by Lila Guzmán
Lorenzo made a quick downward slice with his hand. “Let’s go!”
All the buffalo stopped grazing. They lifted their massive heads toward the approaching horsemen. A bull close by bolted away. As expected, all sprinted after him—bulls, cows, and buckskin-colored calves. The surging mass thundered over the plain away from the cattle, trampling everything in its path.
Without warning, a bull at the back of the herd whirled. Its tail flew up, a sure sign of trouble. Grunting in rage, it lowered its horns and charged the nearest man: Red.
Red’s horse bolted, avoiding the horns by inches.
The buffalo pursued the horse, apparently determined to kill it.
Lorenzo spurred Piñata toward Red in an effort to divert the bull’s attention.
Miguel joined Lorenzo, offering the buffalo another target, but the bull doggedly trailed after Red.
A second buffalo suddenly separated from the herd, hesitated, then charged Red’s left. Lorenzo had seen bulls join forces to protect calves from coyote attacks, but he had never seen them go after horse and rider. He hadn’t counted on this kind of behavior and screamed a warning, but wasn’t sure Red could hear.
Eyes wide with fear, Red’s sorrel twisted to the left, searching for an escape route. She stumbled.
Red toppled toward the horse’s ears and rolled over the head, landing on his back. The charging bull made a swiping blow with his horns. Red’s horse screamed in pain. Blood spurted. The horse’s guts spilled from the gash.
Horrified, Lorenzo lashed Piñata’s rump. Miguel did the same with her horse. A man on foot didn’t stand a chance against two buffaloes weighing two thousand pounds each.
Red hunkered behind his horse’s body.
The bulls gave up the chase and turned on Miguel and Lorenzo, who dashed in opposite directions.
Suddenly, the bulls stopped running. Their sides heaved from exertion. Grunting in victory, they trotted off toward the herd, some distance away, but still moving fast.
Returning to Red, Lorenzo found the big Irishman holding his ankle with both hands, his face white with pain. Lorenzo flung himself from his horse and grabbed the mochila that doubled as his medical bag. He examined Red’s ankle. “It’s sprained.” He wrapped a bandage around it.
“It hurts,” Red grumbled.
“You’re lucky it’s not broken.”
“Ride with me, hermano,” Miguel said, calling Red “brother” instead of her usual “Sergeant Colorado.”
Lorenzo slid an arm around Red’s waist and helped him to his feet. With great difficulty, he got Red onto Miguel’s horse, then retrieved Red’s musket. When he swung up on Piñata, he saw what had made Red’s horse stumble: a buffalo wallow. To relieve insect bites, buffalo rolled in dirt, often creating a depression several feet deep.
Miguel and Red rode back to the herd.
Lorenzo stayed behind to scout around. He rode a wide circuit around the cattle and searched for signs of Apache. They moved across the Province of Texas following buffalo herds. He saw the Apache woman he had seen earlier.
Clearly, she was following them. Lorenzo wondered why.
Chapter Nineteen
Molly breathed deep, taking in the barn’s pungent odors. The Harris farm was one of her favorite places. She unhooked a milk pail and a three-legged stool from the barn wall and headed for the stall where Brownie chewed her cud. From time to time Molly spent a few days with Mrs. Harris, an elderly widow who regularly supplied the Continental Army with food. Molly did odd chores to earn extra money. This time, Mrs. Harris had taken ill, and Molly was nursing her back to health.
A long whinny sounded beyond the barn walls.
Molly peeped around the door. Fog rising off nearby Brandywine Creek cloaked the farmland in swirls of gray. Something moved in the pre-dawn light.
A horse plodded into the barnyard. His rider had loosened the reins and given him his head. The horse paused by the chicken coop to nibble sprigs of grass.
The rider slumped, either asleep or wounded. The man wore a three-cornered hat and a black suit. He swayed to one side.
Molly flew to him and helped him down. Her hands touched something wet and sticky. Blood. “I’ll go get help.”
“No time! Be ye Tory or be ye Patriot?” the man rasped.
