Killer of Witches: The Life and Times of Yellow Boy Mescalero Apache

by W. Michael Farmer

  We waited by Rufus’ porch in the light of dawn until he emerged from his outhouse. When he saw me with my rifle, he yelled “Dánt’e, Yellow Boy!” as he pulled his suspenders over his shoulders and broke into a long, hurried stride toward me. My companions looked at each other frowning, but I grinned, swung my arm toward the others, and said, “Nish’ii’, Rufus Pike. We have come. We stay three, maybe four, days?”

  Rufus shouted as though I were a mile away, “Why, hell, son, stay as long as ya need.” He swung his palm parallel to the ground and added, “I’m shore glad to see ya. I see ol’ He Watches and his walkin’ stick.” He held up his palm toward He Watches, who nodded and palmed him back. Then Rufus glanced over our group, raised his brows, and asked. “Where’s Caballo Negro?”

  “Land of the grandfathers.”

  A look of sorrow came over Rufus, who said, “I purely hate to hear that. He was a mighty good man.” He looked out over the valley below for a moment, then turned and said, “Go on an’ make yoreselves to home. Yellow Boy, ya know the best places to camp and the little mine where I keep my supplies. Take what ya need when ya need it. I’ll make some coffee and heat up some steak, beans, and tortillas. You’n tell me what’s happened while we eat.”

  I led our group up the trickling wash on the south side of the canyon, and we made a comfortable camp by the cattle tank dam, close enough for an easy walk to the shack, but far enough to keep ourselves out of sight of Rufus’ visitors. The women made small cooking fires and cooked a hot meal while we checked our weapons and rubbed down the horses before turning them loose to graze. The children gathered brush and dried cow patties to feed the fires.

  At the shack, Rufus and I sat on the porch finishing our steaks and beans and wiping our pans clean with tortillas. I belched my appreciation and said, “Rufus Pike cooks better than many women. I’ll take you to land of Nakai-yes.”

  Rufus grinned and shook his head. “No thank ya, amigo. Only place in Mexico I’d be interested in goin’ is them houses filled with women down to Ciudad Juárez on the other side of the river from El Paso. Whoooeee, now that there is a good-time visit.

  “I figured you mighta left the Guadalupes an’ put yore tipis over to the reservation. Ain’t heard from you in a couple years. How come ya’re out galavantin’ ’round the countryside with them women and children? Th’ way ol’ Victorio is raisin’ hell, ya run into cavalry an’ they’ll shoot first an’ ask questions later. Long as they kill any Indeh they see, they’ll figure they’re doin’ the right thing.”

  “Hmmph, Rufus Pike speaks true words. Blue Coats come to reservation. Kill many Mescaleros who run, no fight. Blue Coats take Mescalero rifles and ponies. Mescalero no longer hunt. No longer ride ponies. We leave.”

  We watched the morning light spread over the Mesilla Valley making long shadows from the Organs disappear. Unlike the cloudless, bright, blue morning sky, a thundercloud filled Rufus’ face as he spat tobacco juice on a scorpion in the shadow of a nearby rock and shook his head.

  “That there is about the dum’est thang the army ever done, and they done a passel. What can Colonel Hatch be thinkin’? A few Mescaleros mighta joined Victorio, maybe even give him some cartridges, but that don’t come close to justifin’ what Hatch done. Chiricahua Blue Coat scouts is after ya? Ya know they’ll be out to kill ya. It’ll make ’em look good to their Indah Blue Coat officers an’ it’ll make ol’ Hatch think he’s got the reservation sewed up tighter’n Maud’s purse. It’s gonna be you or them. Ya gotta take care of business with them wolves now an’ then git on down to Mexico where the army ain’t got no callin’ card.”

  “How we do this, Rufus Pike?”

  Rufus slowly chewed on the wad of tobacco in his cheek, rested his elbows on his knees, and, staring out across the valley, said, “You say ol’ He Watches brought you here from the Jarillas? Did he stop at the springs on th’ other side of th’ mountain? Indah calls ’em Aguirre Springs. They’s below a steep pass on the south side of the Rabbit Ears. I spec he went to the springs first and then follered the trail ’bout a mile north over the Baylor Pass. Rabbit Ears Pass is pushin’ it hard fer horses an’ San Agustín Pass is outta the way.”

  I nodded and said, “We water at this place you call Aguirre Springs. Go across pass you call Baylor.”

