Lorenzo's Revolutionary Quest

by Lila Guzmán

  Dunstan looked straight ahead, but studied Chien d’Or out of the corner of his eye.

  He wore an indecent smile, obviously reveling in the slaughter.

  With one hand, Dunstan grabbed the sword hanging by Chien d’Or’s side. With the other, he shoved him off his horse. Chien d’Or sailed sideways and landed with a thud.

  Dunstan jerked his horse around, a combination of anger and fear erasing all thought. He raised his sword high.

  Eyes rounded in fear, Chien d’Or scrambled backwards like a crab on a beach.

  Dunstan swung hard, aiming for the jugular vein. Blood spurted. Dunstan knew he had dealt a fatal blow. “That will teach you to steal my sword, you filthy liar.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Lorenzo and his companions had traveled about a league when Miguel, in the lead, raised her hand to signal a halt. She jabbed her index finger to the right.

  Instinctively, Lorenzo reached for his musket, but then remembered that the powder was still wet. He drew his knife instead and wished he had a long-range weapon.

  A brown-haired boy wearing only a breechcloth and moccasins limped downhill. “Help me!” he yelled. “Please.”

  Lorenzo spurred Piñata to the boy, flung himself off, and rushed to him.

  An Apache woman riding bareback charged over the hill, reins in one hand, a long, wicked-looking knife in the other.

  Lorenzo recognized her as Raven Feather, wife of Chien d’Or.

  With a piercing scream, she galloped toward Lorenzo and the boy.

  They leaped aside just in time.

  Miguel dashed forward, sword held high.

  In an impressive display of horsemanship, the Apache woman brought her horse to a jarring stop and whirled. She spat out a curse, slapped her legs against her horse’s side, and barreled straight toward Miguel.

  Miguel charged. When she was even with the Apache woman, she slashed at her.

  Raven Feather ducked and dodged the blow.

  Both of them turned. Their horses thundered forward again.

  A dagger whistled past Lorenzo’s ear and thudded into Raven Feather’s chest.

  She slumped, then fell from her horse. Lorenzo approached cautiously. With his foot, he rolled her over. Her body flopped like a rag doll’s. Blood seeped around the knife blade.

  He pulled it from her chest and cleaned it on the grass. “Your knife, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy.”

  Without comment, Soledad took it and slipped it back into its sheath.

  Lorenzo glanced at the boy for his reaction to Raven Feather’s death. He was scowling fiercely.

  Lorenzo whistled for Piñata, and she dutifully trotted over. He dug into his saddlebags, found a piece of dried beef, and offered it to the boy.

  Large, solemn eyes stared at Lorenzo. He grabbed it and bit off a huge chunk. “I thank thee, sir.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Thomas,” the boy said. “Thomas Hancock, sir.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hancock. My name is Lorenzo Bannister.” He offered his hand.

  The boy stared at it. All color drained from his face.

  Lorenzo touched Thomas’s shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

  Thomas twisted away as if a red-hot poker had touched his skin. His eyes flared in panic. “Please don’t kill me.”

  “Why would I do that?” Lorenzo asked in dismay.

  He and Dujardin shared a look of confusion.

  Dujardin smiled charmingly at the boy. “Bonjour, Thomas. My name is Jean-Paul Dujardin.” His voice was smooth and reassuring, his English heavy with a French accent. “I am a gentleman. You are safe, yes? I promise.” He slowly extended his hand.

  The boy stared at it a moment before he gave it a mild shake.

  A man’s word, once given, was better than a written guarantee. No one would go back on it and risk losing honor.

  “Why an English boy here?” Dujardin asked.

  Thomas hesitated. He looked from Dujardin to Lorenzo and back again.

  Lorenzo strolled away, leaving the interrogation to Dujardin since Thomas thought him a cold-blooded murderer. He watched them out of the corner of his eye.

  Dujardin listened to the boy, nodded in sympathy, spoke briefly with him, then motioned for Lorenzo to return. “Thomas was captured by Chien d’Or and his gang,” Dujardin explained in French. “The woman Soledad killed was Raven Feather, Chien d’Or’s wife. She was taking care of him, but he managed to escape.”

  “What was Thomas doing in Texas in the first place?”

  “Captain,” Dujardin said quietly, “he is in Dunstan Andrews’s service.”

