The Wild Girl: The Notebooks of Ned Giles, 1932

by Jim Fergus

  NOTEBOOK VII:

  The Rescue

  22 JUNE, 1932

  “Mr. Giles,” Billy Flowers intoned in his deep Old Testament voice. “You have lost three of your party and all of your outfit.”

  I had fallen asleep, after all, sitting up against the tree, writing in my notebook, and I thought for just a moment that I must be dead, that I had gone to meet my Maker, that here He stood before me. For when I opened my eyes all I could see against the deep blue morning sky was the outline of his craggy head, his long white hair and beard, his intensely blue eyes boring into me. I scrambled to my feet.

  “We were ambushed,” I said, “not far up the trail.” The others, too, had come abruptly awake to the sound of Flowers’s voice.

  “Yes, I know,” Flowers said. “I’ve seen the place where it happened. I saw Mr. Phillips’s prize polo pony dead at the bottom of the canyon. They were eight altogether in number who set upon you, including la niña bronca herself, who aided them in your capture. I identified her track. So much for the savage’s sentimental attachment to her new white friends.”

  “If it hadn’t been for her, they would have killed us right then and there,” I said. “We’ve been to their ranchería. We escaped last night.”

  “And left Mr. Browning and the woman behind?” Flowers asked. “And the old heathen? Or are they dead? Someone was badly injured by a rock during the attack, that much was clear in the sign I saw.”

  “They’re alive, they’re all still alive but we had to leave them.”

  “You left a white woman in the clutches of the savages?” Flowers said. “Shame on you. You know what they do to them, don’t you?”

  “We had no choice,” I said. “Mr. Browning was hurt too badly to travel and Margaret insisted on staying with him. How far behind is the expedition?”

  “Less than a half day’s ride,” Flowers said. “I came ahead to scout the route.”

  “We have to get to them before the Apaches find us again,” I said. “We can lead them back to the ranchería.”

  “I am quite capable of finding the ranchería myself, young man,” Flowers said. “Just by following your trail.”

  Tolley spoke up then. “You don’t want to do that, Mr. Flowers. Not alone, in any case. The ranchería is well protected. We need reinforcements.”

  Flowers smiled. “Ah, yes, so you have finally discovered, Captain Phillips.”

  “I never thought I’d say this,” said Tolley in a small voice, “but I’m happy to see you, Mr. Flowers.”

  Flowers set a grueling pace. We followed him, traveling with one eye cast back over our shoulders, half expecting that at any moment the Apaches would fall upon us again. Someone once told me that chickens and game birds never learn to look up into the air, which is what makes them so vulnerable to avian predators, but for our part we had learned our lesson and at every rocky pass through which we traveled, and every canyon wall beneath which we rode, we looked skyward, remembering the shadows descending upon us from above. And I think we all had the same eerie sense that even though we had not seen them yet, they were following us, watching and biding their time.

  The summer monsoon season was just getting under way, and the heat and humidity built all day, dark storm clouds piling on the southwest horizon, wicking their cargo of moisture up out of the Gulf of California. In the afternoon, the winds picked up and bent the tops of the tall pine trees, pushing huge black cumulonimbus clouds over the distant mountains. We watched them coming gradually closer, roiling and rumbling and flashing with lightning, and we could smell the rain long before it reached us, its pure fresh scent delivered on the warm wind. We watched as the gray undulating sheets obscured the far peaks and the wind came cooler, the temperature dropping precipitously, until it was suddenly quite cold and enormous ice-cold silver-dollar-size drops began to fall, just a few at first splattering off the mules’ backs, and then harder and harder. We rode into the expedition base camp just at dusk and just as the rains came in a sudden vicious deluge.

  Two wranglers came out in their raingear to tend to our nervous mounts, the roar of the rain so loud that we had to shout to be heard over it. Now the thunder seemed overhead, great erupting bursts and cracks of it, and the camp was lit by brilliant flashes of lightning. Billy Flowers went off to tend to his dogs and the rest of us were led to the mess tent, where people were just beginning to congregate for dinner.

  “Hey, kid!” Big Wade called out from one of the tables. “Jesus Christ, you look like a fuckin’ drowned rat.” He rose and came over and gave me a big bear hug. “Damn, am I ever glad to see you. We figured the Apaches had gotten you.”