  Rufus spat and said, “Them scouts is gonna stay on top of yore trail. They’ll come by th’ springs ’cause that’s where yore trail leads, an’ it’s the first water outta th’ Jarillas. Ya got two growed warriors with ya, ol’ He Watches, who ain’t much on his feet but can ride an’ shoots good from an ambush spot, an’ ya got me. That’s five rifles ’gainst ’em. Oughta be enough fer that pack of wolves. We’n wait fer ’em at the springs and take ’em out with an ambush. What ’cha think?”

  I pulled a cigar from my vest, lit it, blew smoke to the four directions, and gave it to Rufus to do the same. When Rufus handed it back, I said, “Enjuh. Rufus Pike great war chief. We go now. Wolves come soon. Ish-kay-neh comes with warriors and holds horses. First time he makes war. My woman, Juanita, she good warrior with sling, protects women and children.”

  Rufus groaned, his arthritic joints slow to move, as he pushed up from the porch floor. “Uhhhh. Gittin’ old, Yellow Boy, gittin’ mighty old. I’m gonna git my gear and rifle and saddle Lulu. When you’re ready, we’ll go.”

  The old Salt Trail over Baylor Pass had not been used often since the wagon road from Las Cruces went over San Agustin Pass, which was a little lower in altitude and more accessible to mines on the north side. The Baylor trail our band followed the night before was faint but still easy to see. Topping the pass, we looked out over the great Tularosa Basin we had come across the night before. Off to the south in front of us, the Jarilla Mountains appeared to crawl out of the sands like some long forgotten animal. Directly behind the Jarillas were the Sacramentos standing tall in the blue, hazy distance. Rufus pointed south toward the springs and said, “That there is where we’re headed. Stayin’ outta sight, we’n make it by midafternoon. They ain’t but a handful of ranches between here and Tularosa, so we ain’t likely to run across any Indahs. We got to be careful at the springs. The scouts might already be there. Comprende?”

  I nodded and, telling my warriors what Rufus had said, waved them forward. They rode down the steep, winding trail out of the Organs, letting their animals pick their way and guiding them behind junipers to stay out of lines of sight from the basin and the springs.

  Rufus rode Lulu up to the springs while the Apaches stayed hidden back in the brush and boulders. He wanted to look around first and ensure no one was already taking water or an afternoon siesta in the shade among the boulders. When he found no one around the springs, he waved us in. We came forward, dismounted, and let the thirsty ponies drink at the natural tank filled by a burbling spring’s trickle. I sent Ish-kay-neh with the horses up the trail toward Rabbit Ears Pass and then down into a juniper lined arroyo where the ponies wouldn’t be seen or heard by approaching riders.

  The springs, high enough to see smoke plumes all across the basin, marked the kitchens of ranch houses or a few cowboys eating their dinner by their herds. The roof of the San Augustine ranch house, owned then by Ben Davies, almost three miles away, shimmered in the distance. Patches of white, flocks of sheep grazing on the ranch, lay scattered across the newly green rangeland.

  Our warriors hid behind boulders, most, higher than a man’s head. Their positions roughly made the shape of a horseshoe with the springs in the center. Klo-sen, Beela-chezzi, and He Watches hid behind boulders forming the horseshoe’s top arc. Rufus and I stayed close to the spring’s entrance to close the circle of fire and stop the scouts from charging out of the trap.

  Warm breezes filled the air up from the basin. I kept the Shináá Cho to my eye throughout the brilliant afternoon, scanning every uncertain detail. I saw nothing, not even dust plumes from riders. If the scouts had followed our trail, then it seemed we ought to see them by the time for long shadows
off the mountains. A sense of impending disaster began to settle in my guts. I crept over to Rufus, who had also spent the hours scanning the basin with his old cavalry glasses while he chewed and spat tobacco juice on any insect within range.

  “See ’em, Rufus Pike?”

  “Naw. I ain’t seen nuthin. Don’t believe they’s there. You seen ’em?”

  “No see. Maybe scouts no follow us. Maybe scouts fool us. Maybe they wait on other side of pass to ambush us. Know where we go. We ride now.”

  “You got the right idee, amigo. Let’s saddle up.”

  The horses were rested from the long afternoon wait, and we made good time on our ride over Baylor Pass and down the western side. Rufus and I talked through our strategy of what to do if the scouts had somehow known where we were headed, got around us, and took the women and children prisoners.

