by Tony Masero
He was doubly relieved when Judas at last appeared on the skyline and waved them on with a swirling hand.
“It looks like Judas has found water!” he called across to Allumette.
The little Frenchman tugged down the bandana he had wrapped about his face against the dust and cleared his throat. “Not before time, my friend,” he answered. “I feel I have swallowed half this desert already.”
At the crest of the next rise they saw before them a canyon formed from a tumble of rocks cracked in the face of the range. Jagged stone walls crept down to clumped high stands of fan palms and as the animals tasted the scent of water they took off at the trot with Gringo and Allumette following on behind. Gringo could see a burgeoning aquifer had filled to the point where it overflowed onto the land and created this life saving oasis.
He breathed a sigh of relief and whispered into the ear of little Lucy Lawrence held tight before him on the saddle.
“There, honey,” he said. “Soon you’ll have a nice cool drink and we’ll all rest up a while.”
“Will I see my Mama?” she asked.
“I’m afraid not, sugar. Your Mama’s gone away now,” Gringo fumbled with some sort of explanation that the child could accept.
“Is she with the angels?” Lucy asked with a remarkable display of intuitive perception for such a little one.
“That’s right, she up there in heaven now.”
“Well, that’s all right then, she‘ll be in a better place,” sighed the girl. “I’d better go see my daddy instead.”
Gringo smiled at her innocence. “You’ll get to see him soon enough, I reckon,” he promised.
“Mister Gringo?” Lucy asked.
“Uhuh.”
“Are those nasty people following us? You keep looking around like they are.”
Gringo stopped himself rotating for another look. “Maybe they are, I don’t know for sure, honey. Best not to think on them just now.”
Lucy wrinkled her nose. “I didn’t like them. They were nasty to us and they smelled.”
Gringo smiled. “You mean I don’t.”
“Oh, yes,” said the girl brightly. “You smell too but you’re nicer.”
“Relieved to hear it,” grinned Gringo.
The water hole was a shadowed cleft in the rocks covered by a shelf that kept the pool in cool shade. Gringo and Allumette kept the animals back with difficulty as Judas filled the canteens and allowed the children to drink and wash up. Then the creatures were allowed free rein and stampeded in to jostle and fight for a place at the water’s edge.
They set up camp, sure that the animals would not stray far from the water and Allumette began to prepare them a meal. He was a wily chef and had picked up hints from the tribes they had come across on their trip. Amongst them some friendly desert dwellers, the Timbisha Shoshone, who had taught him how to pick the pods of the mesquite and grind them into sweet flour and make cakes. He collected pods from the mesquite growing at the desert’s edge and baked some as a tasty surprise for the girls.
“You think I should head out and find the Boosway?” Judas asked Gringo as they squatted before Allumette’s cook fire.
Gringo nodded. “It’s a good notion, Judas. But I fear it will leave us short handed if the Indians catch up.”
Judas bowed his head and stared into the flames. “Hard choice,” he agreed.
“Best would be if you take two of our horses and head out with the children first. Allumette and I will stay here with the animals until you return. If the Indians come we’ll just have to light out and leave them the herd.”
“And pray they don’t come after you,” Judas finished.
“That’s about it,” Gringo agreed.
“At least the children would be safe,” said Judas.
“Whatever we do,” butted in Allumette, handing them each a dish of beans and some indeterminate meat. “Eat first.”
After the meal they all rested in whatever shade they could find as the sun passed its zenith and began to decline. It was mid-afternoon by the time Gringo finally roused himself. He got to his feet and stretched, his eyes searching the quivering skyline.
“I’m going to take a look around,” he said to Judas as he hoisted his musket. “Stay sharp.”
“You feel something?” asked the Mountain Man.
Gringo shrugged noncommittally, he was unsure but an uneasy sensation was niggling at him. “Better just check,” he allowed.
