by Chuck Tyrell
“Shee-it.”
“Yeah.”
“Fine,” Roberts said. “You two got picket duty from midnight. Get some sleep. Someone’ll wake you up.” He finished the Old Potrero in his cup, tied the cup to a saddle string, and stood up to leave.
“Just like we was back in the Army,” Raven said.
“We are. Easy way to get near the gold and be paid for it, too.” Demarest laughed. “Got any more coffee?”
Roberts shook his head. “Just enough is good. Too much ain’t. Leave it be. We’ll want some to celebrate with when we get the gold.”
“Mr. Roberts?”
Roberts stood. “Whaddaya want?”
“The colonel wants to see you in the commandant’s tent, sir.” The orderly looked too young to shave, but then, kids grew up fast out here in the west. Like young Bill Bonney over in Lincoln County.
Roberts gulped the rest of his coffee and whiskey. “Be right there,” he said. He put the cup on a rock next to his blankets. “Be right back,” he said, and followed the orderly to the big tent on the far side of the encampment.
The orderly held the tent flap aside. “Captain Roberts, Company A,” he said.
“Come, Roberts,” Canby said. “Join us.”
Canby and the other four captains were already seated around the table inside the big tent. Roberts nodded at them and looked at Canby. “Clifton Roberts, Captain, Company A, reporting as ordered, sir.” He snapped a salute.
“Sit down. Sit down. Nothing to be so formal about.”
Canby’s expansive attitude made Roberts think he’d had more than a sniff of John Barleycorn. “Thank you, sir.” He took the only empty seat.
Canby held up a demijohn. “Captain?”
Roberts nodded. “Just a tot, sir.”
Canby sloshed a goodly portion into a pottery cup. He held it out to Roberts. “Here ya go.”
“Thank you, sir.” Roberts sipped at the liquor and had to exercise all his self control to keep from grimacing.
Canby grinned. “Take the hair right off your tongue, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” Roberts said. He held the cup up to the officers. “Spit in your eye,” he said, and sipped again.
The officers matched his toast. He noticed they were sipping, too. Only Artemus Canby drank deeply.
“Gennelmen,” Canby said, “we will soon engage the presidio at… at… um, Altar. Yes, the presidio at Altar. Tomorrow, we will camp just east of Zetate pass, and the following day, burst through it to smash the presidio.” He gulped at his whiskey again. “Gennelmen, our scouts tell me the presidio is old and rotten. Just a smithereen from falling down of its own accord. Not enough Rurales to man the parapets, they say. Gennelmen, we shall overrun this anthill of a fortification in short order and continue our march to Costa Rica. Then on to Puerto Peñasco. That’s what we shall do.”
The captains made no reply. Nor did they drink heavily from their cups. They merely waited to see what Canby would say.
“Roberts!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your comp’ny will lead the march. At the next bivouac, your comp’ny will be westernmost. Make sure the men clean their weapons before dark.”
“Yes, sir.” Roberts did not retort that his men, for the most part, were veteran Westerners and knew the value of a clean, well-oiled weapon.”
“Whitney.”
“Sir?”
“The Gatlings will follow Robert’s Comp’ny A. ‘Soon as your men and guns get through the pass, split. Take one gun to the left, one to the right. Set up positions at five hunnerd yards from the presidio. Be ready to pour concentrated fire at any weak spot. Clear?”
“Yessir.”
“Comp’ny C will follow the Gatlings through the pass. Take A south and C north to encircle the presidio. Take care not to fire into any of our own men.” Canby drank from his cup, then refilled it from the jug.
“Comp’ny B, Swampscott’s company, brings up the rear. Through the pass, B rides straight ahead. Now, this applies to all of you. We don’t have extra mounts. The Rurales use Remington carbines. They’re useless at a thousand yards. So you dismount at that range and press the attack on foot, taking advantage of all natural cover you can find. Swampscott, you watch what’s going on, and if the attack proceeds smoothly, you take your comp’ny and hit the town. Now, gennelmen, have I made m’self clear?”
“Yessir,” the captains chorused, then sipped from their cups.
“Good. Dismissed. Have a good day’s march tomorrow. Then on the third morning, attack!” Canby closed his eyes as if visualizing the attack on the presidio at Altar.
