A group of men have set up a small campfire near the breach where Santa Anna’s men finally were able to find a way into the Alamo. I stand behind them, knowing they cannot see me. I smile as one of them glances up then quickly makes the sign of the cross over his chest. They may not be able to see me, but he, at least, was able to sense my presence. This was once a church and later became a fort, perhaps they understand they are desecrating hallowed ground, or perhaps they heard the stories of why Santa Anna’s men refused to burn the Alamo; of the last defenders and their flaming swords.
I turn and head toward the chapel. It is the largest building on the grounds and is still relatively intact and the best place for a commander to have his headquarters. However, the best place to learn anything would be where the majority of the troops are—the barracks. I pause and turn my attention there.
“Madre de Dios.”
“Paz?”
“Did you not sense the spirit watching us?”
The other two men laugh, a forced laugh, as they looked around at the crumbling walls. “You have been listening to Lisandro’s ghost stories again. There are no spirits here—only memories.”
“You are a fool.” Paz pulled a silver crucifix from under his shirt and kissed it. “My cousin was one of those who was here when el Generalissimo ordered them to burn this place. He saw the diablos who stood between the army and the doors.”
“And how much celebrating had he done prior to seeing these spirits?”
Paz stood and brushed the dirt from his pants. “May the angels watch over you.” He paused and looked up at the stars. “Strong memories have their own power and leave a bit of themselves behind as well. Whether it was a memory or a spirit—there was a presence here. Good night.”
“Good night.”
I watch the one they called Paz head into one of the intact rooms of the barracks. He knelt before a figure of a woman holding a child—Mary. He was muttering a prayer asking her to protect him and his friends from vengeful spirits and asking her to guide those trapped here to a place where they could find their rest. He stood slowly and placed a hand on the wall to steady himself. Before he could turn away, I place a hand over his. I can feel the warmth in his flesh and the beat of his heart. It takes effort, but I am able to draw some of that warmth from him. His eyes go wide and I know he can now see me.
“Who are you?” He asks.
“One of those who are only a memory.” My voice is weak and no louder than a whisper. “Why are you here?”
He shakes his head. “I do not know the General’s orders. I only know we are not to leave the Alamo or be seen by those who live in the town.”
I nod and pull my hand away from his and smile as he takes a deep breath and crosses himself again. He can no longer see me. I leave him there muttering another prayer for protection.
I was brought here for a reason. Perhaps it is for this reason I’ve been trapped as I have. Perhaps this is my chance for redemption so I can finally find rest. To find out I also need to find out why these men are here.
“Rider.”
“Sir!” I snap to attention as I turn to face the voice behind me.
“You failed in reaching the Alamo to warn us Fannin would not be arriving as we expected and have had to relive that failure as punishment. You have been given a chance. A chance for both you and Fannin.”
I stared at the ghostly figure, not sure who I am speaking to. However, I knew his words were true.
“This group is only a scout, sent by Santa Anna to test the vigilance of the Texans. No one in San Antonio has taken notice that they are here. They have recently received a dispatch from General Woll who is being sent by Santa Ann to reclaim Texas for Mexico.”
“Should I alert those in the city about this?”
“No!” The figure paused, his features becoming more distinct—but still not identifiable as any particular defender. “We want them to report that Texas is open and vulnerable to attack. We want them to try to invade. We want them to learn a lesson they will never forget so they will leave Texas alone.”
“What are my orders?”
“Return to Goliad and tell Fannin to bring his troops to Salado Creek. These men are leaving tomorrow and shortly after the return, another force will attempt to invade Texas. The Texas Army will be able to intercept them at Salado Creek, but they will need help. We will muster as many of those who defended the Alamo as we can who have not gone on to their rest, you will muster Fannin and others will muster those they can who fell at San Jacinto.” The spirit started to fade then seemed to solidify again. “Tell Fannin we have put all blame and egos aside. We must all stand together or Texas will lose all we died for.”
