“If ev’ry stinkin’ buck, his brats, and his woman has to die, by God, that gold’s ours by right and we’re gonna get it.”
“What ’cha gonna do, Tolan? You gonna be their executioner?”
“Why not?”
The voices died off to silence after Tolan’s pronouncement. He felt he had them now, had led them right to where he wanted them. Now was the time to reveal his idea. His thick shoulders rolled with muscle, and his craggy face seemed that of a man many years his senior. Anger paraded boldly across his features, twisting his lips into a snarl. He’d staked a lot on finding gold. Enough gold to save his wife from a life of drudgery and degradation and to provide for his children’s future. No stinking red heathen was about to prevent him from achieving that.
“Listen to me. We got lots of blasting powder, dynamite, plenty rifles and ammunition. And we’ve got enough men—men who are willin’ to fight for what’s theirs. We can slip up in them mountains, surround that rancheria. We’ll hit ’em at first light, while they’re still asleep. There’ll be so much confusion it’ll be like shootin’ fish in a barrel. With all them Apaches dead, who’s to say we ain’t got a right to prospect the Sierra Dolores for gold?”
“Right!” the mob shouted.
“Many of you have families or aged parents who will benefit from a rich strike. Do any of you think a pack of lice-infected savages have a right to prevent that?”
“No!” the inflamed prospectors bellowed.
“It won’t be that easy, Tolan,” a voice called from near the back of the crowd. “It’ll take better plannin’ than that.”
A consummate leader of men, a former politician, Jack Tolan easily bent the objection into a form of agreement. “Right you are, mister. If we’re agreed to do it, then we can make all the plans we want. All I say is, let’s get on with it!”
~*~
A haze of smoke filled the low-ceilinged wikiup of Halcon. Little space existed, with men packed shoulder to shoulder around the fire ring in the center, where a huge iron pot bubbled over low coals. Terry O’Callan plucked a succulent lizard tail from the stew pot and slurped it clean, ignorant of its origin, though appreciative of its fine flavor. Then he looked across the cook fire to the half-naked boy who sat beside Halcon. O’Callan shook his head ruefully.
“Ye mean to tell me that this scrawny little runt o’ a kid was the leader who planned that attack on Dog Leg Butte an’ ran off all me livestock?”
Halcon answered through Brannigan, who had tidied up O’Callan’s remarks somewhat. “He says it’s true, right enough. An’ that it’s his own son, Little-Owl. He says the boy got a vision from some Spirit-Woman outta some mountain an’ took the small boys on the warpath.”
O’Callan leaned over, patted the boy on one shoulder, and smiled with all the friendliness he could muster. He’d done a lot of smiling, as a matter of fact, since entering the rancheria with Halcon. Nearly two hundred people, more than eighty of them warriors, seemed to call for that sort of response.
“Tell the lad,” he instructed his friend, “that I meant no disrespect when I called him a scrawny little runt o’ a kid. I was always a bit o’ a scrawny runt meself. Tell him he did right proud fer hisself. An’ as the man who fought again’ him, tell it’s plain to see he’s a born so’jer, it is, an’ that’s a fact.”
When Brannigan finished the translation, Mochuelito’s eyes glowed with pleasure. This was the burning-lip pony-soldier chief. He who had defeated his own man-children warriors, as well as his father on several occasions. The one who caused the fighting men, much to their shame, to run howling in fear at sight of his marvelous flying wagon. Truly he must be the fiercest warrior of his people, and here he sat telling everyone that Mochuelito was a born warrior. Try as he might to keep his face impassive like the older men at the fire, Mochuelito could not control the shy grin that quirked up the corners of his mouth. Eyes downcast, he offered O’Callan a tender hind leg of rabbit from the pot.
“Why, thank ye, lad. Don’t mind if I do.”
After the ritual feast to welcome strangers, most of those present drank long gulps of biting tiswin and departed, belching their appreciation. Several of the most honored warriors, the shaman, and Mochuelito were invited to remain. Far into the night, they listened while O’Callan carried on a rambling discussion of tactics.
