The Texas Front: Salient

by Jonathan Cresswell

  However, the mythical French-Mexican expeditionary force had confounded Lang’s opinion – the opinions of most of Funston’s staff – by actually arriving yesterday. While Corpus Christi’s improvised port facilities had been immediately overwhelmed by the division-scale traffic, things were being sorted out, and genuine guns and vehicles were coming ashore. Whether they were manned by genuine soldiers was another matter; but it would be sheer folly to ignore them.

  “The general is going to attack with the greatest force that he can gather. Otto, when has an attack failed from too much strength?”

  “Attacks have failed from too little speed. And from divided command... The Mexican and French divisions are going to be under the command of their own general officers. They got all puffed up when Funston wanted to command them directly. He had to agree to treat them as ‘cooperative equals’.”

  “And the governor approves of this too?”

  “Reluctantly,” said Prendergast. “He’s met with the expedition leaders, Huerta and General Anquetil, and thought they meant business. I’m looking forward to meeting them myself when they get here. But that will be another three weeks at least. Another week to form them up and get them wired in to HQ – if we even can... Who knows what will happen up north in that time?”

  “That isn’t our responsibility. We’ve got our own work to do.”

  “I know,” said Prendergast worriedly. “But will the Martians leave us out of that fight while we do it?”

  June 1912, Allende, Northern Mexico

  The train halted in a cloud of steam and the groan of worn-out machinery. From his seat in the single passenger car, Emmet Smith peered out the window. About three hundred Mexican mounted infantry were drawn up in neat lines along the platform and surrounding scrub. At first glance, they looked worn but efficient. There were a couple of small artillery pieces and their caissons, also horse-drawn. Oddly, each one carried half a dozen spare wheels – and not much else.

  “Everyone out!” shouted Major Palmer at the head of the car’s aisle. “Shirts in, hats level – we’re meeting Villa’s boys, so look sharp!”

  “Glad I shaved,” Emmet said to Hicks. Both men gathered up their rifles and packs from the luggage racks and joined the other men disembarking; almost all of those were part of the Long Range Scouting Company and seemed to Emmet to pride themselves on not carrying one object on their person – it was all stowed in the vehicles carried on the train’s flatcars.

  “Fall in over here!” shouted Palmer, who seemed to think that providing the unit’s munitions made him their commander. “Make a better job of it than those bastards! Line it up!”

  Hicks and Emmet bustled into formation with the rest. Palmer stalked down the line, prodding men into better alignment. He stopped at Emmet. “Who the hell are you?”

  Major Plainview, the LRSC commander, intervened before Emmet could reply. “These are Texas Rangers detached from their company, Major. They’ll be scouting for us.”

  “Rangers? Quite a reputation you’ve all got. Scares off crooks and rustlers. Think it’ll scare off a Martian?”

  “Don’t know, Major,” said Emmet evenly. “The last one I ran into, it just looked away and kept on walking, so maybe it does work.”

  “Bullshit! Just because–”

  “Major, the general’s coming.” Plainview steered him aside.

  “Pretty noisy fellow, for an egghead with a couple’a clusters,” muttered Hicks.

  “Shh.”

  General Villa rode down the short line of men. “Welcome, allies!” he called out in English. “This is a peculiar arrangement among us! Now, I decide where we go, and when we fight, but I will not tell you how to fight. I ask only that when you see something I cannot, you tell me about it!” He wheeled the horse with slow precision. “Now, you have heard that I am strict with my men! It is true! But I will not make threats to you. Your officers are responsible for your conduct on the battlefield, and off it. I know you have already fought well. I look forward to fighting with you!

  “As to those diablos, the Mar-ti-ans... I do not know how they came to this world. I cannot send them home! But I can send them to Hell!”

  Cheers erupted from Villa’s troops; although many must not have understood the words, they obviously knew the tone. To Emmet’s surprise, many of the Americans joined in.

  Villa wheeled away. “Major, start loading the troops!” he called out in Spanish.

