Blood of Apache Mesa

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Twenty-One

  Thirty slow hours crept by while Second Lieutenant Wildon Boothe’s small command of troopers and wagons waited to see what the border renegades were going to do.

  The hospital steward, a former medical student named Steiner, provided the only break in the monotony when Sergeant. James Garrity dragged him unconscious from under the ambulance. Garrity didn’t stop there. He had the drunk lashed to a wagon wheel to sober up under the hot rays of the Llano Estacado sun. It took four hours to bring the alcoholic around enough for Lieutenant Boothe to inform him he’d been reduced in rank. A failure at everything, Steiner took the news calmly, accepting the carbine someone shoved into his hands. After removing his gear from the ambulance, he went to his assigned place on the firing line to nurse his hangover.

  Wildon Boothe and Sergeant Mulvaney made a physical check of the water barrels. Their level was down enough to cause them concern. The hot weather was going to make the shortage of water a serious problem. It was so grave, in fact, that the lieutenant had to get something going. Sitting on the desert was certainly not going to improve their circumstances. Once again, he called on the counsel and soldiering skills of Sergeant. James Garrity.

  “There are two possibilities we must face up to,” Wildon said. “One, the bandits are going to try to wait us out, then hit us after we’ve been badly weakened by lack of water. Or two, the fight they had with the Yaqui Indians have weakened them so much that they have withdrawn and are no longer a threat to us.”

  “We’ve got only one way to find out, sir,” Garrity said. “I’ll take a patrol and look for ’em. If the bastards are out there, we’ll know they intend to give us a fight. If they’ve gone, we’ll roll merrily along to Fort Mojave.”

  “Yes,” Wildon agreed. “If they’re still here, we’ll have to come up with a damned good and original plan on how to run and fight at the same time with a numerically superior enemy.”

  “I’ll take Steiner and Mauson with me,” Garrity said.

  “I think you better take a couple of better men,” Wildon suggested. “Steiner is a drunkard, and Mauson is only a bit more than a recruit. You might need a couple of old hands out there.”

  “Steiner and Mauson won't be much of a loss then, sir,” Garrity said.

  “Do you think it could be that bad?” Wildon asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We can’t spare you, Sergeant Garrity,” Wildon said. “Take care.”

  “You know I always do, Lieutenant,” Garrity said with a grin. “I’ll go get my patrol together.”

  “Good luck.”

  When Garrity detailed the two soldiers to the job, their attitudes toward the patrol were entirely different. Trooper Mauson took it as a compliment to be picked for a dangerous mission of poking around in the badlands looking for a small army of bandidos. Steiner, on the other hand, was more realistic.

  “What’s the matter, Sergeant Garrity?” he asked, walking over to the horse pickets. “Don’t they expect us to come back?”

  “Are you worried, Steiner?” Garrity asked.

  Steiner shrugged. “I’ve been in the army seven years, Sergeant Garrity. I’m here because on the outside I was a disgrace to my family and myself. Whiskey dominates my life, which means I live in hell. If some border desperado puts a bullet in my skull, he’ll be doing both me and the world a favor.”

  “In that case, you ride ahead of us on point,” Garrity said. “I’d prefer to live long enough to spend years and years living on my army pension. Young Mauson still has to decide what he’s going to do with his life, but I’m sure he wants a long one too. Since you don’t give a damn about your survival, I don’t either.”

  Steiner smiled. “Sure. I’ll take the point.”

  Mauson, waiting for them at the horses, was already mounted. “How far are we gonna go, Sergeant?”

  “Far enough to find some bandidos,” Garrity said.

  Mauson patted the butt of his carbine. “I’m ready. They shot my bunky. I owe ’em one, that’s for sure.”

  “I have a reason for revenge too,” Steiner said. “If it wasn’t for those bastards, I’d still be lying drunk in the ambulance.”

  The little patrol rode out of the camp. Steiner, following Garrity’s orders, led them on a straight southeast course. They had only to go a short distance when the sergeant called a halt. He galloped up to Steiner.

  “Are you blind?”

  Steiner looked over at the N.C.O. “What’s the matter?”

