Lorenzo's Revolutionary Quest

by Lila Guzmán

  One of the men took off a coonskin cap and waved it overhead. “Cap’n Linn!” he yelled. “We been waiting for you.”

  “Is Eugenie here?”

  “Yes, sir. Inside the cabin.”

  Bill picked Molly up as if she were no heavier than a sack of flour, stepped into the water, and swung her into the boat. He climbed over the side.

  “I am so glad to see you.” The red-haired woman Molly had seen earlier gave Bill a kiss on both cheeks. She smiled at Molly. “Hello. Allow me to introduce myself,” she said in English with a strong French accent. “I am Eugenie Dubreton.”

  She was even more beautiful than Molly remembered.

  Bill handed Eugenie the leather saddlebags. “Can you hide this somewhere safe? It’s the vaqueros’ pay.”

  What in the world were vaqueros? Molly would ask about that later.

  “Of course, William.” Eugenie disappeared with the saddlebags.

  It made Molly happy to hear Eugenie call her brother “William.” It sounded so cold. Molly liked the name “Bill” better and was glad that Eugenie didn’t call him some pet name. This lady looked nice, but Molly liked Bill’s other girlfriend better.

  Suddenly, the flatboats set out with a lurch.

  “Where are we headed?” Molly asked Bill.

  “Louisiana.”

  “Will I ever see General and Mrs. Washington again?”

  “Sure. When this assignment is over, we’ll head home.”

  Louisiana. Molly couldn’t wait to get there.

  Iron Bear pulled his horse off to the side and watched the tribe pass by. He brushed strands of long gray hair from his face. The migration to their fall hunting grounds was going smoothly. Not so last time. Comanches had attacked.

  A sudden sadness swept over Iron Bear as he recalled the battle. So many dead. For the first time, he felt old. It was time to hand over the reins to a younger, stronger brave.

  Leadership of the tribe was based on merit, not family line. Who would the tribe accept as the new chief?

  Kokotil, a battle-tested warrior who had seen twenty summers, rode past driving his remuda of horses. Perhaps he would make a good chief. If only Iron Bear could be certain.

  Lifting his hands skyward, tilting his face backwards, Iron Bear prayed silently. Give me the wisdom to make the right decision. And give me one more adventure. Something exciting, something important for my grandchildren to tell around the campfire after I am gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dunstan saw dirt-brown clouds swirl skyward over the next ridge and grinned. “We’ve found them, Thomas!”

  “Art thou sure?” Thomas asked.

  “I would bet my last shilling on it. Only one thing could make a cloud that size. A herd on the move.”

  “Aye,” Thomas said, obviously trying not to smile. “Just like those buffaloes a few miles back.”

  Dunstan sniffed. “It could have been a herd of cattle.”

  “But it wasn’t.”

  “A minor detail,” Dunstan said. He urged his horse into a copse of cottonwood trees, and the little Quaker joined him. They jumped down and tied their reins to a low-hanging bough.

  “The first thing we have to do,” Dunstan said, “is determine how to capture Lorenzo Bannister.”

  “Not so,” Thomas said, untying his saddlebag. “The first thing we must do is eat.” Unwrapping cooked rabbit meat saved from lunch, he bit off a huge chunk and passed it to Dunstan.

  Being far too nervous to eat, he refused it.

  “And once Bannister is captured?” Thomas prompted.

  “We take the traitor to Major Hawthorne and let the proper authorities dispose of him.” Dunstan was smooth in his lie.

  Thomas’s lips tightened. “Thy cousin wants proof the Spanish are helping the American rebels.”

  “And he shall have it. To save his neck, Bannister will talk. All we have to do is find him … .” Dunstan’s voice faded.

  A lone horseman, traveling slowly, topped the hill about a quarter mile to the west. He kept his head down as if studying tracks. His horse snorted and skittered nervously. The rider spoke encouraging words and rubbed the horse’s neck until it was calmed.

  “On the other hand,” Dunstan whispered to Thomas, “Bannister might come to us. There he is, in all his glory.”

  Lorenzo scanned the cottonwoods where they hid. He cocked his head, apparently listening intently, and remained perfectly still.

