by Jory Sherman
“What you got there, Brad?”
“This is a map of the other caches. Before I came here, I set up some along the way we’ll go after we pick up Randy and Lou. I got some information from army scouts that tells me where Thorne has been and where he’s headed.”
“Was he the one who burned my cotton fields?”
“Seems like.”
“What’s in that bundle?”
“Unwrap it.”
“I see that box of .44 cartridges. For the Spencer?”
“Fits both the Colt and the rifle,” Brad said.
Gid picked up the bundle and unwrapped it. He whistled when he saw the new Colt .44.
“I cleaned the grease out of it,” Brad said. “You might want to rub that oil off.”
“That’s a mighty fine pistol,” Gid said as he hefted it and held it out at arm’s length. “Good balance.”
“You hit a man in his little finger and it’ll knock him down.”
“I guess you might be ready to ride out about now.”
“As soon as we can. We’ve got some daylight to burn.”
“I’ll get my holster and see if this .44 fits it.”
“There are U.S. Army holsters in the cache if it doesn’t.”
“You thought of everything, didn’t you, Brad?”
“I tried to.”
Gid went into the other room carrying the pistol. He emerged a few minutes later with his gunbelt strapped on and the Colt jutting nicely from it. Under his left arm, he carried his bedroll. He now wore a Confederate cap, as well. His hair stuck out from under it like dark spikes.
“About the same size as my own cap and ball,” Gid said.
“You could use a haircut, Gid.”
“I’ll chop at it now and then.”
Brad stood up. He started for the door. When he reached it, he looked back. Gid was still standing there as if glued to the floor.
And he was shaking like a willow tree in a windstorm.
7
* * *
GID STOOD THERE, transfixed, his eyes glazed over with a wet film, his body trembling in every muscle. For a moment, Brad thought he might be about to go into a fit. Gid’s mouth was open and his lips were quivering as if he might be freezing to death right in the middle of a Texas summer.
“Gid, what’s wrong?”
Gid’s eyes closed and he did not open them for several moments.
He was scared. He knew that. He had been scared ever since they left Fort Brown. He had never killed a man before and no man had ever shot at him, white or red. He hoped it didn’t show. He didn’t want the other men to know that he felt as if he had a dull knife in his gut that was slowly twisting it into knots, and he had to make fists of his hands so that his fingers would not tremble.
The other men seemed eager, and so did the cavalry horses. Captain Chambers kept the column moving so that the horses had to step out. His own horse seemed to sense his fear; the big bay mare had been skittery ever since they left the fort and it was all he could do to keep it from prancing right on out of ranks. The horse’s name was Jenny, and she was four years old, but acted like a frisky colt that day. And Gid’s gut kept tightening with those knots until he thought he might lose his breakfast grub.
From what he’d heard, they had to ride almost to Laredo, to someplace called Zapata, named after some damned Mex bandit. The Rio Grande was blinding him with its light as the sun struck it and turned it into a ribbon of muddy water with every ripple and wave glinting like mirrors. The Mexicans still called it the Rio Bravo here in the south and only called it the Rio Grande someplace up north, maybe around Santa Fe. Stupid Mexicans. Now there was this Ochoa, who was a damned bandit and wanted control over the Rio from Brownsville to Laredo as if it were his personal property. More likely he wanted to rob people who traveled this infernal road.
“Corporal Tunstal, report to Captain Chambers. On the double.”
He hadn’t seen the rider come up on his right and he was still blinded by the river when he turned to look.
“Me?”
“You’re Gideon Tunstal, aren’t ye?”
“Yes.”
“Cap’n wants to see you. Follow me.”
He followed the private’s galloping horse up to the front of the column. The private, a man named Ned Corby, saluted Captain Chambers and turned his horse in a tight circle to rejoin the column next to the guidon carrier.
“Gid, I got a job for you,” Chambers said.
“You want me to ride back to the fort with a message, Captain?”
“Don’t you just wish. Listen. We’ve got Ochoa spotted. Lou just rode back and Randy’s gone on ahead to keep an eye on the Mexicans. From what Lou tells me, we have a chance to catch them by surprise.”
