In about half an hour, they cautiously approached the rebel camp in a little valley, where many horses and mules grazed around an abandoned hut. Duncan held his breath, for at least fifty men seized their guns as the ranchero rode toward them, holding up his open hand. Duncan and Muñoz followed, with their flags of truce raised. Duncan felt foolish, for he was sure that holding up a handful of horse droppings would have meant as much to these men. Seeing the uniforms, the rebels scowled and fingered their guns. Gulping hard and desperately trying to keep from showing concern, Duncan glanced from one to another of the hostile faces, almost wincing at the hatred he saw in them. He wondered if it might not have been wiser to risk starving to death.
“Valeriano,” the ranchero called, and untied the two carbines. A slender mestizo who appeared to be in his thirties walked toward them, smiling when he saw the ranchero holding the guns.
“You bring me prisoners?” he asked, accepting the carbines.
“No, amigo,” the ranchero replied, and related what Muñoz had told him. “I trust them, and you should listen to what they have to say. I’m sure you’ll be glad you did.”
Muñoz held out the letter. “It’s from Major Franco,” he said. “He told us he wants to talk to you.”
Valeriano frowned, but took the letter and opened it. From the way he looked at it Duncan knew he couldn’t read. “Pablo,” he called, “tell me what this says, por favor.” An older man in white cotton shirt and pantaloons shuffled up to him and took the letter. Squinting his eyes, he read it haltingly.
“He wants you and your lieutenants to meet him at Dulce spring tomorrow an hour after sunrise,” he said. “He will have two of his officers with him. He wants to offer you horses and money to stop fighting. His cavalry will stay in camp, so you’ll be safe. To show his good faith, he will leave these two soldiers with you; if you aren’t satisfied with what you see, you may kill them.” Duncan shivered when he heard that. The tricky bastard, he thought. He told us to bring him Valeriano’s reply. Damn him. He thought of everything.
“If you’re willing to meet him,” Pablo continued, “build a fire at the spring so he can see the smoke.”
“Well, what about it? Valeriano asked Muñoz. “Why should I talk to him, and how do I know it’s not a trap?”
“It is a trap,” Muñoz replied calmly, “and that’s why you should meet him.” Duncan waited, his face bathed in sweat. “He’s a Gachupin, and he wants you to kill both of us, but he also wants to kill you,” Muñoz continued.
There was an ominous murmur among the rebels that reminded Duncan of a rattlesnake’s warning—all appeared eager to oblige the Major. Duncan felt the hair rising on his arms. Valeriano held up his hand, and the murmuring ceased. Duncan exhaled.
“Let me explain how to catch him in his own trap,” Muñoz said quickly, concealing his nervousness. The young ranchero looked at Valeriano, nodding his head vigorously.
“Do it,” he said. The rebel leader hesitated. “I guess it won’t hurt to listen to you,” he agreed. “Without your guns you’re not likely to shoot any of us.” His men guffawed at that.
The ranchero turned his horse. “Good luck, señores," he said, then rode away.
Muñoz explained that at daybreak half a dozen soldiers would conceal themselves around the spring. The Major and two officers would arrive an hour later to meet Valeriano and his lieutenants. They would talk for a few minutes, then the Major would give a signal, and the soldiers would shoot the rebel leaders. The cavalry wouldn’t be in camp, but would be close enough to hear the firing and dash up to prevent Valeriano’s men from taking revenge on the Major.
“So what do you suggest?” Valeriano asked.
“Build the fire so he’ll know you’ll meet him. Have your men there well before daybreak,” Muñoz answered. “When the soldiers arrive, seize them without firing a shot, and have some of your men hide. Then meet him. When he gives the signal, your men can shoot him. He’ll think his own men killed him.”
Valeriano, thinking about the plan, almost chuckled, then his face was serious. “I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll have to think about it.” He ordered Muñoz and Duncan into the abandoned hut and posted guards.
“I hope they do it,” Duncan said. “I’d give anything to see the Major’s face when he gives the signal.” That was such a satisfying thought he momentarily forgot the danger they were in.
