Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy)

by Shirl Henke

  With a feral growl, Rafe jumped on Flores, dragging him from his horse in one wrenching movement. They crashed to the ground as the stallion reared up in terror and then raced away. Rafe's deadly blade slashed out, slicing the sleeve of Flores's heavy tunic as they rolled. The comanchero's double-barreled Windsor pistol was empty. Furiously, he used it as a crude cudgel, swiping at Rafe's knife while he freed a stiletto from his belt. The two antagonists came to their feet, facing one another.

  Poised cat-taut, Rafe waited for Enrique to move. With a muffled oath, the comanchero lunged, toppling them both back into the dust. His thin deadly stiletto arced up and came down, but Rafe's heavier knife blocked it, then snapped it at the handle. With a swift twist of his wrist, Rafe wrenched the broken weapon from Flores’s hand, rolling Enrique over. He swept his gleaming steel toward Enrique's throat, but a split second before he could finish the kill a shot rang out, striking him in the head. Rafe was flung backward with thudding impact, hitting a rock behind him. Everything went black.

  * * * *

  “Thet Frenchy general put a reward on his head, Miz Fleming. Some horse feathers ‘bout him bein' a spy fer th' Texians. Price's nigh as high as th' one he put on Jack Hays for devilin' him. Thet Flores snake's behind it, I know it in my bones.” Racine Schwartz gestured in frustration as he finished his report to Deborah.

  When Rafael did not return the night after escorting Charlee back to Bluebonnet, Deborah had become frantic with worry. General Woll had been unavailable to see her, so she had sent Racine out to do some eavesdropping early the following morning. Her pale face was drawn with anxiety as she asked, “And you're sure he escaped the sentries who shot at him?”

  Racine snorted dismissively. “He got clean away, but one o' them Mex soldiers’ll never draw a bead on a Texian agin!”

  The next two days were hellish for Deborah as she waited, a prisoner in her own house. Her second visit to General Woll had been disastrous. He had coldly informed her that his men had witnessed a Texian agent enter their house and Rafe escort “him” out of the occupied city with his own safe conduct papers. Her husband was a wanted man. She was under house arrest.

  Dropping the curtain, Deborah turned from watching the Mexican soldier stationed in front of her boardinghouse. Just then Sadie came hobbling in the front parlor. “Miz Deborah, come quick. Chester done found out what be goin' on.” Deborah flew to the kitchen where the hired man waited nervously.

  Doffing his hat, he launched into a swift account of the preceding night's turmoil. “We whupped ‘em, Miz Deborah! Thet feller Hays 'n his rangers got thet Frenchy ta chase 'em into a ambush! Ole Paint 'n th' militia cut 'em up real bad on Salado Creek.” His face was as flushed with triumph as if he had been a participant.

  Thinking only that Rafael was out there, probably involved in the battle, Deborah was not consoled. “Then that was all the noise we heard last night—the church bells ringing in the plaza and all the shouting?”

  “You shoulda seen all th' wounded 'n dead they brung in with ‘em. Th' general give marchin' orders! They's packin' up ta pull out, headed fer th' border like a pack o' scalded dogs!”

  “How soon, Chester?” If only Rafael is all right. I have to know!

  “Some say today, some tomorra. It's a real crazy house down ‘round th' Plaza. Lots o' Tejanos er fîxin ta go with em. Afeared o' whut th' militia'll do ta 'em when they git here.”

  “But that's ridiculous,” Deborah replied. “Why should the Tejanos fear the men who drove the Mexican Army out? They had nothing to do with the occupation—in fact many of them have helped feed and care for the prisoners.”

  Chester shrugged. Mistrust and bigotry still marred the co-existence of Hispanic and Anglo settlers.

  By that afternoon it was official. General Woll's army was leaving at daybreak. By evening on the twentieth, the Texian militia would be back in the city.

  If Deborah was frantic over Rafael's absence, Adam was brimming with impatience to see his beloved father return in glory after almost single-handedly defeating the entire Mexican army.

  The next morning, needing to distract her son from his endless questions about the fighting, Deborah took him with her to the garden to pick vegetables. Since dawn that morning the army had been withdrawing. Only a few heavily laden baggage carts and their escorts remained. Captain Flores was in charge of the prisoners, all fifty-three of whom were being taken to dreaded incarceration in Santa Anna's special hellhole, Perote. Deborah shivered in revulsion.

