Silver City

by Jeff Guinn

  A few moments later they did, then disappeared again.

  “I believe they’ve got a mile or more on us now,” Mulkins said. “We can follow, but let’s be careful to stick to all the low spots ahead and avoid the high ones as best we can.” They mounted and moved their horses forward at a walk. Gabrielle rode directly behind Mulkins, following him down arroyos and cautiously up the sides. Saint brought up the rear. At one point Gabrielle glanced back and saw that he had ridden up the crest of a low hill.

  “Get off of there, Joe,” she called, keeping her voice low because the sound might carry. “Brautigan could see you.”

  Saint rode down, but a few minutes later Gabrielle saw he was on another hilltop.

  “I told you, Joe,” she said. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Saint said, “Sorry, I forgot.”

  “Well, ride in front until you remember better,” Gabrielle said crossly. She was too concerned about McLendon’s arm injury to wonder why Joe Saint couldn’t keep in mind something so simple.

  —

  WHEN NIGHT FELL, they were still about a mile from the base of the solitary mountain.

  “Brautigan and C.M. will be making camp now,” Mulkins said. “We creep up to the proper position, we’ll likely see their fire.” They dismounted and walked their horses, cautiously weaving their way forward through the swales. The quarter-moon provided modest light. Each step had to be carefully taken so there would be no stumbling over rocks or roots. After almost an hour, they still had not spotted a fire.

  “Cold camp, then,” Mulkins said softly. “More smart thinking from Brautigan. We can’t chance stumbling upon them. No telling who’d be hurt in the resulting confusion.”

  “Should we just stop here?” Saint asked.

  “I have a thought,” Mulkins said. “Long as we’re feeling our way in the dark anyway, why not make for the mountain? Get up the slope a little ways and find sufficient cover. Then in the morning, we’ll be able to see Brautigan and C.M. below us and get a sense of where we might try to work our way ahead, take Brautigan by surprise that way. Ambush rather than pursue.”

  Gabrielle was enthusiastic, but not Saint.

  “In this darkness, it’s hard enough walking down here. We’ll never make it up the side of a mountain.”

  “If it proves too difficult, we’ll think of something else,” Gabrielle said. “Time’s running out.”

  “That’s so,” Saint said. He didn’t sound sorry.

  Even in near pitch blackness, they had no difficulty finding the mountain. It was as though they could feel it looming. As they approached, there was rustling in several directions: “Night creatures,” Mulkins said. The slope was steep but relatively smooth. They hiked almost directly up for a while, then moved around and to their right.

  “We want to look a good way east at daylight,” Mulkins said. “If a likely place presents itself then, we can try to beat C.M. and Brautigan there.”

  Gabrielle thought it was well past midnight before the Major said they’d gone far enough. There was no way to be certain of the time. Mulkins wouldn’t strike a match to check his pocket watch because, wherever he was down below, Brautigan might notice the tiny, flaring flame.

  They chewed jerky and sipped water. “Nearly the last of the food,” Saint said. “A few stale biscuits and three or four meat strips are left. What will we do when that’s gone?”

  “One problem at a time, Joe,” Mulkins said. “Right now get some rest.” They wrapped themselves in their blankets, but nobody slept. The night dragged.

  Finally, a faint pink line colored the eastern horizon. The sky began to lighten in that direction. They were higher on the mountain than Gabrielle would have guessed, at least a quarter of the way up. She was pleased to see that the slope was fairly uncluttered. They could move forward or down quickly and with relative ease.

  As the sun rose in the east, they were able to study the land ahead. For a considerable distance, it appeared to be a continuing series of arroyos and swales. Then perhaps twenty miles beyond was another mountain range, its jagged peaks gleaming almost blue in the early morning light. There was also a dark line halfway between their current perch and those mountains.

  “River,” Mulkins said. “I knew the San Simon flowed down this way, but didn’t realize how far. Silver City’s maybe twenty-five, thirty miles east of it.”

  “Do you see anything auspicious for ambush?” Gabrielle asked.

