Isaac moved a little, for his leg had cramped. Zaragosa heard him and looked up, recognizing him. He nodded. Isaac nodded back. He had known Zaragosa by sight almost from the time he and his brothers had come into Texas, back when Zaragosa had been an officer in a more benevolent Mexican army. Until lately, Isaac had been able to develop no particular liking for the man, and Zaragosa had been cool toward Isaac, making no distinction between him and his older brothers. Isaac had never felt comfortable around Mexicans, even though there had been times he wished he could. The Moreno family near Nacogdoches, Andrew Lewis’s in-laws, had treated him kindly and generously once when he had badly needed kindness and generosity.

Zaragosa’s past experience as a soldier had been called into service here in the preparation of this old abandoned mission for the defense of Bexar. He had helped organize and drill a small company of Mexicans hostile to the tyranny of Santa Anna and to work them into the military apparatus commanded jointly here by the young lawyer Buck Travis and the ailing, hard-drinking Jim Bowie. The fact that Zaragosa’s men were Mexicans was conveniently overlooked in the garrison’s dire need for manpower. Earlier, Isaac had strongly considered leaving when Travis and Bowie together had a force of only a little more than 140 men. He remembered that General Cós had had more than a thousand, yet he had felt himself unable to hold this post.

Isaac had been put off also by the earlier quarreling between Bowie and Travis over the rightful leadership. They had settled the matter, more or less, by dividing the command. Travis was in charge of his regulars and Bowie of his volunteers. Then thirteen men from the old states had arrived, including one Isaac remembered well from Tennessee, at least by reputation. He had never seen the man before, but he knew the name: David Crockett.

Travis had taken cheer from these recruits and told the men he expected shortly to see the garrison swell to a thousand. Isaac had no idea where another eight hundred would come from, but he had decided to stay and see. Given that many, let Santa Anna come. The Texans would give him a hell of a fight and send him running back to Mexico without his britches on.

But now the signs were bleak. The best Isaac could tell from a rough count was that only about 150 fighting men were within the heavy walls. And despite what the officers were telling the men, the hurried departure of civilians from the streets of San Antonio was an omen too dark to ignore. At times he thought about taking his horse and riding out that open gate, joining the civilians in their flight. After all, he was no soldier. He had joined the fight against Mexico of his own free will, and he could quit it the same way. He wondered what prevented him. He supposed he was just waiting for someone else to start, to be the first. Then he would follow. There should be no shame in running if others were doing it. And when it had come down to the cutting, Blackwoods had almost always run. That was their family pattern. His father Cyrus had run twenty years ago, deserting a young Michael Lewis in the face of danger from Spanish troops. His brother Finis a few years later had ambushed Michael and had run when he missed his shot.