Frio and Blas led their horses off the Santa Cruz ferry on the Mexican side and looked southward across the Estrero del Bravo to where the heart of Matamoros lay. About them bustled the river trade, cotton being unloaded from the ferry and carted up to yards to await shipment on the steamers. Mexican laborers and cotton buyers of many nationalities walked around among the dust-grayed bales stacked haphazardly here on the bank. Men shouted at each other and at their mules and oxen. Dust lifted and was slow to settle, for it had been a long time since rain.
The Gutierrez wagonyard lay southwestward, on the river. Frio swung into the saddle and started riding along the bank, Blas with him stirrup to stirrup. They passed a group of Mexican women washing clothes in the slow-moving water at river’s edge. Frio wondered if the clothes would ever get clean.
A little farther, a group of girls bathed in the river, shouting and splashing. Some of them had few if any clothes on. Their wet brown skins gleamed in the sun.
“Now there,” said Frio, “is a sight to gladden a man’s heart.”
Blas nodded and smiled and turned once to look back after they had passed the girls.
Matamoros! The formal Mexican name was much longer: La Heroica y Invicta Ciudad de Matamoros. The heroic and invincible. Named for a patriot priest who had died for Mexican freedom, this old border city had long known the smell of trouble, the sound and fury of war. Its time-stained walls were pocked with the marks of bullets and shells. Even now it was gripped by civil war, as was its sister city across the river, for the Indian patriot Juarez was locked in mortal combat with the imperialists and the French, who had proclaimed Maximilian emperor of all Mexico. Here in Matamoros seethed the same turmoil that had gripped the rest of the country, the Juarez Rojos opposing the Crinolinos, who supported Maximilian. At the moment the Crinolinos had control.
To most of the population there was always a war in progress, or just finishing, or just about to begin. They took it as a matter of course, like the droughts and the floods and the pestilence. Life would still go on after the armies had marched away. Commerce continued as if there were no struggle. Coins changed hands and the city grew, even as generals sparred and hapless soldiers gasped out their lives on bloody sand.
The trading circles spared little thought to politics.
Frio and Blas rode past the rude jacales that housed the poor. Half-naked children played in the dirt streets, and disheveled women cooked on outdoor ovens and open fires, sharing the food with the flies. These were tiny houses, the cots folding up against the walls in daytime to give what little room was to be had. Rapidly as the city had grown, these people were lucky to have even this, for many others lived with no roof at all.
Frio saw a big corral, started with rock but finished crudely with brush. “That would be it,” he said.
They rode around the outside of the fence, looking in the corral at a motley collection of bone-poor horses and droopy-headed burros. There was no feed in the corral and only one tiny water trough, which now was half mud. Frio saw his mules, gaunted by the long, fast trip. They probably hadn’t been fed at all, and they hadn’t likely watered since they had been swum across the river. Anger stirred in him, but he curbed it. Here he would be doing the listening, not the talking.
He and Blas reined in at a low-built stone structure that was the Gutierrez headquarters. Several carts and sagging old wagons stood around in front of the building. An old peón, shoulders bent from a life of hard work, stepped out with his hat in his hand. He bowed from the waist. In Spanish he said, “How may I serve you, patrón?”
“I am looking for El G—” Frio caught himself. He had been about to say El Gordo, which in Spanish meant the fat one and was not usually a term of endearment. “I would like to speak to Señor Gutierrez.”
The peón hesitated. Frio added, “It is on business. I would like to buy some mules from him.”
“Then,” said the old man, “if you will step inside, mi jefe will be most glad to see you.” There was a nervousness about the old man, an undertone of fear. Likely as not that tattered old shirt covered whip scars on his bent back. Here a rich man like El Gordo could virtually own a poor man, much as across the river a white man could own a black one.
