The Vengeance Trail

By Steve Hailes

In February, 1848, the war with Mexico ended. Terms of that treaty ceded most of the southwest of the North American continent to the United States. Shortly after, rumors of gold in California began to filter back to the United States. Many of the men who fought in the Mexican War began to drift south with dreams of fabulous wealth. Many of them came along the Gila River Trail from Texas
Most came to work hard.
Others decided to capitalize on the hard work of others.
Still others brought west with them quarrels from the east that could only end in violence and death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 21, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469717012

Steve Hailes

Mr. Hailes began writing in a high school Plane Geometry class where he wrote his first science fiction novel. His writing took a back seat for the next twenty years as he got married, graduated in English from the University of Utah, worked on a Master’s degree in Comparative Literature, became a salesman and then sales manager for Highlights for Children, managed a twenty-story medical building in Minneapolis, and finally came to California as a technical writer. Mr. Hailes lives south of Silicon Valley in San Jose, California about five miles from the historic Quicksilver County Park, the site of a gun battle in his western adventure novel, The Quicksilver Kid. For the last fourteen years, he has been writing technical manuals and training materials for companies such as IBM, Claris, Hewlett-Packard, and 3Com. He has written books with titles like TokenLink III 16-bit Micro Channel Adapter Guide, LANALert Network Management System User’s Manual, and Integrated Circuit Measurement System (IC-MS) User’s Manual. He also writes Windows Help Systems. These works, along with their hardware and software, have been purchased by millions of people.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE 

We’re gonna’ have to do something about that nigger! The big white man in the dark suit slammed his fist on the bar.

Jackson looked up sharply. His dark eyes narrowed and a scowl began to form on his face. He reminded himself again, this was none of his business.

The fat Mexican bartender wiped the bar with a dirty rag. Another pale, white man stood quietly at the far end of the bar. There were two other men at the bar, obviously friends of the big man.

Jackson sat relaxing at a table in the corner, not far away from the bar, finishing his second plate of tortillas and his third cup of coffee. It was a small cantina on the outskirts of San Antonio. Whenever possible, he preferred Mexican cantinas to Anglo saloons. They were usually quieter and the food was better. Information could be effectively gathered at either one. He liked the coolness here. The smells of tobacco and cooking beans were familiar.

He could hardly help hearing the conversation of the three Anglos at the bar as they lubricated their plans with tequila. It was a small cantina, and the sound carried easily.

He took a last gulp of coffee and relaxed, his sprawling six-foot, three-inch frame spreading across the chair and underneath the table. He wore fringed buckskin pants and shirt. A large Mexican sombrero covered his forehead, but not his ever wary eyes. His palms rested easily

on the two Colt revolvers in cross-draw holsters without flaps belted around his middle.

That blackie laughed in my face. Nobody does that to Ed Cavanah, said the big man, removing his hat to scratch the balding spot on the crown of his head.He had the gall to kick me out of that old steamboat he calls a saloon.

Jackson watched as Cavanah grasped one lapel of his broadcloth suit with a black gloved hand like a politician winding up his talk. The black, flat-brimmed hat, now back on Cavanah’s head, bobbed up and down as he spoke. Jackson saw no weapons, but knew this type. He’d be carrying at least one, probably more.

Steamboat? asked the short, stocky Anglo at the bar next to Cavanah, running his hand through the tangles of his long, greasy hair.

Yeah, Shorty. An old steamer was blown ashore when the Colorado River flooded last year. The nigger moved. Turned it into a saloon.

The middle-aged Mexican bartender cleared his throat and spoke for the first time. He was balding and wore a bushy mustache. The look on his face indicated he knew trouble was brewing here and wanted to defuse it. Very bad storm. Half of Austin was destroyed.

Nobody laughs at my brother. Right, Ed? said a younger, freckle-faced man standing beside Cavanah. The younger man and the man called Shorty had been listening intently to the elder Cavanah.

Said I was cheating. Told me to hit the door and I told him he would just have to make me. He had two big Swede bartenders. The nigger started laughing and motioned to them.

Cavanah shrugged his shoulders.

Was you cheating? asked Shorty.

Cavanah smiled.

What? Me? ‘Course not. It was a fair game. A man can play poker any how he wants to. Just cause those other men were losing ain’t my fault. They must have been friends of the nigger.

Jackson breathed in deeply. Texas hadn’t been part of America long. He was pretty sure the Republic of Texas could have done quite fine if left alone by the government in Washington. He had not noticed a great deal of rights coming recently to Texas, just because it had become part of the United States, unless maybe you were a white Anglo.

