Down Mexico Way (The Lone Star Reloaded Series Book 4)

by Drew McGunn

  Becky lifted the infant into the air, turning his tears into squeals of joy. “If you men would exercise the good sense that God gave you, you’d realize that if women could vote we’d have things fixed right shortly.”

  David raised his hands, “I surrender, ladies. I will leave my politics in my pocket. Just promise I won’t have to listen to petticoat politics.”

  With a harrumph, Becky turned around, the hem of her dress fluttering up, and exclaimed, “Men.”

  The three adults broke into laughter when Becky stopped twirling around. Charlie looked up from a book he was reading with a confused look on his face. David saw it and wagged a finger in his direction, “Listen up good, boy. Women talk about wanting to vote, but the truth of the matter is that they let us think we’re masters of our house, but it’s all a thin coat of whitewash. Your pa might be the general of the army, and I was president. But don’t doubt for a second all the power I thought I had ended when I crossed the threshold to my Liza’s home.”

  Charlie couldn’t help but giggling at his “Uncle Davy.” Becky stuck her tongue out at her father while trying not to laugh. Elizabeth caught him around the neck and gave him a fierce hug. “Don’t tell me that’s why you stay gone so long, David.” The sting of the words was belied by the tenderness in her voice. “But enough of that. Land’s sake, I’ve missed you so much. Are you sure you can’t stay with us longer?”

  Setting propriety aside, David planted a long kiss on his wife’s lips. When they parted, he said, “With kisses like that, I’d forget my duty plum quick.”

  Elizabeth playfully patted him on the chest, “Liar.”

  “Caught to the quick I am,” David said as he took his wife’s hand in his own. “But duty calls me away, my dear. I’ll be leaving in a couple of days for Santa Fe.”

  When his wife and daughter went into another room to change the baby’s diaper, David stepped onto the porch with his pipe. He had tamped some tobacco into the bowl and had lit it when the door opened, and Charlie stepped outside.

  The boy had grown. His facial features looked more like his father’s every day. He stood several inches shorter than David, although he still had a few years of growth to go. “I declare, boy, I do believe you’re going to end up taller than both me and your pa.”

  The teenager shrugged. “Maybe so, Uncle Davy. I reckon that I’m already mostly grown, though.” His voice was still settling into a deeper octave. “When you head out to Santa Fe, take me with you, please.”

  His voice cracked at the end, and he flushed at its betrayal. Crockett used the pipe to point at the boy, “Your pa wouldn’t much care for me if I did that, Charlie. I’d have thought after last year, you’d have worked that itch out of you.”

  The boy’s cheeks colored at the comment. “I’m going to join the army when I’m older, I done told Pa that I will. You could use an orderly. I’d be a bang-up good one, too. I promise.”

  David puffed on the pipe, the pungent smell of tobacco hung heavy in the air. “Why should I let you come, boy? It’s dangerous and like I already said, your pa wouldn’t rightly forgive me for letting a shirt- tail boy join up.”

  “I ain’t no shirt-tail boy no more, Uncle Davy. I’m near enough a man. You ran away from your pa when you were only thirteen. I’m a lot older than that.”

  David turned toward the street and blew a ragged smoke ring. It was just like the boy to throw his own past in his face. Crockett groused, “If that’s what comes from telling you my stories, I don’t think you’ll be hearing many more.”

  He found the taste didn’t agree with him. The boy was too smart for his own good. Fourteen and a half wasn’t that far removed from thirteen. He had to admit, his own past colored his view and if it were his decision, he wasn’t sure he could deny the boy’s request. You had to grow up sooner or later.

  In all the years he had known Buck, Crockett knew the man loved his family more than life itself. Buck would never forgive him if he allowed the boy to run off from home and join. But as Charlie’s favorite “Uncle Davy,” he preferred to let the boy down gently. “Tell you what, Charlie. You go inside and write your pa a letter asking him to let you join me, and if he gives permission, you can follow along with a supply train.”

