The Rise of a Warrior

by Harvey Stanbrough

  “If the ambush were at the goal... well, it’s impossible to surprise the enemy when you’re waiting where they want to be. When they approach the goal, they’ll naturally be more wary than usual. You probably noticed before we rode into the springs, I sent a scout ahead each time. I wanted to make sure we weren’t gonna be greeted by a bunch’a scalp takers.

  “Now the second thing is, if there’s a good site for an ambush close to the goal, they’ll be wary there as well. Just not as wary as usual. Once they feel like they’re in the clear, they’ll stop being so cautious in favor of getting to the goal quicker.

  “That’s the situation today, and I’ll show you how we’re gonna handle it shortly. All right?”

  Stanton nodded. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  A little over a mile down the broad arroyo, Connolly called a halt. Farther down the arroyo, it pinched almost closed. At that point, no more than two riders could ride abreast between the rocks.

  He twisted in the saddle and gestured to his men, gathering them around him. When they had, he said, “All right. I’m gonna deploy you.

  “Now we’re here a little early, an’ that was my intent. We’ve prob’ly got at least a half-hour, maybe longer to wait. That’ll give the critters around here time to get back to normal. So once you’re in position, don’t move until everything’s over.

  He twisted in the saddle and pointed. “Now you see down there where those rocks pinch together? When this thing starts, your targets will be well this side of that, so there’s no reason to get antsy. Don’t fire until you hear my signal. If you’re up on top, remember not to overshoot your targets.”

  He looked around the group. “Any questions?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “All right, good.” He pointed to Jack Stilson and Mason Philby. “Stilson, you and Philby go up that trail. See there?” He pointed. “When you get to the top, get in among those boulders. Be sure you’re not right on top of each other.”

  Stilson said, “Jim, you sure you don’t want one of us to go up by those pinched rocks to cut ‘em off if they turn tail after the ambush starts?”

  Connolly shook his head. “No. If you settle in up there an’ Iron Bear sends a scout up out of the arroyo on the other side, you’ll be a sitting duck. At best you’ll have to defend yourself, and that’ll give away the ambush. No, you guys both just slip into those boulders up there. But remember to stay out of sight until you hear me start firing. Chances are, they’ll be watching the rim on both sides more than they’ll be watching down the arroyo. I’ll be down here in the breech.”

  They left.

  He gestured toward two others, Harold Reeves and Enrique “Ricky” Mimbres. “Reeves, you and Ricky go up that trail over on the other side. Only difference, once you’ve got the horses taken care of, one of you come back down a ways.”

  He pointed. “See that small group of boulders there? About a fifth of the way from the top? One of you get in there. The other stay up on top in that brush. We’re gonna nail these bastards.”

  When those men left, he looked at Edwards and Stanton, then pointed toward a large grouping of boulders a little farther up the arroyo. “Let’s put the horses over there.” He turned his horse and rode at a canter toward the boulders.

  When they’d dismounted, he looked at Stanton. “Remember earlier I said they’d be wary when they approach a natural ambush site that’s close to their goal?”

  Stanton nodded.

  Connolly pointed toward the pinched rocks. “That’s it right there. They’ll probably send a scout, maybe two. They might even send the whole party through one at a time, though I doubt they’ll go that far.

  “But sooner or later, they’ll feel safe and come on through. Once they’re all through an’ gettin’ close, the three of us will start firin’ on ‘em. I’ll fire first, and then you two come in with me. When the others hear us open up, they’ll start firin’ as well. If everybody does their job, we’ll wipe out the whole damn bunch.”

  He looked around, then pointed across the arroyo. “I’m gonna get over behind that mud rise over there. Court, you an’ Stanton find places right along in here.”

  A few minutes later, with everyone finally in place, they settled in to wait.

  * * *

  With less than an hour left on the trail to the spring, Iron Bear was weary. As they approached what the Mexicans called the boquilla (little opening), he peered forward carefully and halted the group.

