Night Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) Page 25

  Well acquainted with his mentor's political frustration in the nation's capital, not to mention its state counterpart in Austin, Jim sighed. “Well, we do know we've got some traders selling whiskey and guns to Comanche renegades, and their raids are getting pretty close to San Antonio. Any idea if these scum are licensed traders or just illegals who've slipped in to meet with the Comanche?”

  Houston laughed mirthlessly. “Despite the fact that the idea of licensing traders to deal with the Indians was my own, I must confess it a dismal failure in practice. All the licenses have done since our illustrious Whig administration took power is serve as a form of spoils. We might as well have the army give them their military issue to sell to the renegades! I'm afraid the licensed traders are hiding behind corrupt deals with highly placed people in Congress and in the Interior Department. I know for certain that Lucas Blaine is getting direct payments from the Indian Office for alleged debts run up by half the Comanche Nation—who all conveniently seem to purchase goods on credit from his post.”

  “Convenient—eliminate the middleman,” Jim said disgustedly.

  “One way or another, those white carrion get government money and deliver nothing but inferior goods and pestilence to their red brothers,” Sam added sadly.

  “You think Blaine is one of the whiskey traders?” Jim asked.

  Houston scoffed. “As my old friend Chief Bowl used to say, ‘Does a bear shit in the woods?’ The trick is going to be catching him actually dealing with the renegades. He may be defrauding the government by taking Comanche allotment money for inferior or nonexistent pots and blankets, but the real danger is that he's also selling them guns and spirits. Obviously the Indian Office can't reimburse him for those items.”

  “And since he isn't in this for philanthropy, we can be sure the renegades are trading him something in return—horses and cattle stolen from ranchers around this area,” Jim supplied.

  “And if Blaine is operating this close to San Antonio, he has to have the cooperation of someone with the rangers,” Houston said.

  “No way would this go on if Jack Hays was still in charge,” Jim agreed fervently.

  “Let's just hope our undercover ranger will be able to nose out everyone involved before the whole of west Texas erupts into full-blown war,” Houston added, then looked up. A horseman was approaching the house.

  Jeremy Lawrence swung down from his mount with the careless ease of a man who has spent a lifetime on horseback. His tan hair blew free in the breeze and his mustache gave his face a hard-edged look, like a Texas ruffian, the perfect sort to fit in with Seth Walkman.

  He ambled up to the porch and shoved the flat-crowned hat to the back of his head. Reaching out his hand to Houston, he said, “Mornin', Senator. Mr. Slade, a pleasure to see you again.”

  As the two men shook hands, Jim smiled and said, “Call me Jim, Jeremy. Sam here's been telling me all about you. You know this is going to be a hell of a dangerous job. But first, let's go in and get breakfast. Be grateful Charlee's cooking this morning, not Weevils.”

  Over stacks of hot buckwheat cakes and molasses, the men sat around the kitchen table and talked.

  “What do you know about Seth Walkman?” Jeremy asked Jim, his level blue gaze measuring and steady.

  Jim grimaced and took a swig of coffee to clear his throat. “I wouldn't turn my back to him. He's kill-crazy mean and hates Indians. You tangle with your ‘boss’ already?”

  Lawrence grinned wolfishly. “Nope. I'm just a quiet boy from Virginia who used to shoot a few buffalo for a living. I'm not making any waves around my superior officers…yet.”

  “You'll learn a great deal that way. Jim here can tell you that from experience,” Houston interjected dryly.

  “I have already learned a number of fascinating things,” Lawrence said quietly. Both the men fixed their eyes on him expectantly. “Newspaper reporters are a great source—especially when they're beautiful women, to boot.”

  Jim dropped his fork with a clatter. “Melanie Velasquez?” he croaked. “Damn, I should've known she'd get involved after all her Indian crusading.”

  Houston's face lit with glee. “After you yourself married a strong-willed woman, Jim-boy, you should not be shocked by a female reporter unearthing these facts.”

  “I am when she's married to Lee Velasquez,” Jim said with decided unease. “What did Melanie tell you?” he asked Lawrence.

