Late that spring of 1825, Vidal Flores rode up to Ellis’ ranch accompanied by a tall, bearded Anglo in a buckskin jacket and homespun pants. Vidal, a slender, handsome Tejano with a neatly trimmed mustache, had settled with his family on a nearby grant. Both riders were in their early thirties. Ellis, who was splitting pine logs for firewood, looked up when his hounds bayed.
“Here’s a man who wants to talk to you,” Vidal called in English as they dismounted. Ellis wiped the sweat from his forehead, then swung his axe with one hand so the blade stuck in a log. He appeared glad for an excuse to stop.
“I reckon you caught me doin’ woman’s work,” he said, walking toward them. The Anglo in the buckskin jacket looked vaguely familiar, like someone he’d met years ago, but Ellis couldn’t place him.
“I’m Micajah McPherson,” the man said, extending his hand. “I’m hopin’ you can tell me some news of Duncan.”
“Micajah! You were just a little feller when Dunc and I left for Natchez.” Ellis paused, his brow wrinkled. “Wish I had some news, but the last I knew Dunc was at Chihuahua, and that was about eighteen years ago. I heard they let all American prisoners leave in 1820. Maybe by then he’d got hitched and stayed put.” He told them about his year in Acapulco and serving with Morelos.
Micajah gazed around at the corrals, and at the cattle and horses grazing in the distance. “I like your place,” he said. “We’re goin’ to be neighbors, but Robert and William promised DeWitt they’d go to his colony, or they might have settled here too. Vidal and I are on the way to pick a spot for me right now.”
“How’d you two come to know each other?” Ellis asked.
“We were both with Gutiérrez in ’12. I knew from Lt. Pike’s report that Nolan’s men were in Chihuahua, and I had a silly notion that maybe I could rescue Dunc, so I joined the Gutiérrez-Magee army in the Neutral Ground. Damn near cost me my life; it would have but for Vidal.”
Candace came out of the cabin to see who the visitors were, and Ellis introduced her. After she returned to the cabin, he said, “I’m headin’ for Mexico City in a few weeks, and on the way I aim to visit Martin de León and Gutiérrez. Maybe one of them will know something about Duncan.” He followed them a short distance after they’d mounted. “I’ve got a wife in Mexico,” he said. “When the revolution died down I figured I’d never be able to go there again, so I hooked up with Candace. Now I’m goin’ after a commission in the army and an empresario contract.”
“Good luck”, Micajah said. ‘‘I hope you get both.”
Early in June Ellis kissed the solemn-faced Candace, who held Louiza Jane in her arms, then chucked his daughter under the chin and patted the wistful Isaac on the head. “I can’t say how long it will take,” he told Candace. “They take their sweet time, and if you try to hurry them they sit on their hands. But I’ll be back with the bacon one day. You can count on that.”
Candace brushed away a strand of blonde hair that had fallen across her face. “Don’t be any longer than you need to,” she said, her lips quivering. “It’ll be hard on us bein’ alone here.”
“Micajah and Vidal both said to call on them any time you need help,” he replied. “And they’ll check on you regular.” Picking up the lead rope of his pack mule, he mounted his mustang cowpony. “Wish me luck,” he said, and rode south, dragging the reluctant mule. A hundred yards away he turned and waved, then rode on without looking back again. Candace waved weakly, then her arm fell limply against her side.
Ellis rode among the scattered cabins at San Felipe hoping to see Stephen F. Austin, but the empresario was in San Antonio. When the alcalde learned that Ellis was on the way to Mexico City, he asked him for a favor. “While you’re takin’ care of your business,” he said, “try to get the government to give Dr. Long’s widow a pension. Long tried to free Texas, so it’s kind of like he fought for the revolution.”
“I’ve heard him called a filibuster,” Ellis replied, “but I’ll do what I can for her.” He knew that Dr. Long had led an expedition to Texas about the time Mexico became independent, but had been captured at La Bahia and taken to Mexico City. Right after he was released someone killed him.
