Frio knew where Tom McCasland lived in Matamoros, but he had never gone there to look for him before. Now and again he and Tom would meet by accident somewhere in the city. They were always civil meetings, but inevitably the barrier of war and the conflict of loyalties stood like a stone wall between the two men. Such meetings only aroused in Frio a painful memory of things that used to be—the hunting and fishing they had done together, horses they had broken, cattle work with the two of them and Blas Talamantes as a happy team. With these memories always came a fear that when the war ended, that friendship would never again be the same. Always when he saw Tom, Frio felt an aching sense of loss. He avoided a meeting if he had the chance.
This time he felt he had to see Tom, had to try to talk sense.
Frio knocked at the door of the small frame house. For a moment he thought there would be no answer, then he heard someone walking softly. The door opened just a little, and dark eyes peered out cautiously. A woman’s eyes.
“Quién es?” she asked suspiciously.
Frio removed his hat. “I’m lookin’ for Tom McCasland.”
“He is not here. Go away.” She closed the door.
Frio rapped again. The door opened once more, a little wider this time. She was a Mexican woman in her mid-twenties—not a beauty, perhaps, but more than passable—and she was angry. “Look,” she said in English that was surprisingly good, “I tell you already, he is not home. He has ride for you already one time this week. Why you don’t leave him alone?”
“You got me mixed up with somebody else, ma’am. I’m a friend of his. I just want to talk with him.”
The door opened a little wider. “You come to talk war? I don’t want for him to ride out anymore. Next time they kill him maybe.”
“I don’t want him to ride out anymore either. That’s what I came to talk to him about.”
The anger began to fade from her eyes. “You are not another of those from the yanqui government, wanting him to do the dangerous things?”
Frio shook his head. “I’m from el otro lado, the other side of the river. Name’s Frio Wheeler.”
“Wheeler.” She frowned, slowly testing the word on her tongue. “Yes, I have hear him speak that name. You are a friend.”
“I used to be. I hope I still am.”
The door swung open. “Tom is not here, Señor Wheeler. But come in. Maybe we should talk together.”
The room was not cool, for she had kept the front door closed against intrusion from the foot traffic on the street. He felt some flow of air through open side windows and a back door. The room was simply furnished, nothing fancy. He saw curtains, though, and a bowl of cut flowers adding a splash of color. Tom wasn’t living here by himself.
“I haven’t met you before,” Frio said.
She had a handsome figure, and from the lightness of her complexion he thought she might be pure Spanish. There was still pride in the people of the sangre puro, the unmixed blood. He sensed that she was a lady, or had been.
“I am Luisa Valdez.”
She would have stopped there, but Frio glanced at her hand and saw the rings. Then she went on, for his eyes were asking the question he was too polite to speak. “Yes, I am a married woman, or was. My husband is one time an officer for the Juaristas. The Crinolinos, they kill him. Tom McCasland, he is good friend of my husband and me. When my husband is die, I have no people anymore, no money. For a woman without these things, there is but one way to live in Matamoros. I would die first. So I am come to Tom, and he is give me a place to live.” She paused. “I know what you think, but he is a good man.”
Frio said, “I know that, ma’am, a good man.” He twisted his hat. “You in love with him?”
She was slow to answer. Then, nodding, she replied, “Yes, I love him.”
“You figurin’ on marryin’ him?”
She dropped her chin. “He has ask me, and I am tell him no. I love him, Señor Wheeler, but war has make me a widow one time. I do not want that it makes me a widow again. I tell Tom that when his war is over, when there is no more fight, then I marry him. Not before that. I do not want to be widow ever again.”
“I wouldn’t want you to be. I want to have Tom stay in Matamoros where he won’t be gettin’ hurt. You know where he’s at right now?”
She shook her head. “He is tell me he has government business. He says he will be back tonight and take me to the fandango.”
Frio had heard something about the big dance while he was sitting in the bar waiting for Blas. “You think if I went to the fandango I’d get a chance to see him?”
“He will be there.”
Frio said, “Then so will I.”
He started to back toward the door. Luisa Valdez stared at him with eyes that seemed to weep for sadness. She shifted to Spanish because the words came easier to her that way. “Señor Wheeler, there is much I do not understand. Where is there reason in all this war? You and Tom, you are friends, but one of you is on one side and one is on the other. You are friends and yet you are enemies. Where is there reason in this?”
