Edward Jennings

A Novel of the American West

by Jack L Knapp

 

By the Author:

The Wizards Series

Combat Wizard

Wizard at Work

Talent

The Wizards Series Boxed Set (Combat Wizard, Wizard at Work, and Talent)

Veil of Time

Siberian Wizard

Magic

Angel (A Wizards Short Story)

The Darwin’s World Series

Darwin’s World

The Trek

Home

Boxed Set, the Darwin's World Series (Darwin's World, The Trek, and Home)

The Return

Defending Eden

The New Frontiers Series

The Ship

NFI: New Frontiers, Inc

NEO: Near Earth Objects

The New Frontiers Series Boxed Set (The Ship, NFI, and NEO)

BEMs: Bug Eyed Monsters

MARS: The Martian Autonomous Republic of Sol

Pirates

Terra

Historic Western

Jacob Jennings: a Novel of the Texas Frontier

Edward Jennings: a Novel of the American West

Edward Jennings: War and Recovery

Edward Jennings: Cattleman

The Territory: a Novel of the American West

 

Fantasy

The Wizard’s Apprentice

 

COPYRIGHT

Edward Jennings

A Novel of the American West

 

Copyright © 2020, renewed 2023 by Jack L Knapp

 

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.

Disclaimer: The persons and events depicted in this novel were created by the author’s imagination, except for historical persons; his depiction of them is based on his interpretation of published information. Other than that, no resemblance to actual persons or events is intended.

 

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Epilogue

About the Author:

 

 

 

Chapter One

“You’re old enough to have your own now, Ed.” Pa handed me a holstered pistol wrapped around with a stiff leather belt.

I recognized it; it had been his up until he got his new ones. That old Paterson Colt was clumsy to reload, even with the improvements Pa had made to it, but by using both hands I could shoot it just fine.

It wasn’t near as heavy as Pa’s new Walker-model Colt, but knowing what it meant made it seem heavy. Three shots for the enemy, one for Ma, and one for me. Hard, hard to think on…but knowing what the Indians would do to her didn’t bear thinking on, and the Mexicans were not much better. I took that pistol and told him thank you.

“Back in Louisiana, it was floods and storms like the one that killed my folks. Here? It’s Comanches coming down from the northwest and Mexicans coming up from the south. I wish it was different, Son, but it’s not.”

I understood what Pa meant, because more than one boy my age had been killed or captured during raids. I knowed too that it meant he was going away again; the riders waiting impatiently outside the front gate just confirmed it.

He had his duty, did Captain Jacob Jennings, and I had mine. I would do my best to care for my ma Priscilla, and from time to time I intended to ride north to Lieutenant Jean-Louis Lafitte’s rancho. Him and Sharon had kids, but they were all girls, and a fellow can’t expect a girl to fight off Indians or Mexicans.

Many a boy my age or younger was doing the same, because we had to. I wasn’t exactly sure what a Republic was, except that we had one, and if we didn’t defend it Mexico would come back and take it away from us. It didn’t do to surrender, because they didn’t take prisoners. The Comanches didn’t care one way or another; seemed like they were determined to kill off everyone who wasn’t a Comanche.

He ruffled my hair and I looked him in the eye. I felt like crying, but a man doesn’t cry. He just gets on with doing what’s needed. His eyes were as watery as mine, probably because of the dust stirred up by the horses. Dust gets into everybody’s eyes. No shame in that.

Pa stepped into his saddle, nodded once more to me, and raised his hand. By the time I got through blinking all that dust out of my eyes, the last riders were following him down the road toward Victoria.

They didn’t look back…likely they had families of their own, those militia riders…but I kept on watching until they were out of sight, and a while after that. And then I headed for the barn to punch new holes in my pistol belt. Pa wore his all the time, I figured I would just have to get used to doing the same.

***

“Edward Jennings, you take that thing off right now! I don’t know what your pa was thinking!”

I could see right off that Ma was upset, but Pa had made me responsible so I stood up for myself. “Ma, you heard about what happened to those folks at Fort Parker. A gun won’t do you no good if you don’t have it when you need it, and the men working in the fields didn’t. Some were killed right away and the rest weren’t ready for a fight, from what folks say, so the Comanches stole what they wanted and took the women and kids with them when they rode off. We don’t know what happened to them, the ones that weren’t ransomed. They might be dead by now. But the ones we do know about…well, that won’t happen to you or me. Pa gave me his pistol and holster, and he also gave me his belt. I figured he did that because he expected me to wear it. And I’d appreciate it if you called me Ed or Edward all the time now. Little Ed don’t sound right.”

“Don’t you talk back to me, Edward Jennings! I ought to take that belt and tan your backside with it!”

I sighed, but I tried to hide what I was thinking. I knowed she was already getting used to how things were, and I didn’t want to change her mind. If it took her whipping me to make her understand that I was set on doing my duty, well…she was still Ma. One whipping or a dozen, Pa had made me responsible, and I was determined not to disappoint him.

“What about school, Ed? What will the teacher think?” Ma asked plaintively.

“He’ll think it was about time. I’m younger than the other boys, but not by all that much, and they bring guns to school.” I didn’t mention that most were rifles or shotguns, but they did come armed, and when they got to the schoolhouse, they leaned their guns against the wall nearest to where they were sitting. I would be the only one wearing a pistol. Good thing I was bigger than others my age and strong from the work I’d done!

***

The teacher, despite my pa hiring him from somewhere back east, understood when I walked into the room next morning. The frontier was a dangerous place, and south Texas more than most.

So did Juan Vargas, foreman of Ten Springs Rancho, but he was more practical. “Hand me that pistol, Ed.” I felt like asking why, but I figured he had his reasons, so I handed it over.

Right off, he checked to make sure the hammer was down on an empty cylinder. “You wondering why I’m doing this, Ed?” he asked. I noticed that he didn’t call me Little Ed, which made me wonder at first. But then I put things together.

“Pa asked you to check, didn’t he? To make sure I was being careful like he taught me?”

“He did. Told me to do a few other things too. Do you have his spare cylinders?”

“I do,” I said. “They’re both full-loaded, five shots in each. I pulled the loads when I cleaned the pistol and after I reloaded, I sealed the chamber ends with lard.”

“Good. Now, it’s not that I don’t trust you—you’re growing up, and men don’t lie to other men without a good reason—but young men make mistakes. You mind getting them for me?”

I rummaged through my possibles bag and found the two doeskin bags that protected the Paterson’s spare cylinders. I handed them over and he looked at the drawstring closing the bag. “Too tight. Work it until you can easily spread the opening in the dark. Whenever you empty a cylinder, just put it back in your possibles bag if you can. You’re likely to be in a hurry, so don’t waste time. When was the last time you shot this pistol?”

