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

by Chuck Tyrell

  “This is the place,” she said softly. “Bly will be here soon. We wait.”

  Stryker sat on a knee-high boulder. The skyline brightened. In the gray of the pre-dawn, he could see the stark, nearly nude cliffs that formed the canyon. At its mouth, the canyon floor was at least half a mile wide and covered with knee-high buffalo grass.

  “Bly comes. Top soldier comes.”

  Stryker squinted but could not see the men. “Where?”

  Dahtegte pointed at the canyon wall. Only then could Stryker see two figures making their way down toward the canyon floor.

  He squared his shoulders. It would not do for Samson and Bly to see how much the trek had taken out of him.

  As they approached, he stood. “Top. Bly. I take it the Misfits are in place.”

  Bly said nothing, perhaps waiting for Samson to speak.

  Dahtegte moved away. Maybe she wanted to give the men space and time in which to set up the ambuscade, but such was not the case. Before the three men could begin any kind of discussion, she’d returned.

  “Apaches come,” she said, waving her hand toward the east.

  A pebble landed near them.

  “Lion,” Samson said.

  The Cherokee scout shielded himself behind a large stone formation that stood between him and anyone approaching from the east. He signaled with flashing hands.

  “Riders coming,” Bly said. “Apaches.”

  “How are we set up, Top?”

  “Sharpy’s on top of the canyon. The Greer boys are hold up on the far side, one low down, one high up. Ponies is up top on the opposite side from Lion. Paddy and Mick holed up on the near side—Paddy low down, Mick higher up. Chief McKinnister and Boogie Hill’re up the canyon where they can hit anyone that gets by us’ns down here.”

  “Then you and me’s got to find our own holes to hide in.”

  Samson pointed at a pile of rock that had broken off the face of the cliff in some ancient time. “I reckon there would be good for you, Cap, if you’re willing.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll be around.” Samson smiled, but it was a smile of determination.

  “Bly. Would a decoy work?”

  Bly shook his head. “If he comes this way, he will take the canyon trail. If not, he will go another way.”

  “Where?”

  The more difficult trail is further south.”

  “Can we cover it, too?”

  Bly shrugged. “Not now.”

  “Okay. We assume Yuyutsu will take the canyon trail. If he doesn’t, we’ll just have to find another way to get him.”

  “Not a tough climb to your spot, Cap. It’s well hidden, with a good field of fire,” Samson said. “Shall we go?”

  “Lead on.”

  The jumble of rocks gave cover on the one hand and provided a good view down the canyon on the other. “This is good,” Stryker said. “Real good. Now, don’t let any of the Misfits go to shooting too quick, Top.”

  “We’ll wait for Sharpy. He’s supposed to take the first shot.”

  “If we was Apaches, we’d shoot the horses first,” Stryker said. “But I’ve got a feeling that setting Yuyutsu’s warriors afoot might put us at a disadvantage. See if you can’t tell the Misfits to shoot warriors, not animals.”

  “Yo.” Samson left.

  Stryker found himself alone in his blind, as it were. Where’d Dahtegte go? He waited.

  One man rode south on the trail toward the Sierra Madres. Then, as the canyon closed in, two more came from each side onto the main trail. For a moment, they came together and sat their horses, scanning the canyon for anything unnatural. They consulted each other, then one peeled off and road back toward the east, probably to report to Yuyutsu.

  The remaining scouts sat idle on their ponies. Idle, except their eyes repeatedly swept the canyon walls, scrutinizing rock and bush, tree and tufts of grass. Then the Apaches came.

  Chapter Twelve – One On One

  Yuyutsu’s scouts led the main party of twenty-five warriors on horseback, leading eight pack mules well loaded with booty. No Mexican troops followed, as dust did not arise on the back trail, and Nakaye always made dust. The canyon, the way home, yawned ahead. The scouts were both known for their keen sight. Dae could count prairie dogs from more than half a mile away. Jivana could spot a honeybee on the wing from nearly a hundred yards, a skill that often led a war party to water.

  The scouts rode apart, so Dae could inspect the east canyon wall and Jivana the west one before Yuyutsu and the war party stated the last climb home.

