Apache Rampage

by J. T. Edson

  ‘I surely don’t,’ put in Waco, but the others ignored him.

  Janice jumped to her feet and went to the wagon, returning with the six cans in her hands. Her face was flushed and eager as she said, ‘Come on, Elwin, show Doc what you. can do.’

  Elwin gulped, feeling suddenly scared and nervous. He’d never showed his juggling skill in public, having always been forced to practise in secret. Now he was asked to juggle before a critical audience, with a job hanging in the balance. Then he saw Janice smiling at him, and he felt more confidence. The girl would not want him to show his talent if she did not have faith in him. Taking the cans he got to his feet feeling all eyes on him. For a moment he hesitated, then began to flip the cans into the air. Instantly he forgot the crowd, his full attention being on the flying cans.

  Once he’d got his act started Elwin found time to look at the faces of his audience and try to read something from them. In his lack of experience he failed to make anything of how the others looked and sought for a way to take attention from what he imagined were fumbling attempts. There’d been a comedian in the show he saw, and Elwin recalled the jokes told by the man. That might be a way of taking attention from his act. He lost a can by an apparent accident, then recovered it by another equally accidental appearing move.

  ‘I went into Tucson, to a hotel for a meal. The waiter came to my table,’ Elwin held his voice to a lazy drawl and kept his face dead-pan. ‘I said, “Do you have pig’s feet?” and he said, “No, my shoes pinch”.’

  The cowhands laughed, so did the girls. They’d all heard that tired joke before, but the way Elwin told it made them laugh. Thornett was not laughing, his face was thoughtful as he watched the cans flying into the air and listened to Elwin tell tired joke after old joke. The laughter of the cowhands did not interest him, they were part of his usual kind of audience and easily amused. It was the laughter of the girls which caught and held Thornett. They were used to seeing skilled comedians and blase about them, yet they were laughing at the tired jokes. Thornett knew why, it was Elwin’s unconscious timing which brought the full humour to the act. If the young man could appeal to Phyllis and her girls he would most certainly appeal to less sophisticated tastes.

  Elwin juggled on, sending the cans leaping and flying. For the first time in his life he heard the heady sounds of applause. Always in front of him, smiling and looking at him with love in her eyes, was the pretty girl. She inspired him to do his best. He finished the trick by catching the cans on top of each other, all six on his left hand in a pile.

  ‘That was good, friend,’ said Mark eagerly. ‘I’ve never seen it done better.’

  Thornett nodded in grave agreement. The boy was rough and raw, but he was the finest natural juggler the old showman had ever seen. With a bit of polishing, the right sort of act behind him, Elwin would be a great asset to the show.

  ‘I can do more tricks,’ Elwin said, worriedly watching the old man.

  ‘Most satisfactory, I’m sure,’ Thornett answered. ‘In a career which has brought me into contact with most branches of the profession, I have never seen a juggler use such unusual props. I think that if you would embrace the nomadic existence of a travelling showman, there is a great future ahead for you.’

  ‘Happen that dust’s what I reckon it is,’ Waco put in, ‘same future’s going to be a mite uncertain.’

  The rest looked in the direction of his pointing finger, seeing the dust cloud rising from where a side trail ran off into the hills. There was no hesitation in the way Dusty acted. He knew what might be causing that dust and did not intend to be caught unprepared by it.

  ‘Under the wagon, you girls!’ he snapped. ‘Fan out, the rest of you?’

  The girls dived under the wagon, flattening down on to the ground, and each taking out her Derringer. Phyllis stopped on her feet long enough to make sure her girls were all armed, then before she took cover herself she saw Elwin was not armed. Calling his name, Phyllis grabbed one of Molly’s rifles and tossed it to him, then went under the wagon with her daughters. Elwin levered a bullet into the breech and darted to where Thornett was lying behind the burned-out timbers of an outhouse, the old ten-gauge shotgun in his hands.

  The Texans fanned out and took up fighting position fast. They were long used to doing such a thing, and their positions were chosen even as they moved. The result was that while Waco vaulted the sagging corral rails and flattened down, Mark was taking shelter in the charred remains of the station, the Kid flattened down behind a rock and Dusty stayed in a central position. Without needing to be told, the four men got into the best positions to cover each other and protect the wagon.

