The Red Ripper (19 page)
Authors: Kerry Newcomb
Despite the odds against them, the doomed column put up a valiant fight. Musket balls and round shot decimated their ranks. As the intensity of the gunfire increased, the men in the
mercado
clutched their weapons and curled beneath what little protection they could find while a pall of powder smoke stung their nostrils and fouled the air.
mercado
clutched their weapons and curled beneath what little protection they could find while a pall of powder smoke stung their nostrils and fouled the air.
The abandoned marketplace had become a death trap. Lead slugs whirred like angry bees, thudded against the well, pockmarked the hard earth. A man next to Bowie clutched his throat, gasped, and curled over on his side. Bowie fired at the rooftop to his left and sent a marksman darting out of sight. The knife fighter began the arduous task of ramming another charge down the barrel of his long rifle. Don Murillo removed his black sombrero and ran a hand through his white hair. Sweat beaded his dark brown forehead. He checked the loads on his silver-plated dueling pistols, rose up and fired first one round, then a second, and sent a man tumbling from the rooftop of a silversmith's shop. Chuy Montoya tried to pull the
haciendado
out of sight as Mexican grenadiers turned their guns on the landowner.
haciendado
out of sight as Mexican grenadiers turned their guns on the landowner.
“Padrone. You will get yourself killed!” The
segundo
grimaced as one of the lead slugs found its mark, striking the landowner in the thigh. Don Murillo shuddered and fell backward into Montoya's outstretched arms, a patch of dark crimson spreading outward from the puckered wound.
segundo
grimaced as one of the lead slugs found its mark, striking the landowner in the thigh. Don Murillo shuddered and fell backward into Montoya's outstretched arms, a patch of dark crimson spreading outward from the puckered wound.
“No ⦠Señor Saldevar ⦠no!” Chuy gasped. He removed a scarf from around his neck and fashioned a tourniquet to stanch the flow of blood.
“The soldiers are no longer running from us, my old friend,” Don Murillo said through clenched teeth.
“So I noticed,” Montoya grumbled. The musket ball had glanced off the stone wall and plowed a furrow across the older man's flesh but failed to lodge itself in the muscle.
“Now that we got those dragoons treed, what are we gonna do with 'em?” Bowie sourly added, watching the grizzled vaquero tenderly minister to the landowner. He quickly surveyed the
mercado.
Where was Wallace? Bowie couldn't remember if the big galoot had followed them into the market square.
mercado.
Where was Wallace? Bowie couldn't remember if the big galoot had followed them into the market square.
“I would prefer to be herding cattle or breaking wild mustangs,” Chuy said, hunching forward as several more shots rang out and the cannon boomed again.
“As would I,” Don Murillo agreed, gritting his teeth. He'd been hurt worse and wasn't about to let the wound slow him down. He intended to lead these men out of this trap or die trying. For the first time in a long while he actually considered his own demise. He had expected to die in bed, an old man, tired of life and eager for rest. Up until now it had all been like some play, a stage set for a drama in which men died for the benefit of the performance. Nothing was permanent; life was always just another rehearsal. “Ah, Chuy, one is never too old to play the fool.”
“No,
padrone
,” the
segundo
protested. “You are a good man, a just man, and your word is much-respected throughout the region. The men and I will always follow you. We ride for the brand, come what may.”
padrone
,” the
segundo
protested. “You are a good man, a just man, and your word is much-respected throughout the region. The men and I will always follow you. We ride for the brand, come what may.”
After he finished tending Don Murillo's wound, Montoya slipped a pistol from his belt and fired at an open window in a shop across the square. He couldn't hear the yelp of pain, but a brown hand dropped a musket and clutched the windowsill before sinking out of sight.
“Well done,” Don Murillo said, straining to stand. He
groaned as he put weight on his leg and tightened the tourniquet another turn. He rammed another charge down the gun barrel, then sank back and closed his eyes.
groaned as he put weight on his leg and tightened the tourniquet another turn. He rammed another charge down the gun barrel, then sank back and closed his eyes.
“You hit bad?” Bowie asked.
Just then the nine-pounder roared and sent a round of explosive shot into one of the wooden carts. Solid wheels and a wood frame exploded into fragments. Two vaqueros went flying into the air, arms and legs unnaturally bent; the men flopped lifelessly upon the earth like discarded rag dolls.
“Not as bad as some,” the
haciendado
glumly replied, glancing in the direction of his fallen ranch hands. He had known them both and watched them grow to manhood on the ranch. They would be missed.
haciendado
glumly replied, glancing in the direction of his fallen ranch hands. He had known them both and watched them grow to manhood on the ranch. They would be missed.
“Damn, I hate to see that,” Bowie remarked. He eased up, raised his rifle, and fired at the redoubt as the soldiers scrambled to reload the cannon. A few of the Louisianans tried to advance before the nine-pounder could spit another charge, but the riflemen behind the makeshift barricade laid down a brutal volley that claimed one of the attackers and sent the rest scrambling back to their meager protection.
