“What should we do?” I asked, expecting an enigmatic response. For medicine men, like carnival barkers, are better at attracting attention than providing answers.
“We must go to the mountains. Perform the Sun Dance,” he said. “Wakan Tanka will send a vision.”
Civilization knows little of the Sioux sun dance, only that it involves a good deal of superstitious rituals and bloodletting. I have never heard of a sun dance giving any special insight, and judging by the decline of the Indian nations, they would appear to be ineffective. My thoughts were clear to Slow.
“I stood by you at the Alamo,” he said, brows bent.
“We’ll leave in the morning,” I replied.
I’d not ridden Vic in a fortnight, so attached had I become to office chairs. We packed a mule with supplies, found horses for Sergeant Fuentes and Mr. Armstrong, and prepared to find the east trail toward my new winery in the Sierra Nevada foothills. Slow was riding Traveller.
“Where ya goin’?” Crockett asked, coming forward with Old Blaze in tow.
Crockett was in hunting leathers and wearing a coonskin cap. Miciagh was with him, pulling a pack-laden donkey.
“Heard ya goin’ on a quest, General,” Autry said.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“Youngster ain’t so good at keepin’ secrets,” Crockett said. “Got a favor to ask, George. My history’s a might skewed too, ya know. Didn’t die at the Alamo, now I’m president of a Texas that ain’t no real country. Don’t even know what to write the folks back home. Thought maybe I’d try this ’ere questin’.”
“You may not like the answers,” I warned, for mystical adventures rarely turn out well.
“That ’ill be for me to decide,” Crockett said. “Mind if Miciagh comes along? He’s always been a might curious ’bout Sioux ways.”
I nodded my consent, for there was little else to say. The six of us made a strong party.
Sacramento was growing fast. My properties, and the government buildings, were on the high ground above the river, for I’d read many stories of flooding. As some of the new settlers found the higher elevations inconvenient, most were establishing businesses closer to the water. I recommended they be put on pylons. Docks, warehouses and saloons were appearing everywhere.
“Ya kin still call it Custer City, if ya wants to,” Crockett said, poking fun at me.
“And when it’s underwater, what will they call it then?” I answered.
“Don’t need to tell me. When the flood washed out my mill on Shoal Creek, darn near put me in the poorhouse,” Crockett said.
Now Crockett owned six large lots next to mine, one with an impressive hotel under construction. The Crockett Arms, I supposed.
“San Francisco will soon be the largest city in our empire,” I said. “But it remains vulnerable to foreign powers. I think Sacramento should be our capital. Plenty of water, farms, cattle. A good base for military operations.”
“A might swampy for me,” Crockett disagreed. “Where does Slow plan on this ’ere sun dance?”
“I have no clue what he’s thinking.”
We traveled for two days, heading toward the gold diggings at first, then veering southeast through lush green valleys. The land was richer than any I’d ever seen. Richer than Ohio, or Pennsylvania. Certainly richer than Texas. Prospectors viewed us with concern, fearing well-deserved punishment if caught cheating on their shares. The vaqueros smiled and waved their lariats. The Indians made us welcome, secure in lands that no white man had time to steal. I doubt Slow knew where he was leading us, though he was not shy about asking the birds.
Crockett and I rode side by side most of the time. We’d left our hunting dogs behind, somewhat to our regret, but kept an eye out for good opportunities.
“Not feelin’ guilty, George?” he suddenly asked as we approached.
“Guilty about what, David?”
“Not goin’ back to Tejas with the boys.”
“Like I told Tom, it’s a fool’s mission. They’ll come crawling back with their tails between their legs.”
“Bit harsh, don’t ya think?”
“You could have gone with them,” I said.
“Promised Tommy to keep an eye on you,” he answered. “Sides, I’m an old man. Cavorting ‘bout the country is a young man’s game.”
“A game for young idiots. I should have learned that at Appomattox when I saw Lee riding away on his gray horse, his shoulders slumped by four years of murder. I never was the brightest of the Custers.”
“Ya did conquer California.”
“And now I’m going to enjoy it,” I replied.
