Down Mexico Way (The Lone Star Reloaded Series Book 4)

by Drew McGunn

  He would rather face the musket-armed soldados in the trenches above than the Cazadores. He was heartily sick of the Mexican riflemen and their British-made Bakers rifles. A rustling from behind made him turn and he saw Sergeant Collins, the squad’s ranking NCO. “Get your asses moving, boys. Major Hays said we’re going on a little ride.”

  They slipped down the slope to their mounts and cantered across the plain to where Major Hays had encamped his special Ranger companies. Jesse’s company, nearly forty men, were crowded around Hays. The youthful officer was talking as Jesse joined the listening men. “We got ourselves a right serious problem, boys. General Travis don’t want another battle like what we faced crossing the Rio Grande. That’s where we come in. You and me, we’re going to see about finding a way around these mountains. If Almonte has left a back door unguarded, I aim to find it.”

  Jesse looked around at his fellow Rangers and every one of them were nodding their heads and muttering their agreement. Apart from being pushed out of Laredo by the Mexican artillery barrage that leveled the town, they had missed the worst of the fighting. Even during the push from Laredo to Candela they had missed much of the skirmishing between Seguin’s cavalry and Almonte’s lancers. Jesse found himself nodding, too. Hays’ voice interrupted his thoughts, “Alright, collect your gear. We ride in thirty minutes.”

  Hours later Jesse stood beside his mount as the horse stretched its neck to grab a mouthful of grass. He tipped his canteen up and swallowed lukewarm water. The company had ridden more than fifteen miles, circling around the ridges to their south. The major was still astride his mount, using a pair of binoculars to scan a gap between two peaks.

  As he pushed the cork plug into the canteen, Jesse heard the major say, “Captain, have your men mount up, there’s a dust cloud to our west. If it’s just a few lancers, we can brush ‘em aside and have a gander at the Mexican rear.”

  Jesse grabbed the pommel and swung into the saddle as the captain ordered the men to remount. The young Cherokee Ranger pulled on the pistol grip, making sure he could free it from the holster quickly. As the Ranger company galloped between the two mountain peaks, Jesse didn’t need binoculars to see the dust cloud billowing towards them.

  The cloud drew near, and he was able to see mounted men with their steel-tipped lances racing across the arid ground, closing the distance with them. Major Hays drew his pistol and dug his spurs into his mount, “At them, boys!”

  Jesse felt his own mount surge forward as he dug his heels into the animal’s flanks. Powerful leg muscles kept the horse in the vanguard of the advancing Rangers. The late afternoon sun reflected off the lance tips. Jesse wet his lips as he shifted his reins to his left hand and drew his pistol with the other. The range between the two mounted forces fell as the horses ate away at the distance.

  Less than a hundred yards separated the Rangers from the red-jacketed lancers, who leveled their lances, pointing them toward Jesse and his comrades. Fleetingly, the young Cherokee wondered if his own ancestors had felt the same sting of fear when they battled the Creek Indians a hundred years before. The thought was gone nearly as soon as it appeared as he registered the first gunshot. The major’s right arm was extended as the puff of smoke slipped behind him.

  The hard looks of hatred were engraved on the faces of the lancers, who were close enough for Jesse to see the gleaming buttons on their scarlet jackets. He yanked the trigger and felt the .44 caliber pistol buck in his hand.

  He felt a hard tug at his jacket as a lancer sped by. The cloth tore when the lancer’s steel blade caught it, and Jesse felt his side erupt with a burning sensation. He glanced down and saw his butternut jacket was ripped open on the side. He turned and saw the back of the lancer, who raced to get through the throng of Rangers. Praying his reflexes were fast enough, Jesse aimed at the retreating back and fired.

  The Lancer jerked forward and dropped his weapon. Instead of sliding from the saddle, Jesse watched the horseman swerve to the side, having broken through the line of Rangers. He fired again at the retreating back before becoming aware of the battle raging around him. Smoke from the revolvers hung heavy among the fighting horsemen. Several men had been speared from the saddle, joining many more scarlet-jacketed lancers who had been knocked from their saddles by the Rangers’ flurry of gunfire.

