Mexican Fire (33 page)

Erasmo de Guzman couldn't believe his ears. On a trip to Xochimilco to agitate the Indians into rebellion—taking the chance of being arrested by Centralists—he had been gone from the capital for only a week, yet so much had happened in his absence. And Erasmo felt his anger building.

Six days ago Mercedes and the lot of her colleagues, disguised as common Mexicans, had departed in a mule-drawn wagon for the coast. The only horses were Montgomery's stallion and Pepe Zecatl's gelding. But they had not taken their leave before Alejandra and her Tejano had attacked Santa Anna and liquidated the Santanista general, Velasquez.

The general's daughter, in company with the conspirators, had cried for her father, yet she left with his killers.

Erasmo stomped across the patio of Casa del Lago to lean his head against an adobe post. Evening had set in, the cool chilling his bones.
Damn you, Mercedes! Damn you and your new doctor man!

His eyes swung to Humberto del Lago. Uncle to Mercedes and Alejandra, the blond and blue-eyed del Lago was a
gachupin
of middle years. Until this point, Erasmo had thought him a friend. “Humberto, how could you have condoned their actions? How could you help them?”

“Alejandra and Mercedes are my flesh and blood. I deny them nothing.”

“You'll get Mercedes killed, that's what you will give her. Soldiers are scouting the land, looking for that parade of ‘common Mexicanos.' Two
norteamericanos
and a poodle dog? They will fool no one. My adored's blood will be on your hands! If it is not already.”

Humberto poured three fingers of
pulque
into a glass to hand to the angry young man. “Calm down, my melodramatic companion. I know you love my niece, despite her snub, but you are much too agitated.”

The drink refused, Erasmo raked his fingers through his already mussed hair. “Which route did they take?”

“The one through Perote.”

“Why did they take the high road to Vera Cruz?”

“Señor Montgomery insisted. His
edecán,
the one called Pepe, had brought him some sort of news.”

“What sort of news?”

Humberto took a generous quaff of cactus liquor, then shrugged. “I do not know.”

“Do not lie to me, Humberto.”

Del Lago scowled. “Watch your tongue,
mestizo,
around those such as I. Those of wealth and position. And good breeding.”

Erasmo knew when to act subservient. As a man of mixed blood, he had had more than his share of experience with those of the upper class and their discrimination. “Excuse my presumption. I hope you understand, my anxieties overshadowed gentlemanly behavior.”

“All is forgiven.” Del Lago eased into a cowhide chair, then propped his feet on the adjacent table. Clicking his tongue to summon a pet monkey, he said, “Believe me, Erasmo, if I had known the reason for the detour by Perote, I would have told you. But I do not know.” The monkey perched on his shoulder. “Their haste in leaving precluded a fireside chat.”

Erasmo dropped his head. “I'll never see Mercedes again.”

“Probably not.”

“Unless I catch up with them. Unless I kidnap her.”

“And what could you offer? You're nothing but a coffee peddlar, and you haven't done that in months. Since you've been in the capital, you've done nothing but leech from my purse.”

“Leech from your purse? I beg your pardon. As partners we have advanced Federalist ideals.”

Del Lago scoffed at Erasmo. “I went along with you to humor my niece. Alejandra wanted you well away from the palace. Thus, I financed your endeavors. It is true that I am no admirer of Señor Santa Anna, but do not flatter yourself that I would throw my sympathies to a
mestizo
such as you.”

Anger boiled as if it were a pot of heated oil. Erasmo lumbered toward the discourteous del Lago. “How nice it must be,” he said sarcastically, “to have been born to choice.”

“Sí,
it is very nice.” Stroking the monkey's chin, the
gachupin
kissed the animal's ear. “Alejandra made her choice. She has abandoned the cause of federalism. She seeks nothing beyond the nurture of Tejas and the joys of matrimony. And Mercedes . . . well, who can blame her for wanting the American?”

“Why do you say these things to me?”

“You are tiresome, Erasmo de Guzman. Tiresome and boring. All you think about is federalism and putting your
pene
into Mercedes. Go publish your broadsides, go incite the unwashed of this country.” Del Lago reached into his pocket and extracted a copper. Tossing it at Erasmo's feet, he said, “Take the money and leave. I am tired of you, Erasmo de Guzman.”