He could not understand the Apache attitude toward holding a defensive position and using mass fire to break the charges of an enemy. Even when it was explained to him that such a way of fighting lacked personal honor for the individual warrior and thus would not aid him in the afterlife, the cavalry sergeant still remained adamant.
“But, darn it, Halcon, can’t ye see,” O’Callan tried once more. “I’ll bet I could take Mochuelito here an’ some o’ them boy warriors o’ his and give ’em a few hours trainin’ in the tactic, and they could break any charge ye put again’ ’em.”
Halcon and his warriors remained unconvinced. Some among them didn’t even give polite pretense to listening to the translations of O’Callan’s ideas. One notable exception was the dreamer, Mochuelito, who gathered in each word, weighing it and storing it in memory. Long after the others had fallen asleep, slightly tipsy, he sat staring into the dying coals of the fire, thinking ... thinking of massed fire.
~*~
Less than ten minutes of darkness remained when Tolan’s plan went into action.
Three roving Apache sentries, who guarded the horse herd, had been silenced with knives and the prospectors felt confident they had gotten into position unobserved. Their tactic was simple: They would use the powder charges now being prepared to create a panic. Then they would concentrate their fire on the women and children, forcing the warriors out into the open where they could be picked off easily. If their ring of armed, determined men held, not a single Apache would escape. And those damned interfering soldiers could just die with them. Jack Tolan inspected the disposition of his force, swelled now to over a hundred, and produced a sardonic grin of grim confidence.
“I think we’re more than ready to do a great service for our country,” he whispered to the man next to him.
When the first fleeting streaks of pink-tinged yellow-blue brightened the eastern horizon, Jack Tolan ignited a frazzled end of fuse and held it while it sputtered into life. He stood, then, and hurled the charge downhill with all his might.
Twenty-Eight
Tolan’s first charge landed in the short grass at the near edge of the meadow where the pony herd grazed. Other sparkling trails of red-orange arched through the sky all around the rancheria, even before the first one went off.
Detonating with a flat, ground-shaking explosion that sent up showers of damp earth and billows of acrid, greasy smoke, the blast caused instant panic among the horses. Neighing their fear in nearly-human shrieks, the terrified animals dashed wildly across the grassy bowl, whirling away in another purposeless direction each time a package of explosives went off.
Part of the herd turned back on itself, broke through their fellows, and rushed into the open spaces around the wikiups, to scatter the first of the warriors who had been jerked from sleep by the dull booming all around them. The warriors scattered, trying to capture the stampeding animals, until two fell from long-range rifle shots and they realized they were under attack. The braves shouted to their brothers to join them.
Terry O’Callan tumbled from the pile of bearskin robes in which he had been peacefully sleeping. He drew on his trousers and buckled on his belt with its revolver and cartridge box. Like most frontier soldiers, he scorned the thick, stiff leather box, in which ammunition was stacked loosely on end, bullets up. He carried it, however, along with a thin leather-and-canvas-loop belt that placed cartridges all around his body, bases up for quick loading. He had plenty, and he was fighting mad enough to use it all.
“It’s them damned miners!” he shouted to Halcon, as though increased volume would bring understanding of the English words.
“Hae-oh!” Halcon agre
ed.
The nature of the attack, for this was not the pony-soldiers’ gun-that-throws-beyond-the-horizon, transcended the language barrier. The war chief stepped from his wikiup and began to issue orders, shouting to be heard above the turmoil. Several women and children ran from three wikiups when a well-placed charge exploded directly behind the structures.
They were shot down as they ran, by the unseen ambushers. The warriors howled in fury at this cowardly act and concentrated their fire in the direction from which they judged the shots to have come.
Jim Brannigan came up to where O’Callan sought dubious cover behind a wikiup. The first sergeant appeared to be dragged along frantically by Mochuelito. The boy spoke rapidly in Spanish; Brannigan tried to follow in frowning concentration.
“I think the lad says his Owl Society will fight as you talked about last night.” The boy spoke again. “He says they’ll fight if ye lead ’em, Terry.”
