Warpath Page 15

  Lieutenant Lowell held up his hand, and the patrol stopped behind him. Everyone stared at the man tied upside down to the wagon wheel, his head roasted and burst apart over the ashes of a fire, his limbs stiff from rigor mortis, and he’d been partially eaten by the buzzards.

  A sweet stench was in the air, and Lieutenant Lowell felt sick to his stomach. He climbed down from his horse and walked to where the main ranch building had been.

  He’d been here before and knew the McIntyres fairly well. They’d had a beautiful home, and now it was all gone. Old Ralph McIntyre should’ve heeded the warnings, but it was too late now.

  Tim Connors and Sergeant McFeeley followed him along with several of the men and the two Apache scouts, Chinchi and Blanco. They approached the destroyed building and saw burned bodies in the debris, some with arrows sticking out of them, and they too had been torn by the sharp beaks of the buzzards.

  Lieutenant Lowell felt a powerful rage build inside him. It was a terrible atrocity, the worst he’d seen in his year on the frontier. He recalled the McIntyre women, mother and daughter, and assumed they were in the scorched remains of the building. Near him, Chinchi and Blanco were talking.

  “What’re they saying?” Lieutenant Lowell asked.

  Tim Connors conferred with the Apaches in their language, then turned to Lieutenant Lowell. “They’re wondering who did this, because the McIntyres always had been good friends of their people.”

  “Not anymore,” Lieutenant Lowell said. “We’re going after whoever did this. Take the scouts and pick up their trail.”

  Tim Connors spoke with the Apache scouts, and they walked off, looking for tracks to follow. Lieutenant Connors stepped back to his horse, took out a thin cigar, and lit it. The buzzards circled overhead, squawking angrily at those who’d disturbed their meal.

  Lieutenant Lowell puffed his cigar and waited impatiently for his scouts to pick up the trail of the Apache war party. He sipped some water from his canteen, rolled it around in his mouth, and swallowed it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the unlucky soul tied to the wagon wheel. What kind of people would do something like that?

  Lieutenant Lowell thought there was something diabolical and inhuman about the Apaches. He knew they were fighting for their land, but why the atrocities? What kind of mind could conceive of tying a man upside down and building a fire under his head?

  His men shuffled around the site, muttering angrily and swearing revenge. Many of them had met the McIntyres and liked them. Some of the older soldiers had known the McIntyre children since they were small.

  Tim Connors returned with the Apache scouts. “We’ve found their trail, sir. There was about twenty or thirty of ‘em.” He pointed west. “They went thataway.”

  “Saddle up!” Lieutenant Lowell shouted to his men. “Let’s go — we’re moving out!”

  “But, sir,” Tim Connors protested, “the Apaches’re prob’ly on their way to their camp. There’ll be a lot more of them than us.”

  “We’ll worry about that when we get there,” Lieutenant Lowell replied.

  “I think you ought to send for reinforcements, sir.”

  Lieutenant Lowell realized that would be the prudent thing to do. He could be criticized afterward if he didn’t take the appropriate precautions, but it’d be wonderful if he could find the Apache camp with his patrol and overwhelm the Apaches in a hell-bent-for-leather cavalry charge.

  Lieutenant Lowell wondered who to send to Fort Kimball. He didn’t think any of his soldiers could make the trip alone, and he needed Sergeant McFeeley with him. He didn’t trust his Apache scouts, so that left Tim Connors.

  “Think you can make the trip?” he asked Connors.

  “I’ll damn well try, sir.”

  Connors wheeled his horse and spurred him hard. The horse galloped away, heading back in the direction of Fort Kimball.

  Lieutenant Lowell climbed onto his horse and turned it toward the trail left by the Apaches. Sergeant McFeeley shouted orders and the patrol formed up behind him. The trooper carrying the guidon took his place beside Lieutenant Lowell. Sergeant McFeeley rode toward Lieutenant Lowell and saluted.

  “The patrol is ready to move out, sir!”

  Lieutenant Lowell raised his arm in the air. “Forward ho!” he hollered.

  The two Apache scouts, Chinchi and Blanco, galloped forward to take the point. Lieutenant Lowell and the rest of the patrol followed them out of the yard, leaving behind the ruins of the McIntyre ranch, and the buzzards dropped down from the sky to finish their feast.