  His two lieutenants, Running Elk and Stout Pose, moved up alongside him.

  He glanced at them, then said quietly, “The spring is only a half-hour from here. There we will rest and prepare a trap for the Rangers.”

  He looked at the tight, tall bluffs. “But first, if I thought they were coming through here, this is where I would set a trap.” He looked at the brave on his left. “Running Elk, send the young one, Four Crows, up there.” He pointed toward the rock formation towering over the boquilla on the left. He turned to Stout Pose. “Send another young one up to check the other side.”

  The braves left to carry out his orders and Iron Bear returned his attention to the boquilla. He scrutinized every shadow, every bush and every depression in the arroyo. He looked closely at every fold in the walls and boulders along the sides. Nothing seemed amiss. Sparrows were flitting about playfully from boulder to boulder and from one scraggly creosote bush to another. His scouts would find nothing—of that he was certain—but their actions would give him an excuse to praise them publicly once they made camp.

  A few minutes later, the young brave on the right took a position on top of the rock and waved both arms in the air. Young Four Crows waved a moment later.

  Stout Pose said, “Let me ride through, my chief. I will gladly—”

  “No. No, we will waste no more time in this heat. We have been properly cautious. Let us get our party to the shade of the grandfather trees and the water of the earth. Give the signal, please.”

  Both braves signaled their groups to move forward and the Comanches rode in staggered pairs through the boquilla.

  The young Indian who had ridden to the top of the right side of the boquilla rejoined his group just before the last man passed by.

  Four Crows had other ideas. He would strive to impress Iron Bear as a kind of penance for his impertinence before. He would ride ahead. He would continue scouting all the way to the spring. It was less than an hour ahead if memory served, and there was a much more gentle trail back down into the arroyo just beyond the spring.

  Iron Bear would be pleased.

  *

  Four Crows realized the good fortune of his mistake a few minutes later when three explosions slapped off the far wall of the arroyo in quick succession. He fell off the side of his horse and crept quickly to the edge of the arroyo. He couldn’t tell immediately where the shots were coming from, but he watched as Iron Bear and Running Elk fell.

  Corporal James Riley Connolly fired three rounds in quick succession from his Henry carbine. The first two rounds hit Iron Bear, one in the throat and one in the chest. The Indian flipped back off his horse as if he’d hit a rope stretched across the arroyo. The third bullet took off the top of Running Elk’s head. He rode another several yards before collapsing off the right side of his horse.

  As Four Crows started with surprise, more explosions came from the floor of the arroyo, the sounds slapping off the wall beneath him before reverberating up along the arroyo. More explosions came from the other side, and then from the top of the other side.

  The young brave backed away from the edge, moving back to where his horse was. He resisted the urge to mount and find a way down to aid his people.

  He put his hand on his horse’s neck and patted the animal to keep him calm, but he held himself back, waited, listened. He was trying to think, trying to determine the number of weapons in use and where the shots were coming from.

  Soon the explosions were ongoing, seeming to cascade down over
the top of each other. Before the shots were fired, the Comanches’ horses had made no sound to speak of as they walked along the floor of the arroyo.

  Now there was the frenzied sounds of hooves on rock, horses neighing and twisting around frantically, trying to escape. The warm air had been clear, but now dust was roiling up out of the arroyo in thin clouds.

  Then another carbine barked, still beneath Four Crows but nearer, higher up on the ledge.

  He passed under his horse’s neck and moved away to investigate. Moving stealthily through the brush, soon he found a trailhead and hoof prints. Shod hooves.

  He crouched low to the earth and studied the land. The shots had come from beneath him, but there had been shots earlier from the top on the other side. It would make sense to have the same setup on this side.

  He looked about again. The only hiding place on top was a small stand of brush near the precipice.

  He lay face down on the ground and concentrated on peering through the openings in the brush. He searched for a foot, a leg, a hand.

  There. Boots. There was a white-eyes hiding in the brush.

  Four Crows crept forward for a better view.

