Gone to Texas (16 page)

“What do we do?” Duncan asked. “There's no place where we'll be safe.”

“Come with me, both of you,” Valeriano said. “I know a big
hacienda
where you'll have nothing to fear. The
hacendado
is a friend of the revolution; it's already cost him his oldest son. He'll see that no harm comes to you. We'll find you some clothes and get rid of your uniforms.”

“And you?” Muñoz asked.

“I've got my own rancho north of the Rio Grande above Laredo. I'll be warned in plenty of time if anyone comes looking for me.” Valeriano waved to his men as they rode away.

The Quiñones
hacienda
was in Nuevo Santander south of Laredo. Valeriano explained that it had been a royal grant in the mid-eighteenth century, when José de Escandón was extending Nuevo Santander to the Nueces and founding the towns of Laredo and Dolores on the Rio Grande. It is still in the same family, he told them, and
Don
Diego Quinones, its present owner, is a great grandson of the founder.

From a distance across the prairie, the
hacienda
appeared to Duncan like a small village clustered around one big building. The two-story house of whitewashed adobe bricks gleamed in the sunshine. The surrounding huts of the
peóns
and
vaqueros
were of plain adobe. The closer they came to the house, the more impressive it appeared, and the more uneasy Muñoz became.

“This is no place for me,” he said. “If I stay here I might end up a
peón.
That won't happen to Duncan because he's an Americano, not a
mestizo
.” He turned to Valeriano. “Can I go to your rancho with you?”

“Of course. Arredondo made widows of many of the
rancheros'
wives. Maybe you'll find one to your liking. If not, my house is your house.”

Muñoz waited in the courtyard while Valeriano introduced Duncan to
Don
Diego, a well-dressed, dignified gentleman whose hair and neatly trimmed beard were turning gray. “He's an Americano who came to Texas as a young fellow with
Señor
Nolan,” Valeriano explained.

“Ah, so,”
Don
Diego said, shaking hands with Duncan.

“He was a prisoner in Chihuahua,” Valeriano continued, “until he joined a cavalry troop just to get away. A
Gachupín
major tried to get him killed, but he died in his own trap. We sprang it on him.”

“Excellent!”
Don
Diego exclaimed.

“Señor
McPherson must now hide from the royalists,” Valeriano concluded.

“I'd be glad to live in a cow camp and work for my keep until it's safe for me to head for the States,” Duncan assured
Don
Diego. “I don't want to be any trouble to you, but they'll surely shoot me if they find me.”

Don
Diego looked shocked. “You'll do nothing of the sort,” he said. “You'll be a welcome guest. If you feel you must do something, my children have always wanted to learn to speak a little English. You may teach them if you wish.” He beckoned to a barefoot
peón
to take Duncan's horse away, then prepared to usher him into the house.

“One moment, please,” Duncan said. “I must say
adios
to a friend.” He hurried to the courtyard, while Valeriano followed. Duncan gave Muñoz an
abrazo,
then shook hands with Valeriano.

“Good luck,
amigos
,” he said. “I hope we'll meet again.” They rode away while Duncan hurried back to
Don
Diego, who waited patiently at the door.

A young Indian servant girl in a loose cotton dress showed Duncan to his room, which was in an upstairs comer of the big house and had two shuttered windows. A wooden bed with a mattress filled with prairie hay stood in one comer. Near it was a chair and a brazier with a little charcoal in it for cold weather. A small table held a wash basin and a pitcher of water. A polished wooden crucifix hung on one wall.

When he went downstairs, Duncan had a feeling he was being watched, but he didn't turn his head. He heard giggles, and knew the eyes watching him weren't unfriendly. Before dinner,
Don
Diego introduced him to his wife,
Doña
Consuela, a plump, handsome woman whose braided hair was streaked with gray. She greeted Duncan warmly and made him welcome. Next he met twelve-year-old Jose and Carmencita, who was two years older than her brother. Knowing they were the ones who had watched him, Duncan was struck by the self-confident and easy manner with which they greeted him as an equal. That's a sign of their class, he decided.