  The Kid lay nestling his rifle and watching the dust. Then he came to his feet to take a closer look at the dust cloud. He relaxed slightly, rifle held across his body and a grin on his face.

  Dusty came to his feet, signalling the others to stay where they were. Joining the Kid he also looked at the dust, then asked: ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘That’s not Apache raisings. Too much dust for that. ‘Sides which, Apaches wouldn’t stick on a trail,’ the Kid replied, pausing, then grinning. ‘Fair bunch of soldiers and a wagon, I reckon.’

  Dusty relaxed slightly himself now. He knew the Kid’s almost amazing eyesight was capable of picking up things beyond anything any of the others could. He did not doubt but that the Kid’s guess would prove correct.

  ‘Can you see any more?’

  ‘Caught me a glint of something shiny. No Apache’s going to make a fool mistake like that. No more than a big bunch like that’d stick to a trail. They’d be off it, in the bushes there, so the dust wouldn’t show. And there’s a wagon with them. I figger it’s either a detail headed for the fort, or coming out from it,’ the Kid replied. ‘Was I asked, that is.’

  ‘Take it you’re asked,’ grunted Dusty. ‘What else can you see?’

  Dusty could make out the faint shapes by now, but he wouldn’t have wanted to bet his life on their being white or Apache. He saw the Kid grinning and knew his keen-eyed young friend saw something more. It was some moments before the Kid spoke, then he indicated the shape at the head of the rest.

  ‘Mind that man riding out front?’

  Dusty squinted his eyes and tried to make out who the man in front was. He’d always admired the Kid’s long vision, and this was another example of it. Five minutes dragged by before Dusty could make out who the point rider of the advancing party was. When he did, Dusty felt relieved.

  The man at the front of the approaching party was a big, burly figure in the uniform of a United States cavalryman, a sergeant. His brick-red face could only belong to an Irishman, and his campaign hat was shoved back from short-cropped red hair. It was a face Dusty knew well, and the sergeant rode in a manner Dusty knew all too well. He slouched in his saddle, Springfield carbine across his knees, eyes flickering in each direction.

  Seeing the way Sergeant Paddy Magoon rode, Dusty knew there was bad trouble in the air. Magoon learned Indian fighting against the Sioux and Cheyenne to the north, the Comanche and Kiowa to the east; and was now taking a post-graduate course against the wildest, most savage of them all, the Apaches. Magoon knew Indians, could read the signs and Magoon was full ready for war.

  The approaching party consisted of Magoon and some twenty men, counting the rear-guard of a corporal and four men. They surrounded a wagon, a big Army wagon, driven by a large shape in a sleeveless, dark blue shirt, cavalry trousers and boots, and with a Stetson hat drawn down to shield the face.

  A mischievous grin came to Dusty’s face. ‘Magoon!’ he roared out. ‘You drunken Irish wastrel! Sit erect in that saddle, you look like a loose-tied sack of cowdung.’

  The troopers riding under Magoon’s command expected to see their sergeant explode into sudden and violent action, for he was no man to allow a stranger, and a civilian to boot, to make fun of him. Instead of leaping from his saddle and hurling the impertinent, small cowhand clear over the burned-out relay sta
tion, Magoon sat stiff and straight. His posture could not have been more correct and according to the drill manual had he been passing Generals Grant, Sheridan and Crook all in one group. His rugged Irish face twisted in a grin of pure delight, and turning he bellowed at his troopers:

  ‘Darlin’s! ‘Tis me ould friend, Captain Fog, who’ve you’ve heard me talk about so often. Now sit yourselves up straight and try to look like cavalrymen, or by gob, he’ll be making you. Sit up now, and don’t be disgracing your poor ould sergeant in front of Cap’n Fog.’

  Dusty held his carbine in his left hand and stepped forward to greet Magoon. The big sergeant’s dismount came straight out of the drill manual. He snapped into a smart brace and brought off a salute which would have done credit to the drill instructor at West Point. Then he took Dusty’s hand in his, the smile on his face and the warmth of his grip showing his delight at meeting his hero once more. For Dusty Fog was very much a hero to this hard-drinking, hard-fighting sergeant of cavalry. He’d been Magoon’s hero ever since he took over a leaderless, demoralised battalion of cavalry and turned them into an efficient, proud, fighting unit. The fact that in doing so Dusty also saved Magoon from a court-martial did nothing to detract from his merits in the big sergeant’s eyes.