The captains waited.
Canby’s head lolled forward. He began to snore.
The captains quietly left.
“Smokes say Apaches wait in the heights above Zetate pass,” Sparrow said.
“Any word from Alfredo?”
Sparrow shook his head.
“How many Pimas will come?”
“Six,” Sparrow said.
“Hmmm.” Stryker stared at the hard-packed dusty ground of the plaza. “Shit. We gotta keep the Guards from getting through the pass. Can’t have those bastards riding through Altar shooting anything that moves. Sparrow, can you tell the Pimas that everyone should stay inside tomorrow, and maybe the next day?”
Sparrow nodded.
“Sid. I’ll ride with young Gutierrez. I think he’s a good man, but he’s got no fighting experience, I reckon. Those Rurales’ve got to make it look like they’re honest and truly routed.”
“I’ll go with Sparrow. My Spanish ain’t all that good anyway.”
“Gutierrez speaks English OK. I just hope his men listen to him.”
“Know lots of people up north that say a Mex’ll run first chance,” Lyle said. “But I’ve seen my share of good fighting men down here.”
“I reckon there’s good men everywhere,” Stryker said, “and bad.”
A clatter of horses’ hooves heralded the Rurales. Capo Gutierrez brought them to a halt at the communal well in the plaza. He saluted Stryker. “My company, Senor. We are ready to do our duty to protect our country from ungodly gringos.”
“Welcome,” Stryker said. “Please have your men wait for a moment. There are some things I must explain, Captain Gutierrez. Por favor.”
The Mexican officer ordered the Rurales to dismount and stand easy, then he got off his own tall bay and joined Stryker, Lyle, and Sparrow at the wall around the well.
“Captain Gutierrez, may I introduce Mr. Sidney Lyle and Mr. Jaime Sparrow. These men will help us defend Altar and northern Sonora. Does that meet with your approval?”
“Si. Por supuesto.”
“Good. Then I will ride with you. On the way to the pass, I will explain how we plan to defeat the Nogales Guards,” Stryker said. “I will be with you when you are in place. We do not know how quickly the Guards come . . .” he looked at Sparrow.
“The Apaches say the Americans will camp for one more night before they enter the pass,” Sparrow said.
“Bueno,” Gutierrez said. “We should ride.” He commanded the Rurales to mount, then mounted his own bay horse. “If you please, Mr. Stryker,” he said. “Vamanos.”
Stryker mounted and rode off with Gutierrez and the Rurales, one tall man, who swiped at his face with a blue bandana, with a detachment of smaller men in dark blue tunics, light blue pants, and felt sombreros. Each Rurale carried a Remington carbine and two bandoliers of bullets crisscrossed over his shoulders.
The Rurales left their horses at the western mouth of the pass. Stryker took the time to change his boots for the moccasins he carried in his saddlebags. He put a box of fifty .44 cartridges in a coat pocket, and made sure the loops of his gun belt were all full of bullets. His Winchester ’73 was not one-in-a-thousand, but it put lead where Stryker pointed it.
Captain Gutierrez lined his company up, gave them a right face command, and led them toward the east end of the pass as the sun sank in the west.
&nbs
p; Stryker noticed that Gutierrez did not make his company march, but let them walk naturally, making much less noise than the stomp of marching feet. He nodded and grimaced a smile. The young captain would do.
The fifteen Rurales of Gutierrez’s company formed a double line at a point about two hundred yards from the western mouth of Zetate Pass. Eight men in front, seven in the back, positioned between those in front. A Mexican flag fluttered on a staff jammed into the ground.
“Please tell the men once more,” Stryker said. “Aim for the horses. Fire once at five hundred yards. Reload, fire once more, then retreat.”
Gutierrez repeated the instructions to the Rurales.
“One more thing,” Stryker said. “I am proud to stand beside the Rurales.” He jacked a shell into his Winchester and took a place at the end of the front Rurales line.
