The Dark Land Read online

  5

  * * *

  TWELVE DAYS after he left Galveston, Brad Chambers crossed the Nueces River, then headed for what was left of his home, not far from Kingsville. He rode a route that would take him to the various ranches he knew, so that he could begin looking for the friends he wanted to ride with him as he hunted down Abel Thorne.

  The memories of that last battle were still vivid and strong in his mind and, as he rode, he saw the destruction left behind by the Union Army as they rode south toward the Rio Grande. He had no idea that they had taken a cue from Sherman’s march through Georgia, but there was scorched earth to prove it. The longer he rode, and the more he saw, the angrier he became.

  But he also became more reflective as he realized that Colonel Ford had actually been responsible for the first shots fired in the Civil War, even though few knew about it. Brad remembered well how he had come to be involved in that first engagement not far from where he now rode.

  He could still see Ford’s crackling blue eyes and hear his blistering, imaginative blasphemy, even though he had not cursed when he came to recruit Brad for his damned Cavalry of the West. Rip could speak with all the honey-tongued skills of a diplomat when he wanted to, and inspire a man’s heart to beat faster with his simple, straight talk that needed no colorful swear words to infect a man with his persuasive powers.

  There was not much to the man. He was almost fifty, then, and Brad had thought he must already be dead. He had already lived more lives than most men, as a medical doctor, lawyer, newspaper reporter, a senator who had served two terms in the Texas legislature, mayor of Austin, and a captain in the Texas Rangers.

  “I want you to join an outfit I’m putting together, Brad,” John Salmon Ford had said that day as he rode up to what was left of Brad’s ranch.

  “I’m already in the U.S. Army.”

  “You are also a Texas Ranger.”

  “Not anymore. Neither are you.”

  “I’ll always be a Ranger, Brad. So will you.”

  “What kind of outfit are you putting together?”

  “A regiment of cavalry,” Ford had said. “We’re going to fight the Union on the Rio Grande. And I’m sorry about what happened to your family.”

  “Look, Captain, I don’t hold to this war much.”

  “You’ve already got blood on your hands, Brad. Phil Sheridan speaks very highly of you.”

  “You know Phil?”

  “I know him some. When he was quartermaster, I sold him a few goods.”

  “He’s a Yankee. Why would he tell you where I was?”

  “He doesn’t know I’m a Confederate colonel now. He knows you and I were Rangers.”

  “A colonel?”

  “That’s what they made me, Brad. I could use you, Major.”

  “Major?”

  “That’s the rank you’ll hold in the Cavalry of the West.”

  Ford looked around at the ruined house, the pecan trees, the persimmon grove, the live oaks and the remnants of mesquite that still held to the soil that now grew grass to a man’s knee.

  “You know, Rip, I was wonderin’, before this happened, if I’d ever be called upon to fight against Texians.”

  “Phil told me you were restless. He figured, after you heard what happened to your family, you wouldn’t be back.”

  “He did?”

  “He said that to someone who told me.”

  “A spy, you mean.”

  Ford smiled wryly. “A friend in the Union Army.”

  “I don’t think you talked to Phil Sheridan at all. He’s a pretty smart man. He’d know you were a Confederate.”

  “Well, let’s say I knew you’d be here and I came to make an offer. I can use you. Texas needs you. And the fighting’s going to be right near here, unless I miss my guess.”

  “A blockade isn’t fighting.”

  “No, but when those cotton wagons come down to the river, the Federals are going to want to keep them from loading. Oh, we’ll be fighting, all right. Federal troops on Texas land.”

  “Sheridan expects me back,” Brad said.

  “No, son, he doesn’t.”

  “Damn you, Rip.”

  Rip Ford smiled again and Brad got the feeling that the slightly built jack-of-all-trades knew more than he would ever tell, about everything worth knowing.

  “I’ve just buried my wife and daughter.”

  “I know. And you’ll bury more good folks if you don’t come with me and join my cavalry.”

  “The South is going to lose this war, Rip.”

  “Brad, I’m not going to lose. I’m not going to lose even one son-of-a-bitching battle.”

