The Stars at Night: A Texas Timeline
- Thread starter Sicarius
- Start date
Ah; I haven't seen that movie since before I was old enough to know what I was watching.
So it's been a month without Pirate Cowboys...
Damn you! Got me all excited for nothing.
Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated! I know this thread runs into frequent delays between bursts of content, but I figure the content is better if I write on the days when I wake up and go "Hell yeah, writing!" rather than making myself do it (could be wrong, though). I am committed to taking it to the very end, though, no matter how long it takes.
A couple more parts to this story, and then back to the more regular descriptive narrative (though this is also meant to be illustrative of the situation on the ground at the present time, as well!).
Part II
La Missione San Antonio
Sam wakes up in bed, in a small, hot adobe room. Directly across from him on the wall is an enormous crucifix. He tries to prop himself up, but falls back weakly. His stirrings wake Cortina, who is drowsing next to the bed in a straight-backed chair.
“Eh … uh, cowboy! Oh, thank you, Jesus!” He turns quickly and tosses off a muddled sign of the cross towards the crucifix. “You were in a pretty bad way, my friend. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be in big, big trouble!”
Sam turns to look at Cortina. “Where am I?”
“A mission. I bring you here so the monks can save you. I am a man of God too you see.” He kisses a small golden cross on a necklace. It’s the same cross one of Sam’s cowpunchers wore. “How do you feel, my friend? Do you remember what happened?” He leans forward hungrily.
“I remember.”
“Do you … do you remember about the gold?”
“Yep.”
"I think -" he leans back nonchalantly, spreading his hands. “I think we make a good team, eh? I think you and me, we find the gold, and we split it. Si? There are many dangerous men out there, you need someone like me to protect you.”
Sam’s expression is flat. “Maybe.”
“Yes, good, good! Now you tell me what the man said to you, and I’ll tell you what he said to me, yes?”
Sam smiles tightly and shakes his head no. “I lead. You follow.”
Fury swiftly passes over Cortina’s face, before being replaced again with friendliness. “Yes, of course! You’re the trailboss, eh? Haha!”
Sam steadies himself and swings his legs off the side of the bed. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Where to, cowboy?”
“South.”
***
“Ah,” Cortina says approvingly. “San Antonio. You will never find a more wretched hive of escoria y villanía.” He turns to Sam. “My kind of people!”
Sam shades his eyes with his hand and looks at the distant city through the shimmering heat.
“One thing, my friend - do not use my name in the city, si? Juan Cortina, he is not simpatico with the gabachos [French], you see.”
“I couldn’t imagine why. Yah!” He spurs his horse and the two men ride towards the city.
San Antonio is a riotous collection of races, cultures, and religions. A multitude of languages - Spanish, French, English, Comanche, German, and others - are shouted over each other as the men ride through the center of the town. German traders in their neatly kept booths selling carved goods and hides, Mexicans wrapping food from boiling pots into tortillas, indians squatting along the street, impassive, waiting for something, or nothing. Occasional Truthers stand on the sidewalk, bellowing about Gog, Magog, and the Red Jews. Imperious representatives of the South Texas ranches hold huddled negotiations on prices. Suspicious Republican Armymen float through the masses, the crowd parting before them, in groups of three or five. Bearded, scruffy men watch them pass with hate-filled eyes. San Antonio, a city under occupation - by whom, it’s sometimes difficult to tell.
“Name.” One of the soldiers steps in front of the men’s horses.
“What?” Sam says.
“Name. This is an entry check.”
Sam looks at the mass of people streaming by, only a few seemingly random persons being stopped.
“Name.”
“Fine. I’m Sam Ealy Johnson.”
“And you.” The soldier nods at Cortina.
“Ah, Tom Wilson, my friend! Tomas.”
The soldier nods, bored, and scrawls the names down. He turns and heads towards a group of negros riding a mule cart. “Name!”
“Those gabachos, they just want to show who’s in charge, eh? Some list that no one will ever read, they just want you to know that they can make you do what they say.” Cortina spits in the dirt. He looks back up. “There are more here than before, cowboy. The land south of here, between the gabachos and the Riograndense, it will be, ah, caliente. How far south are we going?”
