The Cuban Affair - The Adventures of The Peacock

By Robert Kammen

This is an adventure set during the Spanish-American War. The hero a cowhand Rio Magill and Cristina Montez a Cuban spy known as The Peacock.

The plot takes place in Spain, Cuba and America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Longhorn Publishing
• Release date: May 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227146359

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The night was to the Cuban’s liking, a half-moon hanging low over the East River, and the riverfront obscured by a thickening mist. Just to the south, a freighter was being towed past Welfare Island by two tugboats. The Cuban’s name was long and grandiose; Alfredo Sebastian Fuentes. The money had brought him here, the money the Spaniards had given him for this act of betrayal.

He was a secretary at the Cuban Junta and in this capacity, Fuentes had access to records detailing the arrival and departure of Cuban refugees and the freedom fighters, such as the man who was expected to appear momentarily and board the sloop Black Warrior. This wasn’t the first time that Fuentes had sold information to a man from the Spanish Legation he knew only as Valeriano. What he resented was being ordered down here tonight.

He was huddling between the side walls of tin-sided warehouses facing riverward. One of the Spanish asesinos was keeping him company. The reason, Fuentes knew, was to make absolutely certain he did not slip away. Across the narrow street three more Spaniards were hidden among other warehouses. The fact he was unarmed also added to his fears.

Cobarde, we have been waiting a long time.

Startled by the first words the Spaniard had spoken, Fuentes turned slightly and said, he will come, there is no question of that. He resented being called a coward, but caution made him turn his attention away from the Spaniard’s teeth, bared in a mocking smile and out to the dark street.

And so these uneasy allies waited for a carriage to appear, the one to receive his blood money, the other eager to kill.

In fact, a transom hack was passing over Queensboro Bridge at this very moment. But instead of a Cuban, the lone passenger was a youngish American named Marty Handleman, who had issued instructions to the driver that he be taken to Pier 39 where the Black Warrior was moored. Handleman, a fledgling reporter for the New York World, wanted more than anything to be a correspondent like Charles Michelson of the Journal, Rea of the Herald, or the World’s famous globe-trotting correspondent, Creelman.

To further his ambitions he had cultivated some of the Cuban Junta people, and out of this, arrangements had been made for him to have an exclusive interview with one of their insurgent leaders. Eagerly, he gazed at Welfare Island cloaked in mist and the upper reaches of old Hell Gate Bridge. Clearing the bridge, the transom hack swung left onto an unlighted street. He could see the riverfront piers behind some long warehouses, and then without warning, the driver pulled up sharply and exclaimed, we are being held up!

And then shots rang out, arousing Marty Handleman’s fears of being killed. Only he didn’t realize that those Spaniards here to assassinate a Cuban had themselves stepped into a trap. The first to realize this was Alfredo Fuentes, when the Spaniard with him suddenly cried out in pain from a bullet taken in the back. As the man fell, his gun clattered at Fuentes’ feet.

Terrified by this, and with gunfire still coming from those warehouses closer to the river, Fuentes started reaching for the gun, only to freeze where he had crouched when someone shouted to him in his native tongue, do that and you die, Fuentes!

No! No please, this is all a mistake! He could make out now there were three of them, and desperately he raised his arms and backed out into the narrow street. Then he realized more Cubans were emerging from the darkness of this foggy night and quartering in on him. And he knew that all of his treacheries had been discovered.

You! Carlos, came the voice of a woman, make sure all of the bodies are cast into the river.

Despite the gun pointed at him, Fuentes turned to where he had heard that voice, a silent wonder in him that a woman would be involved in something like this. Wait a minute! came a shivering thought. Could this be the woman espia he had heard about, the one they called the Peacock? The one so desperately wanted by the Spanish. He watched her materialize out of the shadows, coming his way with a purposeful, yet sensuous way of walking, while adding to his fears was that the woman wore a black dress and veiled hat. Then he saw the gun she held low at her side, and gasping out his fear, he fell to his knees.

A man spoke. No, Cristina, let him die by my hand.