Alfredo left Cocorit after an adequate meal and a few hours of sleep. At his back came nineteen Yaqui warriors. Men who fed the village with squash, beans, and corn from their fields. Men who took dolphin fish, sea bass, and albacore from the waters called the Gulf of California or the Sea of Cortez. Men who grew up knowing there were none to protect their lands but themselves, and so were more than competent with gun and knife, and were steeped in the desert lore of their ancestors. Good men, all. Alfredo never looked back, for he knew the nineteen who said they would follow him would do as they promised.
Far to the north, Apache smokes said Norrosso and his men were ready, but Alfredo could not see them. The pass that led to Altar lay more than fifty miles to the northwest. The Yaquis broke into a trot, a pace they could keep up for hours, if not days.
By sundown, twenty-five or more miles lay behind the Yaqui. Alfredo called a halt for a few minutes of rest while they ate a mush of cornmeal and chewed on dried mutton. Before the sky became dark, the Yaqui trotted on toward Zetate Pass, the place where the scarfaced Stryker said the Nogales Guards must be stopped.
None of the Yaquis spoke. There was no need. When they must know something, Alfredo would speak. If one saw or heard or smelled something Alfredo should know, he would speak. Otherwise, they concentrated on moving through Sonora as fast as they could.
They carried what weapons they had. Winchesters and Remingtons. Springfields and Henrys. They carried their own ammunition, mostly in bandoliers across their shoulders. Few pistols, as short guns were not very useful when Yaquis fought. Each had a machete and a small whetstone to keep it sharp.
Trot. Walk. Trot. Walk. Trot. Walk. Alfredo led his band through the night. The way along the seashore presented no problems to the warrior band, but after they turned inland, the terrain became a jumble of ridges and arroyos that seemed determined to ever be obstacles to their progress. As the eastern sky showed a line of light across the horizon, as the world prepared to for the dawn, the sound of shots drifted to the Yaquis. Not the single shot of a hunter. Not the exchange of fire between two adversaries. Not the measured fire of someone practicing with a new weapon. The shots were a volley, and a smatter of firing in answer. Then another volley.
The fight had begun, and the Yaquis still had miles to go.
Chapter Twelve
The Rurales stood like soldiers of half a century gone. Two lines of eight, staggered slightly.
“Rurales, acordarse. Take the horses down.” Captain Gutierrez spoke as if he had a very bad taste in his mouth. “Is there no other way?” He spoke the question in English to Matthew Stryker, who stood beside the Rurales officer, Winchester cocked and ready.
“I don’t like killing horses either,” Stryker said, “but we must stop the Guards here. Without horses, they are merely men walking.”
“Rurales,” Gutierrez said, his voice commanding. “You will leave no one here, wounded or dead. We will not give the gringos the satisfaction of seeing dead Rurales. ¿Entiendes?”
“Si, Capo,” the men chorused, but their eyes searched the land before them, watching and looking for the Nogales Guards to ride toward Zetate Pass.
When the day was bright, they came.
“Listo,” Gutierrez said, his voice firm. “At five hundred yards, remember.”
The Guards came by twos, so it would be difficult to down many horses with one volley. “Front line only,” Gutierrez ordered. “¡Apunte!” He measured the distance with his eye. When the guidon of the Nogales Guards passed the reddish rock Gutierrez had determined was five hundred yards away, he gave the order. “¡Fuego!”
Eight Remington carbines spoke. The front line of Rurales knelt, giving the men behind them a clear field of fire.
The eight .50 caliber bullets dropped three horses. The line of Guards jumbled. Men shouted. Dust rose from under the hooves of bucking horses. Confusion reigned.
“Second line. ¡Fuego!” Gutierrez shouted.
The standing Rurales fired. Three more horses went down, and two bucked their riders off and fled eastward, back along the line of Guards, away from the cloud of powder smoke.
“Company A to me. Company A to me.”
Stryker heard the Guards officer’s shout and saw the horses still on their feet move toward a man whose horse stood off to the left of the melee.
“One more volley,” Stryker said to Gutierrez. “Then fall back when the riders come at us.”
Fifteen horses formed a skirmish line and charged, pistols spouting led and smoke. More Guards arrived from the rear.
“¡Fuego!” Gutierrez yelled.
The horses had closed to less than three hundred yards when the volley struck. Half a dozen of the fifteen staggered, and four went down. The rest thundered on, followed by a crowd of horsemen in desert tan with black stripes on their trousers.
