Lorenzo's Revolutionary Quest (17 page)

General Washington stopped by a split-rail fence and surveyed the lead-gray sky. He patted his horse's neck and breathed deep. The air smelled of rain. A ride always put him at ease and gave him time to think. He needed to return to camp soon, but the sight of shoeless, hungry soldiers depressed him. Foraging parties went out on a daily basis. Finding supplies was difficult. To make matters worse, after the Battle of Brandywine, the British had captured supply depots at Valley Forge.

The air chilled and the general pulled his cape tight around his shoulders.

Washington wondered how Lorenzo was faring with the herd coming from San Antonio. The mission was a long shot, but the Spanish had been one of the most dependable supply sources so far. Nine thousand pounds of gunpowder, medicine, cloth, and other supplies had arrived three months earlier. The Spanish had been generous with money as well. Washington dipped his head and prayed that cattle would arrive safely.

The air crackled with electricity.

Lorenzo, Miguel, and all the men placed leather covers
over their gunlocks to protect the powder from the rain.

All at once, luminous balls of light appeared above the herd. They hovered over the horn tips of the cattle and flickered blue and yellow.

“Good Lord!” Red whispered. “What is that?”

“St. Elmo's fire,” Miguel replied. “Some call it fox fire. I saw it years ago on a trip to Spain. We were at sea, and those lights appeared at the ends of masts and spars. It was like ghosts holding little lanterns.”

A blinding light suddenly blazed to the left.

Piñata bounced sideways and snorted. It was all Lorenzo could do to keep her from bolting.

The entire herd bellowed in fear. A deafening sizzle hissed behind them. Wind-driven rain slashed at them like tiny knives. A huge tree split down the middle. The ground shook. Another lightning bolt darted through the sky.

Hundreds of hoofs drummed over the rolling countryside. The stampede Lorenzo had dreaded for so long had begun. And it was headed straight for him.

Lorenzo pulled hard on the reins to turn Piñata. She didn't need the extra inspiration and bolted away from the cattle at full speed.

Lorenzo glanced over his shoulder. They were gaining. Rain stung his face like pebbles. Lorenzo's only hope was to ride with the herd and, at some point, force them to circle.

Piñata stumbled on rain-slicked grass. Lorenzo's breathing quickened. If Piñata threw him, he would be trampled by fear-crazed cattle.

From all directions, cattle surged around them. Lorenzo and Piñata rode in the midst of galloping hooves and clattering horns.

Cattle coursed around the wagon, a canvas island in a sea of horns and hide.

Piñata's hooves hammered beneath Lorenzo. It was a dangerous race, but he sensed she actually enjoyed it. She drew ahead of the lead bull, easily jumped a creek, and scrambled up the opposite side.

Cattle flowed over the bank like a canoe shooting the rapids, splashing through shallow water, and leaping ashore.

Piñata reached the top of the hill and braced herself for the steep downward angle.

Lorenzo allowed himself a backward glance. For the first time he realized Miguel was riding the left flank of the herd. Private Dujardin was on the right.

The cattle ran at top speed. After a while, the head bulls spent most of their energy and fear. They slowed.

Piñata adjusted her speed, going from a gallop to a lope.

The rest of the herd was nowhere to be seen. It had been impossible for the vaqueros to keep the herd together in the stampede. Lorenzo assumed it was now broken into smaller droves. He sighed. It might take days to gather the herd.

Eventually they forced the cattle to circle. Little by little the ring grew smaller and tighter until the cattle stopped moving altogether.

Mud-splattered from head to toe, Miguel and Dujardin stopped in front of Lorenzo. He felt as grimy as they looked.

Dujardin held a handkerchief out to catch the rain, then mopped his face. “Where are we?”

“We're lost,” Miguel replied.

“We're not lost,” Lorenzo said. “We just don't know where we are.” He looked all about for landmarks but didn't see any. He pondered what to do next. The missing vaqueros and soldiers knew to head up the King's Highway to Nacogdoches. But which way was Nacogdoches? He knew the stampede had taken him south of the King's Highway, so he decided to head due north until he crossed it.

Miguel took the lead while Dujardin and Lorenzo drifted to the rear. It was just the three of them with fifty cattle at the most.

They traveled on and on. The landscape reflected the gray dreariness of the cloud cover. Lorenzo hoped the sun would break through and dry the ground.

A horse snorted to the right. Lorenzo tensed, then relaxed to see Soledad trot forward.

“Have you seen Red?” she asked.

“No, sorry,” Lorenzo said.

“I'm sure he'll show up soon,” Miguel said brightly.

“Do you know where the rest of the herd is?” Lorenzo asked.

She shook her head.

Lorenzo cleaned sludge from his musket's flash pan as best he could, but knew the weapon would be useless until it stopped raining.

He glanced about. Everyone looked as depressed as he felt.

”You said there were five hundred head!” Chien d'Or exclaimed.

“There were!” Dunstan answered in a desperate voice. “Five hundred! Easily!” He estimated that there were no more than fifty cattle in the valley below. Where were the rest? This would hardly endear him to Chien d'Or. He had to remain useful to him in order to stay alive.

The three rain-soaked vaqueros guarding the cattle slouched in their saddles as if they were too weary to maintain a proper lookout.

“Fancy that,” Dunstan said in a moment of sudden understanding. “They've been through the rainstorm. Chances are, their weapons are useless.”

