Authors: Kerry Newcomb
The Red Ripper (15 page)
“Damn.” Wallace shook his head, rubbed his eyes for a moment. Sweat trickled down the side of his cheek. He wanted no part of a man like that. But he understood the man. After all, William Wallace was no stranger to ghosts and self-recrimination.
“Think you can talk sense into Austin?”
Wallace softly laughed. “Are you kidding me? Stephen's determined to try his luck with Santa Anna.
El presidente
's a âone-eyed jack,' but I've seen the other
side of his face.” Wallace drained the contents of his cup, set it aside, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he hunched over and stared into the soot-blackened fireplace.
El presidente
's a âone-eyed jack,' but I've seen the other
side of his face.” Wallace drained the contents of his cup, set it aside, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he hunched over and stared into the soot-blackened fireplace.
“Too bad about our supplies. That blasted alcalde's got us by the
cojones.
He can claim our goods for taxes and sell them back to us.”
cojones.
He can claim our goods for taxes and sell them back to us.”
“Not likely,” Wallace replied, his quiet voice seeming to fill the empty room.
“Nothing you can do, lad. You went and gave your word there would be no trouble between Bradburn and you.”
“But I didn't say anything about Comanche,” Wallace said.
Mad Jack studied him, brows knotted as the sea dog struggled to understand the workings of the big man's mind. Wallace knelt by the hearth, spit in the ashes, rubbed his fingers in the soot, and streaked his features with black war paint. His green eyes twinkled and a grin wide as a quarter-moon split his features.
“Oh!” Mad Jack exclaimed.
Â
Bowie was snoring loud enough to wake the dead. The knife fighter was easy to locate in the dark confines of the stable; one only had to follow the sound of the rumbling steam engine that passed for breathing. Wallace lingered near the front door and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness, then moved with caution down the center aisle. Bowie might be a light sleeper. On the other hand, Mad Jack's home brew had a way of deadening a man's senses. Indeed, Bowie had drunk enough Slaughter of the Innocents to warrant sleeping with the angels.
Wallace stole down the center aisle and passed close to the hammerhead gray he had raised from a colt. The gray caught his scent and whinnied, shook his head, and stretched his nose beyond the gate. William reassured
the stallion with a pat on the muzzle signaling all was well. He was relieved to find Jim Bowie sprawled on his saddle blankets in an empty stall, deep asleep on a bed of hay. Wallace dropped a hand to his side, slid Bonechucker from its scabbard. Steel whispered on leather as the blade slipped free.
the stallion with a pat on the muzzle signaling all was well. He was relieved to find Jim Bowie sprawled on his saddle blankets in an empty stall, deep asleep on a bed of hay. Wallace dropped a hand to his side, slid Bonechucker from its scabbard. Steel whispered on leather as the blade slipped free.
Bowie mumbled something, engaged some unseen foe in a dreamlike conversation. He frowned and called out again. His arm flung out and clutched a handful of straw. Then the turmoil subsided. Wallace knelt alongside the sleeping man and placed the cold steel blade against the sleeping man's throat.
Bowie came awake with a start, eyes wide; realization struck a few seconds laterâany false move would find him slit from ear to ear. He gulped. The reaction of his Adam's apple forced his flesh against the razor-sharp steel blade and drew a thin trickle of blood.
Wallace leaned in close. “I am Wallace. I am the Wild West Wind, the Prince of Daggers, El Destripedor Rojo. I am the Red Ripper. And I don't play games.”
“Sure you do,” Bowie managed to croak without so much as even batting an eyelash. “Else I'd be knocking at St. Peter's Door right now.”
Twirling his knife, Wallace caught the weapon by the hilt and stabbed downward. Bowie gasped as the blade sank to the hilt in the dirt floor, missing his ear by a fraction of an inch. Wallace tugged the weapon free, cleaned the blade on his sleeve, and returned the weapon to its buckskin sheath. William cursed softly, stood, and started back down the aisle.
