Wildon’s first instinct was to rush back to stick close to Hester, but as the commanding officer he had duties that prevented him from following his marital desires as a husband and protector. He noted that the flankers and rear guard had now moved in close and were returning fire at the bandits who were keeping their distance.
“Sergeant Garrity!” he shouted. “Take command of the right section!”
“Yes, sir!”
Wildon galloped into the wagons. “Dismount,” he ordered the cavalrymen. “Find cover among the wagons. You teamsters! Get down from those seats.”
“Wildon!” Hester’s voice sounded over the shooting.
He slid from the saddle, taking a final look to make sure he was being obeyed. Then he rushed to his wife. “Hurry down, darling.”
“Wildon, please tell me what is happening,” Hester said irritably as she allowed him to help her from the wagon seat. “What is all this shooting about?”
“Bandits, my dear,” Wildon said. “Don’t worry, but please stay down.”
Hester obeyed, wincing at the noise of nearby soldiers firing their weapons. Dixie Mulvaney scurried up and took her hand. “Stay low now, Mrs. Boothe. I’ve a lovely trunk me darling husband just tumbled to the ground. We can squat safe and cozy behind that.”
“No, thank you,” Hester said irritably.
But Wildon spoke up sharply. “Go with her,” Wildon said flatly and with authority in his voice.
Hester had never seen or heard her husband in such a determined or serious mood. She knew it was time for obedience, not discussion. “Yes, darling.” She allowed herself to be led away by Dixie.
Wildon watched them go, breathing easier when he saw them reach the safety near the Mulvaney wagon.
By then Sergeant Garrity and his section were in position. The tightness of the wagons’ circle brought the small command into one group. Wildon took overall command, but sought out the N.C.O.
“Who are those men?” he asked.
“A border gang, sir,” Garrity explained. “There’s a lot of such riffraff in this part of the country. Most of ’em are the worst kind of desperado.”
The bandits continued their wide circle, firing ineffectually. The soldiers and teamsters were armed with Model 1872 Springfield carbines. The breech-loaded weapons fired a .45-caliber bullet. All veterans of Indian warfare, the troopers carefully aimed each shot, squeezing off their rounds in deliberate fashion as they coolly returned fire.
But Wildon, an expert hunter, was not very impressed with their marksmanship.
“Give them some lead. You’re shooting behind them!” he yelled. Finally, in exasperation, he went up to one of the soldiers and took his carbine. He sighted on a bandit with a large yellow sombrero and striped serape. Instinctively judging the distance, Wildon moved the sights to adjust for the windage. He pulled the trigger and saw the man’s arms fly up as he tumbled over the rump of his horse.
The men cheered. “Nice shot, Lieutenant!”
“Good on you, Mr. Boothe!”
Wildon grinned and handed the carbine back. He turned to retrace his steps, then froze.
“Oh, my God!”
The full realization that he had just shot a man—a human being—and probably killed him hit him hard and fully. He swallowed hard and his face blanched.
Garrity, standing nearby, noticed the effect. He walked up to the young lieutenant. “Now you’ve done it.”
“Huh?”
“It was gonna happen sometime, sir,” Garrity said. “You don’t soldier without killing somebody.”
“God!” Wildon said. “My baptism of fire.” He took a deep breath.
“You’ll be all right, sir,” Garrity assured him. “There’s not a man jack here that ain’t been through it.”
The awful feeling quickly subsided. Wildon knew why. “There is a bit of a difference in this situation that sets me aside from the ordinary, Sergeant. My wife happens to be here in this my first battle.”
“Yes, sir,” Garrity said. “You’re protecting her from those animals out there. And that’s exactly what the bastards are. Merciless, cruel devils. They’re worse than Injuns, sir.”
Wildon went back to the line of wagons and took another man’s carbine. After a couple of shots he returned to Garrity. “I think I’m back to being able to think clearly and coolly.”
“Yes, sir,” Garrity agreed.
