Mexican Fire

by Martha Hix

  She collected the velvet ribbon that served as Frisco’s lead. Bending to tie it around his neck, she heard Reece say, “I’ll go alert the others. Do you think it’s safe to tell them we rendezvous before dawn at your uncle’s house?” At her nod, Reece said, “All right. We must get going. I’ll check the barracks–Pepe might be there. You take the dog and meet me at the stables.”

  When Reece had dressed in his uniform and was near the door leading to the corridor, Alejandra said hesitantly, “What if Garth isn’t at Perote?”

  Shoulders went stiff. Reece didn’t breathe. A couple of moments later he flattened his hand against the door jamb, ducking his head. “If my brother isn’t there, then . . . He has to be dead.”

  “He can’t be. He just can’t! Not after all your efforts . . . and faith.” She went to her beloved and placed her arms around his narrow waist. Leaning her cheek against his back, she said, “We’ll find him, my darling.”

  She’d do whatever was needed to help Reece find the happiness that freeing his brother would bring. As well, for whatever it took to get them out of Mexico, she was prepared. She was not prepared, however, when, five minutes after Reece had left her room, a servant brought a summons. Even though it was a quarter past four in the morning, His Excellency the President demanded Doña Alejandra’s appearance in his office.

  Immediately.

  Her choices were two. Go on to the stable, or placate Santa Anna one more time. The latter seemed the best choice, since non-compliance would stir trouble even before she and Reece could get away with Frisco at their heels.

  She nodded at the message bearer. “I’ll be right there.”

  Using a cane, and heavily dosed with laudanum, El Presidente wobbled across his office floor and grimaced at putting weight on his stump. Two lamps provided the only light, giving the room an eerie quality. Or perhaps the dull lighting had nothing to do with it. More likely, it had to do with Alejandra’s nervousness and Santa Anna’s wretched mood.

  In the few minutes she had been in his presence, she’d learned he wasn’t pleased that Reece hadn’t been in his quarters to answer a similar page. And he’d discovered the full implications of the Pastry War treaty. Pain and disappointment had driven him to the opium bottle.

  Frisco on a short lead and at the hem of her riding garb, Alejandra stayed near the door.

  “Guadalupe Victoria knew I would never agree to such terms! And I have been betrayed,” the president said, his voice hazy and troubled. “How could he? Does he know nothing of decoro nacional?”

  “Your Excellency, please consider, everyone is tired of war, and raising the blockade will give us . . .” Appeal to his vanity, she reminded herself. “Will pay for your grand plans.”

  “What good are valiant deeds if I cannot lift my head in the eyes of the world? I will be jeered, just as I was after those lowlifes snatched Tejas from me.” His long face wrinkled into self-pity; tears welled. “It could be my undoing.”

  She certainly hoped so. Soon, she felt confident, the whole of Mexico, if not the world, would know the true Santa Anna. “Don’t think on your misery. The Pastry War is over, Your Excellency . . . if you’ll allow it.”

  “My hands are tied on so many, many things. I yearn to reclaim Tejas, but I cannot lead an army, nor can we finance any more wars.” He wallowed in his despondency for the space of a moment or two. “But I shall use this time to glorify my name,” he said, uplifted in spirit.

  In one breath he fretted over people laughing at him, in the other he sought immortality. But his intentions confirmed Reece’s summations.

  Santa Anna halted a dozen paces from her. For the first time, he focused his eyes and scrutinized her appearance. “What are you doing, dressed for riding?”

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I was planning a ride out to the lovely grounds below Chapultepec Castle. I seek to watch the sun rise there.”

  “With your dog?”

  “Frisco enjoys a fast trot.”

  Santa Anna hobbled toward her; she backed away. Her shoulder thumped against the door frame. Frisco bared his fangs, ready to pounce at Santa Anna. “Stay, niño,” she ordered.

  “I’d say you’re planning something covert.” Swaying, Santa Anna stopped a half dozen paces from her. “It appears to me as if you are ready for travel. Does this journey include our Cazador?”

  Thinking fast, she replied, “Claro, desde luego. He is my lover. Who else would I ask to accompany me? To the grounds of below Chapultepec,” she tacked on.

