The Steel Angel Read online

Denver looked off down the river. “Looks pretty flat and there’s cover. We’ll be traveling fast and empty. Ought to hold him for a day.”

  “If you can,” Adam said slowly, “we’ll be rid of him for good.”

  “Figure on it,” Denver said. “Where you want me to meet you?”

  “Once you’ve got him off your back … after you’ve taken him far as you can … cut due west. You’ll hit the road to Tupelo. We’ll be on it. Dust will show you where.”

  Denver glanced over his shoulder. “Boys’ve about got their moving done. Want me to take the train across?”

  “Be obliged. Swing right, in behind that brush, once you’re over. I’ll get Felipe busy unloading his rig.”

  Denver climbed back onto his wagon as Rait whirled away. Raising his arm, he shouted the signal to move out. The heavily loaded vehicles rolled forward, dipped down into the shallow riverbed, crawled up the opposite sloping bank. As the last freighter came to a halt, Adam rode up.

  “Every man down! Cut yourself some branches, start wiping out those tracks! Both sides of the river.”

  The teamsters hastened to comply. Only one, Red Lester, paused, looked up sullenly.

  “You’re sure in one hell of a danged rush.”

  “You’d better be, too,” Rait snapped. “If we’re not far enough away from here by daylight to keep Cook from spotting our dust, we’re done for!”

  Back on the opposite side of the river Joe Denver and Felipe were climbing into their wagons. The teamster gathered up his leathers, kicked off the brake, and shouted his team into motion. The boy swung in behind. Both vehicles rolled forward until they were within a dozen paces of the water, and then curved off to the south.

  Denver lifted his hand in salute. “See you in church!” he shouted and whipped his horses into a gallop.

  Immediately, Adam signaled Bill Gannon, now on the lead freighter. “Get ’em out of here, and don’t slow down, come hell or salvation.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was a hard day. Forsaking the marked roads and keeping to open country as he did, Rait found traveling slow. The ground was sandy and, despite the unusually wide tread of the wagon wheels, the tires bit deep. Several times the drivers were forced to bring in the extra horses and double-team their rigs as they wormed their way through the low hills.

  To make matters more disagreeable a hot wind off the Llano de los Cristianos, far to the south, sprang up around midafternoon and quickly built itself into a full-scale blast—of sweeping clouds of stinging sand and choking dust—in seemingly endless gusts.

  But it was worth it, Adam thought, as he wiped grit from his lips and rubbed at his inflamed eyes. The efforts of Joe Denver and Felipe, combined with his own determination to keep the wagon train rolling at its best possible speed across the broken land, despite the protests of some of the teamsters, had paid off. There was no sign of Zeb Cook and his renegade army.

  He wished it were possible to keep the freighters moving on through the night and put more miles between them and the river. By that hour the Confederate leader and his cavalrymen would have realized their error, doubled back, and now be ranging wide in search. But it was out of the question. Both horses and men needed rest.

  Accordingly, near sundown, Rait signaled for a halt in a deep swale. It wasn’t a choice location, being overgrown with clumps of creosote bush and prickly pear cactus, but he could locate nothing better.

  Mercifully, the wind had died by the time camp was established and the tired horses cared for. They were deep in the short hills and likely far from Cook and his scouts, but Adam Rait still elected to play it safe; he ordered no campfire and permitted only a small blaze for the use of Sancho in preparing the meal.

  Conversation during supper turned naturally to the escape from the barn and to the identity of their mysterious benefactor. A few were convinced that it was one of the townsmen, others still believed it to be a disgruntled soldier, disliking the high-handed manner of Zebulon Cook and taking personal satisfaction.

  “Well,” Jeremy Haskins observed, drinking whiskey as a substitute for Sancho’s acorn coffee in washing down his food, “I ain’t for looking no mule in the mouth when he’s give to me. We’re here, and I’m plumb tickled about that.”