  Dae reined in his horse some distance from the entrance of the canyon. The hawk that hunted the craggy rocks for marmots and ground squirrels rode a thermal high above the canyon walls, and screamed its hoarse hunting cry. Nothing seemed amiss. Still, Dae made no move to enter the canyon. His pony stomped, eager to have some of the lush grass that covered much of the canyon floor. It seemed to sense no danger. Dae tested the down-canyon breeze for any unusual odors. He found none, but then, he was no wolf. His man nose was unable to detect the Misfits, who lay in wait, tense and ready to jump up and begin firing the moment they heard Sharpy’s big buffalo gun go off.

  The scouts entered the canyon at its widest point, out of rifle range from most of the Misfits. In fact, they didn’t even try to see where the Apaches were.

  Once again the scouts pulled up. They scoured the cliffs and rocks with steely eyes. But found nothing out of the ordinary. They took their time, searching for a warning. There was none.

  The two scouts turned around and went to confer with Yuyutsu. Then a lone warrior rode to the mouth of the canyon, a scrap of white cloth tied to the shaft of his lance. He stopped his horse about fifty yards inside the canyon. He spoke in Apache. His voice did not seem loud. He did not shout, but still his words carried well, and echoed from the canyon walls.

  “He wishes to speak to the man called Gopan.” Dahtegte’s voice, just loud enough to carry to Stryker’s ears, came from behind him.

  “He calls you, Gopan Nantan. The white cloth means the same to Apache as to the White Eye,” Dahtegte said.

  Stryker stood and stepped out into the open. He leaned his Yellow Boy against a rock, removed his Remington Army from its holster, and put it atop the same rock. “I come,” he said.

  The Apache turned his horse to face Stryker as he made his way to the canyon floor. He did not speak, nor did he seem to blink.

  Stryker moved toward the Apache with smooth, confident strides, his shoulders squared and his posture fit for any VMI parade ground. He stopped, came to attention, and saluted the Apache. “I am Matthew Stryker,” he said, “he who is known as Gopan among Apaches.”

  The warrior swung a leg over his horse’s withers and slid to the ground. He spoke to Stryker in Apache.

  Stryker shrugged. “Sorry, but I don’t speak the language of the Indeh.

  With eyes like coals from a hot fire, the Apache warrior glared at Stryker. He raised his voice and nearly shouted a string of Apache words, one of which Stryker understood—Dahtegte.

  “Dahtegte is not of my soldiers,” Stryker said, but the Apache woman stepped from behind the same jumble of rocks as Stryker had, and without hesitation strode out to stand beside him. She stared at the warrior. Unlike Striker, she was armed, a bow and two arrows clutched in her left hand. She spoke to the warrior and then said to Stryker, “I am to turn this warrior—whose name is Uday—turn his words into English for you.”

  The warrior Uday shook his lance, but did not use it to threaten either Stryker of Dahtegte. He spoke with strength and bearing, without bluster. No ordinary man, Stryker thought.

  Uday glared at Stryker. His grip on the lance was so tight that his knuckles were white and his hand shook with strain. But when he spoke, his tones were sonorous and grave. Dahtegte translated as he spoke.

  “Indeh are few. The White Eyes are many. There is a custom among the Indeh. When a fight comes, when many would die in both camps, then each camp chooses o
ne man to fight for everyone. The two chosen men fight within a line drawn in a circle on the ground. No one leaves the circle until one is defeated. He who is defeated must leave and all the warriors in his camp must leave also. This way, perhaps, only one dies instead of many. This way, children in their wickiups will not cry because their fathers can never come home. Now, we who follow Yuyutsu wish to choose one warrior to fight for us. Will you do the same?”

  A fight between champions, as it were, to decide who takes the day. Shades of Hector and Achilles. Would that be the “hit ’em hard” that General Hunter wanted? Would winning a one-on-one against Yuyutsu’s warrior champion be the kind of thing the Army needed now? “I hear you, Uday. But this kind of thing must be discussed with the Misfit warriors and one picked to carry the hopes of all. This we will do, and tomorrow when the sun rises one man will stand here to represent Fort Bliss and the U.S. Army. I have spoken.”

  The warrior Uday reversed his lance and stabbed it into the ground. “While this sampa stands, let there be no fighting between Indeh and White Eye or Buffalo men. I have spoken.” Uday leaped upon his sorrel horse and reined it around. “While the sampa stands,” he repeated, then rode the prancing horse back toward Yuyutsu’s riders.