“What is it you want me to do, Brad. . . I mean, Cap’n?”
“Take a dozen men from the rear and ride out about two hundred yards on my right flank. Keep me in sight and watch for my signal. You’re going to act like a scorpion’s tail, son.”
“What?”
“A scorpion’s tail. When I give you the high sign, I want you to ride like hell and close up an arc at the river and flank Ochoa. We’ll come in from this side.”
“You think twelve men are enough?”
“I think you’re the best shot in this outfit, Gid, and you know who the others are. You take them with you. Lou says Ochoa’s camped at a ford and I don’t want him to go anyplace but across that river back into Mexico. And I want him to pay dearly for the privilege. Now, can you handle this assignment?”
“I reckon, sir.”
“Damn it, Gid, I know you’re scared purple. So am I. So is everyone in my troop. Now, get your ass back there and pick some men. We’ll be on Ochoa in a half hour or so.”
“That soon?”
“Gid, go on, now. I’m counting on you to act as my pincer.”
“Sir, I don’t know nothin’ about tactics, ’cept what they taught us.”
“It’ll all become clear to you once you hear our rifles cracking.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t worry about a thing, Gid. That fear will go away once you get into the thick of battle.”
Brad strode over to Gid and placed his hands on the man’s shoulders. “Gid, snap out of it.”
Gid opened his eyes. As suddenly as he did, he stopped shaking and his eyes cleared after a moment.
“Sorry, Brad. When . . . I mean . . . I keep thinking about . . . aw, nothin’. I’m all right.”
“Before I forget it, I made a map of those caches. In case anything happens.”
“Anything happens? What do you mean?”
“I mean in case we get separated, or you need to resupply.”
“You mean if you get killed.”
“I mean just in case, Gid. Snap out of it. We’ve got some riding to do.”
“I’ve got to catch up my horse.”
“I can do that for you. Where’s he pastured?”
“I’ve got a half dozen in the north pasture. About a half mile from here.”
“Saddle?”
“You’ll have to bring him back here. But I’ll go with you if your horse packs double.”
“He does. Let’s go.”
Forty-five minutes later, the two men were riding toward Lou Reeves’s place. Gid was riding a big bay mare, a six-year-old that seemed to have good bottom and good chest. She bore a CSA brand on her rump and stood fifteen hands high. Brad remembered the horse. Gid called her Jenny and he had ridden her the day they chased Ochoa across the border back into Mexico.
Randy came riding back to the column in a hurry. His horse was sleek with sweat and his uniform was stained with his own perspiration.
“Cap’n, the Mexes got wind of us,” Randy said, panting. “We got to get after ’em right now.”
“Did you see Gid’s column?”
“I saw him. They’re ridin’ in to fight right now.”
“Good. Rest your horse, Randy. Stay behind and walk him
, cool him down. He’s about to start lathering.”
“But . . .”
“That’s an order, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
The column broke into a gallop. He looked back and waved to break up the formation. The riders fanned out until they were riding a wedge.
The crack of rifles peppered the air with popping sounds. Close. He drew his rifle from its scabbard and nodded to his lieutenant, who signaled the order to the other cavalrymen. He pointed to the bugler, who sounded the charge.
Puffs of smoke appeared over the rise as the cavalry troop swarmed onto the field of battle. Mexicans swimming in the shallows of the river began streaking for the opposite shore. Horses in the Ochoa camp shrieked and whinnied as men scrambled to catch them, knocking over kettles and scattering fires. Some of the men were shooting into the air or at dubious targets.
Gid’s troop swarmed to the attack as Brad’s men entered the fray from the opposite direction. Women screamed and some Mexicans ran on foot to the river, while others, mounted, ran in circles, with bullets whistling around them and kicking up dirt and dust when they missed a moving target.
A mass of Mexicans on small, fleet horses waded into the river, heading for the Mexican side. Gid shot a man out of the saddle who was riding toward him firing two pistols, his reins clamped between his teeth.