How’d he get that steamboat? asked Shorty.

The steamship company gave it up as a total wreck, said Cavanah. I read about it in the newspaper.

Well, I suppose it ain’t no wreck now. The younger brother smiled a peculiar, toothy grin. Where had Jackson seen that grin before?

He’s turned it into a brothel, said Cavanah. It’s even got brass chandeliers and clean floors. It just ain’t right, him being black and all.

We’d handle him all right if’n we was back in Missouri, said the younger brother.

That’s why I come to San Antonio to fetch you, my little brother, Jim.

Jackson abruptly remembered the name of the freckle-faced man. Jim Cavanah. Several years ago, he had been introduced to the rangers by their Captain Eli Chandler when he wanted to join them to fight the Mexicans. I have known Mr. Cavanah for a long time, Chandler started, and have never known but one good thing he has done. He did help whip the Mexicans at San Jacinto, but he has committed every crime known in the catalog of crimes. He’s the damnedest rascal that is now going unhanged. But there is not counterfeit in his being a fighter.

Lieutenant Bell cleared his throat and added, Boys, in a few days, we’ll need fighting men. What need we care about Mr. Cavanah’s other qualifications? Let’s vote for the captain to put his name on our muster role.

They voted, and even with misgivings, he became a member of the squad.

As they learned later, it was a mistake.

Jackson had seen this type of man plenty during the war. The American army consisted of volunteers. Many of these were drifters who thought the war would make them a quick buck. Most were lazy men who seized the opportunity whenever they could steal a meal or a horse. They readily took advantage of any friendship offered them. Respect for the virtue of women was a quality they had never learned.

So Jim Cavanah had an older brother. This older Cavanah was different. He was bigger than Jim Cavanah. He held himself like someone used to ordering others around. He favored his left hand. Whenever he gestured, it was with his right. The glove on his left hand somehow did-n’t look right. All the fingers of the glove weren’t filled out completely. When he picked up objects, he always used his right hand. From his tone of voice, Jackson sensed a deep anger in this man, a kind of anger not easily quenched. It was a dangerous kind of anger, controlled anger that could be unleashed at will. A shiver went up Jackson’s spine, past the short-bladed hide-away knife that rested on the end of a leather thong circling his neck. There was a cool malevolence in this man. Jackson didn’t know how he knew it, but it made him edgy. This Cavanah was plainly ready to act, but was carefully building up excitement and support in his two companions, especially his younger brother, that rascal Jim Cavanah. The younger Cavanah and Shorty played court to him, hanging onto his words, his plans. What had he promised them? Without speaking, their body postures indicated agreement with everything he said. The older Cavanah looked to be about thirty, the other two were in their early twenties, or younger.

Jackson smiled to himself. Everyone out here was young. He had been fighting Indians and Mexicans since he was twelve. His Creek blood told him there was always one more battle to fight. He hoped it would not be for awhile. The war with Mexico was over. He and his Texas Ranger friends were headed for California, and the riches that awaited them. He only wanted to finish his business in San Antonio, visit his father and ride on to meet his friends in El Paso. He told himself to relax. The plans of these strangers were of no interest to him. It was none of his business. Still, his instincts wouldn’t let him.

Jackson had left for the war, leaving his father on the ranch near San Antonio. They called it a ranch, anyway. It had been hard, those years in the early Texas republic. No one in his family was very good at ranching.

Mexico was different. The skill he had learned hunting in the hills with his father and with the rangers had made him a valuable and contributing member of the war effort, riding with Janzene and the other rangers. Mexico had brought him luck, too. He relieved some gold and silver from a group of Mexican outlaws and sent it home. For years before, his father had talked of what he would do with enough capital to start something. His father was the son of a Creek chieftain who had married a black woman taken from a plantation in Georgia on a raid. When the Creeks were driven from their land by the U.S. government, his father came south into Texas and married a Mexican woman. His father had fought beside both Sam Houston and Stephen Austin, helping win Texas. Now his father had sold the ranch and moved to Austin. Jackson was certain it was to follow his dream and use the money his son had sent from Mexico.

Jackson’s attention was drawn back to the bar as a new player in the little drama approached. He came from the far end of the bar. This man was a real white Anglo. Most Anglos were tanned from the sun and almost as brown as the Mexicans. This one was a pale, sickly white. The pallor of his skin meant he was either ill or spent most of his time out of the sun, hard to do in Texas in the late 1840’s. The man’s tattered and worn clothes told the rest of the story—he was a town drunk.

