by Lyn Cote
“But Ma, Matagorda puts Mendoza right where the war’s moving,” Carson said. “Santa Anna will head east to catch Sam Houston.”
A sneer went through her like a cold wave. “Mendoza probably isn’t even aware of the fact that there’s a revolution on. Or if he’s heard, he thinks that it won’t affect his plan. Carson, we don’t have time to argue. He’s at least a day ahead of us. And we must find your father. Now get my horse saddled and packed with everything we’ll need while I dress for travel.”
“Ma—”
She whirled away and marched toward her room. “We don’t have time, son. See that my horse is saddled and our bags packed. We leave as soon as I’m dressed!”
The gray of predawn glowed through the timber on the eastern horizon. For two days Scully and Quinn had lingered near the battle, waiting to see it to its end before heading to find the remainder of the Texian Army and Sam Houston. They wanted to be able to give a full and accurate account of what had happened to Fannin and his men. But waiting here where the battle had taken its course had been hard, desperately hard.
Scully didn’t think he’d ever forget the awful night when darkness forced the two armies to stop fighting. The screams and moans of dying men had traveled through the foggy night air. The tortured voices in Spanish and English sounded looking-glass clear and appalling. Huddled under their ponchos and blankets, he and Quinn had leaned against their saddles on the wet ground all night, unable to light a fire, unable to sleep, unable to see the men they heard suffering from mortal wounds, suffering and dying.
Scully had found himself praying for those men, both Mexican and Anglo, praying that they would make peace with God and go to a better place. A place where men didn’t die while still in their full strength and far from their loved ones. A few times he’d heard Quinn reciting the Lord’s Prayer and the Twenty-third Psalm, and he joined him. Who could a man turn to at a time like that, but God?
The awful night had taken him back to the worst day of his life. He recalled those hours as a little child when he hunkered down under the well cover, hearing the screams of his family being slaughtered. He’d scrubbed his face with his hands over and over as if he could rub away the memories.
The screams of the men on the nearby battlefield ripped, shredded him, and made him think of the past, made him long for Alandra. In her arms, he could be at peace. In her arms, he could find a refuge from the past.
Alandra. She had moved through his mind in a kind of waking dream. A dozen, a thousand, different images of her that he’d never guessed were imprinted on his mind. He saw her laughing at a rodeo, dancing in San Antonio at a festival before Lent began. Then, closer to his heart, he recalled her kneeling in the church lit with flickering candlelight in the early dawn when they had wed. These images were so sharp they cut him, peeled away uncertainty and awakened the truth of his feelings.
He wanted to see Alandra again, just look at her. But, no, he realized he didn’t want to just look at her. He wanted to hold her in his arms, feel her softness against him and kiss her full lips. He had rubbed his hand, feeling the old scars where she stitched his skin that day. And then he had touched the pistolas she had given him to take to war. The longing made what he wanted come clear. I want her to be my real wife.
The dreadful night he would never forget had finally ended. On the second morning after the battle, he and Quinn, bleary-eyed and drowsy, knew it was time to move. The day before, the Texian army, surrounded on all sides, had surrendered in the morning and were marched back to the fort at La Bahia near Goliad, which sat upon a rise in the distance. Now, drawn by curiosity, they followed, keeping to the fringes of the timber that flanked both the San Antonio and Guadalupe Rivers, which came together like an arrowhead near Goliad.
Thin morning light trickled through the clouds. “We might as well leave,” Quinn said, shivering. He stood near Scully, his voice low. “These men are out of this war. They’ll march them the thirty or so miles to the coast probably at Matagorda and send them by some boat or other to Vera Cruz or another port as prisoners of war.”
Then, in the distance, they saw Mexican soldiers marching out of the fort. In the midst of them marched the prisoners. Scully and Quinn exchanged puzzled glances. What was this? The Mexicans parted into three columns, with prisoners marching in close order within their ranks. Then the three columns turned, leading the Texian prisoners off in three different directions.
“What are they doing?” Quinn whispered.
