TO THE REPUBLIC
The Republic Series, Book One
By Bruce Clavey
Publication Date: October 26th, 2020
Pages: 394 pages
Categories: Hispanic American Fiction / Political Fiction
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A novel for our times. A saga for the ages.
On the eve of passing landmark immigration legislation, the entire Texas Senate and its native Tejano leader, Diego Reyes, vanish suddenly from Austin. When news of the disappearance hits West Texas, cowboy Del Woodward isn’t shocked. He knows exactly where the lawmakers are, but he’s not telling. Woody’s been down on his luck, and a shady bargain he’s made puts him tight in the squeeze of Marcos Cepeda, north Mexico’s ruthless drug lord. And Cepeda’s furious with this new stall in the bill. It’s got a loophole he can exploit to add another quarter million square miles of exclusive turf to his cartel—but that territory goes back up for grabs if leader Reyes can’t pass the bill before the Senate session expires in mere days. The brutal kingpin wants what he’s bought and compels Woody to step up. How the cowboy swings the vote isn’t important to Cepeda, but this sure is: if Woody breathes so much as a word of reluctance, it’ll be his last. The prize is Texas, nothing less. It’s real, and it’s on.
The Republic Series launches from true pages of the Lone Star frontera story into a hauntingly modern arena of trade, trafficking, and tradition on the Rio Grande in To The Republic: BOOK ONE.
An Amazon #1 New Release in History of U.S. Immigration
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Prologue, Part Two from
TO THE REPUBLIC
By Bruce Clavey
Read part one of the Prologue at All the Ups and Downs
The waitress, a girl made-up to seem more than fifteen, edged through the packed cantina and deposited his two cold Carta Blancas in front of him. The cowboy slid one of the bottles across the table top to the empty chair beside him, then tipped the other to his lips. A couple Americans in their twenties, good old boys, ogled the girl as she squeezed past them on her way back to the register. The Mexican men sitting nearby shrugged off the rudeness as a tariff on the economic lift, microscopic as it had become, that the American dollar brought to the border. Tourists just weren’t coming like they used to.
The cantina—a rest-room sized dive with barely enough wall space to retain a kitchen, bar, sixteen patrons, and incessant transistor radio hiss—had two doors, and the cowboy watched them both intently. He’d entered from the street through one of them just a moment ago, and now a couple of poor minstrels with hardly the skill or garb to be thought true mariachi came in through the other that connected the bar to a courtyard of souvenir tiendas. He fished a five out of his wallet to reward them for a gritty rendering of Guantanamera.
When he turned back to his table, a Latino, rail-thin and dressed for casual business, stood beside the vacant chair. Eyeing the cowboy, the dark stranger took a draw on the spare beer and thunked the bottle down. In fluid motion, he donned Giorgio Armani shades and ducked out as smoothly as he had appeared, past the mariachi and into the court. The cowboy dropped another five on the table and slipped out behind.
Caught in the updraft of the smaller man, he hastened across a quadrangle of shops that hawked wares of ceramic, onyx, and hemp—trappings of Old Mexico destined for display in hallowed gringo halls. He continued through a narrow alley past grungy pay toilets and out onto a side street off the main avenue. The stranger could only have walked on air to gain such distance, as he was half a block in front by the time he rounded the next corner.
Moments later the cowboy made the same turn and halted abruptly. The man stood right before him.
“Buenas tardes,” the Mexican said. Though polite, he was quick to action, gripping the cowboy by the upper arm and leading him to a vintage car parked at the corner. “Both hands there, please?” he said in broken English, pointing at the car trunk.
“A’ight.”
The cowboy leaned his fingertips to the lacquered finish, admiring the total refurbishment of the vehicle. The man patted him down quickly along the arms and ribs, moved respectfully along the inner thighs. Another stood near: black buttoned shirt, dark jeans cinched with an oval belt buckle, gawdy and gold, boots tipped in polished metal lace, shaved bald. Pure welterweight.
“’59 Rambler,” the cowboy quipped. “You believe I used to have one of these?”
“Maybe it was this one,” the first stranger said in dry humor. He hoisted the cowboy back upright and clapped his shoulder. “Get in.”
His muscled partner opened the back door, waited as the cowboy bowed inside, then piled in beside him.
The stranger ducked into the driver seat. He tossed a small cloth wad into the back.
“Put this on.”
The muscled one untangled a stringed item with his meaty fingers and handed it to the cowboy: a blindfold.
Moving his De Soto to his lap, the cowboy wrapped on the blindfold, and his world darkened. His head jiggled as a ski mask got socked over it all. As the car lurched off, the world of sound came suddenly to life.