At his age, and seeing all he had in life, Terry O’Callan didn’t believe he could blush, though now he did flush red with pride. “That’s a nice compliment, lad. Now, we’ll take up position, ah ... ”
He hunkered down, drew an irregular line in the dirt, connecting a series of small circles. “Set up along this outer line o’ wikiups. The heaviest fire seems to be comin’ from the slope up here. Now, go git yer Owls an’ have ’em bring anythin’ that’ll shoot: rifles, shotguns, revolvers, bows. Hurry, lad.”
Moving in rushes, O’Callan and Brannigan covered themselves with carbine fire while they worked their way to the perimeter of the Indian camp. When the small boys of the rancheria began to arrive, O’Callan directed them with hand and arm signals, which to his surprise the boys seemed to understand better than a lot of troopers. Once the youngsters got into position, Mochuelito crouched at O’Callan’s side. The red-haired troop sergeant turned to Brannigan.
“How d’ye say ‘fire’ in Spanish?”
“Fuego.”
“Foo-egg-oh?”
“That’s close enough.”
“All right.” O’Callan turned to Mochuelito. “Tell yer, ah, Owls not to shoot a single round till I give the word to fire. Then pour it on till I tell ’em to stop.”
The boy scurried off to relay the instructions. Two injudicious prospectors rose from the brush some fifty yards away to take a shot at the lad. Flame and smoke belched from the .45-70 Springfields in the hands of O’Callan and Brannigan. O’Callan dropped his man with a single bullet in the head. Brannigan dispatched the second with two rounds through his chest.
“By all that’s Holy, ’tis a complete turnaround. In all me wildest imaginin’s I never thought I’d be fightin’ fer the Apaches,” O’Callan confided to Brannigan.
“Nor I, lad, nor I.”
When the last of the premade blasting powder bombs had been hurled into the village, a force of some forty miners mounted and charged across the grazing meadow toward the rancheria. The warriors, under Halcon’s leadership, fired a ragged volley and then closed and took the attackers on individually. They broke the charge, yet inflicted little real damage.
The moment the two sides became engaged, the prospectors on the slope in front of O’Callan and Brannigan sprang to their feet and raced downhill, several of them giving cry to the ululating Rebel yell.
“Steady, lads,” O’Callan commanded. “Hold it!” He waited until the last possible second.
“Now! Fuego!”
A few rifles, in addition to O’Callan’s and Brannigan’s Springfields, some old percussion-cap revolvers, and a couple of muzzle-loading shotguns and muskets barked their anger. Concentrated on the irregular line of skirmishers charging toward the wikiups, the fusillade wrecked savage havoc.
All along the line men fell, screaming in pain at their wounds, or dropping silently, dead before they hit the ground. Arrows joined in as the range closed. The boys drew back bow strings, released, and nocked the next shafts in smooth, continuous rhythm, as though they had practiced this maneuver for hours. The prospectors wavered ... hesitated ... turned back.
The charge became a rout.
Reinforcements started to slither down through the chaparral, even as the skirmishers hurried to find protection from the controlled volleys of the small Owl Society warriors. O’Callan noticed them and spoke aloud. “I sure wish we could count on them kids not to fire if’n we took potshots at those new arrivals.”
Brannigan translated and Mochuelito snapped a reply, an offended tone in his voice. “We learn to obey when we are babies. None will fire until you say so.”
“Ye think so?” O’Callan asked Brannigan, then without waiting for a reply, threw up his carbine, cheek tight against the stock, and fired.
A man yelped, then fell to roll among the rocks and brush. He clutched one leg near the hip joint. Not a single Apache boy opened fire.
“By God, it worked. Maybe we can function as snipers after all, Jimmy.” To Mochuelito he said, “Go tell the best shots ye got that if they see a target, well in range, to take a try at it. One shot only, mind. An’ nobody else is to fire.”
~*~
Jack Tolan had joined the prospectors on the ill-fated slope in front of O’Callan’s youthful charges.
“What the hell’s goin on here?” he demanded.
“Don’t ask me. Them Injuns never fight like that. Hell, Tolan, I was at First Manassas and after—all through the War—and it wasn’t often the Yankee infantry could hold against a charge and shoot that good.”