“Patriot.”
“The British have landed near Philadelphia. They plan a surprise attack. Take a message to General Washington.”
A distant rumble echoed over the back fields. Molly tilted her head toward the sound. Not thunder. Definitely not thunder. She tried to separate the constant, dull combination of sounds. Tramping feet. Fife. Drum. She gasped. An army on the march!
“Go!” the man begged.
She hesitated. She couldn’t leave a wounded man untended. And Mrs. Harris was ill, in the house. What should she do?
After a moment of indecision, Molly dashed through the barnyard, bolted up the steps to the kitchen, and grabbed her cape and bonnet from the peg. “Mrs. Harris!” Molly yelled. “The redcoats are coming! There’s a wounded man in the yard!” On the run, she threw the cape around her shoulders and fastened it under her throat. She slammed on the bonnet and tied the ribbon under her chin. Halfway to the barn, she froze.
British soldiers emerged from the mist.
There was no time to saddle Long Shot. She led the wounded man’s horse to the split-rail fence and climbed to the top rail. Balancing precariously, she fitted her foot in the stirrup and scrambled onto the horse.
Redcoats, more than Molly could count, marched up the road that led past the farmhouse.
She glanced back at the barn, then at the house. Two people needed her help. Was it right to leave them? But thousands of soldiers were in danger. She had to warn General Washington that the British regulars were on their way. She slapped the horse’s rump.
“Stop her!” a British voice called.
A bullet whistled overhead. She bent over the horse’s neck to make herself a smaller target. Cape flying, she rode toward General Washington’s camp and prayed for the people she left behind.
Lorenzo and Soledad scouted ahead of the herd, scanning the horizon for signs of danger. They came to a wide stream where three Indians were fishing. In his head, Lorenzo went over the tribes he knew, but didn’t recognize this one. That was hardly strange. The Province of Texas was a big place, the home of many Indians.
“Do you recognize the tribe?” Lorenzo asked Soledad.
“Yes. Cocos. A friendly tribe.”
Lorenzo made the sign for peace to see how they would react. One of them approached cautiously, returning the sign. Soledad spoke to them in a dialect Lorenzo didn’t understand. The tallest one pointed to the left and talked at length. Soledad listened politely, frowning and nodding from time to time. At one point, her expression darkened as if they had just given her bad news. They talked on. Eventually they signed “good-bye.”
Lorenzo and Soledad turned their horses and rode off.
“Did you understand what they said?” Soledad asked.
“Not a word.”
“My tribe came this way following the buffalo and visited the Cocos. The news is not good. Chien d’Or tried to kill Chief Iron Bear and was expelled from the tribe. So were the people of his teepee.”
“That would include his wife, I assume.”
“And the French smugglers he was harboring.”
The Apache woman Lorenzo had seen earlier came to mind. He described her to Soledad.
“That’s Raven Feather, wife of Chien d’Or. If she’s around, her husband and his renegades can’t be far away. Chien d’Or isn’t the kind to act on the spur of the moment. He studies his targets and looks for weak spots.”
“And we’re the target?”
Soledad didn’t have to answer. Her face said it all.
Molly’s horse charged into the American camp and slid to a stop in a spray of pebbles.
A sergeant grabbed the reins. “What’s the rush, Molly?”
&nbs
p; “I got a message for the general.” She looked all about and discovered him talking to the Marquis de La Fayette, a tall, thin man in a white-powdered wig.
She ran forward, plunging past soldiers, veering around campfires, darting past the general’s bodyguard. “Sir!” She pulled on his sleeve.
“Molly,” the general scolded, “it isn’t polite to interrupt a …”
“British regulars are on the way!”
Soldiers within earshot stiffened.
Oddly, the general’s gaze fixed on her bonnet. He frowned the way he did when the cook served peas, then began to shout orders.
The camp burst into action. Officers snapped out commands. Men snatched up muskets, powder horns, and rushed to join their companies.
