“You don’t need a repeating rifle if you’re a sniper, muchachos.”
With disbelief in his voice, Jesús said, “You, a long-range marksman, Doctor Grace? I mean no disrespect, but will you show us your skill?”
The medical wagons were far down the trail from the camp at the top of the pass, and from where we stood there was over a half-mile clear line of sight to the next ridge. I pointed toward a lone juniper about 300 yards away. “Who wants to risk their hat as a target on that juniper yonder, the one that stands out from the others on the ridge there?”
José’s squint tightened as he stared at the juniper and pulled off his hat. I doubted he could even see the juniper. Marco and Jesús laughed as they, too, pulled off their caps. Jesús said, “We all offer our hats, Doctor Grace. If you can hit just one at that distance, it will be an honor to wear the mark of such a shot. Wait while I get a mule, and I’ll take them to the bush.”
Disappearing behind the wagon, he returned riding bareback on a red mule that must have been seventeen hands tall. He took the caps from José and Marco and looked to me for instructions.
“Put the caps about head high on the bush so the bills point toward the ground, and leave them an arm’s length apart.”
As Jesús rode out to the bush, Doctor Oñate took a puff from his long gambler’s cigar and asked, “Where did you learn to shoot, Doctor Grace?”
“I lost my father at an early age. The old rancher who raised me taught me to shoot and gave me the rifle.”
“Ah, comprendo. I shoot also, but never at a distance such as this. I can barely tell there is anything there. How do you hit anything you cannot see?”
I replied, “My eyes are good enough that I can tell where the hats are, but the design of the caps and the way I had Jesús hang them helps me, too. Their bills are made of shiny acetate, and the sun gives each a glint that’s easy to pick out. Every good marksman has his secrets, and I have mine. I have very good eyesight, Doctor Oñate. Perhaps I’ll be lucky.”
A horse snorted behind us, and we turned to see Camisa Roja sitting in his saddle, grinning.
“So, Doctor Grace, you give us a demonstración of your shooting skill, eh? Bueno. I’ve wanted to see you shoot for a long time.”
I didn’t like the smirk on his face and wished he stood by the hats, but I knew I’d change his smirk soon enough. “Sí, señor, I want these muchachos to understand the measure of a rifle is not just how many bullets it holds.”
Roja nodded as he cupped a match to light a corn-shuck cigarette against the wind. “Bueno, Doctor Grace. You do these muchachos un servicio.”
His heels thumping the sides of his mule to make it trot faster, Jesús returned to the wagon. Looking back at the juniper, he shook his head. “I can barely tell the caps are there. They look like little black dots, Doctor Grace. Let me find some sticks, and I’ll bring them in closer where you can at least see them from here.”
“No, let me try them at this range. If I miss, then you can bring them closer, eh?”
He shrugged and grinned at José and Marco, who stood with crossed arms, obviously waiting for me to make a fool of myself.
I stepped away from the wagon to get a true sense of the wind, which was blowing again out of the west, cold and steady. I tossed some dust into the wind to get a sense of the wind’s speed, counting “thousand-one, thousand-two” to see how far it drifted in a couple of seconds.
Little David’s vernier sight and three cartridges were still in my vest pocket from yesterday’s hunt. I attached the sight to the stock and adjusted the vernier screws for 300 yards, a ten-mile per hour crosswind, and thumbed the smallest aperture sight into place for highest resolution.
Roja continued to sit his horse, watching my every move. The boys and Doctor Oñate came to stand behind me as I spread a blanket, sat down, rested my elbows on my knees, and sighted down the long barrel to aim just above each glint. The caps all had good sight pictures. I dropped the breech, loaded a cartridge, and held the other two cartridges between my palm and the fingers of my right hand.
I sighted on the first hat, pulled the hammer, cocked the set trigger, and took a deep breath. The sight picture wobbled a little above the first glint, but it became rock solid when I slowly exhaled to half and held. The trigger took practically no pressure to make the hammer fall. The Sharps boomed and kicked back in a hard thump against my shoulder. Thousand-one, thousand . . . the first cap sailed into the wind, and I heard gasps of disbelief behind me as I cycled through the next two rounds, dropping the breech to eject the shell, reloading, sighting, and firing in the smooth, continuous motions Rufus Pike had taught me.
