CHAPTER 4

By the time the sun slipped beneath the trees and even the shattered clearing surrendered to darkness, the port (northern) side of the increasingly skeletal corpse of Mary Riggs had become the southern bastion of a large, waist-high stockade, constructed of fallen trees and the ship’s own salvaged timbers. Forty-six horses had been taken from the wreck in good condition, Arete among them, to Lewis’s relief, and eleven others had sound legs and should recover. The rest were either dead or had to be destroyed. Details buried 106 men, but dead horses were dragged out through the “gate” and about seventy-five yards into the forest. No one wanted to eat them—they’d recovered their provisions of salt pork and biscuit—but Lewis hesitated to have them burned. A sufficient fire to do the job would make a beacon at night and smoke by day, equally visible to friend or foe. Besides, after the dampness of . . . whatever happened to them . . . dried up during the day, he’d realized the forest around them was a tinderbox. He preferred to just leave the dead horses since he didn’t intend to linger long.

They’d finish unloading the ship by morning and prepare to make for the coast all together as soon as the next day, or the next, after a strong force scouted the route. Lewis would risk no more men wandering about in pairs. Half of those Olayne sent out hadn’t returned. Hopefully, they were simply lost and would find their way back. The other half had little to report besides the bizarre bird-things they’d all seen, which grew increasingly aggressive as the day wore on. Some had seen shadowy figures following or pacing them through the woods, but could provide no more details. Pickets placed outside the stockade—but well in sight of it—reported the same. Some were frightened by what their stressed and rampant imaginations made them think they saw, and Lewis was amazed none of them had fired on the shapes. In the meantime, dragoons had replaced the artillerymen at the breastworks and tired gunners now labored to heave the six shiny new Model 1841 6pdrs, their limbers, caissons, and other artillery vehicles, out of the wreck by lantern light. He smiled to hear Sergeant McNabb’s appraisal of the weapons hauled into the gathering night, his native speech rising closer to the surface than Lewis had heard before:

“Oh, would ye look at that one, then! Such a beauty she is, sparklin’ like the golden moon himself! I’ve trained on small guns, aye, as have many of ye, but they were sad, decrepit things from the second war for independence. It was enough to make ye weep an’ wonder whatever they might be good for. But these lovely ladies! They’re bigger but not much heavier, an’ look how ingeniously Mr. Mordechai devised these lovely trails! A single man could lift it. Get yer filthy grabbers off the brass of her barrel, damn your bones, Mr. Finlay! Clap on to the spokes like a Christian! That’s why they paint the bloody things, an’ the whole bloody carriage too, to keep bog trotters like you from stainin’ her fine, shiny barrel with yer greasy damn fingers!”

McNabb’s caustic but good-natured diatribe went on like that, mixing humorous abuse on the men with loving admiration of the guns, as one by one he supervised their excavation and emplacement around the perimeter, each loaded with a round of canister and hastily crewed by men who at least knew how to fire it. Few were acquainted with the Hidden’s Patent percussion lock they were equipped with, however, and Lewis had to explain.

“It’s just a bloody great percussion cap, like the damn dragoons use on their carbines,” McNabb had said, holding one up when the first ammunition chest was opened for inspection.

“The new Model ’forty-two muskets use them as well,” Lewis had confirmed, “though I haven’t actually seen one. They say they’re to be rifled to fire hollow-base projectiles based on Minié’s principles, and fitted with long-range sights. In any event, percussion caps are the future, though I think the new friction primers might serve better for artillery.”

McNabb had continued to stare dubiously at the object, shaped like a top hat and almost as big as a button, the “brim” of the hat jaggedly serrated like a sunburst. “Whatever was wrong with slow-match an’ linstocks, even portfires?”

Lewis had smiled. “Nothing, except you have to light them before you can use them, and that’s not always easily or quickly done. And quicker ignition means improved accuracy against moving targets.”

McNabb had seemed to agree with that, but continued to frown at the cap. “Do we have any friction primers?”

Now the moon was full and bright, and the temperature, never brutal during the day, remained balmy. Still, though no one was cold, mosquitoes were a growing problem. Lewis had denied requests to light fires to smoke the pests for the same reasons he’d prohibited a pyre for the horses. The only dubious relief the men got was by huddling near men with pipes or cigars, and even they’d been cautioned to be careful. Against Captain Holland’s objection, Lewis actually insisted the cooks make a fire, however, to feed the men. After all they’d been through, a cooked meal of whatever quality would go a long way toward raising their spirits.

