The Dragoons 3

by Patrick E. Andrews

  The other patrons in the cantina were on the floor. The bartender, out of sight behind the bar, called out in a shrill voice, “Por favor, señores! Please, gentlemen! Take your fight outside!”

  “Shut your turd-eating mouth,” Weismann warned him. “Or I’ll put a bullet in you.”

  One of the cowering drinkers, glancing wildly about, made a dash for the door. He just hit the flimsy, damaged ported when a fusillade of shots twisted and crumpled him like a rag doll.

  Donaldson checked his other Colt, glad to see it ready to fire. Two spare loaded cylinders were nestled in the pockets of his leather vest. He winked at Weismann. “Say, there, Roberto. How d’you say ‘surrounded’ in Spanish.”

  “Rodeado,” Weismann answered.

  “Then that’s what we are,” Donaldson said. “We’re damn sure rodeadoed, ain’t we?”

  Weismann, ignoring the remark, crawled over to where Guerrero lay sprawled next to his overturned chair. The scalphunter took note of the wide-eyed, vacant stare of death the loyal man displayed. He called out to Donaldson. “Guerrero is dead. You watch the front and the right windows. I will take the rear and the left ones.”

  “You bet, Don Roberto,” Donaldson said cheerfully. Another patron, desperate to get out of the death trap, tried a rush to the door. He made it through, the disappearing sound of his footprints quickly fading away.

  “They have calmed down now,” Weismann said. “They are being careful when they shoot, no?”

  “Yeah,” Donaldson said. “And who!”

  The bartender and the two remaining customers made a spontaneous run out the back door, knocking it off its leather hinges in their fearful haste.

  Weismann shrugged. “Ahorra tu y yo.”

  “Yep, just you and me,” Donaldson said.

  Weismann checked his weaponry. He had one Colt along with a Wilkinson over-and-under double barrel pistol and a six-shot Pepperbox pistol. Both men would save their muzzle-loading long guns for the last. The fight in and around the cantina would call for short-range shooting. Hand guns served better in such a situation.

  A shadow flitted across one window then disappeared. One of the men was obviously trying to draw fire. But neither Weismann nor Donaldson was tempted by the daring self-made target. Caught in the open room, with the situation going into a period of inactivity, they glanced desperately around for cover. The only possibility was the bar. Although constructed of thin slats, it at least offered some concealment. The thick adobe walls of the building would protect their rear. In silent agreement, both men eased toward the protection, leaving the dead Guerrero where he lay.

  A few moments passed. Donaldson noted a clay jar under the bar. He checked it out and found it full of fresh water. “The bastard was watering down his liquor back here,” he said. He treated himself to a sip. “But it’ll keep us going. Want a drink?”

  Weismann took the earthen container and gulped a couple of swallows. “I suppose we can treat ourselves to this liquor if the situation turns completely against us.”

  “Yeah,” Donaldson said. “We can die drunk and mean.”

  “Without giving a damn,” Weismann added.

  Donaldson looked at him. “I don’t think you give a damn now.”

  “This is all part of the game,” Weismann said casually. “Win or lose, live or die, it is decreed.” He handed back the water. “So you might as well die with dignity and courage.”

  “I ain’t that happy about it,” Donaldson said.

  “Believe me, I do not accept any situation without a willingness to fight for my own survival,” Weismann said. “Remember those words: dignidad y valor—dignity and courage.”

  “How about these words?” Donaldson said. “Put hot lead in their butts!”

  Further conversation was interrupted at the front door when the battered batwings were sent flying by the sudden intrusion of two men.

  Weismann and Donaldson cut loose with a couple of shots apiece. Three of the bullets found their marks, knocking one man sideways to fall in instant death while his companion, unable to spot where the scalphunter chief and his American companion had located themselves, staggered backward. Snarling in pain and surprise, he fired wildly around the room.

  Another attacker came through the back door. He stopped short at the sight of Guerrero, the dead customer, and the other man on the floor. A stray bullet from the wounded gunman hit him in the abdomen, doubling him over and dropping him to his knees.

