Lorenzo's Revolutionary Quest (9 page)

A horseman galloped down the road toward them waving his hat overhead to get their attention. It was the messenger Lieutenant Menchaca had sent to Mexico City. From the horseman's victorious grin, Lorenzo could tell that the cattle were officially his.

“You and your dumb luck!” Miguel exclaimed. “You won't swing after all!”

“You sound disappointed, Lieutenant.”

Miguel gave him an enigmatic smile but said not a word.

Lorenzo fanned himself with a wide-brimmed hat and looked to the east.

The sun had not yet risen, but September 2, 1777, already promised to be scorching.

The cattle in Doña María's corral on the outskirts of San Antonio moved restlessly, bawling and bellowing.

The vaqueros waited on horseback near a canvas-covered supply wagon. They wore bandannas loosely tied around their necks, thin linen shirts, trousers tucked into heeled boots, and leather chaps to protect their legs from the brush.

Miguel spoke to his sister while three of his men stood by their horses in stoic silence.

Lorenzo assumed Miguel was saying good-bye to his sister. Soledad would serve as scout and translator. She knew all the tribes between San Antonio and Louisiana.

Ambrosio hugged each of his eight children tight and wiped away his own tears and theirs. He kissed his wife good-bye, patted her bulging stomach, and promised to be home before number nine arrived.

The supply wagon set out with the cook driving. Soledad and Red rode alongside as mounted guards. Lorenzo would give the slower-moving wagon a head start each day. Their entire journey, it would be out front.

Reins in hand, Lorenzo swung onto Piñata and made one final check before the cattle drive started. The trek to the Mississippi River would cover two hundred leagues,
about five hundred English miles. He had stocked the wagon with cooking utensils and food they couldn't forage for along the way. Nature would provide plenty of wild game, fruits, berries, and roots. A medicine-filled
mochila
was fastened behind his saddle. He prayed he would never need it.

He had bought presents for Eugenie: a white mantilla that she could wear at their wedding, a silver bracelet and matching necklace, and a rosary. All were lightweight objects that easily fit in his saddlebags. How he missed her and looked forward to seeing her again.

He went over the plan for the cattle drive in his head. For reasons of security, only he and Red knew the exact route they would take or why they had to rendezvous with flatboats on October 16. They would head up the King's Highway to Nacogdoches, then straight east to Fort Saint Jean Baptiste, an abandoned French fort in Louisiana. From there, they would travel to the Mississippi River. At that point, Lorenzo's part would be over. From then on, the men who arrived by flatboat were responsible for the cattle.

When the supply wagon was a half-league away, Lorenzo lifted his hand high overhead and yelled, “Move ‘em out!”

Red unhooked Doña María's gate and swung it open. A tangle of bellowing cattle surged forward. The herd milled around in confusion, fanning out in every direction. The noise was deafening. Horns clacked together. Hooves shook the ground.

Vaqueros let out shrill yells. Waving loops of rope, they urged the cattle forward, trying to keep the herd in a compact mass. Several on the fringe bolted away. Vaqueros started after them at a hard gallop, leaning forward, yipping.

Lorenzo focused on Private Dujardin, the least experienced of the lot, ready to rush to his aid if necessary. Mane flying, neck outstretched, Dujardin's range horse
raced after a huge rust-colored bull with a jagged blaze on its forehead. It was one they had rescued from rustlers.

The brute ran with surprising speed, but Dujardin gained on it. He pulled even. Suddenly it jolted to a stop, snorted, and veered off in a different direction.

Dujardin turned his horse. It leaned at such a sharp angle, a stirrup brushed the ground. Horse and rider bounded after the bull. Two more times, it tried to break away, but was headed off by the stubborn range horse and the equally stubborn Dujardin.

Finally, the bull let out a long bawl of defeat, shook its horns, and plodded back to the herd. Head down, it moved along with the rest.

“Hey, Dujardin!” Lorenzo yelled in French. “Good job.”

Dujardin grinned. “How do you say ‘hardheaded' in Spanish?”

“
Cabezón
,” Lorenzo replied.

“That one—he is very
cabezón
!”

A fitting name. Cabezón it was.

Once the cattle were headed in the same direction, Lorenzo's men took their positions. Up front, two point riders guided the lead cattle eastward. Swing men on the outskirts of the herd, left and right, kept it tight and in motion. Drag riders in the back hurried stragglers along. Behind them came wranglers with the remuda of extra horses.

Dust billowed in great clouds. Riders stopped long enough to pull bandannas over their noses and mouths. Only their eyes showed.

Everything worked perfectly. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, no threat of a storm. They headed up the King's Highway. Five leagues a day—about fifteen miles—was a decent traveling speed for a cattle drive. If they covered that each day, they should arrive at the Mississippi on October 9. The flatboats were due to arrive a week later,
giving Lorenzo a margin for error.

Miguel pulled alongside. “Morning, Captain. Nice weather for a cattle drive. Hope it lasts.”

Lorenzo grunted. This fellow always rubbed him the wrong way.

For several minutes, they rode side by side in silence.

Patrols from San Antonio regularly checked on the movement of local tribes. Miguel's presence wasn't unusual, but still it bothered Lorenzo.

“San Antonio is that way,” he said, jerking a thumb backwards.

“I know.”

“How far do you intend to travel with us?” Lorenzo asked.

“All the way to New Orleans.”

Lorenzo drew rein. “What?”

