Slocum and the Apache Campaign

by Jake Logan

  Fairweather smiled and nodded. “Sergeant Vonders, find Chewy and Bee Tree. They’re going with Slocum and try to head off the gunrunners.”

  “Yes, sir!” Vonders bounded onto his mount.

  At the sounds of horses above them. Slocum looked up to see that the scouts were bringing the Diaz horses off the pass. It would be dark in another half hour. Clanton’s was three hours away. Maybe sometime he’d find some sleep for his gritty eyes.

  “Thanks. Give Woolard my regards,” he said to the officer.

  “I will, Slocum. I will.”

  A quarter moon had risen by the time Slocum held their horses in a dry wash over a quarter mile from the big house, while his three scouts checked out the Clanton place. He’d considered napping, but knew he might never wake up once he shut his eyes. Close to thirty-six hours of being awake had him more numb than he needed to be in case of their discovery.

  Chako returned like a soft night wind. He handed Slocum a warm burrito.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Stole it. They’re coming. No pack mules in the pens.”

  He wanted to know how his man had stolen his supper. But instead he nodded and took a bite. Not bad, and it was fresh too.

  “No mules,” Chewy said, joining them.

  “Any been here?”

  “No sign. Maybe one or two that belong here.”

  “Okay, Fairweather said they had mules and came through Saint David with the help of some Mormons. Have they not gotten here?”

  “We can spread out and find them if they’re coming.”

  “Any of you see any case of guns and ammo?”

  Bee Tree shook his head. “Plenty stuff there.”

  “He has lots he has stolen,” Chako said. “There are wagons full of it.”

  “No time to go back and look. I’d never thought, but he probably stole those rifles in the first place, like he rustles cattle to sell to the army.”

  The scouts laughed and bobbed their heads, amused at his discovery.

  “We better split up and look for Slade and Thorpe. We can steal their mules or whatever to stop them—do it. Where should we meet?”

  “There is a good spring and jacal near the Grande Arroyo,” Chako said, and everyone nodded.

  Slocum knew the place. “We’ll meet there tonight. Take a siesta when you get clear of here. Then look for those two, but be careful—they’ll sure shoot you on sight.”

  “We need to steal the mules or kill them, right?” Chako asked.

  “Yes, if you can’t steal them—shoot them.” Slocum shook his head at the notion. Be a big waste, but he had to stop those two at any price.

  Once clear of Clanton’s, Slocum found he had a hard time staying awake in the saddle and sought a dry wash off the beaten path. His horse hobbled and tied so he couldn’t run off, he undid his bedroll and spread it in the lacy shade of a mesquite. With plans to only sleep a few hours in the morning’s coolness, he put his six-gun beside him and closed his eyes.

  They were masked riders and he couldn’t see their faces. Shots zinged past him and he could not get his Colt to fire. The hammer would not fall and he fought it as they drew closer and closer. Then he woke up in the sweaty brilliance of midday. Sitting up, his six-gun in his hand, he cocked the hammer then carefully released it—no problem. The bay snorted softly, close by obviously still asleep—tired as his owner. He mopped his wet face on his kerchief and tried to focus his dry eyes. Take a week of sleep to ever recover, he decided, and rose, sweeping up his blankets and canvas ground cloth. Better get moving. Maybe his Apaches had found them—he certainly hoped so.

  He was a few hours from the jacal. Better head that way and be certain it was safe. Bedroll strapped in place, he undid the hobbles and tightened the girth. Time to get on the move, ole hoss. He took up the reins and swung into the saddle. On board, he headed down the wash listening and looking hard—the dream of his gun failing to fire haunting him.

  On top again, he saw nothing but more bland greasewood flats and some saw-edged purple mountains in the south, dazzling in the heat waves. Setting the bay in a long trot, he headed for them and his destination. If only the Apaches could find the gunrunners . . .

  Late afternoon he arrived. No scouts in sight, he approached it with care. No signs were evident in the dust that anyone had been there in recent times. He unsaddled the bay and let him roll, then hobbled him to let him gather what dry grass he might find. The shortage of feed for their animals would soon be the limiting factor in their staying out there. In the next twenty-four hours they needed to find them some.

