by Sean Lynch
Pritchard propped himself up on his elbows. “You didn’t tell me how your vision ended.”
She stood back up, smiled at him, and belted on her pistol.
“Good night, Ranger Joe,” was all Bina said as she left the stable.
Chapter 44
It was midmorning when the Ranger who’d been assigned the western sentry post came riding into Magdalena at full gallop. He reported to Captain Franchard and Sergeant Finley that two Apache braves had materialized and informed him a column of fifty riders was coming down from the “Lady of the Mountain,” or Magdalena Peak, as it was known to the townsfolk. Doubting them, the sentry waited until he could see the column, off in the distance, himself. He estimated they would arrive within the hour.
“Remember your assignments,” Franchard called out to the grim-faced Rangers and anxious women as they slung ammunition belts and checked their weapons. “Watch your front sights. Squeeze your triggers, don’t jerk ’em, and make every shot count. For this to work, each of you must do your job without fail. Don’t fire until you get the signal, and good luck.”
As the Rangers and women began to file off to their respective posts, Pritchard felt eyes upon him. He looked up and saw Bina staring at him from across the street. She was in the doorway of the barbershop. She smiled, touched her fingers to her lips, waved, and went inside.
Pritchard, Franchard, and Sergeant Finley went to their places. Forty-five minutes later, Major Dalton Stiles and fifty-one men on fifty-one horses came slowly riding into town in a column of twos.
Stiles, as advertised, wore his feathered rebel campaign hat. He stopped in the center of the street, in the middle of Magdalena. He halted his men with a raised arm and surveyed the silent town. Neither he nor any of his men had yet drawn their weapons.
“We’re back,” Stiles loudly called out, looking around at the closed doors and shuttered windows. “Not a very friendly welcome, I must say. I know you all can hear me. You might as well come out from your hidey-holes.”
“I hear you,” Maggie Chase said as she exited the general store. She stood on the wooden sidewalk, a basket looped over one arm.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Major Stiles said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. I almost didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.” The men behind him snickered.
“What do you want?” Maggie said.
“I believe me and my boys are owed an apology,” Stiles answered. “I came here today to get it.”
“We owe you nothing,” Maggie said.
“I’m afraid you’re wrong,” he countered. “We understand you’ve got some silver you didn’t want to share with us the last time we visited. That wasn’t very hospitable.”
“You’ve taken enough from this town.”
“We took some,” Stiles said, scratching his beard. “But what we take from you today is gonna make what we took last time look like we was bringing candy and flowers. You and the rest of the bitches in this dirt-water town are gonna wish to hell you didn’t make us come back.”
“You’re wrong about that,” Maggie said, striking a match. “We invited you.”
She lit the clipped fuse of the dynamite stick in her basket and hurled it at the column of horses. Sergeant Finley, a miner by trade before he pinned on a cinco-peso star, and highly skilled with explosives, cut the fuse to last only a few seconds.
The dynamite stick had barely landed at the foot of Stiles’s horse when it blew. Maggie ducked back inside the store. Major Stiles, and the rider and horse next to him, were thrown violently off their mounts in the ensuing eruption.
The explosion was the signal the town of Magdalena had been waiting for.
At the same time that twenty more sticks of short-fuse dynamite were thrown from the rooftops of buildings on both sides of the street, a fusillade of gunfire, also from both sides of the street, was unleashed. Rifle shots from every window, doorway, and alley cut loose. An instant later, those who had thrown the dynamite from the roofs began firing their rifles as well. Bullets rained down on the Stiles Gang from each side, and above them. Outlaws and horses began falling right and left.
Over twenty thunderous explosions, in rapid succession, rocked the streets of Magdalena. Most of them went off within the column of riders. Horses and men, sometimes in pieces, were tossed in every direction. Many were killed outright. Others were horribly maimed as the powerful explosives did their work.
Some of the gang members, still able to remain on horseback, tried to flee the blasts and torrent of incoming bullets. They charged through a hail of gunfire in the direction they’d entered, toward the east. When they reached the end of the street they found four wagons blocking the road, and more rifle fire pouring at them from behind the barricade.
