The Long-Knives 6

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Lord,” O’Callan whispered, crossing himself. “Sure an’ if it’s in Yer darlin’ plans fer me to have that saloon, help Murray sail that bloody land boat o’ his ... Amen.”

  ~*~

  Halcon sat silently as the warriors gathered around him and sank to their haunches. The boys stood behind their elders, as was proper. The nearly constant desert wind had ceased in a hush created by the intense heat of midmorning. In the stillness, birds sang on the mesa and the sounds of thumping and banging came from the direction of their hated enemy. The entire group regarded each other silently for several minutes before Halcon spoke.

  “It is the little pony-soldier chief with the burning lip.”

  “Sargento, not jefe,” Three-Ponies corrected. “He is a sargento.”

  “Sergeant or chief, it is all the same,” Halcon replied impatiently. “The little pony-soldier chief with the burning hair under his nose leads them well, and as before, we’re losing men. Too many are dying,” the war chief concluded. “It is a bad thing.”

  “Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain leads us, Halcon,” a treble-voiced youngster said defensively.

  “It is true, Father,” Da-soda-hae spoke up. “Through the mochuelo she has spoken to us. I followed the burning-lip jefe to this place and watched for two days. There’s no agreement in the camp. The red-haired one quarreled often with the pen-dik-oye with the funny clothes and bent legs. Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain told me this would be so and that the pony-soldiers would fall into our hands like so much rain. She leads us by these signs. Maybe it is her will that many of us die.”

  “Not so. Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain also told you that we were all dead and that you must take the warpath because of this. Yet you see us standing here before you. Is that not so? It’s a sign. Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain wants our man-children to live. This I feel. Soon the pony-soldiers will shoot all of their bullets ... eat all of their feed ... drink all of their water. They have no horses. Their wagons are no good on the steep trail. They’ll have to run down it. This is what Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain has planned for us. She doesn’t mean for us to throw ourselves into the rain of their bullets.”

  Halcon sat silently, letting the others turn his words over in their minds. After several moments, he spoke again.

  “We’ll hide in the rocks and wait for the white-eyes to run. Then we will kill them.”

  Again the group pondered his words. One warrior stood, arms folded across his chest. “I think so, too. Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain has given us these soldiers and their things as presents. She will shed tears if we die for them. Let us do as Halcon says.”

  The others nodded their approval.

  Halcon stood and called his son to him. He turned the lad around to face the others and placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders.

  “You know my son, Da-soda-hae. Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain has spoken to him through an owl. I will no longer call him by the name of his boyhood, Da-soda-hae. He will be called Mochuelito, the owl of the desert. I, his father, now name him this, and so he shall be called until the end of his life.”

  Three-Ponies shrieked a long yell of jubilation. “Ayeee! It is truly a great day for the People!” One by one, the warriors and boys walked up to the youngster. They each acknowledged his new name by looking at his face and speaking it aloud to him. “Mochuelito!” The syllables echoed in his mind.

  Nineteen

  All the blankets had been piled into the wagon to make it more comfortable for the men’s knees as they knelt in their firing positions. The three wounded troopers were laid on the floor and made as comfortable as possible. The two dead, a soldier and sailor, were placed under the driver’s seat, then the remainder of the party climbed into the wagon and squatted at the sides, facing outward. Each made ready to pour out as fast a barrage of fire as possible. Their conveyance looked like the worst sort of bastardization.

  Lieutenant Johnston stood by the tiller, while O’Callan and Ormond made ready to begin pushing the wagon toward the trail. The makeshift mast was unstepped, lying along the wagon bed beside the wounded. The crude lateen sail—made hastily from the Sibley tent—was rigged and furled.

  “Well?” O’Callan asked.

  “Now or never,” Ormond responded.

  “What would ye say in the navy at a time like this, Murray?”

  “Anchors aweigh,” Ormond grinned back. “And what would a fine, upstanding, honest sergeant say?”

  “Fo’r’d, yo-o-o-o,” O’Callan answered.

  They began immediately to push the heavy wagon. The first few feet were difficult, yet as the gradient increased toward the trail it became easier, until finally the wagon rolled free. It began to pick up speed, though Ormond and O’Callan kept pushing as hard as they could.

