The Long-Knives 6

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Toward dusk a shot blasted out of the desert silence. Its echoes bounced off the distant foothills. Quickly, two more-sharp reports followed and Taylor pitched backward over his horse’s rump and fell to the sand.

  Four

  “Wheel right!” O’Callan shouted desperately, trying to control his own horse and the pack mule.

  Unfortunately, Charlie Bradley had already spurred his mount into a senseless, wild gallop with a panic-stricken Whitlow following blindly. O’Callan had no choice but to follow, and he let the mule go as he broke into a dead run. He turned in the saddle and squeezed off several quick rounds in the direction of the ambush.

  The Apache yells and firing had increased, and a backward glance showed O’Callan that the hostiles raced after them in furious pursuit. He counted eight warriors as he urged his surging animal on and began closing the distance between himself and the fleeing recruits.

  One bullet slashed through Charlie’s shirt and continued its flight into his horse’s skull. Without a whinny of pain, the beast went down and sent its rider into an arm-flailing flip before he plowed up the desert gravel. Whitlow reined beside Bradley and looked around uncertainly as O’Callan rode up in a screaming fury.

  “Ye brainless pups! I’ll fry yer asses in wagon grease fer this! Ye’ve left a wounded comrade back there. Bradley, git yer canteen and carbine and mount up behind me.”

  Whitlow, coming to his senses, fired two shots at their pursuers as the bruised and shaken Charlie pulled himself up behind O’Callan. The sergeant sent them off at a gallop after three quick rounds. One of the bullets found its mark and the Apaches became a man fewer.

  O’Callan knew they stood no chance of escaping, so he led his small command to the poor concealment offered by the sparsely wooded foothills. The frightened and confused mule followed them laggingly as they charged into the prickly growth and reined up in a dust-scattering halt that sent Charlie to the ground for the second time that day.

  “Bradley, git off yer ass and cover the rear! Whitlow, take the right side of that biggest tree and, damn yer eyes, shoot at the devils.”

  The soldiers’ combined firing halted the Apaches, who drew off a distance. The sun had nearly set by now and the troopers’ little knoll cast a long shadow over the desert floor. All they could do was wait.

  Apache warriors were natural foot soldiers, O’Callan knew only too well. They used a horse mainly as a means to get rapidly from one place to another; often they would run the unfortunate animals to their knees, stone dead. Then they’d cut out the choicest hunks for food and go on at a shuffling lope until they located another mount. They had never developed the lightning-swift tactics of their brothers of the plains—the Comanche, Cheyenne and Sioux—who used the horse so effectively that it had caused a famous European general to refer to them as the finest light cavalry in the world. Terry O’Callan was well aware of this tactical quirk of his enemy and prepared to meet the charge he fully expected. It came in a matter of seconds.

  Only time enough had passed for one Apache youth to be detailed as horse holder, while his fellow braves slithered over the ground toward the knoll. The warriors would rise at the last second, fire their single shot carbines, and flop down again before return fire could be brought to bear.

  “Hold yer fire,” O’Callan cautioned as the copper bodies dropped out of sight. Damn! he thought, them heathen bastards are nearly invisible on that red ground in this light.

  The Apache warriors grew closer, popped up after a quick reload and fired at their enemy. A bullet whined off a rock in front of Trooper Whitlow, showering him with chips and sand. He let out a yowl of anguish that gave courage to the attackers. Instantly they jumped up and charged the scant few feet to the makeshift parapet thrown up by the isolated soldiers.

  Terry O’Callan saw a bronze torso wavering in and out of his sights and he jerked to one side, anticipating the next jink the Apache would make. His guess was a good one. As the carbine went off with a sharp report and slammed against his shoulder, the scene became obscured by a billow of gray-white powder smoke. The shriek of agony that followed assured him he had eliminated one of the attackers.

  The sickening sound of a butt stock striking an Indian head told of continuing resistance by the others. On the other flank, Charlie Bradley fired with the same methodic rhythm O’Callan used. He had correctly doped out the way the fight would go and had moved over to give support where most needed.

  A shouted signal recalled the Apache fighting men and the troopers increased their fire, seeking the withdrawing targets in the waning light. Suddenly the field of fire stood empty and still.

