“What are you talking about, Nitchito?” Quintero asked. The boy gasped out, “Mexicanos and White-Eyes have killed the people at the camp at the gully. My grandfather too!”
“Nitcho? Our shaman!” Quintero exclaimed. Without wasting any time in useless questioning, he ordered his friends to fetch their horses. “You will take us back there, Nitcho. Are the bad men still at the camp?”
“I do not know,” Nitcho said. “Grandfather told me to hide in the arroyo. When I saw he was dead, I made a run for the mountains.”
The horses were brought up. As soon as Chaparro mounted, Quintero put Nitchito up behind him. “The moon is bright,” he said. “We can travel fast until we find a good place to stop and hide the horses.”
“I know where there is an easy place for them to walk down into the ravine,” Nitchito said. “Let us hurry, big brothers.”
It took the horses barely an hour to easily cover the same distance that had taken young Nitchito nearly all afternoon to travel. Following the boy’s direction, the warriors turned down the arroyo, following it until they reached a gentle depression that eased down into the depths. They allowed the horses to descend into the natural ditch, then dismounted.
“We will hobble the horses here,” Quintero said. “Bistozo, you go ahead as scout.”
After securing their mounts, the warriors and the boy eased down the arroyo, stopping from time to time as they listened for movements of any unfriendly people who might be lurking or moving about nearby. It took them a long time to travel the entire length of the ravine. At various times, they even chanced looks above at the open desert to see if anyone stirred, but the night and the land were quiet and peaceful. Not even a coyote broke the silence with a howl.
Finally they reached the point in the arroyo’s travels where it curved at the site of the camp. A dull glow of dying embers threw a weak light over the scene.
“Where does that light come from?” Zalea asked.
Quintero chanced a glance. “The wickiups were set on fire by the raiders. The flames are still dying in some of the lodges.”
“It will make it easier to see if the enemy has stayed,” Chaparro pointed out.
A longer, but very cautious look by Quintero showed no movement in the area. Still, wary from lessons learned in past war experiences, the warriors took no unnecessary chances. They would not jump out and rush over to the camp. This time Quintero ordered Nitchito to stay back.
He took the lead now, and the others followed him as he crawled out of the gully and eased his way through the sparse barrel cacti toward the glowing coals.
It wasn’t long before he reached the first corpse. Quintero recognized the dead woman from the various times he had wintered on the desert when the snows in the Culebras made life impossible in the heights. He looked around and saw more slain people.
“There is no one here but those who have passed over to the spirit world,” Quintero said. He stood up.
Chaparro, Bistozo, and Zalea did the same. Chaparro turned toward the arroyo. “Nitchito! You can come up here now.”
There was a scrambling sound as the boy scurried from the ravine. He ran through the camp and went to the spot where he had seen his grandfather lying in death. He knelt down beside the body and clenched his small fists in anger.
Zalea looked around. “They are scalped! Everyone!”
“Even the women and children,” Chaparro said.
Quintero spat in anger. “Mexicanos! They cut the tops off heads and pull the hair away.”
Nitchito controlled his desire to weep. “I saw them cutting at our people, but I did not know what for.”
Bistozo walked over to Nitchito. “Did you say you saw White-Eyes here too?”
Nitchito, his eyes dry but his lip trembling, nodded. “Yes. They were light-skinned and shouted in words that sounded different from the language of the Mexicanos.”
“Why take the top of heads?” Zalea asked. “Do they do it while their enemies live so they can gain strength from the suffering?”
“They do it whether their victims are dead or alive,” Quintero said. “I think the scalps of dead enemies give them strength whether the deed causes pain or not.”
Chaparro glanced around at the scene visible in the combined light of the moon and the dying fires. “Many of our people have died here this day.”
Quintero was silent for a few moments. “Do you remember the wagon with the two White-Eyes we saw earlier today?”
“Yes,” Bistozo said. “They traveled across El Vano as the agreement with the soldiers allows them to do.”
Quintero snarled. “I will no longer honor that agreement!”
“Nor I!” Chaparro shouted.
