The Savage Breed. Randy Denmon

looked at the train of wagons, twenty in number. “We’ll see you down the trail. Keep ’em moving. Probably take you three days to get to Victoria.”

      It was mid-morning before the five hundred soldiers and the wagon train got moving. Spring was showing itself, the day warming ahead of the common March breeze that would come. The primitive trail to Victoria was nothing more than a worn plot on the prairie strewn with rocks. The overloaded wagons, pulled by mules and oxen, were not making good time, maybe a mile and a half an hour. And in the first two hours alone, two wagons lost wheels and were left on the trail.

      Travis rode alone at the front of the line, picking his way along the path, trying to avoid rough spots on the trail while keeping a good eye out for anything unusual ahead and on the flanks. The country was enchanting, uncultivated, and spotted with a countless succession of little meadows and light forests full of life, harboring numerous herds of cattle and some whitetail.

      By mid-afternoon, the slow-moving column, a half mile in length, had come to a vast prairie, ten miles of flat grassland in every direction. Travis inspected the open area suspiciously. The day had warmed considerably; the mules and oxen were now all but done in by the heavy loads. The animals moved at a snail’s pace, one laboring step at a time. Travis rode ahead about halfway across the plain, and heeled his mount atop a small knoll projecting a dozen feet above the land. He took a drink from his canteen, and turned to look back at the line of marching men and vehicles kicking up a cloud of dust visible for ten miles. He looked back ahead. His heart skipped a beat as he saw some movement, only a mosaic of color against the olive backdrop. He reached for his glasses. It was a group of horses, at least a hundred. He steadied his eyes, identifying the bright colors of the Mexican cavalry uniforms: beige, red, and royal blue.

      Without thought, he spurred his mount and raced back to the column. An officer rode out to meet him. Travis never broke stride as he continued to gallop to the rear of the line. “Mexican cavalry ahead, at least a company,” Travis yelled as he passed the officer, who swung in behind him. Travis finally rode up to another good lookout point midway back along the column. As his horse settled, he saw the horses, another line of cavalry, this one larger, a half mile behind the column hovering at the edge of the prairie. He turned to the officer, who had removed the hat from his head and folded it under his arm. “Two lines of cavalry, three or four hundred. They’ve got us boxed in. Looks like they plan to attack us here.”

      The slight officer, in his late twenties with black hair, an unshaven face, and shifting gray eyes, looked at the prairie. “This is the worst place for defense, open terrain, no water.”

      “Captain Moses,” Travis moaned, looking ahead, his mind racing. “I’ve crossed this prairie twenty times. About two miles ahead is a little creek with good banks and water. I suggest making for it. The group in front of us is smaller. Probably have to fight your way there, but it will be a good place for defense. There’s five hundred of us. We can hold out from there. If we have to stand here and face this cavalry, it will be costly. That’s Urrea’s cavalry. He’s the most capable commander the Mexicans have. His troops are the best.” As Travis spoke, he looked at the long line of men; three more horses were currently riding toward him. From the rear, more scouts were also racing forward.

      “Two miles? Our animals are pretty near done now,” the officer said. “Here comes Colonel Fannin.”

      Travis looked out at the scene. The Mexicans had surrounded the Texans, who had circled the wagons in a defensive position on the prairie. Despite the objections of his officers, Colonel Fannin had decided to stop in place and defend the column. A brief attempt to reach the cover of the river had been made, but the mules and oxen were too beat for a hasty dash.

      The Mexicans, probably a thousand—several hundred cavalry augmented by infantry and a couple hundred Lipan Indians—formed a long line, 360 degrees around the Texans.

      Over the distant sound of the Mexican bugle and the wild cries in Spanish, Travis saw the bodies and horses growing more numerous on the savanna, blocking the horizon in all directions. They were still several hundred yards away, out of firing range, but closing the gauntlet with a slow, steady step. Travis looked at the sun, still hanging four or five hours above the prairie. Energy raced up his spine like a jolt from the ground; darkness would not save them.

      Travis turned to the Grays, most on a knee, positioned in a hundred-yard box around the wagons and animals. A few packed their Barker carbines; others held them upright, the butts against ground, bayonets fixed. The men’s faces stood stern, indifferent, eyes roving. A single boom from a Texas cannon broke the quiet. The Mexican line parted briefly, a few riders unseated, and two soldiers fell, but the gap quickly filled. As the line got closer, the musket fire started slowly, at first random pops, but only seconds later, swirling into a constant stream. A dozen more Mexicans fell, but the fence of men, the line of flickering orange blasts, grew larger and nearer by the second.

      Travis sucked in a deep breath and got to a knee, his Colt in his firing hand, the Mexicans still well out of his pistol’s range. He looked around. The location was not ideal, but he felt confident. Although they were outnumbered at least two to one, he was sure the Grays were better men, and they had to hold out only until dark. They didn’t have to take any ground, only hold their positions. And unlike the assaulters, their lives depended on winning—a hell of a motivation. The Mexican casualties were sure to be high. If the Grays could punish them enough, they would likely beat a retreat.

      Travis turned to look at the friendly forces; the officers were brazenly moving up and down the line, encouraging the men, who continued to fire and reload. The smoke got thick, almost suffocating, burning the eyes and blinding. The officers urged the men forward, not in an assault, but a few feet out of the haze, where their aim was surer.

      For the next hour, the Mexican line advanced and retreated with volley and counter-volley, each sequence sending scores of men to the earth but bringing the Mexicans closer—two steps forward, one back. The friendly cannons tore holes in the Mexican lines, but one by one, artillerymen fell, finally silencing the guns. Travis had begun firing, at least ten cylinders from his pistol, each shot carefully aimed. He was sure he had downed at least two horses and five men. As he continued to shoot, his hands got raw from disassembling and packing the Colt. The minutes passed without track.

      Despite the wall of musketry and heavy losses, the Mexicans continued to steadfastly close in. The hour of work, sacrifice, and death brought them to within a hundred paces of the Grays, almost blocking out the sun and giving Travis a fit of claustrophobia. Then he heard the ominous bugle. The Mexicans charged forward, reaching the perimeter of the defensive circle. As they did, the scene turned to confusion, the musket roar the most constant and deafening of the day, the smoke interfering with vision and any sense of direction.

      In the bleak smog and late-day sun, Travis continued to fire, and watched the fighting devolve into point-blank shots and bludgeoning knives or bayonets. The Grays unleashed everything, all their vigor, killing the Mexicans by the dozens, almost as if they were enjoying it. Over the shrills, Travis heard the Mexican bugle again, cascading through the smoke, urging the attackers on at the critical moment. He shot two more soldiers appearing out of the fog. The cries grew louder, more frequent. Over the fray, Travis heard a ball whiz by his ear, so close he felt a burn. He reached up and touched the ear, his hand returning full of blood. Then the bugle sounded again, the note long—the retreat.

      Travis fell to his knees. The sounds of killing slowly subsided; the haze slowly cleared. The air was still; not a breath of wind moved the thick smoke. The sun was setting over the worn, soot-smelling turf, turning it a shade of orange. Around him, the exhausted earth lay maimed with bodies, friend and foe. Travis’s mind slowed as he put a hand on his chest, almost checking to make sure he was still alive. He looked at the prairie, covered with hundreds of dead.

      The Mexicans were now in full retreat, out of firing range and at an ample trot. They surely would not attack again this day, he thought.

      Travis stood and turned to the wagons. More than a hundred sun-scorched men were sprawled on the ground, the doctors now moving among the groans.

      Travis felt no reprieve. He held a quick counsel