The Lone Star Reloaded Series Box Set

by Drew McGunn

  He led Will over to a man in his early thirties. His brown hair was slightly receding, and his face was framed by an equally brown beard. As Crockett and Will approached he smiled and extended his hand, “Dr. Ashbel Smith. General Travis, I presume?”

  Will shook hands with the doctor, and from the dredges of his own memory from a world gone forever, recalled an Ashbel Smith was one of the founders of the University of Texas and wondered if he was one in the same. Crockett said, “Buck, weren’t you were telling me recently the army could use a Surgeon General? I reckon I don’t know nothing about medicine, but I have heard plenty of good things about Dr. Smith here, and if you’re of a mind to, I’d happily move his appointment through Congress.”

  The young doctor looked embarrassed at Crockett’s praise, but managed to respond, “I’m honored to serve my adopted country in whatever way I may, General Travis.”

  The two men agreed to meet again later to discuss the opportunity. As the room filled up with government dignitaries, Will found Crockett had again abandoned his post near the door and migrated to a table, where a large, earthen jug sat in the middle. With a smile on his face, Will ambled over to the president as Crockett poured an amber liquid into a dainty tea cup.

  “Evening, Mr. President. I see you’ve found a suitable beverage.”

  Crockett handed the tea cup to Will, “Here, Buck, take one of these blasted cups and let’s get drunk together. Damned if I know why our womenfolk love putting these shindigs on, but my Liza conspired against me with Lorenzo’s Emily and they invited half the government.”

  In one corner of the large room several musicians were practicing on their instruments. Will spotted Crockett’s wife, Elizabeth talking with Emily de Zavala and several other women. Next to Elizabeth Crockett stood Rebecca. Every look Will stole made him want to get close to her. Standing across the room, Will was able to see how much Crockett’s daughter favored her mother so much so he was a little taken aback by the similarities.

  Crockett nudged him, saying, “If I didn’t know better I’d swear I was looking at my Liza twenty years ago.”

  Will nodded. “She’s a looker. That’s for sure.”

  Crockett jabbed him in the ribs, “That’s my daughter you’re ogling, Buck.” Will looked quickly at Crockett, but seeing the twinkle in his eyes, smiled back.

  “Indeed it is, Mr. President. And a very fine looker she is.” He stepped away as Crockett’s elbow came back up. “As a matter of fact, finding my position here under attack, I shall strategically retreat to yon corner of the room, where I think I have just caught the eye of a pretty young lady.” Crockett laughed and waved Will away.

  Will sidled up next to Rebecca Crockett, and said, “If I could redeem the promise of that first dance, Miss Rebecca, will you dance with me?”

  The young woman blushed when she looked up at Will and smiled, “Oh, General Travis, I would be honored.”

  He guided her onto the dance floor where, as a festive Christmassy tune started up, Will showed Rebecca he was a better soldier than a dancer. As the song ended, Rebecca fanned herself, and stepped gingerly away from Will’s feet. “Would you fetch me a cup of punch, General?”

  Over at the punch bowl, as Will filled a small cup, Crockett came up and slapped him on the back, “Buck, I swear, I do believe that you’ve two left feet.”

  Will smiled, sheepishly, “Well, what can I say? I wanted badly to dance with her. And badly I did.”

  ***

  The cantina was nearly empty as Jose Flores sat at a table, cleaning the remnants of a small bowl of beans with a corn tortilla. He kept glancing toward the door, waiting. He had been in Laredo since his father-in-law returned to San Antonio before Christmas. The town was torn between the majority of the people who wished to return to Mexico, and a smaller minority who saw confusion and turmoil to the south and stability to the north. He had been in Laredo ostensibly to manage several business matters on behalf of his father-in-law, Erasmo Seguin, but over the past few months, it was clear, more was going on below the surface than met the eye.

  The door swung open and a brown-haired man in his early twenties strode through it. Flores looked him over, the revolver at his belt confirmed he was the man on whom Flores was waiting. Captain Jack Hays had arrived. The Ranger scanned the room before his eyes landed on Flores. He walked over and sat opposite of the Tejano.

