by Peter Grant
Walt held the pace down to an easy walk, interspersed with short periods at a trot or canter to stretch the horses’ muscles. Given how much riding lay ahead, and how much distance they’d have to cover over the next few months, he reckoned twenty miles a day was a fair rate of progress. It was fast enough to reach El Paso by his self-imposed deadline, but slow enough not to overstress the horses. They fell into their usual formation on the march, one group in front, the remounts and pack horses following, and another group of riders bringing up the rear.
The afternoon was drawing on, and the sun slowly descending towards the western horizon, when they noticed one of the scouts, to the right of the column, heading in their direction at a gallop. Walt halted the main body and waited for him to come up. He slid his horse to a halt in front of Nastas, and gabbled something in Navajo.
Nastas fired a couple of questions back at him, then turned to Walt. “Tsela says there are two wagons and a dozen men camped in a hollow about six miles ahead. There are barrels set on planks beside the wagons, and mugs too. The men are heavily armed, and watchful. They guard their wagons and horses carefully. He thinks they are Comancheros.”
Walt nodded thoughtfully. Pablo had told him of the activities of the traders from northern Mexico, who brought guns, ammunition, whiskey and other trade goods to exchange with the Comanche and Kiowa for goods they had looted, horses, hides, and anything else that might be worth money. They were generally regarded as renegades by Americans, who hated and despised them for arming the Indians who preyed on settlers and travelers. In particular, supplying alcohol in any form to Indians was strictly forbidden under United States law. Those found doing so were subject to heavy prison sentences – if they weren’t simply shot out of hand when caught in the act.
Walt twisted around to look at his men, who’d closed up to hear the scout’s report. “Looks like Comancheros ahead. I aim to make sure o’ that first, but if they are, I reckon we’ll be doin’ a public service to deal with ’em. Besides, they’ve got barrels out next to their wagons. If they hold whiskey, we sure don’t need a bunch of stunk-up drunk or hung-over Comanches on our trail. What d’you say, boys?” There was an immediate chorus of agreement.
Walt turned to Nastas. “Can your scouts get any closer, to check on what’s in the wagons, and make sure they’re Comancheros? I don’t want to hit them if they’re just passin’ through.”
“Si, we can do that when it grows dark.”
“All right. Have a couple of other scouts find us a place to bed down, not too far from those wagons, but far enough away they won’t hear or see us. We’ll settle down for the night, keep watch over them, and plan to hit ’em at dawn.”
They slowed the pace to a steady walk and spread out, so as not to raise a dust cloud that might betray their presence. They watered the horses and filled their waterskins at a convenient stream, then waited for the sun to set. As dusk descended, the scouts led them slowly and quietly to the side of a low hill, about a mile from the wagons. The horses were picketed out of sight from the hollow.
“No fires tonight,” Walt ordered. “We don’t want the light of flames or coals, or the smell of smoke or food cookin’, to give us away. Picket the hosses, then make a meal of jerky, dried fruit and nuts, and other trail food you can eat without cookin’ it. Double sentries again. We’ll be up two hours before sunrise, so the scouts can lead us over there in the dark. We’ll take ’em at dawn. Make sure your guns are clean, full loaded and ready to use before you sleep.”
Walt cleaned his revolvers, then prepared his gunbelt. He’d worn only one gun on his strong side while traveling, keeping the second in a saddle holster; but now he slipped a second, cross-draw holster onto his belt, and put his second revolver into it after cleaning and reloading it with fresh ammunition. He did the same for his primary weapon, then went over to his two pack saddles.
The youngsters, Jimmy and Randy, watched with bright-eyed interest as he looked thoughtfully at the long guns carefully strapped to one of the saddles, then selected a Remington Rolling Block sporting rifle. It was chambered in .50-70 Government, a hard-hitting round that could reach out for hundreds of yards to bring down the biggest game. He hefted it in his hands, remembering the snap shot he’d made with it to bring down the horse and stop the escape of the man who’d killed his wife. He’d made sure Parsons would never again prey on innocent victims.
As he took out a box of ammunition for the rifle, Randy asked, “Boss, why the Remington? It’s just a single-shot. Why not your Winchester carbine? It holds a lot more rounds, an’ if you’re gonna get into a fight, you may need ’em.”
