Nan Ryan (4 page)

Collecting articles of clothing carelessly dropped by the princess, the baroness Richtoffen followed Her Royal Highness into a huge white bath where a gleaming porcelain tub was—as requested—filled with steaming water.

The princess, pausing directly beside the tub, turned to the baroness and held out her arms. The baroness Richtoffen quickly undressed her charge and helped her into the waiting bath.

While the princess lolled in the soothing tub, the baroness—with the help of two hotel maids—unpacked her mistress’s extensive wardrobe. Montillion appeared shortly to advise the baroness Richtloffen of the princess’s agenda. Her schedule had been purposely kept free on this her first afternoon in the city so that she might rest. That evening she was to be the guest of honor at an important dinner hosted by one of New York’s most influential families, the William K. Vanderbilts.

“See to it the princess naps this afternoon,” Montillion advised. “She mustn’t be cranky tonight. She must look and feel her best.”

As dusk descended over the magical city, Princess Marlena, dressed in an elegant gown of ice-blue satin complemented by diamond-and-sapphire earrings and necklace, had never looked, or felt, better. As she lovingly fingered the glittering diamond-and-sapphire necklace that had been her dear mother’s, she was glad that she had kept it. Most of the kingdom’s precious jewels had, of necessity, been quietly sold, but she could not bring herself to part with these particular gems that had been the king’s wedding present to his young bride.

Arriving at the Fifth Avenue mansion of the William K. Vanderbilts at exactly eight thirty, the glowing princess was ushered into the vast Italianate palace where she was warmly greeted by her proud hosts, William and Alva Vanderbilt. For the next half hour she stood in a reception line with the Vanderbilts as two hundred handpicked, well-heeled dinner guests filed by, curtsying and bowing and exclaiming how thrilled they were to meet her.

It turned out to be a lovely, lovely evening.

The princess liked the Americans. They were warm and witty and highly entertaining. She had such a good time, she stayed on at the mansion long after the seven-course dinner had ended. She was not the only one. Protocol demanded that the other guests stay until the princess departed, but none minded. They were totally charmed by the beautiful young princess and enjoyed themselves immensely.

What had been planned by the thoughtful hosts as a brief hour-long dinner, after which the travel-weary princess might be excused to return to her hotel for much-needed rest, turned into something altogether different. Alva Vanderbilt, the beaming hostess, seeing how lively the guest of honor was, suggested moving on to the ballroom for a bit of dancing. The idea was met with genuine enthusiasm by all.

Inside the mammoth white-and-gold, parquetfloored ballroom, eager gentleman quickly lined up for a dance with the princess. An orchestra, in full evening dress, magically appeared. Chilled champagne soon flowed freely. Laughter and gaiety filled the massive room.

No one had more fun than the visiting princess. She turned about on the polished dance floor, never noticing the low discussions taking place on the fringes of the crowd, nor the worry-creased foreheads of those gentlemen who were deep in conversation. She was unaware of the growing unease shared by the majority of her fellow guests. She had no idea that a single one was concerned with anything more pressing than where they would lunch tomorrow.

It was past three in the morning when the exhausted princess finally walked into her hotel suite’s spacious bedroom, yawning sleepily. Her lady-in-waiting, napping in a chair with a book on her lap, immediately came awake and hurried to meet her young mistress.

Holding out her arms, the sleepy princess said to the baroness Richtoffen the same thing she said every night.

“Undress me.”

When the sun rose over the big eastern city of New York, it looked the same as ever. The tall buildings still rose majestically to meet the clear blue sky. The early morning quiet was as serene as ever. The city’s wealthiest had not yet awakened to learn what had happened.

At ten A.M., Montillion got the shocking news with his first cup of black coffee. The latest edition of
The New York Herald
splashed the bulletin in heavy black headlines. NEW YORK STOCK MARKET CRASHES!

