With a raw north wind lashing against the end-gates, the groaning wagons toiled through deep sand, mules straining against the harness. On the wagons, teamsters with serapes pulled up around their ears cracked whips and shouted at the mules to pull harder.
Down from the point of the wagon train came the rider, tall and gaunt, black whiskers grayed by trail dust, eyes steeled against the constant company of raw hurt. He rode with his left arm hanging stiff at his side, his heavy coat bulky with the thickness of a bandage wrapped around his shoulder. He paused at every wagon, his face dark as a storm cloud.
“Keep ’em movin’! Don’t let ’em hold back on you! We got to make the well before dark!”
He rode hunched, for every step the horse took drove a thin shaft of pain through Frio Wheeler’s shoulder. But he never held back. He had worn out two horses already today, moving up and down this line like some grim, avenging demon, roaring orders, driving, threatening. His face had thinned. Dark hollows had dug in under his eyes. And the eyes themselves had something burning in them that made a man instinctively step aside. No one had seen him smile in weeks now. He had always been a firm man when it came to the wagons, but now he had gone beyond firmness. Not a man on the train was immune from the sharp lash of his angry voice.
He had been like this ever since he had caught up to his wagons on their way down from San Antonio, Happy Jack Fleet in charge. Frio had been a changed man. A couple of the more superstitious among his Mexican teamsters had speculated aloud if perhaps Satan himself had cast a spell upon el patrón. Perhaps the real Frio had died, and El Diablo had placed some malevolent spirit in his body to walk among men and do evil.
The Devil himself could not have driven the men much harder than Frio was doing. He had taken his last shipment of cotton by way of Rio Grande City and down to Matamoros in a day and a half less than any other freighter on the road. He had made the return trip with a cargo of English rifles, bar lead, powder, and mercury in two days less than anyone else. Now, this trip, it looked as if he was determined to shave time even from his own record.
“Patrón,” one of the teamsters argued, “this team, she is get very tired.”
“They’ll pull if you crack that whip!”
Frio finally reached the rear wagon, his throat raw from dust and shouting. Happy Jack rode there, his solemn, appraising eyes mirroring his quiet disapproval.
Frio ignored the cowboy’s unspoken but obvious opinion. “Damn it, Happy, can’t you keep these rear wagons pushed up? Way this train is all strung out, we’ll be the middle of next summer gettin’ to Matamoros.”
Happy met Frio’s hard gaze without giving any ground. “Way we’re goin’ we won’t get there at all. You’re fixin’ to have a bunch of dead mules on your hands. Maybe some dead mulateros too.”
“The faster we move, the more trips we can make. We’re doin’ it for the Confederacy.”
Happy’s mouth turned down. “A mule, he don’t know nothin’ about war. He only knows when he’s wore out. You can’t talk much patriotism to a mule.”
“They’ll get their rest.”
“When? That’s what you said the last trip, but they didn’t get any.”
Frio snapped. “If you don’t like the way I run these wagons, why don’t you just leave?”
Happy’s eyes reflected a quick anger, which he just as quickly shoved aside. “Because I know it’s that shoulder that makes you so damn mean, and I keep rememberin’ how you come to get that bullet in you. You thought I was in trouble, and you went to get me out.”
Frio wished he hadn’t spoken so sharply. If it weren’t for this shoulder.… “I’d have done it for any man on the train.”
“The point is, you did it for me. So I reckon I’ll stay on till you kill me. But you’re apt to kill yourself first, the pace you’re keepin’.” He frowned. “You ought to’ve listened to that doctor in San Antonio. He said you needed to be on your back instead of in the saddle. That shoulder still hurts you somethin’ fierce, don’t it?”
Frio didn’t look him in the eye. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“You’re a liar. You was more dead than alive when you caught up to us and took over the train. You ain’t much better even yet. You’re so bad poisoned that if a rattlesnake was to bite you, he’d die.”
Frio lifted his right hand and gripped his left shoulder, his face twisting. “I know I been ridin’ all of you pretty hard. Had a lot on my mind.”
