by Lila Guzmán
An oppressive heat settled over the hills, a smothering kind he had not experienced since New Orleans. Even working bare-chested gave little relief.
Dunstan stroked the scar on his cheek, the long, ragged gash he’d earned in a sword fight in England before he became a soldier. He recalled every detail.
The lord’s son had made a lucky stroke, then had laughed joyously.
Oddly, Dunstan recalled, the cut hadn’t hurt. Reaching up with his free hand, he had touched his cheek and felt blood seep from the open wound. Dismayed but striving hard not to show it, he had advanced toward his opponent. The next few seconds had blurred. Dunstan only remembered coming out of a haze to find his saber tip pinning the lord’s son to the floor.
Dunstan had taken a slow revenge, slicing through an embroidered waistcoat, easing the saber into his opponent’s skin just enough to draw blood, then a little further, and a little further.
Ignoring his victim’s pleas for mercy, Dunstan had twisted the saber a fraction to the left, then a fraction to the right. At some point, he must have hit a vital organ.
The lord’s son had twitched once, then lay perfectly still.
With his cousin’s help, Dunstan had fled to America, “took the King’s shilling” and became a redcoat. It was paltry pay for risking his life as a soldier, but it was that or be hanged for murder.
“Hey! Saber-Scar!” the rebel guard called out, snapping Dunstan back to the present. “What’s the matter? Don’t you speak English?”
“The King’s English,” he replied.
“Back to work!” the blue-coated soldier ordered, making a threatening gesture with the bullwhip.
Swinging his ax overhead, Dunstan buried it deep into a log and pretended the splintering wood was Lorenzo Bannister’s head. In his mind’s eye, he saw the boy responsible for his capture by traitors who called themselves Americans. Someday he would kill him. It would be a slow death, too, the kind he’d given the lord’s son.
Dunstan positioned another piece of wood on the block. This time, the wood became Lorenzo’s neck. He swung his ax with a vengeance, splitting the log neatly in two pieces.
A scrawny-looking boy no more than thirteen years old moved down the line of prisoners with a wooden bucket. He offered each a dipper of water.
Dunstan remembered seeing him arrive in camp the day before in the midst of twenty Hessian prisoners transferred from Pennsylvania. The boy didn’t look particularly bright or useful. He dressed like a Quaker in a plain coat with no pleats in the sides or buttons on the pockets or sleeves. He assumed the boy was a loyalist arrested by the rebel vermin.
“How art thou?” The boy pushed back a shock of light brown hair that had fallen across piercing blue eyes.
“Are you a Quaker?” Dunstan asked.
“I am a Friend,” the boy corrected with a small smile, emphasizing the last word.
The Society of Friends, commonly called Quakers, did not believe in war. Even so, they were on both sides of the rebellion, some as Tories supporting Britain, others supporting Washington’s rebels.
The boy glanced at the nearest prisoner, about three feet away, and lowered his voice. “Thy cousin sent me with a message.”
Dunstan jerked his head up. “My cousin?”
“Aye. Thou hast friends in high places.”
Dunstan considered that. His cousin worked for British intelligence, as did he.
“What’s the message?”
The boy cleared his throat. “Thy cousin said, ‘I have an important mission for you. Report to me at once.’”
Chapter Four
An hour went by. Lorenzo and his soldiers herded the recovered cattle toward San Antonio with the rust-colored bull in the lead. The two horse wranglers trailed behind.
“This is the most exciting thing I’ve ever done,” Private Dujardin said in French. “Incredible! I am herding cattle like a real vaquero!”
Lorenzo understood his excitement. He had felt the same way the first time he rode herd.
French continued to spill from Dujardin as he and Lorenzo headed toward San Antonio.
Lorenzo was glad Eugenie had taught him her native language. Otherwise, he would have been forced to use hand signs to communicate with Dujardin.
Private Jean-Paul Dujardin had left France the year before and joined the Continental Army. It was rumored that his girlfriend’s father had placed a hefty bounty on his head. Lorenzo could only guess why a father would do that.
