The Long-Knives 6

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Tell me, love,” O’Callan responded calmly. “Was there ever really a wee one on the way?”

  “Ooooh! Go to hell, O’Callan!”

  All the way to Slaughter, Morgan’s barracks-room language echoed in O’Callan’s ears. When they reached their destination surprise filled them at a strange turn of events. The streets lay nearly empty, abandoned and forlorn. They found Casey packing bottles of whiskey into crates of excelsior, his bouncers nailing on lids and stacking them in two guarded wagons drawn up out front.

  “What’s goin’ on here?” O’Callan demanded when their friend stopped long enough to serve them with a bottle on the house.

  “Where ye been? Didn’ ye hear the news? Everyone is pullin’ out. The strike’s gone bust and there’s a new gold field. Down south it is, in the Dolores Range. If ye’ve gold to sell, best be hurryin’ around to the assay office before they load the safe and head out themselves.”

  ~*~

  “A gold rush in the Dolores Range?” Jimmy Brannigan asked in wonder as they walked down the street. They led their heavily laden pack animals with ease, for once not encumbered by the noisy throng of Slaughter.

  “This could be serious business, Jimmy me boy. That’s Halcon’s hangout. He’s been peaceable enough fer a couple o’ months, but now what?”

  “We’d best be gettin’ word to Fort Dawson ... ” Jimmy Brannigan began.

  “Or we’re liable to have another Apache war on our hands,” O’Callan completed the thought.

  “An’ we oughtta be advisin’ Sean Casey not to be headin’ there. Nothin’ but trouble can come from this.”

  They cashed in at the assay office, the small clerk jittering around nervously, anxious to get off with his heavy load that was so important to the boomtown that would be built in the Dolores Range.

  “Ye’ll be a fool for goin’ there,” Brannigan advised.

  “Why’s that?” the turkey-necked man with tiny, greedy eyes demanded.

  “There’s a whole bloody double band o’ Apaches makes the Dolores Range their home, that’s why,” O’Callan explained.

  “Phaugh! It’s the army’s job to protect settlers and prospectors. They’ll make short work of those savages.”

  Brannigan’s eyes narrowed, as did those of Terry O’Callan. “Don’t be makin’ any large wagers on that,” O’Callan reposted. “Technically, that’s a reservation.”

  “Bull pucky! There’s no reservation down there.”

  “Wherever they remains peaceable, that’s where the army considers it to be a reservation. Mark me words. Nothin’ but grief can come from going into the Dolores’. Why you think they call ’em the Sorrowful Mountains?”

  The clerk blinked at O’Callan, unwilling or unable to accept the cold facts. Quickly he counted out stacks of double-eagles. Great good luck, O’Callan considered, for he was able to recoup all his expenditures and put away near another two thousand dollars in savings, having split the difference down the middle with Brannigan.

  Their good fortune didn’t hold out in selling all of their equipment. They unloaded the picks, shovels, and other items that were light and would travel fast, but had to abandon the rocker cradle and riffle box. The burro they sold to a Chinese who eyed the animal hungrily, saliva flowing freely over his lips. When he opened his chop joint in the new boomtown, O’Callan thought to himself, beware o’ the steaks. That is, if Halcon allowed him to live long enough to open. Throughout the transactions, he and Brannigan had discussed possible courses of action.

  Should they try to head off the impending invasion of unwitting prospectors or go directly to the fort? They decided to split up, Brannigan heading to Fort Dawson and O’Callan riding hell-for-leather to try to stop what could only become a massacre. Then fortune placed an alternative in their path. After replenishing their food supplies, at markedly lower prices, and deciding O’Callan should take along the mule, they were making ready to light out when a young voice greeted them.

  “Hello, O’Callan, Brannigan. You goin’ on the new gold rush, too?”

  “‘Marnin’, Timmy,” O’Callan greeted the towel boy from the Carter sisters’ sporting house. “What ye be doin’ out so early?”

  “I’m without a job. All the girls loaded up in a wagon yesterday and headed off to this new gold strike. So, no more work for me.”

