Brotherhood of the Gun

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’ve been thinking that he might take this as a personal affront,” Sam said. “The three of us being sent in to take him—when whole armies could not—might seem very arrogant to Chappo.”

  “He’ll have heard of the three of us,” Wellman replied. “And he’ll respect us for what we’ve done. It’ll make him a tad cautious. But he’ll still be out to take us, alive if possible, to torture us for as long as he can, to see if we die well.”

  “They’ve been singing songs around the fires for those we killed back on the ridge a couple of weeks ago,” Matt said. “Fueling the hate they feel for us. I keep going over supplies in my head, wondering if we’ve forgotten anything.”

  “No,” Sam said. “I don’t think so. There is no magic potion to keep us alive.”

  Wellman tapped the side of his head and then lifted his Winchester. “Our eyes, our brains, and our guns. That’s the best magic I know of.”

  The Apache seemed to have vanished from the mountains. The three of them rode out of the Huachucas and into the timbered country south of Miller Peak without seeing a single sign of the Apache.

  It was Bodine who spotted the challenge, hanging from a tree limb along the trail. Three wooden Apache-carved dolls, two of them with tiny necklaces around their necks, the third one a bearded old man in buckskins. The feet of the dolls had been burned.

  “Tellin’ us what he’s gonna do to us when he catches up with us, or we catch up with him,” Wellman said. “Told you he’d know we was comin’ after him.”

  “I got a hunch,” Bodine said.

  “Lay your cards out,” Wellman told him.

  “Let’s go visit the ruins of an old Mexican fort.”

  “Real sneaky like?” the old mountain man said with a wide grin.

  “Yeah.”

  “That might be something Chappo would do,” Sam agreed. “He’d know we’re not just after him, but also Porter and Lake. He just might have some warriors lying in wait for us.”

  They angled toward the southwest, once more crossing the west fork of the Santa Cruz and staying with it, following it down on the west side toward the border. They rode with rifles across their saddlehorns, always searching for sign of the Apaches, but seeing nothing. And the absence of the Apaches made them more and more certain that they were riding toward an ambush at the old fort.

  “But not by Chappo,” Matt spoke, when they were only a few miles from the fort.

  They all reined up.

  “What’d you mean?” Wellman asked. “Who the hell else would it be?”

  “Who has more reason to hate us than Chappo?”

  Wellman and Sam glanced at each other and spoke as one. “Lake and Porter!”

  “That’s right. This just came to me: Chappo might have warned them that if they didn’t stop us, he would no longer insure their safety plus his cooperation.”

  “A nice way of saying he’d kill them on the spot,” Sam said, straightening in the saddle to give some relief to his back. Since leaving the fort they had all been riding with tension heavy on them.

  “Lake and Porter ain’t gonna be there,” Wellman said sourly. “One’s just as yeller as the other. They’ll leave some flunkies behind to do their work. Let ’em sit there and sweat. We’ll go deal with Chappo and get that over with.”

  They pointed their horses’ noses south, by-passing the fort; if they ever got back this way alive, they’d tend to Lake and Porter.

  That evening, after they had stopped to build a fire and eat, then moved on several miles before bedding down for the night, Wellman spoke from his blankets. “What’d you think about it, Sam? How come the white man and the Injun can’t get along?”

  Sam sighed then said, “Well, there was and is right and wrong on both sides. Indians didn’t own the land like the white man thinks he does. And Indians never stayed long in one spot. My father’s people drifted around, hunting and living off wild plants.”

  Sam almost never spoke of his people. It was always his father’s people.

  “The white man came looking to settle in one spot and farm or ranch. They built permanent shelters. The Indian couldn’t understand that. There were some white men who wanted to live in peace with the Indian, and some Indians who wanted peace with the white man. But not enough of each on either side. Stealing horses was a game for the Indians. The whites took it much more seriously. And,” he said with a sigh, “when an Indian makes war, he goes by the philosophy that little whites grow up to be big whites and therefore will cause trouble when they grow up so why not kill them now? And that, of course, is something the white people could not accept. My father could never accept it either. Medicine Horse was a fair man. But look where that got him,” he added bitterly.