“Not since the last time Pa was home,” I confessed. I figured it was better to not mention that it was the only time I’d shot Pa’s pistol, but Juan kept on looking at me. Nobody’s fool, Juan Vargas.

“You think I need to practice?” I asked.

“Not right now, you’ve got work to do. But you’ll practice every day from now on until you can do what’s needed without thinking. Your arm, your thumb, and your fingers need to know what to do, just like your eye needs to naturally line up where the barrel is pointing.

“This evening, after the hands finish their chuck, we’ll head down to the creek. Wear the pistol, but bring your rifle too. Your pa taught you when not to shoot, I’m going to teach you how to do it when the time comes.”

I already knew how to shoot, because I’d emptied all three cylinders that first time Pa had let me shoot, and he told me I’d done well. But if Juan figured I needed practice, that was fine with me. Shooting at targets is fun!

***

Turned out I was wrong.

I didn’t know how to shoot after all, but after that first afternoon’s practice I was a little bit better.

The hands got better too. They’d heard me banging away and come down to see what the fuss was about. Some were red in the face that first day when their pistols wouldn’t fire, but that only happened once. After that, they cleaned them careful after every practice and when they reloaded, they made sure the cap was centered on the nipple and pinched down tight.

The next week we started competing to see who shot best. A man ought not to brag if he ain’t willing to bet, so I did.

Which is why I showed up at the corral the next morning, ready to work. I didn’t mind mucking out the stalls—they don’t smell bad, just horsey—but it was the first time I’d ever had to do it! And after I told Juan I was finished, he went inside and told me it wasn’t good enough.

Me! You’d think he owned the place, not Pa!

But I shut my trap and got back to work. And after I spread fresh hay on the floors and filled the feeders, he allowed that I’d done a good enough job that second time and drew me a mug of beer from the keg he’d bought for the hands.

A week later, it happened again. I shot my mouth off better than I did that Paterson revolver, but this time it wasn’t for who-cleans-the-stalls.

I don’t know how they found out what was going on, but that afternoon most of the hands from Uncle Jean-Louis’s place showed up. They were waiting when I walked out, sitting or leaning on the breaking pen along with our hands, waiting to see me get my comeuppance.

By trying to ride a green bronc.

He walled his eye at me, at least until Juan and one of the hands wrapped a blindfold around his head. That calmed him down while they got the saddle on and cinched it down. Juan also made sure the stirrups were the right length for my legs, which might have been moving around more than usual when I climbed on that pony’s hurricane deck.

I caught my balance, held the reins in my left hand and dropped my right next to where the reata was tied onto the saddle, but it didn’t stay there long. As soon as Juan pulled the blindfold off, that bronc bogged his head and jumped straight up. By the time he came down, hard enough to remind me not to ride a bucking horse with my mouth open, my right hand was clutched tight to the saddle horn. And it stayed there through the next three jumps, by which time that pony figured he’d defended his honor, and could I stop sticking my spurs in his side?

Turned out that bronc wasn’t as green as I’d figured.

Juan could be tricky that way, and so could the hands. I saw some handshakes between ours and Uncle Jean-Louis’s, and there might have been money changing hands too.

But they didn’t make a fuss over what I’d done so I didn’t either. Bragging mostly just gets a man in trouble.

Pa was only gone about ten weeks that trip, scouting over in the Nueces Strip.

There was another time when he stayed away for nearly six months, and after he got back he wouldn’t tell us where he’d been or what had happened.

But I overheard a couple of the hands talking and even though I wanted to tell Ma, I didn’t. No use to cause her to worry more than she already did! But maybe she knew, because she spent a lot of time taking good care of Pa after he got home, bringing him coffee in the smithy and fixing his meals special.

I also noticed something I hadn’t paid attention to before, that the wrinkles in her forehead weren’t there anymore after he got home.

But they came back the next time he went away.

***

Ma wanted to spend that Christmas of 1845 in Victoria. Aunt Sharon visited Ten Springs every month or so, but Ma said she was feeling closed in and with Pa away, she felt like moving into town for a few days.

There wasn’t much going on at the rancho anyway, so we packed up and headed in, me driving the buckboard with our gear though not much of it was mine. I’d outgrown most everything except for my heavy buffalo-robe coat and Ma had promised she’d help me find new clothes, so I was looking forward to Christmas.

Company came around to visit most days after word went around. Everybody in town knew Ma or Pa, or maybe they just wanted to make it seem like they did, but Ma was gracious even to the ones she didn’t know. She’d invite them in, offer them tea and cookies or stuff like that, and snaffle me up short when I tried to sneak out. Now and then there’d be one of the town boys, but they looked at me funny for wearing a pistol in town, so I didn’t see no reason to spend time with them.

I expected that if I did, they’d say something, and then we’d get in a fight. Pa had told me that a man who wears a pistol ought not to fight unless he has to. A fist-fight can turn into a cutting-scrape or a gunfight without either one intending it to go that far. I remembered.

I was near man-sized now and shaving, because there was no way I was going to leave half a dozen hairs on my lip and call it a moustache. Most of the town boys hadn’t got around to doing even that much yet, which was another reason not to spend time with them. They were boys, and if I wasn’t a man yet, I was a lot farther along than they were!

My two favorites in Victoria were Milton and Jeff. They’d both lived through Buffalo Hump’s raid and Milton wore a holstered pistol himself, a big old Walker Colt such as the Rangers favored.

I figured Jeff had a pocket pistol, but if he did, he didn’t talk about it. And if he ever decided he needed a regular pistol, the gun-shop was right there. Wide, stiff pistol belts and holsters too.

Jeff was married and a businessman now. He shook hands and talked to people, friendly-like, and seemed to get along with everybody.

Milton was different, though it took me a while to understand. He had a dark side to him. It didn’t happen often, and it made me uncomfortable when it did, because his face got stiff and his eyes looked different, but somehow, I knew that deep down, Jeff was a fighter when necessary.

Milton was a killer.

***

Jeff’s wife Penelope spent time with Ma and I got along with her, though now and then she made me nervous. Not that she said anything or looked at me funny, but generally when she came around, she had a friend with her, sometimes two. They were the ones that looked at me funny.

After Christmas, things slowed down some, but Ma was planning a party and Penelope and a handful of young women had showed up to help. I was some nervous and as soon as Milton showed up, I headed right for him.

Turned out he had news. The USA had agreed to annex Texas as the 28^th state in the Union!

Most thought that was good news, but Ma was worried. We talked about it on the way back to the rancho. “Ed, Mexican troops have crossed the border any number of times since the revolution. Jacob thought they were scouting, looking for someplace they could invade, but the militia and ranging companies always caught up to them before they got very far.”

