Apache Sundown

by Jory Sherman

  “No way to catch him before he meets up with Welch, I suppose,” O’Hara said.

  “There might be a way,” Zak said.

  “How?”

  “If we stop less, sleep on our horses. Trask may hole up in one of those adobe line shacks for some shut-eye. If so, we gain on him.”

  “None of us got any sleep last night, Zak.”

  “I know. We’ve got three or four days of hard riding ahead of us. We might go three days without sleep. After that, we’ll start to fall off our horses, make mistakes, maybe get all mixed up on time and directions.”

  “You paint a pretty grim picture,” O’Hara said.

  “Grim, not pretty.”

  O’Hara laughed at the wry observation. “I guess we can try,” he said. “I’ve slept in the saddle before.”

  “It’s your sister I’m worried about, Ted.”

  “Colleen? She’s holding up well so far. I can keep an eye on her, so she doesn’t tumble out of the saddle.”

  “You might have Rivers or Scofield do that. I may need your eyes and your rifle before this day is done.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m going to have Deets ride with me from now on.”

  “Your decoy?”

  “He won’t be any big loss if he takes a bullet.”

  “You expect that will happen?”

  “I don’t know what to expect. But if we are shot at—if Deets is shot at—it might give me the split second I need to shoot back.”

  “Sound reasoning, Zak.”

  Zak laughed. “I don’t know how sound it is. I’m just trying to give us a chance if Trask is waiting up ahead to pick us off. We’re outgunned, Ted.”

  “Is there anything else we can do? Maybe go to the fort and put Willoughby in irons, get together a troop to go after Trask, Ferguson, and Welch?”

  “That would eat up days we don’t have,” Zak said.

  O’Hara thought about it for a minute or so. There wasn’t a hint of a breeze, and the sun was bearing down on them with molten persistence. Sweat began to trickle out from under his hat and he swiped at it with his hand.

  “What would General Crook do, Zak?”

  “Good question.”

  “Do you know the answer?”

  O’Hara, Zak thought, was as persistent as a wood tick. Once he landed on live meat, he burrowed right into it.

  “Crook would rest his troops before he went into battle.”

  “Then there’s your answer.”

  “You’re right, Ted. General Crook would also pick his own battlefield.”

  “Your point, Zak?”

  “We can do that. We know where Trask is going. And we know where Cochise is.”

  “So, what’s your decision?” Ted asked.

  “I’ll let you know at the end of the day.”

  “Why then?”

  “Because I hope to make it to the next adobe. What I find there will tell me what to do.”

  “Fair enough. I hope you make the right decision.”

  “Every decision is the right one,” Zak said. “At the time you make it. You only know if it’s wrong if it turns out to be a bad decision.”

  They followed the tracks up the road, with Deets riding alongside Zak, the others following some hundred yards in the rear.

  “I feel wet inside,” Deets said to Zak sometime after noon.

  “You’ve been drinking too much water.”

  “No, I mean where your bullet went through me, Cody.”

  “You’re probably bleeding again. Put your hand on the wound and press hard. Keep it there.”

  “I touched it a minute ago. Burns like fire.”

  “Bleed to death, then, Deets.”

  “Damn, Cody. I’m hurtin’, I tell you.”

  “If you feel pain, that’s a good sign, Deets.”

  “What about the bleeding?”

  “That, too, is a good sign.”

  “A good sign?”

  Zak decided that Deets wasn’t too bright. And he obviously wasn’t a leader. He was a follower.

  “Yeah, Deets. If you hurt and you’re bleeding, that’s a sign you’re still alive. Give thanks to your Maker, son.”

  “You bastard.”

  “Your mouth works all right, too. Maybe tonight I’ll build a fire and put some iron to that wound, seal it up. And maybe wash your mouth out with some lava soap.”

  “We gonna stop somewheres?”