  “Come on, Bannister,” Dunstan whispered. “A little closer.”

  Musket at the ready, Dunstan skirted the cottonwoods and rode forward cautiously, obviously on the alert. Dunstan drew his pistol.

  In a stroke of good luck, thunder rumbled far away, masking the metallic click of Dunstan’s hammer.

  A shot to the head would do the trick. Dunstan briefly considered ending his enemy’s life, but the desire to see Bannister suffer the way he had suffered in the prisoner-of-war camp held him back.

  Lorenzo pushed his hat back and frowned at the darkening sky.

  Thunder pealed a second time.

  Lorenzo straightened. Whipping his horse around, he raced over the hill and out of sight.

  Dunstan uttered a vile curse.

  Lorenzo joined Red riding point. “Turn the herd south.”

  “What? I thought we were going to Nacogdoches!”

  “Turn them, if you please.”

  Red obeyed. A while later, Red asked, “What do you know that I don’t?”

  “Between us and those cottonwoods there are hundreds of tracks. A whole tribe passed through, going south to north.”

  “Apaches?” Red asked with a frown.

  “Looks like it. We’ll swing wide to the south and avoid them.”

  “A storm’s brewing.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Lorenzo rubbed his jaw and studied the swift-moving clouds in the gathering darkness. Storms often caused stampedes. “We’re running out of daylight and have to bed down soon.”

  An hour later, most of the herd had settled down for the night, chewing their cuds. A few restless ones grazed. All looked weary.

  Lorenzo posted extra guards and strolled to the wagon for a cup of coffee. He sipped it and winced. It was exceptionally strong, but he was grateful. He would need to be alert all night.

  The storm’s rumbling grew louder by the minute. Bad weather could add days to the trip and make them miss the flatboats.

  Ever vigilant, Lorenzo ate supper standing up and kept track of the storm front.

  Night fell. Clouds blotted out the stars.

  By flickering firelight, the cook did a few last-minute chores before turning in.

  Shapeless bundles of blankets radiated from the fire like spokes on a wheel. The vaqueros turned their boots and moccasins close to the glowing embers and, on Lorenzo’s orders, kept their horses saddled and tied nearby.

  Most of the men were asleep. A couple of vaqueros rolled cigarettes and lit them off the campfire.

  Lightning flashed.

  “One one thousand. Two two thousand.” Lorenzo counted out loud, timing how far away the storm was. Thunder rumbled when he reached “six six thousand.”

  Lorenzo poured himself a second cup of coffee. He needed to stay awake to monitor the weather. He drained the cup and served himself a third.

  Lightning slashed through the sky.

  “One one thousand, two two thousand.”

  Thunder boomed before he reached “three.” That meant the storm was drawing closer.

  It had been muggy and still all day, perfect storm weather. A strong wind whooshed through the woods, carrying the smell of rain and pine. Lightning danced from one cloud to the next.

  Lorenzo blew out a long sigh. He had let the men sleep as long as he dared. “Wake up, everyone!” he ordered in a firm and reassuring voice. “Storm’s coming. Mount up.”

  Grumbling vaqueros turned out and climbed onto their horses.

  Lightning crashed and illuminated the plain.

  Cab
ezón, one of the lead bulls, leaped to his feet in one bound. More than once he had tried to start a stampede, but an observant vaquero always cut him off before any cattle joined his rebellion.

  Some of the cattle rose, standing tense and trembling. Others crouched, legs drawn up as if ready for a sudden spring.

  The night herders’ lullaby grew louder. Lorenzo could tell they were worried about an impending stampede and were trying to drown out the thunder.

  Dunstan could barely stand his horse’s slow pace or the sound of its hooves plodding toward the cattle. The cautious clip-clop was sheer torture, but it wasn’t possible to go faster in the dark.

  The wind blew strands of singing toward him and Thomas.

  Excitement sent blood racing through Dunstan’s body. Tonight Lorenzo Bannister would be his.

  He was accustomed to the city where candlelight glowed from windows and street lamps. Never had he seen such total blackness. The night before, a full moon had shone so brightly it cast shadows. Tonight, only the occasional flash of lightning lit the sky.

