by Tony Masero
‘Well, get on down and join us. We got hot coffee and water’s not far off.’
‘That a fact? Well, obliged for the invite and the information. Come on fellows,’ he said calling to the others as he dismounted. ‘Let’s join these boys for a spell. Sure could use a fresh cup of coffee.’
‘Name’s Cyrus Williams and this is my associate, Jack Tarr,’ said the surveyor, holding out his hand in greeting.
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,’ said Scart, taking the offered hand. ‘What’re you boys doing here?’
‘Oh, we’re mapping out the territory for the government.’
‘A lonely job,’ commiserated Scart as he accepted the offered mug of coffee. ‘You being out here all alone, must be a risky business.’
‘Can be sometimes,’ William’s agreed and he noticed Lew Mack’s bandaged shoulder as the brother climbed down awkwardly, ‘Your friend there okay?’ he asked.
Lew’s shoulder wound had taken a sudden turn for the worse without rest and with all their hard travelling and there was some infection in the wound that had left it inflamed and was taking time to settle down.
‘Lew took a scratch from one of those Apache rifles but he’s all right. Tough as nails, ain’t you Lew?’ asked Scart cheerily.
He made no move on the surveyors and once he had determined the closest water supply was at the nearby vedette station of Fort Quail they shared mugs of coffee and made it an apparently sociable visit.
After sitting around their campfire and chatting amiably for a while, Jed Crome sidled up and squatted down beside Scart, under the guise of asking him for some rolling tobacco.
‘You want to make a play for them?’ whispered Crome, as he rolled and licked the paper spill. ‘They’ll only let on to the Rangers we were by here when they catch up.’
‘The Rangers already know where we are; besides I have an idea. We can use these bodies for a better purpose. Go tell the Mack brothers we want it quiet. Use your knives only.’
The other surveyor, Jack Tarr, had been looking at the men silently for some time and frowning suspiciously as he did so. Something did not tie up and he was about to voice his doubts. ‘What I don’t get,’ he said. ‘Is how come you cowboys is riding on mules and not working cowpony’s? You being supposed to have lost your way from a trail herd and all. Kinda strange, isn’t it?’
Scart struck a match and lit up Crome’s cigarette for him, ‘There’s a story there, I’ll tell you,’ he said, with an innocent grin. ‘When them redskin ran off our ponies and Lew there took the bullet, we was lost and on foot….’
Scart climbed to his feet and casually moved over to stand next to the squatting surveyor.
‘Took us a while but we eventually came across this fellow with a wagon and haulage team….’
Behind Tarr’s back, Scart’s hand was on the grip of his knife. The other three outlaws rose equally casually to their feet; Callum Mack to go fill up his mug again from the pot by the fire whilst his brother Lew made as if stretching the cramps out of his wounded arm. Crome made out he was going across to the check on the mules but each man was actually surreptitiously working his way around nearer to his mark. The Mack brothers were both closing on the two Mexicans and Crome heading for Williams whilst Scart was about to handle the suspicious Tarr.
The surveyor looked up over his shoulder at Scart standing beside him, ‘You ain’t cowhands at all, are you?’ he asked, already knowing the answer. ‘What are you? Some sort of absconders running from the law?’
Scart grinned, the broad blade of his knife flashing in the sunlight as he quickly drew it out. ‘Boy! You are the smart one, you truly are, it’s exactly that,’ he said, catching hold of Tarr’s hair and jerking his head back as he drew the razor sharp blade across the surveyor’s throat in one swift savage motion.
The other three made their attacks at the exact same moment, the two Mack brothers diving in on the Mexicans and punching their knives home with repeated regularity. Crome had more difficulty with sturdy Williams, who although taken by surprise, put up a fight and only Crome’s continued slashing kept the surveyor at bay until Callum came up behind him and finished the man off.
Scart was breathing heavily as he made sure all the men were dead; ‘Pile up wood on that fire,’ he ordered. ‘We’re going to roast us some bodies.’
********
In the gullies and raw country on the fringes of Indian Territory the four outlaws found the isolated vedette station of Fort Quail the surveyors had told them about. The fort was not a regular fort as such, it was no more than a few cabins strung together haphazardly in a broad tree-lined valley and manned by a small force of five men who maintained the lookout and early warning post.
The soldiers had grown casual with little activity in the neighborhood and they spent their days in idleness commanded by a corporal who was as casual in his approach as the rest of his men.
‘We going down there, Scart?’ asked Crome as they sat the horses stolen from the surveyors on the valley rim hidden from view and studying the fort below. ‘This what you’ve got in mind for these stiffs,’ he asked, jerking a thumb at the four stinking tarpaulin covered loads stacked on their mules. They had taken over the surveyor’s ponies and given over their own tired mules to the corpses in exchange.
Once burned beyond recognition, Scart had ordered the mules released from their service as mounts and the charred corpses were stacked on their backs. The remaining supplies and what they could ferret from the surveyor’s camp they divided as best they could amongst their saddlebags.
