by Tony Masero
Although he had joined forces with Telkashay, a fellow Apache, for the most recent raid, Shulki was not above forming allegiances with Commancheros and white rebels if it suited his purpose. He was smart enough to recognize that the recent war in the north had created men with battle skills beyond his own and that the best way to understand the whites was to have some close to hand.
It did not bode well for Tag’s sister Eloise, being held amongst such a volatile tribe and Tag fretted about her safety, wondering if he could ever find her again and keep his promise to his dying mother. It made Tag’s nights an agony of despair. His days were kept full with tasks imposed on him and he had little time to think about it then but in the night hours his brain whirled with all that happened and the loss of his sister. It was his darkest and most lonely time.
Chapter Six
Tarfay kept a close eye on his charges the first few days of their journey south. His evaluation was one governed by perfectly selfish reasons and in his assessment he could see immediately that the big half-breed was proving to be a valuable member of the team. He rode tall, said little and followed the tracks left by the horse herd with ease. Not that it was too difficult, the trail was wide and fresh but Tarfay knew that soon the wind and weather would do their best to disguise the route and then the tracking skills of the half-breed would come into their own. But Tarfay approved of his taciturn demeanor and could see that Jimmy Two-Spoon would be more than able as long as he stayed loyal. The trouble was, his feet were in both worlds, the Anglo and the Indian and no one could tell which way he would jump once it came to a confrontation.
The black-clad and bearded Mortimer Bender, Tarfay had his doubts about. The man continually rode hunched over in his private world, muttering low prayers to himself. Tarfay feared that the little man’s brain was somewhat unhinged. He just hoped his God-fearing mania was not above putting a blast from the cut-down twin-barreled shotgun he carried into an angry Apache should it come to it.
Link Denver meanwhile was a calming influence on them all, his laconic attitude and uncomplaining approach to every task, even the most menial, maintained a steady even atmosphere each time they prepared to camp. Link wore wide and grease marked batwing chaps that flapped about his legs when he walked and his high-topped hat and long neckerchief instantly marked him out as a cowboy. He carried a pistol and ammunition belt high on his waist and a scabbarded short bladed hunting knife hanging from the belt. He sung often at night, a soft gentle voice as if settling cattle out on the range. It kept the darkness at bay and their campfire burning brighter.
Cornpone he knew he could rely on. They had served long enough together as committed Rangers and the brotherhood of the service was with them both.
They first had wind of their enemy at the trading post on Connahey Bend.
It was not much of a place. A solid adobe-build block, square and standing out obvious in the dry landscape. A river ran behind and cottonwoods grew along the banks. There was a corral outside for passing trade and it was empty now except for five saddled ponies and a pack mule.
As they stabled their own horses alongside in the corral, Tarfay caught a sickening whiff of decay coming from the stained packs on the mule. He wrinkled his nose and cast a glance across at Cornpone who nodded agreement.
The owners were inside, the five men slugging it out with bottles of whiskey and beer to one side of the gloomy interior. They were jolly and obviously well tanked already when Tarfay and the others entered but at sight of the newcomers the men went silent.
Tarfay gave them a passing glance and nodded his head in greeting as he led the way to the bar. The man sitting directly opposite him as he entered was a scruffy looking fellow in a black sombrero and sporting a gold tooth that glinted as he crinkled a wry smile in return to Tarfay’s greeting, but it was a sharp assessing look he gave them above the smile.
Behind the bar, stood the owner, Patrick Connahey. A stony faced character, who had seen hard times in his own country of Ireland before emigrating and he carried that pain with him written on his features. A big man and broad shouldered with bulging eyes that were under-hung by fleshy pouches giving him a frog-like appearance. It was unfortunate because in all other ways Connahey was a handsome and striking figure of a man with curling black hair and ruddy features.
He did an adroit job of dealing with his customers of whatever type or flag they followed, always preserving indifference and a non-judgmental attitude which had allowed his post to prosper for three years in this solitary place at the edge of the wilderness.
