Down Mexico Way

by Drew McGunn

  He leaned back, procrastinating, as he recalled the shock and horror on Henry McCulloch’s face when he had led his boys toward the presidio’s walls. And, if he were honest, he had nearly wet himself when he felt the hot breath of musket balls flying so near his head as he heard them buzz by.

  Once the men of the 9th had cleared the houses near the presidio, they had forced the defenders to keep their heads down, and it had become a matter of time before the Mexican officer in command of the garrison lowered the flag and surrendered.

  Now, he reflected, he had traded his military hat for that of military governor. With the fall of Los Angeles, it would be hard to argue that Texas hadn’t captured Alta California. Other towns further north, like Monterey, had yet to surrender, but that was likely just a matter of time.

  His first act as military governor was to notify President Zavala of California’s change of allegiance. He pushed the stack of papers to one side and stared at the blank page lying before him. In all his fifty-seven years, the minutia of administration had been the one thing he hated. He inked the quill and began writing.

  ***

  Tattered curtains fluttered in the open window. The breeze from the Pacific Ocean kept the room comfortable. Small stones weighted down the parchment as Obadiah Jenkins leaned over the table, pen in hand. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing a lower arm red with grotesque scar tissue. He scratched at it absentmindedly before adding a detail to the parchment. With a flourish, he straightened up and moved the paperweights away from the document. He took a shaker and scattered sand across the parchment. “Once this dries, not even the Spanish Viceroy could tell this isn’t his signature.”

  Elizondo Jackson, his long-time business associate, set a book aside and stood and walked across the adobe-walled room until he stared down at the unnaturally aged document. The Viceroyalty seal of New Spain was prominently displayed at the top of the document. “That would be quite something. Nice touch, using a date before Mexico claimed independence. Some of your better work, I believe, Obadiah. I wonder, though, if our new overlords will make things too difficult for us.”

  Jenkins set the parchment down and secured the corners with the small stones, to let it dry. “I can’t say I feel good about this, although watching that column of Texian infantry parade through the pueblo was something to behold. But damn it all, why in the blazes did Davy Crockett have to be leading the pack? I thought we were rid of him and his high-handedness when we left Texas for greener pastures.”

  His fingers traced along the splotched scars on his right arm. He had lost track of the times he’d woken up in a cold sweat, reliving the moment when he had been forced to flee for his life. All thanks to David Crockett. At first Texas had been a dream come true to Jenkins and his partners. In the years before the revolution, a man could swing a stick and hit someone who needed a title to the land they were on. He had provided a valuable service to many of those who came into Texas after Mexico had officially ended American immigration in 1830. But after the revolution, Crockett’s government made it difficult to stay in business.

  He stepped over to the open window and looked across the pueblo, in the distance he could see the lone star flag flying proudly over the presidio’s walls. At that moment, he was back in Harrisburg. He had been in bed with Nancy. Her lot had been far worse than his. She and her husband had come to Texas a few years before. He had died in a cholera epidemic the previous year. Childless, and unable to return to family in eastern Tennessee, Nancy had found whatever work as was available. She had worked as a laundress and also in one of Harrisburg’s bars, but what kept her fed was her work in the oldest profession. That hadn’t bothered Obadiah Jenkins in the least. Over the year he operated out of Harrisburg, he and Nancy had fallen into a comfortable pattern. She came to his bed often. She had convinced him to take her with him when it came time to move on. And he had intended to keep that promise.

  The flag in the distance blurred in his eye as the memory played on. It was late, a candle burned on the stand next to his bed. She had just finished satisfying him when the door to the small rent house was stove in. Framed in the open door was a tall, bearded man, “John Peirce? You’re under arrest.” It was the name he was using at that time. He had leapt from the bed, grabbing the sheet to cover his nakedness. Now, more than ever, he regretted that act. He had left Nancy exposed, lying in bed, open to the leering eyes of Crockett’s uniformed customs officer.