“I know one thing about you, William Wallace,” Bowie said. He managed to stand despite his wobbly legs. “You sure as hell know how to sober a man up.” He stretched forth his hand in friendship. Wallace returned to claim it. “Reckon I let the tequila get the better of me.”
“You wouldn't be the first,” William said. He stepped back. “Or the last.”
“Some mornings I wake up and can't even tell where I am.”
“This is Texas,” Wallace said. Storm clouds were brewing on the horizon, and sooner or later they were all going to get wet. “If a man wants to get himself killed, he's come to the right place.”
“And if a man wants to live ⦠?” Bowie's voice drifted out of the darkness.
Wallace softly laughed. A breeze pushed against the door and stirred the straw underfoot. He hooked a thumb in his belt and took a deep breath of the night wind; it smelled of men and horses, of fires and the good land and dreams of empire. “
He's
come to the right place, too.”
He's
come to the right place, too.”
“A LITTLE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS IS JUST WHAT THOSE BOYS NEED.”
In the dark of a soft summer's night, the horsemen came riding by the light of a Comanche moon, with a drum of hooves and a rattle of wagons, wheels churning the rutted, weathered surface of the coast road, grassland and seashore beckoning as they broke from a memory of trees and hurtled down past the bayous and lowlands. Blackgrass muffled their approach, and no one in Anahuac was the wiser.
Wallace ordered a halt with the scent of sea salt heavy in the air and the moon-dappled waters of the Gulf of Mexico stretching out beyond the collection of cabins and barracks, warehouses, piers, and waterfront taverns that made up the settlement. He was stripped to the waist, his features streaked with war paint, red hair streaming in the wind. His naked torso glistened like rain-soaked granite in the moonlight.
Jim Bowie reined in alongside him and, next to Bowie, William's own
segundo,
young Roberto Zavala, breathless with excitement. Sam Houston led a second column of Texicans, all of them dressed in buckskin leggings and breechclouts, each man's identity hidden beneath a hastily smeared mask of tar black or concoctions of white and red clay.
segundo,
young Roberto Zavala, breathless with excitement. Sam Houston led a second column of Texicans, all of them dressed in buckskin leggings and breechclouts, each man's identity hidden beneath a hastily smeared mask of tar black or concoctions of white and red clay.
A scrawl of clouds drifted across the face of the moon like black blood. These men shared a common bond. No
innocents here; they knew what brought them. A week had passed since Stephen Austin had departed for Mexico City, a week in which John Bradburn had proved intractable, a man unwilling to compromise.
innocents here; they knew what brought them. A week had passed since Stephen Austin had departed for Mexico City, a week in which John Bradburn had proved intractable, a man unwilling to compromise.
A turncoat like Bradburn smelled ill-gotten profits. The scent of money was up, and the alcalde was after his share like a hound after a hare. But tonight William Wallace and his companions intended to set the matter aright. Thirty-two men with seven empty freight wagons had followed Wallace out of San Felipe. They took their time, intending to arrive at Anahuac under cover of darkness. Astride their restless mounts they gathered in a circle to finalize their plans.
“Senator,” Wallace said, addressing Houston, “I'll give you and the boys a head start. There's the corral yonder by the barracks. When I signal, drive the horses back up this road. If Bradburn wants his dragoons to follow us, he'll have to send them on foot.”
Houston chaffed at being ordered about; after all, he was a good deal older, nearly two decades. The man had tasted the governorship and found it difficult to play a subordinate part in the drama about to unfold. However, this was Wallace's party. The Tennessean was confident his time would come later.
“Looks to be two dozen, maybe thirty horses,” Roberto said, peering through a spyglass. “Me and Chuy and señor Houston can handle them easy.”
“Good lad,” Wallace said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just be sure you keep out of some dragoon's gunsight.”
“I'll ride low and hard, like always.”
Wallace's mongrel hound came slouching out of the shadows and snapped at the horses closest to him. A mare shied and forced Bill Travis to struggle to keep the animal under control.
