The Fight at Hueco Tanks

by Chris Scott Wilson

  Luck never runs in straight lines. Now he was on the run from an investor who had discovered his fraud, which was why he was headed for El Paso. Considered the ends of the earth, it suited his purpose; to lie low for a while.

  And so here he was at Hueco Tanks, staring into the night, idly wondering what Kate Lantz would feel like in his bed and expecting an attack from Indians it was said never fought at night.

  Feet scrabbled on the roof. He snapped back to the present and slipped his Colt from its holster.

  “Someone’s coming in!” Black Bob called down. “Horsemen.”

  “What’d I tell you,” Josh said, spitting out another stream of tobacco juice and hunkering down over the sights of his Winchester.

  “Never fight at night, eh?”

  CHAPTER 6

  “Hello the barn!” a voice called from the confines of the night.

  “You come on in!” Josh shouted back. “Nice and slow now.”

  “Or I’ll blow your head off,” Black Bob added.

  Josh made a pained face. “Shut up, boy.” Then he added under his breath, “but keep a sharp eye. Might be some kind of trick.”

  The voice called again. “We’re coming in now, okay? You rest your trigger fingers easy.”

  “We’re waiting,” Josh answered.

  After a few seconds a horse materialized out of the black sheet of night. It carried two riders. Their faces were indistinct as they neared the barn. Josh squinted uselessly then turned to Kate Lantz who had come to stand beside him.

  “Feed the fire.”

  When he thought they could see him the old stagecoach driver gestured with his rifle to the flames that were now licking hopefully at the fresh wood.

  “Come in to the fire, whoever the hell you are.”

  “Well if it ain’t Joshua Sutton,” the rider on the back of the horse said, slipping to the ground and stepping closer.

  “Who?” Josh asked.

  The newcomer edged forward. “Don’t say you don’t know me, you old buzzard. You going blind?”

  Josh’s face cracked into a grin of welcome. “Zeke? Zeke Harris?” He slapped his hand into the scout’s. Zeke flinched and the smile on Josh’s face faded. “S’matter?”

  Tanner stepped down out of his saddle. “Indian wanted Zeke’s horse, but grizzly here didn’t want to part with it. The Indian took it anyway.”

  Josh’s face lit up. “Jim Tanner too. Good to see you Jim. So it was you making all that fool racket out there. Like to disturb my sleep.”

  “Them more than us,” Zeke said. “They sure do yell a lot. Gives me a headache.”

  “Know what you mean. Come in to the fire. We ain’t got no coffee but there’s some pork.”

  Tanner jerked his thumb at his saddle. “Some coffee on there. How many here?” He glanced round. “Seven down here and Deadeye Dick up on the roof. Should be enough.”

  Josh turned and looked up. “Black Bob? You come on down here now and take care of Jim’s horse while I brew some coffee.”

  There was the sound of a body shuffling down the roof, then Black Bob was beside them. He peered awe-struck at the two scouts, jaw slack.

  “Do you mean, Mr. Sutton, that this here is Jim Tanner and Zeke Harris?”

  Tanner grinned at the boy’s open admiration.

  “The Jim Tanner who rode with Custer? And Zeke Harris the mountain man?”

  Even Zeke shuffled his feet under the onslaught of the boy’s frank stare.

  “The very same,” Josh said impatiently. “There ain’t no other two like these here, leastways not with the same names. Now are you going to look after that horse or do I have to go and fetch my bullwhip?”

  “Yes, Sir, Mr. Sutton. Right now.”

  “Thank God for that,” Josh muttered, squatting down to pour water into a kettle. Kate Lantz stepped forward, her eyes on Zeke’s wounded arm where the blood was sticky red in the firelight.

  “Can I see to that for you, Mr. Harris?”

  “A pretty lady like you can see to anything for me.” He turned to Josh. “Forgetting your manners, old-timer? They all know our names, only fair we should be allowed the same privilege.”

  “I was forgetting. Mrs. Lantz and her daughter Ruth. And this is Señor Servada and over there in the corner is Mr. Loving.”

  “Obliged,” Zeke nodded to Kate Lantz. “It’s been a long time since a woman tended to my wounds.”

  Kate smiled and motioned him to remove his jacket, her nose wrinkling at the smell from his buckskins. She had to cut away part of the sleeve of his hunting shirt to clean and bind the wound.

  “Have you been wounded before?” young Ruth Lantz asked.

  “Well…”

  “What he’s going to say,” chuckled Jim Tanner, “is that’s one long story in itself. By the time he’s finished telling it, young lady, you’ll be as old as he is.”

  Their laughter was halted by William Loving’s question.

  “What happened out there? Was it Indians?”

  “It sure wasn’t sage-hens,” Zeke quipped.

  Kate Lantz threw a protective glance at her daughter. “Ruth, it’s time you were asleep.”

  “But, Mama, Mr. Sutton’s just making the coffee.”

  “That will only keep you awake, Señorita,” Juan Servada reasoned, if only to keep on Kate’s good side.

  “Mr. Servada is right,” Kate added, giving the Mexican the benefit of a grateful glance. “You’ll find a blanket over there.”

