The Warlords Page 16

  For the next hour, the raiders and the defenders traded shots in a sporadic gun battle. The rebel force was effectively pinned down, for they dared not advance across open ground in the face of heavy fire. Three more of their comrades were killed, and a soldier, briefly exposed at the corner of the equipment shed, was shot through the head. Pizana moved back and forth behind his men, seemingly oblivious to the whine of slugs, his features a study in rage. Already he’d lost men: eleven killed and five wounded, and he saw no way to storm the ranch headquarters. His jaw muscles knotted in raw fury.

  Murguia joined him at the north end of the bridge. “Pardon me for speaking, mi capitán,” he said in an apologetic voice. “Perhaps we should end a fight we cannot win.”

  “No!” Pizana bellowed, his eyes wild with anger. “Our orders were to kill this gringo, Kleberg. I will not be denied.”

  “We are trapped under this bridge. You know without my saying it, there is no way into that house.”

  “Do you question my authority?”

  “Never, mi capitán,” Murguia said. “But the longer we stay here, the greater the risk we will never leave. Time is our enemy.”

  Pizana frowned. “What are you saying?”

  “All this shooting travels on the wind. Before long, it will draw more Kinenos, maybe more soldiers. We could die here for nothing.”

  “We are soldados!”

  “Si, mi capitán, but not martyrs.”

  The simple force of the words snapped Pizana out of his rage. He was struck by the sudden realization that fear of his own failure was why he fought on, the shame of bungling a mission. His greater concern should be for his men, who deserved more than a meaningless death. He nodded to Murguia.

  “We are leaving this place, Jesus. Get the men mounted.”

  A final volley was fired to hold the ranch defenders in place. Then the rebels scrambled from under the bridge and ran to where their horses were tied in the cottonwoods. Once they were mounted, they clattered downstream at a gallop, thankful to quit the fight still alive. Aniceto Pizana, far from thankful, felt the burden of leaving eleven dead men behind. And worse, his failure to kill Caesar Kleberg.

  He wondered how he would explain it to Garza.

  “Oldest rule there is for a lawman.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Never try to second-guess a crook.”

  “Crooks,” Gordon said, “or revolutionaries?”

  Maddox grunted. “All one and the same when you’re talkin’ about Mexicans.”

  “You should have told Ransom that last night.”

  “Well, like they say, hindsight’s a powerful teacher. Maybe he’s learned his lesson.”

  Captain Bob Ransom had guessed wrong when he again tried to second-guess the rebels. Late yesterday morning Ranger headquarters had been notified about the raid on the King Ranch. Ransom felt certain the rebels would make a run for the border, rather than hiding out and risk being trapped by army units. He also believed they would again use the river crossing outside Los Indios, thinking the army and the Rangers would never suspect they’d use the same crossing a third time. As the situation unfolded, Ransom was only half right.

  The rebels traveled overland, avoiding roads and towns. They were sighted just once, early in the afternoon, by a farmer outside the town of Santa Rosa. The farmer was taken aback by thirty or more armed Mexicans on horseback, and he dutifully reported the incident to authorities. But the rebels seemingly vanished, and were not seen again until they clashed with an army patrol at a river crossing west of Santa Maria. The engagement was brief, occurring shortly after midnight, with one trooper and one raider killed in a running gunfight. The rebels forded the river into Mexico.

  Gordon and Maddox, meanwhile, were waiting at the river crossing outside Los Indios. An hour or so later, they were notified that the raiders had broken through the army line and escaped across the Rio Grande. Bob Ransom was furious, for it was apparent the rebels had read his mind, and eluded the ambush he’d laid on by Company A. Early Sunday morning, upon returning to Brownsville, there was a message awaiting Gordon and Maddox at the hotel. General Parker wanted to see them and he asked that they come to Fort Brown as soon as possible. They took time only to have a quick breakfast.

  “One good thing, anyway,” Maddox said as they walked along Elizabeth Street. “Eleven of the bastards got killed up at Norias. Way it sounds, must’ve been a helluva fight.”