The other two also voiced their opposition to the treaty made with Captain Grant Drummond.
“We will go find those White-Eyes with the wagon and kill them,” Quintero announced.
The four warriors went back to the arroyo toward their horses. Sad little Nitchito took one more look at the dead, noting the melancholy sight of his slain grandfather, the top of his head nothing but a bare, blood-stained skull. Anger boiled up inside his little body.
“Death to all Mexicanos and White-Eyes!” he shouted as he turned to follow after Quintero and his warrior friends.
Eight
The dragoon, a grizzled veteran named Donegan, stepped away from the other soldiers, to bend over and vomit in the sand. When he’d finished, he spat, saying in an embarrassed tone to his mess mates; “Damn my eyes! I’ll never get used to this even if I see it a thousand times.”
“Well, I’m doing ever-thing I can to keep my own chow down,” another soldier remarked somberly.
The sick soldier’s other companions made no joshing remarks at him either. They stood in a semi-circle around the charred corpses of two individuals who could barely be discerned as having once walked the earth as human beings.
Captain Grant Drummond looked closely at the cadavers. “It’s hard to tell if those are the same men that came through camp the other day.”
“It’s them alright, sir,” a dragoon said.
Eruditus Fletcher glanced over the wagon. “I must agree. I vividly recall their vehicle. Although this one is a burned hulk, there is enough left to identify it as theirs.”
Grant clenched his fists in anger. “During their stopover at the camp, I personally told them it was safe to cross the Vano Basin.”
Sergeant William Clooney grimaced. “There ain’t nothing left of ’em. It’s for sure that the buzzards ain’t gonna have no use for these two.”
The gruesome scene had been discovered earlier by a patrol led by Corporal Charlie Rush. The young noncommissioned officer, with plenty of battle experience in Mexico, made sure his men did not destroy any tracks in the area. Since it was obvious the victims were beyond help, he went directly back to camp and reported the terrible find. Captain Grant Drummond, alarmed by the incident, immediately put the bivouac on full alert. Then, with Eruditus and Sergeant Clooney in tow, he led a detachment out to investigate the incident. Upon arrival, he immediately had the sergeant form the bulk of the men into a defensive perimeter with weaponry ready for any trouble should the killers come back still thirsting for blood.
Grant turned to Eruditus. “You are sure this was done by Apaches?”
“Indeed, Captain,” the old man confirmed. “I fear I must add they were Chirinato Apaches.” He slowly shook his head. “It appears these unhappy chaps died slowly in great agony over a long period of hours.”
Sergeant Clooney turned away. “How’s come they torment pris’ners, Mr. Fletcher? Are the bastards just natural mean like that?”
“The Apache lives in an unforgiving world,” Eruditus said. “That severe environment puts a streak of hard cruelty in their makeup. But there is a bit more to it than that. When it comes to torturing captives these desert Indians feel they draw strength from an enemy’s suffering. The longer the agony, the greater the vigor gained.”
Gr
ant was angry. “Well, sir, they’ll have gained more than vigor from this disgraceful episode. That tribe is going to know the wrath of the United States Army. They broke their word and, by God, I’ll personally see to it that they’re punished.”
“I suggest we look into this before any action is taken, Captain,” Eruditus said.
But Grant was not convinced that prudence applied in the situation. “They promised they would not harm travelers going across the Vano Basin. In return, we assured them we would keep any interlopers out of the Culebra Mountains. I also said—my personal word, Mr. Fletcher, spoken in an official capacity as a representative of the president of the United States—that if they harmed anyone, they would be punished. I told them President Polk would be angry if they broke the treaty. Therefore, I intend to mete out swift and terrible justice, sir!”
“I do sympathize with your position and attitude, Captain,” Eruditus said. He well appreciated the anger and contempt the officer felt, but he had no desire to see a full-scale Indian war start in the Vano Basin. “Let us consider all the facts or we could end up taking action to punish many because of what only a few may have done.”
“Then that chief had better start controlling his people,” Grant said. “That goes for any medicine men too. If they don’t, the few will bring a great deal of grief on the many.”
