Guns Across the Rio Grande

Chapter 9

As the rider disappeared along the road, Sergeant Carlos said to the colonel, “I’ll be bound that you recognise that one, sir?”

    “It is rarely enough that a man plants his boot on my buttocks,” said Lopez, a thin smile on his face, “I am not apt to forget the man who takes such a liberty upon my person. How do you read his presence here, Carlos? Coincidence or otherwise?”

     “Hardly coincidence.”

     “So I think. I shall speak a few words with our captive, I think.”

     Pete Frobisher’s heart began to pound when two of the Mexicans entered his house and one of them, without saying a word, hauled him to his feet. Was this the end of the road for him? Despite their assurances, were these fellows about to cut his throat?  The man who had dragged him to his feet said, “My colonel would ask you some questions.”

     “Mr Frobisher,” said the other of the two men, “We know that a group of Confederates are bringing guns here for you to send across the river into Mexico.” Pete Frobisher began automatically to make indignant noises, indicative of innocence, but the man in front of him said gently, “No, we don’t hve time to listen to your foolish lies. If shooting starts, then you are as likely to die as any of us. Your only hope is to be honest about this.”

     “I mind now that something was arranged about such a thing,” admitted Frobisher reluctantly, “Fellow with a southern accent did come by here to fix up an aarrangement of the sort.”

     “How was the matter to be conducted?”

     “I was to let my brother know when they was due and he would go off and find those as was to purchase the weapons.”

     “How would you tell your brother that the men were here?”

    “We use flags. Semaphore signals.”

    “You can do so now?”

    “Could do, I reckon.”

    Frobisher’s mind was working furiously. It was a thousand to one against any of these boys reading the flags, so he could say pretty much as he pleased to Jake. Only thing was, he hardly knew what he should say. The polite and well spoken foreigner standing before him was perfectly right in saying that if there was to be a gun battle, then Pete himself would be as likely to die as anybody else. He said, playing for time, “What would you have me tell my brother?”

    “Only the truth, that the men with the rifles are arriving. Nothing more.”

     Try as he might, Pete couldn’t think of any edge that he could gain by deceiving these men and passing a secret message to his brother. He certainly didn’t want the law coming down here; nor the army either, if it came to the matter of that. The best him and Jake could hope was to weather this latest storm and then  slip out of this area and start afresh elsewhere. The game wasn’t  worth the candle any more. He said, “I’ll tell my brother what you want. You still aim to leave me with my life?”

    The reply was all the more chilling for the casual and courteous way in which it was delivered. The Mexican looked at Pete and then said in faultless English, “I can’t think of any advantage to me in your death, Mr Frobisher, and so I shall leave you alive. If things should change and I decide to kill you, then I promise that I’ll give you enough warning to say your prayers and so on.”

     When Bob Wheeler returned, the others expected him to tell them that there was nothing to worry about and that they could just ride forward now. Instead, he said, “Looks like we got a problem…”

     After Wheeler had outlined what he had seen at the river, the men talked among themselves, trying to figure out what was the best thing to do. Some thought that the men Wheeler had seen might have been Juarez’ men, waiting for them, while others, a little more shrewdly, guessed that the men there were from the Mexican army and intended to put a stop to gun running across the border at that point. Finally, when they’d talked themselves dry, they turned to the captain, to see what he might have to say about the subject.

     Quinnell had already decided that they should treat those holding that part of the river bank as hostile forces. There was no reason at all why the rebels should go to the trouble of ferrying a dozen men over that rope. The odds were, that these men had been sent by the army to interfere in their business and that was a thing which Barnabas Quinnell was not about to brook at any cost. He said, “Here’s how the land lies. I don’t think for a minute that those boys that Bob here saw are the ones wanting to buy our Henrys. Why would they send a dozen men across the river for that? No, I think it more likely that these are agents of the emperor, waiting to ambush us if we show up with our cargo.”