Ellis rode on to Victoria, the capital of Martin de León’s colony, which had been settled mainly by families from Mexico. He found the affable León and introduced himself. “I was a colonel under Morelos,” he said, “and for that they gave me a league near Nacogdoches. I have a wife in Jalapa, if she’s still living, and I’m on my way to Mexico City to get my rank back and apply for an empresario contract. I figured you could give me some advice on how to go about it.”
León took off his straw hat and scratched his head. “Just say you’re a citizen with a Mexican wife and that you’ve established residence in Texas. Serving under Morelos should help, for some of his officers are in the government. They can’t give you a contract—you have to apply to Saltillo for that—but their support will certainly do you no harm. By the way, how long have you been in Texas?”
Ellis gazed off in the distance as his mind roamed back over the years. “I first came here with Philip Nolan in 1800. After troops killed him, they held us at Nacogdoches and San Antonio for about six months. I came back a couple of years ago to claim my league.”
“You were with Nolan? That’s odd. One of my colonists was with him. You probably know him, name of McPherson.”
Ellis laughed. “Duncan McPherson? You bet I know him. We left Tennessee together. I lost touch with him when they took me to Acapulco. His brothers are in Texas now. Where can I find him?”
León pointed the way to Duncan’s hacienda; Ellis thanked him for his advice and rode there. He saw a fairly large adobe house and several small ones; beyond them were a stable, sheds, and two round pole corrals. He spotted a tall man in Mexican clothes and a high-peaked sombrero standing outside one of the corrals, his hands on the top rail and a booted foot on the bottom one. Ellis had to look twice to be sure the man was Duncan. Inside the corral two vaqueros with rawhide riatas were holding a struggling mustang. In the other corral were a few fine-looking Spanish horses.
Ellis rode up behind Duncan and dismounted. “Hey, Duncan!” he called. “Look who’s here!”
Duncan turned and stared at him in amazement. His jaw dropped and a com husk cigarette fell from his mouth. “Ellis! Is it really you?” They shook hands fiercely, both grinning with delight.
“You look like a real hacendado for sure,” Ellis said, staring at Duncan’s Mexican jacket and hat. ‘ ‘With your own vaqueros and everything.”
“Come meet Antonia,” Duncan said. “She’s the reason for it.” Ellis saw at once that she, like Magdalena, had the poise and dignity of the hacendado class. He noticed that she limped slightly as she came to greet him, but that didn’t detract from her impressive appearance.
“My husband has mentioned you often,” she told him in her musical voice. “He kept hoping you were alive and that he’d see you again. You two must have a good talk.”
Ellis stayed a day, and they had their talk. He told Duncan his brothers were also in Texas and hoping to find him. Then he related what had happened in the years after he was taken to Acapulco. When he finished recounting his experiences while serving under Morelos, Duncan smiled sheepishly.
“While you fought for the rebels, I was on the other side,” he admitted. “Joining the royalist cavalry was the only way I could get out of Chihuahua, and there were no rebels in the north I could join. But at the first opportunity I cut loose, and Antonia’s folks sheltered me. That good deed cost them a daughter, for I couldn’t help falling hard for her.” He hugged Antonia and kissed her forehead, while she pretended to push him away and modestly turned her head.
“It ain’t hard to see why,” Ellis said.
Duncan released Antonia. “When we came here, her father let some of his peón families come with us,” he continued, “and he set us up with cattle, sheep, and a few good Spanish horses. Because of the families, we qualified for four leagues and four labores.” Ellis whistled.
“That’s more than sixteen thousand acres.” he said. “When they gave me one league I thought I was king of the mountain.”
Ellis rode on the next morning. His league of land, which had seemed half as big as Tennessee and made him feel rich, now seemed small potatoes. Once he got an empresario contract and settled several hundred families on it, he’d own land beyond measure. The thought of it gave him gooseflesh.
