The acrid smell of burnt wood and smoke lingered in the air as Mack Hawkins, Ludlow Dooley and Jesse Buford stood in front of the charred remains of the Sumter Landing warehouse and dock. With them was Tommy Joe Klugg, the owner of the business, who gazed forlornly over the scene. The vessel that had arrived an hour previously was anchored in the middle of the Rio Grande. But without a dock the only cargo unloaded were the smaller crates that could be manhandled from the boat’s deck to a raft.
Klugg, a portly fifty-six year old, lived in the largest house behind what was left of the dock area. His other home, more expensive than this one, was located in Casa Grande to the north. He sighed loudly. “Let me tell y’all something. It’s gonna take awhile to get things back to normal around here.”
Hawkins felt sorry for the man. “Can you tell me exactly what happened, Mr. Klugg?”
“All I know is that the warehouse caught afire in the middle of the night. Actually is was set afire. Anyhow, I come a-running and there was some of the fellers already here. We was standing on the dock without being able to do a godamn thing when somebody started shooting at us.”
Ludlow asked, “Where were the shots coming from?”
Klugg pointed. “Across the river there. And whoever was doing it, done it fast and deadly. We run off the dock as quick as we could, but before we cleared it, fourteen of my crew was shot. Ten died.”
“Mmm,” Texas Ranger Jesse Buford pondered. “Can you tell if anything was stole before the fire was set?”
“I don’t think so,” Klugg replied. “The main cargo had already been sent out on the mule train two days ago. But there was a few things left over.” He paused and spat. “That includes one hell of a lot of kerosene. I had ol’ Ben Weaver as a kind of watchman to keep an eye on things. At first I thought he might’ve got drunk and accidental-like started the fire. O’course when the shooting started, we knowed it wasn’t him. We found what was left of the poor feller earlier this morning. At least we’re perty sure it’s him. There was nothing but a scorched skeleton. The skull had been bashed in.”
“That means somebody or somebodies came inside and kilt him,” Jesse said.
Ludlow glanced where the shooting had come from. “Is there a ford where we can get on the other side of the river?”
“None nearby,” Klugg replied.
“The scouts all know how to swim,” Hawkins said. “Send a couple over there and see if there’s anything of interest.”
Ludlow hurried off to where the scouts waited on the bank. Klugg watched him approach the detachment. “So them Injuns is in the Army, huh?”
“Yep,” Hawkins replied. “We were sent down here from the Indian Territory to put a stop to these raids. We’re having a hell of a time figuring out where the bandits will strike next.”
“You got a hard row to hoe all right,” Klugg remarked.
Several of his surviving employees had launched a raft and poled it out to the steamboat. They were supervised by Wyatt Clemens who was Klugg’s chief assistant. He lived behind the warehouse like the boss, but in a smaller home.
The floating platform had been constructed from lumber stacked behind the warehouse. When they reached the vessel, crewmen took the ropes and secured it to the railing. With that done, small crates, boxes and parcels in the cargo were passed over and stacked on the raft.
A half hour passed before the raft was loaded, then poled back toward the bank. Ludlow walked up with Michael Strongbow and Charlie Wolf. Both young scouts were shirtless, bootless and soaking wet.
“Take a look at this, sir,” Ludlow said to Hawkins, holding out a handful of cartridge brass. “Michael and Charlie found it where the shooters had concealed themselves.”
“Don’t tell me,” Hawkins said. “Eight-millimeter, right?”
“Yes, sir. The same as before.”
Jesse Buford was disturbed. “Damn! We’re worser off than a blind man at midnight.”
Hawkins glanced at the Rio Grande. “Not if we cross that godamn river and go on a hunt-and-kill expedition.”
Ludlow wondered about how long it would be before they rode into Mexico.
~*~
Tim Harrigan had remained in Mexico after being branded with the D on his cheek as a deserter from the American Army. The main reason he was staying was because that mark would make him an outcast and rogue in the United States. It might attract curious and bothersome attention in Mexico, but once the circumstances of the branding were explained, he would be accepted as a hero of the war against the Gringos.
Unlike most of the Irish immigrants who deserted the American Army, Harrigan had not been a farmer or laborer. He was a bank clerk in Dublin, earning a small salary with no chance of advancement because of the British upper class management. Unable to be promoted or given a raise, he decided to immigrate to America where he’d heard the streets were paved with gold and any ambitious, intelligent young Irishman could be a millionaire within a year.
In the first week of his arrival in the U.S.A. he discovered two facts; the streets were not paved in gold and his Irish nationality and Catholic religion made it impossible to find a job in an American bank. It was even difficult to get hired on in a permanent position as a ditch digger. Signs stating JOBS AVAILABLE—IRISH NEED NOT APPLY were many and rigidly enforced. The only work he could find was day jobs and those were scarce and paid extremely low wages. Thus, hungry, disappointed and angry, he enlisted in the United States Army out of desperation. The recruiting sergeant had signed him up with the traditional military promise that he would be provided “three hots and a cot.”
That sounded awfully good to a near-starving young Irish lad.
Harrigan felt like he had died and gone to heaven not long after his assignment to Fort Monroe, Virginia. His career as a bank clerk brought about an assignment in the pay department branch of the Army. His skill with accounts and finances earned him a quick promotion to the rank of corporal and he settled in to earn fifteen dollars a month and the “three hots and a cot” promised by the recruiting sergeant.
When the war with Mexico broke out, Corporal Harrigan was reassigned to the staff of General Winfield Scott who was the commanding general of the American forces. Once more the luck of the Irish blessed the corporal. He stayed with the general staff, living in a comfortable tent while serving the Army’s paymaster.
But a big change was in the making.
Harrigan and another Irish soldier had become friends. That fellow was part of the provost marshal detachment that provided security for the headquarters. The man visited Harrigan in his tent one evening with a pamphlet given him by yet another Irishman. It had been issued by the Mexican government, promising Irish Catholic soldiers who deserted the American Army promotions along with citizenship and land grants at the war’s end.
Harrigan and the other Irishman wasted no time in sneaking out of camp and heading south for a better life of money and property. The shooting war hadn’t actually begun and sneaking away to the Mexican side was easy. But the hopeful pair’s aspirations were dashed after their capture just before the battle of Chapultepec. Luckily the fact they hadn’t deserted during a shooting war kept the pair from being hanged.
But not from branding.