The Gila Wars

by Larry D. Sweazy

  He turned his back on the Mexican, who was obviously dead, though still bleeding heavily. The man lay in a red pool of his own blood, the invisible and small predators of the insect world already celebrating their luck and bounty. His face was twisted in pain, reflecting the intensity of his last living moment.

  Josiah quickly searched the ground for his Peacemaker. He tracked back through the trampled-down grass to where it had flown out of his hand. It was pretty easy to find with the sun beaming down from the sky so brightly. The barrel gleamed on the ground, even in the shadows of the grasses. He rushed to the gun, glad for its presence and the safety it offered him. At least now he could defend himself if the need arose.

  The Peacemaker felt good in his hand. He opened the cylinder and reloaded the trusted gun. Then he checked the barrel to make sure it wasn’t blocked with dirt or silt. Holstering the gun was not an option, not with a battle breaking less than two hundred yards from him.

  Unfortunately, Clipper wasn’t the kind of horse that came running to a whistle or call. Josiah had just never trained the Appaloosa to be much like a dog.

  Before moving on, Josiah stripped the Mexican of his guns and knife. He threw the cartridge-laden belt over his shoulder, carrying the holstered gun, another Colt .45, under his arm.

  He took a deep breath and looked in the opposite direction of the stampede and saw nothing but open land. The way from which he’d come seemed to offer peace and sanctuary—but Josiah knew it would be a mistake to assume anything at the moment. Calling out to Pip didn’t make much sense, either. He didn’t want to give himself away or bring any undue attention to himself. He wanted to join the fight when he was ready, not bring it to him any sooner than necessary.

  Each moment brought Josiah more strength.

  He wasn’t going to be at full fighting strength anytime soon. There was no question about that, not with the wounds he had suffered in Arroyo, and now in the fight with the Mexican scout—but he still had value, something to offer the company. He could still sit on his horse and shoot, could run down any of the vaqueros on foot. He just needed his horse.

  Crouching as best he could, he made his way through the knee-high grass back to where the chestnut mare lay dead. It was easy to divine Clipper’s path through the grass.

  The horse had bolted to the east, almost straight back to where they had come from.

  Josiah wondered if Clipper had tried to go back to the camp, to someplace safe. It would have made sense, but the company of Rangers were a good distance away, not in a destination Josiah could arrive at quickly on foot.

  Clipper had always been an easy horse to ride in battle, had never been afraid or skittish of loud noises or gunshots, so it made little sense that the Appaloosa had bolted or gone very far. Still, there was no sign of the horse, and that concerned Josiah more than the growing battle behind him.

  He ignored the mare and pushed through the grass, staying as close to Clipper’s trail as he could.

  CHAPTER 31

  Josiah was not surprised when he found Pip facedown in the grass, a single bullet hole in the back of his skull.

  The blood had already started to congeal, goo up, but there was no saving the man. He was as dead as the Mexican. Both of them had been on the run, trying to escape, didn’t see death coming, though the Mexican surely had to have known as much as Josiah had that every breath taken bordered on being his last. It was hard to say what Pip had thought. Maybe he saw refuge and safety over the rise, hoping like hell that the Mexican was a bad shot when he heard the report of the Colt from behind him. If there was any comfort to be taken, both men had died quickly, each in a fight he’d believed in.

  Josiah knew little of Pip—if he had kin who would care about his passing, where he hailed from, or what his hopes for the future were. It was that way with most of the boys in McNelly’s company of Rangers. You’d find out more about them after they died than you had when they lived.

  It seemed easier for most of the Rangers not to talk about their lives back home. Including Josiah. Talking about his son, Lyle, only made him homesick and regretful. He knew he was missing a good chunk of the boy’s life, knew the time away could never be replaced, so focusing on his absence was dangerous. Especially in a moment like the present, when life and death hung in the balance, were nothing more than a lucky shot—or an unlucky one, depending on where you stood.

  The thunder and explosion of the battle behind Josiah faded away for just a second. All that remained was an echo and the smell of gunpowder on the breeze.