  Adam remained silent, listening to the various opinions expressed. He was too tired to think much about it, and, like Haskins, he was just thankful they had managed to escape. Someday, perhaps, they would learn who had done them the turn, and proper thanks could be made. At the moment he had more pressing matters to consider such as continuing to elude Cook. He hoped their luck would hold.

  “Riders coming!”

  The warning broke from one of the four posted sentries. Adam sprang to his feet, nerves tightening. Had he congratulated himself too soon?

  “Spread out,” he ordered in a hushed voice. “Hold your fire until I give the word. This time Cook’s not taking us.”

  The teamsters melted into the brush shadows. Adam stepped back beyond the fire’s glow. The odds would be more than two to one against them—almost three, in fact. He had a flashing recollection of his time of war, swore bitterly, helplessly. Things never changed.

  And then Angela de Acera, accompanied by her brother, rode into view.

  Hernando ducked his head politely. The light of the flames was red on his dark face. “Buenas noches, señor.”

  Frowning, Adam stepped forward, eyes on Angela. There was a change. She now wore more practical clothing, suitable for the trail, but it detracted none from her beauty. Abruptly he remembered the common courtesies.

  “Step down. Sancho’ll fix you a bite of supper.”

  “Muchas gracias,” Hernando muttered, and came off his horse. The teamsters began to reappear.

  Rait crossed to the girl. She swung down easily, her slender body lithe and graceful. One of the crew sighed audibly, admiringly. She faced Adam, smiling. “Our presence surprises you?” she asked in Spanish.

  “Little surprises me any more. What of Fort Worth?”

  Angela moved her shoulders. “It became necessary to abandon the journey.”

  Sancho stepped up, handed each a plate of food. He bowed, said apologetically: “I grieve that we have no chocolate, my lady.”

  “It is unnecessary. Is there water?”

  “Yes, my lady,” the old man replied and scurried back to the chuck wagon.

  Angela began to eat. The teamsters, puzzled also by the reappearance of the pair, lurked about in the shadows, listened. Bill Gannon broke the hush. He addressed Hernando.

  “See anything of some soldiers … cavalry? Be about fifty in the bunch.”

  The Mexican nodded. “By the river. They look for you, no?”

  “Just what they’re doing. Had us cooped up in a barn, but we got loose.”

  Adam was studying the man closely. “You know about that?”

  Hernando shrugged, made no answer. Gannon swept the teamsters with a knowing look. “Maybe I’m getting me an idea who that friend of ours was.”

  Rait considered. It was possible—except there was no logic behind it. Why would Hernando risk his neck to save theirs? But ahead of that one were other questions: What brought the de Aceras to them? Why hadn’t they continued on to Fort Worth?

  “Them soldiers,” said Rufus Moore, “they heading this way?”

  “They were near the river. They were not moving.”

  “When was that, señor?”

  “Two, perhaps three hours before darkness.”

  Joe Denver had done a good job. Evidently Cook spent most of the day in a useless pursuit. Relief flowed through Adam. With so large a lead he should be able to keep the wagon train beyond the renegades’ reach. And there would be no wheel tracks for them to follow, thanks to the wind from the Cristianos. He would like to think they had seen the last of Colonel Zebulon Cook, CSA, rejuve
nated.

  But none of this explained the presence of Angela and her brother. Rait waited while they continued to eat. The teamsters expected an emergency, and dead beat from the day’s labor, began to drift off to seek their blankets.

  Adam, equally weary, had other matters on his mind. The de Aceras were there for a purpose, he was sure—just as there had been a reason for their joining the train in the beginning. A vague suspicion began to grow: if he knew for certain that it had been Hernando who struck down the sentry in Jonesburg, he would be close to the answer. Likely Hernando would deny it, if asked. Best to bide his time, let them make the first move.

  “Where do you go?” he asked, still in Spanish when they returned their plates to Sancho. “You are far from well-traveled roads.”

  Angela was staring into the fire. Her face was a pale, soft oval, her eyes dark. “We have come to find you.”

  Adam leaned over, picked up a small branch, and tossed it into the flames. He had guessed right. He was certain of it now.

