by Shorty Gunn
Yellow Horse did not answer. Instead he gave a quick order. Two Apaches moved forward, untying the supply sacks and dumping everything out on the ground. Another pair yanked the three men’s pistols shoving them in their waistbands. Satisfied the white men were defenseless, the Apache leader stepped up close to Cort face to face.
‘Why you here?’ He demanded in broken English.
‘I’m glad you speak my language. Like I said, we’re just passing through. We don’t mean to stay here or make any trouble.’
‘You with horse soldiers?’
‘No. They are not our friends.’
The Apache stared harder wondering how any white man could not be friends to his own kind and especially the powerful cavalry with all their men and guns. ‘You lie like all white men,’ he charged.
‘No, I’m not lying. The soldiers are trying to find me and my men. That’s why I came far into this land. So they could not find me.’
Yellow Horse could not understand why any white man would run from the protection of soldiers. He’d never heard any white eyes ever say that before. His curiosity was aroused by such an unusual statement. He looked the three up and down noticing their worn, dirty clothes and unkempt beards. Walking around back to their horses he lifted the hoof on a big bay. The animal’s shoes were worn right down to the nail heads. Back in front of Cort, he asked another question.
‘Why horse soldiers look for you?’
Keller hesitated before answering this time. He wasn’t sure whether to tell the truth or not. After a pause he decided to take the chance. ‘Me and my men had to kill two soldiers. That’s why they’re trying to find us.’
The chief’s inscrutable face slowly changed to surprise then begrudging admiration. ‘You kill two soldiers?’
‘We had to shoot our way free. We had no choice.’
Yellow Horse ordered his braves to lower their rifles. ‘My people say horse soldiers come into our land. A white man with steel star rides with them. Maybe you speak truth.’
‘I do. If they’re riding south, they are coming after us. All we want is to stay ahead of them. If you let us leave, we’ll go in the morning. We have no fight with you or your people.’
The Apache never broke his stare as Cort spoke. He looked deep into his eyes wondering if this was one white man who did speak the truth. His own braves had said the cavalry was riding south just as Cort said they would be, searching for him. He also wanted to rid his land of the cavalry any way possible. If these white men were no longer here, that could be the quickest way to avoid a major battle and the chance his village could also be raided with many old men, women and children killed. He decided on a bold plan that might solve both deadly possibilities. Explaining it with his limited English might take some doing but he was willing to try.
‘I give you two braves,’ He held up two fingers. ‘Follow them. They show you way to Mescalero people,’ he pointed into the night toward the south. ‘Horse soldiers not find you there.’
Cort was stunned by the sudden offer. One minute he thought they were going to be gunned down, the next Yellow Horse was willing to send Apache scouts, showing him the way farther south. He answered without hesitation.
‘We’ll follow your braves,’ he nodded. ‘We’ll leave first thing in the morning. Our horses are worn out and tired. They need a rest. So do me and my men.’
Yellow Horse stepped back ordering his braves to give the three their guns back. He picked two of his best scouts for the ride south. Neither one spoke a single word of refusal, though the look on their dark faces said they didn’t like the task before them. Going to their horses they led them in, tying them off next to Cort’s.
‘Ride fast,’ Yellow Horse ordered. ‘Go far. I want horse soldiers out of my land.’
‘We will. Thank you for your help,’ Cort extended his hand. The Apache did not take it or understand what it meant. Instead he turned to his men with a brief order. A moment later they disappeared back into the night followed by the sound of horses fading away.
The pair of Apache scouts spread their simple blankets on the ground well away from the three white men, sitting to quietly watch them without saying a single word.
‘Not so sociable are they?’ Fan stated. ‘I know I won’t be sleeping this night. I don’t want to be knifed in the middle of the night.’
‘Don’t waste your time. Get some rest while you can,’ Cort said. ‘Those two are going to do exactly what their chief told them to. If they didn’t they’d have to answer to him. I don’t think any of them want to face that. I’ve got the feeling come sun up we’re going to be doing some fast riding behind those two.’
