Rio Grande

By Matt Braun

Tom Stuart takes risks-- in war, in love, and in card games, from St. Louis to Mexico. And the hard-drinking, fast-talking steamboat captain-- who knows every shoal and eddy of the Rio Grande from the Big Bend to Brownsville-- has a dream of building a shipping empire that will span the windswept Gulf of Mexico to rich, exotic New Orleans. But this is a kind of gamble he's never faced before: with a woman to win, a woman to lose, and a dangerous man standing in the way. Now, Stuart is plunged into a fight that will engulf his very soul. And to the winner will go the mighty Rio Grande...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Oct 15, 1998
• ISBN: 9781429926331

Matt Braun

Matt Braun was the author of more than four dozen novels, and won the Golden Spur Award from the Western Writers of America for The Kincaids. He described himself as a "true westerner"; born in Oklahoma, he was the descendant of a long line of ranchers. He wrote with a passion for historical accuracy and detail that earned him a reputation as the most authentic portrayer of the American West. Braun passed away in 2016.

Book preview

One

Eights bet fifty.

Tom Stuart studied the dealer’s hand. On the table were an eight-jack-eight-deuce. He figured it for two pair, probably jacks and eights. Yet the hole card gave him pause. All afternoon he’d had miserable luck, pulling decent cards only to have them topped by still better cards. He pondered a moment longer.

The other players had dropped out, and the dealer was watching him with a blank expression. Stuart’s own hand revealed a four-eight-ace-four. In the hole he had another ace, but it was the eight that impressed him most. With three on the board, the dealer would have to hold the case eight in order to win. The odds, heavily in Stuart’s favor, dictated otherwise. Which prompted a smile, and a sudden decision.

Your fifty— Stuart pushed a stack of gold coins into the center of the table—and raise a hundred.

The dealer considered briefly, then shrugged. Up another hundred.

Well, now that’s grand, indeed it is. Suppose I just take the last one … a hundred more.

Without hesitation, the dealer matched the raise and nodded. You’re called, Mr. Stuart.

Aye, and happy to oblige. Stuart grinned, flipped his hole card. Two pair, aces and fours.

Sorry, not good enough.

The dealer slowly turned his down card, and Stuart found himself staring at three eights. His grin dissolved into a look of disbelief, then anger, and the dealer tensed, watching him closely. Around the table the other players were silent, all eyes fixed on Stuart. Finally, with his features set in a hard scowl, he glanced up at the dealer.

You’re uncommon lucky, and that’s a fact.

I hope you aren’t implying otherwise, Mr. Stuart.

No, if I were, I’d have called you on it before now.

Thank you. I appreciate a man of candor.

Stuart pushed back his chair and stood. I’d gladly trade it for winning cards, but I’m thinkin’ today’s not the day. He scooped up the few coins left before him and nodded to the other players. Gentlemen.

The men bobbed their heads, solemn as owls, and he turned away from the table. Walking to the door, he left the card room and passed through a hall that opened into the main salon. Like most steamboats plying the Mississippi, the Southern Belle was a floating palace, built to dazzle and astonish its passengers.

The salon was massive, nearly two hundred feet in length, adorned with intricately carved gingerbread painted a gleaming white and trimmed in gold leaf. Surrounding it were the stateroom doors, each blending with the walls to form colorful chromos of pastoral and river scenes. Overhead, high above glittering chandeliers, the roof was sectioned into diamonds by immense Gothic arches. Between the arches, flooding the entire salon with glazed brilliance, were ornate stained-glass skylights. The overall effect was one of garish opulence, yet even the most sophisticated traveler found it a bit breathtaking. Scores of passengers, fashionable men and women who occupied the staterooms, were seated around the salon. They gathered early for this evening ritual, chatting quietly while they watched the spectacle of sunset streaming through the multihued skylights.

Tom Stuart, preoccupied with his own thoughts, scarcely noticed the passengers. As he crossed the salon, stewards began announcing dinner, but he ignored the call and walked directly to an outside passageway. A moment later he stepped through the door onto a wide promenade which circled the upper deck. Off starboard, the sun was a swollen ball of orange, dipping slowly toward the horizon. He moved to the rail, extracted a cheroot from inside his coat, and lit it with a sulphurhead.

