Renegades Read online

Frank shrugged. “It’s just a graze. I’m lucky it wasn’t a whole lot worse.”

  “Sí,” Antonio said. “Lucky.”

  Frank wondered what in blazes the young man meant by that. Antonio must have reasons to dislike all gringos, or at least he thought he did.

  A short time later they came within sight of the Almanzar hacienda. It was a sprawling, two-story structure of whitewashed adobe with a red tile roof. Frank could tell that it was built Spanish-style, around an open central plaza. Nearby were several large barns and corrals, along with a long bunkhouse made of logs and other adobe outbuildings. Like the Rocking T, there was an air of prosperity and success about the place. If anything, the Almanzar hacienda was even more impressive than Cecil Tolliver’s spread.

  Frank asked himself why a man who owned a place like this would send gunmen across the border to attack a Texas rancher. That idea made no sense to him. From the looks of the Almanzar hacienda, Don Felipe would have plenty to do just keeping it running smoothly.

  Of course, Tolliver had mentioned a feud, Frank recalled. Old grudges didn’t always have to make sense in order to cause trouble.

  The hacienda was cupped in a shallow bowl on the side of a hill. A creek ran down from above, at one point sparkling in a short waterfall before winding its way past the house and the barns and then running on out toward the flats, where it disappeared. Pine trees grew on the hill and around the house. It was as pretty a spot as Frank had seen in quite a while. Damn near a paradise, in fact.

  Sometimes serpents lurked in paradises, he thought, recalling the story of the Garden of Eden. He wondered whether any snakes waited for him here.

  Frank, Carmen, and Antonio rode down the slope toward the big house. A man stepped out of the log bunkhouse, looked up and saw them coming, and began ringing a bell that hung beside the door on a post. The pealing of the bell had a strident sound to it, as if it were not so much an announcement of Carmen’s return as a warning about something.

  About him, Frank thought with a quirk of his mouth.

  A good-sized group of men had assembled in response to the bell by the time Frank and his two companions reached the hacienda. All of them except one were typical vaqueros. They all carried pistols, and each man had his hand close to the butt of his gun.

  The lone exception carried no weapon that Frank could see. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wore high boots, tight trousers, and a white shirt. A crimson bandanna was tied around his throat. His dark hair was long and a fierce mustache drooped over his mouth. His darkly tanned face resembled a hatchet. Frank had no doubt the man was Don Felipe Almanzar, and even though he was an aristocrat, there was Indian blood somewhere in his lineage. The high, sharply planed cheekbones were proof enough of that.

  He stalked forward as the three riders reined in. “Carmen!” he said. “Where were you?”

  The young woman’s defiance and haughty attitude slipped somewhat in the face of that harsh demand. But then she recovered and said with a lift of her chin, “I went for a ride. You should know by now that is my habit, Papa.”

  “I know your habit is to take foolish chances with your own life and the lives of those I send to look for you, including your own brother. You know it is no longer safe for a young woman to ride alone in these hills!”

  Now that they were closer, Frank could see that Don Felipe’s face was lined and weathered. From a distance, the man’s vitality made him seem younger than he really was. Even up close, he was still an impressive figure. Frank could see how such a man could carve an empire out of the wilderness in northern Mexico.

  “It was not my wish to endanger anyone,” Carmen began. “I did not think that—”

  “You can stop when you say that you did not think,” her father cut in.

  Carmen flushed but didn’t say anything else.

  Frank’s gaze played quickly over the group of vaqueros. He didn’t see any norteamericanos among them. Tolliver had insisted that the gunmen who had jumped him and Ben had been sent by Almanzar, but based on what he saw here, and on Antonio’s attitude toward gringos, Frank thought it was unlikely any such men worked for Almanzar. So the identity of those raiders remained one more question without an answer, at least for the time being.

  Almanzar turned his dark eyes toward Frank. “Who is this injured gringo?”

  Even though the query hadn’t been addressed directly to him, Frank answered. “My name is Frank Morgan, Don Felipe. My apologies for trespassing on your land. I did not mean to cause trouble.”

