Stryker's Misfits (A Stryker's Misfits Western Book 1)

by Chuck Tyrell

  The wound bled somewhat when he removed the bandana strips, but the bleeding gradually stopped as the cactus juice dried.

  Stryker scrapped the raw side of the other half of the cactus pad and ate the resulting pulp. It didn’t provide much moisture, but was far better than none at all. He split and scraped three more cactus pads. Still not enough moisture. Still much better than nothing. Still in the heat of the afternoon on the dry underbelly of southwestern New Mexico with nearly thirty miles to go to rendezvous.

  At VMI, Professor Smith was forever quoting an ancient Chinese philosopher named Confucius. One of those quotes came to mind as Stryker chewed and swallowed sticky raw cactus pulp. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

  Stryker nearly smiled, and he took the first step. When he did—and took the one after that, and the one after that—another of Professor Smith’s sayings echoed in his ears. It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop. Stryker kept walking.

  ~*~

  Dahtegte watched Stryker from the top of the ridge. He walked down the dry streambed as if he were connected to Ussen’s hands by strings that the Giver of Life handled without thinking. The scalp hunter sprawled among the ridge rocks, where a quick thrust from Dahtegte’s knife sent him into the afterworld. She’d not taken the time to mutilate him properly and make his wanderings through the spirit world ever hampered by wounds. Enough that he would take no more scalps. Dahtegte fingered those the scalp hunter had carried. When they reached rendezvous, she would bury the scalps properly, with prayers to Ussen. Then, perhaps, the ones who had gone on would be able to walk the afterlife as whole Indeh. Perhaps.

  Stryker dressed his wound with the pads from nopal.

  Enyuh! Dahtegte approved.

  He walked.

  She followed, but did not interfere with Stryker’s journey toward rendezvous.

  He kept moving, even though the sun of late afternoon was hot and dry.

  In the dusk, Stryker stumbled and went down. He stayed on hands and knees as if he were not going to rise again.

  Dahtegte watched. Part of her wanted to help him. But the sterner part of her said, “Hold off. This is a good lesson for Gopan to learn.”

  The sky in the west darkened, leaving only a line of orange and gold across the ragged skyline of the Hatchets.

  Stryker struggled to his feet. He peered in Dahtegte’s direction, but no white man could see an Apache unless the Indeh wished to be seen.

  He took a step. Then another. Soon he trudged on in a westerly direction, still following the dry streambed. But Dahtegte knew the stream would peter out in a short while, and Matt Stryker would be faced with moving cross country, following no path, if he wished to find the cliff with a lightning flash on its face.

  She carried the scalp hunter’s Sharps .50 now, a bag of bullets, and the dead man’s canteen, in addition to her own Yellow Boy Winchester and the ammunition for it. Although she had both her own water jug and the shootist’s canteen, she made no move to offer one of them to Stryker. He would learn much by surviving.

  Stryker trudged on.

  Dahtegte followed, now closer.

  Once in a while, Stryker would suddenly stop and cock his head to listen. Of course Dahtegte halted as well.

  The moon rose, large and red at first, then smaller and white as it climbed higher in the sky. Stryker picked up his pace. Dahtegte followed.

  ~*~

  As the Misfits arrived, Samson Kearns assigned each a place to keep out of sight. Lion Wattie and Winston Many Ponies scaled the cliff, a flat-topped mesa that towered above the terrain. They found lookouts that let them each see a hundred eighty degrees in opposite directions. Lion’s lookout faced south, so he spotted Stryker and Dahtegte when they were still at least five miles away, maybe six.

  He watched. After a few minutes, he picked up a pebble and tossed it at Samson’s position. When the top soldier peered from behind a big chunk of rock that has split off the cliff in eons past, Lion put his hand to his forehead in a salute that meant “officer” and circled his finger at eye level. Then he pointed toward Stryker and Dahtegte. Lion could not help but notice Stryker’s ragged pace, although he was too far away for even his sharp eyes to see the lieutenant’s bloodstained sleeve. Still, Stryker led and Dahtegte followed.

