Trailing Cattle - A Short History Part 5

Charles Goodnight said of the Texas Longhorn - "As trail cattle, their equal has never been known. Their hoofs are superior to those of any other cattle. In stampedes, they hold together better, are easier circled in a run, and rarely split off when you commence to turn the front. No animal of the cow kind will shift and take care of itself under all conditions as will the Longhorns. They can farther without water and endure more suffering than others." Goodnight is credited as the inventor of the chuck wagon and the calf wagon or 'blattin' cart.' He was also well-known on the trail for his famous lead steer, Old Blue. Lead steers were invaluable animals on the trail, not only keeping the herd moving at a 10-12 mile pace per day, but also for tasks such as starting a herd swimming or entering pens at the sale yards. Old Blue led Goodnight herds to market for 8 years. Stories tell that the old steer refused to associate with the herd at night, often bedding with the horses and even coming into camp to beg for food. After his death, Goodnight mounted Old Blue's horns at his ranch. Today they are on display at the Panhandle-Plains Historical Museum in Canyon, Texas.

The Texas Chuck Wagon or "Wagon" was always an open-air affair. As one cowboy said, "Putting a cover on is too much trouble for getting things in and out." In the wagon bed, the cook loaded kegs of molasses, and boxes of bacon, sugar. Built into the back-end was a chuck box or pantry. The chuck box sloped outward and the lower end hinged, so it could be lowered to act as a work or eating table. This table was held by rope or chains or sometimes a stick prop beneath it. Inside, out of the elements, utensils, flour, sourdough, salt, tomatoes, beans, dried fruit, onions, and potatoes were stored. Usually the chuck box also contain one drawer that held medicinal products such as liniment, quinine, and a laxative. Sitting below the chuck box was a smaller box that held the skillets and the Dutch ovens. On one side of the wagon, a water barrel would be mounted. On the other side, a tool box was mounted. The tool box contained branding irons, horseshoeing equipment, and possibly an axe and shovel. All chuck wagons had a leather hammock stretched underneath the bed where spare wood was carried. This hammock was also called the cooney, from the Spanish word cuna. (cradle) Cowboys also called it the "possum belly." During many a stormy night on the trail, a smart cowboy could nestle into the cooney and stay dry and warm during the night. Chuck wagons were normally pulled by oxen, mules or horses.

Hot coffee was the staple for cowboys trailing Longhorns to Kansas and Arbuckle's was the brand of choice. Self-respecting cowboys drank it black without sugar or evaporated milk. The coffee was called six-shooter coffee as it was said to be able to float a cowboy's pistol. The rest of breakfast included bacon, sourdough biscuits,and dried fruit. Lunch was called dinner in that time and was always a light meal consisting usually of coffee and beef. (There was always plenty of beef on the drive) Most times, the cowboys of a particular herd would kill another drive's stray for steaks so as not to kill one of their own steers. If that option was not present, they would kill an animal from their herd that either was a problem to drive or had poor markings. For several days after the killing of a steer, the camp would endure daily portions of "son-of-a-gun" stew. The stew consisted of everything that needed to be eaten quickly before spoiling. This would include tongue, heart, liver, etc... Once the stew was portioned out, the cowboys would enjoy steak cooked in a Dutch oven. The rest of a steak meal would consist of onion, potatoes, and dried beans known by trailers as "Pecos strawberries."


Trailing cattle was never the daring, thrill-seeking adventure portrayed in the Dime Novels of the time. In fact, it was downright dangerous on a daily basis. In the Chisolm Trail by Wayne Gard, the author tells of a herd that found a grave on the North Canadian that simply read: Killed by Indians. Besides the dangers of hostile Indians, there were rattlesnakes, prairie dog burrows, cholera, and deadly spring thunderstorms. Many a cowboy used his saddle for protection during a hailstorm which in severe cases had the potential to kill horses and cattle. In addition to hail, there were also the hazards associated with lightning, flooded river crossings, and tornado-like wind. And even upon reaching Kansas, there was always trouble with the locals. Bill Poage, a vetern of the trail commented in 1874 that - "There was scarcely a day went by that we didn't have a row with some settler." And Kansas farmers used Kansas law to their advantage. One enterprising ploy was to plow a furrow around a claim, by Kansas law this was considered a fence and any herds crossing the furrow were trespassing and the claimant could collect damages from the trespassing Texas herd.

