Massacre at Whip Station

by Dusty Richards

  The frontiersman rolled his shoulders and approached the officer. “This creature wanted to rile the Indian nations with the death of this shaman.” Joe pointed at Tuchahu who had remained standing before the climbing sun. “Kennedy and Hathaway and their Rebels and—well, I don’t know who else, they wanted to use that to fire up the Red Man for a war of extermination.”

  “That’s idiocy,” said Kennedy, standing his wobbly ground.

  “I wonder, Mr. Kennedy,” Howard said. He spent a moment thinking—remembering—carefully before he spoke. “Late last night, a doctor came to see me at our campsite. He sat in my tent and wrote out a message to be delivered to General Guilford at Fort Yuma. It said something about an objective missed and someone being back on the road. There was also concern about Whip Station and Indians being involved.”

  Howard walked toward the Indian agents, who were standing shoulder to shoulder. Hathaway was glaring and Kennedy was breathing hard, a large hand on his belly.

  “Do either of you know this man I’m speaking of, Dr. Peterson?”

  “No,” Kennedy said. “Why should we?”

  “Because from what I’ve heard today, your actions fit the particulars of the message he sent.”

  “Then you should be talking to him, not to me,” Kennedy said.

  “I intend to do that,” the major said. “You said the dead Rebels we found worked with Mr. O’Malley. How do you know?”

  Kennedy pointed at Joe. “This lowlife and another ran off when the Indians arrived. You saw that.”

  “I saw the Indians,” Major Howard agreed. “Get on your horses, all of you. You ride with us. The rest of my unit, mount up!”

  As the command did as they had been ordered, Howard wheeled his horse toward the medicine man. He did not approach the lone figure, majestically haloed by the sun, but spoke out so that he could be heard by all.

  “With the help of Baishan and the Apache,” he said, “I would like to see that the Serrano father is returned to the stagecoach so that he may be taken to his people in the north. Does Tuchahu agree?”

  The Indian walked forward without comment. Grinning, Slash excused himself from Clarity and ran back to get their horses. Mounting with Tuchahu, the men rode forward to join Clarity, Joe, the Cavalry, and the Apaches as they turned west.

  “If I live to be as old as Salt Creek itself,” Joe said with some astonishment, “I will never again see a caravan like this.”

  * * *

  The troops at Fort Yuma had mustered with the sun, eager to be out of the fort and just as eager for action. Only General Guilford and Colonel Burke knew what the mission was, and both rode with the complement of twenty-four men, including a supply wagon.

  The column headed out and to the northwest, full of vigor and resplendent in uniforms that were as sharp as Guilford insisted they be. Their mapped course would take them west along the foot of the southern end of Salt Creek toward Vallicita and then north to the Butterfield Trail.

  General Guilford had not gone back to bed but he felt—not rested, he thought, but settled, like a colt.

  After months of planning, the operation was finally in motion. The dream of a new nation was on the verge of being realized. He was a military man and understood that nothing in war was guaranteed. But he could not see how the conflagration could be stopped. Tuchahu was the match and he would soon be struck.

  The officer could feel the fire in his men as they rode. Like a cannon that was fired too infrequently, men who drilled needed a challenge to test their skills. Fielding their new, powerful Springfields and surrounded by comrades-in-arms and a sense of purpose—for the first time since the War—these men were battle-tested and ready.

  The blazing sun slowed the horses somewhat and canteens were lifted with regularity. Guilford had not set a limit on when and how much the men could drink. There were water holes and rivers along the way, and hardship would distract rather than toughen them.

  There is a time to give and a time to withhold, he thought.

  It was late morning when the United States Cavalry was on the Butterfield Trail some two miles beyond the Whip Station, heading north. Guilford was looking ahead when suddenly, at his command, Colonel Burke halted the two columns.

  “Glasses,” the general said to Lieutenant Anthony, who was riding to his right, a pace behind.

  The officer handed him a pair of binoculars. Guilford turned them north and focused. What he saw puzzled him. He did not know whether to smile or spit. Not yet.