  “Too bad we missed it,” Gordon said sourly. “Only action we saw was swatting mosquitoes.”

  “You mind a suggestion?”

  “No, fire away.”

  “Ransom don’t like it much, but he’s under your orders. You could always override what he’s got planned—like last night.”

  “Hoyt, I thought it sounded good myself. He outsmarted them twice before.”

  Maddox was quiet a moment. “I’m just sayin’ Ransom’s no Robert E. Lee. Next time, you might want to trust your own judgment.”

  Gordon laughed. “Question is, would anybody else trust my judgment? I’m not exactly an old-time border fighter.”

  “Well, pardner, you’re learnin’ fast. Damn fast.”

  The parade ground at Fort Brown was now a sea of tents. Only yesterday, five hundred additional troops had been posted to the garrison, and calvary patrols in company strength were on the move at all hours of the day and night. In the regimental headquarters, Sergeant Major O’Meara’s expression was that of a juggler with one too many balls in the air. Maddox grinned at him.

  “Keepin’ you busy, Sergeant Major?”

  “Aye, and then some,” O’Meara said with a trace of a brogue. “What with these new lads, we’ve about run out of space. Any more and we’ll be raisin’ tents on the polo field.”

  “Well, why not?” Maddox said with mock gravity. “All the officers are off chasin’ Mexicans. Who’s got time for polo?”

  “Well, sir, polo’s a bit like religion. If you take my meaning.”

  “Not much different in the Rangers. Officers play while the troops do all the work. That the idea?”

  “You’d never hear me say that, sir. Not out loud, leastways.”

  “Sergeant Major, you’re startin’ to talk like a diplomat.”

  “And how do you imagine I got to be a sergeant major?”

  A fleeting smile touched O’Meara’s eyes. Then his stern countenance returned and he showed them into the commander’s office. The door closed, and General Parker, who was seated behind his desk, motioned them forward. Spread out across the top of the desk was a battle standard, or flag, two feet by four feet in dimension. He waved a hand over the flag with a look of distaste.

  “Our first trophy of war,” he said dryly. “Taken off the rebel who was killed outside Santa Maria last night. Captain Bates, who commands that area, had it rushed here by automobile.”

  The standard was white, with red and green emblems. Across the top and bottom, painted in bold letters, were the words LIBERATING ARMY OF MEXICO—TEXAS. In the center was a symbol familiar to all Mexicans, an eagle atop a nopal cactus, wings spread wide, a serpent clutched in its beak. Widely used by revolutionaries, the symbol represented the struggle of the people against tyrants. The message was immediately apparent to anyone of Mexican ancestry.

  “What’s it mean?” Gordon said. “I’m not much on Spanish.”

  Parker first explained the symbolism. “They’ve added the word ‘Texanos,’ ” he went on. “In the past, it was the battle standard depicting opposition to Mexican tyrants. Now, it’s been revised to include Texans.”

  “Just more of the same,” Maddox commented. “Their handbills spelled it out clear enough for anybody. They aim to take over Texas.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Parker said. “Actually, it’s not why I asked you gentlemen to come by. I just thought you would find it interesting.”

  Gordon nodded. “What can we do for you, General?”

  “I needn’t tell you that the King Ranch has consider
able influence with both Governor Ferguson and President Wilson. Do either of you have any idea as to the reason for the attack?”

  “Two things bother me,” Gordon said. “This is the first time they’ve raided so far from the border. And instead of hit and run, they seemed determined to make a fight of it. I understand it lasted an hour or more.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Parker acknowledged. “Fortunately, I was directed to post troops around the ranch. The result might otherwise have been disastrous.”

  “No two ways about it,” Maddox agreed. “Governor Ferguson ordered Rangers stationed there to patrol the ranch. Good thing he did.”

  Parker fixed him with a look. “I received a rather disturbing report, Sergeant. Your Rangers apparently roped some of the dead Mexicans and dragged them through the brush.” He paused, his mouth pursed with distaste. “I’m told they even posed for photographs.”

  “General, there’s no explaining what men will do when their blood’s runnin’ hot. I’ll look into it.”

