Authors: Kerry Newcomb
The Red Ripper (12 page)
Consuela, round and ripe, thick at the waist, with almond-colored eyes, reached over and slapped at the other girl. “Hush, Elizabeth!”
“If you have any trouble we'll help you get up,” Isabel said, bright-eyed and eager.
The desire emanating from that loft was enough to
burn the barn down. That kind of heat it was better to ride clear of.
burn the barn down. That kind of heat it was better to ride clear of.
“I have business today. But I shall look for you girls at the dance.”
“What dance?” they blurted out, almost in unison.
“The one we'll have about three years from now,” Wallace said with a grin. And, bowing again, he rode off toward the Brazos in search of safer company.
The hammerhead gray turned his ugly head toward the river. Both the stallion and the trailing hound knew the way to the Flying Jib and headed straight for the sandstone façade peering from a grove of willows overlooking the Brazos.
Several Mexican soldiers, the rest of Bradburn's escort, were lounging on the benches that had been left in the shade of the front porch. The dragoons looked on with a mixture of curiosity and grudging respect for the big man. Those who hadn't seen him before knew him by his size. One of the soldiers, a young man named Jose Oñatè, anxious to prove his mettle, shouldered his rifled musket and placed himself squarely in the entrance to the cantina. Wallace ignored the man as he dismounted and looped the reins of his horse over the hitching rail. The hound came slouching out of the dust, his tongue protruding from his scarred muzzle. Oñatè noticed the animal's mutilated ear and singed flank.
“The alcalde requests no guns be brought into the cantina,” the soldier said, distracted by the hound. “Hey, gringo, that's the ugliest dog I have ever seen.”
“That ol' hound's got a stone arrowhead lodged beneath that lump of skin over his rump,” Wallace dryly observed. “He's been shot at, nicked by a Comanche war lance, survived a tangle with a pack of red wolves, and had his snout slit open in a tussle with a wild boar.”
“What do you call such a dog?”
“Lucky,” Wallace replied. He brushed the soldier
aside and continued on into the cantina. Oñatè started to call him back. But then the hound began to growl deep in his throat and his hackles rose. The scarred muzzle curled back to reveal a ragged row of teeth. Oñatè felt his belly turn cold, and he backed away, returning to the safety of the porch and his companions, who were having a good laugh at his expense.
aside and continued on into the cantina. Oñatè started to call him back. But then the hound began to growl deep in his throat and his hackles rose. The scarred muzzle curled back to reveal a ragged row of teeth. Oñatè felt his belly turn cold, and he backed away, returning to the safety of the porch and his companions, who were having a good laugh at his expense.
William took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the shadowy interior. The cantina was empty save for its owner and a few solitary drinkers, most of whom were slumped forward, snoring. Angry noises drifted in from the crowd on the patio. One man in the back of the room glanced up from the jug he was trying to empty. He looked to be a good fifteen years older than Wallace, built thick and tough-looking, with stringy brown hair and bushy sideburns down to his jawline. The stranger seemed to take an interest in Wallace. His gaze followed the Texican as he crossed the room and came up behind Mad Jack. The Frenchman stood behind the counter, filling a clay jug from a recently tapped keg of his home brew. Flambeau glanced over his shoulder; a look of recognition softened his expression. He set the aside the jug and, with fatherly affection, hurried over to embrace William.
“Figured you'd come dragging in here after most of the hotheads were plumb argued out.” Mad Jack grinned. He looked much the same as ever, save for the black patch that covered his now-sightless left eye. His shaved skull was concealed beneath a yellow scarf that kept the perspiration from rolling into his good eye. His brown waistcoat and loose white shirt seemed a trifle threadbare, but other than that Capt. Mad Jack Flambeau looked much the same as when he had rescued William from the Mexican troops. Partnership with Hanneke Van Wey suited him.
“It appears you've found your proper calling.” William
removed his sombrero and set it upon the bar. His red hair was matted with sweat; moisture streaked the side of his face. He mopped his forehead and cheek with the long cotton scarf casually knotted about his throat. Wallace glanced around the cantina, noticing a few additions to the seafaring relics that adorned its log walls. Mad Jack had acquired a ship's figurehead, a pair of crossed cutlasses, a small deck gun, and another flag of the brethrenâa skeleton balancing an hourglass upon the palm of its bony hand. “You are a sly old sea dog.”
removed his sombrero and set it upon the bar. His red hair was matted with sweat; moisture streaked the side of his face. He mopped his forehead and cheek with the long cotton scarf casually knotted about his throat. Wallace glanced around the cantina, noticing a few additions to the seafaring relics that adorned its log walls. Mad Jack had acquired a ship's figurehead, a pair of crossed cutlasses, a small deck gun, and another flag of the brethrenâa skeleton balancing an hourglass upon the palm of its bony hand. “You are a sly old sea dog.”