  “I’m thinking that next set of mountains. We can hustle down the east slope here, use the mountain itself to screen us from Brautigan. Then as carefully as we can, we push ourselves to get ahead of them. We’ll have to risk him spotting us.”

  “And if he does?” Saint asked.

  “We’ll hope that doesn’t happen,” Mulkins said. “We have to try something, Joe.”

  Next they looked for Brautigan and McLendon. They couldn’t locate them immediately. For several long, panic-stricken minutes, Gabrielle thought they might have kept moving throughout the night, and now had too long a lead to be overtaken. But then Mulkins said, “There they are,” and pointed a half mile back down and to their right. Brautigan was mounted; the mule’s reins were attached to his saddle horn. McLendon led his horse.

  “Odd,” Mulkins said. “One riding, the other on foot. Has C.M.’s horse pulled up lame? That will slow them some, and work to our advantage.”

  “Then let’s be going,” Gabrielle urged. She and Mulkins hastily saddled their horses. Saint moved slower. He gazed back toward the east. The rising sun was in his eyes and he raised a hand to shade them.

  “Come on, Joe,” Gabrielle said. “We need to hurry.”

  “Hold on a moment,” Saint said. “There’s something else moving down there. The sun makes it hard to see.”

  “Animals. Deer, probably,” Mulkins said. “Let’s go.”

  “No, I don’t think deer. I can’t tell. Come look, Major.”

  Gabrielle said impatiently, “Joe, if you don’t want to go any farther, that’s fine. Just say so, and the Major and I will leave you here.”

  “Wait, Gabrielle. Major, will you look?”

  Mulkins handed his horse’s reins to Gabrielle and walked over to Saint, who pointed down south, well beyond McLendon and Brautigan.

  “There, maybe a thousand yards. Just past the swale topped by the crooked saguaro.”

  Mulkins looked. After a few moments, he detected near-infinitesimal movement. Then, a dark head rose briefly above the swale, and an arm motioned forward. A dozen yards behind there was more movement in several places, coppery men stealthily leading ponies.

  “Jesus Christ,” Mulkins said. “Apache.”

  25

  Goyathlay recognized one of the white men immediately. It was the big one who’d been caught on the San Carlos agency not long ago. Even that first time, Goyathlay wanted badly to kill him. Most victims offered little in the way of enjoyment. They begged for mercy and seemed surprised when they got none. But this one, Goyathlay sensed, had a warrior’s spirit. Taken and tortured, he’d scream with anger, not anguish, and take a satisfyingly long time to die. But Clum, the unsmiling San Carlos agent, had been there. All Goyathlay and the other warriors were permitted to do was herd the big man and his chattering white companion off agency land. It was a grand opportunity lost, and now thanks to the gods or simply luck, there was another chance.

  It was especially welcome. This current breakout from the agency was so far a dismal failure. Goyathlay had coaxed four younger warriors—Nantee, Datchshaw, Tawhatela, and John Tiapah—into following him on a raid into Mexico. Clum, relatively new to his post, insisted that the Chiricahua stay at San Carlos and leave Mexicans alone, since America and Mexico were at peace. While Cochise lived, this edict was observed by all—Cochise never allowed dissension. But he recently died, and his two surviving sons were weak. Clum and the Ameri
cans recognized them as new tribal leaders, but many of the Chiricahua didn’t. Traditionally, Chiricahua leaders earned rather than inherited rank. Goyathlay, always ambitious, saw his chance. Many warriors felt stifled at San Carlos. Hunting was bad and the Americans wanted them to become farmers and raise cattle instead. Someone who honored and encouraged the old fighting ways could earn widespread respect and, perhaps, allegiance. Goyathlay thought that if he took a few men raiding into Mexico, after they returned to the agency and bragged about the men they’d killed and the women they’d raped, many others might be persuaded to do the same. Then Goyathlay could break out again, this time at the head of a band sizable enough to ride back to Mexico and establish itself in a camp beyond the reach of Clum and American soldiers.