  In a low tone, Flores said, “It’s worse than I suspected, Captain Hays. There’s an agent of Mexico, in town. I’ve managed to find out his plans.”

  Hays nodded. “Do we need to bring in soldiers from the fort?”

  “No, not yet. That would scare him away, and leave him to try again somewhere else. Better to give him enough rope to hang himself here.”

  Hays agreed. “What do you know about this agent?”

  “He’s a large landowner from Nacogdoches,” Flores said, “In the elections last year, the influx of immigrants to the area caused him to lose his election as county judge. His name is Vincente Cordova. It is my understand that he will be returning tomorrow evening with guns and gold for the faction here who wants Laredo handed over to Mexico. There are a handful of Santa Anna’s veterans who have settled here, and Cordova apparently thinks he can build his army around them.”

  Hays stood and turned toward the door, saying, “Let’s see if he gives us enough of that rope tomorrow.”

  The next evening, Hays and Flores and a dozen men from the nearby fort sheltered behind mesquite trees, and downed logs, littered along the Texas side of the Rio Grande. The deep ruts cut in the banks on both sides of the river revealed to Hayes Cordova’s likeliest route. The sun had dipped below the horizon a little while earlier and only the red and orange hues reflecting off the clouds provided light. Hays hoped the wagon would come before the twilight was gone.

  Hays grinned as two long wagons rolled down to the river on the Mexican side. The gods of luck were smiling down on him. As the wagons lurched into the river, along the ford, several mounted men rode on the flanks, warily watching the northern shore line. Apparently, Cordova thought he was taking few chances. Hays bit down on his own laughter.

  “The traitor will figure out real quick how wrong he is,” he thought.

  As the first wagon rolled up the shallow embankment, Hays pulled his revolver from the holster and glanced back at the soldiers. Each had his rifle ready for whatever action would unfold. The mules pulling the second wagon climbed onto the river bank on the Texas side and it was time, Hays reckoned. With his pistol pointed toward the wagons, he stepped out from behind the mesquite tree. He shouted, “You’re under arrest!”

  He intended to tell the Mexicans not to reach for their guns, but before those words could leave his lips, the nearest horseman grabbed a pistol from his belt. He hammered the flintlock back and pointed it in Hays’ direction. Instinctively, Hays ducked while lining up his shot. He sighted down the barrel and squeezed the trigger. Both pistols went off at the same time. The .36 caliber ball struck the horseman, whose pistol kicked in his hands as it discharged. The musket ball slapped harmlessly into the wet mud a few feet in front of the Ranger.

  The riders, accompanying the wagons, were all armed. Next to the second wagon, two of the horsemen bolted forward, reins in one hand, and a pistol in the other. The last of the daylight still reflected off the evening clouds, as Hays saw the riders racing toward him. He aimed at the nearest and pulled the trigger in haste. The bullet sailed harmlessly over the rider, as he charged. Hays fired again, and this time, struck him in the torso. The rider slid off the animal, landing with a bone-jarring crash. The second rider barreled down on Hays. Only ten yards separated the two men. Hays started moving to the side, as one of the soldiers stepped up next to him, rifle already at his shoulder. The butternut clad rifleman fired, striking the rider in the head, knocking him off the back of the horse.

  A few more shots echoed as the last of the light fled the western sky. Of the six horsemen, all had been dismounted by Hays’ m
en. Two were dead. Two more were injured badly. Of the last two, one had been shot in the leg while the other had lost his seat when his horse had been startled by the gunfire. Several soldiers hauled the wagon drivers from their perches atop the wagons and forced them at gunpoint next to the other survivors.

  As the soldiers secured the prisoners, Hays and Flores clambered onto the wagons and loosened the tarps. They tossed them back, revealing several long crates full of muskets and ammunition. They also found in the saddlebags tied to one of the horses, a few thousand dollars in gold. Flores smiled at Hays. “I told you, my Ranger friend. Cordova’s guns and gold!”

  Hays returned the smile. “I love it when a plan comes together.”

