The Dragoons 3

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Eruditus Fletcher squatted by the officer’s campfire, sipping fresh, hot coffee. He raised his cup in greeting. “Novus dies, novus initium “ he said with a smile.

  “Yes,” Grant replied. “A new day is a new beginning. And how are you this morning, Mr. Fletcher?”

  “I am in excellent spirits, my young friend,” Eruditus said. He took a sip of coffee. “Why is it this brew of caffeine tastes so delectable in the great outdoors?”

  “It’s the sharpened appetite brought about by fresh air,” Grant said. He put his shaving mug into the hot water on the fire, tipping it just enough to get the soap heavily moistened. After whirling his brush around on it, he began his shaving routine.

  Eruditus, with a full beard, watched his companion’s efforts. “This will be an important day.”

  “So it will,” Grant agreed as he skillfully guided the sharp straight razor down his cheek. “By the way, I do thank you for lending me that fine novel. Charles Dickens is an excellent author.”

  “David Copperfield is his latest,” Eruditus said. “I am fortunate to have friends back East who see to it that I am kept up to date on the best of contemporary writers.” He sighed. “Even if the mail is irregular at best.”

  “No matter the two or three months it takes a packet to arrive out here, it appears as if I, too, shall reap much literary enjoyment from that arrangement,” Grant remarked working on the sensitive skin beneath his chin. “Provided, of course, that your generosity continues.”

  “And it shall, my intelligent friend!” Eruditus exclaimed. “Fiden daro!”

  “I shall hold you to that promise then,” Grant said. He finished shaving and wiped the remaining lather from his face. He glanced over at the other area of the camp, glad to see that Sergeant Clooney and his corporals had the men well into the early morning routine. “I’ll be attending to assembly presently,” Grant said. “What time is it that we’ll have our meeting with the chief of the Apaches?”

  “Actually, he is chief of a certain clan of that race called the Chirinato Apaches,” Eruditus said. “The gentleman’s name is Lobo Cano.”

  “Lobo Cano,” Grant repeated. “I must remember that.”

  “You must also eventually meet another leader of the tribe,” Eruditus said. “He is the medicine man called Nitcho. He prefers to spend most of his time out on the desert.”

  “What is his exact role in all this?” Grant asked.

  “As spiritual leader of the Chirinatos, Nitcho has much influence,” Eruditus explained. “The Apaches put great stock in their religious beliefs. Therefore, the tribe will make no serious moves without consulting him.”

  “Do you know him well?” Grant asked.

  “He is the older brother of my Ghirinato friend Aguila,” Eruditus answered. “However, on this occasion, it will be enough to impress Aguila. That old warrior’s wisdom and experience is well appreciated and respected among the Ghirinatos almost as much as Nitcho’s. Chief Lobo Cano relies much on Aguila’s counsel and advice.”

  “Is Aguila the fellow you practically grew up with?” Grant asked. He went back to his tent with Eruditus following.

  “Yes. We are like brothers,” Eruditus said. The older man stopped at the tent flap as if his return to the wilds of the Vano Basin had made him find even the inside of a tent as repugnant as a smelly sulphur mine. He watched as Grant slipped into his tunic. “But my influence with him is as limited as his own with the young Turks of his tribe. This parley is not going to be all that easy.”

  “Nothing worth gaining is,” Grant said setting his cap on his head.

  Eruditus said, “I trust you have brought gifts with you for such an undertaking.”

  “I have much experience in dealing with Indians,” Grant replied. “I believe they will find what we have most appealing and useful.” He glanced toward the dragoon detachment that was drawn up in three ranks with Sergeant Clooney at the front. He smiled. “The legion calls to its tribune,” he said. “My centurion awaits with the cohorts at the ready.”

  “Gere, Tribunus!” Eruditus said. “Carry on!”

  Grant walked from his tent to a position in front of the dragoon formation. He came to a sharp halt directly in front of Sergeant William Clooney.

  Clooney saluted, announcing in crisp tones, ‘‘Sir! The detachment is all present and accounted for!”

  ‘Very well, Sergeant,” Grant said. “I shall take charge of the formation.”

