The Dragoons 3

by Patrick E. Andrews

  His friend Aguila, along with Chief Lobo Cano, Zorro, and Terron of the council, was as spellbound as the other listeners. Each description of the charges of the Mexicans, exchanges of gunfire, and mutual taunts and insults of the fighters brought cries and yelps from the assembled Apaches.

  “We stood alone,” Eruditus said. “In the middle of the desert completely surrounded by Mexicans. All our bullets were finally gone. We were like two small rabbits facing a pack of coyotes.” He gestured at Grant. “But I drew courage from my brave friend. Nothing frightens him. Nothing!” Grant, unable to understand the words, was a bit confused by the approving grunts and glances thrown his way. He merely smiled and nodded.

  Eruditus took extra effort in reciting the details of meeting the final assault with lances. He was particularly flattering of Grant’s fighting prowess as he told of how the captain used an ancient method of meeting galloping horses face-to-face with only a stabbing weapon. This was particularly impressive to Chirinatos whose legends were filled with extraordinary deeds performed in hand-to-hand fighting with primitive weapons.

  “We knelt there, with the butts of the lances in the dirt and the blades pointing skyward,” Eruditus exclaimed. “I think there was fire coming from the nostrils of the Mexicans’ horses, my brothers. Those animals wanted us to die as much as their owners.”

  The part where Sergeant Clooney and the patrol showed up consisted of portraying the Mexicans as cringing before the spiritual bravery of the Americans who, knowing that their Big Chief was behind them, had almost magical fighting qualities. The surviving enemy fled in ignominious defeat and disgrace.

  By then Eruditus was enjoying being the center of attention so much that he couldn’t stop. He told of discovering the bodies of the seven scalped Chirinato hunters. Even the stoic Apaches wiped at tears as the old man described the anguish of the dragoons at the awful sight.

  “Captain Grant howled his grief to the sky,” Eruditus said. “Because he knew how his Big Chief would weep when he heard the news of the seven dead warriors.” He paused for effect. “Then the anger over came him. Slowly at first, then like the torrent of a flash flood rolling across the desert floor. He bellowed for the blood of the scalphunters!”

  The Apaches shouted and yelled so much that Grant and the dragoons became alarmed. Only Eruditus’s continued narration showed them all was well.

  Eruditus finally brought the story to a finish, orchestrating the tale right up to that same moment as he stood there finishing it up for the most appreciative audience. When he ended, the Apaches began talking among themselves, telling of how much they had enjoyed hearing the man they called Erudito speak to them of those things both wondrous and terrible.

  Meanwhile, the old man turned to Grant and gave him a brief description of what had transpired. “Now, my friend,” Eruditus said. “You must make appropriate closing remarks. Be sure and mention the dead have been avenged and the Chirinatos do not have to go out to murder any white for revenge.”

  Grant stepped forward with Eruditus standing slightly behind him. As the army officer spoke, the old scout broke in at appropriate times to translate the words into the language of the Chirinato Apache tribe.

  “My brothers,” Grant said. “It is my fervent hope that peace will now come to the Vano Basin. It will be good if travelers going to the big waters to the west are able to pass through without trouble. And it will be good if Ghirinatos can roam and hunt on the land of the ancestors without worry about murderers killing them for their scalps.”

  A few of the Indians, mostly the elder, voiced agreement with nods of their heads and low-voiced grunts.

  “With no more killings of innocent Indians, there will be no reason for trouble between us,” Grant continued. “The Big Chief of the Americans will not be angry with his Chirinato brothers so long as none kill the travelers or make war against us soldiers at the Pool-Beneath-the-Cliff.” The young warrior named Quintero suddenly cried out, “What if we go to Mexico to steal cattle? What will the Big Chief of the Americans think of that?” His friends Chaparro, Bistozo, and Zalea remained close to him.

  “He wishes peace between you and the Mexicans,” Grant said. “But what you do in their land is between yourselves and them. If they kill you in Mexico, the Big Chief of the Americans can do nothing about it. If you kill Mexicans, he can do nothing about it. But if you kill Americans, he will be angry. He is concerned about peace here in the Vano Basin and across the great desert.” Grant paused, gauging the Indians’ reaction to his words. He was satisfied. “I have spoken.”

