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  It happened fast.

  One moment Nathanial Barrington was riding beside his old West Point friend Johnny Davidson, listening to Johnny's tale of romantic woe. The next, he saw an arrow sticking out of Johnny's chest.

  A second later, Johnny was forgotten. Bedlam had descended upon the detatchment of dragoons. Gunshots volleyed around them, arrows zipped through the air, there were screams of pain and the whinnies of horses. Nathanial saw men hit all around him, and then it felt as if a sledgehammer smacked him on the shoulder. Nearly knocked off his horse, he managed to hold on to the pommel. Blood poured down his left arm, the ground was littered with soldiers, and he nearly panicked, but then his long frontier experience took over.

  He was an officer. His job was to get what was left of his command out of this devilish death trap. But never had he faced a job as hard as this . . . as he sensed that all the Apache wars of the past were nothing compared to the one to come. . . .

  SAVAGE FRONTIER

  Also by Len Levinson

  The Rat Bastards:

  Hit the Beach

  Death Squad

  River of Blood

  Meat Grinder Hill

  Down and Dirty

  Green Hell

  Too Mean to Die

  Hot Lead and Cold Steel

  Do or Die

  Kill Crazy

  Nightmare Alley

  Go For Broke

  Tough Guys Die Hard

  Suicide River

  Satan’s Cage

  Go Down Fighting

  The Pecos Kid:

  Beginner’s Luck

  The Reckoning

  Apache Moon

  Outlaw Hell

  Devil’s Creek Massacre

  Bad to the Bone

  The Apache Wars Saga:

  Desert Hawks

  War Eagles

  White Apache

  Devil Dance

  Night of the Cougar

  SAVAGE

  FRONTIER

  * * *

  Volume Three of

  The Apache Wars Saga

  by

  Len Levinson

  SAVAGE FRONTIER

  Copyright © 1995 by Len Levinson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form

  without permission in writing from the publisher.

  EBook © 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.

  Trade ISBN 978-1-62064-866-7

  Library ISBN 978-1-62460-207-8

  Cover photo © TK/iStock.com.

  To Diana

  Chapter One

  On March 30, 1854, two columns of U.S. Dragoons rode through the Embudo Mountains southeast of Taos, New Mexico Territory. They were pursuing hostile Jicarilla Apaches about a day and a half ahead. The Jicarillas refused to negotiate a peace treaty, so the dragoons had to force them back to the bargaining table.

  Two Pueblo scouts rode in advance, following Apache tracks. No flank guards could be posted due to the narrow trail, but Jicarillas preferred guerilla war against isolated ranches or solitary stagecoaches, not sixty heavily armed dragoons. Nonetheless, the men and officers ceaselessly scanned ridges, notches, and ravines. Like a dusty, sweaty family of war brothers, they advanced deeper into the Jicarilla homeland.

  New Mexico Territory was far from Washington, D.C., so the dragoons had been permitted a certain leeway in uniform. Some wore brown corduroy trousers, and a few favored red shirts with flowing sleeves, but all sported wide-brimmed vaquero hats, all armed with .54 caliber U.S. Percussion Rifles, model 1841, .44 caliber Colt Dragoon with eight-inch barrels, heavy enough to crack an opponent's skull, and a variety of long-bladed knives.

  At the head of the detachment rode two lieutenants in regulation blue tunics, vaquero hats slanted low over their eyes, with brass buttons and gold shoulder straps, but tan canvas trousers. Both sat erectly in their saddles, elbows in, rocking with the motion of their steeds.

  Lieutenant Johnny Davidson, thirty-one years old, had long dark sideburns, while Lieutenant Nathanial Barrington, also thirty-one, grew a short blond beard. From South Carolina, Lieutenant Davidson recently had been posted to New Mexico, while Lieutenant Barrington, a New Yorker, had been there since 1848. They'd been classmates at West Point, and now fate had thrown them together on a lazy pursuit near Cieneguilla.

  Johnny was a few inches shorter than Nathanial, with a long lantern jaw covered with stubble. He looked embarrassed, as he said, out of the silence of the summer afternoon, “I lied to you last night, Nathanial.”