  Jeremy leaned forward. “She has some Indian kids—boys from that school the German priest runs—who can observe all sorts of things for her. They found my Indian-hating boss, Walkman, being rather chummy with a fellow named Lucas Blaine, who's licensed to trade with the Comanche. Walkman not only keeps his rangers from crossing tracks with Blaine, he gives Blaine tips about good pickings—livestock for Blaine’s renegade friends to raid.”

  “Like that herd of cattle stolen from the Jameston place?” Jim interjected with dawning understanding. “That fool girl is really in over her head! If Walkman or Blaine ever finds out she can tie them together, they'll kill her or sell her as a slave to Buffalo Gall or one of his cronies!” He well remembered when his own headstrong Charlee had narrowly escaped such a fate a scant ten years earlier!

  “I've told her she's to stay out of this from here on, but I don't know that she'll do it,” Jeremy said with a sigh. “She has agreed to tell me everything she gleans from the children. At least we do have a link substantiated between a ranger captain and a whiskey trader. Now, we have to bait a trap for Blaine and his renegades.” He looked from Houston to Slade expectantly.

  Houston said shrewdly, “Not Jim. He's too well known and tied to me. We need someone newer around here—a rancher who lives farther out, with smaller numbers of men working for him—someone they'd never suspect.” He looked at Jim.

  “You're thinking of Lee.” He sighed. “The way he feels about both Indians and rangers, it'll be the devil's own time convincing him to help us.”

  Jeremy replied vehemently, “But if his own wife is endangered by these men, surely—”

  “He'd probably sooner lock her in a closet than work with you,” Jim bluntly interjected.

  Lawrence shrugged. “I did detect, er, a bit of hostility from him the first time we met; but I attributed it to jealousy over his beautiful lady, not to my ranger uniform—if you can call these buckskins a uniform,” he added ruefully.

  “He'll work with you, the young rapscallion, or he'll answer to Sam Houston,” the senator replied with finality.

  “I just itch to know what a man with Walkman's crazy hatred of Indians is doing helping a trader who barters them guns,” Jeremy said speculatively.

  Houston and Slade exchanged grave looks. “What better way to touch off a full-blown war of extermination?” the senator asked.

  * * * *

  Lame Deer tasted blood as Fredo Rojas' large beefy knuckles connected a second, then a third time with his split lips.

  “Dirty Indian, renegade trash, hanging around our city, trying to act white,” Felipe taunted, struggling to hold on to the much smaller boy as his brother pummeled him mercilessly.

  “You stay away from our library,” gritted Fredo as he landed a telling blow to the Indian's stomach.

  “Yes. Just come to our father's house and clean the privies. That's good work for a shit-eating savage,” Felipe said with an ugly laugh.

  Using his last surge of blinding, hate-filled strength, Lame Deer wrenched free of Felipe's hold and butted his head like a battering ram into Fredo's ample midsection, knocking the youth into the thick dust of the street. As they rolled and thrashed, Felipe grabbed the smaller boy, pulling Lame Deer off his brother. Viciously, he twisted the Indian's straight black hair, forcing Lame Deer's bloody face into the dust, caking it with dark reddish mud. Fredo now rolled up and began to punch at the downed Indian's back and sides.

  Lame Deer could feel the fierce blows raining all over him, but their impact was lessening as his vision began to blur and he slipped into semi-co
nsciousness. Then, the weight of Felipe's body was suddenly lifted off him, and the shrill, angry cries of the Rojas brothers were silenced by a deep baritone voice speaking in rapid Spanish.

  After Lee's fight with Melanie, he had stormed off to the livery stable. He was on his way back to the ranch when the sounds of boys scuffling had distracted him. Lee held twelve-year-old Fredo and fourteen-year-old Felipe, one in each hand, by the scruffs of their necks. “Why are the two of you beating up one small boy?” His piercing black eyes and fiercely scowling face turned from Fredo to Felipe, waiting for an answer.

  “He's just an Indian who works for our housekeeper. Why do you care what happens to a dirty Apache?” Felipe asked, half in bewilderment, half in fear.

  “I am a Lipan!” Lame Deer cried furiously, heedless of his split lip and aching jaw as he dragged himself to sit up, spitting mud and blood from between his teeth.

