by Mike Blakely
“How many braves you reckon they could muster if they all got together?” Kit asked.
Charlie snorted. “There ain’t more than five or six hundred Mescaleros left—men, women, and children. I bet they couldn’t muster three hundred armed bucks. Besides, they’re scattered and don’t usually come all together.”
“Too bad,” Paddy said. “We’d have an easier time of it striking them all at once and just mopping up the whole country of them.”
“That ain’t gonna happen,” Charlie replied. “You’ll have to hunt ’em down like coyotes.” Charlie finished his beans and dropped his tin plate into a tub of water for someone else to wash. “You got a place where I can spread my bedroll?”
Paddy jumped to his feet before Kit or I could speak. “Come on, Charlie,” he said. “I’ll show you where to settle in.”
As they walked away, Kit stood and pressed his hands against the small of his back as if it ached. “Buenas noches. Kid. I’m about tuckered.”
I nodded at Kit as he ducked into his tent. By the firelight, I saw Paddy glance back toward the tent, then he leaned closer to Charlie Beach as they walked away. Paddy said something that made Charlie look at him with some surprise, then they faded into the darkness.
Thirty-One
The nights grew cool at Fort Stanton, but the days remained mild as autumn approached. I kept myself busy scouting with various companies of Kit’s command, or helping with the repairs to the post’s many buildings. I personally supervised the cutting of timbers and the fashioning of them into a flagpole that we set deep into the earth in the middle of the parade ground. Gradually, Fort Stanton began to once again function as an operating frontier military post.
The task of feeding the regiment required constant attention. Supply wagons came and went, but many of the volunteers also hunted and fished in their off-duty time to help feed themselves and their comrades. I enjoyed the solitude of hunting, though I had to remain extremely watchful in Mescalero country. One afternoon I returned to the fort with a bull elk skinned, quartered, and packed on a mule. The bull was a big one, with six points on each of his sprawling antlers. While the boys were congratulating me, I happened to notice Charlie Beach’s horse tied at the officers’ quarters across the parade grounds. I hadn’t seen Charlie since his earlier visit, but I recognized his horse and saddle. The horse had lost at least a hundred pounds, so I figured that Charlie must have been doing some hard riding of late.
“I’d give a month’s pay for one of those tenderloins,” a private from C Company said.
“What pay?” replied his sergeant. “We ain’t seen pay since we left Albuquerque.”
“Well, if I had it, I’d give it up for some of that elk.”
“Tell you what, boys,” I said. “I’m going to take the backstraps to the officers’ quarters. You boys can have the rest if you’ll stake the hide out to dry for me and take care of my animals.”
The dozen men around me approved immediately and began untying the quartered meat, the hide, and the antlers.
“What about the horns?” one man asked.
“Hang them up on the sutler’s store,” I suggested.
I grabbed the two heavy backstraps that I had separated from the carcass before quartering it, and lugged them toward the officers’ quarters. I opened the door to find Kit, Paddy Graydon, and Charlie Beach bent over a map hand-drawn on a piece of parchment. Captains Abreu, Sena y Baca, Eaton, Chacon, and Bergman were also there, some smoking pipes or sipping whiskey. They all looked over the map with varying degrees of interest, until I walked in with enough meat to feed them all.
“Meat!” Paddy said. “Good for you, Greenwood.”
“Chihuahua!” Captain Sena y Baca grinned with expectation of a good meal. “Dos grandes pedazos de carne!”
Charlie Beach looked up with his finger still on the map, and his eyes grew as big around as duck eggs. It seemed he hadn’t seen that much meat in years.
“We’ll fry a mess of that up directly,” Kit said. “Take a look at this here first, Kid.”
I dropped the heavy load of fileted backstrap on the corner of the rough-hewn dining table and joined the officers to observe the map.
“Charlie spotted a war party on the move,” Paddy announced. “Says we can probably cut them off in a day or two.”
“Whose band is it?” I asked.
“Looks like old Manuelito himself. And Long Joe was with him.”
“What made you think it was a war party?”