Hands clasped behind his back, cigar jutting from his mouth, he stared into the sun. His gaze was abstracted, thoughts turned inward, and he found little to cheer his dour mood. The trip had been a disaster, the voyage of a fool chasing moonbeams. From the Rio Grande to the mouth of the Ohio, all for nothing. A two-thousand-mile folly, precisely as Jonas Parker had warned him.

Now he had to return to the border and confirm what Jonas had predicted from the outset. The smallest steamboat, one of a paltry fifty tons, was far beyond their means. In Pittsburgh, where the great shipyards of the nation were located, he had been rudely disabused of his witless dreams. The shipbuilders were polite, attentive to his proposal, but openly skeptical of a young riverboat captain with grand ideas and meager resources. Nor were they overly impressed with his plan to establish a steamboat line on the Rio Grande. Perhaps later, they counseled, once the war with Mexico had been won and border trade returned to normal … .

Stuart had argued persuasively. As a riverboat captain, under contract to the Army Quartermaster, he had personal knowledge of the situation on the Rio Grande. American forces had already penetrated deep into Mexico, and by early fall, certainly no later than the end of 1847, hostilities would cease. Yet, for all his optimism, the shipbuilders still perceived it as a risky venture. Sometimes they took a flyer, accepted a lien and a share of the profits, but not in this case.

It was futile, and in the end Stuart departed Pittsburgh with hopes exhausted. On his way north, armed with a letter from Jonas Parker, he had previously called on their banker in New Orleans. An aristocratic Creole, a man of impeccable manners, the banker had tactfully discouraged any thought of a loan. He considered steamboats a poor investment, vulnerable to boiler explosions and hazardous river conditions, often resulting in total loss. So the shipbuilders themselves had been Stuart’s last resort, and having failed, there was no place left to turn.

Stuart puffed angrily on the cheroot, silently cursing the ill fortune that had dogged him throughout the trip. Even at poker it appeared he was star-crossed, an ominous sign indeed, for he’d always been blessed with a certain gift at cards. Suddenly he had no wish to face Jonas Parker. Though barely five years separated them in age, their relationship was a curious alloy of prudence and audacity. Parker had signed him on as a deckhand at seventeen; elevated him to river pilot at twenty; and only last summer had been instrumental in the award of his captain’s papers. At twenty-four, it was no small distinction, and attributable in great part to the steadying influence of his old friend. Yet he’d badgered Parker into this venture, brashly ignoring all advice, and now …

God’s Teeth!

A wave of disgust and self-recrimination swept over Stuart. He was unaccustomed to losing, on the river or at the gaming table, and he had no taste for humble pie. All his life he’d joyfully accepted challenges, cocksure that he held the edge, never once hindered by the skein of limitations that seemed to hamper other men. But now, thwarted at every turn, he was forced to admit defeat. Bad enough that he must say it to himself, but within the week—Mother of Christ!—it must be said as well to Jonas Parker.

He cursed and flung his cigar into the river.

Behind him the door opened, signaling an unwelcome intrusion, and he stiffened. He’d come on deck to be alone, but apparently there was no escaping the crowd, even at dinnertime. The door closed and he spun around, glowering, ready to rebuff any attempt at conversation. Abruptly, like the appearance of a magician’s dove, his frown gave way to a look of mild wonder. Then his mouth creased in a slow smile.

The girl glanced in his direction, quickly reversed herself, and walked forward along the promenade. His eyes tracked her, looking her up and down, and the smile broadened. She was small, perhaps five feet in height, but her figure was stunning, with youthful breasts, a stemlike waist, and nicely rounded hips. Her features were exquisite, somehow exotic and doll-like, with creamy skin and a lush, coral mouth that accentuated her high cheekbones. She wore a gown of teal-blue silk, with a matching bonnet that revealed locks the color of dark sable, and tilted over her shoulder was a small parasol. If aware of his scrutiny, she gave no indication, but rather continued along the promenade for some distance. There, she paused at the rail and stood watching the sunset.

Stuart was spellbound. He thought her the loveliest creature he’d seen in all his life. For a moment it was as though a vision had materialized out of the sunbeams. Then he collected himself, struck by a sudden thought, and strolled forward humming softly under his breath.

Unlucky in cards …

As he approached her, Stuart was assailed by a moment’s doubt. By the look of her finery, she was obviously a lady of means, and he felt like a moth swooping down on a butterfly. He was attired in a dark broadcloth coat, nankeen trousers and a slouch hat; although it was the best he owned, her vivid ensemble nonetheless made him appear drab and common. Yet the very sight of her dispelled his bleak mood, and with vigor restored, he doffed his hat in an elegant bow.

