When the killing was done and the remnants of the herd dispersed, butchering commenced. With the help of Spotted Tail's wife, Emily learned how to cut the hide along the spinal column, pull it down along the sides, and then disjoint and cut up the carcass. The meat was wrapped in the hides and packed on horses or mules.
For some time after the hunt, following the Quohadis' return to their canyon, Emily was put to work dressing buffalo hides. The hide was stretched out smoothly and the hair scraped off with a knife. Then the skin was placed in a hole and soaked with water, after which she softened it by walking in place on the hide for hours until it was pliable. The next step was to stretch the hide and rub it with her hands until it was absolutely dry.
Emily did her best to adapt to her situation. She tried to do what Gray Wolf wanted of her and thanked her lucky stars that he did not make sexual advances. Intuition told her that he desired her, but for reasons she did not understand he withstood those desires. Not once did he mistreat her. Nor did anyone else, out of fear or respect for Gray Wolf. She was allowed to come and go as she pleased; the Comanches were not worried that she might escape. Hundreds of miles from the nearest settlement, an attempt would be foolish if not suicidal. At first she did not stray far from Gray Wolf's tepee for fear that the Quohadi women would waylay her. But as time went on she became emboldened. She discovered that if she showed courage in the face of taunts or threatening moves she could go about without being attacked.
She tried to locate the little boy and girl who had been captured, like her, during the raid. Though it took some time to cover the entire camp, she finally managed to find them. For herself, she just wanted someone to talk to in English, feeling it would be a great comfort to her to do so. And she thought maybe she could be of help to the children; though she was powerless to do anything for them, her mere presence might make them feel better. But the Comanche family that had adopted the children drove her away. From what little she saw of them, Emily concluded that the children were not being mistreated. That was something, anyway. In time they would adapt to their new environment—children were much better than adults at that sort of thing. Emily felt sorry for the true parents. If they were still alive, every day would be a living hell, not knowing what had become of their little ones.
Every now and then she managed to steal a few moments of solitude down by the river fork, away from the village. She would sit on the bank and rinse her feet in the water, just like she used to do in the Brazos behind the Torrance cabin. The great canyon cliffs—her prison's walls—soared high above her, and she would try not to think about all the miles that lay between this place and Grand Cane. She tried to have hope, but sometimes reality got the better of her, and she would weep bitter tears, wondering why Uncle Yancey and Captain McAllen had not rescued her. Would she ever see John Henry McAllen again? The thought was a dagger through her heart. Oh, what a fool she had been to listen to Artemus Tice when he had advised her to bide her time and keep her feelings for McAllen to herself.
Sometimes Gray Wolf followed Emily when she went in search of a quiet place along the fork of the Red River. He never let her see him; she never once had an inkling that he was there, hiding in the trees, and he would stand there and watch her, and when she cried it touched his restive heart.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Antonio Caldero was a legend at the age of twenty-two.
His father, Trinidad, was a ranchero in the province of Coahuila and, though unlettered, exercised considerable influence in provincial affairs, thanks in no small measure to his wife, in whose veins flowed the best Spanish blood. Though Mexico had successfully revolted against Spanish rule, full-bloods like Caldero's mother were still highly respected. Antonio's older brothers were educated in the best schools available and became pillars of the community. But Antonio became the family's black sheep. In his youth he preferred the rough and rowdy company of Trinidad Caldero's vaqueros.
Antonio was strikingly handsome and charismatic. He was slender and agile, with flashing blue eyes and a mane of jet-black hair. He could be very charming when he wanted to be, and extremely dangerous when his volatile temper got the better of him. When it suited his needs he could be as well-mannered as his mother would ever have wanted, but he could play rough, too.
Unlike many of his countrymen, Antonio did not fear and despise the Comanches. His father had wisely fostered good relations with the Indians, so that when they rode south to raid they never molested the Caldero ranch. In return for this consideration, Trinidad allowed the Comanches to take an occasional horse or cow.
