[Continuing chapter 18]
“What happened?” It was a stupid question, Walker realized. But he had to know.
“What happened?” Fontaine coughed. “I got shot. What does it look like?”
One of his men had pulled the blanket-roll from behind Fontaine’s saddle and propped it under the captain’s head and neck. Surrounded by green grass, Fontaine might have been thought to be resting—were it not for the dark red stain that soaked his coat and shirt.
“I know you’ve been shot,” Walker said. “The surgeon’s on his way. But what happened to your men? Those costumed popinjays should have been no match for you.”
“Those costumed—” Fontaine coughed weakly, spat black liquid into the grass and didn’t finish the sentence. “They were drunk, and they were mean,” he said after catching his breath. “We shot ‘em. Didn’t make a lick of difference. They come at us with bayonets and huge knives and even an ax or two. My boys saw the look in their eyes, and just ran. Didn’t see where they went. Don’t much care, if you ask.”
He struggled to take a breath, a rattling sound coming from his throat. “We shouldn’t have come here, Walker. This place isn’t for us. We should have gone back to Cuba.”
The words hit Walker like a fist. He knew at once what he had done, saw how his arrogance and confidence in God’s support had led him to overlook this fundamental mistake: he had built an army to correct all of the mistakes Lopez had made in Cuba. But he hadn’t gone to Cuba. He had taken this army—built, he now saw, to fight Spaniards or Mexicans—and turned it on other white men. Hubris, he thought. I am being punished for thinking too much of myself. And my friend is paying for my arrogance with his life.
Walker knelt beside Fontaine, took one of the captain’s hands in his. “I am so very sorry, my friend,” he said. His voice shook; he prayed that the Lord would at least allow him the strength to get through this. “It was my folly that led you to this. I see that now. Tell me that you forgive me, Lamar, and I will pray for your soul every day that’s left to me.”
“No need for that,” Fontaine said. His voice sounded dry, wasted. “Never much believed in God before. After what’s happened to me today, don’t see much point in starting now.”
Walker was about to remonstrate, to comfort Fontaine with the news that in God’s eyes it was never too late. Then he saw that Fontaine had made any further statements pointless.
“We must see that he is returned to his family,” Walker said to Wheat. “Allison Nelson may have been lost to me. That thought tears at my heart; I can’t bear to think of leaving the body of another good friend to the beasts of the field.”
“We may not have that luxury,” Wheat said. “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, Colonel, but we’re only a hundred and fifty men now, give or take a few. And those Texans don’t look like they mean to let us just waltz away from here.”
Walker looked up. Concern was plastered on Wheat’s face along with the grime and the dirt and the sweat of the fight. You’re worried, Walker thought, because you still fear your future. I have put my fate in God’s hands; so should you. “Perhaps we should move the men back to the crest of the slope,” he said, pointing behind him. “It will be easier to make a stand up there.”
He was still looking up the slope when a bright flash blinded him for an instant, and then a thunder-clap of heavenly proportions assailed his ears. For a brief, wonderful moment he wondered if Jehovah Himself had intervened on his behalf. Then Wheat cursed roundly, said, “Someone’s blown the powder wagon!” and rode up the slope at a gallop.
Walker shook his head sadly. There was no Heavenly intervention after all. It had been a beautiful thought, though, even if it had turned out, as with so much else of this world, to be an illusion. He mounted Destiny and drew his revolver, sparing a final glance at the body stretched out, as though sleeping, in the grass. His friend would have to stay here awhile longer; with luck, though, not too much longer. And Fontaine wouldn’t mind waiting.
Next Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve“What happened?” It was a stupid question, Walker realized. But he had to know.
“What happened?” Fontaine coughed. “I got shot. What does it look like?”
One of his men had pulled the blanket-roll from behind Fontaine’s saddle and propped it under the captain’s head and neck. Surrounded by green grass, Fontaine might have been thought to be resting—were it not for the dark red stain that soaked his coat and shirt.
“I know you’ve been shot,” Walker said. “The surgeon’s on his way. But what happened to your men? Those costumed popinjays should have been no match for you.”
“Those costumed—” Fontaine coughed weakly, spat black liquid into the grass and didn’t finish the sentence. “They were drunk, and they were mean,” he said after catching his breath. “We shot ‘em. Didn’t make a lick of difference. They come at us with bayonets and huge knives and even an ax or two. My boys saw the look in their eyes, and just ran. Didn’t see where they went. Don’t much care, if you ask.”
He struggled to take a breath, a rattling sound coming from his throat. “We shouldn’t have come here, Walker. This place isn’t for us. We should have gone back to Cuba.”
The words hit Walker like a fist. He knew at once what he had done, saw how his arrogance and confidence in God’s support had led him to overlook this fundamental mistake: he had built an army to correct all of the mistakes Lopez had made in Cuba. But he hadn’t gone to Cuba. He had taken this army—built, he now saw, to fight Spaniards or Mexicans—and turned it on other white men. Hubris, he thought. I am being punished for thinking too much of myself. And my friend is paying for my arrogance with his life.
Walker knelt beside Fontaine, took one of the captain’s hands in his. “I am so very sorry, my friend,” he said. His voice shook; he prayed that the Lord would at least allow him the strength to get through this. “It was my folly that led you to this. I see that now. Tell me that you forgive me, Lamar, and I will pray for your soul every day that’s left to me.”
“No need for that,” Fontaine said. His voice sounded dry, wasted. “Never much believed in God before. After what’s happened to me today, don’t see much point in starting now.”
Walker was about to remonstrate, to comfort Fontaine with the news that in God’s eyes it was never too late. Then he saw that Fontaine had made any further statements pointless.
“We must see that he is returned to his family,” Walker said to Wheat. “Allison Nelson may have been lost to me. That thought tears at my heart; I can’t bear to think of leaving the body of another good friend to the beasts of the field.”
“We may not have that luxury,” Wheat said. “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, Colonel, but we’re only a hundred and fifty men now, give or take a few. And those Texans don’t look like they mean to let us just waltz away from here.”
Walker looked up. Concern was plastered on Wheat’s face along with the grime and the dirt and the sweat of the fight. You’re worried, Walker thought, because you still fear your future. I have put my fate in God’s hands; so should you. “Perhaps we should move the men back to the crest of the slope,” he said, pointing behind him. “It will be easier to make a stand up there.”
He was still looking up the slope when a bright flash blinded him for an instant, and then a thunder-clap of heavenly proportions assailed his ears. For a brief, wonderful moment he wondered if Jehovah Himself had intervened on his behalf. Then Wheat cursed roundly, said, “Someone’s blown the powder wagon!” and rode up the slope at a gallop.
Walker shook his head sadly. There was no Heavenly intervention after all. It had been a beautiful thought, though, even if it had turned out, as with so much else of this world, to be an illusion. He mounted Destiny and drew his revolver, sparing a final glance at the body stretched out, as though sleeping, in the grass. His friend would have to stay here awhile longer; with luck, though, not too much longer. And Fontaine wouldn’t mind waiting.
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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