Home of the Brave

by Jeffry Hepple

  The fat man pulled back his serape to reveal a badge which read, Jefe de Policia. “You will put up your hands now, Señor.”

  “Not today.” The gambler put the still smoking hat on his head and crossed his arms, tapping the ivory pistol grips with his index fingers. “Your move, Señor Gordo.”

  “I know your name, Señor Billy Van,” the police chief said, without moving toward his pistol. “If you run you will be hunted down and hanged.”

  “Hunting and catching are likely to be two different things.” William Van Buskirk backed toward the door and vanished.

  March 30, 1832

  Two Alone Ranch, Coahuila, Mexican Province of Tejas

  “I don’t care if Buffalo Hump feeds his band on our cattle, Josiah,” Thomas argued. “We can’t fight him and the Mexicans at the same time.”

  “The Mexicans ain’t gonna come back, Tom,” Captain Whipple said. “If they was, they woulda been here by now.”

  “I don’t mean here, Josiah.” He picked up a letter from his desk. “This is a copy of a letter from a lawyer named William Barret Travis to Stephen Austin. In it, Travis claims that Bradburn is completely out of hand and because of that, there’s a substantially large organization that’s advocating Texas independence.”

  “That suits me just fine,” Whipple replied with a grin.

  “Then don’t stir up the Comanches please. Unless they start cutting out whole herds, let them take all the beef they need. If we have to fight for Texas independence, I’d rather have the Comanches attacking the Mexicans. Beside, they keep the Cherokee, the Apache and Kiowa at a distance.”

  “Can I talk to you in private a minute, Tom?” Captain Lagrange asked.

  “I know what yer gonna ask him, Charlie,” Whipple said. “There ain’t no need t’ go slinkin’ off and tellin’ secrets.” He grinned at Thomas. “He wants t’ marry yer sister.”

  “Dang it, Josiah,” Lagrange complained, “I’ve been practicing all night and you spoiled it.”

  “You don’t need practice to talk to me,” Thomas said, “but you might want to rehearse your proposal before you ask Anna.”

  “No need for that,” Lagrange said with a big grin. “She asked me, and I said yes.”

  Thomas laughed and slapped him on the back. “Well then brother-in-law to be, I believe I’ve got a gourd of mescal up at the house that needs to be passed around.”

  April 15, 1831

  Upper Colorado River, Coahuila, Mexican Province of Tejas

  Anna and Charlie Lagrange were watching the river from a blanket that was spread in a huge field of bluebonnets. A picnic basket and the remnants of a meal had been pushed aside. Quincy was sleeping peacefully with his head in Charlie’s lap.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t have a big wedding or go on a real honeymoon,” Charlie said, stroking the little boy’s hair.

  “I’m not sorry,” Anna replied. “The wedding was perfect and being here with you, right now, is all I would ever want.”

  He studied her for a moment. “I need to ask you a question, Anna.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “I want the truth. I really need the truth.”

  “Double uh-oh.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I see that. What’s the question?”

  “Do you love me?”

  She giggled. “Yes, you idiot. I love you more than words can say.”

  “I thought maybe you needed a husband and a father for Quincy and I was just convenient.”

  She shrugged. “There was once some truth in that but after the first time you visited my bed I was hooked on you.”

  He smiled. “So you’re just using me as a sex object.”

  “Yes. And if Quincy wasn’t liable to wake up I’d use you right now.”

  “Bad idea.” He pointed toward a grove of trees. “Josiah sent a squad of riflemen out to watch over us.”

  “Thomas says that we have an informal peace with Buffalo Hump and that the Comanches will keep the hostile tribes away.”

  “I know what Tom says, but Josiah doesn’t trust Buffalo Hump.”

  “He’s never even spoken to Buffalo Hump. Thomas has.”

  Charlie shrugged. “Josiah was there twice when Tom met with Buffalo Hump and I trust Josiah’s instincts.”

