The Warlords Page 7

  The lie was impossible to disprove, for itinerant Tejanos wandered the border searching for odd jobs. “So.” Vasquez watched him intently. “You are willing to kill gringos?”

  “Si, mi capitán!” Martinez said with a big loopy smile. “I wish to be a soldado in your army.”

  Vasquez was impressed by the man’s personable manner. He was impressed as well that Martinez had shown the initiative to cross the border and volunteer for service. Miguel Barragan was actively recruiting in Brownsville, but someone was needed to spread the word in outlying areas. He nodded, the decision made.

  “I like your spirit, Martinez. At the moment, however, we have great need of someone who can carry our message and recruit soldiers. I think you are the man for the job.”

  “No disrespect intended, mi capitán, but I am here to fight for liberty.”

  “And you will,” Vasquez said. “I hereby appoint you a sergeant in the Army of Liberation. You will recruit men for our cause, and at the proper time—you will lead them into battle.”

  “Sargento!” Martinez marveled. “I never expected such a thing. Caramba!”

  “Your assignment will be to travel the border, convince men in distant pueblos to join our cause. This is an important responsibility, comprende?”

  “Yo entiendo, mi capitán.”

  “Bueno.” Vasquez rose from his chair. “I will take you now to meet our leader, Colonel Garza. He is a great man.”

  Martinez beamed. “I am honored by your consideration, mi capitán.”

  The headquarters for the Army of Liberation was an adobe house, rented only yesterday, around the corner on Calle 5. Martinez noted that it was within a block of the German Consulate, the proximity a telling point in itself. His introduction to Garza was perfunctory, and brief.

  On the way back to the bridge, Martinez committed everything he’d learned to memory. Yet the thing he remembered most was that Garza’s gaze was so empty of emotion that both eyes seemed to be made of glass. He thought he had known many dangerous men in his time on the border, but none more dangerous than the one he’d met today. He warned himself to caution, and vigilance.

  His first misstep with Augustin Garza would be his last.

  Manuel Vargas waited until the next day to begin the surveillance operation. Martinez had briefed him on the meetings with Garza and Vasquez, and given him physical descriptions of both men. He felt confident he would recognize them on sight.

  On Tuesday morning, Vargas crossed the bridge into Matamoras. He had given a good deal of thought to his disguise, fully aware that he must blend in with the surroundings, become all but invisible. The masquerade he adopted was that of a scruffy street vendor, for the main plaza was crawling with vendors of every description. His final concern was a disguise that would allow him the mobility to go anywhere.

  A southerly breeze chased puffy white clouds through the sky as a forenoon sun rose steadily higher. The plaza was crowded with shoppers and ringed with open-air stalls, magnified by wagons and carts and men on horseback into an unrelenting din of noise. Vargas moved through the crowds with a shallow wooden tray held in his hands and supported by a leather strap around his neck. The tray contained plugs of tobacco, loose cigarettes, and thick, black cigars which sold for a peso apiece. He was lost among the throngs of people milling about the vast square.

  The south side of the plaza opened onto Calle Morelos. Vargas positioned himself at the southeast corner, near a vendor with gaudy ribbons and cheap cotton handkerchiefs. From there, he had an unimpeded view of the entrance to the German Consulate. Farther along, he saw a man sweeping the sidewalk outside the cantina where Martinez had been enlisted by Luis Vasquez. Martinez had told him it appeared to be the local hangout for men sympathetic to a rebellion in Texas. He thought he might wander down there later in the afternoon.

  Shortly before eleven o’clock, he saw two men turn the corner from Calle 5 onto Calle Morelos. As they approached closer, he identified them as Vasquez and Augustin Garza. He watched as they rapped the door-knocker at the German Consulate and were admitted by a servant. For the next hour, he did a brisk business with men who stopped to buy cigarettes and plug tobacco on their way to the plaza. He wasn’t surprised that he sold only two of the ropey black cigars. Not many men would surrender a peso for a smoke.

