Warpath Read online

  He’d watched the battle from behind the wickiups, and it had been fabulous. The warriors from his tribe had destroyed the bluecoats, almost like killing sheep. Perico had seen with his own eyes that Apaches are superior beings. This made him very proud.

  All the bluecoats were dead in front of him. Perico advanced toward the nearest one and looked into his face. His face was white and he had a clipped black mustache.

  Perico reached into the bluecoat’s pockets, wondering what interesting gadgets he had with him, and came out with a gold watch. He looked at it curiously, having never seen one before. Its dial was weird and mysterious. What use could it possibly have? Then he became aware it was ticking. He raised it to his ear, an expression of wonderment on his face.

  “What are you doing out here, Perico?”

  Perico looked up and saw his grandfather Jacinto walking toward him, carrying a pistol in his hand.

  “Look what I’ve got, Grandfather,” Perico said, holding up the watch. “Do you know what it is?”

  “It is a machine that tells the white eyes what time of day it is.”

  “Can’t they just look up at the sun?”

  “The white eyes are crazy,” Jacinto said, taking Perico’s hand, walking with him toward his wickiup.

  The women and children left the wickiups, slowly at first, looking at dead bodies. Some of the women wailed, seeing a husband or son lying out there among the fallen.

  John Stone looked at the desert covered with casualties, and it reminded him of the war. He felt as though he should do something, but there was nothing. This wasn’t his fight, unless somebody wanted to make it his fight. He stood with his Colts in his hands, watching the Apaches plundering the battlefield.

  Juanita stuck her head out of the wickiup. “Is it over?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Who won?”

  “The Apaches.”

  “¡Ay Dios!” She came out of the wickiup, placed her hands on his hips, and looked at the battlefield. “What do you think will happen now?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe you’d better get back inside that hut, just in case.”

  Juanita peered ahead and saw a figure hobbling toward her resolutely among the Apaches stealing everything they could find of value on the battlefield. She could feel the Apache’s eyes burning into her, and even at that distance recognized him.

  “¡Ay Dios!” she said, and turned around, crawling back into the wickiup.

  Stone spotted him coming. With a knife in one hand and a pistol in the other, Coyotero advanced toward Stone across the battlefield.

  Stone had been expecting something like this ever since Lobo was killed. He was fair game for anyone in the tribe, but Coyotero would be the most likely assassin.

  Stone could respect Lobo, Jacinto, and the other Apache warriors, but he couldn’t respect Coyotero, who’d led the slaughter of the McIntyres and killed Lobo, whom Stone had considered a friend. If Coyotero wanted a showdown, he’d get one.

  Coyotero saw Stone standing beside the wickiup, a pistol in each hand, and stopped. It could be a long-distance gunfight, but Lobo wanted to fight him man to man, spirit against spirit, and see the expression on his face when the knife went in. Scornfully he threw his pistol onto the ground and raised his knife in the air as he limped toward Stone.

  Stone watched him come for a few moments, then dropped his Colts into their holsters. He reached down and pulled the knife out of his boot — it was the one Lobo had given him, with the ten-inch blade sharp as a razor, and the handle made from the thigh bone of a bear.

  He walked toward Coyotero, wondering if he was being a fool. I could shoot him without any trouble, he thought, but if he did that, the other Apaches might jump all over him. His goal was survival, and it appeared that a knife fight with Coyotero might be the best way.

  If he beat Coyotero, he didn’t think the other warriors would want to mess with him, but if Coyotero beat him, that would be the end of his road.

  He didn’t think Coyotero could beat him. He knew Coyotero was a great warrior, but considered himself a first-class fighting man too. He was big, he was strong, he’d been through a lot of hell, and no one had beat him yet.

  He and Coyotero trudged toward each other, and pretty soon the Apaches in the area became aware that something was happening. They stopped looting and gathered around Stone and Coyotero, to see the fight.

  “Look, Grandfather!”

  Jacinto looked up and saw two men walking toward each other, knives in their hands, and although his eyes were bad, he recognized them immediately: the powerfully built Coyotero and tall John Stone with his strange light-colored hair.