  “Yeah, they did,” I said.

  “Where’s the rest of your bunch? Margaret and Mr. Browning. Are they okay? And goddammit, Jesus, where the hell have you been? You were supposed to stay with me, boy. I’ve had to pack my own damn gear.”

  “Margaret and Mr. Browning are still with the Apaches,” I said. “We had to leave them behind.”

  “You left them with the fuckin’ Apaches?”

  “It’s a long story, Big Wade.”

  “Yeah, well, I want to hear the whole damn thing,” Big Wade said. “But first, you know what my next question is, don’t you, kid?”

  “Sure I do, Big Wade: Did I get the shot?”

  “Well?”

  “Not only did I not get the shot,” I said, “but I lost your camera.”

  “You lost the Leica? You can’t be serious, kid?”

  “Well, I didn’t exactly lose it,” I said. “I think Margaret has it.”

  “You think Margaret has it? Oh well, this is just dandy,” Big Wade said. “Because I imagine the Apaches will be taking real good care of my equipment … considering that they are, after all, Stone Age people. I can’t believe you lost your fuckin’ camera. Kid, you do know what a photographer is without his camera, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, Big Wade, a photographer without his camera is like a man without a dick.”

  “In the lad’s defense, Big Wade,” Tolley said, “we ran into a spot of trouble among the bronco Apaches. Young Ned here was busy with such niggling matters as saving our lives and entering the state of unholy matrimony.”

  “Oh, you got married while you were away, did you, kid?” Big Wade said. “Well, why didn’t you say so? I guess congratulations are in order. Who’s the lucky girl?” He shook his head, and muttered under his breath, “Jesus Christ, I leave you alone for five fucking minutes …”

  “I’ll get your camera back, Big Wade,” I said. “I will. And if for any reason I can’t, I’ll buy you a new one.”

  “Ah, hell, kid,” Big Wade said grinning, “I’m just giving you a hard time. I’m not really worried about the camera. I’m damn glad to see you. Now start at the beginning and tell us everything.”

  And so over dinner we told Wade and the others what had happened to us since we left them back in Bavispe, which seemed already like another lifetime ago. Afterward, we were summoned to Colonel Carrillo’s tent to give our report. Chief Gatlin, Billy Flowers, and the rancher Fernando Huerta were also present.

  “Did you see my son?” Señor Huerta asked us straightaway.

  “Yes, sir, we did,” I said.

  “And he is well?”

  “Yes, sir, he appears to be healthy.”

  “Thank God.”

  “We will move against them first thing tomorrow,” Carrillo said. “Mr. Flowers assures us that he can locate the ranchería. We’ve got them cornered now. In two days, señor, you will hold your beloved son safe again in your arms.”

  “It’s not going to be that easy, Colonel,” Albert said. “Your troops will never be able to get through to the ranchería. Ask Mr. Flowers. Half a dozen of their warriors can hold off your entire army, just by raining rocks down on you from above.”

  “Albert is right, Colonel,” said Tolley. “It would be a slaughter. All your fine horses will end up like mine, dead at the bottom of a canyon.” />
  “Mr. Flowers?” the colonel asked.

  “I’m afraid they’re probably correct, Colonel,” Billy Flowers said. “It is not by accident that the Apaches have made their ranchería in this place. It is nearly impregnable. The route there is treacherous and easily defended by a handful of men.”

  “And there is no other route?” Carrillo asked.

  “None from this side,” Flowers said. “Possibly if we descended and circled the sierra and came up from the south. But that could take weeks.”

  “With the monsoons beginning,” Carrillo said, “perhaps even longer. Assuming we could even cross the river.”

  “We do not have that much time,” Señor Huerta said. “We are so close now.”

  “I say we go through the pass at night,” Chief Gatlin said. “While there’s still enough moon to light our way. The Apaches are superstitious and they won’t attack in the dark.”

  “That’s a crazy idea,” I said. “It’s hard enough negotiating the pass in broad daylight.”