  “Stupid bastard!” Donaldson snapped. He turned to put a final, killing bullet into the man on his feet.

  Weismann fired at the gut-shot attacker, hitting him in the head and sending a pinkish spray of blood and brains onto the far wall. The victim rolled over on his side and twitched in his death throes.

  Once again, all was silence.

  “What’s the score?” Donaldson wondered aloud.

  “We have Platas lying in the street, Avila and Montez dead from their rush through the front door, and Lopez over there,” Weismann said.

  “Unless Ambroso talked them others into joining up with him, he’s alone,” Donaldson mused.

  “We will just have to bide our time,” Weismann said. “Give me another drink of water.”

  “You bet,” Donaldson said complying.

  Weismann took a couple of sips, enjoying the coolness of the drink.

  “Hey!” a voice outside called. “Don Roberto! It is me—Dabido!”

  Weismann took a breath. “Y que quieres?”

  “I want to tell you that we have Ambroso for you,” the scalphunter named Dabido said. “You have killed everyone on his side. Me and Kravek, and Saline, Cotera, and Valverde did not betray you.”

  Donaldson was furious. “And you didn’t help out none, did you?”

  “Alas, no!” Dabido admitted.

  “You push Ambroso through the door,” Weismann commanded.

  Several long moments passed, then several struggling, snarling, cursing men could be heard approaching. Once more, Dabido spoke, saying, “Hold your fire, Don Roberto. Me and Kravek are going to push him into the cantina. He is tied up.”

  Three men briefly appeared in the door, then one stumbled forward. He was Ambroso with his hands tied behind his back. He affected an embarrassed grin. “Buenas, Chief.”

  “Buenas,” Weismann said returning the greeting. “You became greedy, did you, Ambroso?”

  “Yes, Chief,” Ambroso said. “I am sorry. Will you forgive me?”

  “No,” Weismann said. “Not for an instant.”

  “I didn’t think so.” Ambroso swung his glance at Donaldson. “Hey, Gringo! Watch how a brave Mexican can die.” Donaldson grinned. “I’m real interested.”

  Weismann’s bullet struck Ambroso in the throat, making him stagger only a little. Ambroso gamely fought to keep to his feet, but the shock and bleeding fast took its toll. Finally he sank to his knees, staring vacantly at the cantina floor. He lasted almost a minute more before falling face-down. The rest of the scalphunters came into the cantina. They stood sheepishly looking at their chief and Donaldson, “We are happy you are well, Chief,” Dabido said.

  “Well have to gather up five more men to replace these dogs,” Weismann said.

  “There are plenty of pistoleros here who will ride with us,” Dabido assured the scalphunter leader. “Some probably have experience in taking Indian hair.”

  Weismann glanced over at Donaldson. “It appears as if our trip up to the Vano Basin will not be delayed after all.”

  “Then we’d best get cracking,” Donaldson said reholstering his weaponry.

  “Yes!” Dabido said. “Let’s see how much blood we can spill up there.”

  “I do it for money,” Donaldson interjected.

  Weismann shrugged. “For blood or for money, the results to the Chirinato Apaches will still be the same.”

  Six

  The air was balmy and pleasant in the heavy shade of the trees. The intertwined boughs of the tall pines kept the sun from
the clearing, while gentle wisps of a mountain breeze both cooled and refreshed the atmosphere. It seemed the ideal setting for a meeting brought about for peaceful intentions. Even the horses of both the soldiers and Indians displayed a restful, relaxed state as they grazed on the forest flora.

  On one side of the open area, the Apache contingent—consisting of Chief Lobo Cano and his council of Zorro, Terron, and Aguila—sat cross-legged in the thick grass. Standing behind them, blank-faced and silent, was a group of warriors that included Quintero and his close followers Bistozo, Chaparro, and Zalea. That quartet situated themselves close together, near the center of the group, their arms folded and backs straight, the stern postures showing their stubborn opposition to the object of the meeting.

  On the other side also situated comfortably on the grass, sat Captain Grant Drummond and Eruditus Fletcher. A red-and-white dragoon guidon planted in the ground had caught the Apaches’ attention. The unit flag seemed a sort of totem to the Indians and many wondered if the object was some strange and strong medicine of the White-Eyes.