“Far.”
“I think maybe I have an idea. This way!”
The two men ride through the twisting streets of San Antonio, dodging humans and horses. Finally, Cortina reigns his mount to a stop in front of a small cantina.
“Your plan is to drink?”
“Looking for - “ Cortina darts his head around, “-gold is thirsty work, my friend. But that’s not all we’re here for.”
Sam shakes his head, but slides out of the saddle. They tie their horses to the hitching posts outside and step into the adobe building.
Inside, the cantina is almost louder and more boisterous than the main street. Mexicans in enormous sombreros argue with black-suited Mormons, gruff cowpunchers play cards with US dollars, gold dust, and weapons thrown into the pot, white and black and even - Sam stares - one Chinese prostitute lean over the shoulder of weary drinkers. Cortina spots who he is looking for and pushes his way to a booth near the rear. Sam follows.
At the table are two men - a Mexican in a vest leaning back insouciantly and his companion, a hulking, grim-faced man with a bandolier strapped across his chest. He could be Mestizo, but it’s difficult to tell through the massive black beard so long it tangles into his equally thick chest hair.
“Well, well, Cortina,” says the vested man, leaning forward. “Haven’t seen you around these parts lately. You got gringos in your gang now? The times, they’re changing all over.”
“This is Sam. He and I have some business, and we need to get south, past the soldiers. And quiet.”
The man leans back again. “I think I could do that - for the right price.” He turns to Sam. “Do you know who I am?”
“No.”
He smiles. “I’m Juan Solorio, captain of the Halcón. You heard of that?”
“No.”
His smile widens. “Exactly.”
Sam turns to Cortina. “A ship?”
“A ship can take us down the river, then out to Corpus Christi, past the soldiers and the especiales [Special Forces]. There, no one cares enough to make trouble for us.”
Sam thinks it over. “Fine. But what are we going to pay them?”
“You leave that to Cortina. See, we are a team! Go get a drink, my friend, leave this to me.”
“Fine.” He turns back to the men in the booth. “Good meeting you, Juan. And …?”
The hairy man growls in some indistinct language, if it’s a language at all. Juan says, “That’s Chuy.”
As Cortina settles down to haggle, Sam wanders to the bar. He orders a water and watches the swirling crowd of people. In the corner, a group of mariachis strum guitars and harps in a jaunty tune. A fat German trader is dancing with the Chinese prostitute, and bumps Sam, who spills his drink on himself and the man next to him. The man, a tall Seminole, growls down at Sam. A man whose faces is riddled with pox scars leans around the indian.
"He doesn't like you,” the poxy man says.
"Sorry."
"I don't like you either. You just watch yourself. We're wanted men. I have the death sentence in twelve counties."
"I'll be careful then." Sam says distractedly, turns back to the bar.
"You'll be dead!" The poxy man whips out a pistol as the Seminole reaches for a hatchet. An enormous boom rings out over the noise of the cantina, then another. The crowd falls silent, as the poxy man and the indian fall over dead.
“My friend,” says Cortina, “I told you you needed protection!” He kicks the body of the dead indian. “We should go. We’ll meet the Halcón at the docks. Follow me.” Cortina leads Sam, who steps carefully over the bodies, through the still stunned throng and out a small back door.
“Stick with me, cowboy, no one gets the drop on-” as Cortina opens the door, pistols and rifles are cocked, pointed directly at the men’s faces. It’s the Republican Army.
A couple more parts to this story, and then back to the more regular descriptive narrative (though this is also meant to be illustrative of the situation on the ground at the present time, as well!).
Part II
La Missione San Antonio
Sam wakes up in bed, in a small, hot adobe room. Directly across from him on the wall is an enormous crucifix. He tries to prop himself up, but falls back weakly. His stirrings wake Cortina, who is drowsing next to the bed in a straight-backed chair.
“Eh … uh, cowboy! Oh, thank you, Jesus!” He turns quickly and tosses off a muddled sign of the cross towards the crucifix. “You were in a pretty bad way, my friend. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be in big, big trouble!”