     “What’re we to do then?” asked somebody, “We’re running powerful low on cash money. If we don’t sell these damned rifles, I don’t know how we’ll get by ‘til we’re paid.”

     There were murmurs of agreement at this. The captain said, “Don’t start fretting. Those weapons will bring in a good price, once we get them over the border. I was hoping that we could sell them here and get the money without being burdened with them when we actually cross into Mexico. Seems it’s not to be. Here’s what we can do instead. After we’d conducted our little bit of business with those fellows who run that smuggling operation, you know we were going to make our way down to the ferry, along the way to El Paso? All we do is carry on and take that ferry anyway, with the wagon and all. It won’t take long to make contact with the rebels and we’ll sell the rifles in Mexico. Probably get more for them than we would have here. Five dollars each was mighty cheap.”

     Such was their trust in Captain Quinnell, that there was no grumbling about this sudden change of plan. Quinnell would have liked to have gone down to the crossing there and then to wipe out those bastards who had queered his pitch, but didn’t think that there would be a whole heap of enthusiasm for such a pointless and unnecessary piece of bloodshed; not when they were so close to their goal.

     It was Bob Wheeler who cleared up this point, by asking, “We’re just goin’ to pass along the road peacable like, is that the score? Let that ferry take us over the Rio Grande, dispose of our goods and then ride down to New Virginia?”

     Captain Quinnell felt a momentary spasm of irritation to be backed into a definite position in this way, but recovered himself sufficiently to smile and say, “Sure, that’s what I had in mind.”

     As is so often the case with momentous events, everything was now upset by the most trivial of causes. One of the men said, “We can’t take this here cart through the wood, meaning avoiding the men at that crossing. It’d overturn for sure on some tree root. It’s bad enough keeping it steady and  on an even keel on a level road, never mind about trying to get it over a rough patch of woodland.” This was indubitably true and now that they thought on the matter, it was clear that the only way to get that wagon down to where the ferry was operating, would be to follow the track through the wood until it joined the road running alongside the river. There was nothing for it, but to ride right past the men who had control of the smugglers’ crossing.

     “So be it,” said Captain Quinnell, “Let’s move out. With luck, we might reach the ferry before dark.”

     The situation was, as they all knew deep inside, far from ideal. The whole purpose of using the two brothers and their setup, was that it meant avoiding questions about what they might be carrying in the cart. In the usual way of things, the  ferry, which was little more than a raft pulled by ropes from one bank of the Rio Grande to the other, was nothing to worry about. The man who ran it was incurious and they might have been transporting twelve pounder artillery pieces for all that he would be likely to care about it. Times were not normal though right now, and both Quinnell and Bob Wheeler were wondering if they would find either Yankee soldiers at this bank or some of Maximilian’s men at the other; charged with keeping a friendly and benevolent eye upon the goods being ferried from one country to the other. It was a damned nuisance. As it happened, Quinnell and his little band were destined never to reach the ferry, so the matter was not put to the test.

     Once they started along the track leading to the river, a couple of the men for no special reason,  began singing “The Bonny Blue Flag”. It seemed somehow fitting. They would, after all, be leaving their own country behind soon; if not forever, then surely for a good, long spell. Why not sing a last chorus of the old song?

    The men guarding the river crossing could hear snatches of song as the wagon and riders approached them. “Hurrah for the bonny blue flag that bears a single star” and “For southern rights, hurrah“. Colonel Lopez was the only one among the Mexicans whose English was good enough to understand the words and as he did so, he found that his heart was hardened towards these rascally southerners. “Southern rights“? What did that mean, but the “right” to keep slaves and make beasts of burden of their fellow men? Up until the very moment that he heard those words, Lopez had not been finally decided as to the course of action which he would pursue. Now though, listening to those wretches, boasting of the odious way of life which they had revelled in before the War between the States, thinking that they were going to start the same kind of arrangement in Lopez’ own country, exploiting his fellow countrymen as they had previously used the negroes; Lopez thought to himself, “It isn’t to be borne!”