  Ahead, a column of cavalry was riding south on both sides of a stagecoach.

  There were two men in the front box and . . .

  “Christ, sir!” Burke exclaimed. The colonel was also looking through his glasses.

  “What is it?” the general demanded.

  From his vantage point to the right, the colonel could see part of the procession that was blocked by the stagecoach from the general’s straight-on position.

  “Sir, there are Indians with our boys.”

  Guilford could see the lead officer chatting with the driver. “They don’t seem to be in trouble,” he said.

  “No sir, and the Indians—I think they’re Apache—are not bearing arms. Orders?”

  “Hold,” Guilford replied. “Just hold.”

  The train approached, the officer—Major Howard—galloping ahead to meet the cavalry commander. Upon reining, he saluted.

  “General . . . Colonel.” His eyes took in the columns. “Is there trouble somewhere?”

  “Perhaps you can tell me,” Guilford said. “I received, as you know, a message from a gentleman named ‘Gus’ suggesting there was trouble. I decided to look into it personally.”

  “That was Dr. Peterson, sir,” Howard said. “I was led to believe he knew you.”

  “He worked at the fort during an influenza outbreak.”

  “So he informed me,” Howard said.

  The general raised his arm, still holding the glasses. “What is all this?”

  “The individual who concerned Dr. Peterson, the Indian Tuchahu, is aboard the stagecoach,” Howard explained. “The Apache have volunteered to see him safely to his people, but as the shaman is still under the protection of the President of the United States I decided to withhold permission until instructed otherwise.”

  “Very wise,” Guilford nodded.

  The parade was now near enough so that the general could make out the Indian agents Kennedy and Hathaway. The men seemed broken.

  Almost as shattered as my plan, Guilford thought. He knew, even as he had spoken, that disavowing any knowledge of Peterson’s intent had been the start of its unraveling.

  “Who else is with you?” Guilford asked.

  Howard named the occupants of the coach. Guilford listened without comment. The O’Malleys ran Whip Station, where the wheels had come off this wagon. What they had witnessed would be enough to end the careers of the individuals involved. Perhaps worse.

  The coach and its complement stopped just yards from the cavalry column. The general ignored the searching, imploring eyes of the head Indian agent. This was his failure. He and Hathaway would bear the responsibility alone. His stony expression informed them as much.

  “Our presence here is clearly not required,” Guilford said. He turned his eyes, and an approving smile, toward Major Howard. “I commend your initiative, Major.”

  “With the general’s permission,” Howard said, “we believe this Dr. Peterson is currently in the copper mines north of Civil Gulch. I believe, from what Joe O’Malley and another passenger have told us—that would be Miss Clarity Michaels, who you see riding off to the side—significant munitions including gunpowder are stored there. Some of that was likely used to bring down one side of the gulch.”

  “Yes, we saw the rockslide when we rode out,” Guilford said. “Permission granted. I want you to report to me directly when your investigation is concluded.”

  “Gladly, sir!” Major Howard said. He was pleased that a mission underta
ken hastily and with ever-evolving tactics seemed to have worked out so well.

  At Guilford’s command, Colonel Burke marched the column about-face and they retraced their route to the south. There was general discontent among the men, but none felt worse than General Guilford.

  The Western States of America had just been stillborn.

  * * *

  The first thing Major Howard did upon returning to the stagecoach was to turn Tuchahu over to Baishan and the Apaches. Sincere farewells were made, though none more earnest than Joe O’Malley to the Indian brave.

  “I am very happy to have fought this with you instead of agin’ you,” Joe said. He turned to his grandson who was mounted beside him. “You’ll agree I said that when we see Gert, yeah?”

  “Gladly,” Slash said.

  Baishan nodded once in agreement, then turned to the other O’Malley.

  “Slash—we fight, someday.” He made a fist. “Knives.”

  “Bone-blade so I don’t kill ya, okay?” he said.

  Baishan snorted. “Not kill. Not even cut.”

  “That’ll be the day,” he said.

  The respective parties separated, the Indians to the north and the cavalry to the southeast. Only the stagecoach and the O’Malleys remained.