  A string of more boxcars that had been waiting at the Allende station – a tiny spot fifty miles southwest of Eagle Pass – had already hooked on to the LRSC’s train. The mounted troops streamed toward them in neat rows.

  “Is someone going to tell that nitwit that he’s not got enough cars to hold that many men and horses?” grumbled Palmer.

  “There don’t seem to be enough,” agreed Plainview doubtfully. He watched with the rest of them as the troops dismounted at the car doors, carefully led the horses up the loading ramps and inside – then began scrambling up the ladders on the car sides.

  “Oh, hell. He’s not serious...”

  As they watched, the soldiers loaded the horses into the cars and packed themselves onto the rooftops, with no more protection from the elements than their broad-brimmed hats. The artillery was loaded in more conventional fashion onto an open car. For all the crudity of the arrangement, it ran like clockwork, and in a shockingly short time, the battalion was embarked; the last men hefted the ramps up into the boxcars and slid shut the doors... all but one.

  Villa, who had sat his horse the whole time, approached last of all. He spurred the horse and galloped it toward the open boxcar door, then leaped it clean into the car.

  “The son-of-a-bitch can ride, I’ll give him that,” muttered Plainview. He caught Palmer’s nod. “All right! Back aboard, we’re moving out!”

  In a few more hours, they arrived at Sabinas, which at least boasted a proper station. Here, the unloading took much longer, as the LRSC cars and trucks had to be carefully driven down ramps. The men seemed practiced at it, though. The trucks intrigued Emmet: heavy construction flatbeds fitted with futuristic-looking rockets on railings. There were four of the trucks, and they looked like they could hit pretty hard. Once, at least.

  Most of the men not driving assembled near the command officers. “Alright, everyone!” shouted Plainview. “Who speaks Spanish? Put up your hand.” He scanned the group. There were a number of gaps; he grinned wryly at Emmet.

  “Okay. You, Hicks, is it? You go with Four-Six.” At Hicks’ blink, he added, “That’s the command truck for Fourth Platoon – Major Palmer, over there. He’s going to be observing how the rockets make out. Smith, you’re with car One-One.”

  “Great,” muttered Hicks, but he hefted his pack and moved off. Emmet trudged through the bustle of led horses and chugging vehicles, looking for a car marked 1-1, and found it; an expensive-looking touring car, heavily modified. A driver was sleeping in his seat, hat tipped over his eyes; two more men were speaking together in back.

  “Oh, hello,” said one as Emmet walked up. “You must be the Texas Ranger.”

  “I am,” allowed Emmet. “How’d you know? Emmet Smith, by the way.”

  “Frederick Burnham; this is Cooter Stimson; and our driver is Edward Painewick. Pleased to meet you. Oh, it’s the way you carry that military pack; not used to it. More at home on a horse, I would say. I’m the same, although I’m delighted by these motor cars.”

  “Just drop it in here,” offered Stimson. He showed Emmet a cargo box strapped to the car’s side; then they mounted up.

  “Mr. Painewick,” called out Burnham. The driver yawned, stretched, and turned. “This is Texas Ranger Smith.”

  “I haven’t done anything!” blurted Painewick.

  “I rather doubt that,” said Emmet, “but you can relax, son. I’m here to scout, not enforce the law.”

  “That’s a relief. Those Martians are enough to worry about.” Painewick twisted around and started the car. Som
e other vehicles began to move off; he waited his turn.

  “You fellows been with this unit for long?” asked Emmet.

  “Since it started, pretty much,” said Painewick over his shoulder. “Mr. Burnham, he joined us six months back, and Cooter just in April. Cooter built those rockets on the trucks over there.”

  “Not all of ’em,” muttered the young man. “Just the prototypes. Major Palmer – he’s the head of the rocket program up in Houston – he said I ought to come see how they flew in action, up real nice and close in one of these here cars. I don’t think he likes me much... But we think we can fit one onto a car like this. Sometime. Meanwhile, I can work on my paper about that Martian wire.” He tapped the notebook that bulged a shirt pocket. The car rolled off, accelerating and turning smoother than any vehicle Emmet had ever ridden in – certainly much smoother than he drove himself.