As he grew older, Antonio had even more contact with the Comanches. A thirst for adventure motivated him to join a band of mesteneros when he was only sixteen; his mother was inconsolable and swore she would never see her son alive again, but the hard life of a mustanger suited Antonio. Mesteneros and Comancheros were cut from the same cloth, and in time Antonio established strong ties with the Indian traders and became a familiar face in the Comanche villages.
When the Texans rebelled against Mexican rule, Antonio rode with a company of irregular cavalry known as the Rancheros, who served primarily as scouts for Santa Anna's regular army. Texans likened the Rancheros to the notorious Russian cossacks, and accused them of unabridged rape and pillage.
Antonio exhibited no sympathy for the Anglos. He believed it to have been a grave mistake to let them settle in the province of Texas in the first place. They were an unscrupulous and avaricious people. Worst of all, they were Protestant scum. Antonio was a very religious person, a zealous Catholic. Considering his reputation as a killer and a womanizer and a thief, there were some who found this odd, if not ironic. But Antonio's opposition to Texas and Texans bore the unmistakable imprint of a religious crusade.
After San Jacinto, Antonio took it upon himself to keep the disputed strip of land between the Nueces River and the Rio Grande out of Texas hands. He enjoyed no commission, no official sanction from Mexico City, but to his banner flocked a small army of patriots—or ruffians, if you were looking through the eyes of Texas.
For four years Antonio had waged his undeclared war. The result was that precious few Texas homesteaders dared try to stake a claim to a piece of land south of the Nueces, and the few crazy enough to do so never lasted long. Antonio kept two companies of Texas Rangers busy trying in vain to catch and kill him. When pursuit got too hot, Antonio would slip across the Rio Grande and seek refuge on the vast holdings of his father, land he knew like the back of his hand. Occasionally the Rangers, bold men all, conducted forays south of the river, but while they were indisputably brave, they weren't fools, and they never lingered. Neither did they ever come close to capturing Antonio Caldero. The people were Antonio's allies when he was on the run. He was a hero, another Joachim Murietta, and they would never betray him, neither out of fear nor avarice.
The Rangers did, however, manage to nab a few of Caldero's men—and promptly hanged them. This occurred while Sam Houston was president of Texas, and when word of the executions reached Houston he flew into a rage and attempted to have the men responsible charged. Houston's contention was that the Mexicans should have at least been given a fair trial. But the Rangers suffered no consequences, and the river of bad blood between them and the hero of San Jacinto flowed deep.
Somehow Caldero heard about what Houston had tried to do, and he was grateful. He wrote a note of thanks to the Texas president. The note was found pinned by a knife to the door of Houston's residence. Many were alarmed that Caldero or one of his cutthroats could have gotten so close to Houston without being seen, without even leaving a trace. But Sam Houston was amused. He thought he understood the renegade; in some ways they were much alike.
Apart from the physical danger of a journey into the Nueces Strip, Sam Houston was aware of the political damage he might suffer if Texas learned that he was in contact with Caldero—the "Blue-Eyed Devil," as some folks called him. It mattered not that the purpose for meeting Caldero was to rescue
a white woman from the Comanches. One could not make a deal with the devil and expect people to understand.
But Houston entertained no second thoughts. John Henry McAllen needed his help and he would give it, and the consequences be damned. The Black Jack captain was in love, and Houston knew what that was like, thanks to Margaret. His friend's future was at stake. As for Leah McAllen—well, Houston had had grave doubts about McAllen's marriage from the first. Not that he'd tried to talk John Henry out of it. That wasn't his style. But he didn't like Leah, if for no other reason than that she had made his friend's life a pure hell. Houston was not one to ordinarily give credence to scandalous rumors, especially when they targeted the gentler sex. but in Leah's case he knew there was more than a grain of truth to all the lurid tales about her shameless escapades. So if John Henry had found someone else, someone who could make him happy instead of miserable, someone who truly loved him, then good for him.
