The Warlords

by Matt Braun

  PRAISE FOR

  MATT BRAUN

  “Matt Braun is a master storyteller of frontier fiction.”

  —Elmer Kelton

  “Matt Braun is one of the best!”

  —Don Coldsmith, author of The Spanish Bit series

  “He tells it straight—and he tells it well.”

  —Jory Sherman, author of Grass Kingdom

  “Matt Braun has a genius for taking real characters out of the Old West and giving them flesh-and-blood immediacy.”

  —Dee Brown, author of Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee

  “Braun blends historical fact and ingenious fiction . . . A top-drawer Western novelist!”

  —Robert L. Gale, Western Biographer

  ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS TITLES

  BY MATT BRAUN

  BLACK FOX

  OUTLAW KINGDOM

  LORDS OF THE LAND

  CIMARRON JORDAN

  BLOODY HAND

  NOBLE OUTLAW

  TEXAS EMPIRE

  THE SAVAGE LAND

  RIO HONDO

  THE GAMBLERS

  DOC HOLLIDAY

  YOU KNOW MY NAME

  THE BRANNOCKS

  THE LAST STAND

  RIO GRANDE

  GENTLEMAN ROGUE

  THE KINCAIDS

  EL PASO

  INDIAN TERRITORY

  BLOODSPORT

  SHADOW KILLERS

  BUCK COLTER

  KINCH RILEY

  DEATHWALK

  HICKOK & CODY

  THE WILD ONES

  HANGMAN’S CREEK

  JURY OF SIX

  THE SPOILERS

  MANHUNTER

  THE

  WARLORDS

  Matt Braun

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE WARLORDS

  Copyright © 2003 by Winchester Productions, Ltd.

  Cover photograph of flags © Herman Estevez.

  Photograph of soldiers courtesy Hulton Archive.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  ISBN: 0-312-98173-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / July 2003

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  TO

  BETTIANE

  THE BRIGHTEST STAR IN MY CONSTELLATION

  Author’s Note

  THE WARLORDS is based on a true story.

  In the summer of 1915, bands of Mexican revolutionaries raided across the Rio Grande into Texas. Known as the Army of Liberation, the rebels destroyed property, burned railroad bridges, and killed civilians and army troops with a savagery born of racial hatred. Thousands of people fled the border in terror.

  There were rumors that Germany was behind the raids. In Europe, Germany was at war with England, France and Russia, jointly known as the Allies. Speculation in Washington was that Germany, in an effort to prevent the United States from joining the Allies, had hatched a plot to bring war to the Rio Grande. The rumors, despite credible evidence of a conspiracy, were never acknowledged by the United States government.

  President Woodrow Wilson ordered the U.S. Bureau of Investigation into action. A Special Agent was dispatched to the Rio Grande, his assignment to uncover the truth about German involvement with the Army of Liberation. His investigation, conducted with the aid of the Texas Rangers and the army, revealed a complex of racial tension, international intrigue, and barbarity at its worst. The border, that summer of 1915, ran red with blood.

  THE WARLORDS is fiction based on fact. Literary license had been taken with time and place, and certain historical characters central to the story. Yet the events depicted, particularly the savagery on the Rio Grande, adhere closely to the truth. THE WARLORDS actually happened.

  THE

  WARLORDS

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Berlin was at its most pleasant in early spring. The snows of winter were gone and a riotous profusion of flowers lined the paths of the Rosengarten. Strollers paused to stare at the imposing marble statue of Empress Auguste Viktoria.

  Not far away the bridle paths of the Tiergarten wound through stately copses of oak and hemlock. Officers of the German General Staff were out for their morning ride, cantering past with the rhythmic click of shod hooves on packed earth. The silver spikes on the crown of their helmets glinted beneath a warm May sun.

  North of the Tiergarten was the stone monolith that served as headquarters for the General Staff. The building occupied a square block on the Bendlerstrasse, broad marble steps fronting the busy thoroughfare. Guards posted at the doors stood resplendent in blue uniforms trimmed with gold, rifles grounded by their jackboots. Their eyes were fixed straight ahead.

  Colonel Franz von Kleist hurried up the steps. The breast of his tunic was bedecked with an array of medals, among them the Iron Cross with clusters. The guards snapped to attention, their rifles at present arms, and he returned their salute as he pushed through the doors. A wide rotunda, flanked on either side by sweeping staircases, swirled with officers and enlisted men. Germany was at war and everyone seemed in a rush.

  On the second floor, von Kleist moved along a corridor toward the center of the building. He was posted to the Abwehr, the German secret intelligence service, and he’d been summoned to a meeting at Wehrmacht headquarters. He entered a large anteroom, where the adjutant, a young major, quickly ushered him through a set of floor-to-ceiling double doors. The inner office was lavishly appointed, with thick carpeting, lush leather furniture, and a massive walnut desk. The Imperial flag hung draped from a standard anchored to the floor.