  The little muscle in Gatlin’s jaw twitched. “Mr. Giles, I think we can all agree that your plan has been a distinct failure,” he said. “You’ve lost the Apache girl, who was supposed to be our bargaining chip, you’ve failed to recover the Huerta boy, and now you’ve lost three members of the expedition, including a woman who you abandoned in the clutches of the savages in order to save your own yellow-bellied skin. Suffice it to say that we are not seeking your advice in this matter.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you would be, Chief.”

  “It wasn’t Giles’s fault,” Tolley said. “I was in charge and I take full responsibility.”

  “There is one other thing you’re all overlooking,” said Albert.

  “And what might that be, scout?” Gatlin asked.

  “You should read your history of the Apache wars, Chief,” Albert said. “Because then you would know that traditionally, when an Apache village is attacked, the first thing they do is kill the captives, women and children included. In this way they deny their enemies the satisfaction of a true victory.”

  Gatlin looked at Albert with contempt. “You don’t have to lecture me about Apache atrocities, scout,” he said. “I know as well as anyone what low-down scum they are. I know they have no sense of honor, no sense of a fair fight. If it were up to me, we’d have finished ’em off a long time ago.”

  It was the wrong thing to say to Albert, and I could see the blood rising in his face. “You White Eyes come into our country with your armies, your guns and cannons,” he said. “You steal our land, you slaughter every native that stands in your way, you lock the survivors up on reservations. And you ask us to fight fair against you? How do you think a tribe of a few thousand souls has managed to survive three hundred years of persecution? How do you think we avoided being finished off, as you put it, Chief? By learning not to fight fair. The White Eyes and the Spaniards and the Mexicans taught us everything we know about atrocities.”

  “We, is it now?” Gatlin said, nodding. “I thought you were on our side, scout? Hell, I thought you were about half civilized. But now I see that after only twenty-four hours among your own kind, you’re all set to put the loincloth back on and take to the warpath. Your old granddad went native again, did he?”

  Albert regarded Gatlin with loathing and addressed Carrillo. “Colonel, assuming that you can even get through the pass,” he said, “if you invade the ranchería, you’re going to find Margaret and Mr. Browning dead. And Señor Huerta’s son, too. Their blood will be on your hands.”

  “We must listen to them, Colonel,” said Fernando Huerta, standing. “We cannot risk my son’s life by acting rashly.”

  “We have no other choice, señor,” Carrillo said. “Our attempts to negotiate with the savages have clearly failed. We must take military action.”

  “No!” shouted Señor Huerta. “I will not allow it!”

  “You are not in command of this operation, sir,” Carrillo snapped.

  “There’s one other thing you should all know,” I said.

  “What’s that, Mr. Giles?” said Gatlin.

  “The leader of their band is a white man.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Have you ever heard the name Charley McComas?” I asked.

  “Of course,” said Gatlin. “Everyone in the Southwest knows the story of little Charley McComas. Kidnapped by the Apaches in 1883.”

  “He’s not so little anymore, Chief,” Tolley said. “He’s all grown up.”

  “Oh, hell,” Gatlin scoffed. “We been hearing rumors for years in this country about Charley McComas. Old E. H. White, used to cowboy over on the Diamond A, always claimed that one time back in twenty-four when he was looking for strays up in the timber, he ran into a big redheaded white man leading a band of Apaches. He always claimed it was the McComas boy. ’Course, old E.H. was known to stretch the truth a bit in the interest of a good yarn.”

  “It wasn’t a yarn,” I said. “We’ve seen him.”

  Tolley, Albert, and I walked glumly back through the camp. The violent storm had passed earlier, but the faint rumblings of it still sounded in the distance, and lightning flashed on the far horizon.

  “Well, that went well,” Tolley remarked.

  “We’ve really made a mess of things, haven’t we?” I said.

  “Not to worry, old sport,” Tolley said. “Things will look brighter after a good night’s sleep. I can hardly think straight I’m so tired.”

  We split up, off to our assigned tents, Tolley with the paying guests, Albert to the staff quarters, and I back to the “press” tent. Big Wade was already asleep, snoring as usual, and the boy Jesus, exhausted from the trials of the past days, slept curled on a mat on the floor. It was strange being back with the expedition, as if we’d never left, as if our brief time among the bronco Apaches had been nothing more than a dream, a nightmare. How I wish that it had been. How I wish that I could wake up in the morning and have everything be as before, with Margaret and Mr. Browning and Joseph safe with us. I don’t know if I’ve ever been so completely bone-weary tired in my life. Or so discouraged. I hope Tolley is right and that things look brighter by the light of day and after a good night’s sleep. Because right now they look pretty damn hopeless. Good night, Margaret; good night, Mr. Browning; good night, Joseph; I hope you’re all safely sleeping. Good night, Chideh.