  As the boy retreated into the house with a hangdog expression, David sighed. Was it really more than forty years since he’d been that age? He shook his head. Where had the years gone? He figured Charlie’s chances of obtaining his father’s permission were somewhat less than Old Scratch making a personal appearance before dinner. Chuckling at the image, he knocked the ashes from his pipe and went back inside. With so little time before his command was due to leave, he wanted to spend every minute with his wife, daughter, and grandchildren.

  ***

  The room was dark, the candle on the small table next to the bed was hidden in shadows. He had gone to sleep that night fully clothed and, as his stockinged feet touched the floor, he grabbed his shoes and crept to the door. The door opened without a sound. A little grease on the hinges had solved the problem of a squeaky door. He paused and looked back into the gloom. He could barely make out his sister’s silhouette as she tossed fitfully in her sleep.

  The idea of not seeing little Liza for a long time threatened to bring tears to his eye. He sucked in his breath. Young men don’t cry, he reminded himself. Young men don’t blow kisses toward their toddler sisters either, but he couldn’t help himself.

  He snuck down the hall to the great room. Moonlight filtered through curtains, giving the furnishings a ghostlike quality. Charlie had been planning his escape ever since his Uncle Davy had left a few days before. Everything had been prepared. He slunk over to the kitchen pantry in a corner of the room and rummaged around behind a bag of rice. His fingers closed around a burlap bag. While Henrietta and Becky had been out shopping, he had stored away as much food as the bag would hold. Now, he slung it onto his shoulder then crossed the room to the fireplace. Above it hung his father’s rifle. He smirked. “I’ve used it far more than Pa ever had,” the boy thought. He took it from the wall and grabbed the ammunition belt. With his hands overloaded, he managed to get to the door, where he carefully set the gear on the floor and unlatched the door. More grease had been put to good use and the door swung inward without a sound.

  Now on the porch, he pulled his shoes on and cinched the leather belt holding the cartridge and percussion cap boxes. With rifle in one hand and heavy burlap bag in the other, Charlie hurried down the street.

  As he neared the livery stable used by his father, he thought, “It’s not stealing if it’s your horse.” Leaving his things on the side of the livery stable, Charlie climbed into the building through an open window. His father owned a few horses, and except for the two his father had taken with him, they were stabled here. Charlie’s favorite, a white and red paint, nickered as he tiptoed into the stall. He rubbed the animal’s flank and was rewarded with the animal rubbing its neck against his face. “Hi, Paint. I’m glad to see you, too.”

  The owner of the livery stable lived next door. Even though his father had given Charlie the horse as a birthday present, the last thing he wanted to do was answer any questions from the stable owner. He raced to saddle the animal and slipped on the bridle. He retrieved his supplies from outside then led the horse to the heavy door. He set the bar aside and with the horse following his lead, stepped into the night air.

  The military road crossed the San Antonio River north of town as it wound between the Alamo and the first of four depots between San Antonio and Ysleta, seven hundred miles away. Speaking softly to the horse, the boy said, “Let’s cut across country. I don’t want to see how close the guards at the Alamo are looking at us tonight.”

  The well graded road was easy to find, even in the darkness of predawn. The mid-April morning was cool but dry and Charlie leaned back in the saddle and allowed a wide smile to play across his face. He had done it! He had slipped away from home with no one the wiser. And somehow, he would co
nvince Uncle Davy that he just had to let him join the march.

  A few days later, Charlie removed his hat and used it to wipe sweat from his forehead. Summer was still more than a month away, but the April sun could still pack a wallop he decided. Bluebonnets and Indian paintbrushes crowded the road and covered the prairie in a blanket of blues, reds, and oranges. He looked to either side and saw a few bees pollinating the flowers. To his horse, Paint, he said, “Those bees make me wish I had some honey right about now.”

  The fare he had carried off with him included bread, which he had devoured within the first day, and rice, beans, jerky, and dried fruit. The burlap bag had contained more than a week’s worth of food. He still had most of it. He had shot a brace of rabbits with his rifle and eaten them instead of his supplies the second evening away from home.