“Sure, but what if one of them makes a run for it? That little carbine’s accurate enough at a hundred yards or so, but not much further. With this, I can hit him at four or five times that range.”
“What about us, boss?” Jimmy asked.
“You’re both stayin’ with the hosses.” Walt held up a hand to stop their immediate, instinctive protest. “Don’t argue with me!” He looked at them for a moment, then squatted on his heels to bring himself down to their level as they sat on the ground, faces outraged at the thought of being left out. “I know you want to be there, boys, but this ain’t no game. Jimmy, you’re thirteen. You ain’t got no parents to take care of you, so I reckon that puts me in their place right now. Randy, you’re fourteen. I promised your Ma I’d take care of you – and that sure don’t mean I’m gonna put you in danger without good cause!
“Neither of you is good enough with a gun – at least, not yet – to put you in the firin’ line. Given more practice, you will be; but you still got a lot to learn. Besides, a real fight ain’t like shootin’ at a tree stump, or something that can’t shoot back. The first time, you’re gonna be real scared and on edge. You’ll prob’ly make mistakes. I know I did! I can still remember my first shootin’ fight, back in the War. I was damned lucky to get out of it alive. I want to make sure you know enough, and can handle your guns well enough, to survive yours.”
“But what about the Navajo boys?” Randy demanded.
“Nastas will do the same with them as I’m doin’ with you.”
“You just don’t trust us!” Jimmy fumed.
“That’s crap, an’ you know it!” Walt snapped; then, remembering his own younger days and how he’d felt about adults back then, his voice grew softer, gentler. “I need you here, boys. I’m gonna leave a couple o’ men behind, too, even though I’ll need ’em if this comes to a fight. We’re relyin’ on you all to bring up our mounts when the shootin’ stops. If any Injuns are close enough to hear the fight, they’re gonna come lookin’ for trouble, and we’ll need our hosses to get out of it. That’s a real important job. If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t let you do it.”
Slowly, reluctantly, the boys conceded his point. Walt offered a carrot to go with the stick of his refusal. “If you boys do a good job in the mornin’, we’ll make time on the ride south for some more practice, and do the same in El Paso. Just remember – don’t go tryin’ to take a fight to anyone who doesn’t really need it. He gets a vote, too, an’ he may be better with a gun than you are. You don’t want to find that out the hard way unless you got no other choice.”
Walt took Nastas aside, and they planned the morning’s activities carefully before going to sleep. When the scouts woke the camp at three-thirty the following morning, they called everyone together, and briefed them.
“The scouts will lead us across the mile or so of ground between us and them,” Walt began. “We’ll be on foot.” A low moan came from his ranch hands, many of whom had brought only high-heeled riding boots, which were not comfortable for extended walking. “Yeah, I know you’d rather ride, but they’re more likely to hear horse hoofs, and our mounts might neigh when they get scent o’ their hosses. Better to walk quietly.
“The scouts will ease you all into position around the rim of the hollow, a bit back from the edge so you won’t be skylined against the light of dawn. Stay as quiet
as you can. Pick a bush in front of you along the rim. Soon as there’s light in the sky, move forward so the bush breaks up the outline of your head and shoulders as you look down. No sense in giving them an easy target. Four scouts will be mounted, and wait on the far side of the hollow. They’ll go after any Comancheros who try to run for it.
“I’ll start the ball rollin’ by callin’ on them to surrender. If they do, we let them, you hear me? Keep ’em covered, and don’t trust ’em. Wait until they’ve been disarmed and secured, then you can come down; but don’t rely on that happenin’. We know they’re Comancheros, because the scouts sneaked right up to their camp last night. Those barrels hold rotgut whisky, an’ the wagons are full o’ guns, ammunition and trade goods. That bein’ so, they’ll probably fight; or, if they run, they’ll meet up with their Injun friends and bring ’em after us. We can’t risk either. If they don’t surrender right off, put ’em down fast and hard.
