Natchez Flame (6 page)

“How do you do, ma’am?” the men said nearly in unison.

“Brendan told us you’re traveling to Rancho Reina del Robles,” Tom Camden said as they all took their seats. “That’s a pretty far piece, ma’am.”

“So Mr. Trask has warned me. You wouldn’t be heading that way, would you?”

Brendan had told Priscilla that Tom was a Texas Ranger. He looked at his longtime friend, trail-toughened, and gun-wise. It would have been damned comforting to have him along.

“Sorry,” Tom said. “Me and Badger got business down in Brownsville.” Tom glanced in his direction with what was clearly meant as a warning. Tom knew only too well his reputation with the ladies. Brendan fought the pull of a smile.

“You got a good man there,” Tom told her. “He’ll see you get to your man safely.”

Brendan frowned. He’d get her there, all right, but it galled him to do it. From what he knew of Stuart Egan, the man was a ruthless, power-hungry, arrogant son of a bitch. If the rumors he’d heard proved true, Egan might be a damned sight worse than that. At the least, he’d grind Miss Priscilla Mae Wills under the heel of his expensive handmade boots.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Priscilla was saying. “Mr. Trask appears to be a very capable man.”

“Where’d you meet Egan?” Badger Wallace asked.

“In truth, Mr. Wallace, I haven’t. We’ve been corresponding, you see—”

Badger spit rudely into the brass spittoon. “Correspondin’?”
he grumbled. “You mean to tell me you ain’t never seen ’im?”

“Well, my aunt knew him, you see, and I—that is—we wrote to each other quite often.”

“You was my daughter, I’d be wantin’ you to know more about the fella than what he says in his letters. Man can write ’round his faults with the scratch of a quill.”

“As I was saying, Mr. Egan was a friend of my late aunt,” Priscilla defended, but Brendan noticed her hand shook when she accepted the sherry the captain gave her. Donohue poured a whiskey for each of the men, and Priscilla seemed relieved at the chance to change the subject.

“I understand you and Mr. Trask have been friends for some time,” she said to Tom.

“We served together in the military, fightin’ for the Republic.” Tom flashed a grin. “Damn near got ourselves kilt, we did.”

“Trask saved your bacon, from what I heerd.” Badger lifted his whiskey glass in salute, then emptied it with a single swallow. The ends of his thick mustache glistened with traces of the liquid when he finished. “Damned lucky for you he were there.”

“Lucky for a bunch of us,” Tom agreed.

“What happened?” Priscilla asked.

“Nothing much,” Brendan cut in, not liking the path of the conversation. “Tom and some of the others got pinned down on a ridge. Mexican cannon fire was hitting them pretty hard. I put a stop to it.”

“Damn cannon was rippin’ us to pieces,” Tom amended. “Brendan had to cross the open, scale the side of a rocky ravine, and take on six Mexes to reach
it. He went hand to hand with the last of ’em—kilt one fella with his own knife.” Tom chuckled, but Priscilla turned pale.

“I think that’s enough, Tom,” Brendan warned, but Camden didn’t even slow.

“Bren jammed a rock down the barrel a’ that artillery piece. Wedged it in real tight, and blew the damned thing to kingdom come—that’s when they took him.”

“It’s all in the past, Tom.” Brendan’s face had gone taut.

“They captured you?” Priscilla asked with a look of concern.

“Tossed him in a Mexican prison,” Tom answered for him. “Place was a real hellhole. I was one of the lucky ones.”

“How did you get out?” Priscilla asked.

“Look, Miss Wills,” Brendan snapped, “this isn’t exactly dinner conversation. I’d appreciate it if we could change the subject.”

The table fell silent. Priscilla busied herself with her napkin, and the captain poured another round of whiskey for the men. Finally Walter Goetting launched a discussion of raising vegetables in the thriving German settlement of New Braunsfel, and Brendan felt a wave of relief.

When he glanced at Priscilla, he found her watching him with a slightly different look in her eyes. He wondered what she was thinking.

Priscilla enjoyed the meal and the men’s conversation—the other men, that is, since Brendan said very little and excused himself early. The captain escorted
her on a stroll of the deck, explaining different parts of the ship, then walked her down to her cabin. She turned in early, and slept more soundly than she had in days.