‘Gentlemen, how can I help you this fine day?’ His brogue was still strong and it came across the counter with a soft lilt.
‘A bottle between us, Mister Connahey,’ ordered Tarfay.
‘A bottle it is, Mister Tarfay. May I ask how you’ve been? It’s been a while since you passed by here, I’m thinking.’ Connahey set up a row of glasses with practiced ease and uncorked a bottle as he spoke.
‘Must be all of two years, the fall before last, I believe.’
‘Perhaps so,’ agreed Connahey, pouring out the row of glasses without pause. ‘Your health, gentlemen.’
The men sitting in the corner behind had stilled and were obviously listening to the conversation and Jimmy leaned on one elbow and kept an eye on the men as he drank.
‘Would you still be with the Ranger force now, Mister Tarfay?’ asked Connahey.
‘Taking a sabbatical at the moment. Will you join us by the way?’
‘I won’t just now, thank you. So may I ask what brings you this way? It won’t be for a vacation, I’m thinking.’
‘We’re out looking for some children got taken by the Apache.’
‘Ah,’ sighed Connahey. ‘The red devils been at it again, have they? It’s too bad, it really is.’
‘They passed here nearby a few days back,’ Cornpone added. ‘Big party with plenty of horse.’
Connahey nodded, ‘I know it. A few of them came in here begging to trade for whiskey.’
‘You gave it them?’ asked Tarfay.
‘I did, sir. There’s no favorites at Connahey’s, come one, come all, that’s the rule here.’
‘Guess that’s what keeps your hair on your head, Patrick,’ observed Tarfay.
For once a smile cracked Connahey’s stern features, ‘It does that. It does indeed.’
‘Hey, Ranger!’ came a call from the corner and Tarfay turned to look in the direction of the group.
‘Help you?’ he said, seeing it was the swarthy fellow in the black sombrero that had spoken.
‘If you’re looking for the Apache, we’re ready to help. Like to save those kids if you’ve a mind for more company.’
‘Obliged to you but I guess not,’ Tarfay answered. ‘We have enough in our party as it is.’
‘Well, you should know that everybody hereabouts knows of Dan Bahrain and his wild fellows. We have a name for hunting down the Apache. You could do no worse.’
‘We’ll not be lifting scalps, Mister Bahrain, but thanks for your offer.’
Bahrain shrugged, ‘There’s money to be made in scalps and we must sustain our mission somehow. Lifting hair pays our way and its only vermin pelts we’re taking just like any hunter.’
‘You stink of dead hair,’ said Jimmy Two-Spoon, speaking for the first time. ‘Anyone downwind of that pack mule knows you’re coming from miles away.’
‘What’s your interest, friend?’ said Bahrain softly. ‘You look like you may have some acquaintance with our red brothers.’
‘Gentlemen,’ said Connahey in a strong voice. ‘We’ll have no differences here. As you know I keep neutral ground in my place. You have problems, you take them outside.’
Bahrain shrugged innocently, ‘Just saying, Patrick. That’s all; it’s just an observation. The fellow looks like one of your low mixed-Indian variety, no reason I shouldn’t say it, is there?’
The rest of his men leering and grinning in sympathy catcalled agreement by slapping t
he tabletop with their glasses.
Tarfay turned to face them straight on, his hand falling over the handle of the Colt at his waist.
‘It would be wise not to be disagreeable,’ he warned.
A moment of silence followed as each party assessed the other and then Mortimer broke the silence.
‘May I say something?’ he said. ‘Perhaps this is not a bad thing these gentlemen offer. Surely their aid would only add to the strength of our task. We are, after all, of a God-sent mission of mercy and any Christian white man who follows the true cross should be welcomed at our side.’
‘Well said, preacher,’ shouted Bahrain. ‘Let’s go get those red bums.’
