The Dragoons 3

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Grant, every nerve of his being alert, stalked forward. He passed the dead man with his pants down lying in feces. Flies covered both the filth and the body. The captain reached the proper place and took a careful look.

  The camp in the draw was informal with no guards posted. It was evident that Eruditus had been correct in his assumption that the murderers felt secure in the combined cover of the brush and the dip in the ground. All it took was a few moments of observation to form a plan in his mind. Then he returned to the column.

  Clooney stood waiting for orders. “The patrol is ready, sir.

  “Divide the men into three even groups,” Grant said. “One for the left side, one for the right, and the remainder to stay with me. We will move forward. When I open fire, the attack will take place. Have the groups on the flanks close in to cut off any escape attempts while we in the center carry the main thrust of the attack.”

  “How many of ’em is there, sir?” Clooney asked.

  “About the same number as we are,” Grant said. “But the element of surprise will work quite favorably for us.”

  “I won’t take long, sir,” Clooney said.

  The sergeant’s word was good. Within moments, the attack formation moved forward with Grant leading the way. When he reached his observation point, he was glad to note there was no change in the scalphunters’ lack of alertness. He picked out a particularly obnoxious looking fellow, and took careful aim with one of his Colts. The dragoon officer squeezed the trigger and felt the weapon buck as it fired. He was instantly gratified with the sight of the scalphunter lurching, then falling to the ground.

  The rest of the patrol responded immediately with both pistols and carbines. The slugs whipped through the undergrowth cutting small branches, kicking up dust, and slamming into bodies.

  One man squatting over a kettle of beans took a direct hit in the forehead. Bits of skull were blown through his hat as he sat down then simply fell over on his back. Another, near him, who lay dozing on his blankets, took three shots that rolled him over several times. He was dead before he came to a halt.

  Another fellow, instantly full of fight, fired his revolver in the brush although he couldn’t spot any of the dragoons attacking the camp. His boldness cost him an immediate slug in the belly. Yelling in pain, he sunk to his knees, but continued to blindly shoot back. A round to the shoulder spun him halfway around on his knees while another ended his life by smashing into the side of his head.

  Down at the far end of the draw, Roberto Weismann and Penrod Donaldson scurried to the dubious cover offered by some stunted bushes. With guns drawn, they waited for targets to appear.

  “Do you think it’s Indians?” Donaldson asked.

  “Quien sabe?” Weismann answered. “But I think not. Their firing is too well organized.”

  Suddenly a shouted command could be heard and a quick volley smashed into a trio of scalphunters who tried to run up one side of the dip in the ground. Two tumbled back to the bottom of the draw, but the third continued on in spite of having to limp badly from a bullet in his thigh. The wounded fellow managed to reach to top when a dragoon showed himself just enough to deliver a vicious butt-stroke with his carbine.

  The murderer fell back with his nose smashed and bleeding. A couple of shots finished him off.

  “Soldiers!” Weismann exclaimed. “Por el amor de Dios! Let us leave this place now.”

  “I’m with you,” Donaldson said.

  The two scalphunters had tied their horses to some heavy brush a few yards away as was always their habit. They crawled deeper into the brush before being able to get to their feet and rush to the animals. Although the mounts were unsaddled, the pair took no time to prepare them for a ride. They immediately led the horses away from the one-sided battle until reaching more wide-open terrain. After hastily slipping onto the backs of the horses, Weismann and Donaldson rode away, the sound covered by the shooting. Back at the draw, Grant shouted, “Cease fire!” Immediately the well-disciplined troops stopped shooting. An eerie silence filled the glen as the dragoon officer led his men into the camp.

  Sergeant Clooney spat. “No survivors, sir.”

  Grant glanced at Eruditus. “It would seem we’ve solved our own problem in a most unexpected manner.”

  “Perhaps so, Grant,” Eruditus said. He found a leather bag and opened it. “Oh, my sweet God in heaven!”

  “What is it?” Grant asked.

  “Fresh scalps,” Eruditus said.

  “We shouldn’t have any more of that now that we’ve destroyed this band of murderers,” Grant said.