  “You flatter me, my lady,” he said with dry sarcasm, “but I see no purpose.”

  “There is important purpose,” Hernando stated, pointing to the wagons. “We would buy the cargo you transport.”

  Rait’s earlier conclusion left him bereft of surprise. He merely said: “Maximilian?”

  “Maximilian, and a greater Mexico,” Hernando said in a grand tone.

  “That is questionable.” Adam turned his eyes to Angela. “You are agents of the Royalists. Are you also brother and sister?”

  “A matter of convenience only. A necessity.”

  “Your pardon, my lady,” Hernando broke in. “Permit me to make the proper introductions.” He bowed low to the girl. “The Señorita Angela de Acera … as you know. And I … I have the honor to be General Hernando Bernal, of His Majesty’s loyal Mexican brigades and Imperial Guard.”

  Angela displayed a frazzled annoyance at Bernal’s grandiloquence. “It was arranged to meet with Kurt Hanover. Our intentions were to deal with him for the cargo. Unfortunately it was not accomplished.”

  “Unfortunately for him,” Adam said coldly. “Was it necessary that he be murdered?”

  She made a small motion with her hand. “Plans do not always go as expected. Had he lived, it is possible an agreement could have been made.”

  “That’s doubtful. He was a man of his word.”

  “Perhaps, but the ending of the North American war voided the promise.”

  “We speak of the dead,” Hernando murmured. “Who is to say what a man would have done? It is better that we yet living conduct matters according to our own discretion.”

  Adam Rait felt the girl’s eyes upon him, searching out his expression, endeavoring to penetrate his thoughts. She’s still beautiful in that getup, he told himself, and then realized she likely hoped he felt so; it was a part of her arsenal of persuasion.

  “You are the inheritor of the cargo,” Bernal said, coming to the point. “Are you of open mind?”

  “It belongs to all of us … all of the teamsters. We share alike. I am owner of no greater portion than the others, although I serve as master of the train. As to the other, I have made my position clear to your associate.”

  He did not say Angela by name, but referred to her in the genderless term, as would two parties conferring on a business proposition.

  Her head came up slightly and she said: “The general is aware of your feelings for Benito Juárez.”

  Bernal raised his hands, held them palms outward. “A matter of so vital importance should not be dismissed lightly.”

  “It has been dismissed. An agreement has been made with the Juárez government and a partial payment made. My word has been given.”

  The officer frowned. “To whom?”

  “An agent of Juárez, Emiliano Escobar.”

  Bernal was visibly startled. “You have made such arrangements with this man … in person?”

  “I have,” Adam replied, wondering at Hernando’s surprise. Understanding came to him. It had been one of Bernal’s underlings who had attempted the ambush on the Juárista and Joe Denver.

  He smiled. “Your man failed, General.”

  It was a shot in the dark, but Bernal was an old hand at deception. He only shrugged.

  “Your meaning is not clear. Regardless, it is difficult to understand how you consider it necessary to observe honor when dealing with revolutionists … outlaws who defy lawful authority.”

  “A matter of opinion. Nevertheless, it would have been Hanover’s decision also to sell to the Juáristas.”

  Bernal sighed. “Again we speak in supposition.”

  “No. I was with him when he made such a statement. He had no liking for the Maximilian government and thought well of Benito Juárez.”

  Hernando Bernal stirred impatiently. “Of what concern is Mexico to you? What matters who governs? Is gold not of the greatest importance? It is my intention to pay an even higher price for the cargo. Does that not interest you?”

  Adam Rait shook his head.

  The general’s face darkened. “You are most unwise …”

  Rait laughed. “A threat, my friend? Perhaps you will eliminate me as you did Kurt Hanover. I think not. It is said in your country that when a man knows where the scorpion crawls, he is never bitten. Thus I shall be wary.”

  “Your decision, then, is final?”

  “It is. I have made an agreement with the Juárez government. I will fulfill it.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hernando Bernal cast a sideward glance at Angela, allowed his shoulders to slump.

