Blood of Apache Mesa

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Mauveaux finished his coffee. “You look like a man with something on his mind, Paco.”

  “I have, mi general,” Paco Fuentes said. “I would like to point out something to you in a most respectful manner.”

  “Ah! You offer me counsel and advice? Please, I have valued your wise recommendations for several years now.”

  “Thank you,” Fuentes said. “What I wish to discuss with you is an unpleasant fact. It would seem to me that you must react to this latest situation in a rapid and ruthless manner, mi general”

  “Explain yourself.”

  “The situation with the American woman has made you look most vulnerable,” Fuentes said diplomatically. “I fear many of the men think you made a fool of yourself over the woman.”

  “Of course,” Mauveaux agreed. “Those dolts are not soulful beings with sentiment and tenderness in their hearts. They are boors and savages no better than animals.”

  “Yes, mi general, but you need them to make your empire,” Fuentes said. He knew the empire-building scheme was insanity, but as long as successful robberies kept Mauveaux in gold and women, Paco was more than ready to encourage his leader to keep going. “So you must keep the soldiers satisfied.”

  Mauveaux was thoughtful for several moments. “Of course. Even the emperors of Rome had to placate the Praetorian guard.”

  “There are two things that must be done,” Fuentes continued. “The first thing is to continue the pursuit after the American woman.”

  “But she will only go back to the useless baggage train,” Mauveaux said. “There is no loot there.”

  “Es verdad—that is true,” Fuentes said. “When you announce your intention to attack there again, only your best men will follow you. The others will return to Bandido Mountain.”

  “What is the point then?”

  “The point, mi general, is that when you return to our town with the woman, it will bring your prestige back to where it was,” Fuentes argued. “The reluctant swine among your soldiers will once again be loyal and steadfast.”

  “And if I don’t bring her back, some upstart will challenge my authority,” Mauveaux said, as the truth of the situation dawned on him.

  “You have been thought of as soft because of your affections for the americana,” Fuentes continued. “You must show you are a merciless warrior king.”

  “Emperor,” Mauveaux corrected him. “I am a merciless warrior emperor.”

  “Seguro que si,” Fuentes agreed. “To show you are without compassion for those who wrong you, give the woman to the men.”

  Mauveaux’s affections for Hester Boothe had already faded rapidly since her escape. He shrugged. “Comment non? I was going to do that anyway, of course. She will be no more than a common camp prostitute.”

  “That is the way to be,” Fuentes said. “Do you wish to speak to the men now?”

  “Call them together,” Mauveaux said.

  Paco Fuentes first went to the most loyal bandits. Getting a half-dozen to follow him around, he visited each small campfire telling the outlaws there that their leader wished to speak to them. Most accepted the announcement quietly, only slightly annoyed at the interruption of their evening meal. Others were more hostile, but said nothing because of the escort Fuentes had brought with him.

  One man, a big American named Scanlon, found the situation very interesting. When Fuentes came to his campsite, he spat into the flames. “What’s on the chiefs mind, Paco?”

  “He’ll tell you, Scanlon,” Fuentes replied coldly. “You be there.”

  Scanlon, over six feet tall, reached down and grasped Fuentes’ vest. “Ain’t you even gonna give me a hint, Paco? I’d hate to leave my supper and go all the way over there to hear something I ain’t inter’sted in.”

  Fuentes pulled himself free. “You’re starting to talk muy grande, Scanlon. I would watch it, if I were you.”

  “Well,” Scanlon said. “You ain’t me, are you, Paco?”

  Fuentes knew a showdown was looming. He finished making his rounds, then returned to Mauveaux. He found his chief drinking more coffee and smoking a fresh cigar. Fuentes bent down and whispered in the Frenchman’s ear, pointing over to where Scanlon stood by the fire. Mauveaux listened intently, nodding in complete understanding.

  Fifteen minutes later the survivors of the bandit gang were gathered around their leader’s campfire. Most squatted or sat down in the dirt, making themselves comfortable. The one noticeable exception was Scanlon. He stood tall and menacing, his arms folded across his massive chest, the expression on his face displaying contempt and arrogance.