  The man was staring at his carbine, frowning. Something was wrong with his weapon. He slapped the lever, then did something to the part on the far side just ahead of the hammer. He slapped the lever again, then tried again to work it. Whatever was wrong with the weapon was still wrong.

  Four Crows slipped his knife from the sheath.

  Silently, not even breathing, he moved up behind the man and—paused.

  The back of the man’s neck was brown, and not only from the sun. This was not a white-eyes. This was one of the people. That made it much worse that he was here, bearing arms against his brothers.

  He leapt forward and upward, grasped the man’s face with his left hand and jerked his head sharply to the left as he drew his knife hard across the man’s throat.

  His eyes wide with horror, Mimbres dropped his carbine. He fell to his knees and grasped at his throat.

  His bloody knife still in his hand, Four Crows stepped in front of Mimbres, slapped his hat off his head and smiled.

  When the young brave reached forward with his left hand, Mimbres could only watch. He kept his own hands at his throat. If he let go, he would surely die.

  Four Crows grasped a handful of hair above the man’s forehead and jerked his head up and back. Blood spouted freely from his throat, a pulsing stream hitting the young Comanche three times as he took his first scalp.

  Mimbres screamed and fell to his back with the inertia of the scalping, still clutching at his throat.

  Four Crows held up the scalp for the man to see. He dangled it there for a moment, then tucked it into the top of his breeches. The flesh was moist and warm against the front of his right hip.

  He knelt over Mimbres and looked at him for a moment, then shook his head slowly. His eyes appeared to be smoldering. In Comanche, he said quietly, “You have killed your own. You will not see them in the afterlife.”

  Mimbres swung his hands up, finally trying to ward off his attacker, but Four Crows was ready for the attempt. Quick as a striking snake, he slapped Mimbres’ hands down against the man’s own chest and placed his right knee on them.

  Then he leaned forward and dug the point of his knife into the outer corner of Mimbres’ left eye, gouging it out. He shifted his weight and did the same for the right eye, then sheathed his knife and stood.

  Mimbres moved his arms slowly off his chest into the dirt at his side. He clenched his fingers, clawing at the ground as if trying to drag himself into hiding.

  Four Crows looked at Mimbres—the black and red eye sockets, the eyes dangling on his cheeks—and an idea formed in his mind. He allowed the left eye to remain on the man’s cheek, but he knelt and grabbed the right one, tearing it loose. He was careful not to crush the orb.

  A string of viscera followed the eye out and strung down along Mimbres’ right cheek to his chin.

  Mimbres didn’t even react, but continued to slowly, rhythmically flex his fingers.

  * * *

  Within a few seconds of Connolly killing Iron Bear and Running Elk, Edwards dropped Stout Pose with a round to the chest and continued firing. At least three more Comanches fell to his carbine.

  The floor of the arroyo was hectic, the air churning, heavy with dust and heat and the curses of men. All of that was mixed with the frenzied stamping of hooves and the frightened neighing of horses. The Indians wheeled about frantically on their mounts, simultaneously searching for the attackers and trying to escape the attack.

  Increasingly, the men with the Henry carbines saw only flashes through the heavy clouds of dust: a Comanche back and shoulders here, a Comanche chest there, occasionally the side of a Comanche horse and a leg with a moccasined foot. A body falling to the ground, being trampled, raising more dust.

  A short distance away from Edwards, Stanton was smoothly working the lever on his own Henry. He dropped three Comanches with his first seven shots, then drew his Colt and continued firing while Edwards was reloading his carbine.

  When Connolly began firing, the men up top had begun firing as well. He had heard plainly the reports of two carbines from above his position, but he had heard only one from the other side. There was no time to think of it until the work was finished in the arroyo.

  A few minutes later, of the nineteen Comanches in the raiding party, the eighteen in the arroyo were dead or wounded.

  Up top, Four Crows remained with Mimbres for another long moment, watching as the man bled out and expired. Then he turned away and walked quietly to the edge of the arroyo.

