The Warlords Page 15

  “Sounds like a plan,” Gordon said. “So we’ll have Rangers at San Pedro, La Paloma, Los Indios, and Laredo. Are we missing anything?”

  “The border’s like a sieve,” Maddox observed with a shrug. “We’ve only got four companies, and that spreads us thin. The army’ll have to take up the slack.”

  “How about transportation?” Gordon said. “We don’t have a lot of time to spare.”

  “All laid on,” Ransom informed him. “Everybody in Brownsville that owns a car has volunteered. Nothin’ like killings to bring out folks’ civic spirit.”

  Gordon looked around at the Ranger captains. “Anything else?”

  Their faces were sober, almost phlegmatic, the faces of men untroubled by a dirty night’s work. None of them spoke and he nodded.

  “Let’s roll.”

  Bud Grant, the rancher outside Los Indios, again provided the horses. His house had been burned down in a previous raid, and he was eager to assist in any way that would avenge the loss. Dead Mexicans seemed to him the best payback of all.

  The Rangers came across an army patrol west of the ranch. There were nine troopers in the squad, led by Sergeant Ira Wilson, and he told them the alert was out along the river. His commanding officer, a Captain Bates, had spread the word that Rangers would be in the area. Three squads were patrolling the eight-mile stretch of river between Santa Maria and Los Indios.

  “We heard there’s fifty Mexicans, maybe more,” Sergeant Wilson said. “You think they’re gonna try to cross along here somewheres?”

  “Doubt there’ll be fifty,” Ransom said. “Some of the Tejanos will likely peel off and head back wherever they live. Sorry bastards lay low over here till they get called out for another raid.”

  “But you still think the main bunch will try and cross somewheres close?”

  “You know that ford about a mile upriver?”

  “Yeah, you could practically wade through it.”

  “We figure that’s the spot.”

  Gordon and Maddox were off to one side, listening to the conversation. Wilson glanced at them, and Gordon reined his horse closer. “Sergeant, I’m Special Agent Gordon. I work directly with General Parker.”

  “Yessir.” Wilson seemed to sit straighter in the saddle. “What can I do for you?”

  “How often do you pass that ford?”

  “Generally about once an hour.”

  “We’re planning a little ambush,” Gordon said. “You happen along at the wrong time, you’re liable to spoil things. Captain Ransom, what would you suggest?”

  Ransom motioned off into the distance. “I’d say the sergeant and his boys ought to stay north of the river. If they spot the Mexicans, attack from the rear and drive ’em toward the ford.” He paused, his mouth curled in a wolfish grin. “We’ll be there waitin’.”

  “That should do the trick.” Gordon glanced back at Wilson. “Sergeant, do you link up with the patrol west of the ford?”

  “Just now and then,” Wilson said. “Mostly, it’s an accident when it happens. We’re not on a set schedule.”

  “Well, if you do, advise them of what Captain Ransom just said. We want everyone following the same plan.”

  “Yessir, I’ll pass along the word.”

  The cavalry patrol turned north from the river. The Rangers proceeded west and halted a half mile or so from the ford. Ransom dismounted the men and ordered them to tie their horses securely in a stand of trees. From there, carrying their Winchester carbines, they moved out on foot. Gordon and Maddox had again armed themselves with pump-action shotguns.

  The river crossing was lighted by the sallow cast of the moon. Ransom split his men, leaving ten Rangers with Gordon and Maddox, hidden in the trees on the east side of the ford. He led the other Rangers across the narrow clearing that sloped down the riverbank, and positioned them within the treeline on the opposite side. They settled in to wait.

  Gordon, though nominally in charge, wisely conceded tactical command to Ransom. He realized his own shortcomings, and from talks with Maddox, he knew Ransom was versed in the ways of fighting Mexican bandidos. The Ranger captain’s orders were for the men to stay low, firing upward at mounted riders, rather than across the clearing at each other. Under no circumstances were they to leave the trees until the fighting ended.

  Not long after they’d taken position, they heard gunfire from the north. The firing quickly swelled in intensity, growing louder, clearly moving in their direction. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Sergeant Wilson and his cavalry patrol had jumped the rebels, and were driving them south, toward the river. The only question was whether or not the raiders would try to cross at the ford.

