Crook proceeded to pace again. A moment later he stopped and turned to face the others. His mind was made up. "I'm inclined to agree with the scout, Captain. I think it would be foolhardy, if not disastrous, to venture deeper into the mountains. So we will give the lieutenant's scheme another try. Only this time, Captain, you will take your two full companies. The raids must be stopped. I do not have the manpower necessary to adequately protect every possible target of the renegades."
"Yes, sir," said Cronin, with smug satisfaction that he could not entirely conceal. It had rankled him that Crook had sent Summerhayes out against the Coyoteros, while he languished here at the fort. Even if he lacked faith in the plan, at least he would be in the field, where he belonged, leading men into battle against the enemy.
"And you'll be taking Lieutenant Summerhayes and the Mescalero scouts with you, Captain."
"But, sir—"
Crook held up a hand to silence Cronin. "I know how you feel about using native scouts, Captain. You've made those feelings very clear. But I know from experience that they can be very useful."
"They weren't very useful on the day that the lieutenant lost half of his command, sir."
Crook looked at Summerhayes. "Do you still have faith in your man over there? And the Mescalero scouts?"
Summerhayes glanced across at Short Britches—then nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Good. Because this time around I want you to stick with them."
Summerhayes opened his mouth to protest—and shut it without saying a word.
"What is it, Lieutenant?" asked Crook. "You don't look too happy about my decision."
"I would be honored to ride with Short Britches and the Mescaleros," replied Summerhayes. "But I doubt they want me along. I would just slow them down. I lack the skills they possess."
"Well, I hope you're a fast learner." The general turned on Cronin. "Captain, are you still here? You had better get started seeing to it that your men are fully equipped for the campaign, because you will be leaving in the morning."
"Yes, sir." Cronin snapped off a brisk salute and started off across the parade ground. Crook watched him go, and shook his head. Then he glanced at Summerhayes and, gesturing curtly for the lieutenant to follow, preceded to one end of the long porch. Only when he was certain that they were out of earshot of Short Britches did Crook face Summerhayes again.
"I'll be perfectly honest with you, Lieutenant. I think I might have made a mistake agreeing to let that man lead our scouts."
Summerhayes glanced over his shoulder at Short Britches, who wasn't paying them the least attention. "Why do you say that, General?"
"I get the sense he doesn't really care whether we win or lose."
"Well, sir, I don't know. All I can tell you is that I trust him."
"You trust him because your friend Barlow relies on him."
"Yes, sir, I admit that has a lot to do with it. He did get us some good scouts. Those Mescaleros are dependable men."
"I hope your instincts are correct, Lieutenant, for your sake—since you'll be riding with them."
"I'm not worried."
"Well, that makes one of us," said Crook dryly. He glanced across the sun-hammered parade ground in the direction taken by Captain Cronin. "Make your plan work. Because if it doesn't, we'll have no choice but to go into the Mogollons after Valerio. And if that happens, a lot of good men, on both sides, won't be coming back out."
"I'll do my best, sir."
Crook went inside the headquarters building, and Summerhayes returned to the porch steps, where he sat down alongside Short Britches and heaved a sigh.
"So if you're right, and it was the Netdahe, or even just one of them, how bad is it going to get?"
"Very bad," said Short Britches.
"And how do we stop him?"
"Only one way to stop a Netdahe. A bullet right here." The old scout pressed the tip of a crooked finger to his forehead.
"Will our plan still work if a Netdahe is riding with the Coyoteros?"
"I doubt it."
"So what do you suggest we do?"
"Come up with a new plan."
Summerhayes pondered that for a moment, then said, "You happen to have come up with one?"
Short Britches spat a stream of brown tobacco juice. "Nope. But I'm working on it."
