The Dragoons 3

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “At any rate,” Donaldson said, “we sure could have used them loose horses that got away.”

  “They’se some saddles over yonder,” Garvey reported. “And some crackers and salted meat.”

  “That horse furniture is wore out and needs replacing,” Donaldson said. “I ain’t surprised at that neither. The U.S. of A. government is right stingy with the army on the frontier.”

  “We don’t need any of the food,” Weismann said. “We’re not stupid enough to stay out here any longer than necessary.”

  Perez agreed. “Under the circumstances you should be able to wipe out the Chirinatos and return to Mexico within a very short time.”

  “What’s the rush?” Donaldson asked. “It’s just like you said, Perez, them boys o’ your’n got that U.S. Army dispatch rider with the message asking for help from Santa Fe, didn’t they? So there ain’t gonna be no troopers riding in here looking for us. I reckon we got no worries a’tall about soljer boys chasing after us.”

  Perez shrugged. “Nevertheless, it will probably be safe for no more than another month.”

  “We need only half that time,” Weismann said.

  “I still advise you to make haste,” Perez advised him. “My soldiers are not happy that they will earn no silver pesos like you and your men. They do not wish to remain out here in the wilderness for any longer than necessary. You must also take into consideration that they have their women and comfortable quarters back at the General’s hacienda.”

  “Do they want to scalp Apaches?” Weismann asked. “They are soldiers,” Perez said. “As military professionals, they fight honorably. As you saw only yesterday. If it wasn’t for them taking on the dragoons, you would not be able to conduct your bounty hunts on the Chirinatos.”

  “You are not going to let me forget that, are you?” Weismann said irritated. “You keep bringing up that fact in this conversation.”

  “I am proud to have accomplished my mission,” Perez said. “I simply want my general to know that its success was of my doing.”

  “I am not doing this for medals like a stupid soldier,” Weismann said. “I kill for money.”

  “Look at it this way, Perez,” Donaldson said with a laugh. “It’s good for your personal safety too. I’d say it was a smart thing you and your soljers done a hell of a job. Ifn you hadn’t, you would’ve ended up against the wall like that other feller De La Nobleza had shot.”

  Wild River Garvey glanced outward into the desert. “Riders coming in. They look like your scouts, Boss.” Weismann looked in the direction indicated. “Yes. From the way they are waving, I presume they have found a vulnerable group of Apaches for us.”

  “Easy pickings,” Donaldson said with a grin.

  “Easy scalping,” Garvey added with a guffaw.

  The scouting party, made up of the scalphunters Osito, Costuron, and the American called the Mississippi Kid arrived within a few moments.

  The leader Costuron dismounted. “We found an Apache camp less than a half day from here, Don Roberto,” he said. “It looks like it just got set up. They’re twenty people there. I counted eight men and twelve women.”

  “How many children?” Weismann asked.

  Donaldson interrupted, saying, “Who gives a shit? The little bastards ain’t worth but twenty-five pesos apiece anyhow. With what he counted we can get—“ He knelt down and scratched figures in the sand with his finger. “—lemme see. That comes to eight hunnerd pesos for the men—“ He worked some more numbers, “—and six hunnerd for the women. Add it all up and we’re gonna get us a grand total of a thousand and four hunnerd pesos, by God! And that ain’t bad for about a four hour ride and fifteen minutes of killing.”

  Weismann looked at Costuron. “What are the Indians doing?”

  “They’re just sitting around and doing some ceremonial things, Don Roberto,” Costuron said. “I think that is why they come out on the desert.”

  “I have heard this of the Chirinatos,” Perez said. “To them parts of El Vano are sacred “

  The Mississippi Kid added, “They don’t seem worried about nothing. They wasn’t no guards out or nothing.”

  “They think we have been told to stay out of Arizona,” Weismann said. “They are undoubtedly unaware the American soldiers have been killed or driven away.”

  “Anyhow,” the Mississippi Kid continued, “I’ll bet there’s more camps on down the way from there. Tomorrow could be a good day for earning them silver pesos.”

  “How’d them women look, Mississippi?” Garvey asked. “Smaller’n the men,” he answered.

