The Last Raid

by Edd Voss

  “Very well then, no promotions, but there may be a commendation or two,” the young officer chuckled.

  “Now that would be right nice Lieutenant,” O’Connell replied with a smile.

  After Smithers pointed out the distinctive track of one horse with a bad shoe, it was decided that the troop would follow the band heading almost due north. Just before sundown they found where the group had split. It was close to sundown so the troop set up their night’s encampment making sure to stay well away from the trail that they were following.

  Chapter 5

  Eyes Turn Red was seething with anger. All he had wanted was a little of the white man’s fire water, but Coyote Dancer and Pablito had stopped that. They had shamed him and took the fire water to help burn the town. When he had agreed to leave the reservation with them he had been told that the white man’s liquor would not be allowed. At first, it had been no problem for him, but when he was in the saloon the desire had hit him and hit him hard. Just the smell of it had almost driven him crazy. His name had come from how bloodshot his eyes became when he drank the rot gut whiskey that some whites sold to the Indians. It was a mark of shame, but he didn’t care as long as he could get the fire in his belly from the whiskey. His mind raced with ideas of how he could find what his body craved so badly.

  Chato looked over at his friend and smiled. He knew how badly Eyes Turn Red wanted the white man’s whiskey and he wanted it just as much. He even knew of a place where they could get some without much trouble.

  “It was wrong of them to burn all the firewater,” he said quietly.

  Eyes Turn Red let out a low grunt of agreement as they rode along.

  “There is a white man’s cabin not far from here where they might have some.”

  Looking over at his friend, Eyes Turn Red reined his horse to a halt. He didn’t say a word, he just looked at the other man with the hunger in his eyes.

  “It is a place where a man and his daughter are trying to raise cattle or horses,” Chato said nodding towards the west.

  “What about Pablito?” Eyes Turn Read asked.

  “Who cares, we will not tell him, how will he ever find out?” Smiling, Chato went on, “Besides we need water for the horses and these people have a fine spring.”

  “Will they let us water the horses there?”

  “I have heard that they have never turned anyone away yet.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation Eyes Turn Red followed his friend, anticipating the taste of the harsh liquor as he rode. They rode west through the cacti and sand until they came to a place where the land rose up in front of them in a small hill with a line of cottonwoods visible on the other side. They rode around the side of the hill instead of crossing over the top.

  A small cabin built of adobe that had a thin stream of smoke rising from the chimney was nestled near foot of a hill facing this one. It was still early and the morning was cool compared to what it would be in a few hours. Whoever was in the house was probably doing whatever cooking needed before the day became too hot for a fire. There was a large pool of water not far beyond the house just below where a spring flowed out of the rocks on the hill opposite the one they had come around. A few cottonwood trees shaded the edge of the pool creating a place where they could water their horses and rest out of the desert heat. Ignoring the cabin for the moment, they rode right by it to the shade of the biggest tree. Dismounting, they held the horses back and drank their fill first.

  It was as he was lifting himself off the ground that Eyes Turn Red saw the glint of sunlight off of the glass. Tucked under the root of the tree just below the waterline was not one, but two bottles, and both were filled with whiskey. He let out a whoop and pointed the find out to his friend as he grabbed both bottles from the cool water. Handing one bottle to Chato, Eyes Turn Red opened the other and took a long swallow. It burned all the way down until it was a bed of coals burning in his belly. He relished the feeling it gave him as the alcohol warmed his insides. Chato was also busy with his bottle, drinking greedily. The two men sat down under the tree and continued to drain the contents of the bottles as their horses came to the water and began drinking. It didn’t take long for the whiskey to start taking effect. Neither man was interested in riding on till they had satisfied their need for the liquor. As the day wore on the two men continued to drink, the whiskey dulling their senses until thoughts of riding on became just a distant dream.