  Jacinto got to his feet and took Perico’s hand. They walked together toward the part of the battlefield where Coyotero and John Stone were converging on each other.

  Stone was steady and solid as he made his way toward Coyotero. Stone didn’t intend to dance around like Lobo. He’d meet Coyotero head on and go for his jugular.

  Coyotero looked more like a beast than a man as he shuffled toward Stone. The muscles were bunched up in his shoulders and a fierce expression was on his face. He’d already killed Lobo and the young chief of the white eyes. Now, to crown his day with glory, he wanted to kill John Stone too.

  They came abreast of each other and stopped, staring into each other’s eyes. Stone thought Coyotero was a homicidal maniac, and Coyotero saw Stone as the blood brother of his worst enemy. They gripped their knives tightly and went into the knife fighter’s crouch.

  It was silent. Jacinto sat on the ground ten feet away and stared at the combatants, yearning to see Coyotero bleeding on the ground. If Stone killed Coyotero, Jacinto vowed to give him anything he wanted in the tribe.

  Perico stared up at Stone and Coyotero, feeling the energies of their bodies enter his. Something caught his eyes on the horizon of the hills in the distance.

  His brown eyes widened, then he pointed and hollered: “Bluecoats!”

  Captain Danforth’s bugler sounded the charge. Everybody in the valley except Stone and Coyotero turned in the direction of the bluecoats. A huge number of them charged down the hill, three or four times more bluecoats than the last time.

  The warriors turned to meet them, now armed with weapons taken from the dead bluecoats on the ground. Women and children ran back to the protection of the wickiups.

  “Let me stay with you, Grandfather!” Perico said, drawing his knife. “I will fight them too!”

  “Go back to the wickiup!”

  “Please let me stay!”

  Jacinto smacked the boy in the mouth, but Perico didn’t flinch, cry, or show pain. Turning around solemnly, he walked toward the wickiups. Jacinto remained seated, watching Stone and Coyotero. That was more important than the bluecoats.

  Captain Danforth rode with his reins in his left hand and his pistol in his right, cocked and ready to fire. The windstream blew back the brim of his hat and the long ends of his rust-colored mustache flew in the breeze.

  He led F Troop toward the Apaches, and they saw their brethren in blue lying dead all over the ground. With hatred in their hearts and rifles in their hands, they thundered toward the Apaches.

  The Apaches waited, aiming their pistols and rifles at the bluecoats, waiting for them to come closer. They knew they were outnumbered this time, and had to fight harder than ever.

  Meanwhile Stone and Coyotero circled each other, holding their knives ready, and Jacinto sat on the ground watching. They heard firing but didn’t shift their gazes toward where it was coming from. Stone could see that Coyotero had been slowed down by his wounds, but he’d still be a powerful adversary.

  Coyotero knew he had to move fast. The bluecoats were coming, and there were a lot of them. He glanced over Stone’s head and was astonished by how many there were.

  He had to kill Stone quickly, before those bluecoats saw Coyotero and shot him down. The only thing to do was get in close immediately and start grappling, looking for a soft spot t
o stick the knife. With a low growl he lunged toward Stone.

  Stone darted to the side, but Coyotero changed direction and pounced on him. Stone dodged again, and Coyotero fell on his face. Stone dived on him, raising his blade in the air, ready to jam it into Coyotero’s back, but Coyotero spun out and landed on his knees.

  Stone was on his knees too. Both men got to their feet as shooting grew louder nearby and the cavalry charge came closer, the ground trembling beneath the pounding hooves of the horses.

  Coyotero swung with his knife. Stone leapt back and tried to slash Coyotero’s arm with his knife, but Coyotero moved in time and Stone’s blade whistled in the wind.

  The cavalry came closer. Stone and Coyotero heard shots and smelled gunsmoke as Coyotero edged toward Stone, measured him, and jumped, tearing the air with his knife.

  Stone stepped back and thrust his blade at Coyotero’s arms, cutting deeply into Coyotero’s forearm, but Coyotero backswung with his own knife, ripping Stone across the left biceps.