“I see you found your hat,” Captain Giles Anson observed, joining him, Holland, Burton, Swain, and another dragoon lieutenant named Edgar Dwyer from New York, where they’d gathered for an “officers’ meeting” called by word of mouth. Lewis wanted no bugles. They’d been watching the loud, sweaty work inside the wreck while they waited. Anson was enjoying a large cigar and now benevolently blew clouds of smoke at the other officers. Most smiled appreciatively, but Coryon Burton pretended to gag.

“Yes,” Lewis said, taking the battered thing off and looking at it. He’d also washed the blood from his hair and face when he sat for a couple of stitches in his scalp applied by the giant, bearlike Ranger named Corporal Bandy Beeryman. Lewis discovered during an interesting conversation—closely watched by Anson’s “aide”—that the big, surprisingly soft-spoken man had done a lot of “doctorin’ ” and was appropriately known to his colleagues as “Boogerbear.” In any event, though Lewis looked better than he had earlier in the day, he still felt like hell. “Whoever designed these ridiculous hats must’ve thought they looked dashing,” he continued dubiously, “and I never dreamed I’d be glad to wear one. But the padding in the top probably saved my skull.” He put it back on. “I suppose I’d hate to lose it now.”

Lieutenant Olayne finally stepped up, the only other surviving officer, and shyly handed Lewis a shiny steel scabbard protecting a Model 1840 artillery saber, wrapped in a white belt and rectangular eagle buckle. “Thank you, Lieutenant!” Lewis said, genuinely glad to see the weapon. It was an Ames-made officer’s version of the standard horse artillery saber. Lewis had purchased it himself and had a few embellishments added. The blade was acid-etched with the customary large us surrounded by floral and martial panoplies, but the grip was covered with coarse sharkskin to prevent it turning or slipping in his hand, and the brass guard and pommel had been tastefully engraved around his cursive initials. Despite the fact it had seen a fair amount of use and the golden sword knot was battered and frayed, he kept the blade’s edge much sharper than most officers took the effort to do. Next to his horse, Arete, it was probably his most prized possession.

“Sergeant McNabb found your baggage,” Olayne confessed, also handing over a set of scuffed black leather pommel holsters, protecting a pair of .54 caliber Robert Johnson contract M1836 pistols. They were well-made weapons, and Lewis was surprisingly good with them considering they were smoothbores without rear sights, but they didn’t mean as much to him as the saber. “I’m afraid your trunk was shattered, however, and most of your things damaged by water. Perhaps your clothing will still serve when it’s been dried. Some of the lads are trying to salvage the other officer’s clothing as well.” He managed a tentative smile. “Your Ringgold saddle is safe”—dragoons and mounted riflemen mostly rode Grimsleys, and Ringgold saddles were expensive and rare—“and Private Willis is oiling the leather.”

Lewis chuckled, remembering the scrawny little soldier who didn’t want to share his water. “As punishment for something?”

“Sir? No sir. You need an orderly, and Sergeant McNabb said he volunteered.”

“Did he indeed?”

Lewis turned to the others, evaluating their lantern-lit expressions. All were exhausted and aside from Captain Anson and perhaps Captain Holland, were visibly doing their best to control their anxiety. Not that Anson and Holland weren’t afraid—Lewis certainly was, and assumed they were as well—but they had experience leading men in battle or against the elements. They’d learned, of necessity, how to suppress or hide their fear. “Well, gentlemen,” he began wryly, attempting to lighten the mood, “we seem to be in good shape, all things considered. Our position is more secure, and the men have returned to their duty to the extent they’re already trading barbs about their respective service branches.” He nodded at Lieutenant Coryon Burton. “One of the dragoons, Private Buisine, is apparently a closely shaved squirrel.” He waited while the chuckles came and went. “You may have seen him scurry to the top of one of the closest undamaged trees.”

“Aye!” Holland exclaimed with real admiration. “Higher than Mary Riggs’s mainmast was. He’ll make a fine topman when he has his fill of horses.”