The Nueces River lay several days' hard traveling south of San Antonio de Bexar. The region subject to dispute between the republics of Texas and Mexico was arid, rocky land spotted with horse-crippling cholla and drought-stunted mesquite, and McAllen had to wonder why so many men were willing to fight and die for it. Only rattlesnakes seemed capable of prospering here.
"How do we find this fellow Caldero, General?" Tice asked Houston the day they crossed the Nueces.
"He will find us, Doctor, rest assured."
Tice bleakly surveyed the desolate horizons and flexed sun-hammered shoulders. "Seems to me that we could ride around down here until doomsday and never see another living soul."
"I would be very much surprised if Caldero doesn't know about us already," said Houston.
That night, while they sat around a campfire cooking a pair of sage hens Houston had bagged from the saddle earlier in the day, Joshua shot suddenly to his feet and whirled, crouching, pistol in one hand and Bowie knife in the other. An instant later one of the horses whickered a warning. That the half-breed had been aware of the intruders even before the horses were did not astonish Tice. He knew how uncannily sharp Joshua's instinct for danger was, and he reached for his own weapons confident that trouble was imminent.
From all points of the compass men emerged from the night shadows and paused at the rim of firelight—dark, savage-looking men wearing sombreros and red sashes and chaquetas and leather chaps to protect their legs from the thorny underbrush of the brasada country. Each man carried a minimum of one rifle, a brace of pistols, and a knife.
Only Houston remained seated, apparently unrattled by the sudden visitation of seven well-armed, scowling ruffians. He spoke briefly to the men in Spanish. One of the Mexicans answered. Houston said something else and then looked up at McAllen.
"Relax, John Henry. These are Caldero's men, sent to do away with us. I told them who I was and that I wanted to speak with Caldero."
McAllen thought it unwise to take his eyes off the bandoleros, but he shot a slightly perturbed glance in Houston's direction. "And?"
"We're still alive, aren't we?"
As silently as they had come the Mexicans melted back into the darkness.
"Where are they going?" asked Tice.
"They'll be back at daybreak, Doctor. They won't go far, but they don't like Anglos well enough to share a night camp with us."
"That's wonderful," said Tice dryly. "I won't be getting much sleep tonight, knowing those fellows are lurking somewhere out there."
"Can we trust them?" McAllen asked Houston.
"I think so. We'd be dead now if they intended to kill us."
McAllen realized then why the general had insisted on coming along. Without Houston here we'd be getting our throats cut right about now. . . .
The next morning the Mexicans returned at first light. Now they numbered six, and McAllen surmised that one man had been sent ahead to notify Caldero. They rode due south until late in the afternoon, the Mexicans in advance of McAllen and his three companions—another manifestation of their resolve to engage in no fraternization whatsoever with Texans.
In the lengthening shadows of day's end they came at last to an adobe hut located near a dry wash. Several horses were tethered to the shaggy cedar poles of a ramshackle corral.
Three men sat at a trestle table in the striped shade of the adobe's pole-roofed porch, sharing a jug. One of them rose as McAllen and the others drew near. He was a slender youth, wearing concho-studded pants, an embroidered chaqueta without a shirt, and a bandanna tied Indian fashion around his head to keep long, thick, jet-black hair out of his face. His glacier-blue eyes were narrowed to slits as they studied McAllen. Tice, and Joshua—finally coming to rest on Houston.
"You must be Sam Houston," he said. His English was good.
"And you must be Antonio Caldero."
Smiling, Caldero bowed with a melodramatic flourish. McAllen did not trust that wolfish smile at all.
"I hope you have a good reason for coming here, General," he said, "because I need a good reason for letting you and your companions live. My men, they do not comprehend. . . ."
Sam Houston dismounted. "I can assure you I didn't come down here for my health."
Caldero laughed. He relayed Houston's comment to his men, who also found it amusing. The ice was broken. McAllen felt a little better. Not a lot, but a little. He knew now how Daniel had felt in the den of lions, and thought he and his friends would need divine intervention, too, to get out of here alive if things went sour.