“Well, I didn’t get too close,” Charlie said. “But I seen feathers in their horses’ tails, and some of the bucks was wearin’ paint, I think.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Paddy said. “We have orders to kill them wherever we can find them.”
Kit tapped the place on the map where the party was supposedly heading, east of Dog Canyon on the south flanks of the Sacramentos. “It’s your time to go out,” he said to Paddy. “Get your company in the saddle as soon as you can and start tonight. You should cut their trail by sundown, day after tomorrow, if you ride hard.”
“Yes, sir,” Paddy said, his enthusiasm for the enterprise evident in his voice.
I thought it coincidental that Charlie Beach had brought this information around just as Paddy’s company was due to ride out on the next scouting expedition. “Colonel Carson,” I said—I always called him Colonel Carson around the other officers out of respect—“I’d like to request permission to ride with Paddy’s company.”
Paddy and Charlie exchanged glances.
Kit smirked. “Paddy?”
Paddy shrugged. “You’re welcome to ride with me anytime, Greenwood. You know that.”
“What about all this meat you kilt?” Kit asked.
I smiled at him. “I’m sure you gentlemen will enjoy it.”
“I’ll chop the wood,” Charlie said, eyeballing the raw meat and licking his lips. “I haven’t et good in days.”
The map Charlie Beach had drawn showed a trail that led along the southern flanks of the Sacramento Mountains. I had never been on the trail and that was one of my reasons for wanting to ride with Paddy—to see some new country. In those days I would ride at the drop of a hat. Pardon the cliché. I’d ride before the hat dropped. Hell, I’d ride if there wasn’t a hat within two hundred miles, and sometimes there wasn’t.
According to Charlie, the Mescaleros under Manuelito were heading for the Chihuahua Trail to raid whatever trade wagons they could find, and attack any unprotected village they could along the way. This all seemed plausible if indeed the Indians were wearing war paint, as they had been for months.
I rode a good young buckskin gelding on this scout. He wasn’t well trained yet, but he had bottom, as the old-timers used to say—meaning he could reach deep and run fast for a long time when hard-pressed. As for weaponry, I carried my Henry repeater in a saddle scabbard, and my Colt revolver in a holster on my hip. I also slung my bow case and quiver across my back. In desperate situations, a scout sometimes had to kill silently to protect his company. I also carried a sharp knife on my belt, and—for this particular ride—my old cavalry saber. I fairly bristled with arms.
After two days of scouting ahead, I let the company catch up to me to hold council with Paddy.
“How far you reckon that trail is now?” Paddy asked. “The one where Charlie says we should find the Indians.”
“Can’t be more than five miles ahead.” I gnawed off a bite of salt pork and reached for my canteen.
“I’m going to let the boys rest an hour. You ride ahead and find that trail. If you see Indian sign on it, trail them until you can figure how long since they passed. If you don’t see sign, turn east and try to find them coming.”
I nodded and turned for my mount.
Think about your image of the flamboyant frontiersman of the Old Southwest. Does his saddle glisten with silver conchos? Do his bridle bits jingle in tune with his spurs? Does his steed prance, stamping hooves and tossing its head? Do his
nickel-plated six-guns glint in the sunlight? Does his brightly colored scarf play upon the wind? If such represents your image of the quintessential trailblazer, I’m afraid I would have seriously disappointed you. On scouts into enemy country, I was the plainest plainsman you’ve ever seen. I was downright drab. Everything I wore blended in with things already there. Even my horse matched the color of dirt. My guns were shinier on the inside than they were without.
I hit the trail we sought, and saw no sign of an Indian party having crossed. Obliterating the tracks I had made near the path, I kept my distance from the well-used Indian trail and turned east to look for the war party. According to Charlie Beach, it would number thirty riders or more. A party that size would be easy to spot from a distance, so I had no need of getting closer. My main concern was watching for their scouts, and spotting them before they spotted me.
I had the advantage of knowing they were coming. They, on the other hand, knew nothing of my presence. That’s the main reason I saw the advance rider before he saw me. I ducked behind a sand hill and let him pass. I had no idea how far ahead of the main party he rode. After he had passed on to the west, I continued east.