  “Let’s not forget the Chirinato Apaches, Grant,” Eruditus cautioned him. “If we can keep them from making any vengeance raids on travelers, then we will have finally brought peace to the Vano Basin.”

  “These bodies should satisfy our Indian friends, should they not?” Grant asked.

  “I sincerely hope so,” Eruditus replied.

  Grant holstered his Colts with a smile. “This could well be the last blood shed in this part of Arizona.”

  Meanwhile, now out on the desert, Roberto Weismann and Penrod Donaldson held to their precarious seats during the wild bareback ride toward the hacienda of His Excellency General Antonio Eduardo San Andres De La Nobleza.

  Fourteen

  The condemned man sat in the corner of the bare, unfurnished cell. The only thing between himself and the cold stone-slab floor was a thin blanket.

  The day before he had been concerned with saving his life. During the court martial he’d pleaded as eloquently as possible, damning his lack of formal education, as he gave his side of the situation. But his case was weak, the capital charges he faced were numerous, and the prosecution strong. All that made the outcome of the trial inevitable.

  A few years previously, when he’d been promoted from the ranks to a lieutenancy, the prisoner had never dreamed one day he would be sentenced to the firing squad for botching a battle. Particularly one in which the men he commanded outnumbered the enemy by more than ten-to-one.

  The man, named Montoya, cursed his bad luck, muttering, “Madre de Dios! Chinga la mal suerte que me plaga!”

  General Nobleza himself had ordered Lieutenant Montoya to take two sections of soldiers dressed in civilian clothing to chase down the American officer and the old Gringo who had come to visit at the hacienda. The orders were terse and to the point: Track the foreign pair and kill them.

  To be chosen for such a mission was a great honor and he’d wasted no time in telling his proud wife how the general had such confidence in him.

  “Surely you will soon be a capitan!” she had exclaimed. “With a capitan’s pay and the opportunity to earn some extra from bribes and other undertakings, we will be rich!” Montoya told her.

  Happy in the thought his life was about to get better, Montoya took his platoon out and tracked down the Gringos, finally running them to ground after a weary chase. Cocky and self-assured, Montoya had seen the action as a chance to give his men some good sport by having them charge back-and-forth past the two Americanos to enjoy some shooting at live targets before delivering the final blow.

  But the pair had fought back stubbornly and well, finally reaching a point where they staved off a final charge with the lances of Montoya’s own men.

  Then, at almost the exact moment he was ready to order the final killing charge, the American dragoons arrived on the scene and drove the Mexicans away. This resulted in the embarrassed lieutenant having to report to His Excellency that the easy attack had been routed. General De La Nobleza was furious, ordering an immediate court martial and sentence of death in one breath.

  “Please, Excelencia,” Montoya had begged. “Give me one more chance! I will die before I fail again!”

  The general thought that funny. He laughed and said, “That is a certainty.” Then, with a snap of his fingers, he had called two guards to make the arrest. “Take him away for the punishment he so richly deserves.”

  Now, with his exec
ution only a short time away, Montoya was no longer concerned with any futile hopes of survival. All he worried about now was dying well. Several of his acquaintances were on the firing squad, and he wanted them to be able to tell his four sons that their father had died bravely. He shrugged with resignation as he thought of his wife. Within six months she would be the woman of another officer. But that was only right. After all, she was young and very pretty.

  The sound of marching feet interrupted his thoughts. Montoya wasted no time in standing up. He wanted them to find him at a dignified position of attention, looking soldierly in spite of the spoiled uniform he wore that had been stripped of all buttons and insignia. Better that than cringing in the corner of the cell looking like a whipped dog.

  The door opened and Captain Ricardo Perez stepped inside. He nodded in approval at the sight of the courageous prisoner. “Buenos dias,” he greeted him.

  “Buenos dias, Capitan,” Montoya responded. At least having General De La Nobleza’s personal adjutant in charge of the firing squad was an unexpected honor. Montoya almost thanked him.

  “Listo?” Perez asked.