“You think the next time they’ll invade for real, Ma?” I asked.

“I do, and so does Jacob, but this time the US will take the fight to them. And when they do, Jacob and Jean-Louis will be drawn in. The US Army will need rangers and militia, and where the company goes, Jacob and Jean-Louis will go too.”

After that, I worried too. I asked Pa what he thought when he got home two weeks later.

“There’s talk,” he admitted. “Over in east Texas, they’re bound and determined to make Texas a slave state. I’m against it and so are most of our neighbors out west, but they’ve got the numbers and they’ve got Washington’s politicians on their side. I’m afraid it means war, and when it starts I’ll have to go.

“We’re heading for the border on Friday to relieve the company that’s patrolling down there, but I don’t expect anything to happen right away. Whichever general they put in charge will need to assemble a proper army first, and I doubt Washington is ready either. One good thing, the Comanches are quiet right now. There have been a few little pin-prick raids up north along the Red River and over to the west, but they haven’t forgotten Plum Creek.

“Even so, a body never knows, so you keep your pistol handy. I rely on you to take care of your ma.”

I promised I would and when the company mustered outside our gate Friday morning, I was there with Juan to see them off.

***

Juan was gray and old, but he could still ride most anything with hair and shoot better than anyone but Pa.

He taught me a lot during the four years he was foreman. He wasn’t Pa, but he came to be mighty close. That’s why it hurt so bad that morning when Sixto Morales came to the house with his hat in his hand.

Juan had died sometime during the night.

The hands dug the grave in our small cemetery, making sure it was wide enough and deep enough for a big man. We said what was in our hearts, and after that Ma went back to the house.

I stayed around until Sixto hammered the marker board in at the head of Juan’s grave, and then we left too, his arm around my shoulders.

Ain’t nothing so lonely as a new grave, I reckon.

Sixto was a good man and he knowed cattle as well as anyone, which is why he got to be foreman, but he wasn’t Juan.

I felt like I ought to be doing more, seeing as how Pa was away again, and this time, nobody had any idea of when any of them would be back.

The Mexican Army had crossed the Rio Grande, killed some of our men during a skirmish, and right after that the US had declared war on Mexico.

Most expected the US Army, including Pa’s militia company, would land somewhere along the Gulf coast and head for Mexico City. Right into the middle of the whole Mexican Army.

And this time, they wouldn’t be caught napping.

 

Chapter Two

Isom Jennings—his family had adopted the surname of their previous owner after leaving east Texas, a common practice—strained at the wheel, turning the cannon until the muzzle was pointed to where the first US soldiers had been spotted.

Sergeant Sean Riley stood up and wiped the sweat from his face, using a dirty cloth damp from previous use. “That’ll do it, Boy,” he said. “Help that fellow bringing up the cannonballs and when you get done with that, see to distributing the powder kegs.”

“I’m no boy, Riley.” Isom said, wanting to say more, but understanding that it wouldn’t make any difference. To the white US Army deserters that made up most of the Saint Patrick’s Battalion, he would forever be a ‘contraband’ or ‘darky’, ‘colored’ if one was trying to be polite, ‘Boy’ if he intended offense.

Riley glowered at him. “You’re not a cannoneer eith…”

His words were cut off in mid-sentence by the musket ball that smashed his face to bloody ruin.

Shocked, Isom stood there, hand to his face absently wiping off the spattered blood and bits of flesh. A Mexican officer ran toward him and grabbed his arm, shaking it. “Do you know how to load and fire the gun? If the Americans get past us, they’ll soon be in the city!”

“I know how,” Isom admitted. “It’s not that different from firing a musket, except that you shoot it by bringing a flame to the touchhole.”

“Do so! You are now the sergeant, so take charge of those others and get this gun in action! The Americans are moving closer and if they get behind us, we’ll all be killed!” He trotted off to the next position, leaving Isom shocked at what had just transpired.

“Guess I’m not a boy after all, am I, Sergeant?” he said, looking at the twisted body lying beside the gun, then did what he’d been ordered.

“You two!” he yelled at a pair of the Irish Catholics who had deserted the US Army rather than fire on their fellow religionists. “Take this man and throw him over the wall!”

The two whites might have complained, had they not seen Isom remove the previous owner’s pistol and strap it around his waist. An instant sergeant the contraband might be, but he was an armed contraband and he looked ready to use that pistol.

They tossed the flopping corpse over the convent wall, then brought up powder and ball to load the cannon. Finished, they helped other crewmen roll it forward until the muzzle projected beyond the hasty embrasure.

Isom looked past Napoleon’s imperial symbol, part of the mold when the gun was cast, to the dot on the muzzle’s crown that served as a rudimentary sight. “Better back away and take cover behind the bell tower,” he said. “We ain’t fired this one yet, and some of the others have burst.”

“What about you, Sergeant?” One of the crew asked.

“I have to stand close, you don’t.” Isom used the pricker to make sure the touchhole was clear, then sprinkled a small amount of the finer powder from the dead man’s horn, now his, into the touchhole.

Coarse cannon-powder was often less sensitive; the finer powder would ensure that the flame reached the main charge waiting below.

Ready, he blew on the slow-match and took one final look at the distant company of infantry. He’d watched Riley fire cannons during earlier battles, so he knew better than to stand behind the gun. Moving around to the side and stretching his arm as far as possible, Isom touched the end of the slow-match to the old gun’s touchhole.

The fine powder flared, hissing, giving Isom a moment to look where he expected the ball to strike. The muzzle blast shook him, but he’d caught a brief glimpse of the cannonball rising before smoke hid it from his view.

A little short, he judged. But they’ll be in range by the time we get the gun reloaded!

***

Brevet-Captain Ulysses S Grant, known to his fellow officers as Sam, wiped his sweaty face and peered at the infantry company moving up on his company’s right flank.

“What unit is that?” he asked his friend and fellow officer James Longstreet, who shaded his hand and squinted at the battle flag.

“South Texas Volunteer Infantry, looks like,” Longstreet offered.

“Not a West Pointer, their commander?” Sam asked.

“No, but he knows what he’s doing. Not his first time fighting Mexicans, and in between he fought Comanches. I hear tell that he owns a big ranch down near Victoria and his lieutenant is as well off as he is. There’s some who think him the son of Jean Lafitte, the pirate!”

“We could use a few pirates right about now,” Sam said, ducking behind cover as a cannon fired from behind the convent’s wall. “That bunch of damned deserters is too good by far!”