Within ten minutes, I could see dust hanging in the air, and knew the main party was near. I peered over a rise, nothing more than the top of my head showing. As it came into view, I saw that the party numbered thirty-eight. Six of the horses pulled travois. Nine women carried babies on cradle boards, and others rode herd over older children. A few elders brought up the rear. I counted fourteen warriors, ranging in age from about fifteen to about forty-five. A chief rode point on a tall claybank horse—a mighty fine looking animal. I assumed this was Manuelito himself, the recognized head chief of the entire Mescalero Nation. None of the riders seemed to be wearing war paint, but from this distance it was hard to tell. I saw no feathers in the tails of their horses. This, to me, looked like a village on the move, or a hunting party heading for the mountains, not a raiding party. Even so, I felt as if I were staring into the maw of a yawning lion. If old Manuelito were to discover such an enemy to his people as me, my life would not equal the worth of a farthing.
As soon as I could do so without being seen, I turned north and rode hard enough to make good time, but not so hard that I kicked up dust that could be seen by the Indians. The afternoon had grown old, and I knew Paddy’s company would have no chance to intercept Manuelito before nightfall, but perhaps he could make up some time during the night and strike the trail ahead of the Mescaleros after dawn. Then what? Did Paddy intend to do battle with a hunting party? Our orders from General Carleton were clear: kill Mescalero warriors wherever we could find them. Take women and children prisoner. Give no quarter, make no talks of peace. Paddy had been anxious to engage the Indians in battle. A clash seemed sure to happen in the morning.
I met Paddy’s oncoming party half an hour before sundown and held a council with him, telling him what I had seen.
“Can we get ahead of them, and surprise them on the trail in the morning?”
“Yes. They’ll be in camp by now.”
Paddy nodded and glanced at the sky to judge what light we had left. “I’m going to order the column to leave the trail and head across the country to the southwest. We’ll ride until it’s too dark to see. Then we’ll wait for the moon to rise and mount up again.”
“What if it’s just a hunting party or a village on the move?”
“We have our orders,” he said.
“What if they sign for a talk?”
“Not likely they will, but if they do, we’ll talk. All I can do is tell them what the general said. If they don’t agree to send their headmen to Santa Fe, there will have to be a fight. No way around it.”
I sighed. Wrong or right, our orders were clear.
“Are you with me, Greenwood?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t have come along if I wasn’t.”
Paddy turned in his saddle. “Squad, forward!” he shouted, echoed by his sergeant. “March!”
The grinding of hooves against rock and dirt cut the serenity of the desert evening, and equipage began to rattle and jingle. We angled off the trail and followed the next order to canter as we weaved our way among thorny bushes and cacti. I glanced back and saw the four columns break and re-form, the horses shying from and leaping over spiny thickets. The mounted squadron numbered forty-two men armed with carbines, most of which were Sharps single-shot, breech loaders. A good many of the volunteer soldiers also carried revolvers of various makes. Against such firepower, Manuelito’s warriors would not have much of a chance should a battle commence. As we rode, I judged the caliber of the men as well as their arms. They were tough soldiers. Most of Paddy’s company had been in the volunteer service for over a year now. Many had seen bloody action at Valverde with me and Kit. By now they were trail-hardened and wilderness-trained.
In those days, young men of ambition courted dangerous service in the Indian wars. They sensed the frontier would not last forever. Each looked ahead to the days when he would charm a desirable lass with his Indian-fighter reputation, when he would stand upon a stump in some new town and recount his exploits against the red-skinned enemy as he sought votes for mayor or sheriff or senator; when he would stroke his gray chin and tell his grandchildren about taking an arrow or a scalp. These men were ready to kill some Mescaleros. As their scout, I knew I had better get ready to do the same.