  “Why didn’ ye go along?” O’Callan asked idly. “I didn’ want to go down there. So I stayed last night in the house. They left me enough food for half a month. But then this mornin’ ... Well, I sorta figured—when I saw you two—maybe I should ask to ride along. If you were goin’ there?”

  “Well now,” came O’Callan’s soothing voice, an idea blooming in his fertile mind. “Kin ye ride a horse like the very wind?”

  Timmy beamed proudly. “You bet I can.”

  “Would ye be willin’ to deliver a very important message ta the cavalry at Fort Dawson? Ye might save hunnards o’ lives.”

  “Really?” Timmy tried to cover his boyish enthusiasm with a boastful swagger. “Hell, I’d chase the damn devil himself—if the price was right.”

  O’Callan took a small gold coin from his pocket. “Here’s two and a half dollars in gold. An’ Brannigan here’ll write ye a note ta our darlin’ colonel, askin’ him to reward ye with ten more when ye get to Fort Dawson.”

  It took no time to think that over. “I’ll need a horse.”

  A quarter of an hour later, the trio left town, headed south with all the speed their mounts could safely endure. For the first day, they remained in foothills. Rough going for man and beast. For the next three days, they traveled together, alternately galloping, walking, and cantering their horses, then walking afoot, leading the animals to give them a blow. By conserving energy this way, they were able to outstrip most of the migrating prospectors, whom they passed on the trail amid loud curses. It also let them travel long after darkness fell. Late on the afternoon of the fourth day, Timmy parted from the two cavalry sergeants, the all-important messages in his saddlebags, to head due west to the fort. O’Callan and Brannigan continued on southeast toward the distant purple line of the Dolores Range.

  O’Callan and Brannigan reached the lower foothills of the Sierra Dolores shortly after noontime the next day. Only a few prospectors, who had deserted the Mogollon Rim early, had preceded them. They spent the afternoon scouting the location of camps and trying to determine what they could say to convince the miners of their danger and get them to leave.

  ~*~

  “Gawdammit, man!” O’Callan yelled angrily in his best parade-ground voice. “Can’t ye understand plain English? I’m tryin’ ta tell ye that yer gonna git an arraw in yer gullet if ye don’t git outta these mountains.”

  The strange words meant nothing to Halcon as he crouched in the rocks, watching the activity below. He only knew that three of his warriors were dead and that all the signs identified the killers as the men who had told him falsely that they had come from the Spirit-touched colonel. The strange, gentle soldier-chief who talked of birds and lizards and peace, Halcon thought, would never send men like these to muddy the waters, drive off game, and kill men when there is no war between our people. Yet the one whose words sounded of anger in the ear was certainly the little soldier chief with the burning lip. Where he went, many warriors died. Halcon decided to watch and learn.

  O’Callan and Brannigan had dressed in their uniforms early that morning and ridden directly to this camp. The prospectors turned obdurate. “Listen you smart-ass Mick sergeant. You so’jer boys are supposed to protect us, not them Injuns. We’re here, and we’re gonna prospect for gold. That means you gotta bring in troops to guard us so’s we don’t get an arrow in our guts.”

  “Halcon’s own rancheria ain’t three miles from here, I’ll wager,” O’Callan persisted. “We sent word to Fort Dawson about this gold strike. Until the troopers arrive, we’re the only ones here—and sure’s I’m Irish, we ain’t enough to protect ye from half a hunnard unhappy Apache
bucks. Now pack yer gear an’ get the hell outta here.”

  The sense of that finally penetrated the sourdoughs’ gold-crazed mind, and the men began to break camp. Halcon looked on with confusion swirling in his brain. Never before had the gallito with the hair under his lip done anything but evil to the People. As the disgruntled prospectors headed for the main trail down the mountains, Halcon slipped away, waiting to follow the pony-soldiers below.

  At the second camp, they were fired on. “Stop yer shootin’, ye stupid bastards,” Brannigan called out. “Yer firin’ on the United States Cavalry.”

  They rode in unmolested, while in the shadows of a tall piñon Halcon shook his head in wonder. It actually looked as though the fiery-lipped white-eye was running his own kind out of the mountains, and for sure the pen-dik-oye who hunted the yellow rocks had fired on them.

