by Len Levinson
Nathanial had killed Apache Indians with his bare hands, but there was something fragile at the core of his existence, for he believed he was fundamentally worthless, an intellectual midget not worthy of a great woman's love. He made his way to the whiskey cabinet, poured himself two fingers of Kentucky bourbon, knocked the potion back, and it hit him like a Broadway omnibus. Then he collapsed onto the nearest chair, where he stared for a long time out the window at the clear blue sky.
The sky was cloudy in New Mexico Territory, and the stink of charred wood and adobe permeated the air, as a detachment of dragoons advanced closer to the ruined hacienda. A flock of buzzards scattered, squawking disapproval at the interruption of their feast, black wings defacing the late afternoon sun.
Captain Beauregard Hargreaves of South Carolina, Nathanial's former West Point roommate, rode at the head of the detachment, his nose covered with the orange bandanna of the dragoon service. Perched on his head was a wide-brimmed vaquero hat, and he wore a brown rawhide jacket over his blue Army shirt, plus vaquero boots with spurs. He looked more like a brigand than an Army officer as he advanced onto the scene of the atrocity.
It wasn't the first one he'd seen, nor would it be the last. He halted his horse in front of the main house, climbed down from the saddle, and looked around grimly. Semi-eaten decomposing corpses could be seen and smelled, horses and cattle gone. Apaches had struck again, apparently within the past forty-eight hours.
Beau had been on the frontier since arriving for the Mexican War. Not very tall, with a deep chest and curly black hair peeking beneath his vaquero hat, he took out his notebook and wrote notes. “Sergeant Barlowe, please organize a burial detail.”
The men grumbled as they climbed down from their saddles, because they'd joined the dragoons to fight Apaches, but spent most of their time digging, cleaning, constructing buildings, and riding about the landscape, searching for but seldom seeing the enemy.
Beau felt their frustration, because it was much like his own. He believed the federal government should send more soldiers and systematically clear the land of Apaches, but the federal government was mired in the Kansas controversy, economic collapse, and numerous other pressing issues, while New Mexico Territory was far from their minds, because New Mexicans couldn't vote.
Beau sat on the ground and surveyed the ranch as sounds of shoveling and cursing came to his ears. He could imagine the barn and main hacienda before the Apaches had struck, a bucolic rural scene, despoiled and bloodied by craven savages.
Beau hated Apaches and believed their wicked deeds far outweighed their charming qualities. His old pal Nathanial Barrington had lived among them and come to respect their so-called holy lifeway, but Beau thought Nathanial tended to romanticize Indians.
Beau watched his men drag corpses toward the big hole, and two apparently were children. He thought of Beth and Beau II back at Fort Buchanan, with his wife, Rebecca. Goddamned Apache bastards, he thought.
The soldiers lowered corpses into the hole as an eerie moan arose within the ruined hacienda. The dragoons reached for their weapons as Sergeant Barlowe advanced to investigate. “I thought we got ‘em all,” he said gruffly.
Sergeant Barlowe also was a Mexican War veteran, and he'd remained in the Army perhaps out of patriotism, laziness, or loneliness. With a graying mustache and a lean whiplash build, he entered the charred building, followed by four dragoons. A whimper issued from a pile of rubble in the corner of a bedroom, where part of the roof had caved in.
The men lifted away charred timbers and gradually exposed fingers covered with blood and ashes. Sergeant Barlowe leaned out the window and shouted to Captain Hargreaves, “There's a survivor.”
They carried the near-dead victim outside and laid him on the ground. No doctor traveled with the detachment, but the men cleaned Raphael Fonseca off, bound his wounds, and set his broken bones. Lacking a wagon, they threw away supplies and tied him head down over a packhorse.
The gray-haired sergeant trudged toward the detachment commander, didn't bother to salute, and said, “I know what yer a-gonna say afore you open yer mouth, sir. You want me to take five men and return to Fort Buchanan with this wounded civilian. You'll take the rest and pursue the Apaches.”
Beau smiled. “Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself, Sergeant Barlowe.”
Sergeant Barlowe shouted orders, the men mounted up, and the detachment split apart. One small contingent retraced their trail to Fort Buchanan, while the larger one moved out at a trot, following tracks left by the Apache marauders. If we maintain this pace, figured Beau, we should catch up with the fiends tomorrow.