“The bastard's placed his men well,” Bowie grudgingly admitted, watching as the artillery officer tightened the ranks.
The Mexican infantry kept up a steady gunfire from redoubt in the shadow of the hotel. Rifle balls thudded into the adobe bricks and riddled the greasewood sign dangling above the front doorway. They thudded into the shuttered windows and bolted door and pinged off the wrought-iron railing of the balcony. The name on the sign, MAMA GAVIA, had been practically shot away. With the amount of rifles fired in its direction, the House of Gold was fast becoming a “House of Lead.” The gaily painted wooden shutters splintered. Chips of
wood littered the shaded walkway. The thick clay walls were soon pockmarked from the rifle fire.
wood littered the shaded walkway. The thick clay walls were soon pockmarked from the rifle fire.
Marksmen on the hotel balcony controlled the avenue of approach from several directions with their line of fire. The nine-pounder, loaded with grapeshot, could sweep the market square with a single blast. Below the balcony, infantrymen loosed volley after volley. The bayonets on their muskets gleamed in the sun. These desperate and determined men were prepared to repel any advance.
Bullets thudded against the well and forced Bowie to duck down before he could completely assess the situation. “They tricked me like a greenhorn,” the knife fighter fumed. “I should have known better.”
“We'll be slaughtered if we stay here!” one of the Louisianans called out.
“Then we won't stay,” Don Murillo snapped. He refused to die on his belly like a reptile.
“They'll cut us to ribbons if we try to run back the way we came,” Chuy observed. He fired at an open doorway, then hastily reloaded.
“You got a better idea?” Bowie said. A musket ball missed him by inches and spattered him with limestone chips as it ricocheted off the wall and plopped into the water. His throat was parched. The sun was a soot gray smear dimly glimpsed through the powder smoke. His eyes were watering now. But maybe the pall was a blessing, it served to ruin the aim of the soldiers surrounding them. He studied Don Murillo's expression and read the older man's iron resolve. “I got a bad feeling about this, señor.” He knew as well as the ranchero there was only one way out of the
mercado.
mercado.
“I will not die with my face in the dirt. Nor will I suffer my wife to think her husband was a coward.” The landowner lifted his dueling pistols, loaded and ready.
“See here, I don't mind dying so much; it's dying in
pieces that gives me the willies. I don't cotton to charging into grapeshot,” Bowie muttered. He could see the handwriting on the wall clear as any man. “Ah, what the devil.” Bowie cupped a hand to his mouth. “Pierre Du-fau, are you still alive?”
pieces that gives me the willies. I don't cotton to charging into grapeshot,” Bowie muttered. He could see the handwriting on the wall clear as any man. “Ah, what the devil.” Bowie cupped a hand to his mouth. “Pierre Du-fau, are you still alive?”
“For now!” a squat, jut-jawed Cajun shouted back from across the marketplace. “But I cannot guarantee for later, monsieur.”
“Sound that trumpet of yours soon as I step out. I reckon we'll be charging those âmescans' over yonder.”
“If yer jokin' I'm chokin',
mon cher.”
The Cajun sounded as if that were the worst suggestion he was going to hear all day. “You want me to summon an angel or two while I'm at it?”
mon cher.”
The Cajun sounded as if that were the worst suggestion he was going to hear all day. “You want me to summon an angel or two while I'm at it?”
“Call down who you will,” Bowie retorted, “as long as they bring their own powder and shot.”
Chuy blessed himself while all around him men cowering in the
mercado
steeled themselves for a frontal assault on the makeshift redoubt. The
segundo
was gamely resolved to do his share of the fighting. As for Don Murillo, the man was much too proud to stay behind. It was a matter of honor.
mercado
steeled themselves for a frontal assault on the makeshift redoubt. The
segundo
was gamely resolved to do his share of the fighting. As for Don Murillo, the man was much too proud to stay behind. It was a matter of honor.
“Lord,” Bowie ruefully recited. “For what we are about to receive, may we be truly thankful.” It was a time for prayer. Charging into grapeshot at close range was akin to suicide, and every man knew it. But they would follow out of pride, out of fatal resolve, out of a last brief hope that a miracle would save them.
Sometimes the impossible happens. Prayers have a way of getting answered. Faith can triumph in the darkest hour. Sometimes there are legends in the dust.
Bowie patted Chuy on the shoulder and started to rise up. “See you over yonder.” A blaring call sounded from the trumpet lost in the haze of the
mercado.
It lingered on the air, balanced on an undercurrent of gunfire and death.
mercado.
It lingered on the air, balanced on an undercurrent of gunfire and death.
“Wait,
Señor
Bowie,” Don Murillo blurted out and caught the knife fighter by the arm and dragged him back under cover. “Look. There on the roof of the hotel!”
Señor
Bowie,” Don Murillo blurted out and caught the knife fighter by the arm and dragged him back under cover. “Look. There on the roof of the hotel!”
Bowie rubbed his eyes and squinted through the acrid haze that stung his eyes and lungs. “What in blue thunder?”
