The Lone Star Reloaded Series Box Set

by Drew McGunn

  As the race lengthened, he lost count of the number of arrows shot from the Comanche still pursuing his squad of men. Esparza guessed his men had been riding hard for at least thirty minutes when to his right, he heard the sweet sound of hurried bugle note. A quarter mile away he spied a half dozen troopers from his other squad. Behind them, he saw even more Comanche warriors pressing them. He pointed toward the other squad and angled his own horse toward his other men. A short while later, he and his men combined with the other half dozen troopers, as the remnants of the platoon came together.

  As the two small groups merged, the fourteen troopers urged their horses to greater speeds. The band of warriors chasing Espinoza’s squad was joined by an even larger group of Comanche, who were hard on the other squad’s heels. Even as their mounts ate away the miles, the horses grew fatigued. A hurried look behind showed the Comanche warriors mounted on their sturdy mustangs. As his own platoon’s speed seemed to slow, with their mounts’ exhaustion, the warriors’ arrows no long fell short. Now they landed amid his diminished force.

  Lieutenant Esparza felt his mount shudder and stumble. He looked behind him and saw an arrow protruding from his horse’s rump. His mount took several more strides before the front legs collapsed. As his horse crashed hard into the ground, Esparza, the son and grandson of vaqueros, used every skill he possessed to leap clear from his horse. As his body slammed into the ground, he tucked his chin into his shoulder and let his momentum carry him forward as he careened along the ground.

  With only a moment before the Comanche would overrun him, he drew his revolver, and aimed it at the nearest warrior and squeezed the trigger. The pain in his arm shot through him and his aim was off. Instead of hitting the warrior, the bullet struck the horse squarely in the forehead. As the animal collapsed, the Comanche was flung head first over the horse’s head. Landing just a few yards away from Esparza, the Lieutenant heard the loud pop of a bone cracking. The warrior rolled to one side, and as he attempted to spring up, his left leg collapsed. Behind the warrior, Esparza saw a wave of Comanche approaching. He resolved to sell his life dearly, knowing he only had a few seconds to dispatch as many as he could. He resolved to start with the one before him. Esparza drew down upon him and before he could pull the trigger, a hole exploded in the warrior’s chest and he fell dead.

  Most of the other men of the Esparza’s command had turned around and came back for their commander. A dozen of his troopers had dismounted and ran up behind him. In their hands, they carried their carbines. As they joined him, they fired at the rapidly approaching Comanche, emptying saddles. Rather than ride in among the Texians, they wheeled to the right and left and returned fire, sending arrows into the midst of the troopers. Esparza fired again and again at the Comanche as they completed their encirclement of his tiny island of troopers. When the hammer slammed down on an empty chamber, he turned and saw several of his men were down, arrows sticking from their bodies.

  One of the fallen still had his pistol in its holster. He lunged for it, feeling an icy tingling along his spine as an arrow sped through the air, inches above his back. He yanked the pistol from the dead man’s holster and seeing the weapon was loaded, turned back to face the rain of death falling among his men. Now with half the command down, the Comanche were emboldened in their attack. He saw one warrior toss his bow onto his back and lower a lance as he dug his heels into his mount, flinging both rider and horse toward Esparza and his men. The Lieutenant pointed the pistol at the charging warrior and sent round after round at the charging foe, finally sending the warrior tumbling from the saddle. The horse veered to the right, as the Comanche warrior rolled to a stop at Esparza’s feet.

  What seemed like an eternity had been less a couple of minutes. He stood with two remaining troopers, firing at the charging Comanche warriors. What had started as a wave of Comanche warriors, lapping around the tiny island of Texian soldiers, crested and swamped the island. Only the sea of warriors remained.

