The Savage Breed

by Randy Denmon

Genres: Westerns; Horror

Synopsis

"The Savage Breed unfolds with a rush in a time and place rarely visited by the average Western writer. Randy Denmon takes the reader down a suspenseful trail to a near forgotten period in this rousing story of war, love and revenge." --True West Magazine

Across The River. . .And Into Hell

Travis Ross and Chase McAlister were infamous Indian hunters, scouts and Texas Rangers turned ranchers. In a war of independence, they fought against desperate odds. Travis lost a woman, the daughter of a proud Mexican rancher, and both made the kind of enemies that never go away. Now, a new war is brewing and the two friends are looking across the Rio Grande, knowing what they left behind, facing a chance to settle scores, recapture what they lost, and many more ways to die. . .

A decade after they fought for Texas, Travis and Chase plunge into the brutal madness of the Mexican American War. And amidst the fighting and suffering, they discover how much has changed, what has stayed the same, and that in a furious fight for survival, they've made the most dangerous enemy of all. . .a murderer fighting on their own side. . .

"An impressive debut--a colorful, action-filled novel." --Elmer Kelton, five-time Spur Winner on The Lawless Frontier

Release date: September 1, 2009

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Presidio del Norte, Republic of Texas, April 1846

Travis Ross sat on the porch of the dusty, adobe office, where he usually spent his early evenings, swaying tranquilly in his rocking chair. His right leg crossed over his left, and he played with one of his spurs as he looked out over the mesa at a marvelous rainbow on the horizon. The sun was at his back. And the checkerboard of green and granite, dotted with colorful cacti, yuccas, wildflowers, and sage, gently danced with the late afternoon breeze. Above, a quarter moon rose against the clear, blue sky, and the high-pitched howl of a far-off coyote drifted over the landscape.

Travis loved the evenings. And this one was as beautiful and serene as any he had witnessed. He sucked in a deep breath and picked up his jug of whiskey. His temperament was disgruntled, as it had been for almost as long as he could remember. The day had been long and boring, like all the days for months. He felt as if something was dying inside. He had been in this world for forty years now, the last few the unhappiest. He sensed he was going nowhere; he had nothing to keep his mind occupied, as if he were only waiting around to die in this land so far from anywhere.

He stared out at the brown Chisos Mountains—only a tangled, mysterious mass of lava outcroppings—falling away in the distance and hovering like a raised oasis in the throes of the desolate Chihuahuan Desert. The peaceful mountains put him in a reflective mood, let him sort through his memories and think back to more blissful times. The sound of leather boots on the wood plank floor behind him broke him from his thoughts.

“Those fence posts aren’t going to unload themselves,” his longtime partner, Chase McAlister, scoffed in a loud, irritated voice from the doorway behind the porch.

Travis did not nuisance himself with turning to look at Chase, but did glance down at the ramshackle horse wagon loaded with pine posts in front of the porch. “If you thought I was going to unload ’em while you were in there taking a nap, maybe it’s getting time for you to take up the rocking chair.”

“Wasn’t taking no damned nap—paying the bills, doing some paperwork. This is a business, if you haven’t forgotten,” Chase countered. “Ranchin’s a tough job.”

“I don’t know if those posts will ever get unloaded,” Travis said lazily. “You done run all the Mexicans off—worked ’em to the bone. Sent ’em all back across the river. It’s bad when life is better in Mexico than it is at the M&R Ranch. It’s only my gambling and cardplaying prowess that enables us to eat around here. I’ve got Hancho in there so indebted, he can’t afford to quit cooking for us. You ought to be grateful for that.”

“I’m going to run Hancho off if he keeps letting those chickens run loose around here—stinks the place up and makes us look like a roughshod outfit. You, too, if you don’t start doing something.”

Travis lifted his jug to his mouth and took a big swig. “You promise? I’ll make you a deal: you can have my half of the riches we’ve made here.”

“You ain’t supposed to be drinking during working hours. You’re supposed to be working.”

“I am working. On the lookout for Indians. You know, those red-skinned heathens that gave you that big scar on your chest. Don’t know what we’re going to do when the Mexicans close that fort across the river. Besides, I need a drink every now and then. Ain’t seen a white woman in months.”

“I guess this is my folly. Thinking I could come down here and christen a ranch with the biggest loafer in Texas.”

“Hell, no, it’s my fault. I was dumb enough to sign on. Sounded romantic, sitting around the bar in San Antone. Maybe you’re right. I should give up whiskey.”

