As Call sat surrounded, trying to control his bitter anger, General Dimasio came out of the white tent, with Caleb Cobb just behind him. The two men, accompanied by the General’s orderlies, walked to the fancy buggy and got in. Call had supposed the General was about to leave—why else hitch the buggy?—but he was shocked when Caleb got in the buggy with the General. The General was drinking liquor, not from a flask but from a heavy glass jar, as they waited for the soldier who was to drive the buggy. Caleb had no jar, but as Call watched, he extracted another cigar from his shirt pocket and carefully readied it for lighting. The soldier who was to drive the team hopped up in his seat, and the buggy swung around to the west. Eight cavalrymen fell in behind it.

As the General and his guest started out of camp, the General stopped the buggy for a moment, in order to say something to Captain Salazar. Call was sitting only a few yards from where the buggy stopped. The sight of Caleb, his own commander, sitting at ease with the Mexican general, caused his anger to rise even higher. Call got to his feet, watching. Captain Salazar sent a soldier running back to the tent—the General had forgotten his fur lap robe. In a moment the soldier came out of the tent with it, being careful to keep the end of the robe from dragging on the wet ground. The robe was almost as heavy as the soldier who was carrying it.

Before anyone could stop him, Call stepped closer to the buggy.

“Where are you running to?” he asked Caleb.

There was such anger in his voice that the ten soldiers who were guarding him all flinched. Caleb Cobb himself looked surprised and annoyed—he had already consigned Call to the past, and did not appreciate being approached so boldly.

“Why, to Santa Fe, Corporal,” Caleb said. “General Dimasio says the governor wants to meet me. I think he plans to give me a little banquet.”

Call decided it would be worth dying just to strike the coward once—at least his body decided it. In a second, he was charging through the startled soldiers—he even managed to snatch a musket as he ran past, but he didn’t get a good grip on it and the musket fell to the ground. He kept running. His wild charge spooked the high-strung buggy horses, both of whom leaped into the air, jerking the driver off the buggy, right under the horse’s feet. It was a light buggy, and Call hit it while it was slightly tipped from the team’s leap. Caleb and the General lurched forward on the buggy seat. Call leapt for Caleb and hit him once. Then, as the buggy was tipping, he grabbed the heavy glass jar the General had been drinking from and smashed Caleb with it, flattening his nose and also his fresh cigar. The jar broke in Caleb’s face—blood and whiskey poured down his chest. Soon four men were squirming in the overturned buggy, which the frantic horses were dragging slowly forward on its side. The driver was caught under one of the wheels and groaned loudly every time ‘the horses moved.

For a second, the whole Mexican camp was paralyzed. They all stood stunned while one Texan caused their General’s buggy to tip over. General Dimasio was near the bottom of the pile, and Call was still pounding at Caleb with his bloody fist. After the first shock, though, the Mexicans regained their power of motion—soon fifty rifles were leveled at Call.

“Don’t shoot!” Captain Salazar yelled, in Spanish. “You’ll hit the General. Use your bayonets—stick this man, stick him!”

The nearest soldier did manage to bayonet Call in the calf, but before anyone else could stab him, General Dimasio struggled to his feet and ordered them to stop.“El Fiero!” he said, looking at Call, whose hands were bleeding as badly as Caleb Cobb’s face.

Several soldiers, all with their bayonets raised to deal the Texan a fatal wound, were startled by the General’s order, but all obeyed it. The first blow with the whiskey bottle had rendered Caleb unconscious, but Call was still trying to strike him.

“I think Colonel Cobb’s jaw is broken,” Salazar said; though the man’s face was very bloody, it seemed to him that his jaw had dropped at an odd angle.

Call wanted to kill Caleb Cobb, but he had no weapon—the few shards of glass around him were all too small to stab with, and before he could get a grip on Caleb’s bloody neck to strangle him, the Mexicans began to drag him off. It was not easy—Call was bent on killing the man, and he flailed so that the soldiers kept losing their grip. Finally, one looped a horsehide rope over one of Call’s legs and they pulled him off. A dozen men piled on him and finally held him steady enough that they could truss him hand and foot. Just before they pulled him off, Call pounded Caleb’s head against the edge of the wagon-wheel seat, opening a split in his forehead. He failed in his purpose, though. Caleb Cobb was damaged, but he was not injured fatally.

Through the legs of the men standing over him, many of them panting from the struggle, Call saw several Mexicans help Caleb Cobb to his feet. Caleb’s face and forehead were dripping blood, but once he cleared his head, he hobbled through the soldiers and broke into the circle where Call lay tied. Without a word he grabbed a musket from the nearest soldier and raised it high, to bayonet Call where he lay, but Captain Salazar was quicker. Before Caleb struck, he stepped in front of him and leveled a pistol at him.

“No, Colonel, put down the gun,” Salazar said. “I must remind you that this man is our prisoner, not yours.”

Call looked at Caleb calmly. He had done his best to kill the man, and was prepared to take the consequences. He knew that Caleb wanted his death—he could see the murderous urge in the man’s eyes.

With difficulty, Caleb mastered himself. He turned the musket over, as if he meant to hand it back to the soldier he had borrowed it from. But then, in a whipping motion too quick for anyone to stop, he struck with the stock of the musket across both of Call’s bound feet. The blow was so sudden and painful that Call cried out. Caleb immediately handed the musket back to the soldier he had borrowed it from, and hobbled back toward the buggy.

Call twisted in pain—through the legs of his captors he could see the buggy being righted. The horses, still jumpy, were being held by three men each. General Dimasio stood by the buggy, talking to Captain Salazar. Now and then, the General gestured toward Call. The company barber had been hastily summoned, to pick the glass out of Caleb’s face and neck. The barber wiped the blood away with a rag as best he could, but several cuts were still bleeding freely— he took the rag from the barber and dabbed at the cuts himself.

General Dimasio climbed back into the buggy, and Caleb after him. The canopy was sitting a little crookedly. The driver had survived; he turned the buggy, and the eight cavalrymen fell in behind it again, as it left the camp.

The buggy went at a good clip—soon the General and Caleb Cobb were nearly to the mountains.

Captain Salazar strolled over and stood looking down at Call, who was still surrounded by soldiers ready to bayonet him if he gave them an excuse.

“You are a brave young man, but foolish,” Salazar said. “Your Colonel had no choice but to surrender. His men had no food and no ammunition. If he hadn’t surrendered, we would have killed you all.”

“I despise him,” Call said. “At least he won’t look so pretty at his damn banquet.”

“You’re right about that,” Salazar said. “But the governor’s wife will enjoy him anyway. She likes adventurers.”

“I despise him,” Call said, again.

“I’m afraid you will not look so good either, once we have whipped you,” Salazar said. “The General admired your mettle so much that he ordered one hundred lashes for you—a great honor.”

Call looked at Captain Salazar, but said nothing. His feet still pained him badly. He had supposed there would be more punishment coming, too. After all, he had knocked the fat General out of his fancy buggy, turned the buggy over, caused the driver to get partly crushed by a wagon wheel, and bent the canopy of the buggy out of shape.