It's April 1832, springtime in Washington, D.C.

Striding into the Capitol is a man who doesn't really blend in.

He's tall, broad-shouldered, and he likes to wear Indian clothing.

He's 39 years old. He's well known, thanks to the personal and political baggage attached to his name,

which is Sam Houston.

Houston is in D.C. He's fighting for something personal. The Cherokee and other Indian tribes

getting squeezed by broken federal promises. He is lobbying hard and calling in all the favors

he can. On the House floor, Representative William Stanberry of Ohio, a large grudge-holding politician,

drops a reckless bombshell.

He accuses Houston a fraud, claiming the ex-governor conspired to pocket cash on a government

contract meant to help feed Indian tribes.

He didn't produce any evidence,

just a pure political attack. Houston reads about it in the newspaper and he sees red.

Temper and self-control, not exactly Houston's strong suit. He rushes to the capital, he finds

Stanbury, but Congressman James Polk

and acquaintance and future president holds Houston back. Houston fires off a note to Stanberry,

demanding he either apologize for the slander or have a duel. Stanberry ignores the note,

but starts carrying two pistols and a dagger to work just in case.

A few nights later, Pennsylvania Avenue, it's glowing under the flickering gas lamps.

Houston is walking back to his hotel with a couple of senator buddies, likely a few drinks deep,

when he spots a large figure crossing the street just ahead.

Houston rushes toward the man calling out in a booming voice.

...