  The bells in the cathedral tower tolled the hour at noon. A few minutes later, Garza and Vasquez emerged from the consulate in the company of a well-dressed man with hair the color of wheat. As they approached the corner, Vargas mentally reviewed the description he’d been given by Frank Gordon, and identified the man as Otto Mueller, thought to be a German military officer. The three men walked past Vargas, engaged in conversation, and he realized they were speaking English. They rounded the corner onto the plaza.

  Vargas waited to a count of ten, then followed at a discreet distance. Up ahead, he saw the men turn into a fashionable sidewalk café, one patronized by the more affluent people of Matamoras. A waiter came forward, inspecting Garza and Vasquez like soiled linen, but then, with a sharp word from Mueller, he seated them at a table near the sidewalk. When the menus arrived, it appeared Garza was translating from Spanish to English for Mueller’s benefit. Mueller insisted on ordering a bottle of wine with their meal.

  The crowds became heavier at noontime, and Vargas slowly worked his way closer to the café. Finally, as though he’d found a good spot to hawk his wares, he positioned himself on the sidewalk with his back to the table. The three men were the only ones conversing in English, and Vargas found it simple to distinguish their voices from other patrons seated nearby. Garza and Vasquez were clearly deferential to the German, and a celebration of some sort was under way. Mueller was playing the role of genial host.

  “I am quite pleased,” he said in a convivial tone. “Your progress to date is excellent, commendable, in fact. Everything appears to be on schedule.”

  “Nothing will delay us,” Garza said, nodding vigorously. “Our plan is sound, and more men rally to our cause every day. We will be ready.”

  Mueller chuckled softly. “Those handbills were a masterpiece. I wish I could say it was my idea.”

  “There is credit enough for all,” Garza said smoothly. “Your contribution is essential to what we will achieve.”

  “You are too kind, Herr Garza.”

  The conversation was cryptic in nature. The men seemed aware they were in a public place, and none of them made direct reference to the Plan of San Diego. Yet it was apparent to Vargas that something decisive was about to happen, and soon. Otto Mueller reinforced the thought when he raised his wine glass in a toast.

  “To your great success, gentlemen. Salud!”

  The sky was clear and black as velvet, bursting with stars. Along the river, fireflies blinked in wayward flight and lamps lighting the windows of houses were already being turned down. A dog barked somewhere in the distance.

  Gordon and Maddox moved through the darkened streets not long after eight o’clock. Late that afternoon an envelope had been left with the desk clerk at the hotel. The note inside was from Guadalupe Palaez, inviting Gordon to her house sometime after dark. The purpose of the note required no explanation.

  Nor was it necessary to elaborate on the “after dark” remark. The streets in the Mexican district of Brownsville were virtually deserted an hour or so after suppertime. The people who lived there worked twelve-hour days, usually jobs of strenuous labor, and they retired early. Darkness reduced the risk that gringos would be seen entering the house.

  Guadalupe opened the door at their knock. She quickly closed it as they moved inside, and for a moment she was standing close beside Gordon. In the amber glow of the lamp, her features were an odd mixture of poise and vulnerability, innocence and earthy wisdom. He was intensely aware of her smell, like a damp, sweet orange.

  “Please, come in,” she said, stepping past him with a winsome smile. “Hector and Manuel are waiting.”

  Martinez and Vargas were seated at
the small dining table. Guadalupe’s son, Antonio, was on the floor, playing with a carved wooden pony on wheels. He was a chubby, brown-faced cherub, and when she scooped him up and carried him to the bedroom, he squealed with laughter. Gordon and Maddox took chairs at the table.

  “Buenas noches,” Martinez greeted them. “Manuel and I have been busy across the river. We have much to report.”

  Gordon nodded. “Have you located Garza?”

  “Oh, yes,” Martinez said with a jokester’s smile. “I am now a sergeant in the Army of Liberation.”

  Maddox rolled himself a cigarette as they listened. Martinez related how he had found Luis Vasquez, a name unknown to any of them until now. He went on to say he’d been enlisted as a recruiter, promoted to Sergeant, and introduced to Garza, all within the space of an hour. Guadalupe returned from the bedroom as he finished his report. She seated herself beside Gordon.

