The Dragoons 3

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Yes,” Terron said. “We know that not all White-Eyes are warriors. Some farm like Hopis or live in towns like the Zunis. Why did he not send them to speak with us instead of fighting men?”

  “We came to keep the Mexicans from trying to take back land we won from them,” Drummond explained. “We are not here because the Big Chief wishes for us to fight the Chirinatos.”

  Eruditus showed his approval of the reply with a secret smile and wink at Drummond. He turned to the Apaches and added, “The Big Chief of the Americans does not take Chirinato land. He is not like the Mexicans. He will leave it alone except to have his people travel across it.”

  Aguila asked, “But will not these blue-coat warriors live on El Vano?”

  “Yes,” Eruditus admitted. “But they will camp in only one place. That is at the Pool-Beneath-the-Cliff. It is as the war chief said, he and his blue-coat warriors only want to keep an eye on the Mexicans.”

  “But what if we want to use the water at the Pool-Beneath-the-Cliff?” Aguila asked. “Many of our people spend time on El Vano’s desert. They will need to fill their goatskins with water from time to time.”

  Grant said, “We will welcome visits from our Chirinato brothers.” Then he added, “We recognize you own the Pool-Beneath-the-Cliff.”

  Once more Quintero entered the exchange. “Then why did you make your camp there?”

  “We are not stupid,” Grant said. “Would you think we would make camp out in the sun of the desert away from water? We are men, not lizards!”

  The other Chirinatos laughed at the absurdity of purposely setting up hogans away from a known water source.

  Quintero sought to save face. “Then why do you not seek permission to stay there now?”

  “That is part of which I wish to speak,” Grant said. “That is what the Big Chief of the Americans asks of his friend Lobo Cano. He sends the gifts so that you will permit us to camp there at the Pool-Beneath-the-Cliff.”

  “My friend the Big Chief is considerate if he exchanges gifts for our tribe to allow you to continue to camp at the Pool-Beneath-the-Cliff,” Lobo Cano said. He took another admiring look at the knife he had received. “His present to me is a very good one.”

  “Yes,” Grant answered. “If you agree to remain his friends, he promises that he will give the Chirinatos more presents from time to time.”

  A sudden eruption of approval came from the assembled Apaches. Quintero scowled and fell back into silence.

  Lobo Cano looked at Aguila, Zorro, and Terron. All three showed their acceptance of the terms by saying nothing else. The Apache chief turned back to Grant. “We agree to this. We will not molest travelers across El Vano if they are the people of the Big Chief of the Americans. But travelers must not come up into our mountains. If they do we will catch them and turn them over to you for the Big Chief of the Americans to punish.”

  “That does not include Mexicanos,” Aguila added. “They are our enemies for many generations. They have their own chief who will not punish them.”

  “I will try to keep the Mexicans away,” Grant said. He signaled to Corporal Rush. “Bring me the papers, quill, and ink.”

  The corporal quickly complied, setting the items on the crate that contained the gifts.

  Eruditus pointed to the two copies of the document. “This agreement is shown by the marks on these skins. When you make crosses on them where we show you, it is proper for them to be seen by the Big Chief of the Americans. Then it will be proof to him that his friends the Chirinatos agree to what he has proposed. Then he will send more presents. You will keep one of the skins for yourself to show others of the treaty you have made with this powerful chief.”

  Eruditus unrolled the treaties, arranging the quill and ink for use. Grant dipped the writing instrument in the ink and signed both copies. He handed it to Eruditus who passed it on to Lobo Cano. The Apache made awkward crosses above where his name was written in English.

  “So be it,” Eruditus said. Then, unable to resist the urge, he commented in Latin, “Consensus est facitus! The treaty is made!” He rolled them up again, handing one to Lobo Cano and one to Grant. “The parley is over,” he announced.

  Under the Apache chief’s direction, the crate was picked up and carried away. After final farewells and remarks about other possible meetings, the two groups broke up. By the time the dragoons returned to their horses and mounted up, the Apaches had disappeared into the trees.