That night, Cochise slept deeply, arms entwined with Dostehseh, as if they were halves of the same four-legged creature. His first raid as chief had been successful, and great riches had come to the People, thanks to Cochise and his plans. A dance would be held to celebrate, once they arrived at their destination.
The People slept happily when hoofbeats came faintly from the distance, and a guard shouted, “A rider!”
In an instant warriors and their women were awake, reaching for their weapons. A defensive line deployed with no orders from Cochise, for the men had been trained as warriors from an early age. The hoofbeats came closer, and one of the guards shouted, “It is Posito.”
Posito had been guarding the backtrail, and it was clear that someone was following them, otherwise he would not ride at such a pace. His horse galloped closer, and Posito leapt off the animal's bare back before it could stop.
Posito was short, wiry, with angry eyes and a vivid scar on the side of his face. He came to a halt before Cochise and said, “About fifteen bluecoats are following us, but they have stopped for the night.”
A decision needed to be made, and Cochise wondered what Chief Miguel Narbona would do. The answer came in an instant. He would attack, but now White Eyes had rifles that they could fire more quickly and accurately than old muskets. Yet at close range, not many bluecoat soldiers could stop Apaches.
“I think we should trap them,” said Cochise. “Who is with me?”
All the warriors raised their hands, but some had to stay behind, to guard horses, cattle, and women, and there was no point in sending too many warriors to manage a small task.
Cochise selected thirty warriors; they gathered weapons, and their wives saddled horses. Then the warriors mounted, bows slung across their backs, Killer of Enemies Bandoliers strung across their chests. Cochise led them toward the bluecoat pursuers, to teach a lesson in diplomacy. This is our land, and how dare you follow our trail, hoping to harm us?
No one could say exactly when the Apache wars had begun, but perhaps a Spanish conquistador had shot an Apache for sport, or an Apache had taken a mule from the herd belonging to the legendary Hernan Cortes. The United States formally accepted responsibility for Apaches during the Mexican War, and Captain Beauregard Hargreaves had been fighting them ever since.
Now he rode at the head of his detachment; it was morning, and he was following tracks of Apache marauders. He was aware of the old military adage, don't split your forces in enemy territory, but the rules were different in New Mexico, where mobility, not numbers, was the key to success.
Beau bounced up and down in his saddle as his horse trotted over the mesa, surrounded by mountains standing like castles of forgotten empires, turgid prisons, or needles thrusting into the clouds, as rays of purple and orange decorated the sky. He could see literally hundreds of miles, but preferred to scan nearby greasewood bushes and prickly pear cactus, for the Apaches's favorite trick was the carefully sprung ambush. He'd dispatched scouts to the front, rear, and flanks of his small unit. The worst mistake an officer could make was to get caught by surprise.
Beau recalled his old West Point roommate, Na-thanial Barrington, taken by surprise in the Embudo Mountains in ‘54, nearly killed. Nathanial also had been ambushed near the Santa Rita Copper Mines in ‘51. Beau missed Nathanial, who'd resigned his commission and gone back Ea
st, after having his fill of the Apache wars.
Beau felt guilty about his old West Point roommate, because once Beau had planked Nathanial's wife, Clarissa, during the year everyone thought Nathanial had been killed in action, but instead had been living with Apaches. Beau hoped Clarissa never would tell Nathanial of this escapade, otherwise a shooting might well ensue, and Beau might have to kill his chum in self-defense. Beau didn't realize that a woman like Clarissa never would admit such a forbidden act, and in fact nearly had convinced herself that it never happened.
A cautious officer, Beau decided to check his old Walker Colt pistol once more, because dust could jam moving parts. He blew out the barrel, spun the chambers, and thumbed back the hammer. He preferred the Walker to the new Colt .36 Navy model because the Walker was heavier and therefore more useful as a club in close fighting at which Apaches excelled. I wonder if they know we're following them? he asked himself as he aimed at a clump of cholla cactus.