  Miguel pointed toward a green cluster of trees and bushes straight ahead. “That is the water hole,” he said to Antonio.

  Antonio’s lips were cracked and his mouth was dry. An hour ago he’d finished the last drop of water in his canteen. “Go forward and see that it is safe.”

  Miguel spurred his horse, who moved eagerly toward the water, his ears pricked up, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. They were traveling over open country dotted with bushes, trees, and cactuses. Miguel’s eyes swept back and forth, looking for odd shapes and unusual movements. He held his pistol in his hands as he peered into the desert foliage, knowing that an entire army of Apaches could be around him and he might not even see them.

  A bird flew past, and everything seemed normal. Miguel looked down at the ground, and there were no tracks, but if Apaches were going to spring an ambush, they wouldn’t leave tracks.

  He moved closer to the water hole, and couldn’t wait to put his mouth into it. His horse quickened his pace, snorting and shaking his head. The water was directly ahead, shimmering in the sunlight. Miguel pulled back the reins, and the horse whinnied, because he didn’t want to stop when he was so close to water. Miguel pulled harder, and the horse came to a stop reluctantly.

  Miguel looked around once more, examining the bushes. Everything seemed all right. He took off his sombrero, turned around in his saddle, and waved his sombrero at the others, signaling that they should come on.

  They saw his signal and advanced. Miguel placed his sombrero back on his head and let his horse walk the final twenty yards to the water hole. The animal moved swiftly and lowered his head. When he came to the water he touched his big hairy lips to it and slurped.

  Miguel climbed down from the horse, looked behind him, and saw Antonio and the others approaching. Miguel took one last look around, holstered his pistol, and got down on his hands and knees, sinking his face toward the water, drinking noisily like the horse.

  To his rear, he could hear the advancing hoofbeats of Antonio and the others. He drank deeply, the cool sweet liquid flowing down his throat. When he had his fill, he unscrewed the top of his canteen and pushed it beneath the surface of the water, watching the bubbles erupt and break the surface.

  He heard a shout behind him. Spinning around, he was shocked to see Apaches covered with dirt leaping up at Antonio and the others, swinging hatchets and firing pistols! They’d been hiding in the ground, buried beneath the surface, and Miguel’s heart pounded furiously in his chest as he dropped his canteen and reached for his pistol. A shot rang out behind him, and he felt a sharp hot pain in his back. Spinning around, he saw two Apaches running toward him, one with a rifle in his hands, the other carrying a hatchet.

  Miguel’s legs gave out underneath him, and he dropped to his knees. He wanted to shoot the Apaches, but didn’t have the strength to raise his pistol. A volley of shots fired behind him, men screamed, and the Apache with the hatchet let out a war cry and swung his weapon at Miguel’s head.

  Miguel felt the world split apart. The force of the blow hurled him to the ground, where he lay still, his blood trailing off into the water hole where his horse continued to drink noisily.

  Coyotero and his raiding party rode into their camp, singing victory songs and carrying their booty. Some brandished new rifles, others wore coats and hats that had belonged to the McIntyres, a few wore necklaces and earrings, and several herded the stolen horses.

  The Apache
women and children ran toward their men, dazzled by the influx of new riches. Stone sat on his horse and stared wide-eyed at the celebration. He’d never seen an Indian camp before, and watched children jump up and down around their fathers, who tossed them clothing and baubles.

  Some of the women got down on their knees and chanted a song of thanks, raising their arms to the sky. The warriors were returning heroes, and sat proudly on their horses. Leading the way was Coyotero, his chin high, bouncing up and down in his saddle. Stone could see great wealth coming to the community. It was the same kind of wild joy as if there’d been a gold strike in a mining town.

  Some of the warriors broke out the bottles of whiskey they’d stolen from the McIntyre home. They pulled the corks out of the bottles, upended them, and gulped down the fiery liquid. Lobo pointed forward to an old man emerging from one of the wickiups and said to Stone: “That is my father.”