  ‘You’re a long ways from home, Paddy,’ greeted Dusty, his hand tingling from the other’s grip.

  ‘Been over to Fort Beckett, Cap’n. Lootenant took sick with the fever and left me in charge.’

  Dusty did not think much about the words, not at the moment. Fort Beckett was the main base for the army in Arizona. It was General Crook’s headquarters and the supply point for the other forts. There was nothing unusual in a wagon being sent to Fort Beckett, except the size of the escort. A lieutenant, a sergeant and twenty men seemed a little superfluous unless trouble was expected, or the load was important.

  ‘Seen any Apaches?’ Dusty inquired, glancing at the big wagon, at the knots of the canvas cover. They were waxed over and bore an official seal.

  ‘More than a bit, Cap’n,’ replied Magoon seriously. ‘They’re up and painted for war, or I’ve never seen a bad Indian. We ran into the track of a big bunch and cut over this way to try and get the folks out. Looks like we got here too late to help.’

  ‘The Kid allows they got clear there a week back. What’s in the wagon?’

  ‘Damned if I know, Cap’n. ‘Twas all very secret and mysterious. We was sent off in a helluva rush. The lootenant might have known but he never said a word if he did. Anyways, he took down with fever and may the devil sleep on his pillow every night. He was the damned fool who shot down ole Ramon. We left for Beckett eight days back. Right after the court-martial.’

  Ideas were running through Dusty’s head. Ideas half formed and discarded for lack of men to make them work. The Apaches were up, and it looked as if every tribe were sending men to see if the medicine of this new leader was good. If they could be held and the attack of Baptist’s Hollow was to fail, there would be no uprising. The braves would fade back to their own people, and even Lobo Colorado’s own tribe would not follow a leader after his medicine went bad.

  With these twenty men at his back, Dusty knew he could fight his way into Baptist’s Hollow. He would come in behind the Apaches after they started their dawn attack, charge in on them and either break the attack or get through to hold the church. With twenty men like these, backed by his three friends, Dusty knew he could hold the church until reinforcements from Fort Owen arrived.

  It was something to think about. Dusty was not in the Army, in fact, never had served officially with the Union Army. He’d no right to take these men from their duty or make any plans in which they formed a part. For all that, he meant to try out his idea. Magoon would follow him, he knew that, would risk court-martial if Dusty said the word. If they succeeded it would break up the great uprising before it properly got under way. If they failed—Well, it wasn’t likely they’d be around for the Army to take action against. Lobo Colorado would see to that. He and his war-hunting warriors.

  The other members of Dusty’s party were emerging now that they saw there was no danger. Magoon beamed in delight and advanced to scoop Phyllis up into his big arms and kiss her hard.

  ‘Phyllis, me ould darling,’ he whooped. ‘Sure and you look more beautiful every time I see you. When’re you going to marry me, so’s we can raise the finest fighting family in the world?’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Phyllis replied, shoving Magoon away from her. ‘If you muss up my hair I’ll flatten you. Who’ve you got to match against me this time, Paddy, Calamity Jane?’

  ‘A gal who’d make Calam look like a powder puff,’ answered Magoon, then turned to where the driver of the wagon was swinging down. ‘Hey, Big Em, come over here and shake hands with Madam Fiona.’

  The driver turned and removed the Stetson. Phyllis bit down a gulp as she saw long black hair fall to a pair of wide shoulders. She’d thought the driver was a man and a big one at that. Now she found herself looking into a pair of laughing, Irish blue eyes and a large, but pretty Irish face. Big Em, pride of Fort Owen, stepped forward, holding out her right hand to Phyllis. She was big all round. Her hard muscled figure strained at the shirt and pants she wore, her arms bulged with powerful muscles.

  ‘Howdy, Madam,’ she greeted, her brogue almost thick enough to be cut with a knife. ‘Sure, and I thought you’d be bigger than you are. I was looking forward to licking you.’