  Lee released the two larger boys, saying, “That still doesn't explain why the two of you set on him behind your house.”

  “He was reading a book from our papa's library! No dirty Apache,” Fredo said, looking defiantly at the smaller boy again, “has the right to read our books. He stole it!”

  “Yes! We chased him out here,” added Felipe.

  Lee knelt by the Indian boy's side. Knowing the fiercely independent pride of Lipan Apaches, he made no attempt to comfort the beaten child, but simply asked, “Did you steal a book, Lame Deer?”

  The child's eyes were already swollen almost closed and his face was so cut and mud-covered it was nearly unrecognizable; but he replied with surprising dignity, “I stole nothing. Mrs. Mendoza gave me permission to read in the library after I finished my chores in the back.”

  “Our housekeeper wouldn't let an Indian in Papa's library,” Fredo shrilled, taking a menacing step toward Lame Deer again.

  “Anyway, Indians shouldn't be able to read,” Felipe added scathingly.

  “Father Gus is teaching me. I can read better than Fredo. Despite the fancy tutors his papa hires, he is stupid,” Lame Deer added defiantly, beaten but unbowed before the menacing brothers.

  Deciding the ten-year-old had no broken bones and was able to walk, Lee stood up and motioned for Lame Deer to do the same. “Let's just go see Mrs. Mendoza and find out who's telling the truth here.” He looked from the younger Indian child to the two tight-lipped Rojas boys.

  All three preceded Lee back toward the house beyond the high adobe wall surrounding the garden.

  Mrs. Mendoza was a kindly woman, well past fifty but vigorous and efficient. She took pride in her work. When Lee introduced himself to her, he could see the obvious Indian heritage stamped on her strong impassive features, high cheekbones, flat broad forehead, and prominent nose. She stood in the kitchen of the Rojas house, looking with obvious distress from Fredo and Felipe to Lame Deer.

  “When I told him he could read for a bit when he finished his chores, I never dreamed this would happen. He replaced the book yesterday evening—I saw him do it. It was one about Indians with drawings in it. Then, he left after thanking me.” She nervously wiped her hands on her apron, looking at the Rojas brothers. “I did not think they would attack Lame Deer for it.”

  Lee looked at Felipe and Fredo with a scowl. “So he stole a book, did he?”

  “What does it matter? That crazy German priest has no right to teach Indians how to read!” Felipe pointed a finger at the small muddy boy.

  “He shouldn't touch our papa's things, either,” Fredo added spitefully.

  Mrs. Mendoza gasped and crossed herself at his insult to Father Gus. “He is a man of God, and you will confess that sin tonight!”

  Lee added, “And as for touching your father's books, you might do well to spend a little more time reading in his library yourself and a lot less bullying boys half your size in the streets. That was a coward's act.”

  Felipe looked ashamed and faintly fearful that his father might indeed exact punishment for brawling with a common Indian servant, but Fredo only gave Lee a sullen, silent pout and stared down at his shoes.

  When Mrs. Mendoza wanted to cleanse Lame Deer's injuries, the boy stubbornly refused, saying only that he was late for his lessons at Father Gus's school. When he would have slipped away, Lee restrained him and, upon assuring Mrs. Mendoza that he'd see to the boy, departed with him.

  As they walked out the back way, Lee noticed how the child stoically ignored his injuries and labored to keep up with his own long strides. He mounted Sangre and reached down to scoop the small battered child up into his arms. “You work for the Rojas family long?” He switched from Spanish to English now.

  As he suspected, Lame Deer followed the language shift naturally. “No, only a month or so. I help the gardener and do some chores for the housekeeper lady.”

  “Your family need money?” Lee asked, knowing that was the situation with most of the tame Indians living on the periphery of the city.

  The boy nodded. “My baby sister's sick and needs milk.” Then he ducked his head suddenly.

  Lee's eyes narrowed. “That has a familiar ring to it. Last spring in the Main Plaza market—you were the boy who tried to steal the goat! You did steal Father Gus's burro.”

  The boy looked his rescuer in the eye. “I returned the burro to the holy father. He forgave me.”

