1900

Eleven-year-old Henry Ellis Pritchard sat quietly between his parents in a hired, open-top carriage, as they traveled down Main Street in Brownsville, Texas.

He was dressed in his Sunday best—from his blue, four-in-hand tie, his suit coat and knickers, with their knee-high stockings, to his brand-new, lace-up, ankle-high shoes. His light brown hair, slicked backed when the journey began, was now blowing gently in the gulf breeze. His ever-present smile shone bright as always—just as his mother had taught him to do at all times.

Sitting across from the family was a well-dressed Mexican gentleman, a security officer employed by the man they were going to visit. The security officer's name was Jose "Roca" Fuerte—and he would smile at Henry Ellis every so often.

Henry Ellis studied the man. In Austin, where he came from, one seldom saw a Mexican anymore. But here in Brownsville—directly across the river from Matamoros, a thriving Mexican city of its own—they were plentiful. He'd seen a few Mexicans during his visits to his grandfather's the previous summer, when he stayed with him on his old ranch in Juanita, Texas. But Juanita was much closer to the international border than Austin.

Jose Roca Fuerte wore a large sombrero—not one of those with a very high crown, and extremely wide brim, that Henry Ellis had seen in one of his history books, but a much tamer version, made from beaver pelts, as most American-made hats were constructed. His once black, now going to white, mustache, had been trimmed neatly above his upper lip. And he wore his sideburns and hair—also white—quite long, to cover some smallpox scarring he had on his neck and both cheeks. Henry Ellis knew that was what it was because he'd seen the same scars on several of his classmates back in Austin.

Betty Jean, the boy's mother, held a bouquet of longstem roses in her lap.

"I am glad you are enjoying the flowers, Mrs. Pritchard," said Fuerte. "They were gathered from the personal gardens of Don Roberto."

Henry Ellis watched as Fuerte spoke, the man's eyes shifting from one direction to another—always on the alert for trouble. At the same time the boy listened to the sounds of the border city—especially those made by the hooves of the two-horse matching team that pulled the carriage. The Mexican driver was taking them to the border bridge crossing at the far end of the well-traversed, cobblestone boulevard.

Other carriages, buggies, and freight wagons, plus men of all dress on horseback, packed the wide thoroughfare, moving in both directions, as the carriage made its way toward the gated, international boundary.

"Now, son," said the boy's father, Kent, "I know you've been to Mexico with me several times before ... and I know you've always enjoyed those outings we've had together below the border. I just want to remind you again that this trip isn't going to be just like it was on those other occasions. This visit is primarily for business reasons—though there will be a social side to it.

"As you already know," he went on, "our family has been selected by my company to be the guests of Don Roberto Acosta y Castro ... the owner of one of the major trading firms with which we do business. The Don is also a younger brother to the commanding general of the Mexican army. We will be staying at the Don's hacienda, on his rancho on the other side of Matamoros, Brownsville's sister city across the Rio Grande. Señor Fuerte has been assigned to accompany us for our protection. There are some people in Mexico, we've recently discovered, who would do us harm just because I work for a company that does business with Don Roberto."

The boy looked again at the security man sitting across from him.

"Does the Don keep any horses on his rancho?" the boy asked.

"The Don?" said Fuerte. "I am sure that he does. Si"

"Now don't you let me catch you begging Don Roberto for a horseback ride, young man," said his mother, Betty Jean, "or anything else. If you do, I'll paddle your little butt so hard you won't be able to sit down for all the time we're in Mexico, plus what it takes for us to get back home to Austin."

"Sorry, Mother," said Henry Ellis, feeling somewhat uncomfortable. "I'll try not to embarrass you if you try not to embarrass me. I'm almost twelve years old, Mother."

"Don't you crack wise with me, young man," said Betty Jean.

"He wasn't making a joke of it, darlin'," said Kent.

"Henry Ellis will fit in just fine during our stay with Don Roberto."

"I am sure that he will," said Fuerte.

The boy's attention had been drawn to a small plaza up ahead where a freight wagon appeared to have broken down. Several men wearing colorful ponchos and large sombreros were attempting to remove a broken wheel, while the anxious mules balked at the imposition. Others had gathered around to observe.

The driver slowed the carriage as they prepared to pass the damaged wagon near the fountain in the center of the plaza.

"Señor Pritchard," said Fuerte to Henry Ellis's father, "this is not a place for an accident ... This is a place for an ... ambush."

"I knew we should have gone another way," said Betty Jean.

"There is no other way," said Fuerte.

He reached inside his waistcoat and pulled a small .32-caliber, four-barrel pepperbox pocket gun, handing it to Kent, who seemed reluctant to take it. Fuerte turned to Betty Jean and the boy.

"You two must get down ... at once," he said.

Fuerte helped Betty Jean and Henry Ellis kneel down onto the floorboards of the carriage.

By then the plaza had filled with more curious onlookers. In Spanish, Fuerte told the driver that he should back the team up and find another route.

Fuerte finally shoved the small gun into Kent's hand and drew his own sidearm—a .44-caliber Smith & Wesson Russian model double-action revolver.

The two-horse team was urged to back up—pushing the rear end of the carriage into a two-wheel handcart that someone had purposely rolled into the vehicle's path.

Suddenly a large Mexican man in the street stepped onto the running board of the coach and pulled Fuerte out of the carriage, sending them both sprawling onto the cobblestones.

In the meantime the carriage driver was able to find an opening in the crowd. He whipped at the horses, moving the coach farther on up the street.

Still on the ground, Fuerte swung at the man with whom he was fighting, using his pistol as a club. The attacker's blood splattered onto several people nearby.

Fuerte turned to run after the carriage. Even so, the bloodied man reached out, grabbing for his boot.

Without hesitation, Fuerte whirled and fired his weapon point-blank at the man. The bullet found its target between the attacker's eyes.

Fuerte stumbled on, continuing his pursuit of the coach.

Up ahead in the carriage, the boy watched his father fire the small pepperbox pocket gun Fuerte had given him, twice—with both slugs hitting their mark. One of the attackers took a bullet to the shoulder, with the second projectile clipping the other man's earlobe. It was then the boy's father realized he only had two cartridges left, and that he wasn't going to do much damage with the small pistol he had against the number of men who were surrounding them. In moments, Henry...