  Suddenly a shadow loomed over the two kneeling figures. Adam sensed the presence first. “What are you doin' here?” he questioned insolently. “My pa's comin' back ta run you off himself!”

  Enrique Flores's cold obsidian eyes pierced the boy with some unreadable emotion hidden in them. “A fierce cub. But with Rafael Flamenco for a father and so spirited a lady for a mother, how could it be otherwise?”

  Deborah gripped her small shears tightly, willing her breathing to return to normal. She felt none of her son's bravado. She nodded tersely to Flores as she stood up, hiding the shears in the folds of her skirt. “Adam, take this basket of potatoes in to Sadie.”

  Mulishly the boy dug in his heels, sensing the danger of leaving his mother alone with the captain. “I ain't—I'm not finished filling it yet, Mama.”

  Forcing patience, Deborah fixed Adam with her sternest gaze, willing him to understand the urgency of her command. “Sadie needs to know how much we've done now, son, so she can send Chester for more food if we need it.”

  Realizing her intent was to send him for help, Adam reconsidered reluctantly. Then, with a defiant call over his shoulder he took off, leaving the potato basket behind. “My pa'll slit yer gizzard! Just see if he won't!”

  Deborah quickly put herself between Flores and the retreating boy, prepared to strike with the shears if need be, but the comanchero only threw back his head and laughed. “I applaud his confidence—and your courage, my silver-haired beauty.”

  Deborah took a step back as he reached out to stroke a coil of her hair. “I thought your general gave you marching orders, Captain. Shouldn't you be halfway to the Rio Grande by now?”

  “Oh, we're leaving, all right, but first I had some unfinished business to attend,” Flores replied nastily. “The wolf cub's father won't be coming back, alas.” At her sharp intake of breath, he continued relentlessly. “One of my men killed him as he was about to dispatch me. A fortunate matter since we had to retreat in a cross fire. But I could scarcely leave you a grieving widow, all alone, with no man to console you

  Deborah came out of her grief-frozen trance when his last words penetrated. “You despicable cur!” She raised the shears to stab at him as he reached for her.

  Flores deflected the blow, but not before she left a wicked slash across his cheek. He grabbed her slim wrist with bone-breaking force. Refusing to drop her only weapon, she kicked at him as he dodged and attempted to subdue her. When she made a quick snatch for the pistol at his side he intercepted her left-handed reach and had both hands imprisoned. He gave her a brutal, tooth-jarring shake and then released her left hand long enough to deliver a sharp, fast blow to her jaw. She collapsed into oblivion.

  * * * *

  Armed citizens of San Antonio patrolled the deserted streets. Everyone was on edge since the Mexican army retreated and Caldwell's men arrived in the early afternoon. Rafe headed for the boardinghouse as quickly as he dared with his aching skull still pounding. Caldwell's surgeon had sewn up the crease furrowed deeply in the side of Rafe's thick hair. It didn't show, but it throbbed wickedly. He'd been unconscious all day yesterday and had lost a lot of blood. He still felt weak and double vision intermittently plagued him. If only I can stay on Bostonian until I know they're safe. He had disobeyed orders to remain in camp with the other wounded and struck out for the city as soon as he heard it was free.

  Reining in at the front of the boardinghouse, Rafe swung down just as Adam came racing out the front door.

&nbs
p; “Papa! I knew you'd come! I knew it!” Adam catapulted into his father's arms.

  Rafe enveloped the boy, relief flooding over him. Then his son's next words froze him.

  “He's got Mama! He took her off. We couldn't find her anywhere. But he was here this morning in the garden 'n I know he did it!”

  Rafe tried to calm the frantic boy. “Slow down, niño. Who took her?” A hard knot of fear formed in the pit of his stomach. He knew who.

  “That bastard captain, Flores. I wanted to stay with her, but Mama made me go for Chester. When we got back to the garden, they were gone. I should never of left her,” he finished as tears made his big brown eyes lustrous.

  Rafael soothed Adam. “You did right, following your mother's orders, son. Flores could have shot you both and then I'd never get either one of you back. I'll bring her home, Adam. I promise.”

