Lone Star Sons – Three Gentlemen Adventurers (Conclusion)

06. November 2013 · 1 comment · Categories: Book Event, Chapters From the Latest Book, Old West

Lone Star Sons Logo - Cover(This is the final part of Three Gentlemen Adventurers, wherein Jim and Toby cope with a hidden secret and three gentlemen from three different countries who have come to seek it out. Part One is here, Part two here. Eventually, when I have enough stories about them complete, they’ll be put into a proper book, in both print and eBook versions.)

“Me pregunto ahora, mi señora – ¿dónde está?” The voice was strangely gentle, but the man speaking those words loomed like a threatening shadow in the doorway – Don Esteban Saldivar; both Jim and Albert Biddle started – and Toby struggled to sit up straight, his eyes dark with warning in the shadows by the fireplace. “I perceive that there is more to this gathering than appears,” he added, in accented English. “You have a purpose in coming here, gentlemen – and one which I confess that I share.” Don Esteban stepped into the room, drawing the outside door closed behind him. Before he was halfway across the room, Jim rose to his feet, and stood between Don Esteban and the two women, and Toby, bruised and bloody. Jim had a hand on the butt of his patent Colt revolving pistol, and noted without surprise that Albert Biddle gamely stood at his elbow – although to his certain knowledge, the Yankee was unarmed.
“You will not harm them,” Jim said, through gritted teeth. “Not while I am here to prevent it. Two women and an injured man – and Dona Adeliza is blind and helpless!”
Don Esteban regarded them with an expression of mild exasperation. “Young bravo, I have been about this kind of business since you both were mewling infants in your mother’s arms – and I have not yet discovered within me an urge to abuse the meek and helpless … or to use brutality when a fair and honest question brings me the answers which I desire. So – perdóneme, young gentlemen – may I enquire what business brings you here to this house?”
“The same as you, I expect,” Jim answered. The same instinct which drove him to trust Biddle now urged him to trust Don Esteban – or, if not to trust entirely then at least to give him a fair hearing, for Don Esteban smiled, ruefully. The man had an honesty about him, and also a weariness born of long experience. Jim knew a handful of men who also had that same honesty and weariness in their faces. His brother had been one of them, Captain Hays and General Sam also. “I am a Ranger, my commander is Captain Hays – and I serve the interests of Texas, to the best of my ability. My name is Jim Reade, and this is Albert Biddle, of the United States. There is something in the house of old General Wilkinson which has brought you both to Bexar – and my duty is to see that whatever it is, is found – and that you depart without harm or injury to yourselves or any citizens.”
“An honest answer, young Ranger Reade,” Don Esteban answered. “And I return honesty for honesty. I have been sent and tasked to recover that which is within Generale Wilkinson’s house on behalf of His Most Gracious Majesty, the King of Spain … who was, on the advice of Governor Miro, by way of being a generous patron to Generale Wilkinson.”
“I’ll just bet that he was,” Alfred Biddle muttered. “And more than that, I’d risk a wager on that.”
“A patron,” Don Esteban nodded, with a slight chiding tone to his voice. “Not an intimate, ever – who will trust that a man whose service has been bought by gold will yet sell himself to a higher bidder? A man who betrays one country for gold will certainly not halt at betraying another.”
“So he was blackmailing your people too?” Albert Biddle chuckled with hearty and cynical amusement. “As well as the British … who else might come to Bexar on the same errand? The French, likely enough – although at this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Wilkinson had ensnared the Emperor of China in his net of blackmail …Reade, if you see a little man from the Far East with purposeful look on his countenance, a brocade robe and a long braid down his back in the streets of Bexar, don’t say that you haven’t been warned.”
“In that case, I suggest that we should cut to the chase,” Jim answered. “Dona Adeliza was once housekeeper in the house – and says that she knows where the General’s secret cache is hidden within. She said – and I understand that much Spanish – that there is such a place and that all we had to do was to ask her. But none of us did…”
Albert Biddle sighed, remarking, “Well, when I am trying to unravel a riddle that affects the good repute of my nation – not to mention at least three others – the first person I shall ask for guidance is a house-bound and blind octogenarian who speaks no English at all.”
“Your point is made,” Don Esteban nodded gravely. “And your question is one which I should have asked beforetime … before I wasted a great deal of effort and time. Do not chide yourself, young bravos – I never thought to ask it, myself.” Don Esteban directed his words to Dona Adeliza in very correct and punctilious Spanish – spoken in the gentlemanly accents of Castile, as far as Jim could judge, for his way of speaking was as different to his ears to the Spanish spoken in the streets of Bexar as his own mother-speech was as different from that declaimed by Vibart-Jones. He spoke briefly and Dona Adeliza answered, even more briefly. Don Esteban turned to Jim. “She says the secret hiding place was in the woodwork above the fireplace in the room where the old man had his bed. She will have to show us – she says it has been a long time, and she may be uncertain regarding the exact place.”
“You have, of course – made a way into the old house?” Jim asked, and the older man nodded, answering, “I have … and took some little trouble to ensure no one would have access to the house but myself. Gomez was well paid to ensure discretion – and to repair the wall between his house and the old Casa.”
“Then we had best go into it all together,” Albert Biddle suggested, “As a gesture of trust – you, Mr. Reade and I.”
“Of a certainty,” Don Esteban agreed. “But beg and bring a candle from Senora Gomez – there are lanterns, but no fire to light them that we may see the way.” He spoke again in Spanish to Senora Gomez and Dona Adeliza, before gently gathering the old woman in his arms. Toby made as if to get up from where he sat, with a pottery cup of Senora Gomez’ bark and sage concoction in his hands, but Jim shook his head, saying, “Stay – let the good woman brew you more of her herbs – and keep guard on the door.”
Toby nodded, an expression of determination on his face, even with the pain of his wounds, which he did his best to hide from any who did not know him as well as Jim did. It relieved Jim to know that Toby was at his back, always – as tough as nails and as canny as a wild-cat, his knife and war-hatchet still at his side. Still, he had taken a hard beating. Until he recovered fully from that, he wouldn’t be at his best in a fight. Jim made a mental note to himself – whoever had attacked Toby rightfully ought to pay. When this business was done, he would make it a personal quest to see that they did.
“There is a key in my coat-pocket to the inner room,” Don Esteban remarked. His arms were full of Dona Adeliza – as tiny as a child, even wrapped in her blankets. “If one of you would fetch it out, and open the door… yes, thank you.” Jim took up a candle from the wooden box next to the fireplace, and lit it from the one already burning.
The room which Don Esteban had rented from Gomez was entirely unremarkable, save for one feature. It was a comfortable room and very neat, with one tiny barred window high in the wall which faced Soledad Street, furnished with a bed and some small pieces of furniture in the rough unpainted style of the Mexican quarter – a chair and a chest, a small table and a stand with a modern ewer and bowl on it, a piece of broken mirror-glass hung on the wall above. It appeared several degrees more commodious and comfortable than the room in Captain Hays’ house which usually served as Jim’s own quarters, on those occasions when he had reason to stay in it. The one unusual element was a roughly cut doorway, the rubble and broken bits of mud-brick stacked and swept roughly to one side. Jim couldn’t fathom why Don Esteban had bothered, save that it reflected the same fastidiousness in his dress as in the tidiness of the room otherwise.