“Don’t none of you sample that snakehead whiskey, either! First thing we’ll do after we take their camp is tip those barrels over an’ empty them into the dirt.” Another anguished moan arose from some of his men. “I know you’d like a drink, but that stuff’ll poison you or send you clean off your head, so we ain’t gonna use it. That’s final. Anyone who does, I’ll fire him right here, right now, an’ he can make his own way back, alone, through Injun territory – if he survives.” The determination in Walt’s voice made it clear he wasn’t joking.
“What about what’s in the wagons?” a hand asked.
“We’ll worry about that when we’ve taken ’em. I reckon every man deserves a share. You know I’m a fair man. I’ll see everyone gets theirs.” A rumble of agreement and assent.
“Any more questions?” Silence. “All right. The boys stay here with the herd, and the Navajo boys as well. Smiler, Dave, I want you to stay with them, too. We’ll saddle up the pack hosses an’ mounts before we leave. When you hear the shootin’ stop, bring all the hosses over there, quick as you can. If there are any Comanche or Kiowa close enough to hear the shots, they may come hornin’ in, and I want us mounted and ready to meet them if they do. Now, make fast your saddlebags an’ bedrolls, saddle your broncs, then let’s get moving – quietly!”
Walt slid slowly, carefully, noiselessly up to the rim of the hollow, masking his movements behind a low bush as he stared downwards into the gloom. The first light in the sky had not yet penetrated the darkness below. There was only the glow of a small fire in front of the two wagons, the indistinct silhouette of one man on watch near it, and the slow, shadowy movements of large dark shapes where the Comancheros’ horses were picketed. He forced himself to be patient as he wriggled into a better shooting position, brought his rifle up to his shoulder, and settled down to wait.
As the light slowly grew, he could make out more of the camp below. Four of the men slept on the ground beneath each wagon, with the remaining four between them. One of the bedrolls in the center was empty, presumably that of the sentry sitting sleepily next to the fire. He was staring into the coals, which made Walt shake his head. The man was destroying his night vision by doing that; a betrayal of his comrades, but a welcome improvement to the attackers’ chances of bringing this off.
At last Walt judged there was light enough to see their rifle sights and hit their targets. He took a deep breath, then shouted aloud in a commanding voice, “Muévete y mueres! If you move, you die!”
There was an instant flurry of activity as the men kicked their bedrolls away and grabbed for the guns lying beside them. Clearly, they were in no mood to obey – and that suited Walt fine. He had already aimed at the sentry, who was the only man already armed and capable of immediate resistance. As the man sprang to his feet, looking around wildly, he squeezed the trigger of his rifle. The big, heavy slug punched into his target, slamming the Comanchero down flat across the embers of the camp fire. He was dead before he knew what hit him.
On either side of Walt, firing erupted as his men opened up on the Comanchero band. Within seconds, more than half of the group had fallen. However, the rest didn’t try to surrender. Instead, they made a run for the horses, picketed on the far side of the fire.
“Páralos! Stop them! Don’t let them get away!” Walt bellowed as he fed another fat .50-70 cartridge into the chamber of his rifle. He closed the breech and squinted through the sights, aiming at the figure closest to the horses. His rifle boomed. The Comanchero arched his back and screamed as he fell forward. The two men behind him fared no better, attracting slugs from several of the rifles on the rim above. They joined their comrade in sprawled-out death.
Just one Comanchero made it to the horses. He slashed at a picket rope with his knife, swung astride bareback, and kicked his heels into the horse’s ribs. Already startled by the gunfire, it sprang forward. Showing great skill, the rider stayed astride despite the lack of reins or stirrups, steering the horse by leaning to one side or the other as it raced up the far slope towards safety. Several of the men fired at him, but could not hit the fast-moving target in the gloom.
He’d almost made it when Nastas appeared on the rim, not fifty feet ahead of him. The big Navajo reined in his horse, aimed the Winchester 1866 rifle that Walt had given him after rescuing his daughter, and fired a single shot that struck the oncoming rider full in the chest. He clutched at the wound, screaming, and tried desperately to turn the horse; but by then Walt had reloaded and drawn a bead on him. The big four-hundred-and-fifty-grain soft lead bullet swatted the Comanchero from the saddle as if he were no more than a fly. His body bounced and rolled back down the slope as Nastas caught his horse by the rope trailing from around its neck.
“Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” Walt yelled. Other voices took up the cry, and the guns along the rim fell silent as they stared down at the bodies below. “Reload your guns, then let’s walk down there and make sure they’re dead. Be real careful, in case one of ’em’s playing possum. If he is, shoot him again – but don’t hit each other!”
He tucked the big rifle into the crook of his left arm, with his hook through the trigger guard to hold it in place; then he drew a revolver with his right hand, and started down the slope. On either side, his men followed his lead. As they drew nearer, some of the Navajo scouts hurried to calm the whinnying, plunging horses at their picket line. They’d first been shocked out of sleep by the gunfire, then disturbed by the approach of strangers. Clearly, they were anything but pleased with their rude awakening.
While the others checked the bodies, Walt picked up an axe lying next to a small pile of firewood. He walked over to the first barrel, resting on a plank lying across two stones, and smashed open the head of the cask; then he kicked it off the plank to lie on its side, its contents gurgling away into the sandy soil. He wrinkled his nostrils at the sudden stench of cheap snakehead alcohol as he did the same to the remaining two barrels. It mingled with the smell of burning flesh and clothing from the sentry, who was still lying across the coals of the fire. Walt gestured in sudden irritation. “Drag that body off o’ there!”
Two of the men obeyed, while the rest watched in silence as the liquid spread across the soil, sinking in. Within a minute, it had all been absorbed. Walt sighed with relief. He knew how great the temptation would have been for some of his men – but that was no longer a factor.
“All right, let’s see what’s in the wagons,” he ordered. “Sam, Ahiga, check that one. Nastas, let’s you and I look over this one.”
The wagon proved to contain many trade items such as axe heads, knives, cloth and cookware. The most useful, to Walt’s mind, were three dozen brand-new wool blankets, red in color, soft, thick and warm.
Sam straightened up in the other wagon, and yelled, “Boss, you gotta see this!”
“Coming!” he called, and jumped down from the wagon. As he approached, he asked, “What is it?”
“These carrion had two dozen Winchester 1866’s, and half a dozen of the new iron-framed Model 1873’s. I heard o’ them, but
never seen one afore – they ain’t made it to our part of New Mexico yet. There’s lots of ammunition for them, too.”
“Waal, I’ll be damned! I’ve got an 1873 carbine on order back in Colorado, but it hadn’t reached me before we left. They’ve only just started hittin’ the stores. Where the hell did Comancheros lay their hands on them?”
“Dunno, but there’s two carbines here, boss, and four rifles. Looks like a couple thousand rounds of .44-40 centerfire shells for them, too. The ’66’s are all rifles, an’ there’s prob’ly four, five thousand .44-28 rimfire rounds for them.”
“Looks like we hit the jackpot,” Walt said with a grin. “All right, soon as the hosses get here, we’ll see who needs what.”
When everyone had arrived, and the horses had been brought down into the hollow, Walt called everyone together to tell them what they’d found in the wagons. “All o’ you should take one o’ the new blankets in that wagon,” he said, pointing. “Just one, mind! I’ll have the extras put on pack horses to take with us. Some of those joining us at El Paso may need one. Also, if your belt knives ain’t good ones, there’s a couple dozen Green River knives in that wagon, with sheaths. If you need one, take one. I’m gonna add the rest of ’em and the cookin’ pots to our load. After all that, take anything else you want, but don’t weigh your hosses down with things you don’t need.
“That wagon,” and he pointed to the other one, “holds Winchester rifles; six of the brand-new Model 1873’s, and twenty-four Model 1866’s, the old brass-framed ‘Yellow Boy’. I’m claimin’ the two 1873 carbines, one for me, the other for Isom Fisher. Remember, he also lost a hand, and like me, he’s fixed a ring under the fore-end of his carbine to let him manage it with his hook. The shorter carbines are easier for us to handle in rapid fire than the longer, heavier rifles. As for the four 1873 rifles, I’m allocatin’ two to the Navajo, and two to my ranch hands. I’ll leave it up to Nastas to figure out who gets them among his scouts. The rest of you can draw lots. The two winners get the rifles.
