“No, sir,” Jones said. “That particular Indian goes by the name of Delshay.”
“Delshay?”
“Yes, sir. He isn’t nearly as old as Geronimo, but he’s damn near as smart.”
For a long moment, Matt and Delshay continued to stare at each other. Finally, Delshay turned and rode away, his leisurely movement giving evidence of his disdain for the army troops who had been in pursuit.
“Lieutenant Bristol?” Matt said.
“Yes, sir?”
“It is your command, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Bristol, now being the senior officer present, took command and the company, with twelve killed, including Captain Trevathan and Sergeant Emerson, returned to Fort Bowie. Nine of the returning cavalrymen were wounded, a couple of the wounds severe enough that the soldiers had constructed travois to bring the men back. The bodies of the dead were brought back, draped over their horses. Six horses had been so badly wounded that they had to be destroyed, and that required doubling up some of the bodies on the remaining horses.
Colonel McKenzie met the dispirited company as they rode through the gate.
“Where is Captain Trevathan?” McKenzie asked Matt.
“Belly down on one of the horses,” Matt replied.
“Lieutenant Bristol!” McKenzie called.
“Yes, sir?”
“I want you, Manning, Jensen, and the senior NCOs at headquarters as soon as you dismiss the men.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Bristol gave the report, mercifully not condemning Trevathan for his mistakes.
“Mr. Jensen, you are the senior scout,” McKenzie said. “It was your responsibility to keep Trevathan from riding into an ambush.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Bristol said. “But if it hadn’t been for Mr. Jensen, our losses would have been much higher.”
“Yes, sir,” one of the NCOs said. “Mr. Jensen, he saved our lives, is what he done.”
Matt Jensen tendered his resignation that very day. Two days later, he was on a train heading back up to Colorado, his experiment as an army scout concluded.
Chapter Two
Picket Wire Canyon, Colorado
To many, the metal bit jangling against the horse’s teeth, the hooves clattering on the hard rock, and the creaking leather saddle might be little more than a cacophony of disparate sounds. But to Matt Jensen, it was music, a symphony that defined the life he had chosen to live. In the six months since Matt had resigned his position as scout for General Crook, he had earned his keep in a variety of ways, from riding shotgun for Wells Fargo, to transporting a prisoner for the sheriff of Fremont County, to delivering a string of horses from Higbee, Colorado, to Belle Meade, Kansas. He was just returning to Colorado from the horse-wrangling job now.
Matt wandered from occupation to occupation because he wanted to, not because he had to. In truth, Matt had a rather tidy sum of money earning interest in a bank in Denver, the result of a very successful operation in which he and his friend and mentor, Smoke Jensen, had panned for gold. Smoke now owned a very productive ranch, and if Matt wanted to, he could probably own one as well. But Matt didn’t want to. He enjoyed the idea of being as free as tumbleweed, feeling at home anywhere he happened to be, but putting roots down nowhere.
Dismounting, Matt unhooked his canteen and took a swallow, then poured some water into his hat. He held it in front of his horse and the horse drank thirstily, though Matt knew that the small amount of water would do little to slake the animal’s thirst. Spirit drank all the water, then began nuzzling Matt for more.
“Sorry, boy,” Matt said quietly. “That’s the best I can do for now. But we’ll reach Crocker’s ranch before nightfall, and there will be water there for both of us.”
Before Ian Crocker got married and settled down, he and Matt had wintered together in the mountains. But Crocker married a schoolteacher and started a ranch. It wasn’t a large ranch, but it was successful enough that he was able to make a living at it. Now, Matt planned his trips so as to stop and call on his old friend from time to time.
Unbeknownst to Matt, even as he was approaching the ranch, there were four unwelcome visitors. The four were Burt Philbin, Deermont Cantrell, Abe Oliver, and Percy Morris. They had tried to hold up a bank in Bent Canyon, Colorado, only to run into a time-lock safe that prevented them from getting any money. Leaving the bank empty-handed, they barely escaped with their lives, and were forced to ride out of town under a hail of gunfire from the armed and angry population of the small town.
