by Judith Pella
Word of the decision reached the prisoners, causing varying degrees of dismay, disbelief, and anger. But practical men that they were, they realized seventeen dead was far better than nearly two hundred. So they awaited their fate with stoicism mixed with enough fear to prove they were only human.
Micah was certain he would draw a black bean. He’d cheated death too many times lately to have any confidence he’d do so again. He was scared of the prospect, to be sure, but there was also a kind of comfort in his certainty about his fate.
A few sheets of paper were passed among the men along with a pen and ink. Those who could write were permitted to leave notes. Micah took some paper, and when he had a turn at the pen, he chewed on the tip and wondered what he would write. But what perplexed him more was who he would write to. He thought of Lucie, but there seemed no sense in that. They’d made a break. It was over. Best for her if it stayed that way.
He thought of writing to his father or, if not him, perhaps his step-mother or his sisters and brother. Oddly enough, the thought of writing, even to his father, did not bother him as much as it should. Perhaps the desert had burned some of the hatred from him. Perhaps the nearness of death was making him more pragmatic. Or maybe, just maybe, his problems with his father had been to some extent his own fault. At the very least, it might well be that Benjamin Sinclair was as much a victim of circumstance as anyone. The man had made some mistakes, some very serious ones, but then, hadn’t everyone made mistakes? In the last months, Micah had seen more clearly than ever how easy it was to blunder even with the best intentions.
This revelation came as an enormous surprise to Micah. Until just a few moments before he would have been certain his hatred for the man was fully entrenched in his heart. Now he didn’t know what to think. He dipped the pen in the ink jar, then set the tip to the paper.
Dear Pa, he wrote. I guess I’m finally gonna die. Don’t figure it would do any good to go to my grave filled with hate. . . . The pen paused. He tried to write the words “I forgive you,” but simply could not make his hand do it. It was one thing not to hate but some thing else entirely to put it all behind you by forgiveness. He knew about forgiveness, and he knew what his father’s perception was of forgiveness. It was an act of sublime acceptance, and Micah could not do it.
Perturbed with himself, he drew an X through the words. He thought a moment, then decided upon another, far easier and more comfortable, path.
To Whom It May Concern,
I have some land coming to me from my service at San Jacinto and from an inheritance left to me by my Uncle Haden Sinclair. I hereby will all that land to one Jed Wilkes. He’s a mite slow in the brain, but I know he will do right by the land. Anyhow, since I have served the Republic of Texas honorably and am now about to give my life for Texas, I figure you are bound to follow my last wish.
He signed the letter and got two men who could write to witness it, then he turned to Jed, who was curled up on the ground in their crowded cell trying to sleep.
“Hey, Jed.” He gave his friend’s arm a push.
Jed grunted and rolled over. “Micah? I was dreaming. I saw my ma.
I was powerful happy to see her.” He gave his body a stretch. “What’d you want?”
“I want to give you my last will and testament.”
“Huh? You want to give me a test? Aw, Micah, you know I ain’t good with schooling. Can’t read or write. You know that.”
“No, Jed.” Micah thrust the paper at his friend. “This is my will.
It says what to do with my possessions after I die—”
“What you talking ’bout?” Jed sat up and became fully alert. “You ain’t gonna die.”
“How can you say that? Seventeen of us are going to die tomorrow.
I am certain I’ll be one of them. I got a premonition.”
“A prema—what?”
“Never mind,” Micah said impatiently. “This paper says you are to get my land allotments. Put it in your pocket and keep it safe. I won’t be around to take care of you no more, Jed. It will be important for you to have this land so’s you can make a living. You can’t go back to stealing and such, or even rangering.”
“I can’t be no farmer. I don’t know nothing about it.”
“You can, Jed. I know you can. I know lots of men without learning who make good farmers. You gotta take this land and make a life for yourself.” Micah stuffed the paper into Jed’s pocket. “Maybe Tom will help you. I had the feeling when we last saw him that he was ready to settle down.”
