The Way Of The West

by Elmer Kelton

  Overstreet shook his head. “I wish I knew. It’d be worth a ton of Yankee gold to get those wagons here before night. Every hour we have to wait means that somewhere back yonder some Yankee column is getting an hour closer to us.”

  Overstreet saw how the boy’s hands trembled. “It’s apt to be a pretty hard fight for them wagons, ain’t it, sir?” Sammy was struggling to control his frightened voice.

  The lieutenant nodded. “Maybe.”

  The voice quivered. “If we lose, sir . . . we’ll go to some Yankee prison. They’ll go and throw us in a dungeon someplace and leave us to rot.” His voice broke, and the boy sobbed. “I’m afraid, sir. I don’t want to go to prison.”

  Overstreet put his hand on the slender shoulder. “Don’t worry, Sammy. You won’t be a prisoner.”

  Darkly he arose and walked outside. He had intended to leave Sammy here where he could rest and receive attention. But now he knew that, whatever the cost, he would take the boy along.

  The sun was slanting down toward the tops of the mountains to the west when the guard came trotting in, sweat cutting streaks across his dusty face. “Wagons, sir. Coming now, maybe a mile out. Counted twelve of them. There’s an advance guard of a couple of men, riding this way.”

  Overstreet started shouting orders, excitement rising in him. “Move all the horses to the thicket, out of sight. Put all the civilians in a room together. Deploy around the building, with guns on the ready.”

  The civilians were moved into the patio. Overstreet went with them. “We’re going to try to work this so there won’t be anybody killed,” he said. “Best way you all can help is to stay quiet and still.”

  A glance outside showed him the two Union riders almost at the outside gate. Hands sweaty, Overstreet drew the Colt Dragoon. “Step into the patio gate so they can see you, Mister Shaffer. Don’t try to make any signals. No use in getting somebody killed.”

  Shaffer stood in the archway. The lieutenant kept back but managed to watch the two federals cautiously riding up. Both drew rein. One, a big non-commissioned officer, held a saddle carbine in front of him. The other, dressed like an officer, had his hand on the butt of a pistol, still in the holster.

  Hardly breathing, Overstreet whispered: “Shaffer, wave them on in. Tell them it’s all clear. Remember, one wrong move and they’ll die.”

  He could see color rise on Shaffer’s neck. But the ranchman lifted his good hand in greeting, Indian fashion. “Howdy. Get off and come in.”

  The Union officer’s eyes suspiciously roved over the yard and patio. “You’re Shaffer, I presume.”

  Shafter nodded.

  The Yankee captain finally relaxed and swung down to the sand. The corporal slipped his carbine into its scabbard in courtesy, then followed the officer’s example.

  Shafter stepped back into the room. For an instant his hot eyes touched Overstreet’s, and the lieutenant could see shame and anger in them. Stepping into the room, the officer blinked against the semidarkness. His eyes suddenly widened, and his hand dipped toward the holster as he saw Overstreet.

  “Hold it, Captain,” Overstreet said sharply, shoving the Colt forward. “You’re my prisoner.”

  The blue-clad corporal was caught right in the doorway. He crouched there, looking out at his horse as if gauging how long a jump he would have to make to reach his carbine.

  “Get it out of your head, soldier,” the lieutenant said. “A dozen rifles are aimed at you. You’d never make it to your horse.”

  The soldier stood trembling, more from anger than fear.

  Outraged, the captain raised his hands as Overstreet stepped toward him and slipped the pistol out of the holster. “What do you want here?”

  “The same thing you do, the Union munitions. We’re taking your wagons, Captain. Signal them in.”

  Already the wagons were in sight. Overstreet could count them.

  Red color blazed across the Federal captain’s face. “They’ll stop out there until I give them the word to come in. I won’t do that.”

  Bluff it out with him, Overstreet told himself. “You will if you don’t want to see your men killed, Captain. We’re ready to kill, if we’ve got to.”

  But the captain didn’t bluff. “It would be far better to lose a few men here than to let you take those munitions and kill a lot more.”

  Overstreet looked at the big Union non-com and knew what he had to do. “Wheeler,” he called.

  Wheeler entered the room followed by an enlisted man.

