The Dragoons 3

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Eruditus, very much relieved to see the attitude the young captain had adopted, translated carefully, putting much emotion in his words as he described the grief expressed.

  “I am also saddened by the death of the two white men with the wagon,” he added. “They were only travelers across the Vano Basin and totally innocent of any bad acts against the Chirinato Apaches.”

  Quintero stepped forward, frowning ferociously. “Do you want to punish the Apaches who killed them?”

  Grant spoke quickly, but carefully. “The Big Chief of the Americans will be saddened when he learns of the cruel deaths of his Apache friends. His grief will be so great that I do not believe he will even think of anything but the pain in his heart.”

  Several of the Apaches, with the notable exception of Quintero and his crowd, nodded in approval at this expression of deep feelings for their losses.

  “When the Big Chief of the Americans learns of the death of a medicine man for the Chirinatos, he will then become angry with the bad ones who killed him and the others,” Grant went on. “He will tell me to find them and punish them—not Chirinatos. You have suffered greatly enough.”

  Eruditus let loose a long sigh after translating. “Thank the Lord for your astute intelligence, my young captain!” He added, “I can tell you now who is responsible for the deaths of the Apaches.”

  Grant snapped his eyes around to the older man. “Are you sure? Can we get our hands on the miserable sons of bitches?”

  “I shall give you all the necessary information when we return to our camp,” Eruditus said. “But now, it is time for a dignified withdrawal and leave our Chirinato friends to their grieving. Sometimes the Apache way of mourning can become dangerous for any outsiders in the vicinity.”

  Both white men stood up. “We go now and must mourn the dead,” Grant stated. “I will send word to the Big Chief of the Americans.”

  Eruditus translated, then added, “The grief of the Big Chief will be terrible to behold. He will cry out and shout in anger and hit his wife. His children will flee from his wickiup and stay away until his spirit is again at rest. Only this can be accomplished when the bad ones who killed his Apache friends have been punished.”

  Quintero shouted out, “Take Chirinato warriors with you. We want to draw blood to match the blood of our dead!”

  Eruditus turned to Grant and translated, then he added, “I can tell he has the backing of the tribe with him.”

  Grant went through the motions of showing regret. “It is the custom of the Big Chief to do things for his friends. He will want to punish the bad men for you.”

  But Quintero wasn't satisfied. “How will we know when this is done?”

  “Do not worry,” Eruditus assured him. “Every living man and animal in El Vano will know when vengeance is struck.” He turned, taking Grant by the arm. “Let us go now without hesitation,” he urged.

  Grant allowed himself to be led away into the trees. He and Eruditus wasted no time in mounting and riding back to the spot where Sergeant Clooney and the dragoons waited. They also quickly swung into their saddles, the whole group riding back to where Corporal Rush waited with the rear guard.

  Grant and Eruditus led the column down the narrow trail toward the desert floor. “I am anxious to hear of these men you refer to as scalphunters, Mr. Fletcher. Almost as anxious as I am to drag those sons of bitches kicking and screaming to the gallows!”

  “Fundere sanguis hostilis, aliquando necessarius vester sanguis fundere,” Eruditus said.

  “That’s quite a mouthful of Latin,” Grant said with a wry smile. “I believe that comes out to something like, ‘In order to spill enemy blood, sometimes one must spill one’s own.’”

  “Close enough, my young captain,” Eruditus said seriously. “And whether the aphorism be in Latin, English, Spanish, or an Apache dialect it is the truth.” He paused. “But in this instance, I fear it is an accurate look into our very near future.”

  “Are you telling me these scalphunters are more formidable than I imagine them to be?” Grant asked.

  “I am telling you that they are ruthless killers without mercy or souls,” Eruditus said. “You may rest assured fighting them can be as horrendous as fighting Apaches.”

  Nine

  Captain Grant Drummond put his signature on the routine administrative report he had just finished. It was another one of those maddening chores forced on field commanders by the paper-crazy denizens of the Adjutant General’s Department.