  The troops, with Eruditus in the lead, returned in single file as they had come. This time, with a signed treaty in their possession, the dragoons felt much less uneasy about any possible ambushes, although there were a couple remarks about the rebellious young warrior who had spoken so rudely during the proceedings. The veteran soldiers recognized a possible troublemaker in the surly Apache.

  Even Captain Grant Drummond had the Indian on his mind. When the column reached the bottom of the mountains and rode out onto the desert, he drew up alongside Eruditus. “Mr. Fletcher,” he said. “Are you familiar with that rather impertinent fellow who kept interrupting the negotiations?”

  “I’ve known him since he was a pup,” Eruditus said. “His name is Quintero and you’ll not find a fiercer fighter among that clan of natural-born warriors.”

  “The instincts I’ve developed over the years lead me to sense an enemy in this Quintero,” Grant said. “Those other Apaches standing close to him are his followers, are they not?”

  “Yes, Captain,” Eruditus said. “Chaparro, Bistozo, and Zalea have been Quintero’s constant companions since all were boys. Many a Mexican has lost his life due to the efforts of that quartet.”

  “So, they are good fighters, are they?” Grant asked. “Those four display the finest and the worst of their race,” Eruditus said. “The Apache is raised in an atmosphere of harshness almost unknown in any other part of the world. Only the strongest children survive into adulthood, and the strongest adults into old age.”

  Grant pointed to the mountains. “That does not seem a harsh environment to me, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “Not at this time of the year, Captain. The winters there can be deadly with an ever-present threat of hunger when the game animals flee the snows. For that reason, the Chirinatos cannot spend all their time there in those mountains of plenty,” Eruditus explained. “They return to the desert both because of necessity and some sort of spiritual bonding they have with that unforgiving land.”

  “Then as the months roll by we can expect the Apaches to be in our proximity,” Grant said. “Most interesting to contemplate. Now I am doubly appreciative of the treaty.”

  “I hate to point this out, Captain,” Eruditus said. “But if something—or someone—stirs up the Chirinatos, that treaty might as well have been written in burning blood by Satan’s own hand. It will be more of a curse than a blessing.

  The column pressed on, heading for the comforts and food offered by the camp at the Pool-Beneath-the-Cliff.

  Seven

  The old Indian held his grandson’s small hand as they stood on the edge of the desert arroyo. The pair looked down its length to the spot where it curved out of sight into the harsh landscape.

  The boy was only seven summers of age, but he was particularly bright as was befitting a male relative of a Chirinato Apache medicine man. The Grandfather was the elder brother of Eruditus’s Apache friend Aguila. He enjoyed a particularly respected position among the tribe’s clans.

  Nitcho was the ancient one’s name. Still straight and dignified in spite of his advanced age, he had served the spiritual needs of his people through countless seasons and changings of the moon. In the Apache world, dominated by supernatural powers and evil spirits lurking either invisibly or in certain animals, the shaman was absolutely necessary to ensure good hunting, war making, and health for the Chirinatos. After years of being the tribe’s medicine man, Nitcho had begun looking for someone to carry on his important post. It had been very difficult to find a suitable candidate. He’d almost lost
hope of finding the right replacement to administer and supervise the religious side of the tribe’s life. Even his own son could not measure up to the high standards and keen perceptions necessary for the office. Nitcho’s younger brother Aguila, though a wise and experienced member of the tribe’s counsel, did not have the makings of a spirit doctor. Besides, he also was fast advancing in age making him a second choice at best even if he were able to absorb the spirits into his soul needed for the deep meditation and ministering necessary.

  But the boy, now called Nitchito after the grandfather, suddenly blossomed forth as the one to take over as medicine man. The youngster had already shown more than the quick wit and high-intelligence needed by a successful and accomplished shaman. The boy told of dreams in which he spoke to animals or saw visions of things to happen in the future. When Nitchito’s announcement of a dream about a large herd of deer appearing at the foot of the mountains came true, everyone was convinced he was destined to be the Chirinatos’ next medicine man. He had demonstrated the power to get information from the spirits that would feed the people of the tribe. By the time Nitcho died in a few years, the boy would be mature enough to take on the awesome responsibility of communication with the world of ghosts for the Chirinatos.