“In any event,” Lewis continued, “he scanned the horizon in all directions as best he could and never saw the sea, though he was sure the forest does end just a few miles to the north. No doubt the sea is below the treetop ‘horizon.’ ” They all took that as good news, continuing by apparently universal consent to avoid the searing question of how they got “a few miles” from the sea in the first place. Lewis pursed his lips. “Due to how flat the top of the forest seemed in other directions, Private Buisine concluded the ground below must be equally flat. Captain Anson confirmed that’s consistent with what he knows of the northern Yucatán, though he remains as mystified by the forest as Captain Holland.” He paused. “Buisine did note some anomalies, some distant hills or knobs, one of which appeared in his glass to have been made of shaped stones. And several were shrouded in a haze of wood smoke, so there are inhabitants nearby. We must be cautious. We’ve no idea whose side, if any, they’re on.” Gratefully accepting a cigar from Anson, he lit it from the other man’s and puffed it to life.

“Tomorrow the Rangers and a squad of dragoons will scout to the north for the best route to the coast. Hopefully, they’ll find our friends anchored there, or a friendly settlement where we can wait for transport.”

“Even an unfriendly settlement could be induced to change its tune,” Coryon Burton observed. “We have a full battery of guns and a couple hundred well-armed men.” He glanced around at the growing frowns. “They won’t know how unfit to fight we are,” he insisted. “The locals won’t resist us, and there can’t be enough Mexican troops in the vicinity to do so.”

Lewis wasn’t so sure, but nodded. “Friendly or not, they won’t be molested,” he warned mildly, but no one could doubt his resolve. “That’s the plan. I suppose things could’ve been much worse indeed, and we should thank God they weren’t.”

“It couldn’t have been worse for my poor ship, the hundred an’ six men we buried, an’ the forty-two we can’t find”—Holland snorted—“but for the two hundred an’ eighty-two of us left, aye, I reckon you’re right.”

Lewis sobered. “Those are the final numbers?”

“My purser, Mr. Finlay, is a villainous thief, like all such creatures, an’ unfit for the labors that’ve occupied the rest of us,” Holland explained, then chuckled. “Sergeant McNabb threw him out of the ship! But in addition to startin’ an inventory of our stores, he seemed the logical choice to count everything else. Includin’ those we’ve lost.”

“His numbers came from the acting adjutants appointed for the various companies while you were . . . indisposed, sir,” supplied Lieutenant Swain. “Obviously, those numbers might . . . rearrange themselves since some of the injured may die, and the missing scouts are still listed among the living.”

“Pray they remain so,” Olayne murmured. He’d sent them out and had been right to do so, but his initial confusion prevented him from giving them better instructions and limiting the scope of their explorations. He’d confessed as much to Lewis, who’d consoled him that at least he’d tried to restore order and purpose, but Olayne was still struck by the losses his first brief “command” may have incurred.

“That’s enough, gentlemen,” Lewis said. “If there are no questions, we should get back to work. Captain Holland, please have your Mr. Sessions get with these officers or the adjutants they appointed to establish the same kind of watch your sailors observed while we were under way so at least some of them can get some sleep.”

“Aye, Captain Cayce, though I’ll warn you: it’s a bit less restful than your soldiers are used to.”

“I know,” Lewis snapped with fatigue-induced annoyance before he could catch himself. “That’s why I asked you to do it. I want half the men up at all times, on guard or working.” He sighed and drew on his cigar again. “My apologies, sir, but we have much to do, and none of us will get as much rest as we’d like, no matter how much we need it.”

The dragoon private named Buisine had trotted up, waiting to be noticed, clutching his saber beside him so it wouldn’t drag or trip him. His other hand kept the Hall carbine, suspended from its strap and hook, from doing the same. If Buisine was any indication, keeping himself armed with everything but his pistols, the men were still on edge.

“What is it, Private?” Burton asked as the other officers began to disperse.

“It’s the horses, sir, actin’ mighty antsy. Sergeant Hayne sent me to tell you.”

Now that it was brought to his attention, Lewis—and Anson as well—realized the trooper was right. The horses had all been picketed along the curve of the dead ship’s frames, leaving only a gap for those still hauling crates and barrels from the hull. Lewis’s Arete was nearby, still fairly placid, but the horses closest to the bow—closest to where they’d ultimately heaped the dead ones—were growing increasingly alarmed.

“I told him it was probably scavengers, out at the dead pile,” Buisine suggested helpfully. “All them nasty, damned birds flocked over there once we cleaned up the camp.”

“That’s most likely true,” Lewis agreed, hooking the buff saber belt around his waist and tossing the pommel holsters over his shoulder like Anson always carried his, “but we’ll have a look. Sergeant McNabb,” he called into the hull. “You stationed a gun near the bow?”

