The Warlords Page 18

  Funston thoughtfully studied the coal on the tip of his cigar. After a time, he looked at Parker. “Jim, I’m assigning another thousand men to your command. I suggest you deploy them as a mobile reserve.” He paused, his eyes steely. “Counterattack the rabble when and where they invade.”

  “Excellent idea, General,” Parker said, clearly pleased. “I’ll position them somewhere in the vicinity of McAllen. Depending on where Garza strikes, we’ll be ready to move upriver or downriver. Hit him quickly, and in force.”

  “Good thinking.” Funston’s gaze turned to Gordon. “Needless to say, Mr. Gordon, the better plan would be to stop the rebels at the river. Destroy them before they set foot on American soil.”

  “Yes, sir, I agree,” Gordon said. “I’ve always heard the best defense is a good offense.”

  “Indeed so. If you will, ask your operatives to turn heaven and earth to nail down an exact invasion date. We might just avert war with Mexico.”

  “I’ll do my best, General.”

  “Splendid.”

  Funston thought it was a heavy burden for so young a man. But then, in a moment of vivid reflection, he remembered that day in Cuba, when he’d led the charge on Santiago. Nothing was impossible when you were young. And bold.

  Frank Gordon impressed him as just such a man. A man who might yet outwit Augustin Garza and the rebels.

  And most of all, the Germans.

  A late afternoon sun smoldered on the horizon. The day was bright and clammy, the temperature hovering near a hundred. Puffy banks of clouds hung in the sky like balls of cotton.

  The Fresnos Pump Station was located on a branch of the Arroyo Colorado River. The operation was three miles south of Harlingen and some thirty miles northwest of Brownsville. Irrigation was the lifeblood of farms throughout the lower Rio Grande valley, and millions of gallons of water were pumped each day. The Fresnos Station served farms through canals that radiated outward from the Arroyo Colorado.

  Aniceto Pizana stood hidden in a tangled thicket of mesquite. Behind him, dismounted and holding their horses, were ten of his most trustworthy men. He watched the activity around the pump station, on the alert for any sign of military patrols or the Rangers. The building that housed the pumps was a large frame structure, and so far, he’d seen only three white men and four Tejanos. A Ford Roadster was parked outside the building.

  Last night, to divert attention away from Pizana, two raids had been staged near the border. Luis Vasquez and twenty men had ambushed a cavalry squad not far from the village of Ojo de Agua. Their mission was to kill the squad of troopers, and thereby convince Texans that the Army of Liberation would actively seek out and engage military units.

  The second raid was conducted by Miguel Barragan and Juan Cross, leading a party of eight men. Based on intelligence developed by Barragan, their orders were to dynamite a railroad bridge five miles north of Brownsville. They had detonated the explosives not ten minutes after the train carrying General Frederick Funston crossed the bridge. The message sent was one of contempt for military security and the army high command. Had they wished, they could have easily killed General Funston.

  Pizana and his men had forded the Rio Grande shortly after the raids began. With the cavalry patrols and the Rangers diverted elsewhere, they made their way in the dark to the Fresnos Pump Station, some fifteen miles north of the border. All day they had remained hidden in the dense mesquite thicket, silent and still, nothing to betray their presence. The raid was planned for late afternoon, not long before sundown. They would retreat back into Mexico under cover of darkness.

  The purpose of the raid was to strike at the heart of the Anglo economy. Farmers were dependent on the pump stations and the canals to irrigate their fields and nourish their crops. The destruction of a pump station affected scores of farmers, and brought with it the threat that their bountiful fields would return to the fallow earth of a decade ago. Terror came in various forms, and economic ruin was at the top of the list for those whose livelihood centered on agriculture. Without irrigation, the lower Rio Grande valley would be converted into a wasteland.

  As he watched the pump station, Pizana still simmered over the incident at the King Ranch. He had lost eleven men in a bloody attack that, in retrospect, seemed not just futile but foolish. Even now, almost a fortnight later, the postcard of the Rangers dragging the bodies of his soldados played out vividly in his mind. He was determined he would not lose so much as a single man on today’s raid. He would, instead, avenge those brutalized by the Rangers.