An embarrassing moment with Eugenie a month earlier leaped to mind. They were in the house of Colonel De Gálvez, Spanish governor of Louisiana. Lorenzo leaned over the desk in the colonel’s study and explained the planned cattle drive to her.
“The cattle are there in San Antonio,” Lorenzo had said, pointing to a map, “and there is the Mississippi River. This,” he said, plopping down a paperweight, “represents the cattle. And this,” he said, holding up a bar of sealing wax, “will be the flatboat flotilla.”
Eugenie leaned close.
Lorenzo momentarily lost concentration as he breathed in her perfume. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. A tress of red hair fell over her shoulder. She tucked it behind her ear.
“The flatboats come this way,” Lorenzo said as he maneuvered the sealing wax across the map. “We herd the cattle this way.” He moved the paperweight. “And voilà, the two meet up.”
“It would be easier to send the cattle by ship, n’est-ce pas?”
“Colonel De Gálvez and I discussed that. Hurricane season is upon us. There’s no way to know when a storm is brewing in the Gulf of Mexico. Besides, pirates are a problem, not to mention having to go around Florida, and the British control that. Traveling by ship is dangerous. That’s why we went up the Mississippi and Ohio by flatboat last year. We had a better chance getting through that way. The Mississippi River is the best way to get supplies to General Washington. If the British ever gain control of the river, the war is lost.”
She studied the map. “The King’s Highway. The king of Spain has a highway in Texas?”
“Yep. It’s a dirt road as wide as any in Pennsylvania or Virginia. It’s been around for years. It runs to the northeast through the province of Texas, past San Antonio, Nacogdoches, and ends near Fort Saint Jean Baptiste in Louisiana.”
“It’s a long trip. You realize how difficult it will be to make all this work?”
“What? You doubt my abilities?”
She ignored him and read the date written on the map next to the rendezvous point. “October 16. What happens on that date?”
“If all goes according to plan, we rendezvous with the flatboats. William Linn and his men are bringing barrels of salt. They’ll slaughter the cattle and pack them, then take them north.”
“What happens if the flatboats arrive too early?”
“They lie at anchor and wait for us.”
“What if you arrive too early with the cattle?”
Lorenzo folded the map and put it back in its hiding place. “We let them graze and fatten up until the flatboats arrive.”
“Fatten up on what?”
He shrugged. “On whatever they find growing wild.”
She narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. “Have you thought all this through carefully?”
Lorenzo laughed. “Colonel De Gálvez and I have burned barrels of lamp oil staying up late. We’ve planned this down to a gnat’s eyebrow.”
Eugenie burst out laughing. “A gnat’s eyebrow. Where do you come up with these things?”
“I learn them from my soldiers.” Lorenzo wrapped a tress of her hair around his index finger. “They say things that would curl your hair.” He slipped his other arm around her back and gently pulled her to him. He kissed her softly and she kissed him back.
“Unhand that girl, you scoundrel!” Colonel de Gálvez stood in the doorway, arms crossed, scowling.
Eugenie stepped away.
Lorenzo tried not to smile. Most people would be terrified of t
he governor of Louisiana and the power he wielded, but the colonel was like his adopted father. He had plucked Eugenie off the streets when she was orphaned and found her a place to live. He had done the same thing for Lorenzo. They were both indebted to him.
Lorenzo held his hands up in mock surrender and backed away. “I was … uh … showing her the route the cattle drive will take.”
The colonel raised an eyebrow questioningly. “That’s an odd way to go about it. Personally, I’d use a map.”
Blushing deeply, Eugenie rushed toward the door.
“Hey!” Lorenzo called after her. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Home.” She turned and blew him a kiss.
A hot wind hit Lorenzo in the face and drew him back to the present.
Hoofbeats sounded over the plain.
Lorenzo trained his telescope on a squad of Spanish soldiers loping toward them with a lieutenant in the lead.
They carried bull-hide shields and lances. Swords hung by their sides. They wore long-sleeved white shirts, tight blue knee breeches, boots covered by buckskin leggings, and leather jackets called cueras padded with quilted cotton to keep arrows out of their backs and chests.
