Lorenzo's Revolutionary Quest (19 page)

“Yep.”

“
¡Madre de Dios!
I expected . . .” Miguel lifted her hands in a helpless gesture.

Lorenzo cocked his head. “You've never been in this part of the province?”

“Never.”

“This is where the French explorer La Salle was killed.”

Upon reaching Nacogdoches, they herded the cattle into a corral, then headed to the largest building. Dujardin remained outside to stand guard.

They entered a dirt-floored room about ten feet by ten feet. Lorenzo looked around. It wasn't much, but at least it would shelter them from the constant rain. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling. Some of the mortar from between the logs had fallen out, allowing small rays of light to infiltrate.

Miguel forced Saber-Scar to sit in a corner. “Be a good boy,” she said sarcastically, “or I get the honor of shooting you.”

Hands tied behind him, the defeated Englishman drew his knees tight to his chest and laid his forehead on them.

Soledad and Thomas rested in the opposite corner.

A strange quiet descended upon the room. No one spoke. They all sat wrapped in their own thoughts.

“The tribe will eat well for many days,” Kokotil said.

Iron Bear nodded in agreement, satisfied with the day's hunt. Arrows had flown true and had brought
down three deer. Two men had stayed behind to dress them while the rest continued the hunt.

Pulling his horse up short, Iron Bear hooded his eyes with a hand and stared in disbelief.

His companions stopped beside him and followed his line of sight to the rust-colored bull across the creek. It had a blaze on its forehead and bore a circle topped with a cross on its rump.

Iron Bear knew that brand well. As a youth, long before his braids had turned silver, he had worked on the mission ranch. It was the summer the tribe had been driven south by Comanches and had taken refuge with the monks at Mission San Antonio de Valero.

More cattle emerged from the woods. Where were they coming from, and why were they so far from the mission?

The answer became obvious when Iron Bear spotted the men driving them: the French rustlers Chien d'Or had brought into the camp.

In a hostile gesture, they pulled arrows from their quivers and set them in bow strings.

Chief Iron Bear's men acted on instinct and responded in kind. They waited.

It was a standoff, neither side anxious to fire the first shot. Tension hung in the air. The awkward moment stretched.

Suddenly, a rustler jerked his bow up.

Fear shivered through Iron Bear to see it aimed straight at him. Before he could react, an arrow whirred through the air and hit the rustler in the stomach. He doubled over, then toppled from his horse.

The other warriors followed Kokotil's lead and fired a volley of arrows. The three remaining rustlers were shot through the heart.

Iron Bear urged his horse forward and surveyed the corpses. He sensed Kokotil beside him. “You saved my life.”

“I couldn't let any harm come to you. You still owe me two horses.”

Iron Bear laughed. “It warms my heart to know I mean so much to you.”

“You can buy a lot with two horses!” Kokotil exclaimed.

Iron Bear ordered his men to round up the cattle, and they obeyed without question.

As he watched, a terrible thought came to him. Spanish soldiers were probably out looking for the stolen cattle. If they found Iron Bear's men with them, they would assume they were rustlers. He and his braves could be in bad trouble.

Iron Bear drifted to the back of the herd. He needed to be alone so he could think. How could he get rid of the cattle? He prayed for guidance.

The sound of creaking wheels rode the breeze.

Puzzled, Iron Bear turned. To his amazement, a wagon emerged from the woods. He expected a patrol of Spanish soldiers, not a wagon.

Iron Bear stared at the man driving it. His hair looked like it was on fire. Iron Bear had never seen hair like that. Clearly, this was a sign. But what a filthy sign it was. The man's clothes were mud-spattered, and he had dark rings under his eyes.

Iron Bear waited by the side of the road.

The red-headed man slowed the wagon and squinted at him, obviously sizing up the threat Iron Bear posed. His hand slid to his pistol.

“
Buenos días
,” Iron Bear said, struggling to remember a language he hadn't used in years.

“You speak Spanish,” the driver said in surprise.

“I learn from monks when vaquero.”

The man nodded toward the cattle. “Mine.”

Iron Bear lifted an eyebrow. “Yours?”

“Yes. Big storm. Cattle run . . .” The man flicked his fingers out, indicating they had scattered.

“Stampede,” Iron Bear said, recalling a word that struck terror in every vaquero's heart.

“Yes! Stampede!” The man's face lit, as if a sudden
idea had come to him. He took a gold coin from his pocket. “You. Me. Cattle. We take to the Mississippi.”

Iron Bear rubbed his beardless chin and considered the offer. “How much you pay?”

“Five Spanish pillar dollars.”

“Ten.”

The man nodded.

“Ten for each man,” Iron Bear said, to make sure there was no confusion over the amount.

The man paused and counted heads. He let out a low whistle. “Ten for each man.”

A generous offer. Spanish money would buy food if game got scarce in the winter.

This would work out well for his tribe. Recalling the way Spaniards sealed a deal, Iron Bear thrust out his hand.

The man shook it firmly.

Iron Bear sent two warriors home with the captured game to feed the tribe and the message that he and the others would return by the full moon.

Lorenzo kneaded his forehead and looked around the room. The silence grated on his nerves. He hadn't realized until this moment how accustomed he had become to the vaqueros' constant singing.