  This initial foray hadn’t gone as he had hoped. The five Chiricahua exited San Carlos in fine style. The agency was sprawling and, observant as Clum was, he couldn’t keep track of more than four thousand Apache at once. By the time their absence was noted, they’d be well on the way to Mexico. The four braves recruited by Goyathlay were excited. As they rode, they bragged about their exploits to come. They traveled south without incident, avoiding any contact with whites. This was important. Once in Mexico they planned to fall on small villages and kill indiscriminately. On their return to the agency, Clum would chastise them for escaping and guess what they had been about, but with no proof or witnesses he could do little more. In the greater American scheme of things, a few probable dead Mexicans wasn’t worth imprisoning or executing Chiricahua warriors and risking revolt by the entire tribe. White victims would have been different.

  But the people of the two villages they’d come across in Mexico declined to cooperate with Goyathlay’s plans. They were surprisingly alert to potential attack, and well organized in defending themselves. No Mexicans died or were raped. After five frustrating days they decided to return to the agency. Datchshaw had a flesh wound on one shoulder that needed treatment. Though he and the other three didn’t say so, Goyathlay knew that they considered these failures to be his fault because he was the leader. When they were back at San Carlos and the other men asked them how the raid went, they would reply that Goyathlay showed bad judgment in selecting the places to attack. His chance to assume tribal leadership would be gone.

  But now this. Nantee had been the first to see them. Riding ahead of the others as a scout—they didn’t want to end an already miserable raid being picked up by a patrol of bluecoats—he came rushing back to report.

  “Two white men ahead, one riding, one leading a small tired pony. Also a mule. Going very slowly toward the sunrise.”

  “Finally, some luck,” John Tiapah said. “Let’s kill them. Then, mule meat tonight.”

  Killing Americans was far riskier than slaughtering Mexicans. Even the rumor that Goyathlay and the others had attacked whites would result in their immediate arrest by Clum, with a subsequent trial and probably execution. But it seemed to Goyathlay that they were in an isolated place. Besides the two unsuspecting white men ahead of them, there almost surely was no one else to see and tell.

  “All right,” he said.

  As the other men checked their bowstrings for tautness—each had a rifle, but little ammunition remaining after the failed fights in Mexico—Goyathlay said, “First we need to make sure there aren’t any others. And how are these men armed? Do they watch out for enemies? You must notice these things, Nantee. I’ll go up to look. You others, stay behind. Lead your horses, don’t ride.” He didn’t have to caution them to stay low and use the rolling terrain to stay out of sight. This was instilled in the Apache from childhood.

  Goyathlay went forward. The others trailed a bowshot or two behind. Because of his wound, Datchshaw brought up the rear. Should there be a fight, he would participate only if necessary.

  Soon Goyathlay saw the white men. That was when he recognized the big one. The other wasn’t the man who had been with the big one on the agency. This new white man didn’t seem to talk at all. There was no friendship between the two. Goyathlay realized that the small one was the big one’s prisoner. The big one had one of the rifles whites called Winchesters hanging from his saddle. Besides that, Goyathlay saw no other weapons, not even a pistol. This was disappointing because guns and ammunition were prized booty. But it was also promising. For Goyathlay to have any remaining hope of being proclaimed leader, the others had to return to the agency with something successful to brag about. Watching the two whites, Goyathlay began imagining what might happen: The small one probably dying fast, there didn’t seem to be anything strong about him, and then the big one taking much longer, the music of his screams. Then a feast of mule meat, a few more days’ ride and finally enthralled listeners back at the agency, hearing tales of great things accomplished under Goyathlay’s direction. What he’d hoped for might still happen.

  He reluctantly stopped imagining these fine things to study the area. The lone high mountain to the left, the rolling land, all shallow dips and low hills. Toward the rising sun, the way the white men were moving, there was the river and then mountains beyond that. And after the mountains? Goyathlay struggled to remember. Surely, in the fine old days before Cochise became a woman and surrendered, there had been raids in that direction. All right, now he recalled a narrow split between lower mountains in the range, and beyond the split a valley opening on to flat land where, yes, there was a town. These white men must be going there. For them at their present pace, it would take two days, possibly three. A quick glance up confirmed the presence of gray, mildly threatening clouds. There had been some rain in past days, not a great deal. It was late in the season for storms, but it seemed there might be more. This could slow the white men. Even if not, there was time to draw this out, build even better stories to be shared back at the agency.