  “I guess I gotta go back to Whip Station,” B.W. said. “Seems to me I’m losing my Shotgun.”

  Slash grinned as he rode to Clarity’s side.

  B.W. sighed. “Dick Ocean warned me not to go without him. I shoulda listened.”

  * * *

  Major Howard’s unit rode to the copper mines, where their stay proved surprisingly brief.

  During the ride, Douglas Kennedy had approached him. He spoke with a mouth that sounded as if it had gravel under the lower lip, thanks to Joe’s punch.

  “I want to make a deal,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “I’ll point out the mine where Peterson is if you let me and Hathaway go.”

  Howard turned to him. “That sounds almost like a confession, Mr. Kennedy.”

  “I don’t care what it sounds like,” the Indian agent replied. “The general was lying back there. Peterson will confirm that.”

  “The general was lying? Just like Mr. O’Malley was lying?”

  “That was different,” Kennedy said. “The general wanted us to seize the Indian. Peterson will confirm that.”

  “Will he? If the general did give such an order—why did you follow? You’re a civilian.”

  “He gave us army gold,” Kennedy said. “As payment.”

  “Where is this gold now?”

  “At Fort Mason.”

  “Where they keep the paymaster’s gold,” Howard said.

  “Yes, but they were only holding it for us. Peterson will confirm all of that.”

  “So it would be in your best interest for us to find him,” Howard said. “Seems to me you have nothing to bargain with. If you don’t show us where he is, you just confessed to something you’ll have to face alone.”

  Kennedy’s own distracted, careless speech flummoxed even the man himself. Beaten, he told Howard how to find the mine and they rode directly to it. As he had promised, Dr. Peterson was there with guns, powder, and a man who had died at some point during the night.

  “Now there’s a sight,” Peterson said as the major and the Indian agent appeared in the mouth of the mine, the troops massed behind them. Peterson tittered. “Your jaw’s swollen, Douglas. You want me to look at that?”

  “I want you to tell the major, here, everything you know about this operation, including the involvement of General Guilford.”

  “General Guilford?” Peterson asked. “I know him. He’s a good man. I saved his wife, you know, when she was not expected to live. He was very grateful.”

  Kennedy seemed at a loss. And then suddenly he realized what Peterson had just said.

  “He’s going to protect you,” the Indian agent blurted. “You’re going to try and pin this on me and Hathaway.”

  “As well he should.” The doctor looked at Howard. “The general received intelligence from Washington that an attempt might be made on the life of the Indian who had just been to visit the president, the medicine man Tuchahu. I was asked to keep an eye on two suspects, Kennedy and Hathaway.”

  “Liar!” Kennedy screamed.

  “Him too?” the major asked.

  “Yes! Him most of all!”

  Peterson snickered. “My message to the General—through you, Major—was to inform him that the attempt had failed. You saw, in my note, that I believed it might be tried again.”

  “I remember,” Howard said.

  “This is madness!” Kennedy shouted, stalking back and forth in the narrow stone opening. “Jessup, say something!”

  Hathaway looked at his partner, his own expression grave. “What is there to say, Douglas? We’ve been had.”

  Troopers attended to the body of Tod Crane— who had apparently bled to death when his wound reopened. After posting two men to secure the munitions, Major Howard saw Peterson to his horse and had him ride apart from the Indian agents. Though Howard permitted Kennedy and Hathaway to ride without being tied to their horses, he warned them not to try and escape.

  “I do not know if treason was committed out here, or whether a civilian court will hang you,” Howard warned them. “I do know that I will shoot you myself if you attempt to ride off.”

  Howard did not know whether he would have fired on an unarmed civilian, but neither of the Indian agents knew that. Slumped in their saddles, they made no unexpected moves, uttered no words loud enough to hear, all the way to Fort Yuma.

  CHAPTER 23

  “There are three things we need to survive,” Willa had once told her son. “Air and water are gifts from God. Love is a gift from another.”