Cochise lay on a high ledge and peered at two columns of bluecoat soldiers below, following the trail of stolen horses. The movements of Pindah soldiers are predictable as mules, decided the newly crowned sovereign. What kind of warriors behave in this manner? The stupidity of his foe confounded him. Perhaps they are trying to trick me, but Miguel Narbona would not turn away from such a column.
Cochise descended the mountain and joined warriors waiting for him beside a winding arroyo. Without a word, he climbed onto his horse, then rode toward the spot where the ambush would take place, his warriors following past mesquite trees and cholla cactus. At midafternoon they staked their horses in a canyon, left one of their number on guard, and then advanced to the trail, where they dug shallow holes, covered themselves with dirt, twigs, and leaves, and lay down with their weapons, breathing through reeds.
When finished, the land appeared a barren wasteland, not a soul in sight.
The dragoons continued their dusty march, following the trail of Apache rustlers through a region where the white man seldom visited. They struggled to stay awake, boredom hanging on their eyelashes like lead weights.
Military expeditions into Arizona usually were uneventful, so the dragoons expected no difficulties beyond running out of water. They were confident the enemy would split into several units, then meet later at a prearranged spot, eluding all pursuers, but they had not reckoned on the desire of a new Chiricahua chief to prove himself.
Cochise lay beneath a thin film of dirt, waiting for bluecoat soldiers to walk into the snare. His bow in his right hand, he was as motionless as a rock.
The possibility of peace with the White Eyes simply didn't occur to Cochise. How dare they threaten the Chiricahua People? he asked himself. We are not Jicarillas, Mescaleros, or Mimbrenos, and we are not surrendering one inch of this homeland.
On the trail the White Eyes scout approached, slouching in his saddle, and Cochise identified him as a Papago, a tribe the Apaches had fought since the old time. It would provide great satisfaction to kill him, but Cochise was hunting bigger game. Pass on, thought Cochise darkly. We will deal with you later.
Moolik the Papago rode through the Apache ambush, unaware anything was amiss. He had told lies to obtain his job, and the Americanos assumed he was a skilled tracker because he was an Indian, but not all Indians are the same.
In point of fact, Moolik had been a mediocre hunter and warrior, and that's why he'd sought employment with the White Eyes. He carried a new Sharps breech-loading rifle and also possessed the latest model Colt revolver with plenty of ammunition. Ordinary Papagos only dreamed of such possessions, and no longer need Moolik roam the wilderness in the hope of creeping up on a deer, for now he ate with the Army, the food appearing magically in wagons continually arriving from the east.
Moolik hoped someday to visit the eastern lands, where multitudes of Americanos lived in towering magical villages, but usually he spent his pay on whiskey. Dreaming about exotic foreign places, drooping in his saddle, slack-jawed and lazy, the Papago rode blithely through the Apache ambuscade.
At the head of the formation, Captain Hargreaves was alert and poised, his bloodshot eyes searching every notch and gully for signs of Apaches. The way he saw it, the safety of his men, not to mention his own skin, was his responsibility.
He turned and looked at them, not the usual crabby lot of soldiers, but seasoned veterans who had volunteered for special scout duty, hoping for faster promotions or to prove they were the meanest sons-of-bitches on the range. But they too were cautious, hands near their revolvers. Death could come swiftly, and all a dragoon could do was pull his trigger as quickly as possible.
Beau had been in the Army so long, he knew no other life. Duty, honor, and country had become part of him, just as profit and loss are second nature to businessmen. He had been caught in the grandeur of the Mexican War, had fought at Palo Alto and Resaca de Palma, stormed the battlements of Monterrey, and been wounded at Buena Vista. Raised in the traditions of Southern chivalry, he considered the Army a noble calling reserved for men of honor.
Yet Beau was not well paid by common standards, because many Americans considered their professional Army a wasteful extravagance with too many Southern officers, a possible subversive force that might undermine democracy. They didn't understand the sacrifice and hardship endured not just by the men, but also their wives.
Beau thought of Rebecca in their half-completed adobe hut at Fort Buchanan, trying to raise their children. He felt another twinge of guilt, due to his moment of weakness with Clarissa Barrington, but Rebecca had been at Fort Union, and he in Albuquerque, seeking to comfort a grieving widow, when something happened.