Scully knew Quinn didn’t expect an answer, and was as baffled as Quinn. He rubbed his stubbly chin, trying to make sense of what his eyes were telling him. One of the columns was coming straight for them.
“Saddle up,” Quinn hissed.
The two men saddled and untied their horses. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the edge of the woods, their pistols in hand. Scully’s heart hammered in step with the marching troops. And inside him, foreboding descended, enveloped him. No, no, no began beating.
Upon command, the Mexican troops halted, turned toward the prisoners and lifted their muskets. The mounted Spanish officer shouted an order in Spanish.
Scully turned to Quinn, who translated, “He’s ordering them to kneel. Oh, no—”
Quinn’s horrified voice was interrupted by an explosion of gunfire. The Mexicans had fired upon the defenseless prisoners. Scully felt himself screaming but could not hear his voice. He made to rush forward Quinn grabbed him by the shirt. “Fall back.”
Still holding Scully’s shirt, Quinn turned, pulling him along.
Scully resisted. “But—”
“We can’t help them,” Quinn bawled against the noise and the chaos behind them. “The ones that aren’t shot dead will be running straight toward us. Fall back!”
Scully couldn’t think straight, couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed. He stumbled after Quinn, pulling his horse along. Another explosion of muskets. Another. One execution volley for each column of prisoners?
Almost to the river, Quinn halted and turned. Their horses were fidgeting, upset by the noise of battle. No, not battle. Cold-blooded slaughter.
Grim-faced, Quinn raised his pistol, ready to aim and fire. “We’ll wait. I kind of hope some Mexican will try to come through here following any Texians who’re able to flee.”
Flushed with outrage, Scully echoed this. Breathing out invisible flame, he gripped his pistol at the ready too. In the distance, amidst clouds of black smoke, a frenzied brawl had broken out. Some Texians lay dying. Others were fighting off their attackers with their fists. But some were running for the Guadalupe River, just as Quinn had said. Running for their lives.
Scully tensed, waiting, hoping some Mexican would chase someone to them. Come on. Come on. Then two Texians ran straight into the timber, right at them.
“Get behind us!” Quinn barked.
The men leaped to obey, and three armed Mexicans barreled in after them. Scully and Quinn fired at almost the same moment. Two Mexicans fell and the other turned and fled.
Quinn shouted, “To the river!” And all four of them bolted for the thick canebrake. Unencumbered by mounts, the two Texians ran ahead. Quinn and Scully threaded their way to the thick canebrake that topped the steep riverbank. More screams and shouted curses. More gunshots.
Then Quinn halted, held up a hand and pointed to the water’s edge below. From the high bank, Mexicans were shooting at Texians who’d made it into the river and were swimming for their lives.
Scully wanted to turn and start shooting. The desire was so strong he shook with it. He wanted to blot out men who would murder unarmed prisoners of war in cold blood.
Quinn put a hand on his shoulder. “This isn’t the Mexican soldiers’ fault. This is Santa Anna, the butcher. And we will pay him back. For the Alamo. And for this. When Americans hear of these two slaughters, they will pour into Texas. Santa Anna doesn’t know what he has unleashed.”
But he’ll find out. Scully burned. And I want to be there to see it
. And to teach him how free men defend their rights.
Champing at the bit, Scully waited beside Quinn, hidden in the thick brush and canebrake. Finally, the Mexicans must have decided enough killing had taken place. The sound of marching ceased. The Mexicans had returned to their fort. The prairie and riverbank became quiet again. Scully heard the call of a mockingbird.
“Let’s go back upstream and find a place to ford,” Quinn muttered. “Then we’ll look for wounded on the other side of the river.”
Soon they were riding their horses across the murky Guadalupe, thigh high in water. The horses didn’t lose their footing. Scully and Quinn mounted the riverbank, found a steep trail other travelers had worn into the bank and used it to go through the canebrake.