They slowed to a walk, apparently not wishing to spook the cattle and send them into a stampede.
Lorenzo was glad to see the soldiers. No doubt they would take the cattle off his hands.
The lieutenant was several inches shorter than Lorenzo, five-foot-six at the most, and slightly built. He barked an order.
Soldiers fanned out, each pulling alongside a different one of Lorenzo’s men, and leveling pistols.
Chapter Five
“What is the meaning of this?” Lorenzo yelled to be heard over the cattle’s lowing. Being a captain, Lorenzo outranked this lieutenant, but that did little good with pistols trained on him and his men.
The lieutenant answered a question with a question. “Are you in charge here?”
“Yes!”
“What is your name?”
“Lorenzo Bannister.” Given the nature of their secret mission, he thought it best to give only the barest of details.
“I certainly hope you can give me a good explanation for having mission cattle in your possession.”
Lorenzo could not see the face under the wide-brimmed hat, but the lieutenant sounded like a boy whose voice had not yet broken. “I do, Lieutenant. We ran into rustlers and took the cattle away from them.”
“Is that so?” The lieutenant thumbed back his hat, revealing a boyish face to match the voice. His thick, blue-black hair was as long as Lorenzo’s and tied at the neck with a rawhide strip. The lieutenant had a look in his eye that warned not to take liberties.
He looked familiar, but Lorenzo couldn’t place him. “You’ve no doubt noticed we’re driving the cattle west,” Lorenzo pointed out. “Would rustlers drive them back to San Antonio?”
“They might if they were lost …” The lieutenant’s curled into an ironic smile. “Or stupid.”
“We are neither.” Lorenzo liked the fellow less and less. Slowly, making no threatening moves, he reached around and untied his saddlebag. He drew out the small leather satchel Colonel De Gálvez had given him as a birthday present.
The lieutenant frowned to see the Gálvez family crest tooled on the front. He carefully read the page Lorenzo handed him.
Written and signed by Colonel Bernardo De Gálvez, the governor of Louisiana, it authorized Captain Lorenzo Bannister to buy five hundred head of cattle and drive them east to New Orleans.
The page gave no hint they were being purchased by George Washington. It also implied that Lorenzo and his men were attached to the Spanish army, not the American one. When people noticed his men’s shaky command of the Spanish language, they would no doubt assume they were mercenaries. Every army hired foreign soldiers. German-speaking Hessians fought for the British. The Spanish army brimmed with Irishmen.
The lieutenant offered a courteous bow. “I am Lieutenant Miguel De Santoro. Your servant, sir.”
Miguel De Santoro, Lorenzo silently repeated. Where have I heard that name? “Call off your men, Lieutenant.”
At his shrill whistle, soldiers stowed their pistols.
Lorenzo found the lieutenant less than likable, but couldn’t help admiring how well he had trained his men. Lorenzo suddenly remembered him. “Laredo! You were my father’s patient!”
The lieutenant’s eyes widened. “You’re Dr. Bannister’s son. Yes. Of course.”
For years, Lorenzo and his physician father had traveled from presidio to presidio to visit patients.
One day a lieutenant showed up in the waiting room. “Dr. Bannister said to come for a physical exam.”
Lorenzo led him into his father’s office and prepared to assist, as usual.
“Leave the room, son,” his father said.
Surprised by the order, Lorenzo did not budge.
“I must examine Lt. De Santoro in private,” his father explained in an uncharacteristically gruff tone as he pushed Lorenzo out the door. “This is not a sight for a young boy’s eyes.”
For several minutes, Lorenzo stood outside the closed door, wondering what hideous malady the lieutenant had. As a physician’s apprentice, he had seen it all. Wounds squirming with maggots. Gangrene. Amputations. What could be worse than that?
After the examination, his father refused to discuss Miguel De Santoro’s condition. Overcome with curiosity, Lorenzo searched the pharmacy book where his father recorded medicine or treatment prescribed. There was no entry for Miguel De Santoro. Apparently, his condition was untreatable.