Thirty-Two
My blanket felt good against the cold October air that seared my nostrils and lungs. I had slept an hour and nineteen minutes before waking, knowing I would not go back to sleep. Paddy would rouse us all soon, I knew, and the day—likely a bloody one—would commence. But for now, I was content to hold my body heat under the plain gray woolen blanket of Navaho make, to watch the shoulders of the Sacramentos don the first hint of daybreak, and to listen.
A pack of coyotes jabbered up some lonely canyon, perhaps celebrating a kill. They were cautioned by the deep-throated howl of a Mexican wolf, closer to our camp. The morning was still, and a man could hear things a long way away. The shrill whistle of a bull elk in rut filtered down the mountain slopes, through the alligator juniper and piñon pine, coming to my ears as a whisper I knew no other man heard. They called it bugling. To me, it had always sounded more like someone learning to play a woodwind.
A common yellowthroat fluttered noisily onto the thin, thorny branch of a catclaw acacia, known as uña de gato to the Mexicans. The cocky little warbler with the black eye mask of a bandit cheeped out “witchity-witchity” as he rode the limber bouncing branch of the catclaw only an arm’s length from my motionless body. I blinked, and the yellowthroat fluttered away.
We had reached this place in the night, finding the old Indian trail by moonlight. Paddy had ordered us to unsaddle and dismount. We needed as much rest as we could steal. While the soldiers had spread their blankets and staked their horses, and the guards had taken their unenviable posts, I had stood in the moonlight, my hands raised to the Great Mystery. I had chanted under my breath. The spirits had spoken to me, assuring me that the Mescaleros were the enemy of the True Humans: the Comanches. They had challenged me to be brave in battle, to seek danger, and win honors. This I knew the spirits demanded, my Comanche brothers expected, my white comrades relied upon, and even my wife understood. I was ready for battle.
Now I lay at the western edge of camp, my back to the troops. The canyons of the Sacramento Mountains soared above the cacti and thorn bushes, their pine-studded rims catching sunlight now. The aromas of leather and horse sweat filled my nostrils from the saddle I used as a pillow. My guns lay under my blanket at my feet, Indian style. Most of the soldiers had retired with their revolvers and carbines beside their heads, thinking that made them handy. But the Indians knew that a predawn attack would likely cause a man to cast off his blankets and spring to his feet, leaving his weapons within reach only if they had rested at his heels as he slept. And I, though white as snow by blood, had absorbed the ways o
f Indians into my flesh. I lay with my weapons at my feet.
The call to rise came not from a bugle-blowing reveille, but from sergeants walking quietly among the troops, nudging them sternly with the toes of their boots. I was on my feet with my horse saddled by the time the sergeant had reached my edge of camp. I took the time to urinate on a cholla cactus, wondering if the plant would appreciate the moisture or not. I tried to listen for the voice of the plant, but my mind was elsewhere. I mounted and rode to the first ridge to the east. I found a place where I could peek over the ridge and watch the trail to the east, the top of my head barely visible between bushes to anyone approaching from that direction. Only now did I take a drink from my canteen and fish around in my saddle pocket for a hard piece of jerked beef.
As I watched the trail and waited, I also took note of Captain Paddy Graydon’s preparations for battle. He had his men form up in a single rank crossing the trail. The men stood four feet apart, facing east, each holding the reins to his mount. The ends of the line curved slightly forward, creating the beginning of a semicircle. Paddy started at the northern end and rode along this line, instructing or motivating his troops. I wished I could hear him, but I could not.
We waited longer than I had expected, but two advance scouts from Manuelito’s party of Mescaleros finally came into view on the next ridge, about a half-mile apart, one on either side of the trail. I signaled to Captain Graydon, who ordered his troops to mount. I watched nervously as the scout on my side of the trail approached my ridge. Paddy already had his men moving forward, but the brave was going to discover me before the soldiers could come up to help. I drew my Comanche bow from the bow case, hooked a leg around it to bend it, and fixed the buffalo sinew bow string tightly in place. I took a dogwood arrow from my quiver and notched it on the string. The scout was going to cross the ridge just thirty paces to my left. An easy shot. I knew I had to kill him to prevent him from riding back to the main war party to alert them.