  The squad of dragoons, forming a semi-circle, with their leader Corporal Charlie Rush standing prominently in front kept a close eye on the warriors across from them. While avoiding any open, challenging glares, the veteran cavalry troopers showed they were obviously experienced and confident fighting men. The blue uniform jackets with high collars, worn especially for the occasion rather than the plainer and more practical buckskins, were resplendent with yellow facings. The bright colors impressed most of the Apaches as much as the soldiers’ weaponry.

  The army horses, properly picketed and under watch, were twenty yards away. The animals, enjoying the difference in the climate as much as the humans, continued to contentedly munch on the sweet mountain grass.

  Eruditus Fletcher got to his feet and held up his hand in greeting. He walked to a point between the Indians and the soldiers. When he spoke, he alternated between English and the Chirinato dialect to benefit all present as he opened the proceedings.

  “You all know me,” he said.

  Chief Lobo Cano acknowledged this by lifting up his hand in greeting. “You have friends among the Chirinatos.”

  “I would like to give special greetings to my old friend Aguila,” Eruditus said.

  “I greet you, querido amigo,” Aguila said warmly.

  Eruditus glanced around. “I do not see your brother Nitcho,” he said.

  “As our medicine man, he has gone out on the desert to strengthen his spirit on the land where our ancestors roamed,” Aguila said.

  “I suspect he will go where your forefathers came out of the earth,” Eruditus said.

  “I think he wishes to teach things to his grandson,” Aguila said. “It is that time in the boy’s life.”

  “Give Nitcho my greetings when next you see him,” Eruditus requested. Then he pointed to Grant Drummond. “This man’s name is Drummond. He is a war chief of the Americans.” Following that, he introduced the Apache council to Grant, pointing to each man—Lobo Cano, Aguila, Zorro, and Terron—in turn.

  Lobo Cano could not contain his curiosity. “Why are we here to talk together, Erudito?”

  “There has been a big fight between the Americans and the Mexicans,” Eruditus said.

  “We know of this fight,” Aguila interjected.

  “Did you know the Americans defeated the Mexicans and made them give up large areas of their land?” Eruditus said.

  “We have heard so,” Lobo Cano said.

  The Apaches, who had fought and hated Mexicans for years, grinned and nodded among themselves. Although there didn’t seem to be any particular advantage to them in how the war ended, they enjoyed hearing of an enemy’s misfortune.

  Eruditus continued. “Part of that land is called Arizona in which the Vano Basin—El Vano—is located.”

  Now Quintero interrupted. “El Vano belongs to the Chirinatos! The Mexicanos cannot give it away to anybody no matter how many times they are beaten!”

  “The Americans recognize the Chirinatos live here,” Eruditus said diplomatically. “They know the land is truly yours. That is why the Big Chief of the Americans has sent Grant Drummond to speak with you.”

  Lobo Cano looked over at Quintero with a furious frown. “Keep your voice still until it is time to speak!”

  “But first,” Eruditus said wanting to take away any tension no matter if it be between Grant and the Apaches or among the Indians themselves. “The Big Chief of the Americans has sent gifts to the Chirinatos to show he has much affection and respect for them.” He turned to Grant. “Time to bring the gifts out, Captain.”

  Grant nodded and motioned to a couple of dragoons. The two soldiers lugged a heavy wooden crate out between the speakers. Using hammers, they quickly pried off the top.

  Captain Grant Drummond stood up and walked over to the opened container. He reached in and withdrew a particularly large and well-decorated Bowie knife. “This is a special present from the Big Chief of the Americans to the Big Chief of the Chirinatos,” Grant said. He carried it over to Lobo Cano and handed it to him. “He wants his friend Lobo Cano to remember him when he uses this.”

  As Grant returned to his seat, Eruditus quickly interpreted the words for the Indians using gestures to emphasize the affectionate generosity of the American leader.

  Grinning with pleasure, Lobo Cano pulled the knife from its sheath. He and the others gasped at the well-honed shininess of the implement.