For a split second Erasmo gaped at the one he had taken to friend. He had been abandoned by everyone he held dear! Alejandra. Humberto. Mercedes!

No more would he be degraded.

Violent as a toro at the capital's bullring, Erasmo lunged forward. His meaty grip catapulted the monkey into a pole twenty feet away. Del Largo's eyes rounded in horror. He pushed to the side, trying to extricate himself from the chair, but Erasmo grabbed him. Those horrified eyes bulged when powerful fingers clamped around his neck.

Erasmo squeezed with all his might. Del Lago tried to pull air into his lungs, but his only accomplishment was to choke. His face turned purple. Gradually the struggles ceased. Erasmo shoved the now lifeless body to the patio ground. He turned. His fingers found the bottle of
pulque.
Swigging from it, he laughed maniacally. Now murderer would be added to his list of achievements. He was glad for it. For too long he had been dirt under other people's
zapatos.
But no more.

He glanced at Humberto del Lago's crumpled form. “To hell with you and your sort.”

But what would he do now? He must get away. He would not face a firing squad for this. His feet carried him toward the door leading off the patio. On his way he kicked the dead monkey. Such a pleasant feeling that was, almost as pleasant as choking the life out of the
gachupín.
What would give him equal pleasure? Need he even ask himself this question? He would entrap that Perote-bound party, punish Alejandra for her betrayal, then . . . ah,
sí, sí,
he'd prove his worth as a husband for Mercedes.

“I must be sly about it. Very, very sly.”

Deranged and vengeful, Erasmo de Guzman stole an Arabian stallion from Casa del Lago's stables and rode out.

 

 

A week and a half had passed since Reece and Alejandra, along with the others, had fled from the capital. The procession rolled turtle-slow over the Sierra Orientals. At night they picked their way through darkness; by day they hid from arrest. Be that as it may, their journey was faster than Santa Anna's caravan had been on its way to Mexico City. Faster, slower, Reece was at his wit's end.

Back at the palace stables, a winded Pepe had said, panting for breath from his furious ride, “Last week your brother broke free from Perote Prison. He was wounded, along with his cell mate, during the escape. Their whereabouts are unknown, but apparently they had help, so it is expected they will try to make for Vera Cruz and passage out of Mexico.” They had to be somewhere between Perote and the port city. Reece was aching to charge for there and find them.

But he could not leave Alejandra.

This afternoon, on the tenth day of their journey, they were camped alongside a stream. Trees and a mountain sheltered them from view. The women were at siesta, as was the hungry baby, on blankets near the wagons and Rayo. Hidden beneath the wagon floor were uniforms, muskets, and a small cache of medical supplies. Four mules munched grasses nearby. Pepe, on horseback, had been sent to buy food in the village a couple of miles to the east.

Their group of nine vagabonds included a grieving Maribel, a spoiled Mercedes, one dried-up wet nurse, a squalling baby, and an injured dog. Luckily Pepe had bribed several farmers away from pails of goat's milk, which had served for the babe, but the last bucket sat empty. Although Dr. Edward Moran had proved handy by driving the wagon and setting Frisco's broken leg, he was a liability. The doctor ate like a lumberjack. The stores Tio Humberto del Lago had provided were depleted, thanks to Moran.

Edward Moran paced the creekside. “We really should have brought more provisions.”

Sitting on his heels, a dry-nosed and lethargic Frisco beside him, Reece sharpened his knife on a whetstone. “Better watch yourself, Moran, or you'll go to fat.”

“Don't you know, Montgomery, a person can use a bit of stored nourishment?”

“Thank you, doctor, I do know. And when you get back to New York City, get as fat as you please. For now, though, we'll make do with what we can.”

Reece scowled at Moran. Beyond that gargantuan appetite, he didn't dislike the man. When it had appeared the doctor was courting Alejandra, Reece had had a few choice monikers for him, but his jealousy had proved ungrounded. Besides, not a lot divided them. Escaping Mexico was paramount to each man, and they were both over-tall
norteamericanos
in love with a sister Toussaint. Soon they would be brothers-in-law.