The four outlaws had happened across the ranch by accident earlier that same afternoon. There, Crocker’s generosity provided water for parched throats, and the promise of food for starving bellies.
“Where is Meechum?” Cantrell asked the others. Leaving the four would-be bank robbers to drink thirstily from his well, Crocker had gone back inside the house to tell his wife that they had unexpected company. Because of that, he was out of earshot and the men could speak freely.
“He was supposed to meet us at the bank,” Oliver said.
“Maybe he found out that the bank had a safe with a time lock and he knew we wouldn’t be able to get any money,” Morris suggested.
“If I find out he knew about that but didn’t tell us, I’ll shoot him,” Philbin said angrily.
“Hah!” Cantrell said.
“What? You think I won’t?”
“Billy Meechum is your cousin. I don’t see you shootin’ your own cousin.”
“Yeah, well, maybe not, but I don’t know why the son of a bitch didn’t tell us about the time lock on that bank vault,” Philbin said.
“Ah, it could be worse,” Oliver said.
“How could it be worse?”
“We wasn’t none of us killed when we rode out of town,” Oliver reminded them. “Not that they wasn’t tryin’ hard enough. I swear it seemed to me like ever’ one in that town had them a gun and was shootin’ at us. Women and kids, too.”
“You got that right,” Cantrell agreed.
Matt reached Crocker’s ranch at about the time the sun was a large orange orb sitting low in the western sky. The shadows of nearby aspen and cottonwood trees were long as he approached the house and barn. Dismounting, Matt saw four saddled horses tethered out front. He walked over to look at them. It was obvious they had been ridden hard recently and they had not been rubbed down, for streaks of salt stained their coats. There was something sticking out from under one of the saddles and as Matt examined it more closely, he saw that it was a sackcloth with two eyeholes.
It was a mask.
Matt walked away from the horses, then led Spirit over to a water trough where the horse began to drink.
The front door to the house opened, and Crocker stepped out onto the porch.
“What are you doing there, mister?” Crocker called.
Matt could see a look of concern in Crocker’s face.
“I’m getting water for my horse.”
“Water your animal and get. We don’t like strangers around here.”
“All right,” Matt said. “I’m obliged for the water for my horse.”
After Spirit drank his fill, Matt remounted, then rode away.
Philbin, Cantrell, Oliver, and Morris had been standing just inside the house when Matt approached. All four were holding drawn pistols, and Cantrell was peering through the crack between the dark green window shade and the window.
“Is he goin’ away?” Philbin asked.
“Yeah, he’s ridin’ off,” Cantrell replied.
The outlaw chuckled, then put his pistol away. He looked over at Crocker. “Well, now, you done that just real good, friend,” he said. “Yes, sir, you done it real good. I don’t think he suspects a thing.”
Philbin turned toward Crocker’s wife, who was busy in the kitchen. “How long till supper?”
“It’s ready,” she said.
“It’s about time. I’m near ’bout starved to death
here.”
The five men walked into the kitchen where Katie was putting supper on the table.
“What the hell is this?” Philbin asked.
“Potatoes and eggs, cooked together in bacon drippings,” Katie said.
“I ain’t never seen ’em done like this before,” Philbin said. He took a bite. “Oh, my, taters cooked like this is real good. Take my word for it, boys, this is just real tasty.”
“Philbin, they ain’t nothin’ you ever et wasn’t real tasty far as you’re concerned,” Cantrell said, and the others laughed.
Matt waited until after dark before he returned. Leaving his horse hobbled behind a stand of aspens, he slipped up to the side of the house. From inside, a flickering light managed to escape. Also, it wasn’t totally dark outside, because it was a cloudless night and the moon was full and bright so that the house and barn gleamed in a soft, silver light, like white blooms in a meadow.