The one danger that all trailers feared to a man was the stampede or "stompede" as most cowboys called it. A stompede could be caused by something as small as a flock of quail or as large as a bolt of lightning thrown down from the heavens. But whatever the cause, the panicked Longhorns might run a few miles or a hundred. Smart trailers immediately turned the stampede into a circle, allowing the cattle to "mill." Milling cattle soon exhausted themselves and often quieted, but once a herd stampeded, they had to be watched closely the rest of the day or night. Milling was not without its drawbacks. A milling herd could work off more pounds in a half-hour mill as running a couple miles. One of the worst recorded stampedes occured on the South Bosque River, Texas where trailers could not mill a panicked herd. The herd rushed headlong over a wide gully where 2,700 steers ended up dying in the rush.

Mike Kearby's Texas Copyright 2011

Trailing Cattle - A Short History Part 4

By 1867, six states had laws enacted or strenghtened laws prohibiting the movement of Texas and Indian cattle across their borders. Missouri's law was the harshest, as it gave inspectors the right to condemn and destroy any inspected cattle thought to be carrying Texas fever. Kansas law now expanded its ban on trailing from March to December, but carried one loophole...the southwestern boundry of the state, west of McPherson, was still open to drovers. The law also carried an important provision that would allow exploitation by a forward-thinking cowman: if a drover would post a $10,000. guarantee against damages to local farmers and towns, his herd could be moved north to the now expanding Union Pacific Railroad ship points. Once loaded on the rail, the cattle had to be moved outside of the state. Suddenly, the Texas cowmen had hope again. The question was - could anyone open up a new buying market in the geographic loophole so that cattle could be trailed north in 1867?

 As 1867 progressed, Southern drovers still found themselves buffeted in Southeastern, Kansas and Southwestern Missouri by armed mobs acting under the guise of a fear of Texas fever. The border instability caused Northern buyers to avoid carrying cash to purchase stock worsening the woes of the cowmen as a new gambit emerged from an unscrupulous ...segment of society. Con men were now offering worthless paper, (drafts) to unwary Texas drovers. As more and more cowmen were stung by this ploy, the continuance of the trailing industry seemed bleak until a young Illinois businessman, Joseph G. McCoy, formulated a plan by which Northern buyers and Texas drovers could meet undisturbed by outside influences to buy and sell cattle. McCoy's vision for a meeting location included a shipping yard, hotels, offices, and stock pens that could hold as many as 3000 Texas cattle. McCoy soon found his dream location in Abilene, Kansas. Abilene at the time consisted of 11 log cabins and two small businesses - but held two crucial ingredients that would aid in McCoy's success: ample prairie and good water. There was a problem however - Abilene lay 60 miles inside the Kansas legislature's ban boundry. McCoy proceeded nonetheless, sensing that Abilene's sparse population might hold little interest in enforcing the law, especially when they would be afforded the opportunity to sell goods and services at outrageous prices to the drovers from Texas. McCoy purchased 250 acres in Abilene on June 18th. By September 24th, the hotel and shipping yard were completed. And before the end of 1867, 35,000 cattle were trailed to Abilene.

 In the spring of 1868, the outlook for Texas cowmen had improved considerably. The new trail to Abilene, although not free of dangers, was most decidedly free of angry locals. The trail also offered drovers a more direct route as its path cut due North of its Red River crossing. (The Abilene trail was 150 miles West of the old Shawnee... Trail) In its infancy, the route to Abilene was called the Kansas Trail, the Abilene Trail, McCoy's Trail, the Great Cattle Trail, the Great Texas Cattle Trail, or the Wichita Trail. Around 1870, a letter in a Kansas newspaper stated: ...Osage Indians out on their spring hunt, had camped on the Chisolm Trail. Jesse Chisolm was a trader and guide who had operated at the mouth of The Little River in Arkansas and later on the North Fork of the Canadian River and on the Arkansas River. In 1865, Chisolm had trailed a herd of cattle over the Kansas prairies. Soon others began traveling what some called Chisolm's Trail. Chisolm died in March of 1868 never realizing that his name would achieve a place in American history. His route soon became part of the larger trail that was used to trail Texas cattle to Kansas markets.

