Warpath Page 18

  Coyotero doggedly followed Lobo around the ring, and the crowd become restless. It was turning into a dance.

  Lobo thought he had Coyotero where he wanted him. Coyotero was fighting more cautiously, and all Lobo had to do was slice him up bit by bit.

  Lobo shot toward Coyotero suddenly, flicked his wrist, bounded back, and a lump of flesh a half-inch deep went flying off Coyotero’s left shoulder, but Coyotero didn’t budge. He’d seen a weakness in Lobo’s attack.

  Lobo’s leg muscles tensed perceptibly a half second before he charged, and Coyotero thought if he could charge at the same instant, his knife would drink Lobo’s blood.

  Lobo danced to the left, danced to the right, spun out, came back, and then pounced on Coyotero again, but this time Coyotero was ready, lunging forward and ripping with his knife.

  Lobo saw the blade coming, and raised his arm to protect his stomach. Coyotero’s blade cut into Lobo’s left forearm to the bone, and Lobo leapt back, dodged to the side, and took stock of himself.

  Blood poured out of his left arm. He tried to move the fingers of his left hand but nothing happened. The hand was useless.

  Coyotero was more dangerous than he’d thought, because Coyotero was faster than he’d thought. He looked at Coyotero, who had a faint smile on his face as sweat dripped down his forehead. Coyotero advanced, dragging his wounded leg, blood covering both his arms, but a bright burning fire was in his eyes.

  Lobo danced to the side and spun out, but he wasn’t so graceful anymore. Pain was in his body and could be clearly seen. He’d lost some of his bounce.

  He danced around Coyotero a few times and then suddenly darted in low, snicking his knife through the air, ripping across the top of Coyotero’s left thigh, but Coyotero had seen him coming in, and managed to whack the top of his head with his knife.

  Both men pulled back from each other, Coyotero bleeding from a deep slit on his thigh, and Lobo from a scalp wound that made the blood flow into his ears and eyes.

  Lobo wiped the blood away. At the instant of contact when Coyotero’s knife had cut into his head, he’d seen the Ghost Pony. It was only a flash, but it had been there.

  He took a deep breath. It is a good day to die, he said to himself.

  He still had to fight to win. It was the only way for a warrior to proceed, so that his offering would be immaculate.

  There was the possibility he could still win. Coyotero was badly cut himself, losing blood too. Maybe the Ghost Pony was for Coyotero, not Lobo. Maybe Lobo was just reading it wrong.

  A warrior always had a fighting chance. Yusn protects the brave. Lobo stepped forward, holding his right arm out, blade facing Coyotero, who advanced also. The crowd watched breathlessly. Juanita said the Rosary over and over in her mind, going through the Sorrowful Mysteries and the Joyful Mysteries, as she watched the two men in the center of the ring move closer to each other, and the ground beneath them was dotted here and there with red blood.

  Lobo tensed, feinted, and darted to the side, dancing smoothly on the balls of his feet. Coyotero altered direction and came after him, lumbering on his two wounded legs. Lobo swooped in, Coyotero charged, and Lobo darted out quickly. Coyotero was off-balance, and Lobo struck again in a movement so fast it was a blur, digging a trench across Coyotero’s left side.

  Coyotero fell to the ground, rolled over, and was on his knees when Lobo charged again, aiming low to cut Coyotero’s face. Coyotero dived at Lobo’s ankles, tackled him, and brought him down.

  Lobo crashed into the ground, spun around, and raised his arm to grab the wrist of Coyotero’s knife hand. Coyotero held Lobo by the throat and choked him, pressing him into the dirt. Then he focused his strength on his right arm and pushed it down toward Lobo.

  Lobo’s left hand was no good. The Ghost Pony ran in front of him again, and this time there was no doubt about who he was there for.

  Lobo knew he had only one chance. Somehow he had to hold Coyotero’s knife back, and he pushed with all his strength, but couldn’t do it. Coyotero was too strong for him. He saw the Ghost Pony floating before him in the air.

  Coyotero growled in his throat like an animal as he squeezed Lobo’s throat with one hand and leaned all his weight on his knife, pressing down.

  The knife sank toward Lobo’s breast, and Lobo looked at it. Lobo and Coyotero vibrated together as they exerted all their strength against each other, but Lobo was clearly losing.

