Ned could never remember clearly the next few moments in that red and awful scene. It seemed to him afterward that he went mad for the time. He was conscious of groans and cries, of the fierce shouting of the Mexicans, wild with the taste of blood, of the incessant crackling of the rifles and muskets, and of falling bodies. He saw gathering over himself and his slaughtered comrades a great column of smoke, pierced by innumerable jets of fire, and he caught glimpses of the swart faces of the Mexicans as they pulled triggers. From right and left came the crash of heavy but distant volleys, showing that the other two columns were being massacred in the same way.
He felt the thunder of hoofs and a horse was almost upon him, while the rider, leaning from the saddle, cut at him with a saber. Ned, driven by instinct rather than reason, sprang to one side the next instant, and then the horseman was lost in the smoke. He dashed against a figure, and was about to strike with his fist, the only weapon that he now had, when he saw that he had collided with a Texan, unwounded like himself. Then he, too, was lost in the smoke.
A consuming rage and horror seized Ned. Why he was not killed he never knew. The cloud over the place where the slaughtered recruits lay thickened, but the Mexicans never ceased to fire into it with their rifles and muskets. The crackling of the weapons beat incessantly upon the drums of his ears. Mingled with it were the cries and groans of the victims, now fast growing fewer. But it was all a blurred and red vision to Ned. While he was in that deadly volcano he moved by instinct and impulse and not by reason.
A few of the unwounded had already dashed from the smoke and had undertaken flight across the plain, away from the Mexican infantry, where they were slain by the lances or muskets of the cavalry under Urrea. Ned followed them. A lancer thrust so savagely at him that when the boy sprang aside the lance was hurled from his hand. Ned’s foot struck against the weapon, and instantly he picked it up. A horseman on his right was aiming a musket at him, and, using the lance as a long club, he struck furiously at the Mexican. The heavy butt landed squarely upon the man’s head, and shattered it like an eggshell. Youthful and humane, Ned nevertheless felt a savage joy when the man’s skull crashed beneath his blow.
It is true that he was quite mad for the moment. His rage and horror caused every nerve and muscle within him to swell. His brain was a mass of fire. His strength was superhuman. Whirling the great lance in club fashion about his head he struck another Mexican across the shoulders, and sent him with a howl of pain from the saddle. He next struck a horse across the forehead, and so great was the impact that the animal went down. A cavalryman at a range of ten yards fired at him and missed. He never fired again, as the heavy butt of the lance caught him the next instant on the side of the head, and he went to join his comrade.
All the while Ned was running for the timber. A certain reason was appearing in his actions, and he was beginning to think clearly. He curved about as he ran, knowing that it would disturb the aim of the Mexicans, who were not good shots, and instinctively he held on to the lance, whirling it about his head, and from time to time uttering fierce shouts like an Indian warrior wild with battle. More than one Mexican horseman sheered away from the formidable figure with the formidable weapon.
Ned saw other figures, unarmed, running for the wood. A few reached it, but most were cut down before they had gone half way. Behind him the firing and shouting of the Mexicans did not seem to decrease, but no more groans or cries reached him from the bank of smoke that hung over the place where the murdered recruits lay. But the crash of the fire, directed on the other columns to right and left, still came to him.
Ned saw the wood not far away now. Twenty or thirty shots had been fired at him, but all missed except two, which merely grazed him. He was not hurt and the superhuman strength, born of events so extraordinary, still bore him up. The trees looked very green. They seemed to hold out sheltering arms, and there was dense underbrush through which the cavalry could not dash.
He came yet nearer, and then a horseman, rifle raised to his shoulder, dashed in between. Sparks danced before Ned’s eyes. Throat and mouth, lips and his whole face burned with smoke and fever, but all the heat seemed to drive him into fiercer action. He struck at horse and horseman so savagely that the two went down together, and the lance broke in his hands. Then with a cry of triumph that his parched throat could scarcely utter, he leaped into the timber.