Once the Chisolm Trail became the "trail" to Abilene - Fort Worth, Texas suddenly became the outfitting point for trailers. There a cowman could buy spare saddles, guns, rope, and food staples. At Fort Worth, a trail boss would cross his herd on the West Fork of the Trinity River, on to the village of Decatur, and then to Denton Creek... before arriving at the Northern boundry of the state. Most trailers crossed into to Indian Territory at Red River Station. Swimming the herds across the Red River was one of the most dangerous legs of the journey. The river could be flooded in the spring and featured whirlpools and quicksand. Once inside Indian Territory the herd might spend the first night on one of the branches of Beaver Creek. From there, the trail crossed the Washita River, Walnut Creek, the Red Fork of the Arkansas River, Turkey Creek, Skeleton Creek, the Salt Fork of the Arkansas River, Polecat Creek, and finally to the Kansas border. If all went well, the herd could cross Indian Territory in a month.

Mike Kearby's Texas Copyright 2011

Trailing Cattle - A Short History Part 3

In 1858, amidst the historic Lincoln - Douglas debates, Oliver Loving, from Palo Pinto County, Texas and a neighbor, John Durkee, drove their herds to Illinois and sold the stock at a considerable profit. However other Texas drovers would not fare so well that year. A new outbreak of Texas fever left thousand of local cattle dead in Missouri and once again the Missouri farmers took it upon themselves to turn back Texas cattle using force when needed. The Missouri situation caused many Texas drovers to take a new route skirting the eastern edge of Kansas to reach Kansas City or other points north. But the Kansas reprieve was short-lived as thousands of Kansas cattle soon became stricken with Texas fever. In 1859, the Kansas Territorial Legislature passed a protective act that prohibited cattle from Texas, Arkansas, and Indian stock from entering specific counties from June to November. Some Texas drovers treated the law with contempt thus forcing Kansas farmers to organize rifle companies to deal with the Texans and their cattle.

 By August of 1861, Pres. Lincoln forbade any trade with the South. Coupled with the number of Texans fighting for the Confederacy, (almost all outside of Texas), the state of the cattle business fell into a steep decline. Neglected herds now roamed over large portions of the state and calves would go unbranded for the ensuing war years. And for the trailing that did go on during the war, the majority of herds were driven to the East Coast to feed Confederate soldiers. A few notable Texas cowmen who supplied cattle for the south were John S. Chisum, Oliver Loving, and Jesse L. Driskill. But for a the majority of trailers , the war exacted a heavy toll as the profitable northern markets were now unavailable. But at war's end, a few forward-thinking men would see a fortune on the horizon. Those unbranded calves, now called mavericks, were seen to be a source of profit to the cowman who caught and branded them.

J. Frank Dobie always said the word had only two syllables and that a genuine Texan pronounced it: mav-rick. One legend has it that the word originated by the fact that Samuel Maverick would not brand or earmark any of his herd. His neighbors, however took to branding not only their cattle but his as well. This did not prevent Samuel from claiming any slick eared animal belonged to his herd. Over time, when observing a slick-ear, folks would say, "There goes one of Mr. Maverick's animals. Later, when observing any unbranded animal anywhere, the saying became: "There goes a Mav-rick." Another legend holds that the word comes from the name of a drover who lost his herd in a snowstorm. The cattle became so scattered that regrouping the animals became impossible. The off-spring of the scattered herd became known as Maverick's cattle.