“Don't lose those reins, señor Travis,” Chuy Montoya
spoke up. He reached down and caught the skittish animal by the bit and steadied the mount. “This mare will run on you, mark my words.” Montoya took his quirt and slapped the dog across the rump. The corded leather stung like a scorpion, and the dog yelped and darted out of harm's way.
spoke up. He reached down and caught the skittish animal by the bit and steadied the mount. “This mare will run on you, mark my words.” Montoya took his quirt and slapped the dog across the rump. The corded leather stung like a scorpion, and the dog yelped and darted out of harm's way.
“I thought señor Murillo said the beast was saddle-broke,” the lawyer grumbled. Travis had bought the mare from a string of mounts Don Murillo had brought into town. The wretched animal had been fighting him for two days solid. He was saddle-sore and his back ached like blue blazes.
“She's not quite lawyer-broke is all,” Montoya chuckled. “This here mare will sit a saddle all day long once you let her know who's boss.”
A ripple of nervous laughter made its way around the circle. Wallace stilled them with his raised hand. “Jim, you know what to do?”
Bowie looked like he needed drink. He licked the inside of his mouth; the flesh felt dry and prickly. He wiped a forearm across his eyes and lips and nodded. Several of the men carried ax handles and makeshift clubs. “Me and the lads will handle the guards. And there'll be no gunplay. I doubt we'll have any trouble. I've been watching that patrol and seen them passing around a jug of âwho hit John.'”
“Maybe we could save ourselves some trouble and just spike their liquor with a drop or two of Mad Jack's home brew. A little Slaughter of the Innocents is just what those boys need,” said another of the Texicans.
Again the laughter, easier now, more confident. Wallace knew it was time. He broke from the circle and walked the gray up alongside one of the wagons.
“Well, Mr. Kania, are you ready to receive shipment of your goods?”
Kenneth, the elder, glanced over at his son perched
on the bench seat of an adjacent flatbed freight hauler. Robert Kania was focused, though obviously nervous. His gaze never left the barracks and warehouse. No two men ever looked less like Comanche than the two Poles with their pale blond hair unkempt and their faces streaked with crimson and white clay. Only their courage and commitment gave them dignity.
on the bench seat of an adjacent flatbed freight hauler. Robert Kania was focused, though obviously nervous. His gaze never left the barracks and warehouse. No two men ever looked less like Comanche than the two Poles with their pale blond hair unkempt and their faces streaked with crimson and white clay. Only their courage and commitment gave them dignity.
“My boy and I won't let you down.”
“Movement at the warehouse, Big Foot,” Jesus Zavala softly warned. The swarthy blacksmith kept his voice low. The men turned to watch as a pair of sentries rounded the corner of a long pitched-roof stone building where the alcalde kept the shipments under lock and key.
The soldiers were engrossed in conversation. One of them paused to gesture toward the trio of schooners riding easy at their moorings. Moonshadows played along the masts and spars jutting skyward from the maindecks. Music and the noise of revelry drifted on the night breezes blowing in from the gulf. Fortunately for the raiders, Bradburn's warehouse had been built apart from the central waterfront and placed under the watchful scrutiny of the soldiers in the barracks.
With any luck we won't even alert the troops until it's too late,
Wallace thought. He shifted his own spyglass and studied streets, which for the most part were empty, then scrutinized the rambling stone house set on a narrow strip of land stretching out into the bay. The alcalde had chosen to reside in a place apart from the settlement proper, perhaps for the view of the restless sea; then again, maybe he did not trust the denizens of the port. William counted four sentries tending a campfire that blocked the approach to Bradburn's headquarters. No one was going to reach the alcalde without first identifying himself to the armed guard.
Wallace thought. He shifted his own spyglass and studied streets, which for the most part were empty, then scrutinized the rambling stone house set on a narrow strip of land stretching out into the bay. The alcalde had chosen to reside in a place apart from the settlement proper, perhaps for the view of the restless sea; then again, maybe he did not trust the denizens of the port. William counted four sentries tending a campfire that blocked the approach to Bradburn's headquarters. No one was going to reach the alcalde without first identifying himself to the armed guard.