  Zak didn’t answer. He studied the tracks, getting a picture of Trask’s tactics from the sign. Trask and his men would walk their horses for a good stretch, three or four miles, then gallop them for nearly a mile. He was unwavering in that maneuver. But he noticed that some of the horses were starting to drag their hooves, a sure sign of fatigue.

  As the day wore on, Trask no longer ran the horses, but kept to a steady, plodding pace. He seemed pretty confident, Zak thought. And Zak noticed that two horses had paired up for a time, then one went ahead, leaving the other behind. After that, the horses all stuck to their positions. When they stopped, it was only briefly, to relieve themselves, and always, two riders stood off from the others, probably to stand guard until they took their turns. The doodle bug holes marked both their passing and their activities.

  Zak could see that Trask was thorough, and smart. It was what made him dangerous.

  Later, he thought about Crook and something the general had told him once, when they were fighting Indians, tracking a band that had escaped a battle in rugged country.

  “You have to think like your enemy, Zak,” Crook had told him. “When you’re on his track, you have to see ahead of him, think what he might do, what you might do if you were in his shoes, or his moccasins.”

  “Can you do that, General?”

  “Any animal will only run so far. Then it gets tired or mad and makes a stand. But the animal always picks the place to make a stand. If you’re chasing that animal, you have to think like it thinks. Where would it make its stand? How would it defend itself? In the case of these redskins, they’ll find high ground with plenty of cover. And they’ll have a back door, a place where they can run and escape if they fail to stop me.”

  “And do you know where that is?”

  “No, but I will. And so will you. That’s why you’re my scout, Zak. You can read sign and you can read what those redskins are thinking. Am I right?”

  “Yes, sir, I reckon you are.”

  And Zak had figured out where the Indians were going and where they would halt and make a stand. Crook acted accordingly and they killed or captured the entire band. Crook was a good general. He knew when to delegate authority and how to do it. Not a bad example to follow, Zak thought.

  The sun drifted down the arch of the western sky, hovered over the horizon, then started dipping beyond it, striping the land with shadows, painting clouds gold and silver, purple and a soft orange. Zak called a halt while it was still light enough to see everyone with him and the terrain ahead.

  He beckoned to O’Hara and the others to catch up to him and Deets, then waited. When they were all there, gathered around him, he spoke.

  “We’re not too far from the next old stage stop,” he said. “I notice that Trask’s horses are tired, so he and his men must be tired.”

  “And so are we, Mr. Cody,” Colleen said, a sharp tone to her voice.

  “We may not be able to see that adobe right off, especially if it’s real dark, so stay alert. If Trask is holed up there, he probably won’t light a fire, and he’ll try and be real quiet. When I see the shack, I’ll call a halt and deploy you all until I find out if the adobe is occupied. From now on you’ll ride close behind me and Deets. Lieutenant O’Hara, you’ll take the lead. Scofield, you and Rivers will flank Miss O’Hara. Check your rifles. Keep them at the ready.”

  “How far is that adobe?” Ted asked.

  “Maybe less than ten miles. We’ve kept a pretty good pace, but the tracks tell me Trask is probably just about there, or will be shortly after suns
et. So, we’ve got a good two hours ride, maybe longer, before we know anything.”

  “Lead on, Zak,” O’Hara said. “The quicker we get there, the better.”

  “Maybe,” Zak said, and turned his horse, motioned for Deets to follow him.

  Three quarters of an hour later the sun set below the horizon. The afterglow lingered for another fifteen or twenty minutes, a last blaze against the western clouds as those ahead of them turned to ash, then to ebony, before they disappeared.

  As they rode on, Venus winked on in an aquamarine sky and the darkness crept across the heavens, leaving more stars, like scattered diamonds, on black velvet.

  Zak tried to recall the exact location of the stage stop that had been turned into a line shack before its abandonment. The darkness didn’t help, although he had passed this same way a few days ago on just such a night.

  Deets was making noises, groaning, muttering under his breath.