Dazed, Molly stood in the middle of it all, wondering why General Washington had believed her without question. She was glad he had, but still, it was odd.
The general returned to Molly. “Are you wounded?”
“No, sir. I mean … I don’t think so.”
He gave her a comforting smile. “Your bonnet is.” He untied it, eased it off, and thrust his little finger through a bullet hole.
She gasped.
“I owe you a new bonnet, soldier.”
Soldier. Molly relished the term. She wanted to be part of the war and now she was.
Chapter Twenty
Lorenzo woke up before dawn and watched the cook through half-closed eyes. It was natural for him to be up well before anyone else, so breakfast would be ready and they could start the cattle moving by daybreak.
Tortillas puffed up in one iron skillet while bacon sizzled in another. Coffee perked over the fire.
Lorenzo unfolded a crude homemade calendar and marked an X through September 12. The cattle drive was behind schedule. He hadn’t expected to swing off course to avoid buffalo. Several times he had taken the cattle a couple of leagues upstream to find a place to ford because the rivers were up. All that had cost him precious time.
The flatboats would leave Pennsylvania soon. They would drift down the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers, going with the current. It would take them about three weeks to reach the rendezvous point.
There was no way to know for sure if they set out on time. Lorenzo could only hope they would be at the right place at the agreed-upon time.
Lorenzo shook Red awake, then moved to Ambrosio and the others.
They cursed good-naturedly, stretched, scratched themselves, shook their blankets out, rolled them tight, and tossed them in the wagon.
As usual, Private Dujardin washed his face, combed his hair, and changed shirts before heading to breakfast. He was the only one obsessed with cleanliness.
Lorenzo surmised they must all stink like buffalo and had become used to the odor.
“Getting all spruced up is a waste of time,” one of the men told Dujardin. “Ain’t no women around, ‘cepting Mrs. O’Shaughnessy.”
“And she ain’t available,” Red said.
“Who you trying to impress?” asked Sebastián, one of Miguel’s soldiers.
Private Dujardin flicked lint from his buckskin shirt. “I am a … gentleman. Gentlemen are always washed.”
One of the others hooted. “We got a gentleman in our midst. What’ya know about that?!”
“From all the yipping going on,” Red said, “I thought I was in the midst of a bunch of hound dogs.”
Lorenzo smiled to himself. Driving cattle consisted of hours of boredom punctuated by moments of stark terror. He hoped the good-natured banter would last the entire trip.
Dunstan kept an eye out for hostile Indians. Many tribes had allied themselves with the British, angry that colonists encroached on their land. He had no clue how Indians in Spanish territory would react to strangers, and he wasn’t anxious to find out.
“Wolf!” Thomas exclaimed, pointing to the left.
A large dog slowly padded toward them, snarling and showing its teeth. It was three hundred yards away, well out of musket range.
Their horses snorted in fear and skittered away. Dunstan pulled hard on the reins to keep his horse from bolting. Sometimes it was better to face down an animal. Running only encouraged an attack.
A sharp whistle pierced the forest silence.
The dog stopped instantly, but continued to bare his teeth.
It was the strangest-looking dog Dunstan had ever seen. Spotted like a leopard, it had chilling blue eyes that gave Dunstan the impression the beast could see into his soul.
“What kind of dog is that?” Thomas asked.
Dunstan recalled a conversation with Spanish soldiers in a New Orleans bar. When the Spanish explored the Gulf Coast in the 1500s, they brought war dogs with them to hunt, guard camp, and use in battle. Some were wounded or left behind. Some were captured by Indians. “I think that’s a Catahoula.”
Thomas sounded the word out. “That’s the oddest-looking hound I’ve ever seen.”
A man’s voice called to the dog in an Indian dialect. The Catahoula spun around and took off running.
Dunstan’s gaze raked the forest, searching for the Indian and caught a glimpse of a man in a yellow headband before he melted into the foliage.
“Hurry, Molly!” Bill yelled. He tied leather saddlebags behind his horse’s saddle.
“Coming!” She dashed toward her brother and General Washington who stood beside him.