You’ll excuse me, ma’am. His smile was genuine, devoid of innuendo. I’ve no wish to intrude, and I hope you’ll not take offense, but there’s a matter that has me baffled.

Her face was partially hidden by the parasol, yet he knew at once that she was younger than he’d thought. A girl, perhaps seventeen, certainly no more, but one who had ripened early. At length she turned her head and regarded him with an odd steadfast look.

"Pardon, m’sieur. Were you addressing me?"

She had enormous eyes, with extraordinarily thick lashes, and Stuart merely stared back at her, momentarily speechless. He felt bewitched under the impact of her eyes, lustrous as wild honey, dark brown and flecked with gold. Then he became aware of the scent of her, sensual and intoxicating, yet beneath her sensuality there was an aura of impudence. The combination was irresistible.

Aye. He swallowed, found his voice. I was saying there’s a matter that has me deviled, and sorely so.

"Deviled? Je ne comprends pas … deviled."

Well, don’t you see, it’s like … uh … troublesome … confused.

"Oh, oui, l’énigme! And how may I help you, m’sieur?"

Why, allow me a question, if you will. He paused, permitting her to nod, then went on. How is it I’ve not seen you before? I’m surely not blind, and if you’ll allow me to say so, you’re a sight no man’s likely to miss.

She looked annoyed. You presume a great deal, m’sieur. But to answer your question, I boarded in Vicksburg.

Vicksburg? Isn’t that a wonder now? I would’ve sworn you were from New Orleans—the Vieux Carré.

"How very perceptive. Still, you are … deviled … n’est ce pas? Then allow me to satisfy your curiosity, m’sieur, and we will conclude our conversation."

She fixed him with a haughty gaze. "As you surmised, my home is the Vieux Carré. However, I return now from a visit with my aunt and her husband, who have a plantation outside Vicksburg. Voilà! your riddle is solved."

Stuart met her gaze and found something merry lurking there. She was beautifully self-possessed, and like all Creoles he’d met, full of cultivated airs and the thinly disguised contempt of aristocrats. Yet there was something more, an elusive quality. Beneath her feigned indifference he sensed the nymph, a child-woman already adroit in the ways of coquetry. Perhaps she was chaste as the Virgin herself, but then again …

"A moment, mademoiselle, then I’ll not hold you. She said nothing, offered no encouragement, but he had her attention. I’ve a few friends in the Vieux Carré myself, and I’m wondering, by any chance would you know Monsieur Jacques Lescaut?"

Her eyebrows rose gently in question. "Certainement, as does everyone in New Orleans. But may I inquire how it is you know Monsieur Lescaut?"

Wait now, I asked first, and you haven’t yet explained.

"You presume again, m’sieur. But if you must know, Jacques Lescaut is a dear friend of my family. So dear, in fact, that he is my godfather."

By the saints, your godfather! Well then, it’s near providential we met, and quite—he hesitated, spread his hands in a bland gesture—you’ll forgive my manners. I’ve not introduced myself, and no excuse for it. His hat fanned the deck in a grand bow. "Thomas Stuart, mam’selle, at your service."

She made a small nod of acknowledgment. "Je m’appelle Jovette St. Vrain. And now perhaps you will return my courtesy."

Oh, Monsieur Lescaut, you mean? A fine old gentleman, none better, and a true friend indeed. You see, he’s my banker, has been for a number of years.

Your banker? She cocked her head in a bemused smile. "Pardon, m’sieur, but your manner of speech … you are Americain?"

Aye, I am indeed, he assured her. Of course, I wasn’t brought over till I was eleven. So you must excuse my queer way with words.

Brought over? she asked. "From where, m’sieur?"

Why, from Ireland, where else? And it’s proud I am of it, though prouder still to be an American.

Yet you bank with a Creole. Do you not find a paradox in that?

He uttered a bark of laughter. "No indeed, for I don’t trust American bankers. They’re a crafty lot, slippery as eels. It’s a sad thing, mam’selle, but surely true, and you can take my word on it."