“You can’t win the war all by yourself.”
Frio lowered his hand, the fist knotted. “But I want them to know I’m still alive. I want them to know that they not only didn’t stop me, they made me work harder than I ever worked before. I want them to stand there by the river and count those cotton bales and curse the day they sent that patrol out to kill me.”
“That’s how you’re takin’ your revenge, puttin’ more bales across the river?”
Frio’s clenched teeth gleamed white against the black of his whiskers as he stared south. “For now, Happy. For now.”
* * *
RIDING AT THE head of the line, Frio kept his sharp gaze sweeping along the fringe of brush, watching for anything that didn’t belong—any movement, any patch of color. He didn’t believe for a moment that the Yankees had given up on killing him. Way up front this way, he would make a prime target for any sharpshooter lurking out yonder. From the bushwhacker’s viewpoint, though, it would be a risky proposition. Even though he could bring Frio down with an easy shot, the train’s outriders and Happy Jack would go into immediate pursuit. Anyone who fired on Frio would be committing suicide.
Frio figured it would take a deep loyalty to the Union, a deep hatred for him personally, or a big offer of money to persuade a man to take that kind of assignment.
Happy Jack’s quiet protest had forced Frio to recognize something he hadn’t wanted to see. The mules were wearing out, and the teamsters weren’t much better off. He had been driving them too hard. He knew his anger and hatred had given him a desperate strength and a dogged determination he couldn’t expect the other men to share.
It was almost dark when he sighted the well he had been aiming for. He saw three men standing beside it, holding horses. His right hand tightened on the saddle-gun that lay across his lap, but he kept riding. From a distance he could tell that all three were Mexicans. Close in, he recognized one as a militiaman he had seen in Rio Grande City. The others would be too. Their old clothes had worn ragged, and the men looked hungry. The Confederacy had been woefully slow in paying its militia, especially down here on the river, so far from the seat of government.
With typical Mexican exaggerated deference toward an Anglo, the ranking one of the three stepped forward, sombrero in hand. “Señor Wheeler, we have wait for you. I am Pablo Lujan. These are Aparicio Jiminez and Lupe Martín.”
Frio brought himself stiffly down from the saddle, his face contorted until the shock of movement was past. He extended his hand. “I know you, Pablo. You’re with Colonel Benavides, aren’t you?”
“Sí, we make a little patrol, these vaqueros and me. Long time ago we hunt stray cattle. Now we hunt stray yanquis. You see any?”
Frio shook his head. “It’s been as peaceful as the inside of the Matamoros church, all the way down from San Antonio. You got trouble on this end?”
Pablo Lujan, nodding gravely, swept one hand in the direction of the brush. “There is sign. The yanquis, they have soldiers somewhere in the bosque. Some soldiers that are soldiers and some that are not soldiers.”
“Irregulars?”
“Sí, that is the word. They put a blue uniform on some of the renegados and call them soldiers. But they are still only renegados. They know how to find water, which the yanqui does not. They know where to look for the wagon trains, which the yanqui does not.”
Frio frowned, “It’s nothin’ new for the Yankees to hire outlaws and call them legal. They’ve done it right along.”
Lujan shrugged. “In their place, señor, would we not do the same? Even in Colonel Benavides’s company there are some among us who could never be priests.”
Frio’s mouth went aslant as he caught the humor in the Mexican’s eyes. Frio didn’t laugh, but he felt better for this encounter at the waterhole. He had always admired the simple, unquestioning logic of the Mexicans. They were a straightforward people in many ways, philosophically accepting life’s many contradictions. He liked their logic even when he couldn’t accept it for himself.
“What other news do you hear on the border?” Frio asked.
“We hear the Rip Ford is come pretty soon from San Antonio with many men to drive the yanquis back into the sea. Do you think this is true?”
Frio nodded. “I haven’t seen him. I’ve only heard the rumors. But I expect it’s true.”
“We hear he has ten thousand men.”