  They stood toe to toe, ripping each other’s body, and Stone managed to grab Coyotero’s knife hand, while at the same time thrusting his knife toward Coyotero’s belly.

  Coyotero caught Stone’s wrist in his hand, and they were locked together. They held each other tightly and strained with all their strength, noses nearly touching, gritting their teeth. It was a test of sheer strength, and they dug in their heels, pushing against each other, grunting, their faces turning red with effort, trying to drive their knives into each other’s chests.

  Stone summoned up every ounce of energy he had and pressed it on Coyotero, but couldn’t budge him. Coyotero struggled to break Stone’s iron tension, but it was like moving a mountain.

  Jacinto watched in fascination. Sweat poured down the foreheads of Stone and Coyotero. They sucked wind through clenched teeth and drew the life force from each sinew and fiber in their bodies, but neither could gain an advantage over the other.

  A rifle fired nearby, and Coyotero shook as if hit by a bolt of lightning. He looked at Stone quizzically, as blood poured out of his mouth, then his eyes closed. Stone let him go, and Coyotero fell to the ground.

  Stone glanced up and saw the U.S. Cavalry in full charge, heading directly for him. He dropped his knife and raised both his hands in the air.

  “Don’t shoot!” he hollered. “I’m an American!”

  No one could hear above the din, and the smoke and dust altered colors and shapes. A bullet whistled past Stone’s ear, and he dropped to the ground, looking for somewhere to hide.

  The horses galloped past, their riders firing at everything that moved. Jacinto was shot in the chest, and he staggered. He took another step, then lost his balance and fell. Another bullet hit him on the way down.

  Stone raised his head and saw the cavalry ride through the village, shooting into the wickiups. He arose and ran toward them.

  “Stop shooting! There’s children in there!”

  A private first class turned his horse around and looked at Stone. He raised his rifle to fire, then became aware of the color of his hair. “It’s a white man!” he shouted.

  Meanwhile, the rest of the cavalry troop was re-forming for another charge. Captain Danforth turned around and could see only twenty or thirty Apaches still standing, with one of them running toward him, waving his hands, shouting something. A cavalry trooper rode toward this Apache, but then Captain Danforth also noticed the dark blond hair and light skin.

  Captain Danforth spurred his horse and trotted toward the American, who continued to wave his hands. The trooper drew close to him.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” asked the trooper.

  “I’m a prisoner of the Apaches. There are more of us in these wickiups, plus women and children. Who’s in charge here?”

  “I am,” said Captain Danforth, coming abreast of Stone. “Who’re you?”

  Stone told him his name and how he’d been taken prisoner by the Apaches. “You’ve got to stop your men from shooting into those wickiups!”

  “I’d suggest you find someplace to hide.” Captain Danforth turned to his men. “Skirmish line!”

  The troop formed long blue lines on both sides of Captain Danforth. They reloaded their pistols and rifles rapidly.

  “Bugler, sound the charge!”

  The bugler blew the music, and Troop F galloped back across the field, their pistols aimed at the remaining Apaches waiting for them.

  Stone watched the troopers sweep forward, and the battlefield became covered with dust and smoke. He couldn’t see what was going on, but there was a lot of shooting. The smell of gunsmoke was thick in the air, and occasionally he heard a howl of pain.

  He dropped to one knee, took out his bag of tobacco, and rolled himself a cigarette. Lighting it, he took a puff and gazed across the valley.

  “San Antone, here I come,” he said.

  Chapter Nine

  Colonel Braddock marched across the parade ground, his campaign hat slanted low over his eyes.

  He’d just learned of the massacre at Jacinto’s Village. Tim Connors had brought the news, and the first thing Colonel Braddock did was notify Dr. Lantz to prepare for the wounded arriving with Captain Danforth later in the day.

  Now he had a more unpleasant task. He was on his way to notify Samantha Lowell that her husband had died bravely in action, fighting the Apaches.

  He’d been through this many times in the past, and it was never easy. Most of the women took it well, because they were Army, but occasionally an odd one would pitch a bitch.

