Warpath Read online

  He leaned back in the chair and puffed his cigarette. I’m gittin’ too old for this shit, he said to himself.

  He closed his eyes and passed out, the cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. A few minutes later footsteps stirred him to consciousness. The door opened and Colonel Braddock entered the office, followed by Sergeant Foley.

  “What happened?” said Colonel Braddock.

  Connors tried to get to his feet, to render the proper salute, but Colonel Braddock pushed him back into the chair.

  “You can tell me from where you’re sitting.”

  Connors looked up at the colonel. “About thirty Apaches attacked the McIntyre ranch and burned it to the ground. Everybody there was massacred. Lieutenant Lowell is pursuin’, and he asks fer reinforcements, sir.”

  Colonel Braddock knitted his brows together. He’d always been afraid the McIntyre ranch would be attacked someday Thirty warriors would outnumber Lieutenant Lowell’s patrol, and Lieutenant Lowell would be hard-pressed if he ran into them. The only thing to do was reinforce Lowell as soon as possible.

  “Do you think you can ride?” Colonel Braddock asked Connors.

  “A good meal and a little rest, and I could go anywheres, sir.”

  Colonel Braddock turned to Sergeant Foley. “Tell Captain Danforth to report here immediately. And when you’re finished with that, ask Dr. Lantz to have a look at Connors here.”

  Sergeant Foley walked swiftly out of the room, and Colonel Braddock entered his office, closing the door. He approached his map table and looked down at the X that marked the McIntyre ranch. He thought of the McIntyre women, and how they must’ve died. It wouldn’t have been pretty.

  Clasping his hands behind his back, he studied the map. He wanted to lead the expedition that would go to Lieutenant Lowell’s aid, but he had more to worry about than Lieutenant Lowell. Captain Danforth would have to go. Captain Danforth was his toughest and most experienced Apache fighter.

  Several minutes later there was a knock on his door, and he turned around. “Come in!”

  The door opened and Captain Danforth entered. He was short, stocky, forty years old, wearing a long flowing rust-colored mustache. An unmarried officer, he’d risen from the ranks, winning a battlefield commission at Antietam.

  He came to attention in front of Colonel Braddock and saluted.

  “I suppose Sergeant Foley told you the news,” Colonel Braddock said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want you to take Troop F immediately and reinforce Lieutenant Lowell. Connors will be your guide. Are there any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  Captain Danforth saluted, performed a smart about-face, and marched out of the office. Colonel Braddock looked out the window at the clear blue sky. He knew that Lieutenant Lowell was relatively inexperienced, and wondered if he’d got himself into trouble yet.

  I hope Danforth reaches him in time, Colonel Braddock thought.

  Lieutenant Lowell and his patrol stopped on a rocky plateau cut by a winding stream. The two Apache scouts clambered over the plateau, jabbering with each other, while the troopers watered their horses and filled their canteens. The empty wagon, abandoned by the Apache raiders, was near the stream.

  Lieutenant Lowell sat on the hard rock, his knees in the air, smoking a cigar and watching the sun dip toward the horizon. The Apache scouts had lost the trail and were trying to pick it up. Lieutenant Lowell was eager to get moving. He didn’t want the Apache raiders to get away.

  He kept thinking about General George Armstrong Custer, who’d won a great victory over the Cheyenne Indians in the Battle of the Washita on Thanksgiving Day a year ago. Custer had come upon a Cheyenne village of seventy five lodges under Chief Black Kettle and attacked immediately, killing one hundred and five Indians and capturing fifty three women and children, and Chief Black Kettle himself had been among the casualties. The battle had been publicized throughout the country, and made Custer even more famous than he was already.

  Indians in villages usually ran when attacked by cavalry, just as the Cheyenne had run in the Battle of the Washita. The power of cavalry was too much for them. A determined attack was everything.

  Lieutenant Lowell wished he could find Jacinto’s village and do the same thing. Then he’d be famous too, and become a captain, wearing two bars on his shoulder boards instead of one, becoming a troop commander. Then maybe Samantha would take his military career more seriously. He imagined she’d be proud to be the wife of a famous officer.