He answered her in English, for though he understood Spanish well enough, he could not always express himself as he wanted. It was common on the border to hear bilingual conversations, each party using the language that came easiest. “Well, Mrs. Valdez, it’s this way.…” His voice trailed off, for he knew he couldn’t explain it to her. He couldn’t explain it to himself.
“War,” she said gravely, “is a useless thing, a foolishness that men create for themselves. They fight wars like they would race horses or gamble with cards or put roosters in a pit. It is the woman who suffers, because she must live on alone when her man has died. The men fight, but it is the women who must cry the tears and live an empty life after the foolish game of the men is over. If it were left to the women, there would be no wars.”
Frio tried to meet her accusing gaze but looked away. There was no arguing with her, because he could find no answer for what she had said.
“You are a soldier?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “No, I am a rancher and a freighter. I freight cotton to the river and haul merchandise north.”
“You are not a soldier, but your wagons carry the goods that go to fight the war. Is there really a difference?”
“Not much,” he admitted, “when you think about it. But it’s somethin’ somebody has to do, and it seems I’m the one. Our side didn’t ask for this war, ma’am. It was somethin’ they forced us to.”
Her eyes seemed to pity him. “I suppose the other side feels the same way about it.”
Frio dropped his gaze. “I hadn’t done much thinkin’ on it thataway.”
“It is how Tom feels. Strange, isn’t it? Both of you feel the same way, yet you find yourselves on opposite sides, against each other. Perhaps both of you need to do some thinking. Perhaps each of you could see the other’s viewpoint if you tried.”
Uncomfortable, completely out of answers, Frio found himself edging again toward the door. This was no ordinary woman, he could see that. Luisa Valdez had a mind of her own, a strong one.
He said, “Tell Tom, will you, that I’ll see him at the fandango. No, on second thought, don’t tell him. He might not go.”
“He will go,” she promised. “I will see to it.”
He stepped outside. He started to put his hat on and walk toward the sorrel, but he turned back to Luisa Valdez. “Hang on to him, Mrs. Valdez, and keep him out of trouble. I’d like to see you married to him. I’d like to have you for a friend.”
Her lips turned upward with a thin semblance of a smile. “Ojalá. You are a good man too, I think. I would hope we can be friends.”
* * *
THE MATAMOROS FANDANGO was more than a dance. It was a meeting place for friends who hadn’t seen each other in a long time. It was a whole-family affair and a drinking bout and a gamblers’ haven, all rolled into one. It wouldn’t get started until nine o’clock, because darkness wouldn’t come until after eight. The last of the diehards wouldn’t leave before daylight had come again.
Frio went back on the ferry to the Brownsville side to bathe and shave and put on fresh clothes. He also took the opportunity to be sure his recovered mules had been given plenty of feed and fresh water. They had already taken on a good fill by the time he saw them. Tomorrow or the next day they would be ready for the trail.
He dropped by the McCasland place to visit a little more with Meade, and to see Amelia again. Amelia’s eyes widened when he told her where he was going tonight. “The fandango? What do you want to go there for?”
“For one thing, they’re fun. For another, I’ve got some business.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What kind of business? What does she look like?”
Frio tried to keep his face serious. “Well, she stands about six-and-a-half feet tall, has one blue eye and one brown one. Get tired of one color, you just look at the other eye awhile.”
“I’m green with jealousy.” Excitement kindled in her face. “Frio, I’ve never been to a fandango. Take me with you.”
“Amelia, a fandango across the river isn’t like the dances you see over here. They’re not what you’re used to.”
“That suits me fine,” she said eagerly. “I’ve heard about them, but I’ve never had anyone to take me. I certainly couldn’t go by myself. Now I’ve got somebody to go with, and I want to see one.” Her eyes were aglow. She squeezed his hands. “Please, Frio.”
“I’ll level with you, Amelia. Main reason I’m goin’ is to have a talk with Tom.”
“I’d like to see him too.”
“What we’ve got to talk about, you might not like.”
Her eyes changed. She seemed to sense that something was not right. “You’re friends, Frio. I hope you’re not going to argue with him again about the war.”