The peón walked cautiously through a door and closed it quietly behind him. Frio could hear a voice in angry impatience, demanding what the old man wanted. In a moment El Gordo Gutierrez stepped through the door, his belly sagging, his mouth wide in a false smile. His eyes smiled too, in anticipation of profit. Gutierrez didn’t seem even to see Blas Talamantes. He ignored him as a hidalgo might ignore another man’s peón grubbing in the dirt. He bowed from the waist, which was something of an effort for him, and said to Frio, “My house is yours, señor. Tell me how I may serve you, and I shall be the happiest of men.”
Frio sensed that Gutierrez knew him. He was glad the man didn’t extend his hand, for he wasn’t sure he could have brought himself to shake it. “I need to buy some mules. Thought maybe you had some for sale.”
“Ahhh.” Gutierrez rubbed his hands. “You are indeed a fortunate man, señor, for it happens I have just brought in a large group of mules from one of the best ranches in Mexico. I would be glad to show you.” He motioned toward a back door, which would lead to the big corral. Frio stepped toward it, then stopped as he glanced into the room from which Gutierrez had come. Two men slouched at a table, a bottle sitting in front of them. Frio stiffened. One of them was the bandido, Florencio Chapa. Chapa sat watching him, amusement playing in his black eyes. His was a cruel face that could grin while his hands cut a man’s throat.
The other man was, in his own way, even more dangerous than Chapa. This was General Juan Nepomuceno Cortina, the wily political opportunist whose brigandage had been carried out on such a high plane as to keep him in a position of power no matter which political party might be gaining the edge in Mexico. Born of aristocratic blood but hardly able to write his own name, he was the beloved “Cheno” Cortina to most of the Mexican people—Cheno the gringo-killer, the champion of Mexican rights against the encroachment of the Anglos. And if somehow Cortina seemed always to have gained more for himself than for his followers, that was of no matter. He was Cheno, and he deserved whatever good there was to be gained from life.
“This way, señor,” Gutierrez said, holding the door open.
Frio stepped out into the sun, Blas following him. Frio glanced back over his shoulder, thinking he might again glimpse Cortina. This was the man who had taken a hundred followers across the river one early morning in 1859 and had captured Brownsville by storm, summarily executing five men—some of them Mexicans—who had earned his wrath. It took a Mexican general, Carvajal, to get Cortina out of Brownsville. It took the Texas Rangers under old Rip Ford to drive him back across the river. Even afterward, he kept crossing the Rio Grande to raid small ranchos, taking vengeance not only on Anglos but on the Mexicans who worked for them. He had been chased by the best of men, including even Robert E. Lee, who at the time had still been a lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Army.
Frio thought this red-bearded, gray-eyed highbinder probably was enjoying the war between the states, the thought of gringo killing gringo, with Cortina able to sit back and make money out of it through the cotton trade. Though he plied his banditry in higher and more sophisticated circles now, the love of it still burned in him, and he encouraged such savage bandidos as Chapa and the notorious Octaviano Zapata.
Gutierrez said, “You would like to meet Cheno? He’s one good friend of mine.”
Frio shook his head. “No, thank you. I’d rather just get on with our business.” He knew he was rushing too much. Mexicans liked to take their time on a business transaction, to talk all around it as if it were not even there. But Frio didn’t think he could stand to be in El Gordo’s presence for very long. He wanted to rush it, to get it over with.
There was no mistake about their being his mules. He would have recognized them anywhere, even without the brands. If there had been any point in his demonstrating this, he could have popped a whip and shouted an order, and they would have moved into their places, ready to harness. The Mexican caporal had taught him that, to save time in breaking camp and getting the wagons out on the trail.
Smiling, Gutierrez said, “They are fine-looking mules. They would do a good job for your freight wagons.”
That was the clincher. Frio knew for certain now that El Gordo was well aware of who he was. “I know they would,” Frio remarked. “They’re my mules.”
“Your mules?” El Gordo put on an act of not understanding. “They are my mules. I bought them.” His eyes smiled again. “But they can be your mules if you like. I would be glad to sell them.”
