Authors: Kerry Newcomb

The Red Ripper (16 page)

BOOK: The Red Ripper

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Gomez's cry for help was cut short. OÃ±atÃ¨ tried to wrest his weapon free, but the blue heeler's jaws were locked onto the strap with a viselike grip. The dragoon cursed and surrendered the gun and dragged his saber free. He turned on his boot heels and hurried off to confront the intruders.

In the moonlight he could see a Comanche war party milling about the warehouse. “Madre de Dios!” the dragoon
exclaimed. It was a raid! The red savages were raiding the warehouse. Several braves had already subdued the guards while others hammered at the padlock with their axes. OÃ±atÃ¨ could make out several uniformed men sprawled on the ground. So much for the guard detail. Jose was left to consider his options. It didn't take long. A suicidal attack was out of the question. His death would serve no purpose and deny Consuela the fruits of his passion. OÃ±atÃ¨ chose to alert the rest of the command in the barracks, rousing them from their slumber, and return with reinforcements to drive off the Comanche and proclaim himself the hero of the hour.

With his mind filled with thoughts of glory, Jose OÃ±atÃ¨ reversed his course and headed for the barracks but only covered a few yards before finding his escape route blocked by what had to be the largest Comanche ever to ride the warpath. OÃ±atÃ¨ gasped and stumbled backward in surprise. Despite the man's garishly painted features, this heathen seemed familiar.

The soldier raised his saber and charged. “I'll cut you down to size!” he shouted.

But William Wallace had other ideas. The Texican darted forward, faded to the right, brought Bonechucker up, and parried the dragoon's sword. The dragoon's saber shattered on impact with the knife blade. OÃ±atÃ¨ stared dumbfounded at the remains of his weapon; an inch-long shard of jagged steel jutted from the brass guard. While the dragoon was distracted, Wallace flipped his short sword, caught the blade against the flat of his palm, and, using the brass knob at the base of the grip for a bludgeon, clubbed OÃ±atÃ¨ unconscious. The dragoon caught the blow between the eyes, groaned, and rocked back on his heels. His legs buckled and he dropped like a rock, his head bouncing off the hard-packed earth.

Wallace returned the foot-long blade to its sheath,
quietly thanking the Spanish swordsmiths of Toledo who had forged both his knives. The weapons had saved his life on several occasions.

Worried, he glanced in the direction of the dark and silent barracks. Luck was with them. The brief skirmish had failed to arouse the garrison. Good. The colonists had come for their property, not a shooting war. Lightning bugs twinkled on the night air. Mosquitoes were a nuisance. Faint strains from a fiddler drifted up from the waterfront. One could hear the gently rolling sea as it spilled onto the shore, the distant clanging of a ship's bell as a seaman resumed his watch, and, overall, a tranquillity Wallace had no intention of disturbing. Lucky trotted past, tail wagging, dragging the musket behind him in the dirt.

“Careful you don't blow a leg off,” Wallace said and, abandoning the hound to his fate, rejoined the Texicans congregated at the front of the warehouse. The remaining dragoons littered the ground, each man knocked senseless. No wound was fatal, but there would be some aching skulls come morning.

Jesus Zavala lost no time in prying the lock from the doors. Soon the way was clear for the colonists to scurry in and begin the process of loading the wagons. No attempt was made to identify the trade goods other than what was rightfully theirs to begin with. Bowie stood back and observed the activity, grinning for the first time in a long time. He looked up as William emerged from the interior of the longhouse with a bundle of iron rods balanced on his shoulder. He had paid to have the pig iron shipped all the way from Pittsburgh. There was no way Wallace was going to allow the alcalde to keep the iron or any of the other goods.

He surveyed the interior of the warehouse, peered past the boxes and barrels, and watched with satisfaction as the colonists took matters into their own hands. Austin
would complain. But the alcalde had not given them a choice. By the time Austin returned from Mexico City, Bradburn would have emptied the warehouse and sold the goods in San Antonio or shipped them to Veracruz.

“I never stole anything before,” one of the slight-built colonists remarked as he staggered up the center aisle, weighed down by a fifty-pound sack of flour and his own conscience.