  The moon barely floated above the Organs when we led our horses up the trail to the shack. No one met us. Looking up the canyon, we saw the glow from several fires near the dam tank. Klo-sen crept up the trail to the camp. When he returned he nodded and said, “Blue Coat Chiricahuas.”

  We left Ish-kay-neh and He Watches with the horses at the shack porch to stop escapes out the front of the canyon. Rufus moved up the north side of the canyon to block any escapes up the back of the canyon’s west cliff face. I moved up the canyon’s south side, staying in the shadows of the wash. Klo-sen and Beela-chezzi worked their way to the camp through the brush and grass in the middle of the canyon.

  I took care to avoid stepping on loose stones in the gurgling wash and to stay in the black shadows cast by the rising moon. I reached the dam and, crawling on my belly to a boulder looking like a man’s head half-buried in the ground, found a place in the shadows where I could see the fires.

  There were six Chiricahuas, three wearing blue cavalry jackets. They carried pistols and knives and a full bandolier of cartridges across their chests. No Indah cavalry officer was with them, but one Chiricahua was obviously in charge—his coat off, at least five inches taller than the rest, muscles rippling under his shirtsleeves, black eyes in a dark, pox-scarred face scanning the darkness beyond the fires. He wore a red bandana tied around his head and carried his Winchester in the crook of his arm as he paced in front of the fire looking down the canyon. The others called him Soldado Fiero (Fierce Soldier), and from the way the others cowered before him, he carried the right name.

  Our women and children sat together in the shadows at the edge of the camp, a scout sitting on either side of their group, eating what Juanita and Deer Woman brought them from the pots on the fire. The three remaining scouts sat back in the shadows eating and furtively glancing down the canyon toward the shack.

  Back in the canyon cows bellowed, at times drowning out the myriad frogs in chorus around the cattle pool and the crackle of the fires. I studied the camp and scouts, taking in every detail, deciding what to do. Shooting into the camp from many directions was likely to kill or injure the women and children as well as the scouts and was not an option. It was better to wait for another opening.

  Soldado Fiero paced before the nearest fire and stared into the dark, looking from one side of the canyon to the other, cocking his head to catch any unusual sound. It was apparent that he didn’t like their situation. I imagine he knew the Mescaleros, growing tired of waiting at the springs, would soon return to their women and children, believing they had escaped the Blue Coats.

  He looked over his left shoulder toward the cattle tank, sweeping the dark side of the wash past my position and carried down the wash, but then he stopped and turned back to stare at the black shadows where I lay barely breathing, my legs protruding from behind the boulder.

  My heart pounded in my chest as I saw Soldado Fiero’s eyes narrow into a squint and his arms slowly raise his Winchester.

  His rifle was nearly to his shoulder. The finger on his rifle trigger was poised to kill anything that moved as he stepped toward the shadows. The other Chiricahuas saw him looking at a particular spot below the cattle tank and stood up to watch the spot, bringing their cocked rifles to their shoulders.

  Before Soldado Fiero seated his rifle butt against his shoulder, I shouted, “Hold or die!” He slowly lowered his rifle and looking over his shoulder nodded back to the other scouts to do the same.

  “I speak true. Lay down your rifles and pistols, and no harm comes. We’ll talk. Choose to fight, and you’ll die. Choose now!”

  He laid down his rifle, drew his long-barreled Colt from its holster, and laid it down, too. The other scouts followed his example.

  I said, “You wear Blue Coats. You’ve come to kill us because the Blue Coat chief wars with Victorio. We don’t ride with Victorio. We don’t war against Indah. We’re going to the far Blue Mountains and won’t come back. Go back to Blue Coat chief and say you didn’t find us. Leave, and you’ll live. Stay, you’ll die. Give us your word to track us no more. You lie? You’ll die. What will you do?”

  Soldado Fiero crossed his arms and stared into the dark.

  I yelled, “What will you do? Speak!”

  He said through clenched teeth, “We’ll go! We won’t track you to the Blue Mountains! Why do you hide in the dark? Let us see the great warrior who defeats us.”

  “You go? Enjuh! Remember my words when night comes. You’ll think maybe I’m there. I’ll kill you if you come back . . . How did you know we were here?”

