White Apache

by Len Levinson

  Lieutenant Lazalle's heart nearly stopped, his worse fear coming true. “How many?”

  Unfortunately, the Moqui did not speak English well and was riding all out. He meant to say ten, but in the hoofbeats Lieutenant Lazalle heard two hundred, and thought he'd faint, but instead, managed to hold his voice steady and tell Sergeant Avery, “We'd better head back to the fort—at a gallop.”

  The sheep stopped as warriors waited for two riders pursuing them. Cuchillo Negro placed a pinch of pollen on his tongue for strength. He hoped the riders were envoys from the White Eyes, so he could get rid of the sheep, their strong odor making him ill.

  “One of them looks like Chuntz,” said Barbonsito.

  “What is he doing here?” asked Cautivo. “Who's with him?”

  “It looks like a boy.”

  “It is not a boy,” said Barbonsito, a note of astonishment in his voice. “He is riding with Martita.”

  The warriors looked at each other, and one laughed.

  Cuchillo Negro cleared his throat sternly. “Do not invite the wrath of the mountain spirits with your levity.”

  Everyone stared in wonderment as the duo drew closer. Chuntz was smiling, while Martita sat regally in her saddle. “We have seen your tracks,” said Chuntz, “and thought we would help with the sheep. Where are you taking them?”

  “To sell to the Pindah soldiers.”

  Chuntz's eyes widened. “But they will kill you!”

  “The Pindahs are too hungry to fight, but if you do not care to join us . . .”

  Chuntz looked at his woman, who shrugged. The other warriors appeared discomforted, then Barbonsito spat at the dirt. “I too am having doubts about this plan.”

  “And I,” said Cautivo.

  Sunny Bear couldn't understand war language, but perceived Cuchillo Negro's authority questioned. “I mean no disrespect,” Sunny Bear blurted in regular Apache language, “but I was a bluecoat war chief, and—”

  The warriors’ angry expressions said he had violated a significant taboo, like spitting on a holy wafer, and his mouth shut like a clam. Then Cuchillo Negro spoke. “Child of Water shall be forgiven this last time, but if he violates the law once more, he shall be killed. He no longer knows who he is, a Pindah or an apprentice warrior of the People, but I am Cuchillo Negro, and I believe my judgment is sound. If you think I am wrong, I shall go alone.”

  The regal old war chief raised his chin and nudged his horse with his heels. That animal hesitated, as if his muscles resisted the onward course, but then stepped out obediently, head hanging low, with dark foreboding overtaking his horse mind, for he smelled Pindah concentrations not far away.

  Barbonsito and Cautivo looked at each other. “I cannot let him do this alone,” said Barbonsito.

  “I will go with you.”

  “Me too,” said Coletto Amarillo, “but I will never ride with that old man again.”

  The others took their positions with the flock, which was forced to move yet again. Sunny Bear found himself behind fluffy sheep tails, unable to prevent the massacre, yet refusing to exempt himself from it. Checking his weapons, he followed the flock toward the site of his possible grave.

  Colonel Bonneville paced back and forth in his office, wondering what had happened to Colonel Miles and his dragoons, who were pursuing a herd of stolen mules on the upper Gila and hadn't been heard from for three days. Did they get lost? wondered Old Bonney Clabber.

  An urgent knock came to his door, and it opened before he could invite anyone inside. His sergeant major said, “Sir, Lieutenant Lazalle is here with a message that he considers extremely important.”

  Before the last word left Sergeant Randall's mouth, flush-faced Lieutenant Lazalle elbowed past and entered the office. “Sir, we don't have a moment to lose! Approximately four hundred savages are bearing down on the Gila Depot, even as we speak!”

  Lieutenant Lazalle exaggerated to make a more compelling case for immediate action, and indeed appeared to produce the desired effect on Colonel Bonneville, whose eyes widened and cheeks went pale. Then he pulled himself together, stood at attention, and said, “How far away?”

  “About an hour, sir.”

  “Come to the map and point out exactly where they are.”

  Chuntz smelled the Pindah encampment as the sheep-raiding party continued toward its destination. There was no doubt in his mind that a dangerous confrontation was about to commence, so he turned to Martita and said, “Go to the rear of the flock with the apprentice.”