They rode out of Fort Union at sunrise the next morning, with Cronin at the head of two full companies of men. Behind the column came a long wagon train of supplies. Ahead of it rode the Mescalero scouts, with Short Britches and Summerhayes. The latter had exchanged his uniform for civilian clothes—a buckskin shirt and stroud trousers, clothing he hoped would make it easier for him to blend into the desert environment. He was worried. Not about his own safety. He just didn't want to let Short Britches and the Mescaleros down. Or worse, make a mistake that would get one or more of them killed. The fundamental problem was that, though he had taken to the field against the Apaches on numerous occasions, and so could be counted as one of the army's most qualified officers where campaigning against the Indians was concerned, he had never felt quite up to the job, and still didn't. The Apaches were experts at guerrilla warfare. And the Netdahe were the most skilled of all. He knew with absolute certainty that he was no match for an Avowed Killer. And so he could only hope that his faith in Short Britches wasn't misplaced, and that the old scout would come through. For all their sakes.
Cronin's command encamped in the same location that Summerhayes had previously selected for his detachment, a willow-shaded depression about five miles south of the Mogollon mountains, where several springs bubbled up through limestone to provide plenty of water, and which nourished good graze for many horses. The tan peaks that loomed over them looked as grim and forbidding as massive, weathered tombstones in an old cemetery, and Summerhayes couldn't help but wonder if they marked his own final resting place. He couldn't shake the feeling that disaster loomed over them just like those mountains.
He envied Cronin, who appeared to be completely unafflicted by doubts or fears. The captain briskly went about directing his men in the details of making the camp. He took special care of determining where the horses would be picketed, and how the sentries would be arrayed on the perimeter of the camp. He was aching for a fight—you could just look at him and see that this was so.
That night, Summerhayes was welcomed at the fire of Short Britches and the Mescalero scouts. He was honored to be among men he perceived to be so brave and self-reliant and trustworthy. And yet here they were fighting against their own kind. Was that an honorable thing to do? Short Britches had explained to him that for centuries the bands of the Chi-hinne had waged war against one another. War was a way of life for the Apaches, and it had always been so. These Mescaleros had blood feuds against the Coyoteros, and the hate in their hearts was so strong that they were now willing to ally themselves with the hated Pinda Lickoyi, when anyone could see that it would be in their best interests—and the best interests of their band as a whole—to fight with the Coyoteros. Here, mused Summerhayes, as he ate a dinner of hot beans and hotter coffee, and listened to the Mescaleros talk softly and solemnly among themselves, not knowing what was being said and not really caring to know, was the reason the Apache would ultimately lose everything to the white man, despite their proficiency at desert combat—because they could not set aside their generations-old animosities long enough to cooperate against a common enemy. So, while proud to be allowed to ride with them, Summerhayes also experienced a certain degree of shame at playing a key role in the Apaches' self-destruction.
The next morning, long before sunrise, Short Britches and the Mescalero bronchos were ready to move out. Summerhayes, having slept very little the night before, was sluggish and bleary-eyed as Captain Cronin approached with brisk strides.
"You know what you have to do, Lieutenant," said Cronin.
Summerhayes sighed. He was happy to be spared the ordeal of spending any more time with the officious captain. "Yes, sir," he said.
> "I'll expect to hear from you in a couple of days."
"We'll send a scout back when the Coyoteros make their move, sir. But there's no telling when that will be. Might be tomorrow, might be next week."
"I do not intend to sit around here and twiddle my thumbs for a week," said Cronin curtly.
Summerhayes just stared at him, not certain how to respond. The captain had express orders from General Crook himself to do just that, so Cronin was, in effect, announcing his intention to defy the general's orders, if need be. The lieutenant wondered what Cronin had in mind, but he didn't ask. Turning to his saddle horse, Summerhayes wearily climbed into the saddle, and without another look at the captain, followed Short Britches and the Mescaleros north toward the Mogollons.
Chapter 23
Kiannatah thought he had a pretty good idea of what the Pinda Lickoyi soldiers had in mind where dealing with the Coyotero threat was concerned. The yellow-legs did not dare venture too deeply into the mountains, knowing that to do so would expose them to ambush—and possible disaster. Instead, they were waiting in the foothills, hoping to catch the raiding parties as they either left the shelter of the Mogollons or returned to it. To this end, the man in the stovepipe hat and his Mescalero companions were being used to watch the routes the Coyoteros were most likely to take.
