpans, and there ain’t a one of the six under sixteen hands.”

  “B’long Senora Mendoza,” said Ramon. “Wagon hoss. All wagon hoss.”*

  5

  April 5, 1843. The Mendoza ranch, Durango County, Mexico.

  By Ramon’s tally, their herd had grown to three thousand longhorns, more than half of which were cows. But there were other duties. The primary responsibility of the Indian riders was the gentling of horses, and each day, one of the men was excused from the roundup. When it came Solano’s turn, Gil and Van left the gathering of longhorns to watch the Indian work with the new horses. While the Texans had a genuine desire to observe his skill, they were hopeful Solano might further enlighten them as to Clay Duval’s fate.

  Solano began with half a dozen unbroken horses, penning them in a breaking corral, so that he could get to them without resorting to a rope. Choosing the animal he wished to work with, he patiently stalked the horse, talking “horse talk.” Gil and Van watched Solano spend two hours “talking” to the horse, seeking to overcome its fear. This was a big gray, who shone silver in the morning sun, and the Indian’s goal seemed to be simply to get his hands on the horse. Finally Solano isolated the gray, backing him into a corner of the corral. Still the Indian had nothing but his bare hands, and he held them out, palms up, as though to reassure the horse. The conclusion was inevitable. The animal must accept Solano’s overtures, or stomp him to bloody pulp. The horse nickered, rearing, the powerful hoofs poised to strike. But Solano stood his ground, unmoving, his hands outstretched. Slowly, almost reluctantly, the big gray lowered the lethal hoofs to the ground, and stood there trembling. The Texans could see the powerful muscles twitching beneath the silvery coat.

  “My God,” said Van, in awe. “That took guts.”

  “Not really,” said Angelina, who had approached silently, on foot. “One doesn’t fear a friend who means no harm. The horse had the power to kill, to protect himself, yet chose not to. He recogniz
ed a friend. Only an enemy would have feared him.”

  The truth of her words was evident, and she said no more. Solano had his hands on the big gray, and the horse had snaked his head around, sniffing the Indian. Angelina laughed. They looked at her curiously, and she spoke.

  “Victoria was always furious with Clay, because he spent every minute of his free time with Solano, usually here in the horse pens.”

  “Solano won’t talk about Clay,” said Gil. “Why don’t you tell us what you know?”

  “I can tell you nothing that you don’t already know or suspect. Clay is beyond your help. Until you are free of Mexico, you will be riding in the very shadow of death. Vaya con Dios.”

  With that, she was gone. The Texans looked at one another, and it was Van who spoke.

  “That young lady purely ain’t plannin’ to go to Texas with us.”

  “No,” said Gil, “she has plans of her own, I reckon. Alive or dead, I’d say Clay Duval’s a hell of a lot luckier than we thought.”

  Angelina Ruiz paused on a ridge overlooking the Valverde spread. Self-consciously, she turned in the saddle, studying her back trail. Satisfied, she trotted her horse down the hill toward the ranch house. The trail passed through a pine thicket, and when she emerged from it, there were two riders behind her. Quickly they caught up, one on her right, the other on her left. They kept pace, saying nothing. She cut her eyes to one side and then to the other, until she could see them. They were a hard-eyed pair, armed with saddle guns and pistols. Angelina rode on, looking straight ahead. Before they reached the house, hounds began baying. Beyond the house, near the barn, other riders appeared. Esteban Valverde had more riders than he needed, more than he could afford, but they enhanced his sense of power. Valverde, alerted by the hounds, waited on the porch.