  In the distance, he thought he saw the walls of the first depot. Since its construction a couple of years before, the quartermaster’s corps had fortified the depots, and even though only a solitary platoon of infantry manned it, Charlie had no interest in making their acquaintance. No, he didn’t want anyone who could force him to return home finding him until it was a smaller inconvenience for his Uncle Davy to let him stay with the army than sending him home would be.

  From the maps in his pa’s office, he had an idea of how far he would need to swing around the depot to reconnect with the military road. He set his hat back on his head and guided Paint off the road. As he guided the horse through the riot of colorful flowers, he recalled words spoken by Jack Hays, the major of the special Rangers. “As a Ranger, your horse is your most important tool, even more important than your guns. Take care of him and he’ll take care of you. The single biggest threat to your mount when you’re moving across country is prairie dog holes.”

  He scanned the ground in front of his horse. He was determined to follow everything he could remember from men like Major Hays. Instead of stories, Hays had talked about survival. He spied a hole ahead and steered Paint around it. “That’s right, Paint. You and me, we’re going to do this the Ranger way.”

  A couple of days later, Charlie crouched behind a mesquite tree. He used a branch to stabilize the rifle as he pointed it toward a watering hole at a bend in a creek. He had eaten all the jerky, and he really wanted something other than beans and rice, of which he still had aplenty. There were deer tracks leading up to and away from the creek, and he hoped his patience would pay off.

  He was well past the first depot and was wondering how long he should wait to catch up to Uncle Davy’s column. In a moment of reflection, he marveled at how well things had gone for him since leaving home. He had hunted his own food and had managed to go across country on more than one occasion, still finding the military road when he needed. The first couple of nights camped under the open sky had been scary, if he were honest with himself, but each night away had become a little easier. Thankfully, there were no Comanche riding the prairie around this part of the country anymore. “I don’t know what I would do if I ran into any Indians.”

  Near the creek, he heard something move through the underbrush, and a moment later his patience was rewarded when a white-tailed deer stepped into view. It was a young buck. Charlie counted, there were six points on the antler. His stomach rumbled. Best to make the shot count. He wouldn’t get another. He sighted down the barrel, lining the rear sight up with the front sight. He placed his finger on the trigger.

  Near the creek several birds scattered into the air and an arrow appeared, protruding from the buck. The animal leapt into the air and raced toward the crossing at the creek. Ignoring an unsettling feeling, Charlie swung his barrel, following the deer and fired as soon as the animal was in his sights. Through the haze of black powder smoke, he saw the animal tumble into shallows of the creek.

  He grabbed a paper cartridge as he stood and levered the breechblock open. He inserted the cartridge and closed the rolling block, slicing off the excess paper. Before he stepped away from cover, he crowned the nipple with a fresh percussion cap.

  His stomached fluttered nervously as he scanned the area for whomever fired the arrow. From behind a prickly pear cactus plant arose a figure holding a bow. An arrow was nocked, ready to fly. The fear he felt reminded Charlie of the defense of the Alamo more than a year before. He tried not to think about being alone in the wilderness. He kept thinking, “I’m armed. There’s one of me and one of him. I can handle this.”

  The copper-skinned warrior wore no face paint. They were not so far apart that Charlie couldn’t discern his features. The expression the warrior wore was one of curiosity and caution. Charlie had grown up talking with soldiers and Rangers who had fought the Comanche, and the man didn’t wear his hair in the style common among the warlike tribe. His shirt was a long-sleeved shirt common among the mercantile stores of San Antonio. His pants were durable, and store bought as well, but his feet were clad in doe-skinned moccasins. They looked more comfortable than the sturdy boots on Charlie’s feet.

  Trying to be brave, Charlie called out, “I don’t suppose you’re from around these here parts?”

  The warrior pointed the arrow toward the ground, although he left it nocked, and closed the gap between him and Charlie. As he approached, Charlie saw the warrior wasn’t much older than he was. When no more than a dozen paces separated them, the warrior said, in broken English, “I, son of Flacco,” he paused as though searching for another word, “of Lipan.”