The afternoon seemed longer than usual. Late in the day a silent man with an impassive face gave them dried beef and water. Without mats or blankets, they tried unsuccessfully to sleep on the dirt floor. Duncan listened to squeaking rats scurrying around the hut and shivered, hoping no snakes were after them. Long before daybreak he listened intently for sounds indicating that the rebels were leaving for Dulce Spring to lay their trap, but he heard nothing and frowned.
At the first dim light the two prisoners stiffly arose, yawning, stretching their sore muscles, and rubbing their bloodshot eyes. Peering out the door, Duncan saw that the two guards were still there, but it wasn’t light enough to see the camp clearly. At sunup a man brought more dried beef and water. Although hungry, they ate mechanically and without enthusiasm, then squatted on the dirt floor and waited. An hour or more passed.
“Did you hear that?” Duncan asked.
“No. What?”
“It sounded like distant thunder, or maybe gunfire. I wonder....”
Some minutes later they heard shouts and hoofbeats, and forty or more horsemen clattered into the camp. “Our time has come,” Muñoz remarked. “They either let us go or they shoot us.” They stood nervously at the doorway, watching the men dismount. From their expressions Duncan couldn’t tell if they were angry or jubilant.
Valeriano shouted, and the two guards ordered them to come out. They saw Valeriano limping toward them, and Duncan noticed a little blood on his pant leg. Oh, God, he thought, something must have gone wrong. He reluctantly followed Muñoz through the doorway, expecting to be riddled by a shower of bullets.
“Come here,” Valeriano ordered, beckoning to them. They walked up to him. Duncan felt his heart pounding.
“What happened?” Muñoz asked, pointing to Valeriano’s leg.
“Oh, just a scratch,” the rebel leader replied. “One of the officers had a pistol in his pocket, and he got off a shot that nicked me before he went down. But it worked just like you said it would. The Major went down blaspheming, but you don’t need to worry about him now. He’s one good Gachupin. We left before the cavalry could get there. You can have your guns and leave.”
“We can’t let the army find us,” Muñoz said. “They’ll know we must have suggested this.” He looked around the camp. “You must leave here right away,” he said. “The scouts know where you are, and they’ll surely come after you now. What will you do?”
“I know. We’ll have to scatter immediately and return to our homes, but we were going to anyway. We thought that once we had a supply of guns, lots of men would join us. But Arredondo nearly wiped out many families, and most of those who survived want nothing more to do with the revolution.”
“What do we do?” Duncan asked. “There’s no place where we’ll be safe.”
“Come with me, both of you,” Valeriano said. “I know a big hacienda where you’ll have nothing to fear. The hacendado is a friend of the revolution; it’s already cost him his oldest son. He’ll see that no harm comes to you. We’ll find you some clothes and get rid of your uniforms.”
“And you?” Muñoz asked.
“I’ve got my own rancho north of the Rio Grande above Laredo. I’ll be warned in plenty of time if anyone comes looking for me.” Valeriano waved to his men as they rode away.
The Quiñones hacienda was in Nuevo Santander south of Laredo. Valeriano explained that it had been a royal grant in the mid-eighteenth century, when José de Escandón was extending Nuevo Santander to the Nueces and founding the towns of Laredo and Dolores on the Rio Grande. It is still in the same family, he told them, and
Don Diego Quinones, its present owner, is a great grandson of the founder.
From a distance across the prairie, the hacienda appeared to Duncan like a small village clustered around one big building. The two-story house of whitewashed adobe bricks gleamed in the sunshine. The surrounding huts of the peóns and vaqueros were of plain adobe. The closer they came to the house, the more impressive it appeared, and the more uneasy Muñoz became.
“This is no place for me,” he said. “If I stay here I might end up a peón. That won’t happen to Duncan because he’s an Americano, not a mestizo.” He turned to Valeriano. “Can I go to your rancho with you?”
“Of course. Arredondo made widows of many of the rancheros' wives. Maybe you’ll find one to your liking. If not, my house is your house.”
Muñoz waited in the courtyard while Valeriano introduced Duncan to Don Diego, a well-dressed, dignified gentleman whose hair and neatly trimmed beard were turning gray. “He’s an Americano who came to Texas as a young fellow with Señor Nolan,” Valeriano explained.