Alfred Biddle went first with the candle, which flickered a little as it cast wavering shadows in the next room. Don Esteban, with the old woman in his arms, went next, his elbows and Dona Adeliza’s blanket scraping a little dried mud-mortar from either side of the opening as he passed through. Jim followed, finding himself in a long salon, floored in slightly uneven tiles in which a single set of feet had made many footprints. The faint sounds of music, of voices in the streets, a door opening with a rattle and creak of heavy hinges sounded as if they sifted in from another world. But for the light of that one candle, the room was otherwise as dark as a cave, and empty save for a pair of benches underneath the tall shuttered and a broken chair in front of the tall fireplace. Heavy grey rags of cobwebs hung from the ceiling beams, stirring faintly in an unseen draft. There a carved wooden panel inset into the wall over the fireplace – which also had an elaborately carved mantel.
“I wasted several days searching this room and the hallway,” Don Esteban noted, as he led them into the next room; smaller and with a narrow stairway ascending into darkness above. “I thought that there might be something buried under the floor tiles, or behind the window frames. The room which was the bedchamber is at the back of the house, having a window overlooking a garden.”
“Let’s get to it, then.” Albert Biddle said. “It’s cold – and this place feels like a tomb.” They felt their way slowly up the narrow stair, almost more by touch than by the light of Albert Biddle’s candle, and into another hallway, into which several doors opened.
In the pallid candle-light, Jim could see that the upstairs chamber might have been a most comfortable apartment. Here, like the main salon, the windows were tall, and a pair of them would have afforded a fine view of the garden below and the wooded banks of the river which threaded through Bexar like a gold-green ribbon. This room was also empty of all save dust, which their footsteps stirred up, and the cob-webs veiling the ceiling rafters.
“La chimenea …” Dona Adeliza commanded in her cracked old voice, and Don Esteban carried her over to the fireplace. The hearth yawned like a door into an even darker place, below a wooden mantel carved in the old-fashioned style of the last century in a series of plain panels edged in cove-molding alternating with smaller ones carved in a pattern of acanthus leaves and rosettes. Dona Adeliza reached out with a hand so pale and boney that it appeared already skeletal. She felt along the mantel, caressing the second carving from the end as if she were seeing it with her fingertips. Albert Biddle and Jim watched, with breathless interest as she reached underneath the mantel, an expression of complete absorption on her face. “Ahí está!” She exclaimed, and seemed to press on something underneath. A plain panel slid open like a drawer from the mantel – so carefully carved and fitted that there was no hint that any such thing had been hidden there. Albert Biddle lifted the candle higher and set it upon the mantel, exclaiming, “So it is! The cunning old devil! Look – it’s crammed full.” He sneezed in the rush of dust which rose from the papers. Jim reached into the drawer and took out the first bundle; there were three, all yellowed and cracking with age around the edges, once-black ink faded to a reddish-brown of the hue of dried blood in the light of the single candle. All three bundles were tied with faded silk ribbon; Jim weighed them in his hands, thinking that they were very small, and insubstantial things, to have brought three men from three different countries halfway around the world just on the odd chance of finding them.
“What are we doing with them, now that they are found?” Jim asked. “You know that I have no interest in them – other than seeing that you and the Englishman all leave Bexar without incident…”
“Simple answer, my dear chap,” a new and yet familiar voice answered him, accompanied by the smooth click of a pistol cocking. “You’re going to give them all to me.”
Startled, all three turned towards this interloper – standing in the doorway, calm and impeccably controlled. The candle gleamed briefly on the pistol barrel, and Jim’s heart sank. Vibart-Jones, smiling a wolfish smile, beckoning with his other hand. “Quick-like – hand them all to me.”
“No, I think not,” Jim answered in as level a voice as he could muster, with the end of Vibart-Jones’ pistol looming as big as the mouth of a six-pounder. “They’re not all yours to claim.”
“My dear chap, I have a pistol aimed at your head,” Vibart-Jones chuckled indulgently. “Hand them over, like a good boy.”
“So have I,” Jim answered, rankled by the Englishman’s tone. In a trice, his own Colt was in his other hand, aiming at Vibart-Jones. “A pistol at your head. And it has five bullets in it – whereas your pistol only has one. So, here’s the thing, Mr. Jones – you may shoot your one bullet at me, and presuming that you kill me outright – what is to stop Don Esteban or Mr. Biddle from taking my pistol and shooting you? Suppose you miss, or only wound me – again, you will still face five bullets. Pretty miserable odds for a gambling man, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’m generally very lucky when it comes to the odds,” Vibart-Jones smiled again, quite unfazed, and the barrel of his pistol moved slightly aside from Jim. “Suppose I threaten to shoot one of your friends – the old woman, even. How ungallant of you – trading the life of a helpless old woman for a useless bundle of paper!”
“How ungallant of you, to use her as a hostage,” Jim answered, as he thought that he saw a shadow move in the darker shadows beyond the hulking shape of the actor. Toby! No one else could move so silently, Jim raised his voice a little, to distract Vibart-Jones. “See here, Jones – I have no objection to letting you have whatever evidence the old General held over the English crown. You came here for it, you may take it away to perdition – but as for what he held over Spain, and the United States? In good conscience, I must turn it over to the representatives of those nations – Mr. Biddle and Senor Saldivar, here.”
“You try my patience, lad!” All pleasant indulgence had fled from Vibart-Jones’ countenance. “I already told you – I want it all and to hell with you and your good conscience. Hand them all over.”
“No, I don’t think I will,” Jim answered. “And I would advise that you lower your pistol, very slowly.”
“Very droll,” Vibart-Jones snarled, leveling the long barrel at Jim. “And who is going to make me do that, pray?”
“The man behind you with a knife,” Jim answered, as Toby’s strong hand snaked from behind and gripped the Englishman by the throat. His eyes bulged in their sockets – very obviously, Toby had the end of his long hunting-knife set to slide upwards between Vibart-Jones’ ribs. In that very instant, Albert Biddle leaped forward and snatched the long dragoon pistol out of his hand. “Just like that,” Jim added. “Do you need any more convincing, Mr. Vibart-Jones? No, I didn’t think so.”
“Can’t blame a chap for trying,” Vibart-Jones acquiesced with a show of grace. “Tell your good man to take his knife from my kidneys … I’ll settle for my government’s share of old Wilkinson’s papers in that case.”
“No,” Jim answered. “Since I don’t think that I can trust you at all – I have a better idea. Good timing,” he added towards Toby, who grinned, in spite of the blossoming black eye that he sported. “How did he miss you?”
“When I heard him at the door with Senora Gomez demanding to be allowed in, I put a blanket over my head and sat on Dona Adeliza’s bed,” Toby answered. “He walked right past, not a second glance.”