That happened nearly three years ago, which meant Lieutenant De Santoro was now about nineteen years old. Lorenzo puzzled over this. Maybe the lieutenant looked like a boy because he had a rare medical condition.
He was still a lieutenant, but that was hardly odd. Promotion came slowly in the Spanish army.
Miguel shifted uneasily. “Did Dr. Bannister tell you … anything?”
“No. He said there were secrets between doctor and patient that should never be revealed.”
“That’s good,” Miguel said, visibly relieved. “Tell me about your encounter with the rustlers.”
“Sergeant O’Shaughnessy was with me at the time.” Lorenzo signaled for Red to join them.
He spurred his horse forward until he was facing Lorenzo and the lieutenant. In short order, he and Lorenzo related what had happened.
Miguel listened carefully. He took a card from the leather pouch around his neck, crossed through two names, and put the card back. “Only five more to go. We’ve been after Chien d’Or and his band of renegades for a long time.”
“Chien d’Or?” Lorenzo said, surprised by the name. It meant Gold Dog in French.
Miguel nodded. “Cattle rustler, smuggler, and all-around troublemaker. His mother was Lipan Apache, his father French. Chien d’Or’s gang is made up of French smugglers hiding out with the Lipan Apache.”
Lorenzo mulled this over. At the beginning of the century, the French had infiltrated Texas, forcing the King of Spain to build forts near the Louisiana border to protect his territory. In 1763, at the end of the French and Indian War, France handed the Louisiana Territory over to Spain, but French smugglers and pirates remained a problem.
Miguel looked at Red. “I am in your debt …” He floundered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Sean O’Shaughnessy. Everyone calls me Red.”
Miguel opened his mouth to speak, paused, then said, “Yes. Well. Thank you for your help, Sergeant Colorado.”
Red grinned at the way Miguel translated his nickname into Spanish.
“I think it only fair to warn you,” Miguel said. “You two have made an enemy. Chien d’Or will take this personally. Watch your backs.”
Chapter Six
Chien d’Or brooded as he rode back to camp. Losing the cattle angered him. He had risked his life for them and planned to trade them for French muskets. Bu
t what really made his blood boil was seeing the redheaded bear and his companion kill two of his men.
On the trek home, thoughts of revenge filled Chien d’Or’s mind. After crossing three hills and a rock-strewn creek, he spotted the campsite, twenty or so teepees clustered under a canopy of live oaks.
Children dashed back and forth followed by a yellow dog playfully yapping at their heels. In front of a teepee, a woman stitched a new pair of moccasins and talked to her companion, who mixed flour and water, then shaped it into small cakes that she baked over glowing embers.
Chien d’Or flung himself off his horse, tied it up, and stomped toward a teepee decorated with hunting scenes.
Three Lipan Apaches, all of them nearly six feet tall, strode toward him. They were of average height for the tribe and towered over him by at least three inches. Their hair was braided and fastened at the napes with loops of deer sinew. They had painted their faces bright red, as was the custom.
“Welcome back, Brother!” a battle-scarred brave said.
Chien d’Or grunted and hoped they wouldn’t ask about the cattle. He felt foolish in boots, shirt, and trousers, the clothes of his father’s people. Long ago, his father, a French pirate, had been shipwrecked off the Texas coast. For weeks he had wandered aimlessly, only to be found by a scouting party of Lipan Apaches. After adapting to their ways, he had become a valuable addition to the tribe.
Chien d’Or couldn’t wait to change back into deerskin.
Bringing the Frenchmen into the tribe had been Chien d’Or’s idea. They had been trouble ever since. Many braves had died in battle with the Comanches, including Chien d’Or’s brother, Bayé. Because the tribe could not afford to lose any more men, the French stayed as reinforcements.
Many tribesmen took refuge at the missions in San Antonio, learning Spanish and adopting a new religion. Even Bayé’s widow had gone to San Antonio.
Chien d’Or clenched his jaw so tight his teeth hurt. He entered his teepee, pulled off his boots, and flung them across the way. He changed clothes, then sat on a buffalo hide.