  Samantha Lowell seemed like that kind of a woman, a little too high-strung, but pretty, with a fine figure. Colonel Braddock wasn’t too old to appreciate a fine figure.

  He approached the door. The only way to notify the next of kin was just say it straight, be concise, and leave out the bad stuff, such as mutilation.

  He knocked on the door and tried to steel himself. He’d rather charge the entire Apache nation with a troop of U.S. Cavalry than go alone to a woman and notify her that her husband was dead.

  The door opened and Samantha stood there, a few of her blond hairs out of place and an uncertain smile on her face at the sight of Colonel Braddock.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, a terrible premonition dawning upon her.

  “I think you’d better sit down.”

  He took her by the arm and led her toward the nearest chair. Her heart pounded like a drum and she felt dizzy. She knew what he was going to say, and the walls spun around her. He helped her into the chair. She looked up at him, with the face of an innocent frightened child.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Lowell,” he said, “but I’m afraid your husband, the lieutenant, has been killed in action against the Apaches.”

  It was a few minutes before midnight, and Stone stood at the bar in La Rosita, raising a glass of whiskey to his lips.

  “This one’s for you, Sergeant Gerald McFeeley,” he said. Hoisting the glass, he slugged it down. “Give me another one,” he told the bartender.

  A Mexican with a black patch over one eye sat on a chair on the stage and played a dolorous song on his guitar. There weren’t many people in La Rosita. Stone looked into his glass and felt rotten.

  Too much killing, he thought. Wherever I go, it seems to follow me. But deep down he knew it wasn’t him. It was the frontier. The frontier was a bloodbath. There were too many people with guns.

  He thought of Lobo, as the bartender filled his glass. “This one’s for Lobo, a great warrior,” Stone muttered, and drank it down.

  He remembered the others who’d been with him in the Apache encampment. Peggy McIntyre was being cared for by Colonel Braddock and his wife, until one of Peggy’s relatives could be found to take her. She still hadn’t said a word and probably would end up in an insane asylum, because of the damned frontier.

  Juanita had done better. Captain Danforth took a liking to her on the ride back to the fort, and the last thing Stone had heard, Captain Danforth had put her up a
t his own expense at the Cardenas Hotel.

  Perico and the handful of other Apaches who’d survived the battle were being taken to the San Carlos Reservation by the cavalry, and it was said to be a terrible place, always hot, lacking water, with no mountains full of game, and the Apaches hated it. When Perico was older, he’d probably leave the reservation and become a warrior, killing cavalry soldiers with the best of them.

  The bartender filled Stone’s glass, and Stone drank it down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said: “Do it again.”

  Stone had been drinking one after the other for two hours straight. There was a heaviness in his body and his eyes were half-closed.

  He thought of Lieutenant Lowell, sprawled dead on the battlefield, covered with stab wounds, reeking with gore. Stone had learned that Lieutenant Lowell asked permission to look for him, but found death instead. He’d been a fine young man, but didn’t understand his profession. Stone heard he had a young wife. Bet she isn’t feeling so good tonight.

  He raised the glass in the air. “Here’s to Lieutenant Lowell,” he said, “as fine a young officer as ever was.” Then he broke into drunken song:

  “If you want to smell hell, boys, join the cavalry ...”

  Stone poured the burning liquid down his throat. The bartender didn’t ask if he wanted another one; he just filled the glass to the brim again.

  Stone thought about tomorrow. A stagecoach was leaving for El Paso in the morning, and he intended to be on it. He’d be in San Antone by the end of the month.

  He took out the picture and looked at Marie. “I hope you’re there, kid. We’ve got a few things to settle.”

  He tucked the picture back into his pocket and drained his glass. “Hit me again,” he said to the bartender.

  The bartender filled the glass, and Stone thought of Coyotero, recalling how he and the Apache warrior had tried to cut each other’s guts out.

  Coyotero had been a formidable opponent. The fight could’ve gone either way, but strange things happened in battle. The brave man died just as easily as the coward, and much of the killing was random, from stray bullets or blind exploding chunks of steel. Luck counted an awful lot on a battlefield.