“They’re not all deserters, Sam,” observed Jim Longstreet, “and not all Irish either. They might have started out that way, the San Patricios, but they wound up as a kind of dumping ground for Englishmen, runaway slaves, every rag-tag-and-bobtail body that didn’t fit anywhere else.”

Another loud boom echoed, too soon for the first cannon to have been reloaded. “Got at least two guns—make that three—in action,” Longstreet remarked after the next boom. “Your cavalry boys try charging them, there won’t be enough of you left afterwards for a corporal’s guard.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re jealous,” said Sam. “But if your infantry boys are up to the job, my horsemen will come in behind and finish off any you miss!”

“Might not be as many as you think,” Jim said. “The engineers have finally come up. Captain Robert Lee—that other engineer, Isaac Stevens, calls him Bobby—is as good an officer as there is in the army. And Stevens, for all his size, is as brave as any and a very efficient officer. They’ve both been mentioned in dispatches, but seeing as they’re engineers they haven’t been brevetted.”

“Stevens is a runt,” commented Sam, who had been brevetted and was still sensitive about his new rank. “But I’ve seen him before, and he’s a rider! You’d think he would have asked to be commissioned in the cavalry!”

“He’s a good rider,” Longstreet acknowledged, “but he’s a better mathematician. I remember him from the Point. He graduated first in his class, so maybe he’s got something to prove.

“I don’t suppose it matters why, though. I’m just glad they’re both here, him and Robert Lee.” Mexican cannons boomed again from atop the walls and the two scrambled for better cover, ending the discussion.

This time, Isom’s shot had landed where he expected. The South Texas Infantry Company had gone to ground, leaving a handful of bodies scattered around the disturbed ground where the ball had struck.

***

Despite what the Mexican officer had said, the battle of Churubusco had never really been in doubt. The Americans had simply maneuvered behind Mexican positions and after a considerable amount of hard fighting, routed them.

Isom had discarded the pistol because it got in his way, so when the American infantrymen pointed their muskets at him and demanded that he surrender, he’d been one of about a hundred who had done so.

The cold-eyed lieutenant in charge of the detail separated the fifty or so deserters, mostly Irish, but also Germans and a smattering of other Europeans, from the nearly-equal number of Mexicans and blacks. Isom wondered briefly at that, then decided it didn’t matter.

As it happened, it did.

“This one deserted before the war,” the lieutenant said after questioning the whites. “Brand a ‘D’ on his forehead and turn him loose. The rest of the deserters, the general has sentenced them to hang. Just as soon as the engineers finish building the gallows, we’ll get on with it. As for the contrabands and the Mexicans, the sentence is fifty lashes, but we might as well get some work out of them first. Have them gather up our dead and dig the graves.

“Captain Lee and Lieutenant Stevens are laying out the cemetery, so ask one of them to tell you where they want the others buried.” The sergeant nodded and motioned to Isom and the ragged band standing with him. “Any of you understand English?” he asked loudly.

“I do,” said Isom. “The Mexicans don’t.”

“But you speak Spanish too, don’t you?” he asked. Isom nodded.

“You translate for me, then. Might be I can help you out later on.” When Isom looked at him questioningly, the sergeant looked idly up at the sky. “I can read and write my name, but numbers have always bothered me. Counting all the way to fifty…well, I might miss a few numbers on the way. Might be I’ll need your help with the counting, but not too much help.

“I’ll do what I can for you and the other contrabands, seeing as how you likely didn’t get asked to show up here, but I don’t want to make Lieutenant Meade suspicious. As it is, you’re lucky; if it was Lieutenant Tom Jackson, I wouldn’t dare take a chance. He’s a Bible-thumper and a hard man. A hard man,” the sergeant repeated.

The detail, supervised by the sergeant with Isom’s help, gathered up the American bodies. Isom stopped by one and looked at the man’s face. “I’ve seen him before,” he said.

“Not in the Army you didn’t, because they don’t let contrabands serve. How would you know that one?”

“He was captain of the mizzen mast when I sailed aboard ship. I was only there for a short time, but I’m sure that’s him. Lafitte, his name was.”

“I’ll tell the lieutenant. What about that other officer?”

“Not even his mother would recognize him now,” Isom said, looking at the body of Jacob Jennings. “At least they went fast. The doctors you brought…I heard those men screaming when they cut off their legs and arms. Some lost other parts too. Better a clean death than to end up like that!”

“Most won’t live through the night,” the sergeant agreed, “but some might. I’ve seen a few with only one arm or leg.

“Anyway, make sure you gather up all of that feller’s parts. It don’t matter to him, not now, but the lieutenant is picky.”

***

Isom, in agony from the blows, finally gasped out “Fifty!”

The private who’d swung the whip looked surprised for a moment, then decided that it was none of his affair. If the sergeant was okay with short counts, well, it was less work for him and the four others who hadn’t wanted the duty in the first place.

He cut the bonds holding Isom in place and murmured, “I would sluice off your back, but we’re short of water. You’ll just have to make do as best you can.”

“I thank you for the thought,” Isom wheezed, hoarse from the screams the whip had wrung from him. “What now?”

“The sergeant said turn you loose, so that’s what I’m gonna do. Are you able to walk?”

“I’ll have to,” Isom said. “Can you tell me which way is south?”

“Going deeper into Mexico? That makes sense, because if you go north, you’re apt to run into the Texas Rangers. I wouldn’t, was I you. They’re a murderous bunch and they hate Mexicans something awful, but that don’t mean they like contrabands!”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Isom took a last look at the long gallows where the white San Patricios had been hanged, then limped away into the brush.

***

Despite the pain, he found a spot back in the chaparral where he could hide and slept for a few hours.

Waking up to silence, he understood that the soldiers had bedded down or perhaps gone on toward the next battle.

Standing was torture, and even after he was upright, the pain barely decreased. But he was hungry and thirsty as well as hurting from where strips of skin had been stripped from his back by the whip, so he slowly moved away. An hour later, he stumbled through a brushy screen into the main American camp and hastily pulled back, thankful that the pickets were looking toward the west where shooting was still going on.

His shirt was tattered from the brush and glued to the scabs, but a careless soldier had left his shirt near where their muskets were stacked before seeking his bed.

Isom stripped off his rag behind a tent, and nearly fainting from the pain, pulled on the stolen one.

For a moment, he was tempted. But while the theft of a shirt would be overlooked, a missing musket would not. Better to keep moving until he found water. The pickets continued to look toward the distant fighting, so Isom moved on behind another tent, and from there, he slunk across an open stretch of ground to the next row.

He stole a stoppered gourd that turned out to be half-full of something alcoholic, possibly rum. The next one had water, so Isom carried both with him as he continued his foraging. A scrap of bacon, mostly skin, was the only food he found before he decided he’d taken as many chances as he dared and vanished into the brush.