  John Tiapah crept up behind Goyathlay and whispered, “Let’s take them now.”

  “Not yet. Let them get ahead a little. Then gather the others here with me.”

  Goyathlay stayed low behind a swale, resting comfortably until the other four joined with him.

  “We can play with these men,” he said. “A game, some entertainment. There was bad luck in Mexico, no one’s fault. But I promised you a good fight and I never lie. This will be even better. We’ll follow the white men across the river and into the mountains. On the way we will do things, soon they’ll know we are there but they’ll never see us. And finally in the mountains or soon after, just when they think they’re going to be safe after all, then we finally take them and play our games. After that we return north, tell what we’ve done. All the other men will envy you. The women will want to please such great warriors. Everything just as I promised.”

  “They might get away,” Tawhatela argued. “We should kill them while we know we can.”

  Goyathlay shook his head. “Young men like you are too impatient. It’s not only that you kill, but how. If we take them now, surprise them, cut their throats and have them dead at our feet right away, what kind of story is that? Are you so unskilled, Tawhatela, that you can’t follow foolish white men a while without them seeing you? What do you say, Datchshaw, Nantee, John Tiapah? Are you children who must have your treat immediately? Or are you men who want to savor this pleasure?”

  “We’re men,” John Tiapah said. Goyathlay was pleased by his firm response. The youngster had an array of brothers and cousins who would make fine followers if this one urged them to align themselves with Goyathlay.

  “All right, then,” Goyathlay said. “Now we’ll go after them, keeping some distance for a while. We’ll keep walking our ponies, they’re going too slowly for us to ride. Datchshaw, you circle a little, make sure these two whites are the only ones around.”

  “I will,” Datchshaw said. He mounted and rode away from the sun and toward the single mountain. But he didn’t ride far. His shoulder hurt. As soon as Goyathlay and the others were safely out of sight, he reined in his po
ny and rested in the shade of a big rock. Before there was this unexpected opportunity to stalk and kill the two white men, Datchshaw hadn’t looked forward to returning to the agency. His mother, a stern woman, had warned him not to go. She said that Goyathlay was a fool, an ambitious schemer disdained by Cochise. Any raid led by Goyathlay would fail, she predicted, and all those who rode with him would be punished by Clum. Truthfully, Datchshaw feared the agent far less than his mother, who, even though he was grown, still beat him occasionally with sticks if he got into trouble, which he often did. It seemed to be in Datchshaw’s nature to make mistakes, to do things that seemed smart at the time, but foolish soon after. He thought going on the raid with Goyathlay would be a way to restore his reputation, establish him as a man of some substance. But then in Mexico they won no battles and he was wounded besides. What would his mother say? Worse, what would she do to him, probably in front of everyone else? Killing two white men quickly while they could seemed providential to Datchshaw. He believed that once any venture suffered initial bad luck, things never improved. The white men were probably going to get away, and then the presumptive raiders would have to straggle back to the agency as complete failures. His mother would beat him. Everyone would laugh at him. These gloomy thoughts occupied Datchshaw so much that he stayed slumped in the shade of the rock for some time. He didn’t bother looking for other whites. Surely there weren’t any, this far from their villages. Datchshaw’s shoulder throbbed. He put a pebble in his mouth to stimulate saliva—in spite of the clouds, it was still a hot morning—and rode back to report to Goyathlay that he had looked everywhere and seen no one.

  —

  THE FIVE APACHE kept a half-dozen bowshots behind the two whites. They trailed them while spread out in line, with Goyathlay in the center, Datchshaw and Nantee on either side of him, and John Tiapah and Tawhatela on the ends. This ensured that they would not lose their prey amid the hills and arroyos. Goyathlay periodically moved ahead of the others, closing the distance between himself and the white men until he could see them clearly. The small one got up on his pony for a little while, then jumped down again. He said something to the big one and gestured. It was easy to tell he was suggesting that the other man walk for a while. But the big one refused.