  “The Indian wars were something my father’s people were born to lose. There were too few Indians and too many white people. But my friend, hear this: if all the Indian tribes would have united under one leader, instead of fighting each other all the time, the westward progress of the white man would have halted at the Big Muddy. And you can believe that.”

  “Oh, I believe it,” Wellman said. Then he chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” Sam asked, rising up in his blankets.

  “What you just said about all the tribes comin’ together. That’s what I told your dad back some thirty years ago.” He spat out his chew of tobacco, pulled his blankets up over his head, and went to sleep.

  Chapter 14

  None of them knew much about the desert south of the border. Only what they had either read or heard. But they all knew that when a man left a trail, in the woods or the desert, he’d better have a destination in mind, for his life is on the line every moment, waking or sleeping. And nowhere was that more pronounced than when in Apache country . . . especially when Chappo was around.

  “I hope that Army scout knew what he was talking about when he told us about water down in this part of the country,” Matt said.

  “He did,” Wellman replied. “Bill Lewis knows this country as good or better than any white man alive.”

  “Although he didn’t say so,” Sam said, “I got the impression he’d led some raids down here.”

  “Shore has. Deserts are alike in a lot of ways. I been all over the Mojave, the Great Salt Lake Desert, and all over Nevada Territory. You boys know the mountains and the plains. I do too, but I’m older and was always fiddle-footed. Two things you got to keep in mind out here: water and survival. The two is one and the same. You got to be either headin’ for water, or know where some is if you have to leave out from the way you planned to head first-off.”

  Sam shook his head at the old man’s grammar, but knew enough to grasp and retain the wisdom of his words.

  “You boys know how it is with water,” Wellman continued. “If you don’t know where it is, you got to know what to look for to find it . . . and that’s something you’ve both been taught. Boys, I don’t know exactly what happened up yonder in Montana with Custer and with your daddy, Sam, but I got me a suspicious feelin’ you boys do—you was probably watchin’ from a rise. That’s why you both took off, leavin’ successful ranches behind you. So you’re gonna wander for a few years, try to forget the horror of it. That’s fine. You know about the mountains and the plains, so I’ll teach you about the desert.

  “You ain’t got much leeway for mistakes out here. But the desert is not your enemy, and it isn’t your friend. It’s neutral. They’s water out here that is generally known, and they’s water out here that’s known, for the most part, only by the animals . . . and the ’Paches.” He smiled. “And by a few Army scouts and old codgers like me. You got to work with the desert, boys; don’t never try to fight it. ’Cause you won’t win.”

  The three of them rode toward a hot, dry unwavering finger of hell, as they headed for the Sierra Madres and Chappo.

  Dick suddenly held out a hand and reined up. Matt and Sam smelled it seconds after the old mountain man. Dust, and a lot of it.

  “No band of Apaches
would be travelin’ like that,” Dick said. “I think, boys, we’s about to come nose to nose with a Mex army patrol.”

  Sam pointed to the heat-wavering distance. “More than a patrol. It looks like half the Mexican army coming our way. We’d better get our stories straight, and we’d better do it quickly.”

  “Buenas tardes, señors,” the officer who rode at the head of the large column greeted the trio.

  “Afternoon, sir,” Matt said, noting the small pleasure on the man’s face as he called him sir.

  Matt guessed at about a hundred troops, all well-armed and well-supplied, and from the looks of them, all seasoned veterans. Matt decided to take a chance.

  “Has war been declared, sir?”

  The officer looked puzzled. “War, señor? What do you mean?”

  “This is Arizona Territory, sir. If you’re not at war with the United States, then you are violating border treaties.”

  The officer smiled. “No, no, señor. It is not we who are in violation, but you. This is Mexico.”