Having reached the shelter of the trees, Ned ran on for a long time, and finally came into the belt of forest along the San Antonio River. Twenty-six others escaped in the same way on that day, which witnessed the most dreadful deed ever done on the soil of North America, but nearly four hundred were murdered in obedience to the letter sent by Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. Fannin and Ward, themselves, were shot through the head, and their bodies were thrown into the common heap of the slain.
Ned did not see any of the other fugitives among the trees. He may have passed them, but his brain was still on fire, and he beheld nothing but that terrible scene behind him, the falling recruits, the fire and the smoke and the charging horsemen. He could scarcely believe that it was real. The supreme power would not permit such things. Already the Alamo had lighted a fire in his soul, and Goliad now turned it into a roaring flame. He hated Urrea, who had rejoiced in it, and he hated Santa Anna who, he dimly felt, had been responsible for this massacre. Every element in his being was turned for the time into passion and hatred. As he wandered on, he murmured unintelligible but angry words through his burning lips.
He knew nothing about the passage of time, but after many hours he realized that it was night, and that he had come to the banks of a river. It was the San Antonio, and he swam it, wishing to put the stream between himself and the Mexicans. Then he sat down in the thick timber, and the collapse from such intense emotions and such great exertions came quickly. He seemed to go to pieces all in a breath. His head fell forward and he became unconscious.
CHAPTER XIX
THE RACE FOR THE BOAT
Five men, or rather four men and a boy, rode down the banks of the San Antonio, always taking care to keep well in the shelter of the timber. All the men were remarkable in figure, and at least three of them were of a fame that had spread to every corner of Texas.
The one who rode slightly in advance was of gigantic build, enormously thick through the shoulders and chest. He was dressed in brightly dyed deerskin, and there were many fanciful touches about his border costume. The others also wore deerskin, but theirs was of soberer hue. The man was Martin Palmer, far better known as the Panther, or, as he loved to call himself, the Ring Tailed Panther. His comrades were “Deaf” Smith, Henry Karnes, Obed White and Will Allen.
They were not a very cheerful five. Riding as free lances, because there was now practically no organized authority among the Texans, they had been scouting the day before toward Goliad. They had learned that Fannin and his men had been taken, and they had sought also to discover what the Mexican generals meant to do with the troops. But the Mexican patrols had been so numerous and strong that they could not get close enough to Goliad. Early in the morning while in the timber by the river they had heard the sound of heavy firing near Goliad, which continued for some time, but they had not been able to fathom its meaning. They concluded finally that a portion of Fannin’s men must have been still holding out in some old building of Goliad, and that this was the last stand.
They made another effort to get closer to the town, but they were soon compelled to turn back, and, again they sought the thickest timber along the river. Now they were riding back, in the hope of finding some Texan detachment with which they could coöperate.
“If we keep huntin’ we ought to find somebody who can tell us somethin’,” said the Panther.
“It’s a long lane that has no news at the end,” said Obed White, with an attempt at buoyancy.
“That’s so,” said “Deaf” Smith. “We’re bound to hit a trail somehow an’ somewhere. We heard that Fannin’s men had surrendered an’ then we
heard that firin’. But I guess that they wouldn’t give up, without makin’ good terms for themselves, else they would have held out as the boys did in the Alamo.”
“Ah, the Alamo!” said Obed White. His face clouded at the words. He was thinking then of the gallant youth who had escaped with him from the dungeon under the sea in the castle of San Juan de Ulua, and who had been his comrade in the long and perilous flight through Mexico into Texas. The heart of the Maine man, alone in the world, had turned strongly to Ned Fulton, and mourning him as one dead he also mourned him as a son. But as he rarely talked of the things that affected him most, he seldom mentioned Ned. The Panther was less restrained.
“We’ve got a big score to settle for the Alamo,” he said. “Some good friends of mine went down forever in that old mission an’ there was that boy, Ned Fulton. I s’pose it ain’t so bad to be cut off when you’re old, an’ you’ve had most of your life, but it does look bad for a strong, fine boy just turnin’ into a man to come straight up ag’inst the dead wall.”