  Turning his head from side to side, looking for a target, Jesse saw another line of lancers racing toward them from the west. “Look out! There’s another company!” someone cried out. As his side burned with pain, any thought of the fear he had felt was burned away. He aimed his revolver at the charging line and waited until they were within range and then emptied his pistol into the oncoming lancers. Even though most of the Rangers were still fighting against the first wave of lancers, those who joined Jesse in firing at the oncoming rush emptied enough saddles to blunt the attack.

  From the corner of his eye, Jesse spied a red-jacketed horseman racing toward him, saber raised high. His revolver empty, the Cherokee leaned back in the saddle, and heard the blade sing past his head as the Mexican sped by. He wheeled around and saw the horseman turning, intent to finish the fight. Jesse turned his mount ninety degrees from the oncoming Mexican, which brought the other’s horse to a stop rather than colliding with Jesse’s horse.

  The Mexican leaned forward, slashing at Jesse. He ducked the blade and nudged his horse to the side opposite the other man’s sword arm. Bringing the blade across his body slowed the Mexican down enough that Jesse dropped his reins and grabbed the other man’s wrist and yanked him forward. Still holding his empty revolver in his other hand, the Cherokee Ranger swung the gun at the Mexican’s face. A crunching sound reached Jesse’s ear as the barrel smashed into the other man’s nose. Howling in pain, the Mexican lurched away from him, tumbling from the saddle.

  Digging his heels into his mount’s flanks, Jesse escaped the milling mass of fighting men. He retrieved a loaded cylinder from a cartridge box at his waist and engaged the gun’s loading lever. He slipped the spent cylinder into a pocket then confirmed the percussion caps were snugly fit on each of the six nipples before locking the new cylinder in place.

  He scanned the arid valley and several hundred yards away, he saw a long line of blue-clad infantry marching toward the melee between the Rangers and lancers. He then spied Major Hays dispatch a lancer with a shot to the face. “Major, there’s more Mexicans on the way!”

  The major stood in his stirrups and gazed toward the west. Jesse repressed a smile as he heard a string of profanity slip from the officer’s mouth. “Disengage, boys. It looks like we’re not getting through this way!”

  With a backwards glance, Jesse saw the rest of the Rangers break off fighting with the remaining lancers, who fell back towards the advancing infantry. A few saddles were empty, and he saw three of his own company lying on the ground. Several more were swaying in the saddle, trying to stay astride their mounts despite their injuries.

  The major galloped past him and Jesse fell in behind Hays as they rode through the pass between the two peaks that guarded the rear of the Mexican army. Above the sound of iron-shod hoofs pounding the ground, Hays said, “There’s got to be a way around the Mexicans.”

  ***

  April 1843

  Since his arrival at the Trinity Gun Works, Gain Borden had made some progress. While the nitrated cotton production continued, he was still plagued with the instability of the product. His laboratory was within a short walk of the Gun Works, but far enough away, to hear Andy Berry tell of it, that should he blow himself up, “the workers of the gun works would know of it right quick.”

  He was letting several sheets of compressed cotton, which had been soaked in the nitric and sulfuric acid mix earlier, dry. He had several other chemical compounds he intended to use when he milled the cotton into granules.

  As if thinking of Andy Berry would make him appear, there was a knocking at the door and it swung open. The younger son of John Berry Sr. stood there holding two parts of a rifle
. He saw the cotton sheets drying on one of the tables and set the pieces of the rifle on a separate table.

  Bordon raised his eyebrows as he waited for Berry to break the silence. Finally, the young man said, “I don’t suppose you’ve figured out how to stabilize the damned powder?”

  Bordon pointed to several flasks which held various chemical compounds. “Working on it. What happened to the gun?”

  Berry grimaced. “I’ve been trying to figure if we can use the nitrated cotton as a propellant.”

  “How’s that working out?” Bordon asked as he looked at the pieces of the gun.

  “It would be great if it wasn’t so damned unstable. I was able to use the powder and fired a half-dozen shots with it before it blew up the breech-block and broke the gun,” Berry said, “but not before I got off one shot that hit a target at more than six hundred yards away.”