  Nathanial had been studying the high ground, in case the head of an Apache should appear. “About what?”

  “I said I'd transferred to Fort Union because I was tired of office duty back east. Well, that's not the real reason.” Johnny paused and cleared his throat. “There was a woman, and I guess I was ashamed to admit it.”

  “Was she pregnant?”

  “No, it wasn't that.” Johnny appeared ill at ease as a gust of wind snapped the First Dragoon guidon nearby. “I asked her to marry me, she turned me down, and South Carolina wasn't big enough for both of us, so I put in for New Mexico Territory. I shouldn't have lied to you, old friend, but I felt humiliated after being cast off by the lady. Does that sound strange?”

  “I was engaged to get married once,” replied Nathanial. “I went off to Mexico, and when I returned, the lady in question had become betrothed to another gentleman.”

  “I hoped someday she'd see things my way. Evidently Miss Jennifer Butler is waiting for her great love to come along, but she may have to wait forever.

  Nathanial grinned. “If it's any comfort, there's not a man alive who hasn't been turned down by a woman, and there isn't a woman who hasn't been turned down by a man.”

  Nathanial noticed movement on a ledge, and just as he was reaching for his brass spyglass, bedlam descended upon the detachment of dragoons. Gunshots vollied around them, arrows zipped through the air, there were screams of pain and whinnies of horses. Nathanial was shocked to see an arrow sticking out of the chest of Lieutenant Johnny Davidson!

  Nathanial reached for his friend too late, as Johnny sagged out of the saddle. Men were hit in all directions, evidently they were surrounded by a huge number of hostiles, and then it felt as if a sledge-hammer smacked Nathanial on the shoulder. Nearly knocked off his horse, he managed to hold on to the pommel. Blood poured down his left arm, the ground was littered with soldiers, and he nearly panicked, but then his long frontier experience took over.

  “Sergeant Houlihan!” shouted Nathanial.

  “Sergeant Houlihan is down!” cried the anguished voice of Private Pell.

  Death rained upon the beleaguered detachment as Nathanial made his decision. “Forward!” he screamed, kicking spurs into the withers of his horse. “Follow me!”

  Nathanial's left arm was out of action, so he took the reins in his teeth, drew his Colt Dragoon, and looked behind him. About half the detachment followed at a gallop, while the rest had been casualties of the bushwhack.

  Wind whistled about Nathanial's ears as his horse gathered speed. In violent pain, he watched an arrow pass the nose of his horse, then a bullet slipped through the crown of his hat. Apache sharpshooters wanted to kill the bluecoat war chief, but he was determined to stay alive.

  His plan was to put Apaches behind him, but then he noticed a new obstacle straight ahead. Jicarillas had rolled boulders onto their path, and were opening fire from behind its safety. Nathanial heard hoofbeats behind him, gunshots in front of him, as arrows streaked through the air all around him.

  We'll have to fight back the way we came, he decided. He pulled the reins of his horse, who also was anxious to get away. “Go back!” yelled Nathanial
to the remaining men, his mouth full of reins. “Get the hell out of here!”

  His horse turned, and Nathanial saw most survivors wounded, mouths agape, eyes glazed with horror. They barely could hear him, and they'd have to ride through the hottest part of the ambuscade again. Nathanial wished he weren't wearing gold shoulder straps, but it was too late to take them off. He wondered where all the Apaches had come from as he urged his horse to greater velocity.

  That half-crazed creature raced toward ground strewn with dead soldiers, Nathanial's old friend Johnny Davidson among them. Nathanial fired his pistol at puffs of smoke in the crags as the air buzzed with bullets and arrows; he could hear Apaches shrieking taunts from above.

  Behind him galloped the remnants of the detachment, and straight ahead lay Lieutenant Johnny Davidson on his back, an arrow in him. Nathanial aimed at a distant Apache head, pulled the trigger, his Colt went click.

  Time to reload, but he couldn't, due to one unavailable arm. His horse leapt over Johnny Davidson's corpse, but when the animal landed, it didn't bound off again, but instead kept going down, an arrow in its ribs. Nathanial spit out the reins and tried to throw himself free as his horse's knees buckled.