Those outlaws not gunned from their horses turned around and charged back the way they’d came, again through a gauntlet of gunfire. By the time they reached the end of town they’d entered, they found a large herd of cattle had been released and was blocking that exit as well. They were trapped, in the open, in Magdalena’s main street.
Boxed in and with no way to get out, the remainder of Stiles’s men had no choice but to reenter the town and try to ride through the alleys and passageways between buildings, as Pritchard had predicted they would, to make their escape.
The first rider to attempt it steered his terrified horse between the saloon and general store. The barbed wire strung between the buildings felled him and his horse instantly. Several other riders suffered similar fates as they failed to penetrate the spaces between the buildings due to the razor-sharp wire.
All remaining outlaws, those who hadn’t been blown up or shot, were now on foot. They ran for their only option left: the sanctuary of the buildings themselves.
Pritchard had tossed his dynamite from the roof above the saloon, then shot as many of Stiles’s men as he could with his Henry rifle before the dust cloud from too many detonations, and a fogbank of gun smoke, made accurate shots from distance impossible. He raced down the stairs from the roof to engage the outlaws in close-quarters combat in the street.
When he reached the ground floor, Pritchard shot a raider twice with his rifle, from the hip, as he tried to enter the saloon. Maggie shot another outlaw entering behind that one with her Dragoon. Pritchard handed her his Henry and ammunition belt and headed out through the saloon doors with a revolver in each hand.
The street was filled with dust, gun smoke, and the sound of men and horses bawling in agony. Pritchard made his way through the carnage across the street.
A bloodied outlaw, trying to stagger to his feet from his knees, raised his pistol. Pritchard shot him in the forehead as he passed. He spotted another, aiming his revolver shakily at him from the ground. Pritchard quick-fired two rounds, one from each pistol, into the outlaw’s neck and head.
When he reached the barbershop, Pritchard discovered the door kicked open. He rushed inside.
He found two outlaws, both wounded, holding Bina and her elderly Apache assistant hostage. They were using the women as shields, cowering behind them with their pistol barrels wedged against their captives’ heads. Bina’s revolver was on the floor at her feet.
“Drop them guns,” the man holding Bina ordered Pritchard. He peered from around Bina’s shoulder. Pritchard holstered his revolvers and slowly raised his hands. The outlaw had been shot at least once in the torso, and had a nasty barbed-wire gash across his face.
“Take it easy,” Pritchard said calmly. “My guns are put away. What do you want?”
“I want a couple of horses,” the man continued, straining to get the words out. “Then me and my partner are going to ride out of town with these here squaws. Iffen you don’t do what I say, and get us what we want, we’ll plug both of ’em, right now.”
“Some water, too,” the other outlaw rasped. He appeared to have been gut-shot and could barely stand. Bina had evidently scored hits on both of them before being taken captive.
“Okay,” Pritcha
rd said. “I’ve got what you need.”
“Where?” the first outlaw, the one holding Bina, said.
“Right here,” Pritchard said as he drew both revolvers.
Pritchard’s two .44 bullets, simultaneously fired, took each outlaw in the only portion of their faces they’d uncovered to speak from behind their hostages. Both were dead before they hit the floor.
The elder Apache woman released a torrent of profanity and kicked the outlaw lying dead at her feet. Bina walked over to Pritchard, kissed him, and said, “Thank you, Shadow Man.”
Pritchard nodded and headed back out of the barbershop to continue the fight. He needn’t have bothered.
The shooting had almost entirely stopped, and the huge dust-and-gun-smoke cloud was slowly dissipating. Rangers were walking among the dead, wounded, and dying men. The only firing left was the merciful dispatching of injured horses. Other Rangers rounded up wounded outlaws.
Captain Franchard stood in the street along with Sergeant Finley.
“Reload and stand ready,” Franchard bellowed. Rangers automatically complied.