In the Gomez kitchen, the cookfire had burned down to dark ruby-glowing coals, attended by a few yellow flames. After the chill of the old Casa, the kitchen seemed cozy, warm and full of light. Don Esteban settled Dona Adeliza on her cot, swathed with more blankets by the attentive Senora Gomez. Jim held all three ribbon-wrapped packets, now seeing by the light of the fire that each was labeled; Britain, Spain, United States. Don Esteban met Jim’s eyes, already divining what Jim had intended, and nodded once in grave approval.
Jim laid the first bundle on the coals – Britain. The edges caught, flamed up at once, falling to tinder. At his back, Vibart-Jones started to protest, but Jim said softly, “There’s no reason for you to stay in Bexar after tonight, is there? My government wanted all this to be settled without any incident.”
“I consider that Mr. Reade has dealt very fairly in this matter,” Albert Biddle said. He took the bundle labeled United States and laid it on the fire without hesitation. “I have no complaint, nor wish to know any more of what the old General secreted away, or how and from whom he extorted funds, thirty years ago and more.”
“Nor do I,” Don Esteban took the last bundle and tossed it onto the fire. The rising flames brightened the room briefly, and then sank into shadows. “Let the past bury the past – or burn it.”
Dona Adeliza, who had been silent since being returned to her usual cot, made a brief and drowsy remark, and Don Esteban laughed, quietly. “She said that the room is comfortably warm, now. But still not as warm as where the Old General is spending eternity.”

Part the Second of Three Gentleman Adventurers

04. November 2013 · 2 comments · Categories: Chapters From the Latest Book, Uncategorized · Tags: , , , , ,

Lone Star Sons Logo - Cover(This is part two, of the next Jim Reade – Toby Shaw adventure. Part one is here. Jim and Toby have been set to assist three agents of foreign powers who have come to Bexar, looking for something hidden away in a long-closed house, by a long-dead General with a slippery reputation. The third part is almost finished, and will be posted in a few days.)