“Not the whole war, Amelia, just a little part of it.”
“I still want to go.”
He gave in grudgingly. “All right,” he acceded, against his better judgment. “I’ll be back about eight and get you. I’ll borrow a rig.”
Later he asked Blas Talamantes if he was going. Blas shook his head. María was at the ranch, Blas explained, and a dance wouldn’t mean much without her. It had been only three days since Blas had left the ranch, but already he was homesick for his wife.
Amelia’s face was aglow with adventure as Frio slowed the buggy horse to a walk in the heavy traffic around the Matamoros main plaza. The smell of flowers and the sound of music were in the air. Young couples strolled arm in arm along the fenced walkways that led inward toward the center circle of the plaza like spokes slanting to the hub of a wheel. Old men—and those not yet old but married long enough to enjoy getting away from their women—sat on benches beneath the trees to tell lies about their exploits in war and on the perilous trails.
Amelia looked up in the gathering darkness at the two tall spires of the huge cathedral that sat beside the American-looking customs house. “A beautiful thing, isn’t it?” she said. “Even when they were hungry, they took from what little money they had and built a church.”
“The soul,” said Frio, quoting a Mexican priest he had heard, “may hunger more than the body.”
Listening in the night, he could hear voices speaking many tongues—Spanish and English, naturally, but French and German as well, and others he could not identify. All these people, drawn from across the world to this unlikely place by the smell of money—and the money because of war.
His mind went back to the sorrow he had seen in the dark eyes of Luisa Valdez. “It’s a soul-hungry time,” he said.
* * *
PAPER LANTERNS OF many colors spread their light on the hundreds who were drawn to the gaiety of the fandango. By nine-thirty most of the crowd was there. Somewhere off to one side, boys were firing squibs and firecrackers, and frightened horses jerked at the reins that held them to a fence.
The little orchestra began to play. It was made up of an old fiddle, an ancient clarinet, and a drum, the latter nothing but a barrel with rawhide stretched across the top. There was a guitar and a trumpet. Leader was Don Sisto the fiddler, a stoop-shouldered old man with a gray mustache and fiercely proud eyes, and a leather outfit that must once have been something to see. Like its wearer, it had been too many miles down too many roads.
Her hand clasped on Frio’s arm, Amelia McCasland walked about, fascinated by what she saw. Always there had been a quiet admiration and a soft spot in her heart for the Mexicans. Benches had been placed in such a manner as to form a large square. Dancers used the center area while spectators sat on the benches. Many of the Mexican women smoked, just as did their men. Amelia watched in wonder. Across the river it was not unusual for Texas women to dip snuff, but she had never seen them smoke. Well, almost never. Now and again she had seen an immigrant Southern woman—not of the gentry—smoke a corncob pipe.
Outside the benches, gambling tables and drinking booths had been set up. Frio didn’t count them, but he guessed there must have been forty tables, most already occupied by games of monte. The players bent in intense concentration. Men, women, and even a goodly number of children stood around the outer fringes, watching the monte with as much eagerness as did the players themselves.
A sudden stir began at the entrance. Frio saw a bright-colored uniform and the proud bearing of the man who wore it. A worshipful retinue followed along with the officer. Even the monte players looked up, and many of the people began to cheer.
Amelia squeezed Frio’s arm. “Is that who I think it is?”
He nodded. “It’s Cortina—the Red Robber of the Rio Grande.”
She said quickly, “Shh-h-h, don’t talk that way. You’re in his country now.” She stared at the fabled Mexican officer. “So that’s what he really looks like. He isn’t nearly so big as I thought he was the other time I saw him.”
Surprised, Frio asked, “When was that?”
“The time he took Brownsville four years ago. It was one morning before daylight. I heard horses running and people yelling. There were some shots. I ran to the window just as a Mexican loped by shouting, ‘Viva Cheno Cortina! Death to the gringos!’ Then came Cortina himself, riding at the head of a group. It was dark, so I couldn’t see him clearly, but he looked seven feet tall there in the saddle. Dad pulled me away from the window then. He and Tom and Bert kept me hidden in the cellar until Cortina and his men all left town.”