I’ll just bet you would, Frio thought, having to curb his anger again. “How much?”
The Mexican looked at the ground and rubbed his hands. “They are unusually good mules. Seldom does one see better. I would say they are worth a hundred dollars per head.”
“Confederate?”
El Gordo violently shook his head. “Not Confederate money. Gold.”
“I’ll give you seventy-five, Confederate.”
From there on it was simply a process of dickering and bargaining. El Gordo had set the original price at double what he expected to get. After a while they arrived at an agreement. Fifty dollars per head, payable in English paper. That much gold would take a wagon. The harness, some of it cut, would be thrown in free.
“Bueno,” said El Gordo, “we shall drink on it.”
They went back inside. Chapa and Cortina had gone. Gutierrez got two dry glasses and a bottle of tequila, deliberately ignoring Blas Talamantes. Frio handed his own glass to Blas and thus forced El Gordo to get a third one.
“To your health, señor,” El Gordo said. “May we have more pleasant business together.”
We’re going to have a little more business, Frio thought darkly, but you may not think it’s so pleasant.
He emptied the glass in one long swallow. It was harsh, leaving a deep track all the way down.
“Come on, Blas,” he said. “We’ll need to find some men and come after the mules. And I have to get the money for Señor Gutierrez.”
They left the yard and rode toward the heart of the city. Frio looked once over his shoulder. “Blas,” he said after some deliberation, “I guess you know a lot of people in this town.”
They had just passed a nice-looking girl seated in the big window of one of the better homes, leaning against the wrought-iron grating. Blas glanced back at her and said, “Sí, Frio, but all that has changed. I am married now. María is all the woman I need.”
“You misunderstand me, Blas. I was just wonderin’ if you might know five or six jolly Mexican boys who might like to pull a good honest robbery.”
Blas smiled broadly as comprehension came. “Sí, Frio. I think maybeso.”
“Do it, then. I’ll go to the British consul and get the money. Then I’ll wait in that little bar down from the consulate till you show up. Tell them I’ll let them keep a hundred apiece if they do the job right.”
Blas started to turn away, then stopped. Worry creased his face. “One thing, Frio. You never can tell. Maybe they run away and keep it all.”
“A chance I’ll take. I wouldn’t be any worse off than I am now.”
* * *
HERE ON THE border, where the trade was heavy, gold was not hard to come by. For more than a year now Frio had insisted upon foreign currency or gold in payment for his government hauling. Stern realism dictated the measure. Even here on the border, people were trading two dollars of Confederate paper money for one in gold. From things he had heard in San Antonio he knew they were swapping as many as four to one in the Deep South. As long as the gold was available, he would take it. Everyone on the border did.
Because it would be easy for the Yankees to sail up to the Brazos Santiago or the Boca Chica one day and march in to capture Brownsville, he could not afford to keep his money in Texas. There was as yet no trustworthy bank in Matamoros, but an English cotton buyer had helped Frio work out an arrangement with the British consul. Frio could keep a supply of floating cash at the consulate and could send the rest by draft to a bank in England.
English money was acceptable at face value in Matamoros because so much of it was used in buying cotton. Frio drew out two thousand dollars—the equivalent of it—for the forty mules. Carrying it in a small bag, he strolled down the street to the bar where he had said he would meet Blas. There he ordered a good Scotch whisky, which arrived there now aboard the trading ships, and hunted a place to sit down. He put his back to a solid wall. With all this money on his person, he didn’t care to be slipped up on.
From here he could see the cosmopolitan parade of humanity that passed the door—cotton buyers and merchants from England and France, Belgium and Germany; sailors from vessels of many nations, delayed at the Boca Chica by repairs; Texans who had come to Mexico because of pro-Union feelings, or simply to escape the draft; Negro slaves who had fled from bondage. There were even federal observers sent here from Washington to keep a futile watch over the border trade. They knew what was going on but were powerless to put even a small dent in it.
