The fallon legacy, p.33
The Fallon Legacy, page 33
“You spoke of business, Mr. Fourrier?” Austin said quietly. “I don’t believe we have any.”
Fourrier opened the door leading back to the servants’ quarters. The undecorated hall on the other side was empty. “In a way we have, Mr. Austin. Nacogdoches.” Austin’s face was unreadable, but he fancied he knew what was going on behind that prominent forehead.
“If you’ll forgive a blunt question, Mr. Fourrier, what exactly is your connection with Nacogdoches? More specifically, with the Edwards brothers?”
“So far as the general public is concerned, Mr. Austin, there is no connection.”
“And so far as the general public is not concerned?”
Fourrier smiled ruefully. “Strictly between the two of us, I’m one of their principal backers. I trust that will go no further.”
In truth, Fourrier had put not one penny more into the Edwards’s land deals than he had to. But he needed Austin’s belief, and his silence, for safety.
“Very well, Mr. Fourrier,” Austin said at last. “But I find it strange that you want to hide your involvement.”
“Come, Mr. Austin. It’s no secret that Haden Edwards and his brother may get all of us thrown out of Mexico. Hardly the sort of thing one wants to be known for.”
“In Nacogdoches, you didn’t seem concerned.”
Fourrier shook his head sadly. “Haden’s a foolish man in some ways, Mr. Austin, but occasionally he will listen to me. When he’s opposed publicly, though, he seems to take great delight in digging his heels in.”
“Doesn’t sound like an ideal partner,” Austin said drily.
“At the time, you were the only other empresario in Texas, and you weren’t looking for investors.”
“What is it you want, Mr. Fourrier?”
“The one man besides myself who Haden will listen to seems to be you. I’d like you to continue your interest.” He hid his satisfaction at Austin’s surprise. The man was almost hooked.
“I’d do that in any case.”
“I’m sure you would, Mr. Austin. But there’s one other thing. You know many men in the Mexican government. If you could speak to them, urge them to go slowly, it would gain us time to talk sense into the Edwardses.”
“I’ve written to my friends already. Have you?”
Fourrier nodded. He had, in carefully worded terms. “Then we’ll do our best, between us. You on the outside, and I on the inside.”
“Why are you doing this, Mr. Fourrier? If you’ll forgive me, you don’t strike me as an altruistic man.”
“No,” Fourrier laughed. “Pure greed. If Edwards gets us all thrown out, I’ll lose a great deal.” He saw that he had worded it properly. Distaste mixed with belief on Austin’s face.
“Very well, Mr. Fourrier. And now, if you’ll excuse me …” He bowed stiffly and went back into the front hall.
Fourrier watched him go with mixed feelings. It had all worked out as he wanted, but it galled him to know he had lost the respect of one of the few men in Texas he considered of his own class.
“What are you planning now, Gerard?”
He jumped in spite of himself. Lucille stood behind him, eyeing him speculatively. “How long have you been listening? And what are you doing back there anyway? You should be out with our guests.”
Her sensuous mouth twisted. “Bumpkins and canaille. I wondered why you invited such. Now I know. It was to have this tête-à-tête with Austin, was it not? What is it you are plotting?”
“You still haven’t told me why you were back there, Lucille.”
Her eyes shifted. “I told you. I was—”
A vaquero stepped into the passage behind her, hat in hand, eyed her uncertainly, and bowed to Gerard. “Dispense me, por favor, Don Gerard.”
“You’d better see to our guests, Lucille,” Gerard said. She made a sarcastically deep curtsey to him and swept away. He waited until she was well out of earshot before speaking. “What is it, Pedro?”
“The man Coffee is in the stable, Don Gerard.”
Fourrier grunted. Coffee had been delivering a shipment of guns to Sterne’s store in Nacogdoches. It was important none of his guests saw the man. He pushed angrily past the vaquero.
A light snowfall had powdered the courtyard; Gerard made black footprints across it. Music from the house followed him. He opened the stable door.
“Coffee! Where in hell are you?” The darkness smelled of dry hay and horse manure.
“Here.” The fat man stepped out of a stall ten feet away. His buckskins were stained and patched. “Wait a minute. I’ll light a lamp.”