  At first Chato thought that it was a whiskey dream when the fiery-haired woman appeared with a shotgun in hand. Looking around, he noticed that the horses were nowhere to be seen. Nudging Eyes Turn Red he pointed to the woman standing over where they lay sprawled out in the shade of the big cottonwood. Eyes Turn Red giggled as he saw the woman, until he saw the double barrels of the shotgun aimed at his midsection. He didn't quite make it to the sober stage, but he wasn't anywhere near as drunk as he had been. Looking around frantically he realized that all their weapons were nowhere to be seen. With a few gestures the Indians got the message that she wanted them to get on their feet. With a great deal of effort the two men struggled to their feet. Once standing she motioned for them to move towards a shed at the base of the hill near the house. They hesitated when she motioned for them to go inside the structure, but a firm nudge with the barrel of the shotgun convinced them. Putting her finger to her lips to let them know that they should be quiet she pointed towards a cloud of dust rising over the hill that they had ridden around when they arrived. Nodding that they understood they squatted inside as she closed the door and left them in the darkness. What they didn't see was the heavy metal latch she secured the door with. They sat waiting in the darkness wishing that they had more whiskey to ease the hangovers that were just beginning. Hearing the sound of two horses the men almost held their breath waiting for what would come next.

  The sound of the shotgun made them both flinch as if they had been the target. Outside the shed the woman could be heard speaking loudly to someone far enough away that the newcomer’s voice could barely be heard inside the shed. Neither Eyes Turn Red nor Chato spoke fluent English so they could only understand bits and pieces of the conversation.

  Chapter 6

  It had been a slow day as the troop followed the two scouts, Jackson and Smithers, from a distance. During the morning they had found where the group that they were following had split. They followed the distinctive track of the horse with the bad shoe. Several times they found where the group had split up but they continued following the horse with the bad shoe. Late in the afternoon Lt Sheridan sent the scouts out a little farther than they had been to watch for a place to water the men and horses. Jackson had remembered a place nearby where a spring was rumored to form a good sized pond, with a few cottonwood trees. It was common courtesy among desert dwellers to share information about sources of water. Since the tracks that they were following headed in the general direction of the water, both scouts figured that the Indians were headed for the same place. Picking up the pace they headed towards the spot where they thought the watering hole was located, only checking occasionally to make sure that the trail they had been following was still there.

  When the low hill rose before them they decided to go over the top instead of around it. Seeing that the trail went around the hill both men thought that they would be able to surprise anyone watching the back trail by going over the top. It meant sky-lining themselves for a moment when they crossed the hilltop but it was worth a try. What they didn't count on was redheaded woman with a scattergun. One shot was all it took for them to spin their mounts around and head back over the hill. Not knowing quite how to handle this situation they dismounted and eased to where they could just see the woman standing in front of the cabin holding the short-barreled shotgun.

  The sound of the shotgun caused O’Connell to spur his horse into a canter leaving the rest of the troop behind. Lt. Sheridan signaled the troop to hold up until they found out what the shot was about. O’Connell slowed as he came near the to
p of the rise and rode cautiously towards the two troopers on the ground just below the crest.

  “You’ll not be gettin anything from me now ya hear,” a woman’s voice from the other side of the rise shouted back. The thick Irish accent was music to the Sergeant’s ears; he hadn’t heard that lovely a sound since he came to America.

  “Well now, woman what gives you cause to be shootin at the United States Army, who is here in these parts to be protecting you,” he bellowed back in his best Killarney voice.

  “Ride ahead slow, Irishman, so as I can get a look at ya,”

  When he could see over the crest his heart almost stopped. Standing in front of an adobe cabin was a woman in a gingham dress. Not a young woman but one who was still in the prime of her beauty. She would stand about chest high on him and her hair was fieriest red he had ever seen. Freckles were sprinkled across a face that was as pretty as any he could remember seeing. Eyes the color of emeralds looked him up and down coolly. The 12 gauge shotgun with sawed off barrels kind of made the image less friendly than he would have liked.