‘Don’t be so dumb, Mortimer, they won’t be any use to us,’ grumbled Cornpone. ‘These here don’t care what they kill; it’ll be just for the hair. Pregnant women, children, babes-in-arms, its all the same to them.’
‘Well, they’re pretty much worthless for anything else, ain’t they?’ said a smiling Bahrain, his gold tooth flashing in the shadows. ‘Suffer the little children, ain’t that right, preacher?’
Mortimer frowned, ‘I warrant you have the context wrong, sir. And I do not believe a man should not take the word of the lord God in vain, it is after all a Commandment.’
‘Jesus! You bearded loon,’ laughed Bahrain coarsely. ‘Boys, I do believe we have a God-sick fool here. There’s only one Commandment out in the wilderness, preacher, and that’s who’s the quickest on the draw.’
Mortimer humbly lowered his head, ‘You shame me, sir,’ he mumbled into his beard. ‘But I do believe in this particular circumstance you are perfectly correct.’
With that he lifted his cocked shotgun, pulled the trigger and allowed Bahrain to accept both barrels at point blank range. The boom was tremendous in the enclosed area and everyone was taken by surprise not least of all Tarfay who watched in shock as the buckshot ripped through Bahrain and lifted him from his seat, blasting most of his intestines through his back and out onto the wall behind.
The room was filled with gun smoke and the scalp hunters kicked back their chairs and went for their side arms in a collective tumble.
‘No! For God’s sake not in here,’ bellowed Connahey but his words went unheard as guns went off across the short space.
Tarfay took note of Link’s intense calm, as the cowboy dropped into a gunfighters crouch and his hand fanned the hammer of his pistol allowing a fast tattoo of shots.
Jimmy stood tall, his Remington held out straight before him, and picked his shots as if a man in an old fashioned duel.
Cornpone was at Tarfay’s elbow, shooting over his shoulder and Mortimer beside him calmly reloading his shotgun.
Connahey was pounding on the counting and bellowing for them all to stop but no one paid him the slightest heed.
Tarfay had his gun in his hand but had not fired a shot as he watched in stunned surprise at the rapid and merciless gunplay of his companions.
The scalp hunter’s corner of the room was an explosive mass of splintered furniture and lurching bodies. The band of men jerking and kicking as the swathe of bullets mowed them down. Skittering and kicking they fell before the onslaught, barely managing to clear leather as the bullets slammed into them. Blood spattered up across the bullet-holed walls behind and fragments of flesh and clothing slapped wetly into the air. It was a total and absolute massacre.
During the deafening silence that followed in the smoke filled room only Connahey could be heard cursing and shouting in dismay.
‘You eedjets!’ he caterwauled, his brogue strong in his distress. ‘You focking eedjets. It’s focking taken me focking years to keep this place peaceful. Will you look what you’ve focking well done now?’
‘Calm down, Patrick,’ said Tarfay, holstering his unfired gun, unfazed by the irate Irishman but still in a state of shock from his own men’s instant and merciless response.
‘How can I focking well calm down. You’ve focking well ruined my focking image with what’s gone on here, no one will count Connahey’s as a safe place for all sorts from this day on.’
‘Then we’ll just not tell them, will we?’ supplied Corpone, shelling out his empties onto the floor.
Mortimer crossed the room, his shotgun held up before him, and examined the strewn bodies in the corner.
‘It was a just and righteous act,’ he intoned, as he prodded at the dead with his shotgun. ‘These creatures are of the devil’s spawn and full of sin. It was fitting that they should meet their end in this manner.’ He turned to the others, ‘If you will help me, brethren. We shall see them safe buried in the ground with the proper words and ceremony spoken over them.’
As the others moved across to help the bearded man, Tarfay turned again to the bar. ‘Will you pour me another one, Patrick? I believe I need it.’
Fuming and swallowing his anger with difficulty, Connahey popped another cork and poured with a shaking hand.
‘It’ll not be the end of it, Mister Tarfay,’ he promised. ‘These things never are.’
