Ambush At Mustang Canyon

by Mike Kearby

  “How many?” Lone Wolf asked.

  “Thirty-six wagons and twenty mounted ta-’kai. They ride two men in each wagon.”

  “And what does the owl puppet tell you?”

  Maman-ti handed the glasses back to Lone Wolf and looked at the readied warriors, “Are our women and children in a safe position?”

  Lone Wolf nodded his assurance.

  Maman-ti raised his eyebrow, “Where are they?”

  “They are moving south and west to the far bank of the Washita.”

  Maman-ti shook his index finger at Lone Wolf. “Make sure you send enough warriors to guard them on their journey. Never forget what ta-’ka-i like Custer have done to other peoples. They will swoop down on our families and take their lives if they are exposed.”

  “You worry too much, old friend. The women and children are well protected.”

  “A man can never be careless and worry too little with a foe as the ta-’ka-i, Lone Wolf. We must be prepared to move the women and children to the winter camps soon.”

  “You win this battle, Owl Prophet, and let me worry about the women and children.”

  Maman-ti returned his gaze to the wagons intently watching their movement and held his hand into the wind. “We will set up a line of warriors on the next crest,” he spoke trancelike, “When the time comes that they try to circle, shoot their mules and horses first. The owl puppet tells me this is key to our victory.”

  Lone Wolf uttered a laugh through a tight mouth and let his eyes narrow in the understanding of the Owl Prophet’s plan.

  “While your first line keeps the soldiers occupied, take one hundred warriors and move west and south to the Washita. That is where they will be most vulnerable to our attack.”

  Lone Wolf surveyed Maman-ti’s proposed plan and showed his teeth. “You have planned well, my friend.” He threw his gaze to the assembled warriors and motioned for several rifles to take up positions at the front of the knoll.

  Maman-ti continued to study the supply wagons. He was determined to make them pay dearly for every inch of ground they covered from this point forward. “Lone Wolf,” he called out, “let the first line fire their Spencer rifles.”

  Capt. Wyllys Lyman sighted the Indians by accident. A reflection of sunlight flashed into his eyes and alerted him to the presence of hostiles. He knew the importance of the provision-laden wagons to Col. Miles and understood the Indians knew this as well. He heeled his horse and waited for his second in command, Lt. West, to ride up close.

  “Lieutenant, there are hostiles ahead. I don’t know how many, but I need for you to move a small column of men ahead to act as skirmishers.”

  Lt. West nodded and began calling out soldiers’ names. When he had the men chosen, he pushed ahead of the supply wagons.

  Capt. Lyman turned his pony and rode in between the line of wagons shouting out instructions, “Each of you, listen closely; we have sighted Indians ahead. Stay no more than twenty yards from the wagon in front of you. If we are attacked, I want these wagons corralled as quickly as possible.”

  As Lt. West reached a position seventy-five yards in front of the wagons, the plunking of carbines began to pop small circles of dust from the ground.

  “It’s begun, men!” Capt. Lyman called to the wagons. “Head south toward the Washita!”

  Maman-ti and White Horse pressed the ta-’ka-i skirmish lines, probing for a weakness.

  “The soldiers are brave,” White Horse said with respect. “They do not turn and flee at superior numbers. Theirs will be good scalps to claim.”

  Maman-ti focused on the small line of skirmishers and counted the soldiers. “These are experienced fighters. They are only thirteen in number, and yet they dig in like the armadillo and resist our charges.”

  “Maybe we should overpower them with many braves,” White Horse offered, eager to fight.

  Maman-ti dismissed the warrior chief with a wave of his hand. “Why kill any of your warriors with a foolhardy charge? Wait a little longer, White Horse. When Lone Wolf has circled behind the supply train, then we will charge the skirmishers.”

  In the early afternoon, rifle fire erupted from the Washita, and the supply wagons desperately maneuvered to circle. “Lone Wolf has set his trap!” Maman-ti broke into a wide smile.

  In the ensuing chaos, the teamsters’ mules began to fall victims to a hail of bullets from Lone Wolf’s rear attack. The rifle fire and the braying of livestock filled the prairie with a frightening symphony, and the smell of death percolated through the air.