 

By 1866, the push to trail cattle north resumed in Texas. Estimates from the time suggest as many as 300,000 head were trailed for northern markets that spring. But two cowmen decided they would follow a westward direction out of the state. The two, Oliver Loving and Charles Goodnight, combined their herds along the upper reaches of the Brazos River with the intent on moving them to the Rockies. However, there was one problem...Comanche lands blocked a direct route to Colorado. The two solved the problem by following the old Butterfield Stage Line through Buffalo Gap and then down to present day San Angelo.
From there they headed for Horsehead Crossing and the Pecos River. The cowmen then drove for Fort Sumner, NM. Of the 1000 steers they started with, 300 were lost by the time they reached Fort Sumner, but the NM market was willing to pay .08 a pound on foot. After selling all of their steers, 700 cows and calves remained. Loving trailed these north to Denver, while Goodnight rode back to Texas to gather another herd. In 1867, Loving followed the route and was attacked by Indians. The wounds he received eventually resulted in his death at Fort Sumner in September of that year.

Mike Kearby's Texas Copyright 2011

Trailing Cattle - A Short History Part 2

Texas' oldest and least known cattle trail was the Opelousas Trail. Some called this trail the Beef Trail and there is some confusion as to its route. Most historians credit the confusion to the fact that the trail was more than likely a network of trails crisscrossing East Texas. Historian W.T. Block wrote that ...the trail ran parallel to the Old San Antonio Road (Present day Interstate 10) following New Orleans, Opelousas, Beaumont, and on to San Antonio. During its peak, the Chisolm Trail would see 400,000 cattle driven to Kansas rail heads each year. The Opelousas Trail, on the other hand, never saw more than 75,000 animals per year, but lasted 90 years longer than the Chisolm. James Taylor White, who settled on Turtle Bayou near Anahuac in 1818, trailed cattle to New Orleans beginning in the 1820s. One of the Louisiana buyers purchasing White's cattle was Captain Arsene LeBleu de Comarsac, who had been one of Jean Lafitte's pirates in 1820. During White's peak years, he was trailing 2,500 cattle on the Opelousas Trail annually, for which he was paid $12 in gold per head. White died in 1851 leaving $150,000 in his bank at New Orleans. A tidy sum for the time.

The first recorded Northern drive out of Texas is credited to Edward Piper in 1846. Piper drove 1000 head to Ohio where he lost money at market, but Northward drives continued in size and scope during 1849 & 1850. The trail used by drovers during this time was an established route used by Native-Americans and traders.... Settlers called it, the Texas Road. Later, men who trailed cattle on this route referred to it as the Shawnee Trail. (Named for the Shawnee Hills) The Shawnee Trail would, in time, be referred to as the Cattle Trail, the Kansas Trail, or simply, The Trail. The Texas Road crossed into Oklahoma in present day Grayson County, Texas, where the herds swam the Red River at Rock Bluff Crossing. 

One branch of the Shawnee Trail ran through downtown Dallas, Texas and was known as the Preston Road. After pushing through Dallas, the trail crossed the Red, Canadian, Arkansas, and Grand Rivers before arriving just below the Southeastern corner of Kansas. There the trail split to the Northeast and Kansas City or East and St. Louis. In 1854, the first Longhorns arrived in St. Louis where the buyers viewed the cattle with some indignation, paying only $15-20 per head. A St. Louis newspaper reported that buffalo were more civilized than the Texas cattle.


By 1853, amid outbreaks of Texas fever in Missouri, the ranchers and farmers in the Western part of the state turned back a herd of Longhorns, steadfastly barring their entry. Texas fever, also known as Spanish fever or Mexican fever in Texas was spread by ticks, but in 1853, this was not understood by the gener...al public. The fact that the Texas cattle seemed immune to the disease and Midwestern cattle fell ill caused many states along the trails to enact quarantine laws restricting passage of Texas cattle to the winter months or routing cattle away from settled areas. Modern research has shown that the Longhorns were born with a partial immunity to the disease. This resistance lasted a few months after birth giving the animal just enough immunity to fight the pathogen during a widespread infection. From that point, the Longhorn could live in reasonable good health while still carrying the disease. In 1893, Theobald Smith & Fred Kilborne isolated the pathogen of Texas fever, a microscopic protozoan they named Pyrosoma bigeminium.