Jovette St. Vrain silently underscored that sentiment. Like all Creoles, she had an inbred aversion, not to say a legitimate distrust, of anything American. Yet, almost from the moment he had approached her, she’d felt a curious ambivalence about this peacock of an Irishman. Now, intrigued by his bold manner, her appraisal of him was deliberate. He was uncouth, really quite crude, but he seemed charged with vitality, a certain force of character. He wasn’t a handsome man—square jaw and chiseled features—yet there was laughter in his eyes, some indefinable aspect about the copper of his hair and the bronzed, windswept look of his face. She found him altogether fascinating, and dangerous, like an amiable tiger content for the moment to lick her hand. And when the moment passed, when the laughter in his eyes changed to …

She shuddered inwardly and took a firm grip on herself. "Your confidence is well placed, m’sieur. I have no doubt Jacques Lescaut serves your business interests with great wisdom."

Business? he exclaimed. Oh no, I’ve given you the wrong impression. I’m no businessman, indeed not. I’m a riverboat captain.

No mere statement, his words were unmistakably a boast. She averted her eyes, altogether astounded by such incredible vanity. Bon Dieu! The man actually thought himself a celebrity, someone of rank and station. She hardly knew how to reply, and a moment elapsed while he stood grinning down at her, apparently awaiting her praise. Quite at a loss, she finally glanced around, forced herself to smile.

A worthy profession, Captain. Am I familiar with your boat?

"Not likely, mam’selle. I’ve been off the Mississippi more than a year now. Of course you’re familiar with the war and General Taylor!"

General Zachary Taylor?

Aye, the very one. It’s under his flag I sail, and never a grander man took the deck of a ship. Not to brag, you understand, but he’s appointed me his personal captain. Won’t sail with anyone else, and that’s a fact.

How nice. And are you returning to the war?

I am indeed. He hesitated, suddenly sober. Tell you the truth, that’s what prompted me to make your acquaintance.

Oh?

Mind you now, I’m not in the habit of approaching genteel young ladies like yourself. But it being my last night, so to speak … before I return to the fighting …

He shrugged, offered her a piteous look. Well, the last night and all, I thought you might do me the honor of joining me for dinner?

She almost laughed. His performance was expertly done, really quite touching. She suspected it had worked marvelously well with many girls, all up and down the river. Yet, however amusing, it was no compliment. He obviously had more on his mind than dinner, and while the thought piqued her interest, she had no intention of exploring it further. Nor would she permit his boorish manner to pass unrebuked.

"Non merci, m’sieur. I never dine with men to whom I have not been introduced."

"Not introduced? Why, I introduced myself only a moment ago, and you the same, mam’selle."

"Yes, but not a formal introduction, m’sieur. People of our station must observe the proprieties. N’est-ce pas?"

Jovette St. Vrain smiled, stepping around him, and walked toward the salon door. Utterly confounded, he stared after her, wondering how it had all gone wrong so quickly. Then he called out, still not convinced he’d entirely lost the game.

"Perhaps another time, mam’selle?"

Perhaps.

Her voice floated back to him, gaily mocking, then she disappeared into the passageway. Stuart stood for a long while, baffled by her reply. At last, unable to fathom it, he turned to the rail and gazed out across the river. His mouth went hard and again the black mood swept over him.

Damn the luck! All bad, all the way round.

Two

A steamboat whistle blasted a long lonesome wail. The river was molten with sunlight, and the people thronged around the wharf shielded their eyes against the midday glare. Several moments passed in hushed silence; the crowd edged forward, straining for a better view, their faces eager and expectant. Then the Troy swept around a distant bend in the Rio Grande, her twin-stacks billowing smoke, and steamed toward Fort Brown.

The whistle trumpeted another blast, punctuated this time by three frivolous toots, and ended with a mighty, ear-splitting roar. At dockside, a military band struck up a lively march, and the honor guard, buckles and buttons polished to a dazzling brilliance, was called to attention. The fort commander, accompanied by adjutant and staff, stood midway along the wharf. On the shoreline, directly behind the troops, was a gathering of civilians that comprised the entire population of Brownsville. Though they numbered less than a hundred, there was a holiday atmosphere in the air, and their voices were raised in exuberant counterpoint to the music. Even as the Troy steamed downriver, still a quarter mile from the landing, they began shouting and laughing and gaily waving their hats in greeting.

