As his short, stocky, black and tan paint mustang dodged the thorn scrub and mesquite, Travis stared into the distance. It would be a hard and fast trip to San Antonio, which entailed traversing one of the most hostile and foreboding landscapes on the continent. Since the onset of strife between Texas and Mexico, the strip of land lying between the Nueces and Rio Grande Rivers had become totally devoid of law and citizens—save for a few isolated ranches.
As he adjusted his buckskin jacket and chaps, essential for riding the prickly plain, Travis finally saw Chase, visible atop his horse, at the mission’s gate. Travis’s mount clopped over a small wooden bridge, then loped toward Chase, who was loading his Colt. He had removed the revolver’s cylinder and was currently placing percussion caps into the chamber’s bored holes as he packed the powder charges and balls into place.
“Day after tomorrow—that will be a long, tough haul,” Travis said, removing a hanky from his pocket and polishing the shiny, two-inch Ranger badge affixed to his jacket.
Chase reinserted the cylinder into the pistol and sniffed the pure, cold desert air. “Traversing the brush with an idler like you won’t be easy, but we’ll make it.” He handed Travis half a loaf of hardened bread and lit a cigarette. “She’s too young and good-looking for you.”
“Women don’t ever get too young for us. We just get too old for them. I guess I’m aging with grace.” Travis grabbed a nine-inch knife, which had been secured to his waist, and cut the bread into a few mouth-sized chunks. He looked over at Chase’s horse, an antsy, long-legged bay mare, laden with two large water skins, two straw foliage sacks, and a mix of other weapons and supplies. Travis removed one of the water skins and a haversack filled with jerked beef, and secured them to his mount to lessen Chase’s load. “I guess we better get on with it. Let’s go see Rayo on the way out of town. We might make the Nueces by nightfall. We’ll be lucky if we don’t have to shoot a bandit or an Injun between here and there. Hope you loaded a couple of spare drums.” Travis spurred his mustang and trotted off, leading Chase.
It was only a casual ten-minute ride to the Hacienda de Rayo del Norte, and the two Rangers approached the ranch’s headquarters via a half-mile dirt drive sided by aged cottonwoods. Two expensive carriages and a few well-groomed horses were parked outside the grand, square limestone structure dominating the countryside.
Travis and Chase dismounted and looked around at the hacienda, a tidy arrangement of courtyards, corrals, and well-constructed buildings. A half dozen men loitered on the grounds: a few desperadoes, cattle hands, and two Lipan Indians, decorated with feathers and paint. Travis looked up atop a twenty-foot flagpole to see a Mexican flag fluttering, a rarity in these parts. “How many of the Mexican landowners are falling in line with the rebellion?”
“About half. Each half is more stirred up about the other than either is about the Texans.” Chase paused and smiled. “Got a regular blood feud going on. It probably won’t be settled any time soon.”
Sided by Chase, Travis entered the house, passing through the spacious entrance hall. The fifty-year-old Javier Rayo stood in his large, plush living room sipping a glass of cognac from fine crystal. To the casual eye, he looked the part of a haciendado—short, wiry, and proud, with jet-black hair and skin browned from exposure. He was covered with ostentatious and colorful aristocratic riding clothes, apt for a horse parade but hardly fitting for trudging the backcountry.
“Good morning, Señor Rayo,” Travis said, politely stopping at the far side of the room. He looked up briefly at the portraits of three generations of Rayos adorning the walls, the bronze Spaniards all eying him.
“Would you like a drink? Good French brandy,” Rayo said in accented English. He walked toward the two Rangers.
“No. I won’t be drinking for a while…From the looks of things, I guess you’ve taken sides.” Travis looked at Rayo’s midnight eyes; as always, they were intense, rowdy, brash, and outgoing.
“I’ve not only taken sides, I intend to take up the fight against these treasonable rebels,” Rayo continued, stopping in front of Travis and squaring his shoulders.
Travis stood quietly for a few seconds before speaking. “I’m sorry that you’ve come to that decision. It’s the wrong one. I wish you would side up with us. Texas could use good men like you. The cause is just. And I hope we can still be friends.” Travis extended a hand. “But if that’s your decision, I won’t pester you further.”
Rayo accepted Travis’s hand cordially and offered a handshake to Chase. “I actually wanted to make you two an offer…to fight for Mexico. Your skills are exemplary. Mexico would like to keep you in her service. Of course, you would never be asked to take up a fight against Texans, but we need tough men to suppress some of the other areas of the country that have revolted against Mexico City.” Rayo paused and thought solemnly for a few moments. “You could be greatly rewarded—maybe a land grant. You two could have a good life, a lot better than trolling these dusty trails protecting your scalps.”
Travis listened to the words, not at all wanting to hear them. He faced the Mexican jefe with an outward show of indifference. But in fact, deep inside, he had spent months struggling internally with this, flipping and flopping back and forth. Would he fight for what he believed in or join the Mexican army? Technically, he currently served at the pleasure of the Mexican government. But he had finally decided he had only one choice, the only one he could live with. But he was sacrificing much. And he knew Rayo had an ace in the hole, his alluring, almost entrancing daughter. Could he ever really tell her no or say good-bye to her?
“No, I’ve made my mind up. I’m with the Anglos,” Travis answered, and looked at Chase, who nodded in agreement.
“Can I get you boys anything before you go: food, water, fresh horses?” Rayo said.
“I think we’ve got what we need,” Travis answered as a set of footsteps caught his attention. He turned to look. “Good morning, Francisco.”
“My son will ride with me,” Rayo proudly said, putting his arm around the young man as he approached.
Travis gazed at Francisco, only twenty years of age. He was in tailored riding clothes, similar to his father’s, with a red bandana around his neck. Francisco was a good-looking lad, with black hair and pale skin. Travis often thought he looked like Spanish royalty, like an aristocrat, whatever that meant. And Francisco acted the part, his manner refined, charming, and gregarious. It was not hard for Travis to imagine that many a young lady was easily wooed by his well-kept appearance. In fact, Travis had always been fond of Francisco, thinking the young man reminded him of himself in his youth—or at least his own image of himself. “How are you, my amigo?”
“Well, and you?”
Travis took a deep breath, for the first time he felt himself getting jittery around these men whom he might soon be fighting. He felt that way especially about Francisco, who had so much to lose. He liked him so much. Did the young Mexican have any idea what might be ahead?
“It is good to see you.” Travis extended his hand anew to Rayo, then to Francisco. “So long, my fine friends. I sure hope, and I pray to God, that I don’t see you two anytime soon, especially through a gun sight.”
“I hope not,” Rayo said, lifting up his glass of brandy. “But if we do, it won’t be personal.”
Chapter 3
The dusty, thorny prairie was shaded a stunning gold the next morning when Travis and his partner recommenced their journey north. The two had enjoyed a short but uneventful night, encamped in a heavy thicket on the banks of the Nueces. The sky had cleared, and the new day held the promise of cherished warmth. As Travis followed Chase down the little-used but well-defined trail, the morning sun showed the scenery getting greener, and acacias, oaks, and buffalo grass began to supplant the sage and cacti.
Not an hour into the ride, Chase tightened his reins, bringing his mare