The Fight at Hueco Tanks

by Chris Scott Wilson

  Sometimes Hardcastle cursed his ill luck that the Indian wars were all but over. If only he had been born a few years earlier then he might have attained a high rank by the time he was thirty. There was no chance of that now, thirty was only five years away, but he was determined to try as hard as humanly possible to scale as many rungs of the ladder as presented themselves. After West Point he had volunteered to come to this backwater because he knew the frontier still held some opportunity, but he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life as a two-bit captain commanding a dust-blown godforsaken post in the middle of nowhere, riding nursemaid on a tribe of worn-out savages that the government was trying hard to turn into farmers.

  Irritably he used his field-glass again on the horizon, raking the terrain for Tanner and Harris. Behind him, he was aware of the troopers’ grumbling. He knew he pushed them hard, but goddamn it, they had to find Chato’s band. They just had to.

  Mullaney, the sergeant, pulled his horse to a stop and performed a loose-limbed cavalry salute.

  “All men present and correct, Sir. Ready to move out.”

  Hardcastle flicked the stub of his cheroot out into the desert. “Very good, Sergeant. Give the order and send up that tame Apache scout.”

  “Sir!” Mullaney wheeled his horse, waved his arm, and barked out the command. “Forward! Yo!” He held his horse in check as the two lines plodded past. At the rear, eating the dust that the twenty horses of the troopers in front of him were beginning to kick up, Three-Fingers, the only Apache scout with the troop, glowered under his cavalry hat that was stuck with an eagle feather.

  “Three-Fingers! The officer wants you up front. On the double!”

  The Apache grinned under the lowered brim of his battered hat, his gaunt face already caked with alkali dust, and nudged his moccasined heels into his pony’s ribs. The little paint started out of its reverie and side-stepped into a canter, for a change kicking dust at the other horses as it moved up the line.

  Hardcastle was waiting for him. “Three-Fingers. I want you to get up ahead and locate Tanner. We’re on his trail but he might be even a day ahead. When you find him tell him to keep on going then come back and report to me.”

  The Apache nodded, his pony fidgeting irritably beneath him.

  Hardcastle unhooked his canteen from the saddle and shook it. There wasn’t much left. “How far to water?”

  Three-Fingers twisted in the saddle and studied the country.

  “Well?”

  The Apache grunted. “Reach water maybe at noon.”

  “But will there be any there? Most of the waterholes have been dry so far.”

  “Yes, much water. Tinajars, rock cisterns. Place called Hueco Tanks.” The Apache sensed the white man’s agitation and fell silent, waiting.

  “I want to find those damn Apaches today. I want Chato and I want him bad.” Despite the coolness, a bead of sweat crept from beneath Hardcastle’s hatband and trickled slowly down his face. Suddenly he slapped his thigh and his voice rose dangerously high. “I’m gonna get those red sons of bitches if it kills me!”

  Three-Fingers listened stony-faced to the insults thrown at warriors of his own tribe.

  Hardcastle’s lip curled into a sneer. “What are you waiting for, you lazy bastard of a scout? Get on out there!”

  Three-Fingers went.

  ***

  The first light of dawn pricked tentatively over the horizon.

  The remains of the Hueco Tanks relay station stood in the open below the tumble of rocks that housed the natural rock tanks that had named the place. There was no dense cover on any of the approaches to the burnt-out buildings, just the occasional boulder and the forever present ocotillo cactus and Spanish dagger that somehow squeezed an existence from the arid land. Here and there patches of scrub grass were losing their fight and looked pale even in the early morning light.

  Chato had slept little, so ravenous was the fire that burned in his belly. It seemed, images crowding through his dreams, that it was he, and he alone, that stood as an avenger to halt the progress of the land-voracious Americanos. They could be stopped. It had been proved. The stories of how the Sioux and the Cheyenne had resoundingly beaten the blancos at the Little Bighorn had slowly seeped southwards through the Indian nations. It mattered little that the Sioux had eventually been caught and confined again, the crucial point was they had achieved what had seemed impossible. It had proved the Pony Soldiers were not such good fighters when faced by angry warriors instead of women and children.