  “More waste of my valuable time,” Grant said to himself. He carefully folded the document before stuffing it into a large, official envelope addressed to the commanding officer of the Ninth Military District at Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory.

  “Sergeant Clooney!” he called out.

  “Yes, sir?” the sergeant said stepping into the detachment commander’s tent.

  “Put this in the dispatch pouch,” Grant said. “Is the rider ready to leave for Santa Fe?”

  “He’ll be able to leave camp within an hour, sir. He’s drawing extry ammunition and rations right now,” the sergeant reported, taking the envelope. “If he manages to stay on schedule, he’ll reach Santa Fe in about three days.”

  “Make sure he doesn’t tarry,” Grant said. He was isolated by three intense days of hard riding from his nearest headquarters. That was one of the reasons he hated to send a man on a mandatory, but useless errand. Not only was the distance a great disadvantage, but the dearth of soldiers stationed in the area kept critical dispatch riding to a minimum. That meant any exchange of news and communiqués could only be done every sixty to ninety days. Requesting immediate aid in the event of an emergency was completely out of the question.

  “Let’s hope the paymaster from Santa Fe finds us pretty soon, sir,” Sergeant Clooney said.

  Grant only shrugged. “What would the men spend their money on out here?”

  “A soldier likes his pay, no matter what,” Clooney pointed out.

  “So he does,” Grant said.

  “Besides they’ll gamble, no matter what we do to stop it,” the sergeant remarked. “Cards and dice jump outta ever’ haversack even before the notes of Pay Call has faded away.”

  “Yes,” Grant said. “The only reason I try to keep that activity down is because of the fights it causes.”

  “They get to spend money when travelers show up now and then,” Clooney said. “A lot of them folks start out with too much. By the time they get this far they’re willing to part with some of their extra belongings for hard cash. Even stuff that was dear to their hearts only a month before.”

  “I suppose,” Grant said. “Let’s not forget the occasional visit from an itinerant whiskey peddler who also has a few slatterns available.”

  Clooney fought down a grin. “The men have to relax now and then, sir.”

  “Another reason for an understanding commander to look the other way when the situation demands it,” Grant said.

  “Yes, sir,” Clooney agreed.

  Grant asked, “By the way, is there any sign of Mr. Fletcher yet?”

  “No, sir,” Clooney said. “It’s been a coupla days now. If we’re gonna ever see him again, it should be soon.”

  Grant smiled. “I don’t know whether to call that optimism or not, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir,” Clooney said. “It’s just that—“ He hesitated. “We’re in a hell of a situation, ain’t we, sir?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Grant answered truthfully. “We certainly are.”

  “It ain’t like open warfare,” Clooney said. “When it comes to these goddamned Chirinatos, a feller don’t know whether to load, aim, and fire or to wave, grin and say ‘Howdy.’ “

  Grant smiled at the sergeant’s comment. “We’ll have to do our best in a difficult situation. Right now, we’ve nothing to gain and plenty to lose if we rouse those Apaches.”

  “We’d never get reinforcements in time, sir,” Clooney said. “There sure as hell ain’t enough of us fight off
all them Indians if they decide we’ve been here long enough.”

  “We’re also short of ammunition not to mention medical aid for any potential wounded,” Grant said. “But we’ll handle this situation like we’ve handled others just as difficult.”

  “I reckon we will, sir.” The sergeant saluted and departed to tend to the dispatch.

  Grant walked to the front tent pole and leaned against it. He pulled his pipe from his inside jacket pocket and began to stuff the bowl with tobacco. As he touched a match to it and puffed, his mind turned over the rather shocking information that Eruditus Fletcher had given him after their return from the latest parley with the grief-stricken and very angry Chirinatos.

  The two men had settled down at a table in front of Grant’s tent for a meal of coffee, beans, hardtack, and salt pork while they discussed the latest developments.

  The two had barely begun to eat when Grant asked, “You said you knew who had committed the murders of those unfortunate Apaches.” He took a slurp of coffee. “You referred to them by the rather ominous name of scalphunters .”