“You know that nothing important leaves San Antonio without a military escort.”

“I don't need an escort.”

“Who said you were important? We're here to guard the cattle.”

To keep from saying something he would regret, Lorenzo urged Piñata forward and left Miguel in a trail of dust. Once he cooled down, he realized why Miguel was along. No doubt Menchaca didn't trust Lorenzo to deliver the cattle and had sent him along to make sure he did. It was probably a good idea to have Miguel and his three soldiers along. The extra guns might come in handy. Even so, Miguel was a nuisance.

For two hours, Lorenzo kept the herd moving fast. Once or twice, the cattle, understandably nervous about leaving home, tried to turn back and had to be persuaded to rejoin the herd.

At the first stream, vaqueros yipped and urged the cattle into ankle-high water.

Lorenzo splashed across beside them and hoped every water crossing would be this easy. He went over the list of rivers ahead of them: the Cibolo, Guadalupe, San Marcos, Colorado, Brazos, Trinity, Neches, Sabine. Some would be small, some deep, some treacherous with quicksand. Other than stampedes, deep rivers were the most dangerous part of the trip. Since there were no bridges, the only way to get cattle across was to make them swim.

When they were far enough from San Antonio, Lorenzo slowed the pace a bit. The cattle needed to graze frequently to keep fit.

By noon, the Texas sun beat down unmercifully. Both cattle and men moved a little slower through terrain covered with brush and mesquite, across rocky dry creeks.

Lorenzo rode ahead and told the cook to stop near a ford. He circled back to the men. “Let's eat!”

Everyone sprang from their horses and searched for shade, some near the wagon, others beneath trees. They pulled
charqui
from their saddlebags and bit off mouthfuls of dried beef. Some rolled cigarettes. Others
splashed into the stream, filled their hats with water, and dumped it over their heads to cool off. Still others relieved themselves against trees.

Downstream, cattle crowded around and dipped their heads. Water dribbled from their muzzles. They ambled to the meadow to graze, their sharp horns glistening in the sunshine like polished daggers.

Lorenzo assigned two men to ride herd while others rested. One circled clockwise, the other counterclockwise.

A rich voice crooning a Spanish love song traveled on the breeze. The melody told of a homesick vaquero who missed his girl back on the ranch. A second soothing voice soon joined in.

Lorenzo thought about Eugenie. He couldn't help but worry. Where was she? Was she safe? The song had been a favorite of Lorenzo's father. Strange how one song could stir so many feelings deep inside him.

Red smiled wryly. “Is that guy singing a love song to a cow?”

Lorenzo chuckled. “Cattle like to be serenaded. It soothes them and covers strange sounds. The least little thing can stampede them. A twig snapping, thunder, a gunshot.”

A lone figure on horseback topped a faraway ridge.

Lorenzo scanned it with his telescope. It was a Lipan Apache woman.

She seemed to realize she had been spotted. She touched heels to her pony's side and loped over the hill, out of sight.

Lorenzo mounted up and trotted to the top of the ridge to get a better look. A lone Apache woman didn't seem much of a threat. Even so, why was she there?

Chien d'Or sat in front of his teepee, closed his eyes
and absorbed the sun's power-giving rays. He had to take the tribe from Iron Bear. To do that, he needed to buy muskets and ammunition. With what? He had nothing of value.

At the sound of hoof beats, he opened his eyes.

Raven Feather flung herself from her horse before it came to a full stop and rushed toward him. “Good news, husband! The cattle have left San Antonio. They are heading to the northeast, toward our fall hunting grounds.”

“This is good news indeed!” He made a fist of victory. “I am pleased. You have done well, woman.”

Cattle would buy muskets. Many muskets. He knew exactly what to do next.

Hour after hour, they plodded along. When the sun touched the western horizon, Lorenzo rode ahead to find a plain with plenty of water and grass for grazing the herd, but more importantly, an area to keep the herd compact. He told the cook to set up camp under a towering pecan tree.

By the time the herd caught up with the wagon, a fire burned beside it. An iron pot on a tripod seethed and bubbled, filling the air with the sharp smell of boiled beans. The cook made tortillas and a dish out of wild onions and plants that looked like lettuce.

Vaqueros unsaddled their day horses and headed for the campfire. They filled tin plates and ate standing up. They washed down their food with hot, black coffee, then cleaned their plates and eating utensils.

The vaqueros designated as night riders changed horses and patrolled the perimeter of the herd. The rest saddled, bridled, and tied their night horses nearby, in case of a stampede or other trouble, then rolled themselves in blankets, rested their heads on the crooks of
their arms, and fell asleep.

Only Dujardin and Miguel remained awake, sitting around the fire, feeding it wood.

Lorenzo understood their restlessness. He felt like a watch wound too tight.

The crooning of night riders was the only sound. Their singing let the cattle know where each rider was so they wouldn't be startled when man and horse suddenly appeared near them in the dark.

A baritone voice singing a sad love song wafted toward Lorenzo. His thoughts spun away to the day he said good-bye to Eugenie on the New Orleans dock. “Be careful,
corazón
,” he had said. “These are dangerous times up north.”

“
Mon cher
, you worry too much. Philadelphia will be just as safe as New Orleans.”

“Unless the British attack.”

“Ah,
oui
, and the moon might be full and the
loup garou
could come after me.”

“Werewolves are a silly superstition,” Lorenzo protested. “I'm serious. The Continental Congress is in Philadelphia. It's a prime target for the British.”