  Rafael left Adam in Racine's charge and hurried to catch up with Jack Hays and the other militia who were in pursuit of Woll's retreating army and its prisoners. His driving headache was augmented by the chill late September air. It had been raining for a couple of days intermittently and the dry Texas dust had already turned to thick mud. Wet, aching, and crazed by fear for his wife, Rafe pushed himself and Bostonian to their limits and beyond.

  Within a few hours, he had caught up with the main body of Texians and found that Hays and a few of his hand-picked men were reconnoitering Woll's position. They camped that night by the Medina and moved forward early the next morning. By midday, they had stopped to await Hays and his men. As soon as he recognized Hays's big bay, Rafe quickly sought out his friend. Hays's men had brought in four prisoners, whom they were interrogating as he approached.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Rafe? Doc said you were confined to the wounded tent for at least a week.” Jack Hays's attention shifted immediately from the Mexican soldiers to the tall, menacing gunman approaching him.

  “Flores took my wife, Jack,” was all he said before he squatted down in front of a badly frightened corporal. Questioning him rapidly in Spanish, Rafe described Deborah, and asked if she was with Flores.

  The man denied knowing anything about the captain or seeing a blond woman among the civilians. But when Rafe threatened him with his bowie knife, the soldier implored him, “Please, mister, I saw no Anglo woman, but I have seen Captain Flores. He travels with several large baggage carts. Perhaps she's hidden in one of them; who knows?”

  “That makes sense, Rafe,” Jack Hays interjected. “He's right. Woll'd bust him for taking an Anglo female. He must have her hidden.”

  Sheathing his big knife, Rafe skewered the corporal with cold black eyes. “You better pray your guess is right.”

  A council of war was held among the militia leaders. Given Hays's report on the location and direction of Woll's forces, they decided to move up close to Woll's encampment across the Medina, position themselves strategically, and attack at dawn. As they left the meeting, Hays looked at Rafe's set face.

  “I know you're crazy worried over her, but you can't get in to rescue her single-handed.”

  “I can't just wait another night, dammit! You can't imagine the things a man like Flores is capable of, what he can do to her while the others sleep.”

  Levelly Hays said, “After four years fighting Comanche, I have a fair idea, my friend. Getting yourself killed won't help your wife. But it will decrease our chances to surprise them at dawn.”

  Unwilling to wait with the slower-moving army, Rafe joined Hays and several of his men who scouted ahead through the night. “Those campfires seem awfully dim and far apart, Jack. I have a gut feeling I don't like,” Rafe said as they lay in the soaking wet grass on a rise high above Woll's campsite.

  “Let's take a closer look,” was Hays's terse reply.

  With utmost stealth they made their way toward the most outlying of the scattered fires. Rafe's oaths split the still night air. “Deserted! A goddamn decoy! The son of a bitch is probably miles from here!”

  “Easy—remember, as long as they're on the march, Flores won't have time to hurt Deborah. With all this mud they've left a clear trail. We'll catch them,” Hays placated.

  They met Caldwell's main force just before daybreak. By midday they had caught up to the rear guard of Woll's lines.

  Some of the Texians blundered on the Mexicans and exchanged shots with them, much to the ire of Hays and Fleming, who wanted to surprise them. While the desultory exchange of fire between pursued and pursuers continued for several hours, the rangers scouted ahead and to the sides of Woll's lines, searching for a likely place to ambush them.

  “If we don't stop them, I'm going in tonight—alone, Jack,” Rafe said grimly as his younger companion surveyed a narrow twisting canyon called the Arroyo Hondo or Dry Creek.

  “I think I see our opening, Rafe.” Hays motioned for Jinx to come up, then spoke to him. “Tell Caldwell to get his men up to the opening of that arroyo—fast. Once Woll's lines go in, they're narrowed down and over-extended. We can pick them off like lice on a bald dog.”

  “Caldwell hasn't got much time before Woll gets to that gulch, Jack,” Rafe said, eyes narrowing as he considered the possibilities.

  Hays gave one of his rare grins. “Hell, pilgrim, I guess we'll just have to start the party without him, then. I figure fifty mounted rangers are worth three or four hundred of Santa Anna's finest. What do you think?”

  Rafe smiled like a shark and nodded silently.