“As you and Captain Hays may already have guessed, my real and my feigned purpose both have to do with the late General Wilkinson’s house,” Albert Biddle explained, as soon as they had strolled beyond the edge of the crowd and the reach of Bernard Vibart-Jones’ mellifluous voice.
“Something is hidden within; documents or artifacts of considerable value?” Jim ventured and Biddle nodded. “Do you have any idea what we – you – are looking for? Something large, or small – papers don’t take up much space. If the house is like the other old Spanish houses of Bexar, there will not be much in the way of furniture.”
“Documents and letters,” Biddle affirmed. “The old man was a distant relative of mine by marriage. He died at a good old age, which perfectly astounded those who knew him best. Never won a battle or lost a court-martial, died rich, and in bed. It’s been suspected for years that he was blackmailing … certain people and a government or two, with whom he associated over the years, by holding on to proof of embarrassing peccadillos.”
“Certain people?” Jim’s eyebrows lifted. “Such as?” When Biddle replied with a short list of names – men of an older generation, all well-famed and of good repute – Jim whistled in astonishment. “Yes… I can see the worth of ensuring his silence.”
“It’s not just the men,” Biddle said unhappily. “It’s the good name of the nation, too.”
“Likely more than one nation,” Jim observed – Ah, that had surprised Biddle, at least momentarily, but then Biddle nodded.
“Credible,” he murmured thoughtfully. “The old general spread his nets very wide indeed; how many nations, then? Or would you be indiscrete in telling me?”
“No,” Jim answered, deciding to put all his cards on the table. “There are two other men making inquiries; an Englishman and a Spaniard. Captain Hays has given me wide discretion in this matter … for reasons of diplomacy, my government desires that all three of you find whatever it is that you are looking for in the Casa Wilkinson, do whatever you wish with it, and leave Bexar quietly and without causing an international ruction. That being understood, I will help you as best I can. Deal?”
“Deal,” Biddle answered. “I must admit that you Texians get down to brass tacks faster than practically any other Southren gentlemen I have ever dealt with. It’s quite refreshing.”
“It saves time. I still don’t quite grasp – why all the interest now?”
“Because everyone else is interested,” Biddle answered; he looked thoughtfully at Jim. “I did procure the keys to the Casa, for a brief inspection upon my arrival. The caretaker took them back almost at once, and has not permitted me access since; a most unpromising prospect for a search – almost no furniture at all, only bare walls and floors.”
“A caretaker?” Jim took a moment to accept that intelligence. “I hardly think any care of the place has been taken at all. Who is this assiduous caretaker – I was not given that information,” he added hastily.
“A great lump of a muleteer named Gomez, who lives in the house next to it. It seems that his aged grandmother was once the housekeeper there. Gomez has taken himself off to parts unknown, likely taking the only key with him.”
“I have sent a scout to look at the lay of the land,” Jim answered. “He speaks Spanish well – he rooms with a local family when we are in Bexar. From the stories, it seems that someone else has been able to get inside and search. I’d like to know how they did it, if not with a key.” Jim snapped his fingers, struck with a sudden insight. “The Spaniard, Don Esteban Saldivar; Captain Hays told me that he is also a recent visitor curiously interested in the Casa, to the point of taking rooms with the Gomez family. If there is a common wall, I would bet that he has found a way through – and that Gomez has gone away in order to keep you out while Don Esteban searches at leisure. These places are made of unbaked mud brick covered in plaster. It would be a simple matter simply to tunnel through …” Jim found himself walking faster in his excitement. He and Biddle had now gone the length of the Plaza, past the brooding dome of San Fernando, and back towards where Soledad Street led into the plaza.
“Let us walk towards the Casa – and see what my trusty scout has found.”

Without haste, they strolled into the narrow canyon of Soledad Street, the walls of mud-brick and plastered cedar-log jacal-huts rising at either hand, as the sky darkened overhead. This was the old part of town, where most houses had been built as sturdy as fortresses, nearly windowless on the side looking onto the street – and those which did have windows were as heavily barred as if they a prison. Only now and again did the amber of a candle or lamp lit within them cast a glow into the street. Music from an out-of-tune piano floated in the evening air from one direction, from another the sound of a melancholy guitar. The darting shadows of swifts flashed briefly across the sky.
“It is very different from Hartford,” Albert Biddle mused. “Almost a foreign country – is a foreign country, indeed.”
“But home to me,” Jim answered. With a start, he realized that it was true; Bexar was the place that he always returned to over the last handful of years, between the wide-ranging assignments given to him by his captain; here were the colors brighter, the food tastier, the water clearer, the sun in the sky brighter and the stars in the night sky sparkling ever more brilliantly. They walked on a little way, picking their footing carefully through the ruts and puddles, and piles of horse-dung in the uncertain and erratic light. Even being in town foxed Jim’s night-vision abominably, and he was about to suggest to Biddle that it was too dark to really see the lay of the land around the crumbling Casa Wilkerson, when he was galvanized by a scream – a woman’s shrill and panicked scream from somewhere ahead. Heedless of puddles, horse-apples and other hazards, Jim ran towards the source, with Biddle following closely.
In the light-limned oblong of an opened door, a woman stood, crying out in Spanish; a body huddled at her feet just outside the door.
“What has happened?” Biddle demanded, as the woman continued – it sounded now as if her horror and distress had merged into indignant complaint.
“The poor fellow has been beaten,” Jim answered, “and left at her door – my god!” The light from within the house fell across the prostrate figure of Toby, groaning and covered with mud and blood. “It’s Mr. Shaw – the scout that I sent… I can only guess that he found something.” Jim knelt next to his friend and helped him to sit up. “Brother – what did you find? Who did this to you?”
“I didn’t see,” Toby answered indistinctly. He spat blood from his mouth. “Two men, I think. I thought I saw something in the shadows – I looked toward it, and someone hit me from behind.” He winced, squinting as if the light from the doorway hurt his eyes. “Then they took turns hitting me. James, I do not think that any bones were broken – I think they took it amiss that I was here…”
“Then that someone had better get damned used to it,” Jim answered. “Help me with him, Biddle – carefully! I’m gonna take it personal, now. I wonder …” He thought perhaps he should keep his supposition to himself, but Biddle shook his head and affirmed, “Couldn’t have been Vibart-Jones, he’s still on stage. And Senor Don Saldivar was still on the other side of the square when we walked into this street.”
“Either one of them may have hired their own ruffians to do the dirty work,” Jim answered, and unshipped his hesitant command of Spanish, “Senora, podemos entrar y tienden heridas de este hombre?”
“Si, si!” the woman answered, standing a little aside from the doorway, as the two of them guided Toby’s uncertain steps through it and into a small and cozy room, lit with a single lantern hung from a metal bracket over the cooking fireplace – the old-fashioned kind most often seen in the oldest houses in Bexar. In the warmest corner of the room, an elderly person lay propped upon a rough cot, so tiny and shriveled, so wrapped in layers of robes and blankets that it was difficult to tell with certainty if the person was a man or woman. The person’s eyes were milky and unfocused, without color at all, and a querulous voice called from the midst of the bundle. The woman of the house answered, in a voice which sounded at once soothing, but with an underlay of irritation. The elderly person sank back into their blankets, as if reassured, a shriveled turtle retreating to the cozy shelter of its shell.
“Senora Gomez,” Toby gasped, as Jim and Biddle hoisted him within the room and let him down before the fireplace. “I am glad for the hospitality…estoy agradecido por su hospitalidad…” he added.
“Agua caliente, por favor,” Jim demanded, before adding to his assistant. “We must wash those deep wounds immediately, lest they become putrid…”
Jim bent to this task, while Biddle and the woman of the house watched with interest – even moving to brew a tea of dried herbs over the fireplace.
“Willow-bark and sage,” Toby explained, although it obviously pained him to talk. Presently the elderly person ventured a querulous remark and Toby drew in his breath with a hiss, before responding in courteous Spanish.
“It is Dona Adeliza,” he explained to Jim and Albert Biddle. “The Old One; she wants to know what is going on. I have told her. She is amused – for she remembers the old General very well. He was a … disruptor of peace and quiet when alive, so of course he would do the same when dead. A restless and unquiet spirit – she says that we should ask the priest to come from San Fernando and do a blessing in each room of his old house. But she thinks it should best be torn down, or made into a stable.”
Senora Gomez interjected a comment – which sounded like a chiding – and the old lady answered, as feisty as a very old sparrow.
Biddle chuckled, “Old as she must be and blind to boot, she doesn’t sound like she has ever missed much. Ask her – about Don Esteban Saldivar and why a rich Spaniard would take rooms here … go on. Ask her – maybe she has some knowledge of this matter.”
That question elicited a perfect fountain of indignant Spanish from Senora Gomez, as well as a witchy-sounding cackle of laughter from the old lady. “Todo lo que tenían que hacer era preguntarme!” she exclaimed. – All they had to do was ask me! – Dona Adeliza continued in much the same vein, of which Jim divined a few scraps of words, enough for a rough estimation of what the old lady was saying; “You silly fools! All they had to do was ask – silly men – the General, he had caused to build within the house a secret place for his most precious things. And I know where it is! I have known all this time!”
At their backs, the door to the outside suddenly swung open, admitting a gust of chill night air into the room and making the candle flicker wildly.