  The battle was over. Nearly all the shooting had ceased, and the floor of the arroyo was littered with Comanche dead.

  Edwards looked at Stanton. “Stay here, understand?”

  Stanton nodded. “Yes sir.”

  Edwards moved out from behind the boulder and walked from one Indian to the next. Those who were only wounded, he dispatched with a single shot to the head. When he was through, he had to put five new cartridges in his Colt.

  Connolly came walking across the arroyo.

  Behind him, Stilson and Philby were working their way down the trail from the top.

  On the other side, Reeves, near the boulders below the top of the arroyo, was waving his arms over his head. He yelled, “Hey Jim!”

  Connolly remembered only one carbine had spoken from that side of the arroyo. He waved, then cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Come down! Leave your horse!”

  Some thirty feet from Reeves’ position, Four Crows turned and quickly dragged Mimbres’ body deeper into the brush. That’s when he saw the horses.

  Reeves looked down at Connolly and put his hands to his ears. Then he shook his head and pointed up the trail. “I’m gonna check on Ricky right quick.”

  Connolly waved again. “No! Come down now!”

  Four Crows mounted Mimbres’ horse, turned it into the brush and walked it toward the trailhead.

  Reeves either didn’t hear him or chose not to. He climbed up the narrow trail, rocks and clumps of clay clattering down off the side of the slope beneath his left foot.

  Connolly yelled again. “No! Reeves, no!”

  But he kept climbing, and all they could do was watch him go.

  The trail was steepest at the top, and Reeves was on his hands and feet. As he topped out, he straightened, then turned around and waved. When he turned back around, he took a step but stopped in mid-stride. He staggered and turned left. He was gripping the shaft of an arrow. It was protruding from his chest.

  In plain view of Connolly and the other Rangers, a short, slim Comanche on Mimbres’ horse sidled calmly up alongside Reeves. He was wearing breeches but was bare chested, with only a thin strap of leather around his forehead. A single feather protruded almost straight up from the back of his head. It canted slightly to the left.

  Reeves staggered away,
trying to escape, and he kept repeating, “No no no no no no....”

  The Comanche sidled Mimbres’ horse up next to him again. The whole time the Indian was glaring down at the Rangers gathered at the base of the slope.

  Reeves tried to move in another direction, but again the Comanche casually moved Mimbres’ horse up alongside him.

  Finally, as if weary of the game, Four Crows reached down, grabbed a fistful of Reeves hair and tugged hard upward.

  Reeves grunted, and for a moment he released the shaft of the arrow. He tried to reach up, but the Indian pulled harder. Something inside Reeves tore. Pain fired through his side and he was unable to reach the Indian’s hand.

  Almost willfully, as if thinking perhaps obedience would save his life, Reeves stopped trying to grab his attacker. He struggled to bring his hands down. Then he put them on the shaft of the arrow again, grasping it, not to drive it through or pull it out, but to have something to cling to.

  The Comanche sneered, then rose in the stirrups of Mimbres’ saddle and drew his knife. He held it up to be sure the Rangers would know his intent. Then, with a quick twist of his body, he slashed his knife through the flesh beneath Reeves’ hair. He ripped the scalp free and held it aloft.

  Reeves screamed, his eyes wide as if surprised at the Indian’s betrayal. He looked down at Corporal Connolly and the others, still clinging to the shaft of the arrow, and frowned. As if confused and asking what to do, he said, “Jim?”

  Behind him, the Indian stood in the stirrups and yelled, “Tilo ka Tuwikáa Hayarokwetü!”

  Still sounding confused, not wanting to believe what was happening, again Reeves called out. “Jim? Jim?”

  The Comanche lowered himself in the stirrups to sit in the saddle again. A moment later he put one foot against Reeves’ back and shoved him hard over the edge.

  Reeves slid straight down the steep shale and red clay and limestone slope on his face. He didn’t even try to slow himself.

  Stilson and Philby galloped past the others on their horses and reined in just short of Reeves.