  Soon the wagon traveled so fast they could barely keep up with it.

  “For God’s sake, get aboard,” Johnston shouted. By now O’Callan and Ormond literally ran at top speed merely to keep up.

  “Kin ye slow it down a bit, sor?” O’Callan asked as he desperately reached for the wagon that remained temptingly out of his grasp, getting farther away with each second.

  “I used the brake lever for the tiller,” Ormond panted.

  The two senior enlisted men reached out fearfully in an attempt to grab the tailgate. Charlie Bradley and one of the sailors leaped out of the wagon and landed on the converted running gear.

  “Get off that goddamned thing!” screamed Ormond. “It’ll never hold your weight.”

  “Then you’d better grab on quick,” Charlie shouted back.

  O’Callan and Ormond were each grasped roughly and hauled up, then pushed hurriedly over into the wagon bed. An instant later, Apache bullets began to splatter the ground around the rapidly rolling wagon.

  “Avast there,” Ormond shouted happily. “Open fire port and starboard. We’ve caught the bastards in their hammocks!”

  ~*~

  “Ho-tah!” Halcon shouted jubilantly. “They try to escape in a wagon with no horses. We have them now.”

  The voice of the stranger in the odd clothes drifted above the loud rumbling of the wheels, caught by Halcon’s keen ears. “Hands ... stand by to make sail!”

  The words were strange to Halcon, yet what the occupants of the wagon did next seemed even stranger. A tall pole raised from the bed and a canvas sheet fastened to it played out until it sprung open, taut in the wind. Several occupants of the wagon pulled hard on an arrangement of ropes around the apparatus. It baffled, and somehow frightened, Halcon.

  “Haul on those halyard lines, ye lubbers!”

  Slowly the sail obeyed the efforts of the sailors, turning until its triangular surface sat in the best quarter, drawing all the wind it could. Gradually the speed increased as the land boat responded to the helm and increasing pressure on the sail. As the last line was sheeted home, the rattling vehicle seemed to leap forward, dust spurting from under the wheels. Wonder changed to confusion for the attacking Indians.

  Halcon rubbed his eyes in disbelief and called to Three-Ponies: “What sort of medicine do you call this? First they run like scared rabbits, then they take wing like a bird.”

  But Three-Ponies was not there to answer. He had joined the remainder of the war party, who had turned tail from this fearsome sight to run or ride away with all possible speed. Mingled with the sounds of their flight came the braying of the frightened mules that the boys had recently liberated from the abandoned soldier camp. Halcon watched his retreating warriors with mixed fear and disgust.

  In the face of this strange, powerful magic by their enemies, only his position as war chief kept him from joining the others in terrified flight. He turned back toward the strange contraption of the pony-soldiers and fired three fast rounds. Then he, too, reined around his pony and galloped after his men.

  Only Mochuelito remained. He looked long and thoughtfully after the rapidly moving sail wagon. There was a lesson to be learned here, he felt sure. Perhaps if he thought hard e
nough he would find the answer. He watched until the odd conveyance lurched out of sight around a rock outcropping.

  Some day, he vowed, the burning-lip pony-soldier would pay for this.

  ~*~

  Mexico Shultz had heard the faint sounds of firing since the day before. He knew who was involved, and he worried. He’d sent one of his workmen, on a swift horse, to Fort Dawson. Why’n hell didn’t they extend the telegraph over there? Little good it would do those poor devils, though. By the time the soldiers got there the battle would be over. All the while he continued to fret.

  When he wasn’t up in the watchtower himself, he made sure that one of his station crew stood there. If O’Callan and his men came charging down the trail they would want the station gate opened quickly to receive them. No doubt there’d be a passel of Apaches gnawing on their behinds. Mexico now studied the sounds of the latest barrage, and it seemed mighty serious to him.

  He had listened to the swell of fire and noticed the cloud of dust off in the wavering distance. It appeared to keep rolling down the hill and gaining speed with each second. He couldn’t tell what it was even with his telescope. Yet, instinct told him it meant trouble for somebody. Abruptly, the shooting stopped. Anxiously, Mexico waited until the apparition reached the bottom of the trail, and traveling with incredible speed. A delay now would cause an unavoidable crash.

  “Open the gate!” Mexico shouted.

