The Dragoons 3

by Patrick E. Andrews

“Perhaps,” Weismann admitted. “But not likely.” Donaldson looked at Garvey. “You ain’t got no objection to shooting at the U.S. Army if you have to, do you?”

  “I done it before,” Garvey answered. “But what’re they doing in Mexico?”

  “They ain’t in Mexico,” Donaldson said. “They’re in Arizona Territory.”

  “Ain’t that part o’ Mexico?” Garvey asked.

  “No more,” Perez said. “The United States won that as a concession after defeating Mexico in the war.”

  “What war?” Garvey asked. “Has there been a war?”

  “Sure, Wild River,” Donaldson said. “The United States and Mexico went at it hammer-and-tongs fer a coupla years.”

  “What about New Mexico?” Garvey asked. “I spent me some time in Santa Fe. That’s where I picked up some of that there Espanol lingo.”

  “That is now part of the United States too,” Donaldson said. “And so is Californy.”

  “Californy? Well, I’ll be damned,” Garvey said. “I reckon I’ve been up in them mountains too long.”

  Perez asked, “What brought you down from the high country?”

  “None o’ your business,” Garvey said. He was a bit upset about the lack of courtesy in the question. Prying into someone’s past or present life was a faux pas of extreme proportions on the American frontier.

  Perez seethed inside. Under normal circumstances, he would have had the arrogant lout whipped half to death then shot. But this latest assignment from De La Nobleza prevented that.

  Weismann grew tired of the drawn-out conversation. “Are you with us, or not?”

  Garvey grinned. “Sure, Boss.”

  “Sit down and have a drink,” Donaldson said. “You can pick up your stuff and camp with us tonight.”

  “I got all my stuff on me,” Garvey said sitting down.

  “Cantinero!” Donaldson hollered to the bartender. “More tequila!”

  The drinks were quickly served and the saloonkeeper went back to his post. Something about the four men at the table made him uneasy. He went to stand by his friend at the end of the bar.

  The friend looked at Weismann, Donaldson, Perez, and Garvey. He instinctively experienced a slight shudder. “Quien es son?” he asked in a nervous whisper.

  “Estos son diablos,” the barkeep answered. “They are devils, I think.”

  Even his experiences with the worst of the border riffraff had not prepared him for the quartet he now served. For this first time since he opened the establishment, he wished he had a crucifix hanging somewhere in the cantina.

  The four men had no more than a couple of more rounds of drinks before leaving the bar. Perez returned to the cavalry camp while the other three went down to a flea-infested adobe inn to work out the hiring routine for the next day.

  After paying to have a local harlot leave her crib for a bit and visit them, the three exhausted themselves on the tireless woman who went away with a handful of pesos for her trouble. That had been Roberto Weismann’s treat. Donaldson and Garvey, who didn’t have enough money between them to hire the oldest, most disease-ridden whore in all of Mexico, appreciated the gesture though they had to wait their turns until the boss had satiated himself.

  The next day saw the actual hiring begin. A return to the cantina for breakfast brought the opportunity to speak to a couple of likely looking candidates who stood drinking at the bar. These were typical hardcases who could be counted on to kill. One was a Yaqui half-breed named Osito and the other a Mexican who identified himself only with the nickname of Costuron. This obviously came from the deep scar that ran across his nose which was the result of somebody trying to remove it.

  “Did Injuns do that?” Donaldson asked pointedly.

  “It was about another man’s woman,” Costuron said. “Damn!” Garvey said. “I hope the gal was worth it.” He laughed. “You musta really been in love.”

  “No,” Costuron said. “He had paid for her and I sneaked in first. This was in—“

  “You can swap tales later,” Weismann interrupted. “I want you and Osito to get out on the street and tell every pistolero or riflero you see that I’m hiring scalphunters under legal contract to General De La Nobleza. If they are interested, they will find me here.”

  Thus began a day-long activity of speaking with gunmen looking for chances to make money. Some, obvious drunks with more bluster than guts, were sent hurtling through the batwing doors, propelled by Donaldson and Garvey. Others, like one poor fellow who had taken a couple of hits in some previous gunfight, were considered too beat up and crippled for what would be demanded of them in Arizona.