“You aren't stealing,” Wallace corrected. “You're just delivering a shipment.” He winked at Jim Bowie, who stood with his back against the wall.

“You were right,” Bowie told the big man as he shouldered a burden that usually would have taken two men to lift. “This is living.”

“In that case,” Wallace replied, “why don't you try carrying something?”

Robert Kania materialized out of the gloom and dumped a barrel of crackers into Bowie's arms, turned around, and stalked back inside the warehouse without uttering a word. Wallace chuckled and continued on over to the back end of one of the wagons. “You need help with that?” he asked over his shoulder.

Bowie snorted in disgust and made his way to the wagon. By the time he reached the back end, Wallace had already manhandled his load onto the wagon bed. Bowie unceremoniously tossed the barrel on top of the iron rods.

Another colonist maneuvered past them, a keg of spirits bound for the Flying Jib balanced on his left shoulder. The Pennsylvania whiskey merrily sloshed from side to side within its oaken canister, no sweeter music on earth to a thirsty Southerner.

Wallace was on his way back for another load when Bowie caught up to him.

“Your plan's working like a dream, with nary a snag. How long till someone sounds the alert?”

“We'll be loaded up and heading for San Felipe in an hour with any luck, and Bradburn none the wiser,” Wallace replied.

“Yes indeed, a fine plan,” Bowie reiterated, licking his lips. “But it seems the least you boys could do is let me carry the whiskey kegs.”

Wallace had to laugh. Up to now there had been no casualties on either side. The easiest way to change all that and start a war would be to allow Bowie to tie one on. “Now, Jim, I may have been born at night, but it wasn't
last
night.”

“ â¦ THEY HAD THE RIGHT MAN TO LEAD 'EM.”

What is this?” Bradburn stood staring at the open doors of the empty warehouse. Dawn rode the rising tides; above the bay, seabirds drifted on the Gulfwind, the first blush of sunlight on the pink horizon melted like icing over the rim of the earth.”Who has done this?”

The alcalde hardly looked the picture of authority with his nightshirt hastily tucked into the waistband of his nankeen trousers, one suspender undone, the remnants of his hair in disarray. He was tired and sore, and walking was an effort on this tense humid morning.

He wheezed with every few steps and felt betrayed by the men under his command. Bradburn glared at the irresponsible soldiers he had posted to secure the warehouse. To a man they were in terrible shape, with bloodied bandaged heads and bruised limbs. Yet no one was going to be sent to the infirmary until a full account was given and the culpable parties punished.

“Comanche,” one man said.

“They were on us before we knew it,” another added.

“We were outnumbered, SeÃ±or Bradburn;” old Pablo Gomez spoke up in his own defense. “We did not have a chance.”

“But we fought like devils.”

“SÃ. Even harder than devils.”

“No, not hard enough,” Bradburn exclaimed. “You're
alive, aren't you? Then you did not put up much of a resistance as far as I am concerned.” He paced in front of the battered soldiers propped against the stone wall.

From a distance, several of the townspeople watched with interest. Word of the raid had spread like a brush fire through the settlement. The inhabitants were grateful that the war party had refrained from striking the settlement itself. Bradburn had never attempted to be popular, and now that it appeared the Comanche had thwarted his plans the good people of Anahuac could afford to be amused. The alcalde's ranting and raving at first light provided quite a show.

To Bradburn's left, the remainder of his command arrayed themselves for battle, armed and determined but forced to scour the town for every available horse. Meanwhile the obsequious sentries who had failed to defend the warehouse braced themselves, uncertain whether their companions had arrived to support them or act as a firing squad. Bradburn's thick neck glistened with sweat; his shirt already clung to his chest and armpits; tiny veins formed along his cheekbones and seemed about to burst beneath the skin. Public humiliation made him dangerous and brought out the worst in him.

A few hours ago he had been asleep, nestled against the warm backside of his latest paramour, secure in his authority and confident of the handsome profit he would turn once he sold the supplies he had confiscated for taxes. In a single evening, everything had come crashing down. Someone was going to pay for this outrage.

