At the edge of town, I encountered Don José Navarro and Francisco Ruiz, who had attended the Brazos Convention and signed the declaration of independence. These distinguished gentlemen stood high in Béjar’s Tejano community.
“Good day, señors,” I said, doffing my campaign hat. “Have you reconsidered your allegiance?”
“My good friend Erasmo urges us to follow the Buffalo Flag, though his reasons are vague,” Señor Navarro said.
“We all oppose the dictator. Should that not be enough?” Ruiz asked.
“No, good sirs, it is not enough,” I replied. “But we have time to speak of it. In time, I believe you will see the justice of our cause.”
“Honorable men may disagree,” Ruiz said.
“And I know you to be honorable men,” I replied, tipping my hat again.
Honorable disagreement or not, I could not afford to have such prominent citizens opposing me in the capital of our new country, but I could not hang them, either. They were as godfathers to Isabella.
As I rode up to the Governor’s Palace, John dismounted first to take my horse. My staff would be inside, mapping our next move, along with Crockett and Erasmo Seguin. I was anxious to join them. To my ire, I discovered Mark Kellogg sitting on the front porch, his feet up on a table and a glass of tequila in his hand. He squinted with an annoying grin.
“Glad you finally made it, George,” he said. “Lots of important decisions being made without you. Where have you been?”
“Visiting the Cherokee,” I said. “We met Sam Houston. And Chief Bowles.”
“The Bowl? Really? Gosh, what an honor,” Kellogg said, making me wonder if he wasn’t part Cherokee. “Too bad about what happens.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“After Houston finishes his first term as president, Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar, the second president of Texas, will lead a militia force to attack the Cherokee towns. The Bowl will fight them and be murdered on the battlefield. They cut up his body for souvenirs.”
I put up my hand and turned away. It should not have surprised me. After what I’d seen in the Civil War and on the plains, no barbarity should surprise me. But the thought of that brave old man sliced to pieces by a gleeful mob was a bit too much.
I did not see how the path to a better life for my people could lead through Texas. The Tsalagiyi Nvdagi believed in a raven who did not know the spirits. Custer’s white men fought the brown men, and the rebel white men, who also fought the brown men. And there were stories of the Comanche seeking plunder, even from those who would be their friends. And now Thomas said we would ride west to find more gold in one river than was in all of the Black Hills. I would have thought his words false had I not seen him defeat a giant.
Chapter Four
THE GILA TRAIL
Two months and ten days after the Battle of the Alamo, the Seventh Cavalry was ready to march. We formed up on The Alameda, stretching from the top of Powder House Hill all the way down to the new wagon bridge crossing the San Antonio River. Tall trees and pastures were to our left. As were the shanties and saloons of La Villita. Farmers once again worked the land.
The Alamo lay to our right, the chapel and south gate still battered from the bombardment. The Long Barracks was still being used by Mexican wounded, General Filisola having sent a doctor for their care. The corrals were used for plow horses. A Buffalo Flag flew from its highest point, this version sewn with more care than our earlier attempts.
The west wall of our noble fortress, and most of the north wall, was rubble. The locals were carrying the battered adobe bricks away for building materials. Of the eighteen cannon, only five were left, two in the empty courtyard, two in the apse at the back of the church, and one on the southwest bastion. One day we would erect a monument to Bowie, Travis, and the other fallen heroes. Perhaps even one to General Cos.
On the hill behind us was a vast new cemetery. The Catholic portion held nearly a thousand of Santa Anna’s soldiers. On the adjoining acre were the graves of seventy-six defenders of the Alamo. In my time, there had been a Masonic cemetery, but that would need to wait.
“It’s not like the Black Hills Expedition, Autie,” Tom said, astride Athena.
“No, five hundred men is not the same as sixteen hundred. Twenty wagons instead of three hundred,” I agreed. “No photographers this time. No geologists. No botanists. Only one annoying reporter.”
“And no politicians looking over your shoulder,” Tom said.