  Lion squinted. Stryker carried his rifle, sheathed in buckskin. But Dahtegte lugged a big gun; a Sharps, it looked like. Now he could see the makeshift bandage—nopal pad tied in place with ... rags? And the sleeve of his muslin shirt was black as only dried blood could be black. How could the Misfits fight seasoned Apache warriors without a leader ... or, almost without one?

  Should he help? No. Stryker would refuse. The rule was each man for himself. Besides, Dahtegte followed close behind. He stayed in place, keeping watch as assigned. Damn.

  Samson Kearns peered over the top of his rock, waiting for Stryker to come into sight. Something about Lion’s signal struck him wrong, as if Stryker were in trouble. But Stryker was adamant about each man taking care of himself, so Samson stayed concealed, his headband full of the kind of weeds that took root in the rocks, and his dark skin dusted with native soil to bring its color closer to that of his surroundings.

  Nothing appeared from the direction Lion had indicated. Samson wanted to lever himself atop the rock to gain more perspective, but held back. In daylight, he’d better not show himself. He looked around. None of the Misfits showed. Some were probably sleeping.

  A footfall? Samson focused his senses in the direction of the sound, but it didn’t come again. He sneaked up high enough to see over the rock.

  “Top?”

  Samson froze. No one by Stryker called him “Top.” But the one who spoke was not a man.

  “Top?”

  “Yes. Is that Dahtegte?”

  “I am.”

  “What?”

  “A little help, please. There are no other Apaches near here.”

  Samson stepped from his hiding place.

  “Your place is hidden good, Top.,” Dahtegte said. She stood no more than a dozen feet away from Samson’s rock. “Come help Gopan Nantan.”

  “Gopan Nantan?”

  “You say Cap.”

  “Lead on.”

  She did.

  Stryker lay face down, his head resting on his left arm. His left hand clutched his Winchester Yellow Boy with what some would think was a death grip. But movement of his chest said he still breathed.

  “Cap?”

  Stryker remained silent.

  Samson went to one knee and put a hand on Stryker’s back, something that would have gotten him whipped in an earlier time. He gave Stryker a tiny shake.

  “Cap?”

  Stryker came to his feet in one fluid motion, his eyes wide and his right hand holding a Remington Army revolver at full cock. Samuel Kearns, who had risen at the same time, wrapped his big arms around Stryker in a bear hug.

  “Easy, Cap. It’s me. Reginald Kearns. You’re at the rendezvous, Cap. So you just relax. We’ll get that shoulder fixed good as new in a minute or two, then, come dark, we can talk about hitting them Apaches we’re hunting. Sound good, Cap?”

  Stryker relaxed, and let the hammer of his pistol down. “Sounds good,” he said.

  Chapter Eleven – Friends to Count On

  Bly arrived while Samson was still working on Stryker’s wounded shoulder.

  “Gopan. Know you not enough to stay where bullets cannot find you?”

  “The scalp hunter called Big Phil shot him, thinking Gopan Nantan was Indeh.”

  Bly looked at Dahtegte with no sign of surprise. “Big Phil is dead, then?”

  Dahtegte nodded.

  Enjuh.

  “You have done well, Stryker,” Bly said. “Dahtegte calls you ‘Nantan.’”

  Stryker bit his lip to keep a grunt of pain from escaping as Samson finished sewing up the bullet furrow in his deltoid.

  “A little deeper and your shoulder joint would be gone. Si
x inches to the right and your heart woulda took a hit. What kind of magic do you use, Cap?”

  “Lots of things can throw a man’s aim off when he’s shooting from half a mile away.”

  “Gopan Nantan carries a shield,” Dahtegte said. “He will not die of arrow or bullet, I see.”

  “Right now, it’s not a matter of when or how I die. It’s more a matter of where Yuyutsu is going and where we can set up to wait for him.” Stryker nodded his thanks to Kearns and struggled into his bloodstained shirt. “Bly. You’re the last one to see Yuyutsu, where’d you set up for him, and when?”

  “Yuyutsu is a proud man,” Bly said. “Already he has raided the Nakaye in Mexico many times. His Power is great. His braves carry much ... boots ... no, booty. They must use horses and mules to return.”

  “Where’s his village?”

  “Warriors often live away from wife and children. Old men stay. Protect women.”

  “So we don’t know where Yuyutsu’s headed, then?”