“This arrangement started out as strictly business. I cannot help it if my own natural charm smoothed the path to the window's bedchamber.”
William suspected Hanneke had played the freebooter like a fiddle right from the onset. Nothing had happened that she hadn't planned. But William would never say as much to the Frenchman. A man needed his illusions.
Most of the people here didn't know Flambeau's past, or if they did, it wasn't held against him. With the passing of the years Mad Jack had established himself as a valuable member of the community. Men from the fields, merchants and shopkeepers, colonists of every station and social bearing had sampled the Frenchman's hospitality. The Flying Jib had. become a favorite gathering site.
A river breeze constantly fanned the clearing. The aroma of fried fish drifted in through the open back door. William tossed his sombrero aside, breathed deep, and heard his stomach growl. But judging from the angry voices striving to shout one another down, many of the cantina's patrons were in no mood for a fish fry. Most of the lot sounded as if they had a belly full of indignation.
“Listen to them. It's been all me and Hanneke can do to keep them supplied with drink. I've gone through every river-cooled jug of ale; the rum and tequila are
gone. I'm down to home brew. And Bradburn hasn't moved from his position.” Mad Jack leaned against the bar. “The alcalde insists on receiving twenty percent of the value of each shipment, in gold or goods, before any one of us sets foot in his warehouses. He claims these orders come direct from Santa Anna.”
gone. I'm down to home brew. And Bradburn hasn't moved from his position.” Mad Jack leaned against the bar. “The alcalde insists on receiving twenty percent of the value of each shipment, in gold or goods, before any one of us sets foot in his warehouses. He claims these orders come direct from Santa Anna.”
“What do you say?” William asked.
“Mon Dieu! I know a pirate when I see one.” Mad Jack scowled and stroked his chin. “He's
el presidente's
hireling. I'll warrant he reports on every
norte americano
coming and going in these parts. He's always sending dispatch riders to Cos in San Antonio. And I doubt a boat doesn't leave Anahuac without some message aboard for Santa Anna himself.”
el presidente's
hireling. I'll warrant he reports on every
norte americano
coming and going in these parts. He's always sending dispatch riders to Cos in San Antonio. And I doubt a boat doesn't leave Anahuac without some message aboard for Santa Anna himself.”
William chuckled. “Bradburn, huh? I've not met the man. How are the others taking it?”
“Austin's the voice of reason and restraint, like always,” Mad Jack told him, moving toward the doorway, a pitcher in his hand. He knew the colonists had legitimate grievancesâunjust taxation stuck in his craw as much as any man's. But he was older now. Sailing against the prevailing wind was a young man's game. “It's a peculiar bunch. Men like señor Saldevar and some old-timers follow Austin's lead. But this new breed: Houston, Travis, Lamar, some of the others ⦠well, you've sat down with 'em. They're ⦠well ⦔
“Full of piss and vinegar.” Wallace grinned. These were interesting times. He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced around at the stranger who continued to stare at him. William was not a man to stand on ceremony. He ambled across the room and came to a halt a few feet from the man. William wrinkled his nose at the smell of tequila and body sweat. The man had been on the trail for a good while.
“Well, pilgrim, take a good look,” Wallace said, holding his arms out from his side.
The man's eyes drifted to the knife hilts of Old Butch and Bonechucker, the only weapons Wallace favored in town.
“You must be him, the only one they call the Red Ripper,” the stranger said. “Folks said look for a man tall as timber, hair red as spilled blood, and packing a pair of knives forged in Spain.”
“I am William Wallace.”
The stranger drew a lethal-looking blade from his belt and placed it on the table. It was single-edged steel, about the same length as Bonechucker and almost as wide. The blade was curved at the tipâa simple but effective design for disemboweling a man in a fight. Bonechucker's fluted tip served the same purpose. “I am Jim Bowie. Perhaps you have heard of me?”
“Some,” William replied. Bowie was drunk, but that didn't make him any less dangerous. The man had a reputation as a duelist throughout the South, although he was said to have left that violent life behind and moved somewhere in central Mexico.
“No man is my equal with a knife,” Bowie said. He patted the hilt and then returned the weapon to its sheath.
“If you say so.”