“We’ll see if that’s a good thing,” I replied, for a desire to impress my superiors had always been a source of my motivation. Now I acknowledged no superiors, and no equals, except for Crockett.
I gave the signal, Voss blew his bugle for the Advance, and we crossed the bridge into town. Butler and Hughes went first carrying our flags, followed by Tom and Morning Star, then the regimental band playing “Garry Owen.” We proceeded down the main boulevard, now lined with excited townspeople, until reaching the central plaza. I rode to the church and dismounted, standing next to Crockett, Erasmo Seguin and a dozen of Béjar’s leading citizens, including Navarro and Ruiz.
The procession halted as two more bands joined in, playing a variety of Mexican folk tunes and old camping songs. Then each cannon in the city sounded, sixteen in all. A formidable display of firepower, for San Antonio was now the strongest fortification between New Orleans and Mexico City. And with Keogh as the military governor, it would not betray the weakness it had under General Cos and William Travis.
“Good luck, Myles,” I said, shaking his hand.
“Make us rich, George,” Keogh replied with an Irish grin.
“One for all, and all for one,” I agreed, for there was no other way to keep the army loyal than by promising a generous division of the spoils.
The last song played was “The Girl I Left Behind Me” as the Seventh Cavalry rode out on the west road. We had six companies of soldiers, most of my original troopers now supplemented with American adventurers, Mexican volunteers, Tejano rangers, and even a handful of ambitious Comanche scouts. Supporting us were two hundred teamsters, cattle drivers, cooks, and camp followers. Fifty were recently freed Negros who found Texas an unsafe place to live, preferring unknown lands to the west. I could not blame them. The provisional government of David G. Burnet had recently declared that all escaped slaves would be hanged if recaptured.
Bouyer’s scouts had started an hour before dawn, their job to watch for enemies and secure the best campsites. Water would be a priority, for even in spring, west Texas can be dry. Nearly as important was grassland for the stock.
“Thanks for lettin’ me come, George,” Crockett said, riding to my side on a spirited mare he’d named Mable Ann.
I was riding with K Company on a clear day. Despite incessant late April rains, the road had dried out, allowing us to make good time. I looked back before asking my question.
“Who is commanding your troop, Colonel Crockett?”
“That green lieutenant Micajah Autry, but your Sergeant French is keepin’ an eye on him,” Crockett said.
“French is your sergeant now, and you should be riding with your company unless you hear Voss blow Officer’s Call,” I instructed.
“I knows servin’ in the Secon’ Rega’ment of Volunteer Mounted Riflemen ain’t exactly like being in a real army,” Crockett said, making light of my order. “Just kick me now an’ then. I’ll catch on.”
Crockett pulled his horse from the line and waited for A Company to catch up.
“You stay at the front of your soldiers,” Morning Star said, riding a tall gray gelding that Tom had found for her. She was dressed head to toe in brown fringed buckskin, except for a blue kepi and bright yellow sash.
“I’ve learned from long experience that when traveling with several hundred horses, it’s best to ride at the head of the column,” I replied. “Morning Star, where do you get so many outfits? Even Libbie never owned so many.”
“It is my duty, so I trade ma
terials and make my own. Mrs. Dickenson has been very helpful,” she replied, adjusting the cap.
“Your duty?” I asked.
“General Custer, do you think me ignorant?” she said, though not in an annoyed way. “You often have me riding with you when we enter new towns. The people like to see a beautiful woman on a brave horse. It puts them at ease, and enhances your reputation. Did I not greet Santa Anna? Was I not first into the Cherokee village?”
“I have not done so deliberately,” I replied, though she was completely correct about the rest.
“If I can help, and make our journey safer for Thomas, then it is my duty,” she said. “And as I learned in St. Louis, colorful clothing attracts attention.”
“It certainly does, young lady,” I agreed.
We pushed hard, making better than fifteen miles the first day and stopping at Leon Creek. Crockett finally got his officer’s call.
“Soon this road will turn into a trail, and after that is anyone’s guess,” Smith said, looking at his map.
