by J. T. Edson
Although the horse that Dimmock was trying to catch attempted to shy away, his fingers made contact with its reins. He grasped the leather strap tenaciously with his left hand. At the same time, his right fist closed just as tightly over the saddle horn. He felt a sudden jerk, but his grip held and he utilized the animal’s forward momentum as a propulsive aid to making a swinging, leaping mount.
Even as the lieutenant felt the hard leather of the saddle between his legs, he knew that he was by no means out of danger. To escape, he must run the gauntlet of the riflemen on the slope and the much closer Lancers. Locating the stirrup irons and inserting his feet, he flattened himself alongside the horse’s neck and guided it at an angle of about forty-five degrees. That would take him clear of the riders, but in ascending the slope, he might be approaching one of the infantrymen. It was, he realized, a chance he had to take.
At that moment, Refugio shot Badillo’s horse and, in doing so, slightly reduced the danger to Dimmock.
Furious at having failed to kill the major, the lanky sergeant acted swiftly. He started to lower the rifle’s butt with the intention of reloading as swiftly as possible. Once he had done so, he hoped he would be able to make another attempt at earning the promised promotion. Before he had time to make a start, he noticed Dimmock riding away from the trail.
‘There’s one of them getting away on a horse!’ Refugio bawled, realizing that the lieutenant would pass him and that there was nobody further along the slope to stop him. ‘Shoot the bastard!’
Much to the sergeant’s annoyance, the order was not obeyed. Snarling a curse, he turned his head to discover why he was being ignored. More by accident than deliberate choice, he had selected a position from which he could see the majority of his party. Every member of it within his range of vision was in a similar situation to himself. The butts of their rifles were on the ground and they were in various stages of recharging the barrels with powder and ball. Realizing the futility of trying to make them hurry up the process which was always laborious, Refugio gave a resigned shrug. He could see what was happening on the trail and decided that he would be able to transfer the blame on the Lancers if the Texian should escape.
Having their commanding officer flung headlong to the ground in front of them caused considerable inconvenience and some concern to the leading riders of what had been the advance guard. Despite his faults, Badillo had many qualities which appealed to the tough, hard-bitten erstwhile vaqueros and former bandidos—who had elected to join the Army rather than be imprisoned for their various crimes—serving under him. His undoubted courage, skill with weapons and deadly efficient way of enforcing his will upon others had won their admiration and respect. In addition, the more intelligent of them saw him as a leader who was rising in prominence and realized that it might be beneficial to support him.
So, wanting to save the major from further injury, the men acted with a greater speed than they would have displayed with a less favored officer. Manipulating their reins, they contrived to either turn aside or halt their horses before reaching Badillo. In doing so, they threw the riders who were following them into some confusion. Those behind, including a few who had observed Dimmock riding off, were also compelled to hurriedly stop.
‘Hey, you Lancers!” Refugio shouted at the top of his voice, his intention being to place the responsibility for the Texian’s escape elsewhere. “Our rifles are empty. Get after that one. Don’t let him escape.’
Despite the warning, several seconds elapsed before a sergeant managed to force his horse from the tangle that had been caused by half the troop coming to a sudden stop. Five other men succeeded in extracting themselves and followed him.
Brief though the delay in starting the pursuit had been, it allowed Dimmock to build a slight but significant lead. What was more, he had heard and understood Refugio’s words. They had been a source of relief to him. Unless the speaker was trying to lull him into a sense of false security, there was no danger of him being shot by the men on the slope.
Taking a chance that what he had heard was true, Dimmock raised his torso until he was sitting more erect on the saddle. This way he could control the horse with greater facility and also have a better view of his surroundings. The latter was of the greatest importance with respect to the line of action he was contemplating. No shots were fired at him and he concluded that the gamble had paid off.
Despite his conviction, the lieutenant kept a careful watch on the terrain ahead. Not only was he alert for obstructions to his flight, but he was also searching for any sign of Mexican infantrymen. Even one with an empty rifle could be a source of danger. However, he saw none and decided that he must have passed beyond the end of the screen of sharpshooters. Which meant he had only the pursuing Lancers to contend with.
There were, however, Dimmock reminded himself grimly, many long miles to be covered before he could hope to reach anything even approaching safety.
Chapter Three – Now We’ve Got Him
Having avoided the fighting on the trail, and by-passed the ‘Landero’ Line Infantry Battalions sharpshooters, Lieutenant Paul Dimmock gave all his attention to considering how he might evade his pursuers. He could hear some of the Tamaulipa Lancers coming after him, but he did not know how many he had to contend with. Nor did he attempt to look behind and satisfy his curiosity. Judging from the noise they were making, there were several of them. Too many, certainly, for him to be able to fight them off in his unarmed condition. So he concentrated his thoughts and energies on some other means of getting away.
While guiding his horse up the slope, Dimmock swiftly assessed the situation and drew his conclusions.
While not exactly hopeless, they were far from comforting!