Mike Kearby's Texas Copyright 2011

Trailing Cattle - A Short History Part 1

In 1521, 28 years after Christopher Columbus landed the first Spanish cattle on Hispaniola. Gregorio de Villalobos transported a number of generational offspring from the original Hispaniola herd to New Spain. (Current day Mexico) In 1540, Francisco Vásquez de Coronado y Luján gathered 500 of Villalobos' original herd to supply food for his grandiose expedition in search of the Seven Cities of Cíbola. Along the way, Coronado left cattle in New Mexico, Arizona, and Texas.

In 1690, General Alonso De León helped establish San Francisco de los Tejas, the first Spanish mission in East Texas. In doing so, he led four expeditions using what would become known as the Old San Antonio Road. During these explorations he crossed and named the Guadalupe River, the Medina River, the Nueces River, and the Trinity River. At each river crossing, De León left a bull and a cow. Left to propagate at will, these self-dependent, prolific breeders soon were as numerous as buffalo on the Southern Plains and throughout the South Texas brush. These cattle, were called Criollo by the Spanish. The Criollo had their roots in the desert country of Andulusia, Spain, and they flourished in the South Texas climate.

 

The secret Treaty of Velasco (May 1836) granted Texas the land between the Nueces River and the Rio Grande River as a part of the new republic. This disputed piece of real estate would become the stronghold of some 1.5 million cattle. In this vast stretch of no-man's land, a nursery if you will, a new cross-bred animal began to appear. This animal, a mixture of Cirollo and European introduced cattle, was highly adaptable to its environ. It did well in brush or swamp, with plentiful grass or rustling during drought. The animal, the Longhorn, evolved to run through the brush like an antelope, swim wide rivers, fight off wolves or coyotes, and although Spanish by origin, it became unmistakeably Texan. Texas Historian, J. Frank Dobie, said of this animal, "It is the peer of the bison and grizzly bear." By 1837, between the Rio Grande and the Nueces, the hunting of wild cattle by both Mexican and Texans became a regular business.

Many people believe that trailing cattle (as it was called in its infancy) originated after the Civil War, when a lone Texas herd headed for some vague point north of the 36th parallel. But as a matter of record, on April 21, 1836, the same day that Sam Houston and a bunch of Texans whipped the Mexican army, a herd of Texas longhorns from Taylor White's ranch west of the Neches River was trailing for New Orleans. And cattle had been trailed out of Texas even before that. Through the 'forties Texans trailed cattle north into Missouri and also to Louisiana markets. Beginning in 1850, thousands of steers were driven across the continent to California.

Mike Kearbys Texas  Copyright 2011

Ranger James B. Gillett & Onofrio Baca



Photo James B Gillett

 During a Christmas church festival in 1881, in Socorro, New Mexico, two Mexican brothers, Abran and Onofrio Baca got into an argument with the local newspaper editor, A.M. Conklin. After the services ended, as Conklin exited the church, Onofrio shot and killed the newspaperman.


The Baca brothers fled to Mexico but were soon hounded by a proclamation issued by the governor of the state for $500.00 for their capture. The citizenry of Socorro issued a similar proclamation with the exception that the reward would be paid for the Baca's delivered dead or alive. The proclamations became widely known throughout the territory. The Texas Ranger station in Ysleta, Texas, also received the circulars with the Baca's descriptions. One Ranger, James B. Gillett, began watching the home of the county judge, Jose Baca, the boy's uncle. Two months later, Gillett received information that the Baca's were staying at the judge's home. Gillett and a detail of four other Rangers captured the two men and hauled them to Socorro. Upon arrival in Socorro, Gillett learned one of the men was Abran, but the other was a cousin, Massias.

A month after Abran's capture, Gillett learned that Onofrio was in Saragosa, Mexico, four miles southwest of Ysleta. The Rangers never let international borders stop their pursuit of a criminal and Gillett, accompanied by George Lloyd, rode into the Mexican town and spirited Onofrio back to Texas.