He swam his horse and mule across the Rio Grande and continued on to the village of San Carlos in Nuevo Santander, which was now the Mexican state of Tamaulipas. He’d heard that Gutiérrez was commander general of what used to be the Eastern Interior Provinces, and expected to find him comfortably situated at last. San Carlos was a village of small adobe huts along a wide and dusty street. The only sign of life Ellis saw at first was a pack of scrawny curs snarling and snapping over a bitch in heat. San Carlos appeared anything but prosperous.
He found Gutiérrez at the barracks, his uniform hanging loosely on his once-bulky body. He can’t be eating well, Ellis thought as they exchanged abrazos. He glanced around at the soldiers lounging in the shade. Their uniforms were shabby, and both they and their horses looked underfed.
“My pony and mule are kind of worn down,” Ellis told Gutiérrez. “I was hopin’ to swap them with you and maybe borrow a little dinero, but it don’t look like you can spare either.”
Gutiérrez shook his head slowly and pulled his empty pants pockets inside out. “You’re right,” he morosely admitted. ‘ ‘We haven’t been paid for months, and we’re barely hanging on. You know I’d help you if I could, but I can’t even help my own family. I think the government has forgotten us.”
Ellis decided it was useless even to ask Gutiérrez for a letter supporting his request for an empresario contract—it would probably embarrass him to have to confess that he didn’t even have a sheet of paper. He cursed himself for not having followed the Camino Real through San Antonio and Laredo on down between the mountain ranges to the Valley of Mexico. He hadn’t gotten what he’d come for, and now he had to cross the Sierra Madre Oriental, which would be hard on his animals and delay his getting to Mexico City.
He rode slowly south, then crossed the mountain range, which made it necessary to rest his horse and mule for a week. The only food he ate were the tortillas and frijoles that kind-hearted poor families shared with him. It was mid-October when he finally gazed down on Mexico City in the valley below. In the distance snow-capped Popocatépetl gleamed in the sun, and Ellis recalled that the first time he’d seen it he’d been in chains. His hopes rose as he rode past the Indian villages that surrounded the city. A little more time, he thought, and my day will surely come. He rode on through the city’s gate to an establishment that dealt in horses and mules, and sold both animals and their saddles for the little that was offered. At least he’d have money for food and lodging for a week or two if he was frugal. Once he’d gotten what he came for, he could buy a good horse.
He shouldered his blanket roll and trudged toward the National Palace, where the government met, arriving in the area as the sun neared the mountaintops. Street vendors, mostly Indians, were offering fruits, tortillas, maize cakes, and roast ducks, their voices mingled and their cries almost unintelligible. Although the delicious aroma of the roast ducks almost overcame his determination to make his pittance last as long as necessary, Ellis bought only maize cakes, bananas, and a cup of pulque. He’d learned to like the nourishing drink of fermented maguey juice, which was the favorite of all classes in the city. The first time he’d tasted it he’d wrinkled his nose at the odor, but after a few sips he liked it. Now it warmed his stomach and made him feel almost contented. Then he entered a cheap inn and was ushered into a large room where fifteen or twenty others were preparing to sleep on mats on the dirty floor.
Ellis awoke at dawn to the shouts of the street vendors. The first was the carbonero, who sold charcoal, and whose cry, “Carbón, señor?” sounded like one unintelligible word. He was soon followed by a multitude of others hawking butter, salt beef, fruit, hot cakes, and dulces. Ellis arose, yawning and stretching his sore muscles. Leaving his blankets with a servant, he went to the street and bought a hot cake and fruit.
In mid-morning Ellis brushed bits of mud off his frayed buckskin jacket and ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. Not much improvement, he thought, but there was nothing else he could do. He entered the National Palace, past guards who eyed him suspiciously but didn’t challenge him, probably because he was an Americano, Ellis suspected. Then he walked the halls until he found the President’s office. When he told the surprised male secretaries he wanted to see the President, they looked down their noses at him and asked him to wait outside. After several hours passed, he realized they had no intention of letting one so shabbily dressed in to see Guadalupe Victoria, so he gave up and hunted for the office of Mier y Terán, Minister of War and Navy. There the same thing happened.
