Klesko was one of the prisoners.
Christopher recognized the others as members of the Liberty's crew. No doubt they had washed ashore further along the coast, and fallen into the hands of the patrol. And Christopher was willing to bet that the six-pounder had come ashore with them. That would explain why they were being treated like criminals.
He was happy to see Klesko alive, but under these circumstances he had to wonder how long the riverman could survive. Because of his size and strength he was faring better than his three companions. They looked half-dead. When the man in line behind Klesko, who was in the lead spot, stumbled and fell to his knees, Klesko turned to lift him bodily to his feet. When Klesko stopped the whole line came to a standstill, and that angered the guards. Their orders were to keep up with the rest of the column. One of the lancers spurred his horse forward, lowered his lance, and drove the point into Klesko's shoulder. Christopher winced as he saw the spray of blood. Klesko staggered under the blow, yet somehow managed to keep to his feet. Christopher was astonished. So was the lancer. Klesko glowered at his tormentor, then turned and plodded after the column, leaning against the rope, his whole mighty frame shuddering with the strain.
"I'm a child of calamity!" cried Klesko, a wheezing roar. Christopher couldn't believe he could even whisper with that timber-anchored rope around his neck. "I'm the bloodiest son of a wildcat that ever lived. They call me Sudden Death and General Desolation. Blood's my natural drink. When I'm cold I boil the Gulf of Mexico and take a bath. When I'm hot I call down the winter storm from up Canada way. When I'm hungry and thirsty, famine and drought are found across the land wherever I've been. With one look I can freeze the blood in your veins, and with my bare hands I can grind your bones into dust. Whoop! Don't look at me with the naked eye! Beware. The massacre of whole communities is my favorite pastime."
The guards exchanged bewildered glances.
Hidden in the dunes, Christopher had to smile. God bless Klesko and his unbreakable will! One had to wonder if maybe this bearded Goliath could haul that ship's timber all the way to Louisiana on his own.
Still, it was almost unbearable to stand by and watch Klesko and the three crewmen being tortured so. If this was any indication of how the Mexicans behaved, little wonder the Texans were talking independence. It was one thing to arrest a man suspected of trying to smuggle contraband—and the cannon was most assuredly that—but to murder him by inches like this was depraved.
Yet what could he do against seventeen soldiers? It didn't take a Napoleon Bonaparte to figure out that this was a battle he could not possibly win.
The fact that the column was headed east was another concern. Their course would take them to the island where Nathaniel and the others were camped. Clearly the Mexicans were searching for the wreck. It was reasonable to assume they would scout the island. Christopher could not bear to think of his grandfather being treated like Klesko and the three men from the Liberty. And heaven only knew what these sadists would do to his mother.
Resigned to the fact that there was nothing he could do for Klesko at present, Christopher made up his mind to warn Nathaniel and his mother.
Saying a silent prayer for Klesko and the crewmen, Christopher crawled deeper into the dunes. When he was certain that he was far enough from the beach to remain undetected, he got to his feet and started running. In no time at all he was exhausted. He could imagine nothing more difficult than running in deep sand. But he had to go on as far as he could in the dunes to put sufficient distance between himself and the Mexican lancers so that when he emerged onto the beach, where he could make much better time, he would not be seen.
He ran until he thought his heart would burst, until his legs felt like chunks of lead, until his muscles burned like red hot flame—until he simply could not run anymore. Somehow he made two miles—he had no way of calculating the distance, but it seemed to him to be at least twenty miles—before stumbling out onto the beach at a spot where the waves reached the base of the dunes. A quick glance to the west—he could not see the column. With a grateful sob he staggered into the surf and collapsed.
The wash of the waves over his body revived him. Not much, but enough to push, groaning, to his feet. Tried to run, but he seemed to have lost control of his legs. He reeled and staggered like a drunken man, arms flopping uselessly against his sides. He still had sufficient wits about him to keep to the surf. The waves would wash away all trace of his passage, so that not even the Indian scout would know he had passed this way.
