Bad Apple

I have to confess I was more ambitious than I was capable when it came to riding bareback. I did not make many miles each day, and when it rained, which it did a lot, I lost ground finding suitable shelter. There would be no need for me to go to the gulf, I thought, not ever; wait long enough and that much water will come to you.

I fell sick during this time, feverish and shaking, but in my lucid moments I did not lament. In fact, I was deeply grateful to God for having guided me to a cave that had drinkable water running down its walls, moss that I found edible if not tasty, and tools left by some previous inhabitant for the making of a fire, a stick with twine. You stuck the pointed end of the stick into a pile of kindling and pulled back and forth with the rope. It took all the energy I had to do that, but said occupant had gathered sticks when the climate was dry, and I did not lack for warmth and light at nighttime. There was even a chimney where bats came and went, and though their droppings wasn’t fragrant, there was an owl flew in that opening who got panicked in the cave, broke his neck, and became two days of eating.

A place like this could put Coles Settlement out of business, I thought laughingly; it was like a hotel for men of the wilderness. Before I left a few days later I gathered sticks and dry grasses to leave for the next occupant. I have to add, though, that there was something comforting about the place—so much so that I actually considered returning to make it a home. But when I was well, and the day was dry and bright, I saw no nearby source of water to grow a garden. I did not realize how important that art had become to me until I had to decide whether I could live without it.

I could not, and me and my animal—who I named James in honor of my fallen friend, since I had to call him something other than “horse” when we traveled—me and my animal set out, secure that any tracks we’d’ve laid down in our flight had been washed away by the rain. If Santa Anna had sent any of those bloodhounds I saw after us, the storms saw to it that they would not recover our scent.

Unfortunately, all of that did not factor in the possibility of a chance encounter, which happened on the fourth day after I’d departed.

It was a warm and bright noon, and there was a scouting party galloping up behind us. James had suddenly grown restless, which is the only reason I risked turning round—I say risked, because it was all I could do to balance on his back, let alone twist and stay seated. But I managed, and I saw four men in uniform riding wide apart but all heading in my direction. There was a fifth man with them, an Indian whose tribe I could not determine. He was at point ahead of the others.

I did not know if they would recognize me or my horse. But if they had come from San Antonio—and that was the direction they was headed from—they might damn well recognize the knife I carried . . . and leap to the conclusion that I had used it to kill their fellows. They would also wonder why a man was riding bareback who couldn’t really ride bareback. The only thing in my favor was that the Mexicans had been gathering horses as they moved north, and this one wasn’t yet branded with their cavalry marks. It was a slim hope but it was better than none, since there was no way I could outrun them. Then again, not speaking their language, I knew I would have trouble telling them whatever lie I might come up with. The only good thing was, apart from the horse and the knife, my wet, then dry, then wet, now dry clothes were not fit for anyone but the man presently inside of them. I was not sure the stitching would survive another doffing.

I was still turned around, and they would’ve seen I was turned around, so now I turned the horse around to face them, and waited. There was no time to bury the knife. I was stuck with it. I was also angry that I had not thought to take a rifle from any of the stacked pyramids at the Mexican encampment. I was thinking too much like a marauding wolf then. But now that I belatedly considered it, I realized that I would not have been able to secure ammunition. Even if I had, I probably would’ve shot game on my journey instead of stopping to trap it. Besides, these fellas all had rifles too, and were probably superior shots.

Dear Lord, I prayed. You have looked after me this far. All I ask is that these be men not like those I slew for their sins of cruelty and covetousness.

Perhaps, I thought, they would be governed by a more rational man like the officer who came for me at the Coleses’. Of course, I still ended up in captivity so I wasn’t sure that wish was helpful. On the other hand, they might not want to be burdened with a man who could only ride slow.

The Indian sped up to see who was up ahead. He was Comanche, I saw by his clothing. If he was a regular with the army, paid a monthly wage, he would’ve been in uniform.

He stopped and looked at me from several horse lengths’ distant. He wore a holster with twin Colt revolvers, and a hat that hid all but his grim-set mouth. From his tight, fit build I put him in his early twenties. The others rode up behind him. They spoke.

I told them I didn’t speak their language. It was the Indian who translated, and I had to admit it struck me funny that two so-called civilized men was talking through a savage.

“They ask who you are where horse from,” he said.

“I am John from Coles Settlement up north,” I replied. “I lost my saddle in the storm. Who are you all?”

“We from Bexar,” he replied. “Scouts for Santa Anna.”

One of the Mexicans snapped something at the Indian, who relayed what I had told him and came back with another question.

“They want see horse,” the Indian said. “Bring it.”

I considered my choices here. I thought of swatting it and letting it run off, but that would leave me stranded—if I survived—though more likely shot dead for being presumed guilty of horse thieving. There was no good outcome that I could see, so I just turned things over to the Lord to do with as He would. And I silently started thinking my way through the Lord’s Prayer.

I rode the horse over and stopped by the Mexican who did all the talking. They laughed as I approached, waggling side to side as I held tight to the mane. They was cocky in their saddles, and I wondered how they’d do without’em. When I arrived and stopped, the man on the farther side dismounted and came over to inspect the animal.

I knew at once I was in grave trouble. The fella removed his nice tan gloves. The first thing he did was check the hooves. He picked up a stick and raised the horse’s back left leg and scraped out muck from the horseshoe. Then he chattered earnestly to the others. Damn thing probably had markings that showed it to be one of theirs. Of course a horse they picked up for the cavalry would’ve been reshod.

He set down the leg and walked over to me. He slapped me hard with his bare hand.

“¿Dónde buscarlo?” he demanded.