Cursing under his breath, Ellis continued to prowl the halls, hoping for a chance meeting with either man. Several days later, when he was becoming discouraged and desperate, he saw a Captain López, now a colonel, who’d served under Mier at Tehuacán, and hailed him. López frowned when he saw the shabby figure, no doubt thinking that a lépero had accosted him for a handout. Then he recognized Ellis.
“Elias!” he exclaimed. “What brings you here?”
“I’m tryin’ to see General Mier and get a commission in the army,” he replied. “Dressed like this I can’t get near him, but I have no money for clothes.”
“Let me tell him you’re here,” López said, and left.
A few moments later the aristocratic Mier strode into the hall and gave Ellis an abrazo. “Come with me,” he said, taking Ellis by the arm and leading him into his spacious office. As they passed the wide-eyed male secretaries, Mier said, “When señor Beans wants to see me, show him in. We were comrades in arms under Morelos.” Ellis felt like he’d just dreamed the world had come to an end and then awakened to find it alive and well.
Ellis related what had happened after he left Mier at Tehuacán, his marriage to Magdalena, his narrow escape from royalist cavalry, his months with Gutiérrez in the Neutral Ground, and his move to Texas. He made no mention of Candace. “I’m hoping you can give me the rank I held under Morelos,” he concluded. “Then I aim to apply for an empresario grant.”
The dignified Mier sat with both elbows on his polished desk, his hands touching at the fingertips while he gazed at Ellis. “Magdalena inherited her uncle’s hacienda, Las Banderillas,” he said. “I know she’ll be delighted to see you.” Then he changed the subject. “For your services to the revolution, Mexico is in your debt. You shall be a colonel again, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t also be an empresario. And while you’re in the city, my house is your house.” He called in a secretary, who stood stiffly with hands by his sides while Mier wrote a note and gave it to him. The young man left but soon returned and handed Mier an envelope, while Ellis wondered what was going on. Mier glanced at the envelope’s contents, then held it out to Ellis.
“Here’s a hundred pesos," he said. “Consider it a small token of Mexico’s gratitude, and buy yourself suitable clothes. In the meantime, I’ll start the process for getting your commission. Like everything else here, it will take at least a month. When that’s taken care of, I know you’re eager to get to Jalapa. But I intend to appoint you Indian agent for Texas, so you will need to return here by early March.”
It was mid-December before Ellis was able to leave for Jalapa in the new uniform of a colonel. The coach set out before sunrise, but it made slow progress through the city gate. Entering the city were throngs of Indian men and women bent under enormous loads. Even burdened as they were, the men managed to doff their straw hats and show their white teeth to the passengers. Ellis watched them, marveling at their strength and their good nature; they seemed to have a cheerful smile for everyone. Also entering the city were long trains of pack mules following belled mares, small herds of steers, and flocks of bleating sheep.
The rough road crossed the fertile plains to the hills, where the vegetation changed as the elevation increased. The coach met or overtook pack trains and parties of horsemen. Despite the jolting ride, Ellis thought of seeing Magdalena at last, and smiled. As the coach ascended the mountains amid huge boulders and stunted firs, his mind roamed to the new uniform he wore and the application for an empresario contract he’d send to the governor of Coahuila y Texas on his return to Mexico City. Eager though he was to see Magdalena, he couldn’t help thinking about becoming an empresario and owning many thousands of acres of Texas land. If it weren’t for that, he thought, I’d be tempted to stay in Jalapa. Then he remembered Isaac Midkiff and his own promise not to abandon Candace. Anyway, I’m in the army, and Mier’s sending me to Texas. I have no choice but to go.
