Now the two groups raced at converging angles, every turn of the dragoons matched by the Mexicans. Ten minutes of galloping showed that the collision between them was imminent. The American troops gritted their teeth at the flashes of sunlight reflected off the blades of the lances.
Two minutes later the two forces slammed together in a yelling, brawling mass with the wild neighing of horses blending in over the thunder of hooves beating on the desert terrain.
Grant Drummond raised his revolver and fired twice at a lancero closing in on him. The first bullet missed, but the second hit the man in the chest, sending him into a flailing, screaming fall to the dirt.
Pistol shots could now be heard as other dragoons, forced to wait until the last possible moment to avoid missing their living targets, fired their single-shot pistols into the determined, brave Mexican horsemen. Three dragoons weren’t quite quick enough and had the blades of lances driven into their bodies before being lifted out of their saddles to crash to the desert floor.
Eruditus, being the oldest man in the one-sided battle, decided the best thing he could do was to concentrate on protecting Grant. Hand-to-hand fighting with a younger, more nimble Mexican trooper was out of the question. He held onto his flintlock pistol, fiercely determined to use it only to save his younger friend’s life, even if it meant sacrificing his own. He kept his faithful horse Plutarch in close to Grant as the run for life continued.
Trumpeter Lundari followed closely behind them, his now-useless pistol stuck back in its holster. The young Italian kept a wary lookout lest some eager lancero skewer him like a wild boar.
By the time Grant emptied his first pistol and drew the second, two more lanceros had been shot from their saddles through his marksmanship. One Mexican lay still in death while the other writhed with a painful chest wound out of which pink bubbles of blood oozed.
Grant checked his location during the ride, noting that the particular area he had determined as his destination was still some distance away.
To the participants of the running battle, the entire world had evolved into a booming, exploding hell punctuated with enraged shouts of fighting men. Dust rose up in thick clouds to clog the nostrils of both men and animals. Sweat-drenched, infuriated riders hacked and shot at each other in the frenzied crowd of battle-crazed men.
Unlucky participants, caught by bullet or blade, tumbled to the ground to roll and bounce on the Sonoran Desert. These unfortunates were left behind as bloody debris by the rolling tumult of fighting.
Grant Drummond fired the final shot of his second revolver directly into the face of a bellowing lancero. Now, with no firepower, he reholstered the spent weapon and drew his saber. No sooner was it free from its scabbard than another rider bearing a lance closed in. Eruditus, yanking on Plutarch’s reins, pulled over and raised his pistol. He fired too soon, missing the Mexican who, sensing a kill, closed in on the captain and his shorter weapon.
Rather than go for the rider, Grant struck the lance, forcing it over to one side. Then, leaning dangerously out of his saddle, he used his saber for which it had been designed-slashing and hacking. He swung only once, but the effort was successful. The Mexican’s lance, with his severed hand still clutching it, flew forward a few yards, its flight propelled by the momentum of the ride’s speed, then stuck in the sand. The lancero, in shock, simply slowed down and rode away from the fight, too dazed to stem the flow of his life’s blood that pumped from the ragged stump of his left arm.
Grant took a fleeting second to glance back at his men. They still followed, he could tell, but the dust hid their numbers. All he could hope was that most were still in the saddle, galloping after him in this wild scheme of escape he had dreamed up.
Now the surviving horses on both sides began showing signs of exhaustion. Their riders also felt fatigue closing in. Yet all were forced to continue the battle with all the physical fierceness possible. The dragoons hacked with sabers out of pure desperation. Outnumbered, they could only trust in Captain Drummond’s plan to guarantee even the slightest chance of survival.
The Mexicans, on the other hand, felt that victory was at hand. Their sense of a sure triumph gave them strength and courage as they continued pressing in on the hard-riding American dragoons.
Sergeant William Clooney, Corporal Charlie Rush, and Private Tim Donegan had formed an impromptu team. All veterans of many battles, their three-man formation gave them all cover as they desperately protected each other with vicious swings of their sabers. They, like the others of the dragoon detachment, could not see the rest of their group. They could only follow along after their captain, trusting in his luck and skill.