  But a few filled the bill and were signed on to serve in Roberto Weismann’s small army.

  Among them was an American who called himself the Mississippi Kid. A slim young Southerner, his manner of speech showed him to be an educated and even cultured man. Some misdeed or crime had driven him to Juntera. The fact that he survived was enough to impress Weismann and the other Americans.

  Another fellow from north of the border was an African named Mjeledi. “That is my name in Africa,” he said. “I make my living long time before by catch the fellers in the jungle and sell ’em to the ship cap’ns on the beach. One day I make trouble because the cap’n feller cheat me. His men jump on me and beat me up. They take me to be sold too.”

  “You shoulda stayed away from that beach,” Donaldson said with a wink. “Or at least not argue with no ship cap’ns.”

  “They bring me to America and I work on the plantation,” he said with a long look at the Mississippi Kid. “I stay ’til I bash in the head o’ massa’s overseer and running away.”

  Mississippi, understanding the situation, only shrugged. “Most of those overseers could do with a head-bashing now and then.”

  The rest of the day was filled accepting and refusing candidates until five more Mexicans had been added to their ranks: Martinez, Garcia, Toledo, Jacumba, and a particularly nasty fellow whose name of Bendito meant Blessed in English.

  Donaldson thought that hilarious. He could barely contain his laughter as he asked, “Are you sure it ain’t Ban-dido?”

  “That is no name,” Bendito answered. “That is a profession.”

  “You’ll do,” Weismann said. “You are hired.”

  The final activity of the day was the arrival of Sergeant Valverde whom General De La Nobleza had ordered out to intercept and kill any dispatch riders coming from the dragoon camp in the Vano Basin.

  He found Perez in the bar. In spite of his dusty, civilian clothing, the sergeant marched up and rendered a salute that would have done honors on a formal parade field.

  “Mi Capitan,” he said. “I have the honor to report that we intercepted the dispatch rider just north of Agua Prieta. He made an attempt to escape, but he was shot and killed.” The sergeant dropped a heavy dispatch case on the table. “This was what the Americano carried.”

  Perez opened the container and pulled out a sheaf of papers. After discarding the routine administrative and supply documents, he found what he was looking for.

  “Ah ha!” the captain exclaimed. “Here is a message requesting reinforcements from the Gringo headquarters in Santa Fe. According to this, Capitan Drummond has no more than two dozen men in his command.”

  Weismann was satisfied. “No wonder he requested help from General De La Nobleza in ridding him of scalphunters. With your soldiers, we outnumber him four-to-one.”

  “Yes,” Perez said. “Now the Gringos are completely isolated and at our mercy.”

  “Excellent!” Weismann said standing up. “Then tomorrow we ride for Arizona.”

  Seventeen

  “It’s about bluddy time!”

  The words were uttered in a combination of relief and impatience by the tough old Irish trooper named Donegan. Looking through the predawn darkness he could see the silhouettes of the approaching corporal of the guard and a sentry showing against the weak glare of a campfire.

  “Now don’t
be dragging yer feet then!” he implored the two in a hoarse whisper to himself.

  Donegan was finishing up his stint of guard duty and was eager to return to that same fire where a steaming pot of coffee waited for the men coming off duty. It was too damned hot during the day to enjoy a boiled brew of the caffeine-impregnated beans. But the early dawn was a wonderful time to imbibe the hot liquid.

  The old dragoon straightened up and threw his shoulders back. At the correct moment he assumed the on-guard position with his bayoneted carbine pointing toward the men marching up to him.

  “Halt!” Donegan called out. “Who goes there?” He grinned and said to himself, “As if I didn’t know!”

  “The corporal of the guard and new sentry,” came the proper reply from Charlie Rush.

  “Advance and be recognized,” Donegan ordered.

  The two soldiers marched toward him in the gloom.

  “Halt!” Donegan said. He peered at them. “Now if yez ain’t a pretty sight.”

  “Mind yerself, Donegan!” Rush warned him.