  Done once, it could be done again.

  And Chato was convinced that the hand of the Great Spirit, Usen, had been laid on his shoulder, selecting him to be the savior of his people, that under his leadership the whole Apache nation would rise and regain their freedom. The paltry raids they had made since their escape from San Carlos were only to serve as the whetting of their appetite. As their cache of guns increased so would the young men join them and the fighting could begin in earnest.

  And El Cazador, The Hunter Jim Tanner, would be the first to die. His death alone would be a great coup and bring much medicine to the Apache people. Chato’s anger still raged that the scout had slipped through his grasp in the dark, but he would not escape today. None of them would. And after the foul-smelling blancos were dead then he and his braves would enjoy the white woman before they slit her throat and watched her thin blood drain into the thirsty earth.

  He woke with a start, the images fleeing his crowded mind. For a moment he lay quietly, then realizing the night was almost over he rose and silently padded to where El Corneicero, the Butcher, kept watch. The lookout seemed to be staring vacantly into the star-spattered desert sky but he turned slightly before Chato came within six feet of him.

  “It will be a good day, Chato.”

  “Yes, schichobe, old friend. The white-eyes will taste dah-eh-sah, the big sleep, today.”

  The Butcher drew his knife, twisting the blade so the light caught the razor edge. “This is my friend today.”

  Chato eyed the deadly blade. “Ata-B’n-ata-yeynui huf’tan, I wish you fruitful work.”

  The Butcher’s lips peeled back from his teeth in a bloodthirsty grin and he nodded. “You too, my chief.”

  Chato clapped his shoulder. “The night is done and there is much work to do today. Come to the fire and we will eat before we rub out the white-eyes.”

  Together, they walked towards the dawn.

  The ponies picketed just out of sight of the relay station, within easy reach, Chato began to move his braves in close, picking their way towards their objective, taking advantage of every scrap of cover as only Apaches can. Under the gaze of the lazy sun they used its long shadows, creeping forward patiently. They had eaten horsemeat in preparation for a long day’s fighting and Chato was all too aware of the closeness of the cavalry, proven by Tanner’s presence. There could be no doubt the scout and his old companion were now down there where the thin column of smoke rose arrow-straight into the sky.

  And Chato knew Tanner was no fool. He would be waiting for them. Good. The white-eyes would all die together.

  A figure moved by the half burned barn. Chato hissed a warning and all the Apaches froze. Even at that distance he could make out the panther-like tread of the white man. It was Tanner. Chato grinned as he watched the scout draw water from the well. At that range, considering windage and the drop of the bullet, he could not be sure of killing Tanner for certain and besides he wanted his men a lot closer before they lost the edge of their surprise. But he drew a bead on him anyway, just for the pleasure of it.

  It felt good.

  Chato’s heart swelled and adrenaline surged joyously into his veins. He was all-powerful. Nothing could stop him today.

  Without doubt the Great Spirit was guiding his hand.

  When Tanner returned to the barn Chato moved his hand in the sign.

  They began to creep forward again.

  CHAPTER 8

  A bird sang out in the chaparral
.

  Josh Sutton flashed a glance at Zeke Harris. “Quail?”

  “Apache,” Zeke answered, his mouth turned down at the corners. “Sure as shooting. Sounds like quail, but it ain’t.” He looked round at Tanner who was checking his Winchester for the second time, levering shells through the chamber to check the action.

  Tanner nodded. “I heard it. It’s them.” He scooped up the bullets from the dust, wiped and fed them back into the magazine, one by one. “Any second now. Must be spread out good if they’re calling to one another.”

  “S’what I figured,” agreed Zeke.

  “They can’t be out there yet,” Kate Lantz observed, her eyes sweeping the terrain. “There’s nowhere for them to hide.”

  “Apache don’t need nowhere, m’am. Blade of grass is enough. Any more and they’re overdoing it,” Zeke exaggerated.

  “I don’t believe that, Mr. Harris,” she said before she heard his chuckle.