  With no stars and no moon to show the way, utter darkness surrounded them. If Dunstan stretched his hand before his face, he couldn’t see his fingers.

  He and Thomas had to trust their horses’ instincts. Dunstan had learned that lesson the hard way. Once, he was in a hurry to reach an inn before full dark. Business had delayed him longer than expected. To save time, he went across country, leaping fences and brooks in one bound. Just as the inn came into view and there was only one river left to cross, the horse pulled up short, nearly unseating him.

  Angry, he whipped the beast with his riding crop, but it refused to budge. He dismounted only to find himself peering into a raging river. Rebels had blown up the bridge.

  Dunstan listened to strains of music and chuckled. How accommodating those diegos were! Their caterwauling would lead him straight to them.

  “Que no te vayas de mí … que no te vayas de mí.” Don’t leave me, the old love song begged.

  Lorenzo joined the chorus and understood the irony behind the words. Would any of the cattle desert them tonight?

  Distant lightning flashed. Rain, gentle and cooling, began to fall.

  Cabezón bawled and set out in the dark.

  Five head of cattle followed him. It wasn’t a frantic rush of hooves, just a simple plodding that could turn into a stampede with the next lightning bolt.

  Lorenzo spurred his horse toward Cabezón. Like most bulls, he gave way before a horseman and turned aside.

  Cut off by other night riders, the cattle making up Cabezón’s rebellion began to circle. It started out wide, then gradually grew smaller and smaller until they slowed and finally stopped. Calmed, the cattle stood in the rain, looking about with befuddled expressions, as if wondering why they had set out walking in the first place.

  Lorenzo sagged in relief. His cheeks puffed as he blew out a long sigh.

  Red’s horse ambled over to him.

  “That was close,” Lorenzo said.

  “Sure was,” Red replied. “Cabezón is a troublemaker. I’d like to make him the main guest at our next barbeque!”

  A lightning bolt yielded a split second of light.

  Dunstan dismounted and handed Thomas his reins. “Keep my horse and stay out of sight.”

  “I want to go with thee.”

  “Art thou deaf?” Dunstan asked, making fun of Thomas. “I told you to stay here.” He checked his pistol, then wedged it under his belt. Gripping a tomahawk, he eased toward a thicket and crouched there. Lorenzo and his rebel scum had once captured him using a tomahawk. It was time to return the favor.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Dunstan crawled on all fours toward the herd.

  Soggy and restless, the cattle lowed and jostled each other.

  Each time lightning flashed, he searched for Lorenzo. Finally, he found him on a gray horse with a black mane and tail.

  After the rain stopped, everyone returned to camp except two drovers watching the cattle and two others with the horses.

  Dunstan perked up to see Lorenzo with the cattle. All night he had watched men move in the dark and waited for the right moment to attack. All night, there had been too many people around.

  Until now.

  Lorenzo and Red rode in opposite directions around the sleeping herd, tipping their hats when they met.

  A dense fog rolled in, enshrouding everything.

  Lorenzo was glad to see the horizon lighten. The rising sun would burn off the fog.

  A twig snapped. Birds exploded into the sky. Lorenzo tensed. Cabezón clambered to his feet. Several jittery cattle joined him. Long minutes went by. When nothing happened, Lorenzo assumed it was just a coyote on the prowl.

  The herd calmed and settled back down. All, except Cabezón. The powerful, rust-colored bull shook giant horns and let out a bellow.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Lorenzo exclaimed.

  The bull bolted away and disappeared into thick, gray mist.

  Since Red was on the opposite side of the herd, Lorenzo had to chase the runaway. Red’s suggestion that they barbeque Cabezón was sounding better and better.

  Dunstan peeped around an oak tree.

  Lorenzo circled a high thicket about twenty yards away. He seemed to have all his attention fixed on it.

  Dunstan waited until Lorenzo was on the far side to move closer, knowing the thick fog would mask his movements. He headed forward, then froze.

  Straight ahead, a rust-colored bull with a jagged blaze on its forehead snorted, barely visible in the fog. It lumbered toward him, shaking huge, sharp-pointed horns, then paused, lowered its head, and charged.