Once back on American soil, Gillett took Onofrio by train to Socorro. Along the way, Gillett received a telegraph from the governor of New Mexico. Fearing mob violence in Socorro, the governor warned Gillett not to come off the train in Socorro.

The train reached Socorro late in the evening and upon its stop was immediately boarded by twenty-five armed men. Gillett told the men that he could not collect his reward for Baca if he did not deliver the man inside the jail. The mob agreed and allowed Baca's delivery to Deputy Sheriff Eaton at the Socorro jail. The next morning, a vigilante mob took Baca from his jail cell, escorted him to a nearby corral and hanged him.

Gillett's commander in Ysleta, Captain Baylor received an order after the Baca affair to never again allow his Rangers to follow fugitives into Mexico.

In 1921, Gillett wrote his memoirs, Six years with the Texas Rangers. It has remained in print ever since. The book was used as a school textbook for several years in as many as seventeen states. Gillett died on June 11, 1937 and is buried in Marfa, Texas.

Mike Kearby's Texas copyright 2011

The Man inside the Alamo

Author’s note – How did David Crockett die at the battle of the Alamo? This question has been the catalyst for much rancor among historians, Americans, Mexicans, Texans, and history aficionados. The story below while fictional, offers a plausible explanation of what could have happened that Sunday morning in San Antonio and might well satisfy both sides of the Crockett question. Illustration- by Mack White / Austin, Texas.

The man from Tennessee, tall and well-poised, marched across the Alamo courtyard with long, lively strides. Poet, teacher, attorney, and merchant, a noticeable agitation furrowed his brow this day, and his mouth twisted in brooding expectation as to the reason behind his summoning. He gripped a Kentucky flintlock in his right hand with such force that his knuckles whitened around the walnut stock. Upon each stride, the eight-pound rifle swung forward in such perfect rhythm that man and gun appeared to be one. Beside him, a fellow Tennessean, although considerably shorter, and rounder, matched the man’s brisk stride step-for-step.
As the two men crossed in front of the officers’ quarters, the shorter man inhaled. “Can you believe it?” he said effusively.
The man from Tennessee remained silent.
The two skirted the low wall in front of the chapel and then angled right for the palisade. Behind the breastwork, a parapet rose diagonally to the southeast. Gathered on either side of the parapet were a group of Tennesseans, volunteers to the Texas auxiliary corps. The men urged him forward with frantic hand movements.
“Hurry,” one of the Tennesseans gushed.
“You won’t believe your eyes,” whispered another and pointed at a loophole in the vertical timbers.
The air of the February early afternoon still held the chill of the previous day’s cold front and both men’s breaths frosted in spite of the afternoon sun.
The man ignored the good-natured banter and positioned himself so that he could look through the porthole.
To his left, standing on an earthen footstep, the bear hunter gazed out over the field through a long glass and chuckled. “It be a fair shot, but one well worth the ball and powder.”
The man nodded and slipped the flintlock through the cut out. “We’ll see.”
From behind, one of the volunteers snorted under his breath. “Does he have the steadiness?”
The man turned and looked back at the snorter.
The snorter lifted his shoulders and tightened his lips. “Was only a question.”
The man stared down the hand-blued barrel of his long rifle. “Sounded more like nay-saying skepticism to me.”
A chorus, arising from the others, was directed at the snorter, “Close your pie-hole and let the man work.”
The man hesitated, curled the corners of his mouth down, and then pulled the fox-fur cap from off his head. “That seems to be the best piece of advice I’ve heard since arriving at this place.”
The old bear hunter glanced down at the man. “By the eternal,” he laughed. “Fire that pea shooter, man.”
A crooked smile broke from the corner of the man’s mouth as he placed his cap on one of the vertical timbers. “At your pleasure, Colonel.”
The bear hunter put his eye to the long glass once again and remarked, “Show his Excellency over there just how well a Kentuckian flintlock fires.”
The man pulled the flint-striker to full-cock and looked down the barrel.
“Make him flutter,” the others sang.
The man, inhaled, closed his left eye, and squeezed the trigger. The flint rolled forward and contacted the frizzen.
Sparks flew.
Gunpowder erupted.
The gun bore into the man’s shoulder.
The Tennesseans waited in quiet anticipation.
Two hundred yards away, a foot in front of the Mexican leader, a spate of dust puffed skyward. The general with a titled name longer than the flintlock’s barrel, Antonio de Padua María Severino López de Santa Anna y Pérez de Lebrón—his Excellency, stepped back at the dulled detonation—untouched.
The man made a face and marveled at his missed shot.
Santa Anna took a short glance at the raised powdery earth a foot in front of him, shook his head, and then slowly dissolved back into his reconnoitering trooper line.
“Huzzah!” shouted the man’s friends. They slapped the man on his back. Much whooping and hollering followed.
“That seemed to addle his Excellency a’ bit!”
The man lowered the flintlock and scratched at his side-whiskers. “Air’s a ‘might thick this afternoon,” he offered weakly as excuse.
“Maybe,” the bear hunter rejoined, and then added as an afterthought, “Anyhow, I figure you’ve chased him into the thickets for now.”
The man shook his head. “Maybe,” he said and stared out across the palisade toward the massed force of soldados.
“Did you see his Excellency dance?” one volunteer asked.
“Stepped like he was born in Eastern Tennessee,” another uttered.
“He thought he’d gone coon for sure,” still another chortled.
But the man from Tennessee just fixated on the spot where the Mexican general had stood. He recalculated the distance between his gun and his Excellency, and wondered briefly what might have been.