I could really use a drink. The drunk nudged Jim Cavanah meekly, but hopeful.

Jackson thought about Jim Cavanah. During the war they had camped near a ranch between the San Antonio and Nueces Rivers. An Irishman, who ran the ranch with his wife, told them to help themselves to milk from their half dozen or so cows. The next morning, the Irishman came and told the Ranger captain his wife’s clothesline was missing. The captain lined the men up, appointed a detail to search their belongings, but to search Cavanah’s first. When they did, they found the woman’s clothesline. They also found many of the rangers’ knives, spurs, and other personal items. Cavanah had stolen these items during the three days he had been with them. They voted unanimously to send Cavanah on his way. They had hoped to never see him again

To the drunk, Cavanah was just the source of his next drink. He had no idea of the kind of man he dealt with. Jackson however, did; he knew very well what was coming, and it wasn’t a free drink. He had seen it before. Here was a ready target for this man’s anger. The drunk was either desperate or stupid. He was just plain asking for it.

Jackson caught himself again. He slowly scooped a last mouthful of beans into his mouth and tried to chew thoughtfully. These were all Anglos. Let them fight it out among themselves.

He had a stupid name too, Shorty said, gulping a swallow of tequila. As Shorty brought the glass to his lips, Jackson noticed a flash of ruby from a colorful ring on the man’s finger.

Yeah. The elder Cavanah laughed in agreement.Diomedes. Diomedes Gilbert he calls himself. Now I ask you, what kind of a name is that?

Ain’t no proper name at all. Jim Cavanah pushed a stray lock of hair back into place behind his ear.

Jackson nodded grimly, all of his attention suddenly drawn to the three Anglos. He knew that strange name too. He knew it very well.

The drunk was persistent. He nudged Cavanah again and repeated his request.

This time it would start, but Jackson now had a reason to interfere. He shrugged his shoulders. He must have spent too much time with Janzene. His boyhood Texan friend would help anybody that needed it, even Mexican outlaws.

Jim Cavanah noticed the drunk for the first time and a gleam of delight came into his eyes. He raised his hand to backhand the drunk.

As he did, Jackson pushed his boot hard against the chair on the other side of his table. The chair slid across the floor, crashing into Cavanah’s legs, knocking him off balance. Instead of connecting with

the blow, Jim Cavanah reached out to the bar to steady himself.

Jackson stood up, his hands still resting on the butts of his Colts.

Sorry, amigo, my foot slipped. Jackson’s steady gaze riveted Cavanah to the spot. There was silence in the cantina.

Ah, Jim, said the elder Cavanah, we don’t have time for this. Let’s go. We got to take care of that nigger. Leave this Mexican alone.

I don’t think it was an accident, said Jim Cavanah, turning toward his brother. Something’s familiar about this hombre.

Ed Cavanah took Jim Cavanah by the arm and pulled him toward the door. The older man obviously had other things on his mind. Perhaps a stand-up fight was not their style.

The three Anglos strode across the room. Jim Cavanah kept glancing back at Jackson. When they reached the door, Cavanah stopped momentarily, looking back. Jackson’s eyes had not left him.

I’ll deal with you later. Jim Cavanah smirked in defiance as he backed toward the door.

Anytime, said Jackson as the men left the room.

Jackson walked calmly over to the bar.

Gracias, Señor. The Mexican bartender wiped the sweat from his bare head and ran his damp hand across his dirty white shirt.

Where is this saloon and man in Austin they talked about? Jackson asked.

It is true what they say. The bartender looked inquiringly at Jackson. The old steamboat is now a saloon. It is on the road into Austin, on the shore of Town Lake. He is there.

Thank you. Jackson reached into his pocket, took two coins and placed them on the bar and turned toward the drunk.

Give this man a plate of your tortillas, he said to the bartender. When he’s eaten, give him a drink.

Jackson walked toward the door.

The drunk gazed after Jackson with amazement, and then gratitude in his bloodshot eyes as the stranger’s meaning crept into his saturated brain.

What you say your name was, stranger? the bartender asked, as Jackson reached the entrance.

Jackson turned slowly and smiled broadly. It was the smile of a predator that gave no comfort to the two men.

Jackson, he said. "My name’s Jackson Gilbert.

CHAPTER TWO 

I could’ve taken him, Ed. What you go and stop me for?

Edgar Cavanah turned slightly in his saddle and looked at Jim Cavanah. The two brothers and Shorty rode slowly down the dusty street toward the San Antonio River and the road to Austin.

