Lorenzo's Revolutionary Quest (14 page)

Piñata tossed her head impatiently.

“Easy, girl,” Lorenzo said, patting her neck. He tied the reins to a tree's low limb and approached lead-colored ashes ringed by stones. He hunched down for a closer look. It was a fresh campsite, less than twenty-four hours old.

“What have you found?” Red asked, resting his wrist on the saddle horn.

“Evidence we're being followed.” Lorenzo kneaded the back of his neck and rotated his head, trying to work out the tension.

“I think you're worried over nothing,” Red said. “It's probably just a couple of hunters.”

“I hope you're right.” Lorenzo had a feeling that something bad was just over the hill.

Bill and Molly rode at top speed until they came to a roadside tavern in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. It resembled others she had seen.

A sign swinging over the entrance to the two-story wooden building showed a full tankard of ale and a sheath of wheat. The millwheel attached to the side of the building gurgled as water hit the top blades and pushed them down.

A pot-bellied man in a greasy apron rushed toward them. “I've been expecting you! Patriots have been pouring
in all day.”

Bill slid down from Long Shot and helped Molly off. He grabbed the leather saddlebags. “Have you seen a red-headed woman with a French accent?”

“She spent the night. Left early this morning, heading for York to be sure!”

“I need a fresh horse,” Bill said.

The pot-bellied man shouted to a servant pouring slop into a pig trough. “Fetch Dolly!” He pointed to a skinny young man with a pox-marked face. “You! Bring a gunny sack of food.”

Molly drew a deep breath. Her brother was trading in Long Shot? But he had worked so hard for that mare and loved her so much! They must really be in trouble, much worse than she realized, for Bill to give up Long Shot.

Minutes later, Bill secured the saddlebags behind a big chestnut mare and scrambled up. He stretched down a hand for Molly. “Come on, Sis!” Then, to the pot-bellied man in a greasy apron: “Take good care of Long Shot. And don't let a blamed Brit have her!

“Don't worry, Bill,” the man replied. “I'll do you proud.”

Molly held on tight as they dashed west.

Molly felt so tired, she could barely hold onto the saddle. For four days she and Bill had headed steadily west through the Pennsylvania countryside, stopping long enough to change horses at trading posts and forts. She suspected that her brother sometimes slept in the saddle.

When the sun touched the treetops, a fort came into view.

“Look, Molly,” Bill said. “Fort Pitt. We made it.”

A fort sat on a triangle of land surrounded by three shimmering ribbons of water. Instead of heading toward the fort, Bill turned his horse toward the shore and three funny-looking square barges anchored there. Several buckskinned men guarded them.

Bill helped Molly down. He grabbed her hand and hurried toward the boats.

One of the men took off a coonskin cap and waved it overhead. “Cap'n Linn!” he yelled. “We been waiting for you.”

“Is Eugenie here?”

“Yes, sir. Inside the cabin.”

Bill picked Molly up as if she were no heavier than a sack of flour, stepped into the water, and swung her into the boat. He climbed over the side.

“I am so glad to see you.” The red-haired woman Molly had seen earlier gave Bill a kiss on both cheeks. She smiled at Molly. “Hello. Allow me to introduce
myself,” she said in English with a strong French accent. “I am Eugenie Dubreton.”

She was even more beautiful than Molly remembered.

Bill handed Eugenie the leather saddlebags. “Can you hide this somewhere safe? It's the vaqueros' pay.”

What in the world were vaqueros? Molly would ask about that later.

“Of course, William.” Eugenie disappeared with the saddlebags.

It made Molly happy to hear Eugenie call her brother “William.” It sounded so cold. Molly liked the name “Bill” better and was glad that Eugenie didn't call him some pet name. This lady looked nice, but Molly liked Bill's other girlfriend better.

Suddenly, the flatboats set out with a lurch.

“Where are we headed?” Molly asked Bill.

“Louisiana.”

“Will I ever see General and Mrs. Washington again?”

“Sure. When this assignment is over, we'll head home.”

Louisiana. Molly couldn't wait to get there.

Iron Bear pulled his horse off to the side and watched the tribe pass by. He brushed strands of long gray hair from his face. The migration to their fall hunting grounds was going smoothly. Not so last time. Comanches had attacked.

A sudden sadness swept over Iron Bear as he recalled the battle. So many dead. For the first time, he felt old. It was time to hand over the reins to a younger, stronger brave.

Leadership of the tribe was based on merit, not family line. Who would the tribe accept as the new chief?

Kokotil, a battle-tested warrior who had seen twenty summers, rode past driving his remuda of horses. Perhaps he would make a good chief. If only Iron Bear could be certain.

Lifting his hands skyward, tilting his face backwards, Iron Bear prayed silently.
Give me the wisdom to make the right decision. And give me one more adventure. Something exciting, something important for my grandchildren to tell around the campfire after I am gone.

Dunstan saw dirt-brown clouds swirl skyward over the next ridge and grinned. “We've found them, Thomas!”

“Art thou sure?” Thomas asked.