Lone Star Sons – A New Adventure

22. October 2013 · 4 comments · Categories: Chapters From the Latest Book · Tags: , , ,

Three Gentlemen Adventurers – 1

“It feels good to have General Sam back in the governor’s chair,” Jack Hays remarked, in a rare moment of political frankness, as he and Jim took their leisure at one of the many cantinas along the main plaza in the heart of old San Antonio de Bexar. In the cool of the evening, there were tables and benches under the shade of trees outside, where men could sit and drink, and observe the passing world, as the western sky went from a cloud-streaked orange and purple to velvet-darkness, spangled with stars. “He might be a cagy, close-mouthed old ruffian, but I always thought that I could trust him, ‘cause he knew what he was doing. With Lamar, I was always a little worried that he was making it up as he went along.”

“Gen’ral Sam is all for annexation,” Jim mused. “But Lamar always thought we could go it alone. If those Yankees didn’t want us, then why not go it alone? I favored him on that account.”

“Leave it to the General,” Jack Hays advised. His eyes went across the darkening plaza, still filled with people, lit by lanterns and the warm candle-light shining out from windows and doors, and by old-fashioned torches in iron holders. Several Indian women sat on a blanket opposite, an array of finely-worked baskets laid out for display. Toby hunkered on his heels, talking to them; they were laughing at what he was saying, although an older and grey-haired woman looked upon him with some severity. “The ladies’ delight of the Delaware nation,” Jack added with wry affection. “I shall regret it very much when he – or you marry, although I would wish you well in that. There are things that I can only send a single young fellow to do.”

“Speaking of which,” Jim hinted broadly and Jack grinned. “No long journey involved in this one. This matter is centered right here in Bexar.” “Do tell,” Jim settled back into his chair, prepared to be – if not amused, at least intrigued. Jack continued, “You’ve been in and out of Bexar plenty of times; did you ever notice the old Casa Wilkinson? It’s down Soledad beyond the Veramendi Palace.”

“Tall stone wall, topped with broken bottle glass, a garden behind and barred windows that look like they haven’t been opened since I was in small-clothes?” Jim ventured.

Jack nodded. “That would be the one – it’s was closed up when the old General died. His heirs have squabbled over the property for twenty years since. None of them wanted to come out to the back of nowhere – but by god, they didn’t want anyone else to have it. I’ve always wondered why Wilkinson ventured out here, anyway. He was getting up there in age, by then. Guess he figured that he had double-crossed so many people in his lifetime he’d best have a nice out-of-the way burrow to lay low in.”

“That General Wilkinson?” Jim asked, astonished. “Who fought under Washington against Gentleman Johnny Burgoyne and then tried to set Gates and Washington against each other? Took against Mad Anthony Wayne after the Cross-Timbers fight… informed on Aaron Burr after being in league with him? My own father always said that Wilkinson was as slippery as a greased snake, and so crooked that he couldn’t walk down the street without meeting himself on the other side coming the opposite way.”

“That same General Wilkinson, yes,” Jack agreed, with a glint of good humor in his eye. “Who was altogether too friendly with the Spanish governor of New Orleans; it’s whispered that he likely was in the pay of the Spanish at the time. Maybe the British as well, just for good measure. He wanted a land grant in Texas for himself – went to Mexico City to get it, and died there, twenty years ago and a bit. But he had this house here – lived in it for a time. His man of business bought it for him, back in the earlies.”

“So, why is this matter and man a concern at this moment – since he has been dead nearly as long as either of us have been alive, and Texas no longer a Spanish possession?” Jim asked. Yes, he had to hand it to Jack – he did come up with some interesting conundrums. Or missions, as he liked to call them.