Up ahead, a Mexican officer, his saber drawn, closed in on Grant Drummond. The American struck first, executing a vicious horizontal stroke that was skillfully parried.
“Ay, Gringo!” the Mexican yelled. “Til mueres!”
He tried an overhead stroke. His blade barely missed Grant, going deep into the can tie of the American’s saddle. It stuck fast in the thick leather.
“Chingado!” the Mexican cursed as he lost his grip on the saber.
Grant took immediate advantage of the situation, making a backhand slash that split the attacker open across his chest. The man grabbed at the long, deep wound before rolling over to the side and losing his seat to disappear into the dust.
“Grant! Grant!” Eruditus yelled. “We’re here!”
Grant glanced over at the foothills of the Culebras. They had finally reached the destination he so desperately sought. “To me, Dragoons!” he yelled as he yanked the reins of his horse to ride straight at the mountains.
The sudden turn caught the Mexicans by surprise. Although it took them several moments to recover, they were not too worried. The Americans were heading directly for a spot where they would be pinned in again between the desert and the high country.
“Son estupidos!”
More than one grinning attacker said that to himself as he turned to close in on the dragoons. Being soldiers, they steadied themselves as shouted orders once again formed them into a cohesive fighting unit.
Then the Mexicans moved in for the kill.
Nineteen
Captain Grant Drummond still gripped his saber as he rode like hell toward the one spot he sought in the foothills. The location was easy enough to discern if one knew it was there, but it would never attract the attention of someone unfamiliar with the area. The dark, greenish area would seem but shadows at the bottom of the mountainside to any casual visitor to the Vano Basin,
But Grant knew what was there and, as he closed in on it, he made ready to dismount. One glance back showed his companions were close behind. At the right moment, the captain pulled on the reins and swung out of the saddle, hitting the ground so hard that he almost stumbled. But he regained his balance.
“Go! Go like hell!” he yelled at his men.
They whipped past him and hit their destination—the narrow trail leading up to the heights of the Culebras that was partially hidden in the mesquite and other vegetation.
Grant, in his excitement, called out the names of those who passed him. “Eruditus! Lundari! Clooney! Donegan!” he yelled. “Stop and load when you reach the summit!” The last two men, with one determined Mexican close to them, galloped by.
“Schossmeyer! MacLaren!” Grant hollered. “Load your carbines at the top!” The American captain waited for the Mexican who had not expected to see a dismounted dragoon. A furious swing of the saber bit deep into hard chest and shoulder muscles, and the rider shrieked in shocked pain with a nerve-severed, useless arm dangling at his side. His horse turned, blocking other riders trying to close in.
Taking advantage of their confusion, Grant leaped back into the saddle and turned to gallop furiously up the narrow, rocky trail whose narrow width had room for but one rider. After a few moments, he could hear other horses closing in behind him. A couple of shots whipped past his head, whistling through the air. It worried the hell out of th
e hard-riding captain, but there was nothing he could do but hope he’d make it to safety where his companions waited.
The vegetation thickened around the track, giving him more cover and concealment. Finally, as the air cooled noticeably, he peaked the trail. Sergeant William Clooney and Private Tim Donegan knelt on either side of the thin track, their carbines aimed past the captain. Two quick shots brought down one fanatically stubborn pursuer. Angry shouts in Spanish could be heard farther down the trail.
Donegan stood up for a better look. “They’re going back now, the devils!” he yelled.
Grant halted and once again dismounted. He turned and glanced back at the narrow escape route. The Mexicans had turned back, knowing they stood no chance of safely ascending into the Culebras. All the dragoons would have to do would be to casually shoot them as they approached one at a time.
Suddenly it was quiet.
No hooves of horses pounded the ground, no men shouted or bellowed, and no weapons fired. Feeling relief, the escapees glanced at each other.
“Silence alone is great,” Eruditus finally said. “All else is feebleness.” He smiled. “A French gentleman by the name of Alfred De Vigny wrote that.”
