The Fight at Hueco Tanks

by Chris Scott Wilson

  But it was what they would do to him before the death cut was administered that frightened him. They would lavish more torture on a turncoat of their own tribe than they ever would on an ordinary prisoner. And he had seen the way they tortured.

  Fear was a cold hand that gripped his bowels and twisted viciously.

  Not far from the bottoms he found the site of the attack. Spying the churned-up ground he dismounted and went forward alone to interpret the sign. Like all Apaches he could read the whole story of what had happened, written as clearly as if he had watched it. What worried him at first was old Zeke Harris’s being pulled down from his horse but he soon found the tracks Tanner’s horse had made as he escaped and the depth of them told him the horse was carrying double.

  So the broncos were here after all and they had obviously found the two army scouts first, none of which was good news to Three-Fingers. He had hoped that Chato’s band were miles from here, preferably over the border, especially now as he was riding alone with the column four hours behind him. And the cavalry didn’t know how many broncos there were. Estimates ranged from four, furnished by the Indian Agent at San Carlos, to twenty. The latter count had been forwarded by threatened ranchers who were prone to exaggeration when faced with howling Apaches looking to steal their horses and run them off the land. But even four was enough. They were desperate and when cornered could fight like wounded panthers.

  Three-Fingers remounted the paint to head for the tanks. He had to find out if Tanner and Harris had been captured or were surrounded by the broncos. If so he would ride like the wind to fetch the blanco Pony Soldiers. As he jerked the paint’s head round he heard something. Immediately he held the pony still.

  Gunfire.

  The crackle of rifles was coming from Hueco Tanks. It was so sporadic he would have to ride closer to determine how many there were. He leaned forward and dug his heels into the pony’s ribs.

  The gunfire grew louder as he neared the fighting. They would probably be attacking on foot and their ponies would be picketed close by. He would skirt the fighting until he found them. Their number would inform him of their strength.

  Distinctly now he could hear the bark of a Winchester, its shooter fast and consistent. Unmistakably Tanner. Another Winchester, this time Harris’s, but it wasn’t the old scout using it. It felt all wrong. There was a third Winchester, and a shotgun too, the shooter firing quickly and, to Three-Fingers’s judgment, wastefully. It boomed out, drowning the sharper notes of the Colts, and he could hear a Remington and also a Springfield that made much the same report as the cavalry carbines.

  Keeping a careful ear on the gunfight he began to circle.

  The ponies were there. Just behind the crest of a low ridge that hid them from the relay station. He slipped from the paint’s sweating back and crept closer, crabbing through the scrub mesquite until he was near enough to make a count.

  Fifteen. Harris’s horse was among them, still carrying a big Texas double cinch saddle, but the scout’s Winchester was missing from the scabbard. There were stage line horses too and a mixture that had been stolen from various ranches, to judge from their brands. The smallest of the herd were the Apache ponies.

  There were six.

  Three-Fingers squatted, thoughtfully watching the horses as they foraged in the sparse grass. If he went back for his own paint, then ran off the Apache herd, making plenty of noise, the renegades would most likely have to call off the attack to round them up again. It could buy Tanner and whoever else was down there some breathing space while he, Three-Fingers, rode back for the column. If there had only been six Apaches he could have joined the fight, coming from the rear, but after seeing the horse herd there could perhaps be other renegades with them who were riding stolen horses.

  Running them off was the best idea.

  He counted the horses again just to make sure. Yes, fifteen. Then he edged slowly backward out of the thicket. A firm branch prodded him sharply in the back and brought him up short. He reached behind him to move it out of the way.

  His fingers brushed warm metal.

  The rifle barrel jerked away from his grasp then butted him painfully in the spine. Three-Fingers twisted his head and looked up.

  “Skee-kizzen, welcome, brother,” Copperhead smirked, his eyes taking in the blue soldier hat with the crossed sabers, “and what is an estune, a woman, like you doing sneaking around our ponies? Itna-iltc-’he, tell me no lies. Are you not nan-tan, scout for the Pony Soldiers?”

  Three-Fingers grimaced and spat into the sand.

  “Hi-dicho, it is finished.”