Sam turns to look at Cortina. “Where am I?”
“A mission. I bring you here so the monks can save you. I am a man of God too you see.” He kisses a small golden cross on a necklace. It’s the same cross one of Sam’s cowpunchers wore. “How do you feel, my friend? Do you remember what happened?” He leans forward hungrily.
“I remember.”
“Do you … do you remember about the gold?”
“Yep.”
"I think -" he leans back nonchalantly, spreading his hands. “I think we make a good team, eh? I think you and me, we find the gold, and we split it. Si? There are many dangerous men out there, you need someone like me to protect you.”
Sam’s expression is flat. “Maybe.”
“Yes, good, good! Now you tell me what the man said to you, and I’ll tell you what he said to me, yes?”
Sam smiles tightly and shakes his head no. “I lead. You follow.”
Fury swiftly passes over Cortina’s face, before being replaced again with friendliness. “Yes, of course! You’re the trailboss, eh? Haha!”
Sam steadies himself and swings his legs off the side of the bed. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Where to, cowboy?”
“South.”
***
“Ah,” Cortina says approvingly. “San Antonio. You will never find a more wretched hive of escoria y villanía.” He turns to Sam. “My kind of people!”
Sam shades his eyes with his hand and looks at the distant city through the shimmering heat.
“One thing, my friend - do not use my name in the city, si? Juan Cortina, he is not simpatico with the gabachos [French], you see.”
“I couldn’t imagine why. Yah!” He spurs his horse and the two men ride towards the city.
San Antonio is a riotous collection of races, cultures, and religions. A multitude of languages - Spanish, French, English, Comanche, German, and others - are shouted over each other as the men ride through the center of the town. German traders in their neatly kept booths selling carved goods and hides, Mexicans wrapping food from boiling pots into tortillas, indians squatting along the street, impassive, waiting for something, or nothing. Occasional Truthers stand on the sidewalk, bellowing about Gog, Magog, and the Red Jews. Imperious representatives of the South Texas ranches hold huddled negotiations on prices. Suspicious Republican Armymen float through the masses, the crowd parting before them, in groups of three or five. Bearded, scruffy men watch them pass with hate-filled eyes. San Antonio, a city under occupation - by whom, it’s sometimes difficult to tell.
“Name.” One of the soldiers steps in front of the men’s horses.
“What?” Sam says.
“Name. This is an entry check.”
Sam looks at the mass of people streaming by, only a few seemingly random persons being stopped.
“Name.”
“Fine. I’m Sam Ealy Johnson.”
“And you.” The soldier nods at Cortina.
“Ah, Tom Wilson, my friend! Tomas.”
The soldier nods, bored, and scrawls the names down. He turns and heads towards a group of negros riding a mule cart. “Name!”
“Those gabachos, they just want to show who’s in charge, eh? Some list that no one will ever read, they just want you to know that they can make you do what they say.” Cortina spits in the dirt. He looks back up. “There are more here than before, cowboy. The land south of here, between the gabachos and the Riograndense, it will be, ah, caliente. How far south are we going?”
“Far.”
“I think maybe I have an idea. This way!”
The two men ride through the twisting streets of San Antonio, dodging humans and horses. Finally, Cortina reigns his mount to a stop in front of a small cantina.
“Your plan is to drink?”
“Looking for - “ Cortina darts his head around, “-gold is thirsty work, my friend. But that’s not all we’re here for.”
Sam shakes his head, but slides out of the saddle. They tie their horses to the hitching posts outside and step into the adobe building.
Inside, the cantina is almost louder and more boisterous than the main street. Mexicans in enormous sombreros argue with black-suited Mormons, gruff cowpunchers play cards with US dollars, gold dust, and weapons thrown into the pot, white and black and even - Sam stares - one Chinese prostitute lean over the shoulder of weary drinkers. Cortina spots who he is looking for and pushes his way to a booth near the rear. Sam follows.
At the table are two men - a Mexican in a vest leaning back insouciantly and his companion, a hulking, grim-faced man with a bandolier strapped across his chest. He could be Mestizo, but it’s difficult to tell through the massive black beard so long it tangles into his equally thick chest hair.