  “There is no excuse for brutalizing the dead. I think a report to the governor would be appropriate—don’t you?”

  “Yessir, I’ll see that it’s handled proper.”

  “Please keep me advised,” Parker said in a firm tone. “Now, back to my original question. Why would they ride sixty miles to attack the King Ranch?”

  “Only one thing makes sense,” Maddox said quickly. “Three nights ago they hung that Austin fellow, the vigilante leader in Sebastian. Yesterday, I think they meant to kill Caesar Kleberg.”

  “A member of the family?” Parker said. “To what purpose?”

  “Same reason they killed Austin. To show all the Mexicans that nobody’s beyond their reach. Not even a bigwig hidalgo on the King Ranch.”

  “Wait a minute,” Gordon broke in. “Are you talking about deliberate assassination? Targeting prominent men?”

  “The bigger the better,” Maddox replied. “Lots of Mexicans sitting on the fence, waitin’ to see what happens. Thing like this proves the Army of Liberation won’t be stopped.”

  “Good God,” Parker said with a heavy sigh. “We can’t provide personal protection for every civic leader in southern Texas. How do we know where they’ll strike next?”

  “No way to know,” Maddox said. “The advantage is all theirs, leastways till they come out in the open and try to invade. Like we told you, Martinez says it’ll be early September.”

  “I find myself almost hoping he’s right. We seem ill-prepared to fight a small war.”

  Gordon thought it was a perceptive remark, and true. The army was always a step behind in guerrilla warfare, and the Rangers were no more effective. Yet a large war, a Mexican force invading American soil, played directly into the Germans’ hands. The very thing he’d been sent there to stop.

  For the first time, he felt a worm of doubt. He wondered if he could stop it. And even more to the point . . .

  How?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Toro Bravo had become unofficial headquarters for the Army of Liberation. A sign, depicting a fighting bull with fierce horns, hung over the door of the cantina. The painting of a brave bull seemed properly symbolic for the men who led the rebel movement.

  The interior was dim and cool even on the hottest days. A crude wooden bar was backed by a faded mirror with bottles of tequila and native brandy displayed on a shelf. Tables and chairs were arranged opposite the bar, and kerosene lamps hung from the ceiling. The room was utilitarian, a place where common men came to drink.

  Jacinto Trevino, the owner of Toro Bravo, welcomed the business of the rebels. Everyone in Matamoras knew his establishment was a clearinghouse for information about the Army of Liberation. As the gathering place for rebels and their supporters, his cantina had gained a certain notoriety. He treated Augustin Garza with the respect due a man of stature.

  On the afternoon of August 10, Garza, Vasquez and Pizana were seated around a table at the rear of the room. They were drinking Cuervo, the most expensive brand of tequila, distilled from the blue agave, a flowery desert plant. Vasquez sprinkled salt on the web of his thumb, licked it off, and downed a shot of tequila. He took a wedge of lime from a plate on the table and sucked it with satisfaction. He smacked his lips.

  “What a day!” he said vigorously. “If I weren’t an officer, maybe I’d get drunk. Maybe I will anyway.”

  “Si,” Garza said with a faint smile. “We have come far in a short time. General Huerta would approve.”

  Vasquez poured another shot. “Caramba! I can still see the look on Austin’s face when the rope was put around his neck. His cajones shrunk to nothing!”

  “We all have much to celebrate,” Garza agreed. “Think of it, the first raid on the King Ranch in twenty years. You will be famous, Aniceto.”

  Pizana had scarcely touched his drink. “No, mi coronel,” he said glumly. “I lost eleven men and never got near the gringo, Kleberg. I take no pride in that.”

  Three days had passed since the raid and Pizana was still in a sullen mood. He felt he had failed, while Vasquez had struck a blow that would terrorize all Anglos. Garza had invited them to Toro Bravo as much to enhearten Pizana as to celebrate their progress. He shook his head.

  “You are too hard on yourself, Aniceto. Your raid proved to all that even the mightiest Americano must fear our vengeance. Is it not so, Luis?”