  “More than Thomas’s instincts?”

  “Yes. Tom still has one foot in the city. Josiah’s a frontiersman through-and-through.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Are you a frontiersman through-and-through?”

  “No. But I’m further removed from the city than Tom.”

  “Josiah seems to have no compassion for the Indians, whatsoever. I don’t understand him.”

  “He’s very easy to understand. You can either be a friend or an enemy of Josiah. He doesn’t recognize anything in between. He’ll put his life on the line to protect a friend or to kill an enemy. Indians are his enemies.

  “Yet he’s sweet to Jane. And to Mother and the rest of us, who have Indian blood for that matter.”

  Charlie shook his head. “Okay, so maybe he isn’t so easy to understand.” He looked down at the sleeping child. “I hate to wake him but my leg’s going to sleep.”

  Anna crawled around him and moved Quincy, patting him until he was sound asleep again. “I want to have your baby while Quincy’s still little.”

  “I’ve been doing the best I can.”

  She giggled. “It was an observation, not a command.”

  “We’ve been together for quite a while now and you haven’t gotten pregnant. What if I can’t father children?”

  “So be it.” She sat down again and looked at the river. “But before you start kicking yourself, remember that it could be me or it could be something else.”

  Charlie lay back and looked at the clouds. “What would you say to starting our own ranch?”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “I don’t know what I want except that I don’t want to keep rangering.”

  “I have money. You can quit any time.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to live off you or in a room in Tom’s house. I want us to be – independent. Our own family with me as the head of the family. Am I making any sense?”

  “Of course you are.” She thought a moment. “We could build our own house inside the stockade or somewhere else on the ranch.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “No. I want what you want. But I’m lazy and sharing the work and profits seems easier than starting from scratch.”

  “I think I’d rather have a place of our own.”

  “Okay. We’ll start looking whenever you want.”

  April 17, 1832

  Washington, District of Columbia

  Sam Houston jerked open the door to his boarding house room and leveled a cocked pistol at the man who had knocked.

  “A fine way to greet an old comrade,” Yank said pushing the muzzle aside and walking past Houston into the room. “Stinks in here, Sam. What are you smoking?”

  “You better get out of here, Yank.” Houston let the hammer down and closed the door. “I just heard that there’s a Federal warrant out for my arrest.”

  Yank dropped his hat on the rumpled bed, sat down in the room’s only easy chair and put his feet up on the threadbare ottoman. “I know. I just came from the White House. President Jackson and I have a plan.”

  “Jackson? What’s his plan? To kill me?”

  “No, to help you.”

  “Jackson wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire.”

  “He’s mellowed a bit. I think he’d piss on you now.”

  “That’s not funny, Yank, the man hates me.”

  “He was damned angry at you for abandoning your office as Governor of Tennessee by getting involved with John Allen’s little girl. But he doesn’t hate you.”

  “You sound like him, God damn it. I didn’t abandon my office; I just didn’t run for reelection. And, Eliza A
llen was seventeen. And I married her, didn’t I?”

  “You married her when Colonel Allen showed up at the Governor’s mansion with a scattergun in one hand and his daughter in the other,” Yank chuckled.

  “What’s the difference? I married her. I’m still married to the little bitch, by God.”

  Yank rubbed his eyes. “Then who’s the Cherokee beauty that lives at your Fort Gibson trading post and claims to be your wife?”

  He waved his hand. “Well I was drunk when I married her.”

  “You’re always drunk, Sam. You knew damn well that you still had a wife in Tennessee when you married that Cherokee woman and you also know how Jackson feels about duty and loyalty to women.”

  “I know that he has such a tight view of right and wrong that nobody can live up to his standards.”

  Yank took a breath and let it out. “If you want to get out of this mess in one piece you’re going to just have to trust me, Sam.”

  “I trust you, Yank, but I don’t trust Jackson. Not any more.”

  “Well I’m telling you to trust Jackson so it all comes down to whether you trust me enough or not.”