  The officer raised his hand to protect himself, rolled over, pitched onto his face. Surviving dragoons rode past him, kicking up clods of dirt, trying to escape Apache death. Nathanial grabbed a gun lying near the hand of a dead corporal, thumbed back the hammer, and fired at a Jicarilla at the mouth of a cave.

  The ground was covered with dust and smoke as Nathanial crawled toward his former classmate. The pallor of death was on Johnny Davidson's features as a gold watch chain hung out his shirt pocket. Nathanial tore it away, noticing a spooked riderless horse fleeing toward him.

  “Come here, boy!” called Nathanial.

  The old war-horse seemed to hear, and had been following orders for three years. Nearly blind with pain, Nathanial struggled to his feet as an arrow bored the ground three inches from his toes. The horse came abreast of him, but didn't look like he was going to stop. Nathanial realized it was do or die, as he leapt into the air.

  The horse bucked, Nathanial desperately grabbed reins, and managed to land partially on the saddle. He struggled to right himself, as ahead the others ran for their lives. An arrow passed two feet from Nathanial's nose, then another shaft struck his right thigh.

  Nathanial nearly blacked out, but managed to remain in the saddle. Ahead, the dragoons were slowing down. The Apaches had blockaded the rear exit also!

  “Forward!” shouted Nathanial. “It's the only way out!”

  Nearly all his men were wounded, but fear was wonderfully energizing. Nathanial put the spurs to his new horse and once again took the lead. Boulders had been hastily rolled over the trail ahead, not as formidable a barrier as on the other end, and Nathanial figured they could go right over it.

  “Charge!” he hollered, but lost consciousness as the word left his mouth. His face dropped onto the horse's undulating mane, while ahead, Apaches fired from behind their meager barrier. Nathanial came to his senses, struggled to hold on, the barrier loomed closer, and he hoped a good jumping horse was beneath him.

  The great beast's muscles were corded, saliva dripped from its lips, and it strained for final bursts of energy. Behind the barricade, Nathanial observed Apaches with red bandannas wrapped around their heads. One aimed an old Spanish blunderbuss at him, and all the West Pointer could do was keep going, although his right leg was aflame with pain and his left arm had gone numb long ago.

  But he'd been wounded before, and knew that the race went to the man who held on longest. The blunderbuss, an inaccurate weapon at any range, fired, but the ball flew harmlessly past. Again, Nathanial stuffed salty reins into his mouth, took the Colt .44 in his right hand, and prepared for the jump. His horse raced toward the boulders, then sailed into the sky.

  Nathanial dropped toward the Apache, who was holding his blunderbuss like a bat, intending to whack the bluecoat officer out of the saddle. Nearly fainting, Nathanial fired at a range of four feet. A red splotch appeared on the Apache's stomach, then Nathanial's horse hit the ground. Nathanial almost flew over the animal's ears, but managed to right himself. Then he turned and saw the remaining dragoons behind him; another fell before his eyes.

  Lieutenant Barrington was tempted to drop from the saddle, but something forced him to hang on. Perhaps it was his wife and son at Fort Union, or the thought of his grandfather who'd fought in the Battle of Trenton, but he wrapped his reins around his good arm, clutched the thick mane of his horse, and summoned his last reserves of energy. The wounded officer and his remaining dragoons descended the mountain defile, praying the Apaches wouldn't follow them.

  At Fort Union, a candle burned on the dresser of a tiny bedroom on Officers’ Row, as Maria Dolores Barrington put her two children to bed.

  Carmen, nearly two years old, was dark like her mother, whereas Zachary Taylor Barrington, aged three, had blond hair like his father. The former Maria Dolores Carbajal, a full-blooded Mexican of good family, had married an Americano officer against the advice of her father, and now her husband had been gone three weeks. It was almost like not being married, and there wasn't much to do on the remote army post.