  “A hot-blooded lover such as the colonel seeks to comfort you–in the wee hours of morn–with a ride through the countryside? Ha! The ride he’d suggest would be atop his pene!” Slaver dribbled from the corner of Santa Anna’s mouth. “Did you know, Alejandra, that is where I will have you? Atop my staff.”

  Sickened, Alejandra pointed out, “I–I’m much too old. And I am pledged to Colonel Montgomery.”

  “I think you should bid him adios. I suspect he is not true to me. I have thought on his mockery tonight, and I believe he would do me false.”

  “Oh no. He is devoted to you,” she said, faking a yawn. “I must take my leave now, Your Excellency. Chapultepec is out of the question. I find I’m weary and would like to sleep.”

  He stumbled toward her as she reached for the door handle and pulled on Frisco’s lead. “The only sleeping you will do is after I’ve finished with you,” he promised.

  I shouldn’t have answered his summons! But she had, and must do something to get out of this office, to get out of this palace. To get to Reece—and out of this country !

  “You disappoint me, Alejandra, cowering like that. I thought you would be a she-cat worthy of our mating.” He stumped closer. “But I will still have you. Right on this floor.”

  But when his shaking fingers grabbed for her, Frisco leapt forward. His fangs dug in to the wooden stump as his head propelled from side to side. Santa Anna teetered. His cane fell from his grip. He yelled. Thanking God that no Santanista soldiers or servants were within hearing distance, apparently, Alejandra lunged forward to thrust the heels of her hands against his chest. He toppled backward, sprawling on the tile floor.

  Wiping a hand across his mouth, he watched her grab the dog into her arms. He laughed, an evil and drugged sound. “She-cat, come to your president and pay honor to him.”

  Alejandra yanked open the door handle and ran for her life and Frisco’s. She made it through the sconce-lit corridor and halfway down the stairs before a viselike hand reached out from behind her. Jerking to a halt, she turned her head and stared into the angry face of General Cruz Velasquez. Without a word, he grabbed the pup from her grip and tossed him down the stairs. A whoosh of air left his lungs as he landed.

  “Frisco!”

  “You cry for a dog after what you’ve done to our leader?” Velasquez asked viciously as Frisco shook his little head and tried to stand. “Guards! Come quickly!”

  Instead, Reece materialized from the foyer. With giant, running strides he rushed toward the staircase. A knife appeared from his boot. Arm raised, he threw it. It caught the general in the chest. Velasquez tumbled forward and lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs. Alejandra knew by the unnatural twist of his head that he was dead.

  She felt nothing but relief.

  But could she and Reece—and Frisco!—make it out of the palace and beyond the zócalo?

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Erasmo de Guzman couldn’t believe his ears. On a trip to Xochimilco to agitate the Indians into rebellion—taking the chance of being arrested by Centralists—he had been gone from the capital for only a week, yet so much had happened in his absence. And Erasmo felt his anger building.

  Six days ago Mercedes and the lot of her colleagues, disguised as common Mexicans, had departed in a mule-drawn wagon for the coast. The only horses were Montgomery’s stallion and Pepe Zecatl’s gelding. But they had not taken their leave before Alejandra and her Tejano had attacked Santa Anna and liquidated
the Santanista general, Velasquez.

  The general’s daughter, in company with the conspirators, had cried for her father, yet she left with his killers.

  Erasmo stomped across the patio of Casa del Lago to lean his head against an adobe post. Evening had set in, the cool chilling his bones. Damn you, Mercedes! Damn you and your new doctor man!

  His eyes swung to Humberto del Lago. Uncle to Mercedes and Alejandra, the blond and blue-eyed del Lago was a gachupin of middle years. Until this point, Erasmo had thought him a friend. “Humberto, how could you have condoned their actions? How could you help them?”

  “Alejandra and Mercedes are my flesh and blood. I deny them nothing.”

  “You’ll get Mercedes killed, that’s what you will give her. Soldiers are scouting the land, looking for that parade of ‘common Mexicanos.’ Two norteamericanos and a poodle dog? They will fool no one. My adored’s blood will be on your hands! If it is not already.”

  Humberto poured three fingers of pulque into a glass to hand to the angry young man. “Calm down, my melodramatic companion. I know you love my niece, despite her snub, but you are much too agitated.”