  Matt stubbornly shook his head. “No, sir. That miner back yonder in the Huachucas who sold us the claim we’re ridin’ toward, said to follow the Santa Cruz, keepin’ it to the west of us, for about ten miles and then we’d come up on our claim.”

  The officer and several others laughed aloud. The officer shook his head. “I am afraid, sir, that you have been misled. You are not from this area, I take it?”

  “No, sir. We’re all from Wyoming.”

  “Ahh! I see. That explains the confusion. I regret to inform you, señors, that you are in Mexico, the state of Sonora. You are welcome to visit here, of course; we are a very hospitable people. But I am sorry to say that you cannot own land here.”

  Wellman had caught on fast. “Why that sorry . . .” Then he proceeded to hang a cussin’ on the non-existent miner.

  The Mexican soldiers listened with awe on their faces as Wellman expertly traced the miner’s history back to the caves. Several of them cheered and applauded when he finished.

  The officer smiled his approval. “I do not know whether I would like to be present when you men find the miner who swindled you. But I must warn you that you are in grave danger riding in this area.”

  “Why is that, sir?” Sam asked.

  “Chappo and his band of renegades have left their stronghold in the Sierra De La Maderas and are heading back to Arizona Territory.”

  “Lord have mercy!” Wellman said, putting a hand over his heart. “It’s a miracle we still have our hair. What do you figure we should do, General?”

  “I am not a general, sir, but thank you for the promotion. Perhaps someday. But for now I am Major Luis de Carrillo. The border is not far. Perhaps you would like to ride with us to the border?”

  “Why, that’s right kind of you, Major,” Dick smiled. “We’ll take you up on that. And maybe while’s we’re riding you could sorta brief us on this Chappo person. We’ve heard some wild tales about him.”

  “But of course. I can assure you gentlemen, they are not tales. The man is a monster!”

  They parted company at the border. All of them finding the Mexicans friendly and open and good compadres to ride with.

  At the border, Major Carrillo called Matt to one side and told him where Chappo was hiding. He smiled and added, “I hope your hunting is as skillful as your acting, Mister Bodine.”

  Matt met the man’s dark eyes; they were twinkling with good humor. “You knew all along?”

  “But of course. It saddens me that certain people in our government—yours and mine—are so corrupt. There are many good, decent people on both sides of the border. For my part, there has been an abrupt shift in the offices of the governor of this state. We were riding to put the slave-traders at the old fort out of business. Permanente. I was looking forward to placing the outlaws, Lake and Porter, in front of a firing squad, under my personal command.”

  “And Captain Morgan?”

  “We will find him. And if our navy finds him at sea, the Virgin Princess will be boarded and Captain Morgan will be hanged.”

  Matt stuck out his hand and the major took it. “Good luck to you, Major.”

  “And the same to you, Matt Bodine.”

  “One question, Major?”

  “Of course.”

  “This rancheria of Chappo’s . . . will there be women and children there?”

  “I can answer that quickly and truthfully. No. The warriors leave their families at a reservation.” Again, he smiled, his eyes flashing with silent laughter. “You may use the dynamite you have under the canvas with complete abandon.”

  The gunfighter and the soldier shared a laugh and then went their separate ways.

  * * *

  “Well, I’ll just be dipped!” Wellman said. “So he knowed who we was all along.”

  “They all did. I think with Major Carrillo south of the border, Chappo will not return to Mexico. I don’t think I’d want the major hunting me.”

  “That’s the feeling I got,” Sam said. “You noticed those troops under his command were all tough, older men; probably with a lot of experience behind them.”

  “Yeah. So I think Chappo’s going to be fighting a last ditch war. He knows his days are numbered, so he’s going to be striking like a mad rattler, hitting anything he can whenever he can.”

  “Let’s go get him,” Wellman said.

  “There isn’t but one hitch in that,” Matt said.

  Both Wellman and Sam looked at him.

  “He’s moved.”