  Charlie had met an Apache warrior by the name of Flacco on a couple of occasions. He was one of the war chiefs for the Lipan Apache. Was it possible he was one in the same? “I’m Charlie Travis. My pa is General William Travis.”

  The young warrior’s eyes registered surprise. “You son of fire hair. He friend of my people.”

  Charlie allowed a long breath of relief to escape his lips and was stunned to hear the same sound from the young warrior. Both laughed as the tense moment passed. Charlie’s curiosity got the better of him and he asked, “What are you doing so far away from your tribe by yourself?”

  At that moment, there was a rustling from a bush near the creek and an Apache girl stood, smiling at the young warrior as though sharing a secret. “Not alone. My… sister, Lenna. I am Victorio.”

  Charlie looked at the girl. She wore a long, blue calico blouse, and skirt made of leather. Her raven-black hair was in a single braid down her back. She looked back at him with the same frank curiosity Charlie wore on his own face. Finally, she pointed into the creek bed, where the buck had fallen, and in Spanish, said, “Are you boys going to do something about the deer? Your mouths will catch flies if you stand around all day.”

  The young warrior laughed at his sister, and as Charlie translated the words, a smile lit up his features, and he realized it was rude to stare at the girl. He followed the warrior into the creek bed. The boys came to a quick agreement to share the deer. Charlie had helped Henrietta and Becky skin more than a few animals over the past few years and he and the two Apache made quick work dressing down the carcass.

  As they cooked the meat over a campfire, he learned about the siblings. Victorio was seventeen years old and Lenna was fourteen. As they shared the campfire they traded stories. Charlie had expected an epic tale of brother and sister on a spirit quest or an epic hunt. Instead he was disappointed to discover that their father, Flacco had decided to send most of the tribe to the west, to land ceded to the Apache in western Texas. The siblings were not sure if they wanted to go with the tribe and were using this hunting trip to make up their mind.

  As the meat sizzled over the fire, Victorio confided that he enjoyed working on one of the large ranches near the Nueces River, while Lenna simply didn’t like the idea of leaving the land their tribe had lived on for more than a generation. As the evening wore on, Charlie couldn’t help stealing glances at Lenna. To him, the way her cheeks glowed in the firelight was alluring. Nor was he blind to the looks she kept giving him.

  As the fire died, he crawled into his blanket, co
nfused about the way Lenna had looked at him. On one hand, he couldn’t help admitting he had liked it. On the other, it left him feeling confused. It was a long time before he drifted off to sleep.

  The next morning, as Charlie saddled his horse, the Apache siblings rode over to him. Victorio waved and smiled widely, while Lenna sat astride her mare in silence. Charlie felt the knot in his stomach tighten when he looked at her, so he redoubled his attention on the young warrior. “Where are y’all off to next?”

  Victorio waved his hand to the west, “No hurry. We curious about white chief you follow, go with you for now. See this Crockett.”

  That wasn’t the answer he expected. The road had been lonely, he had to admit, but as his eyes slid over to Lenna, he wasn’t sure traveling with the Apache siblings would be any easier. Even so, he nodded and said, “Let’s go, we’re burning daylight.”

  Chapter 12

  The village was only a couple of dozen mud brick homes surrounding a tiny chapel with a small belfry. The farmers and ranchers who normally made Candela their home had fled when the Mexican troops passed through earlier. Will followed one of the battalions from McCulloch’s brigade through the town. No eyes peered from windows and doors creaked on their hinges; only the ghosts of the living welcomed the interlopers. A chill ran down his spine as Will felt troubled by the direction the campaign had already taken.

  April was more than half over, and Monterrey seemed further away now than it had at the beginning of the campaign. It was an illusion, he knew. The army had crossed nearly a hundred miles over the past week, always nipping at Almonte’s heels, but unable to draw the Mexican army into battle. Almonte’s refusal to turn around and fight had not been cheap. He had screened his retreating soldiers with both his cavalry and light infantry units. Using them to delay and harass Will’s army had slowed the advance down. Even Seguin’s efforts to swing around the flanks had been anticipated and Almonte’s lancers were waiting.