  Two of his men rushed to the tall log gate and wrestled off the restraining bar. Then they pulled the huge doors open in scant time for the sail-powered wagon to streak past their surprised faces and smash into the stables in the center of the yard. The resultant ball of dust took on more solid shapes.

  The air seemed full of flying blue figures that literally sailed over the stable and landed helter-skelter in the hay that two astonished Mexican workers were preparing to pitch up into the loft. For several moments, the peons observed the moaning figures, who were struggling to their feet and brushing off the hay.

  Then, looking at each other and shrugging off the strangeness of los gringos, they went calmly back to work.

  “I can’t believe it,” Ormond laughed. “We’re safe.”

  “Thanks to the United-States-By-God-Navy!” O’Callan bellowed happily. He offered his hand and Ormond shook it enthusiastically.

  ~*~

  Three steadily warming, pre-spring days passed before the survivors of Dog Leg Butte returned to Fort Dawson. Sergeant Terrance O’Callan stood at rigid, if uncomfortable, attention in front of Colonel Patterson’s desk. The colonel surveyed the paper in front of him and clucked loudly.

  “You seem to be sinking deeper into it, Sergeant.” O’Callan had no doubt of what the it referred to, yet he made a valiant effort to uphold his actions. “Sor, I wrote out me report as best I could. Surely, it ain’t all me fault.”

  “The quartermaster is very, very upset,” Colonel Patterson said. “There was the matter of one mule to be dealt with. Now we suddenly find ourselves not only with twenty more mules added to the list, but we’re neck deep in wagons, scientific equipment, and horses, as well.”

  “I understand yer position, sor, but I think me report explained it all. They was lost in the line o’ duty, sor. While under attack by hostiles. The naval lieutenant wouldn’t let me patrol properly. He even willingly signed a statement to that effect.”

  “The taxpayers are very stingy with their money, Sergeant,” the colonel said sternly. “This incident won’t end here.” Colonel Patterson paused and winced before going on. “I fear it will be discussed in the halls of Congress. We’re having many difficulties in obtaining funds for the army as it is.”

  “I’m truly sorry, sor,” O’Callan said contritely. “I did me best, an’ that’s the truth of it.”

  “I understand, Sergeant. We’ll see what we can do. You’re dismissed.”

  O’Callan saluted sharply and exited the office. He paused at Sergeant Major MacDonald’s desk and made an unconscious gesture for help. MacDonald looked up with his dark, brooding glare, and O’Callan hurried out of the building.

  “O’Callan!” Jimmy Brannigan called over to him. “The navy’s leavin’ us. Mr. Johnston and Petty Officer Ormond are over at the main gate waitin’ to bid ye goodbye.”

  “I’m on me way, Jimmy,” O’Callan said sadly. He walked across the parade ground, forcing himself into a smile as he approached the mail wagon.

  Ormond leaped down and offered his hand. “So long, Terry. From now on it’s the army’s job to man that weather station ... if it ever gets rebuilt. For us, it’s back to the open sea. But you know where you can get a free drink if you’re ever in San Diego.”

  “Ye’re not a bad sort yerself, Murray. An’ I’ll be thankin’ ye kindly fer yer generosity. Ye know where the same’s fer yerself in Tombstone.” O’Callan looked up toward Johnston in the open front seat. “Goodbye, sor. I appreciate the statement ye wrote out fer me.”

  “I hope it proves helpful, Sergeant O’Callan.”

  “Thank ye, sor. Goodbye.”

  The driver flicked the reins, and the mail wagon rolled out of the gate. “The luck o’ the Irish to ye always, Terry!” Ormond shouted.

  “May the wind always be at yer back,” O’Callan called back. He watched the wagon disappear from, sight, then went back to C Troop’s orderly room.

  “We’ve got the mail run again, Terry. It ain’t yer turn, but I could put ye on it, if ye’ve a mind to git out again fer a while.”

  O’Callan didn’t answer, only took the chair by Brannigan’s desk and sat silently for several long minutes. Then his face brightened.

  “Jimmy, lad. I’ve got a wonderful idea.”

  “Devil take yer great idea, Terry O’Callan. You know where yer last wonderful idea took us. A passel of whores invadin’ this darlin’ post and Harry MacDonald fit to be tied.”

