by Henke, Shirl
“You sayin' your government lied to us?” McClosky asked, his voice growing angry.
“Mexico hasn't really had a government in nearly a decade,” Nicholas replied. “Warring factions of liberals and conservatives have taken turns seizing the reins of power. That's what brought the French in to set Maximilian on the throne. But I've heard it said that one can do anything with bayonets—but sit on them.’ ”
Emory Jones swirled the aguardiente around in his glass, then sipped it as he peered over the rim, fixing his host with those odd colorless eyes. “Those sound rather like Juarista sentiments to me, Don Lucero.”
Nicholas shrugged. “The French emperor Napoleon the Third's son, Prince Plon-Plon, said it. As for me, I've lost interest in politics.”
“But you said you served with the imperials,” Fletcher said, unable to understand a man who would give up on his cause.
“Let's just say I want the war to end...any which way. I haven't even got enough men to care for my horses, much less round up the cattle this spring.”
“I hear they're all off fighting for Juarez,” Jones said mildly.
“I heerd ‘bout thet Injun who claims to be president o' Mexico,” McClosky scoffed.
“The idea of a savage, president of anything,” Fletcher said dismissively.
“Oh, I wouldn't underestimate this Indian,” Fortune replied. “He's held onto his tattered constitution since 1857. Now he's enlisted your Yankee enemies to help him. He just might win.”
An uncomfortable silence settled on the room as Fortune and Jones exchanged glances. There was a knowing assessment in the guest's eyes as he raised his glass. “To the Emperor Maximilian the First.”
Everyone followed his toast, including the patrón, who sensed a subtle mockery in the gesture. And that nagging familiarity. Who was Emory Jones?
Chapter Twelve
While their guests rested and refreshed themselves before dinner, Nicholas walked down to the stables to check with Hilario about the condition of their animals. The immigrants' horses were used up by the long arduous trek. They had six pack mules which had fared somewhat better. If the newcomers had been smart they would have bought more mules and fewer horses for traveling through desert country; but then if they were smart, they would have remained in Texas and not pursued Matthew Maury's pipe dream. Bad enough the men believed Maximilian's vague promises. Bringing women and children to face an uncertain future in the middle of another civil war was nothing short of criminal stupidity to his way of thinking.
“Hilario, how do their horses look?” he asked as his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the stable.
The old vaquero shrugged, setting aside the rubbing cloth he was using on Fletcher's big bay, without doubt the best of the lot. “They have been ridden hard and fed poorly. They need several days of rest and grain if they are to survive the trip to the Valley of Mexico. Mules would stand the trip much better than horses.”
Fortune grinned cynically. “I don't think Mrs. Fletcher would exactly fancy being seen riding a mule. Anyway, we don't have the stock to spare.”
“You could trade them mules for horses. This fine fellow”—Hilario patted Fletcher's bay—“would be fat and sleek with a few weeks of proper care.”
Fortune studied the crafty look in the old man's eyes. “You don't much care for them, do you?”
“Do you believe they will receive vast tracts of land from the emperor?” Hilario answered with a question of his own.
Nicholas muttered an oath. “No. They'll be damn lucky to get as far as Durango without having their throats cut.”
“That doesn't say much for my skills as a guide.” Emory Jones materialized out of the shadows behind Fortune.
As Nicholas turned, he noticed that Hilario did not seem at all surprised by Jones' appearance. He quirked an eyebrow. “You have strayed rather far off the beaten track.” Again that niggling sense of familiarity made the hair on his nape prickle in unease.
“You're thinking we've met before,” Jones said, as if reading his host's thoughts. “We haven't, strictly speaking, but...I know who you are.”
The last words dropped like stones in the quiet stable. Hilario turned around and resumed rubbing down the bay as if he knew what the conversation would be.