Plagued with remorse, he tried to uphold whatever shred of honor he still retained as he led his men on the stolen livestock trail. Like the dragoons in the ranks, he doubted they'd catch Apaches, but occasionally the Army had surprised marauding Apaches, delivering heavy blows.
Beau felt the urge to check his Walker Colt again, to make sure it was ready to fire. It was a sunny day with scattered puffy white clouds and brightly colored red and yellow birds flitting among the cactus, but that didn't mean Apaches might not be in the vicinity.
In years to come, Beau would wonder what force or influence had caused him to draw his Colt at that moment, spin the chambers, and make sure all save one were loaded. Then he aimed at a yellow bird sitting among sagebrush when it seemed an earthquake struck Arizona.
A terrible shriek pierced the air, then Apaches burst into the open, drawing back arrows. One aimed at Beau, who pulled his trigger. The shot went wild, but the Apache was so surprised he jerked his bow two inches to the side. The arrow flew harmlessly past Beau's shoulder as he thumbed back the hammer and fired again.
This time the shot found its target, the Apache fell backward, and Beau glanced about excitedly, realizing he was surrounded, taken by surprise. “Rapid fire!” he ordered.
Shots echoed off distant canyons as Beau and his men triggered quickly. Then an Apache tore Sergeant Barlowe out of the saddle and beat his brains in with a club. This was not a battle of generals sitting in secluded headquarters, moving pieces on the chessboard, but bashing, stabbing, and shooting at close range.
Beau fired at an Apache coming at him with a lance. The Walker Colt barked disapproval, the Apache shaken by the force of the blow, and before Beau could ready himself for another shot, a new Apache leapt at him, war club in hand. Beau grabbed the Apache's arm, drew back his heavy Colt, and smacked him in the face, sending him to the ground.
Beau's horse raised its front hooves high in the air, hoping to punch an Apache to oblivion, but one warrior snuck up behind Beau, tackled, and tore him out of the saddle. Beau landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him, but that didn't stop him from grabbing his assailant's throat with one hand as he prepared to club him with the Colt.
The Apache caught Beau's arm in his fist, they locked together in the embrace of death, and rolled over the ground, gnashing their teeth, head-butting, kneeing, and do
ing anything necessary, fair or foul, to prevent his skull from being caved in. At that moment another Apache rushed Beau from behind to smash his head with a war club, but Beau managed to knee his first opponent's groin, then turn in time to backhand the second Apache with his Colt. The Apache was tossed to the side, then Beau fired again, striking an onrushing warrior in the throat.
The Apache dropped as Beau fired his fifth shot into another Apache charging with lance in hand. The bullet landed center chest as the desert reverberated with shots, experienced dragoons offering a heavy barrage, forcing the Apaches back. When one dragoon ran out of ammunition, the next covered him as he reloaded. No one panicked, tried to desert, or pretended to be dead. Except for the initial seconds of the ambush, they had been good soldiers.
The ambush ground was covered with dead soldiers, Apaches, and horses as the attackers fled. Two dragoons chased the remaining horses while the other soldiers widened their defense perimeter. They didn't know whether the Apaches would try again, so they searched for the best cover, their commanding officer taking his position behind a dead horse.
Beau's heart beat so quickly, he thought his chest would burst. In all his battles and skirmishes, this had been bis closest call. His hand trembled as he loaded the Colt, then noticed he was bleeding from his left shoulder, face, and his right thigh, plus it felt as if his nose had been broken.
“Here comes the Papago!” shouted one of the men.
Beau turned toward the trail, where Moolik was riding at full gallop, having heard shots, then waiting until certain the White Eyes had won. Moolik feared the Apaches would catch him and yearned for the safety of the bluecoat Army as he crouched low in his saddle, speeding over the desert.
An arrow flashed barely perceptibly, then pierced Moolik's left side. He screamed, his horse bucked him into the air, and Moolik landed on the ground about three hundred yards from the dragoons, who could see the Papago struggle to his feet. Apaches with knives, war clubs, and lances burst from the foliage, then dispatched the traitor. Finally, they turned toward the soldiers and hurled Spanish insults in which the soldiers were compared to pigs, donkeys, and sons of whores.