A second passed after the last shot. All three hats had sailed high in the air. The men and boys behind me gave a collective sigh, and Jesús ran to mount the mule in a flying leap. I collected my brass and stood to see Oñate, José, and Marco still staring at the juniper with their mouths open.
Roja, somber, said nothing as he nodded, saluted, and rode on up the trail. José said, “Madre de Dios. Never have I seen such shooting.”
I smiled, slid Little David back in its saddle scabbard, and walked back to the medico wagon to await Jesús’s return. In a few minutes, the mule trotted up. Jesús, smiling from ear-to-ear, slid off her back waving the caps. The first one, belonging to Jesús, I had hit in the middle of the acetate bill; the second, belonging to Marco, had a nick on the back edge, and José’s had a hole in the top within an inch of dead center. Lucky shots, but I’d never say so. The boys proudly put on their mutilated caps, saluted me, and ran off to show their friends evidence of the Americano doctor’s marksmanship.
Doctor Oñate raised his brow, made a little click, and extended his hand. “Doctor Grace, the general will want you at the front, not back with the ambulancias. We welcome you whenever you can help us.”
CHAPTER 18
OVER THE EDGE
Men and animals suffered while waiting their turn to clear Púlpito Pass. Each day colder and dustier than the one before, icy wind slashed through the men’s thin clothes and blankets, carrying the churned-up dust thousands of feet, as wheels crept down the west side of the pass. Grit settled into cooking pots, turned eyes red and watery, and made bandannas over mouths and noses a necessity.
Natural water tanks disappeared as buckets, thousands of cups, and finally pieces of cloth soaked up the last drops of water. The few known springs, most not much more than slow seeps, took a long time to refill barrels. Only miserly water rationing kept back raging thirst and once a day allowed the making of thin meat stews, tortillas, and coffee, with just enough water left over to keep the animals alive. Fires for warmth and cooking burned all the wood, brush, and dry weeds around the camp. Each day the men scavenged like biblical locusts farther up the ridges to find more.
Dark cumulus clouds slowed the coming of morning light. Wagons waited in a long line east along the El Paso Púlpito road, ready to take their turn on the steep, pack-mule trail, now a wagon road. The first wagons in line carried the medical supplies and baggage. Our plan was to park these near the water tank to make a temporary hospital for survivors from wagon crashes.
Villa asked me to ride Satanas in front of the first medico wagons to help guide the drivers away from dangerous spots. Jesús drove the first medico wagon, followed by José and Marco in the second and third wagons. At a signal from Villa, I led the wagons forward. The drivers had been told to stop at a wide shelf-like place less than half a mile from the canyon floor, reconnoiter the rest of the trail, and decide at that point whether to chain their rear wheels to help with braking.
Jesús and the others easily guided their wagons the two and a half miles of moderately steep grade from the top of the pass to the appointed stopping point. Soldiers, watching what happened on the trail below us, signaled the wagons behind to stop or go into Púlpito Canyon, a deep slash in the earth formed by steep, majestic, juniper-covered ridges, stretching south for miles, vanishing in the mists and soft mornin
g light.
I handed Jesús my field glasses. He studied the trail to the canyon’s bottom, noting every narrow stage, every tight turn, and places where there might be soft spots on the edge that might give way to a wagon wheel. A wagon stuck in a soft spot with little or no maneuvering room could only be freed using the iron nerves and muscles of men waiting in the pass to come free it. Jesús raised his brows and motioned toward Marco with my glasses. I nodded, and he handed them to Marco and José to use.
While Marco and José studied the trail, Jesús pulled out a couple of short chains from the back of his wagon. On each rear wheel, he passed a chain between the spokes, pulled the chain around the iron wheel rims, and bolted the chain ends together after wrapping them around an iron bar bolted to the side of the wagon bed. This kept the back wheels from turning and took the load off the driver’s foot brake.
Marco finished with my binoculars and passed them to José, who used them to stare longer than the others at each dangerous point on the trail. Returning my glasses, José’s hands trembled, and color had left his face.