  Vargas then recounted his experiences as a street vendor. He told them about Garza and Vasquez visiting the consulate, and later, how he’d eavesdropped on their conversation with the German, Otto Mueller. After their meal, the three men had parted outside the consulate, and late that afternoon, he had trailed Mueller to the Bezar Hotel, where he tried to sell him a cigar. A casual conversation with the doorman revealed that Mueller was a guest at the hotel.

  “That’s mighty fine work,” Maddox said, exhaling the words in a stream of smoke. “Sounds like something’s liable to pop pretty quick.”

  “I think you are right, señor,” Vargas said. “Their manner at the café was like that of a celebración. Garza assured the German there will be no delays.”

  Gordon thoughtfully scratched his jaw. “I’d say they’ve set a date for a military action of some sort. The question is, when?”

  “And where?” Maddox added, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray. “We’ve got a lot of border to cover. They could hit and be gone before we know it.”

  “We really don’t have a clue.” Gordon paused, then looked at Martinez. “Hector, you’ve apparently gained the confidence of this Vasquez. Could you get him to talk about what they’re planning?”

  “I can try,” Martinez said. “But what excuse do I have for being in Matamoras? They expect me to be over here recruiting men.”

  “Use that as your excuse,” Gordon said, suddenly seized by the idea. “Tell them the men you’ve spoken with want to know when they will be issued weapons. When they will be asked to assemble, and where.” He forced a rueful smile. “When they can begin killing gringos.”

  Martinez cocked an eyebrow. “You know, Vasquez might believe every word of it. You are a truly gifted liar, señor.”

  Gordon laughed. “Forget the compliments and get me the information.” He turned to Vargas. “Manuel, you stick with Mueller everywhere he goes. His actions might somehow tip their hand.”

  “I am as his shadow,” Vargas mugged, hands outstretched. “Whatever he does, I will see it.”

  The meeting finally broke up when they had exhausted all their ideas for gathering intelligence. Guadalupe walked Gordon and Maddox to the door and held it open as they started outside. Gordon hesitated, not certain why, and looked into her eyes. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  “Thank you for your note,” he said, wondering if he sounded as awkward as he felt. “I look forward to the next one.”

  “Yes, and soon,” she said with a vibrant smile. “I am sure of it, señor.”

  Maddox was waiting for him on the street. They turned back toward the center of town and walked along in silence for a time. Finally, Maddox exhaled a sharp, whistling breath. He shook his head.

  “I hope to Christ Martinez comes through with the where and when. We’re gonna be up shit creek if he don’t.”

  “Hoyt, you took the words right out of my mouth.”

  “Goddamn Germans,” Maddox cursed, his features troubled. “I just expect we ought to have a talk with General Parker. Don’t you think?”

  “First thing tomorrow,” Gordon said. “We’ll ask him to beef up patrols along the river. Way things look, we’re running out of time.”

  “Only one trouble.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a mighty long river.”

  They walked off into the darkness.

  Chapter Eight

  The moon hung like a white lantern in an indigo sky. The land was lighted by a luminous, silvery glow so bright that trees and bushes stood out in stark relief. The steel rails of the railroad tracks glittered onward into the night.

  Augustin Garza was mounted on a sorrel gelding. Behind him, formed in columns of twos, rode fourteen men, most of them Tejanos. The men were armed with Winchester repeating rifles, smuggled into Texas with funds supplied by the Germans. Directly ahead, ghostly in the moonlight, lay the town of Harlingen.

  The date was July 4, and the Army of Liberation was on the move. Garza thought of it as the vanguard of the army to come, for scarcely more than forty men had been recruited into the ranks. Over the past two weeks he had deceived Otto Mueller, inflating the numbers actually enlisted, still confident of the future. Tonight’s raids would rally men by the thousands.

  Garza had split his force into four parties. He would lead one group against the farm town of Harlingen, some thirty miles northwest of Brownsville. Luis Vasquez, with twelve men, would raid an Anglo ranch ten miles farther north, outside the town of Sebastian. Miguel Barragan and Juan Cross, leading smaller groups, were assigned to dynamite the railroad bridges near Raymondville and Russelltown.