  “The corporal’s about your size,” Overstreet said to Wheeler. “Think you could persuade him to lend you his uniform for a little while?”

  The Yankee captain bristled. “Listen to me, soldier. If you put on that uniform, even for a minute, it makes you a spy. It makes you liable for hanging.”

  A half grin appeared under Wheeler’s black mustache as he answered in his gravelly, lazy voice. “If you want to hang me, Captain, you’ll have to wait your turn. There’s folks back home already got first rights on that privilege. That’s why I had to leave Texas in the first place.”

  He led the big Yankee non-com into another room. Overstreet heard the sounds of a short scuffle, then a powerful blow. A moment later Wheeler came back dressed in dusty blue. “Reckon I was a little the biggest.”

  All of a sudden Overstreet was jubilant. It was going to work. “Now get out there and stand by that gate. Wave them in. If they ask any questions, you’re part of the advance detail that got here two days ago. Shut the gate as the last wagon comes through. Then watch out for your neck.”

  At the gate Wheeler waved the hat he had taken from the Yankee corporal. The wagons had halted, apparently according to orders. Now they began to move.

  Overstreet could hear the shouts of the Army mule drivers. His heart was pounding high in his chest as the first wagon came through the gate, then the second and the third. Each wagon had a driver and three spans of mules. They kept rolling. He heard a startled shout behind him, from the enlisted man who had remained after Wheeler had left. “Look out, sir!”

  The Union captain had made a quick dash for the door. Hardly having time to think, Overstreet raised his pistol and swung it down at the officer’s head. With a sigh the captain sank to the Navajo rug that covered the dirt floor.

  Linda Shaffer ran to the man. Turning him over, she said something in Spanish. One of the Mexican women quickly brought her a vase of water and a cloth. Wiping the captain’s unconscious face with cold water, the girl looked up. Her black eyes leaped at Over-street in fury. Her lips trembled with words unspoken. The Lieutenant knew their meaning even though he didn’t hear them, and they brought pain to him.

  The twelfth wagon moved into the big enclosure. Overstreet saw Wheeler shut the gate, then sprint away to cover.

  Swallowing hard, the lieutenant stepped to the door. “All right, men,” he called. “Move out.”

  The gray-clad Texans stepped outside almost simultaneously. There was a second of shocked silence among the few Yankee horsemen and the teamsters. Then all shouted at once. Carbines and pistols whipped out. A driver popped his whip at his mules and swung them around toward the gate, only to haul up short as he saw it was closed. He jumped down to unfasten it, but was driven back by a whining zing from Wheeler’s carbine.

  Half a dozen wild shots were thrown by the Yankees, but their targets were too elusive. Overstreet’s bold voice carried above the confusion. “Throw down your guns. You haven’t got a chance. We’ve got your officer.”

  Grudgingly the soldiers began to comply. They swung down to the ground and started forming a line, hands held up even with their shoulders. Within two minutes the wagons were taken.

  Overstreet wondered about the two extra wagons and found them to be carrying forage and rations for the troops. Pausing now, he realized that his heart was pounding like a steam engine. Somehow, they had done it. The worst scalawag detail in the Sibley Brigade. Hardly a man in it worth his hide and tallow. But they had captured twel
ve Yankee wagons and a cache of munitions. How far would it be now to safety? A hundred miles? A hundred and fifty? A hard race at best. But the lead had been won.

  Quickly he counted the Yankee soldiers. Twelve mule drivers, one for each wagon. A mounted escort of ten men, not counting the officer and non-com. A short detail for such a job. But probably it had been kept short in confidence that the advance detail would furnish escort enough on the trip back. Somewhere, a Union officer had mistakenly discounted the Indian threat.

  To his men, Overstreet said: “Half of you take those mule drivers and get the teams unhitched from the wagons. Take them to water. See that they get feed and rest. There’ll be little enough of it once we get started.”

  There was a rattling of trace chains, the harmless cursing of mule drivers as the animals were freed from the wagons and led away in harness. Overstreet turned to the rest of the men.

  “Now, you’ll line up those wagons by hand, tongues facing out toward the gate. Hurry up. We don’t aim to lose any time.”