I looked over at the Indian, who had turned his horse around. “He ask where you get him?”

“I found him wandering,” I said. “

The Comanche snorted. “They never believe. Try better.”

That was unexpected. “I’m tired out. You got any ideas?”

The Indian considered this. The Mexican leader demanded to know what I had said. The brave was looking at me.

“You John Apple?” he asked.

I was caught off my guard, to say the very least, and confessed I was he.

“You friend of chief daughter.”

Well thank you, Lord, I thought.

An instant later, the Comanche had drawn both of his guns and put six shots in three Mexicans. All four horses reared. Two shot soldiers got thrown from their saddles and the third, who took just one bullet, cried out and held the reins and sagged slowly against the neck of his animal when it settled, his blood running over its white mane and horseflesh. The man who had been inspecting my horse had tried to run around it for protection before the barrels were turned on him, but the first shots had spooked my animal. It ran him down and continued off to the west. That man had a hoofprint on the right shoulder. It was clear enough that I could’ve read the marks of the Mexican smith if I could’ve read Spanish.

“Finish,” the Comanche said, pointing to the trampled Mexican who, now that the shock of the gunfire had faded and I could hear again, I heard was moaning.

I don’t know. The Mexican meant me harm, but it was in the line of duty and frankly justifiable. I had killed his comrades and stole a horse. Moreover, he could do me no damage now.

“Did he wrong you?” I asked.

The Comanche seemed puzzled. “He enemy of you, my brother.”

“But you came willingly? He didn’t force you?”

“They buy horses from tribe,” he replied. “I help bring.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Morning Sun,” he replied.

“Morning Sun, there is no honor in killing a lame Mexican,” I said. “Let us put him on his horse and send him on his way.”

“He die anyway,” the Comanche replied. “Can only ride one-hand. Not hunt.”

“Then it will be God’s will,” I replied.

The Indian put a bullet in the man’s neck, causing the Mexican to hop once like a jumping bean then spout red into the sunlight, like it come from the earth.

“He cause brothers to fight,” the Comanche said. “Die for that.”

It was not the finish I had hoped for, but I can’t say there wasn’t a certain predictable logic to the man’s actions. In my time with the tribe, I learnt that they had a way of doing things that might not parse with Eastern sensibilities, but I was not in the East anymore.

Rather than continue to argue with my “brother,” I let the disagreement go and told him I wanted to bury the men.

“Worms or birds, make no difference,” Morning Sun said.

“Perhaps,” I replied. “But burying will make the soil richer.”

He grunted. “You do. I leave you one horse, take the others back to camp.”

“Thank you for saving my life,” I said.

“I tell chief you not dead, no matter medicine man see in vision.”

“Black Moon saw my end?” I asked.

Morning Sun held his hand toward me, palm out. It was an oath of the truth.

I remembered the witch doctor. He didn’t like me. He probably invented that dream to turn the chief’s daughter toward some brave. It didn’t matter; I did not intend to go back, though I was every bit as grateful to this brave as I had said.

Before departing, my Comanche brother descended, lashed the horses together, and hitched them to his saddle horn. When he was done, he removed the holster and handed it over to me.

“You need before I need,” he said.

I accepted the offer gratefully because he was right. “Keep one,” I said. “Please.”

He waved that palm in front of him. “Not need. Have three rifles now—I smell an enemy, he die from a distance.”

I have to remark that in that moment, with that gesture of openhearted truthfulness, and the gift of the guns, Morning Sun made himself a man I trusted more and felt closer to than anyone since I left my family. He was family. I did a lot of thinking over that feeling whilst I buried the men . . . and beyond.

My muscles had just stopped being sore from the last round of digging and here I was at it again. This time I was on my hands and knees, using the knife like after Gonzales. It still struck me as sad and strange that so much killing did not affect me as it should. I guess when it’s you or them, or when it’s payment for evil acts, your conscience makes exceptions.

I hoped earnestly that God did.

I let the horse rest a bit while I trapped a hare with a rope from the saddle. After my meal, and after giving the horse water from the Mexican’s canteen, I resumed my journey—blessedly happy to have leather under me instead of horsehide.

I crossed rivers with water for drink and fish for food as I made my way east. I avoided a path that would take me through the place where we had fought and killed the Mexican soldiers. I didn’t know but that more advance parties of Santa Anna’s men had gone there. It wouldn’t do for me to try and be innocent and casual when I was seated in one of their saddles astride one of their horses. Instead, I came at Gonzales from the northwest. I did so cautiously, not knowing whether there would be Mexicans there or just fidgety Texians who might shoot me without waiting for me to identify myself.

There was no guard. There were no Mexicans.

There was no Gonzales.

There was, however, the smell of rotten, burnt wood in the air. I did not know it then but while I was laying sick, Mrs. Susanna Dickinson, wife of one of the ill-fated defenders, and Travis’s slave Joe had got to Gonzales ahead of me. They was allowed to leave by Santa Anna just an hour after the Alamo fell. They took horses and came here directly. Not only did they have the sorry task of informing all what had transpired, their hearts carried the burden of telling the family of the thirty-two volunteers of the Gonzales Mounted Ranger Company that their kin had all perished.

Believing that Santa Anna might turn on the “Come And Take It” town next, Houston ordered it set afire, end to end. Like the children of Moses, the populace left with what they could and were relocated as well as the army closer to the U.S. border. That was good thinking on his part: troops were still stationed there to prevent a Mexican land grab, and Santa Anna would approach very, very carefully.

Though Gonzales and its people were gone, the ruins were not empty. That was where and how my feet was set on the path that brought me here.