  And he had gone with Colonel John Salmon Ford, knowing he would never be able to explain why.

  He was relieved to see the house in the distance, still standing, surrounded by live oak and clumps of mesquite kept there to block the wind and soak up the dust before it ransacked the house with grit when the winds blew fierce from the Gulf and from the west, that long hot western wind that moved land around so that it was always changing, and what dirt didn’t land somewhere, clogged a man’s throat and eyes and nose and ears until he was blind, deaf, and dumb.

  As he drew closer, he was surprised to see Gid’s house still standing. But he sensed something was missing, even so. After his own tragedy, he expected that no other’s home would remain intact. It was dumb of him, he thought, but the shock of seeing his own place burned to the ground had left him cockeyed.

  “Hello the house,” he called when he passed the mesquites. He reined up and waited to be recognized before he rode any further.

  “Gid?” he yelled.

  He surveyed the house, looking for signs of life. He stared beyond it, and his stomach tightened. His jaw hardened and a muscle quivered from the tension of his clenched teeth. Once, there had been a long field of cotton growing behind Gideon Tunstal’s home. Now, it was scorched black and only a twig or two jutted up from the ground.

  He shifted his gaze to another area where a stand of live oaks stood surrounding a green island of grass. His blood froze when he saw the white cross. That was the place Gid had picked to be the family graveyard. He had lovingly planted the grass and his wife, Emily, had tended it over the years, putting in bordering flower beds. The flowers were still blooming, Brad saw, bluebonnets and yellow daffodils and clusters of peonies.

  Brad ticked the mare’s flanks with his spurs and she stepped out. He guided her to the lone grave and halted when he was close enough to read the words on the cross. There was no name. But someone had written a line in small block letters, painted them with a brush, actually.

  “I loved her,” was all that it said.

  “Brad?”

  Brad turned and saw Gideon walking toward him, a scattergun in his hands. His clothes were filthy, a pair of rumpled duck trousers held together by wrinkled galluses, a shirt stained with food and sweat, once a light blue, but now dark with grime and unknown substances. Gid was barefoot and hatless, his face flocked with a matted beard and mustache, and his hair long and untrimmed. If it were not for his pale blue eyes, Brad might not have recognized him.

  “Gid, what the hell happened here? That’s not Emily buried there, is it?”

  “They come in the night, Brad, the sons-of-bitches, whilst I was out at the pump. One of ’em coldcocked me with a billy made of ironwood. When I come to, Emily was beat half to death and my cotton burnt to a crisp.”

  “Jesus, Gid.”

  “Light down, Brad, for God’s sake, and let me put hands on you. Ain’t nothin’ been real for me in a long time.”

  Brad swung out of the saddle.

  “Lemme put your horse up, Brad,” Gid said, reaching for the reins. “Damned if you ain’t a sight for sore eyes.”

  “I’m sorry about your wife, Gid.”

  “I done cried her all out of me, but I miss her somethin’ terrible.”

  The stock tank back of the pond was stagnant, limned with a thick green scum dotted wit
h black ash from the burnt cotton fields. Gid put Brad’s horse in a stall, stripped it of saddle and bridle, and handed Brad his bedroll and saddlebags.

  “I’ve got money to buy horses, food, and gear,” Brad said. “I was just waiting to see if you’d ride with me first.”

  “What for?”

  Brad told him all that had happened at Fort Brown and in Galveston.

  “Maybe it was Abel Thorne what burned my cotton up.”

  “Or somebody just like him.”

  The two walked to the house and went inside. The rooms were all in disarray and the kitchen a mess. Gid made coffee and Brad threw his bedroll and saddlebags on a bunk in a spare room, which was more tidy than any other. He and Gid sat at the table between the front room and the kitchen and listened to the pot boil. Gid cut off a chunk of tobacco from a twist and popped it into his mouth. He offered the twist to Brad, who shook his head.

  “Wish old Rip was here,” Gid said. “He would tear Thorne a new asshole.”

  “Ford disappeared,” Brad said. “I think he went south.”