“Fall back while you’re reloading,” Stryker said. He raised his Winchester for the first time. “I’ll get their attention.” He shot, levered, shot again. A horse went down. He kept levering and shooting as the Rurales fell back fifty yards. When his magazine emptied, Stryker dropped to one knee, taking shelter behind a waist-high bolder. He thumbed shells into the Winchester by touch, keeping his eyes on the oncoming Guards.
The Rurales fired. More horses went down.
Stryker left the cover of his boulder and sprinted for the Rurales line. So far, not one of the Mexican soldiers had been hit by American fire. “Fall back further,” he shouted.
Gutierrez ordered the Rurales back again. They loaded as they ran. Then, at a command, turned and poured lead into the oncoming horses.
Stryker grimaced as some horses fell screaming. Others bucked and fought their riders. Obviously they were not cavalry mounts, used to the sound of gunfire and accustomed to battle. Who knows where Jason Bills had found them.
“Company A. To me. To me,” the officer shouted again, but the response was feeble.
Stryker took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. His .44 caliber bullet struck the officer’s horse square in the forehead. It dropped, sending the officer sprawling. He was on his feet in an instant, pistol in hand. He dropped behind the dead horse for cover. Stryker could see him jerking at a Winchester in a saddle boot.
“Time to move into the pass, Mr. Gutierrez,” Stryker said.
At the Capo’s shout, the Rurales turned and ran. On the way through Zetate Pass, they’d made a rough breastwork of stone near the halfway point. Now the Rurales sprinted for that protection.
“They’re on the run!” The shout came from the Guards. “Git ‘em. Goldam greasers.” Nogales Guards charged ahead, some horseback, some afoot.
The Rurales looked ragged. Every two or three seconds, one would turn to fire at the oncoming Guards. Their shots rarely hit anything, but still served to keep the Guards alert.
Stryker dropped back with the Rurales, trotting loosely, like a man who spent as much time on his own two feet as on his horse. As he moved back into the pass, he also moved to higher ground, so when the Rurales took cover behind their rock breastworks, Stryker was halfway up the side of Zetate Pass. He paused behind a waist-high outcropping to watch the Guards. He
searched the opposite side of the pass for sign of the Apaches. Nothing. Which meant nothing. A man didn’t see an Apache unless the warrior wanted him to.
“!Fuego!”
The Rurales fired a volley from their breastworks. A horse screamed and went down. A man dropped like a broken doll. Another weapon clattered to the ground as a soldier clutched at a bloody arm.
The officer whose horse Stryker shot now rode another. “Only a dozen greasers,” he shouted. “They’ll run. Push ‘em. They’ll run.”
Only Gutierrez’s men did not run. They fired, reloaded, fired, and reloaded again.
“Take cover,” the officer shouted.
Two teams of horses pounded up from the rear of the Guards’ column. They curved outward, one to the left, the other to the right. A shot from Stryker’s Winchester took one horse of the near team down. Guards worked feverishly to unhitch its Gatling.
Once the guns were set up, they’d pour .45 caliber bullets into the Rurales breastworks at 200 rounds a minute. While not tremendously accurate, Gatlings were frightening because of their firepower. The four-man crew unhitched the far Gatling and turned it to face the Rurales. The crew on the near side still wrestled with the downed horse.
Rurales fired, and their bullets sometimes found a horse or a man.
Out of the melee came a screamed command. “Company B, Company C. Form a skirmish line. Be ready to overrun the greasy bastards as soon as the Gatlings finish!” The shout came from a man in a hat cocked up on one side with an ostrich feather plume.
Canby. Stryker carefully aimed his Winchester, resting his elbow on the outcropping stone. A long shot, but he wanted Canby’s horse down. He pulled the trigger. Canby’s white horse went to its knees, tossing the commander of the Nogales Guards to the ground.
A Gatling chattered, then stopped as the man turning the crank fell, wounded.
Gun smoke high on the far side of the pass said the Apaches had joined the fray. Stryker fired his Winchester with care, and whenever he pulled the trigger, another Guards horse went down. Where are Alfredo and his Yaquis?