“There’s something about that house,” Jack answered. “Or maybe in the house … suddenly, upon the estate finally being settled for good and all, a lot of interesting – and interested – foreigners are coming to Bexar – all with innocent expressions on their faces and asking urgent questions regarding – about the freehold, the cost of purchasing it for owners unknown, the condition of the house and outbuildings. Likely we’ll see some of them tonight, and I’ll point them out to you. You know, if you sat here long enough, you’d see everyone that you know in the world pass by … and by jingo, there goes the first of them.” Jack jerked his chin in the direction of burly, blunt-featured man walking purposefully towards a temporary stage lit by many lanterns erected against the wall of the Council House, attended by three or four men and as many women, all seeming to vie for his attention. The quiet gravity of his haberdashery was rather spoiled by a flamboyant waist-coat and brilliantly colored neck-cloth.

“English, by the look of his suit,” Jim ventured and Jack nodded. “Name is Bernard Vibart-Jones. His ostensible purpose in coming here is to give dramatic and comic recitations, which he has been doing to standing crowds for the last week or so. I’ll have to admit – he’s very good at that. He’ll have the hair standing up on the back of your neck and the next minute, rolling on the floor laughing. He’s a hail-fellow-well-met, and very popular, seemingly. Spends evenings after his performances in the taps and taverns, buying drinks for all and encouraging people to tell him their stories. He is … rather cagy about how long his engagement here will last, though.” Jack’s gaze sharpened, upon noting another young man, very young and dressed in the sober clothes of a clerk or even an apprentice lawyer. He had been sitting at a table set outside the door of another drinking establishment, farther along the plaza; alone and toying in a desultory manner with a neglected tankard. Without any impression of fuss or hurry, he tossed some coins on the tabletop, and sauntered off towards the crowd gathering at the open-air stage. Obviously he intended to be among the amused or hair-raised audience. “What do you think, Jim?”

“Yankee … not rich, not poor either. One of those milk-water professions,” Jim added, serenely unaffected by the awareness that he had himself been one of those milk-water clerks not so long past. “Hasn’t been here long enough – or agreeable enough to settle in. No weapons on him that I can see. Come here to do business his employer’s bidding, not set a course of his own.”

“Very good, Jim,” Jack allowed a brief and amused expression to reveal itself. “Albert Biddle, of Hartford, Connecticut. He is a clerk – or apprentice lawyer in a firm established in that fair city. He at least has the virtue of being straight-forward in his reason for coming here. The person for whom he acts – officially nameless – wants to purchase the Casa Wilkinson for eccentric reasons of their own. Master Biddle is merely their errand-boy … or so is the pretense.”

“And?” Jim asked, for Jack appeared to be ironical in that regard.

“He’s just too un-subservient for an errand-boy,” Jack answered, as Albert Biddle wended a purposeful way towards the Council House. “I am in luck tonight – and so are you, for there goes the third of our mysterious trio of foreigners with an interest in the Casa Wilkinson – also looking for entertainment this lovely evening.”

“Looks like a Mex.” Jim observed as soon as he picked out the man whom Jack meant; this one a casual loafer among those promenading along the edges of the Plaza on this evening. The Mexican women who tended their kettles of red-bean, beef and chili-pepper stew all called to him invitingly, but he shook his head and walked on. This man was even more elegantly-clad than the Englishman, although all in faultlessly-tailored black, and he carried a cane. His features gave the lie to the elegance of his attire, and Jim thought that in rougher clothing and less careful barbering, this last man wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Ranger company. “A rough customer, I’d say – looking beyond the haberdashery.”

“Spanish. An all-wool and yard-wide proper Spanish grandee,” Jack answered with a glint of amusement. “Don Esteban Saldivar, Caballero de Tarragona. I have no idea what part of Spain that is in. But he presented his papers and some very imposing letters of reference … and he also has an interest in the Casa Wilkinson. He has even taken a set of rooms in the residencia which backs onto a portion of the Casa. By curious coincidence, there are whispers in that quarter of town that the Casa is now haunted. Mysterious lights seen flickering behind shuttered windows, noises and the sounds of footsteps, so on and so forth.”

“How long has that been going on?” Jim bit back his own amusement. There were so many stories circulating in the Mexican quarter of Bexar about ghosts, visions and odd creatures seen from the corner of an eye. Not even the Anglos could be entirely skeptical.

“There were always stories about the Casa,” Jack answered. “But they have taken on a new urgency in the last fortnight or so. I’m tasking you with finding out what our three gentlemen are looking for.”

“And taking it from them?” Jim didn’t like the sound of that at all. Jack smiled.

“Maybe. Whatever the old General hid there is at least thirty years old. The chances of it proving embarrassing to a living soul here in Texas are likely pretty small … at the very least, make certain they don’t run across each others’ trap-lines and cause trouble for General Sam with their governments. Use your own good judgment, you and Toby. Just get these three gentlemen out of here without messing up General Sam’s campaign for annexation.”

“I think I’ll begin by sending Toby to scout the Casa, while the three gentlemen are otherwise occupied,” Jim decided at once and Jack nodded in agreement. “And then see if I can scrape some acquaintance with them, one by one.”

“You’d best hurry,” Jack added with a grin. “Vibart-Jones starts his performance in ten minutes.” A quick consultation with Toby, who quickly rose at Jim’s approach, and they each set off in on their separate scouts; Toby to the maze of alleys and tall windowless walls which had accreted on and around Soledad as a particular sea-snail gathered ornaments to its shell, and Jim to the stage and the crowd gathering in similar but human fashion to the stage set against the blank wall of the Council House. Jim marveled – and not for the first time – how varied was any ordinary crowd of citizens of Bexar; rough-clad Texians like himself, elbow to elbow with soberly-dressed Yankee merchants, flamboyant Bejarenos in black trimmed with silver buttons and lace, with vivid silk sashes around their waists, their ladies in brilliantly-colored silk skirts and chemise bodices which showed off their shoulders and arms, Indians of every tribe and degree of undress, and buckskin-clad hunters spitting tobacco juice onto the dusty ground. A pale cloud of cigarillo and pipe smoke hovered over the gathering, for many of the ladies smoked as well … a crowd in any other place must be a dull and pallid gathering by comparison. Edging with casual care among the others, Jim stood elbow to elbow with Albert Biddle as the evening performance opened.

