Valley of the Lesser Evil

by Carl Dane

  We had worked well together. Gannon had a real military background; he was an Academy man and knew all about tactics and training. He knew when to advance and when to retreat, when to hit head-on and when to flank. Maybe most important, he understood how to deploy men and convince them to go counter to every survival instinct bred into the species and run toward danger instead of away from it.

  I knew very little of that sort of thing in the beginning, but in my own estimation I knew human moves better than Captain Gannon, so we made a good pair, especially for the kind of work we did. We spend most of our time behind enemy lines, and our job was to harass and confuse, and we were good at it.

  I thought about Gannon and our group of raiders while Carmody and I killed time until dusk. It was a night like this in ’64 when we were advance scouts trying to disrupt an army of maybe two thousand rebs ahead of a union attack. Our group of thirty or so advance scouts killed time until sunset and then spent the night lighting about fifty campfires for almost a mile along the face of a tall, broad hill to the north of where the main Confederate force was located. At dawn, we began marching through a small clearing to the north that we reckoned would be visible from the enemy’s position. We marched, and marched, and marched some more. Thing was, we’d march, sneak around the back of the clearing, and keep the circle going for hours.

  The confederates watching us through their field telescopes anticipated a huge showdown. They massed, ready to defend against what they thought were at least two thousand men in front of them, to the north. That’s what the ones who were captured told us.

  The rebel detachment was captured from the south, where the Union troops were really massed. They took them by surprise, and the battle was pretty much over before it started.

  Things don’t always work out so neatly, of course. But sometimes they do. We’d know for sure in a few hours, if we lived that long. Carmody and I rested, ate, watered the horses, and at about midnight headed toward where we expected to find the Duran camp.

  Chapter 21

  It was a moonlit night, and following our own trail back where we’d come wasn’t so hard for Carmody. I couldn’t have done it, but he could not only read tracks but seemed to have total recall of every twist and turn we’d made earlier.

  “You spend enough time in the wild,” Carmody whispered to me, “you get in the habit of noticing things. Your life can depend on backtracking to where you saw a water hole, or some food to forage. That’s how my mind works.”

  I nodded.

  “Now your mind,” Carmody continued, “has been trained to work in a different way. I’ll wager you remember very little of these here twists and turns and undergrowth that gets trampled and muddy parts that leave tracks and such.”

  “Very little,” I agreed.

  “But do you remember spots where we could find a good nest to shoot from, or spots where we could hide up high and have a clear shot at anyone who followed?”

  “Five, with one coming up over the next rise. But I’m not sure if that gives us any clear advantage considering what we’re trying to do.”

  “You never know,” Carmody said. “Lots of things I don’t know. Lots of things you don’t know. But lots of stuff we do know that could be useful. Together, though, we add up to a very crazy and dangerous team, I’ll say that.”

  I was going to reply but Carmody held up a hand and then stabbed his index finger twice into the gloom ahead. He’s seen something that I could not yet make out.

  Carmody pulled his mount alongside mine and leaned close, cupping his hands to my ear as he whispered. “Man standing, leaning on a rifle, maybe a quarter mile ahead up on that small plateau. A sentry.”

  I nodded and dismounted and told Carmody to wait while I did my business.

  We had just crossed back into my territory.

  Chapter 22

  I’d packed a pair of moccasins in my saddlebags and changed into them. They made less noise on hard surfaces and gave your feet the feel of the terrain so that if you walked carefully with a measured step you could avoid putting pressure on something that would snap or crunch.

  It took me about half an hour to circle around in back of the sentry.

  I could have accomplished it faster but there was some important reconnoitering I had to do first. I found what I needed: a trail that was steep but not so steep that the horses couldn’t handle it, with a sheltered area at the top and what looked like a viable escape route on the other side.

  The “sentry” did not appear to be a member of the military elite. The man, of medium size and wearing a sombrero and crossed cartridge belts, stood leaning on his rifle for a few minutes at a time, looking mostly at the ground. Then he’d squat on a rock and appeared to doze.

  I was good at what we called “sentry removal” during the war. In fact, I had taught the technique to my unit and several other commands after I’d put my own twist on the method. Sneaking up was the easy part, especially on a night like tonight, with a brisk breeze that produced covering sound, and a sleepy target who didn’t really expect trouble. It was the final rush and finish that was tricky.

  You have to cover the last ten feet or so quick as a cat and slip your arm around the sentry’s throat and simultaneously jam the top of your head into the back of his neck. If you’re fast and forceful enough your forearm chokes off his air and prevents him from making any sound. And if you dig in with all your might your target will be unconscious in a few seconds.

  When I was finished, I lowered him gently to the ground, stripped his clothes, hat, and ammunition belt from him in less than a minute, and then double-timed back to where Carmody waited with the horses.

  “Keep looking in back of you,” Carmody urged as we rode. “Your life depends on knowing this trail when we come back, and it’s clouding up so you won’t be able to see as much later. Also, we need to high-tail if that guy wakes up and alerts the rest of the camp.”

  I was a little surprised at what Carmody said.