On board the riverboat, Captain Tom Stuart manned the wheel. The pilothouse was perched high above the superstructure and provided him an unobstructed view in all directions. With a final blast on the whistle, he put the crowd from his mind and concentrated on bringing the boat to berth. The Troy was a stern-wheeler of seventy-five tons, wide across the midships and shallow-draft; her bottom skimmed the surface of the water. But the Rio Grande was a treacherous river, far more hazardous than the Mississippi and other inland waterways Stuart had navigated before the war. Always unpredictable, with sandbars that appeared and vanished overnight, it was a tricky stream that demanded the most of captain and boat. To date, of all the wartime captains, Stuart was the only one with an unblemished record. He hadn’t yet grounded a vessel under his command, and today was no time to get careless. Not with the General on board.

With his gaze fixed on the channel, Stuart signaled the engineer, ordering a reduction in speed as the Troy steamed past the fort. The boat shuddered and creaked, slowly losing headway, and as the beat of the paddle-wheel lessened, he caught a faint blare of music from onshore. Then he heard a cabin door slam and was momentarily distracted as a figure emerged below him and walked forward on the texas deck. His eyes instantly shifted back to the channel, but that one quick glimpse brought a warm chuckle of admiration. It appeared Old Rough and Ready wasn’t above a little politicking.

General Zachary Taylor halted on the texas deck, feet planted wide apart and hands clasped behind his back. He was dressed in a scruffy linen suit and a flop-brimmed palmetto hat, with no distinguishable mark of rank. Yet there wasn’t a man along the border, Anglo or Mexican, who wouldn’t recognize him on sight.

Though he had the manner of a farmer, and a fondness for chewing tobacco, he was a military strategist of uncanny power. Within the space of a year, he had gathered and trained an army, established logistical support on the border, and in several pitched battles, defeated Mexico’s ablest generals. Victorious in the field, he was now returning home to the adulation of his countrymen and a ground swell movement to elect him President. By no mere coincidence, he had chosen late November, precisely one year before the elections of 1848, to retire and enter civilian life.

To Tom Stuart, the General’s popularity seemed a fitting end to a war laced with irony. As he jockeyed the Troy closer to shore, watching Taylor out of the corner of his eye, it occurred to him that fortune favored the man who seized opportunity. Scarcely two years ago the United States had annexed Texas, establishing the Rio Grande as the new border. Mexico disputed the claim, contending that the actual border, some hundred miles farther north, was the Nueces River. Diplomatic relations were severed, and a year later, in the spring of 1846, hostilities began in earnest. Zach Taylor marched south from the Rio Grande, occupying Monterrey after a furious three-day battle, and shortly afterward handed the Mexicans another stunning defeat at Buena Vista. General Winfield Scott, meanwhile, landed at Vera Cruz, fought his way overland during the summer of 1847, and brought Mexico to the treaty table by capturing Mexico City. Less than two months had elapsed since the final victory, but even as Scott negotiated with the Mexican government, it was Zach Taylor who was headed downriver toward home and the Presidency.

Like most rivermen, Stuart thought it was a grand joke that Old Rough and Ready had so neatly euchered Winfield Scott. It was Taylor who had brought him and Jonas Parker to Texas, under contract to the Quartermaster Department, and had given them a free hand in operating the government-owned steamboats. Then too, he had taken a liking to Stuart; though the sledge-shouldered young Irishman was new to command, Taylor had advanced him over several senior captains. Stuart had the gift of laughter and a fine appreciation for life’s absurdities, traits much prized by the General, and they had got along famously.

Zach Taylor began waving the moment the Troy swung out of midchannel and crept toward the wharf. But it was an imperial wave, almost a salute, one hand held aloft as if he were a conqueror acknowledging tribute deserved. His expression was one of benign hauteur, at once triumphant and humble, and Stuart was reminded that soldiers and politicians were not all that different a breed. The old warrior already had the knack of playing to the gallery.

The band thundered louder and the crowd went wild, cheering and tossing their hats in the air. Absorbed as he was in the General’s performance, Stuart momentarily lost track of the spectacle as he got busy docking the boat. With a deft touch, he eased the Troy into her berth and quickly ordered the engines reversed. He waited until deckhands scrambled onto the dock with hawsers, then signaled the engineer to shut down power. Only after the boat was secured did he leave the pilothouse and descend to the texas deck. Walking forward, he was amazed to find the General still on board, apparently waiting for him.