Wildon studied the desperados for a few moments as the sporadic shooting continued. “What the hell do they think they’re doing?” he asked Garrity. “There’s not enough of them to pose a really serious threat.”
The sergeant shook his head. “Hard to tell. They’re keeping their distance. Could be that the sonofabitches think they can wear us down.”
“I would say a vigorous charge would break their line and force them into a retreat, Sergeant,” Wildon said.
“I don’t know, sir,” Garrity said. “There might be more of ’em on the way. Or maybe just waiting out there for us to ride into an ambush.”
“Well, I do,” Wildon said. “Mount the two sections and we’ll drive the scoundrels off and continue our trip.”
“I wish you’d wait a bit, Lieutenant,” Garrity said. “We really don’t know the situation yet.”
Wildon, not much giving to swearing in the past, decided it was time. “By hell’s fires,” he swore awkwardly. “I say we form up and charge the damned bastards, Sergeant. Form the men.”
Garrity saluted. “Sections fall in to horse!” he shouted. “One rank!”
The men, sensing something was about to happen, quickly obeyed.
“Prepare to mount—mount!” Garrity yelled.
The ten men swung up on their horses’ backs. Wildon got into his own saddle and rode to the front. “Draw pistols! Forward at a walk, yo!”
The two sections rode slowly through the circle of wagons until they were out in the open.
“Forward at a gallop, yo!” Wildon commanded. “Raise pistols!”
Now, moving faster with their pistols held high, the troopers’ excitement grew with the prospect of combat.
“Charge!”
Now, cheering wildly, they broke into a full charge. The horses, caught up in the frenzy of the moment like their riders, eagerly bounded forward, picking up speed with each stride.
The bandits, seeing the sight of twelve, fully armed cavalry troopers racing toward them, broke their circle. They turned toward the south and began a wild rout away from the scene of the initial battle.
Wildon, grinning in vicious happiness, urged his horse on. He tried to take aim with his pistol, but couldn’t get a good sight to draw. He contented himself with wild shots at the group of desperados.
The chase veered off to the left, then swung slightly around as the two groups of riders headed for some low foothills. Several times the bandidos were momentarily hidden from view as they rode down the far side of a rise, popping up to disappear down the next incline.
But the final time, they did not reappear.
Garrity forced his own mount to increase its speed until he caught up with the lieutenant. “Sir!” he bellowed in alarm. “Turn about for Christ’s sake! Turn about!”
Wildon, angry and puzzled, started to reply, but his words were cut off by a roaring fusillade to the front. He whipped his eyes back in that direction and saw twice as many bandits as before—and they were galloping straight back at them.
Bullets, flying close by, zapped through the air or slapped into the ground, kicking up large spurts of dirt. It was not necessary to issue any orders. All the soldiers pulled hard on their reins and turned their horses back in the opposite direction. Now, riding frantically, the pursuers had become the pursued.
The same terrain was traveled in the flight back to the wagon train. Wildon, fully knowing his duties as an officer, kept his horse from overtaking those of his soldiers. It was utter stupidity to try to shoot back at the desperados chasing them, so the cavalry troops concentrated on one of the
oldest maneuvers in military history—getting the hell out of a dangerous situation.
Finally they crested the last hill before the rush down to the wagons. The thrilling joy of reaching safety was suddenly dashed. Several of the wagons were burning, and Wildon could see a couple of teamsters sprawled out on the ground. Wildon glanced back and now noted that the outlaws chasing them had turned and galloped off. Turning his full attention back to reaching the vehicles, he passed the men as he raced the remainder of the way across the sand.
Quartermaster Sergeant Mulvaney, pistol in hand, was waiting for him. He quickly saluted and reported. “Sir, more of ’em hit us after you left. They came in hard and fast and took one side of the formation.”
Wildon glanced wildly around for Hester. “Yes! Yes, Sergeant Mulvaney. Go on.”
“They took a look in the wagons and figgered we didn’t have nothing worth looting and took off,” Mulvaney said. “Then you showed up.”