Fortune studied the smaller man, who was so nondescript he could blend in almost anywhere. Schooling his expression to utter neutrality, Nicholas said, “You seem to have the advantage, Mr. Jones...if that is your name. Perhaps we'd best discuss this out back by the corrals.”
There was a deadly undertone lurking beneath the silky invitation as he gestured for Emory Jones to precede him out the rear door of the stable.
“As you wish.” The mysterious Americano walked casually past Fortune. When they reached the large open area, he turned calmly and said, “Hilario already knows you're not Lucero Alvarado.”
Nicholas regarded him with fathomless black eyes. “Really. Then who the hell am I?”
“Nicholas Fortune, an American mercenary originally from New Orleans, where old Don Anselmo Alvarado was known to while away some pleasurable hours in his youth, you being the by-product of one such indiscretion.” All traces of his soft Southern accent had evaporated completely.
Fortune leaned against the corral rail, then asked lazily, “Who the hell are you?”
“A fellow American.” There was a hard edge beneath the casual words. “My name's Bart McQueen. And I am from Saint Louis.”
“But you're not a Confederate.”
“I work for the United States Department of War. This immigrant party provided me with an ideal cover to reach you in person.”
“How did you know who I was?”
“I make it my business to keep track of men in your business,” McQueen replied briskly. He went on, “As you're no doubt aware, our government is determined to see the French out of Mexico.”
“I've heard rumors in Hermosillo that the Americans were dispatching an army to the border, but that doesn't have anything to do with me. I've never been employed by our government,” Nicholas replied sardonically.
McQueen's smile was ironic. “You will be now. Our army's already on the Rio Grande. President Juarez will be leaving El Paso in a few months. He'll start to travel south following Escobedo's army. There have already been several attempts to assassinate him. He's the only thing holding the Mexican resistance together. Without Juarez, the republic is dead. And that would be a disaster for the United States government.”
“I don't give a damn about the United States government. As master of Gran Sangre it makes no difference to me whether Maximilian or Juarez sits in that palace.”
“You'll remain master of Gran Sangre only as long as you do what I say, Fortune.” There was an aura of utter ruthlessness behind the clipped words.
“I'm the law here. You could meet with an unfortunate accident out in the desert. It happens every day in Sonora. Bandits, contre-guerrillas...” Nicholas shrugged.
“President Johnson would only send someone else to take my place.” There was not the slightest inflection in McQueen's voice. “Anyway, you might find me rather difficult to kill.” He nodded toward the far end of the corral where young Gregorio Sanchez stood well out of earshot, silently watching them.
“How many of my men are in your pay, McQueen?” Fortune's face was stony.
“None. They're loyal Juaristas.”
“Well, I've already told you, I'm not.”
“Then why did you help Lieutenant Montoya escape that patrol? Or turn loose those two peons with the butchered steer? For a man with your sanguinary reputation, you've developed a rather soft heart here of late. Perhaps the influence of your beautiful lady, Doña Mercedes?”
Nicholas’ expression shifted from anger to cynical amusement. “Then you really mistake the case. My wife is a loyal daughter of the Church. She despises the godless republicans almost as much as her mother-in-law.”
“Your wife. You've grown to think of her that
way, haven't you? What would such a devout lady do if she learned the man who shares her bed isn't her husband at all but his bastard half brother?”
Nicholas reacted with pure gut instinct. He seized McQueen's shirt collar in his fists, lifting the smaller man up and slamming him against the corral post. “The only reason you don't have your throat cut right now is because I'm unarmed, but I have been known to kill men with my bare hands.”
McQueen did not blink. “Think you can snap my neck before I can pull this trigger?” he asked as casually as if he were discussing the weather.
Fortune could feel the barrel of a small gun pressing against his left side, alarmingly near his heart. Slowly he lowered McQueen, then shoved him away.
“I know your kind. You won't shoot me because you need me—but you'd be wise to leave Mercedes out of this.”
McQueen stepped back and replaced the Volcanic pistol inside his jacket, showing no emotion whatsoever. “Agreed. I believe I've made my point.”