  Bly shook his head. “No. But with so much booty, it is likely Yuyutsu and his warriors go to their home village, wherever it is.”

  “How do we find the village, or at least get an idea about where it is?”

  Bly swept a hand toward Dahtegte. Her eyes were on him, her gaze intense.

  “Can you spot Yuyutsu’s village, Dahtegte?” Stryker asked.

  She nodded.

  “Will you?”

  She nodded again.

  “Thank you. Please do.”

  Dahtegte sat cross-legged and cupped her hands on her knees. Softly, she began a chant, singing almost under her breath. As she chanted, eyes closed, she dug a pouch from her clothing, took a pinch of powder from it, and shook it into the slight breeze coming across the land from the southwest. Her chant all but died away. Stryker could see her mouthing words, but could not hear her voice. She stood and extended her arms away from her sides. Chanting almost without sound, she turned as if her arms were the needles of a compass. She stopped. Her right arm pointed almost due south. “There,” she said. “There in the Sierra Madres. Into the land of the Nakaye, but just a little. Less than fifty White Eye miles from here.”

  “South? In Mexico?”

  “I have said so.”

  “Bly. Where did you talk to Yuyutsu?”

  Bly pointed southeast. “That way. He must travel almost due west to reach his village.”

  “Can we set up an ambush?”

  “If you can travel forty miles before the sun rises.”

  “We will.”

  “Then follow me, but not too close.”

  “Top?”

  “Yo.”

  “Get the Misfits down here, pronto.”

  “Will do, Cap.”

  In minutes, ten Misfits, including Stryker and Samson, sat in a circle so Bly could explain the night’s trek.”

  “It’s time to put our thinking to the test,” Stryker said. “Bly figures we can set up an ambush to catch Yuyutsu—he’s a man with revenge on his mind, who hits Mexican villages regular, killing everybody and every thing. Bly talked to him last night. Now Bly’s gonna tell us how and where to set up a way to hit this wild man.”

  Bly stood up. “Misfits can go far and fast,” he said, “I know. And this night will be a hard test of your strength and heart. We go south. On the side of the Sierra Madres, a canyon with steep sides forms the easiest way for the war chief Yuyutsu to return to his village. It is the only place where horses and mules can make the climb to his high rancheria. We will go fast. We will be ready when his warriors ride that trail. I have spoken.”

  Stryker stood. “Drink plenty of water. Rest up while you can. An hour before sundown, we’ll leave.”

  The Misfits went back to their hiding places, and in minutes it was as if they had never been there.

  Can I trust that man? Stryker wondered as he rested next to an overhang in the wall of the cliff. Bly was an Apache. So was Yuyutsu. But Bly was a White Mountain Apache, and Yuyutsu was a Nedni, an outlaw. One who would not abide by any treaty agreed to by any other chief. That, and in his short time in Apache country, Stryker never heard of an Apache lying. In fact, Ed Peck, chief of scouts at Fort Whipple, told Stryker that telling lies could get an Apache in deep trouble with other Apaches faster than about anything else. That meant Stryker could trust everything Bly said. It was what went unsaid that he’d need to watch. Bly said he knew where Yuyutsu was and where he was going. And he said he could find them a place where they could set up an ambuscade to trap Yuyutsu. He’d said the canyon was the easiest way up to Yuyutsu’s base camp. He didn’t say it was the only way or the way the renegade would take.

  His shoulder throbbed. He hoped that wasn’t sign of mortification. He slept.

  “Cap?”

  Stryker’s eyes shot open. “Yeah,” he croaked.

  “Getting close to leaving time.”

  “Um.” Stryker sat up. The stitched-up wound in his deltoid didn’t throb any more. Good. “Get the Misfits together.”

  “Yo.” Samson moved away.

  Little sound filtered its way to Stryker’s ears as the Misfits came. Bly and Dahtegte stood to one side. Stryker found a stump-size stone to sit on. The Misfits gathered round. He glanced at each.

  “I’ll take it that your weapons are cared for and ready. I’ll take it you have a water jug. I’ll take it you have grub and can eat while you’re on the way. Top?”

  “Yo.”

  “You’ll lead the Misfits and follow Bly. When he shows you the canyon, you place the Misfits.”