The still night air was rent with the long, high-pitched trills and low violalike thrums of the frogs. For countermelodies there were crickets, the distant, mournful howl of coyotes, and from the stable, a braying mule and a whickering horse.
With his gun in hand, and staying in the shadows alongside the wall, Matt found a window and looked inside. There, he saw four men with Crocker and his wife. One of the men was pointing a gun at Crocker.
Because he had been on the trail, Matt was unaware of the fact that these four men had attempted a bank robbery earlier in the day. But he had known right away that they were the cause of Crocker’s strange response when he had arrived earlier in the evening.
Katie Crocker was holding, clutched tightly to her chest, a silver candelabrum.
“Please,” he heard Katie’s pleading voice say. “We have given you water, food, and shelter. But you cannot take this. This candelabrum was made by my great-grandfather. He was apprenticed to Paul Revere.”
“Who is Paul Revere?” one of the men asked.
The man holding the gun chuckled, but it was an evil chuckle.
“It don’t matter who Paul Revere was. This here is silver, and I intend to have it.”
“No,” Katie said, clutching it even more tightly. “You can’t have it.”
“Woman, you better think about what you are doin’ here. You are either goin’ to give it to me, or I’m goin’ to kill your man and you and take it. I’m goin’ to have it either way, but if you don’t give it to me, then you’ll both be dead.” He cocked his pistol.
Matt ran around to the back door and, finding it unlocked, pushed it open.
“Drop the gun!” he called.
“What the hell?” One of the men shouted. He was standing by the one flickering candle, and he snuffed it out. The inside of the house was immediately plunged into darkness as the man holding the pistol fired. Matt felt a hammer blow as a bullet slammed into his shoulder. He returned fire, using as his target the flame pattern from the discharge. He heard someone groan, then fall. A moment later, he heard the front door crash open, and he hurried through the house and out the back door to try and stop them, but they had already mounted and were galloping away.
By the time Matt got back inside, Crocker had relit the candle and he and Katie were looking down at the man Matt had shot.
“Damn,” the wounded man said. “My belly hurts.”
“Who are you?” Matt asked.
“Are you the one who shot me?”
“Yeah, I’m the one that shot you.”
“I’m dyin’, ain’t I?”
“More than likely,” Matt replied.
The man nodded. “Yeah, I thought so.”
“Who are you?” Matt asked again.
“My name is Morris. Percy Morris.”
“Who were the others?”
“Don’t know their first names. I only hooked up with them a couple of days ago. We robbed a bank in Bent Canyon. So if you was lookin’ for us, you found us.”
“The only thing I was looking for was water,” Matt said. “I didn’t know you’d robbed a bank.”
“The truth is, we didn’t,” Morris said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, we tried to rob it. It just didn’t go all that well.” Inexplicably, Morris tried to laugh, but it came out a hacking cough that spewed blood.
“Who were the men with you?” Matt asked, repeating the question.
Morris started coughing again, but this time the coughing spasm ended in a wheezing gasp, then silence.
“I wasn’t sure you were going to come back,” Crocker said. “After the way I acted when you were here first.”
Matt laughed. “Ian, didn’t you think I knew why you were acting like that?”
“I figured you would. I know that I sure hoped so.”
“Oh, you are bleeding,” Katie said, noticing the wound for the first time.
“Yes,” Matt replied without elaboration.
“Where is your horse?” Crocker asked.
“He is outside, tethered behind the stand of cottonwood trees.”
“I’ll go bring him in while Katie cleans and bandages your wound. Then we’ll fix you some supper and feed Spirit.”
“Thank you,” Matt said. He smiled. “Spirit thanks you as well.”
Chapter Three
The Santa Rita Mountains of southern Arizona
Almost eight hundred miles south of Crocker’s ranch, a band of Chiricahua Apache warriors—the same band Matt had scouted against—were still eluding General Crook’s army. The leader of this particular band, Delshay, whose name meant Walking Bear, dismounted and held up his hand. This was a signal to the other warriors who were with him that they should stay down in the ravine. Getting down on all fours, Delshay crawled up the hill, then lay down and looked just over the crest.