  “Shut up,” Zak told him in a loud whisper. “You make any more noise and I’ll stuff a rag in your mouth.”

  Deets shut up.

  Another hour passed and the darkness deepened.

  The moon rose and Zak got his bearings. He pulled on the reins and halted the horse he was riding, Deets’s horse. The others caught up to him.

  He kept his voice low when he spoke to them.

  “The old line shack’s just head. Maybe five hundred yards. Keep Deets here. I’m going to dismount and proceed on foot. If you hear a shot, wait five minutes before you circle the adobe on horseback. If I don’t come back in five minutes, I probably won’t be back.”

  “Want me to go with you?” O’Hara asked.

  “No, I’ll go this one alone. I have a funny feeling in my stomach. And I always pay attention to funny feelings.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. If Trask and his men are up there, we should hear some noises. Faint noises, maybe, but some sounds. Sounds of life. He may not be there. Or there might be one or a bunch up there, just waiting for anyone to come up on that adobe from this road.”

  “Be careful,” Colleen said, and Zak felt the softness in her voice, the concern she expressed. He swung out of the saddle and drew his rifle from its sheath.

  He handed the reins of the horse to Ted.

  “I’ll be seeing you,” he said.

  Then he walked a few paces and disappeared into the darkness.

  Chapter 22

  Major Erskine Willoughby studied the map that lay on top of his desk. An oil lamp flickered with a yellow-orange flame, spraying a wavering light over the lines and boxes, the X’s and circles, the numbers and letters. He tapped an impatient foot against one leg of his chair, creating a rhythmic tattoo that served to calm his clamorous nerves.

  “Orderly,” he called through the closed door, “where in hell is Lieutenant Welch?”

  “He’s coming, sir,” a voice replied, warped by the wood barrier through which it traveled. “Corporal Hopson ran to fetch him ten minutes ago.”

  “As you were,” Willoughby said, gaining some equilibrium with his thoughts in issuing a meaningless order. Of course the orderly would be as he was. Willoughby couldn’t see him through the door, but he knew the man was standing stiff as a board, as apprehensive as he himself would be until Lieutenant Welch appeared.

  Fort Bowie was on the map. The cartographer had drawn a line from the fort to the last old stage stop. The road from Tucson to all the adobes was indicated, as well as the domain of the Chiricahua Apaches. There were little lines drawn in circular fashion to indicate prominent hills all through the area designated as Apache Territory.

  Willoughby had studied the map intensely, figuring distances, time of travel by horseback, the rendezvous point with Ferguson, and possible logistical sites should there be a need to reinforce the men or resupply them with food and ammunition, fresh horses, and water.

  He loved every minute of the planning. Willoughby not only saw himself as a great general someday, but as a man of property, of immense wealth. He could imagine becoming a land baron on the largely unsettled frontier. And not only would he be an owner of vast acreage, but he would found a town, establish a bank and mercantile store, be wealthy and respected by all who came to settle in what once had been a wild and dangerous country populated by savage Indians.

  These were his dreams, and he lived them each time he studied the map and made notations on a separate piece of paper. Perhaps the army was content to live in peace with the Apaches, but he was not. As long as there were Apaches in the territory, his dreams were in danger of being shattered or never coming to fruition.

  Willoughby scratched more notes on the piece of foolscap next to the map. He scribbled each word with an intense focus, picturing himself as a military genius whose strategies would one day be studied by hordes of students attending the academy at West Point. He was so absorbed in this task that he did not hear the discreet knock on his door until after his orderly had rapped on the wood several times.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Lieutenant Welch, sir. He has arrived.”

  “Send him in, Corporal Loomis.”

  The door opened. John Welch strode into the room, a leather map case tucked under his left arm. He saluted smartly before Loomis closed the door behind him. Willoughby, who was uncovered, did not return his salute.

  “Come on over, Johnny. We’ll go over this map one more time. You bring yours?”

  “Yes, Erskine, of course. I made some notations on it, as you suggested.”