Zach Taylor took his hand in a powerful grip, grinning and talking and pumping his arm for several moments. Stuart thought it odd at first, for Taylor was merely reiterating the terms of a private arrangement they had agreed upon the night before. Then he glanced past the General and understood that this one-sided conversation was yet another performance. Everyone on shore, military and civilian alike, was watching intently, and the message they got was unmistakable. No mere riverboat captain, Tom Stuart had been singled out by Old Rough and Ready. It was both personal recognition and a blessing of sorts, and by nightfall Stuart’s esteem would increase manyfold all along the border.

Before Stuart could respond, Zach Taylor smote him across the shoulders and quickly went down the stairway to the lower deck. Once on the dock, he was greeted by the fort commander while the honor guard, resplendent as freshly painted toy soldiers, was called to present arms. Taylor accepted the salute with a casual wave, then marched ashore and began gladhanding his way through the crowd. Somewhat perplexed, the fort commander fell in behind, trailed by his staff and the band and the honor guard. It was a curious little parade, quite spontaneous and decidedly informal, not at all what the military had planned. By fits and starts, with Taylor in the lead and the crowd following alongside, the procession slowly gained higher ground and disappeared on the road to the fort.

Stuart was still on the texas deck, watching with considerable amusement, when he heard his name called. He glanced down and caught sight of Maria hurrying along the dock. With all the noise and confusion, he hadn’t noticed her in the crowd, and he saw now that she was accompanied by Jonas Parker. Waving, he swiftly descended the stairway and crossed the main deck. As he neared the gangway Maria halted on the other side, eyes bright with excitement, her breasts rising and falling from the run. When he stepped onto the dock, she flung herself at him, locked arms around his neck, and pulled his mouth to hers in a moist kiss. Instinctively, he gathered her in a tight embrace, felt her respond and press closer. Then her hips moved and she moaned and her tongue darted his mouth with a questing urgency. With no little effort, he pried her arms loose and disengaged himself.

Here now! He laughed, struggling to hold her off. Enough of that, behave yourself.

"Oh, Tomaso! Don’t scold … por favor … it’s been so long."

Listen to her, would you? So long, she says! God’s Teeth, it’s been a week, and scarcely that. Have you no shame?

None. She gave him a sultry look. "I need you, querido. I can’t stand it when you go away. The pink tip of her tongue played over her lips. And you need me too, eh? Just a little maybe?"

Stuart could hardly argue the point. Maria Dominguez was a tawny cat of a girl, with bold inquisitive eyes, full moist lips, and a short impudent nose. She had a sumptuous figure, long dark hair black as a raven’s wing, and to his immense delight, no inhibitions whatever in bed. In all the time he had served on the Rio Grande, she had been his woman, and he’d never once felt the urge to look elsewhere.

Not that he was blinded to other women. Since returning from Pittsburgh, he had often thought of the Creole girl and their brief shipboard flirtation. Unbidden, her image would cross his mind, and while several months had passed, he still wondered how it would have been with her. It was a tantalizing daydream, one that persisted. Yet it in no way altered his fondness for Maria, who was quite enough for any man, himself included.

Aye, Stuart finally agreed, it’s a fact and then some. I need you too. But not now, you little witch—tonight!

With a laugh he spun her around and swatted her on the rump as Jonas Parker halted at the gangway. A riverboat captain, and Stuart’s closest friend, Parker was rarely surprised by their behavior. He smiled, watching Maria rub her bottom, then nodded to Stuart. Good to have you back, Tom. No worse for wear, I take it?

Never better, Jonas. Never better. Fit as a flea and sound of wind.

All wind, Maria sniffed. That’s all he does … talk, talk, talk!

The men exchanged a glance, and Parker grinned. She’s got you there, old friend. Leastways that was quite a gabfest you had with the General. Although I’ll have to admit it was him that did most of the talkin’, wasn’t it?

Oh, it’s got you curious has it, our little talk?

If it’s what I’m thinkin’, it does.

Parker jerked his thumb back toward the shoreline. Aside from the fort, Brownsville was a ramshackle settlement consisting of a few dozen adobe houses. The trade center, and by far the largest town on the border, was Matamoros, directly across the river. But below the fort, situated near the wharf area, a warehouse was under construction. Almost completed, it was built of rough-cut lumber and had about it a very substantial look.