“Well, he was absolutely correct,” Grant said. “Particularly after a hard-fought battle.” He glanced at his men and counted. “Let’s take stock here. There’re eight of us.” He sighed. “Damn! That means we’ve lost eighteen killed or missing.”
“You can put ’em on the death list, sir,” Clooney said. “None would be allowed to live by that bunch.”
“You’re right,” Grant said. “The last thing De La Nobleza wants is prisoners who might survive captivity and later tell what’s been going on out here.”
“More death will follow, Grant,” Eruditus said. “The scalphunters can now track down scattered bands of Chirinatos out on the desert and murder them for their hair without having to worry about us.”
“Right,” Clooney agreed. “That’ll be easy for ’em now that there’s not enough U.S. dragoons to stop them.”
“What are we to do then?” Eruditus asked. “Simply stay hidden up in this mountain forest until the scalphunters have killed all the Indians available and leave Arizona?” Clooney had a suggestion. “We could wait and see if reinforcements from Santa Fe will be showing up soon, the sergeant said. “If the dispatch rider got through, they could be here in another three or four days.”
“I suppose we should be thankful we escaped with our lives, Grant said.
“Sometimes even that is not enough to soothe one’s soul, friend Grant,” Eruditus said.
“You’re right,” Grant agreed. He fell into silence for a few moments. Then his eyes suddenly opened wide as a thought leaped into his mind. “No! No, by God! We’re far from licked yet!”
“We are?” Donegan asked in surprise.
“Shut yer yap, Donegan!” Clooney snapped.
Donegan’s mess mates Schossmeyer and MacLaren grinned. Lundari, Charlie Rush, and Clooney felt an anxious curiosity about what their commanding officer might have to say. They didn’t have long to wait.
Within moments, but without explaining anything, the captain was back in action. “Mount up!” Grant ordered.
“Where are we going, friend Grant?” Eruditus asked.
“We’re going to war,” Grant answered. “Then, to top it off, we’re going to break just about every army regulation written down about operations out here. And, if that’s not enough, we’re also going to ignore every goddamned rule of international etiquette and diplomatic protocol known to civilized man.” He shrugged. “Well, at least I am. After all I’m the one in command. So if anybody is charged with a multitude of crimes, it’ll be me.”
“What the hell’ve ye got on yer mind, sir?” Clooney asked with a worried look.
“I told you, Sergeant Clooney. This detachment is going to war,” Grant replied.
“Damn!” Donegan said. “I thought we was at war.”
“Shut yer yap, Donegan!” Clooney barked.
The captain forked his saddle. “Come ride with me, Eruditus and I’ll explain what must be done.”
“As you wish,” Eruditus answered.
Impatient to hear what the captain was going to do, the small band rode through the woods, climbing higher into the Culebra Mountains. At the head of the thin column, Grant and Eruditus were locked in quiet but earnest conversation.
Only one stop was allowed. The horses were treated to deep drinks of the cool, clear water from the creek that flowed through the area. The men refilled their canteens after slaking their own thirst.
“I’m thinking this water flows on down this mountain and finally plummets over the cliff into the pool at our bivouac,” Donegan said.
“So what made that jump into yer mind then?” MacLaren asked.
“That’s where them thieving scalphunters and Mexican soldiers is looting our personal possessions,” Donegan said angrily.
Charlie Rush chuckled. “So what’ye got that’s so damned expensive, Donegan? Ain’t ever’thing you own give to you by the army?”
“Not ever’thing, “Donegan said in indignation. “I own a deck o’ marked cards.”
Schossmeyer, a German, snapped his head around to glare at him. “Zo! Dot is how you vin the poker, nicht wahr?”
“I only use ’em in town against civvies,” Donegan said defensively. “I ain’t never cheated another soldier.”
“Clam up!” Clooney said. “If we get our things back, I want them cards turned in, Donegan. Sometime when it’s a long spell between paydays you might get tempted to wring a dollar or two outta yer bunkies.”
Grant interrupted the bantering with terse orders to mount up and start moving again.