  “Run, ye heathen sons of bitches! Run like the cowardly dogs ye are!” bellowed O’Callan at the retreating enemy. But, the young troopers noticed, he wasn’t standing up shaking his fist at the Apaches while he cursed them.

  A second rush was launched almost before the dust had settled from the first. This time the attackers spread out more and came from three directions at once. Terry O’Callan dealt with the two who moved on their right flank.

  His Springfield carbine cracked and a slug burned into flesh an inch below an Apache’s left nipple. The warrior staggered forward three slowing steps and fell face first into a cactus. He never felt the pain. Quickly, O’Callan chambered another round and squeezed off at the remaining foe, who had come within fifty feet of the beleaguered soldiers.

  The 405-grain slug exploded the back of the brave’s head like an overripe tomato. He flipped backward and landed in a welter of his own gore. As he fell, O’Callan came to one knee and spaced his shots to add effect and range to the others’ efforts. All the while he hummed an old Irish ballad that was more a fight song:

  “A minstrel lad to the wars hath gaine ... In the ranks of death ye shall find him ... ”

  O’Callan sang on as he took up slack on his trigger. The Springfield .45-70 belched out its 405-grain slug to send another Apache over backward with a howl of agony and a ragged hole where his right shoulder blade had once been.

  Then, swiftly as they had come, the Apaches fled, dragging their wounded and dead off with them. The hostiles faded out into the russet colors of the desert sunset.

  Like a proper combat sergeant, O’Callan took quick stock of their situation and saw that the men had additional ammunition. As he paused beside Whitlow, the younger man looked up at him, his voice filled with hope.

  “I hear Indians don’t fight at night.”

  “Well, ye heard wrong. If they’re mad enough they’ll fight daylight and dark till Judgment Day. I got one of ’em back there where I caught up with ye, an’ we knocked down a couple more or so just now. I’d say they had their tempers up.”

  “Sarge, they got Taylor’s horse,” Charlie exclaimed.

  A lone Apache led Taylor’s horse up toward his companions’ hiding place. Taylor was lashed across the saddle, his head bouncing limply in time with the horse’s gait.

  “Well, fortunately fer Taylor, he’d dead,” O’Callan remarked. Then he crossed himself and spat a brown stream of tobacco juice on the ground.

  “I don’t understand how Taylor’s death is such good fortune for him,” Whitlow challenged. “I didn’t like him very much, but I didn’t hate him enough to consider him being dead fortunate. Or is it a twisted trait among sergeants that dead recruits don’t really matter much.”

  “Ye watch yer tongue when ye speak to me, Trooper,” O’Callan hissed. “I meant it was fortunate fer him that he is dead. If ye knew what they woulda done to him, ye’d be agreein’ with me.”

  “He’s right, Whitlow,” interjected Charlie. “Injuns is terrible cruel to captives.”

  “What’ll they do to him now?” Whitlow insisted.

  “They’ll practice an old custom o’ theirs, bucko. It’s part o’ their religion or somethin’. They make big medicine by mutilatin’ their enemies ... dead or alive.”

  “God! How can they be so savage and cruel?”

  O’Callan gave
a short, bitter laugh. “Who’s to say who’s cruel, Whitlow? It may not have occurred to ye, but we’re uninvited guests in their backyard. This is their backyard, ye know.”

  “But we represent progress, Sergeant. We’re bringing civilization and Christianity into this wilderness. And we’re willing to share it with them.”

  “Our civilization means stickin’ ’em on some reservation under the tender mercy of a crooked Injun agent, Whitlow. There their children sicken and die from white man’s diseases they don’t understand, and they all live on the edge of starvation because the agent cheats them on their rations. Do ye think that might be savage and brutal as well?”

  “If you feel that way, what are you doing here?”

  “The same bloody thing I’ve been doin’ since the First Battle of Bull Run—obeyin’ me orders. I’m a professional soljer, Whitlow. I found out quite a few years ago that this here army is the place the Lord picked out fer the likes o’ Terry O’Callan. An’ what Irishman—no matter how wild—is gonna argue with Him? So I just carry out me orders and do it without nary a question. Them Apaches is soljers, too. They’re tryin’ to enforce their policies just like we are. I may call ’em the worst names I can think of, but that’s a soljer’s right where the people he fights is concerned. I’m sure the Apaches have a few choice names fer us.”

