[Continuing chapter 18]
Ben McCulloch’s first thought on seeing the cloud of dust moving toward him was blasphemous. What kind of cruel joke, he thought, lets us get the best of that bastard Walker, then throws reinforcements into his pocket just when we’re getting ready for a final charge?
He had taken part in the fighting at the beginning, until he’d been certain his fellow Texicans would stand. Then he’d gone around the fighting to scout, to do what he did best.
Now he was in the same position he’d been in a couple of hours ago: watching the approach of a large force he had to assume was hostile. He moved his horse into the lee of a hill, then climbed to the summit to see what he could learn of the approaching men, and still return to the scene of the battle in time to give Travis some sort of warning.
They were all on horseback; there was a lot of pale blue, and that suggested dragoons. Then he saw the flag, and McCulloch’s heart soared. It was the bonny blue flag, the star gold and not white, and not a trace of Walker’s alien red and white bars. They were Texican; they had to be loyal.
Five minutes later, McCulloch approached the column from behind and to its right, on an angle to intercept it without suggesting hostility. As soon as he was spotted, the column stopped and musketoons came up, business ends pointed at him. There were at least fifty men, McCulloch saw, and they all had the narrow-eyed squint of Indian fighters. Please, God, he prayed, let them be for Travis and not for Walker.
“Ben McCulloch, Texas Marshal!” he shouted, slowing his horse to a canter and raising his hands to show that he was not—for the moment, at least—armed. “I have to speak to your commanding officer!”
A quartet separated themselves from the head of the column and approached him. Unlike McCulloch, these men did not perform the courtesy of keeping their weapons hidden. Then McCulloch recognized the leader, and the boy with him, and joy and relief flooded through him. “Steele!” he shouted to the mustachioed, ill-shaven man. “Thank the Lord it’s you!” He spurred his horse forward, laughing and waving to the boy. “John Thistledown,” he said, doffing his hat, “you’ve done a man’s job, all right.”
“McCulloch, what the hell’s going on?” Steele said. “Where’s Parsons?”
“Who? You mean Mosby Parsons?”
“The same. The son of a bitch locked me up a week ago. Said something about saving the republic from a corrupt government. By the time my boys got me out, Parsons and all of the infantry from the fort were gone. He’s left the frontier undefended, the bastard!”
“That’d be who was leading the infantry joined up with Walker,” McCulloch said. Now it was Steele’s turn for confusion. As quickly as possible without skimping on details, McCulloch explained about the invasion, and Reynolds’s attempt to seize Washington, and General Beauregard’s death. The boy Thistledown’s eyes grew large as the tale unfolded, and McCulloch sympathized. He didn’t know how to tell the boy that his father was still missing.
“Travis is leading a defense of the republic along Millican creek,” he concluded, gesturing in the direction of the fighting. A spattering of gunfire, faint but distinct, echoed around them. “He’s doing all right, but Walker still outnumbers him. If you have the stamina, a fast ride might bring you into Walker’s rear in time to save the country.”
“Well, hell,” Steele said. “Who’d say no to a chance to save his country?”
Next Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter TwelveBen McCulloch’s first thought on seeing the cloud of dust moving toward him was blasphemous. What kind of cruel joke, he thought, lets us get the best of that bastard Walker, then throws reinforcements into his pocket just when we’re getting ready for a final charge?
He had taken part in the fighting at the beginning, until he’d been certain his fellow Texicans would stand. Then he’d gone around the fighting to scout, to do what he did best.
Now he was in the same position he’d been in a couple of hours ago: watching the approach of a large force he had to assume was hostile. He moved his horse into the lee of a hill, then climbed to the summit to see what he could learn of the approaching men, and still return to the scene of the battle in time to give Travis some sort of warning.
They were all on horseback; there was a lot of pale blue, and that suggested dragoons. Then he saw the flag, and McCulloch’s heart soared. It was the bonny blue flag, the star gold and not white, and not a trace of Walker’s alien red and white bars. They were Texican; they had to be loyal.
Five minutes later, McCulloch approached the column from behind and to its right, on an angle to intercept it without suggesting hostility. As soon as he was spotted, the column stopped and musketoons came up, business ends pointed at him. There were at least fifty men, McCulloch saw, and they all had the narrow-eyed squint of Indian fighters. Please, God, he prayed, let them be for Travis and not for Walker.
“Ben McCulloch, Texas Marshal!” he shouted, slowing his horse to a canter and raising his hands to show that he was not—for the moment, at least—armed. “I have to speak to your commanding officer!”
A quartet separated themselves from the head of the column and approached him. Unlike McCulloch, these men did not perform the courtesy of keeping their weapons hidden. Then McCulloch recognized the leader, and the boy with him, and joy and relief flooded through him. “Steele!” he shouted to the mustachioed, ill-shaven man. “Thank the Lord it’s you!” He spurred his horse forward, laughing and waving to the boy. “John Thistledown,” he said, doffing his hat, “you’ve done a man’s job, all right.”
“McCulloch, what the hell’s going on?” Steele said. “Where’s Parsons?”
“Who? You mean Mosby Parsons?”
“The same. The son of a bitch locked me up a week ago. Said something about saving the republic from a corrupt government. By the time my boys got me out, Parsons and all of the infantry from the fort were gone. He’s left the frontier undefended, the bastard!”
“That’d be who was leading the infantry joined up with Walker,” McCulloch said. Now it was Steele’s turn for confusion. As quickly as possible without skimping on details, McCulloch explained about the invasion, and Reynolds’s attempt to seize Washington, and General Beauregard’s death. The boy Thistledown’s eyes grew large as the tale unfolded, and McCulloch sympathized. He didn’t know how to tell the boy that his father was still missing.
“Travis is leading a defense of the republic along Millican creek,” he concluded, gesturing in the direction of the fighting. A spattering of gunfire, faint but distinct, echoed around them. “He’s doing all right, but Walker still outnumbers him. If you have the stamina, a fast ride might bring you into Walker’s rear in time to save the country.”
“Well, hell,” Steele said. “Who’d say no to a chance to save his country?”
Next Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
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