‘Don’t fret so,’ said Tarfay, lifting his glass. ‘As you can see, its all swept away safely into the corner.’
He watched as the bodies were carried out through the front door and with a shake of his head he swallowed the liquor in one go. ‘Maybe,’ he said as he looked over his party. ‘Just maybe, Patrick. We’ll make a show of it after all.’
Tarfay and Connahey leaned against the doorway and watched as Mortimer stood over the burial mounds, one hand raised high as he intoned prayers for the dead. He carried out his service with Link and Cornpone alongside, hats off and looking duly reverential. Jimmy Two Spoon had taken the packs from the mule and then gone off alone amongst the cottonwoods to burn the mound of scalps and offer the appropriate Indian ritual over the remains.
‘I have to say it’s a weird crew you ride with, Mister Tarfay,’ observed Connahey, his temper having left him now as he accepted the inevitable.
‘I know,’ agreed Tarfay. ‘Has to be this way though for where we’re going.’
‘Something you should be aware of,’ added the Irishman.
Tarfay turned to face him.
‘There’s one hell of a hooligan that’s a part of that war party going past here. Fellow by the name of Shulki, he’s a wild one alright.’
‘I have heard tell of him,’ Tarfay agreed. ‘Has a particular mean streak so they say.’
‘Thing is he cares to have renegades ride with him. And those fellows that came in for the whiskey they were talking of white men that are meeting up with Shulki. Their intention is something malicious I believe.’
‘That so? You know who they are?’
Connahey shook his head, ‘No word on that but best be warned, is all.’
‘Obliged, Patrick. I’ll take heed,’ he said, cocking his head to one side. ‘Look, I must apologize for what went on. It was never my intent to cause you grief here.’
‘I know it,’ said Connahey sadly. ‘It had to come sometime I suppose. It’s a wild country we have here, there’ll not be peace in this land for many a year yet.’
‘Will you stay?’
Connahey nodded, ‘I’ll see my time out, though it’ll be hard now without a truce in place.’
‘Best you carry a side arm from now on then.’
‘Ach, no! I’ll not invite it. I left a land where broken heads were order of the day, so I’m well used to strife and argument. Say what you will, at least here there’s room enough for a body to breath easy and be free if he so fancies.’
‘Amen to that,’ Tarfay agreed.
Chapter Seven
Scart Benjamin and his men had meanwhile been making good their escape.
They were lucky and although on foot when they fled the battle at Tamaloosa, they had stumbled through the darkness and come by luck upon an outlying settlement that was quartering mules for army supply trains.
The guardian of the stock had made little objection when Crome had shoved a pistol up one of his
nostrils and bade him shut his mouth and look the other way. The elderly muleteer had backed off rapidly, allowing the four men to take what they wanted from his poor house and ride off with four mules and a spare, backpacked with a month’s food from his meager supplies.
The wounded Mack brother had taken a clean shoulder wound and despite the pain and irritation bore up well and made little complaint. They rode north at first and then circled around in a wide curve to come back to a southwesterly direction, heading for the badlands with the intention of losing the following posse in the rough country.
The travelling was hard and relentless as the following members of Tarfay’s Ranger Company, despite not having their sergeant with them, kept on their trail with the hardy determination they were renowned for. The outlaws maintained a steady lead and on the fifth month of their escape ran into a party of four men; two Land Office surveyors and their Mexican scouts camped in a dried out river bed.
Scart was friendly in his initial approach.
‘How do?’ he called as they approached the surveyor’s camp.
The head surveyor, a burly, friendly fellow called Cyrus Williams stood to greet them, a coffee pot in one hand.
‘Howdy, what are you men doing out here in the wild? I thought Jack and I were the only white faces in a hundred miles.’
‘I guess we’re lost,’ grinned Scart, self-effacingly. ‘Trailing a herd and went off after some strays and what do you know? Couldn’t find our way back. Then we ran into a bunch of Apache and had a fight on our hands. Now we’re out of water as well as luck.’