I salute the spirit who fades away along with the remaining walls of the Alamo. I find myself back on the bridge, my horse standing there, waiting for me, ready for the ride back to Goliad. The quarter moon is high in the night sky, though the light is muted by a thin layer of clouds. The diffuse light creates a ring around the moon and a single star shines within the ring. The Lone Star of Texas. It is a good omen.
I pull my horse up before the doors of Fort Defiance. The air still holds the odor of smoldering fires and burnt flesh where the Mexican army burned the bodies of Colonel Fannin and his men. When we were alive the ride between San Antonio and Goliad would have taken over a day. But now, as spirits bound to this place as well as the Alamo, it seems only seconds have passed. A quick glance at the haloed moon confirms it hasn’t moved.
As I dismount, several ghostly figures form in front of the doors. Colonel Fannin steps forward from the group.
“Rider?”
“I’ve just returned from the Alamo and your troops are needed in San Antonio to defend Texas.”
“We did our duty long ago and this was our reward.” Fannin gestured to the spirits of his men and the still smoldering fires. “We were prepared to do our duty to Texas, but we received conflicting orders from those playing political games. Go to the Alamo, return to Goliad, send men to Refugio, retreat to Victoria. In the end, all we succeeded in doing was being massacred.”
“I was told to tell you: We have put all blame and egos aside. We must all stand together or Texas will lose all we died for.”
I watch as Fannin stepped back and talked to his men then the group faded from site. “Damn.” I turn back to my horse and start to mount, even if Fannin and his men won’t come with me, I will return to San Antonio to defend Texas.
My horse neighs and bobs his head toward the doors of the Fort. There, slowly solidifying with their weapons in hand are Fannin’s troops. “We will answer the call,” Fannin said.
The sounds of battle fill the air and fog surrounds us and we find ourselves standing in a copse of trees near a creek. On one side of the creek, holding the elevated ground is a small group of Texas militia. On our side are the troops of the Mexican army; at least one thousand men plus artillery.
There are several casualties among the Mexican troops and they are realigning their remaining troops and fortifying their position. With their numbers, even with the Texas militia having the superior position, they will eventually be able to defeat the defenders. That is; unless we do something to prevent it.
There is a stirring in the air, as if lightening had struck nearby. Looking around I see more spirits appearing in the area. Men I recognize from the Alamo and others that would have been with Houston.
“Touch them,” I call out. “You can draw enough strength from a person for them to see you.” I touch the man I am standing next to feeling his strength flow into me. As I glance at him, I realize it is the same man I spoke to in the Alamo, Paz he was called.
His eyes go wide, but doesn’t have the same sense of fear that he had before. Instead he nods his head slightly. “You and the other spirits wish us to leave Texas.”
“We do.” I look around; many of the soldiers are starting to back away. The acrid scent of their fear is strong. Near the back of the army and forcing his way
through is a man on a horse. Another rider, next to him, carries the army’s banner. This must be General Woll. He is calling orders—not yelling but speaking loudly, clearly and with authority. The soldiers are starting to regroup, their fear replaced by their discipline and respect for their general.
Another volley of shots rings out and several more of the soldiers fall. “Go,” I say. “Leave this place.”
Paz shakes his head and drops his gaze away from me. “I have my duty.”
“And we have ours.” I pull my hand away and move to where more of the spirits are gathering. There is something calling me and I feel the power growing in the area.
Six spirits appear between the soldiers and the creek, each one holding flaming swords. “Diablo’s!” The name ripples through the soldiers as many of them drop to their knees and cross themselves. I look around for Paz, he is also kneeling, but it is not from fear—there is a sense of reverence and awe surrounding him. Perhaps he understands why we are here, why we are still fighting, why independence and freedom are so important.
More soldiers fall, but there were no shots fired from the Texas Militia. Behind the six spirits with the swords, another figure appears; this one larger and also holding a flaming sword. He assumes a defensive position before the members of the Texas Militia; his meaning clear: He will defend these men from all attacks.