Yes, it was easier to run on firm, wet sand than in the dunes, but it was too late for that to matter. He couldn't make it. Lack of food and water had taken its toll on him. An incoherent cry of dismay escaped him, and an instant later he passed out on his feet and fell into the shallow surf. . . .
Someone was shaking him.
He came to, sputtering in the wash of saltwater, and his heart lurched in his chest as he remembered the Mexican lancers, and he struck out blindly, thinking they had found him.
But the man bending over him was a red-faced, blond-bearded Anglo in grime-blackened buckskin pants and linsey-woolsey shirt, and he carried no lance, but rather a double-barreled Fox shotgun.
"Take it easy, mister," grumbled the man. "Kin you walk, or do I have to carry you?"
"I can walk," gasped Christopher.
"Good. Then let's get the hell off this beach. Them Mexcans are a-comin'."
Chapter 24
Five men on horseback were waiting back in the dunes. Four of them were clad in buckskin or homespun. The fifth was dressed quite differently. He wore a blue clawhammer coat, red pantaloons, and a white planter's hat cocked rakishly on his head. A brace of fancy pistols were stuck in his belt.
"He's alive, Will," said the man who had gone out to fetch Christopher. He addressed the man in the red pantaloons. "Looks about half-drowned and three-quarters starved, though."
"Identify yourself," said the man named Will.
"Christopher Groves. My family and I were aboard the Liberty. She was wrecked a few days ago, just up the coast from here."
"How many survivors?"
"I'm not sure. Counting myself and the four men who have been captured by the Mexican lancers, I know of thirteen. There might be more. Who are you, anyway?"
"William Barrett Travis, at your service. These men and I are from Anahuac. It was to Anahuac that the Liberty was bound. We heard a rumor that disaster had struck, and came to investigate. So did Captain Piedras." Travis grimaced. "Unfortunately, he recovered one of the cannons."
"We have the other," said Christopher.
Travis leaned forward in the saddle. "We?"
"My mother and grandfather and six others are encamped on an island a few miles east of here. We pulled one of the six-pounders from the sea."
"East of here, you say," murmured Travis. "Then Captain Piedras will no doubt find them."
"Two of the sailors are in bad shape."
"They'll all be in bad shape when Piedras finds 'em with that other cannon," opined the blond-bearded man.
"Precisely," said Travis.
For a moment the others watched Travis in grim silence, and it was apparent that he was the one they looked to for leadership.
"Tucker, do you think you and Lucas can hold Piedras up for a while?"
"How long?" asked the blond-bearded man.
"At least a few hours. Preferably until sundown."
Tucker scratched his beard. "I reckon so. How 'bout it, Lucas?"
"Suits me."
"You mustn't be caught," warned Travis. "It would go hard for all who lived in Anahuac if you were."
"We'll take a few shots at 'em from the dunes," said Tucker, smiling as he warmed to the idea. "Piedras will come boilin' after us, and we'll lead 'em a merry chase. Won't we, Lucas?"
"Sounds good," was the laconic reply.
"Meanwhile, we will get those people, and that cannon, safely off the island," said Travis.
"Wait just a minute
," said Christopher. "What about the four prisoners?"
"What about them?"
"You can't leave them in the hands of those sadists."
"This is neither the time nor the place to start a shooting war, Mr. Groves."
"Isn't that what those cannon are for?"
"The cannon are to be used to protect ourselves from the Indians who have a bad habit of sweeping down from the high plains to raid our farms and village. The Mexican soldiers are too busy trying to catch smugglers to fight Comanches, it seems. Speaking of Indians, Tucker, be sure to kill that Tonkawa son of a bitch who's scouting for Piedras."
Tucker grinned from ear to ear. "Be my pleasure, Will."
"Mr. Groves, you may ride double with me."
"On of those four prisoners is a friend of mine. I will not abandon him."
"Loyalty is a commendable virtue. But there is nothing you can do for your friend at present. If he gets back to the presidio alive then, perhaps, we can save him."