“Aye, sir,” came the muffled response. “My very favorite one, she was. Survived the wreck without the slightest scratch. Loaded proper with canister too, like you said, as soon as we put her in place.”

“Crawl up out of there and come along. Bring a reliable gun crew—I assume you’ve identified one by now?—and fetch those lanterns along as well.” Lewis turned to Anson as the whole group of officers and artillerymen Lewis summoned made their way toward the section of the palisade behind which the horses were growing very upset. “In your travels, did you acquaint yourself with the predators we might expect hereabouts?”

Anson hesitated, then murmured, “Let’s ask . . . my son. Leon is his name,” he stressed, beginning to talk faster, displaying a diffidence Lewis had never seen in him. “He don’t say much, bein’ a little self-conscious about a voice that won’t break, but he ain’t shy in a fight,” he stated firmly. “He’s had his growth as well; is near as tall as me. Just hasn’t filled out yet. Private Anson,” he called loudly, but his “aide” was practically beside him, as always, a challenging, dark-eyed gaze fixed on Lewis. “You have an eye for beasts, an’ you rode the back country when we were . . . near here,” he said. “Did you hear Captain Cayce’s question?”

“We’ve never been here before, Father. Not even close,” said “Leon” with total conviction. Despite what Captain Anson said, the voice was a little husky and could’ve easily been a boy’s. Lewis was even more certain it wasn’t. “Either way, the only critter I can think of that might scare the horses is a jaguar.” She paused. “You know what a jaguar is, Captain Cayce?”

“It’s something like a puma, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, only bigger.”

The horses were squealing in terror now, pulling hard against the ribs of the ship where they were secured, kicking violently at each other and nothing at all. A couple of dragoons were moving to calm them, but Sergeant Hayne roared, “Get back from there, you fools! They’ll kick your little brains out!”

“What have you seen, Sergeant?” Lewis demanded as they joined him. He hadn’t been worried about a puma or jaguar. A shot in the night should see it off. He’d been most concerned that enemies might be sneaking up. But the horses were going berserk. They’d never do that because of people.

“Nothin’, sir. Can’t see nothin’ out there. The moon’s bright enough, but there’s too many trees between us an’ the dead pile.”

“I seen somethin’, Sergeant!” cried one of the men by the palisade, carbine at the ready.

“Private Priddy thought he seen somethin’,” Hayne said, rolling his eyes, “big as a horse itself.”

“It was!”

Lewis peered into the darkness. The sergeant was right; the trees were in the way and there was too much noise to hear anything. “We’ll just have to take a look, won’t we? Bring those lanterns closer. Lieutenant Olayne, send for more of your men with muskets and post this gun crew.” He removed his pistols and a small priming flask from the pommel holsters, double-checking each weapon with the ingenious swiveling ramrod under the barrel to ensure it was loaded. Finally, he dusted the priming pans with a small measure of fine-grained gunpowder from the flask before thrusting one into his belt. “I hope the damp didn’t get to them. It seems not. I keep them loaded, but not primed,” he explained, draping the holsters on the palisade.

Anson patted the holsters still on his shoulder. “These’re always loaded and primed.”

“Lieutenant Burton,” Lewis said louder. “Half a dozen dragoons, if you please, but you remain with Olayne. I want steady officers behind me who won’t let their men shoot at shadows.”

“You’re going out there yourself, sir?” Lieutenant Swain asked.

“I am.”

“Then I’d like to come.” Swain’s few riflemen were scattered along the palisade.

“Very well.”

Anson said nothing, but moved to stand by Lewis as the rest of their party formed. Lewis had expected as much. They weren’t friends, but they knew and trusted each other. Besides, if something happened to Lewis, Anson would be back where he was that morning: burdened with the highest rank but unwilling to command. Lewis considered him the best (and most ruthless) irregular cavalry leader any commander—who could control him—could want. That’s why he put him in charge of all the mounted troops. But Anson had no idea how to employ a mixed force like they had. Lewis was sure if they confronted a serious threat, Anson would protect him better than all the dragoons. “Let’s go,” he said, climbing over the shattered timbers. “Spread out once you’re across, a lantern for every other man.”

“Be careful, sir,” Coryon Burton urged.