After frequent changes of teams and jolting along for nearly a week, the coach stopped at Las Banderillas, a few miles from Jalapa. Ellis took his blanket roll, said adios to the other passengers, and stiffly alit. He gazed at the large stone house that was covered with vines and roses and surrounded by gardens. Beyond the house Ellis saw endless cultivated fields. All of it appeared to be well-managed.
Heart pounding, Ellis shouldered his blanket roll, walked as fast as his sore muscles permitted to the hacienda gate, and looked over it. He was thrilled to see Magdalena in the garden picking roses. She wore a white muslin dress and white satin slippers, reminding him of how she’d appeared in his awful dream. Hearing the heavy gate creaking on its hinges, she looked up and recognized Ellis. With a little cry of surprise mingled with joy, she dropped her flowers and hurried to him. He threw down his blanket roll and ran to embrace her. She was as lovely as he remembered her, only plumper.
For several days they talked from morning till night. Ellis told her about his months in the Neutral Ground, when he hoped to take part in an invasion of Texas, and his disappointment at missing Mina’s expedition. He told her, too, of his appointment as Indian agent for Texas, and of his grand hope of becoming an empresario and owning a vast tract of land. She told him of her fears for him, not knowing if he’d escaped, and of her daily prayers for his safety.
Eager for everyone to see the husband she’d often talked about, Magdalena proudly took him on daily carriage rides around Jalapa, while one of her men drove the team. On every side were a multitude of flowers of many shapes and colors; roses grew so profusely on walls and along the streets, they faintly perfumed the air. A great variety of fruit trees flourished, many that Ellis didn’t recognize. In the distance the snow-capped dome of Orizaba rose above a wreath of clouds like the peak of a white sombrero. Jalapa was, Ellis realized, a land of perpetual spring, where life was eternally delightful.
As the weeks passed, nevertheless, the inactivity made Ellis increasingly restless and eager to pursue his empresario grant. He would send off his application as soon as he returned to Mexico City to give the governor ample time to arrange it before Ellis reached Saltillo. That, he thought, might spare him from a month of waiting for the governor and his staff to get around to approving it.
“At least this is better than the first time we parted,” Ellis told Magdalena as he prepared to board a coach. “There aren’t any royalists trying to shoot me.” He kissed her as she fought back tears. “I’ll come see you as often as I can,” he promised.
“Go with God,” she huskily replied.
In Mexico City, Ellis met John Dunn Hunter, a white man who’d grown up among the Cherokees. Because of his prowess, they’d named him Hunter. When he was about eighteen—he didn’t know when he’d been born, he said—he went to live in Missouri with a man named John Dunn, and had added his name to his Cherokee name. He’d had to relearn English, for he’d completely forgotten it. After living among the whites for ten years and writing a book about his life as an Indian, he’d gone to live again with the Cherokees who had settled in Texas. Mixed-blood chief Richard Fields had sent him to obtain a title to the lands in East Texas that had been promised the Cherokees when Fields was in Mexico City several years earlier.
Although Hunter was white by birth, his mannerisms reminded Ellis of the Cherokees he’d met in Nacogdoches. Since Ellis was to be Indian agent for Texas, he knew that Hunter could be of great help in getting on friendly terms with Fields and war chief Bowles, and perhaps the chieftains of other immigrant tribes like the Delawares, Shawnees, and Kickapoos.
“Mexican officials promised Fields they would set aside land for us,” Hunter told Ellis. “They haven’t done so, and now they’re letting Americans settle in East Texas. We and the other tribes went to Texas to get away from Americans; if they keep coming, it will be the same story—sooner or later they’ll force us to move again. We must have a title to protect our homes—it’s either that or fight for them. The Cherokees are growing desperate; the officials Fields talked to when he was here are gone, and the new ones claim they know nothing about the agreement. If they refuse to give us a title, it won’t take much to put the Cherokees into a mood for lifting scalps.”