  “Spread it out here.”

  Willoughby slid his map and note paper to one side, leaving a space for Welch to place his map of the same terrain. When Welch was finished placing weights on the four corners, Willoughby leaned over the desk and studied it, a series of “Uh-hums” issuing from his throat. Welch glanced over at Willoughby’s map to compare the two, but the major blocked most of the light so he could not tell much.

  “Very good, Johnny,” Willoughby said. “I’ve got some ideas that might help you in this campaign. How many men have you got so far, and were you able to obtain clothing for them?”

  “I’ve got twenty-five men, eight from the stockade. The rest are family conscripts.”

  “Family conscripts?”

  “Men whose families forced them to join the army. They fucked up at every post and were sent out here for disciplinary reasons. Ain’t a one of ’em what’s not thoroughly expendable.”

  Willoughby smiled.

  “Good, good.”

  “All will be wearing civilian clothing, which I obtained from Ferguson. His man rode in from Tucson less than an hour ago. Ferguson and Trask left three days ago. I figure we can rendezvous with them sometime tomorrow afternoon at that last old station.”

  “About how we figured it, right?”

  “Right on the money; right on the barrelhead, Erskine.”

  “Weaponry?”

  “Spencer rifles, forty rounds per man, extra horses, grub for a week.”

  “I want this done right, Johnny.”

  Welch was an officious officer, prim as a martinet, stiff-backed, army regulation all the way. He stood at attention even when relaxed. The army was his life, but he was as greedy as Willoughby, and twice as dishonest. He bore a thin black moustache, flared sideburns an inch short of being overly ostentatious, and a uniform so starched and pressed it appeared brand new. But he was the quartermaster. He could get anything he wanted, from almost anywhere.

  “The men don’t know where they’re going, and they won’t until we’re well away from the fort. They’ve been told that they will all be granted honorable discharges from the army upon completion of this expedition.”

  “What do they think this expedition is all about?” Willoughby asked.

  Welch smiled. “They think they’re going on a hunt for Apache artifacts to be sent back to a museum in Washington, D.C. They believe the expedition is at the request of our President, Ulysses S. Grant.”

  �
��Very good, Johnny. Inspired.”

  “Yes, sir, I thought so.”

  “And you’ll tell them to kill Apaches.”

  “Once we’re well into the field, sir.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “Shortly after midnight, I’ll give the orders. We should be moving before two A. M. At daylight, or shortly thereafter, I’ll break the news to the troops that we’re going to start a war with the Chiricahua Apaches.”

  Willoughby stood up. He rolled up his map, placed it atop Welch’s on one edge and rolled his map inside the other one. He handed the roll to Welch, then opened the humidor on his desk. He took out two cigars, handed one to the lieutenant.

  “I’ll see you back here in about a week, minus a few of those miscreants who are going with you, I hope.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be coming back with Ferguson and Trask. Just the two of them, sir.”

  “There won’t be any trace of this, ah, expedition, then?”

  “No, Erskine, not a goddamned trace.”

  Willoughby lifted the chimney on the oil lamp, thrust a taper inside until it caught fire. He lighted Welch’s cigar, then his own. He blew a plume of smoke into the air, patted his flat stomach and sat down in his chair.

  “Have a seat, Johnny,” Willoughby said, “this might be the last good smoke we’ll have together for a whole week.”

  Welch sat down, puffed on his cigar.

  “It’s going to be sweet, when it’s over, Erskine,” he said.

  “It damned well better be. Our futures depend on this mission.”

  “The world will be a better place out here when we finish the job.”

  “You know we have to kill those two men when you bring them back here,” Willoughby said.

  “Sir?”

  “Ferguson and Trask. They will be found guilty of murder and hanged. We can’t have them sticking their fingers into our pie.”

  “No, sir, we can’t.”

  “I want you to bring evidence back with you that they shot two of my soldiers. Can you do that?”

  Welch didn’t even have to think about it.