  “But my place is with my husband,” she protested.

  “Woman, do not try my patience this day.”

  They'd just married and already were fighting. She opened her mouth to continue, then bowed and said, “I shall do as my husband wishes.”

  He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Be careful, my darling. I fear battle coming soon.”

  “If I die, I prefer to die with you.”

  “I have spoken my wishes.”

  Again she bowed as she pulled her horse toward the rear of the flock. Never had she been on a raid, and no one ever had worried about her. She took her position beside the Pindah apprentice, who said, “You'd better go back to the camp, because there'll be shooting before long.”

  “It is here that my husband has sent me,” she said proudly.

  Chief Mangas Coloradas studied the ground as his horse continued over the sheep trail. Barbonsito had identified the special hoofprint of Cuchillo Negro's horse, and it appeared that he and his sheep were headed toward the Pindah war camp. What can he be thinking? wondered Mangas Coloradas.

  Mangas Coloradas loved his warrior brother Cuchillo Negro, but the latter had been behaving erratically lately, as when he'd moved to the reservation two harvests ago. Finally, Mangas Coloradas raised his hand, and the warriors gathered to hear his announcement.

  “I have decided we must stop Cuchillo Negro before he runs into the White Eyes,” said Mangas Coloradas. “We shall move out swiftly, our weapons prepared for war. Does anyone disagree with this plan?”

  No one said a word, not even Juh, who ordinarily was contrary, but Juh never argued against war. The old chief slapped reins on the haunch of his horse, and that noble warrior leapt into action, leading sixty Mimbreno warriors bristling with weapons headlong toward the valley of destruction.

  Soldiers gathered in formation on the parade ground as Colonel Bonneville met with officers in his tent. “I will lead the striking force,” he told them, “while Colonel Loring will work his way around and hit them in the flank. Are there any questions?” No one said a word, their faces stolid, nothing as sobering as the prospect of combat. Colonel Bonneville continued, “Lieutenant Lazalle, since you have ridden such a long way, you will remain behind with your men and guard the depot.”

  “Yes sir,” replied Lazalle, denied the opportunity to prove himself in battle. West Point militarism and artistic sensitivity constantly battled beneath his blue tunic.

  The officers spilled onto the grassy plain, where mounted soldiers sat in their saddles, prepared to move against the Apaches. The officers climbed into their saddles, and Colonel Bonneville rode to the midpoint of the line, where he faced his troops. “Apaches are about to attack this camp,” he told them, “which is exactly what I've been hoping for. When I give the order to charge, remember that these are the renegades who killed Henry Linn Dodge, raped women, stole children, and set fire to towns. If we can strike a heavy blow, we can be rid of the red devils forever. Your families and sweethearts are looking at you right now, men, so let's not disappoint anybody. Move it out!”

  Sixteen

  Colonel Bonneville led the Gila Expedition past snowcapped mountains, hoping a substantial Apache force was coming to meet him. I'll be a general if I defeat the Mimbrenos, he thought, sword buckled confidently to his considerable girth.

  Captains Covington and Hargreaves rode nearby, part of the colonel's personal bodyguard. George angled his horse closer to Beau and said, “There's something
I need to confess in case I'm killed in the hours to come.”

  “Please spare me your lurid escapades,” replied Beau. “You won't be killed, because only the good die young.”

  “It's even more lurid than you imagine.” George took a deep breath. “One night in Albuquerque I visited Clarissa Barrington and tried to force my person upon her.”

  “I can't say I'm surprised, knowing you as I do. Did she respond positively, or isn't that part of your heartfelt confession?”

  “She sent me away like the low scum that I truly am.”

  “George, when we return to Albuquerque, you really ought to get married. Otherwise somebody's husband is liable to shoot you.”

  The Moqui appeared over a rise, whipping the haunch of his speeding horse, heading for Colonel Bonneville.

  “Looks like we've found our Apaches,” said George.

  Beau drew his pistol, ascertaining that the chamber was clear, as Ho-say-shay slowed in front of Colonel Bonneville. “They are just behind that hill!”

  Barbonsito already had seen the bluecoat army and galloped toward Cuchillo Negro. “They are coming to make war!” he yelled as he drew closer.