Ellis respected and admired Hunter, and the prospect of the Indian war he indicated was frightening. There were at least one thousand warriors among the immigrant tribes, and most had guns and knew how to use them. All had compelling reasons for resenting and distrusting whites, and as Indian agent, he’d be in the middle of any trouble. His assignment promised to be dangerous as well as difficult. He hoped that Mexican officials had the good sense to realize that the Cherokees’ request wasn’t one to be ignored or even delayed. They must send Hunter home with title in hand.
In early July, Ellis learned that the legislature of Coahuila y Texas was considering a bill to free all slaves in the state. Since there were none in Coahuila, or elsewhere in Mexico, for that matter, the proposed law was aimed at Texas planters. Ellis mentioned it to Guadalupe Victoria and asked for advice, for without slaves no cotton could be grown, and it was the only cash crop. The tall, lean old warrior, who’d been a lawyer before he joined Morelos, astutely suggested a way to get around the law. After his talk with Guadalupe Victoria, Ellis wrote Stephen F. Austin.
“I have not the honor of being acquainted with you.” he began, “but I think it my duty to inform you as a friend that I heard about the proposed law in Saltillo that all slaves in Texas will be set free. I spoke to the President, as he is an old friend of mine, and he believes it will pass. But there is a way your settlers can get around it. That is to go in person to an alcalde and state how much each slave cost, and that when he repays it by labor there will be no charge against him. Say that he discounts it at so much a month, like pay for any hired hand. Then it will be the same as before, and will no more be noticed. Communicate this also to the men of Ayish Bayou, so they can take the same measure with their slaves. Do it as quickly as possible, before the law goes into effect, for then it may be too late.
‘‘I have nothing else worth your attention. Please inform the widow Long that it is impossible for this government to allow her any pension, for her husband was not known as a general here, nor had he any commission from this government.”
Ellis finally left Mexico City on July 21, heading up the Camino Real to Saltillo, itching to have his empresario contract in hand. He arrived in September, and met both the Baron of Bastrop, who represented Texas in the state legislature, and John B. Austin, the empresario's brother. They spoke of the grant Ellis had applied for, which was in the twenty-league border reserve between the Sabine and Nacogdoches, where it would be easy to attract families who came to Texas on their own. He should have an easy time fulfilling his contract there, they said, without the expense of advertising in newspapers. Aware that Ellis had served under Morelos, they were certain the contract was as good as his. Elated by their confidence, Ellis failed to notice the governor’s excessive politeness while being quite vague, almost evasive, about when the contract might be confirmed. Instead of becoming suspicious, Ellis felt it was safe to go on to Texas without waiting for the governor to deliver the grant.
What Ellis didn’t know was that listing Magdalena as his wife, rather than clearing the way for his contract, had raised serious obstacles. One of the officials in Saltillo who saw his application had been in Nacogdoches, and he felt sure that Ellis had a family there. About the time Ellis set out from Mexico City, the governor had instructed the political chief in San Antonio to investigate Ellis’ marital status. Political Chief Saucedo then requested Austin to conduct an inquiry and to report the result.
In early August, while Ellis rode blissfully up the Camino Real, a man named Martin Allen testified in San Felipe. He’d known Ellis in Arkansas Territory and in the Nacogdoches district, he said. Ellis had a wife when he first saw him in Arkansas; he thought they had been married in Tennessee. The universal belief, he said, was that they were legally married. Ellis’ father-in-law, Isaac Midkiff, was well known and had the character of a respectable and honorable man. Allen doubted that he would have permitted Bean to live with his daughter unless they were legally married. “This deponent thinks Bean to be an honest man,” Allen concluded. “He is fond of boasting and telling large stories about his exploits in the Mexican revolution, and said he was a colonel in the army.”