***

That day, he rested. More than once he thought of the gourd of rum. Drinking it would ease his pain, but getting drunk would get him killed.

A week later, still close to the track that served as the American Army’s supply road, he stole the last mule in a long roped-together pack train by walking alongside and simply untying the knot from the harness of the one ahead. Veering into the brush, he waited to see if anyone had noticed, but in the dust stirred up by the passing mule train no one did.

The mule carried rations, including two complete sides of bacon, canisters of flour, and two other canisters that held coffee beans.

He ate well that night on toasted bacon and flour-and-water bread, enriched by bacon drippings, but decided the coffee would have to wait; someone might smell it and wonder who was brewing a pot where there were not supposed to be any American soldiers.

Two days later, having finally led the mule far enough away from the track to feel safe, Isom mounted the animal and headed north.

 

Chapter Three

Milton rode up to the gate, moving slower than I’d ever seen him. Curious, I thought; his horse doesn’t look sweaty at all.

But I slid between the corral poles and headed over to say howdy.

He swung down from the saddle and I saw then that his eyes were squinted nearly shut and looked red for some reason.

“Milton, you all right?” I asked, alarmed.

“Can’t say I am, Ed,” he replied. “I brought some bad news.”

“Pa?” I asked softly, already knowing the answer. “How bad?”

“As bad as it gets, Ed. I need to tell your ma.”

“I’ll come with you then,” I decided. I knew she would need me.

But it looked like she’d been expecting something like this, because she didn’t break down. At least, not until after Milton left on his way to Uncle Jean-Louis’s rancho. And then she cried like I’d never heard her cry before. I wrapped my arm around her and she grabbed on like she didn’t intend to let me go, ever, and I just stood there to give what comfort I could.

Finally, she sniffed, wiped her eyes with her apron, and headed back for the kitchen. I didn’t have a better idea, so I followed. She brewed up a pot of tea and poured cups for both of us, spooning in honey the way we both liked it, and then started to talk.

“Too many killed! If it’s not Indians, it’s Mexicans, and if neither one of them is causing trouble, then it’s outlaws! We talked about it more than once, Jacob and me, but he wouldn’t stop. I knew that sooner or later this day would come.”

Keeping my face from wrinkling up like hers while she was crying those bitter tears was as hard as anything I’d ever done, but it ain’t seemly for a man to do that.

Maybe, after I’m alone and nobody is watching or listening, I can let go. The thought that Pa wouldn’t be coming back, would never ride through that front gate again…

No use to think about that, because Ma needed me to be strong. I tried to explain. “Ma, Pa was good at what he did. I’ve heard men say that there was no better militia captain in Texas, not even excepting Ed Burleson or Jack Hays. Ed can be slow-moving until he makes his mind up and Jack is too brave, apt to lose control of his men, Pa said. He was a better leader than either one!”

“I won’t argue that, Ed. But you remember the story about the pitcher that went to the well too often? It got broke, and that’s what happened to Jacob.

“Son, he went into danger too often and he didn’t know when to quit. Ed Burleson and Sam Houston did their jobs, just like Jacob did, but afterwards they turned it over to younger men and took over directing the wars.

“Jacob…it was never in him to do that. He couldn’t send men into trouble and not be there too. It’s part of why he’ll be remembered as a great man.

“I don’t know what we’re to do now, you and me,” Ma said. “Sharon Lafitte too, because Jacob and Jean-Louis were both killed at a place called Churubusco. She’s worse off than us because she’ll have no one to lean on, except you. You’re young, but you’re already a man.”

“I ain’t Pa,” I said, “but between Sixto and me, we’ll get the job done. I reckon I ought to ride over to her place” —I suddenly realized that I’d never thought of it that way before— “and talk to Vicente Calderon. He’s a pretty good horse trainer, but I wouldn’t expect him to run the place without somebody to help him decide what to do. There’s another man, Leo Quintana; he’ll make a good foreman, I expect. Anyway, I’ll do my best to help Aunt Sharon, spend time over there as well as here. What do you think? Would she want me to do that?”

“Why don’t we ask her?” Ma suggested. “Tell Sixto to have one of the hands harness up the team and as soon as you’re ready, we’ll head for their place. Tell him we probably won’t be back before tomorrow.”

I did that, and I also told him I wanted a driver for the wagon and two hands to ride along with us. I wasn’t expecting trouble, but I told him that he should pick men who were good with a handgun as well as a rifle, and make sure they were armed.

He nodded; maybe he would have done it anyway. I couldn’t bring Pa back, but I intended to make sure nothing bad happened to Ma. He wouldn’t have expected less and as soon as I thought that, I realized I wouldn’t settle for less from myself.

Ma’d knowed it right off; I was young, but I was already a man.

***

It was coming on toward sundown when we got to Sharon’s place. I thanked the hands and told them to park the wagon and see to the team. They would eat with the Plains Rancho hands and later on, there would be a place for them to sleep in the bunkhouse. Our men spent nearly as much time over here as they did at Ma’s ranch anyway, and Aunt Sharon’s men helped ours when needed. By the time I finished talking to them, Ma had reached the front door and Aunt Sharon and her girls were there to welcome her.

She wasn’t really my aunt, any more than Jean-Louis had been my uncle, but Pa had always told me to be polite and I couldn’t go calling them Mister or Missus Lafitte—I'd knowed both almost as long as I’d knowed my parents—and calling them by their first name wouldn’t do either.

That’s how they’d ended up as uncle and aunt, the same way their girls did when they were talking with Ma.

The housekeeper was as upset as the other women-folks at the news, just like ours had been. Over the years, they’d got to be like family and that’s how I thought of them, like I’d always thought of Juan.

The girls looked lost, not being part of the talk between Ma and Aunt Sharon, so I talked them into going out to the corral and looking at the new foals.

It’s not easy staying sad while you’re watching a foal. They raced around, or tried to, and right away it made things seem better than they were. They stumbled now and then, when their long legs went somewhere they hadn’t intended. But when it happened, they always ran back to the mare and bumped her teat for milk and reassurance.

Long as she was there, patiently watching so they didn’t get into trouble, they were willing to explore. When the girls stuck their hands through the corral fence, most came up to see what we were doing.

I caught up a day-old filly by the headstall and led her over to the girls, the mare walking along behind all protective. They petted her soft nose and whispered girl things to her while I went over and rubbed the mare’s nose so she’d know her baby was safe.

By and by, Ma called us back to the house for supper.

