Before the infantryman could carry out his intention, a Texian from the second file intervened. Seeing that the soldier was about to bayonet the apparently helpless officer, who had been very popular and well-liked, the man sprang forward. As he did so, he swung the bundle from his shoulder and hurled it at the Mexican. Instead of driving his bayonet downwards, the soldier used it to deflect the approaching missile. Impaling the bundle, he flung it over his head. Before he returned the weapon to a fighting position, the Texian was upon him. Grabbing hold of the Baker rifle and wrenching it from its owners grasp, the Texian smashed the butt against his head. As the infantryman went down with a crushed skull, his killer fell to a pistol in the hand of the nearest Mexican officer. With the rifle slipping from his lifeless hands, the Texian toppled alongside the man whose life he had saved.
Although Lieutenant Paul Dimmock had seen enough to guess what was happening, he forced himself to keep still. It went bitterly against the grain for a man of his background and upbringing to have to act in such a manner, particularly as the sounds of the fighting increased, but he continued to follow the course he had set himself. There was, he knew, more than the lives of his companions in the balance and his efforts would do little or nothing to prevent them from being killed. On the other hand, unless General Samuel Houston learned of the massacre, the rest of the Republic of Texas’s Army would be in deadly peril. So Dimmock repeatedly reminded himself of that fact and compelled himself to remain motionless.
A savage hand-to-hand battle was soon raging on the trail. Despite the devastating effect of the murderous fusillade, sufficient of the Texians had escaped death or injury for them to equal the numbers of Colonel Sebastian Saucedo’s ‘Landero’ Line Infantry Battalion. Of course, although hampered by the nature of their weapons, the troop of Tamaulipa Lancers gave the attackers a numerical superiority which made victory over the unarmed Texians practically certain. Even so, the Mexicans did not have things all their own way.
Weaponless, shocked and horrified by their captors’ treachery and the cold-blooded murder of so many of their companions, the Texians started to fight back with a courage born of desperation and fury. Some of them tackled the charging foot soldiers, trying to avoid the enlisted men’s bayonets or officers’ swords and grapple with the wielders. Others flung themselves at the Lancers who were thrusting with their weapons at any figure which did not wear a Mexican uniform.
Soon the noise reached the proportions of bedlam. Men of both nationalities shouted, cursed, roared and screamed. Driven into the swirling mass of fighting human beings, horses snorted and squealed in terror as they smelled blood. Some bolted, their riders dragged from the saddles to add to the confusion. Two of the animals went down, plunging and kicking in agony, as wildly thrust bayonets impaled them instead of the proposed human targets. There were a few shots, fired from the pistols which Saucedo’s officers and Captain Escalier were using to augment the slashing and hacking of their swords.
Having succeeded in bringing his bay gelding around in a half circle, Major Carlos Badillo found that he was obstructed by the other members of the advance guard who were also attempting to return and take a part in the fighting. There was no chance of him forcing his way through their ranks. Nor, obedient as they were under normal circumstances, would calling for them to let him pass be likely to produce the desired result. They were too excited for words to have any effect. So, instead of trying to do either, he completed the drawing of his saber and guided his mount to the right with the intention of going around them.
The major’s eagerness was caused by more than his sadistic delight in inflicting pain and killing. While he was starting to turn back, he had seen Saucedo bounding down the opposite slope. The colonel had already plunged into the thickest part of the fighting, just as the major had anticipated he would.
When helping to make the plans for the ambush, Badillo had known that the tactics he proposed would result in just such a fight as had developed. He was hoping to use the confusion of close quarters brawling as a means of removing his hated rival.
Given an opportunity, Badillo intended to kill Saucedo. He had decided that it must be done with one of the pistols which hung in their holsters on the pommel of his saddle. In that way, even if anybody should happen to see him do it, he could claim that the shot had been fired at a Texian and hit the colonel by accident. No doubt the truth would be suspected, but General Urrea would be unlikely to make too close an inquiry into what had really happened. With Saucedo dead, there was nobody else who had sufficient authority, or influence, to carry the matter further. Not even Badillo’s own colonel. The major had gained such a moral ascendancy over his nominal superior that he was the commanding officer of the Tamaulipa Lancers in everything but name.