Travis heard the footsteps again. They got closer to the front of the porch. He slowly turned to look at the tall, rugged, powerful figure, resting his broad shoulders against one of the porch columns. Chase McAlister was a month short of forty. His brown hair was departing and his skin looked wind weathered and tan. He had a square jaw—a brawny, confident face. But overall, his appearance was youthful, contrasting with his alert hazel eyes; they told of age and wisdom. And he carried a strange swagger of vanity and virtue. Most knew he had the character and stomach to back it up. Travis looked at Chase’s knee-high leather boots, leading up to his brown cotton trousers, topped with a leather waist holster holding a Colt five-shot revolver—above the pistol, a neat, white, button-down shirt. Travis’s partner was his opposite—someone content to be alone.

“We got company coming.” Travis picked up his jug again and nodded to the dirt trail leading up to the ranch house, an unsightly scar on the pristine landscape. A few stems of dust stood above the mesa, a quarter mile distant. Just as he spoke, Travis discerned a horse bouncing through the illusion of the belated sun.

“Hell, if my vision’s not failing me, I believe that’s Chester Woods,” Chase said in a matter-a-fact way.

Travis squinted, but the light buzz from his jug precluded good focus. “Chester? What the hell’s he doing way out here?” Travis sluggishly got to his feet with interest. Guests were rare at the M&R, and his spirits perked at the thought of a new sparring partner, someone other than Chase. He might even be able to get up a card game, one that might actually require the use of his brain.

Travis put his right hand above his eyes as the tall sorrel trotted up to the porch, kicking up a small dust storm. He looked at the rider, who pulled back on his reins, bringing his horse to a sliding stop in front of the porch. Atop the horse and awash in dirt, Chester was only a body clad in trousers, topped with a white shirt and hat. “I’ll be damned,” Travis said. “The Texas Rangers finally got here. You’re too late. We already run off all the Comanches.”

Chester wiped the earth from his brown eyes and young, unshaven face before removing the hat from his sandy blond head. With a subtle smirk, he looked around briefly at the three run-down shacks that made up the M&R headquarters. “About like I figured. You’re not cut out for hard labor, Travis.” He turned and nodded his head to Chase. “Captain McAlister.”

“You probably won’t be here long. Unfortunately, we don’t have a fine hotel or brothel in town.” Travis stepped forward and grabbed the horse’s reins. “But we do have a cook.”

“What brings you out here?” Chase said in a deep, serious voice.

“Colonel Walker sent me. General Taylor has authorized him to raise four regiments of Rangers—for the war. Speck he’ll be moving south before long.”

“Colonel Walker?” Chase replied.

“Yeah, now that we’re part of the army, he’s a colonel. Hell, they made me a lieutenant,” Chester answered as he dismounted. “He thought you boys might be tired of living the honest life…I suspect you’d both be elected company captains or better. That is, if you’re interested in mustering on.”

“Can’t speak for Chase, but my fighting days are over. You know that. Ten years was enough; I’ve seen enough killing for one lifetime,” Travis said, extending a hand and helping Chester up on the porch.

“What about Tony Flores? Any truth to the rumor that he’s taken up arms for the Mexicans?” Chase asked, again in a sincere voice.

“Yes, sir,” Chester answered. “He’s signed on to fight with Rayo.”

“Rayo,” Chase said, lifting his eyebrows and looking at Travis.

“I guess every man’s got to pacify his own soul,” Travis added. “It would be difficult for me to take up arms against men I’ve fought with under any circumstances. And it’s about time Señor Rayo gave up fighting.”

“War’s coming,” Chester said. “You can’t run from it. The Mexican army will be here sometime. You’ll have to fight them one way or the other. Or fight the Indians if they leave. I guess you could sit around here raising stock for Little Face…wait for him and his braves to come get your horses and your scalps.”

Chase groaned and mumbled. His eyes narrowed. “Don’t you worry. I’m going kill that Injun one day.”

Travis laughed. He patted Chester on the back. “Enough of this talk of war and scalps.” He handed Chester the jug and reached over to rub the top of Chase’s almost bare head. “You know how it stirs up Captain McAlister. He doesn’t have any hair to give. Let’s go inside and have a drink. You can tell me what all the boys are up to.”

“To tell you the truth,” Chester admitted, slapping his hat against his legs in an attempt to extract some dust, “I thought you two would be eager to get back across the border. See some people you haven’t seen in a few years. Finish any unfinished business you might have, especially you, Travis.”

Travis turned to look down at the crystal-clear Rio Grande, then across the river to the enigmatic, gorgeous arroyos leading off to the sunset. What waited in that land he had not entered in a decade? What inner demons lurked just over the horizon that he wanted to service? His enemies were there: the evil bandit Paco Medina and the cunning Comanche Little Face—both had evaded him for years. Also, the woman he loved and longed for was there. Would he ever go back across that river? He had given up the gun to pacify his soul. He would have to take it back up to go. Was he prepared to do that? He had been thinking it over, struggling with the decision for months.