I had a bad feeling. “Are you all right? You don’t look so good.”
He shrugged his shoulders and managed a weak grin. “Sí, Doctor Grace, I’m all right. It’s just that high places, they . . . worry me. But I can do this.”
“I know you can, but if you drive your wagon now, you might make a bad mistake. I’ll find another driver to take your wagon.”
Eyes wide, he shook his head, and pleaded, “Oh, no, Doctor Grace, I can drive this trail. I’ll be fine. Por favor, don’t shame me in front of mis amigos.”
“Are you sure you can do it? Make a mistake, and we might have to bury you.”
“Sí, señor, I can drive the wagon. I will make no mistake.”
I nodded. “Okay, my fine young amigo. Do you want to put chains on your rear wheels?”
“Sí, Doctor Grace. Jesús and Marco use their chains, and I do also.”
“Good! Get ’em on, and let’s go.”
He grinned and returned to his wagon. In ten minutes Jesús, José, Marco, and the other medico drivers followed me down the steep descent.
Jesús, his face a study in concentration, clucked and whistled to his mules, encouraging them to pull hard against the balky resistance from sliding, chained wheels. The mules strained for a few yards until the trail’s steep incline and thick, lubricating layer of dust took over, making the locked wheels slide without much more resistance to the downward slope than a turning wheel on flat ground.
He guided the mules down the middle of the ruts. Stopping Satanas, I stood in the stirrups, looked back toward the wagon, and watched for and pointed out soft places to avoid, and places where the trail edge came especially close to the ruts. Jesús maneuvered his team perfectly, laying a clear set of tracks for José to follow. Dust filled the air as the locked wheels cut the ruts wider and deeper. A raw, cold wind blew across the canyon, the sun flashing in and out from behind dark billowing clouds. Short, swirling snow showers started, the falling snow literally becoming brown with the dust in the air.
The first switchback, within a quarter mile of the shelf where the wagons stopped, had the tightest, steepest turn on the way, but the turn banked upslope, allowing the drivers to have more speed in the turn without rolling over. From down the trail, I stopped again and watched them advance, my heart pounding. Jesús cleared the switchback faster than I would have liked, but he didn’t seem to have any problems. José’s team followed Jesús’s team tracks well, creeping along slowly and carefully. Marco, careful to keep plenty of distance between his wagon and José’s, appeared perfectly in control of his team.
Then I saw José’s face freeze in fear. His foot on the front wheel brakes pressed so hard the wheels barely turned, making the wagon fishtail from one soft spot to the next. In contrast, I saw Marco minimize his front brake use by first letting the harness gently push against the mules’ back legs before he applied pressure to the front brakes.
The second switchback, less than a tenth of a mile farther on, swung wider than the first turn, the trail swinging back toward the south from almost due north. Much trickier than the first turn, the curve sloped away from rather than into the ridge, and the approach into this turn fell much faster than that of the first switchback. Jesús, rolling too fast into the turn, his face twisted in a frown, eyes concentrating on every foot of trail forward, showed he knew what to do. He rode his front brake and nearly locked his wheels before he released them at the last moment so the team didn’t drag the wagon round and roll it over the edge. I breathed a sigh of relief as he straightened out, the wagon rocking back and forth a little, but quickly steadying as he headed down the long steep grade to the bottom, slowly gliding into the last switchbacks.
José stayed on the front brake, and locking his front wheels, slid into the second turn, going much slower than Jesús. He let off the front brakes in time to make the turn, but reflexively hit them hard again before his wagon was fully through the turn. The wagon top tilted toward the drop-off. José, seeing his mistake, took his foot off the brake. His wagon balanced on the right side wheels for maybe thirty or forty feet, as if suspended in time and trying to make up its mind whether to right itself or tip over the trail edge.
My heart beat like a trip hammer. José sat on the driver’s bench, his eyes wide, staring at the rocks far below. I frantically waved for him to move up to his seat’s left side, hoping his weight was enough to tip the wagon back to all four wheels, but José wouldn’t move.