  The raids were designed to prove that all gringos were vulnerable to attack. Civilians would be executed, law officers would be killed, and railway transportation, essential to the economy of the lower Rio Grande valley, would be disrupted with the destruction of two major railroad bridges. Mexicans and Tejanos would awaken to the reality of the Plan of San Diego. Nothing in the Anglo world was immune to devastation.

  Harlingen was the second-largest town in Cameron County. By now, three hours short of midnight, the fireworks and festivities of Independence Day were concluded and the townspeople had retired to their homes. But law enforcement officers, rather than ordinary civilians, were Garza’s target tonight. Because of Harlingen’s size, two deputy sheriffs were stationed there on a full-time basis. They were to be sacrificed in the name of liberation.

  Garza brought his men into town through a shadowed alleyway. The main street was deserted, illuminated by the moon and electric lampposts on each corner. The raiders dismounted in the alley behind the small office maintained by the sheriff’s department. To discourage townspeople who might be awakened by gunfire, nine men were posted on the street. Two men were left to hold the horses, and the other three followed Garza. He led them toward the office door.

  Hank McGivern and Tom Harney were preparing to close the office for the night. What with the Fourth of July celebration, complete with a parade and fireworks and several drunks, their day had lasted well into the evening. Their only prisoner was a Tejano, arrested for starting a fight during the parade, and locked now in the tiny cell at the rear of the room. A fistfight was hardly a crime, and they were both agreed that a night in jail was punishment enough. He would be released in the morning.

  Garza walked through the door with a drawn pistol. Crowding close behind him were the three raiders, their lever-action Winchesters covering the deputies. McGivern and Harney were taken unawares, dumbfounded by the sight of four armed Mexicans, and stared at them in a moment of baffled silence. Harney was the first to recover his wits.

  “What the hell’s this?”

  “Justice,” Garza said in a hard voice. “I am Colonel Augustin Garza, commander of the Army of Liberation. You have been sentenced to death.”

  “I don’t care who you are,” Harney snapped. “Put them guns away or you’re gonna get yourself in a shitpot full of trouble. Comprende?”

  Garza shot him. The slug struck Harney over his shirt pocket and he staggered, crashing sid
eways into a desk. His legs collapsed beneath him and he slumped to the floor. McGivern backed away, his eyes wild.

  “Now hold on a goldurn—”

  The three men with Garza opened fire. The crack of their Winchesters rattled off the office walls like the boom of a kettledrum. McGivern went down, his shirt pocked with bright red dots, his eyes rolled back in his head. A puddle of blood slowly spread across the floor.

  “Yanqui bastardos.” Garza stared at the bodies a moment, then looked at the man in the cell. “Who are you?”

  “Adolfo Munoz.”

  “Why are you in jail?”

  “I fought a man,” Munoz said haltingly, unnerved by the killings. “He called me names and I knocked him down until he could no longer stand.”

  “Good for you.”

  Garza took a ring of keys off a wall peg. He unlocked the cell door and motioned Munoz outside. “I am releasing you, but on a condition, hombre.”

  “Anything, mi jefe.”

  “Tell our people what you have seen here tonight. Spread the message that we will drive the gringos from the land. Call on all men to join in our fight for liberty.”

  “I will tell them, mi jefe. I swear it.”

  “Vaya con Dios.”

  Munoz bobbed his head, stepping around the bodies, and hurried out the door. Garza collected a straw broom from where it stood propped in a corner and dipped it in the puddle of blood. Then, wielding the broom like a large paintbrush, he stroked bold letters across the wall. The message, dripping scarlet streaks, was left for all to read.

  VIVA LIBERTAD!

  The ranch compound was situated on the dogleg bend of a creek four miles west of Sebastian. A two-story frame house overlooked the creek, and off to the side was a bunkhouse and an equipment shed. Thirty horses stood hip-shot in a large corral.

  Vasquez reined his horse to a halt on the south bank of the creek. His men were bunched loosely behind him as he sat staring at the compound, which was bathed in moonlight. The ranch was owned by Earl Stovall, and Vasquez had once worked for him as a vaquero. There was nothing random about the selection of the ranch for tonight’s raid.