They were gone. Lorenzo's mind rebelled against that fact. He squeezed his eyes shut. Anxiety gnawed at the pit of his stomach. His first command was an utter failure. All this work, all this loss of life, for nothing.

What should he do now? Send a messenger to Colonel De Gálvez warning him about the British? Lorenzo immediately rejected the idea. He needed every hand. He pulled out his calendar and winced at the date. The flatboats were due at the agreed-upon rendezvous point any day now. There wasn't enough time to send a
message. He ran his hand through his hair. He had failed. Fifty head of cattle! That was all he could deliver to General Washington.

But a larger problem loomed. The British outpost. If only he knew where it was . . . if only he knew how many redcoats were there.

He squatted in front of Saber-Scar. “Where is the hideout?”

Saber-Scar didn't react to the question.

Lorenzo forced his head up and asked again. “Where is it?”

Still no response.

Lorenzo was about to search Saber-Scar's pockets when a commotion started beyond the walls. It sounded like cattle lowing. At first, Lorenzo thought it came from the corral. Then he heard voices he didn't recognize.

The cabin door burst open. Dujardin, eyes wide in surprise, stepped inside. “Red is here!” he exclaimed.

Lorenzo rushed outside, leaving Dujardin with orders to guard Saber-Scar and Thomas. Everyone else followed close behind.

Soledad flew to her husband's open arms. They held each other tight and cried.

Lorenzo's heart lodged in his throat. He had given Red up for dead. “Welcome back,” Lorenzo said in a voice heavy with emotion. His gaze went to Apaches on horseback driving fifty or so head of cattle toward the corral.

“Soledad!” an elderly man with silver braids called out. He slid down from his horse and strode toward her.

Soledad's face shone with joy.

He opened his arms wide, and she stepped into his embrace.

She hugged him tight, then stepped back. “I'd like you to meet Iron Bear, chief of my tribe.”

Lorenzo dipped his head. “It is an honor, sir.”

Miguel bowed.

After driving the cattle into the corral, Iron Bear's men joined them. One of them tilted his head, eyed Miguel curiously and slipped over to her. Saying nothing, he studied her up and down, then walked around her. With a grunt, he stood at her side.

She looked at him with evident distaste and folded her arms across her chest.

“I'm glad you're back,” Lorenzo said to Red. “I didn't expect you to bring company.”

“Didn't expect to bring company.” Red told Lorenzo about running into Iron Bear and his warriors. “Me and the chief got to know each other pretty good on the way here. He seems like a regular fellow.”

“So how did you end up with the wagon and the cattle?” Lorenzo asked.

Red scratched his neck in embarrassment. “Somehow I got lost during the stampede.”

“You weren't lost.” Miguel's gaze slid to Lorenzo. She smiled. “You just didn't know where you were.”

Red laughed. “By the time my horse stopped running, there weren't nobody around. Decided to head due east to the Mississippi and follow it south. Got lucky and happened upon wagon ruts. Found the wagon but the cook wasn't nowhere around.”

“Chien d'Or's gang attacked after the stampede,” Lorenzo said, “and killed the vaqueros.”

Red drew his mouth into a tight line. “I don't think that's what happened to the cook. There wasn't any blood in the wagon. I bet he fell off during the stampede.”

“We'll probably never know,” Lorenzo said. “What we do know is that the British have an outpost and they intend to ambush the flatboats.”

Red's whole body tensed. “The Brits have an outpost? Where? How did you learn that?”

Lorenzo explained what had happened in his absence.

“Good Lord, Captain! If we lose the Mississippi, the war is over. The Brits are to the north in Canada and to the south in Florida. They can attack by sea up and down the eastern coast. If we lose the west, the Brits have us surrounded. All they have to do is tighten the noose and we're dead.”

“I know. I was just about to search Saber-Scar for information when you arrived.”

“Let's do it.”

With Red at his side, Lorenzo went back inside and walked over to Saber-Scar. He hadn't moved and still sat hunched over, with his hands bound behind him.

Thomas was across the room. It looked like he was trying to put as much distance as possible between him and Saber-Scar.

Red came to a dead halt when he saw Thomas. “Where'd the boy come from?”

Lorenzo explained it to him and introduced Thomas.

The boy swiped hair out of his eyes with one hand and offered the other to Red. “Tis a pleasure to meet thee, sir.”

Frowning slightly, Red shook hands with the boy. “Likewise.”

“Where is the hideout?” Lorenzo asked Saber-Scar.

No response.

Lorenzo began to search his pockets.

Saber-Scar cursed and spit in his face.

Anger flashed through Lorenzo. He punched Saber-Scar in the jaw. “Do that again,” Lorenzo growled as he wiped away spittle with his sleeve, “and I'll beat you to a pulp.”

Saber-Scar glared defiance at him but behaved.

Lorenzo riffled through Saber-Scar's pockets. The only thing he found was an elegant-looking document filled with flourishes. He unfolded it. “Saber-Scar is a diplomat,” he said in disbelief.

“And I'm king of England,” Red said.

“Look at this,” Lorenzo said, showing him the paper. “This changes everything.”

“It changes nothing,” Red growled. “He's still a lying British dog!”

“But now he's a lying British dog with diplomatic privilege. That complicates matters. This is something Colonel De Gálvez will have to deal with.”

“What about the boy?”

“I'll send him home. Thomas, where do you live?”

The boy looked surprised. “Hancock's Bridge, New Jersey.”