  They exchanged salutes again before Clooney marched around the dragoons to a position in the rear. The men, knowing that today was to be taken up by a very significant mission, waited expectantly for Grant’s announcement.

  “Stand at ease, men!” Grant ordered. “At mid-morning we are going to have an important meeting with the elders of the Chirinato Apache Indian tribe at a place on the cliff just above this bivouac.”

  The men, all veterans of both the Mexican War and miscellaneous Indian-fighting campaigns, appreciated of the gravity of what their commander had to accomplish.

  “I will take Mr. Eruditus Fletcher as scout and interpreter, and Corporal Rush and his squad as escorts,” Grant said.

  If any of the men had not been properly impressed with the danger involved, they were at that moment. Rather than having his second-in-command Sergeant Clooney along, the commander would take the more expendable Corporal Charlie Rush and his half-dozen dragoons to accompany the mission. Any murderous treachery by the Apaches would leave the experienced Clooney in charge of the majority of the detachment back at the camp.

  Grant returned the command of the detachment to Sergeant Clooney. Corporal Rush, flattered that his small squad had been chosen to go to the parley, quickly marched them out of the formation and over to the picket line to saddle their horses. The commander’s mount would also be readied for the short journey up into the Culebra Mountains.

  In less than twenty minutes the small column rode from the bivouac and, following Eruditus’s lead, went to the narrow trail leading to the summit of the cliff. As the column was forced into a single file, Grant nervously glanced around knowing that at that particular moment they were terribly exposed to any sort of ambush. Unable to turn, the dragoons would be forced to charge forward into a hail of incoming bullets.

  But no treachery met them during their ascent. Actually, the men enjoyed the very noticeable drop in temperature as they moved slowly upward into increasing greenery. Finally, after a half hour’s slow climb, they topped the rise and hit softer ground, noticing sparse trees.

  Eruditus, a few yards ahead of Grant, looked back and called out, “We’ll be there shortly, Tribunus. See where the vegetation thickens? That is the creek that flows over the cliff and falls to the pool where the bivouac is located.”

  The dragoons went deeper into the increasing numbers of trees. The veteran soldiers instinctively reached out and put hands on their carbines as the visibility lessened to a great degree.

  Suddenly a trio of Indians stepped into view. They exchanged greetings with Eruditus who reined in his faithful Plutarch. He turned and motioned Grant to join him.

  Grant rode up and took note of the first Apaches he had ever seen. They were short, wiry, and very dark in skin color. Their shiny, black hair was worn shoulder-length and held in place by bandannas of various colors. They wore cotton shirts, breech cloths, and high-topped moccasins that reached past their mid-calves. Their weaponry was old flintlocks and they carried powder horns and leather bags of shot.

  Eruditus looked at the officer to judge his impression. “These are your escorts to the conference, Captain Drummond.”

  “Tell them I am honored to have such brave warriors show me the way,” Grant said.

  Eruditus translated the words. None of the Apaches showed any emotion other than to slightly raise their eyebrows. Eruditus chuckled. “They are very flattered and pleased, believe me. You were not exaggerating when you said you have dealt with Indians before.”

  “In Florida and Texas,” Grant said. “
We were successful in all cases.”

  Eruditus’s smile lessened. “You’ll find the Apaches altogether different, Captain Drummond. Para ipse!”

  “Thank you for the advice, Mr. Fletcher,” Grant said. “I am, indeed, prepared.”

  “Then let us go to our fate,” Eruditus said. He motioned to the Apaches. The warriors turned and led the column deeper into the woods.

  Five

  Roberto Weismann and Penrod Donaldson rode slowly, almost lethargically, across the Sonoran desert on the second and final day of their short journey.

  Out of habit, Weismann was in no hurry. Having survived many dangerous situations by keeping his head while making well-thought out judgments and choices, he preferred a deliberate, paced approach to everything he did. He sat in the saddle in what appeared to be a state of absent-mindedness, but in actuality he surveyed the landscape around them in an alert manner, missing nothing that went on in the vicinity, be it a lizard scurrying for cover or a bit of dust kicked up by the desert gusts. Now and then the scalphunter chief glanced over at his American companion, noting the nodding head and drooping eyelids.