  Dunstan jumped to the left. The bull came so close, he felt a rush of wind as it passed by. The bull whirled and pawed the ground. Snorting, it trotted forward. Dunstan ran. Briars and branches flogged his face. He stumbled over an exposed root, picked himself up, and dashed down a path carved out by wild beasts.

  The earth shook. Dunstan was certain the bull was gaining on him. He sprinted through the grayness, looking for the oak tree he had hidden behind, but all he saw were blackberry thickets and shrubs that the one-ton beast could knock over with a flick of its giant horns. Abruptly, the trail ended at a thick matting of bushes.

  Trapped, Dunstan whirled. He searched for his weapons and realized he must have dropped them along the way.

  The bull stopped. Head down, it pawed the ground.

  Dunstan’s heart pounded. In a panic, he couldn’t move, not even when the bull charged. The beast’s head rammed his body. He landed hard, the breath knocked out of him.

  The bull turned. It charged again. Hooves thundered toward him.

  Time slowed. Dunstan watched the wild-eyed beast rush toward him.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “There you are,” Lorenzo said when Cabezón emerged from a clump of trees. “Come on, Mischief-maker, back to the herd.” He spoke in a cajoling, nonthreatening voice, but thoughts of barbequing Cabezón filled his head.

  The bull’s breath misted in the morning air. His sides heaved. He bolted to the left. Lorenzo blocked him. He bolted in the opposite direction. Piñata instinctively chased him and forced him to turn.

  Lorenzo waved a lariat in slow, nonthreatening circles. “Back to the herd, Señor Barbacoa.”

  The fight seemed to have gone out of the bull. He turned and ambled back to the herd.

  Dunstan groaned in pain and eased his eyes open. It took a moment for them to focus. Where was he? Where was the sky? He let out a strangled scream. Leaning over him was a sharp-featured Indian in his early thirties wearing a yellow headband.

  Dunstan braced for a scalping. His heart drummed.

  “Je suis ami,” the man said in French. I am a friend.

  Somehow Dunstan managed to stammer out French phrases of cordiality. He suddenly realized he was inside a teepee.

  His host responded in impeccable French. His right hand touched his chest. “I am Chien d’Or.”
>
  Dunstan mimicked the gesture. “Dunstan Andrews.”

  How did Chien d’Or, or Gold Dog, know French? To be sure, it was the language of diplomacy in the white man’s world. During the French-and-Indian War, Indians had been allies of the French against the British colonies, but this was the Spanish Province of Texas.

  Groaning in pain, Dunstan sat up and faced Chien d’Or, seated cross-legged on the floor.

  A broad-faced Indian woman entered the teepee and offered Dunstan a gourd containing a vile-smelling concoction. Dunstan hesitated.

  “Drink,” Chien d’Or said. “You’ll feel better.”

  Looking at his host over the lip of the gourd, Dunstan took a cautious sip. It stung a little when it went down, but warmed his insides like Jamaican rum. He drained the gourd.

  Chien d’Or gestured for the woman to leave.

  Eyes down, she raised the teepee flap and slipped out.

  “You speak French,” Dunstan said.

  “My father was French.” Chien d’Or rested his elbows on his knees. “For many days, we have followed the cattle drive and watched you and your son.”

  For the first time, Dunstan thought about Thomas. “He isn’t my son. He’s my servant. Where is the lad?”

  “Here. In camp. My wife saw the bull charge and pulled you to safety. She brought both of you here. Why do you follow the cattle?”

  Dunstan shrugged. “To see where they go.”

  Chien d’Or’s eyes bored into Dunstan as if he could see his soul. “Tell the truth or I cut your lying tongue out.”

  Dunstan believed he would do it. “My king does not want the cattle to reach the soldiers rebelling against him.”

  “He wants the cattle for himself?”

  “He wants proof the Spanish are helping American rebels.”

  Chien d’Or waved his hand scornfully. “I care not about the war.”

  “Nor do I. I simply want to capture the man driving the cattle. He is my enemy.”

  “Bannister is my enemy as well.”

  “You know him?” Dunstan asked, surprised.

  Chien d’Or spat on the ground in a gesture of disgust. “He killed two of my men and stole my cattle. I want them back. When you capture Bannister, what will you do with him?”