“It’s them damned cavalry sergeants,” Tolan snapped angrily. “If ya see a chance to pick ’em off, give it all you got. Without them to control it, them ’Paches’ll go back to their old way of fightin’, an’ we got ’em by the short hairs.”
“I hope you’re right. Sure wish there was more of that blastin’ powder.”
Tolan grinned. “I just happen to have a few sticks of dynamite. Touchy stuff, but a single one has more power than a pair of the old wheat-grain powder. When we move in the next time, I’ll toss ’em down among the Apaches while you follow along right behind.”
After the failure of the first two charges, the battle settled down to long-range sniping actions. The sun slowly climbed in the sky and the meadow in the bowl beneath the rim began to bake. To make matters worse, water shrank to short supply. The stream, from which the people of the rancheria got their water, ran through an exposed position, and anyone approaching it would come under instant fire. An inspiration struck Tolan.
“We can make it harder on those redskins if we blow up the sides of that cut up there. Collapse the rock and dirt in so it blocks off the waterfall. One of you men come with me. We’ll use the dynamite.”
Twenty minutes later, the large, twin blast startled everyone. Only Mochuelito took it calmly, recognizing a part of his vision manifesting itself. It sent shivers of excitement down his bare back. Tolan gazed on his handiwork with satisfaction.
Only a narrow, muddy ribbon of water trickled through the barrier to splatter off the rocks below and run listlessly down the stream bed. By noon, the rancheria had become an oven. Adding to the hazards, ammunition grew skimpy and sniping had to be broken off.
Encouraged, Jack Tolan gathered his section leaders and issued orders for the final assault. “Those heathen can’t survive much longer. Before they decide to attempt a breakout, I want you to form up your men and attack from all points around the village. I want you to do it at exactly the same time, on my signal. Every man is to be committed, and any explosives remaining are to be used to cover the skirmish lines. Any questions?”
“What if they stand and fight like the last two times?”
“The strongpoint seems to be directly below here. I’ll concentrate the last of my dynamite on that area. For the rest of it, it’s better if you’re mounted. We want to sweep right through them like bran through a cow.”
Several of the men snickered. Tolan sobered them with his final instructions. “I’ll give you enough time to get the word to all the men, the
n I’ll give the signal: two quick shots, followed by a pause and a single shot. We’ll attack at once.”
Red and white cavalry guidons fluttered brightly over the column as it cantered along the inclined trail. All the usual cumbersome equipment thumped and jingled as the horses labored against the upgrade. Urgent or not, the commander wanted his men decked out as though for Saturday morning parade. A hand raised in the air, and the long files halted as a trooper galloped back from the point.
The men in the column grumbled quietly as dust settled and the heat increased. Corporal Charlie Bradley saluted smartly as he reigned in. His sweaty mount snorted and released a shower of foamy droplets.
“Sergeant Olsen’s compliments, sir, and it appears like there’s an attack under way just over the next rim. It’s a shallow bowl-like depression off to our right, with the Apache rancheria at its center. Skirmish lines are moving through the meadow and downslope from all around.”
“Very good, Bradley,” Colonel Patterson replied. “Let’s take a look, shall we? Captain, take charge and advance the column slowly along behind us. Bradley, show the way.”
At the top of the ridge, Colonel Patterson looked over the area with field glasses. That was Halcon’s rancheria, all right. Only, who could those men be, and why were so many of them attacking this village? They weren’t soldiers, that was obvious. No mounted officers anywhere in sight. No uniforms ... and those skirmish lines were woefully irregular. Ah, there’s their mounted forces, off to the left. The colonel paused for a moment, eyes fixed on the moving lines.
That lad Brannigan sent with the message ... He’d said something about a gold strike in these mountains. A few prospectors wouldn’t try something like this, would they? ... If Sergeants Brannigan and O’Callan are behind this, Colonel Patterson thought, responsible for starting another Apache uprising, I’ll have their stripes and see they spend the rest of their days in Leavenworth prison.
“Looks like we arrived in time to swing the battle, sir,” Sergeant Olsen commented eagerly.
The Long-Knives 6 Page 24