  “Yes, Mama.” The girl’s face fell and she turned away, shoulders sagging with fatigue. When she was settled in the far corner the conversation resumed, their voices muted.

  “What’s the story then, Jim?”

  Tanner hunkered down by the fire, accepting the tin mug of coffee that Josh handed him.

  “Well, about a month ago a bunch of bronco Apaches busted out of the San Carlos reservation and ran for Mexico…”

  “How could they just break out?” Kate asked.

  “Well, Mrs. Lantz, there ain’t no fences to hold them in. They’re there on their word. If they choose to break that then all they have to do is mount up and ride out.”

  “No fences? But that’s ridiculous,” she argued.

  Tanner sighed and looked across the fire to where she was finishing off her bandaging job on Zeke’s arm.

  “A reservation is not a prison. That land belongs to the Apaches. It was given to them by the President. The treaty also gives them a food ration to tide them over the winters.”

  “We give them food as well?”

  “Yes, or at least the Indians who have straight agents get food. They’re the lucky ones. There’re many who don’t and what’s the word of the President worth when your wife and children have growling bellies and there’s no game to put in the pot?”

  “You sound as though you’re an Indian-lover, Mr. Tanner.”

  “Believe me, lady, I’m no Indian-lover, leastways not these Indians.”

  Zeke butted into the conversation. “You know what the Apaches call Jim? They call him El Cazador. It means the Hunter. Me and Jim have trailed ’em more miles than you’ve got hairs on your head.”

  Kate fell silent. Tanner sipped at his coffee then continued.

  “They ran for the Sierra Madre, the Mother Mountains in Mexico. There’s still a few renegades holding out there, those that haven’t surrendered yet or been caught by the Federales, the Mexican army. I figure they stayed there for a few days to rest their horses and to try and talk the other renegades into joining forces with them. When they failed they crossed the border again back into Texas and they’ve been stealing and killing ever since. When they were found to be missing from San Carlos the agent called in the cavalry and we followed the cold trail south, then we got a message they were over this way so we switched direction.”

  “You mean you’re with a cavalry column?” Josh asked, suddenly much happier about the arrival of the two scouts.

  “Sure thing. Column’s led by a Lieu
tenant Hardcastle. He’s a West Pointer, one of those that’ve come out west because there’s still a chance to make a name as an Indian killer. But I’ve rode under plenty worse officers than him.”

  Zeke snorted. “Custer, for one.”

  Black Bob’s eyes glittered. “What was he like, Custer?”

  Zeke grimaced. “A real glory hunter, boy, and that’s no word of a lie. But there was something about him I couldn’t explain here and now, but his men would have followed him to hell and back.”

  “And they did,” Josh said.

  “Yep, they did. It was them I felt sorry for after I heard about the Little Bighorn fight, but that madman Custer surely got what he deserved.”

  “But he was a great officer!” Black Bob protested.

  “Yes and no. He was as stubborn as a mule, reckless and plain foolhardy as far as the lives of his command were concerned. I’ll allow he had him some good victories, but I reckon that was luck more than anything else.”

  “But…”

  “Quiet, boy,” Josh said. “When will the column get here?”

  Tanner threw the coffee grounds into the spitting fire. “Tomorrow noon. They were about half a day behind us but they’ll have bedded down for the night.”

  “Won’t they realize you’re missing?” Servada asked.

  Tanner shook his head. “No. Hardcastle’s not expecting us to report back before tomorrow unless we cut Apache sign. He’ll just keep on riding in our tracks until he catches up.”

  “Then they’ll come here,” Kate concluded.

  Zeke nodded. “Sure thing.”

  “So, if the Apaches come back we only have to hold them off until noon, then we’ll be safe?”

  “Yes, but there’s a long time between now and noon and if they attack they may take one hell of a lot of holding off. It’s my bet they know how many are down here, and that there’s a woman too, but most of all they need guns and horses and we’ve got both. And if I know that Indian he’ll be mighty determined to get them as soon as possible so’s he can get on with killing.”

  “Is it Geronimo?” Kate asked. She had read about him in the newspapers back home. Geronimo led all the raids against the defenseless settlers.

  “No, it’s Chato.”

  Josh sucked on his moustache and spat a stream of tobacco juice into the embers. “He’s a bad one for sure. Tricky as a bear who’s smelt honey and has a brace of cubs.”

  “Is he worse than Geronimo?” Kate asked.

  “You betcha. Geronimo’s only a pup frisking in the sun compared to Chato. Oh, but he’s mean.”

  “What happens if he attacks us and wins before the cavalry column arrives?”

  Tanner gazed at her steadily. “Don’t you worry about that, Mrs. Lantz. You won’t be here to see it.” He rose fluidly to his feet and stretched. “I’m going to take me a look round.” Then he stalked away.

  Kate watched him go, the way his body moved with the grace of a wild animal and how he faded into the shadows as if he was himself born of night. She sensed immense strength inside him, a grim determination to do what had to be done. For all his trail-battered clothes and the dust caked into the creases on his face she could read something of the man behind the mask, but a part of it eluded her.