Will Allen said nothing, but unbidden water forced itself to his eyes. He and Ned had become the strongest of friends and comrades.
“After all that’s been done to our people,” said the Panther, “I feel like rippin’ an’ r’arin’ an’ chawin’ the rest of my life.”
“We’ll have the chance to do all of it we want, judgin’ from the way things are goin’,” said “Deaf” Smith.
Then they relapsed into silence, and rode on through the timber, going slowly as they were compelled to pick their way in the underbrush. It was now nearly noon, and a brilliant sun shone overhead, but the foliage of young spring was heavy on trees and bushes, and it gave them at the same time shade and shelter.
As they rode they watched everywhere for a trail. If either Texans or Mexicans had passed they wanted to know why, and when. They came at last to hoofprints in the soft bank of the river, indicating that horses—undoubtedly with men on their backs—had crossed here. The skilled trailers calculated the number at more than fifteen, perhaps more than twenty, and they followed their path across the timber and out upon the prairie.
When the hoofprints were more clearly discernible in the grass they saw that they had been made by unshod feet, and they were mystified, but they followed cautiously or, for two or three miles, when “Deaf” Smith saw something gleaming by the track. He alighted and picked up a painted feather.
“It’s simple now,” he said. “We’ve been followin’ the trail of Indians. They wouldn’t be in this part of the country, ’less they were helpin’ the Mexicans, an’ I guess they were at Goliad, leavin’ after the business there was finished.”
“You’re right, Deaf,” said Karnes. “That ’counts for the unshod hoofs. It ain’t worth while for us to follow them any longer, so I guess we’d better turn back to the timber.”
Safety obviously demanded this course, and soon they were again in the forest, riding near the San Antonio and down its stream. They struck the trail of a bear, then they roused up a deer in the thickets, but big game had no attraction for them now, and they went on, leaving bear and deer in peace. Then the sharp eyes of the Panther saw the print of a human foot on the river bank. He soon saw three or four more such traces leading into the forest, where the trail was lost.
The five gathered around the imprints in the earth, and debated their meaning. It was evident even to Will Allen that some one without a horse had swum the river at that point and had climbed up the bank. They could see the traces lower down, where he had emerged from the water.
“I figger it this way,” said the Panther. “People don’t go travelin’ through this country except on horses, an’ this fellow, whoever he is, didn’t have any horse, as we all can see as plain as day.”
“An’ in such times as these,” said “Deaf” Smith, “fellers don’t go swimmin’ rivers just for fun. The one that made these tracks was in a hurry. Ain’t that so, Hank?”
“’Course he was,” replied Karnes. “He was gettin’ away from somewhere an’ from somebody. That’s why he swam the river; he wanted the San Antonio to separate him from them somebodies.”
“And putting two and two and then two more together,” said Obed White, “we draw the conclusion that it is a fugitive, probably one of our own Texans, who has escaped in some manner from his prison at Goliad.”
“It’s what we all think,” said the Panther, “an’ now we’ll beat up these thickets till we find him. He’s sure to keep movin’ away from Goliad, an’ he’s got sense to stay in the cover of the timber.”
The forest here ran back from the river three or four hundred yards, and the five, separating and moving up the stream, searched thoroughly. The hunt presently brought the Panther and Obed White together again, and they expressed their disappointment at finding nothing. Then they heard a cry from Will Allen, who came galloping through the thickets, his face white and his eyes starting.
“I’ve found Ned Fulton!” he cried. “He’s lying here dead in the bushes!”
The Panther and Obed stared in amazement.
“Will,” exclaimed the Panther, “have you gone plum’ crazy? Ned was killed at the Alamo!”
“I tell you he is here!” cried the boy, who was shaking with excitement. “I have just seen him! He was lying on his back in the bushes, and he did not move!”
“Lead on! Let’s see what you have seen!” said Obed, who began to share in the boy’s excitement.