  He leaned down and put his finger on Pip’s neck to make sure the man was truly dead. Pip’s skin was warm and sweaty, but there was no pulse, no sign of life. Just to make sure, Josiah put his ear to the man’s back to see if he could hear a heartbeat. Nothing. Nothing but more smells of death and the wind rolling gently through the grass.

  Josiah’s senses were nearly numb now. Some smells become solid, unnoticeable, even comfortable, after enough time. But the smell of war never became that way for him. He could taste the gunpowder, the metallic tang of blood. It was an unnatural aroma and taste, foreign, forbidden, but all too familiar.

  With a deep sigh, Josiah reached around and gently closed Pip’s eyes. If it were possible, he’d try to bury Pip with his horse when everything was said and done. That seemed fitting.

  For a second, Josiah thought about loading up with Pip’s weapons, too, like he had with the Mexican’s. But he didn’t want to weigh himself down so severely that he couldn’t move easily—or run if he needed to.

  When he looked up, a wave of relief flowed through him. He saw Clipper standing about fifteen yards ahead of him. The Appaloosa seemed to glow in the bright sunlight, his white even whiter, and his black even blacker. The contrast of colors was striking, as the horse stood stoically, almost like a statue, staring at Josiah.

  The only shadows that reached down from the sky came from the vultures, who were circling higher and higher, floating off to the north, over land instead of the ocean, trying, it looked like, to escape the madness of the men below them. They wouldn’t go far, just out of shooting range, but they would rush back in to survey the carnage first thing, just after the dust and smoke settled to the ground.

  A slight smile crossed Josiah’s face. Seeing the horse was like seeing home after a long journey. There was little comfort and pleasure to be had in what lay ahead for them. Knowing that he would be in his own saddle, on his own horse, buoyed Josiah. If the horse had been dead, had been shot like Pip’s, it would have only added to his weakness and his rage. Other than Scrap, Clipper was the closest thing to a friend Josiah had on, or off, the trail, and riding into battle with a trusted steed would give him some much needed strength after what he had just been through.

  Josiah walked easily up to Clipper, straining to hear all of the noises that surrounded him, on the ready for any attack, seen or unseen. The horse didn’t spook, didn’t seem nervous at all. He swished his tail and raised his head up and down as Josiah touched his neck. A quick glance told Josiah that the horse bore no visible wounds. All was well—for the moment.

  After unloading the Mexican’s gun belt, Josiah climbed up easily into the saddle and settled in. He felt bad about leaving Pip to the insects, vultures, and whatever else wandered by, but he had no choice. Joining the rest of the company mattered the most at the moment.

  * * *

  From the rise, Josiah could see several miles to the west. The vista was broad and wide as the land, mostly free of trees of any kind, flattened out to infinity, barely differentiating itself from the sea. The only way to tell the land and water apart was the thin strip of brown sandy beach that separated the two. The grasses covered the land, waving in the breeze, making it look like waves flowing up from the sea, jumping the beach, then continuing on for as far as the eye could see.

  The sky was cloudless. Perfect summer blue. The color of cornflowers and
calmness. Saltiness and moisture tinged the air with noticeable effect. It was a smell and taste that Josiah had come to enjoy—but not now. The residue of battle had pushed away any memories of pleasurable times on the coast.

  A steamer sat a good twenty yards off the coast. Smoke streamed up from the dual stacks slowly. The big wheel on the back sat stationary, and there were no deckhands visible. A captain’s tower jutted upward, and where the cabins of a passenger steamer would have normally been, there was only an open space, fenced off like a floating corral. It was still empty. Somehow, the captain had found the herd just in time, stopping Cortina’s plan, or putting a dent in it, at the moment.

  The frightened cattle were scattered up and down the coastline, for almost as far as Josiah could see. They stuck mostly to the beach, but a good portion of them were rushing through the grass, unconcerned that it was chest-high. From what he knew, the longhorns preferred open spaces. Fear had set them on a course of escape no matter what the resistance.