Lewis glanced back and smiled, surprisingly moved, as he motioned the detachment forward. He was disapprovingly unsurprised to see “Leon” Anson beside her father. He wouldn’t make an issue of it. Not now. He needed Anson’s support and didn’t want an argument. Anything that undermined the fragile unity they’d achieved was foolish. Besides, he already felt foolish enough, advancing in the dark with lanterns lighting them up while largely ruining their ability to see what they were looking for. He didn’t think human enemies were frightening the horses, however, and expected whatever it was would flee as they approached.

“Probably more of those dreadful birds,” Swain almost whispered. “Some were the size of turkey vultures, but very strangely shaped and colored. The horses can’t see them in the dark, but they hear them—and smell all the blood from the dead horses they’ve torn open.” Lewis suspected Swain was right.

The shrieking and neighing of frightened horses still echoed in the woods, but as they moved away, they heard other things ahead. There was an intense, urgent grunting, growling, and crunching, mixed with an outraged or protesting cluckering sound, like packs of hogs, dogs, and chickens all contending over the same slops in some macabre farmyard.

“Lord, what a ruckus,” a dragoon murmured nervously, hoisting his lantern higher.

“Yes,” Lewis agreed, “but I believe we can rest assured they are animals, after all.”

There were ten of them, half with lanterns and pistols, the other half with Hall carbines at the ready, or in Swain’s case, an 1817 rifle. Like Lewis, “Leon” carried a lantern, but also one of the ingenious Colt’s revolvers. In addition to their five-shot capacity, Lewis admired the long-barreled but otherwise compact weapons for their remarkable accuracy. And if the .36 caliber balls they spat only rarely quickly killed a man, they’d take him out of the fight as efficiently as larger projectiles. Captain Anson had possessed a pair openly holstered on his belt for as long as Lewis had known him. Apparently, his three other Rangers were similarly armed. It made Lewis briefly wonder what Anson carried so protectively in the pommel holsters over his shoulder.

Now, as they crept carefully closer and the dark mound of carcasses began to take shape, so did the shadowy forms and light-reflecting eyes of unknown creatures feasting on it. Instead of running from the light, the forms only gorged more desperately, the revolting sounds growing more hurried and distinct. An unearthly screech erupted from the mound, and Swain exclaimed, “My God, one of those horses is still alive!”

“That was no horse, boy,” Captain Anson countered darkly, teeth clenched. Lewis knew him well enough to recognize his tension, and that the “boy” crack wasn’t deliberate. “That was a challenge.”

“From what?” hissed another dragoon.

“Let’s find out,” Lewis told them all. “Be ready. If our presence alone doesn’t frighten them away, we’ll fire into them. That should do it. One quick volley on my command, mind you,” he cautioned. “I want no drawn-out shooting to help an enemy pinpoint our position.”

A shadow that had remained still until now suddenly shifted, and Lewis realized—as dragoon Private Priddy claimed—it was as big as a horse. Bigger, actually, rising from its meal to stand half again taller. Other creatures with impossible, nightmare shapes bolted, but they weren’t running from Lewis and his little squad. They fled from the giant beast suddenly aroused in their midst. Snarling fiercely, it lunged at the interlopers across the heap of mangled flesh.

Lewis had never seen anything like it, never heard of a creature outside of myth even remotely resembling this monstrosity. It leaped into the lantern light as lightly as a crow over a stone, pausing only to gather itself. Great, bloody, dagger-toothed jaws gaped wide, and it roared a thunderous warning at things it probably supposed were here to snatch its feast. For perhaps a second—the longest, most vivid second Lewis ever experienced—he saw the monster plainly. Its bearing was more like the swift, snake- and lizard-eating ground birds he’d seen in Texas and Northern Mexico than any crow, and it stood ten feet tall, from its clawed, three-toed feet to the top of its horrifying, bristly crested head. Large, luminous orange eyes glared directly forward at them down the long, arched, but concave-sided snout. Powerful arms and hands, each with two clawed fingers and presumably a thumb of sorts, still effortlessly grasped the gnawed foreleg and shoulder of a horse. The whole thing was so splashed with drying, darkening blood that the true color of its matted, somewhat feathery fur was impossible to distinguish in the lantern light.