Just before dark, Slow settled on a small pasture below a tall steep rock. The area was filled with pines fed by a bubbling creek. John and Fuentes set up the tents while Miciagh and I made a campfire. Crockett went to gather firewood and spotted a young stag, dropping it with a quick shot. I was jealous. By nightfall we had a snug camp with venison cooking for dinner. The coffee smelled great. We still didn’t know what Slow was looking for.
“It is time,” he announced as a new moon rose over the mountains.
We all stood, but Slow held up his hand.
“Only Custer and Crockett,” he said, leading us under a deep overhang beneath the rock facing.
I saw the lad had scribbled markings on the cliff with chalk, images of horses, buffalo, birds, and strange symbols. Possibly tokens of the Sioux gods, though I had never heard of such. Crockett hardly gave the drawings a second thought, for the Cherokee were known to similar practices. Dried droppings indicated the cave was used by bears.
“We will sit,” Slow said, sitting cross-legged before a low fire.
The shallow pit contained twisted branches, buffalo chips, and a small amount of coal. Crockett and I sat, forming a triangle. The eerie glow began to bother me, but again, Crockett showed no special reactions. I could see the flames dancing in his cool blue eyes, while Slow’s eyes looked like glowing black embers. He took out the Bowie knife he’d carried since finding Jim Bowie dead the night before the Alamo was stormed. Then he cut a piece of flesh from his forearm.
“Hold on! That’s enough,” I protested, reaching for the knife.
“Wakan Tanka must have his tribute,” Slow said.
“Then we will all contribute,” I said.
It was a warm early spring night, as California was prone to. My buckskin jacket lay back at camp in my tent. Taking the knife from Slow, I rolled up the sleeve of my blue trail shirt, cut a shallow piece of bloody skin from my arm, and tossed the flesh into the fire. Then I handed the knife to Crockett. The old bear hunter smiled at my discomfort, grinned at Slow, and then made his contribution. He did not hand the knife back to Slow, burying the long blade in the ground next to him.
Slow chanted for a few moments, gazing into the fire, and then drew a leather pouch from his belt. It appeared to be some sort of herb or spice. He tossed a handful into the flames and resumed his chanting. The smell was strong. Stronger than the tobacco used by the Plains Indians in their peace pipes. I grew restless with the endless ritual, beginning to fidget. The air seemed thick. Suddenly I began to experience a strange sensation. I looked at Crockett, who sat quietly with straightened shoulders, his eyes closed. Slow was leaning forward, mumbling. My hands felt numb. I wanted to stretch my legs, but found I couldn’t move. The world around me began to fade.
There was a cloud. Or a haze. I couldn’t tell. It wasn’t like the gray fog that had surrounded me at the Little Big Horn and left me on a cold Texas prairie. This had a ghostly feel.
There was a carpeted hallway, long and shadowed, illuminated by oil lamps. Slow stood at my side, older, grayer. Familiar. Walking before us was a tall man in an old fashioned suit of black cloth with a high white collar and a beaver top hat. The man turned for the briefest moment, looking back, but he saw nothing. It was Crockett, a bit younger, with an angry bounce in his step.
A paneled door opened and Crockett entered a large of
fice, handing his hat to a waiting Negro servant and stomping toward an oak desk. A grizzled old man sat at the desk. Watchful. He rose slowly. Through the window behind him, I saw the city of Washington. But not the Washington I remembered. The Capitol dome was missing.
“Crockett,” the old man greeted with a smug expression. Gray whiskers showed despite an effort to shave. The blue eyes twinkled.
“President Jackson,” Crockett replied, refusing to shake hands. “We had an agreement. An agreement ta last the ages.”
“Ages don’t last forever, David. And our people need room to grow,” Jackson said, beginning to frown.
“Don’t need to grow on land that don’t belong to us. Cherokee made treaties. Good treaties. And they is good neighbors. Fought by our side a’gin the Creeks.”
“But they aren’t white Christian neighbors,” Jackson said.
“That ain’t the point,” Crockett responded.
“That’s exactly the point. This is a big land. A white man’s land. Someday it will stretch from the Atlantic to the Pacific. The Cherokee will just have to be happy with new land in the Indian Territory, out of the way of civilization.”