The general rides forward, his own sword drawn. The soldiers hesitate, but do follow him forward.
A ball of flame strikes the ground in front of the general’s horse and it rears up. General Woll stay in the saddle and calms the horse enough to move forward again. Another ball of flame.
“General Woll,” a voice says and echoes in the valley. “Too much blood has already been spilled and we have no desire to see more spilled. However, be warned, we will continue to defend Texas and her freedom. Leave now and you will be allowed to go in peace. Continue this invasion and you will lose. Texas no longer belongs to President Santa Anna or Mexico.
General Woll nodded then sheathed his sword. “I will concede that you have the winning position here, and I do not wish to sacrifice my men in a losing battle. However, this land belongs to Mexico—you took it by force not by right and it will one day return to Mexico.”
“Perhaps, but not as long as we remain to defend Texas and her independence.”
General Woll ordered his troops to leave Texas and return to Mexico. Unfortunately, their return was not uneventful as a small group of cavalry attacked the Mexicans. Because we had promised General Woll he would be allowed to leave in peace, we did not stop the massacre of General Dawson and his men. And because of this our spirits have not found their final rest. We are still here, though not as trapped as we once were. All of us are here because we are defenders of Texas. We are the ones who will always be here ready to stand between Texas and those who would take freedom and independence from her or her citizens. We will not take the place of those who are alive and willing stand up, and we will always welcome new defenders into our ranks—because we are the Last Defenders.
An avid reader at a young age, her strong desire to write came from her love of (her husband calls it her obsession with) Star Trek. It was this early love of Star Trek that led her to the Science Fiction and Fantasy genres.
Carol currently edits and publishes two online magazines, The Lorelei Signal and Sorcerous Signals. She also runs a small press publishing company, WolfSinger Publications, works full-time and is a published author. Her books include: Call of Chaos, Chaos Embraced, The Road Into Chaos, Chaos Challenged, Space Pirates, Space Sirens and All About Eve.
Long Night in Little China
by
Joel Jenkins
Lone Crow knew better than to draw upon one Tong hatchet man, let alone three. Yet there he was, standing in the streets of Little China, hand resting on his eagle-butted Colt revolver facing down three fighting men of the Hop Sing Tong.
They wore low broad-brimmed hats of black, the braided tails of their hair snaking over their shoulders and down their backs. The long silken belts they wore were thrust through with hatchets and knives, but the center tong fighter cast aside the long-haired Chinese girl who was struggling in his grip and Crow could see the pistol grips of a pair of Colt Navy revolvers jutting forward.
Crow had seen one other gunfighter wear his gun butts forward and he was fast enough to rack up a string of kills and an impressive reputation, but in Crow's opinion he would have been even faster if he would have worn his gun handles back. Still, Crow had been in enough gunfights to know that winning was more about the accuracy of the shooter than the speed of the shooter. Those that had accuracy were deadly and those that had both were nigh on unstoppable.
“Leave the woman and I'll let you live!” shouted Crow, but he knew that the boo how doy fighting men of the tongs would not be so easily cowed, even by a red man with the demeanor of a savage.
“She belongs to Hop Sing,” said the Chinese gunman, and to emphasize the fact, he booted the girl in the belly and sent her sprawling in the mud. “She is the tong's to use or abuse. No white man or Indian slave has claim to her.”
The girl pushed herself to her hands and knees, the oval of her sublime face framed by curtains of dark hair, and her lips again formed a desperate plea for help. Crow was aware that the tongs brought in young girls by the boatload, for gold fever wasn't the only lust that afflicted the forty-niners. In China, girls could be purchased from hungry families for twenty dollars and they would fetch ten times that in San Francisco, or be put immediately to work in the stalls or parlour houses of Jackson and Washington Streets.