  The officer behind the desk was Field Marshal Heinrich von Luettwitz. A portly man with a leonine shock of gray hair, he was Chief of Staff of the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, the Supreme Command of the German Imperial Armed Forces. Another man, leaner and with a hint of arrogance in his attitude, rose from one of the leather chairs. He was General Alexis Baron von Fritsch, chief of the Abwehr. Von Kleist was directly under his command.

  “There you are, Franz,” he said, motioning to a chair. “We were just talking about you.”

  Von Kleist marched to the desk. He clicked his heels, nodding first to von
Luettwitz, then to von Fritsch. “Field Marshal. Herr General,” he said, rigid at attention. “How may I be of service?”

  “Sit down, Colonel,” von Luettwitz ordered. “We have asked you here to discuss a rather delicate matter.”

  “And one of the utmost secrecy,” von Fritsch added. “Nothing discussed here today will go outside this room.”

  “Yes, sir.” Von Kleist removed his helmet and seated himself. “I understand.”

  Von Leuttwitz and von Fritsch were of the aristocracy east of the Elbe River, the very core of German military power. Their titles had been bestowed on their forebears centuries ago by Frederick the Great, the ancient King of Prussia. Von Kleist was himself Prussian, descended from generations of military leaders who had served the Reich from the Napoleonic Wars to the present day. They served now at the pleasure of Kaiser Wilhelm II, Emperor of Germany.

  “We are concerned,” Field Marshal von Luettwitz said, “that the United States might be drawn into the war. The sinking of the Lusitania was an unfortunate incident.”

  General von Fritsch nodded. “One we may regret beyond anything we might have imagined.”

  Three days ago, on May 7, 1915, the Lusitania had been sunk by a German submarine off the coast of Ireland. The British liner, torpedoed amidships, went down with over a thousand passengers aboard, almost two hundred of whom were Americans. The incident had created a fury of outrage in the United States, and raised the specter of America entering the war. Great Britain and France were urging President Woodrow Wilson to mobilize his army.

  “Let us be realists,” von Luettwitz said gruffly. “Nothing is as we planned on the Western Front. A stalemate does not win a war.”

  “All too true,” von Fritsch agreed. “The industrial might of the United States could easily tip the balance. We cannot afford such a risk.”

  Von Luettwitz sighed heavily. “Everything seemed so simple a year ago. I tell you frankly, gentlemen, I thought the Continent would be ours by now.”

  Colonel von Kleist shared the opinion. Looking back, he had fully expected the German army to rout the Allied forces. The World War, for all practical purposes, began with the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand of Austria-Hungary by a Serbian nationalist in June 1914. On July 28, after failed peace negotiations, Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia.

  Germany, which was aligned with Austria-Hungary and the Ottoman Empire, declared war on Britain and France on August 3. The following day, Britain, France and Russia, universally known as the Allies, declared war on Germany. On the morning of August 4, Germany invaded Belgium, and shortly afterward swept into France. The British Expeditionary Force sailed for the Continent.

  By the spring of 1915, the armies of Europe were mired down in static warfare. On the Western Front, a line of trenches 475 miles long ran from neutral Switzerland to the North Sea. On the Eastern Front, the Tsar’s forces had been pushed back beyond Poland, but the Russian army was by no means defeated. The bloodletting on both fronts was staggering, with nearly a million men killed and wounded in just nine months. The year ahead would almost certainly separate victor from vanquished.

  “In any event,” von Luettwitz said at length, “the Kaiser is adamant on one point. America must not be drawn into the war.”

  General von Fritsch steepled his fingers. “That is why we asked you here today,” he said, nodding to von Kleist. “The Abwehr has been assigned the mission of resolving the situation. You will be placed in command of a special operation.”

  “Herr General!” von Kleist sat straighter, his eyes suddenly alert. “I am a soldier and I live to serve the Reich. What is it you wish me to do?”

  “Something rather extraordinary,” the Field Marshal interjected with ominous calm. “The Kaiser has ordered that we start a war between Mexico and the United States.”

  Von Kleist’s expression betrayed nothing. He was a tall, saturnine man, quick and intelligent, with the effortless confidence of those rarely afflicted by doubt. Three years ago, at age thirty, he had been selected for the War Academy, a school for officers destined to attain the highest rank. After graduation, he had been posted to the Abwehr, and promoted twice since the war began. He was the youngest colonel on the General Staff.

  “I am honored by such an assignment,” he said now. “How do you wish me to proceed?”

  “With dispatch,” von Luettwitz told him. “Our objective is to shift the focus of America to its own national security. A war with Mexico should do quite nicely.”

