Return to the Alamo

by Paul Bedford

  Gradually I advanced, my eyes roaming over the landscape as I desperately sought out my prey. Then my heart literally lurched, as I suddenly made out a prone human form on the ground, off to my right and certainly not where I had expected to see anyone. Fighting the temptation to rush forward, I gradually angled over there, all the time searching for the expected threat. As I got closer I recognized Vicky’s burgundy coloured dress and I felt a wave of relief at having found her. But that was immediately tempered by doubt. Why was she not moving?

  As my eyes swivelled frantically between her and the surrounding terrain, I instinctively knew that something was badly wrong. Throwing all caution to the wind, I rushed forward and knelt down beside her. Bracing myself for the expected hammer blow of a rifle ball striking me, I gazed at Vicky’s recumbent figure. The dress hugged her form as finely as ever, but as long as I live I will never forget her face. The pale unblemished skin had been replaced with a blotchy complexion the colour of beetroot. The eyes were bulging, whilst her swollen tongue protruded beyond her mouth in a truly ghastly fashion. Sweeping aside the lace attached to her collar caused my blood to run cold. A length of wet rawhide cord had been placed around her neck and then knotted tightly. The warmth from her flesh and the mild breeze had combined to slowly dry it out, so that it had inexorably choked her to death. Anger and shame welled up inside of me. Was there no limit to that man’s capacity for evil deeds?

  It appeared that he possessed not an ounce of human feeling or compassion. And yet I had brought all this down on her, along with all the others. Finding her in that condition left me totally bereft and so it was almost absentmindedly that I unsheathed my hunting knife. Ignoring the pain, I slipped my left arm out of its sling and using thumb and forefinger, took hold of the knot wedged against her neck. Gingerly I forced the point inside the band of rawhide. Even though she had expired, I was oddly fearful of drawing blood from her once beautiful features. The still glorious dark hair framed her now hideous complexion, as I sliced the blade outwards.

  The rawhide fell away from her neck, leaving a vivid mark where it had throttled her. Sickened, I sheathed the knife and then belatedly recollecting my circumstances I glanced swiftly around. All was peaceful, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

  Then I heard it! Or maybe only even sensed it. Perhaps it was just the wishful imagination of a desperately unhappy man. Trembling slightly I turned back to Vicky, and stared intently at her bloated features. Again there was an almost ethereal whisper. This could not be, she was trying to communicate! Dropping down, I pressed my right ear to her mouth and listened intently. Nothing, nothing at all. This was madness. The woman was dead, for God’s sake! Yet then it came again. Almost non-existent. I only understood it because I recognized it.

  ‘Sarah!’

  Scrabbling to my feet, I bolted back to my horse, oblivious of anything else around me. If she could talk, then she had to be alive! Grabbing my water canteen, I retraced my steps with a speed that I hadn’t believed myself capable of. Flinging myself down next to her, painfully jarring my arm in the process, I pressed the mouth of the container to her lips. The life-giving water trickled out . . . only to run off her face and onto the grass. In desperation I squeezed her lips to allow the liquid to enter, but still there was no response. Crying out in frustration, I heaved her torso upright and hammered on her back. I pounded away until my hand hurt, but it was all to no avail. Ignoring my own discomfort I remained like that for some while before finally accepting the futility of it all. Then I gently eased Vicky’s still warm body onto the ground and sat gazing at her with tears streaming down my face.

  It was some time before I was able to regain a measure of self-control. With the return of logical thought came the awful realization of what I had heard. If somehow Vicky had managed to utter that name as she lay on the point of death, then it could only have been to warn me. For that one word to have been so important meant that Sarah Fetterman was now in extreme danger, from the man that I had come to regard as the devil incarnate!

  Forcing myself to think rationally, I decided that if Vicky had, under extreme duress, told him of my relationship with Sarah, she must also have told him where to find her. Which meant that I would have to abandon both the rangers and the powder and ride pell mell for San Antonio de Béxar.