  “They cannot make their circle.” White Horse grinned at Maman-ti, “Lone Wolf will be able to overrun their position. Let’s join in the battle!” He jumped on the captured spirit pony and with a series of yips raced for the fighting.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Near the Washita River, Texas, September 1874

  Lone Wolf and White Horse stood on a high knoll overlooking the supply train. Hastily dug breastworks offered minor cover for the now entrenched ta-’ka-i.

  “Look,” Lone Wolf pointed to the wagons. “They use their provisions and supplies as cover.”

  White Horse turned and looked for Maman-ti. “Where is the Owl Prophet?” he asked anxiously.

  “He is in the trees, there.” Lone Wolf motioned to a stand of scrub oak nearby. “He uses his medicine to speak with the spirit world. We must wait until he returns from the village of the dead for our instructions.”

  White Horse nodded and strained to see Owl Prophet in the scrub. “Do you believe in his magic, Lone Wolf?”

  “It does not matter what I believe,” Lone Wolf nodded his head toward the supply train, “only what they believe.” A group of warriors circled the wagons and in daring fashion, charged the breastworks, screaming insults and shaking their fists at the unbelieving soldiers.

  In the late afternoon of the third day of the battle, Maman-ti emerged from his makeshift medicine lodge. “What is the count?” he asked wearily.

  The warriors all wheeled at his voice but remained mute.

  “The count!” Maman-ti snarled, “How many dead?”

  Lone Wolf stood and looked into the hollow eyes of the medicine man. “We have two dead ta-’ka-i, Owl Prophet. And over thirty mules and horses litter the sand.”

  The Owl Prophet stretched his arms outward and shook them rapidly. He looked at Lone Wolf and walked toward his old friend, “Then we have stayed here long enough.”

  “But we have them surrounded and waiting for death, Owl Prophet. We must not quit now,” Lone Wolf protested.

  “They sit near the river, and their wagons are loaded with food. The owl puppet tells me we cannot starve them before replacement soldiers move to this spot. We must leave now with our victory intact.”

  Big Bow emerged from below the ridge, ripe for an argument and shouted loudly, “No! No more running away from the soldiers, Owl Prophet! They wait for their deaths, and you want us to flee like women?”

  Maman-ti looked over the assembled warriors. A gathering whisper drifted among the group. “Is this what you wish? To stay and fight? Those charges you make on the ta-’ka-i without injury, do you think Big Bow gives you the medicine to hold the soldier’s fingers from their triggers? If you stay and fight, you will see many of your friends die in the sand of the Washita. Mangomhente pushes from the south and Price from the west!”

  Maman-ti made an imaginary circle with his forefinger. “Look east. Davidson rides from Fort Sill and Miles fights the Comanche just a short distance away. If we stay, they will kill your women! If we stay, they will kill your children!”

  Big Bow made a slashing motion down his chest. “If what you say is true, Owl Prophet, then we must ride to Elk Creek. For it is there our women and children will have safety!”

  “No!” Maman-ti cautioned sternly, “We must take the women and children into the canyon. We must join with our Comanche and Cheyenne brothers. The owl puppet warns that only there will our people be safe!”

  Big Bo
w tossed an arm skyward and jumped to his pony. “I hope Owl Prophet is right. Big Bow will meet you in the canyon, but first I am going west and join up with the Comanche, who are not afraid to fight the ta-’ka-i soldiers!”

  Maman-ti stood with arms folded as a small contingent of warriors followed Big Bow away from the knoll.

  Lone Wolf whispered to Maman-ti, “It appears you have an enemy in Big Bow.”

  Maman-ti continued to watch the departing chief and then replied, “That is Big Bow’s way; he goes to release his anger on the soldiers and that is good. Don’t worry; he will join us later, the owl puppet has already told me this.”

  “Then we should begin to move to the canyon.” Lone Wolf swung up on his horse and looked once more at the supply train.