  Suddenly a series of shots knocked the twigs off the vegetation around their heads. “Some of ’em are stayin’ to keep us company,” Charlie observed.

  For the next two hours the pinned-down soldiers strained their eyes and ears for sound and movement in the darkness. A small glow over the horizon gave away the location of the Apache camp.

  O’Callan motioned to the troopers and they edged in close to him. “I’m crawlin’ out there fer a look around. I’ll be gone fer maybe an hour. If ye hear any movement over by that big tree, don’t shoot till ye’re sure what ye’re shootin’ at. That’s the direction I’m comin’ back. Git back to yer posts and stay alert.”

  O’Callan stripped his uniform down to the bare essentials, taking only a Colt revolver and a knife as he crawled quietly out of the thicket. He stuck close to the ground and the small amount of cover as best he could. He had crawled for twenty minutes when he stopped suddenly by naked instinct.

  The hair on his neck stood out and a chill went down his spine. He turned his head and found himself looking full into the face of a totally startled young Apache.

  His instincts came into play again as his left hand shot out and locked tightly around the youngster’s throat. The Apache panicked and grabbed O’Callan’s wrist with both hands, trying to pull away the skinny fingers that fastened stoutly around his neck. Then O’Callan brought his knife into the fight.

  Releasing his grasp with his left hand, he felt behind him until he came up with the long-bladed Bowie he carried on his belt. Arching his own body upward to break contact with the writhing Indian beneath him, he whipped his hand and arm around, driving the sharp tip of the weapon into the young Apache’s soft belly, an inch under the ribs.

  The first touch of steel must have been fire-and-ice for the struggling warrior. He heaved himself upward, aiding the blade’s entry. O’Callan felt the resistance as his knife reached the diaphragm, then it slid on into the lung cavity. He thrashed the blade around as best he could, assuring that the big artery in there got cut open.

  It ended in seconds.

  The Apache gave a prolonged sigh through his nose and slackened his body blown against the sand. His feet drummed a short tattoo and he lay still. O’Callan pulled the Bowie slowly from the body. He rested a few moments to bring his breath under control, then continued his circuit of the thicket.

  He discovered two more Apaches.

  Crouched low to the ground, he studied their activities and considered it too risky to attempt to overpower them. Time seemed to crawl with cat-claws along O’Callan’s spine. He ached for a good swallow of whiskey to take the nighttime chill out of his bones, and at one point he froze in apprehension as his empty belly growled in protest. At last he started back to the recruits.

  Charlie and Whitlow had been waiting nervously for over forty-five minutes with their eyes and ears fine-tuned to the night sounds. A movement by the tree caused them to start. Then O’Callan’s hoarse whisper quieted them down. He motioned to them as he crawled back into the cover.

  “Buckos, as near as I figger it, we got one good chance to git loose from here. The warriors’ is restin’ up and lettin’ their younger men watch us in case we try to break outta here. I’d say they’re plannin’ on finishin’ us off at their leisure in the mornin’.”

  “Looks like they got everything on their side,” Charlie remarked mournfully.

  O’Callan shook his head. “Son, there’s two things the white man has that’s deadly fer the Injun. One is smallpox and the other is whiskey.”

  Whitlow was exasperated. “Are you planning on inviting them over for a drink, Sergeant?”

  “No, I ain’t, an’ shut up that smart mouth o’ yers. I’m gonna send the drink over to them. First thing we’ll do is git the mail pouches and divide ever’thing up between the two horses we have. Then we make the mule feel unwelcome and drive him out to the Apaches. I’ll leave the whiskey in the pouches with the mule. Mr. Apache is sure to git the mule and find the whiskey. Then we wait fer the noise of the party.”

  “Are we gonna outrun ’em?” Charlie asked, trying to anticipate the plan.