  On the point of returning to my horse, a thought struck me. Had Speirs found the derringer? Intent on his perverted entertainment, he may not even have considered the possibility of her carrying a concealed weapon. After all, he had not even bothered to look for Kirby’s revolver, a fact that had proven to be his undoing, and showed that he was not infallible. Gazing again on Vicky’s agonized features, I felt strangely embarrassed at the thought of searching her body. There was a time when I would have welcomed the opportunity to delve under her dress, but this was not it. Partially averting my eyes, I hesitantly lifted the hem of her skirt, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of black stockings!

  I supposed that they were only to be expected in her profession, but they had aroused my interest nonetheless. Pulling the material higher I exposed her creamy thighs and there, tucked in her stocking top was the small single shot weapon.

  Pocketing the pistol, I stalked back to my horse and freed him from his hobble. I knew that I should return to the wagon and make my intentions plain, but there just wasn’t the time. Every minute that I dallied could count against Sarah’s survival. Speirs now had two mounts on which to alternate. He would be in San Antonio long before me. Mind made up, I clambered into the saddle. Within minutes I was over the first rise, and out of sight. For the first time in months I was truly alone.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  For the remainder of that day I rode steadily west. My arm, although no longer supported by a sling, appeared to be on the mend. The wound had ceased to seep blood and the flesh seemed to be knitting together. Whatever torments that man had inflicted on me, there was no denying that he had quite probably saved the limb and possibly even my life. That did not sit well with everything else that had occurred and just served to highlight how nothing in life can be purely black or white.

  With the lack of both company and distractions, I had plenty of time to brood over possible events in San Antonio. A resourceful man like Speirs would have little trouble locating Sarah, therefore I had to accept that by the time I arrived she would likely enough be his prisoner. He could not have foreseen that I would have found Vicky alive, if indeed she even had been.

  Be that as it may, Speirs would know that Sarah was my Achilles heel and that I would make for her at my best speed. Which led me on to where he might take her. He would need shelter and by the very nature of his mission, would not want any interference. Yet he would most certainly wish to be found by me. Where in the environs of San Antonio de Béxar would he find a location to fulfil all these needs?

  Barely had my fevered mind posed the question, when the answer presented itself. The Alamo Compound with its fortified church would be ideal. Empty and yet relatively close to the city, it would make a perfect location for him to hide away with his hostage. He could acquaint himself with the layout and await my arrival at leisure.

  So certain was I that this scenario would take place, that I began to boil over with frustration. I was only able to contain my emotions due to the exertion required for riding. However, there is only so long that the mind can maintain a level of perpetual turmoil and by nightfall mine had burnt itself out. I was left with a core of ice cold rage, which was to stay with me for the remainder of that journey.

  With the coming of darkness I decided against pushing on through the night. My body was still recovering and I would do little to enhance my cause by arriving worn out. Having rubbed down my horse, I dined on jerky and then resolved to allow myself a full night’s sleep. Wrapping myself in my blanket, with a saddle for a pillow, I lay there gazing up at the night sky until suddenly it no longer existed.

  On waking the following morning, I knew that that day woul
d see me across the Guadalupe River and then San Antonio would finally be within reach. I was gratified to discover that I could lift the saddle into position far easier than at any time since my ordeal. And so, only a short time after rising, I was astride a horse and continuing west.

  Around mid-afternoon I made out a clutch of trees up ahead and knew that I had reached the Guadalupe. Heading straight for the sparkling liquid, I allowed the horse to drink before confidently traversing the benign watercourse. At that point a strange mood descended on me. I was happy to be within striking distance of my new home and yet I knew that the task before me could quite possibly claim my life. Dismounting briefly, I refilled my water canteen, stuffed my mouth with biscuits and within minutes was on my way again. Throughout that afternoon, whilst all the time brooding over the possible situation in San Antonio, I pressed my mount hard. By the time the light began to go, I had detected a change in the landscape ahead.