Judas watched him lope off on foot back the way they had come and then he picked up his own musket, checked the flash pan held powder, then laid it in readiness across his lap. Always a loner, he was beginning to admit to a liking for Gringo Wade and he watched him disappear into the heat haze with a touch of concern.
“You think he knows something?” asked Allumette.
“Make your musket ready,” was all that Judas would say.
The setting sun was casting long shadows across the dunes as Gringo entered the desert again and he made his way between as much covering mesquite and chaparral as he could. The dunes seemed empty and deserted, nothing moved only the shimmer of heat off the baked sand. Gringo squinted against the low angled sun and raised a hand to shade his eyes. In his own movement he saw another movement. A flicker. Shadows passing through some wildly spread arms of a mesquite bush. Something was out there and moving fast.
Gringo crouched down, his musket held across his chest. Then he saw them.
Leading their ponies on foot they crossed an open patch of sand and Gringo counted five of them. Loping steadily they came in his direction but angled some five hundred yards off to his right. Gringo backed away at the crouch, furthering the gap between them. When he felt safe, he jumped up and ran at full pelt. He was twenty minutes out but he had to get back and warn the others.
There was a cry behind him. The sharp eyes of the Apache, well used to the ways of the desert had spotted his fleeing figure. Leaving their ponies than ran eagerly towards him.
A flint tipped arrow whirred past Gringo’s ear. He dropped to one knee and swung up the musket. At least if he fired the sound would carry to the others and give them warning.
A long shot for him as they spread out and came on, between five and six hundred yards but Gringo trusted his aim and the accuracy of the gun. He waited for a clear target amongst the leggy arms of the scattered mesquite. One led the way, leaping and bounding in his eagerness to reach Gringo first. As he leapt over a fallen bush, Gringo fired at his black shape, outlined and silhouetted against the sunlight.
The ball took the Apache in mid-air. As if jerked by a wire, he stopped in mid-flight and dropped down backwards to tumble and lie still. The other Indians surprised by the accuracy at such a range, faltered and dispersed quickly amongst the dunes.
With practiced ease, Gringo was already reloading, he tamped the paper and ball in place, replaced the ramrod and set off again. He ran fast now, forgetting cover as he made a straight course for the water hole. Out in the open he should have been an easy target for the Indians but as Gringo jagged to left and right, lances and arrows passed him by and he ran on safely.
This was no longer an easy and tireless lope, Gringo ran at full pelt across the unforgiving sand and soon the breath was rasping in his throat.
They were screaming behind him, closing on him, he could hear their angry whoops that had all the ominous threat of a pack of hungry wolves. They ran, knowing that on horseback they offered too easy a target.
Gringo stopped again, turned, knelt and fired quickly in an attempt to stall their advance. The shot was taken too fast and it whined off into the coming darkness. A total miss. Cursing, Gringo set off again, reloading as he ran. Not an easy task and his first cartridge spilled and he lost the ball in the sand. He tried again and was about to ram the ball home when an Apache swooped and took him from the side. With a victorious bellow the Indian leapt upon Gringo, knocking him to the ground. The two fell in a rolling heap, each man falling away and swiftly getting to his
feet.
The Apache raised a stone war club, a wild grimace spread across his face. The others were coming on fast and Gringo knew he had no time to fight it out. His musket was unready and he used the long ramrod to lash out in a backhanded swipe that slashed across the Apache’s face. The metal rod caught the Indian across his right eye and he screamed in agony.
Gringo did not wait to see the result, he set off again now with barely a hundred yards between himself and the following Indians. He reached the crest overlooking the water hole and could see its promise of safety before him. Then, something hard hit him on the left shoulder. A stunning blow that dropped him to the ground. A thrown war club had caught him. He fell, realizing he was lost now. There was no time to recover himself and continue his flight, they would be on him in seconds.
He looked up and saw them coming, snarls of victory spread across their faces. Then two shapes arose from the ground and the boom of muskets filled the air. Judas and Allumette! They had risked all to come out to meet him.