  Maman-ti studied the large assembly of Kiowa and looked south. “It is dangerous to travel in such a large group. Divide into smaller bands, and meet us after three moons at the narrow canyon below the twisting path of the Comanchero, Tafoya. As you travel, fight any soldiers you come across; keep them occupied until Lone Wolf and I can escort the women and children safely into the canyon.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  South of the Washita River, Texas, September 1874

  Under the heat of a mid-morning sun, Amos Chapman arched his back in an attempt to shift his drenched buckskin shirt to a more comfortable position. He heeled his horse behind a small stand of scrub and placed his ear into the wind. The hairs on his neck and arms tingled with a warning that he normally heeded. The half-breed scout searched the northern sky and observed the building storm clouds.

  “We best find some cover, Amos. These mustangs of yours hold up well, but even they can’t outrun a Comanche pony after traveling all night.”

  Amos turned slightly in the saddle and nodded to his old friend, Billy Dixon. Dixon had quit hunting buffalo after the fight at Adobe Walls and joined the army as a civilian scout. “I know, Billy, but look at that blackened prairie. I can’t say which, lightning or Indians, but it’s burned to a crisp, and a tick would be lucky to find a hiding spot out there this morning.” Amos wondered how Col. Miles and the men of the Sixth Cavalry were faring. He figured the colonel had made a big mistake by chasing after the Cheyenne and leaving his supply lines staggered so far from his main fighting columns. Now he was charged with the improbable task of finding the provision wagons returning from Camp Supply.

  Billy stared across the scorched earth and pulled the bandana from his neck. “You think Capt. Lyman is north of the river?” he asked, as he ran the linen cloth across his brow.

  “That’s my best guess.” Amos pulled the army issued canteen to his lips and took a long drink of the warm water. “That scattered rifle fire we heard last night had to be coming from the captain and the supply train.”

  “Shouldn’t we ride toward them, Scout Chapman?”

  Amos looked back at one of the privates who Col. Miles had sent along as couriers.

  “Pvt. Smith!” Zachariah Woodhall, a seasoned sergeant, hollered gruffly, “Keep your pie hole closed!”

  Amos rolled his neck back and forth trying to shake the uneasiness surrounding him and replaced the canteen around his saddle horn. “It’s OK, sergeant. I reckon this early morning heat has made us all a might edgy.”

  “I was only saying that Col. Miles sent us out to find Capt. Lyman, and if the supply train is just north of us shouldn’t we...”

  “Private!” Sgt. Woodhall interrupted, “Shut your mouth!”

  Amos rubbed his temple and glanced once more at the standing hair on his arms. Well, we can’t sit here all day. He exhaled a deep breath and even knowing better, gigged his pony and led the fiveman detail into the vast openness of the prairie.

  “Keep your eyes alert and your heads on a swivel,” Amos turned and whispered to the detail. When he twisted back face front, he found himself staring at a large party of Kiowa heading lazily down a small knoll that lay to the north.

  “Blazes!” The experienced scout cursed and reined his pony to a stop. “This is a day I wasn’t expecting so soon!” Amos dismounted calmly and, with a quick flip of his wrist, flung the beaded cover from his Winchester.

  Billy Dixon followed Amos’ lead and rolled from his pony, rifle in hand, and methodically chambered a cartridge. “I don’t know if bad luck is following you or me, Amos.”

  Sgt. Woodhall shot a fast glance at the approaching horde, and looking back to Amos, gasped as both civilian scouts stood, dismounted, “We’re buzzard bait sitting here, Amos. I say we make a run for cover.”

  “We’ve run these horses all night, Sergeant. We’ll make our stand here. Now!” Amos shouldered his Winchester.

  The three privates looked to Sgt. Woodhall for orders.

  “Everyone off their mounts!” Amos screamed at the enlisted men. “Pvt. Smith, take the reins of the horses and hold them with your dear life, boy. The rest of you get your rifles ready, and use your cartridges wisely or we’ll be overrun in minutes.”

  The Kiowa terror seemed to be on top of them instantly. The report from a single gun shot blared and Pvt. Smith clutched his chest. The private wheezed once and then fell lifeless to the ground releasing the reins of the mustangs. With the first death recorded, the prairie erupted into a barrage of screaming and gunfire.

  The steady and horrific screams of the Indian raiders sent shivers down Amos’ back. “Grab those horses!” His shouts, dulled by the ever-increasing numbers of Kiowa arriving at the scene, went unheeded.