  Lorenzo went numb. The redcoats knew about the mission.

  Dujardin switched back to stilted English for the boy’s benefit. “Thomas will now say.”

  Holding Lorenzo’s gaze, Thomas said, “I know I am a prisoner of war and give my word as a gentleman not to escape.”

  Lorenzo frowned at Thomas. “Do you understand what will happen if you try to escape?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Lorenzo let out a long sigh. He didn’t relish killing an escaping prisoner, especially a boy Thomas’s age.

  “Thomas said Saber-Scar is working with Chien d’Or.”

  “The British have infiltrated Texas?”

  “No. Saber-Scar is working on his own. Apparently, Chien d’Or is, too. He was cast out of his tribe. Thomas said Saber-Scar has vowed to kill you.”

  Lorenzo scanned the piney woods. It was hardly comforting to know that a man who wanted you dead was on the prowl.

  Chapter Thirty

  Dunstan followed the tracks of the wounded man’s horse. From time to time, drops of blood dotted the ground. Hoof prints crossed the trail of a small herd of cattle, and the horse veered abruptly after them. Tracks headed to the northeast.

  All day Dunstan had seen outlaws capture cattle. If his calculations were right, this was the only group left.

  Raindrops rattled the leaves.

  Lorenzo, soaked and grumpy, wished the weather would improve but doubted that it would. A lead-colored sky stretched from horizon to horizon. Horses, cattle, men, and equipment—all were sopping wet.

  He counted noses. Nearly everyone was missing. The herd had been reduced from five hundred to fifty, and he had no idea where the remuda of horses might be. The wagon was gone, so they had no food and would have to forage off the land. He hoped the vaqueros and missing cattle were heading to Nacogdoches.

  Thomas rode herd with Dujardin. Thank goodness he had given his pledge not to escape. Lorenzo needed the extra hand.

  He scouted ahead of the rest. Topping a hill, he rolled his eyes skyward and whispered, “Thank you!” The King’s Highway cut through the dale below. He had never seen a more welcome sight.

  Lorenzo looked back at his bedraggled band. He wished they could rest for a couple of days in Nacogdoches, but that was impossible. They would have to hurry in order to meet the flatboats on time.

  A horse nickered and emerged from a grove on the ridge across the way. At first, Lorenzo thought it was riderless, until he realized someone was hunched over the neck, clinging to the mane. An arrow protruded from the horseman’s side.

  Lorenzo touched his moccasins to Piñata’s side. She dashed away, jumping a small brook, clambering up a muddy bank.

  It was Sebastián, one of Miguel’s soldiers. His horse drooped with exhaustion.

  Lorenzo pulled alongside and leaped off. He secured the reins of both horses to a low branch and helped Sebastián down. Cringing at the man’s groans of pain, he laid him on his uninjured side on a bed of wet leaves.

  Lorenzo checked the wound, recalling what his father had taught him. Use your head. Assess the situation. Where is the wound and how deep is it? Is it bleeding heavily?

  Upon examination, it looked like Sebastián had been lucky. Very lucky. The arrow had missed a vital organ. Even so, Lorenzo knew that arrows killed by making victims bleed to death. He curled his fingers aroun
d the arrow’s shaft, said a quick prayer, and pushed the arrow through, trying not to hear the man’s screams. Lorenzo cleaned the wound as best he could and pressed his hand to it. “I’ll be right back, Sebastián.” He dashed to his horse and retrieved his mochila. After cleaning the wound, he applied a bandage.

  Lorenzo sensed a presence and looked up.

  A man on horseback headed toward him. Sword in hand, face expressionless, he dismounted.

  Lorenzo stared in disbelief. “Saber-Scar.”

  “Saber-Scar,” the man repeated with a forced smile. “How droll.”

  Lorenzo bounded up, scrambled to Piñata, and drew his musket.

  Saber-Scar gave him a scornful look. “It won’t fire, Bannister. Not in weather like this.”

  Like any good woodsman, Lorenzo kept his musket primed at all times. He had cleaned out the sludge and put in more powder. Even if the musket would fire, it would only succeed in stampeding the few cattle he had left.

  Saber-Scar took a menacing step forward, sword at the ready. “Simplify your life and surrender. I wish to take you alive.”