  “Yo. Pardon me, Cap, but where’ll you be?”

  “Right there, if I’m able. But this shoulder may make me lag. I’ll keep Dahtegte with me, to help if I need it.”

  “Yo.”

  “You hear me, Misfits? Top Kearns is in charge until I get to our ambuscade. You all double time and jog once in a while and you’ll make forty miles in around four hours. I’ll be along soon as I can. The renegades may come along before I get there and they may not. At any rate, be ready.”

  “Yo.”

  “On your way.”

  “Misfits. Follow me. And don’t you go thrashing through the bush like a herd a eley-fants.”

  “Stryker’s Misfits gathered behind Samson Kearns. “If you’d lead off, Bly, we’d be more than ready to follow.”

  Bly eyed the gathered Misfits. “Yes. No bull buffalo crashing along, please.” Then to Samson, “Follow me.”

  “Yo.”

  Bly moved away, his pace faster than a walk, slower than a jog. The Misfits followed.

  “Dahtegte?”

  “I am here.”

  Stryker had not noticed Dahtegte, who stood just out of striking distance and just out of Stryker’s field of vision. “Will you please stay close to me and help if I need it?”

  “I will be close. A warrior does not need help. Remember my words about friends, Gopan Nantan.”

  “Are you not my friend?”

  “No matter. Now I could help. But who knows what happens to me? Better to be your own friend. Make your hands and feet and heart take care of you. I will follow.”

  Stryker stood still until he could no longer hear the Misfits. “I go,” he said, and started after his squad. When he glanced over his shoulder, Dahtegte was not there. Yet she promised to follow. She will, Stryker decided, and upped his pace to double time, which as an infantryman, he could keep up for hours, if not days.

  The loss of blood from his shoulder wound sapped Stryker’s muscles of their usual stamina. After an hour, he slowed to an infantryman’s tramp, which covered about five miles in an hour. Not nearly fast enough to cover the forty-odd miles to the ambuscade canyon before dawn. Double-time, though, took him nearly mine miles before he slowed. An hour at a tramp, while only giving him five miles, he’d still be nearly a third of the way.

  Dahtegte appeared beside him. She handed him a stalk from a hedgehog cactus, skewered on a stick with the thorns cut away. “Eat. Get water,” she s
aid.

  He ate it as if he were eating corn on the cob. Slightly bitter, the stalk tasted like green prickly pear fruit, but much wetter. He was about to toss the stick and uneaten core aside when Dahtegte touched his arm. He looked at her. She shook her head and held out her hand for the stick. He gave it to her, knowing instinctively that she would dispose of it where no one would notice.

  “Your heart is your friend,” Dahtegte said. “Your legs are your friends. Call upon your friends. They will carry you far.”

  Stryker grunted his assent. He went back to what he thought was double-time, but it was hardly more than a walk. His shoulder had begun to throb again, but it had not torn open. He put his head down and concentrated on his double-time shuffle. Somehow he realized that Dahtegte strode along in front of him, guiding his shuffle on a path away from cacti and thorny catclaw. He continued to shuffle in double-time, though his muscles ached and his throat turned scratchy dry.

  “Walk now,” Dahtegte said, her voice barely reaching Stryker’s ears.

  He slowed.

  “We have come now more than half way to the canyon, Gopan Nantan. Your friends carry you good.” Again Dahtegte’s voice reached no farther than Stryker’s ears. “It is time to take some water,” she said. “Water is your friend, too, when you have it.” She handed him the bounty hunter’s two-quart canteen.

  He drank two large swallows before Dahtegte took the canteen from his grasp. “Again later,” she said.

  “Mmmm,” he answered. He continued his walk, concentrating on following Dahtegte, not too fast, but not at an amble.

  Sometime later, she said, “Faster now.”

  Stryker went into a passable imitation of double time.

  False dawn drew a line of light across the eastern horizon when Dahtegte stopped at the mouth of a deep canyon that carved its way into the Sierra Madres. Perhaps water ran in the canyon during the late summer rains, but now it was bone dry. Dahtegte touched Stryker’s arm and handed him the bounty hunter’s canteen. He drank two swallows and returned it. He nodded his thanks.