“Where is Antonia?”
Don
Diego asked, a little impatiently.

“Here, Papa,” a voice replied. Duncan turned and saw that she limped slightly as she approached. She wore sandals and a simple cotton dress trimmed with red; her black hair was tied in a ball at the back of her head. Her eyes were bright, her olive skin smooth. Although she may not be a stunning beauty, Duncan thought, she is surely attractive in her own way. He guessed her age as eighteen.

“Señor
McPherson,”
Don
Diego said, “my other daughter, Antonia. As you see, an unfortunate accident as a child has left her a little lame.”

“Oh, Papa,” Antonia said, lightly squeezing Duncan's outstretched hand and sending shivers up his arm. “A pleasure,
Señor
McPherson,” she said in a melodic voice. “Papa's afraid no one will ever many me. Papa says you speak Spanish very well, and English, too. I wish I could.”

“Please call me Duncan, all of you,” Duncan said, looking especially at José and Carmencita, who smiled. He turned to Antonia. “I haven't spoken English in so many years I'm afraid I've forgotten it,” he said, “but if you want to learn it, I'll break my neck trying to remember.”

She dimpled at that. “You Americans are such flatterers,” she said, leading the way to the table. Duncan followed slowly, for he didn't know how to behave around such people and feared doing something outrageously wrong. He saw
Don
Diego stand behind his wife's chair and push it in for her, so he quickly did the same for Antonia, blushing madly. If she noticed, she was kind enough not to comment.

The next morning after breakfast, Antonia and her brother and sister took Duncan on a ride around the
hacienda.
His cavalry horse had been turned out so it wouldn't be found with the
vaqueros's
horses. His mount was one of
Don
Diego's fine Spanish horses that he raised in a well-guarded herd. It was a spirited bay with one white hoof and a star on its forehead. Duncan had never ridden so fine an animal. “He's your horse,”
Don
Diego assured him. “No one else will ride him.”

They saw
peones
working in the orchards, vineyards, and fields of com and cotton, all irrigated by streams that ran across the
hacienda.
On the range they rode past corrals and sheep pens as well as grazing cattle and horses. Duncan gazed around in awe—it was like being in a little world. Out of the comer of his eye he saw Antonia watching him, a half-smile on her face. He realized she was smiling because of his pleasure and amazement, not in derision. He knew that he was lucky just to be among such people.

“We can't see it all in one day,” Carmencita told him. “It will take at least a week. It's many, many leagues. I forget how many.”

“I'm glad it will take more time,” Duncan said, looking at Antonia. “The longer it takes the better.” She smiled but said nothing.

Duncan taught the three of them to say a few sentences and many words in English, and they delighted each morning in greeting him in his own language. Carmencita often held his hand when they strolled in the gardens, and José stayed close by his side. After a few months they appeared to regard him as a beloved older brother, and their affection made him glow with delight. But Antonia—he couldn't look at her without his heart beating faster. I shouldn't have come here, he thought. Now I love her too much to want to leave, and I'm sure they'd never let her marry an American renegade like me, who may even have a price on his head. If I request permission to ask her to many me,
Don
Diego will feel betrayed and order me out of the house. The thought gave him chills.

Yet
Don
Diego treated him almost like his own son, and they often discussed the few reports they received on the progress of the revolution. “In our war against England, we had important help from France,” Duncan said. “If only the United States would send an army.”

“Your country has been at war with England for two years,”Don Diego told him. “Haven't you heard?” Duncan hadn't known that.

Don
Diego enjoyed showing Duncan cattle, his fine Spanish horses, and his Merino sheep, and together they watched the
vaqueros
display their skills at roundup time.
Don
Diego had an old
vaquero
teach Duncan to use a rawhide riata skillfully. It was clear to Duncan that every member of the family regarded him almost as one of them, but he remained painfully conscious of the gulf that separated them from him.

In 1815 they learned that Morelos had been captured and executed, and that the only rebels left were a few bands in the mountains of the south, and they weren't expected to hold out much longer.