  On his signal, Pizana’s men mounted. They rode out of the mesquite thicket, spurring their horses into a gallop, and crossed the open ground to their front in a matter of seconds. The workers at the pump station looked around, startled by the sight of horsemen bearing down on them, and realized there was no place to run. The raiders fanned out, encircling the workers, and herded them to the front of the building. Pizana reined his horse to a halt.

  “Buenos dias,” he said pleasantly. “Who is in charge here?”

  There was a moment of leaden silence. The four Tejanos stared at him as if he’d asked a question too profound for comprehension. The three white men exchanged nervous glances, and finally one of them stepped forward. He was stout, with a potbelly and wire-rimmed spectacles, and his jaw bulged with a wad of chewing tobacco. He cleared his throat.

  “I manage the station.”

  “And your name, señor?”

  “Seth Dodd.”

  Pizana nodded. “I am Captain Aniceto Pizana, of the Army of Liberation. You have heard of us?”

  “Yeah,” Dodd said in a shaky voice. “I’ve heard.”

  “You do not sound impressed, señor. What is it you’ve heard?”

  “Nothin’ good.”

  “No?” Pizana feigned surprise. “One time I had a disagreement with a Texan. He told me: It’s like a fly walking across a mirror; it all depends on how you look at it. I was not amused.”

  Dodd bobbed his head. “Reckon I wouldn’t’ve been either.”

  “But later I came to understand the wisdom of his words. The man who has the power dictates the terms. Comprende?”

  “Meanin’ you’ve got the power today.”

  “Yes,” Pizana said, gesturing at the frame building. “I intend to destroy your pump station, señor. Do you object?”

  “Nope.” Dodd spat a stream of tobacco juice. “I’m not in no position to object.”

  Pizana motioned to his men. Three of them, already assigned the task, stepped off their horses. They hurried into the building, returning a moment later with cans of kerosene, and splashed it over the outside walls. The halfempty cans were thrown back inside, and one of them lit a match, tossing it into the doorway. The pump station went up in a roaring whoosh of flame.

  Dodd and the other men watched as the building was engulfed in fire. Pizana pointed to the Ford Roadster. “That is a fine automobile,” he said. “Does it belong to you, señor?”

  “Yep.” Dodd shifted his cud to the other cheek. “I suppose you’re gonna burn it, too.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  One of the raiders punctured the gas tank with a knife. A match flared and within moments the Ford Roadster burst into an oily ball of flame. Pizana looked on with satisfaction as the tires popped and smoke billowed into the sky. Then his gaze shifted back to Dodd.

  “Are you a religious man, señor?”

  “Methodist,” Dodd said without expression. “You fixin’ to kill us?”

  “We are at war, and soldiers must follow orders. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “I understand you’re the sorriest sonovabitch I ever laid eyes on. You ain’t nothin’ but a gawddamn murderer.”

  Pizana stared at him with a cold smile. “Suerte y mortaja del cielo bajan. Do you know the saying?”

  “I don’t speak Mex.”

  “Fortune and death come from above.”

  “Says you,” Dodd muttered. “God didn’t send no greaser
to kill me.”

  “You will soon find out, señor.”

  Still mounted, Pizana turned in the saddle. “Hombres,” he said addressing the four Tejanos in Spanish. “These gringos are dead men, but your lives will be spared. You have only to serve our cause.”

  The Tejanos bowed their heads, unable to hold his gaze. “Watch and remember,” Pizana went on. “Tell our people what you saw here today. Libertad for those who join our ranks!”

  Dodd and the other two white men were forced to their knees. Three raiders moved behind them with Winchester carbines, thumbing the hammers to full cock. One of the men moaned, his features stark with fear, and Dodd turned his eyes heavenward, his lips parted in silent prayer. On Pizana’s command, the rebels fired.

  The men pitched forward on their faces. Blood and brain matter puddled the ground around their heads, and Dodd’s right leg kicked in a spasm of afterdeath. A moment slipped past, the bodies bathed in the reddish glow of flames from the pump house and the burning car. One of the Tejanos crossed himself as the raiders swung into their saddles.