“Don’t. I don’t want anyone coming out here and seeing you. Why aren’t you delivering those muskets to Adolphus Sterne?”
“Don’t worry. The Jew’ll get the guns.” Coffee stepped closer. Starlight picked out a flattened nose and scars above piggy eyes that belied the softness of his round face.
“You were supposed to see to it yourself. Where are the guns?”
“In bales of dry goods, on their way to Nacogdoches. Pretty good, eh?” Coffee leered, revealing three missing teeth on the right side. “I knew you wanted me, so I come as quick as I could.”
Fourrier sighed. The man was bone stupid, but he did have uses. “When I tell you to do something, Coffee, you do it exactly the way I tell you. Understand?”
“Sure. But you said I was supposed to get here—”
“Oh, shut up!” He took a deep breath. “I believe you know some of the Cherokee chiefs.”
“Yeah. Bowl, and Big Mush, and a couple small ones.”
“Good.” He had known the names before he asked the question. “I’ll give you a letter to deliver to Haden Edwards. Don’t mention it to anyone else, and deliver it sealed.”
“Can’t read anyways,” Coffee laughed.
“Deliver it sealed.” It would only identify Coffee as the man he and Edwards had spoken of, but it was still a connection between them. Edwards had instructions to burn all their correspondence. “Then you’ll guide Ben Edwards north and introduce him to Bowl and the rest.”
Coffee scratched his neck. “What’s all this about, eh? You figuring on selling guns to them Cherokee?”
“Are you satisfied with my gold, Coffee?” he asked quietly. “Or would you rather go back to smuggling on your own?”
“I ain’t never got caught,” Coffee said defensively.
“And you never made a tenth of what I’m paying you.”
The fat man shrugged. “I’m satisfied. Never said I weren’t.”
“Then take your money and do what you’re told. Without unnecessary questions.”
“Yes, sir,” Coffee mumbled. “You got a fire in there? Maybe a little rum? It’s cold as a witch’s tit out here.”
“Burrow in the straw. You appeared when you weren’t supposed to; you have to live with the consequences.” Coffee began to protest, but Fourrier turned his back and shut the stable door.
It was all prepared. If everything fell apart, Austin and those “friends” in Saltillo would testify that he had been a moderating force. But if his plans succeeded, he would make tracks across Texas as plain as his footprints in the snowy courtyard. It had been a wise decision to remain in Mexico. A land waiting to be shaped in his image. And he would shape it.
Whistling tunelessly, he started back to the hacienda.
41
James rode toward the hill thinking of all the work to be done. The last snow was three weeks gone from the ground, thank God, but twenty-three calves and nine foals had died during the winter, and they would be lucky not to double those losses before spring was on them good. He still wore his heavy wool coat and wool mittens with the trigger finger separate.
He noticed the man in the watchtower peering toward the creek behind him, and looked over his shoulder. A mass of Comanche burst from the trees, screaming and waving lances as they galloped for the cabins.
The watchman began to beat the piece of sheet iron that served as an alarm.
Jerking his rifle from the saddle scabbard, James dug his heels into his horse and bent low over the saddle. Behind him the cries of the Indians came closer. Ahead he could see men rushing to their prearranged positions, shutters slamming shut on the cabins, muskets appearing at loopholes. Smoke blossomed from the watchtower, followed an instant later by the hollow boom of a musket. And then he was up the hill and among the cabins. Gunfire crackled in the crisp air.
Grabbing the pistol holsters from in front of his saddle, he dropped to the ground in front of his cabin. He prayed Drusilla was safely inside.
A squat Comanche, bare-chested, face daubed with black and topped by a fur cap, couched a long lance and kicked his horse forward at him. He threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired the right-hand barrel. The Indian jerked on his saddle pad but came on. James threw himself aside, tucked a shoulder under, and rolled to his feet. A second Comanche, his chest covered with red handprints, was almost on him. A fifty-caliber ball from the left-hand barrel rolled him over his horse’s rump.