  The weapons and gold secured, the two men returned to the prisoners. Flores looked at each of the prisoners, finally bringing his eyes to rest on the lone uninjured man. “Captain Hays, may I introduce you to his honor, Vincente Cordova.”

  Hays looked down at the dejected prisoner. “Vincente Cordova, you’re under arrest for treason.”

  Chapter 16

  The smell of breakfast wafted across the room where Henrietta cooked on an iron stove. Will had hired the former slave to cook and clean around the house. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the aroma of bacon cooking on a skillet. It was just one more reason he was happy Travis’ former slave, Joe was doing well for himself. Like several former slaves, Joe held a contract to transport supplies for the army between Texas’ port cities and the Alamo. Will was a little fuzzy on the details of Henrietta’s route to freedom and exactly how she and Joe had married, but he was happy for both of them, as they made a new home for themselves in San Antonio.

  The smell of eggs had nothing to do with his happiness, he told himself as she set a plateful of eggs and bacon in front of him. “No, nothing at all to do with it.”

  He dug into his plate and returned to reading an article in the Telegraph and Texas Register. He was pleased as he read the Texas Supreme Court had denied Vincente Cordova’s final plea in the drama which played out over the previous six months, since his capture with Mexican guns and gold. To date, his was the only trial in Texas for the crime of treason. Will had followed the trial when it had been held in San Antonio earlier in the year.

  He recalled how most Anglo-owned newspapers had denounced the Crockett administration’s decision to allow the trial to proceed in the Bexar district court. Laredo was within the Bexar district, so the decision to hold it in San Antonio was proper. But even many within Congress worried that San Antonio, with its majority Tejano population wouldn’t find Cordova guilty. The fears were groundless. The jury consisted of some of San Antonio’s more prominent Tejano families as well as several wealthy Americans. While Cordova’s trial for treason lasted more than a week, the jury took less than an hour to convict him. When Will found out Jose Salinas, the mayor of San Antonio, had handpicked the jury pool, he was disquieted. On one hand, the evidence was damning, but Will didn’t like the idea of tampering with a jury, even when the result should have been a forgone conclusion.

  As he finished reading the article, Will was irritated over the method Salinas had used to avoid the risk of an acquittal from the town’s largely Hispanic population. He looked at his plate, where he saw he had been moving his eggs around. He let out a loud breath, realizing sometimes it was necessary to break an egg in order to make an omelet.

  Charlie, who was sitting across the table, asked, “Pa, what’s the matter?”

  Will looked up from the plate. “Nothing, son. Just reading the paper.”

  As the boy went back to polishing off a plate of biscuits and gravy, Will marveled at how much he had grown in the two years since he had brought his son home. The boy’s red hair matched nearly exactly his own, but the dusting of freckles on his face showed how much Charlie enjoyed playing outside.

  Pushing both the plate and newspaper aside, Will asked, “Will you be ready to start back to school next week?”

  Charlie shook his head. “No, sir. I ain’t got any paper or pens yet. Friar Jesus said we’re going to need lots of both.”

  Will smiled but said, “Ain’t? You mean, you don’t have any paper.” He smiled as he corrected the boy. “Let’s help Henrietta with the dishes and you and me will go find your supplies.”

  Charlie grinned slyly at his father. “You mean, you and I?”

  The boy left the table to retrieve his list as Will decided to finish breakfast. He pulled the plate towards him and then wiped the plate clean. As he sopped up the last of the bacon grease with a biscuit he thought about how much had changed in Texas since the transference. What would Texas look like to Charlie as an adult? Already, the country he now called home looked very little like the economic basket case he had known in a history which survived only in his memories.

  As he recalled, in 1838 in the world in which he remembered, the frontier was afire with raid and counterraid between the various Ranger companies and the Comanche. The population was still feeling the economic effects of the Runaway scrape, which had been a result of the fall of the Alamo and the Mexican army’s march eastward, which had only ended following Houston’s victory at San Jacinto. But those were just memories of a world gone forever. Now, Texas had a strong monetary policy, and a working currency backed by more than simple “good faith.” The Comanche had been forced north of the Red River. The twin stabilizers of peace with the Comanche and a stable currency, had led to a wave of settlers.