  “Sgt. Patrick James O’Connell at your service, Ma’am,” he told her as he tipped his hat to her. “We mean you no harm; we just need water for our horses and our men.”

  “Water we have and your welcome to it,” she said relaxing a little and lowering the shotgun. “You wouldn’t be chasin scoundrel Indians would you?”

  “As a matter of fact we are chasing a band of Apaches who raided the mining settlement just south of here.

  She froze and her shoulders went stiff as she heard what he said. “How bad was it?” she asked with a tremble in her voice.”

  “Bad, ma’am. Everyone was dead and the buildings were burnt to the ground.”

  Her body just collapsed on itself until she was sitting on the ground with her head in her hands. The only indication that she was crying was the up and down movement of her shoulders and the barely audible sobs.

  Signaling Jackson and Smithers to come forward O’Connell dismounted and knelt in the dirt beside her. “Was it your man that was there?”

  “My father,” she told him.

  “Come on, let’s get you out of this sun,” he said, almost lifting her to her feet and guiding her towards the cabin door.

  Without warning she turned so suddenly O’Connell lost his grip and she rushed towards the door of a small shed set against the side of the hill.

  “You bloody heathens will pay for killin my father,” she screamed bringing up the shotgun.

  O’Connell caught her before she could fire. “What are you doing, woman?”

  “Two of those bloody Indians are in that shed. I put them in there after they found the whiskey that my father kept near the spring and got stinking drunk.” Her eyes blazed as she started again towards the shed. “Pa always said that if we let them be they would leave us be. So when they came I locked myself in the house and hid waiting for them to leave.” She took a deep breath and let it out with a shudder. “I put them in there to keep them from being caught when I saw your dust coming this way. Pa didn’t want us to get in between the Army and the Indians hoping that we could stay friendly with them.” It took all her strength to hold back the scream in her throat. “I told them to stay quiet till I got rid of you and your men. Now you can have the bloody savages.” The last sentence came out in a vicious scream.

  “Smithers, tell the Lieutenant to come on ahead, and that we may have prisoners. Jackson, you watch that shed and shoot the first man jack that tries to come out of it.” O’Connell took the woman by the shoulders and guided her towards the house.

  Inside it was dark and much cooler than outside, a small breeze would make it even cooler. If the woman’s father had built it, he had done a very good job. The house had a main room and two smaller bedrooms; all of it was clean and tidy. He guided her to a sturdy looking chair beside a wooden table. With as much gentleness as he could muster he settled her in the chair then sat in the chair opposite her.

  “What in the name of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, are you doing out here all alone woman?”

  “My father was going to start a ranch to trade with the Army and the Indians. He went into that settlement to purchase some breeding stock. The idea was to raise horses here that would be bred for the desert.” Slumping over she buried her face in her hands and let out a single sob full of pain.

  “Sorry to say ma'am but that sounds like a bit of a fool’s errand,” O'Connell said as gently as he could.

  “I tried to tell him but he wouldn't listen, ever since we left Ireland it has been one thing after another. Here it was raising horses, and before that it was gold mining in Colorado. We hit that one just as the rush was ending.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “We got here a little over a year ago,” she let out a big sigh of resignation. “Dad built this house and the shed, then when he heard rumors of the mining settlement he went there looking for work and possibly breeding stock.”

  Shaking his head O'Connell had to fight to keep from laughing, “Most of the stock used by the miners are geldings and mares, not much use for breeding without a stud.”

  Putting her hand over her mouth the woman let out a stifled sound that was a cross between laugh and a sob at the same time. “That sounds like a mistake that only my father could make. I don't know what to do now that he is gone.”

  “We'll send you back to Fort Lowell and after that we'll figure something out,” O'Connell told her. “You wouldn't happen to have a name would you?”

  “Molly Sullivan, and what is your story Sgt. Patrick James O'Connell?”

