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[Continuing chapter seven]
“Any of you seen my pa? He went ridin’ out with the bishop there.”
The boy’s eyes were bright, possibly with tears. His voice was steady enough, though, Polk thought. “What’s your name,” he asked.
“Thistledown. John Thistledown. My pa’s Bob—Robert Thistledown.”
“We ain’t seen him,” Henry McCulloch said. “I’m sure he’s fine, though.” He looked nervously to his brother.
Ben McCulloch nodded curt agreement to Henry, then turned to stare at the boy for a second. “How well do you ride, son?” he asked.
“Great.” The boy beamed. “I can out-race anyone within fifty miles of our farm, and that’s a fact.”
“Is it now?” McCulloch smiled a second, then shifted a little and stared past the boy to the hills beyond the wood. A gunshot echoed weirdly, followed by a second. That, Polk thought, doesn’t bode well.
“Listen, John Thistledown,” McCulloch said, “I want you to do something for me. It’s very important. You could say it’s life or death for Texas, in fact. Are you game?”
Thistledown sat up straighter and thrust out his chest. “You bet I am!” he said. Then he looked down, and his shoulders slumped. “My pa—”
“We’ll look out for your pa,” McCulloch said. “But I need someone fast, someone tough, to take a message for me. You’d have to ride a long distance. You know where Fort Bowie is?”
“It’s—I got a pretty good idea,” Thistledown said, haltingly.
“You know how to get to the Trinity River from here?”
“Sure.”
“Well, you ride to the Trinity—making sure those men out there don’t see you—and then you follow it north about seventy miles, until it forks north and west. Follow the west fork about twenty-five, thirty miles, and you can’t miss it.” McCulloch took a scrap of paper and a pencil stub from his saddle-bag, and scrawled a note on the paper. Folding it, he gave it to Thistledown, who handled it as though it were a bomb-shell. “I want you to give this to either Colonel Mosby Parsons or Colonel Bill Steele. Parsons is the commander at Fort Bowie, and Steele commands the First Dragoons; last I heard his headquarters was posted there too. You make sure one of those men reads this, and understands how serious it is. Tell ‘em about the fighting here—make it sound worse than it was, if you have to.” Not that it hasn’t been awful enough, thought Polk.
“That’ll take me a couple of days, probably,” Thistledown said. “All I’ve got in my pocket is half a loaf of bread, and nothing for my horse.”
McCulloch wrote another note, and handed it to the boy. “Here,” he said. “You’re now a deputy Texas marshal. Give this note to anyone you see who can help feed you or your horse. Tell ‘em if they don’t help, they’ll have to answer to Ben McCulloch. Now, get going, boy. This is serious business.”
“You bet!” Thistledown, concern for his father apparently forgotten, whooped as he spurred his horse into motion. In less than a minute not even the sound of hoofbeats remained of him.
“Awfully young for a patriot, ain’t he?” Henry McCulloch asked with a grin.
“Everyone got to do his part,” McCulloch said. “I’m going to head to Washington, Hank, and get word to the president and General Beauregard. I still think this is more than just bandits. You get these men—however many are left—back to their homes. But if you can, keep a few of the better riders and truer shots with you, and then follow those bastards—at a safe distance, you understand me?”
“I understand you, Ben.”
McCulloch sat up in his saddle, listening. “Best get off the road,” he said, “until we see who’s coming.” Now Polk, too, heard the rumble of hoofbeats. It was a jagged, irregular sound, though; not the rhythmic pounding you’d expect from dragoons in pursuit of a fleeing enemy. So some had survived, then.
The first ones into the woods were the Robertson brothers, who’d gone into the valley as part of Polk’s diversionary attack. Steven was shocked pale, but seemed otherwise untouched. Andy held his left arm tight against his side with a bloodied right hand.
A moment later a band of riders from the other wing appeared, and Polk felt a small surge of relief that there seemed to be so many of them. “I’m sorry, boys,” he said, his voice croaking with shame and misery. “I’m so sorry.”
“They’re killing us, Reverend,” Andy Robertson said through gritted teeth. His voice jittered as though he were cold. “They’re going through that valley and shooting the wounded. Can’t we do something?”
“Sweet Jesus,” Henry McCulloch said. Ben McCulloch’s hands twisted into fists that gripped themselves until the skin on the knuckles was bleached of any color. He said nothing, though. Polk had thought of begging him to lead another assault into the valley to rescue the wounded, but when he saw the marshal’s twisted hands and shaking shoulders, Polk held his tongue.
Next Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
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