Chapter Thirty-one

Fort Gibson, May 1836
NED’S STORY

 

I was frankly aghast at the story of John’s transformation from an observer of horror to its creator. I defy any sane man to feel differently. The Mexican he had punished outside the Hick—it was ghastly but the man had attacked John. He had just confessed to murdering three men in their sleep. Men who had committed some unpleasantness but which no court of law would have sentenced to death, let alone so grotesque a demise.

I don’t know if John perceived my discomfort. I don’t know as he cared how I felt. I had asked for his story and I got it. I will say it made me trust him even more, however. No man would have owned up to such a deed without having actually committed it. And what was strange, the more I ruminated, was that half the people in this garrison—maybe a greater percentage throughout Texas—would hold him as a hero.

We were still sitting on the ground. My legs were bent and I stretched them out. As I did so, I thought of John’s legs having been so stiff from digging he couldn’t bend them.

That is not something you think up unless you’ve done it, I told myself.

Which brought me back to the guns. There were no new clues in his story, that I could tell. But he wasn’t finished.

“That was three months ago,” I said. “Did you have it in mind then to go to the fort?”

John shook his head. “When it was clear no one was following me—not yet—I stopped and changed back to my clothes. I buried the uniform and moved on very, very slowly as I taught myself bareback riding. By next morning I had a powerful hurt in my thighs, and I’m sure the horse’s head didn’t feel so good, either, since I used its mane to hold on. I guided him with my heels, which worked pretty good along with a head-tug in that direction.

“My only thought now was to put distance between me and San Antonio. As I said, I figured I had some time before Santa Anna set out, so I decided to head back to Gonzales. Part of that was for safety and part to give a report on the situation westward. If the Mexicans was looking to take back lost property, they might decide to come in force for the cannon.”

“You weren’t aware of the other defeats the Texian army had suffered after the Alamo?”

“No. I didn’t know about our loss at Agua Dulce Creek, or about the Goliad Massacre, where Fannin and his men had surrendered—only to be executed after laying down arms. That was the end of March, and I was already at my destination—where there were surprising developments.”

Before John could elaborate, Meggie came from the back door of the commander’s residence. Seeing us seated on the grass, she walked over and stood beside John, putting him between us. We both went to stand but she motioned us to remain comfortable. We obliged.

She looked across the large vegetable patch. The gentle wind stirred her dress and the bell sleeves of her blouse, it raised strands of blond hair that made her seem uncustomarily unkempt. I immediately wondered if her presence was the kindly gesture of the Lady of the Fort or a hunting expedition.

“The lettuce is looking a little healthier,” she observed. “John, is that your doing?”

“I have done a little work, ma’am.”

“I wonder if we shouldn’t ask you to stay when this other business is behind us.”

John smiled politely but made no commitment.

“Has the lieutenant been civil?” Meggie asked.

“Given the circumstances, I would say so,” John answered. “You, too, ma’am,” he added.

“Yes,” she laughed, “we had an uncommon introduction. One that I still don’t fully understand. You came searching for information but you seem at peace despite having not succeeded.”

“Not succeeded?” John said.

“You wanted to find out more about the guns,” she said. “Unless I am mistaken, this has not happened.”

“Yet,” he replied.

“If the lieutenant puts you on trial, you may not have the opportunity for further investigation,” she pointed out.

“My trial will be their trial,” he replied.

He said that with an almost religious obscurity, like a prophet speaking doctrine. Meggie and I exchanged puzzled glances.

“How do you figure that?” I asked.

“I will be sworn, before God, to say what I know,” he answered. “I have not yet told you all I know.”

“You’re referring to events that came after San Antonio,” I said. “You haven’t said anything about the Mexican who attacked you at the Hick, other than that you knew him briefly. Was he a part of the gun smuggling?”

John nodded.

“Where does he come in?”

“I encountered that . . . renegade in Gonzales—my second visit,” John answered.