Brad sent part of his troops to the right in an encircling movement, and five Mexicans who were riding for the open plain turned their horses and galloped toward the river. Brad shot one of them off a bareback horse and saw him hit the ground and skid a dozen feet, leaving a streak of blood on the ground.
A Confederate trooper grunted and cried out as a ball struck him in the leg. Another trooper shot the Mexican who had drawn blood as he turned to run on foot toward his confused horse.
Puffs of white smoke blossomed over the Mexican camp and some of those who had reached the other side began firing on Gid and his men. Brad yelled to his men as he charged toward the river. “Chase ’em across and keep going.”
The fighting turned savage as riders from both sides crossed and recrossed moving lines that wavered and opened and reclosed. A thick cloud of dust arose from the earth as the running horses tore up the ground with their hooves. Smoke and dust obscured some of the fighters, and some of the shooting was at point-blank range as combatants met like jousting knights at close quarters. Men threw up their hands as bullets and ball ripped through them, and the wounded fell among the dead with the acrid smell of burnt powder and spilled blood in their nostrils.
Finally, the Mexicans began to stream across the river, shooting their rifles and pistols as they waded the ford, and some of these were cut down and their horses foundered with wounds that knocked them over, their hides streaked with blood. Men floated facedown in the current, while others flailed in the bloody waters and were washed downstream before drowning or succumbing to their injuries.
There were moments of chaos and confusion as the Confederates all converged on the retreating Mexicans, and then Gid and his men crossed the river and began chasing the fleeing enemy, sounding rebel yells of exultation as the dust spooled out behind the Mexican horses at the gallop.
Brad moved his men across the river and they shot down Mexican stragglers and merged with Gid and his men to form a band of cavalry in full chase, out of formation, yelling insults in raspy voices as if they were at a steeplechase following the hounds in full cry after the fox.
Brad held his men up as the distance widened between his troopers and the escaping Mexicans.
“That’s good enough,” he yelled. And motioned to Gid to turn his men back.
The troopers reined up their horses and turned them. Sergeants and corporals called for order and formation. They passed wounded and dying men and those already gone. The faces of the troopers were drawn and tight and covered with dust and the peppering of black powder and red pips from burning blowback.
They crossed back to the American side of the Rio Grande and fell into parade formation. Brad ordered a count of the dead and beckoned to Gid, who rode over and saluted.
“You did well, Gid.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I notice your hands are steady.”
“Yes, sir, I’m—I mean—I don’t get the shakes once the battle starts. It’s just right before. And I ain’t scared none, it’s just somethin’. Like buck fever.”
“You don’t have to explain it to me, Gid. I’m promoting you to sergeant. Sew your stripes on when we get back to the fort.”
“Yes, sir. And, thanks, Brad. Sir.”
Brad laughed and slapped Gid on the back as he turned his horse.
They counted twenty dead Mexicans that day and no cavalry fatalities. Ochoa had gotten away, but he never returned to the U.S. side of the border for the remainder of the war.
Colonel John Salmon Ford was pleased with the results of that first engagement of the Civil War.
And so was Brad Chambers, along with his newly promoted sergeant, Gideon Tunstal.
They crossed the Laguna Salado early in the afternoon when the sun was still high in the sky. It was bleak country, with traces of salt grass barely hanging on to the soil, a treeless plain seemingly devoid of life except for the wheeling buzzards circling under a canopy of pale blue sky and the occasional hawk that floated overhead on silent pinions.
They skirted around lands of the Falfurrias Ranch and threaded their way westward and left long lean shadows in their wake. Brad kept looking over his shoulder every time he thought he saw something and there were times when he thought he saw, through the shimmers of heat rising from the puddles of mirages, a far-off rider or two dogging their trail. But he shook off the feeling, believing that he was only seeing things that were not there, like the small lakes glinting in the slant of the burning afternoon sun.
Ahead, though, Gid pointed to a column of smoke, like a child’s charcoal scrawl, hanging in the sky, black and ominous as if it were some marker placed there to warn them to go back whence they came.
