Isaac reloaded his rifle before he took time to try to recover his breath. His heart was hammering, his blood running hot. His hands trembled so that he lost a little of the powder. He had to get control; there was not so much powder that they could afford any waste.

He looked around, remembering that just before the assault he had seen Zaragosa sleeping nearby. He saw him now, his face bloodied by a musket ball that had grazed his cheek, but Zaragosa was on his feet.

Isaac went to him. “You goin’ to be all right?”

Zaragosa nodded solemnly. “Always as a soldier I wished for rifles that would shoot straighter. Now I am glad we never got them.”

“We sure as hell beat them off. Maybe they won’t be comin’ again.”

“I think we did not kill Santa Anna. They will come again.”

They did, just at dawn. The trumpet sounded the charge, then again the degüello, and the soldiers came running, carrying fresh ladders, picking up those that had fallen before. The Texan rifles blazed again, and the cannon belched death. Some of the ladders made it as far as the walls, but no soldiers managed to climb one. The second wave recoiled and fell back. So did Isaac, feeling that he had no strength left to meet another charge.

But he found that he did, for shortly the Mexicans rallied and came again, shouting their anger for those who already had died. Again rifles and cannons blazed from atop the wall. But this time there were more soldiers, and in the dawn’s light they could finally see enough to take aim at the defenders. Despite the Texan fire, despite its deadly impact, there were more soldiers than defender rifles or cannons. For each who fell, ten came behind him, and several thousand feet pounded like thunder across the deadly field.

This time the ladders made it to the wall. They slammed against it, and soldiers scrambled up to be met by bullets, by rifle butts, by sharp knives patterned after the one carried by Jim Bowie. In the moment that they reached the top of the ladder and grabbed for something to hold on to, to pull themselves up, they were vulnerable. Isaac did not have time to reload. He brought his rifle around and jabbed the butt of it against a head, felt the skull break, then shoved the ladder with his foot. It went crashing down. Powder smoke choked him, but he hardly noticed, for his blood was at the boil. He reloaded his rifle, fired again into the crowd, then once more used the heavy butt to stun, to kill.

The defenders along the wall were spread too thin to withstand the hordes rushing over. Isaac felt them coming past him in waves. He no longer had time to reload the rifle. He found himself standing back to back with Elizandro Zaragosa, who fought now with his sword. For a moment he glanced around, and his gaze met Zaragosa’s. He saw a wild exhilaration in the man’s black eyes. In these last moments, Zaragosa was not a farmer; he was a soldier again, fighting like a soldier to his final breath.