  “Just like a million other Irish lads with no future in the old country, I came here looking for a chance. When I landed in New York there were very few choices. The best chances for an Irish lad were to fight, dig in the mines, lay track for the railroads, become a priest or join the military. I spent most of the time on the boat coming over sick as a dog so I chose the Army and the Cavalry since I was never fond of walking everywhere. Just about that time the War Between the States started; after the war was over I was sent out here to help keep the Indians in line.”

  “What pray tell do you think I’ll be able to do around this Fort of yours to support myself? I am not a saloon girl type if that is what you be thinking of me.”

  O’Connell took a long look at her face once more and with a great sigh said, “Well if you think you could stand it I know one old Army mule who might think it a good idea to court you proper.”

  “Do what?” Molly asked in surprise.

  “I said that when I get back to the Fort I would like permission to call on you in a proper manner,” he said, his face turning red with embarrassment as he crushed his Stetson nervously with his big hands. “It may not be quite how it was done in the old country, but I will do the best that I can here on the frontier.”

  This time it was Molly who turned red as she took her first real look at the man sitting across from her. His face was tanned as dark as an Irishman could be but he had a line across the forehead still white as the snow where his hat kept the sun away. He was a handsome man, she decided, and the men who rode with him showed him respect. They didn’t do it out of fear she noticed, but out of some kind of bond they shared with him. She realized that she could do a lot worse in this harsh territory. Without a man to take her side, there were a lot of things that could happen to a woman alone.

  “I would be honored to accept your calling on me if I only knew where that might be,” she said softly as she covered his big calloused hand with hers.

  “That will be no problem at all, I send a note with you to the wife of our Sergeant Major and she’ll see you properly taken care of,” he grinned putting his hat back on.

  There was a commotion outside as the rest of the patrol arrived. The sound of men dismounting and leading their mounts to water could be heard through the open door. Lt. Sheridan walked in, stopping just inside the door to let his eyes adjust to the dark interior. There wer
e two unoccupied chairs so the officer took one of them and placed his hat on the table. It only took a minute for O'Connell to fill him in on everything he needed to know. The big sergeant didn’t say anything about courting the lady in front of him, but the officer didn’t miss the lady’s hand resting on his senior NCO’s. He had to give it to the man, she was a pretty lady that was for sure.

  “Sgt. O'Connell, do you think that these prisoners can tell us where the rest of the band is headed? “ Sheridan asked leaning his elbows on the table.

  “Aye, sir, that I do, and I think I know how to get them to tell us,” O’Connell smiled. “Miss Sullivan, would you happen to have any more of that whiskey that they have been enjoying?”

  “There is a jug hidden further down the bank that they hadn’t found yet,” she said giving O'Connell a questioning look.

  “Well it looks like these braves have a weakness that we shall just have to use to our benefit.”

  “I think I see where you are going with this Sergeant, and it just might work,” Lt. Sheridan smiled.

  Getting up and going into one of the bedrooms Molly returned with a bottle in her hand. “Papa kept this for special occasions, but if the other jug isn’t enough,” she said her voice trailing off as she held the bottle out to O'Connell, “his brother manages to send him a new bottle every couple of years from Ireland.”

  Taking the bottle O’Connell looked at the label. His eyes got wide as he turned the bottle in his hands holding it as if it was some type of Holy relic. “Faith and begorrah, woman, have you gone daft? This is Bushmills and you want to give it to a heathen? It would be better to pour it on the ground.”

  Her green eyes blazed for a moment then lit with humor as she realized he sounded just like her father when talking about the whiskey her uncle sent from County Antrim every two years. Whenever her father decided to move he always waited for the package from his brother before they packed up and left. Each package was preceded by a letter to let him know that it was on the way. Once they missed the letter and moved before the bottle arrived. The letter found them six months after they moved but the package never made it. Her father cursed the missing bottle many times while waiting for the next one to arrive.