***

Six days later, the rocket illuminations, soft across the early morning March sky, coalesced and fell gently upon the Alamo. Sleeping soundly below the palisade wall for the first night since the Mexican Army’s arrival, the man slapped at his ear to dislodge the annoyance and squinted to remove the flicker of red dancing in front of his closed eyelid.
From above him, a familiar voice sounded, though distant and faint, “Wake up, sirs, the fights begun.”
The man blinked his eyes open and dragged a rough tongue around the inside of his mouth. The charcoal shadow of the bear hunter lingered over him.
“The Mexicans are on the walls,” the bear hunter said. His rifle rested in a loophole.
The man rubbed at his eyes. “Whaa…?”
The bear hunter looked south from the palisade and pulled his flint to full-cock. “I’d consider arising quick now if you want to be in the fight.”
Somewhere, on the other side of mission, the shouts and screams of men under attack caused the man to spring to his feet. He grabbed his flintlock with his right hand and patted the pistol in his waistbelt with his left. “You must not have slept,” he said.
There was no reply, only the sound of powder flash.
Across the courtyard, an eight-pounder boomed. The man threw a quick glance at the northwest corner just as the second eight-pounder exploded and exposed the wall in an eerie light.
The other volunteers were on their feet now. The man could feel them around him. He pushed the barrel of his long rifle through a cut out and fired.
The screams and curses of the desperately determined issued from every corner of the fortress.
The man yelled out encouragement to his companions, but the noise and smoke and darkness simply drowned his words away.
And in that instant, in this place, Texas, a soul-rattling revelation shook the man—that in the dark-veiled chaos of the Alamo, no matter the numbers of men struggling beside him; every man was left to his own fighting and his own dying.
The man shook the thoughts from his head and pressed his shoulder back into the rifle. And then, methodically began the process of firing and reloading. After four rounds were expended, the attackers backed away.
“They’re foundering,” the man yelled, relieved.
“Don’t be sure!” the bear hunter screamed. “Behind us!”
The man turned, and though he could not see individual enemy combatants, he saw the black surge filling the main plaza. A brief, paralyzing fear held him in a cold grip and prickled his spine. Movement flashed beside him.
The bear hunter was up and running. “To the low wall!” he screamed. “We have to keep them from the chapel, boys!”
The man watched in fascination at the quickness of the fifty-year-old.
“Well, come on, now!” the bear hunter shouted.
The man blinked, shook off his palsy, and ran crouched-over for the wall directly in front of the church.
The battle’s closeness nudged against the man. They were all now fighting under a thick cloud of gunpowder smoke. A companion backed into him, screamed, and then pitched forward, slashing at the fume with a butcher knife.
Some defenders coughed in the suffocating cloud.
Some screamed in both fear and anger.
Others just cursed, both Mexicans and God.
The man lowered the flintlock and fumbled to reload amidst the confusion and death.
Out of the chaos, the bear hunter shouted orders again, “Fall back to the chapel!” And then turned to point at the church. “We’ll be able to reload behind the doors!”
“Yes!” the man screamed. “And the powder’s there, too!”
The bear hunter nodded and lowering his shoulders, began to back up toward the safety of the chapel while firing into the plaza beyond the low wall.
The remaining six Tennesseans huddled tight and followed en masse.
The man, his back to the church door, shuddered at the fast approaching carnage. The screams of desperate men choked the air in two languages. The man glanced over his shoulder. The bear hunter was gone. “Colonel?” he shouted.
No answer followed.
Then suddenly, the man stumbled and fell over a lump of darkness. He rolled on the ground before righting himself on all fours. Beneath him, on the hard soil, the bear hunter lay on his back, eyes opened.
Shot.
Dead.
And then the man’s fear fought its way forward again.
The bear hunter was dead?
He looked away, panicked and scared. He fumbled the pistol from his waistbelt and fired without aim into the surging dark snarl.
“Come on, man!” the others pleaded. “For here they come!”
The man ignored his companions’ pleas and glanced back into the bear hunter’s face. The once gentle visage was blackened beyond recognition with the soot and grease of battle. The sounds of the attack lapsed away.
“We’re shuttin’ the doors!”
The man swallowed and rolled the bear hunter’s familiar leather-billed round cap from his head. He rose, cap in hand, and watched in dismay as the chapel doors swung shut.
Then the battle returned, and with it, all of the loudness and disorder of conflicted struggle. He grimaced at the chapel doors, looked left, and in the bedlam, raced untouched for the long barracks.
Inside, the man joined a small group of defenders, but he couldn’t dismiss the thought that if such a man as the bear hunter could die so effortlessly, what possible hope could any of the rest of them expect?