“Ah, so,” Don Diego said, shaking hands with Duncan.
“He was a prisoner in Chihuahua,” Valeriano continued, “until he joined a cavalry troop just to get away. A Gachupín major tried to get him killed, but he died in his own trap. We sprang it on him.”
“Excellent!” Don Diego exclaimed.
“Señor McPherson must now hide from the royalists,” Valeriano concluded.
“I’d be glad to live in a cow camp and work for my keep until it’s safe for me to head for the States,” Duncan assured Don Diego. “I don’t want to be any trouble to you, but they’ll surely shoot me if they find me.”
Don Diego looked shocked. “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” he said. “You’ll be a welcome guest. If you feel you must do something, my children have always wanted to learn to speak a little English. You may teach them if you wish.” He beckoned to a barefoot peón to take Duncan’s horse away, then prepared to usher him into the house.
“One moment, please,” Duncan said. “I must say adios to a friend.” He hurried to the courtyard, while Valeriano followed. Duncan gave Muñoz an abrazo, then shook hands with Valeriano.
“Good luck, amigos,” he said. “I hope we’ll meet again.” They rode away while Duncan hurried back to Don Diego, who waited patiently at the door.
A young Indian servant girl in a loose cotton dress showed Duncan to his room, which was in an upstairs comer of the big house and had two shuttered windows. A wooden bed with a mattress filled with prairie hay stood in one comer. Near it was a chair and a brazier with a little charcoal in it for cold weather. A small table held a wash basin and a pitcher of water. A polished wooden crucifix hung on one wall.
When he went downstairs, Duncan had a feeling he was being watched, but he didn’t turn his head. He heard giggles, and knew the eyes watching him weren’t unfriendly. Before dinner, Don Diego introduced him to his wife, Doña Consuela, a plump, handsome woman whose braided hair was streaked with gray. She greeted Duncan warmly and made him welcome. Next he met twelve-year-old Jose and Carmencita, who was two years older than her brother. Knowing they were the ones who had watched him, Duncan was struck by the self-confident and easy manner with which they greeted him as an equal. That’s a sign of their class, he decided.
“Where is Antonia?” Don Diego asked, a little impatiently.
“Here, Papa,” a voice replied. Duncan turned and saw that she limped slightly as she approached. She wore sandals and a simple cotton dress trimmed with red; her black hair was tied in a ball at the back of her head. Her eyes were bright, her olive skin smooth. Although she may not be a stunning beauty, Duncan thought, she is surely attractive in her own way. He guessed her age as eighteen.
“Señor McPherson,” Don Diego said, “my other daughter, Antonia. As you see, an unfortunate accident as a child has left her a little lame.”
“Oh, Papa,” Antonia said, lightly squeezing Duncan’s outstretched hand and sending shivers up his arm. “A pleasure, Señor McPherson,” she said in a melodic voice. “Papa’s afraid no one will ever many me. Papa says you speak Spanish very well, and English, too. I wish I could.”
“Please call me Duncan, all of you,” Duncan said, looking especially at José and Carmencita, who smiled. He turned to Antonia. “I haven’t spoken English in so many years I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it,” he said, “but if you want to learn it, I’ll break my neck trying to remember.”
She dimpled at that. “You Americans are such flatterers,” she said, leading the way to the table. Duncan followed slowly, for he didn’t know how to behave around such people and feared doing something outrageously wrong. He saw Don Diego stand behind his wife’s chair and push it in for her, so he quickly did the same for Antonia, blushing madly. If she noticed, she was kind enough not to comment.
The next morning after breakfast, Antonia and her brother and sister took Duncan on a ride around the hacienda. His cavalry horse had been turned out so it wouldn’t be found with the vaqueros’s horses. His mount was one of Don Diego’s fine Spanish horses that he raised in a well-guarded herd. It was a spirited bay with one white hoof and a star on its forehead. Duncan had never ridden so fine an animal. “He’s your horse,” Don Diego assured him. “No one else will ride him.”