Dixie Mulvaney, disheveled and excited, rushed up to them, shouting, “They took your missus, Lieutenant Boothe!”
Wildon’s eyes opened wide. “What?” The words seemed so absurd as to not make sense. “What did you say?”
“One of them heathen devils grabbed her up,” Dixie said, gasping. “He rode off with her across his saddle.”
“Goddamn it!” Wildon said, now swearing fluently. “Sergeant Garrity! Mount the sections!”
“Hold it, sir,” Garrity said. “The same thing would happen again. We’d get ambushed for sure.”
“I’m not letting them ride off with my wife!” Wildon shouted. “Are you crazy? What the hell do you think I’m going to do?”
“He’s right, sir,” Mulvaney said. “You’ve got to think this through.”
“There is nothing to think about!” the distraught young husband shouted wildly. “Goddamn your eyes, Garrity! I gave an order! Mount those sections!”
“Sir, listen,” Garrity said. “A detachment can’t get her back.”
Wildon could barely control himself. “Then I’ll—”
“Listen, Lieutenant!” Garrity shouted. He did not wish to be insubordinate, but it was the only way to get the distraught young man’s full attention. When Wildon finally exhibited an indication to listen, the sergeant continued. “Sir, two men could track them down and find her.”
The cool logic behind the words broke through Wildon’s hysteria. “Yes! Yes!” He took a deep breath. “What do you suggest, Sergeant?”
“You and me, sir,” Garrity said. “We can get out of uniform and into our civilian gear.”
“What the hell for? It’s a waste of time,” Wildon insisted in his returning excitement.
“Sir, we ain’t gonna ride out there and pull her away. We’ll have to spend some time scouting and trailing. It will help us to be in civilian clothes.”
“I have a buckskin outfit,” Wildon said. “I use it for hunting.”
“I know, sir,” Garrity said, relieved to see Wildon was coming under control. “That’s a fine idea. I have a buckskin jacket myself. I can wear that and my other duds. We’ll look like a coupla drifters. That way we can poke around and find your wife.”
“Right. Then we can rush them and rescue Hester,” Wildon said.
“Let’s find her first, sir,” Garrity said. “Then we’ll figger out a course to take. Please get changed.” Mulvaney nodded his agreement. “I’ll take the wagon train on meself, sir. You can catch up with us later.”
Wordlessly, Wildon sprang into action. He turned and rushed toward his wagon to follow Sergeant Garrity’s instructions.
“Oh, God!” Dixie wailed. “They’ll never—”
“Hush, woman!” Mulvaney said.
Dixie started to weep. “That poor, poor girl.”
Eight
Hester sat on the horse with her hands tied in front of her. She grasped the saddle horn as best she could while maintaining her balance on the galloping animal. A man rode to her direct front, holding the reins of her mount in his right fist as he controlled the stallion he rode with his left. He glanced back at her many times, smiling at the young woman in a way that she did not sense as hostile or threatening. But his gaze still unnerved her.
Hester, dazed by what had happened an hour previously, finally began to think straight. She had been dozing on the wagon seat, leaning back against the front hoop, when the shooting broke out. The teamsters had immediately obeyed orders by following the other vehicles into a circle. Unsure and curious about what was going on, she watched as some strange men galloped around the baggage train shooting at it. Finally Wildon arrived and made her get down to join Dixie Mulvaney behind her trunk.
Dixie had been frightened, but angrily defiant too.
She’d mumbled confusing things to Hester, talking about how they should shoot themselves if the bandits killed all the men. Then she’d cheered and said how all the bandits in the world couldn’t defeat the United States Cavalry. But her mood had turned dark again, and she spoke rapidly of dying rather than allowing herself to become a prisoner of the raiders.
Hester, although prepared by her mother for her wedding night, was still inexperienced and too sheltered to completely comprehend the reason behind Dixie Mulvaney’s irrational behavior.