A man could sit in one spot here on the main streets of Matamoros for just a day, and half the world would pass before him.
In the main, it seemed to Frio, Matamoros was still a more solid-looking town than Brownsville. It was larger, had more fine homes, had most of the better eating and drinking places and the only real theater. One had to overlook the fringe of primitive jacales and tents and open-air campers who had swelled the city of late. One also had to overlook the many cheap cantinas and gambling places and rowdy sporting houses that had sprung up to accommodate the flush pockets of freighters and sailors and traders, Confederate soldiers and plain salt-sweat laborers.
Two men entered the bar and ordered drinks. One of them spotted Frio, spoke quickly to the other, then began walking in Frio’s direction. He was a portly man with a florid face and eyes that somehow reminded Frio of a coyote’s. The clothes he wore had been well tailored and bespoke easy money, but now they looked as if he might have slept in them.
“Hello, Frio Wheeler,” he said loudly, as if he had found a long-lost friend. He walked up and slapped Frio’s shoulder with a big soft hand. “Been hopin’ I’d run into you someplace.”
Frio’s voice lacked enthusiasm. “Hello, Trammell.” He didn’t offer to shake.
Trammell hailed the other man with a broad sweep of his hand. “Guffey, come over here. I want you to meet the best cotton freighter on the whole Mexico trail.”
Frio didn’t stand up nor did he offer his hand to the tall, consumptive-looking Guffey. Trammell was telling him Guffey was a cotton buyer out of New York—strictly nonpolitical—but Frio only half listened. He already knew Guffey by sight and reputation. Trammell said in his big, loud voice, “How about havin’ a drink with us, Frio?”
It graveled Frio a little, this careless use of his first name. In his view that was a privilege granted only to friends. He did not count Trammell as a friend. “I’ve already got a drink. Thanks anyway.” He hoped this might discourage Trammell and that the man would go away. Instead, Trammell scraped a chair across the floor and seated himself uninvited. “Let’s sit down here, Guffey. I got some business I want to talk over with Frio.”
Frostily Frio said, “We got no business together.”
“You don’t know it, but we do.”
A waiter brought a bottle and two glasses. Trammell poured a glass full and swallowed it down in two long gulps. His face twisted sourly, and he rasped a long “Ahhhh!” Across the table, the lank Guffey only sipped at the whiskey, his nose wrinkling as if he smelled something dead. Frio scowled, looking the two men over, sorely tempted to get up and walk out but realizing Blas wouldn’t know where to hunt for him.
Here’s a real pair for you, he thought. Trammell was a trader who had gotten fat buying cotton from poor farmers in East Texas and selling it to the Confederacy at high prices. It had been charged but never proven that he bribed government buyers to give him a premium. Now he had found there was even more cream to be skimmed by not dealing with the Confederacy at all, but by hauling his cotton to the border and selling it directly to the buyers from overseas. That way it wound up to his credit in European banks. None of it had to be traded for war goods.
As for Guffey, he was a Yankee cotton buyer. How he did it Frio could only guess, but Guffey actually was getting his hands on arms and ammunition that were being manufactured for the Union army. He was shipping them to Matamoros and trading them to the Confederate government in return for cotton, which he could sell at ruinous prices to fiber-hungry mills in the east.
The .36-caliber Navy Colt that Frio carried on his belt had been Union war goods that had come through Guffey’s hands.
Trammell set his glass down with a hard thump. “Frio, how would you like to make yourself a big pile of money? Good gold money that spends anywhere you want to take it.”
“I’m doin’ all right.”
“Join up with me, man, and you’ll make more than you’ll know how to spend. You could buy yourself the best ranch in Mexico and have all the pretty señoritas a man could ever want, a different one for every day.”
Frio could feel color rising warm in his cheeks. His narrowed eyes fastened on his glass to avoid looking at Trammell. “That might be to your taste. It isn’t to mine.”