  When they put their plan of attack into action, Caldwell and his men were nowhere in sight. Dusk was thickening and so was the mud as the Mexicans dropped down onto lower ground to enter the serpentine gulch.

  Hays's rangers galloped toward the retreating column in a sudden noisy rush, yelling, shooting, and swearing, taking the Mexicans totally by surprise. The artillerymen fired only once, overshooting as Hays had guessed they would. Then, they were all killed. Rafe was in the forefront, shooting and reloading from Bostonian's careening back, oblivious to the searing pain in his injured head. Several rangers caught up to him and engaged the Mexicans in hand-to-hand fighting up and down the canyon. A few, with Hays in the lead, pulled to the head of the Mexican column and picked off many of the disorganized troops.

  Rafe fought his way through the melee, watching for Flores but heading toward the larger baggage wagons. Only a couple were big enough to conceal a woman.

  Deborah could hear the firing. She was still and cold in her cramped position. For two days she had been bounced and tossed about beneath the heavy canvas cover of the wagon where Flores had hidden her. Only two of his trusted henchmen knew of her captivity, taking her out at night to feed her and allow her to relieve herself. Several times she had heard the report of guns and prayed for deliverance.

  But Rafael isn't coming. He's dead. The thought tortured her exhausted mind, even as the cruel ropes and gag tortured her exhausted body. Now once more, she was shaken into alertness by the loud report of rifle fire. Confined for nearly three days, Deborah had lost all sense of day or night in the dark wagon surrounded by barrels and boxes.

  Suddenly, she ceased her frustrated thrashing as the sharp hiss of a knife rending canvas sounded above her. Frozen, she looked up and blinked in disbelief, then tried to cry out his name through the thick wadding of the gag. Rafael! Alive!

  At once he vaulted inside the wagon and untied the gag, then gently cut the ropes from her wrists and ankles as she sobbed his name over and over. Once free, she flung herself against him. “Oh, Rafael, he said you were dead—that his men had killed you! My darling, my love,” she gasped out in tight little gulps, fighting the dry thickness of her tongue.

  Rafe held her tightly, burying his hands in her tangled silvery hair. “Shh, it's all right. Flores should know by now how hard I am to kill.”

  “Yes, always it seems I underestimate you, Creole.” Enrique Flores sat poised on horseback alongside the wagon, his pistol aimed at Rafe's chest, his eyes cold.

  Nervous from all the pande
monium around him, Flores's horse shied, causing his shot to go wild. In a lightning motion Rafe pushed Deborah down and leapt at Enrique, catapulting them both to the ground.

  They rolled over, away from the thrashing hooves of the horse, then separated and reached for their weapons. Slowly, both men stood up, measuring each other. Flores's eyes were fired with an eerie glow. Rafe's shuttered face revealed little of the hate that had consumed him for six years.

  Flores's white teeth flashed as he displayed a large, heavy knife. “After our last encounter, I am prepared, Creole.” He spat the name like an epithet as he moved around Rafe.

  Rafe stood still, waiting for Flores to make the first move, holding his burning rage in check. “I should’ve taken my chances and killed you in San Antonio, Enrique.”

  “Ah, but then I wouldn't have had the time alone with your woman. She can be very, er, diverting.” As he sensed Rafe stiffen, he lunged with his knife, narrowly missing Rafe's midsection.

  With catlike agility, Rafe sidestepped the slice and arced his own blade upward, furrowing a bloody slash across Flores's right arm. The two antagonists thrust and parried, high, low, then high again, moving in a deadly ballet, oblivious to all the shooting and chaos going on around them.

  Deborah could feel the naked hate exuding from both men. She stared at the fiercely scarred barbarian who was her husband, transfixed in horror at the cold, lethal way he handled his big, evil knife. It was as if she had been transported back through time to the Dueling Oaks in New Orleans where she had watched Rafael Flamenco kill another opponent with cool, calculated precision.

  But this was different. For all his graceful and deadly moves as he nicked Flores's tunic, arm, and neck, Rafael was infinitely more brutal, as if some primeval instincts held in check by Creole society had been unleashed on the Texas plains. She had once thought him a throwback to a Spanish conquistador. Now, he seemed even more brutal, more primitive, like a savage Comanche.