“Lot of old scores to settle over there,” Chester continued. “Bunch of Mexicans betrayed Texas during the revolution. Thought you might want to be around when we get there…might have some things to settle down there.”

Travis sighed deeply. His stomach lurched, and he felt his skin grow cold as he turned to Chase. The two exchanged silent stares for a few moments before strolling inside.

San Antonio, Republic of Mexico, September 1835

Travis nonchalantly strode up to the sturdy, stucco walls of the governor’s palace. It was a cool, fall evening, perfect for the annual celebration of independence. Loitering outside the handsome residence, a couple dozen patróns talked in their best outfits—men in light, white jackets, ladies in their finest evening dresses, priests in their black cassocks, soldiers in their gaudy uniforms. Atop the white ramparts, guarding the building on all sides, colorful red, green, and white regalia, illuminated by a score of burning torches, fluttered with the soft breeze and made the residence stand out dramatically against the dingy and dull backdrop of the town.

Travis tipped his hat to several people he recognized as he entered the house, which was so full of gaiety, the chattering and gossip filled his ears before he crossed the threshold. Two young soldiers, clad in meticulous uniforms, stood at attention at the entrance. Travis paused at a large mirror in the foyer to scrutinize his dress and tidy his disposition. He removed his hat and spent a few minutes admiring himself—his youthful, thirty-year-old face; his long, combed brown hair; his blue eyes; and his tall, lean figure all made up his affable, optimistic appearance. He adjusted his beige coat and pulled up his matching slacks until their position passed his inspection. Travis certainly enjoyed advertising his easy, comfortable nature.

He finally brushed his thin mustache a few times and turned to inspect the large ballroom. The floor was full, alive with the motion and noise of bodies, ladies’ hand fans, and servants. Behind the crowd, a five-piece military band strummed patriotic songs. A short mestizo man, dressed in a nice white jacket and carrying a tray of drinks, offered Travis a glass of wine that he accepted.

As Travis scanned the ballroom for familiar faces, he caught sight of the woman in the crowd. Her green eyes stood out against her pure white skin and long yellow hair. She turned and made eye contact, eyes wide and round, penetrating, even from across the room. She moved elegantly toward him, emerging from the crowd. Travis noticed her long, fine lines and well-proportioned hips, cloaked with a long, proper skirt containing a slight slit that occasionally exposed a supple lower leg with her easy stride.

As the woman moved closer, her face gained life, and with it, more attractiveness—sumptuous female perfection. Her lashes were long, dark, and full of life. She returned Travis’s stare with a spunky smile, causing Travis to bashfully turn away. But he continued to feel the weight of her stare. He could sense her getting closer. He looked back around to find himself face to face with her. Her collar was tall and stiff, signifying something proper, he thought. And her mannerisms were dignified. She stepped closer with polite correctness and extended a silent hand.

Travis returned the gesture, quietly appreciating the lovely woman for a few moments.

“I could not help but notice you admiring me from afar,” the woman finally said in perfect English. “Thought I’d introduce myself. My name is Mercedes Rayo.”

“You’re as beautiful a female specimen as I’ve seen in these parts,” Travis said self-assuredly. He politely bowed. “I’m—”

“Lieutenant Travis Ross…the famous Indian fighter. And I’m sure you’ve seen many women much more beautiful than I.”

Travis recoiled from his bow and took a sip of wine. “Well, I must confess. Your candor complements your looks.”

Mercedes giggled and her eyes danced with amusement.

“Your laugh is wholesome and unabashed,” he said, “a slip of etiquette, but very enticing…I hate crowded places. Too noisy in here. You want to go out to the veranda?”

Mercedes nodded, and Travis led her a few paces to a door. Outside lay the idyllic and star-filled Texas night. Travis lit a cigarette while Mercedes sat down in a chair, folding and smoothing her dress over her thighs. “Your English is excellent,” he said. “Where are you from?”

“Coahuila. A proud Mexican. And you?”

“England, but I grew up on the Sabine River.” Travis paused, thinking as he ashed his cigarette into one of the immaculate flower beds abutting the patio. “Are you daughter of Javier Rayo?”

“I am.”

“Then you’re a very wealthy woman.”

“Yes. That is if you measure wealth in only tangible things, such as land.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been on the east coast with my aunt. I’m on my way to my father’s ranch in Laredo.”

“A proud Mexican. That’s rare around here. What do you think of all the talk of war?”

“There’s no talk in my family. We’re Mexican through and through. My father fought in the War of Independence. Mexico has rewarded him well. I just wish all the problems would go away…and I could meet a handsome, dashing Ranger who would sweep me off my feet.” Mercedes grinned mischievously and rolled her eyes.