  “Can’t you see that smoke over there?” He pointed to an area where some low-lying hills broke the straightness of the horizon.

  “I guess I wasn’t looking,” Steiner said lamely.

  Garrity reached over and grabbed him by the collar, shaking him violently. “That’s what I put you up on the point for. You’re supposed to see that stuff before we do.”

  Steiner laughed. “You see, Sergeant? I’m even a failure at that simple job.”

  “You sonofabitch!” Garrity snarled. He motioned back to Mauson. “Come on up here.” When the trooper joined them, he told the two what he wanted to do. “We’ll ride over toward those foothills. We don’t have the time or the circumstances to be sneaky, so we’ll have to get in and out quick. We want to take a look at ’em and see what we’re facing up to. Notice how many there are. Keep that in mind, because there’s a good chance we all ain’t gonna make it back.”

  Mauson’s eyes opened a bit wide, but Steiner didn’t seem particularly concerned.

  Garrity, now leading the way, took them on a direct route toward their destination. They rode easily, keeping a lookout for any ambushes or attacks coming at them from the distance. But the Llano Estacado remained empty. When the patrol reached the base of the small rises, they went straight up to the nearest ridgeline and reined in.

  The bandit camp was spread along a narrow draw that ran into the next hill. The outlaws were at ease, lounging around numerous campfires.

  Garrity made a quick count. “I figure we’ve got a couple of dozen down there.”

  Steiner agreed. “They outnumber our little force about two to one.”

  Mauson reached over and tapped Garrity on the shoulder. “Look down there, Sergeant. I think a couple of ’em have spotted us.”

  Garrity glanced in the direction indicated. He saw two of the desperados pointing and gesturing to the others. “Yeah. I’d say the sonofbitches see our happy faces. Let’s get the hell out of here.” They needed no further orders. The patrol made a rapid withdrawal, galloping down the hill to level ground, then letting the horses go all out.

  They were able to go a full mile before Garrity saw the group coming in to intercept them from the right front. He signaled for Steiner and Mauson to follow as he turned off to the left. The bandits also cut their angle, making the point of contact even shorter.

  Garrity, desperate, saw that there were seven after them. The more he turned away, the farther he got from the wagon train. If the present situation continued, the patrol would be completely cut off, giving the bandits the opportunity to massacre them at their leisure.

  Even Mauson, for all his inexperience, could see what was going on. Steiner rode as calmly as possible aboard the speeding horse. He seemed to be concentrating on something else as they fled for their lives. Suddenly he gestured at Garrity.

  Garrity, puzzled, looked over to see what the ex-hospital steward wanted.

  Steiner grinned and waved good-bye. “Now I’ll show you what I’m good for.” He pulled his carbine from its boot and turned to ride straight at the bandits. He cocked the weapon and aimed as best he could. It was awkward shoving the next round into the chamber, but Steiner managed. He fired once more, the gap between himself and the pursuers rapidly closing.

  Garrity wasted neither time nor sympathy. He swung hack on a straight course toward the wagon train. With Mauson trailing him, the sergeant galloped across the Llano Estacado. After ten minutes he sighted the wagon train. Urging his horse on, he qui
ckly covered the ground and rode within the circle of vehicles, coming to a halt so quickly that Mauson almost rode into him.

  Wildon and Mulvaney rushed to the sergeant. “Looks like you found something.”

  “Yes, sir. There’s a couple of dozen of ’em, sir. And I’d say they mean to pick a fight.”

  “Where is Steiner?” Wildon asked.

  “Dying like a soldier right now unless they’ve already done him in.” Garrity replied. “I’ll make an official report.”

  “You’ll have to wait,” Wildon said. “Look.” The entire bandit gang appeared in the distance. Strung out, they came on slowly but persistently. Wildon alerted the men and ordered them to stand fast at their fighting stations. Hester and the other women huddled behind Dixie Mulvaney’s large trunk.

  Wildon, Garrity, and Mulvaney stood together watching the approaching enemy. The raiders had formed themselves into a single skirmish line, coming straight on.

  “What do you think?” Wildon asked the two older sergeants.