Already the lieutenant’s instincts as a rider had informed him that he was sitting a horse well endowed with what the Mexican vaqueros called brio escondido. vi Unfortunately, the quality of the saddle and bridle suggested that it had belonged to an enlisted man rather than an officer. The supposition was supported by there being neither pistol nor rifle on the saddle. If the small amount of shooting that had taken place was any guide, only the officers had firearms. While the nine-foot lances were effective weapons, Dimmock had gained sufficient lead to be out of reach of their sharp pointed steel heads. There was even, he realized, a way in which he might turn their armament to his advantage.
Instead of directing his horse towards the more open country, Dimmock sent it into the thicker woodland. Passing through it would be more difficult, with the danger of him being swept from the saddle by a branch. But against that, the Mexicans, encumbered by their lances, would find it even less easy to traverse such terrain.
Silently blessing the training and experience he had gained whilst following a pack of fast running foxhounds through the woodlands of Tennessee, Dimmock used every bit of the skill he had acquired as he urged his mount onwards. Ducking his head and swaying his torso, he dodged such boughs as might otherwise have dislodged him. Beneath his legs, the borrowed horse proved to be adept at travelling swiftly under such trying conditions. Ignoring the sudden alterations in its rider’s weight and balance, it remained responsive to the signals it received through the bit in its mouth or the heels against its ribs. Nor did it run blindly, but was ready to avoid colliding with a tree whether instructed to do so or not.
Although they were just as well mounted, equally reckless, and skilled at riding, the six Mexicans found themselves falling behind their quarry. As the lieutenant had anticipated, they discovered that the lances were a great nuisance in woodland. However, discarding their weapons was out of the question. Only the sergeant carried a pistol. The rest had nothing more than their fighting knives as sidearms.
Dimmock’s summation of the situation proved to be correct. On emerging from the woodland, he had increased his lead to around a quarter of a mile. Glancing back, as he allowed his mount to gallop across terrain which did not require constant surveillance, he counted the Lancers as they came int
o view. There were six of them, including a sergeant who was in the lead urging the rest to greater efforts. If Dimmock had been able to see at that distance he would have noticed that three had lost their shakos and there was a bloody graze on the cheek of a fourth which suggested he had not been entirely successful in avoiding some kind of obstruction, but all of them still carried their lances. Even the injured man was showing no inclination of giving up the chase. Letting out excited whoops, they forced their horses to go faster as soon as they saw the Texian.
Making no attempt to return to the trail, Dimmock headed north across country. He could hear nothing of the desperate struggle which was still raging behind the woodland. Although he hated the idea of having deserted his hard-pressed companions, he knew it could not be helped. So resolutely he thrust the thought from his mind. There were other, equally important, matters demanding his undivided attention.
Firstly, Dimmock knew that he must throw the pursuing Lancers off his tracks. Then he would go on until he found the Colorado River, or some other landmark that would help him to locate the camp of the Republic of Texas’s Army. If he was fortunate, he would meet up with one of its patrols or ranging—as scouting was called at that period—parties. However he was unlikely to receive help for several miles. In fact, it was unlikely that he would establish contact with any friendly force before at least the following afternoon. Perhaps not even then. It was rumored that General Houston was disgusted with the continued failure of Colonel James W. Fannin’s command and his inability to take any positive military action, and had therefore abandoned Fannin’s men to their fate.
Even if the lieutenant should escape from the six Lancers, his position would be anything but a sinecure. He would also have to avoid any other Mexican units who might be operating between himself and his destination. In addition, there were other foes to be contended with. White renegades who served Santa Anna, indistinguishable in dress and appearance from loyal Texians but who were even more dangerous than regular soldiers or Activos. Traitors to their own kind, ruthless and cold-blooded, working for pay rather than out of more noble motives, they would not hesitate to capture or kill him. So he was determined to stay away from all human beings unless he could be absolutely sure of their sympathies.
After Dimmock had looked back to discover the number of his pursuers and how far they were behind, he returned his gaze to what lay ahead. Not only did he need to keep an eye on where he was going, he also had to watch out for anybody who might be ahead of him.
Keen huntsman as the lieutenant was, he had never before ridden as he did that day. Of course, the hunts had been merely for sport and enjoyment. For the first time, he found himself the quarry. Not that he gave his change of status much thought. He was far too busy utilizing every scrap of his experience as a horseman to strike the happy medium between staying well beyond the reach of the Mexicans’ weapons and conserving sufficient of his mount’s energy to produce extra speed should it be needed.
With the Lancers following (although they were unable to close the gap) Dimmock led the way northwards. Responding to his every signal, the horse he was riding proved that it did indeed have brio escondido. It ran swiftly for almost two miles, plunging cat-footed down slopes, climbing others, weaving through bushes, hurdling streams or small obstacles in its path. Yet, for all the reckless pace it set, the Mexicans showed no sign of turning back.
Suddenly Dimmock became aware that the lathered horse was showing signs of distress. He did not know that its right hindquarters had been hurt when its original rider was dragged from the saddle. Although the injury had been slight, the continuous strain and effort was beginning to aggravate it. It said much for the animal’s spirit that the lieutenant had been carried so far and at such speed over the rolling plains.