Ignoring this, the woman stopped about a yard from Fuentes and said harshly, there is no place on earth for scum like you! Name your confederates!

Senora, it is only I...there are no others. Please...they tricked me, they...

The woman started raising her small handgun, only one of the other Cubans fired first and one of Alfredo Fuentes’ eyes was ripped out of its socket. As he fell forward on his face, the woman spun and spat out, Gaona, I wanted to have the honor of killing him!

Believe me, the one known as Gaona said, I see no honor in that traitor’s death. Now, Cristina, there is the American newspaperman...

While the body was being carried away by two men, the others converged on the transom hack being watched by a man holding a rifle. The side door was open and an anxious Marty Handleman tried to remain calm, but he was barely hanging onto his composure as the woman came up.

Senor Handleman, she said, I’m sorry we had to use you like this. But when there are traitors in your midst... You will write in your paper that we Cuban patriots will do anything to rid our country of the Spaniards. You may most certainly use my name, which is Cristina Montez. My compadres call me the Peacock. But to the Spanish, I am a meddlesome espia.

Certainly, I...

So it is adios, Senor Handleman and viva la Cuba.

CHAPTER 1

For the last few days, daybreak would herald the arrival of the sun-scorched winds of the Solano pushing over the coast and striking inland. In the growing heat of day the wind sent dust tumbling away from a large body of horsemen cantering along a rutted lane. When they spilled onto pastureland, far ahead in rippling grass darkened by cloud shadows, large black bulls milled out from under shading oak trees. These were blooded Aragons, bred here on Don Luis Phillip Aragon’s large ganadería for the major bull rings of Spain.

We’re out in this heat, Magill, because of your bravura.

Reckon you could call it that, Rio Magill agreed, as he shaped a smile for Avery Creelman, a correspondent with the New York World.

This could turn out to be a killing ground.

Sí, said Capataz Trinidad Diaz, for the purpose of these Aragons is to kill or be killed in the plaza de Toros.

It was all because Rio Magill had fallen in love with a Spanish woman that he found himself out here with other members of Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Show and vaqueros working for Don Luis, along with a sprinkling of correspondents from America, England, and the Continent.

Cristina Montez was unlike those dance hall girls Rio Magill had sparked back in Wyoming, a type of woman he’d never expected to encounter, much less court. They’d met at a party given by a Spanish nobleman some two weeks ago in San Sebastian. Afterwards, it seemed he was always running into Cristina in that spacious seaport city. And though Rio had been candidly open about his past, she had seemed reluctant to disclose too much about herself. But it wasn’t Rio’s nature to pry. In that Cristina preferred his company to the more polished Spaniards or any of his fellow countrymen, mystified Rio Magill as much as Cristina did whenever they were together.

Their presence, here in Spain, of Rio and the other westerners had been at the request of the American government. At the time, they’d been performing in Paris. It would be in the nature of a diplomatic mission, this in the words of Charge de Affaires Henry Millet. A month had slipped by, during which time a meeting scheduled to be held at San Sebastian between King Alfonso III and the American ambassador had been canceled. Then just yesterday, word came that the meeting would take place at Pamplona. They’d been told the Spanish monarch wanted to be there for the running of the bulls. This meeting, it was hoped, would help to ease the tensions between Spain and the United States over the Cuban problem.

As for Rio Magill, he still found it hard to believe that he was actually on the European Continent. Scarcely a year ago he’d been just another forty a month and found cowpuncher working at the Circle L Ranch headquartering out of Rock Springs, Wyoming. Here only a few clucking chickens or grazing cattle or antelope had been audience to the roping and riding tricks he’d taught himself chiefly to pass the time of day. A trip to Cheyenne to perform at its Frontier Days Rodeo had changed all of that because of Buffalo Bill Cody’s presence as that year’s parade marshal.