James dropped the rifle as the Indian was falling, pulled one of his pistols, and whirled to face the first Comanche, who was pulling his horse around for another try. Blood flowed down his chest from James’s first barrel. A shot from the cabin plucked his fur cap off; he kicked his horse forward again. Even as James raised his pistol, he knew he wouldn’t make it. Suddenly the Comanche stiffened, more blood pouring from a second hole in his chest, and toppled from his horse. Henry stepped around the corner of the cabin.
“Thanks!” James called, darting for the cabin door. “Drusilla!”
Henry grabbed his arm. “No! They’re after the horses. The west corral.”
A quick look around showed only the two dead Comanche. The attack on the cabins had been a feint. “How many men outside?”
“Maybe six,” Henry said.
James raised his voice. “Everyone inside, stay inside! Keep your eyes open! Everyone outside, follow me!” He set out in a shambling run, awkwardly reloading his rifle as he went. Half a dozen vaqueros, showing wounds, fell in behind him and Henry.
Around the corral a score of Comanche were tearing at the split rails. James silently thanked God River Wind was in the barn. He led his men down the hill at a dead run. One of the Comanche spotted them and yelled.
“Spread out and lie down!” James ordered. “Down! And hold your fire!” The Comanche whirled toward them as they fanned out and dropped. James checked his priming. Some warriors held lances. Arrows arched up from others. A vaquero named Higuera grunted and clutched his thigh, now sporting a feathered shaft, then twisted back to his rifle, his dark face contorted with pain. The Comanche were two hundred yards away, then a hundred, the ground drumming beneath their hooves. “Fire!” James shouted, and squeezed the trigger.
The other guns cracked in a ragged salvo. Four horses were abruptly riderless. “Fire!” he shouted again, and again a volley rang out. Three more Comanche dropped to the prairie.
Then the Comanche were among the men on the ground. James rolled aside from a lance thrust and pistoled the rider as he went by. Another left his horse in a low dive, slashing at him with a knife. The blade dug into his arm; he succeeded in grabbing the wiry Comanche’s wrist. The Indian clawed at him with his free hand. He smelled of stale sweat, grease, and horse. They kneed at each other; the Comanche sank his teeth into James’s shoulder.
James fumbled at his belt for the knife Bowie had given him so many years before. As he pulled it free, the other man grabbed his wrist. They lay locked chest to chest, feet scrabbling for leverage. The Comanche’s black, hate-filled eyes stared into his. Inch by inch the Indian forced the blade closer to James’s throat. The point dug in; he felt blood running down his chest. With his last ounce of strength he forced himself up, put his weight behind his blade, felt it socket home in the Comanche’s ribs. The dark eyes took on a surprised look and faded to filmy sightlessness.
Breathing hard, James rolled off the dead man, hunting for his pistols. But the Comanche were retreating. They had suffered; every survivor had at least one wound. Higuera plucked weakly at the lance that pinned him to the hard prairie, then breath rattled out of him and he lay staring at the sky.
“They’ll try again,” Henry panted. Blood ran down his face from a gash across his forehead. His coat had been torn off, and another slash darkened his shirt. “They want them horses.” He turned at a scream from atop the hill. Gunfire sounded again from the crest. A column of smoke rose from the trees.
James took up a staggering run. He found he had the knife in one hand, a pistol in the other. He didn’t know if it was loaded. There was no time to check. He was sure that scream was Drusilla’s. His throat was choked as he ran.
At last he reached the top of the hill. The roof of José’s cabin was aflame. A pair of Comanche darted from in front of the barn and scrambled onto their horses. A volley from the men following James dropped one; the other galloped down the hill.
James barely noticed. Two Indian ponies stood riderless in front of his cabin, and the door was wide open.
“Drusilla!” he screamed as he ran inside. Alfredo Clemente, a lanky vaquero, sat in the hall, clutching his belly with both hands. Blood leaked through his fingers. He looked up weakly as James came in shouting, “Drusilla!”
A Comanche appeared at the far end of the hall. James fired from the waist, the heavy ball taking the Indian in the face. Before the man hit the floor, another came screaming out of the parlor, chest smeared with someone else’s blood, knife in hand. There were scratches down his cheeks, as if he had been clawed.
“Drusilla!” James screamed again, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He used the empty pistol to beat aside the Comanche’s thrust, slashed at him, screaming with rage.