  “Zeke? You say the Apaches call him the Hunter.”

  “El Cazador, yes.”

  “Has he caught many of them”

  Zeke whistled softly. “Yes, m’am. The San Carlos reservation is estimated somewhere between two and a half million acres of land, and that’s plenty Indians. Before they were all moved there each band had their own reserve. When the Chiricahuas refused to be moved, half of them ran off with Golthlay, who the white men call Geronimo, and began to raid in Mexico. Later they hid out near Ojo Caliente, the Warm Springs, where Victorio and his Mimbres Apaches were camped. Me and Jim and some of John Clum’s Apache scouts chased them. After that we were based at Fort Thomas for a while and it seems we’ve been chasing them ever since. Every few weeks one of them gets hold of some whiskey and a whole bunch of them get drunk and decide they’ve ridden the white man’s road too long. Before you know it they’ve roped their ponies and they’ve lit out for the border. Soon’s it happens they call Jim and me. I smelt Apache tracks for so long I can’t smell nothing else.” He paused and reflected. “Yes, you could say we’ve caught plenty.” He seemed about to say more but changed his mind.

  “What were you going to say?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “Why do you do it then? You must have a reason.”

  Zeke scowled and she saw she was on swampy ground. “I hunt ’em because Jim does.”

  She sensed she was close to the missing part of the jigsaw. “And why does he hunt them so doggedly?”

  The old scout looked away into the night then turned back to search her face, wondering if he should tell her.

  “Well, Mrs. Lantz, he was once married to an Indian.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You mean he had a squaw?”

  “Don’t take it like that. She was a Cheyenne, one of the plains tribes, and a sight she was to see too. All the young bucks were fighting over her but she chose Jim. She had the voice of a bird and the soft eyes of a deer and she was as much woman as I’ve ever seen. Little Antelope, she was called. She roped and broke him slowly and what was more he let her.”

  “What happened?”

  “Two years they were married and when the great southern herds of buffalo were almost shot out on the prairie she came southwest with us. One night we went out hunting. By that time she was as big as a house-end, ready to give Jim his first son. When we rode in an sunup she was dead, the baby cut out of her belly…We found it later. It was a boy too…” He lapsed into silence. There didn’t seem to be any more to say.

  Kate stared at him. “That’s horrible. Who killed her?”

  “Apaches.”

  “So that answers my question.”

  “Yep,” Zeke replied, pushing himself to his feet. “I think I’ll take me a spell on the roof. These old eyes may be bad but they can still see Indians.” He turned to walk away but her voice stopped him.

  “What did Mr. Tanner mean?”

  “When?”

  “When he said that if the Apaches overran us before the cavalry got here that I wouldn’t be here to see it.”

  The old scout’s face was hard and wise. “Because he’d shoot you rather than let Chato get his hands on you.”

  She was horrified. “You mean he’d kill me?”

  Zeke looked away and his voice was soft. “Yes, m’am, you and your daughter both, and he wouldn’t think twice about it.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The two thin lines of horses were champing at their bits and stamping, adjusting to the harness and the weight of the cavalrymen who had just mounted. The sun was climbing into the hard desert sky but it was still cool and a man here and there shivered or slapped his gloves against his thigh in order to boost his circulation. Cold or not, it was the best time of day to ride, before the sky was brassy and the land burned and shimmered under the onslaught of midday.

  “I hope we find these goddam Indians soon,” one trooper muttered out of the side of his mouth to his companion who was busy rechecking his Springfield saddle carbine.

  “Me too. I know where there’s a sweet little lady just aching for my company and I’ll allow she always keeps me a bottle of best bourbon in her kitchen cupboard.”

  The sergeant, a tough Irishman called Mullaney who’d given more years than he cared to remember to the U.S. Cavalry, was riding back up the line. He overheard the remark and grinned maliciously. “No women where you’re going, boy, and no bottles either.”

  “Don’t I know it,” the trooper said sadly as the sergeant rode on by. He shook his head.

  At the head of the column Lieutenant William J. Hardcastle sat his mount impatiently. He was tall and slim, the unlined skin of his face hidden as he scanned the horizon for any sign of life with his
field-glass.

  There was nothing.

  He wondered angrily where Tanner and Harris had got to. Obviously they had not found any traces of the missing Apaches, otherwise they would have hotfooted it back long before now. Hardcastle was growing worried. The men only had rations for three days and if they didn’t find the Indians soon they would have to turn back.

  He scowled as he pushed the field-glass back into its case and lit a cheroot. The thought of returning empty-handed to Fort Bliss did not amuse him. It wouldn’t be the first time. He had been out west now almost a year and had led eight searches, most of them fruitless, and those Apaches he had recaptured had surrendered like lambs, mostly old men trying to go back to their homeland to die where their ancestors had. Just for once he wanted a good fight to make this tiresome tracking worthwhile. A good, honest, rip-roaring fight. Chato seemed the right Indian to rise to the challenge and if his troopers could lick the Apaches good and take them back to the reservation with their tails between their legs it would look good in the eastern newspapers and would also influence a promotion board.