  He made a small fire and cooked some crushed-corn-and-brown-sugar gruel in a tin cup. It would give him some energy. Squatted on his heels, he watched the mixture plop and boil, making small splatters. When he felt it was cooked enough, he used his kerchief to set it off to cool. As the saliva filled his mouth thinking about eating the gruel, he daydreamed about good meals from the past and the lovely women who’d cooked them for him. Whew—this scouting could be drudgery. What was Mary Harbor doing?

  “Don’t move a muscle, hombre,” the tough Mexican-sounding voice behind him ordered.

  The person stepped inside and drew the six-gun out of his holster. Cold goose bumps popped out on the backsides of Slocum’s arms despite the heat.

  “Who in the hell’re you?” Slocum asked in Spanish.

  “His name is Pedro,” a second voice said. “My name is Diaz. You must know me. Twice you have stolen my horses. You and some Apaches, huh?”

  “You have the wrong man.”

  “No, you killed some good men of mine I sent after you too, huh?”

  “Killed?” Slocum frowned at the man.

  “The only way they would disappear off the face of the earth, huh?”

  “Who were they?”

  “Oh, you know so little, huh?”

  “My name is Tom White—”

  “Ah, but the Apaches call you Slocum, huh?”

  “What Apaches?”

  “One they call Bee Tree?”

  How in the hell did he ever get his hands on the scout? Slocum felt his throat constricting. Less than a day ago they’d put Diaz and his army afoot and running for their lives. Since then Diaz’d obviously captured one of his scouts and tortured info out of him. Torturing Indians was considered a useless effort—Diaz must be the expert at it.

  “Never heard of him. My name’s Tom—”

  The force of Diaz’s boot slammed into his back and sent him sprawling facedown. For a long second he lay there in the dust to consider his alternatives and who might help him. Without an answer, he began to rise.

  “Tie his hands behind his back,” Diaz ordered. “We’ll take him back. Those other scouts will follow and we’ll roast all their balls over some red-hot coals.”

  “Sí, mi general. Get up.” The burly Mexican, Pedro, jerked him by the arm to his feet. Then with a small rope he bound his wrists behind his back and shoved him down to sit on the ground.

  Squatted on his heels, Diaz wiped a spoon on his leather pants to polish it. Then he ate the cup of gruel. “Not bad,” he said waving the spoon about. “Maybe you would make a cook.”

  Slocum never answered. Answers only gave them reasons to get angrier. He’d save his strength for the hours, perhaps even days, of captivity ahead.

  “You know you ruined my chances of getting the thousands in gold from that stage?”

  No reply.

  “Ah, you don’t wish to talk to me?” Diaz beat the spoon in his palm.

  No answer.

  “You think the fucking U.S. Army can come down here and get me?”

  “They get mad enough,” Slocum said.

  “It would mean war with Mexico!”

  Slocum shrugged like that meant little to the army.

  “Listen to me!” Diaz used his fist to raise Slocum’s chin. “I will defeat them. Mexicans from all over would rush to my aid. Thousands would come help me slay your army. To fight you fucking gringo
s for invading their land again, you understand?”

  “You don’t really want war with the U.S. Army.”

  “Why not? They can’t stop the bronco Apaches. I do not fear them.”

  “Your men did not stop and fight today.”

  Diaz looked at his dusty boot toes and nodded. “I did not have them ready for such a fight. A few more months they will be ready.”

  “Good.”

  “You say good, why?”

  “’Cause then we can send the buffalo soldiers.”

  Diaz frowned. “Why them?”

  “They like to eat the ones they kill. We wouldn’t have to feed them for several days after the battle. They can eat Mexicans and we’d save the U.S. Treasury some money.”

  “You ever hear of such a thing, Pedro?”

  “No, mi general, I never hear of them doing that.”

  “Old African custom,” Slocum said.

  “Those sumbitches won’t eat my soldiers. They will die where they stand!”

  Slocum nodded and went on. “They usually boil them,’cause they say male Mexicans that age are tough to eat. Like old boar hogs, they smell real strong when they get the water hot.”

  “What in the hell do you talk about—cannibals? The U.S. Army has cannibals?”