  Little Nitchito, through long, deep conversations and exchanges of ideas, shared the views and philosophies of his grandfather. Like the old man, he also preferred to live on the desert. The milder climate and living conditions of the Culebra Mountains held no special favor in the boy’s eyes. He realized the challenges and hardships of the desert increased one’s spiritual strength and awareness.

  Nitcho was pleased. The lad would learn that while the high country provided certain herbs, roots, and barks needed in his profession, the mountains in reality, were foreign to real Apaches. Even if the Culebra range was the home to Puma-Ghost-of-the-Mountain who bestowed wisdom on the Chirinatos, the desert was the true native soil of the Chirinato clans. For it was on that baked land where the invisible female deity called Spirit-Woman-of-the-Desert lived. The dry earth was her belly and many lifetimes before, after Life-Giver had impregnated her, the female spirit’s belly had come open and given birth to the Chirinato Apaches.

  “What do you think of this ravine, Nitchito?” the old man asked the grandson.

  The boy studied it for a few moments. “It is long and narrow, Grandfather. It goes for a long way, I think.”

  “How do you think it got here?” Nitcho asked.

  Again the boy settled into thought before speaking. “I think Spirit-Woman-of-the Desert cut it in the earth.”

  “That is true, Grandson,” the spirit doctor said.

  “Is this the same ravine from which our people emerged into the world?” the boy asked.

  “No, my grandson, that one was so deep that it went straight to the bowels of the earth. Then it was closed up,” Nitcho said. “Spirit-Woman-of-the-Desert put this one here, like all she has made to serve us, for two reasons. First, so the Apache could have a hiding place that cannot be seen unless one is very close to it.”

  “What other reason did Spirit-Woman-of-the-Desert have for cutting the earth?” Nitchito asked.

  “To give the sudden waters some place to go,” Nitcho said.

  “Why is that, Grandfather?”

  “When it rains without warning and the clouds open up to throw rivers down on the earth, the waters that come must have some place to run rather that on top of the earth,” the Grandfather explained. “The flood can go down into the ravine. That way, the Apache will not be knocked down and swept away and die from trying to breathe the swirling torrent.”

  “Unless he is in the arroyo when the flood comes, Grandfather,” the boy duly noted.

  The old man cracked a toothless grin. “Ayee! Then you know to stay away from gullies and other low places when it rains in the desert.”

  “This I learned long ago, Grandfather,” the boy assured him. “At least two summers ago.”

  The old man laughed again, this time amused by what the boy must perceive as a long time past. “It is good to know the real-life things as well as the spirit things, Nitchito. Now let us return to the wickiups, Grandson,” Nitcho said. “There is roasted rabbit and I can sip some tiswin.” Nitchito laughed as he thought of his grandfather drinking the corn beer. “Then you will start to sing, Grandfather.”

  “Yes,” he admitted thinking of the effect of the drink. “But tiswin is gentle to an Indian instead of making him crazy like mescal and tequila. That is something else for you to remember.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.”

  The two walked up the gentle slope leading to the spot where their group of Chirinatos had camped since coming down from the Culebras more than a moon before. They walked in silence, each lost in his own thoughts, until a sudden noise broke their reveries.

  A dozen riders, all wearing the garb of Mexicans and Americans, swept into instant view at the far end of the camp and charged toward it, firing pistols into the surprised and unsuspecting Apaches.

  Nitchito, his dark eyes wide open, gasped, “What is this, Grandfather? Is it a raid against us?”

  “Yes, Nitchito,” the medicine man replied. He quickly surveyed the scene, appraising the situation as an old warrior would. “Quick, Grandson!” he said making an immediate decision. “Jump into the arroyo and hide there.”

  All Apache children learn early that instant obedience is the key to survival in a dangerous adult situation. Nitchito was no exception. He practically dived into the depths of the ravine.