  Then, just as Ransom had predicted, the rebels thundered into the clearing at a gallop. They were silhouetted in the moonlight, those at the rear firing over their shoulders, pursued closely by the cavalry. The horsemen were wedged together, three and four abreast, and there appeared to be forty or more in their ranks. Their mounts were lathered with sweat, hooves churning at the earth, the drumming thud almost deafening. They pounded toward the river.

  Ransom opened fire. His shot was instantly followed by the sharp crack of carbines and the dull boom of Gordon and Maddox’s shotguns. A maelstrom of lead cleaved through the riders like an invisible scythe chopping down rows of wheat. On either side of the clearing, the treelines spat sheets of flame, the muzzle blasts turning night to day. Horses faltered, and their riders, caught within a funnel of gunfire, toppled from the saddle. Four went down, then six, then ten, then more.

  Those who made it into the river were still framed in moonlight. The Rangers rose from the trees, carbines at their shoulders, hammering volley after volley into the riders. The slugs whined through the air and men pitched headlong from their mounts, splashing in a tangle of arms and legs in the shallow waters of the ford. What seemed an eternity passed before the last of the raiders gained the far shore and disappeared into the night. A final gunshot faded into a sudden, eerie stillness.

  The clearing was littered with dead. By rough count, Gordon saw at least fifteen bodies, and more in the water. A man groaned and rolled over, his shoulder shattered from a wound, his shirt dark with blood. Another man levered himself to his hands and knees, tried to stand erect, and slumped to the ground, seated on his rump. The Rangers stepped from the trees, carbines held at the ready, watching the men. Neither of them posed a threat.

  Ransom walked forward. He pulled his revolver, moving from one wounded man to the other, and shot both of them in the head. Their skulls exploded in a mist of brains and bone matter, and even as the report of the gunshots faded, Gordon charged forward. He grabbed Ransom by the shirt.

  “Are you crazy?” he shouted. “Those men were wounded!”

  Ransom’s eyes went cold. “Take your hand off me.”

  Maddox pried Gordon loose. “Easy does it, pardner,” he said in a low voice. “Let’s not fight amongst ourselves.”

  “Like hell!” Gordon shrugged him off. “We finally had a chance to interrogate somebody. Dead men don’t talk!”

  “Too damn bad,” Ransom said with a tight smile. “The Rangers don’t take prisoners, and you can like it or lump it. Them’s our orders.”

  “Whose orders?” Gordon demanded. “The attorney general?”

  Ransom turned and walked away. Maddox averted his eyes, looking toward the river, and Gordon realized he wouldn’t get an answer. Not tonight, probably never.

  The Rangers had closed ranks.

  Hector Martinez crossed the bridge into Matamoras late the next morning. The noon hour was approaching and the plaza was busy with shoppers and tradesmen hawking their wares. He turned the corner onto Calle Morelos.

  Halfway down the block, he passed the German Consulate. He wondered if Garza was in there even now, plotting strategy with Otto Mueller. One thought triggered another, and he warned himself that today was a day to proceed with caution. A mistake would almost certainly get him killed.

  Gord
on had asked him to redouble his efforts. Somehow he was to infiltrate the headquarters of the Army of Liberation. The intelligence he’d gathered to date had been useful, but not of a critical nature. All guesswork and conjecture, and few hard facts. He had to separate the grain from the chaff—get at the truth.

  The raids of the past two nights offered a meager opening. A railroad depot destroyed and Anglos killed, two by firing squad, was the stuff of conversation, hardly more. But the ambush last night by the Rangers had sparked new anger among Mexicans on both sides of the border. All the more so since two raiders, already desperately wounded, had been brutally executed. There, Martinez told himself, was a tragedy to fire the blood of any patriot. He had only to act the part.

  The house on Calle 5 was quiet. When he knocked on the door, he was admitted by the man who served as the headquarters orderly. They had met on his previous visits, and the orderly knew he was a sergeant in the Army of Liberation. Still, he was told Captain Vasquez was busy at the moment, and forced to take a chair in the front room. Some while later, Vasquez entered from a hallway that led to the rear of the house. His expression was neutral.