  Donaldson, though just as quiet as Weismann, was neither as comfortable nor as alert. His slowness was more due to his physical condition than any ingrained habits of deliberate action. The scalphunter’s head ached and his stomach burned from many consecutive nights of heavy drinking. During the time he and Weismann spent in the small city of Cananea in Northern Sonora, he had squandered the silver pesos he earned scalping Apaches. He partook of all the delights the fleshpots and cantinas the tiny metropolis offered. The whores who had taken on his seemingly limitless sexual strength had finally drained him of energy, leaving the American exhausted and as impotent as an old man.

  Weismann, who preferred gambling to whoring and drinking, was in fine fettle. He had been able to increase his personal wealth through several long evenings of shrewd card playing. There was the one incident when he had killed a man who displayed enough audacity to accuse him of cheating, but the scalphunter chief’s sojourn into recreation had been restful. He felt rejuvenated and relaxed.

  Their destination on that particular day was approximately five miles south of the ill-defined border between the Mexican state of Sonora and the new American territory of Arizona. At that spot lay the sun-baked village of Juntera. It could have been described as a crossroads, except there were no roads in the area. It was a junction where certain routes known to smugglers, bandits, scurrilous travelers, and other refugees from decent society came together to find a handy spot to meet, rest up, or avoid the law.

  Roberto Weismann had given his men some time off to spend their money after the scalphunters had cashed in on the merciless skill of General De La Nobleza’s artillerymen. Weismann’s gang had two whole weeks to spend their blood money on saloon wenches, mescal, and celebration. On that same day Weismann and Donaldson rode across the desert, the band was to report to their chief at Juntera. This was to get organized and ready before crossing into Arizona to lift the scalps of the unsuspecting Chirinato Apaches.

  “Donaldson!” Weismann barked.

  Donaldson’s head snapped up as he was startled out of his reverie. “What the hell?”

  “There ahead, is Juntera,” Weismann said.

  Donaldson forced his bloodshot eyes to peer into the distance. He could barely make out the smudge of the village on the horizon. “It’s about time,” he said in a husky voice. “I need a drink.”

  “I would think you had drunk enough,” Weismann said. “I think the liquor has a hold on you.”

  “Only when I’m celebrating,” Donaldson said. “You ain’t never seen me drunk on the job, have you?”

  “No,” Weismann said. “And I had better not.” He disliked any sort of craving weakness in the men he chose to be his chief lieutenants. It mattered not to the scalphunter chief whether the vice be sex or liquor. As far as he was concerned, men were in the world to fight and struggle for survival and dominance over others in pursuits that should gain them money and power. The only other alternative, in Weismann’s mind, was failure, which meant a sure death. Anyone not following this philosophy was a lackey, not suitable for leadership.

  By the time they turned from the desert and rode into Juntera, the afternoon sun was beginning its westward drop. The two scalphunters went straight to the cantina where their men were supposed to be waiting. When they dismounted and tied up at the hitching rack, a small boy scurried forward with a friendly smile on his face.

  “I will watch your horses, señores,” he offered. “And only for five centavos, eh?”

  Weismann reached down and grabbed the youngster by the front of his shirt, pulling him up to face level. “You listen to me, you urchin turd shit by a street whore! If these horses or the equipment on them is disturbed in the slightest, I will come looking for you and all little bastards your age in this village.”

  The boy gasped in fear. “Si, señor!”

  “Stay away from them horses, Pedro,” Donaldson said. Then he added in an open threat, “You do not touch them horses or we’ll kick your butt. Comprendes?”

  Weismann snorted a laugh and dropped the boy. The kid scrambled to his feet and made a panicky retreat from the scene. “I think our animals will remain unmolested in this village, Donaldson.”

  “Yeah,” the American agreed. The excitement of bullying the boy brought him out of his hangover. “I wonder what his ma looks like?”

  “She’s probably employed hereabouts in one of the cribs or cantinas,” Weismann remarked. “But forget it. We have work to do.” He pulled his long gun from its saddle boot and walked into the saloon and paused a few steps inside to survey the scene.