  Coyotero was going to kill him, and everybody, knew it.

  Jacinto sat like a rock, his legs crossed and his hands on his knees. He had interceded to save Lobo last time, but couldn’t do it again. One son already was dead, and his only other son was going to be killed by the man he hated most in the world: Coyotero. He closed his eyes, because he didn’t want to see the end.

  Juanita’s eyes goggled out of her head as she watched the knife dip closer to Lobo’s chest. She was thinking ahead. They’d make her a slave, but maybe she could escape.

  Stone thought about drawing both his Colts and shooting Coyotero, and then fighting for his life against the entire tribe, because that’s what he’d have to do if he shot Coyotero. They’d swarm over him in seconds, with knives, hatchets, or anything they could lay their hands on. He relaxed his hands and thought he’d wait and see what happened. If they came for him, he’d defend himself, but wouldn’t initiate war against the entire tribe.

  He looked at Lobo, whose body was covered with blood and sweat. The knife was only two inches from his chest and it looked as though he was having trouble breathing through his constricted throat that Coyotero throttled with increasing strength every moment.

  No smile of victory graced Coyotero’s features. His face was contorted with effort, because Lobo was fighting him hard, bringing the strength of his manhood to bear against Coyotero, but it wasn’t enough.

  Lobo was a warrior to the core. Although his death was assured, he still fought back. A warrior always had a chance as long as he was alive, as long as he fought with all his heart. Surely the mountain spirits would smile on him if he made his sacrifice pure.

  The point of the knife was a half inch from his chest. Inexorably it moved closer. Every pair of eyes in the tribe was on the tip of the knife. It touched Lobo’s skin just over his heart, and a dot of blood appeared. Lobo strained with all his might, hoping for the warrior’s last chance, and the knife bit deeper into his flesh. Lobo took a deep breath and gave it all he had, but the knife pierced more deeply, slipping between, his ribs, moving toward the delicate arteries and main organs.

  The Ghost Pony walked toward him, its head lowered, and turned to the side. It stood silently, waiting, raising its head up and down slowly. Lobo felt something burst in his chest as blood spurted out around the blade of Coyotero’s knife. All Lobo’s strength shot out of him in an instant, and he felt himself flying through the air. He landed on the back of the Ghost Pony, who walked forward into the sky.

  Lieutenant Lowell rode to the top of the hill and looked down. He saw approximately fifty wickiups facing east in the valley before him, just as the Apache scouts had reported.

  His troop was deployed in a skirmish line, their rifles in their hands, ready to attack. The bugler was poised to sound the charge.

  It was exactly what he’d been praying for ever since he’d been transferred to the Department of Arizona, and now here it was, lying before him like a gift from God, and the Indians evidently were in the middle of a serious ritual of some kind, not even aware that he and his men were there.

  It would be a textbook cavalry charge. The Apaches wouldn’t know what hit them. They outnumbered him, but Indians usually broke and ran when attacked in their villages by the U.S. Cavalry.

  His men were silent, holding their pistols in their hands, waiting for the order to attack. The gnarled old veterans didn’t like the odds, but they were soldiers and had to obey orders. Many of the newer men relished the opportunity to kill Apaches, whom they despised, and they were confident their commanding off
icer knew what he was doing. A few troopers were scared to death, their teeth rattling in their mouths, and one had a bowel movement while sitting in his saddle.

  Antonio sat on his mule and looked down at the village where he’d been beaten and tortured. It looked like too many Apaches to him, and he thought Lieutenant Lowell was crazy. Lieutenant Lowell told him to wait on the hill until the battle was over. Antonio decided he’d flee from the area as soon as it appeared that the gringo soldiers would lose.

  Lieutenant Lowell drew his gleaming cavalry saber. He could see the headlines in the Boston papers:

  LOWELL DEFEATS APACHES IN ARIZONA DESERT

  All the books said shock and surprise were among the most important elements of the successful cavalry charge. He turned to the bugler.

  “Sound the charge!”

  The bugler raised his instrument to his lips. The cavalry patrol was poised to strike at the Apache village, where every pair of eyes still was fixed on Coyotero.

  With a cry of joy, Coyotero plunged his knife into Lobo’s heart, and Lobo went slack on the ground. Coyotero shrieked wildly and stabbed Lobo again in the same place. Then he raised the knife into the air and rammed it into Lobo’s throat.