  After the third and final camp, Halcon reached his decision. O’Callan and Brannigan rode at ease in their saddles, relaxed after successfully chasing the miners out. They talked lightly as they rode along.

  “‘Tis a good feelin’ to get that outta our hair,” O’Callan said with a sigh, “—Though I wonder how long before we get relief from the fort?”

  “Two, maybe three more days,” Brannigan replied. “Then there’s gonna be hell to pay when the rest o’ them prospectors gets—oh-oh!”

  They had rounded a bend and come face to face with Halcon.

  The stern-faced war chief sat astride his pony, arms crossed over his chest, cradling a shiny new Winchester rifle. He said nothing and betrayed no emotion as the two soldiers looked at each other and back at the man who blocked their path.

  “Sweet Ja-sus,” O’Callan exclaimed for both of them. “Now what are we gonna do?”

  Twenty-Seven

  The sudden appearance of an Apache warrior, fully armed and grimly determined, wasn’t exactly what O’Callan had expected to encounter in their attempt to prevent a massacre. If this one knew, chances were they all knew of the presence of whites in their mountains. O’Callan examined the impassive face, coppery flesh, and bulging muscles of the Indian, and spoke in a hushed voice.

  “I got five dollars says that’s Halcon hisself.”

  Halcon’s expression betrayed nothing when he recognized his name spoken by the burning-lip pony-soldier. The Spirits had ordained that they would recognize each other.

  “Just watch what you do,” Brannigan cautioned as he raised his right hand, palm out, in the universal sign-language gesture that said, ‘we come in peace.’

  “Ho-daft.” Halcon’s single word acknowledging peaceful intent came in a tone of voice that surprised O’Callan. It came out higher-pitched than he’d expected, almost a tenor—although the growl in the greeting was plain enough to hear.

  “Why do you come into our mountains?” the chief asked in Spanish, which Brannigan understood poorly at best and O’Callan not at all.

  Using signs and broken Spanish, Brannigan explained about the gold strike and their attempts to make the miners leave. Halcon listened as though he had never heard of these things, which helped not a bit with the labored explanation. Then his scowl relaxed into something that approximated friendliness.

  “It is good,” he said in his few words of English. Then he lapsed back into Spanish. “You have spoken in a way that strikes me as truth. I have talked with your coronel, and I know him to be a man of honor. You’re both from the same people.” The friendly look widened into a smile.

  “And I have watched you all this day as well. For your own lives, you have paid amply. Only, how is it we can be sure the seekers of yellow rock are truly gone.”

  Brannigan slowly recovered from his surprise at the war chief’s pronouncement. “We can ride together and see that they leave the mountains behind and camp on the desert floor.”

  A new smile played briefly around Halcon’s mouth. “Just the three of us? Alone?”

  “We ran ’em off without help from you, did we not?” O’Callan replied through Brannigan. “I figure that the sight o’ you alone will frighten the liver outta half o’ ’em.”

  “Then let us go,” Halcon declared, and the smile flickered again. “We’ll face them alone.”

  The trio rode down a narrow trail as twisting and precipitous as the one that led into the heart of Cochise’s famed stronghold. Near the bottom they caught up with the evicted prospectors, who had halted among a large group of new arrivals, men determined to push into the mountains. From a distance, they could make out one voice, taunting and yet intimidating.

  “Two soldiers? You men let two bluebellies run you outta there?”

  “Look, Jack, they said those canyons were crawlin’ with Apaches,” one of the dispossessed defended.

  “What’s a handful of savages to a force the size of ours? I say we ride in there and kick a little Apache tail.”

  On the way down, O’Callan and Brannigan divided up the tasks. O’Callan would talk to the prospectors who awaited them and Brannigan would interpret for Halcon. Angry murmurs met their approach, and several men reached for their weapons at sight of the Apache riding between two soldiers.

  “He yer prisoner, bluebelly?” Jack, the brawny loudmouth, demanded.

  “Not at all,” O’Callan answered lightly. Then he launched into his prepared address.