  Houston paced the room. “Why do these things always happen to me? I just started to get my life back together and then this happens.”

  Yank waved his hand. “Sit down, Sam; you’re beginning to make me nervous. The marshals won’t have the warrant for at least another hour.”

  Houston moved Yank’s hat and sat on the bed. “I’ll go mad in prison, Yank. I can’t stand close places.”

  “You won’t go to prison but you might have to pay a fine.”

  “That’s the same as prison. I don’t have a dime.”

  “I’ll lend you whatever you need.”

  Houston jumped as another knock sounded on the door.

  “Relax, I’ll get it.” Yank walked to the door, opened it, ushered in a neatly dressed man, and then closed the door. “Sam Houston, may I present Francis Scott Key, famous poet, writer of national anthems and District of Columbia lawyer. Your lawyer, in fact.”

  “How do you do, Governor?” Key crossed the room, shook Houston’s hand then dragged the ottoman over toward the bed and sat down. “We don’t have much time, so please tell me briefly what happened.”

  Houston looked past Key at Yank.

  “Go ahead, Sam,” Yank soothed. “Just tell it like it happened and let Frank decide what you’ll tell the judge.”

  “I don’t know where to begin,” Houston said. “Should I start with Stanbery’s insults?”

  “On second thought, maybe I better give Frank the background and you take up the story where you put him in the hospital,” Yank suggested.

  “He woulda killed me if his pistol hadn’t misfired,” Houston argued.

  “Please do give me the background, General,” Key urged, seeming to ignore Houston’s comment.

  Yank nodded. “Sam is an adopted member of the Cherokee Nation and a staunch advocate of Indian rights. Last month he came here to testify before Congress about frauds that are being perpetrated upon the Cherokees by certain U. S. Government agents. After Sam’s testimony, Congressman William Stanbery of Ohio made a speech on the floor of the House accusing Sam of being of being in cahoots with Congressman Robert S. Rose and John Van Fossen. In case you didn’t know, Rose and Van Fossen were caught selling rations at inflated prices to Indians being relocated under the Indian Removal Act.” He nodded to Houston. “Tell Frank what happened after that, Sam.”

  Houston took a deep breath. “Well to start with I don’t even know John Van Fossen or Robert Rose.”

  “Skip that and stick to what happened between you and Congressman Stanbery,” Key said. “I know who they are.”

  Houston bobbed his head. “Okay. I wrote to Stansbury, told him that he had it all wrong and that I wanted to talk to him.”

  “If I may interrupt again please, Frank,” Yank said. “Stanbery made the whole thing up so he could attack President Jackson’s Indian Removal Act by attacking Sam. You’ll be able to see that if you get the transcript of his speech.”

  “Thank you.” Key made a note. “Go on please, Governor Houston.”

  “Stanbery wouldn’t answer my letters,” Houston said, “but I was told by a number of people that he was carrying two pistols and a dirk and that he was bragging that he planned to use them on me.”

  Key nodded.

  Houston pointed out the window. “Then the other day, when I was walking down Pennsylvania Avenue, past Mrs. Queen’s boardinghouse, who comes out of there but Stansbury. Well, as soon as he saw me, he went for his pistol. I wasn’t armed but I was carrying a hickory cane and so I...”

  “Wait,” Key interrupted. “Why do you carry a cane?”

  “I got shot in the leg by a Red Stick arrow at the Battle of Horseshoe Bend,” Houston replied. “It still troubles me at times.”

  “Go on,” Key said, writing furiously.

  Houston shrugged. “That’s about it. I beat him with the stick and they took him to the hospital.”

  “You beat him before or after he drew his pistol?”

  “After. But I had to because he had another pistol and a dirk, according to some people.”

  “Wait,” Key said. “Another pistol?”

  “He had two and I was afraid he’d pull the second so I clubbed him.”

  “How did you prevent him from shooting you with the first pistol?”

