Stryker's Misfits (A Stryker's Misfits Western Book 1)

by Chuck Tyrell

  “Ha.” Norroso danced a few steps of victory. “You must be much faster, Buffalo man.”

  Samson said nothing, but his eyes narrowed and he gave Norroso a new look, one of respect.

  Norroso circled like a hawk circles a snake, but Samson Kearns was no snake. Confidence led Norroso to lift his feet as he went round and round the top soldier. As his right foot began its descent Samson took a quick step toward Norroso, the Bowie in his left hand striking as swiftly as any diamondback rattler. The double-edged tip of Samson’s knife raked across Norroso’s chest just below his pectoral muscles. A cut sprang open, spilling the Apache’s blood, which ran in rivulets over his abdomen, its color a match for the blood that ran down Samson’s arm.

  “You ain’t as fast as you look, young’un.”

  In reply, Norroso stabbed with his long knife, but Samson was more than ready. His blade parried the knife and his big right fist smashed into Norroso’s face, just below the eye.

  Norroso’s head rocked back and he staggered, dazed by the blow.

  “That’ll teach you to fun with Samson Kearns, boy.” Samson reached for Norroso’s arm, intending to pull him back within reach of his deadly Bowie, but the Apache youth dropped to the ground and rolled away. Samson followed, crowding Norroso, who sprang to his feet once he had some space. He growled like a big timber wolf from the Sierra Madres.

  “What’s the matter, boy? Finding this Buffalo Soldier a little much to take a bite of? Ha.”

  Norroso went back to the ground, down on all fours to make a swipe with his long knife. The tip scratched across the outside of Samson’s long right leg, hardly deep enough to draw blood. Utilizing the momentum of his arm’s swing, Norroso came back to his feet, legs ready to lever him out of the way of Samson’s knife and fists.

  Samson laughed. “Get up, boy. Get up so’s I can knock y’all down again.”

  ~*~

  Sharpy Bailor watched the fight unfold, the huge black Samson scrapping with the willow slim and flexible Apache lad. More than once, the ham-like fist of Samson Kearns knocked the Apache to the ground. But he was tough as desert mesquite and sprang back to his feet after every knockdown. Sharpy had no doubt that Samson would take the fight from the boy, but he didn’t like the way the mounted Apaches’ horses chaffed and pranced. Every time the boy hit the dust, the horses shifted and danced around. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the Apache warriors were getting ready to charge. But charge what?

  Then a movement caught the corner of his eye. He narrowed his eyes and focused on a spot to the right of where the movement had been. He’d learned to do that when he was a long shooter for JEB Stuart’s Secesh Cavalry.

  Another movement. Sharpy concentrated. Another. This time closer to where Buck Grady’d took cover. There. A ground-colored Apache snaked from one bit of cover to another, definitely bent on taking Buck when he weren’t looking. Sharpy shifted his .50 into position, moving slowly so as not to attract attention, and drew a bead on the sneaking Apache. As soon as he had a clear shot, he’d blow that red sumbitch to kingdom come. Yeah. Cap Stryker said to lay quiet, but Buck didn’t know no Apache guteater was sneaking up on ’im, so it were alright for Sharpy to blow the Apache warrior away, it surely was.

  The sneaky snake Apache showed again as he moved closer to Buck’s position. Sharpy wanted to check the mounted warriors, but didn’t dare take his eyes off the sneaky snake. He slowly eared back the hammer of the Sharps .50 long gun. She was dead on at half a mile and sneaky snake weren’t much more than that. Sharpy adjusted the rear sight to a thousand yards. Yeah. He put his cheek to her fine walnut stock, narrowed his eyes to focus his long-distance sight, and tightened his grip on the stock as he took up the miniscule slack in the trigger.

  The Apache stood, knife raised. But as he leapt for Buck, the .50 caliber bullet from Sharpy’s long gun took him in the hollow of his throat and crashed through his spine about three inches below his skull. Bits of Apache flesh and blood splattered across the rocks. The Apache dropped like an ear-shot hog. His moccasined feet twitched and fell slack, but Sharpy’s attention was already elsewhere.

  ~*~

  The heavy roar of Bailor’s Sharps .50 long gun triggered a charge by the mounted Apaches. Already, many of the warriors carried trapdoor Springfield rifles, although they’d only just been issued to army troops that same year.