  In a quarter of an hour the wagons had been lifted up side by side, the tailgates toward the square adobe main building. Under guard, the mule drivers came back. With the guard detail was Wheeler, still in blue.

  “What do you say, Lieutenant, that I take a little spell and get back in some decent clothes? Every time I take a look at the yellow stripe down the legs of these pants, I start seeing red.”

  The trooper’s drawling complaint brought a smile from Over-street and drained some of the tension. “Hop to it, Corporal. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a corporal from now on.”

  Overstreet took a quick look to the west. The sun had dipped almost to the tops of the mountains, and thin clouds were purple against the red fire of the sky.

  “We’re going to start loading those wagons now,” he said to his own soldiers and to the prisoners. “We’ll load all night if we’ve got to. We’ll be ready to pull out of here in the morning, no matter what.”

  V

  “Hostage”

  Part of the Union soldiers were put to work lifting the gun cases, the powder kegs, and the boxes of percussion caps up out of the tunnel. Other Yankees picked up the munitions at the trap door and carried them out to load them on the wagons. The only pause was a short mess period for prisoners and guards alike to eat a warm meal cooked out of rations found in the Union mess wagon.

  With darkness, the men put up lanterns and candles and worked and sweated and cursed on in their flickering orange light. One by one, the wagons were piled high and the canvas covers laced tightly over the hoops.

  Overstreet let the Union captain, whose name was Terrell Pace, watch with him. Pace was fifteen years out of Vermont, ten years out of the Point, and two years in the bitter cold and blistering heat that took their turns in the New Mexico Territory.

  “You don’t have a chance, Overstreet. You’re substituting courage for common sense, and it’ll kill you. If you’re thinking of heading west and striking your own troops, forget it. Most of Sibley’s Brigade is on the other side of the Rio Grande, working its way back down to Fort Bliss in Texas. Canby’s Union troops are following on this side. Federal soldiers would pick you up before you reached the river.”

  Stubbornly Overstreet said: “We’re going south. We might get help at Fort Stanton.”

  Pace smiled. “Try again, Lieutenant. There’s a good chance Fort Stanton, too, will be in Union hands before you get there.”

  A new worry gnawed at the lieutenant. He hadn’t realized the situation was so bad. There was a chance the captain was lying. But Overstreet knew it was a slim chance, not one he could depend on.

  There was only one course, then, he realized darkly. They would have to remain on the Pecos side of the divide and pass Fort Stanton. They would have to try to take their wagons across the Guadalupes and come into Fort Bliss from the east. And in all that torturous route, they could expect no help. No help except from God.

  He wondered suddenly why that thought had struck him. It had been a long time since he had even considered asking help from God. He heard a shout from inside the patio. Hatchet’s partner, Dalton Corbell, came running out to him, eyes wide with excitement.

  “Lieutenant, Tilley’s hollering for help. Says one of Shaffer’s Mexicans is gone.”

  Keeping Captain Pace in front of him, Overstreet hurried to the building and pushed into the room where he had left the civilians under guard. He found the guard, Tilley, still half in a daze, rubbing the back of his head. Overstreet saw a triumphant gleam in the dark eyes of Linda Shaffer. A thin smile crossed the wrinkled face of the old Army scout. Overstreet quickly counted the civilians and found that one was gone.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the guard said, pain glazing his eyes. “I thought I’d made friends with Shaffer, and I relaxed too much. Somebody hit me over the head. I finally managed to pull up on my feet again, but by then one of the Mexicans was gone.”

  Angrily Overstreet stepped toward the cripple-armed old ranchman. He saw victory in the squinted blue eyes. Shaffer said: “You’ll never make it now, Lieutenant. I sent Felipe Chavez, one of the best men I have. You’ll never find him out there in the dark. But he can find his way. It won’t take him long to catch a loose horse. And as soon as he can locate any Union troops, the Army will be on your tail.”

  There was a roar from the Texan, Corbell. He was whittled from the same block as his friend Hatchet. Grabbing the scout by the leather shirt, he pulled him off his feet and drove his fist into the old man’s stomach.

  Overstreet grabbed the soldier’s gray coat and tried to pull him back. “Damn you, Corbell, stop it! Do you want me to throw you in the same place I’ve got Hatchet?”