  But at that moment, the officer was distracted, and Jenkins used it to rush him. He collided with the officer right as the pistol discharged. The shot went wild, missing Jenkins. Instead, it hit the candle holder, which spun from the night table, and hit the curtains. The tiny fire on the candle’s wick spread up and down the curtain until the window was awash in flames.

  “Nan, get the hell out of here!” Jenkins had cried out as he wrestled the pistol away from the officer. The heavy, flintlock dragoon pistol was useless as a firearm at that moment, but as his fingers closed around the barrel, Jenkins intended to rip it out of the officer’s hand and beat him down with it.

  His thoughts were ripped back to the present when Jackson stepped over to the window and said, “Business has been good these past few years. I’m still amazed at the number of people stepping off the boat who are in the market for one of our ‘Spanish land grants.’” His voice still held a trace of his upbringing in Spanish Florida.

  The two had had known each other since Jenkins had moved to Florida shortly after the United States annexed the Spanish territory. They had peddled forged Spanish property titles to unsuspecting newcomers who had been eager to buy land in the new territory. More than twenty years later, they had worked their way across the continent, coming to California after Crockett and his government had driven them from Texas six year earlier.

  Jenkins felt all of his nearly fifty years. He let a sigh escape his lips. “Yeah, it’s been a good run, I’ll allow. But damned Davy Crockett! If there’s another man who has cost me as much I don’t know his name.”

  He closed his eyes, willing the image of Nancy away. But the image was too strong. He couldn’t shake it. She had climbed out of the bed as he wrestled with the officer. She had picked up the sheet and wrapped it around her. The back door should have opened to her touch when she lifted the latch, but something had barred the door closed from the outside. Had that not happened, how much different his life might have been. Instead, sparks were swirling about the room as the wall next to the bed was covered with fire. Some of those sparks landed on the sheet and, in seconds, Nancy was screaming as flames licked the dry cotton in which she was swaddled.

  In all his years, Jenkins had killed only one man. When he wrestled the gun away from the officer, he swung it at his head with all his might as Nancy’s screams pierced his ears. He had stepped over the body, but it was too late. The flames consumed the wrapping and she had collapsed. He had raced toward her, and grabbed at her exposed skin, determined to get her out of the growing inferno. Flaming strands of the sheet had landed on his arm when he heard a loud thud then a voice, “Boss, get out of there!”

  His hopeless thoughts were broken by the same voice, which came from the back of the adobe hut. “What about going straight.”

  Jenkins turned and saw Bill Zebulon climb down from one of the bunks against the back wall. He forced a smile onto his face. Bill had saved his life that night, when he pulled him from the burning cabin. Zebulon’s large size had always been an asset when someone needed to be incentivized. In fact, Jenkins would have been captured or killed that night had Zebulon not knocked out the officer’s partner outside the cabin. The two men had been boys when they had started working scams in South Carolina more than a quarter century before.

  “Morning, Bill. The thought has crossed my mind a time or two. Before I saw that bastard, Davy Crockett, riding into town I would have considered using one of our land grants, maybe buy the debts of a few of these Indian peons hereabouts and become bonified Spanish Dons
.”

  Jackson chuckled, “Obadiah, you’d go straight sometime after Gabriel blows his horn.”

  Jenkins snorted, “You mean a few days before you?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  Jenkins heard a creaking sound from behind as Zebulon sat at the table. “That’s some good work you done, Ob. Damned if not some of the best I’ve seen. Shame about Crockett coming out here. I thought we were well and done with Texas.”

  A fourth voice came from the doorway, “It is a goddamned shame, is what it is.”

  Still shaking off the effects of the powerful memories, Jenkins managed to avoid appearing startled as Hiram Williams came through the door. His black hair was disheveled, and he had dark circles under his eyes. He couldn’t help quipping, “Long night, Hiram?”

  Williams was the shortest of the four. He wore the clothes of a Spanish dandy, although they were grimy and soiled. No doubt won in a game of chance that Williams was so fond of. “You could say, but the puta, she had such stamina.”