“Rash action could start a war in which blood would flow on both sides of the border,” Eruditus said. “You’re holding a flame over a powder keg, Captain. I wouldn’t be properly doing my duties if I didn’t point this out to you.”
Grant calmed down a bit. He had a tremendous amount of respect for Eruditus’s intellect and experience in the area. “Then what do you suggest, Mr. Fletcher? Please keep in mind that I must make a full report of this atrocity to headquarters in Santa Fe. My reaction to this crime must be immediate and effective.”
“I believe another meeting with the Chirinato council is in order, Captain,” Eruditus said. “I would beg of you to refrain from filing any communications on this incident until you’ve spoken with the Chirinato council. After all, they may be as appalled by this action as we are.”
“How soon can this be set up?” Grant asked. “Immediately,” Eruditus informed him. “In fact, I can ride out now and arrange for the principals to be there. You could follow with an escort of troops.”
“A large escort,” Grant insisted.
“Perhaps you are correct, Captain,” Eruditus said. “I am in no way saying the whole tribe is not involved. But I sincerely doubt if they are.” He walked over to his horse Plutarch and pulled himself up into the saddle. “I will meet you at the same spot we held the other meeting. I should have the Chirinato council there by the time you can complete your duties here and get up into the Culebras.” Without a further word, the old man pulled on the reins of his horse and galloped off toward the mountains.
“Let’s get these poor wretches buried, Sergeant,” Grant said. “I’ll say a few words over the graves, then we’ll go to the bivouac first. I want an escort of a dozen, heavily armed men with plenty of ball and powder. Have another dozen, similarly armed, follow and situate themselves at the top of the trail. They can provide cover in case we must make a hasty retreat from those goddamned Indians.”
“Yes, sir!” Clooney turned to the troops and quickly organized a burial detail.
Grant left the scene to walk along the defensive line of dragoons who peered intently out into the desert from where they had been posted to keep watch. He pulled his field glasses from their case and scanned the horizon in slow, careful sweeps.
A dragoon kneeling with his carbine ready glanced up. “Anything out there a’tall, sir?”
“Nothing,” Grant said. “I fear the culprits are long gone by this time.” Nevertheless, he gave the surrounding area a careful scrutiny. Finally he replaced the binoculars, glancing back to see that Sergeant Clooney and the buried detail were waiting for him. He returned to the scene of the killings and noted the fresh, neatly packed graves. He sighed aloud. “Let us bow our heads.”
The dragoons removed their hats and reverently lowered their eyes to the ground that now held the two dead men.
“God above, we commit these poor men to your care. I don’t know if they were sinners or not, but if they lived errant wicked lives, they’ve paid for any transgressions through the terrible deaths inflicted on them by merciless devils. We pray you take them into your kingdom. Amen.” He gestured to Sergeant Clooney. “Let’s move out!”
“Yes, sir!”
The troopers mounted up and, with flankers properly posted for security and look-out, made the return ride to the bivouac. Once there, Grant waited as Sergeant Clooney organized a detachment of well-armed and equipped men. It took only a short time for the professional soldiers to form up and swing into their saddles, properly equipped for the job ahead.
With the scarlet and white guidon flapping, the detachment galloped across the sandy terrain to the trail leading Upward to the meeting place. Once more, in single file and every man alert and ready for trouble, the horse soldiers ascended into the cooler regions of the Culebra Mountains. When they reached the end of the climb, Sergeant Clooney detailed Corporal Rush to pick out and position a few men. In case of attack at the parley, they were to cover any retreat while those withdrawing would pass through them, then turn to lend increased firepower to the defensive position. After that, a slow but organized withdrawal to camp would be made.
“We hope,” a veteran added under his breath after receiving the instructions.
“Quiet in the ranks!” Sergeant Clooney roared. “Keep yer mouths shut and yer eyes open or yez’ll end up like them poor wretches we put in this cruel sod earlier on today.”