  Jimmy Brannigan took a bottle from his desk and placed it to his lips, his throat working while he consumed a prodigious quantity. When he removed it, his eyes twinkled with the curiosity that burned inside.

  “But ... ah, just what is this idea?” he asked, offering his companion the bottle.

  “Well, ye know there’s talk of disciplinary action for what happened up there on the butte. Could be I was to get me pay cut fer a few months to recompense fer all them supplies. But did ye know there was a gold strike up on the Mogollon Rim? Sure, ’tis true as the Holy Cross,” O’Callan hastened to assure his first sergeant.

  “An’ I was thinkin', we both got us lots o’ furlough time accumulated. If things are to be too sore around here for the likes o' me, why not the pair of us takin’ our furlough and head up that way, do a little prospectin’, then come back rich enough to take me discharge an’ thumb me nose at the quartermaster and his cold, heartless sergeant and their damned charges.” He paused at Brannigan’s scowl.

  “Of all the crazy schemes I’ve ever heard from you, Terry O’Callan—and believe me, I’ve heard more than a fair share—this borders on sheer madness. Prospectin' indeed! Do ye know the first damned thing about it?”

  “What is there to know? Ye digs a hole in the ground, takes out the gold and ye’re rich. An’ there’s copper an’ silver, too. Great lots of it, just waitin' fer the likes of a couple of strong Irish lads like ourselves to come along and scoop it up fer our fortune. Why, if them dumb blocks of miners can do it, it’s just got to be simple as pie fer a pair of intelligent, resourceful sergeants of the United States Cavalry to wheedle that precious ore right outta the ground. Now what do ye say, Jimmy boy?”

  “I say ye’re crazy, Terry. Crazier’n a prairie chicken at matin’ time. Here ye don’t even know if anything is to be done against ye an’ ye’re ready to throw it all over and leave the only home ye ever had.”

  “Wait an’ see,” Terry O'Callan warned his friend. “It’s for a far better cause. Fer me bein’ a gentleman saloonkeeper, that’s why I’m doin’ it, Jimmy. ’Tis betterin’ meself in this world an’ bein’ s
hut of petty bookkeepers who’d rob an honest line sergeant to balance his bleedin’ ledger. Mark me words, Jimmy Brannigan. ’Tis a gold huntin’ we should go. Jest you wait an’ see!”

  Twenty

  Darkness filled the three straight blocks and twisted alleyways of Lester Wells. Raucous voices came from the saloons and Marietta Mahoney’s bawdyhouse. Pianos, not a one in tune, tinkled merrily. A festive Saturday night for everyone—except for Sergeant Terrance O’Callan, C Troop, United States Cavalry.

  Terry O’Callan was drunk.

  It was not one of his usual laughing, singing, buttock-swatting, roistering drunks. Oh, no. This time the demons who pursued him had caught up. In the throes of a monumental falling-down, fill-his-drawers, blind, raging drunk, he held onto only one thought—he daren’t show his face around Marietta—which only served to make his mood blacker.

  O’Callan sat in the office of Leroy Hays’s saloon, his normally open, bright features pinched into dismal brooding as he methodically, rhythmically poured from his bottle, lifted the glass, gulped the whiskey, and returned his arm to the desktop to begin the procedure again. Charlie Gonzoles, the bartender, had called his boss to aid him in removing O’Callan to this place of privacy after a shouting match between the glowering little sergeant and several NCOs from A Troop had nearly come to blows.

  O’Callan stared at the walls. His eyes were almost as red as his well-tended mustache and crackled with as much seeming energy as his closely cropped scarlet hair. His mouth tasted like the bottom of an outhouse. And why shouldn’t it, he mused, since nearly the only thing to enter it in the week just past had been cheap whiskey. Behind his desk, Leroy Hays contemplated the situation and stroked the bushy, drooping black facial hair that curved around the corners of his mouth and hung down nearly to his chin.

  He had recently seen likenesses of the Earp brothers and sought to emulate their style: somber black suit, vest, white shirt and wide-brimmed black hat, low-slung six gun, drooping mustache, and shiny badge. He had not even omitted the heavy gold watch chain that curved in an arc across his inexorably growing expanse of stomach. As the only civilian law in this part of Arizona Territory, he felt called upon to take some sort of action.