The Long-Knives 6

by Patrick E. Andrews

O’Callan peered through accumulating gunsmoke to where he dimly perceived flitting dark shapes. Small, threatening shapes. Then he directed the naval officer’s attention to the body of the sailor, lying some thirty feet from them.

  “The Apaches is right up to us, sor. Dammit! I wish we’d had them patrols out.” Without waiting for a reply, he ran toward the center of camp with Ormond and Johnston following closely.

  Ormond spotted two wounded troopers crawling toward the station from their positions on the perimeter. At the same time, a commotion near the horse picket line attracted his attention.

  Several small bronze figures leaped to the backs of the cavalry mounts while others ran along the tether rope cutting halter strings. With wild, high-pitched, savage keening the Indians whirled the horses and rode past the line of the camp, directly toward the fallen troopers.

  “Prepare to repel boarders!” Ormond cried out instinctively as he rushed out to aid the injured soldiers. He grabbed each man by an arm and dragged them swiftly back to cover as the stolen cavalry mounts thundered all around him. The Apache boys leaned far over the horses, swiping at the navy man with their knives. Rough and abrupt as the trip proved to be, the troopers didn’t seem to mind the pain in the least. Ormond left the rescued men in a sailor’s care and went to find O’Callan.

  A good number more Apache arrows twanged among the wagons and thudded into the dust before O’Callan could organize his men to return effective fire. The cover afforded by the wagons proved good enough that they could finally force some of the advancing Mochuelos to slide back through the cover of the boulders.

  “It’s surprising how little them Indians are,” Ormond remarked to nobody in particular. “I always figured them to be as tall as us.”

  “Bradley!” O’Callan shouted, ignoring the sailor. “Break out some more carbines and ammunition fer the navy men.”

  O’Callan took advantage of the let-up in the Apache assault to switch several of the men around to positions with better fields of fire. He returned to his post next to Ormond.

  “Can ye use carbines?” he asked.

  “Sure, O’Callan,” Ormond answered. “We have training as landing parties in the navy.”

  “Good,” O’Callan remarked abruptly. He sat down quickly as a sudden volley of Apache arrows slammed into the wagon box above his head. “By the way, that was a rare brave thing ye done, Ormond.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Draggin’ me wounded lads back behind cover like ye did when them heathen devils stoled our horses. I want to thank ye.”

  Ormond started to reply but was interrupted by an excited shout from Charlie Bradley. “They’re rushing us, Sergeant.”

  “Fire! Goddamn their eyes,” O’Callan screamed.

  The soldiers and sailors worked their Springfield carbines rapidly, filling their little defensive site with the deafening roar of expended rounds and choking clouds of acrid powder smoke. The Apache rush, which actually represented little more than a foray out of the boulders, broke off instantly.

  “I don’t believe it! Faith an’ I don’t believe me own eyes,” O’Callan croaked in astonishment.

  “What’s the trouble, Sergeant?” Johnston inquired nervously.

  “Them Injuns is jest little kids, that’s all they are. It’s not unusual fer the kids to be runnin’ off stock while the big ’uns do the fightin’, but that’s all there is out there ... little boys. Where the hell did they come from?”

  “I thought they seemed sort of small,” Ormond said dryly.

  “Well, tiny or not, their arrows’ll kill ye jest as dead as their big brothers’ bullets. Let’s keep behind cover an’ see what develops outta this.” He turned to two of his troopers crouched nearby. “Ye’ll be takin’ time to go after that poor dead sailor out there, lads. We’ll give ye cover.”

  The men obeyed smartly, albeit nervously, while the barrels of their comrades’ carbines moved from side to side above them, seeking targets. Several shafts moaned toward them, only to fall short. It added some speed to the recovery operation.

  ~*~

  Halcon squatted by the fire, absent-mindedly stirring the coals with a stick. He and his band had ridden for many days in a large circle around the pony-soldier place and the white-eye village. They had seen signs of activity, though they had always found themselves too far away and too late to achieve anything. The horses grew weary and even his men began to sag under the monotony. He had decided the best thing would be to camp and send out scouts to check on possible targets for raids.