Dawn was only a faint pink promise across the sky when Red rolled over to the prodding of a rifle barrel in his back. He jumped to his feet facing one of the scouts, wide-eyed in fear Fan’s worries the previous evening had been right. Instead the dark-skinned man pointed toward his horse where the other Apache stood waiting. Red breathed a sigh of relief, leaning down and shaking his brother and Tyge awake.
‘These Apaches are ready to ride. We better kick too, if we have to keep up with them. Their horses look about half wild, but they might be able to run pretty good too.’
Red’s warning about following the Apaches could not have been more accurate. The pair rode fast and recklessly kicking their paint ponies down bone dry creek beds in canyon bottoms, through iron hard stands of sharp limbed manzanitas and up along narrow cliff trails barely wide enough for horse and rider next to sudden drop offs. The summer sun beat down relentlessly on men and animals until shirts were soaked dark with sweat and horses’ flanks glistened in foam.
‘When are those two up front going to give these animals a rest!’ Red shouted to his brother riding just ahead of him.
Cort didn’t answer even though he was already thinking the same thing. Fan, riding last in line, heard Red’s shout, adding one of his own. ‘Why don’t we stop? Maybe those Indians might get the idea? They’re going to run our horses into the ground like this and we’ll all be afoot!’
Cort heard Tyge’s shout, finally deciding he had to act. Both men were right. Kicking his laboring horse ahead faster he caught up with the second Apache in line. He signed pulling to a stop. At first the dark-skinned scout didn’t understand. After a second gesture he seemed to get the idea, slowing his horse while calling to his amigo up front. When all four riders pulled to a stop, Cort knew his only chance to make himself understood was to try signing again. Neither Apache understood a single word of English. He extended a finger on one hand placing forked fingers on the other over the top signifying a horse and rider. Shaking his head no, he pulled the split fingers off mimicking a rider dismounting, before lifting his hand to his mouth taking an imaginary drink. For several seconds the scouts only looked at each other before one spoke a few words. The second brave slowly nodded pointing to a shady spot under tall brush where they could take a break and rest the horses. The three white men immediately took off their hats pouring water into them from half empty canteens for the horses to drink. When they were done they each had a long pull of their own to wet parched throats. Cort’s signing had been a small victory, but an important one. He’d do it again in the days ahead to ask other questions he wanted the Apaches to try to answer.
If Cort and his friends thought the ride south would only last a few days or possibly even a week, they were growing more worried as that week passed into a second and the beginning of a third. Each night the Apaches still chose to spread their sleeping blankets on the ground well away from the three men. The trio never understood why, after all the days they’d spent riding together, but that was the Apache way with all white men. There was no trust especially at night. They’d been ordered to take the white men south, and that’s all they were doing. No one could order them to become friends. At least the scouts knew where every hidden water hole and bubbling spring could be found. That vital knowledge alone kept men and horses alive, able to steadily keep going.
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br /> One hot afternoon the riders stopped to give the horses a rest. Cort decided once again to try to get some idea how much longer they’d be on the trail. He motioned the Apaches over, lifting both hands palms up shrugging his shoulders shaking his head before pointing ahead. The two looked at each other, puzzled at first by the odd display until one said a few words. Kneeling he picked up a small stick drawing a jagged, up and down line in flinty ground Cort took to mean mountains, kneeling next to him. The scout drew a straight line into it and a small stick figure of horse and rider before lifting three fingers pointing ahead. Keller nodded, hoping he understood. He turned to Red and Fan leaning over his shoulder.
‘I think he means we’ll reach mountain country in three days.’
‘That’s what it looks like to me too, but then what?’ his brother wondered.
‘I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see when we get there.’
‘If they cut us loose and we don’t know where we are, we could still be in trouble,’ Fan pointed out.
‘Maybe. But at least it won’t be trouble from the cavalry or Whitman. They have to be so far behind us by now that if they’re still coming they’ll never catch up.’