Although the major did not know it, he was in considerable danger as he started to ride by his men. He was not the only one to have foreseen the possibilities of removing a rival in the present situation.
Tall, lanky, with sharp and evil features, Sergeant Refugio was the best shot in the ‘Landero’ Line Infantry Battalion. His skill with the Baker rifle was one reason why he had been given command of the party who had remained on the left side slope to deal with any Texians who tried to escape. For all that, when three of them burst from the entangled mass and fled in his direction, he left the shooting to his men. Such behavior would have surprised anybody who knew him, for he usually enjoyed displaying his skill with a rifle.
There was a very good reason for Refugio to refrain from shooting. To reload the Baker could not be done quickly and he had a better use for the solitary bullet than expending it on a Texian. When assigning the duty to the sergeant, Saucedo had supplemented it with private instructions and the promise of promotion if he should be successful in carrying them out. There was, Refugio had considered, nothing difficult about his task. All he had to do was to watch for a suitable opportunity and then ‘accidentally’ shoot Major Badillo.
Holding the butt of the Baker rifle cradled at his shoulder and resting its thirty-inch long barrel across a convenient limb as an aid to greater accuracy, the lanky sergeant scanned the ranks of the Lancers who had preceded the column. Luck appeared to be favoring him. Instead of riding through, or beyond, the rest of the advance guard, Badillo was coming along the left side of the valley. That meant he would pass at a distance of no more than seventy-five yards. An easy enough shot for a marksman like Sergeant—soon to be Captain— Refugio. All he had to do to earn his promotion was line his sights and, at the appropriate moment, squeeze the trigger.
To Refugio’s way of thinking, selecting the correct moment was of considerable importance to his future. While he was not particularly intelligent, he had a certain amount of low cunning. Sufficient at least for him to be aware that his situation could be dangerous. Colonel Saucedo had promised that he would be protected against any repercussions, but he preferred not to take chances. Before he fired at Badillo, he wanted an excuse for shooting and, if possible, to have some of his men discharging their weapons at the same time. In that way, nobody would be able to say for sure whose bullet had struck the major down.
Keeping his decision in mind, Refugio sought for a way to carry out his assignment. Even as Badillo was approaching the point where he would be level with the sergeant’s position, what appeared to be an ideal opportunity began to present itself.
On the fringe of the fighting, at the left side of the trail, a Texian was trying to save his younger brother’s life. Avoiding the point of a lance as it was being driven in his direction, he caught hold of the shaft and tugged with all his strength. Unable to slip his wrist from the rawhide loop which was attached to the weapon’s point of balance to enable a more secure grip when driving home the diamond-section head, the Lancer was hauled from his mount’s back. As he fell he just managed to snatch his left foot out of the stirrup iron. However, he retained his hold on the reins and the jerk he gave at them snapped the animal’s neck around, causing its legs to buckle and making it squeal with pain.
‘Grab this hoss and go, Sam!’ the elder brother bellowed, driving a kick against the side of the Lancer’s head as he crashed to the ground and released the reins.
Remembering that their parents were getting on in years, had lost their home by accompanying Houston from San Antonio de Bexar and needed help to re-establish themselves elsewhere, still the younger brother hesitated for a moment. He hated the thought of fleeing as it meant leaving his sibling with little or no hope of escape. They had enlisted and served together and since the ambush began had been fighting back to back. Yet he knew that Tad was making a sensible suggestion and there was certainly no time to argue about which of them should leave.
Hurling a rifle, which he had wrenched from its owner’s hands and used to defend himself, at the nearest Mexican foot soldier, Sam threw a sorrow-filled glance at his brother. Then he sprang to catch hold of the horse’s saddle horn and went astride its back with a bound. Grabbing up the one-piece reins, he let out a yell and kicked his heels against the animal’s flanks. Already nervous due to the commotion and the hurt sustained when its former rider was unseated, the horse needed little urging. Trying to locate the stirrups with his feet and having difficulty keeping his balance, the young Texian found himself being carried towards what had been the head of the column.