  “So be it … it is useless for me to say more. With your kind permission, however, we shall remain with you until the border of my country is reached. A matter of protection for the lady, Angela.”

  “Is there not a different reason, General?”

  The officer frowned. “I do not understand.”

  So your lady Angela can try her tricks on me, Adam was about to reply, but let it go. Instead he said: “It is nothing. Merely a passing thought. You are welcome to ride with us, but I assure you now, further conversation on the matter of the cargo is useless.”

  “As you will, but perhaps …”

  “It is finished,” Rait said flatly, and turned to Angela. “A bed will be made for you in the supply wagon.”

  “Do not trouble yourself,” she said coolly. “I shall find a place under the trees.”

  “Not while I’ve got twenty or so teamsters scattered about in the brush,” he snapped, forgetting his Spanish. “Or maybe you’d like that?”

  She gave him a quiet, infuriating smile, and he wheeled suddenly away and strode to the wagon.

  It was almost empty, and Adam pushed what remained aside and, unrolling a fold of blankets, whipped them into a pallet. Still angry, he stepped back, turned. That would take care of her, and if he slept somewhere nearby, she should be both comfortable and safe. Bernal could do what he damned well pleased. He looked up and found Angela standing before him.

  “It’s ready,” he said.

  Her reply was a quiet, “Thank you,” as she climbed, unaided, into the vehicle.

  He remained motionless, surprised at the gentleness of her manner, and then recalling his previous assumption that this was all a part of her inventory of cunning, he whirled, stalked to the dwindling fire.

  Rigid, he paused there, suddenly far from sleep. His mind was turbulent, skipping from thoughts of the luckless Hanover to Zeb Cook and his misguided followers; to Joe Denver and Felipe—and the hope that they had not fallen victim to the officer’s ungovernable anger; to Escobar and the Juárista escort that could not arrive too soon; to Hernando Bernal, and to Angela …

  He lit a cigar, took a few puffs, and finding the weed tasteless, dropped it into the dull embers. Angela—damn her—why did she have t
o be what she was? Why did she have to come back? Why? He thrashed it about for some time and then, giving it up, sought his blankets.

  * * * * *

  The train was under way at sunrise. Adam, making his customary rounds, saw little of Angela and Bernal and left it up to them to seek out their breakfasts and prepare for the day’s journey. They took positions to the left, he noted, thus avoiding dust. It was a good place, well removed from where he rode at the head of the column. In the mood that gripped him he did not want them near.

  His warning to Bernal that henceforth he would be on guard against the fate that had tripped up Kurt Hanover had not been idle talk. That the Mexican officer was a ruthless, determined man was evident. He had killed Hanover; Adam was convinced of it now. That he had also engineered the attempt on Emiliano Escobar’s life was likewise apparent.

  And the death of the Jonesburg sentry? Bernal would have realized all hope for obtaining the shipment of rifles and ammunition would be lost once Zeb Cook took possession. Accordingly, he had felt compelled to make escape possible for the teamsters. Once free with the cargo in their hands, there was a chance to negotiate.

  He considered Angela. It was hard to believe she was involved in it all—a partner in the killings that had been committed. She was—by association—yet, there was to her an indefinable quality that bespoke a resoluteness of purpose, a strange sort of courage that nullified the ruthlessness of Hernando Bernal and prevented its rubbing off on her. He wished to hell he could understand her—or his own private thoughts of her, for that matter.

  The knowledge that Bernal had been responsible for the attack on Escobar disturbed him. Martinez, or whoever had been assigned to do the job, could have made a second attempt and succeeded. One thing he must do, he decided. When Joe Denver returned, he would send him on to Tupelo, have him contact the Juáristas, make certain an escort would be on its way. It might prove a useless ride for the teamster as Escobar could have gotten through—but it was best to be certain.

  Late in the morning he called a halt in a thin stand of trees scattered about a spring. The day was hot, and he had pushed the teams hard, so he deemed it prudent to pause for an hour in the cooling shade and rest. They were also drawing near Comanche country, and he wanted the men to be aware of the danger.