Texas Hero

Then, I call on you in the name of Liberty, of patriotism, & of everything dear to the American character, to come to our aid with all dispatch. The enemy is receiving reinforcements daily & will no doubt increase to three or four thousand in four or five days. If this call is neglected, I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible and die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his own honor & that of his country.

Victory or death

William Barrett Travis

Lt. Col. Comdt

P.S. The Lord is on our side. When the enemy appeared in sight, we had not three bushels of corn. We have since found in deserted houses 80 or 90 bushels & got into the walls 20 or 30 head of Beeves.

Travis.

“Whew!” Jack blew out a long breath. “No wonder the mere suggestion that this man didn’t die at the Alamo has riled so many folks. He certainly made his intentions plain enough.”

Nodding, Ellie trailed after him as he examined the exhibits and artifacts reported to belong to the defenders, among them sewing kits, tobacco pouches and handwoven horsehair bridles and lariats. A small, tattered Bible tugged at her heart. It was inscribed to one Josiah Kennett, whose miniature showed an unsmiling young man in the wide-brimmed sombrero favored by cowboys and vaqueros of the time. Silver conchos decorated the hatband, underscoring how closely Mexican and Tejano cultures had blended in the days before war wrenched them apart.

When Jack and Ellie emerged into a tree-shaded courtyard, the serene quiet gave no echo of the cannons that had once thundered from the surrounding walls. Tourists wandered past quietly, almost reverently.

“Okay,” Jack said, summarizing what he’d read inside. “Susanna Dickinson, wife of the fort’s artillery officer, said that Travis died on the north battery. Travis’s slave Joe said he saw the colonel go down after grappling with troops coming over the wall. They make a pretty convincing argument that William B. stuck to his word and died right here at the Alamo.”

“An argument I might buy,” Ellie agreed, “except that Susanna Dickinson hid in the chapel during the assault. After the battle, she reportedly saw the bodies of Crockett and Bowie, but never specifically indicated she saw Travis’s. She probably heard that he died on the ramparts from other sources.”

“What about Joe’s report?”

“Joe saw his master go down during the assault, then he, too, hid. Travis could have been wounded yet somehow survived. The only document that indicates his body was recovered and burned with the others is a translation of a report by Francisco Ruiz, San Antonio’s mayor at the time. Unfortunately, the translation appeared in 1860, years after the battle. The original has never been found, so there’s no way to verify its authenticity.”

She knew her stuff. There was no arguing that.

“On the other hand,” she continued, “rumors that some of the defenders escaped the massacre ran rampant for years. One held that Mexican forces captured Crockett some miles away and hauled him before Santa Anna, who had him summarily shot. There’s also a diary kept by a corporal in the Mexican army who claims he led a patrol sent out to hunt down fleeing Tejanos.”

Her eyes locked with Jack’s.

“Supposedly, his patrol fired at an escapee approximately five miles south of here, not far from Mission San Jose. The corporal was sure they hit the man, but they lost him in the dense underbrush along the river.”

“Let me guess. That’s the site you’re now excavating.”

“Right.”

It could have happened, Jack mused. He’d experienced the confusion and chaos of battle. He knew how garbled reports could become, how often even the most reliable intelligence proved wrong.

Still, as they moved toward the building that housed a special exhibit of weaponry used at the Alamo, he found himself hoping the theory didn’t hold water. A part of him wanted to believe the legend—that William Barrett Travis had drawn that line in the sand, then heroically fought to the death alongside Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie and the others. Texas deserved its heroes.

The museum director evidently agreed. Short, rotund, his wire-rimmed glasses fogging in the steamy heat, he stood in front of the door to the exhibit with legs spread and arms folded and greeted Ellie with a curt nod. “Dr. Alazar.”

“Dr. Smith.”

“Were you wishing access to those artifacts not on public display?”

“Yes, there’s one rifle in particular I want to show my, er, associate.”

Jack flicked her an amused glance. Obviously, Ellie wasn’t ready to admit she’d been intimidated into acquiescing to a bodyguard.

“I’m sorry,” the director replied with patent insincerity. “I must insist that you put all such requests in writing from now on.”

Ellie’s eyes flashed. Evidently Smith had just drawn his own line in the sand.

“I’ll do that,” she snapped. “I’ll also apprise my colleagues in this and future endeavors of your generous spirit of cooperation.”

She left him standing guard at his post. Jack followed, shaking his head. Elena Maria Alazar might be one of the foremost experts in her field, but she wouldn’t win a whole lot of prizes for tact or diplomacy.

“Damn Smith, anyway,” she muttered, still fuming. “I suspect he’s the one who raised such a stink with the media. He seems to think I’m attacking him personally by questioning his research.”

It sounded to Jack as though the man might have a point there. Wisely, he kept silent and made a mental note to have Mackenzie run a background check on the museum director.

“I’ll show you the images of that shotgun later,” Ellie said as they retraced their steps.

“Why is that particular weapon so significant?”

“It’s a double-barreled shotgun, reportedly recovered after the battle. Records indicate William Travis owned just such a weapon, or one similar to it. It’s almost identical to the one we recovered at the dig.”

Tugging her ball cap lower on her brow to shield her eyes against the blazing sun, she wove a path through the milling crowd outside the Alamo and made for the elaborate, wrought-iron façade of the Menger.

“I wish I could convince Smith that I’m still wide open to all possible theories. And that I have no intention of caving in to threats, obscene phone calls or petty nuisances like putting my requests for access to historical artifacts in writing.”

Her mouth set, she rummaged around in her shoulder bag, dug out a parking receipt and approached the parking valet.

“Why don’t I drive?” Jack said easily, passing the attendant his receipt instead. “I want to get the lay of the land.”

He also wanted to make sure someone skilled in defensive driving techniques was at the wheel whenever Ellie traveled.

She didn’t argue. When the Cherokee came down the ramp, its tires screeching at the tight turns, she tossed her bag into the back and slid into passenger seat. The ball cap came off. With a grateful sigh for the chilled air blasting out of the vents, she swiped the damp tendrils off her forehead.

“Which way?” Jack asked.

“Take a left, go past the Alamo Dome, then follow the signs for Mission Trail.”

Propping her neck against the headrest, Ellie stared straight ahead. For the second time in as many hours, Jack sensed the accumulated stress that kept the woman beside him coiled as tight as a cobra.

“Tell me about these obscene phone calls. How many have you received?”

“Five or six.” Her nose wrinkled. “They were short and crude. Mostly suggestions on where I could stick my theories. One of the callers was female, by the way, which surprised the heck out of me.”

Nothing surprised Jack any more. “Did the police run traces?”

“They tried. But the calls came through the hotel switchboard, and there’s something about the routing system that precluded a trace.”

Jack would fix that as soon as they returned. The electronic bag of tricks Mackenzie had assembled for this mission included a highly sophisticated and not exactly legal device that glommed onto a digital signal and wouldn’t let go.

“See that sign?” Ellie pointed to a historical marker in the shape of a Spanish mission. “This is where we pick up Mission Trail. You need to hang a left here.”