“Ya mean ’way from where yar land agents kin carve up their forests and sell ’em to your speculator friends? Just like they keep forcing poor folk off their land in Tennessee and drivin’ ’em farther west?”
“The people of Tennessee elected me major general, senator, and president. And even a term in the House,” Jackson boasted. “From what I hear, you won’t even be a congressman much longer.”
“Your paid hirelings are a workin’ hard a’gin me, that’s fer sure,” Crockett said. “But it ain’t gonna work, Andy. I’m gonna git reelected, and when your boy Van Buren tries to succeed ya, I’m a gonna win the presidency instead.”
Jackson laughed, walked toward the window, and lit a corncob pipe. He puffed several times. The city was primitive compared to the Washington I had known so well during the war. I’m not sure if it even had theaters.
“Those Whigs have just been using you, Davy. Parading you up and down the big cities, giving you fancy rifles, flattering your book. Using you to attack me. But you won’t be of use to them much longer. Not much longer at all.”
Crockett turned with a fearsome expression, but suddenly we weren’t in Andrew Jackson’s office anymore. It was a cloudy day, threatening rain, in a shabby pioneer hamlet surrounded by pines and sycamores. A few dozen rough farmers and their wives loitered in the middle of the road while Crockett stood on a cracker barrel, his travelling leathers already stained. Nearby, four men waited on sturdy horses. All were dressed for the trail.
“Well, I kan’t help you folks no more,” Crockett bitterly spoke. “Ya ’lected me, then un-’lected me, and ’lected me, and now ya done gone an’ un-’lected me a’gin. I kan’t take none a this no more. Ya all kin go to hell, I’m goin’ ta Texas.”
I watched Crockett jump down, mount a proud looking stallion, and turn west toward a setting sun. The small group of frontiersmen followed.
Nighttime. There is a party. Banners hang from Spanish balconies. Senoritas dance in colorful dresses. We are in the plaza of San Antonio de Béjar, the cathedral looming in shadows cast by the bonfires. The older vision of Slow is still standing next to me, observing, but no one else can see us. Crockett sits on the back of a wagon playing a fiddle as hundreds dance, drink, shout and fight. I hear someone raise a cup of wine in honor of George Washington’s birthday.
Flushed with drink, Crockett sets the fiddle aside and climbs down, stretching his long legs. He’s wearing a suit, but not the well-tailored dyed wool he’d worn in Washington. This outfit is older, slightly frayed, and mended with patches.
I watch two quarreling men come up to Crockett. One is Jim Bowie, the other William Travis, both in much better health than when I’d last seen them. They are smartly dressed. Bowie looks drunk. Travis indignant.
“We can’t keep sharing command. This drunken barbarian will get us all killed,” Travis said.
“Fighting a professional army ain’t no job for an amateur,” Bowie responded.
“I’m a lieutenant colonel of cavalry, sir,” Travis insisted.
“You’re nothin’ but a goddamn lawyer,” Bowie replies.
“Sirs, we must ’ave peace ’til Colonel Neill returns,” Crockett said. “Perhaps we gots ta worry more about Santa Anna. Villagers seem ta think he’s nearby.”
“Santa Anna can’t march his army across the desert in the dead of winter,” Travis said. “He won’t reach Béjar for another two or three weeks.”
Bowie nodded agreement and sat down. He looked a little green.
“I leave such things to you all. I’m just a high private in this ’ere army,” Crockett said, looking a bit worried.
“Maybe you can do better. Agree to lead the volunteers,” Travis urged.
“Like hell he’ll lead my volunteers,” Bowie said. “Crockett, take command of the regulars until Neill comes back. Send this debtor back to Anahuac.”
“I would make you pay for that remark, if you were a gentleman,” Travis said, starting to take off his white gloves.
“Why don’t we enjoy this fiesta? Talk on it more in da mornin’? When we’re all a might fresher,” Crockett said with a grin, stepping between the two men.
Suddenly it’s the next morning. The town plaza is littered with torn streamers, empty bottles and broken pots. I watch Crockett step from a fancy hacienda across the street that belongs to the former postmaster, though Señor Seguin does not appear to be at home. The street is filled with Tejano men, women and children fleeing the town, their belongings piled in two-wheeled carts. With them are sheep, goats, donkeys and dogs. Church bells begin to ring.