  Slocum nodded, matter of factly. “Hard to break old customs.” “Pedro, you find out about those black ones stationed at Huchuchua.”

  “Sí, mi general.”

  “Sorry you missed your meal.” Diaz pushed off his knees to rise. “Now we ride to my command post. But you must walk. Saddle his horse, Pedro.”

  “Sí.” And the man fled the jacal to obey.

  Slocum wondered how he’d ever escape this self-made general and his man Pedro. His own time was like sand in an hourglass, sifting down fast. He needed a plan before his mind was obscured with torture and pain. There would be enough of that when they reached Diaz’s place in the Conchos. Diaz would make an example of him—for show purposes with his own men. See how weak the toughest gringos are?

  Damn . . .

  12

  The sun came up and Slocum rubbed his gritty eyes with his fists. His cell felt cool, and without a blanket the fallen temperature had soaked into him and he shivered. Diaz’s army slept. Only women moved about the low cooking fires, stirring pots—wrapped in cotton blankets against the chill, their heads covered by scarfs, some on their knees making tortillas on top of iron grills and holding suckling babies to their breast. His teeth close to chattering, he heard a soft hiss at the barred window.

  “Yes?” he whispered, moving aside and rubbing his arms briskly, hoping for some warmth to stir inside him.

  “Here and be quiet.” A woman handed him something wrapped in a tortilla through the bars.

  “Gracias, what is your name?”

  “Gloretta. You helped me once.”

  “I need out of here—”

  “Hush. The guard he comes back. I must go.”

  “Think of a way,” he said softly after her.

  A bob of her head and she hurried away.

  Gloretta, not a common name. Where had he helped her? His mind was blank, except he knew he had one amigo in the camp and perhaps more. His mind went through past times and places searching for the incident she spoke about. Maybe if he could remember, then he could weigh what her strengths would be against Diaz. Time, the shortest thing for him, would be the only way he might learn it.

  Mid-morning he was marched at the gunpoint of two guards to the front of the main building. He faced Diaz, who sat in a high-back chair under the palm frond porch. Many of his soldiers encircled them. They wore bandoliers over their chests, partly filled with cartridges, and carried single-shot trapdoor rifles and in the sashes around their waists, some old cap-and-ball pistols. They were not armed with up-to-date weapons.

  “Ah, gringo, today we wish to know the plans of the U.S. Army to invade Sonora.”

  “I’m only a scout. How can I know such things?”

  “This Colonel Woolard . . .” Diaz’s eyes narrowed. “You are his personal man.”

  “I’m just a scout.”

  “Oh, you are more than that. General Crook comes this week. What will he do?”

  “Shit and piss when he gets ready, I suppose.”

  His answer drew laughter. How did this bandit clear down in Mexico know that Crook was coming and when? Damn, the man’s intelligence was impressive. Probably the blessed Mexican telegraph got the word to him. If he ever lived through this ordeal, he’d tell Woolard to close that gap.

  “You are not listening to me. When do they plan to attack us?”

  Slocum shook his head.

  “I have many ways to make you talk, gringo. Today I am nice, but my patience is very thin.” Diaz held his thumb and forefinger a small gap apart.

  Slocum looked around. “You tell all them about you wanting them to fight the cannibals?” An audible sound of shock came from the onlookers.

  “That’s a lie!” Diaz shouted.

  With a shrug of his shoulder, Slocum looked up at a buzzard circling expectantly. “All you know is they haven’t ate you yet.”

  “There is no truth in that story.”

  “Ask the Apaches. No, you can’t, can you? They ate them too.”

  “Take him to his cell, and a few more days on little food and water will change his tongue. My compadres, he is here to learn the land for an invasion by the U.S. Army. They know the forces of Mexico are thin and they think they can take it with little force. I, General Diaz, will not let them in.

  “Who is with me?” Diaz’s ranting came from over Slocum’s shoulder as they marched him back. El general would need to pep them up after his stage robbery had failed and his forces were routed in the field by a handful of Apache scouts. For his part Slocum would have to let his cannibal story simmer and ferment in the soldiers’ minds. One thing to fight a gringo, but a black cannibal would make them all think. These people were extra conscious of such things. What could be worse than to be eaten by a black soldier? He was almost laughing when they shoved him roughly inside his cell and relocked the padlock.