Knowing this, it would have been a relatively easy matter to devise alternate routes for egress from the mountains. This would improve the Coyoteros' chances of escaping the notice of the soldiers. But since Kiannatah's primary goal at this stage was to destroy the Mescaleros—and the old scout who led them—he did not want to escape their notice.
He had been in the Coyotero hideout only a few days when he approached Valerio with a plan. The jefe listened intently, and when Kiannatah was done, he nodded approval, and proceeded to summon the Coyotero bronchos. Standing in front of his jacal, he asked the warriors for a dozen volunteers to ride with the Netdahe in an effort to destroy the Mescaleros who dared join the Pinda Lickoyi against their own kind. He suspected, as Kiannatah did, that there would be some who would not follow the Avowed Killer. Kiannatah was, after all, an outcast, so it was a matter of honor with them. But there were more than enough volunteers. Kiannatah allowed Valerio to chose twelve men from those who offered their services. He noticed that several of the twelve had been members of the raiding party he had saved from the yellow-legs a few days earlier. One of these was named Talpute, the broncho who had led the previous raiding party—the one who had readily admitted to Valerio that without the assistance of the Netdahe they would all have been killed. Kiannatah decided that Talpute would be his lieutenant.
Later that same day, Kiannatah huddled with the twelve bronchos and explained his plan to them in detail. Its success depended largely on him alone; if he failed to carry out his part of the plan, they would all probably be killed. When he had finished going over the details, he gave the men one last opportunity to back out. No one did.
Talpute looked at the other Coyoteros, and asked what was on everyone's mind. "If the goal is to trap the Mescalero scouts, why are we using the same canyon that we used before? Surely the Mescaleros will be watching other trails out of the mountains. They will not expect us to use the same way, for fear that we will ride into another trap."
"I have seen how the old scout works. He will be watching the canyon."
Kiannatah sounded supremely confident. Talpute shrugged, not quite certain that the Netdahe was correct, but unwilling to dispute him.
For his part, Kiannatah was well aware that if he was wrong, it would prove difficult in the future to find even one Coyotero broncho willing to follow him. But he had no intention of failing.
He left the Coyotero encampment less than an hour later—alone. Knowing the Mogollons as well as the Coyoteros and Chiricahuas, he made a quick exit from the high country using a route other than the canyon where the yellow-legs had sprung their trap on the raiding party. Once in the sagebrush flats, he rode south and, a few hours later, cut the sign of a lone rider on an unshod horse. This he assumed was the trail left by the Mescalero scout who had been sent to bring the yellow-legs after the Coyotero raiding party had been seen leaving the mountains via the canyon. He made another assumption: The soldiers were still in the vicinity. After all, they had not yet achieved their objective of stopping the Coyotero raids.
It was easy enough to find the yellow-legs. They weren't trying to conceal their presence. Kiannatah did not venture too close. He didn't bother trying to discover just how many soldiers there were in the camp. That didn't matter. If he could destroy the Mescalero scouts, the yellow-legs would be blinded, and it wouldn't matter if they numbered ten or one hundred after that.
As the day waned, Kiannatah rode back toward the Mogollons. Before night fell, he had located a low rocky spine that twisted like a snake in a north-south configuration. Hiding his horse in one of the bends of the spine, he climbed to the rim and explored it from one end to the other, finding that there were only a few places where he was exposed to the view of anyone who might be on the desert floor. And from the top he could see miles to the east and to the west. It was a perfect vantage point for what he had in mind.
Kiannatah spent the night on the rim of the rocky spine. Sunrise found him alertly watching the flatland to the west, using field glasses he had taken from a Mexican officer, one of his victims from years before. In the direction in which he was looking was the days-old trail of the Mescalero scout who had brought the yellow-legs to the canyon ambush. Now all he could do was wait—and hope that the assumptions he had made about the old scout and his Mescaleros were correct, and that the twelve Coyoteros led by Talpute would do the job he had assigned to them. That job was simple enough—they were to be passing through the canyon this morning, as though leaving the mountains on another raid. Hopefully, the old scout or one of the Mescaleros would be watching the canyon. Seeing the Coyoteros depart, the old scout would send a rider to the soldiers camped a few hours away. And if that scout took the most direct route, Kiannatah would see him sometime today.