  Jacinto pulled himself to his full height in front of the wickiup and looked at the scene before him. He saw the horses, rifles, clothes, pots and pans, and other material goods. It had been a successful raid, but not for everybody. At the rear of the war party were the dead warriors heads down over their saddles, their wives howling in grief around them.

  Casualties couldn’t be avoided on raids. The life of a warrior was hazardous, and the Ghost Pony always was in the shadows. Few warriors died of old age, especially in recent years when traditional Apache land had been taken over increasingly by the white eyes.

  Coyotero rode toward him, and Jacinto wondered where the raid had taken place. He didn’t see Red Feather and then his heart quickened when his eyes fell on Lobo, a fresh wound on his cheek.

  Jacinto normally was composed and deliberate at all times, but he lost it for a few moments when he saw his beloved son riding amid the returning warriors. Jacinto took a step forward, but caught himself. First he’d have to greet Coyotero, leader of the raid.

  Coyotero stopped his horse in front of Jacinto and dismounted. He walked toward the old man and bowed. “We have returned, great Chief,” he said. Reaching into his shirt, he pulled out a pearl necklace with a cameo pendant attached to it. “This is for you, a token of our esteem.”

  A half smile on his face, he handed the necklace to Jacinto, who held it in his hands and gazed at it, his brow wrinkled. The necklace looked familiar. “Where did you get this thing?” he asked.

  “On our raid, great Chief.”

  “Where was your raid?”

  “A ranch where the white eyes live.”

  Meanwhile, other members of the raiding party dismounted and gathered around Coyotero and Jacinto. There was a terrific amount of noise as women and children shouted gleefully.

  Jacinto looked into Coyotero’s eyes and was afraid to ask the question, but did so anyway. “Which ranch?”

  “I told you,” Coyotero replied evasively, “a ranch where the white eyes live.”

  Lobo approached from the side. “It was the McIntyre ranch,” he said to his father. “Coyotero has killed your blood brother.”

  Jacinto’s eyes widened for a moment. He threw the cameo pendant to the ground, drew his knife out of its sheath, and took a step toward Coyotero.

  “I do not fight old men,” Coyotero said derisively.

  Jacinto advanced to within striking distance of Coyotero, raised his arm in the air, and drove the knife down toward Coyotero’s breast, but Coyotero casually lifted his hand and took hold of Jacinto’s wrist, stopping the downward movement of the knife.

  “I told you — I do not fight old men.”

  Jacinto’s face was inches from Coyotero’s. “You have killed my blood brother!”

  “He was a white eyes, and a white eyes cannot ever be a blood brother to an Apache. To think otherwise is to be a foolish old man.”

  Jacinto quivered with rage at Coyotero and his own impotence. Unable to overcome Coyotero’s strength, he had no choice but to surrender. Coyotero let him go, and Jacinto felt humiliated before his tribe. He returned his knife to its sheath and tried to retain as much dignity as he could.

  “You have no honor,” he said to Coyotero. “You must go.”

  “Very well — I will go,” Coyotero said, “and with me will come the warriors who want what I can give them.” He raised his modern new rifle in the air, to indicate what he could give them. “I do not think many warriors will want to stay with you, who can offer them nothing but the friendship of the white eyes, a friendship that has never meant anything but pain to our people.”

  “Where is Red Feather?” Jacinto asked.

  “He is dead.”

  “I do not see him. How did he die?”

  “On the raid.”

  Lobo stepped forward. “That is a lie. I was visiting the McIntyre ranch when Lobo and his warriors attacked, and Red Feather was not among them.”

  Jacinto looked around at the warriors. They weren’t cheering and celebrating anymore. Something serious was taking place, and they had solemn expressions on their faces. Jacinto’s eyes fell on Eagle Claw, whom he’d always trusted.

  “What happened to Red Feather?” he asked.

  Eagle Claw hesitated, because he knew there’d be trouble if he spoke. Coyotero turned to him, and he thought Coyotero might attack him if he told the truth, but he didn’t dare show any fear of Coyotero in front of the other warriors who knew the true story. It would be better to die than be considered a coward.

  “Coyotero killed Red Feather,” he said. “They had an argument and Coyotero took Red Feather by the throat, and choked him.”

  Jacinto looked at Coyotero. “You are an evil man. The blood of a great medicine man is on your hands.”