Candace meanwhile had been called before the alcalde of the Neches district. She feared that Ellis must be dead, and in that case, she wouldn’t inherit his property if she admitted being his common law wife. “I was married to Ellis P. Bean in White County, State of Tennessee,” she declared, “and I have two children by the aforesaid Bean. Their names are Isaac T. Bean, born in Arkansas Territory on March 5,1821, and Louiza Jane, born on August 15,1823, in the Province of Texas.”
Ellis Bean whistled happily as he rode into San Antonio early in December. At forty-three he felt satisfied with the world and with his place in it, for he was not only a colonel in the Mexican army, but Indian agent for Texas. In Saltillo his application for an empresario contract seemed certain to be approved; his friends from revolutionary days were in power in Mexico City, and he swelled with pride at the thought of becoming another Stephen F. Austin. He wouldn’t have felt so contented if he’d known that claiming Magdalena as his wife had ruined his chances of becoming an empresario. Empresarios were expected to lead exemplary lives. Bigamists failed to qualify.
In San Antonio Ellis learned that in November, Benjamin, the brother of empresario Haden Edwards had ridden into Nacogdoches with a party of followers and ousted Alcalde Samuel Norris, who had used his office to block Haden Edwards in ways that weren’t legal. Knowing nothing about the Edwards colony, which had been established during his absence, Ellis was unconcerned. “I’ll bet twenty-five pesos the alcalde won’t be kept out of office for long or hindered in his work,” he said to Saucedo. The political chief shook his head.
“Haden Edwards had a contract to bring eight hundred families to his grant around Nacogdoches,” he said. “It took him three years and cost him much money to get it, and he wanted only wealthy colonists. But many poor families have lived there for several generations, and their rights had to be respected. Edwards ordered all who claimed land within his grant to produce titles. If they didn’t, he threatened to sell their property. The old families naturally resented having a foreigner dispossess them just because their titles were never completed through no fault of their own.” He paused.
“Edwards had no right to demand their titles or to sell any land at all,” Saucedo added grimly. ‘‘I explained this to him and ordered him to desist, but complaints against him made it clear that he ignored my orders.” Ellis looked shocked, for he knew that the other empresarios—Austin, León, and DeWitt—had been careful to follow instructions and obey Mexican laws.
“The Edwards brothers have shown only contempt for Mexican officials, even the governor,” Saucedo continued. “From their actions I suspected they planned to secede one day, and I warned the governor. He has canceled their contract and ordered them expelled, but we have no troops in Nacogdoches to expel them. If you were there, what would you do about that? They’re your former countrymen.”
Ellis tugged at his earlobe as he pondered the question. “I’m a Mexican officer,” he replied, “and I know my duty. I’d hate to have to fight Americans, but if they’re in the wrong I’ll do it.” Saucedo stared at him, wondering what he’d do if he thought they were in the right. He left the question unasked, but he doubted the loyalty of all Anglos, except, perhaps, Austin and maybe DeWitt.
“It won’t be necessary for you to expel them,” he told Ellis. “In a few days Colonel Ahumada will march there with his troops, and I plan to accompany him.” Ellis left immediately for San Felipe to talk to Austin.
When he reached the little village, he was shocked to learn that in mid-December a party of Edwards men had seized the Old Stone Fort, proclaimed the Republic of Fredonia, and ordered all Anglos to join them. He also learned that Hunter had returned from Mexico City without the promised land title, and the Cherokees were furious. The government would give them land as individual colonists, but not as a tribe.
Now aware that the situation in Nacogdoches was far more serious than he’d imagined possible, Ellis asked Austin for some of his militiamen and set out immediately with thirty-five of them. A few miles from Nacogdoches they met a grizzled frontiersman in greasy buckskins, who stopped his mustang pony.
“What’s goin’ on in town?” Ellis asked, wondering if he was an Edwards man. The rider frowned.