  I spent that final night, quite conceivably my last one on earth, at the base of the Balcones Escarpment, knowing that on the morrow there was to be a reckoning. The escarpment itself was an area of hilly, wooded ground that led up to the far more inhospitable Edwards Plateau. San Antonio was situated some way up the escarpment and I fully expected to arrive there before nightfall the following day.

  With this in mind, I meticulously checked and then double-checked my two weapons. Having used the last rays of light for this task, I again ate a cold supper of biscuits and beef jerky and then curled up in my blanket and tried to go to sleep. Yet myriad thoughts churned around in my head and I found it difficult to drift off. Graphically I explored various scenarios set in, and around, the Alamo Compound. Somehow I knew that I alone would have to deal with whatever situation awaited me.

  I jerked upright bathed in sweat, convinced that I already was in the fortified church. The reality was actually far more mundane, as I took advantage of the morning light to view the emptiness around me. My heart was pounding, to the extent that it was some minutes before I had fully calmed down.

  ‘God damn it all,’ I cried out to a disinterested equine audience. ‘One way or another it ends today!’

  Having saddled the horse, stowed my belongings and attended to my toilet, I was off again at speed. In a fever of impatience to reach Sarah, I had to remind myself that such behaviour could get me killed. However it was the terrain, rather than any display of common sense, that effectively slowed me down, as I made my way up through the wooded hills of the escarpment.

  As the morning progressed I knew that I was getting close, not so much because I was familiar with the ground, but more because I could sense it. And then the land began to level out and suddenly I knew where I was. The San Antonio River Valley beckoned and my horse could smell the water. Approaching from the east as I was, I would find the Alamo between the city and myself. If I had guessed Speirs’s intentions correctly, he could already have been ensconced somewhere in that warren of buildings. It all depended on how much of a lead he had maintained.

  My only option was to proceed carefully on my chosen path, which as a first step required me to discover the situation in the city. Accordingly I swung off to the south, thereby avoiding the Alamo Compound by a good margin. All that time the thoughts of what could be occurring there were eating away at me. Passing level with the south wall, I could just make out the remains of the breastwork, which had served to delay the onslaught of the Mexican Army some nine years before. At that range and with broken ground between, it was highly unlikely that anybody occupying the structure would have spotted me. Maintaining my pace for another half mile brought me up with San Antonio itself.

  Reining in, it was with mixed emotions that I observed the city. My relief at finally reaching my destination was boundless, yet that was tempered by the desperate uncertainty of what I would find there. I prayed that Captain Hays and the remainder of his ranger company would be there, as that would make my task so much easier.

  As I drew nearer, I could make out the individual buildings and even signs of activity on the dirt streets. The massive San Fernando Cathedral stood out amongst all the other adobe buildings. In front of this church was the Main Plaza, site of numerous saloons and fandango halls. It was to this area that I intended to go first. If an unusual looking stranger had recently arrived asking questions, he would surely have attracted attention and the best place to catch up on local gossip was a tavern.

  My arrival at a steady pace from the south was unlikely to be noticed by Speirs, even if he was indeed lodged somewhere in the compound. It was only as I reached the first of the adobe buildings that I realized that I too was noteworthy for my appearance alone. Having endured God knows how many nights on the trail, numerous violent conflicts and only one hot bath, anyone downwind of me would have been unhappily aware of my presence. In addition, my jacket was torn to shreds, I was covered in dried blood and I now sported a luxurious but filthy beard.

  Sure enough, as I arrived in the plaza, various idlers viewed me with interest. Ignoring them, I looked around to get my bearings. My destination was a small saloon next to the Béxar Exchange, an infamous fandango hall home to many ladies of the night. The proprietor of the saloon was a Joseph Wetsall, with whom I had become reasonably well acquainted during my time in San Antonio. I was convinced that he would have either seen or heard of Speirs’s arrival. What I had not expected was his reaction to my own entrance.

