The Last Raid

by Edd Voss

  “Tell the men to cut out one mount for each solider and leave the rest here for them. All of the owners are dead so they won’t be needing them. Tell Miss Sullivan to identify any that belonged to her father and we will take those, too.”

  Snapping to attention O’Connell saluted the young officer and turned to follow his orders.

  “I would like to stay with my people,” He Who Tells the Story said softly.

  “That would probably be a good idea,” Sheridan told him before turning and walking away.

  Chapter 12

  “Pa, is this the place where it happened?” the boy with the flaming hair and freckles asked.

  “Yes Mickey, this is the place,” the man said wiping the sweat from the band of his dusty old Cavalry Stetson. The once fiery red hair was now mixed with gray but Patrick O’Connell still had the bearing of a cavalry soldier, ten years after the fight that had taken place here.

  “It was here young one, that I received my name,” said the Apache who rode with them.

  The fourth member of the group sat silently looking out over the edge of the cliff at the rocks far below. His blue cavalry tunic had the gold oak leaves of a major on the epaulettes. Gone was the fresh-faced lieutenant he had been back then, leading the patrol to this place, chasing the raiding party of the legendary Pablito.

  Slowly and carefully the four riders made their way down a narrow trail from the top of the cliff to the streambed below. It was much cooler next to the stream as a light breeze made the leaves of the cottonwoods dance. The sound of the leaves and the water as it tumbled over the rocks in the stream was extremely calming. It was no surprise to the two white men that the Apaches had chosen to live here. No evidence of the deaths that had occurred here remained. He Who Tells the Story told them how the people had taken the bodies of the dead and buried them in the tradition of their people. They had even climbed the trail to gather the bodies of those who died on top of the cliff. Here and there the remains of fire pits could be seen but that was the only sign that anyone had ever lived here.

  “Hey, Pa, look at this,” Mickey said, holding up a smooth black stone he found lying next to the running water.

  “What have you got there boy?” O’Connell asked, walking over to his son.

  The boy held out his hand showing his father the smooth black stone nestled in the palm of his hand.

  “Where did you find this?” the man said, picking up the stone which was about the size of his thumbnail.

  “They’re all over the place,” Mickey said pointing to a number of the stones scattered along the bank of the stream.

  Holding it between his thumb and forefinger the former sergeant noticed the black stone began to become translucent as the sun hit it. Raising it up he watched it become easier to see into the stone’s heart and noticed what looked to be a single tear captured deep inside.

  “What the heck is that?” he asked showing the piece to the others.

  “I don’t know, I’ve never seen anything like it before,” Major Sheridan replied looking at it in wonder.

  “It is a gift from Life Giver,” a voice from the tree lines said. The voice was old and raspy but had strength behind it. An old Apache stepped out from under the shading arms of a large cottonwood tree. His face was full of wrinkles that resembled the canyons and arroyos of the desert that had given him birth. Long white hair was worn in traditional fashion held back with a broad band of crimson cloth. His broad shoulders and barrel of a chest was covered in a loose white cotton shirt. Knee high moccasins on his feet made little sound as they crossed the sandy soil.

  O’Connell started to ask who this old man was but He Who Tells the Story placed a hand on his arm to silence him.

  The old man gathered up a few twigs and dry grass and put them in one of the remaining fire rings. He puttered around as if the other people didn’t even exist. In a matter of moments there was a small fire burning and he looked up at the white men as if to ask what they had brought to feed him.

  Shaking his head and smiling, Sheridan opened his saddlebag and took out a bag of coffee and a slab of bacon. He Who Tells the Story took a pot and a pan out of his saddlebag and gave them to the old man. Not to be left out, O’Connell took a small bag of beans to give their visitor for the meal. It took no time until the man had the water boiling for the coffee and the beans and bacon was cooking cheerfully on the fire. Mickey was watching fascinated by it all.

  The other older men settled down to wait for the meal knowing that the mysterious old man would tell them what was going when he was ready and not a moment before. Like any nine year old kid, Mickey was too full of energy to just sit and wait so he did what boys that age do best, he went exploring. Many times he had heard the story of how his father and the Major had followed Pablito and his band on their last raid. Not only had he heard it from his father and the other soldiers but also he had listened to the tale as He Who Tells the Story told it to the people on the Reservation.