  “Yes,” Copperhead grinned. “You are.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “Sergeant!” Lieutenant Hardcastle barked. “Where is that damn Indian? I thought he was supposed to be a good scout. And where in this hellish desert are Tanner and Harris?”

  “I don’t know, Sir,” Mullaney replied honestly. There wasn’t much else he could say. The two scouts had been missing since yesterday and Three-Fingers hadn’t been seen after he left the column at dawn. The troopers had plodded mechanically onwards, following the Apache scout’s tracks, and now the fireball of the sun was arcing menacingly into the sky, drawing each man’s strength, and breeding irritability as they began to drown in their own sweat.

  Hardcastle’s narrowed eyes left the horizon and flickered to the sergeant. He accompanied the glance by slapping his hand against the saddle horn. “They’ve got to find them soon,” he said grimly.

  “Maybe they already have, Sir.”

  “Then damn it, why aren’t they reporting back here?”

  It was pointless explaining to the officer that to report you had to ride all the way back from where you’d sighted them and that could take nearly as long as it took you to get there in the first place.

  “The horses are tiring fast, Sir, and they badly need water.”

  “Damn the horses. Damn the Apaches. Damn this desert.” The lieutenant lapsed into silence.

  Mullaney coughed. “If we don’t rest them soon they won’t last much longer.”

  Hardcastle scowled. “Very well, we’ll lead them, but we’re not stopping. Give the order.”

  Mullaney wheeled his horse, its hooves churning up the alkali dust in uneasy clouds. “Column halt! Troopers dismount!” When all the men had stepped down from their saddles, relieved they were to have a break, he continued. “Mounts will be led. Forward Yo!”

  Angry, grumbling, the soldiers started to plod, cavalry boots, designed for riding, cutting into their feet. Halfway back along the line a trooper wiped the caked dust from his forehead and fanned himself ineffectually with his hat. “Me,” he said cynically, “I didn’t join the army to walk, I signed up to ride me a horse.”

  From behind came the sound of someone hawking, then spitting disgustedly, before a voice commented caustically:

  “Didn’t we all, son? Didn’t we all?”

  ***

  “Netdahe! Death to the white man!” the Butcher screamed.

  Tanner heard the scream. He ducked away from the wall and sprang for the ladder. In three steps his head poked through the roof. But he was already too late.

  Black Bob McConnell gulped convulsively as the Apache flew toward him. It was all very well loading the shotgun and blasting away at them from a good distance, impersonal somehow, like being in a shooting gallery, but one leaping through the air to land on you, death gleaming in his slitted eyes, was altogether a different matter. It was face to face and it was no game. Bob was scared out of his mind. The short seconds as the Apache came toward him seemed an eternity. There were so many things he could do at that moment and yet there was no time for any of them.

  Indecision strangled his mind.

  Reflex swung up the shotgun. Without any knowledge or instruction to do so, his trigger-finger contracted. The twin hammers fell.

  Both barrels erupted, spewing death in a hundred red hot lead balls.

  The blast caught the Butcher squarely in the
chest. It halted him in mid flight then threw him backwards. His calico shirt and waistcoat suddenly shredded and lumps of flayed skin and shattered bone hung in a pink mist of blood to spatter across the rooftop. The Apache landed on his back, head twisted grotesquely. His eyes were still open in what was left of his face. Jaw slack, blood dribbled from torn lips.

  By his side lay the knife. Its blade was splashed with blood. His own.

  The boom of the shotgun still battered hollowly in Black Bob’s head, the explosion bouncing from one side of his mind to the other. He was numb, the stink of the gunpowder and burnt flesh hanging in his nostrils, his mouth dry.

  Tanner grabbed his hat that had been blown off by the blast. “Reload it, boy.” The harshness of his voice brought awareness to Bob’s dulled eyes. “Your scattergun, boy. Do it fast.”

  Bob frowned and peered down at the gun in his hands, both barrels smoking. He touched the hot metal and jerked his hand away. I fired the gun, he thought stupidly, I fired the gun.

  Tanner knew what was going through the boy’s mind. He’d seen it before. “Yes, you did it, boy, and not a moment too soon.”

  “I killed him.”