Chapter Twenty-eight
McAllen and Houston followed Antonio Caldero into the dirt-floored adobe hut. Whoever had lived here had abandoned the place long ago—in McAllen's opinion he should have known better than to try to carve an existence out of this desolate wasteland. Now Caldero used it as an occasional rendezvous point. According to Houston, Caldero by necessity led a nomadic life; it wasn't safe for him to stay in any one place for too long, especially north of the Rio Grande.
Several of Caldero's bandoleros came in, too, but he sent them right back out again. They protested—they didn't trust the Anglos and feared for their leader's life. But they obeyed. Caldero struck McAllen as a man who would administer harsh punishment to anyone who practiced disobedience. Besides, he seemed supremely confident in his own ability to handle any situation. No doubt he was a real hand with the pistols stuck buccaneer-fashion under the red sash that encircled his waist. Apparently the red sash had some significance, McAllen had noticed that all the Mexicans who rode with Caldero sported them.
The three of them—Houston, McAllen, and Caldero—sat on empty barrels at a rickety table, a jug of aguardiente between them. Houston declined a drink, explaining that he was practicing temperance in keeping with the promise he'd made to Margaret. McAllen didn't like the taste of the anise-based liquor, but he took a drink so as not to offend their host. Caldero indulged in a long swig from the jug. It might have been water for all the effect it seemed to have on him. Then he lit a cheroot by the flame of a tallow lamp. The windowless hut was dark and gloomy and McAllen heard something scuttling about in the back corner, but he couldn't tell what it was. Wreathed in acrid blue smoke, Caldero propped his booted feet on the table, his big-roweled Chihuahua spurs gouging the old gray wood.
"So tell me, Houston. Why have you come so far to see me?"
"To ask a favor."
"What makes you think I would do any Texan a favor, even you?"
"Don't you think you ought to find out what it is before you decide not to do it?"
Caldero shrugged indifferently. "I will listen, because at the moment I have nothing better to do."
"We've come to ask you to intercede on our behalf to free a young woman from the Comanches."
Caldero's piercing blue gaze swung to McAllen. "Your woman, no doubt, señor."
"She will be when I get her back."
"The Comanches took her during the big raid two months ago," said Houston. "I'm sure you've heard all about that."
"It made me very happy."
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"A lot of innocent people got hurt," snapped McAllen.
"Easy, John Henry," advised Houston.
Caldero smiled and shook his head. "There is no such thing as an innocent Texan."
"I guess I ought not to be surprised that you think so," said McAllen bristling, "since your own men make no distinction between man, woman, or child when they attack our homesteads."
"We attack your settlers because they are trespassers. We make an example of all Anglos who dare to steal land that does not belong to them. And you must admit, our methods are effective. How many Texan farms did you see between here and the Nueces, eh?"
"Your methods are barbaric," replied McAllen.
"Really? I have also heard about the murders of the Comanche chiefs in San Antonio de Bexar, and of the attack on their encampment, where many innocent women and children were also slain. I am thinking that the look on your face tells me that you yourself were present, señor."
"I was," admitted McAllen bluntly. "And I don't like what happened there any more than I like what you and your men do."
"Gentlemen," Houston said with a sigh, "it's very entertaining to watch a couple of young bulls go at it head to head, but it really isn't accomplishing anything."
Caldero took another drink of aguardiente. "You are right, General. Your friend and I, we are much alike. I am thinking that one day maybe we will have to settle our disagreement. But not today. Today you have come to ask a favor of your enemy. But I cannot see why I should do this thing for you."
"Maybe because you're a romantic at heart," suggested Houston.
Caldero laughed and slapped the table with the flat of a hand. "You are right. I am a romantic. I am glad you did not say I should do this because I owed you a favor. If you had saved the lives of my men it might be so. But you did not save them."
"I wasn't trying to save their lives. All I wanted was for them to get a fair trial. No doubt they would have been hanged anyway. But at least it would have been a legal execution."
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