Finally Wildon and the others mounted up and drove off the attackers. A cheer came from Sergeant Mulvaney and the teamsters, but their joy did not last long. A larger group of attackers swept down on them and rushed into the group of wagons. From that point on, events turned into a tumble of confusing images. Hester remembered seeing two of the teamsters mysteriously collapse to the ground, then suddenly she was swept up off her feet and flung across a saddle.
After a wild painful ride, her abductor came to a halt. Hester saw him clearly for the first time. He was a thin, hawk-nosed man with a waxed mustache. Although he was rough looking in his bandit attire, his eyes showed a degree of intelligence, and his manners were somewhat refined in spite of the violent way in which he held her across his saddle.
She realized he was the leader when some of the other raiders suddenly showed up. He spoke to them in a foreign language and they produced a horse. After tying Hester’s hands, they placed her aboard the animal and they rode off.
Now, with her head clearing, Hester finally gave serious thought to the fact she must escape. Suddenly she reached forward and grabbed the horse’s bridle. With a quick pull, she turned the animal, freeing its reins from the grasp of the man in front of her. Hester kicked her heels into the mount’s flank and it responded rapidly. She could hear the wild cheers of the bandits as she streaked for freedom.
An expert rider, Hester had no trouble keeping her seat in the saddle while pulling the reins up even with her hands tied together. Once she had the leather straps in her grasp, she was better able to control the horse. The wind whipped her hair in the wild ride. But she noticed the men coming up alongside her. The horse she was on was not the swiftest of the group. She swung the animal to the right, then cut back to the left. The maneuver gained her some ground.
Now the pursuers were so close that the sound of their horses’ hooves blended in with those of the one she rode. A pounding, thundering roar engulfed the scene as the young woman desperately urged the spirited animal to greater effort.
But it was no use.
The thin man came up alongside her, reached over and grasped the bridle. Hester wished she had a riding crop with which to strike him. Finally he slowed her down enough to gain complete control, and they stopped.
“Let me go!” Hester cried out.
The man laughed. “A woman with spirit! Ah! And such beauty too!” He spoke with a heavy accent.
“My husband is an officer in the United States Army,” Hester said. “He’ll get you for this.”
“How bad for me,” the man said. He stood up in the stirrups and affected a bow as he doffed his sombrero. “Allow me to introduce myself, please, most beautiful American lady. I am Hubert Mauveaux.”
“I dem
and that you release me!”
“Ah! You will not tell me who you are?” Mauveaux said. “Then how are we to speak one to the other, eh?”
Hester hesitated, then said, “I am Mrs. Wildon Boothe. My husband is Lieutenant Wildon Boothe. Now, sir, I will thank you to allow me to return to my husband and friends.”
“Alas, impossible!” Mauveaux said. “I am smitten with you.”
Hester’s temper snapped. “You brute!” She attempted to ride away, but he held on tightly to the bridle. Infuriated, she struck him with her bound hands. “Unhand that horse, sir!”
“I must tell you, Mrs. Wildon Boothe, that you are going to go with me,” Mauveaux said. “I insist on it.” He turned to one of the bandits standing nearby. “Dame una reata pronto!”
The man pulled his lariat from his saddle and tossed it over. Mauveaux caught it and dismounted. He firmly grasped Hester’s leg. “Forgive, please, my familiarity,” he said. “I only do it out of necessity.” He could see the shape of her calf under the thin calico skirt. “Such loveliness!” He tied it tight to the stirrup strap. Then he slipped under her horse, taking the loose end of the rope with him. He used it to secure her other leg. “Forgive my barbarism,” Mauveaux said, getting back on his own mount. “But you have made it the necessity, no?”
“Sir, I protest!” Hester said in a firm voice.
“Of course you do,” Mauveaux replied, smiling. “But I also must make a protest, for you are breaking my heart.”
“If my husband gets his hands on you, he’ll break more than your heart, sir!” Hester snapped. She found the man to be extremely strange. He kept and treated her as a prisoner, yet he kept intoning romantic phrases. She didn’t quite know how to judge her circumstances. “I warn you! I shall get away from you, sir!”
Blood of Apache Mesa Page 6