“What’s a goin’ on?” Crockett asked, still woozy from heavy drinking.
“Mexicans coming, Colonel Crockett,” a blond-haired teenager says. I know him. It’s Jimmy Allen.
“Ah don’t understand,” Crockett said, scratching his week-old beard.
“Dr. Sutherland spotted them. Hundreds. Maybe thousands,” Allen breathlessly reports. “Colonel Travis has ordered everybody into the Alamo. Sent to Goliad for help.”
Allen runs on. Crockett turns and sees the old mission on the other side of the river about three-quarters of a mile away. Most of the whites in Béjar are scrambling toward the old wooden footbridge spanning the San Antonio River, some herding cattle, others searching the small adobe houses for food. It’s a chaotic scramble. Crockett dashes back into the hacienda and emerges a moment later carrying his rifle and wearing a coonskin cap.
“Rally to me, boys! Rally to me!” he shouts. “Let’s git da guns from the presidio. Grab all the powder we kin carry. We is gonna need it.”
A dozen frontiersmen rushed to the arsenal behind the San Fernando cathedral. Others begin to dismantle the blacksmith shop. Crockett is everywhere, encouraging and organizing. Travis rides up on a beautiful gray gelding, a bright red sash tied around his waist. His white broad brim hat is covered in dust.
“Two or three weeks?” Crockett says, looking peeved.
“Hopefully just cavalry,” Travis answers. “Fannin will be here in a few days and we’ll drive them back to the Rio Grande. Keep the men moving, Crockett.”
Travis rides toward the La Villita ford waving an elaborate Spanish sword, yelling at the recruits to hurry.
Bowie walks by, a flintlock pistol in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other. He looks like he’s been dragged under a wagon.
“Get on your horse and ride, Crockett,” Bowie said.
“Still have work to do,” Crockett replied.
“No, not to the Alamo. Ride back to Tennessee before it’s too late. We’re all dead men now,” Bowie said. “Hundred and fifty volunteers, only a score of good horses. Unless Santa Anna’s in a forgiving mood, there won’t be no quarter.”
“Reckon we’ll hold out,” Crockett said, gazing at Bowie in wonderment. To see such a hero in such a sta
te must have been a shock. Bowie coughed so hard that blood appeared on his lips.
“See ya in hell, Crockett,” Bowie said, staggering toward the bridge.
Crockett just worked that much harder.
I next saw Crockett standing on the Alamo’s southwest bastion where the 18-pounder was stationed. It was at least a week after the siege began, judging by the length of his beard and haggard expression. In the town beyond the river were thousands of Mexican troops, flags flying and cannon ready. Captain Baugh came up next to him wearing a damp, heavy overcoat. Both kept their heads low, peering over the wall with caution.
“We can’t hold out much longer,” Baugh whispered.
The Virginian, barely in his thirties, was worn to the bone. In the muddy courtyard behind him, the garrison was holed up in the barracks and adjoining workshops. Their appearance was generally ragged. Only Green Jameson was active, trying to shore up a barrier in front of the chapel. The fort was a forlorn place, not like the busy stronghold I had commanded after arriving with the Seventh Cavalry.
“Travis still says Fannin is comin’,” Crockett said.
“Fannin isn’t coming,” Baugh said. “No one is coming. Some of the boys think we should break out. Mexican lines are still weak north of Powder House Hill.”
“And leave the wounded?” Crockett said.
“A few will stay behind to the end. I will,” Baugh answered. “I think you should lead the men out. No point in everyone getting killed.”
Crockett gazed at the Mexican lines, creeping closer every day. The artillery would soon be able to batter down the walls.
“’Fraid I gots to stay, too. Davy Crockett kan’t be runnin’ out like a thief in the night. But if any of the boys want to make a break, they’s got my blessin’.”
“Thanks, Colonel. Not sure what will happen. Maybe Fannin will make it in time,” Baugh said. “How is Bowie?”
“Sicker than before. Might not last another day,” Crockett said.
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