  Bob’s eyes came into focus and he saw the ugly mask of the Butcher’s bloody face. “Holy Mother of God,” he whispered. “Oh Blessed Jesus. And look at the state of him.” His face paled and he turned away quickly.

  Tanner took the shotgun from Bob’s loose fingers and reloaded while he listened to the boy retching, vomit spattering the roof. It was a good job he hadn’t got more than his head out of the hole in the roof or the blast would have got him too. At least the boy was blooded now. Once he got over the sickness he would be all right. No cause for worry.

  Something tugged at the edge of Tanner’s mind. Then he got it. The gunfire had stopped.

  Maybe they were regrouping, or Chato had called them back to change their tactics. Tanner slithered to the edge of the roof and raked the terrain.

  Nothing.

  He turned back to the boy. “You all right?”

  Black Bob came up off his hands and knees, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Yes, Mr. Tanner, Sir.”

  “Call me Jim, boy. We’ve been through enough for that.”

  “You really mean it, Sir, I mean, Jim.”

  Tanner smiled. “Sure I mean it. You look fine now.”

  Bob’s tentative smile faded and his mouth twitched. “I’ll tell you something, Sir.”

  “Yes?” Tanner waited.

  “I’ve never killed a man before.”

  “We’ve all had to learn, boy.”

  “I was mighty scared, Sir.”

  Tanner tried to smile but he only managed a frozen grimace. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “But you’ve done it before.”

  “Don’t mean a thing. We’re all scared.”

  Bob thought it was a joke. “You wouldn’t just be saying that, Sir?”

  Tanner’s face was serious. “Like hell. I’m just as scared as you.”

  ***

  Three-Fingers was scared too. And he had a lot to be scared of. Copperhead had roped him, then loped off to fetch Chato. And if there was one of his tribal brothers he did not want to meet with his hands tied behind his back it was Chato. He had only met the flat-nosed warrior once but he had heard many tales of his cunning and his evil nature, and his fanaticism regarding the freeing of the Apache nation was common knowledge. Three-Fingers himself longed to be free; he was treated as little better than a dog by the Bluecoats but he was a realist. Even as a boy thirty summers past he had watched the approach of the whites. Just the power of their numbers alone was overwhelming. First there had been a lone trader, then another, and before long the trails had carried almost a continual stream of wagons trekking west. The end of life as the Indians had known it was apparent.

  After being confined on the reserve Three-Fingers had soon seen that the only chance he had of regaining even a portion of that freedom was to ride as a scout for the U.S. Cavalry, however distasteful it was helping to hunt down his brothers. Besides that, his army pay furnished him with whiskey, bought illicitly, and he had a great liking for the firewater. His woman, Dawn Star, too, he worshipped her and she demanded more and more from him; brightly colored blankets and trinkets from the trading post, all of which cost money. Not that he begrudged them but with only his agency rations he could never have afforded to indulge her whims.

  Before Copperhead returned with Chato he had to escape. The column had to be reached as soon as possible. If Chato managed to kill Jim Tanner and Zeke Harris, when he rode back to San Carlos all the Apaches, not just the Mescaleros, would ride for their freedom. If that was the end of it nothing could be finer, but Three-Fingers was only too aware of the strength of the blancos’ power. They would bring many columns of cavalry, hundreds of trained men with enough guns and bullets to wipe out the Apache Nation for ever. Confined or not, life was infinitely preferable to death, and many women and innocent children, misinformed and misled by Chato, would be hunted down and exterminated.

  Chato had to be stopped. He was a fool.

  Three-Fingers wriggled sideways in an attempt to loosen his bonds but Copperhead had done his work too well. Knowing they would return at any moment, he seesawed, using his knees and buttocks as levers, through the dust towards the ponies. He hoped to find something there that would help him. Harris’s horse looked the best bet. It was still carrying a saddle. As he edged toward it he came across a heap of gear, abandoned by the renegades when they began their attack. He rooted as best he could among the bundles, using his elbows and chin. He prayed he would discover a knife, anything to hack through the tough rawhide rope burning into his wrists.

  When he saw it he laughed, blinking the sweat of fear from his eyes. Only a cooking knife, but it was a knife. And sharp. He could only hope it would be sharp enough.