The Indian dodged aside, but James followed him, roaring, hacking without any thought of defense. Drusilla was dead, and this man had killed her. He took a cut across the chest, another down his ribs, but then one of his enraged swings caught the Comanche’s throat, half severing his head. He caught the man by the hair as he fell, slamming him against the wall, driving his blade again and again into the dirty chest.
Arms surrounded him, pulled him away. He struggled until his head cleared enough to see it was Henry. “He’s dead, James. He’s dead.”
James drew a shuddering breath. “So’s Drusilla.”
Shrugging free of a shocked Henry, he walked slowly into the parlor. She was there, lying face down, legs exposed by her torn dress. Tears ran unheeded down his cheeks as he dropped to his knees beside her. Almost hesitantly he picked her up. She had been lying across Amelinda; the baby still lived. Drusilla’s eyes opened.
“You’re alive,” he gasped. Sobs welled up in him, and he couldn’t stop them.
“He wanted—” she said quaveringly. “He tried to—” She buried her face against his chest, weeping.
“You’re alive.” He rocked back and forth, hugging her. “Thank God. You’re alive.”
“I saw you go,” she murmured into his shirt. “I wanted to help you, so I went outside, and they … I am sorry, my husband.”
“It doesn’t matter, querida. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.” She sighed and settled deeper into his arms. For a moment he was content merely to stroke her hair. Then he gently disengaged. “I have to go, querida.” Henry cleared his throat behind him, and he looked over his shoulder. “Henry, you’d better go look after Leonie. Then we’ll get ready in case they come again.”
“Leonie’s all right,” Henry said. “She’s outside. And I don’t think they be coming back. They cleaned out the west corral and run off to the north. Killed the foals.”
“Damn! Who’s hurt?”
Henry’s face turned grim. “Higuera’s dead. I don’t know about Clemente. José’s looking after him and Consuela now. Most everybody got some cuts. You ought to get him to look at you, too.”
Drusilla saw that James was bleeding. She pushed herself up and began calmly ripping strips from her already demolished dress to bind his wounds. “What happened to Consuela, Señor Cameron?”
Henry avoided her gaze. “Well, ma’am, she … I mean, that Comanche . . that is, he had his way with her.”
“Pobrecita. I must go to her, James. Your wounds …” She suddenly hugged him tightly. “Forgive me, mi querida, but your wounds are not so serious as hers.”
He caught her hand as she stood. “Drusilla, I don’t want to lose you. Not again.”
She smiled and caressed his cheek. “You will never lose me, mi corazón.”
His heart lifted. He got to his feet with renewed energy. “Come on, Henry. We have a lot to do.”
By evening there were two graves on the south end of the hill. Clemente had lingered two hours before joining Higuera. Consuela was in her bed, with Drusilla, and to James’s surprise, Leonie, in attendance. There was no question of trying to retrieve the stolen horses. Only José and the others who had been inside were in any shape to make a pursuit. José’s cabin had burned to the ground, but he had been in the barn. They repaired the corral and marked trees to rebuild José’s cabin. James was thankful they hadn’t tried for the corral on the creekside as well.
As the sun touched the horizon—suitably blood red, James thought—the alarm was sounded again. Everyone hurried to barricade themselves, guns in hand, but the men who rode in from the south weren’t Indians. James went outside as Jared Groce dismounted in front of the cabin. There were twenty men with him, all armed.
Groce eyed the still smouldering ruins of José’s cabin. “Had some trouble, James?” He wore a broad-brimmed hat and a Mexican sash with his fringed buckskin coat.
“Comanche. Killed two men and ran off about a hundred head of horses. But what are you doing up here? Haden Edwards isn’t acting up again, is he?”
“Not exactly. This is what we call a ranging company. We have Indian troubles down our way, too.” Drusilla came out of the cabin; he swept off his hat in a courtly bow. “Señora Fallon. You are as beautiful as ever.”
Drusilla’s face and dress were smudged with soot and dirt, but she dropped a perfect curtsey. “Gracias, Señor Groce. Will you come inside? I fear we are somewhat disarranged, but I can offer you wine. Or perhaps hot tea? And perhaps something for your men?”