When they finally reached the rear of the lush trees and shrubs along the river, they worked their way quietly eastward along the bank. Within minutes they found two injured survivors lying on the ground. Scully and Quinn dropped to their knees and examined the men’s wounds. One was unconscious but breathing. The other stared at them as if too shocked to speak.
After treating and bandaging their shallow wounds, Quinn asked the conscious man, “Do you think you can ride?”
“Yes.” He panted as if he were still running.
They helped the man onto Quinn’s horse and together lifted the unconscious man to ride facedown over Scully’s saddle. Then they moved farther east and picked up more men. Some were wounded, most were not. But all of them looked dazed. And all of them acted relieved to have someone to lead them.
Then on the breeze came the smell of burning flesh. Gagging, Scully closed his eyes, trying not to think, not to imagine the horror of the dead piled high and being burned to ash. Not even a decent burial. He was horrified, filled with the desire for justice. Santa Anna, you will pay for this.
Quinn looked at him. “I think we’ve found everyone that hasn’t gone ahead already. Let’s go on and find cover. Make camp for the night. Why don’t you see if you can bring down a deer for us? They look like they could use a good meal.”
Scully nodded, and as soon as they had found a small clearing within a grove of oaks, he headed away to hunt for their supper. Having something to do felt good. He glanced back and saw Quinn gathering wood for a fire. The survivors sat huddled together. The smell of burning human flesh still reached them and it sickened him, made his stomach roil with disgust and revulsion. He vowed Santa Anna would not leave Texas scot-free.
Dorritt had made good progress since leaving Rancho Sandoval in the hands of Ramirez, his son, and Antonio. She and Carson followed the San Antonio River east and managed to ford it that morning. They had reached the Guadalupe River but were still west of the main Austin settlements. Dorritt tried not to show her fatigue, but after almost two full days in the saddle, she was feeling worn thin.
The sun was lowering in the west. Dorritt straightened her spine. They had camped out last night, and Carson had caught two trout in a stream. She wished they’d come to a cabin so she didn’t have to spend another night on the hard, damp ground. I’ve been living too easy all these years.
They slowed their horses to a walk as if winding down, preparing to rest for the night. There was timber along the river. It gave the shadows an eeriness that chilled Dorritt from the inside. She knew this route well since it was the one she’d traveled at least once a year to visit her mother at San Felipe de Austin on the Brazos River.
They came to a clearing, a cabin with no smoke rising out of the chimney. “Hello the house!” Carson shouted, calling out the customary frontier greeting. “Hello the house!”
No reply.
He swung down from his mount and handed her his reins. Dorritt held them and waited while he went to the door and knocked. Then he pushed the door open and went inside. He came out and said, “The owners have run off. Probably afraid of the Mexicans.”
Dorritt couldn’t help herself. With a loud sigh of relief, she slid from her horse, and hitting the ground, wobbled. Carson ran to her. She steadied herself by gripping her saddle. “I’m all right, son. I’m just tired.”
Carson looked like he wanted to scold her again for coming along. She was grateful that he didn’t. Soon she was inside lying on a rope bed in the corner of the cabin. Her son had built a fire and was out scavenging for food. Feeling as flat as a line drawn on paper, she closed her eyes.
Then her eyes flew open and she swam up from her nap. A face looked down at her, and she gasped.
It was deep in the cold night. Alandra had been waiting for her chance to escape her captors. She couldn’t depend on being rescued. She was at least five days east and north of San Antonio. And what if Mendoza had been lying all along? What if he had no intention of collecting a ransom? What if he had something completely different and much worse planned for her?
The bandits were snoring around the fire that had nearly burnt out. She was accustomed to their routine. Only one bandit was keeping watch, and she was watching him. He was nodding off to sleep. She waited, waited. His chin was slumped against his chest and he had not moved. If she were very quiet, she might not wake him. Her hands were bound and her ankles hobbled, so she couldn’t go fast.
Her terror welled up like an icy cold spring. She pushed it down and cautiously rolled away from Mendoza, rolled toward the trees around them. If she didn’t wake the sentry, she might get far enough away to find something like a sharp rock with which to cut her bonds.