The Panther whistled, and Smith and Karnes joined them. Then, led by Will Allen, they rode swiftly through the bushes, coming, forty or fifty yards away, into a tiny grassy glade. It was either Ned Fulton or his ghost, and the Panther, remembering the Alamo, took it for the latter. He uttered a cry of astonishment and reined in his horse. But Obed White leaped to the ground, and ran to the prostrate figure.
“A miracle!” he exclaimed. “It’s Ned Fulton! And he’s alive!”
The others also sprang from their horses, and crowded around their youthful comrade, whom they had considered among the fallen of the Alamo. Ned was unconscious, his face was hot with fever, and his breathing was hard and irregular.
“How he escaped from the Alamo and how he came here we don’t know,” said Obed White solemnly, “but there are lots of strange things in heaven and earth, as old Shakespeare said, and this is one of the strangest of them all.”
“However, it’s happened we’re glad to get him back,” said the Panther. “And now we must go to work. You can tell by lookin’ at him that he’s been through all kinds of trouble, an’ a powerful lot of it.”
These skilled borderers knew that Ned was suffering from exhaustion. They forced open his mouth, poured a drink down his throat from a flask that Karnes carried, and rubbed his hands vigorously. Ned, after a while, opened his eyes and looked at them dimly. He knew in a vague way that these were familiar faces, but he remembered nothing, and he felt no surprise.
“Ned! Ned! Don’t; you know us?” said Will Allen. “We’re your friends, and we found you lying here in the bush!”
The clouds slowly cleared away from Ned’s mind and it all came back, the terrible and treacherous slaughter of his unarmed comrades, his own flight through the timber his swimming of the river, and then the blank. But these were his best friends. It was no fantasy. How and when they had come he did not know, but here they were in the flesh, the Panther, Obed White, Will Allen, “Deaf” Smith and Henry Karnes.
“Boys,” he asked weakly, “how did you find me?”
“Now don’t you try to talk yet a while, Ned,” said Obed White, veilinghis feeling under a whimsical tone. “When people come back from the dead they don’t always stay, and we want to keep you, as you’re an enrolled member of this party. The news of your trip into the beyond and back again will keep, until we fix up something for you that will make you feel a lot stronger.”
These frontiersmen never rode without an outfit, and Smith produced a small skillet from his kit. The Panther lighted a fire, Karnes chip
ped off some dried beef, and in a few minutes they had a fine soup, which Ned ate with relish. He sat with his back against a tree and his strength returned rapidly.
“I guess you can talk now, Ned,” said Obed White. “You can tell us how you got away from the Alamo, and where you’ve been all the time.”
Young Fulton’s face clouded and Obed White saw his hands tremble.
“It isn’t the Alamo,” he said. “They died fighting there. It was Goliad.”
“Goliad?” exclaimed “Deaf” Smith. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the slaughter, the massacre. All our men were led out. They were told that they were to go on parole. Then the whole Mexican army opened fire upon us at a range of only a few yards and the cavalry trod us down. We had no arms. We could not fight back. It was awful. I did not dream that such things could be. None of you will ever see what I’ve seen, and none of you will ever go through what I’ve gone through.”
“Ned, you’ve had fever. It’s a dream,” said Obed White, incredulous.
“It is no dream. I broke through somehow, and got to the timber. Maybe a few others escaped in the same way, but all the rest were murdered in cold blood. I know that Santa Anna ordered it.”
They knew perfectly well that Ned was telling the full truth, and the faces of all of them darkened. The same thought was in the heart of every one, vengeance for the deed, but however intense was the thought it did not approach the feeling of Ned, who had seen it all, and who had been through it all.
“I guess that was the firing we heard,” said Smith, “when we thought it was the boys making a last stand at Goliad. I tell you, comrades, this means the freedom of Texas. No matter how the quarrel came about no people can stand such things.”
“It’s so,” said the others together.
They did not declaim. They were of a tribe that was not given much to words, but they felt sure that their own resolve to fight until no Mexicans were left in Texas would now be shared by every Texan.
The Second Western Megapack Page 82