figure out some new tactic. An hour had come and gone, and he hadn’t hit on a solution except to wait for the long, hot hours to dull the senses of the Inglés defenders before trying another assault. Unfortunately, his dragoons were suffering as much as the men behind the barricade, maybe even more so for their lack of sleep.
“Sergeant Morales,” Vargas spoke up. “You think these Yankee bastards have much gold? The boy might have been lying.” The young dragoon raised up, snapped off a shot at the barricade, and as quickly crouched down and reloaded.
“The boy knows me. He knows what would happen to him and his mother and sister if he told such a lie.” Morales crawled to his knees and peered above the grass at the cypress logs. He had glimpsed Father Ramon with the Yankees and began to wonder if he might be able to use the priest to his advantage.
“ Inglés! Hey you, Inglés , I am Sergeant Pablo Morales. I have you trapped. Yes? You agree? Well, at least you don’t disagree.” Morales stroked his chin, scratched at the stubbled growth. His mind was awash with plans that he discarded as quickly as he formed them. “You throw the gold over the logs where I can see it. Then I let you leave, eh? You go north to your home. I, Pablo Morales, give you your lives. Surely your lives are more precious than the treasure you carry.”
Morales wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His lips felt waxy. It was always the same when he lied.
Safe within the walls of Escovar’s fort, Kit listened to the sergeant and wanted to believe him. But an instinct for self-preservation caused him to doubt Morales’s word. He looked toward the distant line of trees, hoping to spy Tibbs bringing the horses at a gallop through the pines. Kit realized with a sinking heart that he’d have to stall for more time. He hefted his shot bag and powder horn. Ammunition and gunpowder were dangerously low. He couldn’t beat off another attack if the dragoons made a concerted effort.
“You hear me, Yankees?” Morales called out. “Both of you discuss this among yourselves. You see I’m right. It’s the only way you have of staying alive.”
“At least the sergeant thinks he’s trapped us both,” Kit remarked. That meant Tibbs got away. He glanced at the priest, who had become increasingly distraught as the siege lingered on and he had seen three of his own countrymen shot down.
“I guess you wish about now you had left Bill and me to the sand crabs,” Kit said.
The priest shrugged. “Yes … and no. Yes, when I see men fight and kill one another and I blame myself. No, when I realize what I did was right, what the Gospel tells us to do, to treat all men as brothers.”
“Yankees?”
“We’re talking it over!” Kit shouted back. He studied the priest. “What about the Creek village and Father Ramon’s mission?” he called back to the sergeant.
“What happens to them will happen whether I kill you Inglés or not.”
Father Ramon lowered his head and thought of the people of the mission. He had taught them the ways of peace. And now he had betrayed them to the sergeant’s vengeance. Heaven only knew what cruelties Morales had in mind. Father Ramon’s converts might all be taken away in chains for harboring the men from the north. Somehow, the padre thought, I must save them. But how? Grief tore at his heart, and he was filled with confusion and remorse and an overpowering feeling of dread that there was no just way out of this predicament. Tragedy was at hand, and he stood helpless in its path. Unless—
Lead slugs thudded into the logs, showering Kit and the priest with splinters. The two men waited out the fusillade. Kit loaded his pistols. The priest armed himself with prayer.
Kit shifted position and crawled along the cypress barricade until he reached a juncture between the logs. Here he peered through intersecting roots and waited, noticing the telltale rustle of the tall grass as some of Morales’s
“Sergeant Morales,” Vargas spoke up. “You think these Yankee bastards have much gold? The boy might have been lying.” The young dragoon raised up, snapped off a shot at the barricade, and as quickly crouched down and reloaded.
“The boy knows me. He knows what would happen to him and his mother and sister if he told such a lie.” Morales crawled to his knees and peered above the grass at the cypress logs. He had glimpsed Father Ramon with the Yankees and began to wonder if he might be able to use the priest to his advantage.
“ Inglés! Hey you, Inglés , I am Sergeant Pablo Morales. I have you trapped. Yes? You agree? Well, at least you don’t disagree.” Morales stroked his chin, scratched at the stubbled growth. His mind was awash with plans that he discarded as quickly as he formed them. “You throw the gold over the logs where I can see it. Then I let you leave, eh? You go north to your home. I, Pablo Morales, give you your lives. Surely your lives are more precious than the treasure you carry.”
Morales wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His lips felt waxy. It was always the same when he lied.
Safe within the walls of Escovar’s fort, Kit listened to the sergeant and wanted to believe him. But an instinct for self-preservation caused him to doubt Morales’s word. He looked toward the distant line of trees, hoping to spy Tibbs bringing the horses at a gallop through the pines. Kit realized with a sinking heart that he’d have to stall for more time. He hefted his shot bag and powder horn. Ammunition and gunpowder were dangerously low. He couldn’t beat off another attack if the dragoons made a concerted effort.
“You hear me, Yankees?” Morales called out. “Both of you discuss this among yourselves. You see I’m right. It’s the only way you have of staying alive.”
“At least the sergeant thinks he’s trapped us both,” Kit remarked. That meant Tibbs got away. He glanced at the priest, who had become increasingly distraught as the siege lingered on and he had seen three of his own countrymen shot down.
“I guess you wish about now you had left Bill and me to the sand crabs,” Kit said.
The priest shrugged. “Yes … and no. Yes, when I see men fight and kill one another and I blame myself. No, when I realize what I did was right, what the Gospel tells us to do, to treat all men as brothers.”
“Yankees?”
“We’re talking it over!” Kit shouted back. He studied the priest. “What about the Creek village and Father Ramon’s mission?” he called back to the sergeant.
“What happens to them will happen whether I kill you Inglés or not.”
Father Ramon lowered his head and thought of the people of the mission. He had taught them the ways of peace. And now he had betrayed them to the sergeant’s vengeance. Heaven only knew what cruelties Morales had in mind. Father Ramon’s converts might all be taken away in chains for harboring the men from the north. Somehow, the padre thought, I must save them. But how? Grief tore at his heart, and he was filled with confusion and remorse and an overpowering feeling of dread that there was no just way out of this predicament. Tragedy was at hand, and he stood helpless in its path. Unless—
Lead slugs thudded into the logs, showering Kit and the priest with splinters. The two men waited out the fusillade. Kit loaded his pistols. The priest armed himself with prayer.
Kit shifted position and crawled along the cypress barricade until he reached a juncture between the logs. Here he peered through intersecting roots and waited, noticing the telltale rustle of the tall grass as some of Morales’s
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