Stronger Than Passion (28 page)

The current business of the guerilla unit seemed to be scouting around. They knew a group of Santanista guerillas was in the neighborhood somewhere, and their job was to find it and destroy it. Supply lines from Texas into Mexico and to the American army had been cut three times so far by this particular group, and fifteen men had been killed protecting the goods they were delivering. General Taylor was livid; he needed every item of food or medicine or ammunition he could get his hands on, and to lose even a single bullet to the Mexicans infuriated him. But it was the loss of life that was the real waste, because the army could ill afford to lose any more men. Taylor had four other scouting parties besides Julian’s out looking. The territory was vast and filled with places in which not only a dozen men but a hundred might hide. Unless the Santanistas were on the move and careless, they would be difficult to find.

Except for Torrance’s troop, which possessed the services of Comanche Indian scouts.

They would have found them earlier, but for the delay of running across Manzanal ’s calvocade - which Julian had recognized for what it was, and ordered taken. Now, the Santanista trail was cold. But the general direction the guerillas had taken could be estimated fairly easily, and it was only a matter of time before their spoor was cut again.

Julian sent alternating halves of his men out in different directions, searching for signs, while the others rested in the rare friendly villages, or in thrown-together camps.

Christina and Penny did their best to make each stop as pleasant as possible for the men while at the same time keeping a cautious distance from them. It wasn’t always easy. With increasing frequency, one or more of them would sit close to the women during supper and after, smoking and drinking. And talking.

It seemed these semi-outlaws had a desire to explain their killer-motives to shocked feminine ears, particularly in light of Christina’s background. They came to tell her tale after tale of true-life horrors, stories of murder and plunder that caused the terrible tales of Manzanal’s men to fade in comparison. Most of these guerilla fighters had seen these atrocities firsthand, or even been a part of them.

A fair-haired American had spent three years in a Mexico City jail after being captured on the ill-fated Santa Fe expedition, and his body bore numerous scars to testify to his treatment during incarcerations. The German had fought Mexicans during their second invasion of Texas in 1842 and had witnessed the results of their raiding and pillaging of every farm and ranch the army happened to pass. A young Frenchman, Rene St. Just, had watched the slaughter of his entire family by Santanista guerilla raiders four years before.

They all had stories, each more outrageous than the first. Spoken into the quiet evening, voices flat and calm or choked with anger . . . but with sincerity backing every word. These men lived with the memory of tragedy and with hatred every day, and if it had made them into outlaws of a kind, they didn’t notice or mind. Their remembrances were justification enough for the job Julian Torrance had brought them together to do.

Penny was horrified by these stories and ready to offer immediate sympathy to men whom she now saw in a different light. Christina found herself even more deeply affected. She began questioning the integrity of Santa Anna, and even of her own country - whose honor and chivalry she couldn’t help but hold now in extreme doubt.

Was it true that Santa Anna, whom she knew as a showy but always and elegant man, was capable of needless murder and brutality? Was he really the ruinous monster these Texans believed him to be, or was it all some bizarre mistake? Were the horrible actions taken by him against Texas for its rebelliousness necessary - or were they inhuman and overwhelmingly cruel, forcing Texans to fight even more fiercely for their own survival? Had Santa Anna driven Texas into the arms of the United States by his own harshness?

Julian Torrance sat still long enough one night to answer some of her questions.

They were grouped around a small campfire hidden within a hollow, which was also where they would sleep. The supper of fried rabbit, beans and tortillas that Penny and Christina had cooked had been consumed, and many of the men had already gone off with their bedrolls. The evening was cool, as usual, and Christina sat tending the fire, a scarlet-patterned Indian blanket draped around her shoulders while Penny lay down nearby. Only Young Rene St. Just and two other insomniacs remained awake and talking.

Torrance came to the fire with his coffee cup. He rarely joined in on the after-dinner discussions his men enjoyed in the presence of the ladies; preferring instead to stalk the camp perimeters, confer privately with his classified officers, or write messages until dropping down somewhere for a few hours of sleep. But this night he stayed.

It might have had to do with the beseeching look on the Señora’s obviously suffering face. Or perhaps curiosity about why the strained look was there. For whatever reason, he hunkered down Indian-style beside her, poured himself the last of the strong coffee, and managed to address her without any obvious sarcasm in voice or expression.

She took the opening he offered her and demanded answers to a stream of upsetting questions concerning the whys and wherefores of this war. Just how she expected him to give an account that was both factorial and unbiased, considering his prejudices, she didn’t know. Somehow, he, of all people, would tell her the truth.

“What is it really that you wish to know, Señora? Whether Mexico has right behind her as she attempts to regain her far-distant lands, which - incidentally - she cannot govern . . . or whether Texas and its people are in the right as they fight for choice? That’s a purely personal thing, Señora, an opinion. If you lived in Texas, you would want your government nearby so it could take an interest in you, and provide services like schools and law courts. Certainly you would want it to do more than take your taxes and then sit back and rely on you to cultivate land and fight Indians and deal with criminals and education. But, on the other hand, if you lived in or around Mexico City . . . you would consider it your country’s duty to keep its holidays, no matter how far away, and to put down any rebellion that might arise. That is the way you feel, isn’t it?” Torrance’s gaze was sharp yet non-threatening. He held her within his attention, ignoring the others present who tried to follow his meaning.

His words surrounded her; she gave in to them, concerned only with speaking the truth. “Of course. Although I haven’t lived in Mexico a long time, it is now my country . . . and I would not be happy were Mexico to simply give up a land so valuable as Texas, especially to America.”