  “You are wrong,” replied the war chief, sitting easily in his saddle. “The White Eyes wish to speak, because they love to lie and cheat. But they will not cheat me this day. We shall smoke with them, then unload the sheep.”

  The aging war chief rode forward, and after a hesitation, warriors and sheep followed. Yes, you will get rid of the sheep, thought Barbonsito, as he looked to the horizon. But that is not all to be lost this day.

  Colonel Bonneville sat in his saddle, inspecting his men prior to leading the attack, the enemy over the next rise according to his Moqui scout. To set the proper tone, Old Bonney Clabber decided to troop the line.

  He rode his white horse to the right of the formation, then turned and galloped along its length, doffing his hat and waving to the soldiers. They cheered their potbellied little general, for if they refused, sergeants would punish them severely afterward, if anyone still was alive.

  Colonel Bonneville felt like Napoleon Bonaparte, his white stallion carrying him along. He knew the Apaches would hear shouting and hoped he struck terror into their hearts. Then he rode to the front of the formation, drew his sword, and pointed straight ahead. “Bulger, sound the charge!”

  Those ringing, seemingly innocuous notes filled the valley; horses perked up their ears, then plunged forward, pounded their hooves on the ground, and carried their soldiers up the hill, led by rotund bald-headed Old Bonney Clabber upon his white charger.

  No poets write eulogies to warhorses, and no historians report on those who break their legs, but the noble equines had been in the army so long, they thought like soldiers too. They strained huge, ropey muscles to develop the necessary power to overwhelm the enemy formation, and as they came to the top of a hill, looked down on a large number of sheep and a small number of Apache warriors. But no one ordered the horses to stop, so they maintained their gallant assault.

  Old Bonney Clabber's eyes weren't as keen as during the days he'd mapped the northern Rockies. He assumed the sheep were mounted warriors, and it served no purpose to halt a cavalry charge in progress.

  “At them!” he screamed, circling his sword over his head.

  In the excitement the men weren't sure what lay ahead. Apaches and sheep clearly stood before them, but perhaps the main body of hostiles was over the line of hills just beyond. The dragoons charged down-hill, loaded pistols pointed straight up in the air. The bugler blew his bright staccato symphony as the Gila Expedition was carried onward by the beautiful horrible madness of their rip-roaring cavalry charge.

  Cuchillo Negro stared at vast numbers of bluecoats soldiers rushing toward him, their intentions unmistakable. All he could shout was, “Retreat!”

  Warriors wheeled their anxious horses as lost lambs prepared to change ownership yet again. Sunny Bear, at the end of the formation, suddenly found himself at the lead with Martita. Thank God Cuchillo Negro finally came to his senses, thought Sunny Bear as they galloped away from Pindah soldiers.

  But the game was not yet won, for the army usually possessed better horses than Apaches and were issued superior weapons. Life would go to the warrior who owned a healthy mount, but Martita had been a poor quasi-sorceress, her horse long in the tooth. The poor beast found himself falling back.

  Chuntz saw her difficulty and eased the reins of his stolen russet stallion in her direction. Then he looked up, and his eyes bulged at more bluecoat soldiers appearing over another ridgeline, charging at an oblique angle, cutting off the retreat. A fierce struggle was about to commence, but all he could think of was his bride.

  As her horse lost speed, Chuntz gained upon her, his long black hair streaming behind him. Horsemanship of the highest order would be required in the moments to come as he pulled alongside her and yelled, “Jump in front of me—I will catch you.”

  The wisp of a woman raised herself up, then threw herself at her husband. With his mighty arm he snatched her out of the air, sat her in front of him, and looked back, to see where the Pindahs had gone.

  He was horrified to note bluecoats to his rear, practically upon the People, while bluecoats in front would strike soon thereafter. A volley of shots echoed across the valley. “We are lost!” cried Chuntz. “You must run for your life! Go now!”

  He lifted her out of the saddle, but she struggled to stay with him. “My place is with you!”

  “I order you to go!”

  “Never!”

  He was ready to knock her cold, when suddenly she shuddered, her body went limp, and she leaned out of the saddle. “No!” he screamed. “It cannot be!”