Once again, good fortune was smiling upon Lieutenant Paul Dimmock, offering him the means by which he might carry out his self-appointed mission.
‘Kill that one on the horse!’ Refugio yelled, lining his rifle at Badillo and hoping for the desired result.
Even as he was shouting, the sergeant realized that he could not continue to rest the barrel on the branch. He had done so in the first place to lessen the strain of supporting the nine pound-two ounce iv weapon while waiting and in case there should be a chance of aiming at a stationary target. With the major riding by, the added stability would be more of a liability than an asset. The Baker rifle was accurate up to about three hundred yards in skilled hands, but it had faults common to all flintlocks. One of these was the perceptible delay between squeezing the trigger and the detonated powder in the priming pan reaching the main charge.
Knowing his weapon’s failings, Refugio did not keep the barrel pointing directly at his intended victim. Instead, having set it on to the required alignment, he aimed it ahead so as to allow for Badillo’s forward movements. Waiting until he heard the crackle of shots from further along the slope, he squeezed the trigger. He continued to swing the rifle, holding it rock steady, so that the bullet would converge with the major on being ejected from the muzzle and traversing the distance between them.
Holding his bay to a swift half gallop that was carrying him by his men, Badillo did not suspect that his life was being threatened. He was scanning the tangled mass of fighting men, searching for Colonel Saucedo who had disappeared among them. He paid no attention to the slope above him.
Glancing ahead, the major noticed the young Texian emerging on the captured horse and decided to deal with him if the riflemen among the trees failed to do so. He heard Refugio’s shouted command. It was followed by at least four shots. Thinking sourly of the wasted effort and possible danger to their own men who were fighting on the trail (although the latter did not greatly disturb him), Badillo saw that at least one of the bullets had flown accurately. Hit in the right temple, with the lead smashing straight through his head, the Texian was knocked sideways out of the saddle. However, the horse continued to run.
Although he was still lying on the ground, Dimmock was alert for any opportunity to escape. Without being detected, he had contrived to look around and ease himself into a position which would allow him to rise swiftly when he found his chance. He was aware of the purpose of the riflemen on the slope but did not know how many there might be. Seeing the young Texian killed and the horse approaching, he decided that he wouldn’t have a better opportunity. So, waiting until it drew near, he thrust himself to his feet and leapt forward with his hands reaching to grab the reins.
Turning at the waist and guiding his weapon with the smooth ease of an expert, Refugio felt the solid thrust of the recoil against his right shoulder. Although the cloud of white smoke which gushed from the barrel obscured his view, he was confident that he had held true.
Only one small detail saved Badillo from a not undeserved death. The time that elapsed between the fall of the Baker’s hammer and the emission of the bullet from the muzzle.
While the sergeant had believed there was a clear field of fire between himself and his victim, he had failed to notice a sapling further down the slope. Flying through the air at the correct angle to connect with its intended target, the bullet grazed the right side of the slender trunk. Slight though the contact had been, it was sufficient to deflect the patched lead ball. v Not much, but enough. Instead of striking Badillo in the body (Refugio having been disinclined to chance a shot at the smaller—if more certainly lethal—target of the head) it caught the bay just in front of the shoulder. Distorting from its globular shape as it plowed through the flesh, the bullet hit and broke the bones of the horse’s neck. Killed almost instantly, the animal crumpled and went down, falling on to its left side.
Hearing the sickening, soggy thud of the bullet’s impact and feeling his mount collapsing beneath him, Badillo realized that it must have been shot. There was no time for him to wonder if the shooting had been accidental or a deliberate attempt to murder him. In fact, it was all he could do to liberate his feet from the stirrups and hurl himself out of the saddle so as to prevent having his left leg trapped. Because of the direction in which the animal was falling, he was unable to dive to the right. Instead, he was compelled to go down in front of the foremost of his men. While his skill as a rider enabled him to reduce some of the force of his landing, and even though he had tossed aside his saber as he fell, he still hit the ground hard enough to jar all the breath from his body. It left him sprawled dazed, winded and helpless not far ahead of the approaching Lancers’ horses.