"You're a heckuva lawyer, Will," said Tucker, "but you're not that good. Piedras will like as not chop his head off and stick it on a pole as a warning to other smugglers."
"My friend is not a smuggler," protested Christopher. "We had no idea those cannon were aboard."
"Of course not," said Travis. "Only the captain knew. I believe it was Benjamin Franklin who said that three men can keep a secret—if two of them are dead."
"How is it that you know?"
Travis smiled. "Robertson has my assurance that I will take good care of those six-pounders."
"I'm not going with you," said Christopher.
The smile vanished. Travis' eyes flashed cold blue flame. "We are not playing a game, Groves. More lives than just those four hang in the balance."
"What if I could get that cannon back for you?"
Travis stared at him.
"If Tucker and Lucas can draw most of those lancers off into the dunes, that Captain Piedras will order the prisoners and packhorses to remain under guard on the beach. If he leaves only a couple of guards, I can take care of them, free the prisoners, and take that six-pounder back."
Travis thought it over. A slow smile crept across his angular face. "A clever strategy," he conceded.
"It gets better. I'm a stranger to the Mexicans. If they catch me, there's no way they can connect me with Anahuac."
"You ought to be a lawyer, Groves. You make a compelling case. But can you handle two lancers?"
"Give me a rifle or a pistol, and I will."
"I don't like it," said Tucker. "He'll git hisself kilt for sartin."
"If he does," said Travis tersely, looking straight at Christopher, "they'll take him for a smuggler. He's right about that. Then we'll be off the hook."
"Until they find us with the other cannon," said one of the Texans.
"When that happens it will be too late."
Christopher thought that was an intriguing and cryptic answer, but now was not the time to ask Travis to clarify it.
"Here they come!" said Lucas, who had positioned himself atop a nearby dune from whence he could watch the beach.
"How about it?" pressed Christopher.
Again the Texans looked to Travis, waiting for his decision. It was not long in coming. Travis was not an indecisive man.
"Very well, then." He drew one of the pistols from his belt, handed it to Christopher. "As you can see, this is a matched set. I would like to have it back when you are done with it."
"Believe me, I'd like to be able to return it."
Travis laughed. "Good luck. Come on, men."
He reined his horse sharply about and kicked it into motion. Followed by three of the Texans, he rode deeper into the dunes.
Christopher turned to find Tucker looking at him with a positively morose expression on his face.
"You don't think I'm going to make it, do you?" asked Christopher.
"Well," drawled Tucker, "I don't think I'll ever see an elephant fly, either—but I wouldn't mind being wrong." The Texan mounted up. "We'll move on down a ways, so's the column will pass you by. Mebbe you kin Injun-up on 'em from behind."
He and Lucus rode on. Christopher crawled to the top of a dune on his belly. Looking west, along the curve of the shoreline, he saw the column of lancers approaching. Suddenly he felt very much alone. But he was resolved to rescue Klesko, or perish in the attempt.
The column had just passed Christopher's position when the first shot was fired. A pink mist suddenly appeared around the head of the Indian scout loping in advance of the lancers. The Indian pitched sideways, twitched once, and lay dead in the sand.
An instant later Tucker's shotgun roared. With a shrill scream the horse of one of the lead lancers went down. The lancer's left leg was shredded by the buckshot. His right leg was pinned beneath the thrashing horse.
The column was thrown into turmoil—shouting men, pivoting horses. Captain Piedras spun his horse around, barking orders, trying to bring order out of confusion. Another shot—Christopher knew it came from the rifle of the Texan named Lucas. A lancer somersaulted over the haunches of his horse to lay sprawled and lifeless.
Christopher realized that the lancers, while they had a forbidding and very martial appearance, were not well-suited for the kind of fighting they would see against these Texans. They would do all right in a set piece battle, in a charge against a line of infantry, for instance. But unless they could close with their enemy, their lances were practically worthless.