  While immigration remained steady from the Southern states, including slaves, Will noticed there had been an increase in immigration from the Northern states and Europe because of Texas’ increased stability.

  As he heard Charlie’s footsteps returning, Will hoped the changes he was helping to make would lead to a better future. He handed his plate back to Henrietta and as she took it, he renewed a vow, he would continue doing whatever was within his power to end the blight of slavery. He grabbed his uniform jacket and met Charlie at the door.

  A little while later, the two found themselves in one of several general stores on Alameda Street. They gave a sheet of paper to the clerk behind the counter and he collected the lengthy list. After tabulating the cost, the clerk said, “The bill comes out to four dollars and fifty cents.”

  From his jacket’s inside pocket, Will retrieved a leather wallet and fished a white and green bill from it. The clerk examined the bank note. Across the top, it read, “Commodities Certificate of the Republic of Texas. Five Dollars.”

  “Seeing more of these showing up every day, sir,” the clerk said. “Haven’t had any problems trading them for supplies from the coast, either.”

  “That’s music to my ears. I’d hate to think about what business would be like if we had to rely only on pesos or US silver.”

  The clerk had wrapped the supplies in brown paper, and handed the package over. “May it never be again.”

  Will and Charlie left the store and walked down the street toward San Antonio’s main plaza. New storefronts ran along both sides of the road. Charlie gasped as he saw a sign on one such store. “Bexar Confectionary Delights”

  The boy squealed, “Pa, can we go inside?”

  Will stopped, while the boy tugged on his hand. The last time he had been in a candy store had been several years earlier, long before the transfer into Travis’ body. He recalled the memory like it was yesterday. He and a girl he had been dating had finished their date on Galveston’s Strand. Along the street ran a gamut of touristy stores. But Will’s favorite was a candy shop on the corner of the Strand and 24th Street, where they served the best vanilla and chocolate floats on the island.

  Charlie’s tugging brought him back to the present and he let his son drag him into the candy shop. The countertop was covered with assorted glass jars full of rock candy. An older man behind the counter said, in a thick brogue, “How can I help you fine gentlemen on this wonderful summer’s day?”

  Charlie’s enthusiasm was infectious as he went down the counter, picking a few
pieces of candy from one jar and more from another. When they had filled a paper bag full, Will said, “Let’s not run this fine establishment out of business.”

  When the bill was tabulated, Will wasn’t worried about the candy shop going out of business, as he handed over another five dollar note. He was tempted to grumble about the cost until the delicious sweetness hit his taste buds. As he and Charlie walked slowly back to the house, the candy gradually dissolved in his mouth. What had started out as a fun reminder of good memories, by the time they arrived back home, left Will missing all the conveniences the transference had stolen. As he sat at his work desk, he tried to push away the thoughts about the conveniences which he would never again experience. Eventually he succeeded, as he worked through a pile of correspondence, ignoring the small bag of candy on the desk.

  ***

  Fall of 1838 felt a lot like the summer of the same, as Will sat across from President Crockett. The door and windows were open, letting the languid breeze feebly stir the papers on the table in Crockett’s office.

  “As my latest report shows, David, Ben is doing exactly what he set out to do. He’s peeled ten companies away from Rusk’s militia and has been training them to the new army standards.”

  Crockett wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and asked, “How many men are we talking about, Buck?”

  “Around six hundred or so. It’s all infantry, and most of these companies are located in or around our towns. One of the companies is located in San Antonio, and two more are located here, in Harrisburg and Houston. Ben’s thinking is that these guard companies can be mobilized quicker than militia that’s spread over hundreds of square miles.”

  “That makes sense. Any luck getting more carbines from Harpers Ferry yet?”

  Will shook his head, “Not much. But our gunsmith we’ve been using here to repair and replace parts has actually been able to make a few dozen carbines. If we use the money Congress approved for the purchase of rifles to fund his expansion, it may fill the gap nicely. Plus, it plays to our own needs if we can develop our own manufacturing base.”