  “Martinez,” he said without offering a handshake. “What is it now?”

  “Buenos dias, mi capitán.” Martinez stood rigid at attention. “There is talk in Brownsville of a great tragedy last night. They say eighteen soldados were killed.”

  “There is talk as well that two of my men were executed. Have you heard that?”

  “Our people speak of little else. The Ranger captain, the one named Ransom, he shot them in the head as they lay wounded. Hijo de puta, he brags of it!”

  Vasquez paled. “One day I will meet this Ransom. Before I am done, he will beg for a quick death.”

  “That is why I am here,” Martinez said stoutly. “I spend my time telling our people of war while men die in the field. I wish to fight, mi capitán.”

  “We have had this discussion before. I need recruits, Martinez, men to replace those who were killed last night. Think of the cause, not yourself. Bring me men.”

  “No disrespect intended, but I weary of this assignment. I have little talent for enlisting men, and we both know it. I want to fight.”

  “No!” Vasquez bristled. “You will follow orders!”

  Garza entered from the hallway. “What’s going on here, Luis? Why are you shouting?”

  “Excuse the intrusion, mi coronel. Martinez questions my orders and insists that he be given a rifle. I was explaining that his value is in recruiting men.”

  “Is that correct, Sergeant?” Garza said with a stern look. “Are you questioning orders?”

  “Por favor, mi coronel.” Martinez squared his shoulders. “I simply wish to join our comrades in the struggle for liberty. I want to kill gringos.”

  “Spoken like a true guerrero, Sergeant Martinez. The time will come when you will lead men in battle, and sooner than you think. Until then, you serve best by enlisting soldiers in our cause.”

  “If I may be permitted, how soon will we march into battle? I have lost my taste for talking of war, mi coronel. I want to fight.”

  “Did I not say soon?” Garza reprimanded him harshly. “You will be called before the month is out. Let that be an end to it.”

  “Gracias, mi coronel,” Martinez said obediently. “I ask only to take my place in the ranks.”

  “And so you shall.”

  Martinez was dismissed with a curt nod. Outside, as he walked toward the plaza, he mentally patted himself on the back. There was much to be said for truth in anger, and he’d pushed them to the edge, perhaps even further. He felt certain Garza had slipped, saying more than intended. A quick rebuke to a brash subordinate.

  Granted, he had failed to infiltrate the headquarters staff. An appointment as an aide, or even a lowly field sergeant, would have provided access to intelligence on a daily basis. But sometimes, as Texans were so fond of saying, half a loaf was better than none. Tonight, after a meeting was arranged, he would have much to tell Gordon. Their first clue that an invasion was imminent. A hard fact about time.

  Within the month!

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sunrise was a sudden flare on the horizon. Within moments dawn receded and the land was limned by fiery streamers of light. Hoary dewdrops glittered like scarlet diamonds on the grassy plain.

  Aniceto Pizana waited with his men in a stand of cottonwoods bordering a small creek. There were forty raiders in the band, all of them mounted on fast horses and armed with Winchesters. A sense of camaraderie pervaded their ranks, and they felt honored to be chosen for the mission. They were there to strike the wealthiest Anglo enterprise in all of Texas.

  The date was Saturday, August 7, and they were sixty miles north of the border. Two nights ago Vasquez and his band had raided the town of Sebastian. The raid was considered important, for it had resulted in the execution of a gringo vigilante leader. But it had been planned as a tactical diversion, to deflect the attention of the army and the Texas Rangers. The primary target, the object of today’s attack, was the King Ranch.

  Pizana and his men had traveled by night for the past two nights. Their line of march was overland, avoiding roads and towns, skirting outlying farms and ranches. During the day they went to ground, taking cover in dense mesquite thickets, always making a cold camp, without fire or smoke to betray their presence. The military and the Rangers had no reason to suspect guerrilla action so far north of the Rio Grande. Nor would they suspect a raid on a ranching empire steeped in legend.

  Richard King, a former steamboat tycoon, began acquiring Spanish land grants in 1853. Over the next three decades he built the largest ranch in the world, encompassing a million acres scattered through four counties south of Corpus Christi. Upon his death in 1885, his daughter and her husband, Robert Kleberg, assumed control and continued to expand the operation. The King Ranch Running W brand was stamped on the rumps of more than one hundred thousand cows.