  “Top! Free for all! Get to cover.” Stryker sprinted for his rifle and sixgun, his wounded shoulder forgotten. The weapons stood against the rocks where he’d left them.

  Yuyutsu gigged his big black toward the charging group of warriors, spinning the big horse around in front of them to take the lead.

  Uday and the other two warriors concentrated on Stryker, lunging their horses toward his rock-strewn shelter in an attempt to cut him off. Dahtegte stepped from behind a boulder, her bow drawn. Her arrow took the leading rider in the center of his body mass. He looked down at the eagle-fletched arrow in amazement, then toppled from the horse, dead before he hit the ground.

  Stryker grabbed his Winchester in one hand and the Remington Army and its rig with the other. He dived for cover in the rocks. A second Apache warrior succumbed to Dahtegte’s unerring arrow. Uday, the third man looking to cut Stryker off from his cover, jerked his horse around and headed for the main group of oncoming warriors.

  Sharpy Bailor’s big .50 spoke from atop the canyon wall. An Apache horse dropped, throwing its rider to the ground. Higher pitched cracks signaled that Stryker’s Misfits had now joined the fight as the horses came in range.

  Samson Kearns ignored the charging horses and firing rifles. He couldn’t afford to. Norroso the willow boy had cut him three times already and showed no intention of breaking the fight off just because of rifle fire from the heights or the sound of pounding hoofs from charging Apache horses. Norroso sprang, thrusting his long knife at Samson’s oak-tree leg. Samson parried in returned the move with a slicing swing of his Bowie. The tip of the big knife found a piece of Norroso’s neck and drew blood, though not from a serious wound. Norroso cartwheeled away. Samson followed, keeping a steady balance.

  Stryker didn’t take the time to buckle the gunrig around his hips. He tossed it to the ground amongst the rocks after he’d pulled the Remington from the holster. He shoved the pistol behind his waistband, picked up the Winchester Yellow Boy, and peered from behind the sheltering rocks toward Yuyutsu’s Apaches.

  Smoke from Winchesters dotted the canyon walls. Apache horses fell, as Stryker had told his Misfits to shoot the animals first, and word to change aim to warriors obviously had not gotten to most of them. That would put the Indians on foot and keep them from riding off, as was so often Apaches did. Stryker forgot about the stitches in his shoulder. He concentrated on reducing Yuyutsu’s renegade band.

  Top Kearns and the stripling Norroso still circled each other like a wildcat and a bear. Both bled from multiple cuts. Both ignored the battle going on around them. Both moved carefully, knowing the other would instantly take advantage of any misstep or failure to keep a good guard.

  Stryker counted seven dead and dying horses on the canyon floor. He bit his bottom lip. Dear God. Why can’t we humans go without murdering the animals that serve us so faithfully? Among the carcasses lay a half dozen Apache bodies as well. And two had taken refuge behind downed animals. Stryker settled his rifle on a rock and drew a bead on the nearest warrior caught behind a dead horse. The Apache dug at a spent shell in the chamber of his trapdoor Springfield. The 1863 model’s extractor spring often came loose, forcing its owner to extract each hot spent shell by hand. He finished reloading and peered over the side of the dead horse, looking for a target. But Stryker was ready for him and put a bullet into his forehead before he could see anything to shoot at. The Apache arched his back and fell over, limp as only a dead man could be.

  A shout came from Yuyutsu, and the Apaches began their retreat, leaving eight lifeless bodies behind. Samson and Norroso still fought. Blood dribbled from knife c
uts on arms and legs and torsos, but neither man showed any sign of slowing down.

  Back with the loaded mules, which were herded by the youngest Apaches, Yuyutsu reined his black around.

  Samson caught Norroso with a looping right that smashed the willowy Indeh on the side of his jaw, breaking the bone and sending him crashing to the ground. Samson stood over the youth, waiting for him to rise. Norroso struggled to push his torso off the ground, then collapsed unconscious. Samson put a big foot on the young man’s belly and shook his fist at Yuyutsu’s clump of warriors. “Your willow is down,” he roared. “Samson the Buffalo Soldier stands.”