  ‘I’ve licked bigger than you,’ Phyllis sniffed, taking one hand.

  ‘Have ye now?’ purred Big Em. A glint of battle came into her eyes. She loved fighting as much as did Phyllis. ‘Well, we can soon see about that—’

  ‘I think we had best wait until the Apaches are settled first, ladies,’ Thornett put in mildly, for he knew Phyllis was capable of pitching right into Big Em.

  ‘Doc’s called it right,’ smiled Phyllis. ‘We’ll have to wait. Anyway, we don’t want to spoil the fun for the boys at Fort Owen, do we?’

  ‘Devil a bit of it,’ agreed Big Em, grinning back at Phyllis. ‘I can wait. But there’ll be none of your holding pennies game for me. Toe to toe we stand until you’re whipped.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ Phyllis answered. ‘Coffee’s on the boil, come and have a cup.’

  ‘I’d drink coffee any time. Did you ever meet Calamity Jane, Madam?’

  The two women strolled away, discussing fighting in the way townswomen might exchange gossip or recipes. Phyllis knew one thing, she was going to have the fight of her life on her hands when she met Big Em.

  Dusty gathered the soldiers and his three friends around him, then began to tell them of his plan. The cavalrymen all sat silent and listened, for they’d heard Magoon talk of this small, insignificant-looking Texan as if he were a god. Dusty hid nothing from them and warned of the dangers they would run. If they failed, court-martial was certain, death more than likely. If they succeeded there was a chance of preventing an uprising which would cost thousands of lives and millions of dollars.

  ‘What’re you aiming to do then, Cap’n, darlin’?’ asked Magoon, although knowing Dusty, he could guess.

  ‘Take your men to the town. Either break the attack, or hold the church until relief can be brought from Fort Owen,’ Dusty replied.

  ‘My idea is that we come on them just after they hit the town. Go in like the devil after a yearling, screaming fit to bust and shooting straight. Smash through with the wagons, men ready to cut out any team hoss that goes down. With luck we would smash through before they get over their surprise.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  REINFORCEMENTS FROM THE STOCKADE

  So it was decided without fuss or bother. A bold, desperate stroke to end a bloody Apache uprising and save a territory.

  Dusty’s plan was simple, very simple. It would work, given luck and the folk at Baptist’s Hollow doing the right thing. The party would pull out after dark, the Ysabel Kid having scouted to make sure no Apache was watchin
g them. Then they would travel through the night towards the town, the horses would be rested then and make good time. At dawn, when Lobo Colorado and his men were attacking Baptist’s Hollow, Dusty’s bunch would fall on them from the rear.

  In the unlikely event that only a relatively small bunch of Apaches were involved, the surprise attack would scatter and break them. There was little chance of being so few that Dusty could drive them off. Lobo Colorado would see to that. His men were bunched in number, enough to make sure they could take the town. So Dusty hoped his attack would smash through and allow them to make the church.

  Looking at the men who would accompany him on this desperate venture, Dusty felt satisfied he’d got the best possible for his plan. Mark, the Kid and Waco were fighting men from soda to hock. They’d fought alongside him often enough for Dusty to know he could rely on them to follow his lead into anything. Magoon’s men looked competent enough. Most of them looked like veterans who’d fought Apaches and knew how to handle themselves. Only two gave the appearance of being recruits, but even those two showed no signs of panic at the thought of action. Big Em was a freighter, a good one. She’d been seated on a wagon box almost from the time she could walk and was capable of handling her team in the face of an Apache attack. She’d done so more than once that Dusty knew of, for he remembered hearing of her from soldiers who knew her well. Thornett’s show gave Dusty no worries. The old doctor was as brave as a lion, cool and battle-sure. Phyllis was brave and would not lose her head, while the girls were just as steady, even Rosie.

  For all of that it was a small enough force for a man to try and halt a full-scale Apache uprising. That was just what they were trying to do. They were throwing themselves into the brunt of the Apache attack, trying to stem the tide before it could rise to full and flood the Arizona territory in death and destruction. It was for this purpose Dusty was taking so desperate a chance. In the spirit of the men who stayed at, and fought, the Alamo, Dusty was preparing to risk a few to save many.