“Comanches with wagons?” the alcalde growled. The notion seemed incredible. It was curious that only the goods bound for San Felipe were taken. But the raiders may have run out of time and simply refrained from looting the rest of the settlement. And they did steal the horses. Comanche always took the horses. “Maybe” he added. “But why did they let you idiots live? The quality
of mercy does not beat in that savage breast.”

Bradburn ceased his pacing and stared at the bleak expressions of the men arranged before him. They were a sorry lot. This was General Cos's fault for not sending him a full contingent of soldiers. Bradburn had proved his mettle over the months and deserved better treatment. Hadn't he diligently collected taxes, confiscated trade goods when necessary, and kept General Santa Anna informed as to the political climate in the colonies? Now when it came time to feather his own nest, a bunch of howling savages had spoiled everything, making off with the entire lot. It wasn't fair.

The alcalde was about to restate his displeasure when the orderly column of dragoons behind him parted. Bradburn sensed the motion and glanced over his shoulder as Jose OÃ±atÃ¨ stumbled through their ranks and, seemingly oblivious to one and all, continued on to the front of the warehouse.

Moments earlier, OÃ±atÃ¨ had regained his senses and found himself lying flat on his backside in a thicket of beach heather; crushed yellow blossoms and a dusting of sand clung to his uniform. The soldier's head throbbed, his nose was broken, but despite the pain, OÃ±atÃ¨ had a deeper appreciation of life, having come so close to losing his own. It took him a while to find his legs, but when he did manage to rise, like Lazarus, he knew of only one direction to go, and that was toward his uniformed companions. OÃ±atÃ¨'s throat was too dry for him to manage more than a croak.

After stumbling past the column from the barracks, the injured guard headed straight for the olla hanging to one side of the entrance. He gulped a dipper full of water, spilling the liquid down the front of his disheveled uniform, and when he had cut the grit from his throat the soldier stumbled forward to take his place among the battered guards. He was prepared to confront the alcalde.

“Comanche, hell,” OÃ±atÃ¨ managed to say, barely loud enough for Bradburn to hear. “It was those damn Texicans from San Felipe.” He wiped a forearm across his mouth, smearing his coat sleeve with spittle and blood.

“You're wrong,” Bradburn protested. “That bunch wouldn't dare.”

“They would if they had the right man to lead 'em.” OÃ±atÃ¨ was a mess, no longer handsome, his princely features a memory now. There was caked blood from his broken nose to his shattered cheekbone, and he had a swollen right eye. The soldier looked as if he had tangled with a panther. “And I recognized him.” He coughed up some mucus and spit out a mouthful of saliva and blood. “I won't forget him any time soon.”

“Who?” Bradburn frowned in anticipation.

“Wallace!” OÃ±atÃ¨ shouted the name in a great rasping bellow for all to hear, as if to say, “Look at my face, the wounds, the red wounds.” “Big Foot Wallace!” He stared down at his hands, which came away from the wreckage of his face all sticky and crimson, and didn't need to. add the name everyone was thinking: El Destripedor Rojo.

The raiding party had made good time from Anahuac, covering the distance in under two days, a feat that was accomplished by switching teams of horses on the wagons, keeping the animals fresh and strong throughout the long hours. William Wallace and the column of Texicans, whooping and hollering like the savages they had pretended to be, reached San Felipe during the middle of the night. Their arrival did not go unnoticed. Indeed, the men were watched for and the populace ventured into the streets so that anxious wives and neighbors could see if there were any casualties in their ranks.

A collective sigh of relief went up from the crowd as word spread that everyone had returned safe and well
and with the much-needed supplies. Some of the colonists, most of whom were staunch defenders of Stephen Austin, began to immediately express concern about retaliation. Wallace was joined by his companions: Houston, Travis, Jesus Zavala, Chuy Montoya, and the rest, who flatly rejected the notion. Houston declared such fears to be groundless and went on to say that free men should not have to live in fear. William had to admit it was the prettiest speech he had heard all day. He agreed with Houston, Travis, and the rest of the “rabble-rousers.” After all, the dragoons only had a brief glimpse of the disguised colonists by moonlight. What could the soldiers do? Whom could they identify?