Frio noticed that the music had slowed. Don Sisto had turned to see what the excitement was about, and his face had tightened with sudden anger. Though most Mexicans revered Cortina, Don Sisto was one of that minority who hated him with passion. Once Cortina’s raiders had picked up Don Sisto and his band on the Brownsville-Laredo road, thinking them to be Texas-Mexican government officials. They had carried the men to Cortina to see if he wanted them shot. “Damned musicians!” Cortina had shouted impatiently. “Fandango sharps! Turn them loose and get them out of here!”
The insult had given Don Sisto’s pride a wound that would never heal. “He did not need to treat us as if we were dogs,” he had said a hundred times. “The least he could have done was to shoot us like men!”
Cortina’s eyes touched Frio for a moment, recognizing him. Then the border chieftain found himself a seat at a table, the worshiping retinue crowding around him. Don Sisto went back to his music.
Frio said to the girl, “If you’ve had enough, I’ll take you home.”
“Not on your life,” she thrilled. “I wouldn’t have missed this for all of Abe Lincoln’s gold.”
He had looked all around the place and hadn’t seen any sign of Tom. “Amelia, I’m no great shakes as a dancer, but I’d be much obliged if you’d try one with me.”
He found the girl light and graceful in his arms. Though he was wooden and unpracticed at this, she seemed to follow along without a bobble, making him feel like a good dancer. They danced one tune, two tunes, three. Each one was faster than the one before it. When the last tune ended, Frio was puffing.
“I’m about caved in,” he grinned, not really wanting to quit. He enjoyed having her in his arms. “Maybe we better set a spell.”
Amelia didn’t seem to have tired a bit. Her eyes aglow, she laughed, “Who was it said this would be too tough for me?”
He took her hand and led her back toward the benches. He stopped abruptly as he saw Tom McCasland standing there with Luisa Valdez. Tom’s face was sober, but Frio could tell it wouldn’t take much prompting to cause him to smile.
Tom stepped forward and kissed his sister. “Hello, Sis. Never dreamed I’d see you here.”
Amelia looked him up and down critically, as if worried about his health. “Found out Frio was coming. You couldn’t have driven me away with a club.”
Hesitantly Tom extended his hand. “Hello, Frio.”
“Howdy, Tom.” Frio gripped his old friend’s hand, and for a moment they stood looking at one another, searching each other’s eyes to see if the old friendship had survived the years. It had.
Tom said, “I believe you’ve both met Luisa.”
Frio bowed from the waist. Amelia nodded her head but stared uncertainly at Mrs. Valdez. She was plainly at a loss as to how she should accept the woman. There could be no doubt in her mind about the relationship between Luisa Valdez and her brother. It was a relationship that would have brought censure across the river. Here it seemed to be taken as a matter of course. Recognizing that she was south of the river and that it was not her place to pass judgment, Amelia said courteously, “It’s nice to see you again, Luisa.”
And Luisa Valdez, undoubtedly reading everything that passed through Amelia’s mind, replied with all the grace of one to the manor born. “And you, Amelia. You are most pretty tonight.”
Tom said, “I see an empty table over yonder. I’ve brought some brandy.”
They sat, and Tom poured brandy into four small glasses. The two men and Mrs. Valdez sipped theirs with pleasure. Amelia went slowly, tasting with caution. For a proper young woman on the Texas side of the river, not even brandy was lightly taken. She had sampled little of it in her life.
Amelia and Tom talked of personal things, about life in Brownsville, about their father and his store. Finally Tom looked back to Frio. “Luisa said you wanted to talk to me. I can make a fair guess what it’s about.”
Frio glanced at Amelia. “Might be better if we went off someplace, Tom, just us two.”
“If it’s about the war, there’s no use startin’.”
“Not the whole war, Tom, just your part in it.”
Tom shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. I’m workin’ for the United States government through Leonard Pierce, the consul. I keep watch, make reports about the border situation, the river trade and such.”
Frio’s eyes narrowed. “Does that job include goin’ across the river?”
Amelia stiffened in surprise. Luisa Valdez was staring down into her brandy, her face grave.
Tom said, “What do you mean by that?”