Although the horse that Dimmock was trying to catch attempted to shy away, his fingers made contact with its reins. He grasped the leather strap tenaciously with his left hand. At the same time, his right fist closed just as tightly over the saddle horn. He felt a sudden jerk, but his grip held and he utilized the animal’s forward momentum as a propulsive aid to making a swinging, leaping mount.
Even as the lieutenant felt the hard leather of the saddle between his legs, he knew that he was by no means out of danger. To escape, he must run the gauntlet of the riflemen on the slope and the much closer Lancers. Locating the stirrup irons and inserting his feet, he flattened himself alongside the horse’s neck and guided it at an angle of about forty-five degrees. That would take him clear of the riders, but in ascending the slope, he might be approaching one of the infantrymen. It was, he realized, a chance he had to take.
At that moment, Refugio shot Badillo’s horse and, in doing so, slightly reduced the danger to Dimmock.
Furious at having failed to kill the major, the lanky sergeant acted swiftly. He started to lower the rifle’s butt with the intention of reloading as swiftly as possible. Once he had done so, he hoped he would be able to make another attempt at earning the promised promotion. Before he had time to make a start, he noticed Dimmock riding away from the trail.
‘There’s one of them getting away on a horse!’ Refugio bawled, realizing that the lieutenant would pass him and that there was nobody further along the slope to stop him. ‘Shoot the bastard!’
Much to the sergeant’s annoyance, the order was not obeyed. Snarling a curse, he turned his head to discover why he was being ignored. More by accident than deliberate choice, he had selected a position from which he could see the majority of his party. Every member of it within his range of vision was in a similar situation to himself. The butts of their rifles were on the ground and they were in various stages of recharging the barrels with powder and ball. Realizing the futility of trying to make them hurry up the process which was always laborious, Refugio gave a resigned shrug. He could see what was happening on the trail and decided that he would be able to transfer the blame on the Lancers if the Texian should escape.
Having their commanding officer flung headlong to the ground in front of them caused considerable inconvenience and some concern to the leading riders of what had been the advance guard. Despite his faults, Badillo had many qualities which appealed to the tough, hard-bitten erstwhile vaqueros and former bandidos—who had elected to join the Army rather than be imprisoned for their various crimes—serving under him. His undoubted courage, skill with weapons and deadly efficient way of enforcing his will upon others had won their admiration and respect. In addition, the more intelligent of them saw him as a leader who was rising in prominence and realized that it might be beneficial to support him.
So, wanting to save the major from further injury, the men acted with a greater speed than they would have displayed with a less favored officer. Manipulating their reins, they contrived to either turn aside or halt their horses before reaching Badillo. In doing so, they threw the riders who were following them into some confusion. Those behind, including a few who had observed Dimmock riding off, were also compelled to hurriedly stop.
‘Hey, you Lancers!” Refugio shouted at the top of his voice, his intention being to place the responsibility for the Texian’s escape elsewhere. “Our rifles are empty. Get after that one. Don’t let him escape.’
Despite the warning, several seconds elapsed before a sergeant managed to force his horse from the tangle that had been caused by half the troop coming to a sudden stop. Five other men succeeded in extracting themselves and followed him.
Brief though the delay in starting the pursuit had been, it allowed Dimmock to build a slight but significant lead. What was more, he had heard and understood Refugio’s words. They had been a source of relief to him. Unless the speaker was trying to lull him into a sense of false security, there was no danger of him being shot by the men on the slope.
Taking a chance that what he had heard was true, Dimmock raised his torso until he was sitting more erect on the saddle. This way he could control the horse with greater facility and also have a better view of his surroundings. The latter was of the greatest importance with respect to the line of action he was contemplating. No shots were fired at him and he concluded that the gamble had paid off.
Despite his conviction, the lieutenant kept a careful watch on the terrain ahead. Not only was he alert for obstructions to his flight, but he was also searching for any sign of Mexican infantrymen. Even one with an empty rifle could be a source of danger. However, he saw none and decided that he must have passed beyond the end of the screen of sharpshooters. Which meant he had only the pursuing Lancers to contend with.
There were, however, Dimmock reminded himself grimly, many long miles to be covered before he could hope to reach anything even approaching safety.