  “That gang is following us so they can kill us,” I said.

  Carmody didn’t get it, and turned to look at me. “Well I know that. What are you getting at?”

  “The sentry. He’s not going to wake up.”

  I could see in the moonlight that Carmody’s expression had clouded. He didn’t reply.

  I broke the silence after a few minutes. “How far ahead do you think the Comanches are camped?”

  “Well, they ain’t playing hard to get, that’s for sure, and they’ll want to be in range where they can scout their backtrail and sniff us out if they get tired of waiting for us to ride into their trap. So maybe a mile. Maybe two.”

  “So we’re guessing maybe four miles between the Durans and the Comanches,” I said. “An hour or so with the horses at a slow walk.”

  “Half that if we come back as fast as the horses can go over this terrain,” Carmody said. “It ain’t rough, and I don’t expect the path up ahead of us will be much different from what we’ve covered, but it’s always a gamble at night. If we lose a horse we lose our scalps, so keep your eyes open.”

  Chapter 23

  We smelled wood smoke and knew we were close to the Comanche camp.

  There would be no sleepy sentries here. They expected we were coming, though probably not at night, and were not the kind to let their guard down. They expected an attack.

  But probably not the kind of attack that was coming.

  Carmody told me there would be a ring of silent observers lurking in the brush, waiting for us to attempt to sneak in and scout out the camp. Trying that, Carmody noted, would be futile.

  “You can’t out-Injun an Injun,” is how he put it.

  And I had no intention of trying to be stealthy. I jammed the sombrero tight on my head, rubbed the dark clay soil into my face on last time, and rode toward the fire at full gallop, firing as fast as I could at nothing in particular. Behind me, Carmody’s shotgun boomed.

  There
were about seven teepees in the clearing. From my limited understanding of Comanches I knew that they were lifelong nomads and could erect a sizeable camp in minutes. I also knew that they were always on alert, and seconds after the gunshots buffalo-skin flaps of the teepees were folded back and hard eyes glared at me, completely devoid of fear or surprise. I surmised that they were keeping me in sight while reaching for a weapon with a free hand.

  I wanted them to get a good look and held my position as long as I dared.

  A slug buzzed by me and I heard the report of a rifle to my right. Then came the blast of a shotgun and a muffled cry from what I presumed was one of the Comanche sentries.

  I turned and spurred my mount and rode as if I were outrunning death, which is exactly what I was doing. The horse gave an impressive kick. Both Carmody and I favored what were called Steeldusts in that part of Texas – quarter horses that were favorites on cattle drives. They were sure-footed. Over a short distance – especially the quarter-mile, which is where they got their name – they were as fast as any thoroughbred.

  Carmody had lit out first and was already way ahead of me, which was the plan. He had business to attend to on the other end before I arrived.

  I didn’t hear hoofbeats behind me for more than a minute. We caught them by surprise because what happened didn’t fit what I imagined they had been told to expect – a canny woodsman and an experienced military officer who would attempt a stealth rescue. The brazen and apparently insane gunman with a sombrero with blazing guns was not in the script and threw them off.

  I kept the horse a little short of a full gallop in parts of the journey; one vine or chuck-hole could spell a quick death for me as I pitched forward on my head or an excruciatingly slow demise if I survived and was taken captive.

  At about the halfway point I was on a rise and could see them closing on me, not much more than a half-mile back. Maybe eight of them single-file, moving with steady precision. I may have had the faster horse, but nighttime riding and tracking was their game, not mine.

  My horse began to blow a little and I backed off slightly. Killing the Steeldust would accomplish nothing. And neither, ironically, would losing my pursuers.

  I had taken Carmody’s admonition to heart and memorized the landmarks: a stream, a lightning-toppled tree, and then a thick grove of willows.

  And then I saw the trail I had scouted out before killing the sentry.

  The Steeldust didn’t like the steep ascent but I spurred him, and felt guilty about it, but he grudgingly picked his way up to a level patch of gravel that was sheltered by several large boulders. I dismounted and rested my elbows on flattest rock and shouldered my rifle.

  Down below, to the right, near where I surmised the Duran camp was, I heard what sounded like a Comanche war cry and a series of shots. It was, in fact, a real Comanche war cry although it did not come from a real Comanche.

  Carmody found the steep trail based on nothing more than my description and was beside me on the gravel plateau before the first of the Durans rode out beneath us. They were riding full-tilt, guns drawn.

  “Incredible war cry for a Scots-Irish guy from Tennessee,” I told Carmody. “Scared the crap out of me.”

  “Good pair of lungs is an essential tool of the frontier fighting man,” Carmody said as he reloaded his shotgun, his sidearm, and the rifle I’d taken off the sentry. I handed him one of the ammunition belts I’d worn crossed across my chest, the way the Duran gang favored.

  “The Durans didn’t see you cut up the trail,” I said. “They’ll be below us any second. They look mad. They’re looking for a fight.”

  The clouds parted momentarily and we could see the line of Comanches, hard, dark men leaning forward as they drove their mounts toward the advancing Durans.