“Thar ain’t no good maps, only lots a ’pinions,” Crockett complained, for his famous travels had not taken him this far west.
“We have copies from Cooke’s atlas, and every officer has a compass,” Tom said. “Besides, this road should be good all the way to Del Rio. From there we move up the Pecos to Horse Head Crossing, cross over to the Rio Grande, and make a beeline for El Paso.”
A Catholic priest’s fine skill had drawn a map for each company commander. I had personally added the most important notes.
“You make it sound easy, lad,” Captain Blazeby said, his English accent strange among so many Southerners and Midwesterners. At least he was my age instead of being one of the kids, tall, stout, and getting a little gray in the whiskers.
“Can’t say it will be easy, Billy. But we know what to look for,” Smith said.
“We is jus’ gonna follar the old Wells Fargo trail,” Bouyer added, chewing black tobacco and spitting in our campfire. I considered ordering him not to, but he’d had a long day.
“A trail that doesn’t exist yet,” I said, playing devil’s advocate.
“Trail’s a trail. Be there before. Be there still,” Bouyer said.
We moved on to Del Rio, arriving a week later. As I expected, the small trading post near San Felipe Springs was not well defended. The locals had built a church with a few surrounding walls to discourage roving bands of Comanche, but the score of crude wooden buildings were vulnerable to attack. Like many west Texas towns, cattle was the primary industry, though the springs were feeding a growing farming community.
The weather was good. The Seventh Cavalry stayed in Del Rio several days building a supply depot and corrals for horses. I ordered the construction of a watch tower and prepared a redoubt on the highest ground, though it would be several months before cannon could be sent from San Antonio. Above the redoubt was mounted a tall flag pole, so none would doubt that Del Rio now belonged to the Buffalo Flag. When I rode out of town at the head of my troops, the townspeople cheered their new hero.
Not all of my army was securing our western base of operations. Tom had been sent forward with C Company, the scouts, and fifty laborers to turn the northern trail into a wagon road. They would fill in ruts with clay and stones, erect bridges over creeks, and build cisterns at waterholes.
“Tom, I realize not everyone is happy about my vision of the future,” I told him, catching up at the Devil’s River crossing.
“The men are anxious, Autie,” Tom said, without actually complaining. “With a hard ride, we could be in California in thirty days.”
“And then what?” I asked.
“And then what? We make for the gold fields,” he said.
“Maybe Bill is right, you should have finished school,” I said.
“At least I wouldn’t have been last in my class,” Tom remarked.
“Smart ass.”
“Autie, I understand we need a road. Do we need such a good road?” he asked.
“This is the Custer Road, Tommy. By this time next year, it will be moving cargo and stagecoaches. Forts will protect travelers. One day it will support a railroad.”
“Which Custer are we talking about? Seems like I’m doing all the work.”
“If there’s anything Rome taught us, it’s that you can’t have an empire without roads,” I insisted.
Tom looked at me in the strangest way, then shrugged his shoulders and walked back to our camp along the creek. Freshly slaughtered beef was roasting on big fires. The women were serving cornbread and laughing at the soldiers’ jokes, though most knew no English. Perhaps the men were restless, but I didn’t share Tom’s concern.
We were on the move at dawn, crossing the new bridge on our trek north. When we reached the Pecos Crossing, we stopped to build a fortified trading post. I named it Fort Yates, after my good friend who died at the Cibolo.
Eventually we left the Pecos River behind at Horsehead Crossing, turning west over the Guadalupe Mountains and back down into the Rio Grande Valley. We were now nearing the home of the Chiricahua Apaches, who lived along the headwaters of the Mimbres River, so we needed to be careful. Most of our Comanche scouts left us, declining to challenge the Apaches in their own land. They were well rewarded, for I had determined the Seventh Cavalry had enough challenges without provoking the savages.
“The Apaches will be near the river,” I said, halting on a brushy hill within sight of the Rio Grande. Thick growths of trees and glistening water could be seen even from several miles away.