“Just a figure of speech is all. Hell, money’s to everybody’s taste. You can do anything you want to with it.”
Frio said, “Bad money breeds only trouble, and yours is bad money. I don’t want any part of it.”
Trammell stared incredulously. “There’s no such thing as bad money. All I want you to do is haul my cotton. You’re a good freighter, and you’ve got fifteen good wagons.”
“Fourteen,” Frio corrected him. “Lost one.”
“Haul for me and you can have thirty wagons before you know it. I’ll pay you twice what the government does.”
Frio shook his head. “Not interested.”
Trammell argued, “Look, man, I got more than four thousand bales of cotton bought in East Texas. Bought cheap. They stand to make me a fortune if I can get them down to the border. I’ll split the profit with you if you’ll haul them. Now, what could be more fair than that?”
“Sell them to the government.”
“Sell … Man, you’re crazy! I’m offerin’ you a chance to make a small fortune, and you sit here starin’ at me like some dumb Mexican.” The big man grabbed Frio’s shoulder and shook it. “Think of all that cotton, Frio. Think what I’ve got tied up in it. Think of me!”
Frio’s hating gaze cut him like a knife. “I am thinkin’ of you, Trammell, and the thought makes me a little bit sick. You take cotton the Confederacy needs and sell it for gold to line your own pockets. Now take your hand off of me before I shoot it off!”
Trammell jerked his hand away.
Frio turned to the Yankee. “And you, Guffey, you’re just as bad. Sure, the Confederacy needs all the guns it can get. But I mortally hate a man who would steal from his own side and sell guns to the enemy, even when we’re the enemy.”
Trammell sputtered, “You got no call to talk to us like that, Frio. We come for a nice, friendly little business talk and you—”
“I didn’t invite you,” Frio said flatly. “But now I’m invitin’ you to leave. In fact, I’m tellin’ you to.”
Trammell backed toward the door, shaking his fist. “You’ll regret this, Wheeler. We’ll meet again.”
“As long as I can see you,” Frio said, “I won’t be worried.”
* * *
BLAS CAME, BY and by. He simply stood in the doorway and nodded, and Frio knew everything had been arranged. Walking outside, he saw half a dozen Mexicans a-horseback, waiting. Blas said, “I hire these to help us put the mules across the river.”
“And that other little job?”
Blas winked. “I have fix that also.”
They rode out to Gutierrez’s. Frio placed the money in the big man’s greedy hands and watched gold-lust dance in the dark eyes. The Mexicans harnessed the mules, then strung them out along the river, headed for the ferry.
Riding off behind the mules, Frio and Blas passed a tall stone fence and found four young Mexicans sitting there on their horses, waiting. They made no sign of recognition, but Frio saw Blas give them a quick nod as he rode by. Frio looked back over his shoulder a minute later and saw them riding leisurely toward the wagonyard.
After taking his mules to the Texas side, Frio rode the ferry back to Matamoros and returned once more to the bar near the consulate. He hadn’t been there long when Blas came, bringing the same bag in which Frio had taken the money to Gutierrez.
“Did they take out their share?” he asked, not wanting to open the bag here.
Blas nodded. “Funny thing. When they rob him they find he has more money there than you give him. They take their share from El Gordo’s money. You will find yours here, all of it.”
Frio smiled, then suddenly the smile fell away. “El Gordo … I hope they didn’t kill him.”
Blas shook his head. “No, they don’t kill him. One of the boys, he’s make El Gordo saddle a horse, and he’s take him for a long ride down the river. He’s going to let El Gordo walk back.”
Frio could picture Gutierrez wobbling along afoot, carrying his great bulk on legs unaccustomed to walking.
“He’ll know who arranged it, of course.”
Blas shrugged. “Of course, but what can he do? You know who is steal your mules, but what could you do?”
Frio laughed all the way back to the consulate.