Surprised, the Indians dropped to the ground, victory turning to fear at the sudden advent of more guns.
“Come on!” bawled Judas, as he reloaded.
Obediently, Gringo dragged himself to his feet and catching up his musket ran towards his friends. They grouped and backed away, muskets pointed towards the Indians, ready to pick off any that showed themselves. But the Apache had given up, bitterly they melted into the dunes to await a safer method of attack.
“Thanks, boys,” muttered Gringo as they reached the safety of the rock bound water hole. “Saved my bacon, that’s for sure.”
“Heard your shot and came running,” said Judas. “Reckoned you’d be hard pushed. These Apache are certainly determined folk. When their fire goes out they just keep blowing on the embers.”
“That’s a fact,” agreed Gringo. “And we ain’t out of their woodpile yet.”
“You think they will come again?” panted Allumette adjusting his eye covering bandana and still breathing heavily from his run.
Judas nodded. “Like I observed, these old boys don’t give up easy. But….” he smiled thinly as his fingers strayed to the sharp biting edge of his tomahawk. “That don’t bother me none. I’ll be ready and waiting.”
Chapter Ten
Cuchillo arrived but not at the best of times.
As he dragged a sullen Ellen before him and threw her to the ground, he looked up to see Asesino glowering back at him
“You see!” cried Cuchillo, proudly confronting the war chief. “I have taken the white women from amongst their midst. From under the soldier‘s noses. Look at her, she is strong and young. It is a good prize.”
“Be still, brother,” warned Nachez, from amongst the seated warriors.
Cuchillo studied their glum faces. “What is wrong?” he asked.
“We have lost one more of our band,” said the last remaining Mescalero.
“It was the one with the long gun who did the killing, the one with no hair on his face,” snarled Asesino. “The one who killed my brother and now I will know him when I next see him.”
Subdued, Cuchillo backed away and joined their collective sorrow.
“Half of our war band lost,” growled Asesino in disgust. “Our prize taken and all of it by a few white men.”
“We must make them pay!” cried Nachez wildly.
Ellen crouched terrified at the limit of their gathering, she could not understand a word they were saying but could plainly see the anger in their voices and gestures. Cuchillo glanced at her once, his face expressionless then he looked away back to the others again
“Or perhaps there is nothing to be made in this raid. We have lost much already, should we lose more?” said the Mescalero glumly.
“We will not lose more!” shouted Asesino in a sudden flare. “And what if we do, is this not our way. To strike, to capture, to kill. Why speak like an old woman full of fear?”
“Asesino is right,” chipped in the warlike Nachez, shaking his musket in the air. “We are warriors, let us live or die as such.”
Asesino turned to their shaman. “What do you say on this, With Eagle Glance?”
The young shaman pondered for a solemn moment. “I will speak so,” he said. “It is true we have lost much in this raid and it does not bode well. Perhaps it would be wiser to see how many they are, these white men. To get close this coming night, and watch over them. They have much to consider remember. They have cattle and horses, the children as well. We have seen three of them and yet do not know if there are more down there in the canyon. If there are only three, then we are the greater in number. Their skill with the gun is great, greater than ours but once fired they need time to reload. It is in this moment that we can best strike.”
“Yes,” agreed Asesino. “I am willing. I will lure their fire.” He looked at them hard as they stood around him in the final light of the setting sun. The two Chiricahua; Nachez and Cuchillo. The shaman, With Eagle Glance and the lone Mescalero, a man called Tempo. “Are you with me in this?”
“I am with you,” agreed Nachez quickly.
“And I,” said Cuchillo, ready to ingratiate himself again with the war chief.
With Eagle Glance nodded his ascent and the last Mescalero, Tempo, although doubtful, realizing he could not return home alone without something to show for it, added his vote.
“They will be watchful,” warned Asesino. “There is no surprise in this attack. When their numbers are known and it is seen we hold the advantage then we shall position ourselves around them and come first light we shall make our move.”