  Coyotero looked down at Lobo’s corpse. “I have killed you,” he said. “I always said I would, and I did.”

  Coyotero jumped to his feet and raised both his arms in the air. The bloody knife in his hand glinted in the light of the sun.

  Jacinto felt sick; his eyes were closed. I bow to the will of Yusn.

  Coyotero looked over the heads of the crowd and was shocked to see men on horseback lined up on the hill. His jaw dropped open and his eyes were like saucers. “Bluecoats!”

  The bugler blew the charge, the sharp staccato notes resounding across the plain. Lieutenant Lowell kicked the ribs of his horse.

  The animal galloped down the hill, and the patrol followed. The troopers brandished rifles and shouted battle cries. The charge was on and all they could do was hold on.

  They rode into the valley and advanced toward the wickiups, as the Apaches scattered in all directions, except for Coyotero, who stood bloody and battered over Lobo’s body. The other Apaches were running for their rifles and pistols, but Coyotero was in no mood to turn his back on his enemy. He had a knife in his hand and the blood of his worst enemy dripping from it. Contemptuous of bluecoats, he was in the mood for fighting.

  He narrowed his eyes and searched among the onrushing bluecoats, looking for their leader. If he could kill their leader it would be a great honor, one more on this illustrious day, and it also could take the heart out of the attackers. Coyotero had seen it happen many times. Warriors and bluecoats became confused when their leader was killed.

  His eyes picked out Lieutenant Lowell riding in front of the troops, the corporal with the guidon colors to his rear right and the bugler next to him, still playing charge.

  Coyotero stepped to the side quickly, to intercept the officer. Twenty horses thundered toward Coyotero, but it didn’t faze him.

  Stone meanwhile had gathered up Perico, Juanita, and Peggy, and pushed them into the nearest wickiup. He stood outside the entrance and threw his hat away, so the soldiers could see his light hair and know he wasn’t an Apache. Then he drew both his Colts and waited to see what would happen next.

  An overexcited cavalry trooper might try to shoot him, or maybe an Apache would try to kill him on general principles. He had to be ready. The troopers in blue swept toward him, and it was like the war all over again.

  Jacinto emerged from his tent, carrying his Sharps carbine. Majestically he gazed at the onrushing bluecoats, then dropped to one knee and cocked the hammer of his carbine. He took aim down the barrel, and waited for the soldiers to come closer.

  Meanwhile, the other Apaches swarmed toward the bluecoats, carrying rifles, pistols, knives, hatchets, and war clubs. The shock of the initial attack had worn off, and now they realized they outnumbered the patrol three to one.

  The Apaches dropped to the ground and opened fire at the advancing bluecoats, who leaned around their horses’ necks and fired back. Puffs of white smoke arose in the air, and the sound of shots resounded across the mountains.

  Captain Danforth held up his hand, signaling for Troop F to stop behind him. He pulled back the reins of his horse, waited until everybody settled down, then wrinkled his brow and listened.

  He heard popping in the distance that was unmistakably the sound of battle. Turning to Tim Connors, he said: “I bet that’s Lieutenant Lowell!” He raised his right hand in the air, made a fist, and filled his lungs with air. “Troop F!” he bellowed. “Forward at a gallop — hooooooo!”

  He spurred his horse, and it raised its front hooves high in the air, then dropped down to the ground and bounded forward. Troop F, with Captain Danforth leading the way, rode hard across the desert, heading for the battle behind the hills straight ahead.

  Lieutenant Lowell crouched low in his saddle, holding his saber before him, aiming at the Apaches kneeling or lying all over the valley. They fired furiously at the cavalry, and he could hear bullets whistling all around his head as he thundered toward them across the sand.

  An Apache was directly ahead of him, poised on one knee, aiming directly at his horse. My God, Lieutenant Lowell thought, he’s going to shoot my horse! The rifle fired, and Lieutenant Lowell felt his beautiful chestnut roan shudder. He held his sword tightly as the horse crashed toward the ground and tumbled over.

  Lieutenant Lowell was thrown clear, and rolled a few times, getting to his feet quickly. He was covered with dust and alkali, his eyes burned, he had to cough, and he saw an Apache with a knife in his hand running at him.