  “He don’t mean their size, you dumb son of a bitch,” Donaldson said. “He means was they pretty.”

  “We was out a ways, and they were wearing long dresses. But they’ll do I reckon,” the other American said with a leer.

  “That’s good,” Garvey said. “I ain’t had me a taste since we left Juntera. I’ll just dip my ol’ wick afore I take all that hair.” He glanced at Donaldson. “Y’all do it that way sometimes, don’t you?”

  “If we got time,” Donaldson said. He looked at Weismann. “What do you say, Roberto?”

  “It will be good for the men,” Weismann said. “Have them spare the women until they are used, then scalp them.”

  Donaldson laughed. “Now I’m real anxious to get this show on the road too. Let’s get moving, Roberto.”

  “Very well,” Weismann said. “Gather the men. We’ll leave now and stay a few miles from that Chirinato camp. We can have the Apaches watched through the night, then hit them in the morning.”

  Donaldson let out a whistle so loud that it could be heard over the noise of the celebrating and looting. Everyone glanced his way as he signaled them to stop the fun and gather around.

  “Trompetero!” Captain Perez shouted to his bugler. “Tóca Asemblea!”

  The soldier put his instrument to his lips and sounded the call. The soldiers immediately formed up under their sergeants and marched over to the spot to where the scalphunters now sauntered to see what their chief wanted.

  Although the scalphunters’ discipline was not as apparent as that of the soldiers, Weismann still maintained strong control over the conduct of his men. This submission was given him out of fear and respect. Those same feelings kept Penrod Donaldson in power. Not even the likes of Wild River Garvey would challenge either one of them.

  Weismann quickly explained what was going on while Perez prepared his men to act as security while the planned butchering took place. The passing of information was efficient and brief. Within a quarter of an hour, the entire group had mounted up and were riding across the desert as Costuron and the Yaqui half-breed Osito led the way.

  The band traveled at a steady pace, pausing only long enough to send a couple of two-man teams out to scout the vicinity every three or four miles. Weismann had no desire for accidental encounters with large groups of Chirinatos. Although he had no fear of being able to defeat and slaughter them, he didn’t want to take the chance of alarming any other groups that might be wandering around practicing their tribal religion.

  Toward dusk the group reached a spot Weismann deemed proper for camping until the attack in the morning. At that point the scalphunter chief laid on hard noise and light discipline, making everyone stay quiet and not build fires. Since the soldiers would not be going on the raid in the morning, all guard duties fell to them.

  Captain Perez, still seething inside about having to take orders from someone he regarded as not much better than a common murderer, made sure his sergeants properly supervised the camp security. With his force reduced to no more than a dozen men by the fierce resistance of the American dragoons, the captain’s soldiers would not get much sleep in the night as they took their turns at the sentry positions.

  Weismann and his scalphunters slumbered peacefully in their blankets as if nothing special was to happen the next day. They were all cold-hearted murderers whose lives had been ones of untold cruelties and brutality. The idea of kill
ing and mutilating men, women, and children the next day did nothing to interfere with their rest. They slept like altar boys.

  Instinct brought Weismann awake in the predawn inky blackness of the desert night. He reached over and shook Donaldson who immediately woke up. That began a series of nudges and kicks that brought the scalphunting gang from their sleep. Knowing that any slowness on their part would bring swift and painful punishment, the killers quickly rolled out of their blankets to begin preparing for the short trip. Gear was packed away, horses were saddled, and weapons checked in silence. When all was ready, Weismann pulled himself into the saddle and rode out of camp, his men following behind.

  Captain Perez watched them leave. “Sera asesinato,” he said to himself. “Murder will be done.”

  Osito, the Yaqui breed, went a bit ahead of the scalphunters as scout and guide. He and Weismann were followed by Penrod Donaldson, scar-faced Costuron, the Americans Wild River Garvey and the Mississippi Kid, and the African called Mjeledi. The Mexicans Martinez, Garcia, Toledo, Jacumba, and Bendito brought up the rear of the murderous column.