“San Felipe is alive again, thanks to you,” Mad Jack said, saluting his friend's health with a glass of whiskey from a freshly tapped keg. The two friends sat across from each other at a table back near the kitchen. The Frenchman's storehouse was loaded with barrels of rum and kegs of whiskey. The freebooter sloshed the contents around in his glass and then swallowed it down and beamed as the heat spread from his gullet to his gut and limbs. “Not bad. I can taste the keg, but not bad. Tame but worth a sip. Still, it isn't Slaughter of the Innocentsâ”

“But what is?” William interjected, a grin lighting his features.

“
Mon ami
. You're beginning to worry me,” Flambeau said.

Hanneke had prepared a hearty breakfast of ham, eggs, biscuits, and gravy, as this was William's last chance for a decent meal until the next time he rode back in from Briarwood. Because of the morning hours, the Flying Jib was devoid of customers, the front door closed while the owners supposedly rested. But within the confines of the place Hanneke was singing to herself; her lilting voice drifted in from the kitchen where she
was kneading bread with her strong hands and frying up a second helping of ham for her two hungry men. Who could sleep? Not now; there was too much excitement to rest. The woman enjoyed playing hostess to William and tended to mother him whenever he stayed at the tavern.

“Don't worry. I'll leave you a couple of eggs.” Wallace took an entire ham steak for himself, dropped it onto his plate, broke three biscuits, and covered them with pan gravy. His green eyes radiated merriment.

“Well, aren't you the âcock o' the walk'? But I must warn you. Do not underestimate Bradburn,” Flambeau remarked, eyeing the food on Wallace's plate. The old sea dog had a prodigious appetite. Wallace was toying with him, trying to aggravate him, to provoke his indignation, then have a good laugh at the Frenchman's expense. Mad Jack was wise to the game, after all, he had taught it to William. So the Frenchman sat back and watched William wolf down the meal and pretended not to care.

Mad Jack stroked his chin, began fidgeting with the ring in his gnarled lump of an ear. In the corner near the kitchen door, the blue heeler happily gnawed a ham hock Hanneke had left for the animal. “Hrrumph,” Mad Jack complained. “Seems like even the mongrels around here eat better than the master of the house.”

Hanneke appeared with another platter of biscuits, fried eggs, another fried ham steak, and a ladle for the gravy bowl. “Mind your tongue, Husband, or I'll add it to the stew.” She removed his whiskey glass and replaced it with an earthenware mug of coffee. “You've had your taste; now save the rest for your customers.” She ambled back into the kitchen, her full, round bosom jostling with every step. Mad Jack reached out and smacked her ample bottom. The woman giggled and disappeared through the doorway. “You old goat, don't
think to start something you won't have time to finish.”

“Now where was I?” Mad Jack chuckled, then grew serious. He could concentrate now that he had had some food. “Oh, yes, heed my words about John Bradburn.”

“That sack of guts doesn't have the will or the men to cause us trouble. I think we taught him a lesson.”

Mad Jack shook his head in despair. The lad was beginning to believe in his own invulnerability. Wallace had conceived the raid and led the men to Anahuac and back again, returning with the merchandise and trade goods that were the mainstay of a thriving community. To be sure, others had ridden with him, stalwart comrades at arms like Jim Bowie, Sam Houston, Chuy Montoya, Jesus Zavala, and Bill Travis.

But William Wallace had been the catalyst. The Texicans followed him. An event like the raid would only add to his growing legend. And that's what had Mad Jack concerned. A man could get killed trying to live up to someone else's expectations.

“Just the same, watch your back,” the Frenchman warned. He leaned upon the table and stabbed a fork into a ham steak and dropped it onto his plate.

“You've become an old mother hen,” Wallace laughed, patting the freebooter on his bald head. “I am not afraid of John Bradburn.”

“Well then, do me a favor, young blade.”

“Name it.”

Mad Jack Flambeau leaned forward, his expression deadly serious. “Be afraid of someone.”

BOOK: The Red Ripper

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