  “I didn’t. His pistol misfired. He punched it right into my belly and pulled the trigger. That’s when I whacked him.”

  Key looked at his pocket watch. “I think I have enough to argue self defense. Of course President Jackson’s enemies don’t really care about truth or justice, so I can’t make any promises.”

  “We have an ace in the hole,” Yank said. “James Polk is the chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee. He’s willing to trade some favors for Sam’s benefit.”

  “He’s powerful, but he can’t influence the decision,” Key said.

  “No, but he can influence the sentence if things go against you in court.”

  Key stood up. “Put on a clean shirt if you have one, Governor Houston and don’t take another drink. The marshals will be here shortly.”

  April 20, 1832

  Washington, District of Columbia

  “I hate to ask, Yank, but can you lend me some money?” Sam Houston asked.

  “Yes,” Yank replied, without hesitation. “How much do you need?”

  “A couple of hundred.”

  “You’re going to need more than that, Sam. Stansbury’s suing you for a thousand dollars. Even though you walked away from the criminal charges with only a slap on the wrist, the guilty verdict almost guarantees that you’ll lose the civil case.”

  “I don’t want the money for that. To hell with Stansbury and his civil lawsuit; I’m going to Texas.”

  Yank thought a moment. “I’ll give you a thousand dollars on the condition that you don’t leave the country until after the civil trial.”

  “Why?”

  “If you don’t appear in civil court as ordered, a new criminal charge will be brought against you.”

  “So what? They can’t arrest me in Texas.”

  “Thomas - my son Thomas, tells me that Texas will be a State in the not too distant future.”

  Houston sighed. “What if I appear in court and then leave after the trial without paying?”

  “That would be another civil matter. You might someday have to pay it and you might not, but you wouldn’t be arrested.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll do.”

  “I’ll have the money for you this afternoon,” Yank said. “But I want your word that you’ll appear.”

  “If I don’t I’m sure you’ll come after me,” Houston chuckled.

  “I won’t be here. Jackson’s sending me to Illinois on a fact-finding mission. I’m leaving in the morning.”

  “You have my sacred oath that I’ll be in court.”

  Ya
nk stood up and offered Houston his hand. “Marina and I have been talking about going to Texas too. When this mission’s complete, I hope to see you there.”

  “You’ll see me somewhere when I pay you back.”

  “You can pay me back by getting your life straight, Sam. I don’t need the money.”

  “You’re a true friend, Yank.”

  “And Sam. Try staying sober. It’s when you’re drunk that you get into trouble.”

  “You’re not that good of a friend.”

  May 16, 1832

  Old Man’s Creek, Illinois

  A young captain of the Illinois Militia, who was overseeing grave digging, turned toward the sound of Yank’s approaching horse and walked to meet him. “Can I help you, sir?”

  Yank fumbled in his saddlebag. “I’m an emissary of President Jackson on a fact-finding mission and somewhere in this saddlebag I have a letter to prove it.”

  “That’s alright, sir. I don’t need to see any proof. Nobody’d come down here amongst this stink and corruption unless he had to or he couldn’t smell.”

  Yank dismounted but held onto the saddle horn to stretch his back before trying to walk. “Old Man’s Creek is an appropriate destination for me.”

  “How did the President learn about this battle so soon, sir?”

  “He doesn’t know, Captain. I just wanted to come and take a look at the ground for myself before sending him a report. The stories I’ve been hearing are too much in conflict with one another.”

  “I take it that you’re a military man, sir?”

  “Why would you think so?”

  “You said you wanted to look at the ground. A civilian would have said battlefield.”

  “Would they? Huh. I never thought about it. And what would you say, Captain? A militiaman with one foot in each camp.”

  “I’d say battle ground to cover all the angles.”

  Yank laughed. “You may have a future as a politician, Captain.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing, sir. I’m sure I don’t have much future as a military leader, as recent experience has taught me.”