Free The Red Ripper by Kerry Newcomb Page A

be released.
    â€œAustin?” William called out.
    â€œAfraid so.” came the reply.
    Wallace’s long-legged strides brought him to the far corner of the governor’s jail. Moments later a second door was flung open to permit Stephen Austin to emerge, somewhat disheveled but none the worse for his ordeal.
    â€œI was on my way back across town to rejoin señor Saldevar at his sister’s hacienda when I was set upon by men who I believe are in the governor’s employ.” Austin stopped next to an olla half-filled with cool spring water and drank his fill. “Santa Anna resents the fact I have the ear of el presidente. I should have never allowed myself to become separated from Murillo and his escort. He, too, has many powerful friends.”
    Wallace was only half-listening to Austin. His focus was on Mad Jack Flambeau. The Frenchman’s head wound needed a proper dressing. And Wallace knew just the place to go for help.
    â€œCan you take us to señor Saldevar’s?” he asked. They might be able to find help for Flambeau. And there was always the possibility of a chance meeting with Don Murillo’s lovely “child-bride,” Esperanza Saldevar.

    â€œI know the way. And there will be safety in numbers.”
    â€œWhen the governor and his nephew discover what has happened this night,” Flambeau muttered, “no one will be safe in Veracruz. Guadiz will never forget you now.” He placed his hand on Wallace’s arm and followed the younger man out of the darkness and into the light.
    The lanterns in the guardroom did not offer much illumination, but it was better than where Flambeau had been.

7
    â€œI RECKON THE ANSWER TO THAT IS IN THE CARDS.”
    My sister is an excellent nurse,” said Don Murillo, standing in the doorway of the hacienda. “It is one of the reasons I have asked her to join us in Texas. She can be meddlesome, but there comes a time when it is good to have family close by. Dorotea is alone now, since her husband’s death. A change might be just what she needs.” Don Murillo was enjoying a flour tortilla wrapped about a link of spicy chorizo sausage. Indulging his appetite, he took a moment to dwell upon the past. Dorotea’s husband had been a physician, a generous man who treated his practice as a ministry, much to the detriment of his finances. The house by the sea, this plot of land along the shore, some livestock, and the trade goods the mestizos had left in exchange for his services were all the legacy of a decent life cut short.
    â€œWe sail within the week. I should like to see my sister settled at the ranchero before the end of the year.” He unwrapped a second tortilla from a cloth bundle and invited his guest to partake.
    William was more thirsty than hungry. He gulped down his third dipper of spring water from the olla. Fighting might be a dry business, but inaction was the more difficult burden. It was impossible to relax. Wallace continually shifted his stance and paced the porch
like a caged animal, his features a restless mask of shadows and light.
    Humidity was on the rise. A damp mist drifted across the obsidian surface of the bay and stole ashore on silent cat feet to prowl the distant streets. Wallace nervously checked the road into town, what he could see of it. A groan from the house distracted him. He glanced past señor Saldevar and caught a glimpse of Mad Jack slumped in a cane-backed settee being tended to by Don Murillo’s sister, a tall, big-boned woman whose stern visage and gruff demeanor were hardly becoming to a sister of mercy.
    Dorotea Saldevar v Marquez and Don Murillo’s willowy young wife were a study in contrasts. Esperanza, kneeling at the Frenchman’s side, was warm and sultry and full of life. Dorotea wore her bitterness like a shroud around her heart. It was clear she begrudged even this simple act of kindness toward a stranger. As William looked on, Esperanza