***

Near sunrise, a Mexican General stood in front of a raised mattress covering the doorway to one of the barracks rooms. He spoke reassuringly to the six men hidden behind the pad. One of the men stuck his long rifle over the top of the cover. A dirty sock was tied around the gun’s barrel.
From behind the mattress, a tired voice asked, “How do we know you can be trusted?”
The general stiffened and smoothed his jacket. “I am General Manuel Fernandez de Castrillón. I am a career soldier and an officer of the Mexican Army. As such, I offer you my word and my protection.”

***

General Castrillón marched the six across the main plaza of the Alamo and secured the men in a small cannonade structure on the north end of the west wall. “Please remain here,” he said. “His Excellency will arrive from the north battery soon, and when he does, I will intercede on your behalf.” The general then turned to exit the small enclosure.
The man from Tennessee, his face darkened and blued with gunpowder, pushed the bear hunter’s cap toward the back of his head and cleared his throat.
Castrillón paused and looked back at the tall man. “Yes, Colonel Crockett?”
“I…that is, we…” The man’s voice faltered.
Castrillón raised his brow. “Yes, Colonel?”
The man looked at the five standing with him and bowed his head. “Just want to thank you.”
Castrillón nodded, started to leave again, slowed, and with pause, pinched his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger.
The man from Tennessee waited, uncertain.
“Colonel?” the general finally asked. “Is it true that you have killed close to a hundred bears in your lifetime?”
The man cast his tired eyes in the direction of the chapel—to where the bear hunter lay dead—to Tennessee and its mountains, and its rivers and fertile valleys, and of a wife
and three children. The absurdity of the morn struck him. Here were two men from different lands in a small fort carrying on a civil conversation as if the carnage and destruction that permeated every foot of earth around them did not exist.
“Colonel?”
The man turned his attention back to Castrillón and after a reflective pause exhaled a short breath before answering, “I reckon the figure to be closer to a hundred and twenty-five, General.”

The Man inside the Alamo copyright 2010 Mike Kearby