     It was an intriguing and strangely satisfying situation, because the colonel found that his duty to the Emperor Maximilian, his personal loyalty to Juarez and the desire to be revenged upon the man who had kicked him to the ground; all coincided in perfect harmony. He had promised to make an example of some of the gun runners, to discourage the rest. Shooting these devils would accomplish that end. He was opposed to the idea of the foreign colonies being established in his country and killing these men would work towards that aim. Finally, he had a score to settle with the men who had mocked and humiliated him in the saloon at Pike‘s Landing. Burning down the saloon had satisfied part of that debt, but shooting the men concerned would finish the job neatly.

     “Carlos,” said the colonel, “What do you say we do now?”

    “Do, sir?” asked his sergeant in amazement, “Why, I say we should kill every one of these sons of whores with no further delay.”

     “Once more, my old comrade, our minds run along similar grooves. Give the order to prepare.”

     The men had already assembled their carbines in readiness and were now loaded, primed and ready to fire. The wagon and accompanying riders were only a hundred yards away; riding along the road towards them with no sign at all that they were in any apprehension of danger. Lopez knew that he would not be able to give the order to fire without at least challenging these men. It would be cold blooded murder to shoot at them unawares. Carlos, who apparently had no such scruples about the matter, said to the soldiers, “Cock your pieces and prepare to fire at the advancing troops.” There were a dozen metallic clicks as the men pulled back the hammers with their thumbs and sighted down the barrels at the oncoming riders.

     “Do not fire until I give the command,” said Lopez suddenly, “Hold fast.”

     “Those boys are drawing down on us,” said Bob Wheeler, in a casual voice, like he had noticed rain clouds coming in from the west, “I say we should rein in and parlay.”

    “Halt!” cried Captain Quinnell, “Not a step further.”

     The riders and cart came to a halt with jingling of harness and one or two oaths from the men themselves. They were no more than fifty yards from the men standing to the left of the road. Quinnell’s men hadn’t drawn their weapons; partly because they were waiting for the order from the captain, but also because they all knew that a ferocious gun battle was a very real possibility and the very act of pulling a pistol could be enough to spark off a bloody massacre.

     “I don’t rightly know who you folk might be,” called Quinnell to the Mexicans, “But we have no quarrel with you. Will you hold the road against us?”

     Colonel Lopez shouted back, “As to that, tell us first what you have in your wagon?”

     “None of your damned business. We’re getting restless here. Will you let us pass or do you want to fight?”

     “We’ll search you for a consigment of weapons. Then you can be on your way.”

     The sheer audacity of the proposal took away the breath of the men accompanying the wagon load of rifles. Shielded from the view of the men standing ahead of them with their rifles trained upon them by the wagon, Bob Wheeler very slowly withdrew the Whitworth from the long scabbard which was attached to his saddle. He moved with infinite delicacy, keeping his head raised, and not giving any indication that he was doing anything. The wagon blocked any view of his hands and he was able to extract the rifle, cock it and prepare to raise it to his shoulder. It was not difficult to gauge that the spokesman of the group, who was now bandying words with the captain, was the leader of the men who wished to examine their luggage.

     During the war, Sergeant Wheeler had always found that if there was to be any shooting, then the sooner it was done with and out of the way, the better. He had also learned that there was generally an advantage in being the first side to start shooting. Men under fire seldom fire as calmly and accurately as those not in that position.

     It looked as though an impasse had been reached, with the men covering the riders still keeping their guns trained on their targets and those escorting the wagon showing not the least inclination to submit to an inspection of the goods which they were transporting along the road. Something had to give and it was Bob Wheeler who lit the match which set off the powder keg. He was gripping the rifle with both hands, keeping it so low that nobody ahead could have seen that was holding it. Between him and his intended target was the wagon load of rifles and three of their own men, including Captain Quinnell. It would have to be the best shot of his whole, entire life. Before bringing his weapon to bear, Wheeler rehearsed the move mentally, until he felt that he could raise his piece and get off a shot before anybody had even guessed what he was about.