  Mauveaux calmly finished his coffee, then tossed the remnants of the cigar into the fire. He turned and walked toward his men. The bandit leader’s hand dropped to his pistol, and he drew it in a smooth, lightning-quick motion. He fired it twice, both bullets striking Scanlon.

  The big American bent double, holding onto his slug-mutilated chest, then collapsed to the ground. One booted foot twitched several times, then was still.

  Mauveaux calmly returned the pistol to his holster. “Now that I have your attention,” he said. “I will tell you of my plans for the next few days.”

  All eyes were respectfully turned on el general.

  Nineteen

  Quartermaster Sergeant Tom Mulvaney could barely hear the flanker’s shout over the sound of the stiff breeze playing across the Llano Estacado. He turned with his hand cupped over his ear in order to hear better. The soldier repeated the call.

  “Riders coming in, Sergeant!”

  Mulvaney turned his horse from its position at the head of the wagon train and galloped over to the flanker. “Goddamn it! Where’re they at, Rampey? I don’t see nothing.”

  “They went down in a draw to the south,” the young trooper reported. “They ought to show up any time now.” He kept looking in the direction where he pointed. For a few moments the desert scenery remained bare. “Look! There they are!” Mulvaney pulled his field glasses from their case and focused them in. “By all the saints!” he exclaimed. He looked again, studying the scene to make sure his eyes were not tricked by the dancing heat waves. “Yes, by God! It’s them! It’s Mr. Boothe and his wife. And there’s Jim Garrity riding just behind ’em.”

  Rampey took off his hat and let out a cheer. “Hoorah! Hoorah! They brung her back!” Others in the wagon train now shouted to one another as the happy news was passed from vehicle to vehicle.

  “They’re back!”

  “It’s the lieutenant and Sergeant Garrity!”

  “Mrs. Boothe is with ’em! They got her!” Mulvaney ordered the wagons to halt. Next he shouted to the two men on rear guard. “Dortmann! Jones! Ride out and escort ’em in.”

  The two veterans waved their compliance. They turned toward the three people in the distance and kicked their mounts’ flanks. As they drew closer, they could see one of them waving his hat back and forth in greeting.

  “That's Sergeant Garrity,” Dortmann called out to Jones, “He’ll be in a bad temper after all that, I’ll wager.”

  “I can see the lieutenant and his missus,” Jones yelled back. “God! I’m surprised they was able to get her.”

  “I always figgered Lieutenant Boothe had sand,” Dortmann hollered. “But I never knowed he was this good.”

  “He had Garrity with him,” Jones reminded his pal.

  “Maybe so, but I’ll bet the sarge didn’t do it all alone while the lieutenant sat around and watched,” Dortmann countered.

  It took them five minutes to reach the arrivals. Both troopers saluted properly and reported in to Wildon.

  “Good afternoon, Troopers,” Wildon said. “We appreciate the escort.”

  “Our pleasure, sir,” Dortmann replied.

  “How’re you, Sergeant Garrity?” Jones asked. All three of the recent arrivals looked exhausted and dirty.

  “Straighten up that saddle roll,” Garrity said. “You’ll lose the thing in another five miles of riding.”

  “Yes,
Sergeant,” Jones replied, turning slightly to tend to the chore. “I see things ain’t changed,” he said to Dortmann.

  “What was that?” Garrity. asked.

  “I said I’m changing the roll,” Jones said lamely.

  “Fix it later,” Garrity said. “We’re in a bad way for drinking water.”

  Back in the wagon train Mulvaney had gone to his wagon and informed his wife Dixie of what had transpired. Dixie knew exactly what she wanted to do. “Bring Mrs. Boothe over to me, Tom,” she instructed.

  “You sure you want me to?” he asked. “She didn’t show a lot o’ friendlies toward you if I recall.”

  “Don’t you mind none o’ that a’tall,” Dixie said. She expertly stepped from the seat onto the wheel and let herself down to the ground. “Sadie! Mary! Nancy! Come here quickly!”

  The other enlisted wives in the train—Sadie Tannon, Mary Dougherty, and Nancy Mason— climbed down from their own vehicles and quickly walked over to join Dixie.

  “Lieutenant Boothe and Jim Garrity are back with Mrs. Boothe,” Dixie quickly explained.

  “Lord above!” Sadie said. “The poor, dear woman. Have you seen her yet, Dixie?”