  The drink refused, Erasmo raked his fingers through his already mussed hair. “Which route did they take?”

  “The one through Perote.”

  “Why did they take the high road to Vera Cruz?”

  “Señor Montgomery insisted. His edecán, the one called Pepe, had brought him some sort of news.”

  “What sort of news?”

  Humberto took a generous quaff of cactus liquor, then shrugged. “I do not know.”

  “Do not lie to me, Humberto.”

  Del Lago scowled. “Watch your tongue, mestizo, around those such as I. Those of wealth and position. And good breeding.”

  Erasmo knew when to act subservient. As a man of mixed blood, he had had more than his share of experience with those of the upper class and their discrimination. “Excuse my presumption. I hope you understand, my anxieties overshadowed gentlemanly behavior.”

  “All is forgiven.” Del Lago eased into a cowhide chair, then propped his feet on the adjacent table. Clicking his tongue to summon a pet monkey, he said, “Believe me, Erasmo, if I had known the reason for the detour by Perote, I would have told you. But I do not know.” The monkey perched on his shoulder. “Their haste in leaving precluded a fireside chat.”

  Erasmo dropped his head. “I’ll never see Mercedes again.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Unless I catch up with them. Unless I kidnap her.”

  “And what could you offer? You’re nothing but a coffee peddlar, and you haven’t done that in months. Since you’ve been in the capital, you’ve done nothing but leech from my purse.”

  “Leech from your purse? I beg your pardon. As partners we have advanced Federalist ideals.”

  Del Lago scoffed at Erasmo. “I went along with you to humor my niece. Alejandra wanted you well away from the palace. Thus, I financed your endeavors. It is true that I am no admirer of Señor Santa Anna, but do not flatter yourself that I would throw my sympathies to a mestizo such as you.”

  Anger boiled as if it were a pot of heated oil. Erasmo lumbered toward the discourteous del Lago. “How nice it must be,” he said sarcastically, “to have been born to choice.”

  “Sí, it is very nice.” Stroking the monkey’s chin, the gachupin kissed the animal’s ear. “Alejandra made her choice. She has abandoned the cause of federalism. She seeks nothing beyond the nurture of Tejas and the joys of matrimony. And Mercedes . . . well, who can blame her for wanting the American?”

  “Why do you say these things to me?”

  “You are tiresome, Erasmo de Guzman. Tiresome and boring. All you think about is federalism and putting your pene into Mercedes. Go publish your broadsides, go incite the unwashed of this country.” Del Lago reached into his pocket and extracted a copper. Tossing it at Erasmo’s feet, he said, “Take the money and leave. I am tired of you, Erasmo de Guzman.”

  For a split second Erasmo gaped at the one he had taken to friend. He had been abandoned by everyone he held dear! Alejandra. Humberto. Mercedes!

  No more would he be degraded.

  Violent as a toro at the capital’s bullring, Erasmo lunged forward. His meaty grip catapulted the monkey into a pole twenty feet away. Del Largo’s eyes rounded in horror. He pushed to the side, trying to extricate himself from the chair, but Erasmo grabbed him. Those horrified eyes bulged when powerful fingers clamped around his neck.

  Erasmo squeezed with all his might. Del Lago tried to pull air into his lungs, but his only accomplishment was to choke. His face turned purple. Gradually the struggles ceased. Erasmo shoved the now lifeless body to the patio ground. He turned. His fingers found the bottle of pulque. Swigging from it, he laughed maniacally. Now murderer would be added to his list of achievements. He was glad for it. For too long he had been dirt under other people’s zapatos. But no more.

  He glanced at Humberto del Lago’s crumpled form. “To hell with you and your sort.”

  But what would he do now? He must get away. He would not face a firing squad for this. His feet carried him toward the door leading off the patio. On his way he kicked the dead monkey. Such a pleasant feeling that was, almost as pleasant as choking the life out of the gachupín. What would give him equal pleasure? Need he even ask himself this question? He would entrap that Perote-bound party, punish Alejandra for her betrayal, then . . . ah, sí, sí, he’d prove his worth as a husband for Mercedes.

  “I must be sly about it. Very, very sly.”