Frio glanced at Amelia and wondered if he ought to say it. But she would find out sooner or later. “Tom, I lost four teams of mules, a wagon, and some cotton. One of my men was wounded. Blas Talamantes and me, we were in the brush and saw the raiders as they came by.”
Tom lowered his head, “And?”
“And I want to know why, Tom. What’s the sense of it? With all the hundreds of wagons that come down the trail, what good would it do you to knock out five, or even ten or fifteen? It’s like tryin’ to empty the Gulf of Mexico with a bucket.”
Tom put his hands together and thoughtfully pressed his thumbs against his chin. “I didn’t know they were your wagons, Frio, till we got there and I saw your brand painted on them. It wouldn’t have made any difference, though, it had to be done.” His eyes asked for understanding. “Frio, I love Texas as much as you do. I don’t want to kill anybody. The way I see it, you don’t have to kill a man to stop him; you can scare him away. If we hit a few wagons here, a few there, we can scare a lot of teamsters. We can make them afraid to start down the trail. Get enough men scared and we can slow down the border trade. Might even stop it.”
“When a man’s fightin’ for what he believes in, he can take a lot of scarin’ and still go on. What if they don’t stop, Tom?”
Tom’s face pinched with regret. “Then I guess we’ll have to kill.”
Frio stared awhile at his old friend, knowing that at heart Tom was as sick of the war as he was himself. “Look at the caliber of men you’re ridin’ with, Tom. Florencio Chapa, a cutthroat. His own people are afraid of him. Even Cortina hates him, though he uses him. And Bige Campsey! Now, there’s a renegade for you.”
“War forces a man into some strange partnerships, Frio. We need Chapa, and he’s available, so we use him.”
“Maybe it’s the other way around; maybe he’s usin’ you. He’s a born murderer. I could name you a dozen helpless Mexican teamsters he’s tortured to death on the old Laredo road. All you’ve done is give him a chance to kill and claim it’s legal. He rides out now and carries an American flag with him. No flag means anything to Chapa; not the Mexican flag and surely not yours.”
Tom said, “He didn’t kill anybody on this raid. That’s one reason I went along, to be sure he didn’t kill anybody he didn’t have to. As for Campsey, he’s loyal to the Union and wants to fight. He came here because he couldn’t accept the Confederacy.”
Frio said sharply, “He couldn’t accept the draft. He came here because he shot a conscript officer in cold blood.”
He could tell by the surprise in Tom’s face that this was news to him. “This kind of business takes rough men, Frio.”
Frio begged, “Quit this, Tom, while you still can. One day they’ll catch you across the river and you won’t get back.”
Tom slowly shook his head. “I know what I have to do, Frio. I’ve argued with you before about the Union and the Confederacy, so I won’t do that now. Each of us has his own loyalties, and nothin’ we say to each other will change that. But I want you to think, Frio. One day soon the Union is goin’ to send troops in here and close this border. Nothin’ you can do will alter that. The trail’s goin’ to be dangerous from now on. I wish you’d go back to that ranch of yours and stay there. This war won’t last much longer. I want you to be alive when it’s over.”
“What makes you think you’re goin’ to win?”
“You may not have gotten the news yet, Frio. Have you heard about Gettysburg?”
Frio shook his head. “Who is he?”
“It’s not a man, it’s a place, a town in Pennsylvania. They’ve just fought a big battle there, the worst of the war. No one knows how many men died. When it was over, Lee and his army fell back toward Virginia. The Union will win now. It’s just a question of time.” His eyes pleaded. “See, Frio? There’s no use for you to risk your life anymore. Your cause is lost.”
Shaken by Tom’s news, Frio still could not accept it, would not accept it. “It can’t be. We’ve hoped so long, struggled so hard.…” He looked up. “A man doesn’t accept defeat while he still stands. He fights as long as the breath is still in him. Stop my wagons? No, sir! I’ll patch them and try to buy more. I’ll haul cotton south as long as there’s anybody to buy it, and I’ll haul war supplies north as long as there’s anybody left to haul them to. Quit? Hell, man, I haven’t even started yet!”
Tom’s eyes went cold in disappointment. “You may die, Frio.”
“It’ll be in the service of Texas.”
Tom said softly, “I’m in the service of Texas too. I’m servin’ her the way it seems best to me.”