  Pizana led his men south from the Arroyo Colorado.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Rangers were ganged around the annex of the courthouse. They stood smoking and talking under a late afternoon sun, their conversation centered on the action of last night. The general consensus was that they’d again been outshone by the greasers.

  Inside Ranger headquarters, an after-action war council was under way. The three Ranger companies had returned to Brownsville only an hour before, and the officers were trying to determine where they’d gone wrong. The air was thick with smoke and curses, and no matter how many times they rehashed it, the result was the same. Their response to the raids was too little, too late.

  Last night, Company D, commanded by Clell Morris, had been dispatched after reports of a railroad bridge being blown north of Brownsville. They had caught four Mexicans crossing the river outside San Pedro, and killed one in a brief gunfight. Company C, under John Sanders, had been held in reserve, expecting a call of yet another raid. The call never came.

  Bob Ransom, with Company A, had gone upriver to Ojo de Agua. Gordon and Maddox had accompanied him, and outside the village they’d found something akin to a slaughterhouse. A cavalry patrol, nine troopers and a sergeant, had been ambushed by overwhelming forces, and killed to a man. The bodies were sprawled along the banks of the Rio Grande, and all the sign indicated they had been taken by complete surprise. None of them had gotten off a shot.

  “Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen,” Ransom said. “The greasers waylaid them in a grove of cottonwoods and blew ’em clean outta the saddle. Poor bastards never had a chance.”

  “Turnabout, all right,” Sauders mused. “Jump the soldier boys on purpose, ’stead of tryin’ to steer clear. Sounds like they’re sendin’ a message to the army.”

  “Could’ve sent a big one,” Morris said. “Dynamited that bridge right after General Funston’s train went by. Guess they didn’t know he was on it.”

  Maddox laughed sourly. “Everybody in Brownsville knew. Why wouldn’t they?”

  “Hoyt’s right,” Gordon observed. “Congress would declare war tomorrow if they’d killed General Funston. I think they’re biding their time.”

  “How’s that again?” Sauders asked. “You sayin’ they knew he was on that train?”

  “Well, Captain, they seem to know everything else.”

  “Damned if they don’t!” Morris said bitterly. “We only jumped four of them dynamiters at the river. Had to be more’n that.”

  Sanders looked at him. “You lost me there, Clell. What’s your point?”

  “Some of them dynamiters was Tejanos, and they never tried to cross the river. They’re probably livin’ right here in Brownsville.”

  “Cap’n, they’re living everywhere,” Maddox said. “Spit in any direction and there’s a chance of hittin’ a sympathizer. Not too many rootin’ for us gringos.”

  The phone jangled. Ransom, who was seated behind the desk, lifted the receiver. The others continued their conversation as he listened, occasionally asking a question, his features suddenly stern. After several minutes, he slammed the receiver on the hook. His eyes were like cinders.

  “Sonsabitches hit again,” he said. “That was the town marshal in Harlingen. They burned down a pump station and killed three white men. Got away clean.”

  “Jesus,” Sanders muttered. “When was this?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. The Tejanos that work there took off, and nobody caught on till the canals started runnin’ dry. Somebody finally went to have a look at the pump station.”

  “Seth Dodd,” Morris said in a rueful tone. “He managed the place.”

  “Well, he’s dead now,” Ransom grunted. “Him and the other two was executed. Shot in the back of the head.”

  “That don’t make sense,” Sanders said. “I was here all last night, and there wasn’t any report of anybody tryin’ to cross the river. Where’d the bastards get to?”

  “Maybe they went to ground,” Morris said. “Might be hidin’ out somewheres.”

  “Not likely,” Ransom said. “I’d bet the soldier boys let ’em slip through. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  The Ranger captains fell to arguing. Morris and Sanders thought it possible the raiders were hiding out, and Ransom insisted they’d evaded the army patrols. Gordon listened a while, but he soon grew bored with a debate that would ultimately come to a dead end. Whoever was right, too much time had passed, and the chances of finding the rebels were virtually nil. He told Maddox he would see him later at the hotel.