  His reverie was interrupted by the approach of his two Apache scouts, and they didn’t appear happy. Lieutenant Lowell rose to greet them.

  “They have split up,” Chinchi said. “They have gone in many ways.” He turned around and pointed his fingers in several directions. “They will join up together somewhere and return to camp.”

  Lieutenant Lowell wished he had Tim Connors there, to advise him about what course to take next.

  “Where do you think their camp is?” Lieutenant Lowell asked.

  “There are many places to make camp,” Chinchi said with a shrug. “Could be anywhere.”

  “You know where the camps are, don’t you?”

  Chinchi nodded.

  “We’ll check them one by one, then.”

  Chinchi looked at Blanco, then back to Lieutenant Lowell. “But there are many camps.”

  “We’ve got no other choice, and maybe while we’re searching we can pick up their trail.” Lieutenant Lowell turned around. “Sergeant McFeeley!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Form up the patrol! We’re moving out!”

  Lobo paused outside the wickiup of Mountain Blossom, the old medicine woman. From inside, he could hear her chanting. This was the way she spent most of her time, in prayer. She was considered a great holy woman, and Apaches from other tribes often came to confer with her.

  “Mountain Blossom,” he said. “It is Lobo, son of Jacinto, come to speak with you.”

  She continued chanting for another minute or two, then it was silent for a while. Finally she said: “Enter, Lobo.”

  Lobo bent down and crawled through the entrance hole. It was dark inside the wickiup, and Mountain Blossom sat beside the flickering fire pit. She was ancient, with deep wrinkles in her face, and scraggly gray hair. Lobo sat opposite her and bowed.

  “I have the Owl Sickness,” he said.

  “How did it come upon you?”

  Lobo described seeing the owl when he was on his way to the water hole, and how it flew past him. “Tomorrow at noon I must fight Coyotero, and I am afraid the Owl Sickness will make me weak and cause me to be killed.”

  She closed her eyes and hummed softly for a while, then opened her eyes and spoke: “Lie on your back with your head facing east.”

  Lobo did as she requested, his head toward the entrance to the wickiup.

  “Close your eyes and spread out your arms.”

  She began to hum, thrusting her hand into a leather bag, taking out a handful of sacred pollen, sprinkling it over Lobo. Then she reached into another bag and removed a handful of small quartz crystals, dropping them onto his face. She passed her hands over his body, then sat beside him and chanted in a low monotonous drone.

  Lobo went limp on the ground. There was a buzzing in his head that matched the sound of her chanting. He felt himself falling asleep. A vision of the desert passed before his eyes. He saw an enormous expanse of country — massive buttes and valleys — streaked with the white of long meandering dry washes. Buzzards flew in circles against the blue sky, synchronized to the sound of Mountain Blossom’s chanting, while beneath them, galloping wildly across a sandy plateau, was the Ghost Pony, his long white mane undulating in the breeze.

  Near Jacinto’s wickiup, Stone and Juanita sat cross-legged on the ground, eating stewed horsemeat out of wooden bowls. Juanita looked around suspiciously at Apache warriors and women in the vicinity. Perico, the nephew of Lobo, sat on the ground ten feet away from Stone and J
uanita and couldn’t take his eyes off them.

  “I am afraid of these people,” Juanita said to Stone. “We have got to get out of here.”

  “I don’t think we’d get far,” Stone replied. “Apaches are supposed to be the best trackers in the world.”

  “We must try to escape somehow. Think of something, will you? I thought you were supposed to be a smart gringo.”

  “If Lobo wins the fight, they’ll let us go. If he doesn’t, maybe Jacinto can protect us. Otherwise we might have to fight our way out of here.”

  They heard a commotion at the far end of the camp and turned their heads in that direction. Stone saw warriors on horseback returning to camp, and they had two prisoners with them, their hands bound behind their backs, and also on horseback.

  “¡Ay Dios!” Juanita said, staring in shock at the prisoners.