The general hugged Molly tight. “I’ll miss you. I’m sorry to see you go, but you’ll be safer with your brother.”
She threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. What did it matter that he was a general? His soft Virginia accent sounded just like her father’s.
“Take care of your brother,” the general said.
“I will, sir. How’s the Marquis?”
“The physician assures me he’ll be fine.”
The Marquis de La Fayette had been wounded in the leg during the previous day’s battle. Other officers had been wounded or killed.
“Please thank Mrs. Washington for watching Molly,” Bill said, climbing onto Long Shot.
“I shall.” The general lapped an arm around Molly’s waist and plopped her in front of her brother. “Write us at your earliest convenience. And may God bless your trip.” He patted Bill’s leather saddlebags.
Holding the reins in his right hand, Bill slipped his free arm around Molly and held her tight against him.
She leaned back into her brother’s well-worn buckskin shirt and a little of her fear dissolved.
The British were everywhere. General Washington had lost the Battle of Brandywine Creek the day before. He and his troops had nearly been surrounded and captured!
This wasn’t the first time the army had been in full retreat, but she hoped it would be the last. She looked up at her brother. “Where are we going, Bill?”
“Fort Pitt.”
Fort Pitt! Where was that? He was supposed to leave with the flatboats soon. Had all that changed?
Chapter Twenty-One
Piñata tossed her head impatiently.
“Easy, girl,” Lorenzo said, patting her neck. He tied the reins to a tree’s low limb and approached lead-colored ashes ringed by stones. He hunched down for a closer look. It was a fresh campsite, less than twenty-four hours old.
“What have you found?” Red asked, resting his wrist on the saddle horn.
“Evidence we’re being followed.” Lorenzo kneaded the back of his neck and rotated his head, trying to work out the tension.
“I think you’re worried over nothing,” Red said. “It’s probably just a couple of hunters.”
“I hope you’re right.” Lorenzo had a feeling that something bad was just over the hill.
Bill and Molly rode at top speed until they came to a roadside tavern in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. It resembled others she had seen.
A sign swinging over the entrance to the two-story wooden building showed a full tankard of ale and a sheath of wheat. The millwheel attached to the side of the building gurgled as wat
er hit the top blades and pushed them down.
A pot-bellied man in a greasy apron rushed toward them. “I’ve been expecting you! Patriots have been pouring in all day.”
Bill slid down from Long Shot and helped Molly off. He grabbed the leather saddlebags. “Have you seen a redheaded woman with a French accent?”
“She spent the night. Left early this morning, heading for York to be sure!”
“I need a fresh horse,” Bill said.
The pot-bellied man shouted to a servant pouring slop into a pig trough. “Fetch Dolly!” He pointed to a skinny young man with a pox-marked face. “You! Bring a gunny sack of food.”
Molly drew a deep breath. Her brother was trading in Long Shot? But he had worked so hard for that mare and loved her so much! They must really be in trouble, much worse than she realized, for Bill to give up Long Shot.
Minutes later, Bill secured the saddlebags behind a big chestnut mare and scrambled up. He stretched down a hand for Molly. “Come on, Sis!” Then, to the pot-bellied man in a greasy apron: “Take good care of Long Shot. And don’t let a blamed Brit have her!
“Don’t worry, Bill,” the man replied. “I’ll do you proud.”
Molly held on tight as they dashed west.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Molly felt so tired, she could barely hold onto the saddle. For four days she and Bill had headed steadily west through the Pennsylvania countryside, stopping long enough to change horses at trading posts and forts. She suspected that her brother sometimes slept in the saddle.
When the sun touched the treetops, a fort came into view.
“Look, Molly,” Bill said. “Fort Pitt. We made it.”
A fort sat on a triangle of land surrounded by three shimmering ribbons of water. Instead of heading toward the fort, Bill turned his horse toward the shore and three funny-looking square barges anchored there. Several buckskinned men guarded them.
Bill helped Molly down. He grabbed her hand and hurried toward the boats.