  In less than an hour the eastern horizon to their backs had begun to lighten with the day’s coming sun. Osito signaled a halt and waited for Weismann to join him. When the scalphunter chief rode up, the Yaqui pointed to a spot that nestled into the foothills of the Culebra Mountains.

  Weismann peered through the gloom and could see a couple of small fires in front of a group of very primitive hogans. “They do not even have a guard out “ he said.

  “It was the same yesterday, mi jefe,” Osito said. “They are not expecting trouble.”

  They returned to the main group where Weismann formed them up in a single rank. “I will ride in the middle. Keep your eyes on me and match my speed,” he instructed his men in a soft voice. “When I break into a gallop, you do so too and be prepared to shoot any Apache who shows himself.”

  “Mind the women, boys,” Donaldson reminded them. “Ifn you kill ’em all right off the bat we ain’t gonna have no fun time this morning. Either that or we’ll have to take turns with just a couple of ’em.”

  “It’s messy, but not so bad,” Wild River Garvey said with a grin.

  When Weismann judged everyone was ready, he urged his horse forward in a walk. The scalphunters, three to five yards apart, maintained the formation as they eyed the Apache camp, ready to shoot down anything that moved.

  Weismann moved his horse into a canter, riding easily in the saddle. He glanced right and left, glad to see his men keeping up with him. A coordinated attack was always more effective than a strung-out run at the enemy.

  Another fifty yards was traveled before the scalphunter chief broke into an all-out gallop. The group swept toward their destination at full speed, their weapons ready to fire. When they hit the outskirts of the camp, they broke into wild yelling and whooping.

  The unexpected volley of fire exploded from the vegetation in the foothills, the flying musket balls cutting into the scalphunters. Martinez, Toledo, and Jacumba flew out of their saddles, their flesh ripped by the incoming fire.

  Weismann whipped his head around. “Dragoons!” he yelled, sighting more firing coming from an unexpected position to the south of the camp. “Por Dios. Those are American Dragoons!”

  Garcia damned whatever was going on. He continued straight into the camp. He saw a woman run out toward the desert. He turned toward her, ready to reach down and carry her off. But suddenly her dress dropped off and the figure turned to show it was an Apache warrior in disguise. The Indian waited until the last minute to loose the arrow.

  Garcia took the shaft in his chest. He grabbed at it and yelped at the pain he caused himself. His horse continued to run as its rider started to slide to one side in the saddle. The scalphunter’s vision blurred as death took him and when he hit the ground he was dead before .he stopped rolling.

  Osito and Bendito were also surprised to find that the women they chased were in actuality armed warriors in feminine dress. They, like Garcia, paid for their mistake with their lives when arrows slapped into their bodies. Osito took three before his strength gave way and he joined the others in death.

  Weismann damned himself for riding into the trap. Who would have considered the possibility of the dragoons and Apaches combining forces? This was particularly bad since the scalphunters and Mexican soldiers had split their group.

  The scalphunter scarcely noticed the quick loss of six of his men. Instead, the sight of dragoons and Chirinatos pursuing him, kept his attention. His only chance was to get back to the camp where Perez and the soldiers waited for him.

  Penrod Donaldson also knew what must be done. He rode in close to his chief while Wild River Garvey and the Mississippi Kid followed in the middle. Mjeledi and Costuron brought up the rear, but made sure they kept in tight with their fleeing comrades. With moments a shower of arrows flew around them.

  Back behind the scalphunters, going like hell, Captain Grant Drummond and the Chirinato warrior Quintero, swung out with their force of almost two dozen riders behind them. With fresh horses full of energy, they easily cut off the scalphunters’ attempt to turn back. Although the dragoons made no attempt to fire their carbines, the Apaches fired arrows from the backs of their running horses. Exact accuracy was impossible but the missiles served to keep the scalphunters nervous.

  Now Weismann and his men were turned back in toward the foothills. After a few more minutes, he made another attempt to outride the avengers who now herded him and his surviving scalphunters like they were running buffalo. Ten minutes of desperate maneuvering, with arrows whipping among them, accomplished nothing except to move the scalphunters farther away from the rescue offered by Perez and his men. With no other choice, Weismann turned in toward the foothills. He realized the only available sanctuary was among the trees on the higher ground.