  Lorenzo gripped the gun barrel, rushed toward Saber-Scar, and swung it like a club.

  The rain-soaked musket clanged against the steel blade. Sword and musket sailed into the air. Both landed among wet leaves.

  Saber-Scar scrambled to retrieve his weapon while Lorenzo dashed to Sebastián’s horse and drew his sword from the saddle scabbard.

  “What a scrappy little fellow you are,” Saber-Scar sneered. “I shall fight you if you wish, but I much prefer you uninjured. You’ll be worth more on the auction block that way.”

  Auction block? Lorenzo hid his surprise at the remark. It sounded as if Saber-Scar knew about his past, but how could that be?

  “Oh, yes.” A cold smile grew on Saber-Scar’s face. “I know your little secret.”

  Anger coursed through Lorenzo. He slashed at Saber-Scar.

  Saber-Scar parried the blow easily, pinning Lorenzo’s sword tip to the ground. “Ah, I see I have struck a nerve.”

  Lorenzo pulled free, swiping again, but missing.

  Saber-Scar laughed. “No one bests me with a blade, Bannister. Surrender now. I do not wish to damage valuable property.”

  “Never.”

  Fist on hip, Saber-Scar smugly lunged and ripped Lorenzo’s sleeve. “One.” Then, with a flick of the wrist, he nicked Lorenzo’s left arm. “Two.”

  Pain lanced through Lorenzo. It was just a scratch, but it drove home his opponent’s skill level. Saber-Scar was toying with him.

  “Give up before I truly have to hurt you, Lorenzo. Lorenzo … Might that be your slave name?”

  Lorenzo didn’t answer, realizing Saber-Scar was taunting him, trying to make him angry and reckless. He focused on his enemy’s eyes and put all his strength and concentration into an attack he knew could be the difference between life and death.

  His opponent retreated.

  Lorenzo was relentless. Every time he slashed and stabbed, he forced Saber-Scar to dodge and retreat.

  A ferocious duel ensued. Swords rattled until Lorenzo’s arm ached from the battle.

  Saber-Scar’s chest heaved from exertion. He lifted his blade, roared with frustration, and swung wildly.

  Lorenzo, in total control now, easily parried the blow.

  Saber-Scar’s face twisted with rage. He paused, panting, then charged in desperation.

  A falling curtain of rain turned the ground treacherously slick. Both of them slipped on mud and wet leaves. Lorenzo regained his balance and stared directly into Saber-Scar’s eyes, taunting him. Saber-Scar’s nostrils flared. Mouth twisted in determination, he lunged again. His sword whistled in the air. Lorenzo leaped back, the blade tip barely missing his stomach. Saber-Scar attacked again. Lorenzo parried, a new enthusiasm guiding him.

  Anger made Saber-Scar reckless. His thrust went wide. Lorenzo felt a tree at his back. He pretended to stumble on a root. His opponent lunged, sword blade aimed at Lorenzo’s stomach. Lorenzo jumped aside. About to slam into a tree, Saber-Scar thrust out a hand to break his forward motion. By the time he whirled, it was too late.

  Lorenzo pressed his sword tip to Saber-Scar’s chest, pinning him to the bark. “Drop your weapon,” he said.

  Saber-Scar didn’t move.

  “Now.” When no response came, he eased the blade further, just enough to draw blood.

  Saber-Scar tossed his sword aside.

  Lorenzo twisted the point of the blade. His heart told him to kill this viper, but his head told him not to slay an unarmed man. That was murder, pure and simple.

  “You could kill me and have your revenge,” Saber-Scar rasped, “but if you do, information you need dies with me.”

  “Keep talking,” Lorenzo said. “But it better be interesting.” Was this some kind of trick? Was Saber-Scar merely playing for time?

  “We have a hideout on the Mississippi River. I know where it is. I could take you there.”

  Alarmed, Lorenzo thought about the flatboats.

  Hooves clattered behind Lorenzo. He glanced over his shoulder.

  Thomas slid down from his horse.

  Saber-Scar brightened. “Pick up the sword, son. Run him through.”

  In his peripheral vision, Lorenzo watched Thomas closely and hoped the boy remembered his pledge. As a prisoner of war, he could not bear arms.