“You've made your damn point, McQueen. I'll hear you out.” Fortune folded his arms across his chest, waiting.
“The hacendados in Sonora and Chihuahua are mostly loyal imperialists,” McQueen began.
“I'd hardly call it loyalty,” Nicholas said dryly. “They'll side with anyone who acknowledges their feudal privileges.”
“True, but there's a small faction of fanatics who know the French are going to pull out of Mexico, leaving them to the mercy of the republic. They can never buy a man like Juarez.”
“So they want him dead,” Fortune said grimly. It made sense. With Juarez gone, they could set up someone they could control in the ensuing power vacuum, perhaps even break the northern states away from the rest of the republic.
“That's where you come in. As one of the largest landholders in the state, you could infiltrate their inner circle and give us vital information about their plans, especially any attempts on the president's life.”
“And just how do I do this? I was a soldier, McQueen, not a damned spy.”
“You were a mercenary,” McQueen corrected in that same uninflected tone.
“I picked my assignments,” Fortune replied.
McQueen allowed himself to exhibit a fleeting trace of amusement now. “Yes, you did on rare occasions show a surprising flash of scruples. In Havana, for instance.” He could see Fortune make the connection, then went on, “You're going to receive an invitation to the ball Don Encarnación Vargas is giving next month in honor of a Prussian prince from Maximilian's court.”
“Vargas is in on the assassination plot?” Nicholas was moderately surprised. He knew old Don Encarnación had been a friend of his wastrel father, but little more about him. He would have expected the don to be too provincial and self-absorbed for this sort of dangerous intrigue.
“Encarnación Vargas is their leader, but the old man has someone else behind him—someone who's canny enough to recognize Juarez as the linchpin of republican success.”
“And you want me to find out who this is,” Nicholas replied.
Getting down to business as nonchalantly as if they were negotiating a livestock deal, McQueen said, “The Vargas conspirators will be discussing what their spies have gleaned about Juarez's movements. Then they'll decide when to make another assassination attempt. Isolated in the mountains outside of El Paso, the president could be protected, but on the road south headed to the capital it's going to be considerably more difficult.”
“You think Vargas will confide his plans to me?” Fortune asked dubiously.
“No, probably not, but as Don Lucero you'll gain entry to places none of my other operatives could. Keep your eyes and ears open. We need to know when and where they'll strike. You'll be instructed about how to pass along whatever you learn to appropriate authority. Porfirio Escondidas is my agent in Sonora. If something should happen to him, Gregorio and old Hilario know how to contact local Juaristas.”
Nicholas’ eyebrows raised. “I knew that Hilario had figured out I wasn't Luce, but I wouldn't have taken him for a Juarista.”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” McQueen replied mildly. “I believe you'll make an excellent agent, Don Lucero.”
Nicholas’ eyes narrowed, their silver irises glowing like lightning. “By the way, Mr. Jones. I don't much like being blackmailed. Once this assassination plot is foiled, I'm done with you. I won't work for you or your government.”
“Just work for Juarez. I don't think you'll find it unrewarding. He's going to win this war.”
“Then that means you and your government will butt out of Mexico,” Fortune replied, turning to stride across the yard toward the opposite end of the corral.
“You play the role of hacendado well for a gringo,” McQueen said to himself. He retraced his steps back to the house, being careful that no one observed him reentering the courtyard.
But someone did. Innocencia picked at the bits of straw caught in her tangled mane of hair and brushed the wrinkles from her skirts. After a pleasant tumble in the loft with one of the new vaqueros, she had fallen asleep when he had left, only to be awakened by voices speaking in English. One of them was Don Lucero's. She had quickly climbed to the open bay of the loft, where she could make out what the men were saying.
Innocencia's grasp of the language was tenuous at best; but she had lived a few years with an aunt and uncle in the busy seaport of Guaymas, which North American and English argonauts used as a stopping-off point in their rush to the California gold fields. She was quick and clever enough to understand the gist of the conversation.