When the men were properly deployed, Grant led the remainder of the detachment forward through the trees to the meeting that Eruditus was supposed to have arranged. But before they got there, they met the old scout on the trail.
Grant signaled a halt. “What is happening, Mr. Fletcher?”
“I’m afraid blood has been shed on both sides, Captain,” Eruditus reported. “A group of Chirinatos were killed on the desert yesterday.”
“How the hell could that have happened?” Grant demanded to know. “And where and by whom?”
“I’ve yet to learn the details myself, Captain Drummond,” Eruditus said. “But Lobo Cano and the council wait at this moment to inform us of the incident.” He shook his head. “I fear a most serious and distressing situation has arisen in our midst.”
Captain Grant Drummond had dealt with plenty of serious and distressing situations in his thirteen years of soldiering. He took a deep breath and nodded. “Let’s get to the parley then, Mr. Fletcher.”
Eruditus led them deeper into the trees. Just before they reached the spot, however, Grant called a halt. He ordered the small detachment of dragoons to prepare for a quick withdrawal.
“Sergeant Clooney,” Grant instructed. “If you note that Mr. Fletcher and I are in a perilous situation in which the lives of several men would be lost in a rescue attempt, you are to abandon us here and see to it that the men are pulled back per my plan for a quick withdrawal.”
One of the men, the old private named Donegan who had gotten sick, quickly spoke up. “I’ll stick with you, Cap’n. I been doing it for the past five years.”
“I appreciate that Donegan,” Grant said. “But those are my orders.”
“Yes, sir,” Donegan said. “But more’n one of us would—“At ease!” Clooney barked. “Yez’ll do as ordered or it’ll be the back of my hands and the heel of my boots for the bunch of yez!” He turned to the officer. “I’ll see to it proper, sir.”
“Carry on, Sergeant.”
Grant left the troopers under the sergeant’s care, then followed Eruditus the rest of the way to the parley. When they arrived, they quickly dismounted then walked up to a spot in front of the assembled Apaches and sat down. The warrior Quintero, openly scowling, stood with his close friends
. They watched the approach of the two white men with glares of hatred. Grant looked back boldly, taking great care to show anger and determination.
The chief Lobo Cano along with Aguila, Zorro, and Terron waited for the two white men to make themselves comfortable in the thick grass. “We greet you,” Lobo Cano said. “We have something to tell you.”
“The soldier chief awaits your words,” Eruditus assured him.
“Yesterday, a group of our tribe who had gone to stay awhile on our ancestral desert were all killed,” Lobo Cano said. “Men, women, and children. Only one boy escaped.” Aguila was stony faced, but his voice trembled slightly as he said, “Among the dead was the Ghirinato medicine man.”
Eruditus’s eyes opened wide. “Not Nitcho!”
Aguila answered, “Yes. My brother.”
Eruditus controlled his facial expressions as he translated, but he leaned toward Grant and added in a desperate whisper, “This is terrible news. The loss of a spiritual leader has all sorts of possible and unpleasant repercussions.”
“We have no replacement for him except for his grandson Nitchito,” Lobo Cano said. “But the boy is far from ready to be our shaman. Now we cannot communicate with the spirit world or fight sickness or ill-fortune for many, many years.”
“Tell me how they were killed,” Grant requested.
Lobo Cano called out and the boy Nitchito stepped from the crowd. He walked fearlessly forward and spoke in a loud, clear voice telling of how he had witnessed all the people, including his own grandfather, shot down. Then he ended the narration, stating, “The bad men cut off the skin and hair from the tops of their heads and carried them away.”
“Scalped!” Grant exclaimed in surprise when Eruditus told him of what the boy said. “Ask the youngster to describe the killers for us.”
“They were White-Eyes and Mexicanos,” Nitchito answered.
Eruditus slammed his fist into an open palm. “Scalphunters! By all that’s terror and horror in this whole world! Scalphunters!”
Grant glanced about at the Apaches, studying their faces. He realized he would have to speak carefully or he and Eruditus would be filled with arrows within the blink of an eye. “I am saddened and my heart weeps for your dead people.”
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