  They swung into their saddles and pulled out, after both Wellman and Sam did some fancy cussing. Wellman settled down after a moment and said, “I know the Dos Cabezas and the Chiricahua Mountains. Chappo might be in the Dos Cabezas, but I tend to doubt it. He’s in Cochise’s old stomping grounds; I’d bet on that. He might even have picked up some of the old boy’s braves. Either way, them ranges ain’t for no pilgrims to wander in.”

  “Major Carrillo told me something he’d heard from one of his generals,” Matt said. “It summed up how many of the American soldiers feel about this part of the country and the Apaches. He said that General Sherman, back around ’70, he thought it was, wrote to the Secretary of War and said, ‘We had one war with Mexico to take Arizona, and we should have another to make her take it back!’ ”

  Wellman chuckled. “I don’t doubt that a bit. Don’t git me wrong, Sam; I ain’t bad-mouthed the Plains Injuns none at all. But when it comes to great fighters and just being low-down mean, the Apache tops the list.”

  “That’s the first time I ever heard you come close to paying the Apache a compliment. Even a left-handed one.”

  “They’re the greatest guerrilla fighters that ever lived,” Wellman told them.

  They were riding out into the flat, desert country, angling to the north and east, heading for the Chiricahua Mountains.

  “Even out here,” Wellman waved his hand. “In the open, they could be twenty-thirty ’Paches hidin’ not ten yards away and most folks would never see them until it was too late. They can take a mouthful of water and run thirty-forty miles a day. Well be lucky to do that on horseback.” He smiled, but it was void of any humor. “Mayhaps, Sam, I dislike ’em so much because I’m so much like ’em.”

  Wellman took the lead, leaving Sam and Bodine to scratch their heads and wonder about that last remark.

  They rode into the Mule Mountains and pulled up in Bisbee late one afternoon. The town was just getting started and made up of three or four wooden frame buildings and dozens of tents of all sizes and description, and the mining town was wild and woolly.

  They stabled their horses and secured a guard for their supplies for as long as they would be gone. Then made arrangements with the stable owner to sleep in the loft that night.

  Both Bodine and Sam thought Wellman was going to hit the man when he charged them a dollar apiece to sleep in the loft. But Wellman chewed his chaw savagely for a moment, glared at the man, and then forked over the doll
ar (it was the Army’s money anyway) and the men went off to find a saloon and have a drink.

  Wellman brightened up considerably when Sam pointed out some, by this time, awfully familiar horses, all of them wearing Triple-V brands.

  “Well, now,” he chuckled. “This could get right interestin’. We might be able to catch one of them no-goods and see if he’d like a choice.”

  “What do you mean?” Sam asked.

  “Tell us where Chappo is or get skinned alive.”

  “I see what you mean about being so much like the Apache.”

  “Somewhat, but they’s a difference. I believe the only way we’ll ever stop outlawin’ is to get rid of the outlaws. I never shot a man—Injun or white—that wasn’t tryin’ to do harm to me or one of mine, family or friends. I never stole nothin’ in my life—except some feminine affections, now and then,” he said with a twinkle of remembrance in his eyes and a smile on his lips. “And I see the same qualities in you boys that I got in me. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with you.”

  Both the young men grinned and Sam asked, “What’s the drill this time?”

  Bodine stopped a man, a miner from the looks of him, and asked, “Is there law in this town, mister?”

  “Only what you’re carryin’ on your hip, buddy.” He hurried on his way.

  “Guess that answers one question,” Wellman said, removing the hammer-thong from his long barreled Colt, slipping it up and down in leather a couple of times. “I got me a powerful thirst for some rye with a beer chaser. I do hope none of them scum in yonder start shootin’ afore I can cut the dust outta my throat.”

  “And once you’ve done that, then you’ll start shooting, right?” Sam questioned.

  “Why, heavens no, boy!” the old mountain man replied, doing his best to put a hurt look on his face. “I’m just a peaceful old man a-livin’ out his last days on earth, in harmony with all of God’s creatures.”