  ***

  A tsunami’s wave eventually crests, and the wave of warriors who overwhelmed the island of Texian cavalry, carried forward, leaving the obliterated remains in its wake. Spirit Talker and several of warriors who were veterans of twenty or more winters of warfare, first against the Mexicans and now the Texians, approached the carnage. More than a dozen of the Texian cavalry were dead, but they died hard. He saw just as many of the People’s warriors broken upon the ground. These warriors would never ride again, and their wives and children would mourn for their husbands and fathers. Spirit Talker remembered his own youth and recalled his own disdain for such thoughts. But now, with so many winters behind him now, such a loss hung heavy. Not only for the dead did he mourn, but for every dead warrior there was another too badly wounded to carry forward the fight. They too would burden the People, unable to raid, to collect more horses from the Texians and Mexicans.

  As Spirit Talker rode through the site of the battle, he saw the troopers carried pistols, just as deadly as those used by the hated Rangers. This was unfortunate. If all the Texians on horse now used these pistols, how could the People stand against them? In addition to the pistols, he noted the muskets carried by the troopers were different than those for which the People had traded. One of his men held it and looked it over carefully. As Spirit Talker watched, he flipped a trigger under the gun and an iron block slid open at the breech of the gun. With his finger, the old warrior felt down the opening and grunted in realization. “It’s where they put the bullet and powder.”

  The old peace chief shook his head. He had never seen the like. “What does it mean, Night Owl?”

  The warrior closed the breech and pointed the gun at some imagined target across the prairie before replying. “They can fire these guns faster than before. I don’t know how much faster, but enough that it worries me.”

  Without needing to give an order, Spirit Talker watched as his men collected both the pistols and the carbines from the dead. “We need to learn more about these weapons. The Texians have changed the rules by which they are fighting. Even if we win today, we will eventually be overwhelmed if we don’t learn about these changes.”

  As the veteran warriors rode on, following after the blooded warriors now a couple of miles ahead, Spirit Talker worried. He had advocated peace to the various bands. Had told them it was better to trade away their many prisoners and reclaim those of the People now held in San Antonio. But the younger war-chiefs wanted blood for blood. Too many of the People had been killed in the recent incursion by the Texian army for the People to seek peace. The new musket worried Spirit Talker and he wondered what they would find when they reached San Antonio.

  ***

  The sun had climbed high into the eastern sky as noon approached, but Will had been up since before dawn. He had made the decision to relocate Major McCulloch’s militia from the field west of the Alamo to the northern side of San Antonio. Since the revolution’s end more than a year earlier, the town had grown and the development north of the plaza was exposed to both the northern and western approaches. Will knew McCulloch was at work turning newly constructed houses on the north side of town into fortified bastions, given the number of people who had rode to the Alamo, complaining the militia were turning their homes into forts. The number of complainants would have been much higher if most of San Antonio hadn’t heeded the command to evacuate.

  One such time, found Will working with Lt. Colonel Johnston, as they studied a map of the Alamo complex and the surrounding land. The corral which played host to the misery which was the imprisoned Comanche women and old men, had been prominently drawn on the map. As the two officers discussed tactis, two well-to-do looking men approached. When the older of the two spoke, he had a clipped upper-class English accent. “What in heaven’s name are you thinking, letting that rabble in San Antonio, tear into our homes? Barely completed, and they’ve smashed my windows and dug up my Libby’s azaleas. This is a travesty. What are you going to do about it?”

  Will�
��s eyes blazed, as he turned to face the foreign-born man. Before he could respond the other man spoke. He was younger by at least a decade from his companion. In a soft Georgian drawl, he added, “General, we have been turned out of our homes by your militia. Not only that, but your officer has purloined my property and has put my slaves to work without compensation.”

  Will snapped at the two men. “Why didn’t either of you answer the militia’s call? You’re both of age.” Before either man could respond, he continued, “Failing that, why didn’t you evacuate when the alcalde ordered the evacuation of civilians?”

  The Englishman replied, “And leave my new home unprotected, I won’t countenance any such thing! And now your militia have ruined it.”

