Rio Grande, Northern Mexico, July 4, 1863.
Ben Hawkins reined his horse to a halt on the bank above the Rio Grande. The string of four stolen horses he led, tied nose-to-tail with short lengths of rope, came to a stop behind him. The animals stood sweat-lathered and lungs pumping.
Ben dug a telescope from a saddlebag and twisted in the saddle to look south behind him. He extended the brass tube and with the aid of the magnified field of vision, scoured the land he had raced across. There was no sign of his pursuers, only the desert baking under the burning sun and a faded blue domed sky arching high above. He hadn't expected to see the Mexican riders, not yet, for he had changed mounts four times since sunup, rotating among the horses and pushing them hard. In four days he had traveled three hundred miles.
Ben collapsed the spyglass and stowed it away. He began to examine the dense stands of huge cottonwoods growing on the floodplain along both sides of the river. The Mexicans might be miles behind, but this was Comanche territory and he didn't want to stumble into a band of those fierce warriors.
He saw nothing of concern from his location; still, there were sections of the woods that he couldn't see into and he wanted a closer look. He tied the Mexican horses to a tree and then rode his gray mount, Brutus, down to the river's edge. Ben studied the far shore for a time, checking the openings among the cottonwoods, and the border of the Llano Estacado, the Staked Plains, that showed beyond the trees. Seeing nothing threatening, he crossed the river on a sandy-bottomed ford where the water ran clear, and came onto American soil.
Ben searched for the presence of other men. He found only the tracks of buffalo, deer, wolves, and smaller wildlife. He returned to the south shore.
All the horses had now caught their wind and cooled, and Ben allowed them to drink. The Mexican horses were again fastened to a tree. Ben brought the saddled Brutus near the water with him and dropped his reins to ground-hitch him. The cool, clean water had enticed Ben to bathe. He thought he had time before his enemies arrived, but still he wanted his guns and horse close.
Ben hung his belted Colt pistol over the saddle horn and quickly stripped down to his skin. He was two inches above average height and rawboned. He had gray eyes and his hair was black. His beard, now some two weeks long, was a reddish black. The dusty, sweaty clothing was swiftly washed, the water wrung out, and the clothing hung on a low limb of a cottonwood. He took one last keen look all the way around, and then dove into the river.
Ben came up spouting water. He flung his long hair back across his head and squeezed the water from it. With long, easy strokes, enjoying the grand feeling of the water upon his skin, he swam across the thirty yards of river and back. In the shallow water just above the ford, he scrubbed his dirty body with the fine sand of the river bottom. Then he lay down by the riffling ford and let the cool, gentle fingers of the river current wash over him and carry his weariness away.
A hawk come from somewhere in the north and with its head turned down and telescopic eyes hunting, began to circle in the sky above Ben and the horses. After half a dozen circles, the bird drifted away downriver, still hunting.
"Brutus, I think Mr. Hawk must have decided we were too big to eat," Ben said to the gray.
The long-legged brute looked down with gold-flecked brown eyes at his master, lying in the water with just his head showing like a big river turtle. The horse snorted once to show it had heard the man's words. Then it lifted its head and rested watching the far shore.
Ben felt a wind come alive, and heard the leaves on the cottonwoods begin to stir. At the sound, he sat up, for a feeling had come over him that he had spent too much time in the water. He waded to the shore and hastily pulled on his damp clothing and stomped into his boots. He swung astride Brutus, reined him up beside the other horses, and untied them.
The cavalcade of horses splashed across the Rio Grande to the north shore, and onward through an opening in the cottonwoods to the broad, flat Llano Estacado.
Ben found what he needed, a place where the limestone rock beneath the plain had been leached away, leaving behind a sinkhole deep enough to hide the horses. He took the animals down into the house-size depression and tied them to a stunted oak bush.
Carrying his telescope and rifle and a bandoleer of cartridges, he went back half a hundred paces toward the river to a slight rise of land. He lay down in the knee-high buffalo grass. Through a break in the trees, the river crossing was in plain view a couple of hundred yards distant.