Seemed like nobody had much to say. Ma and Aunt Sharon never raised their voices enough for me to hear what little they were saying, but both of them looked at me more’n once and it made me nervous. As soon as supper was over, I headed for the bunkhouse. It generally smelled sour because of unwashed clothes until the hands trooped in, and after that it smelled like their dirty clothes had rotted when one broke wind. That happened more often than a body might expect.

Beef and beans and chilies taste good, but later on they come back and remind you of what you’d had for supper.

***

Isom picketed the mule where he could reach water and what little grass there was, then rinsed his sore back in the cool stream while he idly stirred his shirt to soak out as much of the bloodstains as possible.

The pain was still there, as was the reminder of how helpless and afraid he’d been while tied to the tree. That might never go away.

Looking into the small fire while cooking the strip of bacon and camp bread, he wondered what his father would have done.

From there, his thoughts turned to Harry Jennings. Why had he done what other slaveowners wouldn’t, offer the men he’d bought their freedom? There had been no cotton fields, no overseers, but there had been quarters where slaves lived between trips, and their food was the ordinary sort available to field hands. And yet, he’d offered to free them whenever they wished.

Isom thought about it and suddenly understood that it hadn’t been done because of kindness, but because of the peculiar way Harry Jennings used his slaves.

Was simple economics the reason? Offer freedom, so that his slaves would have no reason to run away?

Isom had always understood that an escaped slave in central Louisiana had few choices. The Red River to the east and the Sabine to the west were uncrossable boundaries, and while the swamplands to the south were also dangerous a few escapees had reportedly found safety there with the Indians. To the north were slave-takers who knew every trail far better than a runaway.

Field hands, the ones most likely to be driven by desperation to attempt escape, had never learned to live off the land or for that matter hide their trails.

Around and around Isom’s thoughts went as he tried to understand.

Harry Jennings had always treated him well, his parents too. Even so, he would as soon have invited a horse or an ox to dinner as one of his slaves!

But was that by choice? He was already something of a social outcast, but becoming known for being lax with his slaves would have made matters worse.

Jacob, the orphaned nephew, was different. In some ways his situation was similar to Isom’s, because he depended on his uncle for virtually everything.

He’d also never understood slavery except in theory. Harry’s motives might be suspect; Jake’s were straightforward.

Was Jake still alive? Unlike Jean-Louis, he would have remained with his uncle Henry on the Eureka brigantine. The captain was already in late middle years, so teaching his nephew to take over when Henry was ready to retire made sense.

Many questions, no answers. Despite the pain from his back, Isom finally fell asleep. The mule, busily engaged in seeking out every blade of grass, paid no attention.

***

Isom’s woodcraft skills, grown rusty in the years since his smuggling days, gradually returned. Wary, understanding that his only chance was to get as far away from the American Army as possible, he rode in late afternoon when he thought it safe and picketed the animal when it got too dark to go on. Waking early, he remounted and continued on for a few miles, then found a place to lay up during the day.

During one of his morning rides, shortly before pausing to rest during the hottest part of the day, he crossed the trail of half a dozen unshod horses.

Apaches? Comanches? Or one of the local tribes? There was no way to tell. Regardless, they would not be friendly; he would have to slow down even more. He was already short of food, but there had been droppings and tracks. Deer, almost certainly, but probably smaller game too. Could he kill a deer?

Then he remembered what Jake had shown him during that long trip south after Harry and his sons had been killed.

Jake had once helped another uncle by trapping small animals, and during the trip he’d caught several rabbits by setting snares.

Isom had saved the tie-thongs and the long rope that had secured the packs to the mule, so he had all that he would need, in theory.

Tie one end of a thong or unraveled cord from the rope to a bush or tree, tie a simple slip-knot in the other, and open the loop so that it hung in the middle of one of the faint animal trails. The desert cottontails were small, so the loop would have to be correspondingly small…

Resting near the seep, the only water source he’d found that day, he unraveled as much of the rope as he thought he could spare; he would need the rest to keep the mule from wandering off.

Could he make it into hobbles?

The next morning, the mule was gone.

Isom attempted to follow the tracks, but soon realized the animal had headed back the way they’d come. And even if he caught up to it, how would he catch it? He’d used most of his rope for snares, and the hobbles he’d fashioned had simply unraveled.

But the news wasn’t all bad. He’d caught a cottontail and a large rat, possibly one of the pack rats he’d heard about. But now he had another problem: how to skin and disembowel the animals?

He laid the carcasses aside and found two rocks he thought might work and banged them together to see if he could create a sharp edge.

“¡Alto, Señor!” the voice was soft, but the command clear. Isom carefully laid the rocks down and looked at the man coming toward him leading what had formerly been his mule!

The man had spoken in Spanish, so Isom answered the same way. “My name is Isom Jennings. I thank you for returning my mule.”

The man chuckled and glanced back at the mule. “Mine now, I think,” he said. “Jennings, you say? Are you perhaps related to Moses Jennings?”

“He’s my brother,” Isom said nervously. The man had simply asserted that the mule was his; what else might he want?

“My name is Sergio Benavidez, and Moses is one of my vaqueros! He’s been worried about you!”

“I was heading for Chihuahua, hoping to connect up with him. I knew he worked on a ranch, but…”

“My ranch. I’m glad I found you when I did. The Comanches are out, and while they generally don’t raid this far south, they might have dealt harshly with you had they found you first. I see that you have been hurt; can you ride?”

“I can,” Isom said. “I can ride bareback, but I’ll need a bridle or a noseband. I cut up the only rope I had for snares.”

Benavidez glanced at the two carcasses with approval. “You won’t need those, and it’s best that you not eat them anyway because they sometimes have worms.

“But you’re not one to quit, are you? It’s a good quality to have! Here, hold onto the lead and I’ll bring up my horse.”

***

Isom explained what had happened to him on the ride to the rancho. “I was captured at Churubusco when the convent fell. The Americans hanged some, branded at least one, and whipped everyone else. That’s what happened to me.”

“How is your back now? Have the cuts healed?” Benavidez asked.

“I can’t tell, but I’ve seen blood and pus on my shirt,” Isom answered.

“How long has it been?” Benavidez asked.

Isom thought back to the whipping, realizing that the injuries should have healed by now. “About two weeks, I think. Could be longer; I passed out a couple of times.”

“My housekeeper is very good with injuries. She may be able to help you.”

But Isom was not reassured, because he’d seen the brief expression of worry on Benavidez’ face.

 

Chapter Four

“I know how to save your life, but it will be painful. Are you willing to try?” Flora asked.

Isom looked at her and frowned. “You’re saying that I’m dying?”

“Yes. You have waited too long; your cuts have healed over, but the corruption is still inside. My people have seen this before, so I know what must be done.”

“Your people?” he asked, stalling for time while he thought about what she’d said.