  It wasn’t long after that battle that his father had left the Army and took over as the Government sutler for the Apaches. The very first thing he did was to quit selling any alcohol to the Indians. It was a move that at first made him very unpopular with a lot of people. It was He Who Tells the Story who had changed the people’s attitude as he went about telling of his own fall and the final act of Pablito. Over time O’Connell had earned a reputation as a fair man who treated all who came to his store with respect. Mickey had been born just a year after his father had married the fiery Irish woman, Molly Sullivan, whom he met during the chase. A strange bond had formed between the former sergeant and He Who Tells the Story, something about the change that had come over the Apache on the cliff above this stream tied them together.

  Even the Major had become close to the two other men. While the army frowned on close friendships between officers and enlisted when O’Connell had retired all of that changed for the two men. Many times Sheridan had sought the advice of his former sergeant when dealing with the Apaches. As he had succeeded in keeping the peace with the tribes it had been noticed and promotions had followed. Occasionally there were groups who thought that they could succeed where Pablito had failed, but Sheridan had always managed to bring them back in with a minimum of violence. No one made the mistake of thinking he was weak in any way. He Who Tells the Story had helped by telling everyone who would listen of the raid and the chase that followed.

  Now, ten years later, these men had traveled here to show Mickey where it had all happened. It was nice to just sit here in the shade as the old Indian went about making coffee and cooking the bacon and beans. Mickey had crossed the stream and was climbing all over the rocks on the far side. O’Connell beamed with pride as he watched his son. The boy was as feisty as the woman he had met living alone out here in the desert while her father chased a foolish dream. When the food was ready the old man called them to eat.

  “Come share the bounty of the Life Giver,” the old man told them.

  “Mickey come on over here and eat,” O’Connell yelled out.

  “Still got that parade ground voice don’t ya?” Sheridan teased.

  “It helps when raising a boy like Mickey,” chuckled the former sergeant.

  Everyone took tin plates out of their bags and waited for the old man to dish up the food and pour the coffee. From under his shirt the old man pulled a cup and filled it with coffee before sitting down and getting comfortable. When everyone had settled in with food and coffee, the old man picked up one of the stones and held it up so that the light illuminated the interior. The voice that at first had sounded old and weak was now strong and full of life as he began to speak.

  “When the men who rode with Pablito returned, they thought that they would be able to come to this place and hide for the rest of their lives away from the white man and his crazy ways. Life Giver knew better. He knew that eventually the People would run out of the things that they took from the white settlement and would have to go on one more raid.
It had to stop or the People would be destroyed forever from this world. That is why he let you fail He Who Tells the Story.” The old man paused and sipped thoughtfully on his coffee.

  “This would be so much better if it had some sugar for it,” mumbled the old one.

  “Mickey don’t you have a small sack of sugar in your bags?” his father asked.

  Without further prompting the boy set his plate on the ground and went to get the sugar for the old man. As soon as the coffee was sweetened to the man’s liking he began again.

  “Life Giver knew that he had to show the people that to keep up the fighting would only bring even more whites to fight them. Somehow he had to put a stop to the killing, yet he had to show the courage of the People at the same time. So he sent dreams to Pablito and to his friend Coyote Dancer to let them know that they would never be forgotten. Then he gave you the thirst that led to your downfall.”

  He Who Tells the Story was sitting there with his head hanging low as he remembered the shameful way that he had behaved on the white man’s liquor.

  “Do not hide your face in shame storyteller. It was the will of the Giver. It was that way that he could save you and the rest of the People at the same time. Now when the families of those who rode out watched the ones who returned leap to their deaths rather than go back to the reservation they cried out in great sorrow. Their cries were so loud and long that the grief was felt by the Life Giver himself. Eventually even he was moved by the outcries and decided to save the People. He gathered up the tears that were shed here on this ground and put one in each of the black stones you see lying on the ground.” Taking a sip of his drink he watched as the men and boy looked around at the stones.

  Shadows were stretching out as the late afternoon light began to fail. It had been part of the plan to spend the night so everyone just settled in even more to listen to the story of the old one.

  “Those stones hold the tears of the Apache people and were given to all as a way to help fight the sorrows of life.” Picking up a few of the stones the old man walked around the fire giving each person one of the stones. “Keep them with you and the Life Giver will keep your tears away.”

  Talk was minimal as each one thought about what they had been told by the old man. He answered a few questions from He Who Tells the Story before they all got out their blankets and settled in for the night. When the sun woke them the next morning the old man was nowhere to be seen. Not even a single moccasin track could be found to show that he had really been there. Hanging on a tree limb near where they had first seen him were four leather bags that closed at the top with a drawstring. Taking down the bags they found that each was filled with the black stones holding the tears of the Apache people.

  About the author.

  When not traveling all over the country driving a truck, the author collects legends of the west and lives on a small ranch outside of Springdale WA.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 10