  The boy picked up the sword and examined the blade, then smiled sadly at Dunstan. “I thought thee a friend. I admired thee greatly.” He uncurled his fingers and let the sword fall to the ground. “Remember leaving me with Chien d’Or?”

  “I was coming back for you.”

  “Raven Feather said Chien d’Or was going to capture the cattle and kill all the vaqueros with thy help.”

  Lorenzo absorbed this news. The deadly steel blade in his hand was getting heavy. “Where are the vaqueros?”

  No answer.

  Lorenzo thrust his blade a little deeper.

  Saber-Scar winced in pain. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Lorenzo knew they were dead.

  “Where are the cattle?”

  “I don’t know. Chien d’Or’s men led them off.”

  “All of them?”

  “Except the ones you have.”

  Miguel and Dujardin rode up and dismounted.

  Too emotionally drained to think clearly, Lorenzo said, “Lieutenant, please take over.”

  “With pleasure.” Miguel ordered Dujardin to tie Saber-Scar’s wrists behind him and search him for weapons.

  Lorenzo rushed over to Sebastián and placed two fingers on the man’s neck. There was no pulse. Lorenzo lowered his head and said a prayer.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Iron Bear rode through the piney woods with ten braves at his side. The land yielded a rich bounty. Squirrels, rabbits, and quail filled their game bag. He focused on vultures circling in the distance, riding the wind. Something over the ridge was dead or dying. Maybe a deer. Maybe something more serious that he should know about. “Kokotil!” he shouted. “Come with me!”

  A warrior who had seen twenty summers dutifully trotted his horse over. Taking the lead, Iron Bear threaded his way through a stand of trees. He crested a ridge and waited for Kokotil. Together they headed downhill toward feasting vultures that flapped away at the horses’ approach.

  Barely recognizable, Chien d’Or lay face up in puddled blood.

  Kokotil took an audible breath of air.

  “A bad life ends in a bad death,” Iron Bear said with a sigh. He turned his horse and rode away.

  After burying Sebastián, Lorenzo and the others traveled for an hour in pouring rain.

  Nacogdoches, nestled among tall pines, came into view. It consisted of a cluster of wooden buildings, two corrals, and a small, enclosed graveyard.

  Lorenzo recalled the day settlers from Nacogdoches arrived in San Antonio. How they had grumbled and complained about leaving this place! The king feared for their safety. In 1773, he ordered everyone to
leave the Spanish outpost and move to San Antonio.

  “That’s Nacogdoches?” Miguel’s voice conveyed deep disappointment.

  “Yep.”

  “¡Madre de Dios! I expected …” Miguel lifted her hands in a helpless gesture.

  Lorenzo cocked his head. “You’ve never been in this part of the province?”

  “Never.”

  “This is where the French explorer La Salle was killed.”

  Upon reaching Nacogdoches, they herded the cattle into a corral, then headed to the largest building. Dujardin remained outside to stand guard.

  They entered a dirt-floored room about ten feet by ten feet. Lorenzo looked around. It wasn’t much, but at least it would shelter them from the constant rain. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling. Some of the mortar from between the logs had fallen out, allowing small rays of light to infiltrate.

  Miguel forced Saber-Scar to sit in a corner. “Be a good boy,” she said sarcastically, “or I get the honor of shooting you.”

  Hands tied behind him, the defeated Englishman drew his knees tight to his chest and laid his forehead on them.

  Soledad and Thomas rested in the opposite corner.

  A strange quiet descended upon the room. No one spoke. They all sat wrapped in their own thoughts.

  “The tribe will eat well for many days,” Kokotil said.

  Iron Bear nodded in agreement, satisfied with the day’s hunt. Arrows had flown true and had brought down three deer. Two men had stayed behind to dress them while the rest continued the hunt.

  Pulling his horse up short, Iron Bear hooded his eyes with a hand and stared in disbelief.

  His companions stopped beside him and followed his line of sight to the rust-colored bull across the creek. It had a blaze on its forehead and bore a circle topped with a cross on its rump.

  Iron Bear knew that brand well. As a youth, long before his braids had turned silver, he had worked on the mission ranch. It was the summer the tribe had been driven south by Comanches and had taken refuge with the monks at Mission San Antonio de Valero.

  More cattle emerged from the woods. Where were they coming from, and why were they so far from the mission?