  He was in bad need of both rifles and ammunition. A sudden shout caught his attention. Halcon looked up from the fire and saw one of the men pointing off in the distance. He came upright and walked over to join the others.

  They could see a cloud of dust out on the desert flat, rapidly growing nearer. Halcon had no doubt it would be one of his scouts. He walked back to the fire and resumed his meditation. He did not stir again until his keen ears could catch the sound of the approaching pony’s hoofs. Only then did he calmly stand once again and go to wait.

  The scout reined up and leaped excitedly from his horse. He was given water to wash the dust from his mouth. “Halcon, our men-children are at war,” he declared excitedly.

  Anger flooded Halcon’s being. “Have the pony-soldiers or white-eyes attacked our village?”

  “No, Halcon. It is a proud day for the People.”

  “What do you mean? Let’s go to the fire and you can tell me of this event,” Halcon replied eagerly as he led the scout to the small blaze and produced a bottle of stolen whiskey. They each had a long drink, then settled on their haunches.

  “Our man-children are fighting the pony-soldiers on top of Mesa-Where-Singing-Bird-Died.”

  “There are no soldiers on that mesa,” Halcon scoffed.

  “There are now. And our young ones are fighting them.”

  “Why is this?”

  “It was Da-soda-hae. He made medicine and had a vision from Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain. She told him to take the man-children and seek out the pony-soldiers, then kill them.”

  “My son has done things before he is ready,” Halcon criticized.

  “All the man-children say that he’s their leader. They said that Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain talked to them through an owl.”

  “A mochuelo?”

  “Yes, Halcon. And it’s become their society. It is said-many great things of the People have started in this way. Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain will help us kill all white-eyes and drive them from our land. Then we can throw away our guns and go back to the bows and arrows of our fathers.”

  Halcon looked thoughtfully at the ground. The ashes of their small fire beckoned him, as if to reveal answers to the questions that perplexed him. Could it be that his son was indeed destined to lead an uprising of all the People? How about Geronimo? Chato? Natches? Could a small boy who had just begun to feel the stirrings of manhood, who led a band of other little boys, be truly the leader who would banish forever the pen-dik-oye from the lands of the People?

  For all his contemplation, the ashes failed to unfold any answers. Yet, it’s not the place of a man to question the signs sent by the Spirit-gods, Halcon reasoned. He released a weighty sigh. Troubled though his thoughts were, his way was clear.

  They had to go and see this strange thing his trusted scout, Three-Ponies, had told of. The Apache war leader turned back to his men.

  “We go to Mesa-Where-Singing-Bird-Died to see if what is told is as Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain wishes. And to help our man-children kill the pony-soldiers.”

  Halcon’s warriors grunted taciturn approval of this course of action and Three-Ponies yelled out happily. “If we do such a thing, then we’ll make big medicine, too. Then maybe Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain will give us her protection and show us visions as well. It’s said the boys of our rancheria do not fall in battle when shot by the white-eye soldiers. Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain protects them from all harm. Such medicine will
be ours!”

  It made for big talk. Three-Ponies foretold of powerful signs. All eyes turned to Halcon for his decision. His words came slowly, thoughtfully.

  “I don’t know ... such holy things are difficult to foresee.”

  Regardless, Three-Ponies would not be discouraged. “Gather your horses,” he urged the other members of the band. “We go to kill the pony-soldiers! There is big medicine. Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain has spoken to the People through a man-child, a chief’s son. It’s enough.”

  Despite his inner reluctance to believe the weighty medicine that had inspired the others, Halcon leaped eagerly aboard his horse, a rich blood bay, taken from the pony-soldiers a moon before. Three-Ponies brought his own mount up beside his chief. He grinned crookedly.

  “Let me be in the first charge, Halcon. Let me call out to my little holy brother, Da-soda-hae.”

  “If he is holy, then he will lead the charge. And I will change his name,” Halcon replied. “It would be what Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain would want. First, though, we must kill all the pony-soldiers.”

  Eighteen

  “God save us!” O’Callan shouted as the Apaches attacked. “The growed-up ones have joined their kids!”