  She never dreamed she'd be married and then abandoned for long periods. Maria Dolores didn't enjoy amateur theatricals, parties, and other nonsense dreamed up by officers’ wives to amuse themselves. She was a proud woman, yet had to defer to the colonel's wife. I never joined the army, she thought, but I must live by its rules. At least I've got a roof over my head, two beautiful children, and a husband who's never home.

  Maria Dolores tucked little Carmen into bed, then kissed her forehead. On the other side of the room, young Zachary lay on his back with his hands behind his head, just like his father. “Mother—tell me a story.”

  “It's time to sleep, Zachary.”

  “I'm not tired. Please read to me about King Arthur and Sir Lancelot.”

  If she didn't read to him, he'd keep Carmen awake. “Put on your slippers and come with me.”

  He rolled out of bed, she helped him with his robe, and it amazed her how similar he was to her husband, a miniature version of the lieutenant of dragoons. Hand in hand they walked to the living room, where she took down Sir Thomas Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur. She sat on the sofa, the boy beside her, struggling to comprehend printed words as she read:

  “Soon after that King Arthur was come from Rome into England, then all the knights of the Table Round resorted unto the King, and made many jousts and tournaments . . .”

  There was a knock upon the door, startling Maria Dolores. She couldn't imagine who it was that time of night, possibly an Apache had infiltrated the camp. She took down the double-barreled shotgun. “Who's there?”

  “Corporal Hatfield, ma'am: Got some mail for you.”

  Maria Dolores recalled a stagecoach arriving earlier that day. She opened the door and a tall, lanky soldier stood in front of her, the letter in hand. “And how are you tonight, young man?” he asked Zachary.

  “Fine.”

  Hatfield was a ten-year army veteran with a broken nose, but to Zachary he looked like Sir Galahad. Maria Dolores closed the door and carried the letter to the parlor.

  “Is it from Daddy?” asked Zachary.

  “There's no mail to your father.” It was addressed to her, written by Miguelito Vasquez, an employee of her father. She assumed it was a routine business manner as she tore open the envelope.

  Dear Maria Dolores.

  Your father is very sick. Come quick.

  Maria Dolores stared at the message. Her father had been in good health when she'd seen him six months ago.

  “What's wrong, Mother?”

  “Your grandfather has fallen ill. We must leave on the next stage for Santa Fe.”

  “But what if Father returns?”

  “He'll have to take care of himself till we get back.”

  “Why can't I wait for him here?”<
br />
  “Because I need you with me.”

  Zachary recalled his father telling him, before leaving on his last scout, “Take good care of your mother.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” he said stalwartly, like a miniature knight of the Table Round.

  In the moonlight, Nathanial organized his defense amid boulders, cactus, sagebrush, and mesquite trees. Twenty-two dragoons had been killed and thirty-six wounded in the Battle of Embudo Canyon. The survivors were formed in a circle, rifles pointed outward, as Nathanial limped among them. They had twenty rounds each, then Apaches would overrun them. “Let ‘em come,” said Nathanial bravely. “We'll give ‘em a warm welcome indeed.”

  “I think you'd better zit down, sir,” said Corporal Strobeck, who'd been born in Berlin, “before you fall on your face.”

  Nathanial lowered himself to the ground, his knees like jelly. He wondered how many quarts of blood he'd lost, his wounds bound in rags torn from his uniform. His left arm was unusable, and he feared they'd chop it off when he returned to Fort Union.

  His men were bloody, tattered, but ready for Apaches. They'd enlisted for a variety of ignoble and noble reasons, such as receiving three square meals per day. If they were going to die, they preferred to die fighting.

  Nathanial barely knew them because they weren't his men. Lieutenant Davidson had been appointed commander of Company B, and Nathanial assigned to supervise his first scout, but now Johnny was dead, stripped and mutilated by savages.

  The Apache Wars weren't dinner table conversation for Lieutenant Barrington, because too many friends had been killed. He despised lofty declarations about the nobility of the red man, and possessed deep visceral hatred for them. It wasn't the first time Apaches had tasted his blood and probably wouldn't be the last.

  He wondered if Apaches were watching from shadowed purple mountains, planning to wipe him out. Or perhaps they were at their camp, celebrating with whiskey and a war dance.