There was no profit in it, Jim. We got better projects than that.

He was just some no account Mexican. It wouldn’t have taken any time to kill him.

Jim Cavanah paused for a moment and then went on.

You was younger, you would have done it yourself.

Edgar Cavanah’s gaze turned cold suddenly. Only because it was his brother did he refrain from knocking the younger man from his horse.

You listen to me, boy. I know you been off to war and all, but I can still lick you without trying. Keep them thoughts to yourself. While you was away at war, I learned a thing or two. You can be mean all you want, but if it’s not for a profit, you’ll die with nothing but debts.

He kicked his horse to a faster gait and the other men followed in single file.

As they rode, Edgar Cavanah wondered if he had changed. Jim was right. In earlier times, when he was younger, he would have impulsively killed a man challenging them like that. If his brother would have questioned his judgment, Cavanah would have creased his skull with his pistol barrel, or scarred him with his knife. He would have done it without thought, without hesitation.

The more Ed Cavanah thought about it, the more he realized his life had changed the day he’d tangled with those Mormons four years ago.

He and his two brothers had raided a Mormon farm looking for old Joe Smith’s golden Bible. Smith, the Mormon prophet leader had told his people not to fight. After Smith was killed, the rest of them should have made easy pickings. Everything was going fine until a young kid in the cabin, he couldn’t have been more than ten, pulled an old flintlock pistol from under the mattress. Cavanah had Instinctively put up his hand. The boy had fired just inches away.

Beneath the black glove, Edgar Cavanah rubbed together his thumb and forefinger. They were all that remained of his left hand.

Ed Cavanah had thought he was going to die for two days after losing his fingers. For weeks after, he thought about ending his life. Of what use was a man with only one good hand? His big brother, Robert, had saved his life.

Cavanah grimaced as he remembered the pain. Of course it didn’t hurt anymore. Strangely it had stopped hurting a month after it happened, and never hurt again since. But the pain remained in his spirit, until Robert talked to him. He would never forget that day, the week his brother left for the West, never to be seen again.

Eddy, he had said, you got to be tough. You got to be sometimes ruthless. Tough and ruthless. Don’t let anyone say you can’t make it. With one hand you’re better than most men with two. Don’t always be the first to act, but be the smartest. A man who strikes without thought can end up dead mighty fast. Don’t ever forget that, make it your philosophy.

The Cavanahs were not exactly pillars of the community. Pa had taught all three bothers to steal turkeys, cows, sides of cheese early on. Edgar Cavanah knew a man needed to be able to make his own way. Something in what his brother said turned him back onto life and changed him into a different kind of bully.

Pa had immediately taken advantage of his son’s disability. Charity poured into their home. They ate some of the best meals ever. Whenever invited out, they never left without a little unsuspected loot. Soon however, people caught on to their thieving ways, and they had to move on. It was easy. Even after Pa got shot, there were always well-meaning suckers. The two boys, Ed and Jim, moved West.

The Mormons left the county and Ed never again saw that boy that shot him. But it didn’t matter anymore. While his father had gone ahead with the same fool scheme, time after time, Edgar Cavanah thought about other ways to take advantage of his handicap. He had been made fun of several times. Soon people stopped that, if they wanted to stay in one piece.

Cavanah had been plenty mean before the accident. Now he was mean and cunning. As he grew older he got to know people, and their weaknesses. He learned there were other ways. People would pay because they were afraid, afraid of events in their pasts, afraid for their families, afraid for their lives. The pleasure of beating in a man’s face only lasted for a short time; the pleasure of watching him sweat lasted much longer. It was more profitable. Maybe a man with seven fingers wasn’t a threat, but the men he sent around to collect always were.

Ed worked briefly on a riverboat on the Mississippi. Jim didn’t make a good partner for what Edgar had in mind. Jim was too swift to act. Jim was always a thief, too. He would steal little things, anything, even when a little restraint would mean a bigger prize.

After a while his brother drifted into Mexican Territory. When the war with Mexico began, he was there. Ed smiled. Jim had been on both sides at the same time. Whatever side suited him, he was there.

Ed had grown tired of New Orleans, and it had probably grown tired of him. There was no crime he was not capable of. Extortion and protection were his favorites. He gathered around him a few good men to help in these pursuits.

But New Orleans was becoming too civilized. Too civilized meant the law, and his gang needed to stay ahead of the law. The Mexican war doubled or tripled the size of the United States. There was room out there.