By nature, Rio was a soft-spoken, slope-shouldered, six-footer, a young waddy prone to smile when things got a little hairy, either when hazing cattle out of leather-tearing brush or in a bare-knuckle fight. His sandy-colored hair brushed over the collar of his checkered shirt, and at the moment, in Rio’s light grey eyes, was the unfocused glimmer of a man deep in thought. It was that Cristina Montez had promised to meet him around seven tonight at San Sebastian. Unwisely he had mentioned this to a couple of friends, which produced a few joshing remarks, and that he just might return home a married man.

Ha poor Rio, encontrado un nuevo amor?

His face reddening, Rio blinked away the mental image of beauteous Cristina Montez and returned the smile of Annie Oakley spurring to his side, and he stammered out, guess that Montez woman can sure enough get to a man.

Petite and dark-haired Annie Oakley was married to Frank Butler, another member of the show, and they had become good friends. He recalled that time in Berlin when Annie had shot a cigarette from the lips of the German Crown Prince at his request. Generally she took top billing at their shows, something that sat well with Rio. Just being a part of Buffalo Bill’s entourage, he reckoned, was more than any lowly cowpoke had a right to expect.

Ahead on the undulating reach of grassland, several fighting bulls began showing their displeasure at the intrusion of the horsemen by turning quickly, undecided about whether to bolt away or take a stand. Afternoon sunlight glinted dully off their deadly hooked horns. They were all coal black, with rippling muscles and quick of movement. Around twenty in number, these Aragons were only a small part of Don Luis’ herd of fighting bulls.

The patron had on a tailored black riding suit under which there was a shirt of the purest white. His low-crowned hat was tilted low over his forehead to keep the sun out of his eyes. There was a quiet word for Cody, and then he held up an arm which brought the cavalcade to a halt as he reined away and drew up facing Rio Magill. He said in stilted English, my bulls, Senor Magill, they are diferente from your longhorns or Brahmas?

Momentarily Rio took in how meadow grass was bending under the stiff wind, and shining, coming upright again, but darker as though a cloud shadow was passing over. His eyes lifted to groves of trees reaching toward rugged hills and the Pyrenees beyond, the watershed giving life to northern Spain, and just for a moment, he felt he was back home in Wyoming. He shrugged this away, for he was about to do something that could get him seriously injured all because of the brag he’d made in the presence of Cristina and just about everybody here.

Don Luis, he tried to say casually, they look like prime stock to me.

Tell me how you are going to handle this?

Well, Sir, my brag is that I can perform one of my roping tricks. He went on to tell of how he’d form a large loop with one his riata and hopefully when he cast it out ,one of Don Luis’ bulls would run through that loop at full gallop."

That means your horse would have to face the charge of a bull trained to kill. My Aragon could hook in and gore your steed. The odds are stacked against you, Senor Rio.

Despite this warning from Don Luis, Rio couldn’t back down as he knew these Spaniards were hell on wheels when it came to what they called macho. Besides, a lot of his friends had wagered heavily on him. The wind, he mused with a frown of concern, is picking up.

Now the patron turned loose his vaqueros. They had been keeping tight reins on their spirited horses who sensed they were about to work the bulls. Some of the vaqueros carried pics, which would be used to test the courage of each bull. But unlike the pics used in the bull rings by picadors, the ends of these pics had been blunted. Trinidad Diaz had disclosed this to Rio at the corrida at San Sebastian that fighting the bulls was an art form. And it was Diaz who’d introduced his American friend to the Spanish woman, Cristina Montez. With Cristina at the time, had been a young Spaniard, a distant cousin of Diaz’s, one Pepe Sanchez of the smoldering black eyes and icy disposition. It had surprised Rio that Sanchez hadn’t objected when he had asked Cristina to take a walk along the beachfront. Or had this been Cristina’s idea? Rio pushed this away when the patron called out to Buffalo Bill Cody riding up.

Asi, Senor Cody, it seems the time of tienta is at hand.

The famous showman ran a pondering finger through his white goatee. As was his custom, Cody wore a stylish buckskin suit, the trousers of which were tucked into handmade calfskin boots embossed with a flowery pattern, and his speculative eyes were shaded under a white, wide-brimmed hat. Testing the courage of your bulls, Don Luis? Or that of young Magill?