  Almanzar grunted. “It looks as if trouble has found you despite your intentions, Señor Morgan. What happened to you?”

  Frank stuck with the story he had told Carmen and Antonio. “I was bushwhacked. A shot grazed me, knocked me out.”

  “Whoever attacked you did not cut your throat or steal your horse?”

  “Nope. I reckon something must have spooked them.”

  Almanzar nodded slowly. “My apologies to you, Señor. I admit that I care little for your kind. You are a Texan, are you not?”

  “That’s right,” Frank said, “although I’ve traveled around a lot over the years.”

  “I have no trust or affection for Texans,” Almanzar said curtly, “but I would not have a stranger come to harm on my land. Please accept the hospitality of my house.”

  “Gracias, Don Felipe.”

  Carmen said, “You have reason to feel grateful to Señor Morgan, Papa. He saved me from a mountain lion.”

  Almanzar’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Come inside, Señor Morgan. I would hear of this encounter with the lion of the mountains.”

  Some of the vaqueros had drifted off when it became obvious there wasn’t going to be any trouble, but several had stayed behind. They stepped forward now to take charge of the horses as Frank, Carmen, and Antonio dismounted. Stormy blew air through his nostrils and bared his teeth as one of the men reached for his reins. The vaquero drew back.

  “It’s all right, Stormy,” Frank said as he patted the big Appaloosa’s shoulder. “You can go with this hombre. He’ll take care of you.”

  Stormy looked dubious about that, but he allowed the vaquero to take the reins and lead him toward one of the barns.

  “Go with Stormy, Dog,” Frank said to the cur. “These are friends, you hear?”

  Dog padded after Stormy, his tongue lolling from his mouth, his eyes watching the vaqueros suspiciously.

  “A one-man horse and a one-man dog,” Almanzar said. “And impressive animals they are. My respect for you grows, Señor.”

  He ushered Frank toward a wrought-iron gate in the outer wall of the house. Carmen and Antonio followed. Frank carried his hat and limped on his injured ankle.

  Once they entered a cool, shadowy interior of the house, a mozo appeared to take the hat. Frank gave it to the servant, who hung it carefully on a peg set in the adobe wall.

  It was chilly inside the house. At Almanzar’s command, the mozo hurried to light a fire in the big fireplace on the other side of the room. For a moment, as Frank looked around, he almost thought he was back at the Rocking T. This parlor had the same sort of fireplace, the same heavy, overstuffed furniture. There were no mounted animal heads, however, and instead of a cavalry saber, a pair of thin-bladed rapiers hung on the wall.

  “Do you require medical attention, Señor Morgan?” Don Felipe asked. “I can have one of the Indian women tend to your wound.”

  Frank shook his head. “Perhaps later. There’s really not much that can be done for it, other than washing off some of this dried blood.”

  “You might be surprised. There are compresses and other such things.... These Indians can sometimes work wonders with their cures and remedies.”

  “I know. I’m all right for now, though.”

  “What about your leg? I notice that you limp rather badly.”

  Frank shrugged. “The ankle’s just twisted. I’m not going to be running any races any time soon, but I think it’ll be all right.”

  Almanzar
shrugged. “As you wish. Can I offer you a glass of brandy?”

  “Actually, right now a cup of coffee sounds mighty good. And maybe something to eat.” Ever since Frank’s head had settled down, his stomach had been reminding him incessantly of how long it had been since he’d had any real food.

  “Of course.” In rapid Spanish, Almanzar issued orders to his majordomo, and the old man scurried out of the room to carry them out.

  Almanzar gestured for Frank to have a seat on a cowhide-covered divan and said, “Now, about this mountain lion . . .”

  “The cat frightened my horse, Papa,” Carmen began, “and I was thrown off—”

  Almanzar held up a hand to stop her. “Please allow our guest to tell the story, Carmencita.”

  She subsided with a pout on her lips. Whether she was angry at being interrupted or at being called by the diminutive, as if she were a child, Frank couldn’t tell.

  “Your daughter has the straight of it, Señor,” Frank said. “I was riding along after I came to from being knocked out, and I heard the mountain lion scream ahead of me. I might have tried to avoid it, but then the señorita screamed, too, and I knew I had to go lend a hand.”