  “You’d better believe it. I’ll tell you something else for free. When they come, it’ll be out of the sun, just to give them an edge.”

  “But how can it be a surprise if we know they’re coming?”

  Zeke grimaced. “It don’t matter how much you got it figured out. Even if you know for certain they’re coming, that moment when they spring out of the ground screaming and hollering it’ll still be the biggest godda… I mean a real big surprise.”

  Tanner nodded his confirmation. “He’s right, Mrs. Lantz. Any minute now you’ll hear an owl-call to tell the quail-caller they’re all in position. Soon after that all hell’s going to break loose.”

  They fell silent, all eyes fixed on the horizon.

  A bird called and Kate listened. It was the quail again. Immediately there was a reply. “What’s that?”

  “Owl. I won’t say I told you so but I did.”

  “You’d better see to your daughter,” Tanner said. “Against that wall there, behind what’s left of that stall. Less chance of ricochets.” He noticed the salesman had already taken refuge there, apparently relying on the rest of them to protect his skin. Zeke followed Tanner’s glance and agreed with a nod and a roll of his eyes.

  Servada was in position, himself checking the action of his Colt and making sure he had plenty of ammunition to hand. Tanner watched the Mexican’s easy grace in handling the pistol and decided he must have used it plenty. Nothing to worry about there. Above them Black Bob’s boots slithered on the roof. Tanner had been up there earlier and had helped the boy drag up some timber to make a low wall to afford him some protection.

  “You see anything up there, Bob?” Tanner called softly.

  “No, Sir, not yet,” came the reply, “but I’m still looking.”

  Zeke growled, “No need to look any more. They’re here.”

  A whisper and suddenly an arrow shaft was quivering in a beam only inches above Josh’s head.

  Zeke grinned. “Must be short on shootin’ irons.”

  His pleasure was short-lived. A rifle cracked and adobe brick powdered his shoulder. He searched for a target but there wasn’t one. “Sneaky, red-eyed, back-shooting son of a wh…”

  “Shut up, Zeke, there’s ladies present.”

  In the corner Ruth Lantz was cowering in her mother’s arms, eyes wide with terror. Kate however seemed remarkably calm, her own eyes cool and steady as she watched the backs of the men lining the half demolished wall.

  “Son of a bitch,” Zeke murmured as another arrow creased the air above his head and landed among their gear with a clatter. He coughed belatedly to cover his cursing and was about to turn and apologize when the rifle started. Beside him Tanner chuckled. Zeke’s eyes flickered to him.

  “You’re sure happy. You like getting shot at?”

  “It’s your rifle,” Tanner grinned.

  Zeke frowned. “You sure?”

  “Know it anywhere.”

  “I’ll kill that red…”

  “If he don’t kill you first.”

  “I feel naked without it.”

  “You look it. There! By that cactus…” Tanner swung the barrel of his Winchester and squeezed off a shell. The Apache ducked back out of sight, but his silhouette, the low sun framing him like a cameo, was burnt into Tanner’s retina.

  “Yuh missed him.”

  Tanner worked the Winchester’s action and the spent casing twisted briefly in the air then fell into the dust. “Damn sun. They do it the same way every time.”

  “Have you faced this many times, Señor?” Servada asked, his eyes never leaving the desert.

  “Too many,” Zeke answered.

  The Apache rifle stopped. Silence fell back over the barn like dust kicked over a campfire. Josh fidgeted. The others glanced at him, then resumed their watching. They knew what was going on. Chato had begun the attack then stopped it abruptly to unnerve them. If the white men could fathom no reason for the sudden halt, then they would worry what the Apaches were up to. The thing was not to worry; there wasn’t much the Apaches could do other than a straightforward assault. Once the white men understood that then the Apaches had lost the edge. It amounted to a waste of time.

  Tanner was pleased. Any time wasted made the arrival of the cavalry column that bit closer.

  But even though they knew it was a ploy the silence still made them edgy.

  “Kinda spooky, ain’t it,” Josh said to nobody in particular, eyes screwed up in his leathery face.