  An arrow whizzed from a bow somewhere in Yuyutsu’s group of warriors and plowed into Samson’s chest, high under the collarbone. The Buffalo Soldier went to one knee. A screech came from the Apaches and a warrior on a two-color paint bounded toward the wounded Samson at a dead run. Stryker sprinted from his rockpile shelter, firing his Yellow Boy as he ran, not bothering to aim. His was a covering fire, not one intended to hit any specific horseman. “Misfits!” Stryker’s shout rose up the canyon walls. “To me!”

  The Greer twins came first, running low and leapfrogging, one brother kneeling to fire his Winchester while the other went ahead to find cover. Then they reversed roles.

  Stryker sank to one knee, shielding Samson with his body. Norroso was either unconscious or pretending to be. Stryker ignored the youth. The Apaches were still a hundred yards away, so Stryker stole a moment to shove .44 caliber shells into the Yellow Boy’s fifteen-shot magazine.

  The warrior in the van wore hate plastered all over his face. His only weapon, as far as Stryker could see, was a slim lance. He screamed his defiance in words Stryker could not understand, but he could read the look of defiance on the man’s face.

  Stryker shot the paint horse, and it brought back the memory of the time he’d had to shoot another paint, a gentle old horse that’d gone down and couldn’t get up. It was his time to go, and Stryker’d had to do the job with an old horse pistol they kept at the plantation. The charging horse cartwheeled as Stryker’s bullet plowed into its broad forehead. The Apache hit running, only a dozen yards away.

  Three rifles fired within seconds of each other, and the Greers lined up with Stryker, forming a guard in front of Samson Kearns. The warrior went down with the lack-muscled look of death.

  “We’re here, Cap,” Charlie Greer said.

  Bailor’s Sharps roared from atop the canyon wall, and another horse went down. The Greers and Stryker finished off the rider.

  Yuyutsu called his warriors. They gathered where they thought they were out of range of Bailor’s long gun. But they didn’t fade away like Apaches usually did.

  Norroso groaned. A rider left Yuyutsu’s cluster with a scrap of white tied to a lance. Stryker stepped out in front of the Misfits, who now numbered six behind him. They knelt, Winchesters at the ready as the Indeh with the white flag approached.

  He stopped.

  “Be ready for anything,” Stryker said. “These ones are renegades.”

  “They want no more fight,” Dahtegte said.

  Stryker had not noticed her and Bly come to stand with the Misfits. “All right, he said. “But we’ll take no chances. Misfits, keep an eye out.”

  “Yo,” the Misfits said.

  Uday, the man with the white rag called out. “Gopan Nantan.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Yuyutsu would make peace with Gopan Nantan.”

  “I cannot make peace except at this place,” Stryker said.

  “Yuyutsu would speak to Gopan Nantan. Not with guns and arrows and lances, but chief to chief. I, Uday, ask. Will you sit with Yuyutsu? Talk?”

  “Go,” Dahtegte said.

  Bly seconded her comment. “Yes. Go.”

  “I will speak to Yuyutsu. We will sit together on the grass.” Stryker pointed at a grassy spot on the canyon floor.

  “Good,” Uday said. He reined his horse around and loped back to Yuyutsu.

  “Lion Watie,” Stryker said.

  “Yo,” the Cherokee scout replied.

  “May not be necessary, but you slip up the canyon to where Sharpy Bailor’s hunkered down. Tell him keep an eye on me and Yuyutsu’s bunch and blast that Apache to Hell and back if he makes a false move.”

  “Yo.” Lion sidled back toward the rocks and was soon out of sight.

  Stryker stood out front of his Misfits, who knelt on either side. “Dahtegte,” he said, not taking his eyes from Yuyutsy’s warriors.

  “Yes, Gopan Nantan.”

  “Could you see to Samson, please? Get that arrow out of him, if you can.”

  “I can. With much pain,” she said.

  “Top? You hear me?”

  “Yo.” But Samson’s answer lacked his usual vigor.

  Dahtegte’s gonna get that arrow out of your shoulder. You bite a stick or whatever it takes, and let her do the job, hear?”

  “Yo.” This time the answer was stronger.

  “Come,” Dahtegte said, and led Samson away toward the rocky bastion that had sheltered Stryker.

  “Ponies, you and Bly come with me.” Stryker ignored the groaning Norroso and strode away, headed for the grassy place where he and Yuyutsu would sit and talk.