  Nitchito crawled up to a point where he could see over the rim into the village. He could see his grandfather run on spindly legs toward the wickiups. By the time the oldster reached the camp, several dead people lay scattered among the lodges. The few Chirinato men, mounting the best defense possible, fired arrows at the attackers. The horsemen charged through the wickiups, appearing to be coming straight at the arroyo. Nitchito ducked down. When he looked up again, he could see the enemy had turned and made another run at the camp.

  That second attack ended with all the Chirinatos down, their blood running along the top of the hard packed soil like flood water from a cloudburst. Nitchito looked frantically about, finally spotting his grandfather Nitcho’s corpse lying beside the wickiup the boy had shared with his grandparents. Nitchito fought the desire to leap from the natural ditch and run to the scene of the murders.

  Now the attackers dismounted and, to the boy’s horror, began cutting and hacking at the dead and dying Chirinatos. He could see both Mexicans and White-Eyes among the group. They seemed to be working on the heads of the dead Indians, although the boy wasn’t sure what they were doing.

  Finally, knowing his duty, the boy slid to the arroyo floor. Taking a deep breath, he began running down its length, away from the carnage, heading for the first opportunity to get out into the open desert.

  Running is something drilled early into Apache boys. Many times, because of the harshness of their environment and the need for concealment, all Apache tribes went to war on foot rather than riding horses. Their natural skill at using even the skimpiest of terrain for the ultimate in cover and concealment, sometimes made clumping about on horseback a distinct disadvantage in war making. Therefore, in order to be an excellent fighting man for the tribe, a warrior had to be able to run far and fast.

  Now Nitchito ran as he had been taught, in easy loping strides that carried him rapidly down the cover of the long ravine. He leaped over rocks and twisted through the turns and sharp angles in the arroyo’s uneven route. After a bit, he stopped to scramble to the edge and look back toward the camp. Since he could perceive no followers, the boy judged it safe to head overland. He climbed to the desert floor to orient himself and make preparation for what would be a trying ordeal. After picking a spot in the distant Culebra Mountains, he began running toward it.

  The men of the Chirinatos made boys take mouthfuls of water, then run for long distances. At the end of the exercise, the youths w
ere expected to spit the water out to show they could resist the temptation of the physical comfort of soothing their parched throats by swallowing, and also as evidence that they had breathed properly through their noses without opening their mouths.

  Nitchito ran with his thin lips clamped shut, his moccasined feet slapping an even staccato on the earth. Fatigue was something his mind would not accept. No burning sensations of aching muscles or cramps of exhaustion were evident to him. All the boy could think about was reaching those mountains in the earliest amount of time.

  Spirit-Woman-of-the-Desert pushed the burning sun across the sky under which Nitchito’s unbroken gait continued. Nitchito was unaware of the amount of passing time as the deity eased the burning torch toward the western horizon, reddening the sun and Finally easing its flames down until it was an orange disk that lengthened the shadows.

  By the time the deepening darkness had turned to dusk, Nitchito reached the bottom slopes of the Culebras. He forced himself into extra effort as the terrain steepened, demanding more of his courage and strength. He pushed his way through the ever-thickening vegetation and into the trees as he continued in his self-imposed quest.

  When the unexpected hand grasped his arm and turned him around, Nitchito gasped aloud in startled fright. He felt himself lifted up, then turned and dumped to the seat of his breech cloth. The arm still held him and he scratched it with his fingernails and bit into the flesh.

  “Ayee, Nitchito!” Quintero’s voice said. “Do you think of me as cooked venison?”

  The voice of Chaparro came from nearby. “He is like a little puma, that one, eh?”

  The warrior called Zalea said, “Let’s give the little puma a few kicks.”

  “Yes,” joined in the fourth warrior named Bistozo. “That will teach him to run with more care and not be taken by surprise by any enemy waiting for him.”

  The boy did not take an instant to reflect on the unexpected meeting with Quintero and the other warriors. “They are all dead!” he blurted out.