No wonder her old lover had not welcomed her back into his bed! This man was a penniless bastard, a gringo, who had taken Lucero's place and fooled them all, and he was working for the Juaristas!
Watching to see that both Hilario and Gregorio had gone to their quarters first, she made her way out of the stable and back to the kitchen, all the while considering how she could best use this damning information.
* * * *
With a myriad of things preying on his mind, the last thing Nicholas wanted was to run into Father Salvador. He had been avoiding the old man's request through Mercedes to make peace with Doña Sofia. As the priest walked down the long hallway with his ice-blue eyes fixed on his target, Fortune laughed wryly to himself. He was reacting like a schoolboy caught in some infraction. Just as if I really was Lucero Alvarado.
“Good morning, Father. I trust you enjoyed your visit with our guests last night, instructing them regarding their duty to become members of the Church.” Few of the Confederate immigrants were of the Roman faith. In spite of a widespread outcry from the Church and other conservative elements in Mexico, the emperor had not reinstated the laws making conversion a condition of citizenship. The priest had attempted to cajole Fletcher's group into realizing that they would find no other religious solace in their adopted home and should seek instruction when they arrived at their destination. They had been polite for the most part, except for the McCloskys, but Nicholas was certain that spiritual matters were low on the immigrants' list of priorities.
Father Salvador made a dismissive gesture. ”I did not come to discuss the North Americans. Your wife has spoken with you regarding your mother?”
“My mother's health has improved remarkably since you gave her the last rites. She's not ready to shuffle off this mortal coil.”
“No, she is not. There are matters that weigh heavily on her soul—and yours—that the two of you must confront before it is too late.”
“Her soul is your concern,” Nicholas replied coldly. “As to my soul, you yourself pronounced it beyond salvation when I was a boy.”
“With God, nothing is beyond redemption, and I have never ceased praying for you, my son. As to what I said in anger...I, too, have much to answer for.”
Startled, Nicholas looked at the old priest's face, now grown pale and weathered by age. Deep seams around his mouth and across his forehead made his expression infinitely weary. The crystal blue eyes tha
t Luce had described so accurately had lost their accusatory glare. Was there actually a shred of compassion, even regret in them? He sighed, weary himself. “She doesn't want to see me.”
“I know. But she must before she can die.”
“Is that an enticement to get me to visit her?” he asked with a sardonic lift of one eyebrow.
“Do it, I beg of you,” was all the priest replied.
“Rosario really likes you,” Nicholas said, surprising himself. “I'll do it for her granddaughter's sake.”
The priest smiled faintly. “Do it for your own sake.”
* * * *
The room was not as dark and cloying as usual when Lupe opened the door for him. Nicholas dismissed her and looked over to where the old woman sat in an enormous chair, propped up in a sea of fluffy pillows facing the window. Doña Sofia's skin was whiter than the linens surrounding her.
“I see you've renewed your interest in this world rather than abandoning it for the next.”
She did not turn her head but continued staring out into the courtyard. “Come closer. I am not strong enough to bite you.”
He chuckled mirthlessly. “Your bite was never physical, Mamacita.” Then, reminding himself of why he was here, he said, “We need to put all that behind us. Be kinder to each other.”
Her answering laughter was dry as kindling. Once she recovered her breath she said, “Lucero Alvarado did not know the meaning of the word kindness”
“Maybe that was because no one ever taught me.”
“Perhaps no one did.” She looked up into his face now, studying it with narrowed, watery eyes that seemed startlingly alert, perceptive. “Your resemblance is truly amazing. The scar helps, I think.”
A surge of apprehension rippled down his spine. “My father remained unmarked. I was not so fortunate,” he said, shrugging casually.
Oh, you resemble your sire, right enough,” she rasped bitterly, “but you are not Lucero.”
