Jamie had more than ample provisions, for Ruiz had insisted on outfitting him as if he were going on some far-flung expedition. It was almost seventy miles to Gonzales, and Jamie was not going to kill a good horse in some wild ride. Jamie had no news to tell the citizens of Gonzales; he did not know if any final battle had taken place or not. So he took his time, the pouch containing the precious last words from the defenders of the Alamo under his buckskin shirt, next to his flesh.
When the sun was directly overhead, the heavy thought came to Jamie that it was probably all over back at the mission. There was no way that one hundred and eighty-odd men could withstand for long a sustained charge from thousands of the enemy. He sagged in the saddle, saddened by that thought. Jamie had made many good friends with the men of the Alamo during the short time he’d been there. If indeed they were gone, their memory was not, and would never be as long as he was alive.
Travis, Bowie, Crockett, Dickerson, Esparza, Walker, Evans, Bonham, Jameson, Fuqua, Pollard, Holland, Cloud, Autry, Martin, Kimball, McGregor, Baugh... and all the others.
Jamie began angling more closely to the main east/ west road, for he knew that the farther he rode away from San Antonio, the less likely the chances of running into any Mexican patrols. The Mexican army had learned the hard way that small patrols did not last long roaming about alone in the Texas countryside. Those that were sent out had a habit of not returning. And never being seen again.
He decided he would make his camp for that evening at about the midpoint between San Antonio and Gonzales. Along the banks of the Guadalupe River.
Forty-four
Susanna Dickerson, wife of Captain Dickerson, the other women and children, and the two slaves, Sam and Joe, were escorted out of the church and separated. Susanna Dickerson and her daughter, Angelina, were taken to a house in town, but not before the last shot to be fired in the Alamo boomed, an accidental discharge from a rifle. The stray bullet hit Susanna in the leg, felling her. Mexican soldiers rushed to her aid, picking her and the child up and carrying the mother and daughter into town. It is rumored, but never proven, that Santa Anna had the man who fired the shot, either flogged or hanged or shot. There is no proof that anything was done to the soldier who fired the last shot, or even that anybody knew who he was.
It is also rumored that General Santa Anna was so taken with the lovely Mrs. Susanna Dickerson that he offered to marry her on the spot, and take her and the child to Mexico, where they would be well cared for.
If that is true, once Mrs. Susanna Dickerson got over her fury and shock, her reply to this bizarre proposition was, more than likely, unprintable.
Suffice it to say, Mrs. Dickerson declined the magnanimous offer.
* * *
Jamie awakened with a start and lay very still for a moment, trying to determine what had awakened him. He cut his eyes to his picketed horse. The animal was standing with ears pricked, eyes fixed on the blackness to Jamie’s immediate right. The fire had burned itself out. Not a live coal remained to glow in the cold night.
Jamie tensed his muscles, then threw himself from his blankets, rolling with rifle in hand as dark shapes moved out of the night, rushing where he had been seconds before.
Shawnee! Jamie recognized the distinctive hair even in the dark. He lifted a pistol and fired, the big ball stopping a Shawnee in his tracks. Jamie fired his second pistol at a shape and drilled the Shawnee through the brisket, doubling him over and dropping him to the near frozen ground.
“Take him alive!” Jamie heard the voice of Tall Bull shout. “I want to see how well he dies.”
After silently rolling a few yards from where he had fired his last pistol, Jamie lay still on the hard ground. He knew he was invisible in the cloudy, moonless night. He had slept hard, for he had still not recovered from those last days of going without sleep, and had no idea what time it might be. He guessed it was after midnight.
He heard a rustling off to his right, and knew that had been a deliberate act, trying to draw his fire. The Shawnee were masters at this type of warfare and would make no noise in their stalking.
Tall Bull! His hate must be strong to have carried him this far in his search for revenge. The wind shifted and Jamie could smell the familiar odor of grease and woodsmoke coming from the bodies and the buckskins of the Shawnee.
A Shawnee threw himself out of the brush, a club in his hand, raised to strike at Jamie’s head, and Jamie rolled over on his back, pulling his knees to his chest and kicked hard with both feet. His feet caught the Shawnee in midair and the wind whooshed from the man as Jamie propelled the Indian through the air to land on his belly. The Shawnee must have landed on one arm, for Jamie heard the sharp crack of a major bone breaking.
Jamie recovered and rolled away, his rifle still clutched in his left hand.
“Good, Man Who Is Not Afraid,” Tall Bull’s voice reached him. “You are a mighty warrior, as I always predicted you would be.”
“He is a great hulking ox,” the contemptuous voice of Little Wolf said. “He will scream like a woman when I cut the flesh from him.”
Jamie smiled in the darkness and remained silent.
Bad Leg put his mouth into action. “I have the ultimate disgrace for you, White Hair. I will use you like a woman.”
Jamie couldn’t resist it. “Unless you’ve grown somewhat below the belt, Bad Leg, you couldn’t make a hummingbird flinch.”
Jamie used the noise of Bad Leg’s angry screaming and snorting and threatening to back up a few yards, closer to a tiny offshoot of the river, and then move a few yards to his left.
Tall Bull chuckled. “Very, very good, Man Who Is Not Afraid. You have sharpened your tongue in manhood. This will be a great game we play this night.”
“How is Deer Woman?” Jamie called, then again shifted position, putting himself very close to the tiny offshoot. He had loaded one pistol, and was now quickly loading the second.
“She is well. Older, as we all are,” Tall Bull replied. “I forbid her to ever speak your name, but I can tell that she misses you.”
“I did no harm to you or to anyone in your town,” Jamie called. “I just wanted to return to my own people, as did Hannah. You cannot fault me for that.”
“Oh, I don’t fault you, White Hair. But you disgraced me in the eyes of my followers. I will be redeemed when I show them your scalp.”
“That’ll never happen, Tall Bull. You’ve already lost two this evening, with a third one hurt. Doesn’t that tell you anything?”
There was a long silence. That was followed by a sigh. “It tells me that you are a mighty warrior, Man Who Is Not Afraid. But we are many.”
“I’ve fought three and four times your number, Tall Bull. I’m here and they’re dead.” He slipped down the bank and silently crept along in the sand, angling to get behind Tall Bull and however many men he had with him.
“I do not doubt your words,” Tall Bull replied.
Jamie paused, seeing a Shawnee standing beside a tree. That was a favorite Shawnee trick: making oneself part of the earth, and it worked, most of the time. The man was standing with his right side to Jamie. Jamie squatted down and felt around carefully in the shallow water until he found a rock about the size of a small apple. He dried his hands on his buckskins and then carefully gripped the rock. He took aim, judging the distance, and let the rock fly.
Jamie missed the man’s head, the rock striking the Shawnee on the side of the neck, just below the jaw. But it had been thrown with considerable force and the Indian went down, choking and gasping, both hands to his surely badly injured throat. The Shawnee kicked and moaned for a half a minute or so, and then lay still.