They reached Corpus Christi the following morning, a few hours after sunup. Aside from herself and her escort, only the big German farmer, Walter Goetting, left the ship to go ashore. The day was hot and muggy, and even the breeze from the ocean felt warm. Priscilla wore her beige muslin day dress. The material was lighter than some of her others, but the sleeves were long and the neck high, increasing her discomfort.

“It has been a pleasure,
Fräulein
Wills,” the German said, once they’d left the shore boat. “Godspeed on your journey to your bridegroom.”

“Thank you. I hope you enjoy your visit.” He had relatives on a nearby German farm, he had told them.

“I am certain I will.” He turned to Brendan. “Godspeed,
Herr
Trask.”

Trask accepted his handshake. “Maybe we’ll meet again some time. You keep playing poker the way you were on the ship, next time I could be in a whole lotta trouble.”

Goetting smiled at that. “I do not think so.” He waved good-bye over one thick shoulder and moved off toward town.

Priscilla’s trunks were brought ashore and carried to a flatbed wagon pulled by two mules that sat at the edge of the sand. Trask carried just his saddlebags.

“Howdy folks, I’m Red Ding,” said the wagon driver, a stocky auburn-haired man in his middle
thirties. He gave them a welcoming smile. “I been hired to meet each ship till a man name of Hennessey gets in. Guess he ain’t gonna show aboard this ’un.”

Priscilla started to speak, but Trask interrupted. “Mr. Hennessey met with an unfortunate accident. I’m afraid he’s dead. This is Miss Wills, Stuart Egan’s intended, and my name is Trask.”

Red touched the brim of his slouch hat. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He surveyed Priscilla, then turned back. “You takin’ her to him?”

“Somebody had to.”

Priscilla glowered, but Trask ignored her. He helped her climb up on the wagon seat, his hand warm and strong at her waist, then he climbed into the back. He was wearing his blue twill breeches and a clean white homespun shirt. He hadn’t worn his gun since they’d boarded the ship.

“We’ll need provisions,” he said, leaning back against the sideboard. Beneath the wide, flat brim of his hat, his light eyes looked different, almost eager, as if this untamed land stirred feelings of home. “Take us to Old Man Latimer’s.”

“Ain’t there no more,” Red Ding called over his shoulder. “Took off with Taylor and his men. I’m to take you to Colonel Kinney’s Tradin’ Post up on Live Oak Point—I mean Lamar’s—that’s what they’re callin’ it these days. You can get what you need and charge it to Egan. I’m to leave you the wagon and team.”

“I’ll also need a saddle horse—one I can count on.”

“Mr. Hennessey left a fine-looking black in the livery
out behind the tradin’ post. I’ll fetch him while you get supplies.”

“Thanks.”

“What happened to everyone?” Priscilla asked, glancing at the scores of empty buildings, most of them little more than shacks.

“There were less than two hundred people in Corpus,” Trask explained, “until General Taylor set up a base of operations here last summer. Some three thousand men, ready and able to fight the Mexicans.”

“Town sprang up overnight,” Red Ding added. “Looks like a goddamn ghost town now.” Priscilla’s eyebrows shot up, but she forced herself to silence. She was out of her element here; she had better remember that.

As the wagon rumbled down the nearly empty dirt streets, Priscilla surveyed her surroundings: boarded-up saloons and gambling halls, empty mercantile buildings, hotels, even the tattered remnants of several tents, one of which appeared to have served as a livery.

“Two thousand civilians or thereabouts,” Red told them, “all come to town just itchin’ for a taste of the soldiers’ pay.”

“Looks like they left in a hurry,” Trask said.

“Wasn’t much reason to stick around. Soldiers was what brought ’em here in the first place. Once they was gone, the most of ’em hightailed it outta here.”

A group of men leaned against the porch of a still-open saloon. Several touched their hat brims as the wagon rolled past. Priscilla could have sworn they were leering.

“Bunch a cutthroats moved in after,” Red continued. “I was kinda hopin’ some a’ them Rangers might show up to clean the place out for us.”

“Most of them are fighting the Mexicans, in one way or another.”

“Doin’ a damn fine job of it, too, from what I hear.”

Priscilla looked at the seedy-looking men who rode their tough little horses past them in the street or strolled with a brash air along the wooden boardwalks.

“Are there many women in town?” she asked hopefully. They’d reached the corner of Mesquite and People—according to the broken street sign dangling in the hot, damp wind.

“Handful of women. No ladies—’ceptin’ you, ma’am, a’course. I’d stay close to Mr. Trask here, if’n I was you.”