  Donegan came to the position of order arms. “Private Donegan, Post Number One, all’s well,” he reported.

  “Are there any special orders for this post?” Corporal Rush asked.

  “The sentry on this post is to be especially alert and keep a sharp lookout toward the open country of the desert,” Donegan intoned. “Any civilian travelers who arrive are to be halted and the corp’ral of the guard called afore they’re allowed to enter the camp.”

  The corporal turned toward the other sentry, a cynical fellow named Brawley, and said, “D’ye understand the special orders of this post?”

  Brawley almost sneered. “This is the second time I’ve walked this goddamned post tonight. And I been walking it ever since we got here. O’course I understand the special orders. Ain’t I heard ’em enough?”

  “Shut yer yap, Brawley!” Rush snapped. “Don’t take no hints from Donegan on how to act. Fifteen years of service and he’s yet to sport chevrons on his sleeve. This here’s the regular army, not some sloppy militia outfit. Now answer up good and proper or I’ll see to it you have some digging in the sumps to keep you busy this afternoon.”

  Brawley sighed, but said, “Yes, Corp’ral. I understand the special orders o’ this post and will comply proper.” Charlie Rush turned to Donegan. “Ye’re relieved of yer post, Sentry. Shoulder arms! For’d, ho!”

  Brawley watched Donegan and Corporal Rush march off into the dim light. Bored and tired, he angrily kicked the sand.

  “Corp’ral Rush is right, damn his eyes! I ain’t doing no better’n Donegan. This is what I get for not learning a trade!”

  The dragoon turned and stared out into the darkness of the desert. The sky, high and black, glittered with stars that showed through the purity of the air like millions of distant candles. The country over which they hung was wide and empty, having nothing but cacti and sand.

  “God! This is a lonely place,” he said despairingly.

  To anyone who had not been out on that desert for any amount of time it would have seemed hot. But to Brawley and his messmates, after weeks of living in the burning atmosphere, the hours of darkness were a godsend with lower temperatures that didn’t sap a man’s strength and wring the sweat out of him.

  He spent the first hour of his duty deep in thought about Donegan. Just because that old soldier was happy being a professional private didn’t mean Brawley was. Then and there he decided it was time to put some serious work into bettering himself. He began forming plans to work for a promotion. To begin with, he’d stop talking back to the noncommissioned officers and getting into fights when he got drunk.

  “Sure!” he told himself. “It makes all the sense in the world.”

  If he could just make corporal, his life would be much more bearable. Then, instead of treading a sentry’s beat, it would be him who posted other men to spend two to four hours walking tours of vigilance while he sat back at the fire and sipped coffee. He wouldn’t have to do any more manual labor either. That was beneath a noncommissioned officer. As a corporal, he would yell at some poor wretch of a private and make him move lively whether the job was shoveling manure on stable duty, digging sumps, or some other muscle-cramping chore that needed doing.

  The false dawn lit things a bit just as Brawley made a personal vow to start soldiering better and earn his stripes.

  He heard the report of the distant musket only a second or so before the ball crashed into his skull, blowing out his brains and any hopes of advancement in a military career now ended by his sudden death.

  Back at the guard fire, Corporal Charlie Rush leaped to his feet. He ran to the sleeping duty bugler and dragged him off his blanket, yanking him upright.

  “Sound To Arms!” he yelled.

  The trumpeter, a veteran soldier, had blown the first three notes through his bugle before even coming completely awake. Then he begin repeating the call rapidly as he played to every corner of the camp.

  Meanwhile Donegan had dropped his cup of coffee, turning to kicking the other off-duty guards awake. The sergeant of the guard appeared from the tent with the other two corporals. He immediately took command, forming up the sentries and rushing them forward in the direction of the rifle pits that had been so laboriously dug the first day they arrived in camp.

  Charging toward the edge of camp as skirmishers, the line of troopers hadn’t gone twenty yards before coming under heavy fire. Three men dropped to the sand before the sergeant wisely ordered the small force to pull back out of harm’s way.