A familiar figure balanced his long-legged frame on the red tile roof of Mama Gavia's Casa del Oro Hotel as if summoned by the Cajun's clarion call. He was broad and tall, and his long red hair streamed in the wind while a black haze of brimstone and gunsmoke swirled about his mighty limbs. Here was no seraph, not by a long shot, but the devil at noon, unleashed from the bowels of the earth, a red-maned avenger conjured of smoke and fire and all-consuming flame.
“Wallace!” The name rose in the throats of the doomed men in the market below. His name was a benediction of thunder and fiery death.
“Wallace!” It erupted like a cheer defiantly hurled into the teeth of the Mexican troops.
He held aloft a keg of black powder two men would have struggled to raise. A fuse sputtered from one end and showered his shoulder and neck with sparks as it burned away, growing shorter with every precious second.
“Throw it,” Bowie said beneath his breath.
Soldiers in the buildings surrounding the square noticed the man on the roof and tried to pick him off. Wallace took a step toward the edge of the tiles. The big man seemed impervious to the musket balls that filled the air around him like swarming mosquitoes.
“Throw it, my friend!” Don Murillo shouted, but the gunfire drowned him out.
Wallace glanced down at the upturned faces of the soldiers below him. The men on the balcony were too
surprised to fire their muskets. Wallace launched the keg toward the powder kegs stacked near the nine-pounder. The soldiers on the balcony broke their trance and unleashed a volley in his direction. William threw himself backward, avoiding death by inches as the musket balls fanned the acrid haze.
surprised to fire their muskets. Wallace launched the keg toward the powder kegs stacked near the nine-pounder. The soldiers on the balcony broke their trance and unleashed a volley in his direction. William threw himself backward, avoiding death by inches as the musket balls fanned the acrid haze.
The big man scrambled back up the roof and flattened himself against the crumbling tiles. Broken fragments of fired clay slid out from under his boot heels and disappeared over the edge. He began to lose his purchase and inexorably slide down the roof. Wallace spread out his arms, dug his fingers beneath the tiles, splayed his legs to gain traction, and slowly regained his hold on the rooftop. But just as he breathed a sigh of relief, the ground below erupted in a mighty blast. The earth shook; the hotel trembled; a second and third detonation followed the first as the powder kegs exploded in a flash of
*
fire and thunder.
*
fire and thunder.
The shuttered windows of the hotel blew inward; the adobe brick supports cracked and collapsed. The balcony and several feet of roof came tumbling down. The walls of the redoubt crumbled outward. Several of the defenders went flying through the air to land in the
mercado,
where they lay writhing on the ground, cradling their broken limbs and gaping wounds. Some of the troops gamely charged the insurrectionists driven out by the igniting powder kegs and shrapnel, but this time the advantage belonged to the Texicans, who met them with a withering volley.
mercado,
where they lay writhing on the ground, cradling their broken limbs and gaping wounds. Some of the troops gamely charged the insurrectionists driven out by the igniting powder kegs and shrapnel, but this time the advantage belonged to the Texicans, who met them with a withering volley.
Jim Bowie leaped to his feet and emptied his rifle into one man, charged a second soldier who impaled himself on Bowie's formidable blade. Chuy wounded one grenadier, then fired point-blank into the chest of a second Mexican soldier who sank to his knees, clutched at the front of his coat, managed to stand and take a few
steps, then slumped forward with his upper torso breaking the surface of the well.
steps, then slumped forward with his upper torso breaking the surface of the well.
The remaining soldiers surrendered after a few brief seconds of skirmish or darted toward the alleys in a desperate attempt to escape. Some made their way through these narrow avenues and headed straight for the main garrison at the Alamo Mission.
“Oh, shit!” Wallace muttered as the front of the hotel collapsed. He tensed as the roof gave way and dropped him in a rain of mortar, clay, adobe bricks, and shattered wood. The wounded and dying broke his fall. Hands clawed at him in a macabre display; men groaned, pleaded for mercy or tried to encircle his throat to drag him under as they died.
It was rough going for a few brief minutes. Wallace had knocked the wind out of himself. He fought free of his assailants even as he struggled to breathe. Dazed and blinded by the dirt and debris, he rose from the wreckage. Bodies were strewn about him along with the shattered carriage of the nine-pounder cannon and the ruins of the redoubt. Several of the defending soldiers seemed oblivious to the stranger in their midst while others recognized him as the man who had brought them to ruin. From out of the carnage a soldier lunged at him with a bayonet and broken musket. Wallace batted the gun barrel aside and caught the man by the throat as the soldier stumbled past. William lifted the man into the air and hurled the unfortunate grenadier in the direction of another group of soldiers who were about to riddle the Texican with lead. The soldiers broke ranks and as their comrade at arms collided with them, Wallace drew his knives and charged the soldiers as they attempted to regroup into a skirmish line. He was a fearsome apparition with his great size, his features caked with white dust from the wreckage, his burning wild-eyed gaze. Menace clung to him like a cold sweat.
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