  “Jefe mio!” a voice called out. “My chief!”

  Weismann recognized one of the Mexicans of the scalphunter gang. He went over to the table with Donaldson following. Both carefully glanced around the room. The American also toted his own long gun.

  Weismann said, “Hello, Guerrero. Where is everybody?”

  “They are with Ambroso,” Guerrero answered. “Will you buy me a drink, Chief? My money is gone.”

  “Stupid bastard,” Weismann said.

  “Yes, Chief,” the scalphunter said humbly.

  Weismann signaled to the bartender. “Bring a bottle and some mugs over here.” He and Donaldson sat down. Weismann eyed Guerrero. “Why are the others not here?” Guerrero lowered his eyes. “I told you, Chief. They are with Ambroso.”

  Donaldson didn’t like the sound of the situation. “So why are they with him and not here like they was told to be?” Guerrero shrugged. “Quien sabe? Who knows?” He watched hungrily as the bartender set a bottle of tequila and some mugs in front of them. He smiled at Weismann. “You are generous, Chief.”

  “Pour us all a drink,” Weismann said. “But not too much in mine, eh?”

  “As you wish, Chief,” Guerrero said.

  “Give me a lot,” Donaldson said.

  Guerrero complied, then took a deep swallow of the fiery, clear liquor. He wiped his mouth and spoke in a whisper. “I think there will be trouble, Chief.”

  “Tell me about it, Guerrero,” Weismann said. He had known Guerrero for many years. The man’s method of imparting news was as roundabout as the way he lived. He had never been the type to give out information in a quick, efficient manner. Guerrero always played around as if he wasn’t quite sure where the advantage to himself might lie.

  Donaldson was impatient. “Tell us what you know is going on, Guerrero, damn your eyes!”

  “Ambroso is talking big,” Guerrero whispered. “He says he is no longer content to share the wealth from the scalps with you and Donaldson or even His Excellency De La Nobleza. But he admits the business of bounty payments must come from the general.”

  Weismann appeared amused. “De veras? Is that true? Has our friend Ambroso grown stingy over these last couple of years?”

  “He wants to be the chief,” Guerrero said, putting the whole
situation out in the open.

  Donaldson quit drinking, even going so far as to push the mug away from him as he realized he would soon be in a situation that called for a clear head. “Just how many of the boys is with him?”

  “It is hard to tell, Donaldson,” Guerrero said. He looked at Weismann. “Most will wait to see who wins—you or Ambroso.” He smiled. “But not me, Chief! I am on your side right now. From the very beginning.”

  “I appreciate that, Guerrero,” Weismann said.

  “Good, Chief,” Guerrero said. “I respect you much more than Ambroso.”

  “I think I know who is with him,” Weismann mused. “He would have Platas, no?”

  “Yes, Chief,” Guerrero said. “And Avila and Montez and Lopez.”

  “That’s five of ’em altogether,” Donaldson said. “God only knows what the other six is gonna do.”

  “The bastards of donkeys will wait to see who comes out ahead,” Weismann said. “But maybe two or three might jump in on one side or the other during any confrontations, I think.”

  “Yeah,” Donaldson agreed. He looked around the cantina, then went to the door and peered out at the street. He came back and sat down. “I wonder where they’re at?”

  “The challenge to my leadership will be here, where we are,” Weismann said. “We do not have to go out to look for trouble.”

  “Maybe not,” Donaldson said. “But we better damn well be ready for it.”

  Weismann just started to nod a silent agreement to the statement when the shot from the door blasted into the interior of the saloon. A hot whip of wind brushed the scalphunter chief’s ear before the bullet slammed into the faithful Guerrero’s chest, knocking him tumbling from his chair.

  Donaldson, with every bit of his hangover now whisked away in that one instant of angry fear, had hit the floor and come up pumping hot lead with his Colt. One slug flew into the cantina wall, but two splintered the batwing door at the entrance, driving metal and wood into the chest of the would-be assassin. The man sat down in full view of Donaldson who peered through the bottom of the door. The American almost fired again, but the pistolero slumped to the dirt street, blood streaming out to form rusty-colored mud beside him.