  Von Fritsch permitted himself a wry smile. “There is nothing that so commands attention as a threat to one’s sovereignty. The United States must be made to look inward—and away from Europe.”

  “And the resources, Herr General?” von Kleist asked. “How are we to fund this war?”

  “You will have unlimited resources at your disposal. The Kaiser had ordered the Reich treasury to provide whatever funds are necessary.”

  “So there you have it,” Field Marshal von Luettwitz said. “Devise a plan of action and prepare it for our review. Shall we say in three days?”

  “Jawohl!” von Kleist snapped to attention. “We will bring Götterdämmerung to America.”

  General von Fritsch smiled. “Precisely.”

  The train ground to a halt before the Madrid station house. Colonel Franz von Kleist and Captain Otto Mueller, dressed in civilian clothes, stepped off the lead passenger coach onto the platform. They were met by the cultural attaché of the German Embassy, who arranged for a porter to collect their luggage. A car was waiting at curbside outside the depot.

  The date was May 20, six days after von Kleist’s plan had been approved by the General Staff. He and Mueller had traveled incognito, under forged passports, by ship to Lisbon and then by train into Spain. Arrangements with the German Embassy had been made by Abwehr cryptographers through encoded telegram. No one in Madrid knew the nature of their mission.

  Otto Mueller was one of the wiliest intelligence officers in the Abwehr. He was twenty-seven, of average height and build, his guile belied by eyes as light as cornflowers. Until recently he had operated a network of undercover agents behind French lines on the Western Front. The intelligence gathered had been invaluable to the war effort, and he’d been awarded the Iron Cross. Von Kleist had personally selected him to spearhead the military campaign in Mexico.

  The embassy attaché, who doubled as the local Abwehr agent, was all too aware of von Kleist’s identity. In an effort to make conversation, he elaborated on points of interest as they drove. Madrid was the capital of Spain, a center of commerce and industry situated along the banks of the Manzanares River. They passed the royal palace, located on the site of an ancient Moorish fortress, which had fallen to Castilian conquerors in 1083. Farther along, on Paseodel Prado, they went by the Prado Museum, which housed priceless masterpieces of Spanish, Flemish and Venetian art.

  King Alfonso XIII, the current ruler of Spain, had elected to maintain neutrality for his country during the war. Major cities, such as Madrid and Barcelona, Spain’s principal port on the Balearic Sea, quickly became hotbeds of intrigue and espionage for intelligence agents throughout Europe. The embassy aide remarked that foreign agents from England and France were particularly active, enlisting local operatives to conduct surveillance and gather information. Madrid was, for all practical purposes, a city of spies.

  At the embassy, von Kleist paid a courtesy call on the Ambassador, Ludwig Brudermann. A man of circumspection, the Ambassador made small talk and evidenced no interest in the presence of an Abwehr official. Afterward, von Kleist and Mueller retired to their rooms, refreshing themselves from the long train journey. Early that evening, with the embassy attaché as their guide, they motored off toward the center of the city. The attaché purposely took a circuitous route, turning and doubling back on narrow, cobblestone streets. Von Kleist finally satisfied himself that they were not being followed.

  Shortly before eight o’clock they drove toward the western district
of the city. A few minutes later they passed Ciudad Universitaria and turned into one of the more exclusive residential enclaves of Madrid. On a hillside culde-sac, the attaché pulled into the courtyard of a large, two-story home, clearly influenced by traditional Spanish architecture. The attaché remained in the car, and von Kleist and Mueller were met at the door by a manservant who bowed them into a tiled vestibule. Their appointment, arranged through the embassy, was with Victoriano Huerta.

  The manservant ushered them into a library paneled in dark walnut. The slate-tiled floor was almost hidden by a buttery Andalusian rug and oil paintings in gilt frames decorated the walls. Huerta rose from a tall wingback chair and walked forward to greet them with an outstretched hand. He was a man of blunt edges, with dark features, a full mustache, and quick, penetrating eyes. He spoke no German, and they spoke no Spanish, so they resorted to a language all three of them detested. They conversed in English.

  “General Huerta,” von Kleist said, clasping his hand. “We appreciate you meeting with us in private.”

  “A pleasure, Colonel,” Huerta replied with cautious warmth. “Welcome to my home.”

  “Allow me to introduce my colleague, Captain Otto Mueller.”

  Mueller clicked his heels, exchanging a handshake, and Huerta motioned them to chairs. Once they were seated, the manservant served brandy from a crystal decanter on a marble-topped sideboard, and then left the room. When the door closed, Huerta lifted his glass in a polite toast. His eyes were inquisitive, and guarded.

  “I confess you have me intrigued,” he said. “Ambassador Brudermann was somewhat vague about the purpose of your visit.”