Travis stood speechless, staring at the woman like a man does when he thinks he might be looking at the right woman for the very first time. This one oozed a sort of smoldering passion that intrigued him. He turned and walked to a colonnade. He rested his shoulder on the stucco column and looked out from the palace to the limestone walls of the Alamo fortress, a quarter mile across the San Antonio River, its white face illuminated by lanterns. He turned to look at the other imposing structures of the town: the San Fernando Church and the Bexar Customs Exchange, an imposing monolith of stone, four stories tall. In the distance, he saw the other Spanish missions, all imposing edifices with tall spires and bell towers, marvelously lit and standing commandingly over the mass of rickety adobe shacks.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Mercedes said, walking up beside him.

“Yes.” Travis turned away from the town to look at Mercedes.

She brushed her hair back and held her head up to face the cool breeze.

“Does a few minutes on the patio with a handsome, dashing Ranger get your temperature up and juices flowing?”

Mercedes bowed her head, trying to hide a laugh.

“These parties aren’t really for me,” he said. “You want to go for a walk along the river?”

“I don’t know. That might be a tad much. I only just met you. I don’t know if I’m ready for that—might overheat. Especially if you’re as chivalrous and quick-witted as the local papers make you out to be.”

“Most of that is exaggerated, but not all of it.” Travis laughed, reaching out and grabbing Mercedes’s willing hand. He then stepped off into the darkness of the night.

January 1836

Travis sat up in bed, shivering, and pulled the wool blanket up to his neck. A cold winter wind heaved at the wooden door, rattling its rusty bolt as the firm gusts whistled through the diminutive adobe house, fraught with cracks. He wiped the sleep out of his foggy eyes and looked over at a small cast-iron stove beside the bed. Mercedes was stoking a fire, only a quilt over her firm body.

“Come back to bed,” Travis mumbled. “I’ll go fetch some more firewood.”

“I’d love to, but I have to get up and get going. I have to go to Mass with my family today,” Mercedes replied, continuing to stir the fire. She looked over her shoulder and smiled at Travis. “I must ask for forgiveness for all my transgressions with you.”

“I’ve got to go see your father today myself. And then I have to go back to San Antonio.” Travis looked out the window at the gloomy, uninviting day, aglow with thick, white clouds whose bright glare stung his eyes.

“Do you have to go so soon?” Mercedes turned and kissed Travis on the lips before slowly crawling back into the warm bed. “Do you want me to draw you a bath?”

“No.”

“All this war talk scares me. I worry about you and my family. What will happen? Can’t we just go to Saltillo? There’s no war there. I’m sure my father could ensure you get a good post with the Regulares.”

“It’s not that simple, love. I’m a Texan. If Texas declares independence, I’ll be with Texas. After all, I am a Texas Ranger. And if I went to Mexico, I would be disgraced. I could never be a Regulare; they might force me to take up arms against the Rangers and Texans. I could never do that.”

“Why is all this happening? And you’re not a Texan, you’re a Mexican.”

“I was once an American, like most Texans. We came here while Mexico was a republic. Now it’s not. Santa Anna rules. The Anglos, myself included, will never tolerate that, or being forced to conform to Catholicism, or put up with these Mexican soldiers trampling on our rights, or any more of his tyrannical rules.”

Mercedes put her soft hand on Travis’s chest and began to gently massage his ribs. She looked up at Travis, a few silent tears forming in her deep, piercing eyes. “I am scared. I may never see you again. I cannot accept the thought of you fighting my family—or of something happening to you.”

Travis took in a deep breath and looked down at Mercedes’s long, feminine fingers stroking his chest. “There’s nothing I can do about it. Santa Anna shouldn’t have invaded Texas. But don’t worry so much. This all may turn out to be nothing. And if there is a fight, it will be against Santa Anna. Texans and Mexicans don’t want to fight each other. Texas has no animosity toward Mexicans—only the current Mexican government, which most Mexicans hate anyway.”

Travis grabbed Mercedes’s hand, and the two made eye contact. He sensed that his words carried little solace for her, and he reached over and ran his hands through her hair a few times, almost feeling the anxiety in her warm, tense scalp. “Don’t worry. I’ll never do anything to harm you. The sooner this is over, the sooner we can get married.”

Mercedes sniffled a few times, and wiped a tear from her faultless, pale cheek with the palm of her hand. She started to murmur a reply, but a loud bang on the door startled the two.

Travis’s heart skipped a beat as he sat up alertly, reaching over for his revolver, hanging holstered on the bedpost. “Who is it?” he yelled.

“It’s just me,” a muffled voice said through the door.

“Well, come in,” Travis said, relaxing and leaning back in bed as he . . .