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Authors: Mike Blakely

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BOOK: Come Sundown
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What happens happens again. Joy begets joy. Anger breeds anger. Evil whirls into darkness. Light spirals into goodness. I could see it coming now, all too clearly. The Indians and their way of life would vanish before my eyes, within my lifetime. And I would do my part to bring it about. No man could remain neutral. A great sadness descended upon me, like a suffocating blanket soaked in blood. I feared that by taking up arms in subduing the Mescaleros I would set in motion the machine that would eventually destroy my own Comanche family, and Westerly's people, the Cheyennes, and all the other free plains tribes. Perhaps this was what the voices had tried to tell me on the way to Stanton.
“You all right?” Paddy said, grabbing my shoulder. “You look pale, Greenwood.”
I turned and walked away, taking the young courier's horse by the reins to find the poor beast some grass.
 
 
WHAT WAS LEFT of Fort Stanton lay on a level sward along the south bank of the Bonita River.
Bonita,
Spanish for “pretty,” fit the little stream well. Timbered with cottonwoods and willows, it twined in gentle curves across the high prairie, its waters cool and clear. The grounds of Fort Stanton afforded a fine view of Sierra Blanca to the southwest, looming at an altitude of twelve thousand feet. To the northeast, the Capitan Mountains rose, their piñon-covered shoulders climbing to ten thousand feet. Low hills surrounded the fort nearby.
One evening, not long after we arrived, a man named Charlie Beach rode into the camp we had established just downstream of the fort. I had met Charlie before, and we had always gotten along fine. We both traded among the Indians. Charlie with the Mescaleros, I with the Comanches and Kiowas. It seemed that Charlie had gotten afoul of the Comanches sometime long ago, the same way I had gotten crossways with the Mescaleros. So we didn't compete for trade and we stayed out of each other's territory simply because we had grown accustomed to having hair on our heads and wanted to keep it there. We both belonged to the fraternity of Indian traders, and as such felt a common bond. We weren't friends, really, for I hardly knew Charlie, but we understood each other's lingo. However, I was often suspicious of his motives, for he didn't have many good things to say about the Mescaleros, the very people who kept him in business.
 
 
“BUNCH OF
TISWIN
-SLURPIN' savages,” Charlie said that night over a plate of beans he shoveled into his mouth with a piece of hardtack. We were sitting outside of Kit's tent, prodding Charlie for information.
“What's that
tiswin
?” Paddy asked.
“The foulest drink ever concocted,” Charlie said. “Them squaws take maize kernels and let 'em sprout, then they chew 'em up and spit 'em into a pot. They ferment it in there and it turns into
tiswin.
”
“Good God,” Paddy replied, a disgusted frown on his face. “They drink squaw spit?”
“It's nasty stuff, but they're pretty nasty critters.”
“Whereabouts have you seen them camped lately?” Kit asked.
“I left Manuelito's camp way down in the Guadalupes, but their harvesttime is about done, so they'll break camp to go huntin'.”
“Where do you reckon they'll hunt?”
“Like as not the Sacramentos for elk and such. Unless they take a mind to hunt up some poor Mexican's sheep herd.”
Kit questioned Charlie for quite some time on the location of other camps, the strength of the tribe as a whole, and information on which Mescaleros had done the most raiding. There was a chief named El Listo, or the Ready, whose warriors Charlie claimed had been most active on the warpath, but he said Chiefs Manuelito and Long Joe had also led raids.
“How many braves you reckon they could muster if they all got together?” Kit asked.
Charlie snorted. “There ain't more than five or six hundred Mescaleros left—men, women, and children. I bet they couldn't muster three hundred armed bucks. Besides, they're scattered and don't usually come all together.”
“Too bad,” Paddy said. “We'd have an easier time of it striking them all at once and just mopping up the whole country of them.”
“That ain't gonna happen,” Charlie replied. “You'll have to hunt 'em down like coyotes.” Charlie finished his beans and dropped his tin plate into a tub of water for someone else to wash. “You got a place where I can spread my bedroll?”
Paddy jumped to his feet before Kit or I could speak. “Come on, Charlie,” he said. “I'll show you where to settle in.”
As they walked away, Kit stood and pressed his hands against the small of his back as if it ached. “
Buenas noches.
Kid. I'm about tuckered.”
I nodded at Kit as he ducked into his tent. By the firelight, I saw Paddy glance back toward the tent, then he leaned closer to Charlie Beach as they walked away. Paddy said something that made Charlie look at him with some surprise, then they faded into the darkness.
T
he nights grew cool at Fort Stanton, but the days remained mild as autumn approached. I kept myself busy scouting with various companies of Kit's command, or helping with the repairs to the post's many buildings. I personally supervised the cutting of timbers and the fashioning of them into a flagpole that we set deep into the earth in the middle of the parade ground. Gradually, Fort Stanton began to once again function as an operating frontier military post.