  “The first thing to take into consideration is that those sonofabitches are totally dedicated to the bandit chief,” Garrity said. “His lukewarms have pulled out. All them crazies is just like that there colonel that called on us with the white flag.”

  “In other words they’ll fight like hell,” Wildon said.

  Mulvaney agreed. “And they’re making a straight-ahead military charge. I’d say they’re going to try to bowl us over like cavalry normally would.”

  “I recall studying the Battle of Waterloo,” Wildon said. “The British squares of infantry stood up to Napoleon’s finest cavalry.”

  “Them English weren’t outnumbered two-to-one,” Garrity said. “And they weren’t hurting for water on the Llano Estacado.”

  “They’re moving in for the attack,” Wildon said.

  “God help us,” Mulvaney said calmly.

  “If God won’t, I’ll settle for the devil in this case,” Garrity said.

  Twenty-Two

  The bandidos’ battle line moved forward in an ominous manner. The border raiders began the opening maneuvers, keeping their horses to a walk. Then they broke into a canter, loping easily across the smooth, hard surface of the terrain. Finally a loud command could be heard shouted from the center of their formation.

  “En avant! Al attaque!”

  The desperado force broke into a full gallop, the hammering of their horses’ hooves sounding like an avalanche.

  Wildon had gotten all twelve of his men over to the side of their defense formation that faced the attackers. Each man had a round in his Springfield, ready to fire.

  “Stand steady!” Wildon shouted.

  The bandits cheered and began firing. Slugs slapped into the canvas tops of the wagons or banged into the wooden sides of the vehicles. A trooper suddenly collapsed at his post.

  “Aim!”

  Now bellowing, the border raiders stepped up their fire. Trooper John Jones, standing beside Gus Dortmann, grabbed his chest as he was spun completely around by the impact of a bullet. He hung onto a wagon wheel, then lost his grip and fell awkwardly to the ground.

  “Fire!”

  The army’s volley blasted outward, and seven bandits tumbled from their saddles. Their companions swept on, charging in between the wagons, leaping over the hitching shafts and riding within the circle. They knew better than to try to stay there however, and they rode out the other side.

  The soldiers on the line turned around and drew their pistols and fired rapidly at the enemy as they galloped back out into the desert.

  One bandit, killed instantly, fell within the wagon train. Another pitched to the ground a dozen yards beyond it.

  “Somebody gimme a hand,” Dortmann yelled out. “Jones is hit.”

  Mauson and the teamster O’Leary helped Dortmann take Jones over to the surgeon’s ambulance. Dempster was ready for casualties. “Put him up here, boys.”

  Hester Boothe and Dixie Mulvaney left the trunk and hurried to the impromptu hospital. “May we be of help, Doctor Dempster?” Hester asked.

  “I’ll let you know,” Dempster said. He tore open Jones’s shirt. A quick glance gave him all the information he needed. He shook his head.

  Jones groaned. “God damn me! It hurts like hell.”

  “I can help that at least,” Dempster said. He fetched a vial of morphine. Wetting his finger, he dabbed it in the powdery stuff and applied it directly inside Jones’s massive wounds. It took several applications, but after a few moments, the injured man was more at ease.

  Jones’s breath was shallow and his face visibly blanched. “I ain’t gonna make it.”

  “You’re bleeding inside,” Dempster said without making any denials of the injured trooper’s true condition.

  “I seen this in other fellers,” Jones said weakly. “So it’s come to me, has it?”

  Hester, standing nearby, felt deep sympathy for the dying man. She walked up to the stretcher and placed her hand on his forehead.

  He smiled up at her. “I heard you was a big help with Rampey, Missus Boothe. He said—” Jones coughed a bit. “He said you was a real comfort.”

  Dempster handed a damp rag to Hester. “That’s all the water I can spare. It’ll make him feel better.”

  Hester gently wiped his face. “You’ll be all right,” she said.

  Jones shook his head. “No, I won’t. But it’s most kind of you to say so.” He began to have trouble breathing, but finally settled down a bit. “Missus Boothe?”

  “Yes, Mr. Jones?”