  “And taught you how to read, too, apparently,” Lee said dryly. “Why try to read in the Rojas library? Of all places to pick, I'd guess it's the least hospitable.”

  “We have so few books at our school. Father Gus writes to his friends in St. Louis and in Germany, but they can spare little. There aren't enough books to go around,” he said wistfully. “And the Rojas library is grand, with books full of drawings, even!”

  Lee smiled in spite of himself, recalling a small boy sneaking into Will Slade's imposing library to read late at night. Of course, he had Will's full blessing to read all he wanted. Somehow, knowing Felipe and Fredo's father, he was certain no such invitation would ever be tendered to Lame Deer.

  “Ach! Lame Deer, what has happened?” Father Gus's eyes widened to saucer size as he saw Lee dismount with his bloodied pupil. He rushed from the door of the small adobe on the outskirts of the city that served as his free school.

  “I am all right, Father, honest,” the boy remonstrated to the priest, who was kneeling in the dust examining cuts and swellings. “Only one tooth is gone and it was a baby tooth I was to lose anyway. It was loose or they'd never have knocked it out,” he said with bravado.

  “They? Who are these ‘they’ that beat small children?” Father Gus's blue eyes blazed.

  “The Rojas brothers,” Lee supplied. “I'll tell you all about it while we get this young man cleaned up.”

  “Ja, come,” Father Gus picked up the unresisting child and walked resolutely through the door as Lee quickly explained about the fight he'd interrupted.

  “Jeehosaphat! Child, whut's happened ta yew?” Obedience Oakley stood in the middle of the courtyard behind the schoolroom. The adobe oven in the center was flanked by several crude trestle tables with a big cook fire over to one side. A large pot bubbled over the fire and Obedience was in the process of taking six pans of golden corn bread from the oven. She dropped the last pan carelessly on the table and scuttled over to the injured boy.

  “I fought two boys. It is not really that bad, Mrs. Oakley, honest,” Lame Deer said as she ushered him over to the fountain spilling down the far wall of the courtyard.

  “Jist set a spell ‘n let me see whut need's doin’.” She grabbed a large towel from the table and soaked it in the fountain, then began to clean the caked mud and dried blood from the boy's face as Lee explained.

  Father Gus shook his head sadly. “We need books and there is no money to ship them. English or Spanish, just any books. So many bright young minds I have here, so willing to learn, if only the tools were available. But we do what we can, ja?” He turned to Obedience and she nodded, intent on the squirming child who was more disquieted abo
ut being bathed than having his injuries treated.

  “This day I go to visit Señora Rojas. She must be told what kind of cruelty her children do,” Father Gus said sadly.

  “Won't do no good, Father. Them rich folks don't want th' likes o' us mixin' in with them ‘n their younguns. Them boys is purely spoiled rotten,” Obedience averred.

  “I'm afraid she's right,” Lee agreed.

  “Anyway, I go. They must know that Lame Deer did not steal. Who knows what lies are upon the souls of those boys even now?”

  “Never seen a man with sech grit, I'll give yew that, Father,” Obedience said, chuckling. “Even if ‘n yew do wear them funny dresses all th' time.” She gestured to his cassock. “Ain't hidin' nothin', are ya?”

  Looking down, the young priest's eyes danced and he lifted the hem of his cassock. “See? No hooves.”

  Lee looked baffled as Obedience and Father Gus exchanged a hearty laugh. “Hooves?”

  “Ach, I forget. You were not here.” He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes and explained, “Last week a wagon train comes—from Alabama, bound for California. Two small ones, no bigger than Lame Deer, follow me across the square from San Fernando's after mass. When I stop to talk with my abbess here at one of the market stalls, the younger of the little ones, a girl, she rushed up to me and...lifts my cassock in the back! Suddenly I feel a draft and I turn.”

  “He ain't got no tail, ner no hooves neither,” Obedience interjected, mimicking a small girl's voice. “Them children wuz tole th' same thing I wuz tole back in Tennessee. Reason yew priest fellas wear long dresses ‘n hats like ladies is ta hide yer horns ‘n tails ‘n cloven hooves ‘cause yer th' devil's own!”