  “Well … ” Stryker said, speaking to himself as much as to Dahtegte. “Do I call the Misfits down or leave them be? If they stay in place, the Apaches cannot surprise us, but unless they gather, no discussion can take place. Sharpy should stay up on the canyon rim, and the Greers halfway up. No need to reveal the Misfits’ positions. He decided to call Samson, Bly, Lion, and Ponies. They’d parley well and each had experience with Apaches, much more experience than Stryker himself. Yes. He’d call those men. He turned away from the lance and walked back to the pile of rock that had been his hideaway. Dahtegte followed a step behind.

  “Top? Bly?” Stryker called as he climbed back into his hidden position.

  “Yo?” Samson was only steps away.

  “Need the scouts and Bly, Top. Get ’em, if you please.”

  “Yo.”

  Already Stryker prepared for the fight in his mind. True, he had little experience in hand-to-hand fighting, but he was in charge of the Misfits, and it was up to him to stand in the forefront when danger came riding.”

  Minutes passed. No one came. Still, some might be high on the canyon walls, especially Lion and Ponies. The white rag tied to Ubay’s upright lance fluttered in the up-canyon breeze.

  “Cap? Bly’s coming, and he told Lion and he’ll tell Ponies. They’ll all be here afore long, I reckon.”

  “Thank you, Top.”

  “Some jerky, Cap. Chewing beef allus helps the mind work, I say.” Samson held out a strip of dried beef.

  “Obliged.” Stryker took the meat and gnawed a piece off the end.

  Bly came before Stryker got the first bite of jerky chewed up and swallowed. Then Ponies, and a few minutes later, Lion showed up. Stryker kept chewing at the jerky. The hawk riding the canyon thermals high above the ground screeched.

  Dahtegte was out of sight, but Stryker had a feeling she was within earshot. That probably meant nothing, but still, it made him feel better to know she could hear what went on.

  “So, what kind of planning do we gotta do?”

  “It’s simple, Top. One-on-one, winner take all, so to speak.”

  “Yuyutsu don’t wanna lose men,” Bly said.

  “Neither do we,” Stryker shot back. “But if our man wins, what do we get from the Apaches? The general told us to hit Yuyutsu hard. How can this joust end up hitting him hard,”

  “Give him conditions,” Samson said. “Made him give up something for losing.”

  Stryker thought for a moment, then nodded. “Good advice, Top. If we put conditions on the fight, we’d better be ready to match them with something of our own. What’ve we got that Yuyutsu might want?”

  No answer. Then Dahtegte’s voice from among the rocks, “Apaches always want ammunition. Guns, too, but those mean nothing without bullets.”

  Ammunition. Pooled, the Misfits carried nearly a thousand rounds of .44 caliber cartridges. Could they give up half?

  “I’ll think on it,” Stryker said. “Now, Top, you and Bly come with me to the ring. Bring your weapons so folks won’t try taking advantage of us.”

  Samson flexed his hands and hunched into a boxer’s stance. “You’ll want me to do the fighting, right?”

  “I’ll fight,” Stryker said. “I’m the leader. I’m the one the Apaches named Gopan. It’s only right that I fight.”

  Samson shook his head. “Not going to happen, Cap. Pardon me, but I sewed you up, stitched that rip in your shoulder together. I know what it does to your reflexes and your strength. You’re lucky if you’re at half strength. Maybe less.”

  “My job, Top.”

  Samson shook his head. “Can’t let you do it, Cap. Not good for us Misfits. Not good for you. When there’s one-on-one scrapping to do, Cap, it’s up to the Top Soldier to do it. It’ll be me out there to scrap with whatever Apache comes along, Cap, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “That’s not right, Top. Should be the man in charge.”

  Bly interrupted. “Gopan, Apaches named you. We know you are courageous. This Apache thinks it would be good if Gopan would let the top sergeant fight for those who do not fit.”

  “Gopan.” Again Dahtegte’s voice came from among the rocks. “This warrior, although a woman, this warrior agrees with top sergeant and the White Mountain Apache called Bly. Samson must face the warrior chosen by Yuyutsu.”