  “What’s wrong?” Stone asked her.

  “It is Antonio,” she replied, “Rodrigo’s brother, and he is with Luis, another member of the band!”

  Stone and Juanita followed the others gathering around the returning warriors and their prisoners. There were twenty warriors with the horses, saddles, and possessions of the Mexican bandits.

  Luis looked more dead than alive. He had a huge bloody bruise on his forehead where he’d been struck by an Apache war club, and his head hung low. He was dazed and confused, because he had a brain concussion. His shirt was covered with blood.

  Antonio also was bloodied, with cuts on his face and his clothing torn. He’d put up a hard fight but they’d taken him alive. He knew what Apaches did to their prisoners, and hoped he could take it like a man.

  Children and women gathered around him, jeering and spitting. Some of them threw stones that bounced off his body and the top of his head. He ducked, but couldn’t avoid all the projectiles. The warriors who’d captured him rode proudly, for their ambush had been successful. They sat stiffly in their saddles, accepting the cheers of their families.

  In pain, and fearful of the terrible death that he knew the Apaches would inflict upon him, Antonio was astonished to see a familiar face in the crowd. He blinked, because he thought he might be dreaming, but then realized it was Juanita, Rodrigo’s woman, standing next to a tall, powerfully built gringo.

  Juanita made no sign that she recognized him, and he didn’t respond to her either.

  The Apache warriors stopped their horses and climbed down. Then they roughly pulled Antonio and Luis to the ground. Antonio’s arms and hands were tied tightly behind his back and he couldn’t do anything to protect himself from the women and children who crowded around him, screaming insults, punching, and kicking.

  He gritted his teeth as he fell beneath their cruel punishment, and then he was on the ground; they kicked him repeatedly in the face. He felt his nose split apart and his teeth smashed back into his mouth but then an old woman whacked him on the temple with a length of firewood and he passed out, numb at last to the cascade of blows falling upon him.

  Samantha sat at her desk, scratching her pen on a sheet of white paper. She’d decided not to leave her husband, and instead stay at Fort Kimball, maintaining her sanity by writing about her experiences.

  She’d got the idea while in Santa Maria del Pueblo earlier in the day. Her encounter with the little beggar boy and her experience in the quaint old church had stimulated her imagination. She’d realized that people back east could never imagine a town like Santa Maria del Pueblo, so she thought she’d write about it in a diary that she hoped to publish someday. She’d also write about Fort Kimball, military life in general, the people she met, the flora and fauna of the desert, and she thought it’d make interesting reading for armchair travelers back in Boston.

  It grew darker in the room as the sun sank toward the horizon. She was having difficulty reading her writing, and thought she’d light the lamp, when she became aware of a major activity outside.

  She arose from her desk and walked to the window. Outside on the parade ground, a large number of cavalry soldiers were riding off into the desert. It was a stirring sight, the guidons fluttering in the breeze and sergeants barking commands as the sun sank behind the mountain range to the west of the fort.

  I wonder where they’re going, she thought, and then realized it’d be an interesting military activity to describe for the folks back east. Turning around, she rushed back to the desk and sat down. She picked up her pen, paused for a moment, and then the sound of her stylus scratching against the paper could be heard, while from the distance resounded the hoofbeats of cavalry mounts and the blowing of the bugler, as Captain Danforth and Troop F took the field.

  Captain Danforth rode at the head of the column, with his executive officer to his left and Tim Connors to his right. His bugler and the corporal carrying the Troop F guidon were behind him.

  Captain Danforth wasn’t too popular with his men, because he drove them hard. He didn’t mix easily with other officers because he hadn’t graduated from West Point or any other institution of higher learning. He was essentially a loner, a heavy drinker and carouser with a mean temper and a violent nature. All he knew was fighting, and everyone respected him for that.

  Troop F rode onto the desert, and Captain Danforth scowled. He knew what his mission really was: to save the ass of a young fancy pants West Point officer who’d got himself in trouble. Lieutenant Lowell wasn’t his favorite person, but duty was duty. Captain Danforth would do whatever he could to find him. He intended to push his men all night to make up for lost time.