  As he approached the long hut that was the Vallicita Station, Isaiah Sunday was a man sundered by conflict. In his heart was love for his wife and his son. In his chest was hate for Brent Diamond. These two things were tangled and he did not know how to settle one so he could deal with the other. It was that reunion which caused his heart to beat faster while the hate caused his belly to burn louder.

  Diamond deserved to die. There was no question of that. He had killed Isaiah’s father and other human beings, men and women that pieces of paper and links of chain called “slaves.” Diamond had compounded his sins by enforcing servitude on two free souls, Bonita and Joshua.

  But his blood would stain the hoped-for reunion with his family. Isaiah’s violence against him might accomplish something even worse. It would show his boy that the kind of savagery that damned the South was somehow acceptable in the hands of another.

  It wasn’t. Willa had remarked on that over and over during their journey west. Isaiah hadn’t heard her because he could think of nothing but finding his family.

  Now...

  The sun threw a new day on the old walls of the station. Isaiah was still a ways off, but he watched it like all the mountain lions he’d seen riding west. Those big cats were all eyes, nothing else.

  Until they saw their prey and sprang, he thought.

  Isaiah carried his rifle under his arm. He did not think it mattered whether he appeared threatening. A Colored man, approaching the house of a Southern refugee, would probably be shot on sight. If such a shot were fired, and missed, Isaiah wanted to have a chance to fire back.

  There was no shot. Isaiah stopped when he saw a tall, gangly boy go out to the well on the approaching side of the station. The man resisted the urge to cry out, though he might not have had the voice if he’d tried. His lower lip trembled and his throat seemed plugged.

  Isaiah kept riding forward. He had decided that he would not sneak up on the place. He would ride in, like the free man he was. His son would see that. His wife would see that. And most of all, Brent Diamond would see that.

  Brent Diamond did see that, from inside the doorway where he had stepped to light a cigarette. Wearing a white bell-slee
ve shirt and pale trousers, the station master was facing south and Isaiah was riding east. Diamond saw young Joshua reeling up the bucket, then suddenly let it drop. He saw the boy stare at someone riding in. Diamond looked over. Both saw that the man on the trail was Colored.

  “Joshua?” the man on the horse said.

  “Uh-huh,” the boy replied quietly, nodding.

  “Joshua, it’s your pa.”

  Diamond ran back inside as the face of Bonita Sunday appeared in the window. She cried out.

  “Isaiah?!”

  Joshua charged forward, arms churning, and Bonita ran to the door. She did not make it. Diamond grabbed his Colt from the holster behind the door, then grabbed the woman around her slender waist. He forced her back to the window where Isaiah could see.

  “Stop where you are or this Colored dies!” Diamond shouted in his familiar, soupy Southern voice.

  “Ma!” Joshua shouted, stopping and turning.

  “Stay there, son,” Isaiah said. He stopped the horse, dismounted, but did not draw his shotgun. “Mr. Diamond!” he called out by wretched habit. “I don’t want any shooting! All I want is my wife and son.” He decided, on the spot. “Restore them to me and we will leave.”

  “I do not take orders from Coloreds!” Diamond replied.

  “Then I’m asking you,” Isaiah said. “Let her go and we all go.”

  “I need her! And the boy.”

  “Not more than I do,” Isaiah said. His anger was rising.

  “I will tell you just once, boy—get back on your horse, ride off, and don’t come back, y’hear?”

  “Go, Isaiah!” Bonita shouted. “We’ll find you!”

  “You will find no one,” Diamond roared, “even if I have to chain you to the stove!”

  Isaiah was no longer thinking. His arms and legs were moving, putting him back on the saddle of the horse.

  “Pa!” Joshua shouted.

  “Don’t move, son,” his father said in a dead monotone.

  Slowly, quietly, Isaiah turned the horse around. His back to the station, he lay the rifle across his shoulders. And in one swift motion, he twisted, aimed at the window, and fired.

  Isaiah had aimed wide to make sure he didn’t hit his wife. But the bullet only struck Diamond in the right shoulder. He still held on to Bonita, even as he fell into the room, away from the window.