  “No, but I told Tom to bring her here,” Dixie said. “She don’t need the rough comp’ny o’ men now.”

  “That’s for sure,” Sadie Tannon agreed. “Remember that rancher woman after the patrol brung her in from the Apaches? She’d suffered something awful.”

  “But what about the surgeon?” Mary asked.

  “That drunk!” Dixie said. “The likes o’ him ain’t gonna do Mrs. Boothe a bit o’ good.”

  “But she may have suffered so,” Mary enjoined. “She could be bad hurt.”

  “Then it’s a hurt we’ll fix,” Dixie said. “But it’ll be more the injury of her woman’s soul and dignity. Only her and the Lord knows what’s she been through.”

  “She isn’t the nicest officer’s lady I’ve ever known,” Nancy Mason said, “but my heart goes out to her.”

  “I have some tea,” Mary Dougherty offered.

  “Fetch it, dear,” Dixie said.

  A loud cheer came from the wagons as Wildon, Hester, and Garrity rode in with their escorts. Dixie and Sadie scampered forward, pushing their way through the crowd of soldiers and teamsters who had gathered around the arrivals. Dixie wasted no time grabbing hold of Hester. “Come this way, dear, if you please.”

  Hester’s face lit up with a broad smile. Dixie and Sadie were welcome sights, their Irish faces a pleasing contrast to what she’d been exposed to for the previous weeks. “Why, hello, Mrs. Mulvaney, Mrs. Thompson.”

  “We’ve some nice tea brewing,” Dixie said. The two enlisted wives flanked Hester as they led her back to the Mulvaney wagon.

  “How are you feeling, Mrs. Boothe?” Sadie asked.

  “I am exhausted!” Hester proclaimed. “You can’t imagine what it’s been like.”

  “Poor, poor darling,” Dixie cooed at her.

  The women joined Mary and Nancy at the Mulvaney wagon, who rushed forward. Hester, a bit confused but appreciating the solicitous treatment, greeted them with a bright smile. “So nice to see you again.”

  “Tea is brewing now,” Mary said. “We’ll give you a cup in just a moment.”

  “Thank you,” Hester said. “A nice cup of tea will be delightful.”

  “I only wish we had water to let you wash,” Nancy said.

  “I had a chance to take a bath a few nights ago,” Hester said. “There was soap, towels, and hot water.”

  Dixie, now afraid the younger woman might be delirious, helped her to sit down on a camp stool. “Are you comfortable there, Mrs. Boothe?”

  “Yes. Thank you so much.”

  “It would be perfectly all right if you wanted to lie down in my wagon,” Dixie said.

  “This is fine,” Hester said. “And the thought of that tea is making my head spin.”

  “It won’t be long now,” Mary sang out.

  Dixie decided it was time to get down to cases.

  “Now, Mrs. Boothe. We’re your friends, you understand that?”

  “Oh, yes! I do appreciate this kind reception you’ve given me, really,” Hester said.

  “Yes, dear,” Dixie said wanting to be delicate. “How are you feeling?”

  “Well, like I said, very tired,” Hester replied. “What I mean, dear Mrs. Boothe, is—are you in pain?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “No bleeding?” Dixie asked. “Or cuts and bruises that want tending to? Now be sure, and don’t you fret. We’ll take care o’ things. There’s no reason a’tall to call the surgeon.”

  “No,” Hester replied, not quite understanding the type of injuries Dixie Mulvaney was referring to.

  Sadie put an arm around the young woman. “We’re your friends, Mrs. Boothe. You may tell us.”

  “Tell you what?” Hester asked.

  “What you need done,” Sadie said. “Don’t worry. We won’t let the surgeon touch you.”

  Nancy Mason decided to be more direct. “What happened to you while those awful bandits had you, Mrs. Boothe?”

  Sadie was shocked. “Nancy!”

  Hester smiled. “Well I was proposed to.”

  “Proposed to!” the four women exclaimed in unison.

  Hester giggled. “Yes! Their leader wanted me to marry him. He even proposed to make me his empress.”

  Dixie leaned forward. “Didn’t he outrage you, Mrs. Boothe? Didn’t any of his men force themselves on you?”