Why not grant a break? He thought about what Moran had said a minute ago—and agreed. “We should've brought more provisions, but you've gotta admit, Eddie, we had ants in our pants to leave Mexico City.”

“That we did.” Moran chuckled. “When I left New York, I never thought I'd be wearing
huipils
before it was over.”

Reece took a look at the too-short shirt and trousers covering his soon-to-be brother, then glanced at his same attire. Both wore wide sombreros to hide their northern European features. They looked ridiculous. “Well, you gotta admit, we've found the spice of life.”

“Ain't that the truth, Monty?” Moran wiggled his toes in his unaccommodating huaraches. “Do you mind if I call you Monty?”

Only one person had called him by that name. Garth. Praying his brother was safe, Reece shrugged. “Call me whatever you please.”

“Thank you . . . Monty.” More somber now, Moran asked, “Do you think there's a chance we'll encounter your brother on our way to Vera Cruz?”

“Let's hope he's already there. And gone. But if he's not, I intend to find out.” Reece pushed to his feet. “Or die trying.”

“Do you think we'll find out anything in Perote village?”

“It's a good possibility. Which may cause some trouble. When we get there, I want you and the rest to keep on for Vera Cruz. Pepe and I will catch up with you.” Reece rubbed his hand down his face. “Promise me something, Eddie. If anything happens to me, you'll make certain everyone gets out of the country all right.”

Moran walked over. He placed a light hand on Reece's shoulder, and extended the other in a handshake. “You have my word.”

“Thanks . . . brother.” Reece winked. “How about your word on something else? Like, going easy on the foodstuffs.”

“Agreed . . . but, Monty, aren't you known as the hunter? Pepe hasn't returned, so we can only assume he won't for a while, and our ladies will awaken famished, thus . . . mightn't you try for some game?”

“I doubt our high-born women would want to eat the catch raw. A cookfire is out of the question, it would call too much attention to us.” Reece glanced at Alejandra and the others. By damn he shouldn't allow women, animals, and a small child to suffer unnecessarily. And a full belly would appease Moran . . . Reece put a speculative finger to his mustache. “Maybe we could build a fire away from camp.”

“Excellent idea.”

From the corner of his eye, Reece spied Alejandra waking from siesta. She hugged her arms, then tossed her long black hair from her face. Frisco reared his head, and limped over to her. Reece hankered to dash over, haul her into his arms and away from the observers, then spirit her away to build a fire in that comely and womanly form. He wouldn't, though. A man had to be practical.

The baby began to cry. The useless wet nurse, an Indian of sullen manner, frowned and rolled over to snuggle into a
serape.
Mercedes awoke.
“Mi niño!”
She pulled the hungry child into her arms. “Edward, do something—he's hungry!”

The doctor grew pale. Mercedes repeated her demand. “Sister,” Reece said to Mercedes and motioned toward Moran's manly chest, “what do you expect him to do? His breasts look flat as a johnnycake to me!”

Indignant, Alejandra launched to her feet. “This is no time for sarcasm, Reece Montgomery!”

Mercedes nodded. “That is true.”

It was then that Maribel Velasquez rubbed her eyes and opened her mouth to yawn. Rising to a seated position on the ground, she said, “I'm hungry.”

“Reece, don't just stand there.” Alejandra placed Frisco inside the wagon, on his nest of rags. “Do something. Night will fall soon.”

He and Moran looked at each other at the same time. “Let's get out of here,” they chorused, and the good deed of providing game for the party was neither's full intention. As they tramped into the woods, Moran voiced true sentiments. “You know, Monty, it's good to get away for a moment. Nagging must be synonymous with women.”

 

 

Hungry and weary, Alejandra hugged her arms against dusk's dropping temperature, and paced the campsite. Reece and Edward had been gone a ridiculous amount of time, considering it was a hunt for game and the party was headed by El Cazador himself. And where was Pepe?

Chico let loose a wail. Mercedes, frustrated, began to cry. So did Maribel, who grieved for her father. The wet nurse, Evita, bawled as well. It might have been over her stillborn child, but Alejandra doubted it. The fright of escaping the presidential palace, soldiers chasing them, had dried her milk. Evita was certain death lurked at each turn of the trip.