“Maybe you should give the land to him.”
“I want you to have it.”
Tom had land, and if not, he had the wits to fend for himself. Jed would need all the help he could get. Even with the land, Micah was afraid of what would become of Jed when he was left all alone. He couldn’t do anything about it now. He hoped the land would be enough. It would sure do more good than some lame letter to his father with foolish words of forgiveness.
The next morning the prisoners were gathered in the courtyard of the prison. Each man stepped forward and dipped into the jar. Bill McBroome drew the first black bean. A grim smirk twisted his lips as he defiantly flicked the damning bean in the direction of the commander.
As Big Foot’s turn came he commented to Micah and Jed, who would draw after him, “Them black beans are on top, so dig deep.” He drew a white bean.
Micah’s turn came and he hardly gave it a thought as he thrust his hand into the jar. He didn’t even look at the bean he drew but simply headed to where the unlucky black bean holders had gathered.
“Look at what you got!” Big Foot yelled.
Micah glanced at his hand and was shocked to see he held a white bean. He wanted to whoop but didn’t because there were still men who were going to die that day.
Jed came next. He dipped into the jar. Micah watched casually. Then he felt as if the hard earth of the prison yard had been suddenly yanked out from under him. His knees trembled, but he remained on his feet. He rubbed his eyes, but that did not change what he saw. Jed drew a black bean. Jed was no less shocked as he glanced at his death warrant. He looked at Micah beseeching, as if asking his friend to get him out of this mess. Micah wanted to run forward and exchange beans with his friend. He would have, too. He made the move, but Big Foot’s big hand stopped him.
“Micah, they won’t allow it,” the ranger said, as if reading Micah’s thoughts.
“They can’t! He—”
“He took his chances with the rest of us. He’s smarter than we give him credit for.”
“But . . . but . . .” How could Micah make them understand? It was supposed to be him. He was supposed to die that day, not Jed. What had gone wrong?
“You let him die like a man,” Big Foot said. “That’s all you can do for him now.”
Micah thought of the worthless paper in Jed’s pocket, his lame attempt to help his friend. But Micah had been so preoccupied with himself, his stupid fears, he had not even thought to give Jed a chance to talk about his own fears. What had Jed been going through last night? What was he going through now? Micah would never know. He opened his hand and looked disdainfully at the white bean still clutched in his fist. He dropped it to the ground and smashed it with the heel of his boot.
“Jed . . . I’m sorry . . . I . . . can’t help you,” he intoned miserably.
“It’s all right, Micah,” Jed said, the shock beginning to clear from his face. “You done good by me, Micah. I wouldn’t have made it this long without you.” His lip trembled a little, but he bit down on it firmly.
Bill McBroome stepped from the growing group of doomed men. He put an arm around Jed and nudged him into the group. “Jed, you are gonna see your ma and pa soon.”
Jed visibly brightened. “That’s right! Ya hear that, Micah? It’s what I been wanting. Remember? I dreamed it. Don’t worry ’bout me no more. My ma will look after me now.”
If Micah had not been forced to watch the executions, he pro
bably would have hid in his cell, burrowing into the deepest, darkest corner he could find. That is exactly what he did afterward—figuratively, since it was not always possible to do so literally. For weeks he retreated within himself, becoming dark and glum. And the nightmares he thought he had finally escaped returned in full force. There was not a night that passed undisturbed by visions of death and violence.
PART THREE
SPRING 1844
CHAPTER
28
IT HAD BEEN A LONG trail from Mexico City. A hungry trail, a thirsty trail, a lonely trail.
Most of the time Micah wondered if he’d ever see Texas again. Sometimes he thought it might be best if he never went back. Too much water under the bridge, as it’s said. Life had been too hard and grim in the last year since his capture. The filth and privations of prison, the struggle to survive were enough to change any man. Add to that the last couple of months since he and a handful of others had finally made good an escape.
