[Continuing chapter sixteen]
This is the end, he realized. If Cooper can be murdered in full view of dozens of soldiers who do nothing to help the man, then the revolution has failed. I told that idiot to stay sober.
I warned them all, in fact. They wanted to celebrate their big victory—as if they’d had anything substantive to do with it—and I warned them that it was too soon, that we still had to consolidate ourselves and hold out for Walker. But would they listen to me?
It was likely Travis behind Cooper’s death, he decided. It was too soon for any of the frontier companies of the army to have reached the city. They’ll be coming for me next, he thought, and guessed that fear meant that he wasn’t completely numb. For a moment, he enjoyed the various feelings the fear had liberated: Sorrow, at the end of his dreams. Anger at the failure of those on whom he had depended for assistance.
Carefully, deliberately, he mounted his horse. The bag he’d packed contained a bit of food and a change of clothes. Mostly, though, it was stuffed with pesos, Mexican silver he’d liberated from Mirabeau Lamar’s safe. I’m going to need that money much more than Lamar will, he told himself. He nudged the horse into motion, headed south out of town.
I should go for Sarah, he thought. Then, No. They’ll be waiting for me at the house. Besides, it’s on her if she gets left behind. She could have come into the city with me yesterday. Her place was at my side.
To Hell with them all, he thought. They can have their republic. I don’t want it anymore. He would fool them all, ride south to convince them he was headed for the coast, then swing around to the north, cross the river and be on his way south-west before anyone thought to look for him there. He could be in Mexico within a week, if all went well.
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Stewart got to his knees—and now he saw Cooper. The Ranger captain lay on his back, behind the body of his horse. His rifle crossed his body—a wisp of smoke even now drifting upward from the end of the barrel—but there was no chance that Cooper would be using it again.
No less than three balls had hit Cooper, two in the chest and one in the cheek. Any one of them would have been fatal. There wasn’t much blood visible, but he supposed the soil of the street would thirsty this late in the spring, in a country as dry as this.
Turning, Stewart saw Patton approaching; behind him were the two militia men he had chosen from Miller’s force. One of the men was grinning and gesturing with the smoking barrel of his musket and being vocally enthusiastic about his marksmanship. Not that it should have been all that hard to hit Cooper with a musket. They’d been no more than thirty feet from him, after all. Now, if Patton had got any of those hits with his pistol, that would make for some impressive shooting. Stewart stood and nodded at Patton. “Thanks,” he said.
“Just doing what you asked,” Patton replied.
“Suppose we should do something about these men?” Stewart asked. “They don’t seem too anxious to avenge their chief.” He turned to look at the old capitol building. The soldiers stood there, dumbly, staring at Cooper’s body. Any one of them could have shot me by now, Stewart thought. That I’m still alive says to me this rebellion’s over.
“Agreed,” Patton said. “Let’s start by opening the doors of that building.” He pointed to the capitol, and now that he could spare a glance for something other than the soldiers, Stewart saw faces in the windows, the faces of Texas’s government.
“You men,” Stewart shouted to the soldiers, “save your lives and drop your weapons now!” He walked over to Cooper’s body and picked up the heavy rifle. “Now!” he shouted again. When he pointed the rifle at them—even though it was empty—the men dropped their muskets almost in unison. “Somebody,” he said in a more conciliatory tone, “unbar those doors.”
People had emerged from their houses once the soldiers had disarmed themselves, and they cheered when the first congressmen emerged from their erstwhile prison. That may be the only time, Stewart thought, that I hear people cheer for politicians and mean it.
No less than three balls had hit Cooper, two in the chest and one in the cheek. Any one of them would have been fatal. There wasn’t much blood visible, but he supposed the soil of the street would thirsty this late in the spring, in a country as dry as this.
Turning, Stewart saw Patton approaching; behind him were the two militia men he had chosen from Miller’s force. One of the men was grinning and gesturing with the smoking barrel of his musket and being vocally enthusiastic about his marksmanship. Not that it should have been all that hard to hit Cooper with a musket. They’d been no more than thirty feet from him, after all. Now, if Patton had got any of those hits with his pistol, that would make for some impressive shooting. Stewart stood and nodded at Patton. “Thanks,” he said.
“Just doing what you asked,” Patton replied.
“Suppose we should do something about these men?” Stewart asked. “They don’t seem too anxious to avenge their chief.” He turned to look at the old capitol building. The soldiers stood there, dumbly, staring at Cooper’s body. Any one of them could have shot me by now, Stewart thought. That I’m still alive says to me this rebellion’s over.
“Agreed,” Patton said. “Let’s start by opening the doors of that building.” He pointed to the capitol, and now that he could spare a glance for something other than the soldiers, Stewart saw faces in the windows, the faces of Texas’s government.
“You men,” Stewart shouted to the soldiers, “save your lives and drop your weapons now!” He walked over to Cooper’s body and picked up the heavy rifle. “Now!” he shouted again. When he pointed the rifle at them—even though it was empty—the men dropped their muskets almost in unison. “Somebody,” he said in a more conciliatory tone, “unbar those doors.”
People had emerged from their houses once the soldiers had disarmed themselves, and they cheered when the first congressmen emerged from their erstwhile prison. That may be the only time, Stewart thought, that I hear people cheer for politicians and mean it.
* * * *
I should feel something, Reynolds thought as he watched Cooper die. Why don’t I feel anything? From his vantage point, beside one of the few trees the Texans had been willing to let live in their capital city, Reynolds watched the men who’d killed Cooper—Who are they? he wondered abstractly—inspect the Ranger’s body until they were swallowed up by a crowd of released politicians and civilians who’d rushed from their homes as soon as all apparent danger was gone.This is the end, he realized. If Cooper can be murdered in full view of dozens of soldiers who do nothing to help the man, then the revolution has failed. I told that idiot to stay sober.
I warned them all, in fact. They wanted to celebrate their big victory—as if they’d had anything substantive to do with it—and I warned them that it was too soon, that we still had to consolidate ourselves and hold out for Walker. But would they listen to me?
It was likely Travis behind Cooper’s death, he decided. It was too soon for any of the frontier companies of the army to have reached the city. They’ll be coming for me next, he thought, and guessed that fear meant that he wasn’t completely numb. For a moment, he enjoyed the various feelings the fear had liberated: Sorrow, at the end of his dreams. Anger at the failure of those on whom he had depended for assistance.
Carefully, deliberately, he mounted his horse. The bag he’d packed contained a bit of food and a change of clothes. Mostly, though, it was stuffed with pesos, Mexican silver he’d liberated from Mirabeau Lamar’s safe. I’m going to need that money much more than Lamar will, he told himself. He nudged the horse into motion, headed south out of town.
I should go for Sarah, he thought. Then, No. They’ll be waiting for me at the house. Besides, it’s on her if she gets left behind. She could have come into the city with me yesterday. Her place was at my side.
To Hell with them all, he thought. They can have their republic. I don’t want it anymore. He would fool them all, ride south to convince them he was headed for the coast, then swing around to the north, cross the river and be on his way south-west before anyone thought to look for him there. He could be in Mexico within a week, if all went well.
Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen
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