  They drove the rest of the day, a slow meander along trails that had once been carter’s tracks in the days before the railroads, when cotton moved in single bales across half of northern Nuevo Leon and Chihuahua by mule power. At dusk, the vehicles bivouacked; the risk of running into Martians was too high in the dark, and the horses needed to be kept rested. “If they pursue us,” warned Villa, “a weak horse will fall behind.”

  Three days of this steady travel brought them a few miles west of the rail line near Saleme Botello, a tiny village along the route. By the time the two groups had set up camp, several scout riders had trickled in. They reported to General Villa; he called on Major Plainview; and Emmet, who had been watching all this with interest, was summoned along with Hicks to the order group at dusk. The air was cooling rapidly; the campfire set in a low swale gave welcome warmth and painted their weathered, determined faces in strokes of red.

  “The diablos’ train was seen traveling south again four days ago,” announced Villa. “It has not returned yet, so it will pass north in the next few days. We shall prepare a reception for it.”

  Emmet lifted a hand. “Do we know it’s returning? Maybe they’re done whatever they wanted to do.”

  “My men only saw six tripods. How many do you think they lost in that battle?”

  “Oh, I see, General. Not enough to only have six left!”

  “Just so. Now, my men will pull up some of the rail line. We have done it before, but those machines can pick them up like matchsticks, so it only creates a slight delay. We must strike quickly when the time comes. As in my favorite sport, there will be picadores and matadores. Major Plainview, if you will please attend...”

  June 1912, Northern Mexico

  Ronald Gorman glowered out of the locomotive’s right-side window. The rising sun glowered back at him. The valley they were trundling through was a glorious, golden sight, spring flowers in scattered bloom, harsh but beautiful. He cared nothing for it. The sooner that reddish weed brought by the Masters spread over all this place, the better. He could see it in every creekbed and wash. They did not mark their territory in any way that Gorman knew of, but the plant did for them...

  He flicked a glance to Mendez, slumped at his engineer’s station. The man’s wide face was dull, resigned. Only the harshest threats or blows could now move him to action. Gorman had seen a few men go that way over the past year; he’d found one in a bunk with the back of his head blown off by a stolen revolver. It had been difficult to clean up.

  These trips were becoming bothersome. At the main fortress of the Masters, his months-long absence was leaving an opening for an ambitious man, and one had begun to make himself noticed. Of course, without de Gama to interpolate with the Masters, this upstart was hampered; but there was also the leadership of a very hard group of men to consider and how it might erode. If the next return to Monterrey was not the final one, it would be necessary to arrange this man’s death.

  And de Gama himself had become uncooperative at times. Whether his madness was waning or getting worse, he no longer always accepted Gorman’s will. He’d refused to inform the Masters about the theft of a pendant – and the abdication of a queen. “She will come back to us,” he’d insisted when Gorman pressed him. As flattering as Gorman might find that, he considered it unlikely. There had not been time to convince her of how much better her life would have been at his side. And perhaps the men she’d escaped with had swayed her. Often women would align themselves with whichever man seemed strongest at the time...

  The train began to round a curve about a foothill. Gorman was looking idly ahead when he suddenly jerked in shock; part of the track a half mile ahead was missing. “Mendez! Stop us, now!”

  The engineer groped for a lever and pulled it; brakes shrieked. With the train lightly loaded, it slowed rapidly. They halted with a jolt; two of the Masters’ machines continued on ahead.

  “Back us up!” snapped Gorman. “We’re in danger here.” He grinned wryly. “That is, the Masters’ train is in danger here... Take us back half a mile or so. There may be artillery aimed at that spot.”

  When they had halted again and the locomotive was secured, he cuffed Mendez lightly. “Up and out, man. A little fresh air and activity will do you good.”

  “What is it?” muttered Mendez.

  “Some of those Mexican pests in uniform, I suppose. They have meddled with our track. Get the tools and spikes and go make repairs once the Masters have replaced the rails.”