  “So are they,” Carmody said, snapping his revolver shut.

  Like most battles, it was over in less time than you’d expect. With that many guns and combatants charging at close quarters, most of the killing took place in the first couple minutes. From our vantage point, we counted five Comanches down out of seven, and seven Durans down out of nine.

  The survivors on both sides then realized it was time to take cover, and looked for a tree, rock, or dead horse to scuttle behind.

  Before they could move too far, we finished them off. To a man, they died with a look of utter astonishment as the bullets rained down from above.

  Chapter 24

  For those not accustomed to battle, the taking of plunder seems barbaric. But when your life is at stake, and you come to the inescapable conclusion that the dead won’t be needing the stuff anyway, you take what you can get for your survival in the moment and in the future.

  We appropriated a good stock of pemmican – dried meat, usually buffalo, but it could be anything – from the Comanches, along with some dried berries that the Indians like to store up in fall. The Durans’ camp was a trove of coffee, jerky, and most importantly, guns and ammunition. Good guns, too – some Sharps rifles and several of the new big-bore, single-action revolvers I favored. The Comanches’ guns were older, probably cast-offs from the war with a few of them cobbled together from parts that didn’t fit together very well. But mostly they were serviceable, so we packed them too. Their knives were excellent. It was late November and while the nights had not been particularly cold I sensed a change in the air and took a few of the warriors’ buffalo cloaks, deerskin tunics, and boots.

  Several horses were dead and we killed two who were wounded and suffering, risking making more noise with our gunshots. I felt bad killing the horses, and told Carmody so. He wondered aloud why I was concerned about a wounded animal but killed people without remorse.

  I was going to argue that the horses hadn’t intended to kill us and the men did. But in another life I would have told a student who said that to reconsider his shallow and superficial analysis.

  It was a good question, and I didn’t have an answer.

  We picked the best four horses for use as spares and pack horses and headed back the way we came after taking some time to eat – for the first time in more than a day – and to groom, graze, and water the mounts. We now had a small arsenal, but there were only two of us and there was no time to hunt up reinforcements, even if we could find people willing to reinforce us.

  What we’d do, exactly, when we got back to the Comanche camp was a good question, and I didn’t have an answer to that one, either.

  What I suspected was that about half the occupants of the camp had remained. It wouldn’t make sense to leave the camp unprotected and at least one person would have to remain to keep an eye on Cassie, their captive, if she were still alive. Her fate was unknown at this point. Cassie served no purpose other than bait and her captives knew that we had no way of knowing whether she was alive or dead.

  We had to go back to the camp, and we had to take a different route. Before long – if they hadn’t done so already – the Comanches would begin to wonder what happened to their party and send out more scouts. By now, a blind mole could follow the trail we’d pounded out, and if we headed back the way we came we might run head-on into a war party.

  Carmody suggested we follow a stream that cut off to our left. He’s seen water near the Comanche camp, and while there was no guarantee this was the same stream, it was possible it was the same one, or it very well could be a stream that if we followed it would connect with the tributary he’d spotted.

  We headed off. It was about an hour before sunrise.

  Chapter 25

  “Any ideas?”

  “Lots of them,” I replied in a low voice, worried about the sound carrying. We were maybe a quarter mile from the trail we’d followed before, and elevated a few hundred feet. From time to time we could catch a glimpse below, but only when the clouds parted. Even if the Comanches did come looking for the rest of their party there was no guarantee we’d notice them before they noticed us. But we had to plan, and we had to act soon, so we had to
talk.

  “Any that’ll work?” Carmody asked.

  “Probably not.”

  “Bounce them off me anyway. Let’s think this through from the beginning. Just don’t draw no more pictures in the sand with your little stick.”

  “Well, here’s the basic problem: We know Cassie is being used as bait. We know they expect us to come get her, and the whole purpose is to kill us when we try.”

  “And we ain’t even sure she’s still alive.”

  “Correct. If they assume we’ve given up the chase they’ll just come looking for us. She’d just be extra baggage.”

  Carmody thought for a second. “I think they’ll keep her alive. White woman could be a valuable chip in all sorts of deals…if not this one, the next.”

  “I agree. Let’s assume that to be true. Now, where will she be? They’re not going to wait forever to find out what happened to the group that took off after the phony Duran. They’re going to find those bodies, and I bet it’ll be sometime this morning. But what then? Will they fold up and head back home, wherever that might be, and bring Cassie with them?” Will they go looking for revenge, and if so, who will they attack?”

  “I don’t think they’re going to look for anybody besides us,” Carmody said. “At least not right away. They could track the Durans’ prints back to town, if that’s where they actually came from, but based on what you saw there ain’t that many of them left in the camp. You guess maybe half the Comanches set out after you?”

  “Yes, but that’s a guess. We killed seven braves and there were seven teepees, but not everyone would be inside a tent. Some would be on watch, others sleeping by the fire. If I were in charge, I’d keep half my men in place because I’d be afraid of an immediate follow-up if the attack was a diversion. Especially when they expect a raid to retrieve their bargaining chip.”