  “Si, mi coronel,” Vasquez said readily. “Even if Kleberg was not killed, the raid itself drove fear into the hearts of the gringos. I salute you, Aniceto.”

  The door opened as Vasquez raised his glass. Hector Martinez stepped into the cantina and paused, allowing his eyes to adjust from bright sunlight to the dusky haze of the room. He finally saw them and hurriedly made his way back to the table. He stopped, hat in hand.

  “Buenos dias, mi coronel,” he said, nodding respectfully to Garza. “Your man at headquarters told me I might find you here.”

  “And you have found me,” Garza said without inflection. “What is it, Sergeant Martinez?”

  “I felt it important to bring something to your attention, mi coronel. A terrible atrocity by the Texas Rangers.”

  Martinez placed a printed leaflet, the size of a postcard, on the table. The front of the leaflet was a photograph of three Texas Rangers, mounted on horseback, lariats strung tight from the pommel of their saddles. At the other end of the ropes were three dead Mexicans, feet lassoed together, their bodies torn and raw from being dragged through the brush. The opposite side of the leaflet bore the message, printed in Spanish:

  DEATH TO MEXICAN REBELS WHO

  CROSS THE RIO GRANDE.

  “Mil Cristos!” Pizana blanched. “Those are my men. Soza. Fierros. And Lopez . . . muerto.”

  “Not just dead,” Garza corrected him. “They have been savaged by the Rangers. Dragged like animals.”

  “Yanqui bastardos!” Vasquez cursed. “Those men will never see the face of our Savior. God have mercy on their souls.”

  The dead men would be denied a Roman Catholic burial. For decades, Rangers who killed Mexicans had made it a practice to leave the bodies for vultures, or in some instances, burn them on pyres of dried brush. The dead never received the final sacrament and their remains were not interred in consecrated ground, a burial site blessed by the Church. Their immortality, many believed, was never sanctified.

  Varquez was impervious to his own irony. Nor were Garza and Pizana able to equate their own acts with those of the Rangers. In the Revolución, they had killed men, murdered many in cold blood, and blown others apart with cannon fire. Within the past month, they had executed Anglo ranchers by rope and firing squad, some of them little more than children. Yet they were incapable of casting themselves in the same light as the Rangers. They saw the act as bestial, an abomination.

  “Sergeant Martinez,” Garza said, tapping the leaflet, “where did you get this?”

  “The Rangers had them printed in great quantity, mi coronel. They are passing them out to our
people all along the other side of the river.”

  “These men were killed in the raid on the King Ranch, and that was only three days ago. The Rangers acted quickly.”

  “Captain Vasquez was right,” Martinez said, forcing anger into his voice. “The Rangers are bastardos, the Devil’s own. I thought you would want to see the leaflet muy pronto.”

  Martinez stood as though awaiting orders. His outrage at the Rangers’ brutality was genuine enough; but he was there for another reason entirely. Frank Gordon, upon seeing the leaflet last night, had been appalled. He planned to lodge a formal protest with the governor of Texas, and request disciplinary action against the Rangers involved. Yet, from a pragmatic standpoint, he couldn’t ignore opportunity.

  Gordon saw the leaflet as a plausible excuse for Martinez to report to Garza. He thought it might somehow bring Martinez to Garza’s favor, and result in a staff appointment at rebel headquarters. He had instructed Martinez to present the leaflet, with a proper display of anger, and volunteer himself for any duty Garza might require. His hope was that Martinez would at last be able to infiltrate the Army of Liberation—at the staff level.

  “I am at your command, mi coronel,” Martinez said now. “You know of my wish to further our cause. How may I serve you?”

  “Quiet!”

  Garza studied the leaflet with a frown. His eyes squinted in concentration as he stared first at the mounted Rangers and then at the bodies of the roped raiders. He cocked his head, lost in thought, and finally nodded to himself, as though acknowledging some inner revelation. His mouth razored in a grimace.

  “This is a sacrilege,” he said, thumping the leaflet with a forefinger. “But the Rangers have outsmarted themselves trying to frighten those who would join the fight. We will turn it to our advantage.”