  The vaqueros on the ranch were known as Los Kinenos, the King People, and they were intensely loyal. Richard King’s descendants had built homes for their families, schools for their children, and four generations of vaqueros had grown to manhood on the vast cattle spread. There were easily five hundred Kinenos and none of them would be swayed by the revolutionary proclamations of the Army of Liberation. Their loyalty was not to race or ideology, but to the King family.

  Pizana, waiting in the stand of cottonwoods, was not interested in recruits. He was a mile south of the Norias Division headquarters, and he believed Caesar Kleberg would be found there. Kleberg was a nephew-by-marriage to Richard King’s daughter and the manager of the Norias Division. Kingsville, the main headquarters, was almost fifty miles farther north, and entirely too far for attack by a small raiding party. The ranch was so large that it was operated in divisions, with four separate headquarters, Norias being the southernmost. Pizana’s mission was to kill Caesar Kleberg, one of the most prominent ranchmen in Texas.

  A low whistle brought Pizana and his men alert. Jesus Murguia, a seasoned veteran of the Revolución, had been sent ahead to scout the Norias headquarters. He drifted through the cottonwoods, quiet as a ghost, and stopped beside Pizana. He motioned upstream.

  “Just as you thought, mi capitán,” he said. “The stream crosses under a railroad bridge. The buildings are on the west side of the tracks.”

  “Bueno,” Pizana said. “How many buildings?”

  “Only three. A large house which appears to be the headquarters. Another house for perhaps ten or twelve vaqueros. And an equipment shed for the railroad.”

  “Are the vaqueros there now?”

  “Si.” Murguia looked troubled. “I also saw an encampment of soldiers, nine men and a sergeant. And four men wearing badges. Texas Rangers, I think.”

  “Huh!” Pizana grunted coarsely. “The army and the Rangers rush to protect their imperialist masters. I am not surprised.”

  In fact, Pizana was surprised. So far from the border h
e had not expected to encounter either army patrols or the Rangers. But then, on quick reflection, he concluded that the King family had friends in high places. A request for protection from the Kings would not go unheeded. Imperialists had only to ask to command.

  “No matter,” he said with an air of confidence. “We outnumber them almost two to one. And the element of surprise is ours.”

  “Si, mi capitán,” Murguia agreed. “A quick charge will put them to flight.”

  “No, Jesus, we will overrun them before they can flee.”

  Pizana ordered the men to get mounted. He led them along the creek bank, their movements screened by the broad overhang of the cottonwoods. A mile upstream they came to the railroad bridge and he split his force. Jesus Murguia would lead half the men around the south end of the bridge and he would take the other half around the north end. He meant to envelop Norias from the flanks.

  The fortunes of war are fueled by fickle gods. A difference of a minute or two often spells the margin between victory and defeat. Jesus Murguia’s reconnaissance, necessarily conducted on foot, had taken longer than expected. In those few lapsed minutes, critical in timing, the Norias headquarters had stirred to life. Workday on a ranch began at sunrise.

  The warning was sounded by an alert vaquero. His shout rang out across the compound as the raiders spurred their horses around opposite ends of the bridge. The distance from the bridge to the buildings was some fifty yards, and the defenders reacted faster than the horsemen could cover the open ground. Every man in the compound was armed, and none of them evidenced the slightest doubt that they were under attack. Vaqueros, army troopers, and Texas Rangers opened fire in a rattling volley.

  The charge was broken by a hail of lead. Four raiders pitched headlong to the ground, nine slumped wounded in their saddles, and the others faltered before a wall of gunfire. Pizana tried to rally his men, exhorting them to move forward, but they turned back even as a slug sent his hat flying. They retreated to the creek, and he got them dismounted, spread out on a rough skirmish line behind the timbers of the bridge. The exchange of gunfire became general as the soldiers and the Rangers, reinforced by the vaqueros, took cover in the buildings. A uniformed trooper, caught running for the equipment shed, spun around, dropping his rifle, and fell dead.