  Lobo Cano stood up. “I like what the American soldier chief has just said. I think there will be no trouble in El Vano. We know the Big Chief of the Americans has powerful medicine. He has defeated the whole of the Mexicans and made them stay out of places like El Vano. We will be at peace with him because we have learned to trust him.”

  “That is good,” Grant said after Eruditus’s translation. “But if more of our people die, I do not know what will happen,” Lobo Cano warned. “The Big Chief of the Americans must make sure the Mexicans and their scalphunters stay away from us.”

  Quintero, the hotheaded warrior, swaggered forward and lifted his musket in the air. “If one more of our tribe dies by the hands of scalphunters, we will fight everybody! White travelers and white soldiers and Mexicans and everybody outside our tribe along with the scalphunters will be killed!”

  Eruditus leaned toward Grant and whispered in his ear, “If you recite prayers at night, my friend, beseech the Almighty to keep General De La Nobleza and his men out of Arizona!”

  Sixteen

  The outlaw community of Juntera in northern Sonora was generally a quiet place. The oppressive, heavy, strength-sapping heat of the desert kept most physical activity to an absolute minimum. Because of this, occasional, thundering but brief outbursts of violence marred the long periods of silence in the sun-baked desert town. These disturbances were generally between a few men who had old scores to settle or who, during a wild, brain-boiling drunk, became enraged over an insult or a gambling incident where cheating had occurred.

  But a lasting hubbub of activity had been going on in the settlement for more than three days since Roberto Weismann and Penrod Donaldson showed up with more than a hundred and fifty Mexican horsemen. Those unusual riders caused plenty of curious stares, but it didn’t take long before the wily people in the village figured out the unusual behavior of the riders, such as setting up an orderly camp and following a routine of waking, eating, and chores was due to the fact they were soldiers in the Mexican army dressed in civilian clothing. Once that was established, everyone began trying to figure out why.

  A couple of hours later it became well-known in that small metropolis of sin, that among those troopers was a full captain. Juntera’s gossip mill kept grinding at full speed until it became common knowledge on the street that the officer was a rather grumpy young man called Ricardo Perez.

  That bit of local intelligence at first caused great concern among the population of mostly temporary inhabitants. Quite a few nervous fellows, wanted for lawbreaking on both sides of the border, suddenly lit out with the fear that the cavalrymen were there to make arrests. The exodus would have been greater, but when the word finally got around that Weismann and Donaldson were part of the group, relief set in quickly. Anybody that knew anything about those two realized they would never be involved in any law enforcement activity.

  That knowledge preyed on everyone’s curiosity, causing plenty of conversation regarding just what in hell Weismann and Donaldson had to do with the Mexican army. This interest increased a hundred-fold when it became known that Weismann was actually in command of the cavalrymen, including the petulant officer!

  All the flying rumors and suppositions caused plenty of anxious and excited talk in the cantinas and bordellos of the desert community. The prevalent prattle was that a revolution or mutiny within the Mexican military was in the offing and there existed a very strong poss
ibility that Roberto Weismann was a general in what could only be a planned coup d’etat against Mexico City. Only God knew who might be the power and money behind the plot.

  Weismann damned the talk, keeping his reasons for visiting Juntera to himself at first. The scalphunter chief went as far as threatening a couple of particularly nosy inquirers. He did not want to begin a general hiring of pistoleros immediately. Instead, the scalphunter chief and Donaldson—along with Capitan Perez as company—walked Juntera’s streets, visiting the cantinas, as the scalphunters noted what particular outlaws had made stops in the town. After spending an entire day simply looking around, the trio retired to a popular cantina to discuss the situation.

  When their drinks were served and they were left alone at a corner table, the captain grumbled, “We are wasting time, Don Roberto.”

  Donaldson shook his head and interrupted, speaking in a scornful tone. “No we ain’t!”