  “That is exactly what and who they are, Captain Drummond,” Eruditus said. “Tell me, have you heard of the Mexican law entitled Proyecto de Guerra?”

  “Can’t say that I have,” Grant answered.

  “It is a legally and properly constituted statute established by the Mexican government which allows for the payment of scalps taken from Apache men, women, and children,” Eruditus said. “Of course, it doesn’t matter if the victims are alive or not when the mutilation occurs. Kindness was not built into that particular piece of legislation “

  Grant, surprised and a bit shocked that such a law would be put into effect by a civilized nation, paused with his mouth open holding onto a spoonful of beans. He said nothing, waiting for the old man to continue with his dissertation.

  “The Mexican government, through various commanders of military districts, pays one hundred silver pesos for the scalp of a full-grown Apache male. The payment for women and children is fifty and twenty-five respectively,” Eruditus explained.

  “Women and children?” Grant asked.

  “That includes infants,” Eruditus said. “Though there would be more of a tiny scalp and not much hair in that case.”

  Grant set his spoon down. “That is damnably barbaric, sir!” he exclaimed.

  “I agree,” Eruditus said. “But we must look into the background of the situation before we condemn the Mexicans to the ultimate degree, although I ask you not even to think that I am defending the Proyecto de Guerra law.”

  “I should hope not,” Grant said.

  Eruditus motioned to the desert terrain around them.

  “This is a cruel terrain. Unforgiving, harsh, and it yields little in the way of comfort or sustenance.”

  “So we’ve discussed before,” Grant said.

  “The Apache has lived in this area for eons,” Eruditus said. “Only recently has he wandered this far east to find the bounty offered by the Culebras Mountains. Before that he wrested what he could to survive from the desert.” He paused and banged his hand on the table. “No! By God, to be perfectly accurate, I must say he stole his livelihood from the desert. He pulled and wrenched the continuance of his race from these scalding sands and blazing hills. This land does not willingly or easily give survival of any sort.”

  “So, even under the best of conditions, the Apaches were in want,” Grant commented.

  “They assuredly were, Captain,” Eruditus said. “And after the Mexicans moved closer, they provided the Apaches with a source of plentiful, nourishing meat in the form of their herds of cattle. Quite unwillingly, of course.”

  “I understand,” Grant said. “When the Apache wished to satisfy his carnivorous yearnings, he turned to raiding Mexican cattle.”

  “Yes, and the Mexicans quite naturally resented it,” Eruditus said. “Particularly when the Apaches added a bit of killing and raping in the raids. The Mexicans retaliated with the same amount of cruelty until both sides were literally at each other’s throats.”

  “I understand,” Grant said. “Eventually, the Mexican ranchers petitioned their federal government for aid, and thus the Proyecto de Guerra was born.”

  “Those are the facts, Captain,” Eruditus said. “And that is what happened to the Chirinatos murdered a couple of days ago.” He took the time to wrestle a bite out of a bricklike hardtack cracker. “What has happened, I have decided after some long thought, is that some scalphunters wandered north looking for victims since the Apache population in their usual area of operations more than likely has either dwindled or fled.” He chewed laboriously.

  “Who would these particular cutthroats be reporting to?” Grant asked.

  “His excellency, General Antonio De La Nobleza,” Eruditus answered. “That gentleman is the commander of the military district of Northern Sonora. That is the region a few miles south of here. I am sure the general is unaware that the men to whom he pays the silver pesos have wandered into territory now owned by the United States of America. Only a madman in his position would risk another war.”

  “Perhaps he is a madman,” Grant suggested.

  “I don’t know him, but I prefer to give him the benefit of the doubt,” Eruditus said.

  “Then we must inform the general of these crimes so he can put a stop to them,” Grant said.

  “An excellent suggestion, Captain,” Eruditus agreed. “As I stated I do not know the general personally. But I am well acquainted with the area where his headquarters is located.”

