By Elvis Chupacabra (Originally Published 2013)

The old timers said that a dry, chill wind was blowing out of the northwest, right from the heart of the Commancheria, that dawn of March 6, 1836. It ripped the palls of black smoke billowing from the old Alamo mission into ragged tendrils and hurled them away, as if trying to clear the air of the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh and the acrid stench of gunpowder. By the time the sun broke above the horizon and cast a golden light over the old mission-turned-fortress, gunshots still sporadically rent the air, but the main sound was that of an enraged mob. (more…)