Kiannatah was accustomed to waiting for long periods of time. He did not allow himself to become impatient, and he was impervious to the discomfort of crouching in the rocks under the hot spine for hours on end. He remained continually vigilant.
His vigilance paid off. Early in the afternoon he spotted a ribbon of dust far to the north. That dust marked the progress of a horseman across the desert. Kiannatah's spirits rose as the rider came within view. With the aid of the field glasses, the Netdahe confirmed that it was a single Apache, and he concluded that the rider must be one of the Mescalero scouts. The Netdahe allowed himself a moment of triumphant self-satisfaction. He had been right, and his plan was working.
Descending to where his horse was waiting, Kiannatah put away the field glasses and vaulted onto the animal's back. Kicking his heels into the pony's rib cage, he urged it into a gallop. Circling the spine of rocks, he headed across the flats on a course to intercept the lone Mescalero, who was already to the south of him. Kiannatah didn't expect to get close enough for killing before being found out. But the closer he could get, the easier the task would be.
As it turned out, he closed the gap to within a few hundred yards before the Mescalero happened to glance behind him and see his pursuer. Unsure whether the rider following him was friend or foe, the Mescalero slowed his horse. As a precaution, he unslung the rifle that he carried on his back. At a hundred yards, Kiannatah did likewise. Seeing this, the Mescalero realized that he was in for a fight. Lifting the rifle to his shoulder, he took aim at the oncoming Netdahe. Kiannatah abruptly steered his horse to the right. Clinging to the horse's mane with his left hand, his left leg hooked over the animal's back, he used the horse's bulk to shield his body, and at the same time slid the rifle under the galloping pony's neck. Taken aback by this tactic, the Mescalero hesitated for a few precious seconds, allowing the Netdahe to trigger the first shot. One was all he needed. Kiannatah had two po
ssible targets—the smaller was the Mescalero himself, and the larger was the Mescalero's horse. He opted for the latter, knowing how difficult it was to hit one's mark from the back—or, in his case, the side—of a running horse. The bullet entered the horse's body just back of the Mescalero's leg; the animal screamed in agony, half reared, and then started to fall sideways. The Mescalero scrambled to jump clear. He rolled and came up in a crouch, unhurt, and still gripping his rifle. The horse lay on its side, thrashing helplessly. Grimly, the Mescalero moved forward and with a quick slash of his knife put the horse out of its misery. A bullet burned the air inches from his head, and he ducked down, using the carcass for cover.
Seeing his prey go down, Kiannatah got back astride his own horse, slowed it, and executed an agile running dismount, letting the pony continue on a new course that would take it well past the Mescalero's position, which he could not at the moment see, thanks to the contour of the land. Spinning, Kiannatah ran in a crouch back in the direction he'd come. The Mescalero heard the horse coming to his left. When it hove into view he was ready—but held his fire again, for the horse was riderless. He had just enough time to realize that he'd been fooled a second time. Then Kiannatah's bullet struck him high in the back. The impact hurled him forward. He sprawled facedown in the sand, stunned and gasping for air. Momentarily paralyzed and unable to lift his head, the Mescalero nonetheless could hear the approach of the Netdahe. Then he saw Kiannatah's n'deh b'ken, as the Avowed Killer stood over him. Though he knew he was doomed, the Mescalero tried to reach out for the rifle that lay in the sand beside him. Kiannatah waited until the Mescalero's fingertips could brush the rifle stock—and then he kicked the weapon out of his reach. The Mescalero lay still then, calmly waiting for the end. The Netdahe knelt beside him and, drawing his knife, lifted the Mescalero's head and cut his throat. He waited another moment, impassively watching his victim fight for life. When he was certain the Mescalero was dead, he turned and whistled. His horse responded, trotting toward him, pausing twenty paces away and snorting worriedly at the stench of death.
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