They saw peones working in the orchards, vineyards, and fields of com and cotton, all irrigated by streams that ran across the hacienda. On the range they rode past corrals and sheep pens as well as grazing cattle and horses. Duncan gazed around in awe—it was like being in a little world. Out of the comer of his eye he saw Antonia watching him, a half-smile on her face. He realized she was smiling because of his pleasure and amazement, not in derision. He knew that he was lucky just to be among such people.
“We can’t see it all in one day,” Carmencita told him. “It will take at least a week. It’s many, many leagues. I forget how many.”
“I’m glad it will take more time,” Duncan said, looking at Antonia. “The longer it takes the better.” She smiled but said nothing.
Duncan taught the three of them to say a few sentences and many words in English, and they delighted each morning in greeting him in his own language. Carmencita often held his hand when they strolled in the gardens, and José stayed close by his side. After a few months they appeared to regard him as a beloved older brother, and their affection made him glow with delight. But Antonia—he couldn’t look at her without his heart beating faster. I shouldn’t have come here, he thought. Now I love her too much to want to leave, and I’m sure they’d never let her marry an American renegade like me, who may even have a price on his head. If I request permission to ask her to many me, Don Diego will feel betrayed and order me out of the house. The thought gave him chills.
Yet Don Diego treated him almost like his own son, and they often discussed the few reports they received on the progress of the revolution. “In our war against England, we had important help from France,” Duncan said. “If only the United States would send an army.”
“Your country has been at war with England for two years,”Don Diego told him. “Haven’t you heard?” Duncan hadn’t known that.
Don Diego enjoyed showing Duncan cattle, his fine Spanish horses, and his Merino sheep, and together they watched the vaqueros display their skills at roundup time. Don Diego had an old vaquero teach Duncan to use a rawhide riata skillfully. It was clear to Duncan that every member of the family regarded him almost as one of them, but he remained painfully conscious of the gulf that separated them from him.
In 1815 they learned that Morelos had been captured and executed, and that the only rebels left were a few bands in the mountains of the south, and they weren’t expected to hold out much longer.
“That’s a real disappointment,” Duncan said. “I was hoping somehow they could hang on until the royalists gave up.”
Don Diego looked somber. “I only hope I live to see us free,” he said. “The Gachupines have lived at our expense and treated us
as inferior for far too long. The revolutions in South America seem to be doing no better, but I know our day will come.”
Valeriano came to see Duncan one day. “We learned from a deserter that the army reported you and Muñoz killed by rebels,” he told Duncan. “I had to let you know they’re not looking for you.”
“That’s good news,” Duncan said, thanking him. “And how is my friend Muñoz?”
“He’s married and has a rancho of his own. He doesn’t worry about the royalists anymore. It’s probably safe for you to leave, if you’re careful.”
I should be glad to hear that, Duncan thought, after Valeriano left, and yet I don’t even want to think about leaving. But I know I’m foolish to stay here.
“You’ll have to excuse me today,” Antonia told him one morning a few days later. “A young man has asked my father for permission to pay court to me, and I must allow him to.” She looked reproachfully at him. “I’m not getting any younger, you know. Most girls have been married several years by my age, but it seems no one has ever wanted to many me before.”
Duncan was shocked almost beyond words. “I understand,” he mumbled, his face white. He left her, feeling crushed and empty. She must know I love her even though I’ve never told her, he thought, but how can I, a nobody, ask her to marry me?
He saddled his horse, then rode aimlessly all day, brooding and cursing his luck, not returning until late in the afternoon. Doña Consuela met him with a frown.
“You naughty boy,” she said. “You haven’t eaten all day.”
“I forgot,” he said lamely. “I just wasn’t hungry.”
“Ah, something is troubling you. Tell me about it.”
He wanted badly to tell her, but was afraid to. “I was thinking that now I know the royalists aren’t looking for me I mustn’t stay here any longer,” he blurted. “You’ve all been so kind to me, and I’m so fond of all of you, it made me sad to think about it.” He paused and tried to appear mildly curious. “How did you like the young man who came to see Antonio?” he asked, his voice sounding strange.
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