  Deranged and vengeful, Erasmo de Guzman stole an Arabian stallion from Casa del Lago’s stables and rode out.

  A week and a half had passed since Reece and Alejandra, along with the others, had fled from the capital. The procession rolled turtle-slow over the Sierra Orientals. At night they picked their way through darkness; by day they hid from arrest. Be that as it may, their journey was faster than Santa Anna’s caravan had been on its way to Mexico City. Faster, slower, Reece was at his wit’s end.

  Back at the palace stables, a winded Pepe had said, panting for breath from his furious ride, “Last week your brother broke free from Perote Prison. He was wounded, along with his cell mate, during the escape. Their whereabouts are unknown, but apparently they had help, so it is expected they will try to make for Vera Cruz and passage out of Mexico.” They had to be somewhere between Perote and the port city. Reece was aching to charge for there and find them.

  But he could not leave Alejandra.

  This afternoon, on the tenth day of their journey, they were camped alongside a stream. Trees and a mountain sheltered them from view. The women were at siesta, as was the hungry baby, on blankets near the wagons and Rayo. Hidden beneath the wagon floor were uniforms, muskets, and a small cache of medical supplies. Four mules munched grasses nearby. Pepe, on horseback, had been sent to buy food in the village a couple of miles to the east.

  Their group of nine vagabonds included a grieving Maribel, a spoiled Mercedes, one dried-up wet nurse, a squalling baby, and an injured dog. Luckily Pepe had bribed several farmers away from pails of goat’s milk, which had served for the babe, but the last bucket sat empty. Although Dr. Edward Moran had proved handy by driving the wagon and setting Frisco’s broken leg, he was a liability. The doctor ate like a lumberjack. The stores Tio Humberto del Lago had provided were depleted, thanks to Moran.

  Edward Moran paced the creekside. “We really should have brought more provisions.”

  Sitting on his heels, a dry-nosed and lethargic Frisco beside him, Reece sharpened his knife on a whetstone. “Better watch yourself, Moran, or you’ll go to fat.”

  “Don’t you know, Montgomery, a person can use a bit of stored nourishment?”

  “Thank you, doctor, I do know. And when you get back to New York City, get as fat as you please. For now, though, we’ll make do with what we can.”

  Reece scowled at Moran. Beyond that gargantuan appetite, he didn’t di
slike the man. When it had appeared the doctor was courting Alejandra, Reece had had a few choice monikers for him, but his jealousy had proved ungrounded. Besides, not a lot divided them. Escaping Mexico was paramount to each man, and they were both over-tall norteamericanos in love with a sister Toussaint. Soon they would be brothers-in-law.

  Why not grant a break? He thought about what Moran had said a minute ago—and agreed. “We should’ve brought more provisions, but you’ve gotta admit, Eddie, we had ants in our pants to leave Mexico City.”

  “That we did.” Moran chuckled. “When I left New York, I never thought I’d be wearing huipils before it was over.”

  Reece took a look at the too-short shirt and trousers covering his soon-to-be brother, then glanced at his same attire. Both wore wide sombreros to hide their northern European features. They looked ridiculous. “Well, you gotta admit, we’ve found the spice of life.”

  “Ain’t that the truth, Monty?” Moran wiggled his toes in his unaccommodating huaraches. “Do you mind if I call you Monty?”

  Only one person had called him by that name. Garth. Praying his brother was safe, Reece shrugged. “Call me whatever you please.”

  “Thank you . . . Monty.” More somber now, Moran asked, “Do you think there’s a chance we’ll encounter your brother on our way to Vera Cruz?”

  “Let’s hope he’s already there. And gone. But if he’s not, I intend to find out.” Reece pushed to his feet. “Or die trying.”

  “Do you think we’ll find out anything in Perote village?”

  “It’s a good possibility. Which may cause some trouble. When we get there, I want you and the rest to keep on for Vera Cruz. Pepe and I will catch up with you.” Reece rubbed his hand down his face. “Promise me something, Eddie. If anything happens to me, you’ll make certain everyone gets out of the country all right.”

  Moran walked over. He placed a light hand on Reece’s shoulder, and extended the other in a handshake. “You have my word.”

  “Thanks . . . brother.” Reece winked. “How about your word on something else? Like, going easy on the foodstuffs.”