  “I would appreciate it, if you would visit him and invite him to visit us here,” Grant said. “Or, if he prefers, I would be happy to make a call on him.”

  “I shall visit him at his headquarters and put forth both offers to him,” Eruditus said. He smiled. “After I manage to eat this piece of rock the U.S. Army claims is a cracker, that is.”

  Grant smiled at the picture of the old man struggling to chew the cracker. “You must learn to soak it in your coffee until it is soft and spongy, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “A capital suggestion, sir!” Eruditus said. He dropped the hunk of hardtack into his coffee. “Meanwhile I shall attack the salt pork.”

  They finished their meal with small talk, mostly with the older man carrying on a lively and entertaining monologue regarding the anthropological history of southern Arizona.

  The following morning, after a good night’s rest, Eruditus Fletcher left the camp, heading south toward Mexico and the state of Sonora. Bearing an official letter penned by Grant, the old man was well on his way by the time the day’s sun had managed to clear the horizon.

  Now, waiting for his return, Grant went back inside his tent and sat down to tend to his other administrative duties. Being the commander of a separate, under-strength detachment meant he had to act as his own staff. In addition to commanding the small dragoon force, he was also its adjutant, quartermaster, and, if at all necessary, its chaplain. He went to work on his supply projections for the future, making sure he listed ample amounts of ball and powder in case of big trouble in the Vano Basin. As usual, he became lost in the paperwork, the time flitting by unnoticed by the hard-working officer.

  “Corporal of the Guard! Post Number Two!”

  Grant looked up when he heard the call of the sentry. “Rider approaching!” the soldier called out. “Corporal of the Guard! Post Number Two!”

  Grant forgot the administrative chore. He grabbed his hat and rushed out to the Post Two. The guard position was the farthest forward, looking out onto the desert. He arrived at the spot at the same time the corporal of the guard appeared.

  The sentry was nonplussed at both the appearance of the commander and the noncommissioned officer in charge of his relief. He decided to let protocol slip as he presented arms, saying, “Rider coming in, sir and corporal.”

  Grant looked out into the desert. He could see the rider, easily identifiable as Eruditus Fletcher, coming toward them in his now familiar
slouching posture on the back of his faithful horse Plutarch.

  Grant turned to the corporal saying, “You’re dismissed back to the guard tent. I’ll greet Mr. Fletcher.” He nodded to the sentry. “You’re staying sharp and awake, soldier. You had to be alert to spot Mr. Fletcher so far out.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the dragoon said. “After seeing them two poor fellers the other day, I ain’t dozing much even when I’m rolled in my blankets at night.”

  A few minutes later, Eruditus rode up and dismounted. “What is it you soldiers say? Mission accomplished?”

  “That’s it,” Grant said. “Come on over to my tent. I’ve some hot coffee there.”

  “I’ll take advantage of that invitation, Captain,” Eruditus said. “But I must warn you. I’ve been spoiled by General De La Nobleza. A most gracious arid generous host. My God! Fresh vegetables, excellent liquor, first rate cigars from all over Latin America, a wonderful—“ He shook his head. “Never mind. Let’s get to your tent so I can tell you of my visit.”

  The two walked across the camp to the captain’s tent. A dragoon appeared to lead Eruditus’s horse to the picket line. The soldiers said, “We’ll treat him to a feed of oats, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “Don’t bother,” Eruditus said. “That old glutton has been living like a king’s pampered stallion in a fine stable. He’s been feeding on the very best.”

  Grant smiled as they sat down around the campfire. “It would seem that both you and Plutarch have been basking in the lap of luxury.”

  “That we have, Captain.” Eruditus helped himself to coffee, then pulled an envelope from his shirt. “De La Nobleza, because of pressing duties, is not able to visit us here. However, this is a personal invitation to you from the general to make an official call on him at his headquarters.” Grant opened the missive, noting it was in Spanish. His rudimentary knowledge of the language picked up in Texas along with what he’d learned of Latin, aided him in understanding the words that had been written down in a fancy, pompous style. “Well, I most certainly will visit the general.”