“Still gots lots a men back in them hills,” Bouyer warned, for my work crews were busy widening the trail all the way to the pass.
“Order your scouts to watch our flanks, I’ll have Crockett bring his men up to supplement Brister,” I decided.
“Takin’ greenhorns into the valley of death?” Bouyer remarked.
“I’ll be in command,” I answered.
Crockett arrived a few minutes later. After the companies led by Tom and Smith, I thought Crockett’s the best.
“Finally makin’ it back to the Rio,” Crockett said with a tired smile. “Beginnin’ to wonder if we’d e’er see it a’gin. Pretty sick of them damn hairless mountains.”
“Apache country now, David, so careful what you say about going hairless,” I warned. “The Mexican government has offered a bounty on every Apache scalp, and the Apache are all too willing to return the favor.”
“Plenty a In’gins tried for my scalp. None gots it so fer,” Crockett answered.
“Have A Company blaze a trail down to the river and find us a campsite. B Company will ride in support. Tell Dickenson I want the artillery down there before sunset.”
“No small order there, General,” Crockett said, for bringing the guns over the pass had proven difficult.
“If we build a fort here, we can call it Fort Crockett,” I suggested.
“Hell, George, if I kin get me a hot meal and a shave, ya kin call if Fort Diablo fer all I care,” he said, riding back to his troop.
Slow arrived, riding with Morning Star. They looked tired, too.
“Well, boy, what are your thoughts?” I asked.
“The Great Spirit does not inhabit this land,” Slow gravely said.
“You’ve spent many hours with Catholic priests on this journey. Though their ideology is tainted by Popery, even their Bible teaches us that Jesus inhabits all lands. And all hearts.”
“And this is your belief?” Slow asked.
“It is.”
“Then you are a fool,” he said.
“You are not the first to think that,” I answered. “I’ve been driving the men hard to build this road. They are tired. What wisdom may the Great Spirit offer?”
“The Great Spirit’s wisdom is not for the white man. I have seen the Seventh Cavalry ride with honor, but this is because of Tom. And Algernon. You, and Bill Cooke. Without such leaders, many peoples would suffer.”
“Slow, the leaders you speak of
were given a gift. Not all white men have seen what we have seen. Not all have become ghost riders. Now we must teach our brothers the meaning of this gift.”
“With a road? With gold?” he asked.
“I’m doing the best I can. West Point taught me to be a soldier. It didn’t teach me how to remake the world.”
“And yet that is the mission given you by the Great Spirit,” Slow said. He gazed at me as if able to sense the future. Or a possible future.
“If the Great Spirit wanted a new world, he should have picked Mr. Lincoln,” I said. “Or General Sheridan. Or Mark Twain.”
“I fear you speak the truth,” Slow remarked, getting up and wandering off into the darkness. Maybe the birds would have something to say.
____________
Once again in the Rio Grande Valley, we found a good road moving northwest. Wagon tracks were visible in the dried mud. We had seen several small ranch houses, now abandoned, but proof of civilization. The El Paso of 1836 was unlikely to resemble the bustling city of 1876, where ranching, mining and the railroad had made such a difference. The issue of Frank Leslie’s Illustrated that Private Engle had shown me was vague on details regarding the Territory of New Mexico, focusing more on California, but many of us had heard stories.
And I still remembered the adventures I’d read of Kit Carson. Only fourteen-years-old in 1853, I was an avid reader of Harper’s Monthly, a journal filled with illustrations of a world much larger than Monroe. There were tales of Saint Paul in Damascus, Napoleon, Charles Dickens, and even Tahitian cannibals. That July, they published A Ride with Kit Carson. I must have read Brewerton’s journey a dozen times.
I had never been to El Paso. In fact, none of the men had. Only a few had ever been to California, and those by ship or the Oregon Trail, so we were in new territory, led only by maps made forty years in the future. But first we had an unexpected encounter.
“Who are they?” Butler said, pointing to group of Indians camped near the Rio Grande just short of a village called San Elizario.
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