That was the only insight Lewis gathered before, without his command, virtually everyone fired at it. The smoky flash and boom of several carbines and a couple of pistols made the thing blink and recoil slightly, but even if every shot hit, Lewis doubted they’d seriously injured it. He’d avidly read the journals of the “Corps of Discovery” sent up the Missouri to explore the Louisiana Purchase and vividly recalled accounts of how many desperate shots it often required to dispatch “White” or “Grizzled” bears. Not only was this monster four or five times more massive than any bear; they weren’t sufficiently armed. Pistols would probably only anger it, and the breechloading Hall carbines, while quick to load, leaked a lot of the force of their charge and were notoriously underpowered.

The monster bellowed, perhaps in some pain but certainly indignation, and lunged forward again. “Back to the palisade!” Lewis cried, dropping his lantern and uselessly drawing his saber. Both his pistols were still loaded, but they were equally useless. Everyone already had run, except Anson, “Leon,” and Swain. The two Rangers fired their revolvers, the noise and sting of hot little balls perhaps enough to give the thing slight pause, and Swain was aiming his 1817 rifle. It would do better than a Hall, but not enough. “Now!” Lewis roared. Together, they turned and fled.

The monster stomped the lantern Lewis dropped, the candle still fluttering until it was crushed. “Leon” had set hers on the ground, and the creature attacked it next, snapping jaws crumpling tin and shattering glass. The candle died, but molten wax splashed across a sensitive tongue. The thing squealed in pain and surprise, but its vision adapted quickly enough to see the figures sprinting for the palisade. With a steam whistle screech, it galloped in pursuit.

The dragoons were already hopping over the barricade, one still carrying his lantern. All were shouting for men to shoot toward the dead pile. Burton, Olayne, and a growing number of NCOs were bellowing terrible threats of what would happen to them if they did. Men started shouting encouragement when they saw Lewis and his companions, but their cries took on a note of terror when they saw the thing chasing them. Over the rasping gurgle of their quickly closing pursuer, Lewis heard a thump and a high-pitched “Arph!” He spun to see “Leon” had tripped over a shattered tree trunk and sprawled on the ground. Anson turned as well, but Lewis grabbed an upflung arm and started dragging. Girl or not, “Leon” was tall and well muscled and certainly no feather. The going got easier when Anson grabbed his daughter’s other arm despite her angry demand that they “Let go! I’ll carry myself, damn you!” Whether she could’ve regained her feet and escaped on her own at first was immaterial. She couldn’t possibly do so now. Lewis and Anson raced the rest of the way like that, dragging their sputtering burden.

Still, the terrible beast would’ve caught all three if not for Lieutenant Swain—a very different Clifford Swain than had been so fearful in the face of disaster aboard Mary Riggs. Seeing what happened and how close the monster was, he stepped between them without a thought and raised his rifle again. His gasping breath affected his aim, but the target was very large and close. With a bright orange flash and distinctive crack! his ball hit the thing in the snout and caromed down its concave surface to blow its left eye out in a viscous spray of gore. The monster screeched and whirled as if attacked from its blinded side, but its great long tail, like a whip the size of Mary Riggs’s main yard, slammed into Swain with a sickening, crunching thwap, batting him thirty yards through the air. Regardless how insignificant, the monster felt the strike and whirled back the other way, snapping at air.

In the meantime, Lewis and Anson had thrown “Leon” over the breastworks. Even as they climbed over themselves, Lewis roared, “Open fire!” A ragged volley of carbine and musket fire slashed at the thing, and it screeched again, rounding on this new irritation. Back with their comrades, even the dragoons who’d run stood their ground, shooting and reloading twice as fast as the men with muskets. And the volume of fire was telling. The thing was furious and in agony, but now also afraid. It finally tried to get away from the crackling, flaring, painful thing it chased and whirled to run—just as Olayne shouted, “Fire!” Sergeant McNabb yanked his lanyard, and the hammer on the Hidden’s lock clapped down on the cap, priming his “favorite” 6pdr. The field piece stabbed the night with an eight-foot jet of flame and an earth-shaking blast as it leaped back, sending its load of canister—forty-eight 1.15” balls weighing almost a quarter pound apiece—at the monster. Less than thirty yards away, all of them hit in a very tight pattern across its back and churned a three-foot section of spine into a bloody, salt-like gruel before most of the projectiles came to rest in its vitals. As if it had only been some kind of hellish marionette and a vengeful, thunderous god snipped its strings, the monster crashed to the ground. One hind leg stretched rigidly out and quivered for a moment before it dropped and the thing lay still.