  The mustangs, caught in the chaos of repeated gunfire and the war cry of the Indians, scattered carrying with them the detail’s canteens, food, and blankets.

  Amos watched the panic-struck mustang’s bolt from the battle. “Jesse!” he hollered, angrily. Fully exposed to the raiding mongrels, he gritted his teeth and braced for the coming onslaught.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  South of the Washita River, Texas, September 1874

  White Horse and several hundred warriors rode from the wagon train at the insistence of the Owl Prophet and headed for Sweetwater Creek. White Horse planned to let the warriors bathe and relax there before they broke into smaller bands. But as the band crossed a small butte, he could not believe the gift that appeared on the open prairie. He blinked quickly to clear his vision. When he opened his eyes again, the six ta-’ka-i still stood in front of him, dismounted and prepared to fight. He turned to Hunting Horse and exposed his teeth in an animal-like snarl declaring, “The Owl Prophet truly holds great power, for look what he delivers to us.”

  As the first line of Kiowa riders sighted the six soldiers, a mad scramble began as each warrior made a ferocious dash for the tightly bunched soldiers.

  Each subsequent line followed, kicking their ponies and racing with terrifying screams and whoops. White Horse pushed his pony forward and surged ahead of Hunting Horse. “Watch now, Hunting Horse, and observe the straightness of my aim,” he called back as he held the Spencer to his shoulder. Thirty yards from the ta-’ka-i, he took aim at the soldier holding the six ponies and fired a well placed shot at the man’s chest. “AAAAiiiheee!” he shouted, “the Great Spirit holds with us today!”

  Hunting Horse, his pony’s reins between his teeth, raised his rifle and fired at the white Cheyenne, Chapman. He watched the army scout crumple to the ground and then rode by close enough to push on the wounded man’s back with the barrel of his gun. “Heyyyyy, Amos!” he laughed. “I got you now, squaw man!”

  By the time the entire band of warriors completed one pass through the soldier’s formation, every ta-’ka-i lay wounded on the open prairie.

  White Horse wheeled his horse back to the east after shooting the soldier, and laughing, called out to his brothers, “We have these intruders where we want them; let’s see how bravely they die!”

  Amos grimaced as a burning sensation ripped across his knee and dropped him to the ground. The pain was instantaneous, and yellow streaks flashed in his eyes. It felt like someone had taken a hot blacks
mith iron to his lower leg. “I’m hit!” he called out. He rolled on his side and held his leg in both hands. Then remembering where he was, he grabbed the Winchester and chambered a cartridge. He watched in horror as the Kiowa ponies split around him and sprinted fifty yards east of the detail’s position.

  “Billy!” he called, “are you still above snakes?”

  “Just grazed.”

  “And the others?” Amos asked, his mouth pulled taut in pain.

  “I reckon Pvt. Smith to be killed and the other three all hit as well!”

  Amos fell back and watched as some of the Kiowa warriors raced for the stampeded horses. The Indians appeared to be having great sport with the chase. “Awww!” he muttered loudly, “ain’t this gonna be nice!”

  “What are they doing, Amos?”

  Billy called out. “Do you see any cover?”

  “There’s a stand of mesquite a couple of hundred yards to the west.” Billy frantically searched in all directions.

  “Too far.”

  “Well, it ain’t much, but there’s an old buffalo wallow a fair run to our right.”

  “I guess that’ll have to make do,” Amos called back, “Make a run for it one at a time. The rest of us will protect the man running. These Kiowa aim to play a game with us.”

  “A game?” Rising, a terrible fear swirled around Billy’s insides. He rushed forward in a crouched position under a volley of rifle fire and arrows that plunked to earth around him.

  “They know we’re in a hopeless situation, so they are going to make us use up our ammunition and then come in and kill us slow like.” Amos took aim for a warrior fifty yards off to his left.

  “Hey Amos!” the Kiowa called from a distance with laughter in their voices, “here we come again!”

  Amos fired, knocking one of the horses from under his rider. “Come a little closer, boys! I’ve got a few more cartridges to share with you!”