    Wheeler’s gambit so very nearly came off. He raised the Whitworth to his shoulder, sighted down the telescope and fired; all in the merest fraction of a second. Captain Quinnell heard the heavy calibre bullet drone past his head like like an angry hornet. The sound of the shot followed almost immediately. Fortunately for Lopez, he had expected something of the sort and had been peering intently ahead, trying to calculate which of the Anglos would be the first to fire. He glimpsed a movement over the shoulder of the man who had been negotiating on behalf of the Confederates and ducked instinctively. As a consequence, the ball flew over his head and buried itself into the man standing behind him; striking his throat  and then driving down at an angle and rupturing his heart. Luis Gortari dropped dead on the spot.

     Then it was a brief hell, as the two bodies of men were engulfed in  crashing gunfire and sulphurous blue smoke. The shooting lasted only thirty seconds or so, before faltering to a halt. Quinnell was killed almost at once, most of the Mexicans having already been aiming at him as he spoke. He fell from his horse with three balls embedded in his head and chest, not even having had the opportunity to draw his own weapon. Bob Wheeler dismounted as soon as he had fired at Colonel Lopez. He set the Whitworth down on the ground once he was off his horse. It was a muzzle loader and Wheeler had a strong suspicion that this fight was not going to last long enough for anybody to have the chance to reload their piece. The chief aim of an engagement like this was to throw as much lead towards the enemy as could be achieved in the shortest possible time. He accordingly drew both the pistols which flapped against his hips and began shooting more or less  randomly in the direction of those he conceived to be the enemy; the men who had challenged them.

     Segeant Carlos had the most keenly developed sense of danger and had dropped to the ground before the first bullet came buzzing towards them. He was as deadly a shot with his pistol at fifty yards as most men would be with a hunting rifle. He took two of the Anglos out before they even realised what was happening. The fact is, Bob Wheeler’s first shot took his own side more by surprise than it did his enemies. Which accounts for the fact that the Confederates came off considerably worse in the brief firefight than did the Mexicans. When the smoke cleared, all but two of the Americans were laying either dead or grievously wounded. For their part, the Mexican soldiers had lost only three men killed and two others badly, but not mortally injured.

     It was plain as a pikestaff to Bob Wheeler that his friends were nigh-on all dead and that if he lingered any longer in the vicinity, he was likely to join them. Ignoring the other survivor of the battle, a man he had never really cared for overmuch, Wheeler leaped onto his horse and rode as fast as he could, back to the wood. One or two desultory shots were sent in his direction, but none came anywhere near him. The other surviving member of the band was not as swift or lucky as Wheeler. When he saw the other man galloping away, Jack Trotter hesitated for a moment and glanced nervously towards the river. In the time that it took him to make up his mind that he too intended to flee from the field of battle, one of the Mexican soldiers, who had now had ample time to reload, took careful aim and shot Trotter; causing him to fall from his horse.

     The aftermath of even a small military engagement is a melancholy affair and although they had “won”, there were still three of their comrades laying dead upon the dusty ground. Lopez and Sergeant Carlos went over to where the wagon they had stopped stood; surrounded by dead and dying men and horses. Carlos put two wounded animals out of their misery with pistol shots through their brains, while the colonel went to see if anything could be done for the wounded men. He soon saw that it was a hopeless enterprise.

     There were three living men from the Confederate band. Only one of these was conscious and, judging by the rapid, shallow breathing, would not last more than a few minutes more. The other two men  also looked to Lopez to be at the point of death and since they had both passed out from pain or loss of blood; there was little that could be done to aid them. Before any care was lavished upon any of his fallen foes, Colonel Lopez took the precaution of removing any deadly weapons from their vicinity. Compassion was a fine, Christian virtue, but he had no desire to be assassinated by a dying man; one who might be desperate for company in his journey to the next world.