  “Ha, he might do that, the old blue-eyed buzzard. ’Member when we chased Ochoa out of the country back in sixty-one? That bastard didn’t know what he bought into when he hanged that county judge in Zapata and declared war against the Confederacy.”

  Brad remembered it well. Ford’s cavalry killed twenty of Ochoa’s men and some said that was the first battle of the Civil War, down along the Rio Grande.

  “Well, we got some chasin’ to do ourselves, Gid,” Brad said.

  “You and me?”

  “I’ve got in mind two more of our friends.”

  “Who?”

  “Randy Dunn and Lou Reeves.”

  Gid whistled. Then he got up from the table and pushed the pot away from the fire and closed the damper. He poured two cups of steaming night-black coffee and brought them to the table. “Ain’t got no sorghum nor sugar, Brad.”

  “Black’s fine.”

  “I heard what the Comanches done to you and your missus and kid. I’m awful damned sorry.”

  “Thorne’s a Comanchero, you know.”

  “I heard tell.”

  “He may have sicced those dogs on my place.”

  Gid drank from his cup and slapped his leg with glee. He grinned wide. “Brad,” he said, “you see that scattergun I leaned up against the wall?”

  “The one you threw down on me with a while ago?”

  “Same one.”

  Brad looked at it again. It was an old Greener, a double-barreled caplock. He saw where Gid had tried to scrape away the rust. The barrels were two different shades of brown, at least.

  “What about it?”

  “Just before you rode up, I had it in my mind to put both barrels under my chin and blow my brains out.”

  Brad looked at Gid, who was no longer smiling.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Captain, I think you done saved my life.”

  “Gid, you may not be so grateful once we get on Thorne’s track. He’s a mean one.”

  “Well, you know, I thought about such all through the war. Killin’ and all. And I come to a conclusion.”

  “Yeah, Gid? What was that?”

  “I figger sometimes killin’ is what keeps a man alive.”

  “That’s a hell of a conclusion, Gid.”

  “I know, I know. But that old Greener didn’t get me. I’ll ride with you, and Dunn and Reeves, Brad, and if I get killed, you bring me back here and bury me right next to Emily.”

  Brad nodded, but didn’t say anything. He was glad he had decided not to tell Gid or the others that he was a Union soldier, drawing army pay. That would be difficult to explain. He was glad, too, that he had not been ordered to wear a Union uniform. But being deceptive to his friends was not in his nature, and he felt uncomfortable keeping such a big secret. The coffee was hot and he blew on it before he took a sip. He looked out the window at the scorched fields, then back to the scattergun leaning against the wall by the door.

  A man could only take so much, he thought.

  6

  * * *

  BRAD WATCHED GIDEON take the straight razor to his beard and begin carving away at it. Gid’s beard was snowy white with lather, and he dipped the razor into a bowl of water and shook it to clean it each time he sliced off a new tuft.

  “When I pick up Lou and Randy, I’ll take you all to a place where I cached some new rifles and cartridges I got from the army,” Brad said. “But bring your own rifle. There’s new scabbards in the cache, too.”

  “What kind of rifles?” Gid asked, as he slashed a large chunk of hair off his face.

  “Spencer repeaters. Carbines. Brass cartridges.”

  “Always wanted one of them. I saw you had one in your saddle scabbard. Mighty fine little rifle.”

  “How’d you like to pack a Colt, too?”

  “I’d like that a lot, Brad. That one on your belt?”

  “Yep, a .44.”

  “I noticed the bullets, figured them to be .44’s. All shiny and brand new.”

  Brad reached down and opened one of his saddlebags. He lifted out something wrapped in oilcloth and set it on the table. Then he reached back in and dug out a box of .44 cartridges and set them next to the bundle.

  “We might have to live off the land on this expedition.”

  “Hell, I’m doin’ that now.”

  “I figure Randy and Lou might be living around here.”

  “Yeah, Randy’s got him a spread up yonder and Lou ain’t no more’n ten or twelve miles from him.”

  “I hope they’ll ride with us,” Brad said, remembering back to that day when Rip Ford gave him the assignment to go after Ochoa.