A few more musket balls, fired as much by fear as gunpowder, slapped into the motionless corpse while Lewis shouted to cease fire. Stunned NCOs took up his cry. Leaning back against the barricade, gasping from exertion, Lewis appreciatively accepted one of the several canteens offered to him and took a long gulp. He watched Anson try to help his daughter up, but she angrily shook off his hand and stalked away toward the horses, now quickly calming down. Compared to the scent and sound of monsters, gunsmoke and even cannon fire almost seemed to have soothed them. Perhaps it had. I hope it had the same effect on the men, Lewis thought. But frightened voices were rising again as the imperative of action faded and shock set in. Lewis heard the word “dragon” several times. No one ever heard there were dragons in Yucatán. “Lieutenant Burton, get these men silenced and organized at once. Form details to get some fires lit as well. Large ones. Ensure the ground is sufficiently cleared around them, of course, and detail men with shovels to watch them closely.”

“But the enemy . . .”

“I’m more concerned about big, furry lizards than Mexicans and forest fires at the moment,” Lewis countered, then raised his voice to carry. “Fires will keep them away, or make them fine targets.”

“Aye, an’ they’ll see what we done t’th’other,” rejoined a satisfied voice. Others growled agreement. It was better than nothing. “Reload that gun, Sergeant McNabb!” Lewis continued. “Lieutenant Olayne, I think now would be a good time to confirm the crews manning the other guns are as ready as this one was.”

“Yes sir,” Olayne replied after a short hesitation, then trotted down the line. Lewis’s apparent confidence and barrage of orders seemed to have suppressed the growing unease, and the rising shouts of NCOs helped even more. Lewis turned to look out at the dead monster as Anson, then Captain Holland, stepped up beside him. Instead of acknowledging them, he called to Sergeant Hayne. “Take some men to get Lieutenant Swain.” His tone left no room for debate. “I’m sure he’s dead,” he said lowly, dismally, aside to Anson and Holland. “I heard every bone in his body break.”

“A hell of a thing,” Holland commiserated.

“I owe him my life, for my daughter’s,” Anson simply said, abandoning his deception at a volume only they could hear. Of course Holland knows “Leon” is a woman, Lewis realized. “As I owe it to you, Captain Lewis,” Anson went on. “You saved her, an’ Lieutenant Swain saved the rest of us.”

“She doesn’t seem particularly appreciative,” Lewis retorted, abandoning the fiction of “Leon’s” gender as readily as Anson, with him and Holland at least.

“She’ll come around. She’s only mad she had to be saved. Considers herself as able as any man and’ll blame herself for Mr. Swain’s death.” He frowned. “She’s had a hard road. My fault.”

Lewis was naturally curious but wouldn’t pursue it now. Instead, he said, “Then she should know it made no difference to Lieutenant Swain who or what she is. I doubt he had any idea. He defended comrades he hardly knew, without thought, because it was his duty. I wish I’d made the effort to get to know him better, before he gave his life for us,” Lewis added regretfully.

“It was a remarkably standoffish bunch in Mary Riggs before the wreck,” Holland noted. “But I think Mr. Swain recognized the leader you are—as I’ve begun to—an’ knew we need a good one to survive whatever mess we’re in. He protected you for the rest of us.”

“Nonsense,” Lewis objected.

Anson held up a hand. “What does it matter?” He glanced at Holland. “Despite all our earlier self-deludin’ denial an’ pretendin’, we’re—somehow—nowhere near where we should be. That’s certain.” He pointed over the barricade where men with lanterns were staring and poking at the dead monster. A fire was growing nearby, and the carcass looked even more lurid and outlandish. “Or that . . . whatever it is—might as well call it a ‘dragon’—ain’t where it should be. Given the bird-things and other critters, these woods, an’ the fact we’re higher an’ drier than reason can explain, I suspect we’re the ones who’ve been . . . misplaced.”

“Aye,” Holland agreed sourly. “There’s more wrong with all this than anything I could imagine.” He suddenly grinned at Lewis. “I only thank God you’re in charge.”

“Why?” Lewis demanded angrily.

Anson shrugged. “Holland’s right. So was Mr. Swain. I saw it myself at Monterrey, now here. You don’t just twist your hands an’ dither. You lead.”

“Right,” Lewis countered. “I ‘led’ Lieutenant Swain to his death. We never should’ve left the palisade.”