  A few vaqueros tried to wrangle the longhorns back into a herd, but Cortina’s men were at the leading end of the frantic stampede. Josiah feared there was another battalion of Mexicans hidden in the distance, waiting for a raid like the one McNelly was conducting. It made sense to Josiah that there would be a backup plan in place. This was a valuable shipment for Cortina. Too valuable not to protect with more than sixteen men. Fewer than that now.

  McNelly and the boys were still trailing the rear of the herd of longhorns, the sound of battle overcoming the screaming and mooing cows.

  Some of the Mexicans were on foot, and a few of the Rangers had jumped to the ground to join the fight, hand-to-hand.

  Josiah sucked in a deep breath and urged Clipper forward, joining the fight without reluctance.

  He spied McNelly first and headed straight for the captain, unconcerned now about whether he could be seen or be a target. There was no turning back.

  He had his own Peacemaker in his left hand, and the Mexican’s gun in his unbound holster, loaded and ready for when the cartridges of his own gun had been used up. Whether he was physically up to the fight was not a question, or a choice to be made. He had no choice. But he hoped to stay on horseback and avoid another ground fight, if that was possible.

  He pushed Clipper to a full run. The jostling caused him some pain, but he pushed it away, allowed the call of battle and the adrenaline that came with it to cure his ills—as much as that was possible.

  Killing the Mexican had come easy as he looked back on it, using the incident to whet his appetite for what was about to come. Regrets might come later, in the middle of the night, deep in a sleep, if he was lucky enough to survive and come out of the fight whole. It was an assumption that he hoped held true. He couldn’t go into a fight thinking he was going to die.

  Lieutenant Robinson rode close behind McNelly, his sword drawn, as he bore down on a Mexican who was on the run.

  The Mexican was screaming in Spanish, fumbling with a gun, loading up another round of cartridges. Robinson didn’t relent, didn’t slow down. The man was too close to McNelly. With a hard and calculated thrust, Robinson plunged the blade of the sword forward, catching the man in the kidney. Robinson twisted his wrist fluidly and continued to ride forward, pulling the sword out of the man’s side with ease. It was a skilled maneuver, one that Robinson had obviously used before. He had the makings of a captain.

  The Mexican screamed out in agony and collapsed to the ground, rolling, still clutching his gun, still screaming words that Josiah didn’t understand but knew the meaning of somehow. Dying in battle in any language needed no translation for him.

  Josiah’s view was suddenly obscured, covered in gun smoke, a black powder fog that pushed any pleasantries of the seaside away. The smoke rose quickly in the air, pushing northeast on the wind rolling in off the waves. For a long moment, it felt precarious to aim at the enemy.

  In another second, Josiah heard a familiar yell rise up from behind the Mexican, and watched as Scrap appeared not far behind Robinson, pushing forward as hard as he could, riding his blue roan mare, Missy.

  Scrap aimed his rifle, a Spencer repeater, at the Mexican, and happily pulled the trigger. The shot was sure, and caught the man right behind the ear, finishing him off. Scrap yipped and yeehawed, celebrating his shot, making sure the Mexican was dead, and unable to cause the captain, or any of the other Rangers, any harm.

  Josiah was glad to see Scrap, and even happier still to know that there were men in the fight who had each other’s back. He yelled himself, and then, having caught Scrap’s attention, he loosened the reins in his hand, gave Clipper his head, and joined the fight.

  CHAPTER 32

  The horn from the steamer blasted loudly, rising above all the sounds of the battle like an alarm, or a call to duty. It was like the world took a breath, took notice that there were actually human beings inside the boat. Until the moment when the horn blasted, the steamer could have been a ghost ship, just sitting in the water waiting to transport its cargo, not a threat to anyone.

  The gunfire stopped so suddenly, the echoes seemed never to have existed at all. Screams and yells settled down, but the thunder of the running cattle did not cease—it only grew dimmer, farther away, heading up the coast and into the interior of the arroyo.