“Report?” he asked his sergeant.
“All accounted for,” Finley said. “One Ranger dead, four wounded. One of the wounded Rangers, an El Paso boy, probably won’t last the night. No casualties among the townsfolk, although a couple of women have minor wounds, mostly from glass and shrapnel. All of Major Stiles’s men are either dead or wounded.”
Franchard nodded. “Once a watch is set, I want our wounded treated first. All prisoners are to be searched, bound, no matter how badly hurt, and placed under guard. Once that’s done, round up those loose cows, move the wagons, and get a detail to start hauling these dead horses out of town.”
“Yes, sir,” Finley said.
“Hello, Joe,” Franchard said, as Pritchard approached and Finley went off to implement his captain’s orders. “What do you think of our day’s work?”
“I think it could have gone a lot worse,” he said as he reloaded his revolvers. “Day ain’t over, though. Hell, it ain’t even noon yet.”
Maggie joined them from the barbershop, where she’d been helping with the wounded. “I’m sorry about your men, Tom. Another one just died. Miss Bina did all she could.”
“I’m sure she did,” he said. “Don’t fret too much. All Rangers know there could be a bullet waitin’ at the end of every trail. That’s just part of bein’ a Ranger.”
Chapter 45
By noon, the nine surviving members of the Stiles Gang, including Major Dalton Stiles himself, were tied up. They were either seated or lying down, depending on their wounds, on the wooden sidewalk in front of the saloon. The townspeople, Rangers, and Apache warriors assembled in the street before them.
Not long after the smoke cleared from the battle, thirty Apache braves rode into town. Leading them was a very old tribal elder. The Rangers immediately began to take up arms, but Miss Bina walked out and greeted the newcomers as if they were expected.
“Tell your men they have nothing to fear,” Bina told Franchard.
Franchard ordered his men to stand down, but remain ready. The Apache dismounted, and the elder joined Bina with Franchard, Sergeant Finley, and Maggie.
“What do they want?” he asked Bina.
She made the introductions. “This is Mangas, our shaman and chief. He wants to bless the town, to dispel the evil spirits you have released here today. This is very important to them, Captain. Major Stiles and his men have defiled Apache land. A cleansing ritual must be conducted, which will ward off any other evil spirits that may try to inhabit their lands in the future. The ceremony will not take long, but you may want to have the people of the town go inside their homes. It may not be something they wish to witness.”
“What, exactly, are the Apache going to do?” Franchard asked.
“As part of the ceremony they must scalp all of the outlaws, even those who are still alive. The bodies must then be burned while the religious ritual, which includes a sacred dance, is performed.”
“Not exactly a Sunday church meetin’,” Franchard said.
“What Stiles’s men did here wasn’t exactly Christian,” Maggie said.
Franchard turned to her. “I’ve got no objections,” he said. “It’s up to you and your people, Maggie, how they want the prisoners to die, but die they will. One way is as good as the next, to me.”
She turned and addressed the other women of Magdalena. “Anyone object if the men who invaded our home, murdered our menfolk, and raped us are scalped and burned?”
No one spoke up.
“There’s your answer, Tom,” Maggie said.
“Sounds like we just saved ourselves a burial detail,” Sergeant Finley said.
“There’s one more thing Chief Mangas asks of you,” Bina said.
“What’s that?” Franchard said.
“They want to know if they can have the dead horses. The Apache waste nothing, Captain. They have use for the meat, skin, organs, and bones. Even the teeth.”
“Tell ’em to help themselves, with our thanks,” Franchard said. “My men will assist them in butchering the animals, and his braves are welcome to borrow our wagons, if they agree to return ’em, to haul the meat back to their people.”
Bina translated Franchard’s words. The chief nodded.
“If the chief doesn’t mind, I have a favor to ask of him,” Franchard said.
“What is it?”
“What do they do with the scalps?”
“Since they did not make the kills,” Bina said, “they cannot keep the scalps. They only take them during the cleansing ritual. Typically, the scalps are burned in a separate fire, but only to dispose of them. Once removed, they are no longer a part of the ceremony. Why do you ask?”