“Hah!” grunted Nachez. “It is good.”
“What of this one?” asked Cuchillo, indicating Ellen with a jerk of his chin.
“Do what you will, she is yours,” said Asesino with an indifferent shrug. “Bind and gag her. We shall collect her when it is finished.”
Cuchillo’s eyes narrowed as he looked over at Ellen. It had been many months since he had had a woman and it crossed his mind to satisfy himself here and now. Ellen read his look and curled herself into a frightened ball, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to suppress the whimpering cries that escaped her lips.
Cuchillo loomed over her, then reached down to grasp the unwilling girl and rip the nightdress from her body. As he touched her, Ellen uncurled like a wildcat. She spat and hissed, her raking nails gouging at Cuchillo’s face. Then with a loud piercing scream, she thrashed her legs, kicking out and landing a hefty blow deep in the Indian’s breechclout. Cuchillo gasped in shock, one hand covered his smarting scratched cheek whilst the other dropped to cup his bruised testicles.
He gaped as the stunning effect of the kick took hold, his mouth opening and shutting like a hooked fish with no sound escaping. Cuchillo staggered a few painful paces before falling forward onto the ground and lying there in an agonized hump.
The others roared with laughter, standing in a circle around their unfortunate companion they found the whole thing totally amusing. Even the stern Asesino cracked his stony features into a wide grin that developed into a hearty chuckle.
Nachez laughed until the tears came. “Oh, brother, what a man amongst men you are,” he managed, wiping his wet chin with a hand. “It is certain that the women of our clan will run in fear at your approach. That is, if you have anything left to give them now.”
++++++++++
There had been confusion in the camp at the sudden disappearance of Ellen Darby.
Her mother had wailed in distress when it was discovered she was nowhere to be found and Ellen’s siblings had joined in the tears on seeing their mother so upset. Her father, his demeanor still stiff and hard after the punishment he had ordered against Brewster took some time to realize that the girl had not just wandered off after witnessing the brutal whipping.
It was Captain Alcazar that responded best and within minutes of the realization, he had ordered a search party of Cazadores out in an expanding circle from the train. They found nothing except t
he trail of dragged feet gouged in the dust and it was this sad news that the Captain brought back to Darby as he tried to calm his family.
“The Indians have her,” he said quietly. “There are moccasin prints alongside the drag marks.”
“Oh, no!” gasped Ellen’s mother. “Not that. Do something, father. Please, do something.”
“How long ago?” asked Darby.
Alcazar shrugged. “It cannot have been long. Some time whilst we were busy with the punishment detail, I would think.”
“Those swine,” snarled Darby. “We must find her, Captain.”
“Of course,“ agreed Alcazar. “I shall send a troop of lancers, they will be the fastest but still we have to continue on our journey in the meantime. If word gets out amongst the tribes it will prove very unsafe for the rest of us and as you will appreciate my priority is to bring you and our cargo safely to the Generalissimo.”
Darby nodded bitterly. “I understand but I should like to go with your men.”
“That I cannot permit, Mister Darby. You are too important to our mission and if you leave I will have no command over your men, it is best you stay.”
Darby bit his lip but understood Alcazar’s predicament, he knew the sailors would not respond well to a Mexican ordering them about especially after the unrest caused by Brewster‘s punishment. “Very well,” he said finally. “But I beg of you to impress upon your men that they should make every effort to bring a daughter back to her mother‘s desperate embrace.”
Alcazar nodded, “Have no fear, senor. I shall tell them.”
A now conscious but grim faced Brewster watched them from a wagon tail, where he sat hunched over with a dampened shirt laid across his ruined back. He hissed in pain as one of the sailors called Bowley ladled salted water from a pail over the cloth.
“There y’are, Brewster,” said Bowley with a chuckle. “See, didn’t do you no good anyhow, savages has carried the gal off anyway. Got yourself a beating for nothing.”