“I'm making claim,” said Crow and he knew that he needed to make an ultimatum. “I'm counting to three and if any of you are still in my sight I'm going to start shooting.”
Before Crow had reached the count of two, a pair of hatchet men were charging upon him from either flank. He hadn't seen any gun holsters on either of these tong killers, but it was possible that they had a hold-out hidden in their belt or among their loose blouses. Most of the boo how doy preferred to fight with hatchet or knife, but that didn't mean that they weren't, perhaps, even more dangerous than the Chinese gunfighter who stood his ground at the center and began to draw his pair of Navy Colts.
Each step of the sprinting tong warriors carried them closer, clots of earth spewing from their feet, and hatchets raising in their hands. Crow burst into action and his Eagle-butted Colt .45, blessed by a prophet in the salty wastes that night the dead came reeling from the grave, leaped into his hand as if by its own volition. He moved to his left so that if the Chinese gunfighter's draw was fast, his aim would be hindered by the body of his sprinting ally.
Crow ducked and a hatchet went whirling by his shoulder, then Crow fired two shots into the chest of the hatchet man, and he fell stone dead, face first in the muck at Crow's feet. Before the dead hatchet man had settled in the mud, Crow turned his aim to the second fighter, who had delayed the throw of his axe while his companion was standing in the way.
Flame belched from the barrel of Crow's .45 and a bullet caught the second hatchet man at the bridge of his nose and he toppled like a burlap bag of corn from the shoulder of a tired farmer. A bullet tugged at Crow's hat and pulled it from his head. Long hair that had been tucked beneath spilled out like the unfurling wings of a raven. If Crow had not been in a crouch that bullet would have caught him in the throat or chest.
The tong gunman held a pistol in each hand and began firing with more enthusiasm than accuracy. The road spit globs of mud as bullets spattered about Crow. The Indian wheeled about and took careful aim and sent his last three bullets winging toward the tong gunman. The first ricocheted from the head of a hatchet concealed beneath his blouse, the second pierced just beneath the ribs and the final bullet caught in the gunman's lung. The Chinese fighter reeled and went to his knees, his guns sagging in his grip.
His enemy was still conscious and holding a pair of pistols, and Crow was out of ammunition
. He could reload, but in those precious seconds, his enemy might gather enough moxy to shoot him down. Crow caught sight of a hatchet jutting from the belt of the dead tong fighter at his feet and he plucked it out of the sash. Crow was no stranger to the hatchet, though he preferred the balance of a tomahawk, which he had been trained with since his youth. Still, he plucked it up, and threw it, whirling, over the head of the Chinese girl. It missed her by scant inches, then the axe caught the tong gunman full in the face, splitting his skull to the teeth, and then he fell backward into the muck of the street.
Before Crow took another step, he opened his pistol and shook the empty shells onto the street. He methodically reloaded his pistol, scanning the street with sharp eyes lest more trouble appear. The buildings were a mixture of tents and rude wooden structures packed together in an interminable hodgepodge that possessed no discernable rhyme or reason. There were a number of spectators, standing on the stoop of a Chinese laundry and others who had poked their heads out of their tents when they had heard the sound of gunfire.
Word would get back to the tongs quickly, figured Crow, and it wouldn't be hard for the tongs to identify an Indian wearing a duster and a cowboy hat.
Crow retrieved his hat, shook off the mud and placed it on his head. He trudged over to the woman and helped her to her feet. She couldn't have been more than eighteen or nineteen years of age. Despite her dishevelled robes and mud-flecked hair, she possessed a supernal beauty which radiated beyond the dirt and the mire which stained her clothing. Her features were fine, her teeth even and white, and in her presence Crow had a difficult time remembering the faces of any of the beautiful women he had known, even his childhood crush, Sky Raven, whose face had continuously haunted him since that day his tribe had been exterminated by their old tribal enemies and he had been cast, a lone child, into the wilderness to fend for himself.
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