  “Dear me, no!” Hester exclaimed. “In fact, Mr. Mauveaux was a perfect gentleman.” She paused. “Well, not perfect. He was most familiar with many of his remarks. And he was certainly rude when he referred to my Wildon.”

  Mary Dougherty handed Hester a cup of tea. “I, for one, would like to hear about this romantic bandit chief.”

  “He and his men live on a mountain top,” Hester began. “Mr. Mauveaux is a Frenchman and his house—he calls it a castle—is the biggest in the town they have there.”

  “Saints above!” Mary Dougherty exclaimed. “I remember such a place when I was but a small girl in Ireland. Made of stone it was, with towers and turrets and an immense inner court.”

  Sadie Tannon laughed. “If he’d proposed to me, I might have given it some serious thought.”

  “It sounds romantic,” Dixie added.

  “Not really,” Hester said. “But he did have a violinist come in for dinner.”

  “It sounds like you had a lovely time,” Mary

  Dougherty said.

  “Oh, not at all,” Hester said. “There was something evil about him and that awful place. Many of the people there had diabolical auras about them. It’s difficult to describe.”

  Surgeon Schuyler Dempster, a bit tipsy, walked up to the ladies. “G’d afternoon, I am seeking Mrs. Boothe.”

  Dixie did not hide her disapproval. “And what would a lady want with a drunken doctor?”

  Dempster ignored the open insult. “I only came to see if she required medical attention.”

  “Sure and none that you would have to offer,” Mary Dougherty said. “Off with you now. This is woman’s talk here.”

  “I prefer to speak to the lady in question,” Dempster said.

  Hester smiled at him. “I am just fine, Doctor. My friends have fixed some nice tea for me.”

  “Very well,” Dempster said. “At any rate, it is not difficult to see I am not welcome in this place.”

  Hester watched him walk away. “Oh, ladies. That was most unkind.”

  “He’s a good and caring doctor when he’s sober and that’s a fact,” Dixie said. “But when the man is in his cups, he’s a butcher.”

  “That’s true,” Sadie interjected. “We’ve told him before that he won’t be tolerated when he’s drunk. We’ve been brutally honest with him.”

  “I see,” Hester said. “There is so much I have to learn about the regiment and its people.” She hesitated, then spoke out. “I am afraid I’
ve not done my best to fit in. I’m truly sorry about that.”

  Dixie smiled. “Now don’t you worry none, dear Mrs. Boothe.”

  “Sure and you’re one o’ the regimental officers’ ladies now,” Mary Dougherty said.

  “Thank you,” Hester said. “Thank you for the kindness and the care you’ve shown me. I shan’t forget it ever.”

  Sergeant Mulvaney indicated a point on the map. “Here’s our location now, sir. As you can see, we’ve still a good twelve to fourteen days o’ travel left before we get to Fort Mojave.”

  Wildon, back in uniform now, inspected the map. “The journey is going to get rougher once we’re out of the Llano Estacado. Looks like mountains there.”

  “Indeed, sir,” Garrity said. “No high peaks, but plenty of steep climbing just the same.”

  The three were gathered in the shade of the supply wagon. Wildon learned that a total of three men had been killed in the initial bandit raid. Two were teamsters. The problem created by the loss of the wagon drivers was solved by detailing one trooper from the escort to act as a driver. The second wagon was hooked to another and its team of mules harnessed in to help pull the extra load.

  “Do you think them outlaws will come-back at us?” Mulvaney asked.

  “I doubt it,” Wildon said.

  “The lowlife bastards didn’t find nothing worth stealing the first time,” Garrity reasoned. “Why come back for another load of nothing?”

  “Maybe those Yaquis wiped them out,” Wildon suggested.

  “Could be,” Garrity said. “Or maybe they all massacred each other.”

  “At any rate, we’re still due at Fort Mojave,” Wildon said. “So let’s move out.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Both N.C.O.s saluted and went to their posts. Wildon walked over to his wagon where his horse was tied. Hester had left her friends and now sat on the seat with the teamster. She waved to her husband. “Are we ready to renew our journey?”

  “We certainly are,” Wildon said. “We’ll all be much better off once we’re at the new garrison.” He mounted his horse and rode up to the front of the wagon train. Turning back to face the vehicles and people, he gave the order to proceed. “Forward, yo-oh!”