“I would like that, old friend. I cannot think of another warrior I would rather have with me through the eternal years.”
Bad Leg began shrieking more loudly than before, thrashing about in the dirt.
“He is shot in the lower belly,” Tall Bull said. “His death will be long and painful, and he is not dying well at all.”
“Did you really expect him to die well?”
“No. He was always a fool and is dying like one. Little Wolf will die no better,” he added, disgust in his voice.
“Why should he? He does not have your blood in his veins.”
“True.” Tall Bull sighed. “I adopted two sons. Both of them failed me.”
“You love him, don’t you?”
“Who?”
“Man Who Is Not Afraid.”
Tall Bull was silent for moment. “Yes,” he spoke the word very softly. “And it is because of that love that I must kill him.”
“Or be killed,” Deer Runner said.
Tall Bull was thinking of his wife’s vision when he replied, “Only the mountains never die.”
Forty-five
By midafternoon on the day the Alamo fell, the bodies had been separated and the defenders of the Alamo were placed on huge funeral pyres. There was a layer of wood, then a layer of bodies, the bodies and wood soaked with grease and oil. There were half a dozen or more of the pyres, all of them much higher than a man’s head.
Just before the torches were thrown onto the pyres, Santa Anna said, “This will teach those damn Texans a thing a two. This is the only kind of independence they’ll ever get!”
The torches were hurled onto the pyres and the smell of burning flesh was so overpowering the men were forced to move back some distance in an effort to escape the odor.
“These damn Texans are offensive to me even in death,” Santa Anna said, holding a white handkerchief to his nose.
Another bunch of Texas volunteers would prove to be a whole hell of a lot more offensive to him in about six weeks time. At a place called San Jacinto, where the Texas Army, under the command of Sam Houston, would wipe out Santa Anna’s entire command and, a few days later, force the arrogant Santa Anna to accept unconditional surrender.
But on this late afternoon, Santa Anna gave Susanna Dickerson a horse, some provisions, and a black man who had been serving as his cook to go along as escort. He told her to ride to Gonzales with this message: “Tell the citizens there what happened here at the Alamo. Tell those people to never again rise up in rebellion against me. Now, go!”
Susanna would be found, some six or seven days later, by a group of Texas scouts who were on their way to the Alamo to see what had happened there.
* * *
Just about forty-five minutes before dawn, during the darkest hour, Jamie heard the three remaining Shawnees coming for him. Bad Leg had died a few hours before, whimpering and sobbing and still begging for someone to come to his aid. Just before he died, he cursed his friends for deserting him.
Jamie had to make the loads in his pistols and rifle true ones, for when the rush came, there would be no time for reloading. He made certain his Bowie knife was at hand, for he felt — no, he knew — the final minutes, and maybe seconds, would be knife to knife, and probably with Tall Bull, one of the most skilled knife handlers Jamie had ever known, outside of Jim Bowie.
Something flitted to Jamie’s left, casting a quick shadow. But the move brought no gunfire from Jamie, for he knew it was a ruse. Many whites felt the Indian to be stupid, or dumb. Jamie knew better. They were some of the finest fighting men on the face of the earth. If he had fallen for that maneuver, that quick shadow, and fired, he would more than likely be dead, for he knew that at least two rifles were pointing at him.
He waited.
Jamie had changed positions earlier, and had replied to none of the probing questions from Tall Bull, Deer Runner, and Little Wolf since then. He had darkened his face and hands with dirt and had put himself in the least likely spot; the one that offered only the barest of protection, right at the northern edge of the clump of trees. And whoever it was coming in from the north was very nearly on him.
Deer Runner. And he was moving as silently as a ghost, making only inches of headway at each forward move. Jamie could make out only part of the man’s features, but enough to see the long scar that ran from Deer Runner’s eyebrow down to the point of his jaw.
Jamie’s hand was on his knife, on the ground, and he brought it up swiftly and powerfully, the cutting edge up, and nearly took Deer Runner’s head off. Just as the knife impacted against flesh, a rifle roared and Jamie felt a white hot burst of pain in his left shoulder. Using his feet, he pushed himself back, deeper into the heavier growth. It was a good move, for a second rifle roared and the ball slammed into the tree where, only seconds before, Jamie had been.
Jamie pulled out a bandanna and stuffed it under his buckskins, plugging the bullet hole and slowing the bleeding as best he could. He sheathed his knife and waited, gritting his teeth against the waves of pain. He felt the slow flow of blood wetting his flesh. His fingers felt about the base of the tree and found some moss. He pulled some loose and placed it, he hoped, under his buckskin shirt at his back, where the ball had torn through. He knew the pain he was feeling now was nothing compared to what it would be when the shock wore off.
Silver was showing in the eastern sky when Little Wolf seemed to come out of nowhere and made his leap for Jamie. Jamie lifted a pistol and shot him. Little Wolf landed on top of him, his knife slicing Jamie’s left leg from just below the hip down to almost his knee. Jamie kicked the Shawnee off him and tore Little Wolfs shirt to use to bandage his leg. He could not tell how deep the knife had penetrated, but it felt like a serious wound. He bound it tight and quickly reloaded his discharged pistol.
“Just the two of us now, Man Who Is Not Afraid,” Tall Bull’s voice reached him. “I felt sure Little Wolf would fail, but I was confident that Deer Runner would take you.”
“You were right about one and wrong about the other,” Jamie said.
“Something has changed in your voice. I think you are badly hurt.”
“That’s a hell of a lot better than you’re going to be, Tall Bull.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re going to be dead.”
Tall Bull chuckled. “I taught you well, my son.”
“That you did, father. And I thank you for it.”
Tall Bull’s laugh held no humor. “Perhaps I taught you too well.”
“We’ll soon know, won’t we?”
“That is true.”
Jamie could tell with each reply that Tall Bull was slowly working his way closer. He was in the cluster of trees now. Jamie did not know if he could stand up; did not know if his wounded leg would support him. But he did know he was now no match for Tall Bull if it came to hand to hand with knives. He had to shoot him; had to get lead into the man. Tall Bull was an enormously powerful man, perhaps not as powerful as he’d been when Jamie was a child in the Shawnee town, but Jamie knew if Tall Bull ever got his hands on him, the fight was over — and Jamie would be the loser.
Tall Bull made only one mistake in his deadly advance: he waited too long to make his move. The skies were growing lighter by the minute and Jamie’s eyes were sharp. He saw a lower branch move and a brown hand reach up to still it. Jamie put a heavy caliber ball right through that hand. Tall Bull made no sound, even though Jamie knew the pain must have been awful, for he’d seen the sudden splash of bright red color the dead leaves.
Jamie laid that pistol aside and picked up his second pistol, muffling the cocking with his left hand. Waves of agony lanced through him when he moved his left arm and bright lights of pain erupted behind his eyes.