His heart hammering, Montillion hurriedly took his wire-rimmed glasses from inside his suit pocket, set them on his nose, hooked the ear pieces over his ears, and anxiously read of how vast fortunes had been wiped out overnight.

By eleven A.M. news of the market’s crash had spread like wildfire across the island of Manhattan. Worried people poured into the streets, shouting and pushing and asking themselves what would become of them. Frustration-fed arguments broke out. Fistfights ensued. Carriage traffic couldn’t move on crowded thoroughfares. Frightened wild-eyed horses neighed and whinnied and reared. Mounted police, blowing whistles and shouting warnings, couldn’t contain the mobs on the verge of hysteria. Panic in the streets.

The deafening noise awakened the sleeping princess. Alarmed, she got out of bed, drew on a silk wrapper, and hurried into the suite’s sitting room. Montillion stood at a front window, looking down at the crowd.

Princess Marlena hurried to him, caught his arm. “Montillion,” she asked, “what is that horrible noise?”

Turning away from the window, he looked directly at her and replied, “The sound of an empire collapsing.”

4

The bullet whizzed past his head
and made a high pinging sound as it struck the rising wall of sandstone directly behind him.

Crouched behind a fallen boulder, Captain Virgil Black ducked a little lower, picked up a large pebble, and sailed it firmly into a spindly sun-blistered mesquite a few yards away.

A volley of shots followed immediately, stripping leaves and bark from the gnarled tree. Virgil Black let out a loud groan, as if he had been hit. Instantly there was chattering in rapid Spanish as the two assailants foolishly scrambled up out of their hiding place.

Gun drawn, hammer back, the Texas Ranger came quickly to his feet. “Drop your guns and gun belts, then put your hands over your heads,
amigos.
”

The younger of the two Mexican bandits lifted his gun instead, then yelped in fright and pain when Virgil shot it out his hand.

“Maybe you’re having trouble with your ears. I said, ‘Put your hands over your head.’
Comprende
?”

“
Sí, sí, Capitán
,” the older bandit said, his short arms raised high while the younger man hurriedly unbuckled his gun belt.

“Now, kick your weapons away,” ordered Black. Both men obeyed, but the one whose gun hand was powder blackened and bleeding slightly muttered under his breath how he would get
venganza
on the cruel gringo
capitán
.

“While you apparently have a serious hearing problem,
amigo,
” Black said, addressing the young hothead, “mine is perfect. You can forget any foolish plans for vengeance. And, you can take that knife out of your pants, drop it to the ground, and kick it away.”

“Knife? I have no knife and I—” A bullet from Black’s raised revolver ended the sentence and kicked up dust an inch from the Mexican’s scuffed left boot. Eyes wide, the young bandit anxiously slipped the long, sharp-bladed knife up out of its leather sheath and tossed it away.

“
Gracias
,” said Black, and whistled for his battle-trained saddle horse.

Shaking his great head and whinnying, the coal-black stallion came out of a rocky draw and moved straight to his master. Virgil Black took a coiled lasso from behind the saddle and walked down to the two bandits, warning them to keep their hands in the air. He bent, picked up the Mexican’s discarded knife, cut two short, equal lengths of rope from the long lasso, and tied the hands of the two criminals.

His blue eyes squinting against the sun, Black addressed the younger man, “Know how far it is back to El Paso?”

Dark eyes snapping with anger, the bandit shrugged, and said, “Four, five miles.”

“Six,” Black corrected.

Then he walked down a slight incline to where two saddled horses were tethered. He untied the horses, took off his sweat-stained hat, and slapped them on the rumps, sending them galloping away.

He returned to his captives. He took a cigar out of his gray chambray shirt pocket, stuck it between his lips, and lit it, cupping his hands around the tiny match flame. He puffed the smoke to life and, never taking it out of his mouth, said, “Let’s go to El Paso,
amigos.
”

The pair looked at him. They looked at each other. They looked back at him, incredulous.

Shaking his head, the younger man said, “How can we go to El Paso? You have run off our horses.”

