Escovar.”
“You can’t stay. I won’t let you,” Tibbs protested.
“Do you have a better idea?” Kit waited for an answer, and when none was forthcoming, said, “Good. Get going.”
“Why should you be the one to stay?” Tibbs asked, defiance in his voice.
“Because it was my idea,” Kit retorted. “Now start off. And keep low. Crawling’s slower, but they might not see you. And for heaven’s sake, don’t try to haggle with Escovar. Just pay him what he wants for the horses and come on. I’ll be waiting right here.”
Tibbs looked at the priest. “You say the ferns mark the deer trail?”
“You cannot miss it. And the path widens the closer you come to Escovar’s,” Father Ramon explained nervously.
Tibbs looked questioningly at the treasure bag, as if unsure whether or not to leave the gold.
“Take it with you,” Kit said. “I don’t want Morales to have any chance of getting his hands on what’s left. He hasn’t earned it.”
Tibbs held his arm outstretched as Kit knelt at his side. The two friends clasped hands. “I’ll be back,” the dark-haired man promised in a choked whisper. “I swear it.”
“I know, Bill,” Kit said. “Just hurry.”
Tibbs placed one of his pistols on the ground by Kit. Then he tucked the other in his belt and crawled off through the tall grass.
“No bloodshed, please, Señor Christopher,” Father Ramon pleaded.
Kit gave the man a strange look. Only his mother called him by his full name. It sounded odd, coming from the Spanish priest. Kit pointed at the soldiers at the opposite end of the meadow. “Padre, that’s entirely up to them.”
Sergeant Morales rolled onto his back and managed to slake his thirst with the last of the water in his canteen and that belonging to one of his troops, a slim, cautious youth by the name of Vargas. The underling watched with a mixture of anger and resignation as the sergeant consumed the last of the younger man’s water. Morales passed the empty canteen back to his subordinate.
“Don’t worry, little pup. You shall drink your fill once we have captured these Inglés sailors.” The sergeant wiped a hand across his perspiring features and stared up at the cloudless void. How still and quiet … quiet! He propped himself up on one elbow. “Galvez. Corporal Galvez.”
“Sí, my sergeant,” Galvez said, glumly acknowledging his presence where he was hidden in the grass.
“Perhaps our friends have no more powder. Find out for me, eh?”
“Sí,” came the weary reply. Grass rustled, and then the corporal popped his head up. A pistol cracked, and the corporal’s hat flew from his head as he ducked back under cover.
“They still have powder, my sergeant,” came Galvez’s gloomy report.
“I can hear,” Morales said, and added, “idiot,” beneath his breath. He closed his eyes and took stock of the situation. He and his men had tried to rush the makeshift fort. It had been a halfhearted attempt. Galvez had let slip about the gold, and now each man wanted a share and no one wished to risk death in obtaining it.
Morales relived with humiliating clarity the charge his men made across the meadow. Powder smoke blossomed above the logs as the Inglés opened fire. Two of the dragoons dropped from horseback, and the other horsemen immediately wheeled their mounts and retreated out of range of the Yankee guns. Dismounted, the dragoons opened fire and tried a second assault on foot. It too failed, at the cost of another man. The log walls still held. The timber not only provided excellent cover, but the builder had placed his battlements on the meadow’s highest point, a grassy mound that provided an excellent field of fire for the Inglés defenders.
A man dead, Morales thought with disgust, and two wounded. The sergeant dispatched his remaining men to ring the Yankees’ position and then settled down to a waiting game. At least Morales could be certain the Yankees weren’t going anywhere while he tried to
“You can’t stay. I won’t let you,” Tibbs protested.
“Do you have a better idea?” Kit waited for an answer, and when none was forthcoming, said, “Good. Get going.”
“Why should you be the one to stay?” Tibbs asked, defiance in his voice.
“Because it was my idea,” Kit retorted. “Now start off. And keep low. Crawling’s slower, but they might not see you. And for heaven’s sake, don’t try to haggle with Escovar. Just pay him what he wants for the horses and come on. I’ll be waiting right here.”
Tibbs looked at the priest. “You say the ferns mark the deer trail?”
“You cannot miss it. And the path widens the closer you come to Escovar’s,” Father Ramon explained nervously.
Tibbs looked questioningly at the treasure bag, as if unsure whether or not to leave the gold.
“Take it with you,” Kit said. “I don’t want Morales to have any chance of getting his hands on what’s left. He hasn’t earned it.”
Tibbs held his arm outstretched as Kit knelt at his side. The two friends clasped hands. “I’ll be back,” the dark-haired man promised in a choked whisper. “I swear it.”
“I know, Bill,” Kit said. “Just hurry.”
Tibbs placed one of his pistols on the ground by Kit. Then he tucked the other in his belt and crawled off through the tall grass.
“No bloodshed, please, Señor Christopher,” Father Ramon pleaded.
Kit gave the man a strange look. Only his mother called him by his full name. It sounded odd, coming from the Spanish priest. Kit pointed at the soldiers at the opposite end of the meadow. “Padre, that’s entirely up to them.”
Sergeant Morales rolled onto his back and managed to slake his thirst with the last of the water in his canteen and that belonging to one of his troops, a slim, cautious youth by the name of Vargas. The underling watched with a mixture of anger and resignation as the sergeant consumed the last of the younger man’s water. Morales passed the empty canteen back to his subordinate.
“Don’t worry, little pup. You shall drink your fill once we have captured these Inglés sailors.” The sergeant wiped a hand across his perspiring features and stared up at the cloudless void. How still and quiet … quiet! He propped himself up on one elbow. “Galvez. Corporal Galvez.”
“Sí, my sergeant,” Galvez said, glumly acknowledging his presence where he was hidden in the grass.
“Perhaps our friends have no more powder. Find out for me, eh?”
“Sí,” came the weary reply. Grass rustled, and then the corporal popped his head up. A pistol cracked, and the corporal’s hat flew from his head as he ducked back under cover.
“They still have powder, my sergeant,” came Galvez’s gloomy report.
“I can hear,” Morales said, and added, “idiot,” beneath his breath. He closed his eyes and took stock of the situation. He and his men had tried to rush the makeshift fort. It had been a halfhearted attempt. Galvez had let slip about the gold, and now each man wanted a share and no one wished to risk death in obtaining it.
Morales relived with humiliating clarity the charge his men made across the meadow. Powder smoke blossomed above the logs as the Inglés opened fire. Two of the dragoons dropped from horseback, and the other horsemen immediately wheeled their mounts and retreated out of range of the Yankee guns. Dismounted, the dragoons opened fire and tried a second assault on foot. It too failed, at the cost of another man. The log walls still held. The timber not only provided excellent cover, but the builder had placed his battlements on the meadow’s highest point, a grassy mound that provided an excellent field of fire for the Inglés defenders.
A man dead, Morales thought with disgust, and two wounded. The sergeant dispatched his remaining men to ring the Yankees’ position and then settled down to a waiting game. At least Morales could be certain the Yankees weren’t going anywhere while he tried to
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