  Jenkins bit back a groan. Williams was prone to bragging of his sexual conquests, but this morning, he was in no mood to listen to that. Instead, Williams said, “I hate to see a good thing come to an end, and God knows, business has been very good to us.” He was referring to his own scam. As a gambler, he had on many an occasion, used one of Jenkin’s forgeries as collateral. When he lost, the other three men would dress up as Mexican officials and pay the new owner of a “fine tract of prime California farm land” a visit and inform the new owner that the previous holder was delinquent on taxes, and if he didn’t want to lose the newly acquired title, he would need to make good the back taxes.

  Williams continued, “But as I see it, we’ve got us a few options. We can help Colonel Crockett meet his maker.”

  Jenkins eyes grew wide. In all their years of petty larceny and theft, apart from the customs officer, the only other time anyone had died was when Zebulon had accidentally beaten one of their marks to death. Killing men had a way of bringing the law down on them like nothing else could.

  “Seems a bit drastic, don’t it?” Jackson said.

  Williams shrugged. “Just offering a solution, Eli.”

  Jenkins didn’t want to admit it to the others, but Williams’ idea had a certain appeal. In all the years since Crockett’s officers had stolen Nancy from him, he had never dreamed an opportunity for revenge would present itself.

  Jenkins shook off the thought. Unless they could find a surefire way of making good an escape, killing Crockett sounded like a good way to get them all killed. “Alright. Before we go about trying anything that final,” Jenkins said as he grabbed his hat from one of the bunkbeds, “I’m sure Crockett and his army have a soft underbelly. We just need to find it. I’ll take Bill. Eli, why don’t you take Hiram. Maybe we can find a way to turn this setback around.”

  ***

  Jenkins set the clay-fired shot glass down, his lips tingled at the taste of the fiery tequila. Near the edge of the pueblo, the cantina catered to several ranchos and haciendas north of town as well as the locals. A few mestizos and Tongva Indians occupied a couple of tables. He and Zebulon sat at a table in the corner. They were still waiting for Jackson and Williams to arrive.

  Zebulon spat a stream of tobacco juice into another clay cup.

  “Where’d you get the tobacco, Bill?”

  “Captain Palmer’s in town. I bought it from his first mate.”

  Jenkins licked his lips. It had been a long time since he had smoked a cigar. The main port in California was Monterey. It was the provincial capital, and ships were expected to transport any goods coming into Alta California through it. After all, the tariffs collected there were the lion’s share of Alta California’s revenue.

  Jenkins knew Captain Palmer of the schooner Orion. He was one of several ships’ captains who smuggled goods into Los Angeles. A little coin in the alcalde’s palm and the pueblo’s civil government turned a blind eye. It was good for business, both legitimate and the other kind. Jenkins preferred his tobacco untaxed. The import duties on tobacco more than doubled the cost of what one would expect to pay for the fragrant leaf.

  Another of Palmer’s redeeming qualities, as far as Jenkins was concerned, was the captain was known to be morally flexible. On those occasions Jenkins and his associates had branched out from forgeries, the wily captain had been willing to bring in or take out their goods for a price.

  He ran his finger along the inside of the glass and watched the tequila swirl around. Throughout the day, he kept coming back to Williams’ idea. He had vowed, years earlier, to avenge Nancy if the chance presented itself. But, he was no martyr. He had no interest in killing Crockett if it meant Texian soldiers would turn him into a pin cushion moments later. The only other option was getting out of Texas-held territory. He wondered if the captain would be willing to take them up the coast to Monterey. When he mentioned the idea to Zebulon, the big man surprised him with his answer.

  “Crockett and his men will probably head for Monterey next, boss. Maybe we can go deeper into Mexico?”

  The door opened, and Jenkins looked up and saw Jackson and Williams. As they settled into the other chairs around the table, the bartender sauntered over and set down a couple more glasses and left a bottle of tequila.

  Jackson poured a drink. He looked frazzled and tired. He downed the strong drink before he said, “Crockett’s saying that not much will be changing around here now that he’s arrived, but when I paid a visit to the Alcalde, I saw one of Crockett’s officers following the fat little greaser around like a puppy.”