  “I am not speaking to you, Donaldson,” Perez said. “So keep your mouth shut.”

  The American slapped at his scabbard and had his fighting knife out in an instant. He stretched out his arm so that the point of the weapon was but inches from Perez’s throat.

  “I don’t give a damn ifn you call me Don Penrod or not,” he growled. “But, by God, you’re gonna call me Señor Donaldson, or I’ll cut your damn gizzard out and feed it to the dawgs on the street.”

  Donaldson waited to see the reaction to his words. When Perez remained stony-faced and impassive at the threat, the American could see he was dealing with a man who wouldn’t be intimidated. He replaced the knife in its leather holder.

  “You’ll speak polite to me too,” the American said.

  Perez was a brave man who would not back down from anybody under any circumstances. “I lose no sleep in worrying about any threats from you. Comprendes? Therefore, I shall speak to you in any manner that pleases me, Gringo!”

  Donaldson leaped to his feet, drawing his pistol. He meant to bring the affair to an end then and there. “Then you’ll die in any manner that pleases me, Greaser!”

  Weismann spoke. “Sit down.” His voice was low and calm, but the threat in it was as obvious as a rattlesnake’s warning buzz. He said again, “Sit down.”

  “This feller’s giving me more shit then I can take,” Donaldson complained.

  “I don’t think the general would be very happy with you if you shot his captain,” Weismann pointed out.

  “That general don’t worry me none,” Donaldson said. “Killing Perez would also upset me,” Weismann said in a calm voice.

  “I understand, Roberto,” Donaldson said. He reholstered his pistol and plopped back in the chair.

  Weismann turned to Perez. “You will address him as Señor Donaldson.”

  Perez started to protest, but the danger he read in Weismann’s cold, green eyes caused him to change his mind. “As you wish, Don Roberto.”

  “That will not be difficult, I think,” Weismann said. “It is only a little thing, is it not?”

  “Certainly,” Perez said.

  Weismann began speaking again as if nothing had taken place. “I am not wasting time, Capitan Perez. I have been walking the town to see not only who is here, but what sort of fellows I can expect to hire for the dangerous trip up north.”

  “Esta bien, Don Roberto,” Perez said. “I understand. After all, this is what you get paid for.”

  “Exactly,” Weismann said.

  Donaldson took a deep swallow of his tequila. “There was one feller you might not have noticed,” he said. “A big’n wearing buckskin and toting a shotgun.”

  “You mean the one with the red beard?” Weismann asked. “I noticed him.”

  “Well, Roberto, that is one of the meanest son of a bitches that ever trapped in the Rocky Mountains,” Donaldson said. “I don’t know him personal, but he used to bring furs into the trading post where I worked and I seen him a time or two at the rendezvous we had up there.”

  “Que quiere decir ‘rendezvous?’ “ Weismann asked. “I don’t understand what that is.”

  “It’s a big get-together when the trappers, traders, Injuns, and mountain men of all kinds from hunters to wanderers, have a big meet,” Donaldson explained. “There’s business conducted, drinking, fighting, dallying with Injun women, and anything else that a group a crazy people who been locked away for months in the winter snows can think of doing.”

  “So you used to see this fellow at those rendezvous, eh?” Weismann asked.

  “Yeah,” Donaldson answered. “He was a ring-tailed terror, let me tell you. He’s never forgive a grudge and if he heard tell of somebody wanting some trouble, then he’d go looking for him. No reason a’tall, ’cept to kill somebody. Even the Injuns was leery of him.”

  “He sounds perfect,” Weismann said.

  Perez wasn’t so sure. “Are you sure he can be kept under control? We cannot have somebody going about doing as he damn well pleases.”

  “I reckon the opportunity to earn silver pesos will make him toe the line,” Donaldson said. “He always worked hard with other fellers when it come to trapping for fur.”

  “What is his name?” Weismann asked.

  “He’s knowed as Wild River Garvey,” Donaldson answered. “You want me to go fetch him?”

  “Yes,” Weismann answered. “I think it would be worth our while to speak with this man.” He chuckled in his throat. “Wild River, eh? Rio Cimarron in Spanish.”