“Well, well, Cortina,” says the vested man, leaning forward. “Haven’t seen you around these parts lately. You got gringos in your gang now? The times, they’re changing all over.”
“This is Sam. He and I have some business, and we need to get south, past the soldiers. And quiet.”
The man leans back again. “I think I could do that - for the right price.” He turns to Sam. “Do you know who I am?”
“No.”
He smiles. “I’m Juan Solorio, captain of the Halcón. You heard of that?”
“No.”
His smile widens. “Exactly.”
Sam turns to Cortina. “A ship?”
“A ship can take us down the river, then out to Corpus Christi, past the soldiers and the especiales [Special Forces]. There, no one cares enough to make trouble for us.”
Sam thinks it over. “Fine. But what are we going to pay them?”
“You leave that to Cortina. See, we are a team! Go get a drink, my friend, leave this to me.”
“Fine.” He turns back to the men in the booth. “Good meeting you, Juan. And …?”
The hairy man growls in some indistinct language, if it’s a language at all. Juan says, “That’s Chuy.”
As Cortina settles down to haggle, Sam wanders to the bar. He orders a water and watches the swirling crowd of people. In the corner, a group of mariachis strum guitars and harps in a jaunty tune. A fat German trader is dancing with the Chinese prostitute, and bumps Sam, who spills his drink on himself and the man next to him. The man, a tall Seminole, growls down at Sam. A man whose faces is riddled with pox scars leans around the indian.
"He doesn't like you,” the poxy man says.
"Sorry."
"I don't like you either. You just watch yourself. We're wanted men. I have the death sentence in twelve counties."
"I'll be careful then." Sam says distractedly, turns back to the bar.
"You'll be dead!" The poxy man whips out a pistol as the Seminole reaches for a hatchet. An enormous boom rings out over the noise of the cantina, then another. The crowd falls silent, as the poxy man and the indian fall over dead.
“My friend,” says Cortina, “I told you you needed protection!” He kicks the body of the dead indian. “We should go. We’ll meet the Halcón at the docks. Follow me.” Cortina leads Sam, who steps carefully over the bodies, through the still stunned throng and out a small back door.
“Stick with me, cowboy, no one gets the drop on-” as Cortina opens the door, pistols and rifles are cocked, pointed directly at the men’s faces. It’s the Republican Army.
HOLY CRAP!
Loving this story. The Good, the Bad and The Ugly rolled into Star Wars.....
Even besides that, the Whig Party is reestablished. Awesome - sortof.
Loving this story. The Good, the Bad and The Ugly rolled into Star Wars.....
Even besides that, the Whig Party is reestablished. Awesome - sortof.
Greatly exaggerated indeed! Thanks Sicarius! Good stuff as always!
I was very glad to see this update. After getting back from watching the new "Total Recall", this was just the thing to make it all right again! Even cracked open a Shiner before I re-read it!
Maybe I should have piped up earlier!
Again, good stuff and thanks!
I was very glad to see this update. After getting back from watching the new "Total Recall", this was just the thing to make it all right again! Even cracked open a Shiner before I re-read it!
Maybe I should have piped up earlier!
Again, good stuff and thanks!
Something like this?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JaPf-MRKITg
And what, no "You don't need to see his identification" at the part with the entrance check?
A fun, entertaining read as always, Sicarius. And hey, it makes sense: George Lucas DID base a lot of the Tatooine scenes off of Old Westerns, after all. Great to see that this TL is still going, and as always, I look forward to more.
What a glorious way to prove Antares wrong!
I love this timeline so much. Keep it up!
I love this timeline so much. Keep it up!
Greatly exaggerated indeed! Thanks Sicarius! Good stuff as always!
I was very glad to see this update. After getting back from watching the new "Total Recall", this was just the thing to make it all right again! Even cracked open a Shiner before I re-read it!
Maybe I should have piped up earlier!
Again, good stuff and thanks!
You, sir, have excellent taste in beer.
I'd say in movies, but I haven't seen the remake yet. Don't spoil!