  The scalphunting group whipped inward, galloping madly toward the mountains. They endured another rain of arrows with no hits among themselves before riding up a slight rise and crashing into the waist-high mesquite of the foothills. Although this slowed them down considerably, they were finally able to get inside the tree line where more cover was available.

  Costuron’s horse stumbled, then fell. The scar-faced Mexican flew forward and hit the ground. Uninjured he leaped to his feet and held out his hands for one of his comrades to grab to swing him up on their saddles. But they passed Costuron by, leaving him alone as the combined force of dragoons and Apaches charged in.

  Quintero spotted the man on foot before anybody else. Turning toward him, he waited until the time was right. Then he dove from his horse and hit Costuron, the both of them rolling in the underbrush. The Mexican clawed the ground in desperation to get away from the warrior, but before he knew it he was surrounded by three more.

  Quintero yelled his sacred war cry and slit Costuron with his knife. The scalphunter turned in desperation only to receive another deep gash from Chaparro. As he spun around and around in a wild effort to find a way out of the circle of death, Bistozo and Zalea used their knives on him. Within moments, the Mexican was a mass of long, deep wounds as blood soaked his slashed clothing. When the Chirinato warriors were convinced he was cut too much to escape and not enough to die right away, they left him lying where he had finally fallen.

  Wild River Garvey, the Mississippi Kid, and Mjeledi finally reached a spot in the trees where it was impossible to continue riding. They swung from their saddles and formed a fearful, desperate defensive formation. Frightened almost witless, they looked around in head-jerking, wide-eyes stares.

  Sergeant William Clooney and the five dragoons discovered the trio. Clooney ordered his men to dismount. Then, with their carbines at the ready, they took cover with the scalphunters in their weapons’ sights.

  “Throw down yer arms and raise yer hands!” Clooney commanded.

  The answer came from Mjeledi who fired without thinking in the direction of Clooney’s voice.

  Wild River Garvey h
ad only time to express his regret at the rash action by saying, “Oh, shit!”

  A half dozen carbines belched fire, smoke, and six .54 caliber balls that punched the scalphunters into spasmatic, bloody deaths.

  Up ahead, and a bit to the left, Captain Grant Drummond, Eruditus Fletcher, and Aguila rode together. They could hear horses that were obviously those of the scalphunters deeper in the woods. Also, very audible, were the shouts of Chirinato warriors farther over.

  “We’re hemming them in,” Grant said slowing down.

  “It won’t be long,” Eruditus said. “Listen!”

  The thrashing and crashing of animals through the woods stopped. This was immediately followed by the triumphant shouts of warriors echoing among the trees.

  Aguila leaped from his horse and joined in the whoops, then rushed into the forest. Grant and Eruditus followed at a run, dodging through the vegetation. Finally they reached a spot where two scalphunters stood in the dubious cover of a grove of thin trees. They were completely surrounded by Chirinatos, but keeping them at bay with threatening motions of their weapons.

  Grant looked at Eruditus. “Can we guarantee them safety?”

  Eruditus shook his head. “I’m afraid not, my friend. No power on this earth can change the fate of those miserable sinners.”

  Penrod Donaldson, his voice almost shrieking with fear and fury, screeched, “I’ll kill you, goddamn you! Get away or I’ll kill you!”

  An arrow hit his neck and he dropped his pistol, choking and coughing as he tried to pull it out. A small boy’s voice now sounded loudly in the Chirinato tongue.

  Eruditus explained, saying, “That was Nitchito, the son of the murdered medicine man. He shot that arrow and shouted that he had avenged his grandfather.”

  Donaldson didn’t last long as his life’s blood emptied out his jugular vein.

  Roberto Weismann, calm and cool, ignored his companion’s fate. He caught sight of Eruditus Fletcher, recognizing him. He smiled slightly and nodded in a strangely polite manner. Then he stuck his revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The back of his head exploded outward and he went down as the warriors rushed in to cut the scalphunter into bits.