  23 JUNE, 1932

  Yet another disaster has befallen us … This morning at dawn Colonel Carrillo rode out of camp with a small detachment of Mexican soldiers and half a dozen volunteers, with Billy Flowers guiding them. Their purpose was to make a short scouting expedition so that the colonel could himself get the lay of the land.

  Less than six hours after their departure, Carrillo, Flowers, and five other survivors, two of them wounded, straggled back into camp. Only Flowers still had his mule, bearing the most seriously wounded man. All else were afoot. All told, eight Mexican soldiers and four of the volunteers had been killed in the ambush, and all the other horses and mules were either dead or captured by the Apaches. Without any explanation for what had happened, Carrillo and Flowers went immediately into conference with Chief Gatlin. One of the American survivors of the ambush was the steel magnate’s son Winston Hughes, the Yale boy who so enjoys tormenting Tolley. With none of his customary fraternity-boy cockiness in evidence, Winty described to us the terrible events of the day.

  They never even reached the pass but had been ambushed only an hour out of camp, at another spot where the trail narrows along an arroyo. Above the trail on the one side was a series of low bluffs, and it was here among the rocks that the Apaches lay in wait. The party was riding single file, with Colonel Carrillo in the lead, when a single shot was fired and the colonel’s horse went down beneath him. Two more shots followed in quick succession and the man bringing up the rear, a volunteer named Larkin from upper state New York, fell dead out of the saddle, his horse collapsing with the next shot. Now the trail was blocked at
both ends by the floundering, dying horses, and the other animals began to panic, rearing and whinnying, wheeling in circles, slipping on the rocks, stumbling and falling to their knees. In the ensuing chaos some of the riders were unseated, others were picked cleanly off by the steady, methodical gunfire. Colonel Carrillo shouted orders for everyone to dismount and take cover. Some of the soldiers had managed to unsheathe their rifles and began to return fire, but they had no idea where the shots were coming from and all they could do was shoot wildly in the general direction of the bluffs. The steady, almost leisurely gunfire continued with deadly accuracy, one man after the next falling dead or wounded.

  “We were like the tin ducks in a carnival shooting gallery,” Winston Hughes said in a low voice, close to tears. “We couldn’t get off the trail and we couldn’t even tell where the shots were coming from.”

  Only Billy Flowers, on his big white mule, sure-footed as a mountain goat, managed to get off the trail and ride almost vertically down into the arroyo, where he left his mule out of the line of fire and worked his way around on foot to give himself a clear vantage point of the bluffs above. Flowers took his time, scanning the rocks with his eagle-eyed hunter’s eyes until he had identified the shooters and then he began to return fire himself, just as methodically. He picked off two of the Apaches before they realized that their position had been discovered, and as they were relocating, and trying to determine where the returning gunfire was coming from, Flowers hollered up to Carrillo and the others to leave their mounts and drop down into the arroyo on foot. In this way, Billy Flowers had saved the lives of the remaining men, though they lost all their horses.

  Dinner tonight in the mess tent was subdued, to say the least. Now that some of the volunteers have actually died at the hands of the Apaches, the expedition has taken on a sober new tone. No longer is this simply a hunting and fishing excursion into interesting virgin country, with the vague, though highly unlikely possibility that the volunteers might add a wild Apache to their trophy bags. Suddenly the Apaches are not only shooting back, but actually hunting the sports. Some of those who have never seen real military service (i.e., the vast majority of volunteers) have announced their intention to resign from the expedition, and a contingent of them has already approached Colonel Carrillo to demand safe escort back to Douglas. “I’m out,” said Winston Hughes. “This is no fun anymore,” he added in gross understatement. Even a few of the veterans and retired military men among them seem to have lost heart. The notion of fighting an elusive guerrilla army in this impossibly rugged country in order to rescue a single Mexican boy suddenly seems less romantic and a great deal more dangerous.