  It was Coyotero, who’d stalked him across the battlefield, in a trajectory that brought him directly in front of Lieutenant Lowell. In Lieutenant Lowell’s eyes, he looked like the devil incarnate.

  Coyotero was covered with blood and moved like a monster, a gory knife in his hand. An expression of extreme malevolence and hatred was in his eyes, and he screamed horribly as he plunged his knife toward Lieutenant Lowell.

  Lieutenant Lowell swung his saber the way they’d taught him at West Point, and Coyotero grabbed his wrist, stopping the saber in midair, while stabbing his knife into Lieutenant Lowell’s stomach, ripping to the side.

  Lieutenant Lowell hollered and fell to the ground, clutching his torn bowels, and Coyotero looked down on him, contempt on his face. This was their leader, and he was only a boy. Coyotero considered it an insult.

  The sound of galloping hooves caught his attention. He glanced up and saw a bluecoat riding toward him, aiming a pistol.

  The pistol fired, and the bullet exploded into the dirt near Coyotero’s feet. Coyotero jumped to the side to get out of the horse’s way, then cut in again, leaping up to the bluecoat, wrapping his arms around him, and knocking him out of his saddle.

  The bluecoat fell over and dropped to the ground, Coyotero holding him with one hand and raising his knife with the other. Their forward motion caused them to bounce and roll over, as Coyotero struck the soldier again and again with his knife.

  Finally they came to a stop. Coyotero got up from him, looked around, and saw a pistol lying on the ground a few feet away. He picked it up and saw another bluecoat on horseback bearing down on him. Raising the pistol, he took aim at the bluecoat.

  The bluecoat fired first, and Coyotero sensed the bullet passing his left shoulder. He held steady, aimed carefully at the bluecoat as he passed, and pulled the trigger of his revolver.

  It fired and kicked in his hand, and the bluecoat fell off his horse, but his foot was stuck in the stirrup and he was dragged, with a bullet in his heart, into the wickiup area.

  The horse and soldier galloped not far from Stone, who stood in front of the wickiup in which he’d placed Juanita, Peggy, and Perico.

  For the first time, Stone was the spectator in the middle of a battle, instead of a participant. The main consideration that struck him was tha
t the Apaches significantly outnumbered the cavalry soldiers, and the charge had been ill-conceived. Stone would never have made the charge himself. He didn’t like the odds.

  The second consideration was that the Apaches were better fighters. They shot the soldiers out of their saddles or leapt on them and stabbed them. Many Apaches shot the soldiers’ horses, and then rushed and shot the soldier as he fell to the ground.

  Some soldiers managed to shoot Apaches, but the killing ratio was much higher against the soldiers.

  What a dumb charge, Stone thought.

  The plain was covered with dust and gunsmoke, and Stone couldn’t see Sergeant McFeeley’s horse get shot out from underneath him. Dazed, with a broken arm and a sprained leg, Sergeant McFeeley got to his feet and aimed his pistol straight ahead at the two Apaches charging him, one with a hatchet, the other with a club.

  He pulled the trigger calmly, shot the first Apache, aimed again, and shot the second. Wherever he looked he saw Apaches swarming toward him, jumping over the bodies of fallen troopers.

  Sergeant McFeeley knew this would happen to him someday. A soldier can’t expect to survive every battle, but soldiering was all he knew. He stood on his one good leg and waited steadfastly for the end.

  The Apaches howled and shook their rifles and pistols as they closed in on him. He fired at them but they were quick as jackrabbits, and they aimed shots as they advanced over the bodies of dead horses and soldiers.

  His last bullet hit an Apache, who fell to the desert sand, and then he had an empty pistol. Gritting his teeth, sweat pouring down his cheeks, he raised the pistol, to use it as a club, when an Apache in front of him perched on one knee, aimed his rifle, and pulled the trigger.

  Sergeant McFeeley heard the explosion and felt a slight pressure on his shirt, and then was dead. He fell to the ground and the Apache who’d shot him jumped to his feet and shouted victoriously.

  In the edge of the wickiups closest to the carnage, a tiny figure jumped out of the shadows. He was Perico, who’d escaped from the wickiup behind John Stone. His knife in hand, he thought maybe he could sneak up on a bluecoat and kill him.