  “Gentlemen, ’tis glad I am ye decided to accept the decision o’ the army and pull outta these mountains. This man beside me is none other than Halcon, war chief of-the Sierra Dolores Apaches. He knows about ye wantin’ to mine far gold in his homeland, and he don’t want ye here. So, if ye wish to avoid a lot o’ bloodshed—mostly yers—ye’ll turn around on this here trail and ride right on back down to the desert.”

  “Like hell we will!” Jack bellowed. “We just got here, and we’re gonna look for gold.”

  “Yeah,” a second man shouted. “We have rights. It’s yer job to protect ’em. That savage ain’t got no say in the matter.”

  A general growl of agreement turned to a roar. Kind words had failed, so O’Callan let off on a little of his famous temper. Producing a scowl, he tried a hard voice and a cold bluff.

  “What we say does. An’ we say ye’ll wait until the army decides what to do about these mountains and the Apaches who live here. An’ you, the one with the big mouth, I’ll be havin’ yer name, if ye don’t mind.”

  The self-appointed spokesman took two steps forward. “Makes no difference if you do have it. It’s Tolan. Jack Tolan. I, and all these men, have come a long way to find gold here. I’ve a family who needs supportin’. You’ve no right to prevent us.”

  “’Tis sorry I am that ye’ve come so far for nothin’. But preventin’ ye from enterin’ these mountains is exactly what we intend. Ye’ll have to kill us to get us outta yer way, an’ if ye do that, ye’ll call down the wrath o’ the army so’s they’ll pursue ye from Hell to breakfast.”

  “Ye’re all alone,” one prospector snarled as he stepped clear of the others and drew a revolver from under his open shirt. “What’s to keep us from killin’ both of you damned Injun lovers and sayin’ later it was the Apaches who did it?”

  O’Callan wrinkled his brow. That was a little something he hadn’t considered when he formed his bluff. He swallowed hard to loosen the tightness that suddenly gripped his throat, and his voice came much quieter when he answered.

  “Nothin’.”

  Brannigan, that moment, caught up in his translation of what had transpired, making Halcon fully aware of the situation. The war chief raised his head abruptly, thrusting his chin upward in what could only be a signal. With a swiftness that matched the sign, the warriors of the rancheria rose from the rocks and brush above, weapons at the ready. Complete surprise momentarily paralyzed the entire party of prospectors. When O’Callan took in what had happened, a broad grin grew whitely under his brush of mustache.

  “Sure an’ I’m sorry ye said that, lad. As ye can see, the warriors o’ Halcon’s rancheria take a keen personal interest in how this
all comes out. Now, ’tis true ye don’t have to take what I say as official orders o’ the United States Army. Not for the moment, that is. But the least ye kin do is consider it friendly advice.

  “After all,” O’Callan assured them, “if ye do follow me advice, ye stand a much better chance o’ keepin’ yer hair to a ripe old age. It’s not so much that we hold any special love far these darlin’ savages who are coverin’ ye all with their weapons right now. It’s merely that there are rules and regulations in our society an’—though there’s only two o’ us—we represent the U.S. Cavalry, an’ we’re here to see those rules and regulations are followed.”

  No argument could be offered to such a proposition and the disgruntled miners turned away, grumbling, as they started down the trail. Even Jack Tolan refrained from more than muttered curses. Behind them, Brannigan discovered he’d been holding his breath and let it out in an explosive sigh.

  Once the prospectors passed out of sight, and warriors were detailed to scout them until they were well out of the area, Halcon invited O’Callan and Brannigan to ride with him to the rancheria. It was an offer so generous, and fraught with unpleasant alternatives, they felt it impossible to refuse. All the way up the mountain, the war chief mumbled gleefully to himself.

  “We will go alone. We will go alone.” Then he’d laugh softly, looking from one soldier to the other.

  ~*~

  “They got no right to do this, I tell ya!” Jack Tolan yelled from beside a roaring fire the prospectors had built to guide even more men to their hastily summoned council on the desert floor.

  Half a hundred angry voices shouted agreement.

  “The army’s out here to protect us civilians from the Apaches. If we wanna go mining there, that’s our business—and it’s theirs to see we’re safe while doin’ it.”

  More voices joined the others in a chorus of approval. Emboldened by this show of confidence, Jack Tolan went on.