  Corbell’s face was red all the way up from his collar. He had a gun in his hand. “We ought to hang him, that’s what we ought to do. Just let me go. I’ll put a bullet in him.”

  Overstreet wrenched the trooper’s gun away. “It won’t do, Corbell. In his place you’d have done the same thing, if you’d had the guts. But you’re like your friend Hatchet, and most of the others in this sorry outfit. You’ve only got the guts when you’ve got a cinch. Now get out of here. And tell Wheeler I want him.”

  Corbell paused at the door, his eyes brimming with rage. “Just remember what Chaney Hatchet told you, Lieutenant. You’re a long way from home.”

  With the Union captain’s help, Overstreet lifted the old man up and put him on a bed. Linda Shaffer glanced at the Lieutenant a long moment. He thought he could see a softening in her eyes. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” she said hesitantly. “I think he’d have killed Dad.” Her lips quivered as she picked up her father’s hand.

  Wheeler came in. Overstreet said: “We can’t waste another minute, Corporal. Speed up the loading of those wagons.”

  Wheeler frowned. “I’m afraid the men are working about as fast as they can already.”

  “They’ve got to work faster. Put all our own men at it, too, except those you have to have for guards.”

  “Do my best, sir,” Wheeler said.

  Overstreet motioned to the Mexican men who were still in the room. “You go along with Wheeler. He’ll put you to work. And Wheeler, send for Hatchet and that trader, Bowden, too. Let them lend a little muscle.”

  There was a trace of a grin on the Union captain’s face. “Looks as if you outsmarted a whole detail of Federal soldiers only to be defeated by a smart old scout, Overstreet. Why don’t you quit?”

  A coldness worked through the lieutenant. “We won’t give up, Pace, until we’re in Fort Bliss, or until we’ve blown every last pound of powder sky high, so you’ll never get a chance to use it against us.”

  Within an hour the last wagon was loaded and the getaway tunnel was empty. A choking veil of dust hung in it. The men who climbed out were grimy and tired.

  Overstreet turned to the east. Not a sign of light there yet. But it wouldn’t be long until the sun started pushing back the darkness from above the mountains. He put the Yankee cook
to preparing breakfast. He dispatched the teamsters, under guard, to harness the mules and bring them to the heavy wagons. Then he went into Sammy McGuffin’s room. Linda Shaffer was there. The boy turned his head to look at the officer, but he no longer tried to rise. The soreness had worked all through him.

  “Think you’re ready to go, Sammy?”

  The girl whirled around in protest. “You can’t take him out in one of those jostling wagons. You’ll kill him!”

  Fear rose in Sammy’s high-pitched voice. “I’m all right. I can travel. Please don’t leave me here for them Yankees to take.”

  Overstreet tried to smile. “We won’t leave you, Sammy.”

  Outside the room the girl anxiously caught the lieutenant’s wrist. Her touch brought excitement to him. “If you’re really going to take him, you’d better start praying for him. He’ll need it.”

  “I made him a promise, and I won’t abandon him as long as he’s so scared of the Yankees. As for the praying, I reckon I’ll let you do that. Nobody’s ever answered any prayers of mine.”

  Watching the mules being hitched to the wagons, Overstreet noticed that the short, squatty Duffy was wobbling a little. At first he thought it was merely fatigue and knew there was reason enough for that. But he became suspicious and called Duffy over. The trooper’s eyes were glazy, and his breath fairly stank with the smell of liquor. Somewhere he had found a bottle. The lieutenant snatched it from his shaky hand and hurled it to the ground, smashing it.

  “Wheeler,” he said sharply, “when we start out, tie Duffy’s wrist to the tailgate of one of the wagons. Let him walk until he sobers up.”

  When all the mules had been hitched up and the men had eaten, Overstreet had everyone gather in front of the patio archway.

  “Captain Pace,” he said, “I’m just going to take along your teamsters. That’s as many as my men can watch, anyway.”

  The captain frowned, as if he couldn’t believe it. “You mean you’re leaving the rest of us here, free?”

  Overstreet nodded. “The rest of your detail, Captain. They’ll be afoot. But you’re going with us.” Answering the sudden angry question in the other’s eyes, the lieutenant went on: “Without your leadership, I don’t think your men will do much to hurt us.”