  “The Indah sawmill chief said the woman of Yellow Boy was with the Mescaleros who ran. He said you wouldn’t join Victorio and told the Blue Coat chief not to chase you because you do no harm. The Blue Coat chief said all Mescaleros must stay in front of his eyes. He sent us to take you back. Al Sieber said Yellow Boy never misses with a rifle; said Roofoos Peek showed you how to shoot. This is the place of Roofoos Peek lodge. We saw you ride for Jarilla Mountains and knew you’d find Roofoos Peek. We took an easier, faster road for ambush here. We didn’t go by the springs.”

  Soldado Fiero told this with a self-satisfied sneer that seemed to say to those around him, See how smart I am. You don’t have a chance if I decide to take you.

  “Get your ponies and guns. Go. If you come back, you’ll die.”

  Two scouts went for the horses hobbled in the dark pasture behind the women and children. I stared at Soldado Fiero, waiting for him to make a move, expecting to kill him, but the Chiricahua with folded arms calmly waited.

  I glanced at Juanita, who sat near the fire in front of the women and children, her head bowed, her long black hair falling in front of her face. She played in the dirt, running her fingers through the soft sandy soil, catching handfuls, and then letting it fall through her fingers. I squinted to see her better, but I couldn’t tell what she was doing except entertaining herself. I hoped the scout in front of me hadn’t knocked her senseless when he took her.

  The scouts, leading their horses, stopped to pick up their guns and swung into their saddles without using their stirrups. Soldado Fiero, continuing to stare into the dark where I waited, stood his ground and didn’t move.

  I said, “Go now.”

  The other scouts began walking their mounts down the trail out of the canyon.

  Soldado Fiero smiled slightly, shrugged, and took a step back, and then, glancing toward Juanita, turned in slow motion, to reach for his guns, which were lying by his moccasins.

  A soft slapping sound like a fist striking an open palm broke the stillness. He grunted, collapsed to his knees, and fell face forward into the sand without another sound.

  Juanita ran to him, pulled his knife, stabbed it into the ground beside her, then rolled him on his back and stared at his face. In seconds, I was across the tank dam, kneeling beside her, and looking at him. His eyes were rolled back in his head, seeing nothing, but he was breathing. Juanita raised his bandana and pulled up the hair above his right temple where there was a rapidly swelling bump about the size of a chicken egg. The skin, unbroken, was beginning to turn to a blue-black color and spread across hi
s face. By morning his right eye, maybe even his left, would be swollen shut.

  I whispered to her, “You probably saved us. I was thinking maybe I’d kill him when he shoots. You’re magnificent with that sling. I barely saw your arm move.”

  She whispered, “My father taught me well, and I have a wise and mighty husband who depends on me. We’ll send this one back to his Blue Coat masters alive. His head will hurt for one or two moons.”

  Leading his pony, Soldado Fiero tied across the saddle, I walked out of the dark from behind the corral shed down to where He Watches was waiting. I handed the reins to the scout in the lead, who cocked his head to see Soldado better. Frowning, he asked, “Dead or alive?”

  I said, “Alive. He’s lucky. He decided to shoot, but a sling stone stopped him before my rifle killed him. When the sun comes, he’ll wake up, eyes swollen shut and head hurting. Take him. Go back to the Blue Coats, and follow us no more. We’ll raid and war only in Mexico. Go!”

  The scout grabbed hold of his saddle horn and swung into the saddle. He looked at me, nodded, and said, “Enjuh!” before riding down the trail into the night, leading Soldado’s pony.

  CHAPTER 37

  JUH

  * * *

  At the corral, Ish-kay-neh and Rufus met me and He Watches, and one look at Rufus told me he was on fire with curiosity. I said, “Scouts go, no come back. Mescalero camp here, and women make feast.”

  Half grinning, half scowling, Rufus looked at me. “What the devil did you do? Cut the throats of them Chiricahuas?”

  “Come, we eat, tell story at fire. In two suns, Mescaleros ride for Blue Mountains.”

  Rufus grinned and nodded. “Okay, Aashco (friend), lead the way.”

  Filling his growling belly with steak, acorn bread, and mesquite bean flour cakes, Rufus listened and laughed aloud, crumbs of acorn bread falling from his lips and collecting across his shirt, when we told him the story of how Juanita had given Soldado Fiero a bad headache before his fury had killed anyone. The story and meal finished, smoke made to the four directions, I relaxed around the fire with the other men. In the fire’s flickering orange and yellow light, Rufus turned to me and whispered just loud enough to be heard above the frog and cricket chorus, “Son, that there woman of yore’s is a danged good un. I hope she gives ya many sons and daughters. Even if she can’t, keep her.”