By mid-afternoon of the third day’s riding, a blue line of mountains rising ahead made it clear the Apache’s dust drawings had meant exactly that. Cort turned in the saddle with a small smile wrinkling his bearded face. Red nodded back while Tyge said nothing studying the high country intently. It meant cooler temperatures, more water, easier riding for them and their horses. At least it would be a break from the arid, twisted land they’d come through for so many days. Not even the Apache scouts could know they were in for a big surprise up on top.
It took half that day’s riding to reach up to the pine forests and tall trees, sighing to a cool breeze. Cort looked back down across shimmering lowlands they’d struggled through now dancing in waves of heat, glad they were behind. Nearing the final ridgeline the Apaches suddenly pulled to a halt holding up their hands, staring at the figure of a lone white man sitting in the saddle, clad in buckskins watching them. Before they could react, the man called out to the scouts in their own tongue, surprising them further as he rode closer. Cort, Red and Fan also watched him approach with equal surprise. Pulling to a halt in front of the scouts the strange looking man continued talking and signing to the Apaches, glancing at the Kellers as he did so. Finishing with the scouts, he turned his attention to the trio.
‘The only white men who come into this country are either on the run from the law, deserters, or lost. Neither kind lasts very long. The Mescalero Apaches kill them right quick. Which are you three?’
Cort stared back fascinated by the man’s bizarre attire. He wore buckskin clothes finished off by knee high, hand made boots and leggings. Below his fur hat, long brown hair hung in a thick braid down his back, stuck with two large eagle feathers, Indian style. Around his collar he wore a pair of necklaces. One was strung with brightly colored beads. The second was a leather thong with long, white tipped claws of a grizzly bear. All in all he was some sight unlike anything the three had ever seen before or the Indian scouts either.
‘If these Mescaleros are such quick killers of white men, why are you still wearing your hair?’ Tyge challenged.
‘Why? Because I married a chief’s daughter, Blue Sky Woman. We didn’t need no bible nor preacher either. We was married in the Apache way. Reckon I could say I’m part of their tribe, because of it. Names Billy Beckett. I got me a cabin down the mountain a-ways. You three would have been scalped by now if you didn’t have these two braves leading you. The Mescaleros already know you’re here. They sent me out to find out why. You three got a handle?’
Cort hesitated. Keller wasn’t a name he wanted spread around even way down here in the middle of nowhere. He remembered his brothers’ aliases used on Loyal Horton. ‘I’m John Morgan. This is Joe Brown,’ he pointed to Red. He’s Dade Wilson,’ he nodded toward Fan. ‘Are we still in Colorado Territory?’
‘Ha! You mean you don’t even know where you are? Boy, this is New Mexico Territory. The only thing between here and the Mexican border is Mongollon. I ride there sometimes to sell off my furs or some elk meat, and do a little trading. Once a year I might even go all the way down to Mexico. Them Mexicans pay good money for furs and hides too, like wolf, fox and big cats. Pay in gold dust or nuggets. But that’s a pretty good ride from here. Takes me about two weeks, sometimes a little more. I don’t like to be gone that long and leave my woman alone.’
The scouts pulled their horses around exchanging a few brief words with Beckett. Just as quickly they started away downhill without a look back.
‘Those two are leaving to ride back up north to their own people. They say they’ve done what their chief ordered them to. Looks like you three will be on your own from here on out. That could make things mighty dangerous unless you could make your way down to Mongollon, on your own, and that ain’t likely.’
Cort stared at the departing Apaches while also thinking fast. Beckett was right. On their own could be big trouble. He had a quick idea. ‘How far did you say it is to this town, Mongollon?’
‘From here . . . maybe a two week ride. Why you askin’?’
‘Because I’m willing to pay you to take us there. You know the country and the Mescaleros, too. I don’t want to have to fight my way down there even if we could find it.’
‘What are you payin’?’
‘How’s a hundred dollars sound to you?’
Beckett didn’t hesitate. ‘How about two hundred? And you get to keep your hair too.’