Hitting a large rock in the ruts, the right front wheel twisted to the left. Suddenly the wagon flipped over the edge, throwing José off the bench, cartwheeling to the rocks below. In slow motion, the dead weight of the wagon suspended over the edge slowly dragged the pitifully braying mules over the edge. The wagon and mules fell, twisting and turning, into the rocks below, where José already lay broken and bleeding.
Smashing into boulders, the falling wagon seemed to explode, sending surgical sheets fluttering onto junipers, rolled bandages unwinding in long white streamers, and brown bottles of carbolic acid sailing through the air. The rear axle, with the wheels still attached, broke free of the splintered wagon bed and bounced down the steep slope until it hit a boulder and flew apart, sending the wheels twisting and flipping crazily across the ridge.
I felt helpless and guilty, knowing this was my fault, knowing I could have prevented José from dying this way. I clenched my teeth and motioned Jesús, Marco, and the other drivers to continue down the trail while I stared for a moment at the bright red spot where José’s bloody, crushed body lay. We couldn’t reach him until the other wagons were past and at the bottom of the canyon. It made little difference. José had gone to the grandfathers, and the greatest sadness I’d felt since Rufus Pike died covered me like black smoke, thick and suffocating.
At the bottom, Jesús and Marco roared down the trail in a cloud of dust to the place where we intended to park the medico wagons. Jerking reins back for the mules to stop, yelling, “Whoa! Whoa!” while riding the front wheel brakes, and scrambling off the driver’s seat, Jesús brought his wagon to an abrupt stop. He ran to the back of his wagon, dropped the tailgate, and yanked out a stretcher. Marco, stopped behind Jesús, rummaged in his wagon, grabbing bandages, splints, and a sheet. They scrambled for the steep slopes to gather up their friend and ease his suffering.
I galloped Satanas around in front of them, and put up my hands, yelling “Stop! Stop!”
They looked at me as if I were crazy. Marco shouted, “Señor, we must go to José! You saw what happened! He lies on those rocks, bleeding, and needs our help. He might die. We have to hurry. We can’t let him just lie there and die alone.”
I put up my hand again.
“Stop! Listen! Listen! Look up there on the trail above where José lies . . . Muchachos, you know in your hearts that José is no more. There’s nothing we can do except bury him. I let him drive when I should have made him walk, and now he�
�s dead. I cannot, will not, let this happen to you. Do you think José will be the only driver to fall off the edge today? You saw what happened. You risk your lives going to José when, at any time, another wagon might fly off the trail with you below it. When there are no more wagons or rocks to fall on us, we’ll gather all the bodies and give them a respectful funeral, a funeral for brave men who have died with as much honor as any who fall in battle. Now, go on. Tend to your teams and prepare to help Doctor Oñate and me when we need you. Vayan.” Jesús and Marco studied the trail down the ridge slopes. As the truth of my words sank in, they turned in despair to their wagons.
As dusk fell, men from the top of the pass walked the trail to help us retrieve bodies scattered like seeds along the slopes. High on the rocks, torchlight reflecting in their tears, Jesús and Marco lifted José’s broken body onto their stretcher and began the slow hike down the trail with me leading the way. It was the longest walk of my life, tears welling out of my gut. Villa’s war had already taught me an immensely hard, valuable lesson, and a shot was yet to be fired.
A few men survived their wagon or cannon caisson plunging off the trail edge. Since they had suffered massive injuries, there was little we could do for them except ease their pain. There wasn’t much morphine, and Villa had ordered that it be used only for those wounded in battle.
I remembered the herbal medicine I had learned while living with the Apaches and sent several men to collect little buttons of peyote cactus, while Jesús and I collected other plants like yerba mansa and Syrian rue. The fusions I made with the peyote and other plants could deaden pain, but most of the survivors didn’t live long enough to feel their benefits.
Butchered for meat, the mules killed in the wreckages replenished our food supplies. A fire built at the bottom of the canyon roasted meat for the men arriving from the top of the pass.
Mule meat wasn’t something I’d go out of my way to eat, but there in the cold, its fat dripping in the fire smelled as good as the best cut of sirloin steak. My mouth watered to eat some, but my share, along with that of all the medicos, went to starving, thirsty soldiers.
Knight of the Tiger Page 10