“I have use for ’em,” Franchard said.
Bina spoke in Apache to Mangas. He nodded again.
“The scalps are yours,” she said.
The Apache warriors began collecting wood from the stockpiles at each building and assembling a large pyre in the middle of the town square. Franchard signaled to Sergeant Finley, and the Rangers began to help.
Major Stiles, his left leg, arm, and the left side of his face shredded by the dynamite blast that disintegrated his horse beneath him, sat with his surviving men and listened to the exchange between Franchard, Chief Mangas, and the women of Magdalena.
“Hold on,” Stiles called out. “You can’t give us over to them redskin bastards. That ain’t no way for a soldier to die. It ain’t right.”
“It’s right as hell,” Franchard said. “And you ain’t a soldier, Stiles. You never were. You’re a murderer, robber, rapist, outlaw, and coward who got whupped by a passel of widows and a handful of Texans.”
“Did you boys really come all the way from Texas, just for us?” Stiles asked.
“We surely did,” Franchard said.
“What the hell for? We never messed with Texas.”
“A wise policy,” Franchard said, “but it won’t do you any good today.” He started to walk away.
“Hey, Ranger,” Stiles shouted, pain and desperation creeping into his voice. “You ain’t really gonna let them savages take our scalps and burn us alive, are you?”
“That’s the plan,” Franchard said.
“You can’t,” Stiles said. “We’re white men. It ain’t Christian to let us die like that.”
“After what you and your men did to us,” Maggie said, “you’re going to claim Christian mercy?”
“I wasn’t talkin’ to you, bitch,” Stiles said.
“I’ve got one more favor to ask Chief Mangas,” Franchard said to Bina.
“What’s that?” she said.
“Can she,” Franchard pointed to Maggie, “light the fire?”
Bina translated the question to the Apache elder and received another nod in return.
“Probably would have been better off for you, Major,” Franchard said with a grin, “iffen you’d died outright, like most of
your boys.” Stiles lowered his head. “Once them Apache commence to workin’ on you, I’m bettin’ you’re going to wish you’d never messed with New Mexico, neither.”
“Please,” one of the other wounded outlaws suddenly called out, “don’t burn us alive? I’ve seen men burn. I’m beggin’ you? Just shoot us or hang us. Please?”
One of the women stepped forward. “I recognize you,” she said to him. She was a pretty young woman with light-colored hair. “I remember begging you not to rape me. This, on the same day you buried my pa and my husband, down in that mine. Did you show me any mercy when me or any of the other womenfolk begged?”
“Please?” he whimpered again.
She spat on him. “There’s your mercy,” she said.
“Don’t beg for nuthin’ from these whores and cowards,” another captive outlaw said. He was a tall, skinny man in his late thirties, with a scar and a hole where his left eye should have been. He was uninjured, having only been knocked off his horse and rendered temporarily unconscious during one of the blasts.
“They have no choice but to let them redskins scalp and roast us,” he went on, “because they ain’t got the guts to do it themselves. Ain’t a one of ’em got the balls to stand and face me, and they know it. So quit begging and don’t give the bastards any satisfaction.”
“You’re Reuben Gaines,” Pritchard said, “ain’t you?”
Gaines looked up at Pritchard. “I am. Do I know you, Ranger?”
“I knew your little brother, Eli,” Pritchard said, removing his hat. “He gave me this.” He pointed to the scar on his forehead.
“Looks like he headshot you. Didn’t do a very thorough job of it, apparently.”
“He had me tied up, like you are now,” Pritchard said. “Then he executed and buried me.”
“Evidently,” Gaines said, “given that you’re still standin’ before me, I’d have to say my little brother Elijah screwed up your burial, too. If I recall, he was prone to lunkheaded behaviors. He is a Union man, after all. So was most of my family, if you can believe it. I was the black sheep, fightin’ for the South. What’s Elijah doing now?”