He looked up at the sound of angry voices. Frio turned in his chair. He saw El Gordo Gutierrez limping painfully toward him, his face livid with rage, his hands a-tremble. Beside him stalked the black-clad bandido, Florencio Chapa.
“You are a thief!” El Gordo bawled at Frio, his finger pointing. “You have taken my mules and stolen my money!”
The sight of the fat man somehow broke Frio’s somber mood. Incredibly, he wanted to laugh. El Gordo’s clothes were brush-torn from the long walk the young robbers had given him. Sweat poured down his face, leaving trails in the dust that clung there. He looked angry enough to blow apart like a runaway steam boiler.
Innocently Frio said, “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. I paid you for those mules.”
“And stole back the money!” The fat man cursed wildly in the saltiest border Spanish. He accused Frio of hiring bandidos to steal the money that was rightfully El Gordo’s and Chapa’s.
Understanding came into Tom McCasland’s eyes. Quickly he moved the women away. The music had stopped. The people stared.
Florencio Chapa’s dark hand dropped to his belt and came up swiftly. A knifeblade flashed. “Gringo!” he hissed. “You are a gringo thief. I will spill your blood like a rooster in the pit!”
Frio pushed away from the table, into the clear. He carried no gun, no knife. He crouched, waiting to try to avoid the bandit’s vengeful rush. His lips went dry, for already he could almost feel the cold steel of the blade. Chapa would be too much for a man with bare hands.
Tom McCasland stepped in front of Chapa. “Florencio, he is a friend of mine. He is no thief.”
“Out of the way! You are just another gringo now!”
“He has stolen no money. He has been with me.” It was a lie, but for a moment Chapa hesitated. Tom went on, his voice holding even. “My government has given you money and guns to fight with. Do you want that to stop?”
It gave Chapa pause. His black eyes still seethed with anger, but reason seemed to be struggling for the upper hand.
“Forget it, Florencio,” Tom said. “There will be other days, other rides across the river.”
Chapa still hesitated. Then the man in the bright uniform stepped forward. No policeman would have dared interfere with Florencio Chapa, but this man had no fear of him. Juan Cortina said in swift, quiet Spanish, “Go, Florencio my friend. Do not spoil the people’s fandango.”
Chapa glanced at Cortina, his eyes rebellious a moment, then acquiescing. He straightened. Not wanting to, he slowly shoved the knife back into the scabbard at his belt. His sharp eyes fastened again on Frio, and they spoke silently of death. At length he turned on his heel. “Come, brother-in-law,” he spoke to El Gordo. “We leave this place.”
“But the money.…”
“Come. I say we leave.”
Chapa took three paces and stopped to turn once more toward Frio, his face deadly. “Gringo, I will see you again!”
It was a minute or two before Frio walked back toward Tom and the women. “Thanks, Tom,” he said tightly. He looked at the ashen-faced Amelia McCasland. “I oughtn’t to’ve brought you.”
Tears glistened in her eyes. She didn’t reply.
Tom said with admiration, “So you skinned them at their own game and got your money back.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Concerned, Tom said, “Up to now you’ve just been another damned gringo to Chapa. From now on you’ll be a prime target. You’ve made an enemy of him, Frio.”
Frio said, “I never wanted him for a friend.” He turned to the girl. “Amelia, I better take you home.”
The music had started again. Slowly the crowd drifted back to its dance, to its monte. Tom saw Cortina still watching him, and he nodded unspoken thanks to the man.
Amelia said shakenly, “Yes, Frio, take me home.”
* * *
AS FRIO AND Amelia walked away, Luisa Valdez moved up and put her arm in Tom’s. She stared gravely after the departing couple. “He is a determined man, Tom. He will fight so long as there is breath in him.”
Tom nodded soberly. “I reckon he will.”
“If you meet him on the other side of the river, you will have to fight him.”
“Luisa, I’m servin’ my country. I do what has to be done.”
“In the end, one of you may have to kill the other.”
Tom drew his lips against his teeth and closed his eyes a moment. “As your people say, Fortune and Death come from above. What can a man do to change Fate?” He took her hand and squeezed tightly and felt the responding pressure of her fingers. “Come, Luisa, let’s go home.”