  “Yes,” Montoya answered. “I am ready.”

  The prisoner marched outside and positioned himself between the double row of riflemen who would soon be blasting the life from his body. He dully noted that the sun had just began to rise, casting the hacienda compound in a weak, reddish light. Not a cloud showed in the sky.

  “It looks like another hot day, muchachos,” Montoya said with forced bravado. He laughed. “If it stays this way my widow will have to spend a lot of time watering the flowers on my grave, eh?”

  “Que hombre!” one of the soldiers exclaimed in unabashed admiration.

  Perez wanted to get the job over. He barked orders and the group paraded from the guard house across the width of the open area to a bullet-pocked section of wall. This wasn’t the first time that particular part of the hacienda had been used to dispatch a condemned man, nor the first time for the priest waiting there to hear the last confession.

  The firing squad halted and the prisoner went forward. He knelt by the priest and tended to the final religious ceremony of his life. After receiving the blessing, he got to his feet, keeping his shoulders back. He turned and faced the firing squad.

  “Do your duty, soldiers,” Montoya said in a firm voice.

  The priest made the sign of the cross over the doomed prisoner while Perez brought the firing squad into the proper formation.

  Waiting until the padre had moved out of the way, Montoya asked, “May I have the honor of issuing the commands?”

  “Por su puesto,” Perez said without trying to hide the admiration in his voice. “Of course.”

  Montoya took a deep breath. “Atencion!” he spoke in a loud clear voice. “Preparan!”

  The half dozen soldiers brought their muskets up and pulled back the hammers.

  “Apuntan!” Montoya ordered.

  The squad raised their weapons to their shoulders and aimed at the prisoner’s chest.

  Montoya hesitated only a moment before taking another deep breath and shouting, “Fuego!”

  The six muskets blasted, the balls striking true. The force of their impact hurled the condemned man against the wall. He bounced off and toppled to the ground.

  Perez pulled his pistol from its holster and approached the body. He knelt down to arrange the corpse in a more dignified position, then put the barrel of the weapon behind the dead man’s ear. The coup de grace seemed louder than the musketry as Montoya’s head jerked under the force of the shot.

  Perez stood up and walked toward the hacienda’s main building as some specially hired peones carrying a wooden casket rushed from the shadows to pick up the cadaver.

  Perez went past a sentry, going into the rambling adobe structure to walk down a long hall to the dining area. He found General De La Nobleza eating breakfast with his faithful servant Luis standing by to serve him.

  “Lieutenant Montoya has been executed, Excellency,” Perez said.

  “Former lieutenant,” De La Nobleza corrected him. “If you recall, we stripped him of his rank at the court martial.”

  “Of course, Excellency,” Perez acknowledged.

  “At any rate, I heard the shots,” De La Nobleza said enjoying a sweet roll. “How did he die?”

  “He asked to give the commands himself,” Perez said. “His last moments were those of courage.”

  De La Nobleza smiled. “Ah! All my officers and soldiers are brave men. It makes me proud!”

  “The entire battalion will speak of his valor,” Perez said. “Montoya set a good example.”

  De La Nobleza scowled. “You should say his death atoned for his stupidity in letting the Gringos escape.”

  “Of course, Excellency,” Perez said. “I did not mean he was undeserving of being executed.”

  “Make sure the men understand that,” De La Nobleza said. “I will have no martyrs in my command unless they benefit me personally.”

  “Yes, Excellency!”

  “Very well,” De La Nobleza said. “Now sit down and have a cup of coffee. The present situation about the Apache scalp bounty must be discussed.”

  Luis stepped forward and served a cup of the hot brew to the officer as he settled into a chair at the table. Then the servant returned to his station by the door and waited until he was needed again.

  Perez scooped several generous spoonfuls of sugar into the coffee. “Do you think the Gringo officer was fooled into thinking bandidos had attacked him and the old man?” Perez asked.

  “I do not know,” De La Nobleza answered. “They were dressed for the part, were they not?”

  “Yes, Excellency,” Perez answered.