Frio shook his head. “One thousand would be more like it. Texas couldn’t even feed ten thousand.” It was always a mystery to him how rumors could magnify so much in war. They grew faster than a bunch of cottontail rabbits. Just such wild rumors as this had scared the Confederate General Bee into leaving Brownsville so precipitously.
But maybe this time rumor could play against the Yankees. If they had heard the same ten-thousand-man report as these Mexican militiamen, they were probably getting nervous now in Fort Brown. And Rip Ford was a shrewd soldier. Maybe he had fostered the rumor himself.
Frio said to Lujan, “Keep tellin’ everybody it’s ten thousand. Old Rip may have the battle won before it starts.”
He looked back at his wagons, which were circling for a night’s camp near the well. “Pablo, we’d be tickled if you boys would stay and eat with us tonight.”
Lujan smiled. “What for do you think we wait here, Señor Wheeler? The militiaman must live off the land, and in this dry time the land is very poor. Sometimes, when God blesses us, we can eat with the wagons.”
It was well after dark when the mules had been watered and fed and the teamsters could settle down for supper. Frio had no appetite and took little food into his plate. He picked around on it, not eating half. Mostly he drank coffee, black and steaming.
Happy Jack’s appetite had suffered none. He finished a second helping of beef and beans and set his tin plate down on the bare ground beside him. He watched Frio sipping strong black coffee. “Frio,” he said, “you’re not goin’ to get any weller till you start eatin’ again. You don’t eat nothin’, just drink coffee and smoke cigarettes. You don’t get half a night’s sleep, either. You just pace around camp in the dark like a bobcat in a box.”
“Shoulder like this, a man can’t sleep much. As for food, who can eat much at such a time?”
Happy said, “I can.” He pointed his chin toward the three Mexican militiamen, who were scraping up all the leavings, letting nothing go to waste. “Don’t seem like dark times has hurt their appetite much, either. Them poor boys was hungry.”
Frio grimaced, watching the three. “It’s a long way to Austin, and a longer way yet to Richmond. Easy for the government to forget a handful of men down here on the border. But if it wasn’t for Benavides and his militia, the Yankees would have the Rio Grande plumb to Laredo and Eagle Pass. There wouldn’t be any border trade.”
Happy nodded. “They’re poor devils with their bellies half empty and the pants hangin’ off of their seats. But we owe them a lot.”
They sat awhile in silence. Frio stared into the dwindling fire, his mind wandering aimlessly down a dozen different trails. Happy brooded, chewing his lip. Frio began to notice, for it wasn’t like Happy to worry much.
“You got somethin’ on your mind, Happy?”
Happy shrugged. “Been worryin’. Guess I caught that from you, like some contagious sickness. Probably just foolishness anyway.” His eyes met Frio’s a minute. “Did you notice anything unusual today?”
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t really see nothin’, just kind of felt it. Had the feelin’ somebody was out in that brush watchin’ us. Trailin’ along.”
“How come you didn’t tell me?”
“Because like I said, I didn’t see nothin’. Just a feelin’, a foolish notion, maybe. Way you been lately, you’d make anybody a little jumpy.” Happy waited for some reply and didn’t get it. “You haven’t said anything, Frio. You think I’m just lettin’ my imagination run wild?”
Frio shook his head and came as near smiling as he had in weeks. “No, Happy. I just think you’re finally gettin’ some idea of what a man has to suffer through when he’s an owner.”
It was a chilly night, the stars icy crystals sparkling against a black sky. Frio huddled by the fire, gazing into the coals, remembering. It seemed he was doing a lot of that lately during the long nights when he was unable to sleep, and when he was too tired or in too much pain to stalk around camp worrying the guards. He thought back on how he had left Amelia McCasland at the ranch.
He hadn’t wanted to do it. When Natividad de la Cruz had returned with a wagonload of contraband supplies and a couple of men Hugh Plunkett had sent, Frio had tried to talk Amelia into taking María and Chico back to either Brownsville or Matamoros.
“There’s nothin’ left out here for you now,” he had said, pointing to the charred ruins. “Not even a roof over your heads.”
“We’ve got help,” Amelia had answered. “We can put up a brush jacal. It’ll be enough to keep us warm and dry.”