Then there was this story of gold in California. At first, there were only rumors of fabulous wealth. He began to figure it. Even if the rumors were true, Ed Cavanah had no intention of panning for gold himself. He would let other fools do it. Others could wear out their clothes and break their backs. He would take their gold after the work had been done. If this gold story turned out to be anywhere close to true, he would truly profit from it.

The U.S. president sent agents to check out the gold story. Their reports were positive and news of it appeared in all the eastern papers. The more people going to California, the more opportunity it meant for him and his boys. He planned for a time to go west. He would take his best men from the gang in New Orleans. When he heard his brother was in San Antonio, he made a detour from his route west. Taking only Shorty, he went looking for his brother. He could always use another man. He hoped Jim had conquered his temper.

He had left New Orleans for another reason, too. A government man had started poking into his activities. Stealing from that Senator had not been a good idea.

On his way to San Antonio, he had seen that steamer-turned-into-asaloon. Upon inquiring, he learned it was a dumb nigger that had salvaged it. What did niggers and Mormons know? But he couldn’t resist a good game of poker.

Like that Mormon, the big black man had resisted him when he learned about the crooked game. He had employees there and they had called Cavanah’s bluff. The black man would pay. He thought about going to the camp where his men waited, but rejected it. He would go to San Antonio, get his brother and return. Together the three of them would get even with the nigger.

The sound of splashing water brought Ed Cavanah back to the present as they forded the San Antonio River. As the three of them rode across, he noticed a swinging foot bridge not far from them. A sign attached to it read: Commerce Street Bridge. Civilization was coming here, too.

Once on the other side of the river, they rode past the gutted remains of the church Texans called the Alamo and into open country.

Already, Ed Cavanah didn’t care much for the West. There was too much distance between towns, too few people, too few places to hide. His mind went back to the cantina. There was something about that Mexican. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it meant danger, or at least caution. Somehow he knew. The tall, dark buckskin-clad man was more of a threat than he appeared.

He shrugged. Why worry? He would probably never see that man again.

*     *     *

Jackson Gilbert went into the dusty street of San Antonio. There was no sign of the Cavanahs who had just left the cantina. It was just as well. A good fight could wait until later. He knew a fight would come.

He must go to Austin, a three-day ride, to see his father, but he owed it to Matt Janzene and the other rangers to tell them of his plans. Last week, they had met in another cantina and planned the trip to California. They figured now with civilization come to Texas, it would get tame around San Antonio and it was time to move on. If what people said was true, gold was everywhere laying on the ground out there. This he had to see.

He removed his sombrero and, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, looked at the sky. The slanting rays of the warm Texas afternoon sun had begun to lengthen into shadows between the buildings. If he rode hard he could just make it to the ranch of Matt Janzene and his folks. Knowing Janzene, he would be invited to stay the night. He wouldn’t be able to start for Austin until early the next day.

Jackson Gilbert walked over to his horse, tightened the cinch, stepped into the saddle, and clucked his horse into a trot. He and Matt Janzene had been friends ever since he could remember. His home was never as nice as the Janzene’s, but for little boys who were best friends that didn’t much matter. They had roamed the hills together, learning the lore of the trail from Jackson’s father and from an old Mexican living at the Janzene place. Later, they both joined the ranging companies and helped protect the borders of Texas from Indians, Mexicans and Anglos who didn’t belong.

And then the war had come.

The United States’ annexation of Texas in 1945 made war with Mexico inevitable. President James K. Polk wanted to settle matters diplomatically, but determined to have his way, even if it was with a war. In November, 1845, the President sent John Slidel as an ambassador to Mexico. He was authorized to offer $5,000,000 for the purchase of New Mexico and $25,000,000 for California.

The news of the offer leaked to the people of Mexico. They were so furious such an offer would even be considered, they overthrew the government. The new Mexican government abruptly refused the American offers.

President Polk ordered General Zachary Taylor to the Nueces River, near the left bank of the Rio Grande, effectively blocking the Mexican port of Point Isabel. The Mexicans abruptly burned the port and moved their forces to Matamoras. The United States Navy then blockaded the mouth of the Rio Grande and harassed the Mexicans, hoping for an excuse to declare war. Later in the spring, General Taylor fought a skirmish with the Mexican cavalry and word was sent to Washington.

News reached Washington, D.C., on May 9, 1846, that American troops had been attacked by Mexican forces on April 24. President Polk immediately asked Congress for a declaration of war. Congress, for once, acted quickly and authorized him to find 50,000 volunteers and appropriated $10,000,000. However, many members of Congress and many citizens were far from excited about waging this war.