  “Nope. Drunk or not, if we try to outrun ’em, the youngsters will give the alarm and they’ll catch up easily since y’ll be ridin’ double. So, we’re gonna separate ’em from their ponies and ye’re gonna take part in one o’ the most beautiful an’ chillin’ experiences known to man—a sure enough cavalry charge.”

  “But ... we only have two horses,” Whitlow protested.

  “Two or two hundred, a charge is a charge,” O’Callan declared. “An’ if we run straight into their campfire we got a chance of gettin’ a couple of ’em, and best of all we can scatter their ponies. Now, when I give the word, we’re gonna mount up real careful and quiet. Bradley, ye ride behind Whitlow an’ I’ll lead the way in. When we reach their camp, I’ll head fer their ponies an’ ye’re to keep goin’. An’ I want the two of ye shootin’ all the way through. After I git their mounts loose, I’ll foller up and cover the rear while ye keep movin’ hell-fer-leather north. Questions? Good. One more thing. If ye carry this off right smartly, I’ll buy you each a go-round with any girl o’ yer choice at Marietta’s sportin’ house. Now, let’s settle back and wait fer the celebration.”

  ~*~

  “Ho! What is that?” one of the young men of the raiding party asked of his companion.

  “Is it the pony-soldiers?”

  “No. Even they can move quieter through the brush.”

  “Then what?”

  “He-yah! It is our evening meal,” the first one announced gleefully as he pointed to where the mule’s head now protruded from a mesquite thicket.

  Both young men, conscious of the need for quiet on a raid, clutched themselves and pantomimed laughter. Then they came at the wandering animal from two directions, catching him up with ease and extricating him from the spot where his halter had become entangled in the brush. They led their discovery back to the sand wash where night camp had been made.

  “Halcon!” shouted the first. “Hermano, look what we have found.”

  “Orejas Negras, Tis-pah! Have you been raiding the pony-soldier camp on your own?” their leader asked.

  “No, Halcon. This rabbit-ear must have broken away during our last attack. We found him caught in the mesquite.”

  Halcon went to the packsaddle pouches, searching for anything that might have been brought their way. His hope was for ammunition. Those among his warriors who had firearms were growing short. As he searched, the other braves gathered around in a semicircle.

  His hands probed the nearly empty pouches and settled on the cool, hard form of a bottle ne
ck. A light came to Halcon’s eyes. Swiftly he withdrew one hand, clutching one of the bottles of whiskey O’Callan had placed there for his friend, Jimmy Brannigan.

  “Aaaah!” chorused the watching braves. “Whiz-bauh.”

  “It is better than tiswin,” one older warrior told the others.

  Slashing knives opened the leather bags, revealing the other bottles hidden there. Then the mule was killed and a fire built up. They would enjoy roasted meat that night, Halcon thought with satisfaction. How foolish of the pony-soldiers to have let this animal get away from them. They should have butchered and eaten it themselves before allowing that to happen. He opened one bottle of the whiskey and took a sparing swallow. Then he passed it on. Now, he considered they could properly mourn their fallen friends.

  Time passed slowly as the bottles went the rounds. When the mule had been cooked to a juicy rareness, several of the younger braves already reeled in drunkenness. They hacked at chunks of roasted flesh, giggling as they did, and gulped them down, fluids and grease running down their chins and dripping on their naked chests. They washed the stringy meat down with more whiskey and sliced away at the pungent, smoking carcass.

  They did not have a drum. Halcon directed some of the braves to bring over the broken, half-rotted stump of cottonwood that had been uprooted by a flash flood or lightning. He had them place it on his side of the fire, so he would face east, some distance from the licking flames. Using a stone-headed war club, he tested the sound. It produced a flat, plonking noise that would serve.

  As Halcon began to beat the slow rhythm and sing the mournful words, the warriors gathered around the fire, weaving in a besotted state, though solemn enough for the occasion. Arms around each others’ shoulders, they formed a circle about the fire as Halcon’s chanting grew louder. They shuffled their feet sideways, moving around the burning pit, stamping out the rhythm of the improvised drum and singing a sorrowful minor-key descant to the words of the mourning song. Several of the warriors drunkenly issued war whoops, becoming confused as to the purpose of the dance.