  “The Big Chief of the Americans is a good friend. What is his name?” the Apache leader asked.

  “His name is Polk,” Eruditus said. “He sends the rest of his gifts to be divided among the Chirinatos. There are knives and hatchets for the men, and mirrors, necklaces, and bracelets for the women.”

  “We will take the gifts back to our village,” Lobo Cano said. “Tell us more what my friend the Big Chief of the Americans wants of us.” He continued to admire the brand new knife.

  “I will let his War Chief Grant Drummond tell of what the Big Chief desires,” Eruditus said. He nodded to Grant.

  Once again the army officer stood up and walked forward. He sat down directly in front of Lobo Cano. As he spoke, Eruditus translated.

  “When we won our war, the Mexicans had to let us use vast areas of land they once claimed as their own,” Grant said. He had not failed to appreciate the warrior Quintero’s objection to having the Vano Basin described as part of Mexico. Instead of saying the Americans had taken the Vano Basin from the Mexican Republic, he indicated they had forced the Mexicans to let them use it. “We wish for our people to be able to travel across the Vano Basin to reach our other brothers who live by the great waters that lie to the west across the desert and mountains. We ask the Chirinatos to allow our travelers to pass through unmolested. Eruditus, who knows you well, feels this will cause no harm to the Chirinatos.”

  Aguila, very mindful of the hotblooded Quintero and his friends, spoke. “My old friend Erudito has been among us a long time. But there remains things to discuss and to learn from you, War Chief, even though we trust Erudito “

  “Not all of us!” Quintero shouted. Once more he received angry glares for his impertinent disregard of protocol. He stared back defiantly.

  Aguila went on as if nothing had happened although he had expected a loud reaction from the young warrior. “But we cannot trust other White-Eyes. We have seen them before and, like the Mexicanos, they want to stay on land and call it their own and not let other people hunt or fish or camp there.”

  “Our people do not wish to settle on the Vano Basin,” Grant said. “It is of no use except to travel across to reach the West where we have villages and our own hunting grounds.”

  Quintero shouted, “Did you take those hunting grounds away from other Indians?”

  “We took them away from the Mexicans,” Grant said. “They took them away from Indians,” Quintero said. “I know Mexicanos.”

  “Perhaps they did,” Grant conceded.

  �
�Then why does not the Great Chief of the Americans return the land to those Indians?” Quintero wanted to know.

  Eruditus, who fully understood the way a Chirinato warrior thought, knew how to handle that situation. “We cannot give the land back to those Indians because the Mexicanos killed them all.”

  That made sense to Quintero. He quieted down to see what else would be said.

  “I am worried,” Aguila said. “What if the Americans crossing El Vano look up at these mountains? They will want to come up here to hunt and fish. Then some will want to stay. We had to drive the Mexicanos away. We do not want to have to drive the Americans away.”

  “The Big Chief of the Americans knows these mountains belong to the Chirinatos,” Grant said. “He will not let his people come up here. If they do, he will punish them.” Quintero laughed aloud. “No! The Chirinatos will punish them.”

  “That will make the Big Chief both sad and angry,” Grant said in a stern voice after Eruditus translated the harsh boasting. “If his people do wrong, he must punish them. He is very powerful.”

  Quintero sneered. “What will he do? Come up here and make war against us?”

  “Yes!” Grant said in a loud voice. He repeated, “He is very powerful.”

  Aguila nodded his agreement. “I think so. Has he not defeated all of the Mexicanos?”

  “Every one of them,” Grant said looking straight into Quintero’s eyes. He sensed an antagonist and troublemaker in the young Apache warrior.

  Quintero glanced at his friends Chaparro, Bistozo, and Zalea. They, like him, had to admit to themselves that the Big Chief of the Americans seemed a strong man with many warriors. A mutual, silent exchange of thoughts passed among the four Indians. It seemed better to wait out the situation and see what would develop.

  The other two members of the council, Zorro and Terron, had remained silent. Now Zorro entered the talks. “Why has the Big Chief of the Americans sent his blue-coat warriors if he wants to be friends with us?”