He rested the telescope and rifle upon the bandoleer to keep them out of the dirt. Both the rifle, a Spencer seven-shot repeater, and the telescope had been taken off the dead body of a Union sharpshooter he had killed in the battle of Cedar Mountain in Virginia this past August. It had been during that battle that his life had changed forever and he had fled back to Texas.
The Spencer was a fine weapon. With it Ben could shoot thirty aimed shots in a minute. Even if his enemies came in a large number, he should be able to fight them by himself. That was good, for all he had was himself. He was a thief who walked alone.
Now there was only the waiting. He hoped the Mexicans didn't cross the Rio Grande and come into the States chasing him.
He made himself as comfortable as possible on the ground, and with eyes hammered down to a squint by the bright sun, kept watch south. Frequently he raised the spyglass and scanned the great, level plain. After a time, the hot wind began to blow more strongly, whispering the reeds of grass together with a sibilant, snaky sound.
His pursuers would be several of Ramos Valdes's toughest pistoleros. How many, or who would be leading them, Ben could not guess. They would have orders to kill him on sight and reclaim the stolen horses. Should he make one mistake, he would die.
This was the third time he had made the journey south to steal Valdes horses. They were famous throughout northern Mexico and south Texas for their speed and endurance, and for their brilliance and purity of color. They were worth the risks to go upon the rancho and take them from under the noses of the guards that were always posted. The Valdes brand, V Bar V, was burned into the left hip of each horse. In most parts of Texas, a horse stolen in Mexico and brought north of the Rio Grande was totally acceptable. If it carried the Valdes brand, that added much to the value. Sometimes, though, the more law-conscious Texan would modify the brand to a Diamond Bar Diamond, fooling nobody.
The four horses Ben had with him would sell for many hundreds of dollars, an amount several times the yearly salary of a working cowboy. He could make the trip from Abilene and back in three weeks, or a little longer depending upon the trouble he encountered. The time was very profitably spent. He intended to steal enough of the Valdes horses to acquire the money necessary to carry out his plan.
Ramos Valdes was wealthy, owning more than 200,000 acres and controlling twice that many by the use of force and through the connivance of Mexican federal officials to whom he paid bribes. Scores of peon families labored at barely survival wages to care for his large number of horses and vast herds of cattle. The man would not miss the few horses Ben stole. Still, he would kill Ben if he could catch him.
Ben lay in the heat and wind-tossed grass and sweated. He wiped at the salty brine trickling down through his black beard and flicked a droplet off the tip of his nose. He waited. He was a patient man.
Ben frequently scanned the land, for his enemies could appear at any minute, and most probably would come from the south. But he also kept a close watch to the east and west along the American side of the river. The Mexicans might suspect an ambush, and veer off his trail, cross the river someplace other than the one he had chosen, and strike him from the side or rear.
Ben halted the sweep of his spyglass and focused it more sharply. Something was moving far off. He had spotted the band of men, six miniature riders upon six miniature horses. They were dogging his exact trail. That fact told Ben that old Ramos Valdes was not leading.
He was too foxy to come straight at Ben and fall into an ambush.
The band of men drew ever closer. They moved as a tight group, a large hunting animal in swift pursuit of its prey. The band reached the river and stopped on the south bank. One man dismounted and began to examine Ben's tracks. Ben recognized Carlos Valdes, the older of Ramos's two sons. Ben wondered what Carlos thought about him taking time to have a swim.
Carlos called his men together and they began to talk among themselves. Ben saw two men, nervously eyeing the north shore, shake their heads in disagreement with what Carlos was saying. Then Carlos spoke, giving an order, and all the men swung astride their mounts. They rode down the bank and into the water of the ford, and crossed the river onto the American side.
"Damn you, Carlos," Ben exclaimed, his mood turning ugly at the man's action. He wasn't going to allow the Mexicans to chase him across Texas.
"Carlos, you should've stayed in Mexico," he whispered, and raised the Spencer to his shoulder. The .50-caliber lead bullet the rifle fired was a real man-killer. He put the sights of the weapon on Carlos's broad chest and took up the slack in the trigger.