Bowie stroked his chin as he considered this reply. “I heard you throw a long shadow when it comes to âclose quarters.'” He lifted a glass to his lips and tilted his head back as if to toss down a shot of tequila. Realizing the glass was empty, he cursed and tossed it aside and watched it roll across the floor until it clinked against the stone hearth. “As.long as I was in Texas, I figured to come on up to San Felipe and see for myself.” Bowie grinned. “I figure you'd want to have us a little scrap, just for fun like, and find out who is the better man. Of course it would all be just a game.”
Wallace studied Bowie's features, didn't like what he saw lurking behind the corridor of those cold, dark eyes.
“What do you think?” Bowie asked.
“I think you've drunk enough,” said Wallace, retracing his steps across the room.
Mad Jack was waiting for him at the rear of the cantina. Wallace could feel Bowie's drunken stare boring into him. But Flambeau nodded his head approvingly. “Best you come outside.” The Frenchman carried a jug of his Slaughter of the Innocents in each hand.
“Take care you don't slosh any of that home brew on your knuckles. It'll take the hide off clear to the bone,” William dryly observed, rubbing the back of his neck and trying to forget his brief exchange with Jim Bowie.
“Ain't heard no complaints,” Mad Jack noted, unamused. “I see Lucky's found him a place by the fire.” The scarred old hound lay at Hanneke's feet, happily devouring a morsel of catfish that the woman had “accidentally” dropped.
“Hanneke's a fine-looking woman,” William took care to mention. “You're blest to find a lady with such poor taste in men.”
“At least I waited till her husband was dead and buried before I gave her a look,” Flambeau retorted, instantly regretting his remarks the moment they left his lips. “Sorry, lad; that was below the waterline.”
“But right on the mark,” William admitted, a note of guilt in his voice. He spied Don Murillo and Chuy Montoya hunched together at one of the tables outside. The
haciendado
noticed the big man and waved. Wallace returned the gesture.
haciendado
noticed the big man and waved. Wallace returned the gesture.
At another table, Austin was so embroiled in an argument with Sam Houston and the lawyer Bill Travis that he failed to notice the towering frontiersman he had once befriended. Houston and Travis, a twenty-six-year-old Mississippian, were men in search of their destinies. William Wallace understood them, for he, too, was a proud dreamer, with his own vision of empire.
Austin might have been the first of the
norte americanos
to come to Texas, but it was clear he wouldn't be the last. Despite his long-standing friendship for the founder of San Felipe and the colonists who had welcomed him, Wallace couldn't help but take a liking to these newcomers. There was more going on here then a group of colonists trying to accommodate the Mexican authorities. Like a change in the weather, something was in the wind that Wallace couldn't put a name to yet, but he'd damn well know when the storm hit.
norte americanos
to come to Texas, but it was clear he wouldn't be the last. Despite his long-standing friendship for the founder of San Felipe and the colonists who had welcomed him, Wallace couldn't help but take a liking to these newcomers. There was more going on here then a group of colonists trying to accommodate the Mexican authorities. Like a change in the weather, something was in the wind that Wallace couldn't put a name to yet, but he'd damn well know when the storm hit.
“Where's Esperanza? Back at the hotel?” William asked, half-expecting to see her at Don Murillo's table. The señora had a stubborn streak. She wasn't the kind to sit by a fire knitting when the world around her was fixing to change.
“Not hardly.” Mad Jack nodded toward the path leading down to the riverbank. “She went for a walk down by the Brazos. She just left withâ”
“A walk, eh? Well then, the alcalde can wait,” William interrupted with a wink and started down the river path at a quick pace.
Jesus Zavala called out to Wallace, who waved as he skirted the crowd with his long-legged stride, moving silently, quickly, like some great panther on the prowl. The blacksmith had never forgotten that Wallace had rescued his children from the Comanche war party. Zavala would carry his debt of gratitude to the grave. It pleased him that his son was Wallace's
segundo.
segundo.
“I wonder if I should have told him Bradburn's with her,” Mad Jack muttered beneath his breath. “Mais non. He'll find out soon enough.” Flambeau would have started off among the tables, but a low rumble of a voice spoke to him from the interior of the cantina.
“So that's El Destripedor Rojo. I've come up from Guadalajara to see him for myself. He's big enough.” Bowie spit in the dirt. “Think I could take him?”
“Not likely,” Flambeau said. “I heard that Wallace was taught by a master knife fighterâno man was his peer.” Flambeau turned and faced Bowie. “They had an outbreak of smallpox down Guadalajara way. Was it bad?”
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