Somehow Caldero heard about what Houston had tried to do, and he was grateful. He wrote a note of thanks to the Texas president. The note was found pinned by a knife to the door of Houston's residence. Many were alarmed that Caldero or one of his cutthroats could have gotten so close to Houston without being seen, without even leaving a trace. But Sam Houston was amused. He thought he understood the renegade; in some ways they were much alike.
Apart from the physical danger of a journey into the Nueces Strip, Sam Houston was aware of the political damage he might suffer if Texas learned that he was in contact with Caldero—the "Blue-Eyed Devil," as some folks called him. It mattered not that the purpose for meeting Caldero was to rescue a white woman from the Comanches. One could not make a deal with the devil and expect people to understand.
But Houston entertained no second thoughts. John Henry McAllen needed his help and he would give it, and the consequences be damned. The Black Jack captain was in love, and Houston knew what that was like, thanks to Margaret. His friend's future was at stake. As for Leah McAllen—well, Houston had had grave doubts about McAllen's marriage from the first. Not that he'd tried to talk John Henry out of it. That wasn't his style. But he didn't like Leah, if for no other reason than that she had made his friend's life a pure hell. Houston was not one to ordinarily give credence to scandalous rumors, especially when they targeted the gentler sex. but in Leah's case he knew there was more than a grain of truth to all the lurid tales about her shameless escapades. So if John Henry had found someone else, someone who could make him happy instead of miserable, someone who truly loved him, then good for him.
The Nueces River lay several days' hard traveling south of San Antonio de Bexar. The region subject to dispute between the republics of Texas and Mexico was arid, rocky land spotted with horse-crippling cholla and drought-stunted mesquite, and McAllen had to wonder why so many men were willing to fight and die for it. Only rattlesnakes seemed capable of prospering here.
"How do we find this fellow Caldero, General?" Tice asked Houston the day they crossed the Nueces.
"He will find us, Doctor, rest assured."
Tice bleakly surveyed the desolate horizons and flexed sun-hammered shoulders. "Seems to me that we could ride around down here until doomsday and never see another living soul."
"I would be very much surprised if Caldero doesn't know about us already," said Houston.
That night, while they sat around a campfire cooking a pair of sage hens Houston had bagged from the saddle earlier in the day, Joshua shot suddenly to his feet and whirled, crouching, pistol in one hand and Bowie knife in the other. An instant later one of the horses whickered a warning. That the half-breed had been aware of the intruders even before the horses were did not astonish Tice. He knew how uncannily sharp Joshua's instinct for danger was, and he reached for his own weapons confident that trouble was imminent.
From all points of the compass men emerged from the night shadows and paused at the rim of firelight—dark, savage-looking men wearing sombreros and red sashes and chaquetas and leather chaps to protect their legs from the thorny underbrush of the brasada country. Each man carried a minimum of one rifle, a brace of pistols, and a knife.
Only Houston remained seated, apparently unrattled by the sudden visitation of seven well-armed, scowling ruffians. He spoke briefly to the men in Spanish. One of the Mexicans answered. Houston said something else and then looked up at McAllen.
"Relax, John Henry. These are Caldero's men, sent to do away with us. I told them who I was and that I wanted to speak with Caldero."
McAllen thought it unwise to take his eyes off the bandoleros, but he shot a slightly perturbed glance in Houston's direction. "And?"
"We're still alive, aren't we?"
As silently as they had come the Mexicans melted back into the darkness.
"Where are they going?" asked Tice.
"They'll be back at daybreak, Doctor. They won't go far, but they don't like Anglos well enough to share a night camp with us."
"That's wonderful," said Tice dryly. "I won't be getting much sleep tonight, knowing those fellows are lurking somewhere out there."
"Can we trust them?" McAllen asked Houston.
"I think so. We'd be dead now if they intended to kill us."
McAllen realized then why the general had insisted on coming along. Without Houston here we'd be getting our throats cut right about now. . . .
The next morning the Mexicans returned at first light. Now they numbered six, and McAllen surmised that one man had been sent ahead to notify Caldero. They rode due south until late in the afternoon, the Mexicans in advance of McAllen and his three companions—another manifestation of their resolve to engage in no fraternization whatsoever with Texans.
In the lengthening shadows of day's end they came at last to an adobe hut located near a dry wash. Several horses were tethered to the shaggy cedar poles of a ramshackle corral.
Three men sat at a trestle table in the striped shade of the adobe's pole-roofed porch, sharing a jug. One of them rose as McAllen and the others drew near. He was a slender youth, wearing concho-studded pants, an embroidered chaqueta without a shirt, and a bandanna tied Indian fashion around his head to keep long, thick, jet-black hair out of his face. His glacier-blue eyes were narrowed to slits as they studied McAllen. Tice, and Joshua—finally coming to rest on Houston.
"You must be Sam Houston," he said. His English was good.
"And you must be Antonio Caldero."
Smiling, Caldero bowed with a melodramatic flourish. McAllen did not trust that wolfish smile at all.
"I hope you have a good reason for coming here, General," he said, "because I need a good reason for letting you and your companions live. My men, they do not comprehend. . . ."
Sam Houston dismounted. "I can assure you I didn't come down here for my health."
Caldero laughed. He relayed Houston's comment to his men, who also found it amusing. The ice was broken. McAllen felt a little better. Not a lot, but a little. He knew now how Daniel had felt in the den of lions, and thought he and his friends would need divine intervention, too, to get out of here alive if things went sour.
Chapter Twenty-eight
McAllen and Houston followed Antonio Caldero into the dirt-floored adobe hut. Whoever had lived here had abandoned the place long ago—in McAllen's opinion he should have known better than to try to carve an existence out of this desolate wasteland. Now Caldero used it as an occasional rendezvous point. According to Houston, Caldero by necessity led a nomadic life; it wasn't safe for him to stay in any one place for too long, especially north of the Rio Grande.
Several of Caldero's bandoleros came in, too, but he sent them right back out again. They protested—they didn't trust the Anglos and feared for their leader's life. But they obeyed. Caldero struck McAllen as a man who would administer harsh punishment to anyone who practiced disobedience. Besides, he seemed supremely confident in his own ability to handle any situation. No doubt he was a real hand with the pistols stuck buccaneer-fashion under the red sash that encircled his waist. Apparently the red sash had some significance, McAllen had noticed that all the Mexicans who rode with Caldero sported them.