  Bordon shuddered, “Here I thought I would be the one to blow myself up with this invention and lo and behold, you’re determined to beat me to it, Andy.”

  Berry leaned against the work bench, “If Pa raised an idiot, it was one of the other boys. I’m using a shield and a string tied to the trigger to fire the rifle. Even though the nitrated cotton is overpowering our guns, it gives off hardly any smoke. If we can figure out how to stabilize it, then we can figure out how to build a rifle that can use it.’

  Bordon, a devout man, said, “I’ll pray that neither of us blow ourselves up in the process.”

  ***

  David Crockett watched the men of the 9th Infantry battalion make camp after a long day’s march. The sun was waning in the sky, stretching his shadow along the ground. His command had made good time today, he thought, although he was exhausted from so many hours in the saddle. Despite the depot’s proximity to a river, the ground was dry and crumbling beneath his feet. “So much for April showers,” Crockett thought as brittle grass crunched beneath his boots.

  While most of the men under his command were busy setting up camp next to the supply depot, a few were assigned picket duty. Even though the platoon stationed at the depot was responsible for patrols, he believed if his men were vigilant now, then later, when it might really matter, the habit would be ingrained.

  Major McCulloch, the battalion’s second-in-command, stepped under the canvas pavilion, “Sir, you best come quick, one of the pickets spotted some Indians to our south.”

  A glance at the nearest campfire showed dinner would be a while. His joints ached as Crockett climbed to his feet and followed the major. Beyond the edge of the camp, a couple of pickets stood, facing southward. The former president followed where they were pointing, and in the distance, he saw several mounted figures making their way across the desolate South Texas prairie toward the camp.

  He wished he had one of the new model binoculars as he shielded his eyes from the retreating sun. Six years in the office of the presidency had done nothing for his eyesight. Eventually, the figures became distinct and he saw two Indians and a white man riding slowly toward the camp. Eventually, he could see the Indians’ features. “Them Indians look a tad on the young side, Major.”

  The younger brother of Brigadier General Ben McCulloch eyed the approaching riders. “Yes, sir. The boy ain’t eighteen or I’m a ring-tailed panther. The girl is even younger. Hat’s blocking the face of the write boy between them, though.”

  Crockett let his hand fall to his side. He silently cursed his eyes. Two boys and girl, two Indians and a white boy in the middle of West Texas. It was nearly too much. Then they were close enough for him to make out the features and it became too much.

  “What in the blue blazes of hell are you doing here, Charles Edward Travis!” The authoritative tone surprised even Crockett as he yelled at his step-grandson.

  He watched Charlie lift the brim of his hat, and as he saw Crockett, his eyes grew large. He squared his shoulders and pasted a smile on his face, “Howdy, Uncle Davy.”

  As the boy climbed down from his mount, his two companions watched Crockett dress him down.

  “Becky’s got to be out of her mind with worry about you, Charlie. What in tarnation gave you the idea to run away from home and come out here?” Crockett asked as Charlie tied his horse to the picket and began removing the tack.

  Despite Crockett’s grave tone, Charlie turned back to Crockett and said, “Why, you did, of course. You were younger than me when you ran away from your own Pa. And it ain’t like I’m running away from home. After all, I’m with you, now. Pa and Becky can’t say anything about that, because I’ll just tell them I was taking care of you.”

  As Crockett’s eyes bulged at the boy’s effrontery, he was nearly certain he saw a twinkle in Charlie’s eyes. “Take care of me? Why you, you...”

  There were very few times a situation had left the famous frontiersman, politician, and raconteur speechless; this was one of them.

  Later that night, Crockett sat next to the fire. Major McCulloch stirred the coals with a stick. “You going to send the boy back, Colonel?”

  Crockett frowned, “I ought to. But damned if part of me don’t think Charlie’s right. He’s older than I was when I ran off. While I don’t need no wet-behind-the-ears pup looking after me, I’m of a mind to let him come along. He sees how tough the soldier’s life is, he may be begging me to send him back to Becky.”