  “When they bury me, tell ’em my real name, please.”

  Hester was shocked at how fast the man was sinking. She had been in the same room when her grandfather died, but he had succumbed to old age and went easily without pain. Jones’s eyes looked as if they were glazing over. “I know your last name, but not your first, Mr. Jones,” she said.

  “My real moniker is Francis Thompson,” he said. “That’s what I want on my marker.” It was getting difficult for him to speak. “I ’listed—” He had to stop and rest. “I listed as Jones—got a bobtail discharge—last hitch. I had to lie—lie about who I was—to get back in the army.” He managed a grin, “—couldn’t make it—on the outside.”

  “Francis Thompson,” Hester said. “I’ll remember. Where and when were you born, Mr. Thompson?” Hester noted he seemed to be staring off into space. “Mr. Thompson?”

  “He’s gone,” Dempster said.

  While Trooper Francis Thompson alias John Jones was giving up the ghost, Second Lieutenant Wildon Boothe’s mind was working hard at coming up with some tactical solution. He didn’t have the slightest intention of letting the bandits slowly but surely wear them down. All he had to do was figure out a way to keep that from happening.

  Aside from getting a good education at West Point, the academy’s curriculum and customs taught him how to think fast on his feet. And that’s exactly what was being required of the young officer at that particular time.

  Wildon did not come up with the idea in any logical steps or processes. The entire concept leaped straight into his consciousness with all the subtlety of a cannonball hitting the side of a fortification.

  “Sergeant Mulvaney!” he shouted. “Sergeant Garrity!”

  The two N.C.O.s, standing on the defensive perimeter with the men, immediately hurried over to the wagon train’s young commander. Wildon gave his instructions quickly, clearly, and precisely. When he had finished, the two N.C.O.s looked at each other.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anything like that,” Mulvaney said.

  “It’s different,” Garrity calmly allowed.

  “Remember!” Wildon said. “It won’t work unless all six cartridges in each man’s revolver are loaded and there is a round chambered in the Springfields. See to it!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “And make damned sure they don’t fire until I say so,” Wildon said. “By God, if any man fires before my orders, I’ll nail his hide to the
guardhouse wall. Got it!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Wildon wisely let the two sergeants prepare the men. That was their job, and his was to direct the defense of the wagon train. Still tired after the awful episode of rescuing Hester, he was now damned good and angry.

  The two sergeants had no sooner reported back to him, then the men shouted out the alarm. Wildon went to the line of defense. He could see the bandits appearing again.

  Garrity spat. “I’d say that leader of theirs gave ’em one hell of a pep talk.”

  “Yeah?” Wildon said. “Then we’ll give ’em one hell of a nasty surprise.” He stepped back. “Are you ready?” he bellowed at the men.”

  “Yes, sir!” came the unanimous answer.

  “Then stand fast,” Wildon said. “I don’t want one son of a bitch to so much as blink an eye unless I say so.”

  The bandits aligned themselves and began cantering as before. When their formation was tight and properly dressed and covered down in a tactical cavalry formation, the same voice cried out as before.

  “En avant! Al ataque!”

  Now thundering toward the wagon train, the bandit gang shouted wildly, leaning low over their horses’ necks as they pressed on.

  “Draw pistols!” Wildon shouted.

  The men, holding their Springfields in their left hands, drew their pistols and held them with their right.

  The border raiders came rapidly closer, firing spasmodically as they closed the gap.

  “Hold it! Hold it!” Wildon cautioned his troops. “Damn your eyes! Wait for my command!”

  Now the bandits were within fifteen yards. Pressed in close, their shock power promised to be devastating. Finally they reached the soldiers and charged within the wagons.

  “Fire!” Wildon bellowed. “Fire! Fire!”

  Every man raised his pistol into the close targets and fired six shots. The sixty bullets hit human and horse flesh both. Men and animals spun and crashed to the ground in the awful, continuous thunder of the Colt pistols.

  Now the troopers raised the carbines, firing the single, heavy .45-caliber bullets into the few surviving bandits. The area between the wagons was filled with fallen men and horses.