‘All right. I’ll give you a hundred right now, and the other hundred when we get there.’
‘You talk like you think I might take the money and run off and leave you three to the wolves?’
‘No, that’s just good business. You don’t know us, and we don’t know you. At least not yet. This way it keeps us all honest.’
‘I only take hard cash or gold dust. No paper money. I don’t trust that stuff.’
‘I’ll pay in coins, gold and silver.’
‘Then we’ll make medicine on it. First I want to go by my place and let my woman know I’ll be gone for a while. You three come with me. We’ll leave from there.’
Chapter Nine
Beckett’s home was a long low log cabin, the back half of which went into the steep slope of the mountain side. Its thick, sod roof was supported by heavy timber beams. Three half-wild wolf dogs ran forward barking and snarling as the men rode in until Beckett shouted them back. A young Apache woman with long, black hair down to her shoulders, wearing buckskin clothes and boots, exited the cabin with a baby in her arms. Beckett eased out of the saddle, motioning for Cort, Red and Fan to do the same.
‘I’ll have to get some supplies before we can leave for Mongollon. You three may as well rest easy before we start. Once we do, it’s gonna’ be steady riding all the way. We won’t stop for much except a little sleep and rest these horses. You can take your horses around back to the spring for a drink while I get loaded up.’
The buckskin-clad man held a short conversation with Blue Sky Woman, before taking the baby, lifting her over his head giving her a big, whiskery kiss. Cort looked on the unusual scene, surprised the tough-talking mountain man suddenly became a doting father. Beckett had done something else equally amazing. He’d united the Indian world, at least in this one small family with that of the white man’s by taking Blue Sky Woman as his wife and having a child. It made Cort think back to his own loving childhood shared with his mother and father and brother back home in Tennessee. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Could it really have been that long, he wondered. So much had changed it was hard to believe it really had all happened. His world now was endless days running from the law and gun fights, when they closed in trying to take him. He wondered if that would ever change. Was it possible someday he could live the life of a free man, not always looking back over his shoulder for someone with a six-gun and ba
dge, trying to take him down. At least for now that seemed only an impossible dream.
Two days ride out from Beckett’s cabin the Kellers continued to discuss how far back Nate Whitman and the United States Cavalry might be. The worry never left their minds. Were they still back there somewhere trying or was it possible they’d given up finally turning back after all these days and miles. When Yellow Horse first gave them two scouts to guide them south, the long, hard days of fast riding made it seem they had to be leaving anyone trying to follow them far behind. The killing pace nearly ran their horses into the ground. With Beckett telling them they’d ridden all the way into New Mexico Territory and were now on another fast ride further south, they almost felt they could breathe easy at last. Yet that nagging question never completely went away.
For Whitman’s part there was no giving up or turning back and he had plenty of company and guns to keep him going. Upon reaching Fort Jackson, with Lieutenant Stanford’s tale of failure at capturing any of the Keller gang plus the death of two troopers under his command in the gunfight at Whiskeytown, he was immediately removed from leading anyone, anywhere, remanded to stay at the fort and given a menial job sitting at a desk all day shuffling papers.
In his place a new, more seasoned cavalry officer Captain Milford Darwin Longstreet took command of fifteen troopers with orders to bring the Keller gang back dead or alive no matter how long it took or how far he had to ride to accomplish it. Longstreet was a successful field-tested officer. He’d fought and won running gun battles against renegade Blackfoot Indians twice already, part of the same band that had wiped out Captain Criswell and most of his men. Both Longstreet and Whitman were a perfect match of personalities, although clashing egos would prove to be a problem sooner or later. Both lived for the notoriety of being successful, hard-nosed men who would not give up on any mission no matter how difficult it proved to be. Whitman was smart enough to know the military had the authority and legal grounds to bring the Kellers into a military court and try them there beyond his own marshal’s badge. He could live with that for the final satisfaction of seeing them convicted and hung, even if it wouldn’t be in his court back in Whiskeytown. He’d still share in the glory and make certain everyone knew it.