“What do you make of it, Brad?” Gid asked.
“Mighty odd.”
“Do you know what lies yonder?”
“A line shack, maybe a ranch house. Hard to remember, it’s been so long since I rode this way.”
“That ain’t Lou’s place, is it?”
“No, but it’s mighty close. Seems to me I recollect being there once or twice, beyond the Falfurrias spread.”
“I been there. Was some adobes over yonder, Mexicans living in them.”
“Yeah, I think I know a Mexican who came from these parts. Used to buy cattle from him and we caught horses over the border and run them back to my place.”
“Me, too. Gallegos.”
“That’s the man. Francisco Gallegos. That was a long time ago.”
“You called him Paco, I think.”
“Yeah, Paco,” Brad said, and his abdomen tightened. He looked up at the sky and saw the buzzards floating toward the smoke and he smelled something on the wind, like cooked meat, like beef, he thought, and his stomach muscles began to quiver.
Brad looked over his shoulder when he thought he saw the shadow following him, but there was nothing to be seen for a thousand yards or more.
And then, they began to see signs that something was wrong. A longhorn steer lay next to a stock tank, stiff as a chunk of shale, a bullet hole in its head, just under the boss. They began to see more dead cattle and then they saw the ruins of an adobe house, its thatched roof still smoldering, and beyond, a barn still afire, sending up the column of smoke, and all around it, dead horses and cattle, as if a wind of death had blown through and lay waste to all in its path.
“I remember this place now,” Brad said, a somber tone to his voice. “This was where Paco Gallegos lived.”
“And not far beyond it is Randy’s spread,” Gid said.
“Whatever happened here, happened just today.”
“Looks like, Brad.”
They rode u
p to the adobe, with its roof gone, its insides gutted by fire. In the soundless space between the adobe and the barn, there lay three dead dogs and a wiry-haired cat.
Just then, both men ducked as they heard the crack of a rifle. They both heard the sizzle of a bullet as it fried the air over their heads.
Brad jerked his rifle from its scabbard and flattened himself atop his horse. Gid dismounted and pushed his horse down as it had been trained to do, jerking his rifle free.
For a long moment, neither man heard anything. It was as if time had suddenly stood still.
8
* * *
BRAD HUGGED THE ground and began to slither sideways toward Gid, who was hidden behind his downed horse, looking toward the trees where the shots had come from.
“See anything?” Gid asked.
“Nary,” Brad answered.
“Shots came from those trees yonder.”
“I know. I don’t think whoever fired at us was trying to kill us.”
Brad moved his rifle closer to Gid, then edged his body over toward the rifle, inch by inch, expecting another round to be shot off at any second.
He froze a moment later, when they both heard something move. The two men ducked when they heard a twig snap.
“Quién es?”
The voice came from the trees.
“That’s a Mexican,” Gid whispered.
“I know.” Then Brad said, “Amigos. Somos amigos. Me llamo Chambers.”
A long moment of silence.
“Chambers?” Mexican accent.
“Brad Chambers.”
“Brad? Is that you, verdad?”
“Who in hell is it?” Gid asked.
“Sounds like Paco. Wait,” Brad replied.
“Paco? Is that you? Come on out. It’s me, Brad Chambers. De los caballos, recuerdes?”
“Yes, yes. The horses. Esperate. Wait. I am coming.”
Brad’s palms were sweating. He had not heard Paco’s voice in a long time. He was trying hard to remember it as he waited.
They crossed the Rio Grande after midnight, their horses making the moon’s shining spangles rumple and winkle, and he knew it was a bad night because the moon was full, but Paco knew where the horses were and the animals would not wait until the moon waned. The river was shallow at that place, but swift, and his horse struggled against the current and he listened to the burble of the water around their horses’ legs and it sounded like the muffled plucking of a guitar or a harp. They reached the opposite shore and the horses shook themselves and switched their tails and below the girth straps, their legs glistened in the soft light of the moon and they seemed like magical steeds, part silver, part hide and bone.