  Jenkins’ frown couldn’t have grown much deeper at the news. On those rare occasions the alcalde’s eyes fell on their enterprise, a bag of pesos was enough to let things return to normal. If the Texians planned on keeping a close eye on things, then it was a sure thing their pickings had dried up.

  Morose at the news, Jenkins picked up the clay shot glass and drank the contents in a single gulp. As the fiery liquor warmed his insides, he said, “What about Crockett?”

  Jackson said, “Forget him, Ob. It ain’t worth it.”

  He wanted to say more but held his peace when he saw the stormy look Jackson gave Williams.

  “Hold on just one damn minute.” Hiram Williams grabbed the tequila bottle and pour four generous shots as the others waited for him to continue.

  “Ain’t it funny how two men can look at the same situation and one sees nothing but problems while the other sees opportunities,” Williams said, eying Franklin with disapproval.

  Jackson ignored the drink in front of him. “Where you see opportunity, I see a short walk to the gallows.”

  Williams’ haunch came out of his seat as he leaned toward Jackson. Jenkins had seen this too many times before. “Enough, you two. Let’s hear what Hiram’s got to say, I’ll be the judge of what’s too dangerous.”

  Williams sat back down and took a sip before saying, “Ob, you’re always saying that we need one big score then we’d be set. Right?”

  Jenkins’ tilted his head. Since leaving South Carolina more than half a lifetime ago, he had been looking for the one. The night Nancy had died, he had been telling her of his latest plans. He had told her he needed the right job and he would marry her and they would return to South Carolina with gold pouring from their pockets. He had told her they could sip sweet drinks under a veranda, while watching his darkies work in the fields. So many of his dreams had died the night Nancy died, but the dream of one final job lingered.

  Williams continued, “I found a job that will set us up for life.”

  Jackson leaned back, content to let the other man dig his own hole. “Colonel Crockett brought his grandson with him.”

  It wasn’t what he had expected. “So what, Hiram? I might not pass up the chance to stick a knife in Crockett’s ribs under the right circumstances, but I’ll be damned if I’ll harm some kid.”

  Williams shook his head, “No, Ob, you’ve got it wrong. Who’s David Crockett
’s son-in-law?”

  Jenkins shook his head. He had no idea.

  “Crockett’s daughter is married to none other than William Barret Travis!”

  Jenkins’ eyebrows rose. He knew of Travis. Defeating Santa Anna had made the young officer the hero of the republic. But all four men had heard rumors the general had done incredibly well for himself. He owned large tracts of land along the Trinity River. Also, there was a persistent rumor that when Santa Anna had invaded Texas, the dictator had brought a box full of gold with him. Supposedly it was to be used to pay his army. According to Crockett’s government, the gold had never turned up, and Jenkins had long suspected Travis had used the money to invest in several businesses.

  But what did that have to do with the kid? Jenkins asked, “So, what? Crockett brings the boy with him, and what’s that to us? Another possible witness?”

  Williams leaned forward. Jenkins could smell the tequila on his breath. “Ain’t it obvious? We kidnap the brat. Papa Travis will pay a huge ransom to get his kid back.”

  Jenkins blinked in surprise. The idea of kidnapping wasn’t entirely foreign to him. God alone knew how many stories he had heard about the Comanche kidnapping folks along the frontier while he had lived in Texas. But the idea of civilized men kidnapping a boy for ransom was something he had never considered.

  Jackson said, “Hiram, if we do that, we’ll be wanted from one end of the continent to the other. How long before we swing for such a thing?”

  Williams snorted at the other man, “I’d thought you’d be used to living life on a knife’s edge, Eli. What you seem to have forgotten is that in addition to having that gold he stole from Santa Anna, he’s also a true believing abolitionist. I can think of several holes we could crawl down where a nigger lover like Travis won’t ever find us.”

  Sure, he had heard the rumors General Travis was a dyed-in-the-wool abolitionist. Williams was likely right, there was places back in South Carolina where they could disappear that an abolitionist like Travis would never find them. But kidnapping the boy for ransom was simply unheard of.