  “Hey, bring me some food and water,” he shouted after the two guards, who were hurrying back to hear the man’s speech.

  Then he heard a hiss and hurried to the window. She quenched his thirst by filling a small tin cup with water several times, passing it back and forth to him. Then she issued a handful of jerky. She took pains to look around, and with her head wrapped, he only saw glimpses of the side of her face. None brought any recall.

  “Tonight be ready—I must go.” And she left.

  Be ready for what? Escape, he hoped, chewing on the hard jerky. Too hard. It would need to soak longer in his mouth before he chewed on it. But at least he had received some water and food. He must pester his guards some when they came back so they didn’t suspect her generosity.

  Gloretta—who could she be? Heavens, he didn’t need to look a gift horse in the mouth. What was Mary Harbor doing? Teaching abc’s to children on a slate board. He stretched out on the hard bunk, clasped his hands behind his head and did sit-ups. Had to occupy his time or he’d go crazy in this pissy, sour-smelling cubicle.

  A commotion outside in the afternoon forced him to go to the window and try to see what all the cheering was about. Three of Diaz’s soldiers with hard-stopping horses reined up at headquarters, and across the fourth pony was a body. He could hear them shouting—“Apache! Apache!”

  At the distance he could not be certain who they had, but obviously the man was dead. The bald-faced sorrel horse that bore the body told him enough. Those sumbitches would pay—damn them. He ground his back molars on the tiny grit clinging to them. They’d pay and pay big.

  Diaz was shouting—he always shouted—“Bring that gringo down here so he can see what we did to his scout. Bravo, Manuel and you, Cortez and Phillipe. You have killed the worst one.”

  “Come on,” the guard ordered and directed him with his rifle muzzle
to come out and march down the slope to the headquarters.

  Step by step on the gravel ground filled Slocum with dread. All the Apache scouts were loyal, hardworking soldiers in his book—none deserved to be treated any other way but as fallen soldiers in death. Showing off the corpse like some outlaw’s was against the bucks’ religion and ways as well. But what did these ignorant Mexicans know about that? They’d burned Davy Crockett’s remains at the Alamo—many more as well. Disrespect for the enemy dead was a sign of ignorance. He stopped and looked at the expired scout on the ground. A knife stabbed his heart, but he never flinched an eye.

  “Your boys have killed a bronco. He’s one of Caliche’s men. Now you’ll have the broncos to fight.”

  Many men checked one another, questioning his words and worrying about what that meant for them.

  “You lie, gringo!” Diaz shouted.

  “Why lie about a dead man?”

  Diaz’s arm pointed straight at the corpse. “I have no idea, but he is one of your scouts.”

  Slocum shook his head to dismiss it.

  “Take him back to his cell,” Diaz ordered and tried to take a kick at him with his knee-high polished riding boots. He missed, but his cursing and grumbling rage sounds followed Slocum back to his foul ovenlike den. Door padlocked behind him, he sat on the bed’s edge and buried his face in his hands. They’d killed Chako. Damn their souls. He’d damn sure miss that boy. So would lots of women on both sides of the blessed border—damn, Chako being dead was hard for him to accept. The knot behind his tongue felt like it would choke him. He clenched his jaw so hard his shoulders shuddered in anger. Diaz—your command is over.

  Then, his eyes tight shut, he tried to forget the smiling handsome brown face, but that only brought back more memories of the eighteen-year-old, born on Cibaque Creek and raised by his uncle after smallpox took his parents at age five. Chako knew the Madres and the rest of northern Mexico like the back of his hand, going on raids as young as twelve, to hold horses and kill some Mexicans too on his first war party.

  To have been killed by lowly Mexicans would have disappointed Chako. Somehow Slocum would have to even that score for him. It might change the boy’s place in the hereafter in Apache tradition, and it was something he’d have to do for him. He shook his head to try and dismiss his sorrow. It wouldn’t ever be the same with Chako gone. Maybe he needed to simply ride on when he—if he—ever escaped this loudmouth tyrant. No, he’d seek some revenge for his departed amigo.