  “Then I suggest you return and defend it with them, sir.” Will’s voice dripped with scorn.

  The foreign-born man huffed and stormed off, cursing Will to any who would listen.

  The Georgian stayed in place. “What about my property, General?”

  Will found resisting the urge to strike the civilian hard, but finally managed to reply, “If your property survives the coming battle, I’m sure Major McCulloch will return them to you. If you’re concerned about your property, my suggestion is the same to you as it was to your friend there,” he pointed to the retreating back of the Englishman, “join with the militia to defend your homes. Now if you’ll forgive me, I have a battle to plan.”

  After the two civilians left, Will shook his head and looked back to the map. No sooner had he and Lt. Colonel Johnston identified each company’s position than a cry from above the gatehouse broke their attention. As Will looked up he saw a lone rider galloping through the gates. The horseman, wearing the same butternut uniform of both infantry and cavalry, saw Will and Johnston as they made their way toward the gate, and he pulled his mount up before them and saluted, “Corporal Ambrose Davis, reporting. A Troop. Esparza’s platoon, sir! We was attacked by lots of Comanche, sir! I think I’m the only one to get away, General. The Comanche, they’re on their way!”

  Chapter 12

  As the trooper’s words echoed in his ear, Will’s thoughts flew to Major McCulloch’s militia on the northern part of town. The trooper was spent from his ride, but the town needed to be warned. He cast about, trying to find Captain Seguin. The Tejano officer ran toward them once he spotted the winded trooper. Before Will could issue any orders, Seguin cried, “Corporal Davis, where the hell is Lieutenant Esparza and the rest of your platoon?”

  For the second time in as many minutes, Davis relayed the information. As Seguin stood there, slack jawed, trying to accept a quarter of the regular cavalry had been wiped out by the Comanche, Will interjected, “Juan, get one of your men over to Major McCulloch. I want him to know they’re on their way!”

  The fiery Tejano nodded curtly, snapping back to the present. He shouted orders and moments later another trooper was racing across the ground between the Alamo and the town.

  Will turned to Lt. Colonel Johnston. “Have the bugler sound an officer’s call and then assembly.”

  A couple of minutes later, Will and Johnston were surrounded by every officer in the fort above the rank of lieutenant. A dozen men listened to Will as he barked out orders. The previous month’s extensive drilling paid dividends as the officers listened to Will lay out the strategy for the coming battle. Now, though, it was no drill.

  “Captain Hays.” Will addressed a young Ranger officer, part of the two companies Major Caldwell had dispatched from the Frontier forts, “You and Captain Wallace will deploy your Ranger companies north of the prison compound. Your men will act to delay the Comanche while our infantry deploy. With a casual salute, the young man, leapt onto his horse, and galloped through the gate and westward to his command.

  Will turned to Seguin, “Pull your men back from before the Comanche, Captain. We’re not going to lose any more soldiers piecemeal if we can avoid it.”

  Seguin nodded sadly. “I’ve known Gregorio Esparza since we were boys. His father worked for my father. When this is over I’ll need to call on his wife and tell her. I’d rather fight Comanche all day than face her.”

  Will wanted to take the time to tell Seguin it was alright to mourn his friend’s death, but a great deal rested on the captain’s ability to recover the men from their exposed positions north of town. Morosely, the Tejano captain grabbed the reins of his horse and pulled himself into the saddle, and galloped through the gates, heading north in an effort to save the rest of the Republic’s regular cavalry.

  “Colonel Johnston, I want you to detail a company of infantry to deploy along the north wall of the Alamo. They’ll stay here along with the artillery under Captain Dickinson.”

  A glance at the north wall of the Alamo revealed the old crumbling wall replaced by a taller wall built a dozen feet further to the north, running more than one hundred sixty feet in length. Connecting it to the eastern wall was the northern barracks, which was under construction. The barracks would eventually be two stories tall, twenty feet in height. At the moment, the first floor was complete, but its exterior wall was not quite as tall as the rest of the northern wall. Seventy-five riflemen along the wall, wasn’t many, just one man ever four feet. Even so, Will thought the main thrust of the Comanche attack would be directed at the paddock where the prisoners were kept.