  “Whether they were duped or not makes little difference,” De La Nobleza said. “If the situation is handled correctly, we will still be able to earn silver pesos from the scalps of those Arizona Apaches.”

  “You are correct, of course,” Perez said. “Provided nothing happens to Señor Weismann.”

  “I have faith in Don Roberto,” De La Nobleza said. “There are many Chirinato Apaches scattered about El Vano. The chance to earn much money will sharpen his skills and intelligence.”

  “I hope so,” Perez said taking a sip of coffee.

  De La Nobleza frowned. “You do not seem optimistic, Capitan.”

  “Perdoname, Excelencia,” Perez said. “But the American impressed me as an excellent soldier. The fact that he and the old man managed to hold off an overwhelming number of our men until help arrived makes me cautious about the campaign to lift Apache hair in Arizona.”

  “He has a small force,” De La Nobleza said dismissing the other officer’s worries with a wave of his hand.

  “But how do you know that, Excelencia?” Perez asked. “Con permiso, but this is a question that must be asked.”

  “I appreciate your candor about sensitive issues as this one, Capitan,” De La Nobleza said. “But do you not think that if the Gringo had a large, strong force he would bother to come here to ask me to help in controlling the scalphunters? He would have dispatched his troops to search out and destroy any interlopers in that land the Gringos have taken from us.”

  “I think I understand, Excelencia,” Perez said. “You are correct, of course.”

  De La Nobleza smiled. “That is why I am a general and you are a captain.”

  “Yes, Excelencia,” Perez intoned respectfully.

  A hard knocking at the door interrupted further conversation. Luis strode over to the portal and answered the summons. Moments later he hurriedly returned. “It is el sargento de la guardia, Excelencia,” Luis said. “He wishes to inform you that Señor Weismann and Señor Donaldson are outside requesting to see you.”

  “Send them in immediately!” De La Nobleza ordered. “Madre de Dios! This can only mean trouble!”

  Captain Perez finished his coffee, secretly smiling to himself with the knowledge that Captain Grant Drummond had evidently not
waited long to strike the scalphunters. Perez was smart enough to keep his satisfaction of being right while De La Nobleza was wrong, undetectable. His mind told him, “Al infierno con el general! To hell with the general! He is mistaken in his judgment of the Gringo officer. That Captain Drummond will not be an easy man to do away with.”

  Luis fetched the two unexpected visitors, admitting the pair of disheveled, nearly exhausted men into the presence of the general. Roberto Weismann wasted no time in speaking.

  “Where in hell did those Gringo soldiers come from?” he demanded to know.

  Such impudence from anyone else would have sent General De La Nobleza into a rage. But his admiration and respect for Roberto Weismann helped him to keep his temper under control. “An unfortunate incident, Don Roberto. And I fear it was brought about through the incompetence of one of my own officers.”

  Perez quickly added, “Who was summarily executed less than an hour ago.”

  Penrod Donaldson smirked. “Was that the funeral going on outside the walls there as we rode in?”

  “It was,” Perez said coldly. He still did not like the Gringo.

  Donaldson, despite being dirty, rumpled, and tired, chuckled. “I could see some of your officers already giving the grieving widow some admiring glances.” He laughed aloud. “I got to admit she was a pretty sight in that black dress and shawl.”

  “Perhaps widows appeal to you because they are unprotected women without men,” Perez said in cool anger. “Damn right!” Donaldson said.

  “Luis!” De La Nobleza barked. “Do not stand there like a stupid burro. Fetch refreshments for Don Roberto and Señor Donaldson.”

  The sarcastic grin hadn’t left Donaldson’s face. “So I’m Señor Donaldson and not Don Penrod, eh?”

  “Correcto!” De La Nobleza said. “The title of don is reserved for gentlemen.”

  “Well, now, I’ve never claimed to be that,” Donaldson said sitting down before being invited. “Manners and all that shit is just something that ain’t part o’ my nature.”

  Luis quickly saw to it that coffee and rolls had been provided to the pair of scalphunters. He turned to the general. “Shall I have rooms prepared for Don Roberto and Señor Donaldson, Excellency?”