  The saloon was in no way comparable to the one that I had visited in Galveston, in either size or comfort, but it was an agreeable enough place to while away an evening. Having dismounted and tethered my horse, I walked stiffly inside and immediately spotted Wetsall wiping down the long counter that served as a bar. He was a slightly built man, of medium height, whom I had always found to be very affable.

  ‘Good day, Joseph,’ I called out. ‘I am indeed happy to be back here.’

  That worthy twisted round to look at me, his eyes narrowing as he struggled with my unaccustomed facial hair. Then, with a gasp, he fell back against the wall clutching his chest. ‘Holy mother of God, this can’t be!’

  Both surprised and puzzled at this response, I advanced on him, hand outstretched in greeting. ‘It is I, Thomas Collins. Pray forgive my repellent appearance, only I have been on the trail these many days past.’

  ‘No,’ he choked out by way of reply, his narrow face ashen. ‘You were killed on the Colorado by those blamed savages!’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Hugo Speirs had yet again proved how devilishly clever he was. Having reached San Antonio the previous evening, he had made straight for the Main Plaza and announced himself as a travelling companion of mine. Conveniently discovering a saloon keeper that knew me, he had pronounced me dead at the hands of Comanches and then asked the whereabouts of a certain Sarah Fettermen, so that he could report my demise.

  With a sinking heart I demanded of Wetsall, ‘And you told him?’

  ‘Why the hell not?’ His response was offered defensively and with a deal of indignation. ‘He had news of your death and he knew who to ask for.’

  So that maniac had Sarah! So far things had gone as I had expected, which was absolutely no consolation at all.

  ‘And there’s something else as well,’ continued Wetsall gloomily. ‘He hired himself some bar trash. Said he needed men who would fight for pay, to help the rangers get your gunpowder back. They were queuing up when he flashed one of them fancy gold coins.’

  Things were just getting worse. ‘Where are Hays and his rangers?’

  ‘Out tracking some Comanches, what raided the Chambers’ place. Been gone nigh on three days now.’

  My head was aching. I desperately needed to work out what to do, but this saloon was not the place for that. Yet I did have another question. ‘Was Speirs wounded?’

  Wetsall nodded swiftly. ‘Seemed to be favouring his left shoulder and like you was a mite splashed with blood. It all made sense, what with him tangling with the Comanche and all.’ A look of e
xasperation came to his face, ‘Thomas, what’s going on?’

  With a sigh, I told him of Speirs’s real reason for coming to the city. The saloon keeper was visibly upset. Although a hard-nosed businessman, he was basically decent and seemed to harbour a liking for me. After hearing my story he was keen to make amends and immediately put the question, ‘What can I do to help?’

  There were two things that came directly to mind. ‘I need Hays found and brought back here. There is gunpowder and it is destined for the rangers. Any riders that you can recruit will be paid, only not just yet. At this moment, thanks to Speirs, I am penniless.’

  The other man smiled grimly as he replied, ‘I’ll see what I can do, anything else?’

  ‘I need the shotgun that you keep under the counter. If that bastard’s bought himself some help with my money, then I will need to even up the odds a little.’

  The saloon keeper appeared distinctly uncomfortable as he considered my request. I knew that it was a lot to ask. That weapon was essential for controlling some of the wilder characters that frequented his establishment. So without giving him time to refuse, I added, ‘For one night only. This time tomorrow it’ll all be over, one way or another.’

  ‘And if you get killed again,’ he said, hefting the weapon under my nose, ‘what happens to this beauty?’

  Reaching out to take it in a firm grip, I said, ‘Then it will be in the wrong hands and you’ll need to look for a new method of crowd control!’

  The single storey adobe building that was our home proved to be empty, yet displayed all the signs of a fierce struggle. It took all my self-control to stop myself from rushing blindly over to the compound. My only chance was to utilize the cover of darkness. Settling myself down next to the overturned bed, I checked over my expanding armoury, paying particular attention to my newest acquisition. Wetsall’s shotgun appeared to be in good condition. It was well oiled and the caps were well seated. The barrel was far longer than I was used to, but it would suffice.