The Red Ripper by Kerry Newcomb

before the front of the hacienda, showering the steps with sand as he alighted and slung the gelding’s reins through an iron ring on the hitching post. The segundo. was a short, stocky individual, with sunburned features the color of tanned leather, shaggy black hair, and a goatee that masked his scarred jawline. There was a swagger to his walk and a reckless energy given to men of purpose. He was armed with a pistol and carried a short-barreled rifle slung over his shoulder. There had to be a dagger hidden on his person.
    Montoya removed his sombrero as he approached
Don Murillo. Beads of sweat spilled down from his receding hairline. He mopped his brow on his sleeve. Bushy black sideburns framed his guarded expression. A heavy mustache hid his upper lip.
    â€œQue noticias?” Murillo said, anxiety creeping into his tone of voice. “What is happening in town?”
    â€œAn alarm has been sounded at the governor’s palace. Many soldiers are milling about. I saw the governor’s nephew through my spyglass. He looked furious.” The vaquero grinned and shifted his gaze to William Wallace, recognizing a simpático in the big man. The norte americano was armed to the teeth. A brace of pistols were holstered in a bandolier draped across his broad shoulder. The Castilian blades were nestled in their buckskin scabbards at either side. “You may have worn out your welcome in this town, señor.”
    â€œAn easy thing to do these days,” said Don Murillo. “God help Texas if Santa Anna ever becomes president. It is only Bustamente who stays the general’s hard hand. Chuy, continue your vigil. Be our eyes in town.”
    â€œAs you wish.” Montoya nodded to Don Murillo and started back to his horse. “I will keep watch along the road. If you hear a pistol shot—”
    â€œI know it’ll be time to root hog or die a poor pig,” Wallace said.
    Montoya chuckled knowingly. He touched the brim of his sombrero in salute, then took the porch steps two at a time, gathered the reins in his left hand, and leaped astride his horse. The gelding responded to his touch, backstepping, pawing the earth, and then, obedient to his rider, charging off into the night.
    â€œThere goes a man with the bark still on,” William reflected aloud. Don Murillo and his vaqueros were a capable bunch of men but few in number and hopelessly outnumbered this far from home. William did not wish to bring any harm down on Saldevar for harboring Mad
Jack and himself and was preparing to voice his concerns when Stephen Austin emerged from the hacienda. With a whiskey under his belt and a full belly to settle his nerves Austin was ready for whatever came next. He had washed the dust from his features, donned a fresh shirt borrowed from Murillo’s wardrobe, and helped himself to the tortillas and beans in the kitchen.
    â€œAny news?” the Texican asked, rounding the corner of the porch. He looked none the worse for his recent ordeal and was obviously grateful to have been released so soon after his incarceration. William Wallace had been a godsend.
    â€œWe haven’t long. Juan Diego will probably come,” Murillo said. “However, you are under my protection here and, through me, el presidente’s. No doubt Guadiz will claim your arrest was all a mistake. He will offer you his sincerest apologies. That is his way, and General Santa Anna’s.” Murillo stroked his silvery goatee, sighed, shook his head, and shifted his gaze to William. “However, I cannot offer you sanctuary, my young friend. Captain Flambeau is a pirate. Your loyalty to him has placed you outside the law and earned the governor’s enmity.”
    â€œYou have done enough for us already, Don Murillo,” William said. “And if fortune permits, one day I will repay your kindness.”
    â€œWell, there is something I can do,” Stephen Austin replied, drawing an oilcloth packet from