“You’ve got no guarantee the Yankees won’t come back and try again. Anything we build, they’ll burn down.”
“Then we’ll build another, and another. You said you were through running, Frio. So am I. I’ve made up my mind: Right here is where I’m going to stay.”
Frio had known enough stubborn people to recognize the signs. He knew there was no point in arguing with her. So he had the three Mexicans put up a pair of rude brush huts, one for the two women and the boy, the other for Natividad. De la Cruz was to stay and do what he could to keep the ranch together. That wouldn’t be much, Frio had feared, for you didn’t find many men like Blas Talamantes. Still, Natividad would try, and he would be some protection for the women. Maybe when this war was over there would still be enough of the cattle left so that Frio could start fresh and rebuild.
As soon as he could stay on a horse, Frio had told Amelia he was going to rejoin the wagon train. She had nodded in resignation and made no protest, for she knew something of stubborn people too.
She said, “You told me that the next time you went to Matamoros you would take me along. You said you wanted to marry me.”
Frio had not tried to look into her eyes. “I did, and I meant it. But things have changed now, Amelia. When Tom led the Yankees out here and shot Blas, that altered everything. One day I’ll have to kill him. You might not want to be married to me then.”
Amelia had said tightly, “Do you really have that much hate in you, Frio?”
Frio had reached up to touch his bad shoulder and said, “I reckon I do.”
“Go then,” Amelia told him. “Do whatever you have to. When it’s over, I’ll still be here.”
* * *
THE FIRE HAD burned low. One of the teamsters brought an armload of dead brush and dropped it near the glowing coals. “Con permiso, patrón, I will build up the fire.”
Frio pushed himself to his feet and backed away a step. “Go ahead.”
The Mexican began to lay wood on the smoldering fire. Flames started to build, licking around the dry mesquite and catclaw limbs. The dancing light brightened, framing Frio and the teamster against the darkness.
Frio saw a flash from out in the brush and at almost the same instant felt an angry tug at the sleeve of his coat. Unprepared, he staggered backward in surprise. His foot caught on the little pile of wood, and he fell just as the rifle crashed again. Later he knew that this fall had saved his life, for the bullet thumped into the sideboard of a wagon behind him. The fall jarred the wounded shoulder, and a paralyzing agony gripped him.
But if Frio was caught unprepared, Happy Jack and the Benavides militiamen were not. Almost as soon as Frio went down, he heard four more guns open up, aimed at the last flash from the darkness. The ambusher fired a third time, and the camp rifles roared again.
Out in the brush a man screamed. Still lying on his side, the shoulder throbbing, Frio heard a crackling of dry limbs in the darkness. Guns in hand, Happy and the three militiamen sprinted out toward the bushwhacker, half a dozen teamsters close behind them. Frio heard one of the militiamen cry out sharply in Spanish, “Do not touch that gun!”
The reply was a weak cry for mercy. Presently the militiamen came back into the firelight, carrying a wounded man. Frio had regained his feet, although he was shaking a little from surprise and pain. They laid the wounded man down by the fire. Happy returned, still looking off into the darkness. “Far as I can tell, he was by himself.”
The ambusher was Mexican, and he was dying. Frio could not remember ever having seen the hombre before. In Spanish he asked, “What did you do this for? Did the yanquis pay you?”
The Mexican’s teeth grated in agony. He shook his head. “Not the yanquis … Florencio Chapa. He said he would pay…” The man cried out in pain. Shock covered his face with cold sweat. He would be dead in a minute. “Chapa said he would give me … much silver … to kill the man Wheeler … for the terrible thing he has done to Chapa.”
“For what I did to him?” Frio said sharply.
“You have not seen him,” came the weak reply. “Few have seen him since…” The man groaned as the pain grew more intense. “It is a terrible sight … a terrible sight.…” The voice trailed, and he was gone.
Happy Jack stood solemnly staring down on the ambusher he had helped to kill. At last he looked up at Frio. “Appears you’ve got more enemies than the law allows. I’m still glad I’m not an owner!”