Vibart-Jones was introduced with much fulsome praise and assurance that he had performed before the varied crowned heads of Europe by an older man in a rakish suit and a lamentable waistcoat, at such length that the part of the crowd most fluent in English began to shift and mutter, while the impatient to cat-call and jeer. “I expect him to be the performing marvel of the age, if the least part of this is true. Allow me to introduce myself – James Reade, Esquire – of this town.” Jim ventured to Biddle, who rose at the bait and introduced himself, much to Jim’s gratification

“He treads the boards very fairly – and I have certainly seen worse where I come from. Albert Biddle – also Esquire. I believe, good sir, we practice the same vocation.”

“Thought you sounded like an easterner,” Jim hoped he wasn’t overdoing it. “So you have seen the bard of the Plaza del Armas before?”

“Last night,” Biddle admitted, with a touch of wry humor, “For the oldest city in Texas there is not all that much to do … and it’s too cold to swim in the river, which is what I am told is a primary diversion on summer evenings here.”

“So what brings you here?” Jim hoped that he was not overdoing the appearance of casual innocence, but on observing a sudden glint of sharp intelligence in Mr. Biddle’s eye, be feared that he had. To save the moment, the compere gave way to the chief performer of the evening; Bernard Vibart-Jones stepped to the front of the stage, where a series of oil lanterns cast back their focused reflections on him. The actor bowed graciously to a patter of applause and cheers. In a pleasant light baritone, he complimented the audience and the folk of Bexar on the very warm welcome that he had received, and Mr. Biddle lowered his voice. “Mr. Reade, I believe we also practice the very same avocation – that of finding the answers to puzzles or missing items, to the benefit of the nations to which we owe allegiance.”

Damn the man – he was more than a simple clerk. Jim found his composure and his voice. “What gave me away?” he asked, and Biddle grinned. “Your answer just now. I only ventured a guess – but then I saw you in very earnest conversation with Captain Hays not ten minutes ago – and if he is not your republic’s spymaster, he makes an excellent pretense. I have seen the performance before – Mr. Reade, let us walk around the square together. I will tell you what I know – and of what Captain Hays has no doubt guessed in the matter of Wilkinson and his long-forgotten property here.”

(to be continued … of course.)

Lone Star Sons – Latest Chapter

17. October 2013 · 3 comments · Categories: Chapters From the Latest Book

Never a Tale of More Woe – Conclusion

(Each of the adventures will be fairly short, no more than two or three chapters, for as my daughter says, teen and tween males have the attention-span of a fruit-fly. This is the final resolution of their second adventure; a missing girl, a murder and a potential feud between two families during the Republic of Texas era.)

It was an astonishing thing for Jim – that when Silas Sutton raised his Baker rifle and shot Nate Taylor dead the wheelwright’s shop seemed at once empty and yet full of people. Silas stood with his empty rifle in his hand, the expression on his face warring between shock and anger. Mattie Sutton went pale with horror. Silas’s brothers, Parris Fletcher, Pitkin Taylor, and Toby – all looked down on the body in disbelief.
“He’s dead?” Pitkin cried out and made a move to lift his own rifle, but Toby was there and Parris Fletcher too – both having recovered enough presence of mind to stop Pitkin from taking the rifle to his own shoulder and shooting Silas in retaliation.
“He is,” Jim answered, still shaken with how swiftly and irrevocably it all had happened. “I’m sorry, Pitkin … he’s gone.” Jim fixed Silas with a glare of cold outrage. “We’ve all seen murder done here, Sutton. I’ll bring charges to the magistrate myself. Surrender your weapon to me.”
“He dishonored my sister!” Silas retorted, even as he allowed Jim to take the Baker from him. “See – her own dress – and where is she gone to?”
“You did not find anyone in the house,” Jim turned his softly-spoken anger on Silas. “Nor in any of the outbuildings – and with the workshop near to the road, anyone might have hidden Miss Sutton’s clothing in the loft during the five days since she was last seen? Tell me – did you find any freshly-turned earth in your search of these premises? If she is not here, if no one has seen a new grave, or noted the turkey-vultures coming to feast on dead flesh … then where is she, Mr. Sutton? What put it into your mind with such certainty that Mr. Taylor had anything to do with the girl, alive or dead?”
“She often made excuse to come to this place!” Silas answered with an air of righteous anger. “And I have the right to protect my sister’s honor – Taylor seduced and murdered her, I have no doubt about that! There’s not a jury in Texas who would convict me for killing the man who debauched her!”
“Indeed?” Jim answered, his mind – the logical and lawyerly mind honed to a sharp edge by his father, and by logic and practice of law – turning and turning again. The map which Creed had drawn of Lavernia, his and Toby’s survey at a distance; all of that … “This shop and homestead are at the crossroads, Mr. Sutton; your sister would have passed by on any occasion that she went to visit her friend … Mrs. Sarah Bonner, for instance. Anywhere that your sister might have gone in Lavernia – the odds have it that she would have walked past this place. And that is your evidence! Thin stuff, indeed. Because of that accident of geography, you elect yourself as jury, judge and executioner? Despite all whom have good knowledge of the deceased, his character and temper – and himself claiming that he had no romantic interest in your sister – you assumed he entertained the basest of desires towards her and acted upon them? Why would that be, then? Why do you so readily assume that that Mr. Taylor had a guilty conscience regarding your sister?” Jim could see that Silas’ certainty was wavering, and he pressed his advantage. “Mr. Taylor gave you free access to his property, swearing that you would find nothing within? Very good, Mr. Sutton – I shall keep that in mind – that she often made excuse to come to this place. Can any of you confirm this … Mrs. Sutton; you are the only female sharing the household with Miss Sutton and presumably any particular womanly confidences … can you confirm and swear on the Good Book and your immortal soul – that Miss Sutton was accustomed to frequent this place for the purpose of meeting with Mr. Nate Taylor? No, I do not ask in a court of law – but I ask you as a woman with a conscience, and a duty to testify to the right or wrong of this matter, I ask – no, I demand – that you tell the truth as you would when you stand before the Creator of us all; did Miss Sutton come here with the purpose of meeting privately with Mr. Taylor – who lies dead before us, struck down by the hand of your husband? Answer; yes or no?” Jim felt a pang – to his conscience and his natural sense of chivalry, for poor Mrs. Sutton was as white as a sheet and quivering with terror.