This time they had hoped to increase their chances of getting home by splitting up. But it had been hard going trekking alone on foot through wild lands where, if there were people, he was the enemy. And because he was a fugitive, he often had to hide from danger or fight his way from place to place.
He didn’t make directly for home because at first he hadn’t been certain if he wanted to return to Texas at all. He had nothing there, nothing but failure and sour memories. So Micah wandered aimlessly about the Mexican countryside, and if he appeared to be heading north, it was only unconsciously, until finally the loneliness became more crushing than his fears about home. Tom was there, and the rangers. They had been like a family to him and could be again. They would accept what he had become. Many of them had suffered similarly.
Funny, though, when he thought of going home and what he would do there, it never occurred to him to return to his former life of crime. Well, the idea might have flickered across his mind briefly, but he’d never risk seeing the inside of a prison again if he could help it.
Yet even with a purpose, it was difficult getting to the Rio Grande. He had no money and no weapons, except a knife he had stolen along the way. If he had to justify that act, he reminded himself that he was in enemy territory, and anything he took to survive was merely contraband. He became quite adept at stalking animals and killing them with only a knife. He also had been without a horse for much of the time. Only in Laredo was he accepted enough to be able to find a steady job sweeping and cleaning up in a cantina. He stayed only until he had earned enough to buy a few supplies. He got some clothes, used but in far better shape than the rags he’d been wearing since prison. They were mostly Mexican, including a sombrero and a striped serape. But more importantly he was able to purchase a cheap pistol and a mount and tack.
Micah let a bitter smile slip across his brown weathered face. It wasn’t rightly a horse he ended up with, but rather a mule, and a poor excuse for one at that. He was the color of the blasted desert earth, and Micah called the beast Stew, because once when the animal was being particularly obstinate, Micah had yelled, “You mangy, no-good churn-head. Ya ain’t good for nothing but a pot of stew!”
It indicated the extremity of Micah’s solitary condition when he began to converse with Stew often and even started to take a liking to the creature. At least when he didn’t want to kill the mule. Micah figured they deserved each other, and if there was a God, He was surely feeling mighty pleased at the circumstances.
The blast of a gunshot interrupted Micah’s thoughts. Instinct alone made him dig his heels into Stew’s flanks. He forgot about the tender place in Stew’s stomach where the beast had once, before Micah’s ownership, been mauled by a cougar. The crazy animal reared, and Micah fought to get him under control as another shot split the air several feet away. If he could get to some cover, he could dismount and make use of his pistol. But the land surrounding him was pretty open, tall grass and nary a tree in sight. As the mule sprang into a very reluctant gallop, Micah ventured a quick glance back. There were three riders, and they appeared to be gringos. They might be rangers, but why would they be shooting at him without cause? Then he remembered his appearance. If they were looking for banditos, he certainly looked the part.
“Hah, Stew!” he yelled over the heavy beating of the mule’s hooves. Though the animal was stubborn and mean spirited at times, he could be fast when he wanted, and with shots blasting in his ears, he definitely wanted to now!
Micah led a good chase. He broadened the distance between him self and his pursuers so that they no longer took shots at him. A dry riverbed spread out before him, and he scrambled down its moderately steep bank. He quickly jumped from the mule and took up a position near some rocks, the only cover to be found. When the riders crested the rise, he fired over their heads.
He’d chosen his spot well for making his stand, because the lowering sun was in the pursuers’ eyes at the top of the bank, and by the time they oriented themselves as to the direction of the shot, Micah had reloaded. As he took aim, he got a better look at the three riders.
“My pistol’s aimed right for your heart, Tom Fife!” Micah shouted. “I sure don’t want to kill you the first time I seen you in over a year.”
“Mercy me! I sure recognize that voice,” Tom said.
“It’s me, you dunderhead! Micah Sinclair. Promise ya won’t shoot, and I’ll give ya a look.”
“Go ahead,” agreed Tom.