  McCulloch offered, “I was talking with the Lieutenant in charge of the depot. He’s not expecting another wagon for another fortnight or longer. If you were of a mind to risk him running off again, you could send him back on the next supply wagon.”

  Crockett glowered at the young man. “Did your brother assign you to me to be a thorn in my ass, Major? I ain’t going to risk Charlie running off to heaven knows where. But now that you mention that supply wagon, I know one thing that will be on it when it heads back east.”

  The next morning, as the sun edged over the horizon, Charlie found himself sitting on a camp stool with Crockett’s writing desk before him. “Two letters boy. One to Becky and another to your pa. We ain’t moving until you’ve written both them letters. I’ll pack your ass back to San Antonio on the first supply wagon If you don’t own up to this boneheaded choice of yours.”

  He glowered at the youth. A smile pulled at the boy’s lips. Over the years, the boy had come to read his “Uncle Davy” well. Charlie picked up the pen, inked the nib, and starting writing. He was going west.

  Chapter 14

  20 April 1843

  Captain Bill Sherman pulled on the reins of the mule as both man and beast carefully placed their feet along an old trail worn into the side of a mountain. The beast was weighed down with the wheels of one of his battery’s mountain howitzers. Another mule, following behind, carried the howitzer’s barrel. Several more beasts were burdened with boxes of ammunition for the 12-pounder howitzer. The rest of the battery was strung out behind him as they inched along the treacherous trail.

  A couple of Rangers had stumbled upon the trail the previous day, when retreating from a failed attempt to cut the Mexican army’s line of retreat. As he stepped over a large rock in the middle of the trail, Sherman allowed his thoughts to wander. Both infantry brigades had arrived and now faced Almonte’s well-entrenched soldados. He knew this trail bisected two mountains. He prayed the Rangers had gauged the trail correctly.

  He turned away from the mule and looked upward. The trail disappeared over a ridge and he saw one of the Rangers standing, silhouetted against the rising sun. “This way, Captain. I can see tents in the valley below.”

  Sherman redoubled his effort, pulling on the mule’s reins. When he crested the rise, he turned to his right and saw the peak rising twenty-five hundred feet above the valley. It hid the enemy trench lines, but the Mexican camp was spread out below. He abruptly stopped. Thousands of tents bathed the valley in a carpet of dingy white. He pulled his eyes away from the encampment and scanned the slope below until he found a spot halfway down the mountain where he could place his howitzers.

&nb
sp; The squad of Rangers who had led the way were already filtering down the mountainside as he stepped off the trail and watched his men lead the pack mules by. Behind his battery came the 8th Infantry battalion. Before General Travis had reorganized the army, they had been known as the 1st Cherokee Rifles. Now, more than five hundred men strong, the Cherokee riflemen flowed across the crest, on the heels of the artillery.

  Behind the Cherokee battalion came three hundred men from the 5th Infantry and the remainder of Hays’ three Ranger companies. In all, there were close to a thousand men.

  With an eye firmly on the camp below, Captain Sherman positioned his guns on the slope. Anchoring his right flank was a jagged peak, jutting several hundred feet into the sky. On the other side of the peak the slope gradually descended into the Mexican encampment. The Cherokee battalion covered the ground between the jagged peak and the steep mountainside a few hundred yards upslope.

  “Amazing they haven’t seen us yet.” The voice behind him startled Sherman and he turned. Major Hays stood behind him.

  Recovering from the surprise, he nodded. “Yes, sir. We should be ready to open fire on the camp below in a few minutes.”

  “That’ll give me time to get my Rangers and the boys from the 5th further down the slope. The camp’s still a far piece from here. Do you think your guns can hit it?”

  Sherman glanced toward the camp. The closest tents were a thousand yards away. “Given our elevation, we should be able to lob our shells into the camp. I figure we’re five hundred feet above the valley. We should be able to land shells up to a mile out. Anything we hit at that range will be pure gravy.”

  Hays stared at the valley through a pair of binoculars, his lips skinned back in a ferocious grin. “No matter, Captain. We’re like the boy kicking an ant pile.”