Wallace glanced around at the men who followed him, men who were inspired by his zeal and bristled with
excitement because of where they were and what they were about to do. They were waiting for a word, a statement, a catalyst to send them on their way. He kept it brief.
excitement because of where they were and what they were about to do. They were waiting for a word, a statement, a catalyst to send them on their way. He kept it brief.
“Well, boys, reckon it's time to root hog or die a poor pig.”
Â
Jose Oñatè complained about the lateness of the hour and bemoaned the fact that he would have never been assigned to the warehouse guard detail if the
alcalde
hadn't coveted Oñatè's girlfriend, the lovely Consuelo Rodrigo. Oñatè rounded the corner of the warehouse and paused to lean on his musket and glare jealously at the house out by the bay, secluded on its narrow peninsula, protected by men he knew. He watched and waited in the darkness, sweat stealing along his neck and soaking the stiff collar of his uniform of dark blue wool trimmed with brass buttons and held snug to his belly by a wide leather belt from which hung a pouch of paper cartridges for his rifled musket.
alcalde
hadn't coveted Oñatè's girlfriend, the lovely Consuelo Rodrigo. Oñatè rounded the corner of the warehouse and paused to lean on his musket and glare jealously at the house out by the bay, secluded on its narrow peninsula, protected by men he knew. He watched and waited in the darkness, sweat stealing along his neck and soaking the stiff collar of his uniform of dark blue wool trimmed with brass buttons and held snug to his belly by a wide leather belt from which hung a pouch of paper cartridges for his rifled musket.
Oñatè kicked at the dirt underfoot and amused himself by plotting a variety of fates, all of them involving a painful demise for Bradburn. He tried not to picture Consuelo on her back, plump derriere glistening and moist, her legs kicking at the ceiling while the alcalde pumped his seed into her.
“What is it, young one?” a second guard asked, approaching along the path Oñatè had worn into the earth on his rounds. Pablo Gomez was a chunky dark-skinned man with close-set eyes and a prominent nose protruding from his flat face. The blood of Aztec princes flowed in his veins. But he was unaware of his lineage; generations of poverty had erased any latent tribal memory. Now he was a soldier. The military was the only world he knew. Life was reduced to a simple equation of food and drink and obeying his commander's orders. He didn't care
who his officers were as long as they didn't try to get him killed with any regularity.
who his officers were as long as they didn't try to get him killed with any regularity.
Anahuac was excellent duty. Nothing happened in this remote corner of Texas. A soldier could spend the entire day escaping work and enjoying the simple pleasures of the waterfront cantinas where the women were always willing but rarely beauties. Not that he was a picky man. “Ah, I know; you pine for the lovely Consuela. But she is the alcalde's
puta.
Do not punish yourself, my young stallion; there are other whores in Anahuac.”
puta.
Do not punish yourself, my young stallion; there are other whores in Anahuac.”
Gomez's breath reeked of pulque and his stance wavered, forcing the dragoon to prop himself against the outer wall of the warehouse whenever he stopped his forward progress.
“But none like Consuela,” Oñatè replied, disdaining the old trooper's company. “She is the fairest flower in the garden.”
“Trigo's whorehouse is hardly a garden,” the older man chuckled. “And it's the worst place to find true love.”
“What would you know of love,
viejo
?” Oñatè snapped. “That fire below your belt burned out years ago.”
viejo
?” Oñatè snapped. “That fire below your belt burned out years ago.”
“There's still an ember or two among the ashes,” Pablo said, adjusting his crotch. “All it takes is the right woman to blow on 'em.” He cackled aloud at his own wit and continued on his rounds. Oñatè scowled and fell in step alongside the soldier. He tried to think of some clever retort to put Gomez in his place and was about to fall back on impugning the old man's masculinity when he spied an animal slinking toward them through a thicket of mesquite bush nestled against a cluster of outhouses.
“What have we here?” Oñatè muttered.
“Just a dog, wandered up from the shore no doubt,”
Pablo replied. The mongrel left the underbrush and padded toward them, passing through a patch of cold moonlight. Oñatè had the disquieting notion he had seen the animal before. Pablo fumbled in his pocket and found a twist of jerked beef. He gnawed one end until it softened enough for a morsel to break off in his mouth. He placed the remaining few inches in the palm of his hand and offered it to the dog. The animal cautiously approached the soldier, unaccustomed to the kindness of strangers, scarred muzzle to the wind, catching scent of the meat.