Black rolled the lit cigar to the left corner of his mouth. “You will walk.”

Two hours later Captain Black rode down the dusty main street of El Paso with his two dirty, hot, thirsty prisoners stumbling along behind him, a long length of rope wrapped around their bound hands and tied to Black’s gun belt. People spilled out of saloons and stores to point and laugh, but Virgil Black had no pity for the humiliated pair. Any lowlife thieving coward who stole from a poor widow woman with four young children to raise deserved a hangman’s noose as far as he was concerned.

Captain Black delivered the pair to the El Paso County jail. He handed them over along with the little drawstring bag of money they had stolen from Widow Thompson’s modest Stanton Street home where she took in washing and ironing.

“We’re much obliged to you, Captain Black,” said the guard on duty as he slammed the barred doors on the prisoners. “Let me buy you a drink to show our gratitude.”

“Not necessary,” said Virgil. “I need to be getting on back out to headquarters.” He looked at the incarcerated pair hugging the steel bars and glaring at him. Pointing a lean forefinger at them, he warned, “You ever cross my path again, I won’t be so kind and understanding.
Comprende
?”

“
Sí, sí
,” said the older man, nodding anxiously.

Virgil Black turned and walked away, the silver spurs on his boots jingling. He stepped out onto the jail’s wooden porch, looked up the street, then down. He reached for the worn suede gloves stuffed into his back pants pocket. He drew on the gloves slowly, then stepped down off the porch. He unwound his mount’s long leather reins from the hitch post and climbed into the saddle. He backed the stallion away, turned him east, and put him into an easy canter for the four-mile ride to the Ysleta Ranger headquarters.

“We got trouble. Indian trouble.”

That was the greeting from his superior when Virgil Black reached headquarters just as the scorching summer sun was setting behind the blue-purple Franklin range of the Rockies. Black had no need to ask which Indian was causing the trouble. He knew.

Victorio.

A name that struck terror in the hearts of travelers and settlers and ranchers across the vast Southwest.

The Apache chief had quit the reservation more than a year ago. In the autumn of ’79 he had taken 125 warriors and a hundred women and children and headed for Mexico. The old Apache’s knowledge of the mountains and the location of water, grass, and wood was unparalleled. And his ability as commander made him formidable and dangerous to Americans and Mexicans alike.

Choosing a stronghold high up in the Diablo Mountains, the ferocious and cunning Victorio had, from his eagle’s nest, an unobstructed view of the country all around for twenty or thirty miles. He could see the wagon trains as they moved from El Paso del Norte to Chihuahua. He could spot details of blue-coated soldiers paroling the border. He could spy on dozens of remote horse and cattle ranches scattered across the southwest desert.

When least expected, he rode down from his mountain hideout to kill and burn and steal livestock.

Black dropped down into a straight-backed chair across the scarred desk from Captain George W. Baylor.

“What’s the red devil up to this time?” Black asked.

“He’s back in Texas. The Mexican government notified General Grierson at Ft. Davis. Grierson notified me.”

Nodding, Black said simply, “When do we leave?”

“At sunrise tomorrow,” said his commanding officer. “Grierson’s instructions are for us to scout toward Eagle Springs, try to pick up the Indian trails.”

At dawn Baylor, Black, and a dozen handpicked Rangers set out for Eagle Springs. Two days later they came upon a place where U.S. troops had fought the Apache. Dead cavalry horses littered the landscape. Bullet marks dotted the rocks, as well as fresh blood of the soldiers.

The Rangers rode on.

Soon they came to where the Indians had ambushed a stagecoach. The vicious Apache had killed the driver and passenger, then mutilated the dead by stuffing torn letters from the mail sack into the wounds of their victims.

“Damn that Victorio,” muttered one of the sickened Rangers. “Why couldn’t he just kill them? Why does he have to be so god-awful cruel?”

Taking a shovel from one of the supply horses, Captain Virgil Black calmly began digging a grave.