  Bronze-skinned warriors swarmed around the hastily erected defensive position. Their fierce howls of rage blended with the shrill voices of their small sons as they swept down and around the fortifications based on the two wagons. Arrows moaned hauntingly through the air and thudded into the thick oak planks of the sturdy vehicles. Others made meaty smacks as they struck exposed, vulnerable flesh. Frenzied horses added their own terrible sounds to the fray. Lacking any finesse, the onslaught of hostiles seemed as though they feared nothing and sought only to die.

  “They’re crazy,” Bradley shouted over to O’Callan. “They weren’t even that loco when they had us surrounded in the brush during that mail run. What’s got into ’em?”

  “I dunno,” O’Callan replied. “They’re dyin’ happy, an’ that’s a bad sign fer us.”

  As suddenly as they had come, the warriors of Halcon swept away to one side and out of sight. The entire assault had lasted little more than a minute. Lieutenant Johnston approached in a wary crouch.

  “The civilian scientists are in a panic. That last charge could have taken a very nasty turn,” he observed.

  “It already has, sor,” O’Callan declared. “We can hold out through the night an’ tomorrow mornin’, but after that, we’re goners.”

  “We must be able to do something to save ourselves,” Johnston urged desperately.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sor,” O’Callan explained. “There’s but two ways off the top o’ this darlin’ butte—out that way where them Apaches are, or ... that way.”

  O’Callan pointed over the edge of the precipice, a good four-hundred-foot drop. “The desert floor looks soft and sandy from here, sor, but take me word fer it: ’Tis hard as a quartermaster sergeant’s heart.”

  “My God! Then are we all doomed to die here?” the naval officer demanded.

  “Probably not all, sor. We’ll jest have to break out. A few lucky ones will make it. By the by, sor, be sure an’ save a final cartridge fer yerself. Ye sure as hell don’t want them heathen to git their hands on ye still alive.”

  His face pale, the lieutenant went mumbling off to himself as O’Callan and Ormond sat down together behind a wagon. O’Callan sipped sparingly from his canteen and offered it to the petty officer, a rare gesture whose meaning was not lost on Charlie Bradley, watching from several feet away.

  “An’ how long have ye been in the navy, Ormond?”

  “Eighteen years. I joined up during the big war and served on the blockade. To tell you the truth, I hadn’t been eating too regular before I went in the navy, and I got used to it during my service. So I signed up again when the war ended. I was lucky. What with all the cutbacks, there were few who had berths.”

  “Sure an’ ’twas about the same far me,” O’Callan recounted. “Though I had the honor of going into the army before the war—got twenty years in now, do ye believe it?”

  “You sure don’t look your age,” Ormond lied smoothly.

  “Well, I don’t know about that. I’ve been too long in the field. I wish me education was more refined, then I could try an’ work meself into a nice, soft staff job. But I’m afraid that’s out fer me.”

  “I learned to read and write in the navy,” Ormond said. “The chaplains run school for us poor, ignorant sailor boys aboard ship.”

  “Now that’s nice, yes ’tis,” O’Callan concluded, nodding. “An’ what do sailors do when their thirty years are completed?”

  “Awh, I’d tell you what I’m gonna do, but you’d laugh.”

  “Faith an’ I’d do no such thing,” O’Callan pledged. “You jest go right ahead an’ tell me.”

  “Well ... ” Ormond hesitated, shook his head resignedly and blundered ahead. “I want to open up a waterfront saloon in San Diego. That’s in California, ya know. A dignified place where the local gentry and a few petty officers could enjoy a drink or two ... maybe even some gambling.”

  “Lord love ye, Ormond!” O’Callan bellowed, surprised beyond all hostility. “Now, damn me eyes, if that ain’t the same plans I got fer meself. Except I’ve been on this desert so long I can’t get it out o’ me soul. So, I want me darlin’ saloon to be in Tombstone or Tucson. Some part o’ Arizona Territory.”

  “That’s the best way in the world to become a gentleman, O’Callan. Own a good-sized saloon.” Ormond said it almost as wistfully as O’Callan frequently did.

  “Awh, ye’re right about that, Ormond. Kin I call ye Murray?” Startled, Ormond nodded agreement. “Except fer bein’ in different services, Murray, we’re as alike as peas in a pod.”

  “We sure are, Terry,” Ormond said. “Gentlemen saloonkeepers, that’s us.”