Cautiously Micah stepped out into the open, flicking off his sombrero as he did so. Tom’s grin made him drop all further cautions. He strode up to the three. Jack Hays and Ben McCulloch were riding with Tom. They all dismounted. Tom crushed Micah into a breath-stealing bear hug. The others slapped his shoulder until he was sure he’d be bruised. But if he’d had doubts before about returning home, they were gone now. He did indeed have friends.
“What you doing traipsing around looking like a bandito?” Tom asked.
“Don’t be too hard on him,” Hays said. “If he was a bandito, we’d be done for now. I’m glad to see prison hasn’t dulled your edge, Micah.”
“I got plenty of edges. And as for the clothes, I had to take what I could get.”
“You coming back to San Antonio?” Tom asked.
“That was in my mind.”
“Well, we can use you,” said Ben. He glanced at Hays. “That right, Jack?”
“No doubt about it,” Hays concurred. “Say, I think we have earned a bit of a rest. Let’s sit a spell and talk.”
There were cottonwoods on the other side of the riverbed that provided some shade, so the men let their horses graze while they sat beneath the boughs of the trees. Stew wandered back and joined the horses.
The men broke out jerked venison and hardtack from their packs, sharing what they had with Micah, whose supplies had run low since Laredo. As they ate, Micah related briefly about his escape and trek across Mexico. He omitted much detail, and the others seemed to understand because they asked few questions. On the other hand, he freely quizzed them on their activities in the last year, and they were just as free to talk.
“Had quite a time keeping the rangers together all year,” Hays said. “Funds, as usual, were low. Sometimes there was as few as fifteen of us to patrol the entire Nueces-Rio Grande region. As much as Houston wants to make the borders safe from raids by Mexicans, he also wants to keep a lid on us raiding them. He wants peace so as to help his efforts to join up with the United States.”
“Things did quiet down a mite last year,” Tom said. “A few Indian raids and some harassing by banditos, but it could’ve been worse. The final two months of last year we were out of action completely.”
“Jack even took a vacation,” McCulloch said.
“He went acourting, is what he did!” Tom added with a grin.
Steely-eyed Jack Hays, “Devil Jack” as the Comanches called him, looked about as close to blushing as he ever would. “Well, a man’s got a right to a vacation once in a while, now, don’t he?
” he sputtered gruffly to hide his embarrassment.
Everyone laughed, even Jack. And Micah realized what these men meant to him. He was laughing, really laughing, for the first time in a year. He was truly with amigos, and he had forgotten what that meant.
When the joke had played itself out, Micah asked, “Well, since you are out on patrol again, are things better?”
“In February Congress authorized the formation of another ranger company,” Hays said.
“And for the first time ever, they did it right!” added Tom. “They specifically designated Jack to be the commander, not that we wouldn’t have voted for him anyway, but they finally are giving credit where credit is due. We voted for Ben here to be lieutenant. They allowed for forty rangers in the company. We up to that yet, Jack?”
“Nearly, but we got room for you, Micah.”
“Count me in, Captain. I’d be honored to serve.” In one sense Micah was growing tired of fighting and violence, but stronger than this was the sense that he didn’t know what he’d do without the rangers right now. He needed them, if only because he had nothing else to turn to.
“Pay’s fairly regular, too. Thirty dollars a month, paid every two months.” Hays glanced at the grazing horses. “Looks like you got a good mount.”
Micah shrugged. “He’s learning, if mules can learn. But he did outrun you fellows.” Then he remembered another important piece of equipment he was lacking. “I only got this here beat-up old flintlock pistol.”
“We’ll fix you up,” Hays said.
“We have finally been issued Colt revolvers,” Tom said with a gleam of delight in his squinty eyes. “I know it don’t matter much to a crack shot like you, Micah, but for the rest of us, them revolvers are pure heaven.”
The men talked for a few more minutes, then mounted up. After three hours they joined up with the rest of the company, then Hays told Micah to go on back to San Antonio so he could get his equipment squared away before officially joining the company. Tom was to go with him.
