The Savage Breed. Randy Denmon

held by General Urrea. Travis knew him. He was one of most honorable officers in the Mexican army; his comrades would be treated like prisoners of war, unlike those at the Alamo.

      Travis pulled out his watch. In only an hour, the room would get dark, staying black until the window again glowed with the first light of morning. The two guards showed themselves five or six times during the day, only poking their heads in to make sure their prisoners behaved. But usually just before dark, Travis would get his daily rations, a bucket of dirty brown water and maybe a slice of bread, or a bowl of broth. One day he had received half a watermelon, cut open days before. His throat was dry, and he ached for the water. He looked down at his midsection. He had already lost ten pounds this week.

      As he rubbed his stomach, he heard the steps outside; then the door swung open. Agusto, the gruffer of his two jailers, barged into the little jail with the two buckets of water in hand. He set the buckets outside the thick cell bars and brushed his long, greasy, black mane. “No food tonight. But good news, at least for me. You two are going back to Goliad tomorrow, be with the rest of the traitors. I won’t have to worry about your stinking asses anymore.” Agusto turned around and stormed back out of the jail, his leather boots rattling against the floor.

      Travis reached through the bars to secure the little tin cup in the bucket. He filled it with water. For the first time in a week, his spirits perked up. Compared to this cell, Fort Defiance would be heaven: friends to converse with, fresh air to breathe. Just the thought of the long ride, though surely shackled, brought a smile to his face. He turned up the cup of brown water and downed it.

      Two pistol shots rang in Travis’s ears, waking him from his light nap. He jumped to his feet and looked out the window, then back to his cellmate, still sleeping. Outside, Travis saw nothing, only the cool night air, the dirt street lit by moonlight. He heard a third shot. What was it? Were the Texans liberating the town? Was it a shoot-out at the little cantina down the street, or maybe a drunk Mexican taking aim at the moon? Travis wondered as he pressed his face against the bars, trying to get a wider view. He removed his watch. It was four in the morning. He strained his ears. The night was still, but he thought he heard some footsteps. Travis looked at the cell, its barricades sturdy. He hated being trapped, especially if gunplay was occurring outside. He felt more defenseless than he had all week. He looked outside again—nothing. The footsteps grew louder. A terrible thought crossed his mind: Someone coming to kill him. They had been warming up, checking the weapon.

      The feet reached the door. Travis hugged the cool wall with his back as the grave sounds of the squeaking door filled his ears. He visualized Agusto, in a drunken stupor, barging in, filling the cell with haphazard shots, laughing, excitement filling his wicked soul. Travis slowly turned his head to the door. A man walked in with a quick pace. It was Tony Flores, his left arm bleeding badly. Travis exhaled a long breath. His sweaty body cooled.

      Tony quickly walked to the door, inserting a hand-sized key into the lock. “Hurry up. Let’s get out of here.”

      “Never been so glad to see you,” Travis said. “I guess you and Chase got through to Victoria.”

      “Yes, we did. Never saw a Mexican,” Tony answered.

      “I’ve been wondering about you.” Travis walked forward. As he did, he lightly kicked his cell mate. “Wake up. We’ve been set free.”

      “Who’s that?” Tony said.

      “One of the Reds. Been here a couple of days. What about my keepers?”

      “Both in hell,” Tony replied promptly. “I’ve got one spare horse.” He reached down and slapped the man on the cheek; he was still lethargic, not comprehending what was happening. “Get up. Won’t be long before the Mexicans show up. There’s a few horses down at the prefect’s station. You can ride out with us. No saddles, you’ll have to go bareback. Get that rope off my saddle.”

      “Let me take a look at your arm,” Travis said, walking out of the cell. He reached down and jerked the volunteer to his feet, then pushed him out the door. “Down the street on the right. We’ll meet you there.”

      “We’ll look at it later,” Tony said, following Travis outside.

      “You just decide to come get me? Or somebody order you here?” Travis asked, mounting up. He looked around at the town. All was still quiet; his cell mate disappearing down the street was the only movement. He had seen no one but his two guards all week; the town was deserted.

      “No. It’s terrible. Santa Anna has ordered all the captives killed. Everybody at Goliad, tomorrow.”

      “What?” Travis yelled in disbelief. “Word I got was Fannin surrendered on honorable terms. He and his men to be shipped back to New Orleans. There’s a boat on the way.”

      “Santa Anna overruled Urrea. Massacre is to be tomorrow, Palm Sunday.”

      “Can’t be. How do you know this?” Travis’s tone got solemn.

      “Little Rayo sent me a message. Met him in the sage. He told me you were here. The orders had just come down. Guess he didn’t want to see you shot. I promised him I’d tell nobody.” Tony finally looked up into Travis’s eyes.

      “We’ve got to get down there,” said Travis. “Let somebody know. Do something about this.”

      “Too late. They’ll probably be dead before we get there. I only heard about this tonight. Came straight here. Couldn’t let you die like that. You took me into the corps. Taught me everything I know.”

      “Where’s Chase?”

      “Don’t know. He took out for Goliad two days ago to try and get some information about the boys. Haven’t seen or heard from him since. I’m worried he’s been captured also.”

      Travis’s heart sank. There was no joy in his rescue and little reason to be thankful to Tony, who had risked his life to save him, his arm now mangled and still bleeding. This could not be happening. Worse yet, he was getting spared. In a few hours, he would have been in front of a firing squad. A chill ran down his spine as he thought of his comrades and their fate. And what of Chase? What an awful way to die—no fight, no glory, only helplessly staring at death. His breath picked up. He fought an internal battle with himself to ride off into the darkness and make for Goliad.

      “Let’s go, Travis. Nothing you can do about it. You’re alive. We’ll get those bastards.”

      “Maybe you’re right. But we’re going to go look for Chase at the very minimum. If they’ve got him, they might be holding him somewhere like me.”

      “There’s nothing but Mexicans south and west of here. It will be chancy.”

      “We’ll go see Red Wolf. See what he knows.”

      “Who’s Red Wolf?”

      “An old Tonkawas chief, used to scout for us. They’re allied with Texas. He hates Mexicans. He’ll know what’s going on. Stays over on Green Lake, about a two-hour ride. It’s a good time to travel.” Travis turned to look down the street. The Red lopped up, bareback. “We’re going to look for more captives. You can come or head out on your on.”

      “I’ll stay with you. Not much chance out there alone.” The volunteer looked at Tony. “Name’s Jim. Jim Barker.”

      Tony shook his hand and introduced himself.

      Travis turned and looked down the road behind him. It was creepy and dark, except for a smattering of starlight. He didn’t envy the thought of descending the treacherous trail.