  “It’ll be a grand life, believe me. Imagine walkin’ downtown of a mornin’ an’ ever’body greetin’ ye right polite an’ respectin’ ye fer yer fine business sense.”

  “Yeah,” Ormond echoed, the sight filling his mind. “Maybe getting on the city council or something.”

  “What about runnin’ fer mayor, hey? Jest think o’ the bloody fine life open to a gentleman saloonkeeper,” O’Callan enthused.

  “I just hope we live to see the day,” Ormond said softly.

  “Sure an’ ’twould be a shame if we don’t.”

  “A waste of talent,” Ormond lamented.

  “I don’t want ye to think I’m braggin’, Murray, but I always had the feelin’ that me becomin’ a saloonkeeper was ordained in Heaven, an’ that’s the truth of it.”

  “Then maybe Heaven will protect you tomorrow, Terry,” Ormond suggested.

  “I pray so,” O’Callan replied. “Once I’m outta ammunition, this darlin’ carbine won’t.”

  ~*~

  Dawn broke in pale pink lines on the horizon, filling the desperate men’s souls with peace—to be quickly shattered amidst Apache yells as the Indians launched an early attack. The soldiers and sailors enjoyed fair protection behind the wagons and hastily thrown-up earth parapets, and they inflicted casualties almost at their leisure. Their marksmanship, and the Apaches’ careless exposure of themselves, kept the situation well in hand. Their only real problem grew larger with each round fired. The ammunition dwindled alarmingly.

  “We’re in a heartbreakin’ situation,” O’Callan summed up. “We’ve got to break outta here on foot, an’ that means shootin’ the poor hurt lads that can’t make it. Sure an’ it’ll be kinder fer ’em that way.”

  “In the Name of God!” Johnston sputtered. “I can’t believe I heard what you just said, Sergeant O’Callan.”

  O’Callan nodded his head sadly. “’Tis a terrible thing, I’m not denying it, but we’ve no choice in the matter. The Apaches torture their captives somethin’ terrible. Ye don’t want that on yer conscience, do ye, sor? So, we’ll have to do it, then form as skirmishers an’ fig
ht our way through. With only the mules left, there’s not enough mounts fer ever’body.”

  “What about the wagons?” Ormond suggested.

  “The mules couldn’t run down the trail, Murray. The wagons’d go so fast they’d run over ’em.”

  Ormond shook his head. “I don’t mean with the mules, Terry. I mean roll down in a wagon without ’em.”

  “Huh!” O’Callan exploded. “Ye mean in a loose wagon? Ye couldn’t steer it, bucko; it’d get its hind-side ahead of its foreside an’ turn over.”

  Johnston smiled, suddenly relieved by a thin portion of hope. “I’ve been going to sea with Ormond for ten years, Sergeant O’Callan. When he’s got a gleam in his eye, that means his mind is working on something. And I’ll lay odds, based on the past, that it’s a good idea.”

  “What I was thinking, Mr. Johnston, was to turn one of them wagons into a landing craft on wheels. I could rig up a rudder stick and a sail. She could be steered by any good cox’n.”

  “Ye mean to roll down backwards and steer from the opposite end?” O’Callan asked, grasping part of the suggestion. “The wagon tongue is too big fer a man to handle that way, Murray.”

  “Not if we took off the tongue and rigged up a steering device, linked with pulley and line. Even a small boy could manipulate it like that.”

  O’Callan shrugged. “I don’t know much about such things, but if ye think it’ll work, I’m fer it.”

  “We’ll only have enough time to fix up one,” Ormond went on. “It’ll be crowded, but we can all squeeze in.”

  “The more the better, an’ that’s the truth of it,” O’Callan replied. “We’ll have to be bristlin’ with Springfields to fight off them Apaches when we roll by.”

  “I suggest you form a work party immediately,” Johnston commanded.

  “Then I’ll post me darlin’ lads on the perimeter an’ make sure the Apaches don’t interfere with our plans.”

  O’Callan rushed off to implement his part. He arranged his men, placing them on a hundred-percent alert. He needn’t have ordered it: the men were touchy enough and wary of Apaches. Once satisfied, he settled himself back to his post while Ormond and the sailors went to work on one of the wagons.