Gone to Texas by Don Worcester

muttering Latin phrases. He gazed at his companions, his white hair crowning his somber face. “It’s better this way, my friends,” he said in a firm voice. “My death should buy your freedom.” He started to go with the priests, but stopped and turned. “If any of you ever get to Natchez,” he said, “tell my wife that I died, but don’t tell her the circumstances.” Then he was gone. Ellis felt a lump rise in his throat.
    Two days later, the prisoners were ordered to the Plaza de los Urangos, where a large crowd had already gathered. Ellis caught his breath as he saw the newly built gallows, with the hangman’s noose swaying in the light breeze. His face was sweating, but he suddenly felt cold when he saw Blackburn calmly mount the scaffold and stand under the noose. A soldier blindfolded him, then placed the halter over his head and tightened it around his neck. Ellis felt his skin crawl when he heard the roll of drums and Blackburn shot through the trap. A knot settled in Ellis’ stomach, while he brushed away tears that streamed down his cheeks.
    Three days later, Fero, Cooley, Ellis, and Danlin, the ones who’d been implicated in the plot to escape, were brought to the plaza. Tom House was too sick to move from his bed. Duncan saw a crowd gathering, and went to see what was happening. As he arrived, merchant Manuel Moreno was talking to Ellis.
    â€œI have influential friends in Mexico City, my friend,” he said. “I’m certain they can secure your release once you get there. I will write them immediately.”
    â€œMexico City?” Duncan exclaimed. “Who’s goin’ there?”
    Ellis nodded his head toward the other three prisoners. “The bad boys,” he said. “The troublemakers.”
    The four prisoners were shackled and ordered to mount horses, then twenty-five cavalrymen surrounded them and they trotted away on the road to far-off Mexico City. Ellis glanced back at Duncan, wondering if they’d ever meet again.

Chapter Three
    At every town or village along the way, the cavalry stopped for a time in the plaza and allowed the prisoners to walk about in irons. Curious men, women, and children crowded around them, for they’d never seen Americans. Women with shawls over their heads brought them bread and fruit, frowning and exclaiming over their shackles. “ Pobrecitos ,” they lamented.
    After weeks of steady riding, the travelers stopped for the night at the village of Salamanca. As usual, the prisoners were allowed to stretch their legs, and chattering people thronged around them. A well-dressed, attractive young woman watched Ellis for a time, then shyly approached him. “Is it your wish to escape, señor?' she whispered in Spanish.
    Surprised, Ellis looked at her, then shrugged. “It is,” he replied, “but that’s impossible. They’ll find me again, and if they don’t shoot me, they’ll make me pay one way or another. I’ll just have to take what comes.”
    â€œ No señor ,” she said softly, her dark eyes flashing, “it is possible. I will return soon, and you will see.” She hurried away.
    â€œWho is that lady?” Ellis asked a portly villager, pointing at her. The man glanced at the retreating figure.
    â€œThat’s María Baldonado,” he replied. “Because of her beauty a rich old hacendado married her not long ago. I don’t know how many haciendas he owns, but more than enough.”
    Ellis stretched out on his mat, thinking about what she’d said, ignoring the curious people who came to stare at him. Maria returned shortly before sundown, followed by a tall dark-skinned man in a long blue cloak. She pushed her way through the crowd and knelt by Ellis. The tall man stood behind her, arms folded across his chest, staring off in the distance.
    â€œHe has files for cutting your shackles,” she whispered. “You