  Chapter Fourteen – Fight Only On Your Own Terms

  Stryker chose the spot. At VMI, Professor Smith had always said, “He who chooses the venue, the spot, and the conditions has the upper hand in any negotiation.” Stryker wanted all the advantage he could muster. He sat cross-legged on the grass, his Winchester and Remington Army laid to one side but within reach. “Stay back four or five steps,” he told Many Ponies and Bly. Hold onto your weapons, but don’t be threatening with them.

  “Threaten?” Bly said.

  “Don’t make it look like you want to shoot someone right away.”

  “Yo.” Bly was learning soldier lingo. He and Ponies dropped back and separated, putting about ten paces between them and standing five paces or so behind him.

  Yuyutsu came at a run on his black. He pulled the horse to a stiff-legged hopping stop a respectful distance from Stryker. He came alone. Throwing a leg over the black’s withers, he slid to the ground. He carried no visible weapons.

  “Sit, if you will,” Stryker said, waving a hand at a spot across from himself. He watched the renegade chieftain closely as he sat. Yuyutsu’s thick black hair was braided tightly and stuck under a sash around his waist. A thick headband of dark blue cloth hid most of his forehead. His broad face showed prominent cheekbones and a strong, square jaw and chin. A slash of a mouth above the chin had lips so thin as to be nearly invisible. His muslin shirt matched Stryker’s own, but Yuyutsu wore no trousers. His breechclout hung to mid thigh and his Nedni moccasins folded just below his knees. His eyes were black as coal, surrounded by whites the color of creamed coffee.

  Yuyutsu beckoned to Bly and spoke in Apache.

  “He wants me to interpret, Cap.”

  “Do it.”

  Bly answered Yuyutsu, who nodded. Bly took a seat to Stryker’s right, at a point where he and Stryker and Yuyutsu were the same distance apart.

  “You called this powwow,” Stryker said. “Have your say.”

  Yuyutsu spoke.

  Bly said, “He say Yuyutsu’s men kill no White Eyes.”

  “They massacred a whole town in Sonora. Women and little children, too.”

  Bly translated and waited for Yuyutsu to reply.

  Yuyutsu stared at the grass, then spoke very slowly and deliberately.

  Bly followed his narrative in English. “Long ago, Gopan Nantan, Nakaye soldiers came to our land wearing hats and shirts of iron. They said they were looking for seven cities made of gold. This metal is sacred and no Indeh would every dig into the breast of Mother Earth to get it. Mother Earth must not be injured in such a way. But the soldiers with iron hats found places where gold hid beneath the ground. Soon they bring Pimas and Sumas and Jumanos—all slaves—to spend their lives digging in
Mother Earth for this metal.”

  Yuyutsu stopped talking. Bly stopped translating. Stryker waited, saying nothing.

  “Nakaye soldiers with iron hats built a stockade at Santa Ricca, seeking to protect the way into the mountains where Indio slaves worked all day and all night. Digging, digging, digging.

  “The Nakaye with no hair who wore long black cloaks used adobe—clay and straw made into bricks—to make a church. A man named Don Aziz brought Nakaye cows to eat the grass where before elk and deer and bighorn sheep ate their fill. With their food gone, is it not natural that Apaches should take a cow or two to eat?

  “Apaches like Nakaye mescal. Apaches like to trade with friendly people. Apaches like Nakaye festivals with much to eat, much mescal to drink. One day an old Nakaye man came to my father’s camp. He told the Indeh of a big festival to be celebrated at the village of Santa Ricca de Oros. He told of much food and much mescal. He told of how people in Santa Ricca were happy to be friends with father’s band of Indeh. The village would wait for Apaches in three days’ time, the old man said.”

  Stryker watched Yuyutsu’s dark face grow darker and the lines from his nose to the corners of his downturned mouth deepened into cruel slashes. The story he told did not come easy.

  “On the third day, my father’s people went to the village at Santa Ricca. Yes. There a feast was laid out in the plaza. Yes. Mescal was there in plenty. Yes. Every Apache man became witless with Nakaye firewater. They did not notice the Nakaye disappearing into the church. They wanted only more mescal.

  “More mescal ...

  “More mescal ... ”

  Silence, except for the sound of Yuyutsu’s breathing.

  “The soldiers from the stockade hid a twisting cannon in the village, in a place facing the plaza where Indeh men staggered, drunk with mescal, where women and children ate of Nakaye meat and melons and sweet squash, where children ran about, playing their childish games.