“Damned lot of foolishness, if you ask me,” he replied. “Some Edwards men are holed up in the old fort, and right now they’re dickerin’ with the Injuns to get their support. They’re offerin’ to divide Texas into Injun and white territories along the Nacogdoches-San Antonio road.” He squirted a stream of tobacco juice out of the corner of his mouth. “A lot of folks figger the Injuns would as leave lift white sculps as Meskin, and most are gettin’ ready to head for the Sabine if they ain’t done so already.”
“Can’t say I blame ‘em for leaving,” Ellis said. “There’s at least a thousand bucks in the area and none of them have any reason to like Americans. How many Fredonians are there in town?”
“At first there were about two hundred, but they forced some of them to go with ‘em, and those men left at the first opportunity. They’re sure every American in Texas will gladly join them, but it seems folks around here don’t cotton to that. Most are dead set agin ‘em.”
“Same with Austin and his people,” Ellis said. “They’re goin’ to join the troops when they march this way.” He glanced at his thirty-five men and shook his head. “If there’s as many as you figure, we’d better find us some reinforcements before we go after ‘em.”
Knowing that if the Indians supported the Fredonians, whites would be killed or driven from East Texas, Ellis sent a man with messages for Fields and Hunter, who were both in Nacogdoches. He urged them not to get involved with the Fredonians, for that could lead to serious trouble for their people. While waiting for a reply, he penned a note to warn Austin. On the spur of the moment, he decided it sounded better to reverse his given names.
“There is one express rider going to your colony to make it rise up in arms, and today another will start,” he wrote. “I hope you will keep a good lookout, for those villains count on you and your men. But I know you have more knowledge of things than to be led astray to save men from their crimes. They find themselves lost and will swim against the stream as long as they can. I have divided them so that I now have seventy men coming from Ayish Bayou to attack those that are in Nacogdoches. I have as yet no reply from Fields, but am waiting hourly for an answer. If I succeed in breaking him off, then the fire is out instantly, and I have little doubt but that I shall succeed. Watch out, for they are trying to seduce your colony. Your most sincere friend, Pedro Ellis Bean.”
He anxiously sent another message, this time to war chief Bowles at the Cherokee village northwest of Nacogdoches. “If you try to set up an Indian state,” he warned, “both the U. S. and Mexico will feel threatened, and they won’t stop until they destroy it. This alliance could be the ruin of your people.”
Soon after Ellis had reached the outskirts of Nacogdoches, he met Micajah. “We had a report from Mexico that you were dead,” he told Ellis. “You were gone so long everyone was sure it was true. I believed it, and Candace believed it. Three days before we heard you were coming, she married Martin Parmer. He left as soon as he knew she wasn’t a widow after all.”
Ellis’ face turned white, then red. “Parmer? I don’t know him,” he growled.
“He’s one of the main Fredonian leaders,” Micajah told him, “and he’s one tough customer. Calls himself a ring-tailed panther, and I’d say that’s about right. I’d hate to tangle with him, at close range, anyway.”
Ellis was mumbling, “damned faithless woman,” when Micajah stopped him.
“Think about it, my friend. You’ve been with your other wife, and you knew you weren’t a widower. Candace thought she was a widow, on her own with two small children. She did only what she had to do. I say forgive her and put the whole thing out of your mind.” But Ellis continued muttering to himself.
He left Micajah and grimly rode to his ranch, where a pale-faced Candace greeted him apprehensively.
“I know all about it,” he growled. “I suppose his pecker is a lot bigger than mine,” he added, his face turning red. “Made you wish I really was dead, didn’t it?”
Candace brushed the tears from her cheeks. “I was so lonely and desperate,” she sobbed. “I thought you’d decided to stay with your Mexican wife, then a man who’d been in Mexico said you had died. The children and I were having such a hard time. How could we go on without a man?”
She looked so sad and contrite Ellis was touched. You’re being an ass about this, he told himself. What she says is true and you know it. But try as hard as he might to forget and forgive, the thought of burly Martin Parmer in his bed enjoying the doll-like Candace couldn’t be banished from his mind.