  The sun disappeared behind the mountains and a coyote howled in the distance as Troop F rode across the darkening expanse of desert.

  It was the middle of the night, and Antonio looked up at the stars. He wished he’d die quickly, but it didn’t look as if it was going to be that way.

  Green strips of rawhide bound him to the sharp spikes of a cactus plant, and as the rawhide dried and shrank, it pulled him more tightly against the spikes.

  The spikes were sticking into his stomach, chest, and face, making him bleed, but this was only the beginning. It was dark and cool on the desert. In the morning when the sun came up, the thongs would pull him against the spikes and kill him.

  It was going to be a slow painful death. Luis was the lucky one, nearly dead already, lying still on the ground several feet from Antonio. The Apaches had staked him to an anthill and smeared his eyes and lips with honey. The ants had been eating him up slowly all night, burrowing their way into his brain through his eyes, and into his throat, stomach, and lungs through his mouth. At first the screams had been horrible, and they’d gone on for hours, but now Luis was quiet. Occasionally a slight whimper would erupt out of his ant-clogged throat, but he was mostly gone.

  Antonio knew he’d be gone soon too. He thought he was too young to die, but that wouldn’t matter when the sun came up in the morning. The pain already was excruciating, hundreds of spikes sticking into him and getting deeper every second. In the morning they would pierce his throat, ribs, and heart slowly. He was half-insane, but made no sound. He was determined to die well, the way his brother Rodrigo would’ve expected.

  He realized now that he shouldn’t have come into Apache country. Love of Rodrigo and hatred of his killer had blinded him to the realities of the desert.

  A wave of pain passed over him, and he nearly fainted. He thought about death and wondered if he’d go to hell, because he’d done many bad things in his life, stealing and killing. He wished a Catholic priest could give him absolution, but there were no Catholic priests around. All he could do was hug the spines of the cactus that bit into his soft flesh.

  He remembered seeing Juanita when he’d ridden into the Apache camp. She’d been standing next to a tall gringo, and Antonio assumed he was the gringo who’d killed Rodrigo. Antonio had found him at last, but couldn’t do anything about it.

  A sigh passed between the lips of Luis, and Antonio wished Luis would die and get it over with. Antonio closed his eyes and recited the Rosary: �
�Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.”

  He heard something rustle behind him. It might be a wolf or a bear who’d eat him alive, and his hair stood on end. He tried to move his head to see what it was, but the spikes of the cactus cut his skin. Someone was behind him, coming closer.

  “Who’s there?” he asked.

  “Sssshhhhh,” said Juanita. “Be quiet.”

  She carried a knife that she’d stolen from John Stone’s boot, and cut the rawhide thongs that held Antonio to the cactus. Antonio felt the spikes withdraw from his skin. When she finished he took a step back and looked at her.

  Her eyes gleamed in the moonlight as she stared at the hundreds of tiny wounds on his torso. She handed him the knife. “Take this and run for your life, Antonio.”

  He took the knife in his fist and staggered from side to side, barely able to hold himself up. “I ought to kill you,” he said, raising the knife in the air.

  She turned and ran away, leaving Antonio alone with the knife in his upraised hand. He didn’t have enough strength to chase her. All he could do was stumble off into the desert, leaving Luis staked over the anthill, devoured by thousands of tiny ants.

  It was three o’clock in the morning, and the crescent moon shone down on the ghostly ruins of the McIntyre ranch as Troop F came to a stop in the former front yard.

  Captain Danforth sat on his saddle and coldly surveyed the scene. He was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. Ralph McIntyre had been an old fool. Anybody who trusted an Apache was crazy.

  Tim Connors turned to Captain Danforth. “This is where I left Lieutenant Lowell, sir.”

  “Which way was he headed last time you saw him?”

  Connors pointed west. “Thataway. He was followin’ the trail left by the Apaches. We shouldn’t have any trouble seein’ it.”

  “Lead the way, Mr. Connors. We’ll follow you.”