They climbed back into their saddles to ride slowly upward into the growing numbers of trees, the horses now treading on thick grass. Birds flitted through the forest, scolding and chirping the travelers. A cool breeze shook the leaves above, sending some to float gently earthward.
“God! It’s good to be offa that damn desert,” Donegan said.
“Amen!” Charlie Rush agreed.
A half hour passed, then Grant ordered another halt. “Take off the saddles and give your horses a rest,” the captain instructed them. “Sergeant Clooney, set up a one-man guard post and appoint the reliefs.”
Grant stepped down to the ground and walked over to Eruditus who remained aboard Plutarch’s back. Grant asked, “When do you think you’ll be back?”
Eruditus shrugged. “Two to four hours, my friend. But I’ll make it as fast as I can. Hasta luego.”
“See you later,” Grant said.
Eruditus rode off while everyone, with the exception of Trumpeter Lundari who had the first turn at guard, formed up in front of Sergeant Clooney.
“Afore I see one man jack o’ yez dozing off, I want them carbine barrels cleaned out good,” the noncommissioned officer instructed them. “Another three or four hours and that burnt power in there is gonna be like hardened tar.” The men, realizing the seriousness of the chore, turned to it with gusto. Their lives depended on the operating condition of their weapons. It took an hour before they managed to pass Clooney’s inspection and turn to thoughts of relaxation.
As they lounged in the clearing, leaning against trees or spread out in the thick carpet of grass, the fatigue of the furious battle finally settled in. Long minutes passed as Donegan and Schossmeyer drifted off to sleep, the latter snoring softly.
Charlie Rush suddenly sat up. “Oh, my God!” Donegan, disturbed, came awake. “What the hell?” Charlie took a deep breath. “We lost a lot of messmates in these last hours, boys. Now that all the excitement of the fight has died away, that just popped into my head. Our detachment is short some good soldiers as of today.”
“Yeah, by God, it sure is,” Donegan said. He lay propped up on his elbows. “I’ve been soldiering with some of them fellers for as long as ten years.”
“They’re out there under the hot sun now
,” Clooney said. “Them that didn’t die outright was sure to be did in by the Mexicans or scalphunters.”
“The sons of bitches!” Donegan said.
MacLaren rubbed his powder-stained hands on his buckskin trousers. “I just hope we get a chance to even the score sometime. We can’t let the fellers go without taking down some o’ them bastards!”
“Them Mexican soldiers and scalphunters didn’t have no right up here anyhow,” Donegan said. “This here is the United States now.”
Captain Grant Drummond looked over from where he sat under a large pine enjoying a quiet pipeful of tobacco. “Am I correct in assuming you men want vengeance?”
“Damn right, sir!” Donegan said.
“Then you just might get your chance very soon,” Grant said. He relit his pipe and puffed for a few moments before speaking again. “I know we’re outnumbered and outgunned right now. But there is a way to strike back.”
“We figgered you had something on your mind, sir,” Clooney said. “And it must be damn good if ye’re willing to risk yer career on it.”
“I most certainly am,” Grant assured him. “We’re going to fight back, and fight back hard.”
“Let’s do it as quick as we can, sir!” Clooney said.
“We shall,” Grant said. “In the meantime, I suggest we all stay quiet and restful to replenish our strength.”
“Yez heard the cap’n!” Clooney snapped. “At ease!”
The men settled down once again, napping without talking. The only disturbance was when the guard was changed from time to time.
The sun had begun to dip low and the forest was quickly darkening when Eruditus returned. Riding beside him was the old Apache Aguila. The soldiers, seeing this unexpected sight, all sat up to find out what was going on.
Aguila spoke some words to Grant which Eruditus translated as, “Greetings from Lobo Cano and the council.”
“Thank you,” Grant said.
“We are being given a great honor,” Eruditus said to Grant and the dragoons. “We have been invited to stay at the Chirinato camp. It is several hours from here, so I suggest we leave first thing in the morning.” He reached in his saddlebag and withdrew some skin pouches. “They send us food for tonight. Some dried venison and squash.”
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