Southerners hoped a war would extend slave territory. Northerners opposed the war for the same reason.

Jackson Gilbert and many other rangers answered the call to serve, seeing it as a way to further protect Texas.

After two years of fighting, the Treaty of Guadeloupe Hidalgo, between Mexico and the United States on February 2, 1848, formally ended the war. As a result of the treaty, Mexico recognized Texas as part of the United States and ceded to the United States over 500,000 square miles of territory. This area included the future states of California, Nevada, and Utah, almost all of New Mexico and Arizona, and parts of Colorado and Wyoming. The United States agreed to pay Mexico $15,000,000 and to assume the claims of U.S. citizens against Mexico amounting to $3,350,000.

Overnight, the U.S. became an enormous continental republic, but the acquisition of the new territory aggravated the dispute between slavery and antislavery forces.

The Mexican War resulted in 1,721 killed, 4,102 wounded and cost more than $97,500,000. Far more men, about 11,115 Americans, died of disease.

Now, back from the fighting, Jackson Gilbert and his friends would head to California together. Except Jackson had to see his father first. He would join them later, probably someplace along the Pecos River, since he would take a trail overland from Austin.

He smiled, remembering his father. His father had the skills of an Indian, but had been a translator for the government and involved a good deal in politics and negotiations. The men from the cantina would not find an easy mark in Diomedes Gilbert.

CHAPTER THREE 

The sun crept into the sky as Jackson Gilbert left the Janzene ranch and headed for Austin. There was nothing like a Texas sunrise, and Jackson paused a moment to admire it a few miles from the ranch. This was a part of Texas he might never see again. Soon he would be riding into the hill country of central Texas.

As he had suspected, Janzene refused to let him leave before a hardy breakfast. Sitting there with Janzene and his parents, Jackson Gilbert realized how much he appreciated his long friendship with Matt Janzene. Janzene was the most honest man he knew, but also steady and good with a gun or his fists. Riding the river with a man like him was an honor.

After staying with his father, he would be in the desert for a long time. It would be desert for most of the lengthy ride up to El Paso and then along the Gila River Trail. The Gila Trail led through the Chihuahua and Sonoran Deserts and finally to Yuma and a crossing of the Colorado River into California.

Jackson’s father could take care of himself, but Jackson was never one to miss a fight. The elder Cavanah brother appeared to be just as bad as his younger brother. That he had a chip on his shoulder against anyone other than white Anglos was sure.

His father would not give up easily, if at all. Jackson smiled. Any western man with a name like Diomedes would have to be able to hold his own.

An Indian name doesn’t work with white men, Jackson remembered his father telling him one day. Our names mean nothing to them, and only scare them. When we adopt a white man name, it must not be Bob or Bill. These names have no character. A man should carry a name of honor. He remembered his father telling him in words he still didn’t understand, that the name Diomedes had been honored for more years than a man ever needed to remember, it being the name of a mighty man many years ago in a far land.

In stories that date back to before America existed, he could hear his father tell him, Diomedes was a Thracian who owned man-eating horses.

The little boys, Jackson Gilbert and Matthew Janzene sitting at the elder Jackson’s knee looked up in awe at the tall black Indian.

But that is mostly a story that goes back before any one remembers. Diomedes was the son of Tydeus, one of the greatest Greek heroes of the Trojan War.

Janzene glanced at his young friend. Jackson Gilbert smiled, but shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know what any of these strange sounding names meant either, but he knew what a hero was and what a war was, and his father told it in a way he knew was true.

Diomedes wounded Aphrodite and Ares, and conquered many Trojans, but refused to fight Glaucus because of the hereditary tie of hospitality.

Jackson Gilbert smiled again. He still didn’t understand most of those names, but he knew a person’s name and what he stood for were important. His own name had been taken from an honorable man of more recent times. That man, Andrew Jackson had helped his grandfather during the Creek War.

The Creek had been friendly with the English and enemies of the French and the Spanish. They fought the Americans during 1813-14 in the Creek War against General Andrew Jackson. Despite treaty promises, between 1836 and 1840, they were forced to move with their slaves to the Indian Territory further west. His father was philosophic when his son’s namesake hedged his bets on admitting Texas to the Union.

Jackson Gilbert rode steadily, but not hard, all day, stopping only briefly to water his horse and eat a quick meal. Immediately out of San Antonio, the long rolling hills of hill country began.

In mid-afternoon, he crossed the Guadeloupe River and rode through the German farms of New Braunfels. He thought about