Priscilla swallowed hard. “Of course.”

The wagon reached the trading post and rumbled to a halt beneath a nearby oak tree. “Too bad Colonel Kinney ain’t around. He always enjoys meetin’ new folks.”

Red set the brake, jumped down from the wagon, and started around the stone building toward the livery some distance away.

Brendan jumped down and helped Priscilla alight. He started toward the trading post and that’s when he saw them. A group of five horses, hard-ridden and lathered, tied at the side of the building. They nickered softly and pawed at the hard black earth.

“You wait here,” he said, setting her away from him and scanning the outbuildings for signs of possible
danger. In a town where women were as scarce as starched white shirts, this one would surely be a prize. “I want to see what’s going on in there.”

“All right.”

Brendan pulled his holster from his saddlebag, strapped the heavy belt around his waist, and tied the leather thong to his thigh. He checked the shot and wad, and made sure the Patterson—a .36 caliber belt model—rode easy in its holster.

“If things don’t look right, I’ll get what we need and meet you right here.” Without awaiting her reply, he walked to the heavy plank door, pulled it open, and stepped into the cool interior.

Coarse men’s laughter and the sound of a whiskey bottle clinking against glasses drew his attention toward the back of the room. The smell of meat and chili filled the air, and four men sat around a rough-hewn table immersed in the business of eating. From their unkempt hair and several weeks’ growth of beard—and the array of rifles and pistols they carried—it was obvious they weren’t the sort of men he wanted to tangle with.

They glanced up at his entrance, but seemed more interested in eating.

“May I help you, sir?” said a tiny, bespectacled man behind the counter near the door.

Brendan glanced once more at his surroundings. Colonel Kinney’s Trading Post was a solidly built stone structure with open-beamed ceilings and a tall rock fireplace at one end. Indian blankets hung from the rafters beside cougar pelts and deerskins, furs of badger and skunk. Bolts of calico and gingham stacked in two-foot columns, sacks of coffee, twists of
tobacco, cones of sugar—all of it made the place a jumble of colors and smells.

“I need some provisions,” Brendan said, “sugar, flour, coffee, beans, a few potatoes, some jerked beef, a slab of bacon. There’ll be two of us—enough for about five days.” That would be more than enough supplies, but he could always use the extra. It was the least Stuart Egan could do.

“Yes, sir. I’ve got some Indian corn, some melon, some sweet potatoes and black-eyed peas, if you’ve got the room.”

Brendan nodded. “What about bedding? We’ll need a tarpaulin and blankets, a few pots and pans—and a rifle and ammunition, the best you’ve got.”

“I’ll get it all together in a jiffy.” The little man eyed the others warily and began to scurry around the cluttered room collecting first one thing and then another.

Brendan watched the four men sitting at the table—and worried where the fifth man was.

Red brought the big black horse, saddled and ready to ride, and tied it to the rear of the wagon. “Take care, Miss Wills.”

“Shouldn’t we pay you or something?”

“Mr. Egan’s took care a’ that. You be careful now.” Tipping his hat, he headed off down the hill.

Standing beside the wagon in the shade, Priscilla shifted from one foot to the other, wondering what was going on in the trading post and why Trask hadn’t come back out to get her.

Probably forgotten he’d left her there. He was inside where it was cool, he couldn’t know how hot she
was, how badly she needed a drink of water. Even the shade and the brim of her bonnet couldn’t block the sun’s harsh rays. She licked her lips, drier by the minute, and glanced around for some water. Seeing nothing, she walked around the building toward the rear and spotted a low rock structure, roofed but not enclosed, that looked to be a well. She walked in that direction.

As she had hoped, the structure was indeed a well, and on reaching it, Priscilla turned the crank to haul up a moss-covered bucket of water. It tasted brackish and warm, but wet, liquid, and soothing. Priscilla breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thirsty,
señora?”

Priscilla spun toward the man’s gravelly voice and found him standing just a few feet behind her. He was a tall man, dressed in tight black breeches that flared at the bottom and a full-sleeved white linen shirt.

“Yes … yes, I was. Thank you for the water.”

“Do not thank me.” The tall dark Mexican chuckled. “It is not my water you are drinking.”

She smiled a little nervously. “I have to go,” she said and started past him.

“Why do you not come inside and meet
mis amigos?
They have not seen a true lady for many months. It would give them great pleasure to see one such as you.”