  Captain Grant Drummond and Sergeant William Clooney joined up in front of the officer’s quarters. Both, although only moments out of their blankets, were wide awake and ready for whatever had happened. They were also fully armed and prepared to fight back at those who had attacked the camp.

  Eruditus hurried up to them, fully dressed with his musket and pistols at hand. “What’s the disturbance?”

  “I can’t determine exactly what is happening,” Grant said.

  Clooney glanced about. “It’s hard to tell even where the trouble is.”

  Grant looked toward the sentries’ area. “Sergeant of the guard!” he called out. “To me!”

  The noncommissioned officer wasted no time in racing across the camp. He came to a halt and saluted. “Sir, we came under attack from out on the desert. Looks like right over Post Number One, but no alarm was yelled out by the sentry there.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Relieve the rest of the guards of duty and order them to report back to their squads,” Drummond said. “Then get back to your section and take command.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Sergeant Clooney, in his role as the detachment’s senior sergeant, hurried him on his way, saying, “Make sure them lads don’t fire unless there’s good targets.”

  “That I’ll do, Clooney!” the sergeant assured him.

  He rushed through the tents, dodging back and forth in case some attacker had him in a musket’s sights.

  Incoming bullets splattered around the camp, forcing everyone to duck down. A ragged fusillade of shots now erupted from the bivouac as the dragoons returned fire as best they could.

  “We got to get to them rifle pits, sir,” Clooney said. “Ifn we don’t, whoever’s out there sure will. We’ll play hell trying to pry them outta them holes.”

  “You’re right,” Grant said. He spotted a nearby squad of dragoons. The captain ran to them with Eruditus and Clooney both on his heels.

  “I’ll watch your flank, friend Grant,” the old man said. “Well appreciated,” Grant said. “Sergeant Clooney! Gather up another group of men and follow me.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The captain gave the troopers his full attention. “Form up,” the captain ordered. “As skirmishers! You’ll fire on my orders! Advance!”

  The half dozen troopers went forward. The bullets whizzing around their heads increased as they closed in on the site of the rifle pits. Up ahead, a full dozen
Mexicans appeared out of the battle smoke heading for the same destination.

  “That son of a bitch De La Nobleza!” Grant cursed under his breath. “Those bastards belong to him!”

  “None other!” Eruditus agreed.

  The group went another ten yards before Grant gave any more orders. “Halt! Kneel! “Aim!”

  The disciplined dragoons reacted instantaneously.

  “Fire!”

  A bellow of smoke roared out from the volley.

  “On your feet!” Grant yelled. “Advance!”

  They charged through the smoke and could see the tumbled bodies of the Mexicans who had taken the brunt of their fire. The soldiers reached the rifle pits and jumped in.

  “Look!” Eruditus yelled out. “More of them coming at us!”

  The men in the pits frantically went through the ordeal of reloading their pieces. Sergeant Clooney, following orders to the letter, quickly appeared with the skirmishers he had been ordered to organize.

  “Halt! Kneel!” the sergeant bellowed. “Aim! Fire!”

  The second group of attackers were slammed by the volley fire. Grant crawled from the pit in which he’d dived. “Take charge of this area, Sergeant Clooney. For God’s sake! Hold on here as long as you can!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Grant and Eruditus rushed back to the main group of dragoons. They stumbled over the body of the sergeant of the guard. He had died at almost the same instant he’d taken over his section. Now the group was under the command of Corporal Charlie Rush.

  Grant formed a secondary line of defense to give fire support to Clooney and the men in the pits. Sporadic firing and two more volleys blasted out toward the attacking Mexicans.

  Then all was silent.

  “They’ve pulled back,” Eruditus said now able to see clearly in the morning sun.

  “Not for long,” Grant said.

  “We’ve been through this before together, haven’t we?” Eruditus remarked.

  “We certainly have,” Grant said. “I hope it doesn’t become a habit. We’re pinned in here with our backs to that cliff. They’re forming up for a real attack now.”

  A full minute had barely passed when orchestrated shouting outside the camp burst out. A ground-shaking thunder of hooves followed as several ranks of horsemen bore down in a well-formed cavalry charge toward the dragoons.