“I am Yaqui.”

After her simple announcement, Isom examined her afresh. He’d assumed she was Mexican because she wore ordinary Mexican dress, but did her skin have more of a coppery hue? And her cheekbones might be more prominent, her face less rounded.

“How long before I have to decide?” he asked.

“Every hour it grows worse,” she responded. “The sickness has passed from the skin into the muscle and soon it will reach the bones. When that happens, there is no more to be done.”

“What are you’re going to do?” Isom asked worriedly.

“It is better that you not know. You are not Yaqui.”

No question, he’d felt feverish for a while. But to trust his life to this Indian woman? He looked at her and she met his gaze unflinchingly. “Go ahead,” he sighed. “You’re sure this will work?”

“I have done this before, but you have waited long.” She turned to the young woman standing by her and spoke in a language that wasn’t Spanish. Yaqui? Minutes later, two men came in, each carrying a brown bottle filled with liquid. Flora handed one to Isom and ordered, “Drink it all. A Yaqui would have no need of this, but you are not Yaqui.”

Isom sniffed, then swallowed, the sour-tasting liquid burning all the way down. “Jesus Christ, what is that stuff?”

“It is pulque. I have added herbs and mushrooms that will help ease your pain. You must drink it all.”

Isom nodded, then took another swallow. More chattering to the younger woman, who went out again. “More of this stuff?” he asked.

“No. She has gone for my spoon. It is of pure silver, and the bowl’s edges have been sharpened. She will bring a candle too, that I may ask our gods for help.”

“Sharpened?” Isom slurred. “Won’t it cut your lip?”

“It is not used for eating. Drink more,” she coaxed, so Isom did. The sour taste was still there, but he no longer minded it.

Groggy, he barely felt it when the two men gently turned him and helped him lay on his stomach with his head over the side of the cot. One placed a large bowl beneath his face and Isom felt like laughing. Did they think he was going to vomit up the pulque?

He giggled as Flora chanted, passing the blade of a knife and the spoon repeatedly through the candle’s low flame before nodding to the two men. “Hold him still,” she commanded.

Isom chuckled at the thought? No question he was drunk, but not drunk enough to fall off the cot!

He felt a momentary pull as she trimmed off the scabs before lancing deep into the infected cuts. A sudden smell of rot caused Isom to wonder if he’d farted, then decided it was different.

Floating, his mind wondered what she was doing. But then the agony, worse than anything he could imagine, cut through the haze as she began scraping out the infected flesh.

He screamed, trying to thrash about, but the Yaqui men held him still despite his convulsions. Flora ignored his babbling protestations and continued to work.

“It is nearly done,” she said, taking a swig from the other bottle of pulque. “One thing more I must do.” With that, she carefully poured the rest of the alcoholic solution into the cuts.

Finally, mercifully, Isom slipped into unconsciousness. “Good,” she said. “I am surprised he lasted this long! He is a bold man indeed!” Using a cloth fresh from being boiled, she chanted again as she wiped the pulque from the cuts and frowned, then sent the girl out on a final errand.

“You will use the worms?” the older of the two Yaqui men asked.

“I must. I got as much of the dead flesh as I could, but there is much swelling and the cuts bled heavily. I cannot be certain that I got it all.

“But if the gods are kind and the worms do their work well, he will recover.” Carefully, ensuring that she didn’t damage the maggots, she placed them end to end so that every cut was supplied. “Now we must wait. The gods love strong men, and if they choose, he will live.

“You may let go of his shoulders, my cousins, but remain with him until he wakes. He must not remove the worms; they will leave when they have done their work.” The two Yaquis nodded, then released their grip. Standing by Isom’s shoulders, they waited. Flora knew they could stand there for hours without changing position, for were they not Yaqui? The people had learned to endure.

Isom’s fever broke the next day, but he didn’t wake from his coma. The original pair of Yaquis were replaced by others, who waited just as patiently until Flower Woman should come and tell them they could leave.

***

Isom’s mouth tasted sour, a lasting effect of whatever it was that he’d drunk.

He stretched and winced as the movement pulled at fresh scar tissue. Moving slowly, carefully, he sat up, trying to avoid remembered pain, before realizing there was almost none. He reached for the olla hanging by his bedside and drank. Swirling the water around to remove the sourness, he drank again.

Had the woman’s cure worked? Experimentally he flexed his muscles, exploring the pull. Had she stitched up his wounds? They itched, but there was no pain. Magical!

His guts growled, reminding him that he needed to find the outhouse. He rose, his weakness quickly becoming apparent, but by holding onto the cot he was able to stand upright and lurch toward the door. By the time he found himself in the hallway, bits of memory had returned. Turn right to go outside…

He found the outhouse and urinated, but decided that would have to do for now.

How long had he been unconscious? Slowly he made his way back to his sickroom and found that the bedding had been replaced. The Yaqui woman…Flora, he remembered…waited with a mug of dark brown liquid that gave off steam and an enticing smell.

“It is cacao mixed with honey,” she said. “Have you had it before?”

“Not that I can remember,” Isom said, taking the mug. He sipped slowly, the hot liquid burning his tongue, then continued. “I’m sure I would have remembered this!”

Isom was just finishing the wonderful drink when Moses walked in, spurs jingling and his leather shotgun chaps rustling as they brushed against each other. He’d grown up and filled out, but Isom recognized him right away because he was the spitting image of Tom.

Moses started to reach for Isom, then pulled back. “How are you doing, Brother?”

“Better, now that you’re here,” Isom said, his voice breaking. “There were times I thought I’d never see you again!”

***

I scowled at the man and unconsciously clenched my fists. “You got something to say, say it to me directly!!” The man had hired on almost a year ago and while tending to be surly, Sixto or my Pa had given him what-for when needed. Now it was my turn.

“I said I ain’t takin’ orders from no wet-behind-the-ears kid! Boy, you…”

He might have had more to say, but that’s when I punched him. I didn’t hold back, either. I tried to turn his nose inside-out and push it out the back of his head. Like most everyone who works with cows or horses, I was wearing leather gloves. They were thin from wear and soft from constant use, but they helped, because while my knuckles stung I figured I hadn’t broke any.

Not yet, anyway.

I stepped forward and crouched a little, but that yahoo was sleeping the sleep of the unjust, so I backed up. That was when I saw that some other hands had come up.

I looked at Sixto. As foreman, if there was going to be trouble, it might start with him. But he just held up his hands to show he wasn’t taking that feller’s side. I glanced down just as Luis—I’d finally remembered his name—started stirring.

He sat up and glanced down at the blood on his shirt, then felt of his nose. “You broke it! I never thought you had it in you!”