With each successive sequence of hoofbeats in the galloping gait, Dimmock could feel the horse faltering. He knew that, gallant as it was, the pain would soon bring it to a stop. Nor could it be happening in a worse place. They were on open ground, with no cover closer than a large grove of post oaks about half a mile ahead along the top of a slope.
Studying the trees, Dimmock decided that if he could reach them he might still be able to escape. Once amongst them, he could find sufficient cover in which he could hide. There was a chance that, if the Mexicans split up to search for him, he might be able to jump one of them and obtain another mount. Failing that, provided he could avoid being located, he would continue his journey on foot once they had given up the search.
Unfortunately for the lieutenant, the horse could not carry him far enough to put his plans into effect. Despite all his efforts to keep it going, its pace grew slower. Seeing what was happening, the Lancers yelled their delight and urged their white-lathered mounts to greater speed.
At the foot of the fairly gentle slope, with the post oaks still over a hundred yards away and the Lancers about twice that distance behind, Dimmock’s horse was done. It staggered, regained its balance, stumbled on for a few steps and came to a halt.
Knowing that the horse was finished, Dimmock removed his right foot from the stirrup and swung it forward over the saddle. He vaulted to the ground, landing running and headed up the incline.
‘Now we’ve got him!’ the sergeant whooped.
Although the words did not reach Dimmock, he knew that his predicament would put fresh heart into his pursuers. Guessing that they would be pushing their tired mounts even harder in their eagerness to end the long chase, he made towards the post oak trees as fast as his legs could carry him. It was nowhere near as swift as he wished. Riding so far and at such a pace was a very demanding and tiring business, even for a man who had spent much of his time on the back of a horse.
Perspiration flooded down the lieutenant’s face and half blinded him. His breath, what little of it he could draw into his tortured lungs, was taken in brief, rasping gasps. Behind him, the sound of the horses’ hooves came ever nearer as he continued to run. Each foot seemed to be growing heavier and more reluctant to follow the dictates of his will. With every stride it called for greater effort to make another. He knew the Lancers must be drawing close, but he had no way of telling exactly how far away they were. To look back would have been disastrous.
The grove, with its slender promise of safety and concealment, was still about fifty yards ahead when Dimmock’s advancing left foot struck instead of passing over a small rock. Tripping, he stumbled on a few places vainly trying to recover his equilibrium. Failing to do so, he fell to the ground.
On the last occasion that the lieutenant had fallen, it had saved him from being killed. This latest mishap appeared to be evening up the balance. It was almost certain to cost him his life.
Something like a hundred yards away, the Mexicans saw Dimmock going down and they lowered the points of their lances forward and tucked the butts more firmly under their right elbows. Every one of them tried to urge his mount to go even faster so as to be the first to reach their prey.
~*~
One of the first riders to be compelled to halt when Badillo’s horse was shot, throwing the rider, was his sergeant major. The non-com had been at the rear of the advance guard, ensuring that the enlisted men did not forget their instructions and were far enough ahead of the Texians to prevent their mounts from being unduly frightened by the shooting. So he was leading the party as they returned to join in the killing. An experienced soldier, he had realized that a wild charge into the fray would be as great a hazard to the infantrymen as to the Texians and was setting a pace which would prevent it from happening.
Reining his mount at an angle and stopping it a scant two yards from Badillo, the sergeant major almost flung himself to the ground. He was about to bellow an order for the rest of the half troop to halt, but found that those nearest to him had already anticipated it. Leaping towards the major, he saw Dimmock galloping away. However, aware of the confusion that the sudden halt was causing, he did nothing about the Texian s departure. Nor did Refugio’s shoute
d comment cause him to change his mind. His primary concern was for the safety of his superior, and that the other Lancers should be allowed to continue with their duties.
Bending down, the sergeant major turned Badillo over with surprising gentleness. He saw no sign of a wound, although he had not really expected to find one. The way in which the bay had collapsed suggested that it, and not its rider, had been shot.
Placing his hands beneath Badillo’s armpits, the sergeant major turned and pulled him towards the left side of the trail. While doing so, the non-com glared up the slope, hoping to find out which of the infantryman had fired the shot. So many of them, including Sergeant Refugio, were reloading their rifles that it was impossible to tell who had been responsible for killing the bay.
‘The major’s not hurt bad!’ the sergeant major informed the watching Lancers. ‘Get going and kill some of those Texian bastards for him.’
Seeing what was happening, as he was replenishing his rifle with powder and ball, Refugio did not know whether to be pleased or alarmed by the developments. The Lancers were resuming their interrupted advance and Badillo was lying in plain view and well clear of them. Against that, the sergeant major had not yet made any attempt to accompany them. Instead, he was kneeling and supporting the officer’s shoulders with his bent leg. His presence at Badillo’s side made the sergeant’s unofficial task too dangerous to be contemplated.
Sergeant Major Gomez was noted throughout the Tamaulipa Brigade for his loyalty to Badillo. Being aware of the close bond between them, Refugio had no intention of making another attempt on the major’s life. Gomez was one man with whom the sergeant had no intention of tangling. There were few men under Urrea’s command, even the toughest hard-cases, who would have thought any the worse of Refugio if they had known of his sentiments.