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Never a Tale of More Woe – 2

14. October 2013 · 3 comments · Categories: Chapters From the Latest Book

(This is the next chapter in my envisioning of a certain classic western. Young Jim Reade and his Delaware Indian sworn brother have taken up Captain Jack Hays’ volunteer “secret service” in Republic-era Texas, and been given a task – to damp down what threatens to become a deadly feud between two families.) 

            The rain fell continuously all night, but as morning broke, the grey sky cleared; washed fresh and as blue as turquoise. A scattering of clouds floated in it, like enormous cotton-bolls. Captain Hays allowed as he had to write letters all morning. Creed said that he was going for his daily constitutional around the plaza.

“I try and walk a little farther every day, without resting,” he explained. “The first day that I tried, I only got as far as the old Spanish governor’s palace. And it took me an hour, at that.”

“Tell me about this family quandary of yours,” Jim suggested. Creed assented and Jim put on his hat. It was a slow progress, for Creed walked with a halting step and often had to stop to rest, as pale as a man on his deathbed, but he shook off any assistance or suggestion that perhaps he should return to Captain Hays’ place and rest a little more.

“See, there’s my brother Pitkin and I, and our sisters. Poppa Josiah brought us all to Colonel DeWitt’s grant – I was about four years old, then. We came from Alabama … Old Bill Sutton and his kin, they were neighbors of ours then, but not the real friendly sort. We didn’t ever have words with them outright … but they’re standoffish, think better of themselves for being from old South Carolina gentry. It never bothered me much, but I think it riled Poppa Josiah some – we’re close kin to Zachary Taylor, after all. Anyway, Silas and his two brothers took up a piece of land out south a ways and Mandy came to live with them when Old Bill and his missus died. I’ve heard it said that Mandy and Silas’ wife Mattie didn’t get on so well, but …” Creed shrugged. “Women gossip to pass the time. I didn’t care much about the Suttons anyway, so I hardly paid any heed.”  They had reached the far side of the plaza, shaded by a spindly tree behind a wall at their backs. “Jim, I think I need to sit and catch my breath.”

“Take your time,” Jim answered.

“Hell to be as weak as a newborn kitten,” Creed grumbled. “Not when there’s things needing doing.” He sank onto a handy bench, where the market-women were setting up to dispense that rich, spicy red-bean stew from the kettles they had brought from their kitchens in the little rambling mud-brick houses in the neighborhood around the main plaza. Even at mid-morning, there were a scattering of hungry diners. “I’m right fond of this place,” Creed added, most unexpectedly. “I know that most of the Mexes here would sell us out to Santy Anna for nothin’ more than the satisfaction of getting their own back … but I can understand. This was theirs – the water is clearer, the sky is bluer, wildflowers brighter than anywhere else that I’ve ever been. The aguardiente is fierier, the fighting bulls are braver, the chile-stew is hotter and the women prettier’n anywhere else in the world. I’d want all that back, if I were a Mex. I can’t blame them at all. I just wish that they’d be honest about it. That’s all. I prefer honesty, Jim. I just can’t approve of being two-faced. I’ll leave that to the Suttons.”

“Your cousin Nate … what makes the Sutton menfolk so certain he’s paying court to her?” Jim asked. “You said that he was more the upright sober sort.”

“He is,” Creed affirmed. “He’s ‘bout fifteen years older than me. He was married to a girl back in Alabama for a while, but she died of the yellow fever – I don’t think he has looked at another woman since. He’s a wheelwright and cooper in Lavernia … has an apprentice helping with the work, or he did the last time I saw him – Micajah Boone. I purely don’t see Nate taking any interest in Mandy Sutton. She’s a headstrong, stubborn little chit of a girl; I think she was the youngest of Old Bill Sutton’s children, so she’s been indulged considerable.”

“Is she pretty?” Jim asked; in his limited experience a stubborn and spoiled girl was apt to be forgiven practically anything if she were pretty. “And did she inherit anything special from her father or mother?”

Creed shook his head. “I don’t think she got anything out of line in her daddy’s will. And she’s not what I’d call an eye-full, either … square jaw and a ‘don’t touch me’ look. Skinny as a rail an’ no shape to her, though that might have changed since I last saw her. Still, Parris Fletcher was all about tying the knot with her, as soon as she was sixteen. Parris has a league and a labor of land on the other side of Gonzales. He and Silas are good friends, so I’d have said it was all settled.”

“I’ll ride over to Lavernia in a week or so,” Jim said, after silently considering what Creed had told him. “But I must visit Bastrop first … my brother’s wife lives there. I think it may be me who tells her that Dan’l is dead.”

“A hard task for you,” Creed observed. “But I’m grateful in any case.” He rose to his feet with an effort. “It’s been a puzzle to me – since I have been laid up healing. Nate and Mandy Sutton; I purely don’t see it at all – and I can’t think why Silas Sutton has gotten such a bee in his bonnet.”

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