  When the scouts, Sergeant Louis Reeves and Sergeant Randolph Dunn, had made their report, Colonel Ford was ready to draw some blood.

  “Corporal Stevens,” he called, “fetch Captain Chambers in here and light a fire under your soft ass.”

  Reeves and Dunn suppressed smiles.

  “So, you found Ochoa here in the Zapata region between here and Laredo, eh, Lou?”

  “Yes, sir. Right where I showed you on the map.”

  “That goddamned greaser’s fucking up my command here. We need this gateway to Matamoros and I’m not going to let some two-bit bandit muck it up. Randy, how many men does Ochoa have under arms?”

  “Near as I can figger, sir, he’s got maybe thirty-five or forty fighting men, a few Mex whores, and some boys with machetes. Maybe fifty head all told.”

  Ford turned to see Brad Chambers stride through the open door, his new captain’s bars glinting as he stepped into the light streaming through the window in Ford’s office.

  “Brad, you know these scouts,” the colonel said.

  “I wouldn’t claim it outside present company, Rip.”

  “You fuckin’ Texians,” Ford said. “I’ll bet you’re all goddamned cousins.”

  “I don’t claim relations to these two,” Brad said. “But I’d ride the river with either or both.”

  “They found that little Mex bastard Ochoa down here, along the Rio Grande. He’s a thorn in my side and I want you to take a troop over toward Zapata way and tear his bunch a new set of assholes. You take Dunn and Reeves along to show you where he is.”

  “The men are ready to ride,” Brad said.

  “Well, I want ’em ready to shoot, too.”

  “They are that, Colonel.”

  “Lou, are you and Randy rested up enough to ride out with Captain Chambers?”

  “Sir, we slept in our saddles on the way back.”

  “Get your asses out of here, all of you. Brad, I want Ochoa driven so far into Mexico he can’t find his way back, hear?”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “You know, Brad, this could very well be the first battle of this damned Civil War, don’t you?”

  “Well, you already won the first battle when you ran Fitz John Porter out of Fort Brown.”

  “But I did it with word
s, not powder and ball.”

  “It was a victory, nevertheless,” Brad said.

  Ford grumphed and his blue eyes crackled with lambent sparks.

  “Porter had one ball the size of a pissant, Brad. The other one was an itty-bitsy one.”

  Brad laughed.

  “My troop is just waiting for ‘Boots and Saddles,’ Rip. You through with me?”

  “Do me proud, Brad. I’d go with you, but I’ve got a cadre of alcaldes and minor officials ragging my ass.”

  “You’ll make a fine administrator, Rip.”

  “One of these days, I’ll give you a lesson in sarcasm, Brad. Yours don’t have much sting.”

  Ford waved Brad out of his office.

  Brad waded through the pack of Brownsville dignitaries waiting for an audience with Ford in the outer office. They were all dressed in tight-fitting suits and stiff-collared shirts, with boots that shined like mirrors.

  “Where you going?” one of them asked.

  “None of your business, sir,” Brad said and the whispers rose up in his wake as he left headquarters and stalked after his bugler to order him to sound “Boots and Saddles.”

  “We can do some scouting along the way. I want to try and pick up Thorne’s track right quick.”

  “If he’s with the Comanches . . .”

  “I thought about that. I ran into a man on the way here who heard tell of Thorne. He said he was riding with a bunch of white men. Thieves, he called them.”

  “From what I know of Thorne, all of his friends are thieves. He didn’t fight in the war, you know. He raided farms and ranches the whole time.”

  “I know.”

  Gid finished paring down his beard. He stropped his razor, lathered his face again with soap, and started peeling off hair down to the skin.

  “Just about done,” Gid said. He was working without a mirror, by feel only, and Brad thought he was doing a pretty good job. The face he knew from the cavalry was slowly emerging from under the beard.

  Brad took a piece of paper and a stub of a pencil out of his pocket. He began to write on the paper, drawing lines and circles and X’s. Then he wrote some words down in various places.

  Gid washed his face and dried it with a towel, then walked out of the kitchen over to the table.