  “I’ll be back directly with him,” Donaldson said. He got up and hurriedly strode from the bar to search out the strange man called Wild River.

  Perez signaled to the barkeep for another round of drinks. “Do you think it really necessary to hire these uncivilized rascals?” he asked Weismann.

  Weismann eyed the officer. “Would you and your men prefer to remove the scalps of Apaches?”

  “Of course not, Don Roberto,” Perez said. “My men are professional soldiers. They have too much honor to—” He suddenly stopped speaking as he realized he was about to insult what Weismann did for a living.

  Weismann, however, was not angry. “Soldiers live by a code and scalphunters live by a code,” he said. “I would not expect my men to put themselves under military discipline like your troopers'. Their jobs are different. Yours are with me to fight other soldiers.”

  “I am glad you understand what I mean, Don Roberto,” Perez said. He took a quick drink of the tequila. “Very glad.”

  “Then do not worry yourself about such matters,” Weismann told him. “Or what sort of men are hired.”

  “My real concern is that General De La Nobleza be pleased with the outcome of this undertaking,” Perez said.

  “After seeing that fellow buried outside the hacienda, I can very well appreciate your careful interest in how I handle our operation,” Weismann said. “As for me, I am like Penrod Donaldson. I do not fear the general. In fact, someday he may try to hunt me down for some future activity I become engaged in. What I do, I do for money. Do you understand, Capitan?”

  “Yes, Don Roberto,” Perez said.

  “Do not worry, Capitan,” Weismann said. “You will not go al paredon—to the wall.”

  Perez only nodded in reply. The longer he stayed in the scalphunter chiefs company, the less he cared for the situation. He had taken on an army commission for glory, to serve Mexico, and to make a small fortune for himself. At least enough to own his own rancho and a nice herd of cattle after a few years of service.

  Instead, he now found himself placed most unwillingly under the control of a man who casually murdered men, women, and children, then brought in a portion of their anatomies in order to collect money. Perez remembered peones doing that with coyotes, producing tails as proof of kills. The bad thing was that while it was impossible to work out any agreements with coyotes about killing cattle and sheep, at least an effort could be made to have a treaty with Apaches. Perez certainly harbored no secret affection for those natives of the desert, but that didn’t
mean it pleased him to kill and mutilate them. His idea to handle the situation of marauders was to meet with the tribal leaders and work out an agreement in which the Indians would be paid with animals to butcher and eat. That left plenty of energy and opportunity to protect the herds from natural enemies.

  Weismann and Perez drank slowly and silently for another quarter of an hour. Then the door opened and Donaldson came back into the cantina in the company of another man. The fellow was tall, well over six feet in height, and slim. His long hair and full beard were striking in the bright redness of their color. He was dressed in greasy buckskins, wearing a wide-brimmed, slouching hat that almost covered his heavily bearded face. He wore a couple of haversacks crisscrossed across his body and he sported a shotgun carried casually in the crook of his left arm.

  Donaldson led him up to the table. “Roberto, this here is Wild River Garvey.”

  “Howdy,” Garvey said. He spoke broken, but passable Spanish. “This feller tells me I can earn money by killing Injuns. Is ’at right?”

  “You must scalp them as proof of the kill,” Perez interjected.

  Garvey glared at him. “Who’ll’ hell are you?”

  “I am Captain Perez of the Mexican Army,” Perez said thinking that another fellow exactly like Donaldson had joined the group. “I work directly for the man who buys Apache scalps.”

  “I’ve traded in beaver, squirrel, bear, and buffalo,” Garvey said. “But this is the first time I’ve dealed in human hair.” He laughed. “By God, the pay’s a little better. I never got no hunnerd silver pesos fer a male beaver.”

  “There is more to it than that,” Weismann said. “A group of American soldiers will be trying to stop us. Captain Perez’s men will deal with them, therefore, we outnumber them by a tremendous amount.”

  “Could there be an outside chance we might have to fight ’em too?” Garvey asked.