“Maybe,” Anson conceded. “Or that dragon could’ve decided to sample live horses in the night, killing more men, deafened and distracted by our own maddened animals. Or the horses might’ve finally just broke loose in their panic, bustin’ themselves up an’ tramplin’ half a dozen fellas. But you’ll never know, because you acted.” He sighed. “I’m sure Captain Holland’ll agree, an’ if they don’t teach this at West Point, they should: makin’ any decision, even the wrong one, is always better than makin’ none.” He snorted. “Second worst in a crisis is a slow one, which turns to none as well.” He looked away, staring into the past. “You remember I had a limp when Leonor an’ I showed up at Fort Texas to meet Boogerbear an’ Sal an’ join up with Jack Hayes?”

Lewis nodded vaguely. “I was there when you reported.”

“We’d stopped at a stream a few days before, to water our horses. Just the two of us,” Anson said. “Lookin’ up the other side, we saw six mounted Comanches, just as surprised as us, but already raisin’ their weapons. Bows, mostly, but one had a Mexican ’scopet. That’s a kind of musket,” he added for Holland’s benefit. “Anyway, without even thinkin’, Leonor and I both pulled our revolvers and charged, shootin’ mostly wild. Leonor’s horse took a rushed, weak arrow in the neck that didn’t cause much harm. I took a graze from the ’scopet ball across the top of my thigh. But the Comanches were already runnin’ before we were across the stream. I’ve no idea if we even hit one.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. They were prob’ly raidin’ for horses, an’ no horse is worth their life.” He patted one of the Colt’s Paterson revolvers at his side. “An’ they respect these little fellas. But it came down to the fact they’d shot their bolt an’ we hadn’t. Comanches’re dangerous and bloodthirsty as that dragon, I expect, but they ain’t fools. An’ we weren’t fool enough to chase ’em. ‘Good riddance,’ we said, an’ tended our hurts.

“The point is, though, as soon as we saw ’em, we had exactly two choices; fight or run. Doin’ nothin’ is never a choice, by definition, an’ we’d both be dead. Leonor an’ I both realized later that it never even occurred to us to run. Not because we weren’t scared, but because we know Comanches. If we hadn’t put ’em on the defensive an’ hurried their fire, they would’ve had whole seconds to take careful aim an’ shoot us or our horses. Even if they all missed—damned unlikely—they would’ve chased us. Now, whether their horses are actually better or not, Comanches’ll get more out of ’em an’ they’ll always run you down.” He paused and lit a cigar he’d fished from his vest. “So it would’ve been a runnin’ fight at best, maybe even endin’ the same if we found a place to turn on ’em, but they would’ve had more and longer chances to hurt or kill us first.”

He looked intently at Lewis. “We made an instinctive decision, forcin’ them Comanches to do the same.” He shrugged. “Likely turned out best for all concerned. Tonight?” He patted his long-healed thigh. “Tonight we got hurt, an’ lost Lieutenant Swain”—he gestured over the palisade where the body was being carried in and more men—quite watchful—had gathered around the monster’s corpse—“but you didn’t ‘do nothin’’ when the trouble started, an’ you didn’t ‘do nothin’’ when my girl fell in front of that beast. Now you ain’t lettin’ the men ‘do nothin’’ but dwell on their fears. You act an’ you lead. An’ best choice or worst, it was a choice to confront a problem even if you didn’t understand it.” He took a long draw on his cigar, exhaling the smoke at the monster like a small re-creation of the blast of canister that cut it down. “Now, that ‘Comanche’ will trouble us no more, an’ the men are better prepared to face another.”

“He’s right, Captain Lewis.” Holland nodded. “An’ sometimes, like last night, when that wicked storm fell on us, there isn’t a ‘right’ choice except doin’ your duty as best you can—an’ pray. That’s what I did, an’ you’ve done the first, at least, ever since you came to your senses. That’s enough for me, an’ the men’ve been steadied to see it.”

Lewis sighed. He was exhausted, heartsick, and sore. Scared too. He’d even aggravated the old wound in his side that never seemed to heal. “Go to . . . your son, Captain Anson,” he said, resuming the fiction. “Angry at himself—and us—or not, he had a terrible fright.”

Anson frowned. “Sure, but she won’t thank us for sympathy. Maybe someday . . .” He shook his head. “Someday she’ll tell you herself, if she wants.” He threw down his cigar and stamped it out. “But I’ll go find her, an’ try to get some sleep. I expect another busy day tomorrow.”

“Count on it,” Lewis agreed.