They bounced a bit on the unimproved side roads. At times he felt the wheels hit a patch of pavement, then return to pitted alleys. The car made frequent turns, an obvious attempt to twist their location to the cowboy’s reckoning, a totally unnecessary exercise.
“Call him Maracas,” the stranger said after a while. “You don’t use his name. He don’t use yours.”
“Do you have a name? ”
“El Flaco.”
“Skinny?” The cowboy smiled under his hood. “Wonder why that.”
Flaco snickered. “And he—El Apestoso.”
The cowboy stuck out a palm out blindly. “Pleasure, Stinky.” It went unclasped.
“He don’t speak English.”
The car had exited the labyrinth at the pueblo’s center and zoomed free for minutes; now they slowed again and resumed the lattice driving pattern. Suddenly, they braked hard, and Flaco killed the engine.
“Don’t take it off yet,” he advised.
Apestoso climbed out of the car and rounded the back. The next thing the cowboy knew, his door was open and the henchman was raising him out by the arm. He wondered what a hooded captive looked like to anyone’s stray glimpse, or if they were just jaded to such sights. But he heard no noise of humans, just road sounds from what seemed a couple blocks away.
“No te pares,” Flaco ordered softly. “Just stick close.”
And with that, they were off walking single-file in the direction of the low traffic prattle.
They were still in a developed area. Weeds that grew up through cracks in the walk swished against his pant legs and his soles crunched on gritty pavement. From the close sound of his own footfall, he could tell they had entered a narrow outdoor corridor between buildings. His footing was fine, but the heavy hand of his seat mate remained on his shoulder the whole time.
Flaco stopped suddenly before they reached the next corner. The story told itself now: a double-rap on a thin wooden door, the jangle of pocketed keys, a creak of old hinges. The cowboy stifled an urge to chuckle; it sounded like the rickety low door of his outbuilding back in Ruidosa. Whatever the hell he was doing here in Nuevo now, it was the real deal.
Once inside, his hosts wasted no time. He heard the gasp of chair legs dragging the hard mud floor, then one of them guided him a few steps over to it and urged him down. The hood was pulled gently from his head, but the blindfold left in place. Other foot scuffle met his ears, and the door squeaked again. The latch clicked as it was pulled shut.
Dead quiet fell on the room.
The story continues in TO THE REPUBLIC: BOOK ONE
Bruce Clavey of Round Rock, Texas writes with a passion for exploring the Latin heritage tucked in cultural corners throughout Texas, Mexico, and Central America. In 2017, Clavey’s research into perspectives on state history led to his onsite rediscovery of the Mexico City dungeon where the colonial “Father of Texas” was imprisoned, documented in his book “The Inquisition of Stephen F. Austin.” His interest to illuminate compelling historic junctures brought the creation of several feature dramatizations for state museum in-exhibit performance. Clavey’s release of Book One of “To the Republic” in 2020 begins the journey of Texas and Mexican characters who confront the pressure points at today’s vibrant river border, a land that has functioned for centuries as both international gateway and barrier.
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GIVEAWAY! GIVEAWAY! GIVEAWAY!
THREE WINNERS each receive a prize pack including:
Autographed paperback copy of To the Republic;
unisex tee with the “Texas Forever” design;
baseball cap stitched with the “Texas Forever” design;
ceramic lapel pin with the “Mano de Tejas” design;
vinyl 5” decal with the “Mano deTejas” design.
US only. Giveaway ends midnight, CDT, May 7, 2021
Visit the Lone Star Literary Life Tour Page
For direct links to each stop on this tour, updated daily,
Or visit the blogs directly:
| 4/27/21 | Promo | It’s Not All Gravy |
| 4/27/21 | Character Interview | Forgotten Winds |
| 4/27/21 | BONUS Promo | LSBBT Blog |
| 4/28/21 | Author Video | Chapter Break Book Blog |
| 4/29/21 | Playlist | Hall Ways Blog |
| 4/29/21 | Review | The Clueless Gent |
| 4/30/21 | Review | Reading by Moonlight |
| 5/1/21 | Excerpt, Part 1 | All the Ups and Downs |
| 5/2/21 | Excerpt, Part 2 | StoreyBook Reviews |
| 5/3/21 | Review | Jennie Reads |
| 5/3/21 | Promo | Missus Gonzo |
| 5/4/21 | Series Spotlight | That’s What She’s Reading |
| 5/5/21 | Sneak Peek | Texas Book Lover |
| 5/5/21 | Review | Book Fidelity |
| 5/6/21 | Review | Librariel Book Adventures |
| 5/6/21 | Review | Momma on the Rocks |
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Leslie, thank you for featuring me, Woody, and To the Republic today. Continued success bringing the word at StoreyBook!