  Mendez shuffled to obey. Gorman climbed down from the train with him to share his pendant’s protection – the Masters could be jumpy – and another man joined them. A Master’s machine, looming tall, swiveled to peer down at them. Gorman lifted up the tools, mutely hoping the creature inside would understand. It turned and stalked off toward the blockage, so presumably, yes. “Off with you. Try not to let any of them step on you, now!”

  June 1912, Northern Mexico

  Emmet studied the halted train through binoculars. He lay on a ridgeline a mile and a half west of the track; scrub concealed his outline, and he was careful not to let the lenses flash back the morning sun. Once he was certain what was happening, he edged backward to join the others around car 1-1, positioned along with other LRSC vehicles behind the ridge.

  “They’re awfully careful,” he said. “They’ve moved the train back out of range. Two of the tripods are working on the track, the rest are guarding the train.”

  Burnham glanced over at the Wichita Six-Shooter parked fifty yards south. The crew had closed the metal windshield; it was ready to fire, the launch rails cranked to the correct elevation for a mile and a half range. “Why do you suppose Major Plainview hasn’t ordered the attack yet?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s waiting for Villa to open fire.” Emmet winced. “Unless Villa’s waiting for him...”

  “I think they have worked it out in a bit more detail than that,” said Burnham.

  “What are we attacking, anyway?” asked Cooter. When the others turned to him, he shrugged. “I mean, is it the train or the Martians? We don’t have enough rockets to even try to hit both.”

  “Major Plainview told that truck crew to ‘go for the tripods’ last night, so unless that’s changed, I presume they are aiming their rockets at the broken stretch of track.”

  Emmet noted that Burnham had a way of overhearing things. He felt torn about attacking the train directly; if it was carrying more livestock to feed the Martians at their base, it might buy the people there more time... But it was an enemy asset.

  “Come on,” urged Painewick.

  As though he’d triggered something, a red flare spluttered into the sky.

  “Cover your ears,” warned Burnham. They scarcely had time to do so before a roaring blast scorched across them, sounding oddly musical. Another followed immediately, then another... Six rockets thundered and moaned over the ridge, arcing downrange. Emmet scrambled up to look; no need for stealth now. He was in time to glimpse a turbid pillar of dirt erupt near the rail line, the last of that salvo. Another truck’s rockets were already roaring out; more volleyed into the target ar
ea, converging like the smoky spokes of a wheel. He saw one rocket’s trail veer wildly off, wasted; but twenty-three rockets struck there in less than thirty seconds.

  “We got one!” he howled. Hazy in the drifting smoke and dust, a machine lay on its side, unmoving. Another staggered away from the impact zone, clearly disabled.

  Three more machines started west toward them.

  Emmet sprinted back to the car; to the south, the Six-Shooter was already in gear and grinding down the ridge slope toward its escape route – their job was to see to it that it escaped. Emmet swung aboard. Painewick promptly drove them back up toward the ridgeline. Burnham manned the machine gun; young Cooter hunched in his seat as the car jolted him, scribbling in his notebook.

  Painewick swung them parallel to the ridgeline and just short of it. After a moment, Burnham opened fire; the hammering shots were louder than any gun Emmet had ever heard. He continued to shoot for perhaps a minute, pausing to check his aim... or estimate how close the machines were getting as they climbed toward the stinging insect above them. Abruptly he flinched, released the gun, and dropped back into his seat. “Mr. Painewick–”

  The driver didn’t let him get out the second syllable before he had spurted the car into motion, slewing left and down the ridgeline, but not following the Six-Shooter; they had their own route to take. Racing southwest, they jolted and jarred along a dry wash that climbed and turned around another foothill, swinging around the worn rock with only moments to spare.

  Painewick braked them in a skid of dust next to the artillery piece that Villa’s men manned. It peeked over the hill in a good spot of cover. Nearby, six other guns seemed to keep watch... but the only things real about them were the wooden wheels. The rest were canvas bags, painted black and filled with soil.