Two weeks earlier, Delshay had led this same group of warriors in a bold attack on an army supply wagon. The attack had been successful, and without losing even one man in the raid, Delshay and his men had killed the six soldiers who were guarding the wagon. In addition to defeating the soldiers, Delshay’s little band of Apache Indians had come away from the skirmish with a veritable treasure of powder and ball, as well as bacon, beans, and flour.
Delshay took his prize back to the main Apache camp, and that night the Indians had danced and sung songs in his honor. But some had complained that Delshay’s raid had just increased the danger because, as a result of that operation, the army, under General Crook, had sent a fresh platoon after them. Delshay made a solemn promise that he would find and kill all the soldiers who came after them.
Now, from his position at the top of the hill, Delshay could see the thirty soldiers who had been tracking him for the last two days. Evidently, the soldiers were planning to make camp here, for already they had unsaddled their mounts, constructed a hasty enclosure for them, and stacked their carbines. The soldiers, who had no concept of light or sound discipline, had lit a couple of campfires, and they were blazing brightly as the soldiers busied themselves in the preparation of their supper.
“Hey, Sarge, is it really true that you can get two dollars for an Apache scalp at any saloon in Arizona or New Mexico?” one of the soldiers yelled.
“Not all the saloons will give you two dollars, but some of ’em will,” the sergeant replied. “And some places, you can even get three dollars for a scalp. But purt’ near any of ’em will at least give you a free drink.”
“Well, then, I reckon by the time we finish this here little excursion, I’ll have me a whole string of ’em to cash in,” the soldier said.
The other soldiers, now in various stages of making camp, laughed.
“Dooley, you’re full of shit,” one of them said. “The truth is, you’d better look out that you don’t wind up with your own scalp hangin’ from some Apache’s belt.”
“His scalp, hell! More than likely some buck will cut off his pecker and hang it on his belt,” another called, and again, the soldiers laughed.
Turning toward the warriors who were with him, Delshay signaled fo
r them to come up the hill. One by one, and moving as quietly as if they were walking on air, the seven men of Delshay’s small war party moved up the side of the hill, then got down on their stomachs and eased up to look over the crest.
Delshay took the first shot. He saw dust rise from the tunic of the man he shot, and he saw the man’s eye’s open wide in shock before he fell. This was the same soldier who had been bragging about carrying a string of Apache scalps, and Delshay took particular pleasure in killing him.
Delshay’s opening shot was a signal to the others, and almost immediately, the warriors with him began shooting. The valley rang with the echoes of gunfire as the soldiers hurried to retrieve the weapons they had so carefully stacked a short while earlier. A few managed to get to their rifles and they began returning fire, though as Delshay and his men were both concealed and covered, the return fire was ineffective. As a result, the firefight was brutal, fast, and one-sided. In less than two minutes, all the soldiers of the little detail either were dead or had run away.
Shouting in victory, the Apache warriors swarmed down the hill, going to the bodies of all the soldiers to make sure they were dead. Then they went through the packs of the slain soldiers, taking whatever they found, including several bottles of whiskey.
One week later, Delshay was back in Goyathlay’s mobile camp. Goyathlay was the head of the small band of warriors to which Delshay belonged. For over ten years, Goyathlay, better known as Geronimo, had raided Mexican and American settlements at will, easily avoiding the vast army that had been sent after him. And while Delshay had not been with him for all that time, he had quickly become one of Geronimo’s most effective warriors and leaders.
The smoke of a half-dozen campfires lifted into the sky, perfuming the air with the aroma of cooking meat as Delshay walked out to the edge of the mesa. He stood there for a long moment, looking north. Goyathlay came up to stand beside him.
“You wish to go back to your woman,” he said. It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.
Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man Savage Territory Page 2