The task of feeding the regiment required constant attention. Supply wagons came and went, but many of the volunteers also hunted and fished in their off-duty time to help feed themselves and their comrades. I enjoyed the solitude of hunting, though I had to remain extremely watchful in Mescalero country. One afternoon I returned to the fort with a bull elk skinned, quartered, and packed on a mule. The bull was a big one, with six points on each of his sprawling antlers. While the boys were congratulating me, I happened to notice Charlie Beach's horse tied at the officers' quarters across the parade grounds. I hadn't seen Charlie since his earlier visit, but I recognized his horse and saddle. The horse had lost at least a hundred pounds, so I figured that Charlie must have been doing some hard riding of late.
“I'd give a month's pay for one of those tenderloins,” a private from C Company said.
“What pay?” replied his sergeant. “We ain't seen pay since we left Albuquerque.”
“Well, if I had it, I'd give it up for some of that elk.”
“Tell you what, boys,” I said. “I'm going to take the backstraps to the officers' quarters. You boys can have the rest if you'll stake the hide out to dry for me and take care of my animals.”
The dozen men around me approved immediately and began untying the quartered meat, the hide, and the antlers.
“What about the horns?” one man asked.
“Hang them up on the sutler's store,” I suggested.
I grabbed the two heavy backstraps that I had separated from the carcass before quartering it, and lugged them toward the officers' quarters. I opened the door to find Kit, Paddy Graydon, and Charlie Beach bent over a map hand-drawn on a piece of parchment. Captains Abreu, Sena y Baca, Eaton, Chacon, and Bergman were also there, some smoking pipes or sipping whiskey. They all looked over the map with varying degrees of interest, until I walked in with enough meat to feed them all.
“Meat!” Paddy said. “Good for you, Greenwood.”
“Chihuahua!”
Captain Sena y Baca grinned with expectation of a good meal.
“Dos grandes pedazos de carne!”
Charlie Beach looked up with his finger still on the map, and his eyes grew as big around as duck eggs. It seemed he hadn't seen that much meat in years.
“We'll fry a mess of that up directly,” Kit said. “Take a look at this here first, Kid.”
I dropped the heavy load of fileted backstrap on the corner of the rough-hewn dining table and joined the officers to observe the map.
“Charlie spotted a war party on the move,” Paddy announced. “Says we can probably cut them off in a day or two.”
“Whose band is it?” I asked.
“Looks like old Manuelito himself. And Long Joe was with him.”
“What made you think it was a war party?”
“Well, I didn't get too close,” Charlie said. “But I seen feathers in their horses' tails, and some of the bucks was wearin' paint, I think.”
“It doesn't matter anyway,” Paddy said. “We have orders to kill them wherever we can find them.”
Kit tapped the place on the map where the party was supposedly heading, east of Dog Canyon on the south flanks of the Sacramentos. “It's your time to go out,” he said to Paddy. “Get your company in the saddle as soon as you can and start tonight. You should cut their trail by sundown, day after tomorrow, if you ride hard.”
“Yes, sir,” Paddy said, his enthusiasm for the enterprise evident in his voice.
I thought it coincidental that Charlie Beach had brought this information around just as Paddy's company was due to ride out on the next scouting expedition. “Colonel Carson,” I said—I always called him Colonel Carson around the other officers out of respect—“I'd like to request permission to ride with Paddy's company.”
Paddy and Charlie exchanged glances.
Kit smirked. “Paddy?”
Paddy shrugged. “You're welcome to ride with me anytime, Greenwood. You know that.”
“What about all this meat you kilt?” Kit asked.
I smiled at him. “I'm sure you gentlemen will enjoy it.”
“I'll chop the wood,” Charlie said, eyeballing the raw meat and licking his lips. “I haven't et good in days.”
The map Charlie Beach had drawn showed a trail that led along the southern flanks of the Sacramento Mountains. I had never been on the trail and that was one of my reasons for wanting to ride with Paddy—to see some new country. In those days I would ride at the drop of a hat. Pardon the cliché. I'd ride
before
the hat dropped. Hell, I'd ride if there wasn't a hat within two hundred miles, and sometimes there wasn't.
According to Charlie, the Mescaleros under Manuelito were heading for the Chihuahua Trail to raid whatever trade wagons they could find, and attack any unprotected village they could along the way. This all seemed plausible if indeed the Indians were wearing war paint, as they had been for months.
I rode a good young buckskin gelding on this scout. He wasn't well trained yet, but he had bottom, as the old-timers used to say—meaning he could reach deep and run fast for a long time when hard-pressed. As for weaponry, I carried my Henry repeater in a saddle scabbard, and my Colt revolver in a holster on my hip. I also slung my bow case and quiver across my back. In desperate situations, a scout sometimes had to kill silently to protect his company. I also carried a sharp knife on my belt, and—for this particular ride—my old cavalry saber. I fairly bristled with arms.
After two days of scouting ahead, I let the company catch up to me to hold council with Paddy.
“How far you reckon that trail is now?” Paddy asked. “The one where Charlie says we should find the Indians.”
“Can't be more than five miles ahead.” I gnawed off a bite of salt pork and reached for my canteen.
“I'm going to let the boys rest an hour. You ride ahead and find that trail. If you see Indian sign on it, trail them until you can figure how long since they passed. If you don't see sign, turn east and try to find them coming.”