She stopped rolling and lay very still, listening. When no one called out, she got onto her knees and then her feet. She swayed in the chill night. Then, with mincing steps, she started forward, careful not to move so fast that she tripped and fell or broke any large branch. It was so dark. While her feet shuffled along, her heart raced.
And beat so loudly it felt as if the bandits could hear it. Lord, help me get away. Lead me to shelter and freedom. And in that moment, Scully’s face—his clear green eyes and determined expression—came up before her. In that moment, she felt the touch of his rough hand upon hers, heard his low caring voice, making the hair on her nape prickle.
He will never stop till he finds me. Never.
Eleven
Alandra had never been as terrified in her life. Though fear was making her tremble, she felt her feet moving forward inch by inch. Not faltering. Not tripping. Dear Father, help me. I have never needed your help more than I do now. The image of Dorritt kneeling beside her when she was just a little girl came back. Dorritt had set the example of prayer, of believing God was a God worthy of trust. For a moment it was almost as if Dorritt were there, embracing her and kissing her hair and telling her how much she loved her.
A bird swooped close. Alandra stifled a squeak. She was moving as fast as she could, expecting every moment to hear shouts and someone coming after her. Then she recalled sitting up in bed, reading Psalm Thirty-seven to Scully, such an intimate sharing. She saw him there beside her bed—so tall and strong and fair. He had listened, and she’d felt so safe, so sure that everything would work out.
A small creature ran across her path. She sucked in air and kept moving. Ever since the night when the Comanche renegades had dragged her from her room, nothing in her life had gone the way it should.
But then why was that to be wondered at? Texas was in the midst of a rebellion. Nothing was going right anywhere in Texas now.
She ignored the stitch in her side and kept moving. Her heart beat hard and loud inside her, making her breathless. On and on she shuffled, while the gray light of dawn began to lighten the eastern horizon. If only she could find someplace to hide before daylight. Please, Lord, please.
Then what she feared happened—a shout! “Déjete!”
Screaming silently, She tried to find a place to hide. And then he was there, the bandido who’d been on watch. From behind her, he grabbed her elbows and squeezed until she screamed aloud.
As they headed toward the rising sun and Buena Vista, Dorritt followed Carson’s horse. Riding up behind Carso
n was the little towheaded girl they’d found in the cabin the other night. She looked to be around seven years old and hadn’t yet spoken a word. She followed Carson around like a puppy. She might have come from the house where she’d appeared looking over Dorritt as she napped. Or she might have just wandered in. Yet who would leave a child behind in the mad rush to escape an invading army? Then again, who knew what might have happened to the child’s family?
Dorritt wouldn’t admit it to Carson or anyone else, but she was tiring more quickly than usual. She knew it was the child she was carrying. She rubbed her hand over the spot where it was kicking. She could only wonder at the energy making a child cost her. Sadness swept through her like a wintry wind. Quinn, I want you. I need to be with you.
She ignored the sudden weepiness this brought as best she could. She was happy to be given one more chance to receive another child to love. But why did her emotions have to be so volatile on top of everything else?
She called to Carson, “Today we should be at Buena Vista before dark.” She recognized the countryside and knew that Carson did too. On this trip, he had become more sure of himself, and she was proud of him. He was his father’s son.
After passing so many empty farms, she wondered if they’d find anyone at Buena Vista. Hearing voices in the distance, Carson slowed his horse and she came up alongside him. They exchanged glances. The little girl tightened her hold around Carson’s waist. Farther ahead, Dorritt glimpsed a line of men walking within the shelter of the trees along the road ahead of them.
“It might be others running from the Mexicans,” Carson murmured to her.
She nodded. “It might.” Or it might be a dangerous band of looters. She pressed her finger to her lips, praying they would pass on.
Two days of steady travel had brought Quinn and Scully to San Felipe, another deserted town. Two of the wounded survivors of the slaughter at Goliad had been too weak to walk or fend for themselves, so they had brought them along. Each of them had a wounded man mounted behind him now, leaning against his back.