  “Don’t let it get to you. Sometimes you can wait so long you’re sure they’ve gone, then the moment you show your face…”

  A wild yell split the air and bullets started zinging over their heads. They smacked into the adobe and ricocheted crazily, bouncing between the walls. Quieter, but just as effective, arrows began to prick the sky and fall in a deadly rain.

  “This time’s for real!” Zeke yelled to be heard over the gunfire and the war cries. He began earing back the hammer of his Colt and placing careful shots at the Apaches’ outlines as they danced briefly, breaking cover to shoot.

  Juan Servada’s shooting was purposeful, the deadly competent shooting of a man who knew violent situations well. But nobody had time to admire his talent.

  Josh was banging off shells as fast as he could pump them through his Winchester. Beside him Tanner’s action was fluid, paced, his expression that of a man who had a job to do and who would do it well. His rifle barked at regular intervals as he shot through the pall of powder-smoke, further hampered by the long, nearly horizontal rays of the dawn light.

  They were moving closer.

  An Indian broke cover and Tanner’s rifle swung easily. He tracked the Apache then gently squeezed. The Indian twisted with the hammer blow of the bullet. He hit the ground on his face. He didn’t move. Tanner ignored him to find a fresh target.

  On the roof Black Bob McConnell saw the Apache go down. He whooped, fumbling the spent cartridges from his shotgun. He was sure it had been his last shell that had cut down the Indian. Beaming, he felt in his pocket for fresh cartridges, pushed them home, then snapped the scattergun’s action closed. Ready to shoot, he panned the approach, trying to hunt up a target. The fighting had drained his nerves, adrenaline pumping excitement into him. Now he was ready to kill anything that moved. One whisper of a threat and blam, he would blow it to pieces.

  There was a noise on the roof behind him. Jim Tanner had come up to congratulate him on a fine piece of shooting. He smirked. “I got him good, Sir, didn’t I?”

  There was no answer and he swiveled to see why.

  Coming across the roof like a lightning bolt was an Apache brave. His raven hair swung wildly and his eyes were staring, mouth a crimson slash of hatred. And in his hand was the biggest, shiniest, most wicked looking god-awful knife that Black Bob had ever seen.

  His courage drained into his boots. Open-mouthed, he screamed in terror.

  El Corneicero, The Butcher, screamed too. But his was a howl of rage, the embodiment of all his loathing for all his enemies and his enemy the white ma
n most of all.

  He sprang forward, arm swinging upwards to strike down his foe. “Netdahe! Death to the white man!”

  ***

  Three-Fingers reined in. He glanced down over the little paint pony’s neck at the ground, then raised his head and sat quietly for a moment, studying the country.

  There was no breeze. The hot dry air sucked at his lungs and glazed his sun-battered skin as he examined the bottoms. It was mostly sand but here and there were patches of firm ground. Clumps of coarse grass pointed ragged fingers at the burning sky and the cactus looked like huge swollen pitchforks, hafts sunken in the earth.

  Nothing moved.

  The Apache was satisfied. Lithely he slipped from the pony’s back and dropped to one knee to inspect the tracks. Softly his fingers probed the edge of a print. There were many insect trails across it. It was cold, crumbly. Yesterday’s. Probably made last night. By Tanner’s horse. Tanner and Harris were too far ahead of the column and most of the tracks so far had been made by walking horses so they could not have reached here by sundown. They must have ridden through the night. Of course the trail wasn’t straight. It meandered from place to place where the two scouts had been casting for sign. That had held Three-Fingers up a bit. But he knew where they were headed.

  Hueco Tanks.

  They were too near not to have gone there. They needed water just as badly as the column and most of the trails in this bad country usually went from one waterhole to another. No need now to follow them so painstakingly. He could catch up quickly.

  He vaulted up onto the pony’s back and kicked him into a canter. As he rode he could make out the tracks of the two scouts in front of him and he kept a leisurely eye on them, the remainder of the time watching the shallow draws and ridges for any movement. He feared the bronco Apaches as much as any white man and with good reason. There was nothing the renegades despised more than a tame Indian. Given the glimmer of a chance of catching him they would slit his throat.