  He turned her around, blood oozing out a hole in her breast, and at that frightful moment his horse took a hit. The animal threw his forelegs high in a last gesture of oblation, then collapsed to the ground. Chuntz leapt clear, holding onto his wife; they landed, rolled, and came to a halt. In an instant Chuntz was on his knees beside her. She hung in his arms, limp as a pile of rags, eyes wide open and staring. “No!” screamed Chuntz.

  Gently, he lowered her to the ground, his eyes filling with tears. Bullets and arrows whizzed around him, orders were shouted, men cried in triumph or anguish, but it appeared that the worst horror had befallen Chuntz. Without regard for life and limb, he leaned forward and kissed her pale lips. “Ugly little thing,” he murmured sadly, “why would anyone want to kill you? But you were not ugly to me, for you have redeemed me with your love, and I shall avenge you with my life. Yaaaaahhhh!” he shrieked as he yanked the war hatchet from its position of repose upon his belt, and after the battle many would testify they'd heard an ungodly cry in the midst of the proceedings. Chuntz turned, but couldn't see clearly in the smoke, dust, and tumble of brown and blue contending in the valley.

  It appeared that bluecoats had ridden through the People and were coming back for a second try, while the ones coming at the flank had arrived. Chuntz preferred to fight on foot, because it provided greater mobility. One bluecoat soldier appeared to notice him and angled his horse in his direction.

  “Yahhhhhh!” screamed Chuntz as he ran toward the rider, swinging the hatchet over his head.

  Captain George Covington had forgotten fear of death as soon as the battle had been joined. The Apaches were badly outnumbered, presenting no great threat to the smartly uniformed son of a tailor, but one of the warriors, hatchet in hand, seemed to be charging on foot, presenting a moving target difficult to hit from atop a galloping horse.

  Is this it? wondered Captain Covington as his horse rampaged onward. The intellectual West Pointer aimed down the barrel and fired, but the Apache continued his headlong assault, howling at the top of his lungs; evidently the bullet had missed. What is wrong with that damned Indian? George asked himself as he thumbed back the hammer for a second shot. I'll wait until he gets on top of me, so I can't miss.

  But it's not simple to wait for the last moment wh
en an enraged Apache is rushing closer with hatchet in hand. Captain Covington's horse plowed forward, and the frightened West Pointer lost his nerve, firing too soon yet again.

  The Apache wasn't fazed by the inaccurate shot, then leapt into the air, hatchet poised high. My God, I think he's going to kill me, thought George, and for a long, elastic moment realized it was time to pay the piper for his free West Point education. Defiant to the end, and with a gentlemanly thumb drawing back the hammer for one last shot, he felt the hatchet touch the top of his Jeff Davis hat, and that was all.

  “Yaaahhhh!” screamed Chuntz as the bluecoat war chief fell to the ground. Chuntz reached for the pistol lying next to the lifeless hand when a fearsome sound came to his ears. It was another bluecoat soldier riding him down, swinging a saber in the air.

  Chuntz had no way of knowing his adversary was one of the most famous officers on the U.S. army active list. Chuntz dodged to the side, as if to run away, then cut back toward the officer, holding his hatchet for the death blow.

  Colonel Bonneville saw the Indian sortie forward, but was not inconvenienced in the slightest. Veteran of countless battles against Mexicans and Indians, he was an experienced swordsman, and when the Apache leapt at him, he timed him coming in, then thwacked him soundly.

  An instant before contact, Colonel Bonneville stared into the Apache's eyes. Never had he seen such loathing, so stunning and unusual that it caused the colonel to flinch slightly, turning his wrist. This produced an alteration in the angle of his blade, and instead of splitting Chuntz's skull, applied a broadside that knocked Chuntz cold.

  Colonel Bonneville thought he'd killed another Injun as he continued his ride, leaving Chuntz unconscious and bleeding from a wound in his head, near the corpse of his wife.

  This is my fault, thought Cuchillo Negro as he watched warriors drop around him. I have misjudged the White Eyes again, and this time I shall pay with my life. His gaze rose to the heavens, where the giant owl flapped wings and snapped his razor beak. The owl monster will not be denied this day, thought Cuchillo Negro.