“That's a real disappointment,” Duncan said. “I was hoping somehow they could hang on until the royalists gave up.”

Don
Diego looked somber. “I only hope I live to see us free,” he said. “The
Gachupines
have lived at our expense and treated us as inferior for far too long. The revolutions in South America seem to be doing no better, but I know our day will come.”

Valeriano came to see Duncan one day. “We learned from a deserter that the army reported you and Muñoz killed by rebels,” he told Duncan. “I had to let you know they're not looking for you.”

“That's good news,” Duncan said, thanking him. “And how is my friend Muñoz?”

“He's married and has a rancho of his own. He doesn't worry about the royalists anymore. It's probably safe for you to leave, if you're careful.”

I should be glad to hear that, Duncan thought, after Valeriano left, and yet I don't even want to think about leaving. But I know I'm foolish to stay here.

“You'll have to excuse me today,” Antonia told him one morning a few days later. “A young man has asked my father for permission to pay court to me, and I must allow him to.” She looked reproachfully at him. “I'm not getting any younger, you know. Most girls have been married several years by my age, but it seems no one has ever wanted to many me before.”

Duncan was shocked almost beyond words. “I understand,” he mumbled, his face white. He left her, feeling crushed and empty. She must know I love her even though I've never told her, he thought, but how can I, a nobody, ask her to marry me?

He saddled his horse, then rode aimlessly all day, brooding and cursing his luck, not returning until late in the afternoon.
Doña
Consuela met him with a frown.

“You naughty boy,” she said. “You haven't eaten all day.”

“I forgot,” he said lamely. “I just wasn't hungry.”

“Ah, something is troubling you. Tell me about it.”

He wanted badly to tell her, but was afraid to. “I was thinking that now I know the royalists aren't looking for me I mustn't stay here any longer,” he blurted. “You've all been so kind to me, and I'm so fond of all of you, it made me sad to think about it.” He paused and tried to appear mildly curious. “How did you like the young man who came to see Antonio?” he asked, his voice sounding strange.

Doña
Consuela stared at him, a look of understanding on her face. “Oh, he's a nice young man from an old family,” she replied, “but I hardly think that Antonia was smitten by him.” Duncan's face brightened. “Of course with young girls, you never know,” she added. Duncan frowned.

At dinner Antonia said little to anyone, and Duncan spoke only when addressed.

“What's wrong with everyone?”
Don
Diego asked, frowning and looking from one to another.

“Duncan has decided it's time for him to leave us,”
Doha
Consuela answered, looking solemn.

“Oh, no!” Carmencita exclaimed, and José looked shocked. Antonia dropped her fork. “You mustn't!” Carmencita said firmly. Antonia stared at Duncan with a hurt expression on her face.
Don
Diego put down his knife and fork and leaned back.

“What utter nonsense!” he exclaimed. “Have we not made it clear we want you here? We have come to look on you as one of us.” Duncan felt a lump rising in his throat.

“Yes, yes,”
Doña
Consuela said.

“I wish I was,” Duncan said hoarsely, “but unfortunately, I'm not.” Antonia gave him a stony look. They finished the meal in silence, and before Duncan realized it, the others had quietly withdrawn, leaving him alone with Antonia. He felt hot, uncomfortable, and tongue-tied.

“Why do you want to leave? she asked. “Is it that you want to hurt me deeply, or do you have a sweetheart waiting for you?”

"Oh, no! ” he stammered. “I adore you and wouldn't hurt you for the world.” He cleared his throat. “It's just the thought of losing you, I mean seeing you marry someone else. I mean....” His face turned crimson, and he breathed with difficulty. “I wish I was in a position to ask you,” he confessed, “but l'm not. If the royalists ever find out I'm still alive, they'll likely shoot me. I'm a bad risk.”

“I've waited months for you to say something,” she told him. “I finally realized that either you have a sweetheart or you don't want me because I'm lame. Mother doesn't think it's that, but she can't understand you. Neither can Papa.”