“I would bet my last shilling on it. Only one thing could make a cloud that size. A herd on the move.”

“Aye,” Thomas said, obviously trying not to smile. “Just like those buffaloes a few miles back.”

Dunstan sniffed. “It could have been a herd of cattle.”

“But it wasn't.”

“A minor detail,” Dunstan said. He urged his horse into a copse of cottonwood trees, and the little Quaker joined him. They jumped down and tied their reins to a low-hanging bough.

“The first thing we have to do,” Dunstan said, “is determine how to capture Lorenzo Bannister.”

“Not so,” Thomas said, untying his saddlebag. “The first thing we must do is eat.” Unwrapping cooked rabbit meat saved from lunch, he bit off a huge chunk and passed it to Dunstan.

Being far too nervous to eat, he refused it.

“And once Bannister is captured?” Thomas prompted.

“We take the traitor to Major Hawthorne and let the proper authorities dispose of him.” Dunstan was smooth in his lie.

Thomas's lips tightened. “Thy cousin wants proof the
Spanish are helping the American rebels.”

“And he shall have it. To save his neck, Bannister will talk. All we have to do is find him . . . .” Dunstan's voice faded.

A lone horseman, traveling slowly, topped the hill about a quarter mile to the west. He kept his head down as if studying tracks. His horse snorted and skittered nervously. The rider spoke encouraging words and rubbed the horse's neck until it was calmed.

“On the other hand,” Dunstan whispered to Thomas, “Bannister might come to us. There he is, in all his glory.”

Lorenzo scanned the cottonwoods where they hid. He cocked his head, apparently listening intently, and remained perfectly still.

“Come on, Bannister,” Dunstan whispered. “A little closer.”

Musket at the ready, Dunstan skirted the cottonwoods and rode forward cautiously, obviously on the alert. Dunstan drew his pistol.

In a stroke of good luck, thunder rumbled far away, masking the metallic click of Dunstan's hammer.

A shot to the head would do the trick. Dunstan briefly considered ending his enemy's life, but the desire to see Bannister suffer the way he had suffered in the prisoner-of-war camp held him back.

Lorenzo pushed his hat back and frowned at the darkening sky.

Thunder pealed a second time.

Lorenzo straightened. Whipping his horse around, he raced over the hill and out of sight.

Dunstan uttered a vile curse.

Lorenzo joined Red riding point. “Turn the herd south.”

“What? I thought we were going to Nacogdoches!”

“Turn them, if you please.”

Red obeyed. A while later, Red asked, “What do you know that I don't?”

“Between us and those cottonwoods there are hundreds of tracks. A whole tribe passed through, going south to north.”

“Apaches?” Red asked with a frown.

“Looks like it. We'll swing wide to the south and avoid them.”

“A storm's brewing.”

“Yeah, I know.” Lorenzo rubbed his jaw and studied the swift-moving clouds in the gathering darkness. Storms often caused stampedes. “We're running out of daylight and have to bed down soon.”

An hour later, most of the herd had settled down for the night, chewing their cuds. A few restless ones grazed. All looked weary.

Lorenzo posted extra guards and strolled to the wagon for a cup of coffee. He sipped it and winced. It was exceptionally strong, but he was grateful. He would need to be alert all night.

The storm's rumbling grew louder by the minute. Bad weather could add days to the trip and make them miss the flatboats.

Ever vigilant, Lorenzo ate supper standing up and kept track of the storm front.

Night fell. Clouds blotted out the stars.

By flickering firelight, the cook did a few last-minute chores before turning in.

Shapeless bundles of blankets radiated from the fire like spokes on a wheel. The vaqueros turned their boots and moccasins close to the glowing embers and, on Lorenzo's orders, kept their horses saddled and tied nearby.

Most of the men were asleep. A couple of vaqueros rolled cigarettes and lit them off the campfire.

Lightning flashed.

“One one thousand. Two two thousand.” Lorenzo counted out loud, timing how far away the storm was. Thunder rumbled when he reached “six six thousand.”

Lorenzo poured himself a second cup of coffee. He needed to stay awake to monitor the weather. He drained the cup and served himself a third.

Lightning slashed through the sky.

“One one thousand, two two thousand.”

Thunder boomed before he reached “three.” That meant the storm was drawing closer.

It had been muggy and still all day, perfect storm weather. A strong wind whooshed through the woods, carrying the smell of rain and pine. Lightning danced from one cloud to the next.

Lorenzo blew out a long sigh. He had let the men sleep as long as he dared. “Wake up, everyone!” he ordered in a firm and reassuring voice. “Storm's coming. Mount up.”

Grumbling vaqueros turned out and climbed onto their horses.

Lightning crashed and illuminated the plain.

Cabezón, one of the lead bulls, leaped to his feet in one bound. More than once he had tried to start a stampede, but an observant vaquero always cut him off before any cattle joined his rebellion.

Some of the cattle rose, standing tense and trembling. Others crouched, legs drawn up as if ready for a sudden spring.