The patron murmured solemnly, asi es la suerte. That is the luck of the draw, my honored guest. Out here there can be no capeando work. Because once a bull discovers there is no man behind the enticing cloth, in the bull ring, he will ignore it and go directly for the matador. Therefore the pics are used. A fluttering of Don Luis’ hand brought his foreman, Capataz Diaz, and the other vaqueros, at a fast canter to five bulls that were milling about together.

Don Luis, said Cody, the fighting traits of the bull were revealed to me in Old Mexico. As was the courage of your Aragons at the corrida in San Sebastian, before they were mastered and then put to the sword by Toreo Frascuelo.

Through a placating smile, Don Luis told them that although Frascuelo was a master of the estoque, the slim and razor-sharp killing sword, the matador did not kill recibiendo, and questioningly, Rio asked, isn’t that different than when the matador rushes forward to meet the charge of the bull?

Sí my young friend, a real kill recibiendo is truly a work of art. To do this properly, the matador must stand motionless and let the bull come to him, depending upon the forward thrust of the bull to drive the sword home. It is the ultimate mystery of the bull ring, true aficionados believe. I guarantee, Gentlemen, that this will be done at the feria at Pamplona when Frascuelo goes mano a mano against the legendary el Gallo. My soul lusts for that moment. And perhaps this time it will be el Gallo who is awarded the ears and tail. Asi, Senor Rio, my vaqueros have engaged the bulls. Watch carefully to learn the fighting traits of the bull you select.

Ole! Trinidad Diaz shouted as he brought his horse wheeling in perilously close to a bull still lurking in under a tree. The bull lunged after Diaz, only to have another vaquero wheel in and strike the Aragon in its heavy shoulder muscles with the blunted end of his pic. Catlike, the bull spun that way, hooking with its curving horns.

Quickly another horseman came in to strike the bull before veering away. Maddened by this strange tormenting game, the Aragon swung after this new enemy, slipped on the sun-baked ground and dropped to its forelegs, and then sprang up to meet the charge of yet another tormentor. Though some of the bulls managed to break away, the vaqueros managed to keep seven bulls hemmed in by the trees. Only when the lowering sun was casting mile-long shadows away did the patron order his vaqueros to stop working the bulls.

Just before yesterday’s dawning, the wind had arrived, a fact which brought concerned lines to Rio Magill’s sunburned face as he patted the neck of Pecos, his favorite horse. But at the moment it was striking more to the northwest, which to Rio meant that he would have to cast his riata downwind to be looking into late afternoon sunlight.

As if sensing the young Americano’s concern, Don Luis said softly, there is still time to cambiar de opinion.

He looked into the patron’s eyes, with both men probing for any signs of weakness, either of character, or in the case of Rio Magill, intent of purpose. An easy smile etched across Rio’s face as he glanced down at the silver-inlays adorning Don Luis’s saddle.

My pa, he said, always told me I was too blamed stubborn. So I figure on goin’ through with this. So maybe, Don Luis, a little side bet would liven up this shindig. Say my saddle against yours?

Done, the patron said quickly as he flashed an appreciative smile.

Kneeing his horse toward the waiting vaqueros, Rio studied the bull he’d chosen. It was larger than the other Aragons, with sweat staining its black-gleaming hide stretched over a thousand pounds of sinew and muscle. Not only had the teasing of the bulls by the vaqueros uncloak to Rio their killing instincts, it had left him with a lot of self-doubts as to his chances of pulling this off. He settled his mind frame on what he had to do, knowing that his real enemy out here was the wind.

Which toro will it be, Compadre?

That big ugly one will do, Trini.

ꜟCCaramba! My patron believes all of his Aragons are beautiful. I must warn you, Rio, that one hooks to the left.

I noticed that.

At a command from their capataz, the vaqueros rode out and separated the bull Rio had picked from the others with Rio Magill riding that way while shaking out his riata to get the kinks out of it. Carefully he uncoiled the riata to form a large loop with his right hand, his left grasping the reins and uncoiled portion of the braided rope. At a distance of about fifty yards the bull seemed larger, backgrounded as it was against shimmering heat waves, with malice rimming its eyes glaring at the horseman coming toward it while swinging a rope.