  Outside, the Rangers were still smoking and talking, waiting for their captains. Gordon walked to the hotel, and once in his room, stripped off the clothes he’d worn since yesterday. He took a long, leisurely bath, weary of chasing phantoms and rumors, wondering if he knew the truth of anything. Around seven o’clock, he went downstairs to dinner, figuring Maddox was still tied up with Ranger business. He thought it was just as well, for it was early, and he might yet catch Martinez and Vargas. He decided to call on Guadalupe.

  Shortly after eight o’clock he knocked on her door. She greeted him with an engaging smile, holding the door open, and rolled her eyes toward the dining area. Martinez and Vargas were seated at the table, lingering over a last cup of coffee, cigarette smoke eddying in the lamplight. Gordon saw nothing of Antonio, and felt oddly disappointed the boy had already been put to bed. Guadalupe hurried to clear dirty dishes from the table.

  “Buenas noches,” Gordon said, seating himself. “I had hoped to find you here.”

  Martinez waved his cigarette. “There was so little to report, jefe. You already know of the raids, verdad?”

  “Yes, I was out with the Rangers. You probably heard of the soldiers killed at Ojo de Agua.”

  “Aiiii caramba!” Vargas said with a disgusted look. “They talk of nothing else in Matamoras. The story is everywhere.”

  Gordon’s brow knotted. “Do you know who led the ambush?”

  “Who else?” Vargas said quickly. “El Diablo’s asesino. Vasquez himself.”

  “And the pump station outside Harlingen?” Gordon asked. “Three men were executed and the station destroyed. Any word on that?”

  “Si.” Vargas took a drag on his cigarette, exhaled smoke. “Garza brought Pizana and Vasquez to the cantina and crowed of their victories. Pizana thinks himself a malo hombre.”

  Guadalupe took a chair beside Gordon. Martinez watched them with a lazy smile, smoke curling out of his nostrils. He knew without being told that his sister was sleeping with the Americano agent. Whether or not it was a good thing was not for him to say. But she was happier than at any time since her husband had been killed in the battle for Matamoras. He hoped it would go well.

  “What of Mueller?” Gordon said. “Any unusual activity at the German Consulate?”

  Vargas wagged his head. “Garza meets with him once a day, sometimes more. Nothing out of
the ordinary.”

  “Have you heard any rumors about the invasion date? Do they talk of it at the cantina?”

  “There is no talk at all. I think it is a secret known only to Garza and Mueller.”

  Martinez stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. “Maybe I could make up an excuse to call on Garza. Last time, his mouth was faster than his brain. He might slip again.”

  “Hector, it’s too dangerous,” Gordon told him. “Unless we have a reasonable excuse, it might raise Garza’s suspicions. I won’t let you take that risk.”

  “Pardon my saying so, jefe, but today is August 20. If they mean to invade in early September, we have three weeks, maybe less. Don’t you—and the army—need to know the exact date?”

  “Perhaps I’ll feel differently in a week or so. Who knows, they might somehow tip their hand. Let me think about it.”

  “Do not fear too much for my safety. Madre de Dios, I’m a slippery one! I always get away.”

  “We’ll see how it goes, Hector.”

  Martinez and Vargas shortly excused themselves. Nothing was said, but their sly smiles indicated they knew they’d overstayed their welcome. They bid Gordon goodnight, shaking his hand, and Guadalupe walked them to the door. She returned a moment later.

  “All this talk of war.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “I thought it would never end.”

  “You are the bold one, aren’t you?”

  “Si, and wicked too, caro mio.”

  Gordon took her in his arms.

  Otto Mueller was seated at his desk the next afternoon. He heard voices in the vestibule of the consulate, and then footsteps approaching along the hallway. Garza moved through the door of the office.

  “Buenas tardes,” he said. “Am I interrupting?”

  “No, no.” Mueller set aside a pen and sheaf of paper. “I was drafting a report on your raids. How many soldiers did Vasquez kill?”

  “Ten, including the patrol sergeant.”

  “Excellent. Vasquez has the making of a good field commander. My superiors will be pleased.”

  Garza was reminded again that the Germans placed great value on written reports. He wondered just how impressed Mueller’s superiors would be with the ambush of a cavalry squad. Or perhaps, he told himself, Mueller was simply trying to put the best face on things until the invasion. He took a chair before the desk.