Chien d'Or's eyes bored through him a moment, as if judging his sincerity. After a long moment, he conferred with his friends in French.

They nodded, dismounted, and eased downhill. Armed with bows and arrows, they moved from tree to tree, peeping out cautiously, careful not to be seen.

Dunstan stayed on the ridge with Chien d'Or and watched them inch toward the vaqueros and ready their bows.

“
Maintenant!
” Now! one of them ordered. In unison, they shot arrows.

Two vaqueros were struck full in the chest and toppled
off their horses. The third man was luckier. An arrow protruded from his side. He managed to pull his pistol and aim it, but nothing happened. He holstered the weapon. A second later, an arrow found his chest.

“Yes!” Dunstan exclaimed. “I was right! Their guns are useless.”

Two Frenchmen herded cattle away while the other two remained on the field to retrieve useful items from the corpses.

“I am pleased,” Chien d'Or announced.

“Good,” Dunstan said. That meant he stayed alive a little longer.

Two hills later, they found cattle in a meadow with grass up to their bellies.

Dunstan remained on a hillside with Chien d'Or while two Frenchmen readied their bows. So far, they had plucked off every soldier and vaquero they encountered.

In the valley below, terror-filled horsemen looked up and saw outlaws armed with bows and arrows gallop toward them. They abandoned the cattle and fled for their lives.

A volley of arrows flew through the air. Men screamed. A long wail pierced the still air, as if someone were dying in agony.

One horseman swerved and veered as he galloped off.

Dunstan straightened and shaded his eyes with his hand. The man was about the same size and build as Lorenzo Bannister. “That looks like Bannister!”

Chien d'Or ignored him and drew an arrow from his quiver.

The rider made it to the top of the hill before Chien d'Or's arrow pierced his side. He slumped and disappeared over the ridge.

Dunstan clenched his hands in rage. Chien d'Or had broken his promise to capture Bannister alive. Dunstan
doubted that Chien d'Or would keep his promise to free him when the cattle were captured. He had to escape. Now.

Dunstan looked straight ahead, but studied Chien d'Or out of the corner of his eye.

He wore an indecent smile, obviously reveling in the slaughter.

With one hand, Dunstan grabbed the sword hanging by Chien d'Or's side. With the other, he shoved him off his horse. Chien d'Or sailed sideways and landed with a thud.

Dunstan jerked his horse around, a combination of anger and fear erasing all thought. He raised his sword high.

Eyes rounded in fear, Chien d'Or scrambled backwards like a crab on a beach.

Dunstan swung hard, aiming for the jugular vein. Blood spurted. Dunstan knew he had dealt a fatal blow. “That will teach you to steal my sword, you filthy liar.”

Lorenzo and his companions had traveled about a league when Miguel, in the lead, raised her hand to signal a halt. She jabbed her index finger to the right.

Instinctively, Lorenzo reached for his musket, but then remembered that the powder was still wet. He drew his knife instead and wished he had a long-range weapon.

A brown-haired boy wearing only a breechcloth and moccasins limped downhill. “Help me!” he yelled. “Please.”

Lorenzo spurred Piñata to the boy, flung himself off, and rushed to him.

An Apache woman riding bareback charged over the hill, reins in one hand, a long, wicked-looking knife in the other.

Lorenzo recognized her as Raven Feather, wife of Chien d'Or.

With a piercing scream, she galloped toward Lorenzo and the boy.

They leaped aside just in time.

Miguel dashed forward, sword held high.

In an impressive display of horsemanship, the Apache woman brought her horse to a jarring stop and whirled. She spat out a curse, slapped her legs against her horse's side, and barreled straight toward Miguel.

Miguel charged. When she was even with the Apache woman, she slashed at her.

Raven Feather ducked and dodged the blow.

Both of them turned. Their horses thundered forward again.

A dagger whistled past Lorenzo's ear and thudded into Raven Feather's chest.

She slumped, then fell from her horse. Lorenzo approached cautiously. With his foot, he rolled her over. Her body flopped like a rag doll's. Blood seeped around the knife blade.

He pulled it from her chest and cleaned it on the grass. “Your knife, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy.”

Without comment, Soledad took it and slipped it back into its sheath.

Lorenzo glanced at the boy for his reaction to Raven Feather's death. He was scowling fiercely.

Lorenzo whistled for Piñata, and she dutifully trotted over. He dug into his saddlebags, found a piece of dried beef, and offered it to the boy.

Large, solemn eyes stared at Lorenzo. He grabbed it and bit off a huge chunk. “I thank thee, sir.”

“What's your name?”

“Thomas,” the boy said. “Thomas Hancock, sir.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hancock. My name is Lorenzo Bannister.” He offered his hand.

The boy stared at it. All color drained from his face.

Lorenzo touched Thomas's shoulder. “What's the matter?”

Thomas twisted away as if a red-hot poker had touched his skin. His eyes flared in panic. “Please don't kill me.”

“Why would I do that?” Lorenzo asked in dismay.

He and Dujardin shared a look of confusion.

Dujardin smiled charmingly at the boy. “
Bonjour
, Thomas. My name is Jean-Paul Dujardin.” His voice was smooth and reassuring, his English heavy with a French accent. “I am a gentleman. You are safe, yes? I promise.” He slowly extended his hand.

The boy stared at it a moment before he gave it a mild shake.

A man's word, once given, was better than a written guarantee. No one would go back on it and risk losing honor.

“Why an English boy here?” Dujardin asked.