Piedras was a professional. He kept his wits about him. His well-trained troops responded, recovering quickly from their initial surprise. With lances lowered they charged into the dunes. Piedras lingered a moment to order the two men responsible for the packhorses to watch the four prisoners. Everyone else went into the dunes, and the captain was hot on their heels, the blade of his drawn sword flashing in the sun.
So far so good, thought Christopher. Only two men left behind for him to deal with. There was no reason for Piedras to leave more. The prisoners would not take much watching. All three of the crewmen collapsed, exhausted, into the sand, scarcely conscious of events around them. Klesko, on the other hand, remained standing, watching the lancers disappear into the dunes in pursuit of their ambushers. But there was little the burly riverman could do to trouble the two guards, with his hands bound and anchored to the heavy timber by the rope around his neck.
Christopher heard Tuck's shotgun boom again, farther away this time. The chase was on. The two Texans were going to lead Piedras and his lancers on a merry chase. Christopher wished them luck—and made his move.
While one of the lancers left behind took charge of the packhorses, his colleague dismounted and rushed to the aid of the man who was pinned beneath his dying horse. The former was watching the dunes, where the rest of the patrol had gone. He did not see Christopher coming up from behind until it was too late. His shout of alarm was cut short by the crack! of Christopher's pistol. Christopher waited until the last possible moment to shoot, so that when he did finally squeeze the trigger it was at very close range. The bullet struck the lancer squarely in the chest and knocked him out of the saddle. The reins of the packhorses slipped from his dead hand. The animals scattered. Christopher gave no thought at the moment to the cannon. Laden as they were, the packhorses would not stray far. Time enough later, if he survived, to retrieve the six-pounder.
He had the Tripolitan cutlass drawn. A single stroke, and he cut the rope from the timber. Klesko roared with delight as the razor-sharp blade sliced the rope which bound his wrists together. Christopher moved on, leaving Klesko to deal with the rope around his neck.
The second guard had drawn his pistol. Dismounted, he stood in the duellist's stance and drew a bead on Christopher. A packhorse darted between them. This bought Christopher valuable seconds. The lance of the Mexican he had shot lay in the sand at his feet. Christopher discarded the cutlass, scooped up the twelve-foot weapon, and charged. The lancer's pistol spit yellow flame and white powder smoke. Th
e bullet made a disconcertingly loud cracking sound as it missed Christopher by inches. An instant later Christopher drove the lance through the Mexican. As the man fell, Christopher saw that the lancer pinned beneath his horse also had a pistol in his hand. The pistol spoke. Christopher felt the burn of the bullet. He reeled, dropping to one knee, and clutched his arm. The blood was hot and sticky between his fingers. Just a flesh wound—nonetheless, he felt suddenly light-headed and nauseated. Looking up, he saw Klesko lumber past him. The riverman had extricated himself from the rope and picked up the cutlass and now he fell upon the helpless lancer with a vengeance. Christopher turned his head away as the cutlass rose and fell, rose and fell.
A moment later Klesko was kneeling before him, grinning. His face and clothes were splattered with the lancer's blood.
"Damn it all, Christopher, you're a sight for sore eyes! You bad hurt?"
"Just a scratch."
"Your ma. Is she . . . ?"
"She's alive."
"I reckon I'm gonna have to get religion. I told the Almighty I'd go to church if He'd just make certain she came through in one piece. I didn't think He'd listen to the likes of me, but I guess I was wrong. How 'bout the others?"
"Prissy's dead. The others are well. We've got to get out of here before the lancers come back."
"Let 'em come," growled Klesko. "I've got a score to settle with those buzzards."
"Settle it later. We're getting out of here. Catch that horse with the cannon on it."
Christopher picked himself up and listened for a moment to the sound of distant gunfire. He could only hope that Piedras and the rest of the lancers had not heard the shooting on the beach. Apparently Tucker and Lucas were doing their job.
Looking about him at the dead soldiers, it occurred to Christopher that this was a hell of way to make a new beginning in Texas.
Gone to Texas Page 25