“Yet, Santa Anna did give Texas away. By treaty. To govern herself. Then he tried to take her back, by force. He raped the land in the meantime.”

“I know, I have heard.” Her arching brows were drawn forward in confusion at the complexity of the thing. “But I am sure he never meant for America to have her!”

“No, I am sure he did not.” Julian’s voice was soft, as were the dark eyes which rested on her with unusual feeling. He almost loved her, now, as she wrestled with the moral problems of this ambiguous land-grab war. He certainly admired her for using her brains, and for reasoning, instead of accepting what she was and what she was supposed to think. How beautiful she looked to him, with the reflections of her intense thinking shifting colors in her eyes! She was suffering, true, but she was learning and changing. How rare to find the mere ability in a woman like her . . . she had surprised him. And he delighted in surprise; such an impossible emotion these days.

“Why doesn’t Texas remain independent, then, and neutral between Mexico and America?”

“Mexico would gobble her up. Or England, or even France; there has been talk of that, too. Texas was debt-ridden, and incapable of sustaining a large army, before annexation to the United States. Any determined country could have had her. Why not America, since many prominent Texas citizens were once Americans anyway, and have always wanted annexation? Besides . . .” he added quietly, “America is a democracy, not a dictatorship.”

Her head tilted sharply upward. “Santa Anna is no dictator!”

“No? I disagree, niña.”

She was too angry to notice the endearment. “He doesn’t even want to be called President! He is a general, nothing more.”

“Does a general dictate a country’s policy? Does a general possess the power to single-handedly begin or end a war, raise millions in silver, and spend it as he wishes?”

“He is a popular general,” Christina said lamely.

“So was Napoleon. Do you comprehend me?”

She was silent for a moment. “He is what the people of Mexico want. A strong personality. They respect that.”

“Unchecked, a strong man can be dangerous.”

Like you, she thought to as she stared at his unsettling face. Like Michael. Aloud she said, “Dangerous to traitors.”

“To anyone or anything which gets in the way of personal glory. Santa Anna would not put up with a challenge to his power from any direction. It is a character flaw.”

“You do not know him personally, do you? He does not want to rule Mexico, he has said so quite often!”

“Then why was he exiled to Havana? Someone in your own government believed him to be dangerous.”

“I didn’t say he had no power, only that he - Dios!” she gave up the argument, raising a hand to rub her forehead where a headache was forming.

Julian watched her, waiting quietly and somewhat tensely for her to speak. When she continued, it was in a low, restless tone. “Are they true - the stories I hear, about the killings, and the burning of property, and the - ”

“Yes.”

The word was flat and unemotional. She saw the cold implacability of his face, and believed him. I cannot condone that, Señor Torrance,” she whispered. “I am very sorry for you, and for Miguel - and everyone else in this land.”

She stood to go to her bedroll. She would be unable to sleep, but was incapable of sitting still any longer in conversation with this man to whom she had displayed her wavering loyalties. She turned away.

He let her go, not responding to her murmured “good night.” But his eyes followed her into the shadows, and he ignored the loud spats of comments and queries which erupted from the three men who had witnessed the exchange.

Her apology meant nothing. She was a Santanista with a guilty conscience.

Yet, he had enjoyed watching her labor beneath the weighty issues of responsibility and blame. He had been pleased to enlighten her about Santa Anna’s reprehensible true nature, and hopefully torture her tender conscience a little more.

And, for some unaccountable reason, Julian found himself desiring her, right now. He wanted the use of that body whose mind struggled along so valiantly.

He thought of her lying only a few feet away, stretched out and staring into the night with her thoughts all jumbled and uncomfortable. He imagined the pain of her sudden distrust of Santa Anna and her familiar Mexican world. He thought of the whiteness of her body. He wondered how many times Michael had taken it.

He came smoothly to his feet, calculating how long it would take him to ride south to the nearest town in which he could buy a woman. Several hours hard riding; too long. He would have to immerse himself in the stream, a half-mile away.

He stalked out of the firelight and vanished into the darkness.

One man watched him go and said caustically. “The captain
never has been a sociable man.”

Impossible, now, to think that only a week ago she had passed her days in an apathetic, depressed haze, and her nights in self-pitying dreams.

There was so much for her to do now, and so much to think about. Where, for instance, was she to acquire the freshly-baked tortillas necessary for every meal? How was she to prepare the rangy, lean game meat that one or the other of the men would provide every other day? What might she ask after supper that would start a conversation broad enough to encompass any or all of the subjects she was interested in; including as many hints about present location that could be discerned?

They seemed to be riding in broad circles, because for all the hard days of travel, the same scenery of scrub brush, barrancas and occasional trees never much varied. They even passed through the same villages once or twice. She assumed that Torrance and his guerrillas were looking for something. But what? Mexican soldiers, or possibly even Michael Brett?

No one would tell her anything concerning the business of the troop, or even dare to speculate on how long she and Penny might remain with them. But Christina noticed a certain shifting in the men’s attitudes; a kind of cold-eyed anticipation that warned of pending action.

Then, on the seventh night after the women had joined the unit, Torrance held a quiet conference with all of his men, ladies excluded. Christina and Penny were awakened early the next morning, well before dawn; and instructed to prepare a cold breakfast, and then pack their horses. They would be leaving the main body of the troop here, and going in a different direction, with only Rene for company.

Christina felt a sickening jolt at the idea of leaving the men, realizing for the first time what an odd security their familiar numbers brought her. Penny even clutched at Christina’s arm in dismay. But neither of them voiced their fears aloud, because it was Captain Torrance who was giving them orders, and who stood staring at them sardonically. Both women would rather face death than admit any cowardly weakness to him.