Perhaps you noticed, Parker observed, something new’s been added while you were gone.

Aye, Jonas, I’ve not lost my sight. I saw it.

Then it won’t surprise you to learn that.it’s Jack Stillman’s handiwork.

Surprise me! Stuart gave him a quick characteristic squint of mockery. No indeed, Jonas, not at all. But I’ve a few surprises of my own, and I fancy none of them will be to Stillman’s liking.

What? What’s that? Parker demanded. Are you tellin’ me—

There now, don’t be getting yourself in a dither. We’ll talk, all in good time of course. But right now I’ve got m’self a terrible thirst, and it won’t wait a minute longer. No, indeed, that it won’t.

Stuart draped an arm over Maria’s shoulder and casually strolled off toward the wharf. After a few steps he looked back, flashing a broad grin, and winked at Parker.

Won’t you join us, Jonas? First round’s on me.

Three

The ferry between Brownsville and Matamoros was a pleasant five-minute ride. Since no treaty had as yet been signed, Matamoros was technically under American occupation, but there was great activity along the waterfront. At berth were two commercial packets, flying the colors of Stillman & Company, and the dock swarmed with roustabouts unloading trade goods. Stuart, who was in dazzling good humor, blithely ignored all the commotion as the ferry touched shore. With one arm around Maria and the other thrown across Parker’s shoulders, he stepped onto the landing and set a brisk pace toward the plaza.

Unlike most border towns, Matamoros was large and attractive, thriving with commerce. On a level plain, set back from the river, it was surrounded by fields and orchards rich with produce. Nearly seven thousand people lived within its walls, yet its prosperity was attributable only in part to the land and local agriculture. Even before the war it had become a town of merchants, the trade center for northern Mexico. New Orleans forwarding houses filtered their goods through its waterfront to the mines and haciendas and countless villages scattered throughout the interior. In return, wool and hides from outlying ranchos were transported to the border; copper and gold were trailed from distant mines by mule train. Overall, the wealth of an area larger than Texas itself was funneled through Matamoros, and ultimately shipped to the marketplace in New Orleans. A conservative estimate of the border trade, compiled only a year before Zachary Taylor crossed the Rio Grande, placed the total exchange at five million dollars annually.

With the advent of war, however, commerce from the interior had dwindled to a trickle. Older shipping firms withdrew, awaiting the outcome of hostilities, and were immediately replaced by a bold young entrepreneur who thrived on risk. For the past two years, unburdened by patriotism and disdainful of military contracts, Jack Stillman had monopolized commercial trade along the border.

It was the thought uppermost in Jonas Parker’s mind as Stuart led the way into the plaza. But the Irishman was laughing and joking, clearly determined to avoid any discussion of business, and Parker knew it would be a waste of time to press the issue. Tom Stuart was mercurial by nature, elusive and unpredictable, and never to be obligated except of his own volition. Their talk would simply have to wait.

A stately grove of trees dominated the center of the plaza. On the far side, commanding an entire block, was the church, and clustered around the other three sides were an array of shops, gambling dens, and trading houses. Old men sat and gossiped beneath the shade of the trees, while women in colorful rebozos went about their marketing, and wagons loaded with all manner of produce trundled back and forth to the waterfront. Directly around the corner from the main road was a combination gaming dive and cantina that catered exclusively to rivermen. It was a rowdy, sometimes dangerous, establishment, avoided by Army personnel and Mexicans alike. Hustling Maria and Parker along, Stuart barged through the door of the cantina and brought the action to a halt with a thundering, bull-like roar.

On your toes, you river rats! He took in the whole room with a baroque sweep of his arms. I’ve come for a drink, and when Tom Stuart drinks, there’s not a man goes dry. He strode forward, brushing men aside, and signaled the bartender. A round for the house, and by the Sweet Jesus, any man who refuses won’t wait long for the taste of my knuckles. Belly up, lads! Belly up and name your poison. Popskull or tequila, it’s all the same to me!

The rivermen surged around him with a chorus of raucous shouts and ribald greetings. There was considerable jostling and shoving for a place at the bar, and a fight broke out at the far end of the room. The bartender squelched the dispute with two quick raps of his bungstarter, and with order restored, Stuart hoisted his glass in salute to the next President of these United States, Old Rough and Ready! Then, with the rivermen listening spellbound, he launched into a heavily embroidered tale of his trip downriver with Zach