  Stryker furrowed his brow and took a deep breath. “Let’s go see what happens.” He walked away from the security of the rock pile toward the lance Uday had thrust into the ground. Samson and Bly followed Stryker, Lion and Ponies followed them.

  The moment Stryker left the cover of the rocks, one of Yuyutsu’s warriors let out a screech and pointed. Four warrior swiftly mounted their horses and rode for the lance at a dead run.

  Stryker stopped some ten yards shy of the lance. Samson came to stand his right and Bly on his left. Lion and Ponies stood back about three feet. None of the Misfits flinched when the warriors flashed by on running horses, drew their mounts to hopping halts somewhat up the canyon. They then trotted the blowing horses back to the area dominated by the lance with its fluttering white rag.

  Uday’s voice was nearly a shout. “Ho, Gopan.” Then staccato Apache.

  “Are you ready? He says. Will you fight to save your men?” Dahtegte’s voice translated.

  “Yes!”

  But before Stryker could go further, Samson took a long step toward the four horsemen. “This Buffalo Soldier will fight the best man of the Apaches. I am called Top. It means I am best. Which man among you can defeat a Buffalo Soldier? This I ask.”

  “Top!”

  “My job, Cap. My job.” Samson striped off his shirt and dropped it. He laid his Yellow Boy on the shirt, then unbuckled his gunbelt and put it across the Winchester. A leather thong held his sheathed Bowie in place between his shoulder blades. He untied it, unsheathed the big knife, and dropped the sheath atop his other weapons. Samson ran this thumb over the edge of the Bowie and nodded, satisfied with its sharpness. With the big knife held casually in his left hand, Samson strode to the lance. He turned, came to attention, and saluted Stryker, even though he was out of uniform. “My job, Cap. We’ll see if the renegade’s got anyone to stand up to Samson Kearns.”

  He thumped his chest with a big right fist. “Send your best, renegade Apache. I, Samson Kearns, top soldier, challenge anyone who comes.”

  Dahtegte translated.

  A warrior mounted on a big black with a star on its forehead raised his hand and spoke. His tones carried command.

  “Yuyutsu says you are large and strong. But ‘fights do not always go to those who are largest and strongest,’ he says. ‘I call a willow to face the oak.’”

  Yuyutsu raised his voice. “Norroso!”

  A young man on a small, q
uick horse separated from the group of Apache warriors. He leaned forward and spoke a word to the pony, which sprang into a run in three strides. The young man carried a short bow with a few arrows in a soft quiver tied around his slim waist, but he made no move toward the weapons. He spoke to the horse again, and it came to a stiff-legged, hopping stop nose-to-nose with Yuyutsu’s black.

  Yuyutsu waved at Samson and said a few words.

  “He tells the young warrior to cut the Buffalo soldier down,” Dahtegte said.

  The youngster slipped from his horse’s back. “Top soldier,” he said in English. “See if you can cut this boy down.” He shed his weapons and pulled a long slim knife from a sheath at the small of his back.

  “Wait.” Uday walked his horse to the lance. He dropped to the ground in a single lithe move, pulled the lance free, and used it to draw a circle on the ground. “Fight here,” he said.

  Samson stepped into the circle, which measured about a dozen feet across. He said, “Come on, boy.” He beckoned with his empty right hand. His left held the big Bowie casually at his side.

  The young warrior also stepped into the circle. Samson stood at least six inches taller than the stripling Apache, but the youngster showed no sign of fear. He too stood alert, his long slim knife held point down at his side.

  Yuyutsu gave a shout. “Fight!”

  The young man crouched. He now held the knife with its cutting edge up. Samson made no move to counter the boy. After a moment, the youngster also stood up straight. “You not want to fight Norroso?” he said.

  “Young’un, I eat boys like you for breakfast. You think you can get a knife into Samson Kearns, you all just go ahead an’ try.”

  “You not make me angry, top soldier,” Norroso said, and leaped at Samson.

  Samson parried, but not quite quick enough.

  Chapter Thirteen – All’s Well That Ends …

  The tip of Norroso’s long thin blade nicked Samson, entering his right arm just above the bicep and ripping outward, leaving a lateral cut across and into the deltoid. The blade hit no tendon or bone, but loosed a stream of blood that ran down the inside of Samson’s arm and dribbled to the ground from his elbow.