  “Carmen claims this man shot the lion out of the air,” Antonio put in, sounding like he thought such a thing was utterly impossible.

  “He did!” Carmen said.

  “It was a lucky shot, I reckon,” Frank said. “I didn’t have time for anything else. That big cat had to choose between going after the señorita or the horse, and he’d made up his mind.”

  “You are obviously a man who has much skill with guns,” Don Felipe said. “I am in your debt, Señor. I owe you for my daughter’s life.”

  Before Frank could respond, Antonio said, “This man Morgan should be a good shot, Papa. I recognize his name now. He is the infamous gringo gunfighter known as The Drifter, and I would not be surprised if he had been sent here by Cecil Tolliver to assassinate you!”

  11

  Almanzar’s face flushed even darker than normal as he listened to his son’s accusation. Glaring intently at Frank, he demanded, “Is this true, Señor?”

  “Which part?” Frank asked dryly. “Am I sometimes called The Drifter? I reckon I am. And some folks regard me as a gunfighter. I guess the description fits. But I’m not an assassin and never have been. Nobody sent me here, either. I came on my own.”

  “To kill me?”

  Frank bit back the frustration he felt. “Not hardly. I don’t have a thing in the world against you, Don Felipe.”

  That was true enough. Frank didn’t know who was right and who was wrong in the feud between Almanzar and Cecil Tolliver, whatever it was based on, but he was convinced that it hadn’t been Almanzar’s men who had attacked Cecil and Ben on the road from San Rosa to the Rocking T. He didn’t think it was likely that Almanzar had anything to do with the Black Scorpion, either. The owner of a successful rancho had no reason to turn bandido.

  “Do not listen to him, Papa,” Antonio advised. “You know that no gringo can be trusted. No matter what he says, he must be Tolliver’s man.”

  “I’m nobody’s man but my own,” Frank snapped, unable to completely contain his irritation at Antonio’s continued accusations.

  “All right,” Almanzar said, motioning for his son to be quiet. He faced Frank and went on. “As a guest in my house, you will be treated with respect, Señor Morgan. But I warn you, if you seek to harm me or my family, you will regret it.”

  “I told you, I didn’t come down here looking for trouble.” That was stretching the truth a mite, Frank thought. When he had crossed the Rio Grande with Captain Wedge and the Texas Rangers, on the trail of the Black Scorpion’s gang, he had indeed been looking for trouble. And he had found it, in spades.

  The tense atmosphere in the room eased a bit as the mozo came in carrying a tray with a coffeepot and cups. A couple of heavyset Indian women followed him with platters containing tortillas, strips of meat, peppers, and beans. They set the food on a table to one side. The old man placed the coffee on the table as well and began filling the cups from the pot.

  Don Felipe waved a hand, inviting Frank to help himself. He and his two children—the only ones Frank had seen so far, at least—joined him.

  The coffee was thick and sweet, though it held a hint of bitterness from the chocolate that had been melted in it. Frank used some of the tortillas to scoop up the beans while he rolled meat and peppers in the others. The food was excellent, though heavy enough that he began to get a little sleepy. He knew he needed to stay awake. A doctor had once told him that it could be dangerous to go to sleep too soon after a hard crack on the head. Something about a bruise on the brain. Frank figured his skull was too thick and hard for that to have happened, but he didn’t want to take the chance. He drank several cups of the thick coffee to help keep him alert.

  Antonio Almanzar was still sullen, but Carmen chattered happily as the four of them sat around the table. She seemed to have gotten over the scolding her father had given her. Don Felipe appeared to have forgotten about being angry with her, as well.

  Like a dog with a bone, Antonio wasn’t ready to let go of his resentment. He said bluntly to Frank, “Do you know the man Tolliver?”

  “I know who he is,” Frank said obliquely. “Rancher who has a spread on the other side of the border. The Rocking T, isn’t it?”

  “Once he was just a simple rancher, perhaps,” Don Felipe said. “When he first came, I took him to be an honest man. But he has shown his true colors over the years. He is a thief and a scoundrel.”