I nodded and turned for my mount.
Think about your image of the flamboyant frontiersman of the Old Southwest. Does his saddle glisten with silver conchos? Do his bridle bits jingle in tune with his spurs? Does his steed prance, stamping hooves and tossing its head? Do his nickel-plated six-guns glint in the sunlight? Does his brightly colored scarf play upon the wind? If such represents your image of the quintessential trailblazer, I'm afraid I would have seriously disappointed you. On scouts into enemy country, I was the plainest plainsman you've ever seen. I was downright drab. Everything I wore blended in with things already there. Even my horse matched the color of dirt. My guns were shinier on the inside than they were without.
I hit the trail we sought, and saw no sign of an Indian party having crossed. Obliterating the tracks I had made near the path, I kept my distance from the well-used Indian trail and turned east to look for the war party. According to Charlie Beach, it would number thirty riders or more. A party that size would be easy to spot from a distance, so I had no need of getting closer. My main concern was watching for
their
scouts, and spotting them before they spotted me.
I had the advantage of knowing they were coming. They, on the other hand, knew nothing of my presence. That's the main reason I saw the advance rider before he saw me. I ducked behind a sand hill and let him pass. I had no idea how far ahead of the main party he rode. After he had passed on to the west, I continued east.
Within ten minutes, I could see dust hanging in the air, and knew the main party was near. I peered over a rise, nothing
more than the top of my head showing. As it came into view, I saw that the party numbered thirty-eight. Six of the horses pulled travois. Nine women carried babies on cradle boards, and others rode herd over older children. A few elders brought up the rear. I counted fourteen warriors, ranging in age from about fifteen to about forty-five. A chief rode point on a tall claybank horse—a mighty fine looking animal. I assumed this was Manuelito himself, the recognized head chief of the entire Mescalero Nation. None of the riders seemed to be wearing war paint, but from this distance it was hard to tell. I saw no feathers in the tails of their horses. This, to me, looked like a village on the move, or a hunting party heading for the mountains, not a raiding party. Even so, I felt as if I were staring into the maw of a yawning lion. If old Manuelito were to discover such an enemy to his people as me, my life would not equal the worth of a farthing.
As soon as I could do so without being seen, I turned north and rode hard enough to make good time, but not so hard that I kicked up dust that could be seen by the Indians. The afternoon had grown old, and I knew Paddy's company would have no chance to intercept Manuelito before nightfall, but perhaps he could make up some time during the night and strike the trail ahead of the Mescaleros after dawn. Then what? Did Paddy intend to do battle with a hunting party? Our orders from General Carleton were clear: kill Mescalero warriors wherever we could find them. Take women and children prisoner. Give no quarter, make no talks of peace. Paddy had been anxious to engage the Indians in battle. A clash seemed sure to happen in the morning.
I met Paddy's oncoming party half an hour before sundown and held a council with him, telling him what I had seen.
“Can we get ahead of them, and surprise them on the trail in the morning?”
“Yes. They'll be in camp by now.”
Paddy nodded and glanced at the sky to judge what light we had left. “I'm going to order the column to leave the trail and head across the country to the southwest. We'll ride until it's too dark to see. Then we'll wait for the moon to rise and mount up again.”
“What if it's just a hunting party or a village on the move?”
“We have our orders,” he said.
“What if they sign for a talk?”
“Not likely they will, but if they do, we'll talk. All I can do is tell them what the general said. If they don't agree to send their headmen to Santa Fe, there will have to be a fight. No way around it.”
I sighed. Wrong or right, our orders were clear.
“Are you with me, Greenwood?”
“Of course. I wouldn't have come along if I wasn't.”
Paddy turned in his saddle. “Squad, forward!” he shouted, echoed by his sergeant. “March!”
The grinding of hooves against rock and dirt cut the serenity of the desert evening, and equipage began to rattle and jingle. We angled off the trail and followed the next order to canter as we weaved our way among thorny bushes and cacti. I glanced back and saw the four columns break and re-form, the horses shying from and leaping over spiny thickets. The mounted squadron numbered forty-two men armed with carbines, most of which were Sharps single-shot, breech loaders. A good many of the volunteer soldiers also carried revolvers of various makes. Against such firepower, Manuelito's warriors would not have much of a chance should a battle commence. As we rode, I judged the caliber of the men as well as their arms. They were tough soldiers. Most of Paddy's company had been in the volunteer service for over a year now. Many had seen bloody action at Valverde with me and Kit. By now they were trail-hardened and wilderness-trained.
In those days, young men of ambition courted dangerous service in the Indian wars. They sensed the frontier would not last forever. Each looked ahead to the days when he would charm a desirable lass with his Indian-fighter reputation, when he would stand upon a stump in some new town and recount his exploits against the red-skinned enemy as he sought votes for mayor or sheriff or senator; when he would stroke his gray chin and tell his grandchildren about taking an arrow or a scalp. These men were ready to kill some Mescaleros. As their scout, I knew I had better get ready to do the same.
BOOK: Come Sundown
12.03Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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