  He twisted until he was able to grip the blade between his knees, then he rolled awkwardly to a flat-topped rock. There was a long crack in its surface, wide enough for his need. Slowly, painstakingly, he wedged the hilt into the crack. Perhaps it would hold long enough. Mouth dry, he shuffled round until his back was to the rock then strained backwards, blindly groping.

  The knife wasn’t there.

  Painfully, he twisted, wrenching his neck. The knife had fallen out and lay useless on the shale.

  He started again. This time he pressed on the blade so hard it cut through his leggings and gouged into his knee. He winced. But the knife hadn’t moved. Now it was jammed fast. Quickly he backed away and slithered round, forcing his bound wrists towards the now bloody blade. Tentatively, fearful of knocking it out again, he inched toward it. He shuffled. Sure he was close enough. But it wasn’t there. Again he moved. Nothing.

  The knife had gone.

  He slumped, despair dropping like a black curtain.

  Then someone laughed and the sole of a moccasin crashed into his back. He grunted with pain as he was thrown forward onto his side. His face landed in the dust, mouth full of grit. Sharp stones clawed at his skin. Tired, drained by his efforts, he lay still, eyes closed.

  “Have you dah-eh-sah, the big sleep?” a voice mocked. “My kick was but a feather blow.”

  Three-Fingers levered up his eyelids and stared at the Indian above him. The circular head-dress woven from eagle feathers, the cougar claw necklace and the evil sneer, but most of all the flattened nose. In Chato’s hand dangled the cooking knife, plucked from the rock.

  “Ah, te-iltoche, the troublemaker,” he murmured, exhausted. “Me rindo, I surrender.”

  Chato grinned, the victor. “There is no surrender for you. One of my people and I do not know your name.”

  “He is Three-Fingers,” a voice obliged.

  The scout twisted his head and scanned the circle of faces. Next to Chato was the one who caught him, Copperhead, then the Apache Kid. He was to be expected. Any place there was trouble the Apache Kid was sure to be there.

 
; “I know him well,” the voice continued.

  The Treacherous Coyote, Tzoe. He was pressing a wad of blood-soaked cloth to his left shoulder. Three-Fingers tried to raise a smile.

  “I thought you, Tzoe, only fought against old men and crones who carry firewood. Who shot you, a girl child?”

  Tzoe’s face stiffened. “You talk with much spirit. When I cut off both your ears and stuff them in your mouth you won’t be so tough.”

  Chato sneered. “That will be for me to decide, not you. If anyone cuts off his ears it will be me.”

  Tzoe flashed his eyes. “You have all the pleasure, Chato.”

  Chato smarted. “Hold your tongue. Maybe he is right. Maybe it was a girl child who shot you.”

  Tzoe skulked away and sat down on a rock, nursing his wounded arm across his chest. Chato ignored him, his eyes dancing with strange lights.

  “You ride as nan-tan, scout for the Bluecoats?”

  Three-Fingers grunted, neither an admission or a denial.

  “Where are the Americanos now?”

  When the scout didn’t answer Chato lashed out. His foot caught Three-Fingers in the stomach. He doubled up in agony, winded. If only he could run, but bound like this there was no place to go. Stubborn pride held his mouth shut but he knew it was only a matter of time. That time, however little, might keep the broncos here until the column arrived. Even torture takes up precious minutes.

  “Well, Bluecoat scout? Tell me no lies.”

  Chato waited then kicked out again. Three-Fingers let out a long groan, eyes screwed up in pain, but was otherwise silent. A little bit of skilled knife work was what was needed here, Chato decided. He looked round and scowled.

  “Where is El Corneicero, the Butcher?”

  The Apache Kid shrugged. “I gave him the quail-call before I returned but he didn’t answer.”

  “He was on the roof of the barn,” Tzoe said, dabbing at his wound. “I saw him fighting. He went down.”

  Chato shook his head. “Then I will have to do it myself.” He twirled the cooking knife round in his fist. “Our scout here wanted to use this knife, now I will. But I don’t think he will like it.” He passed the blade close to Three-Fingers’s nose.