  “What’s he stolen?” Frank asked.

  “He has stocked his ranch with our cattle,” Antonio said hotly.

  “Rustler, eh?”

  “And our vaqueros have been attacked,” Almanzar said, his voice grim. “Some have been killed.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “For years,” Almanzar said. “Many long years.”

  Carmen took Frank by surprise by saying, “That is not true, Papa, and you know it!”

  Don Felipe glared at her. “Do not dispute your elders, child,” he said sternly. “You know nothing of this.”

  “I know that until recent months, we lost only a few cows, and they were probably taken by the Yaquis who live high in the mountains. And when our men were attacked, it was by bandidos.”

  Don Felipe slapped a palm on the table. “Perhaps once, but no longer!” he said. “Now it is Tolliver’s men who plague us!”

  “You don’t know that,” Carmen shot back at him.

  Frank listened to the exchange with great interest. Don Felipe Almanzar was saying the same sort of things about Cecil Tolliver that Tolliver had said about Almanzar. That had to mean something.

  “You only hate Señor Tolliver,” Carmen went on, disregarding the obvious fury building up on her father’s face, “because of what happened with Mama.”

  “Enough!” Almanzar exploded. “I will listen to no more! Carmen, leave us! Go to your room and stay there!”

  “No! You are not being fair—”

  “Go!” Don Felipe bellowed, rising to his great height to loom over his daughter.

  Mama? Frank thought. Was Carmen talking about her mother, about Don Felipe’s wife? What connection did the doña have with Cecil Tolliver?

  And for that matter, where was Doña Almanzar?

  More mysteries seemed to crop up every time he turned around, Frank mused.

  Sullenly, Carmen left the table and disappeared through an arched doorway. Don Felipe turned to Frank and said stiffly, “My apologies for my daughter’s disrespectful behavior, Señor. Since her mother’s unfortunate passing, Carmen has grown even more headstrong.” The man sighed, and for a second Frank saw his façade of iron self-control slip. “My late wife, may El Señor Dios rest her soul, knew better than I how to deal with the whims of a young woman.”

  “The best way is with a strap and a strong arm,” Antonio said.

  His father gl
ared at him. “Silence! I will not hear of such things.” Almanzar nodded to Frank. “Again, my apologies, Señor Morgan.”

  “No apologies necessary, Señor Almanzar,” Frank assured him. “I don’t know from personal experience, but I imagine that raising children is a tricky business.”

  For a moment, the conversation made wistful memories of Victoria Monfore race through Frank’s mind. Victoria might or might not be his daughter; he would probably never be one hundred percent certain about that, but she was far away, up in Parker County, safely married to Tyler Beaumont now. An injury had confined her to a wheelchair, perhaps for the rest of her life, but Frank could rest easy knowing that Beaumont was there to care for her. And then there was Frank’s son Conrad, back East somewhere, still estranged from his father, although when they had last parted, Conrad no longer seemed to bear any hatred for his father. Frank hadn’t been around while Victoria and Conrad were growing up. In fact, he hadn’t even known about them until they were grown, but he could imagine what it was like trying to bring up youngsters so that they followed the right path in life.

  Almanzar sighed. “Of all the travails that may befall a man, Señor, none is heavier than the weight of trying to do the right thing.”

  Frank nodded, fully understanding what Don Felipe meant.

  A few moments of silence went by, and during that time Frank mused that at least one of his questions had been answered. Almanzar’s wife was dead. But was there a connection between her death and Cecil Tolliver? Every answer brought with it a new question.

  When the meal was finished, Don Felipe asked, “Will you stay with us for a few days, Señor Morgan, or do you prefer to move on?”

  Frank had been pondering the same question. He thought they might be getting worried about him at the Tolliver ranch, especially if the Rangers had returned to the Rocking T and said that Frank had been lost in the battle with the Black Scorpion’s gang. He didn’t like the idea of causing needless concern.

  On the other hand, he might come closer to finding the cause of all the trouble plaguing the border country if he remained on this side of the Rio Grande for a while.