  Coyotero laughed. “A great fool, you mean. That is all he was.”

  “The mountains spirits will punish you for what you have done, Coyotero. You may be a great warrior, but you are not greater than the mountain spirits.”

  Coyotero raised his stolen rifle again. “They have rewarded me, not punished me for what I have done. I am a greater medicine man than Red Feather ever was. The success of my raid attests to that. And as for you, esteemed Chief, when is the last time you ever have led such a successful raid?”

  Jacinto trembled with rage. “You have murdered my friends!”

  “Not all of them,” Coyotero replied coolly.

  Coyotero turned and walked back into the crowd. Jacinto’s vision wasn’t acute anymore, and he could only see Coyotero swaggering toward some people on horseback at the edge of the gathering.

  Coyotero continued to make his way toward Stone, Juanita, and Peggy. He raised his arms and lifted Peggy out of her saddle, cradling her in his arms as he carried her back to Jacinto.

  Now Jacinto could discern who she was, and a wave of tenderness passed over him. He’d first seen her when she was an infant, and now she was numbed and staring, obviously in a state of shock.

  Coyotero stopped in front of Jacinto. “You see, great Chief, I did not kill them all. I saved this one. She will be my slave.”

  “No!” Jacinto replied forcefully. “She is the daughter of my blood brother and is under my protection!”

  “I have captured her,” Coyotero retorted. “The white bitch belongs to me.”

  “Never,” said the deep strong voice of Lobo.

  All eyes turned to him, and he stepped out of the crowd, a long swathe of dried blood on his cheek. “The entire story has not yet been told,” he said. “Coyotero and I fought at the McIntyre ranch. I could have killed him, but spared his life because last time we fought he spared mine. Now we are even. We have agreed to fight tomorrow at noon, and in that fight the loser will not be spared. If Coyotero wins, he takes his captives. If I win, they will be mine.” He turned to Coyotero. “Is that not so?”

  “It is so,” Coyotero said.

  “If it is so, the white eyes girl is not yours yet. She should remain under the protection of our chief, until the fight.” Lobo turned and appealed to the crowd. “Is that not the just thing to do?”
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  They nodded their heads, and Coyotero’s face became dark with anger. Lowering Peggy to the ground, he pushed her toward Jacinto, who took her hand gently. She seemed not to know where she was.

  “It is decided,” Jacinto said as Peggy stood at his side, staring sightlessly at the gathering of Apaches in front of her. “The fight will take place tomorrow when the sun is directly overhead. I have spoken.”

  Jacinto turned and led Peggy toward his wickiup, where his wife, Wind Woman, was waiting. The crowd dispersed amid grumbling and confusion. Great new wealth had come into their tribe suddenly, but also great new trouble. Everyone knew that life in the tribe would never be the same again after Coyotero’s raid on the McIntyre ranch.

  It was late afternoon and the sun cast long shadows over Fort Kimball as a lone rider in buckskin made his way toward the command post.

  He was Tim Connors, the old scout, and a rag bandage was tied around his left bicep. Dusty and pale, he slumped over on his saddle. A guard in front of the command post ran forward to guide his horse toward the hitching rail.

  “What happened to you?” the guard asked.

  “Apaches,” Connors replied wearily.

  Connors climbed down from his horse and mounted the steps in front of the adobe headquarters building. He crossed the veranda and opened the door. Sergeant Foley sat behind the desk.

  “Where’s the colonel?” Connors asked.

  “Home havin’ supper.”

  Connors turned around, to walk to Colonel Braddock’s quarters, when he was struck by dizziness. Sergeant Foley arose from behind the desk, rushing toward Connors and holding him steady.

  “I think you need the doc,” Foley said.

  “Got to talk to the colonel.”

  “I’ll get him for you.”

  Sergeant Foley helped Connors to a chair, then ran out to get Colonel Braddock. Connors took a deep breath, then rolled himself a cigarette. Three Apaches on horseback had chased him for an hour and fired many arrows at him. One of the arrows had gone through his arm, but Connors pulled it out and kept going. The Apaches gave up their chase finally, and Connors was able to bandage his wound, but he’d lost a lot of blood.