  Josiah swerved as he rushed ahead, pulling up on the reins, allowing Clipper to jump over the dead Mexican that Robinson had stabbed and Scrap had shot. He turned then and headed straight for the beach.

  There was nowhere to run, to hide, and he knew immediately that if there were men on the steamer, and they were going to take up their arms, they had to be stopped. They would be Cortina’s supporters, the beef more valuable to them than gold, to feed the hungry population in Cuba.

  Josiah bit the reins between his teeth, switched the Peacemaker to his other hand, then pulled his fully loaded Winchester rifle from the scabbard. An orange blast exploded from around the base of the smokestack, on the starboard side of the steamer, just as Josiah settled his finger around the trigger and rested the butt of the gun against his injured shoulder. The kick was minimal, and he wasn’t concerned about the pain it caused him. The shooter on the boat was his only concern.

  The man by the smokestack fired again, this time taking direct aim at Josiah.

  Josiah was just on the edge of the grass and could see the man’s shadow on the deck. With as much accuracy as possible, he unloaded all six shots of his Peacemaker, holstered it quickly, then fired five more shots from the rifle in rapid succession. Clipper galloped confidently toward the ocean, unfazed by the noise and warfare around him.

  Like Josiah, the rest of the Rangers had reengaged in the fight with Cortina’s men after the momentary lapse. The sound of gunfire rose up behind him like a storm drawing energy from its lull, only louder, more violent, and determined to destroy whatever lay in its path.

  Smoke, and the taste of gunpowder, overwhelmed Josiah’s senses. His eyes burned. His vision was blurry. He was numb, beyond feeling. He knew each breath he drew in could be his last, as out in the open as he was.

  A gun exploded to Josiah’s immediate right, and a quick glance told him that Scrap had joined his side.

  Josiah nodded, then turned his attention back to the boat. Scrap followed suit, both of them firing directly at the captain’s tower and at the man next to the smokestack.

  Wood chips exploded off the front of the steamer as each bullet found its mark. It looked like it was raining around the front of the boat as the residue hit the water.

  It took less than a minute for the first shooter to collapse. It was hard to tell who had hit the man, and it didn’t matter to Josiah whether it was him or Scrap who’d delivered the deadly shot. It was one less gun pointed in their direction.

  But that didn’t stop the rest from shooting. Another gun had appeared, pointed out of the tower’s well. Obviously, the captain was defending
his ship, was going to fight for control of it to the death. Surrendering was his only other choice, and that didn’t seem likely.

  As Josiah reloaded, Scrap fired from both his Spencer rifle and his own Colt. Then when it was Scrap’s turn to reload, Josiah took his turn and traded fire with the captain. The tandem of responsibility was unspoken between them. They had been in enough battles together to know how to survive without speaking.

  A five-minute gunfight can seem like an eternity, especially when you’re as exposed as Josiah and Scrap were. Anyone could have shot them from the front or the back—but they’d trusted Robinson and Captain McNelly to cover them.

  Both of the officers had seen Josiah’s intent when he’d rushed the steamer, and they’d taken up a position not twenty yards from him, firing in the opposite direction, covering the assault.

  There were very few of Cortina’s men left on horseback. Any thought of rescuing the mission was lost. The vaqueros were now nothing but bandits on the run. Most of them were on foot, easy to run down.

  The shots coming from the steamer stopped. There was no way to tell if the man in the captain’s tower was dead, if one of their shots had found its target. All Josiah could do was assume that a bullet had ended the exchange. As far as he was concerned, Scrap Elliot had the eyes of an eagle and could shoot the spot off an ant’s butt at a hundred yards.

  “Let’s head back up and help the captain,” Josiah yelled out.

  Their horses were standing nose to nose, and Scrap was settled stiffly in his saddle, reloading his Spencer. The carbine held seven shots and was tube-fed in the butt of the stock. Josiah had no idea how Scrap had come to possess the Spencer, since it was a weapon of the War Between the States and had some age on it, but the boy seemed comfortable with it. A skilled shooter could shoot off about twenty cartridges in a minute with that gun. Scrap had those skills, times ten.