  Will pointed to two of the infantry captains. “You’ll be under Colonel Johnston’s direct command, and you’ll be stationed to the northeast of the prisoners’ camp.” At three other officers, he pointed and continued, “Your three companies will report directly to me. We’ll hold the ground directly in front of the camp. Get going. Take up positions about a hundred yards directly to its north.”

  As the last of the officers hurried away, leaving Will alone for a moment. He turned around, the gate now empty, as the officers and soldiers hurried to their assigned positions. The Alamo plaza was one hundred fifty yards long between the gate and the north wall. In a world existing only in his head, he imagined what it must have been like for the one hundred eighty souls who died trying to hold it, clinging mistakenly to an idea that Sam Houston would come to their rescue. It was but a fleeting image, and his mind returned to the present where he watched the men of the reserve infantry company running across the plaza, racing to the northern wall, where they would act as both the army’s reserve as well as their left flank. The confidence they bore as they climbed the ladders reminded Will, any enemy would face a very tough fight against his Texians. With that, he swung up into the saddle and turned toward the gate. He had a battle to fight.

  He joined the three companies to the north of the prison camp, where he found Major Wyatt already guiding the deployment of more than two hundred men into defensive positions. As he joined the major, his attention focused on the company directly to their front. The captain deployed his eighteen rifle teams forward a short distance. Each four-man team found what cover the open prairie provided.

  “Damn it to hell,” he thought, “I had the time to prepare this land and now, we defend ourselves out in the open!”

  As Will watched the soldiers, he realized he had made a mistake. There had been plenty of time to prepare. While he had prepared and trained his men, he realized now, he should also have prepared the ground on which they would be fighting. He watched his soldiers crouching down behind the scrub brush and shrubs which dotted the prairie, and realized he could have prepared foxholes, trenches and other defensive fortifications.

  From the north, a flurry of shots rang out. It was too far away to tell if Seguin’s cavalry or the Texas Rangers were tangling with the advancing Comanche warriors. To the right of Will’s three companies, he saw Johnston’s hundred fifty men crouching low amid the tall prairie grass. Even as the horsemen retreated before the Comanche, it was reassuring see the infantry in as good a position as circumstances allowed.

  The mounted men in front of the infantry turned out to be Hay’s Rangers. As the youthful captain came within hailing distanc
e, Will called out, “Take up our left flank. Tell Captain Wallace I want his men behind Johnston’s men. Tell them I want an eye kept on the prisoners. Where’s Captain Seguin? I want him between your company and the Alamo.”

  Hays waved and wheeled around, eager to pass along the orders. A moment later, a couple of dozen Rangers split away from the others, riding hard to the rear, in the direction of the prison camp. Back to the north, the flurry of shots grew to a crescendo as Seguin’s cavalry attempted to disengage from the pursuing warriors. Several troopers from the cavalry galloped by, relief on their faces as they saw the waiting infantry spread out across the prairie. A loud boom echoed from the Alamo’s north wall. One of Captain Dickinson’s nine-pounder cannons fired at a target beyond the retreating troopers. It was quickly followed by the other cannon on the north wall.

  After several tense moments, as the cavalry under Captain Seguin disengaged from the Comanche, Will realized he had been holding his breath. He exhaled as he watched Seguin and several dozen troopers ride by the left side of the infantry. When the last of the retreating cavalry passed by, Will felt the thrill of battle rise up within him. He resisted the urge to cry out to the waiting soldiers. Breathing deeply, he calmed his racing nerves and simply nodded to the officers commanding each of the companies, sending them a prearranged signal. In turn, the one close by ordered, “Aimed fire, men!”