“Your mistake,” I told him. “See my Ma and she’ll pay you what you’ve got coming.”

“You’re firing me over a little misunderstanding like this?” he asked.

“No misunderstanding, Luis, and I won’t have anybody working for me that can’t figure out who owns the place. Draw your time!”

“Sixto, I thought you were the foreman! You gonna let this stand?”

Sixto looked back impassively. “You’ve been asking for this since you got here, Luis; the boss just saved me the trouble. You think you can make it to the house without help?”

“I can do it. You ain’t heard the last of this, Boy!”

“Any time, any way you want it,” I said, and reached down to thumb the thong off my pistol’s hammer. “Sixto, we generally let a man borrow a horse from the remuda, but not this time. I think he might just forget to turn it in to the livery.”

“Boy, are you calling me a horse thief?” They had been fighting words, and I knew it as soon as I opened my mouth. But I realized that I meant every word of it and I wrapped my hand around my pistol’s grip.

He saw, and understood. I was still mad, so I told him what else was in my mind.

“Like I said, you might forget who owns my horse and I’d surely hate to hang you, but I would. Now get your money, pack your gear, and be on your way. You’ve got a long walk ahead of you. Sixto, I’ll turn no man away hungry. See what the cook can put together while he collects what he’s due, and if he doesn’t have a water gourd of his own, make sure he’s got a full one before he leaves.”

Sixto nodded to me and motioned to one of the hands. “You heard the boss.”

I’d said what was necessary, so I headed for the house.

I wasn’t moving very fast, so I heard the rest of what Sixto said. “Stay with Luis until he leaves and follow him down the road a ways. If he forgets which way he’s going or tries to argue with you, just shoot him and drag the carcass into the brush. Coyotes will have his bones gnawed before sundown.”

I figured he might be serious and so did Luis, because he shut up after that. And when he left, the hand that Sixto had assigned followed him, mounted, and with a rifle resting across his saddle pommel.

I’d been expecting something like this, either from Luis or one of the others, although he’d surprised me by what he’d said. I was no kid, I’d been doing man’s work for a long time, and every man on the place knew it. Even so, I was young and sooner or later they would have wanted to know how much back-talk I’d tolerate.

Just pointing out that my Ma owned the place wouldn’t have done what was necessary. Bossing a crew means acting like a boss. That punch had surprised me almost as much as it surprised him, and a good thing too. I hadn’t had time to wonder about what might happen.

I suddenly realized I’d just learned a valuable lesson; when you need to act, get on with it. Waiting will likely just make things worse.

My hands were shaking by the time I got to the house, some kind of natural reaction I figured. The shakes stopped after a few minutes, so I drank a dipperful of water and headed back to work. The colt I’d been gentle-breaking was waiting and probably wondering what was taking me so long.

Which reminded me; I’d just assigned Luis to see how many beeves he could round up from Skeeter Branch bottom. Now I’d have to send someone else, or maybe go myself.

Well, why not? It was work, chousing those old mossy-horns out of where they surely intended to stay, but I’d done it before, and I figured an afternoon of hard work was just what I needed.

I saddled my favorite cutting horse, got a sandwich wrapped in oil-cloth from the cook, and filled my water gourd. There were springs where I would be working, but I might not have time to stop for a drink.

I slipped the thong back over my pistol’s hammer—I’d come close to forgetting, a dangerous thing to do—and mounting up, I headed for Skeeter Branch.

***

Two men watched me leave.

Francisco Negroponte, the man Sixto had assigned to follow the recently-fired Luis, stood with the foreman and lit a quirly.

“Growing up, I’d say,” he said.

“Figures he’s full-grown, and maybe he is,” Sixto agreed. “Luis get where he was going?”

“Not where he thought he was going, but he surely did. Turns out he had a pocket pistol in his bedroll and figured to take my horse.”

“You don’t say!” Sixto exclaimed. “He was a wrong one, sure enough. What about the body?”

“Dabbed my reata around his boots and dragged him into the brush like you said, then scraped dirt over the bloodstains where he died. After that, I got to thinking that having coyotes hanging around wasn’t a good idea so I dragged him a couple of miles farther. That’s when I spotted an arroyo with an undercut bank, so I caved it in over the body. I plan to keep his pocket pistol if that’s okay with you.”

“Make sure it doesn’t have any identifying marks,” advised Sixto, “and I wouldn’t go telling folks what happened, was I you.”

“Don’t intend to, and I already checked his pistol. Plain as dirt, just the way it came from Colt’s factory.”

“You’re a careful man,” said Sixto approvingly, “and you think on your feet. Which reminds me, I’ll be making up a herd in a few days that will need delivering to a buyer in San Antonio. Think you can handle being trail boss?”

 

Chapter Five

I stayed busy, either on our place or on Aunt Sharon’s. Leo Quintana, her foreman, was as capable as Sixto—they were, in fact, good friends—but neither one was an owner.

Which got me to thinking; between the two ranchos, there was no shortage of land. Why not ask Ma and Aunt Sharon if they were willing to donate a few acres to both men? Enough irrigable land for a house and garden, and rangeland enough for, say, a hundred head of beeves?

Turned out that they’d been thinking along those same lines.

I called the two foremen aside during our next cookout. “You two have done more than a body could rightly ask, what with me never being at one place long enough to really manage it. As a bonus, we’d like to offer you land of your own.” I went on to tell them what we had in mind.

Another surprise; both had been saving their wages, intending to buy property, if not from us then from someone else. “Señor Ed, we thank you!” said Sixto. “Would you object if I divided mine with my cousin who also works for you? He has a woman, you see, just as we do, but his is the daughter of your housekeeper.”

“I didn’t know! But you mentioned other women?”

“Sí, Señor Ed. They live in Victoria now, and both lost their husbands during the war. That is why when we go to the town, we do not spend our nights in the cantinas.

“But while both have houses and small businesses, neither house is large enough for a family. We are not yet old, Leo and me, but we are no longer young and we have talked of sons and daughters.”

I agreed, and after that we put the matter aside until we could go together and pick out the land they wanted.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that was the start of Jennings Town, or what some called Jennings Landing because of the dock my Pa had built on Garcitas Creek.

Sixto and Leo built adobe houses about half a mile from each other and as soon as a priest had blessed the marriages, they moved their wives in. One was a seamstress and a dab hand with a needle she was; the other opened a café and almost immediately began attracting business from travelers heading to Victoria.

By and by a man named Brownson showed up at the ranch, wanting to open a store in Jennings Town. I’d heard the name, because he and his partners owned several general stores, including one in Victoria.

That was a preview of Edward Jennings: A Novel of the American West. To read the rest purchase the book.

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