Pablo replied. The mongrel left the underbrush and padded toward them, passing through a patch of cold moonlight. Oñatè had the disquieting notion he had seen the animal before. Pablo fumbled in his pocket and found a twist of jerked beef. He gnawed one end until it softened enough for a morsel to break off in his mouth. He placed the remaining few inches in the palm of his hand and offered it to the dog. The animal cautiously approached the soldier, unaccustomed to the kindness of strangers, scarred muzzle to the wind, catching scent of the meat.
“I see you're an úgly old bastard,” Gomez chuckled “Just like me. Only it looks like you came near having your hide burned off some time ago, and that ear looks as chewed as this beef. That back leg of yours looks crippled. Where have you been, amigo? Some hard-luck place, I say.”
Oñatè brushed past Gomez. “I have seen this dog before.” The animal was indelibly etched in his mind, linked to a towering frontiersman with the eyes of a devil and tall as the mountains, desert mountains where the bones of the ancient ones haunted the arroyos and the dry, lonely washes. Jose Oñatè had confronted El Destripedor Rojo once and lived to brag of the event and embellish his account until it was Wallace who had backed down. But Oñatè knew the truth. He knew the kind of icy fear that crinkled a man's backbone and left him weak-kneed and looking to retreat. He knew danger when he saw it and didn't need a signpost to warn him off.
If the mongrel was here, then what of the Texican? Maybe it was time to send a runner to the barracks and bring over a few extra men. And the alcalde ought to be alerted. Oñatè scowled, conjuring an image of his woman in bed with Bradburn. That was a picture he had no wish to see. The hell with asking Bradburn's permission. Oñatè would take it upon himself to summon
more men to the warehouse. Six bleary-eyed sentries hardly seemed enough.
more men to the warehouse. Six bleary-eyed sentries hardly seemed enough.
The clatter of wagons caused his heart to jump to his throat. He glanced at Gomez, who shrugged and shook his head. Oñatè heard the creak of axles, the muted commotion of men's voices, and the drum of shod hooves on the packed earth. Before the two men were halfway to the corner of the building, it was obvious a frantic struggle had ensued by the front door. Oñatè heard one of his
compadres
cry out as the scuffle continued. No shots had been fired. Oñatè grabbed Gomez by the shoulder as the older man began to fade back. He shoved Gomez forward and snapped, “
Vamanos
!” The older man nodded, an alarmed expression on his leathery brown features. Gomez stumbled forward, shaking off the effects of the pulque as the adrenaline did its work. The two men unslung their rifled muskets and charged the corner.
compadres
cry out as the scuffle continued. No shots had been fired. Oñatè grabbed Gomez by the shoulder as the older man began to fade back. He shoved Gomez forward and snapped, “
Vamanos
!” The older man nodded, an alarmed expression on his leathery brown features. Gomez stumbled forward, shaking off the effects of the pulque as the adrenaline did its work. The two men unslung their rifled muskets and charged the corner.
The dog bounded out of the darkness and across the path, cutting Oñatè off from his older
compadre
. Dog and man tangled with each other. The dog yelped as the soldier kicked him in the side, his legs tangled with the musket, and Oñatè went sprawling. He bruised his shoulder, cursed, grabbed his musket by the barrel, and tried to crack the animal's skull. Lucky darted in and caught the musket by its shoulder strap. Oñatè found himself in a tug-of-war with the blue heeler when he most needed the weapon.
compadre
. Dog and man tangled with each other. The dog yelped as the soldier kicked him in the side, his legs tangled with the musket, and Oñatè went sprawling. He bruised his shoulder, cursed, grabbed his musket by the barrel, and tried to crack the animal's skull. Lucky darted in and caught the musket by its shoulder strap. Oñatè found himself in a tug-of-war with the blue heeler when he most needed the weapon.
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