A sudden gust of wind sent hot fingers of air reaching for Rio’s spinning rope, but he ignored this intrusion of the wind while controlling Pecos with the pressure of his knees, and his own worries about what he’d gotten himself into. Without warning, there came thoughts of the Spanish woman, and of what had happened to the horse of one of the picadors at the corrida in San Sebastian. The picador boring in with his lance only to miss, but the bull hadn’t, as it hooked in and disemboweled the horse. Now apprehension climbed onto the saddle with Rio. Easy now, he said.

As a low bellow of rage came from the Aragon and it began its killing charge, Rio knew this wasn’t going to be any real kill recibiendo. The Aragon came in with its head lowered, and faster than Rio had anticipated, began hooking in with its horns. Almost too late, it seemed to the gathering of horsemen, a jab from Rio’s spur brought his horse dancing to the left even as he cast out his riata. To the disbelief of the bull and onlookers, the bull passed through the huge loop in Rio’s riata without missing a stride. But the shouts of olé were cut short when the Aragon whirled and came back. Rio reined quickly the opposite way in an attempt to break away, but to his dismay, the shod hooves of his horse gave way in some crumbly soil to have Pecos drop to his forelegs. In came the Aragon, its horns tearing into the horse’s exposed underbelly. Barely was Rio Magill able to shove out of the saddle and throw himself out of the way. He struck hard, scrambled up and spun around, and could only watch as the bull kept slamming into his horse whinnying in terror and its dying agony.

Bamity-bam! The bull staggered under the impact of bullets coming from a rifle held by Don Luis. It staggered away from the horse it had gored, and went a few steps before collapsing. Now the patron spurred up to Rio Magill and said, your horse still suffers. He held out his rifle.

Working the bolt on the rifle to chamber another leaden slug into its barrel, Rio brought the rifle to his shoulder, and seemingly without aiming, shot his dying horse in the head. And as if that were some kind of signal, the wind cut away. I, Rio began, I guess I overplayed my hand.

It is a sad thing that happened, my friend. But one never knows with the bulls. Don Luis swung down, and as Rio passed back the rifle, Don Luis gestured at his horse. The saddle and this horse go together.

Why, Don Luis, I...

You are Muy Hombre, Rio. The horse is called El Nino, one of my favorites. Now it is time to return to the ranch and ready ourselves for tonight’s fiesta at San Sebastian. He issued a command to his capataz, which brought the vaqueros clustering around Rio’s horse.

Now that the shock of what had just happened was over, some of the Americans came over. Avery Creelman said, a killing ground, as I expected. Terribly sorry this had to happen, Rio.

That’s the way of it sometimes, stated Rio Magill, as he swung into the saddle. But from now on, this cowpoke has sworn off gambling.

They left the vaqueros behind to ride back onto the lane, northeasterly. Rio Magill hung behind a little, sick at heart over what had happened. He should have called off his brag, and though it would have diminished his standing with the Spaniards, at least Pecos would still be alive. The fact this had happened all because of the Spanish woman hurt even more. Cristina Montez, were you worth all this? Don’t rightly know...but you sure can get to a man. I guess Annie was right about me having un nuevo amor awful bad. Just hope there’s a cure for it.

CHAPTER 2

Suppose the king of Spain decides it’s too risky to go to Pamplona.

Here you go, Mister Millet, said Bill Cody, conjuring up ghosts again.

It wasn’t all that long ago, Cody, that the king barely escaped being killed by anarchists Moncas and Otero.

What has all this got to do with Rio Magill?

The third man in the room, Rio stood looking somewhat dejectedly out at horses being saddled in preparation for the day’s ride to San Sebastian. It wasn’t enough, he mused, that I’d suffered the loss of Pecos. Now the Charge de Affaires kept insisting that I be confined to Don Luis’ ranch.