‘No,’ said Scart. ‘Only one of us is going in. All four would look too suspicious. I’ll head down and beg some coffins for these poor unfortunates.’
‘That’s smart, Scart. If nothing else it’ll buy us some time.’
‘You bet, now give me the lead rein and you fellows circle around the valley and I’ll meet you on the other side.’
Corporal Bendix sat on the porch of the cabin, one foot up on the porch rail as he rocked his chair backwards and forwards on its hind legs. He sucked on his empty corncob pipe and wished that their relief would arrive soon so he might bum some pipe tobacco from the incoming men.
He yawned and stretched, catching himself in mid-yawn as he saw the approaching rider with four loaded mules in train.
‘You men!’ he called to the others inside the cabin. ‘Get out here. Rider coming.’
The four men tumbled out in various stages of undress but the thing all of them made sure they had to hand were their rifles.
As Scart pulled up alongside the corporal, Bendix turned his head away at the stench issuing from the tarpaulin-covered mules, none of which looked too pleased with their load either.
‘Phew! Hellfire! Mister, what you got there?’
‘Found these bodies up over the hill,’ answered Scart, leaning casually across his saddle horn. ‘It looks like it’s those unholy outlaws, Scart Benjamin and his gang. Appears the Indians got the worst of them.’
‘Lord!’ sighed Bendix. ‘What you expect me to do about it?’
‘Well, I guess you could do the decent thing and put them in coffins and bury them or send them back to civilization for a proper internment.’
The rest of the soldiers backed away at the odor wafting towards them from the mules. ‘Hey, corp!’ one complained. ‘We ain’t going to have to do that, is we?’
Bendix rubbed his jaw thoughtfully and shifted his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other.
‘Guess it’s our Christian duty,’ he mumbled doubtfully. ‘Just who are you, fellow? And how’d you come across this?’
‘Name’s Williams, I’m surveying for the Land Office with my partner Jack Tarr. Came across these bodies up there in a canyon over the far side of the hill. The bodies was burnt out real bad with a lot of Indian sign around. It was obvious torture and murder been done by those red devils. Found a pair of boots with the name ‘Scart Benjamin’ written inside.’
‘You got those boots
with you?’
‘Sure, here you are,’ said Scart, handing over a pair of Williams’ boots he had already prepared with pen and ink from the surveyor’s own kit. ‘See there, it says it plain as day.’ So saying he pulled back the lip and showed the printed text.
Bendix peered close and rubbed his nose, ‘Appears to be,’ he agreed.
‘Look, corporal, I got to head back. My buddy Jack’s up there all alone. What with these redskins close by, I’ve got to go see he’s alright.’
Bendix pushed back his forage cap and scratched his head, ‘Sure hope the bastard’s don’t come by here. We got a payroll train coming through this month heading for Fort Yuma, and I sure don’t want to see that get lost. We’ve all been waiting on getting paid for a long while.’
‘Damned right,’ agreed one of his men. ‘I ain’t seen no pay in a six-month and it’s about time we saw something for sitting out here in this shit hole fighting off nothing but flies.’
‘Sounds mighty important,’ said Scart. ‘Wagons, is it?’
‘It sure is,’ Bendix said, swelling with officiousness. ‘Biggest money train, you’ll ever see. But I got no worries; it’ll be safe enough they got nigh on fifty cavalry riding shotgun on that train. Nobody will lay a finger on the gold.’
‘That a fact?’ said Scart, sounding duly impressed. ‘Out of interest, what do you reckon a load like that’ll be worth?’
‘Hell! Who can say? Just think on all the payments due to the personnel along the chain of our frontier forts, every trader and scout, the officers, non-coms and men, farriers and bull whackers. It’ll be a fair amount, thousands of dollars, you can bet on it.’
‘Sure wish a wad like that was coming my way,’ joked Scart.
‘You and me both, Mister Williams. But I guess I’ll just have to settle with my portion and be happy with that.’
‘Well, I reckon I’ll say good day to you,’ said Scart. ‘I must hurry off and see to my partner’s safety, I’ll leave the mules and come by to collect them later, if that’s alright?’
‘Okay, Mister Williams, they’ll be here. You stay safe yourself, you hear.’
With a wave, Scart rode off hearing the corporal behind him bellowing at the complaining soldiers to get the mules unloaded and their stinking loads in the ground as quickly as possible.
He smiled with slow satisfaction as he cleared the trees and rode up the opposite slope, not only had he seen to it that following Rangers would give up the chase now, but he had also learned of a mother lode that would see them all happy for many a year. It all depended, he considered, if he could find sufficient help that was prepared to take on fifty blue belly soldiers and cut them all down without any qualms.
He reckoned he knew just where he could find such help.
Chapter Eight
Tag had settled into camp life with the Apache. He had grown some and was becoming wiry and muscular with the tough outdoor life he was following. Always having been a rumbustious child ready to romp and explore his environment his already tanned skin was darker now with the continued exposure to the sun. In many ways apart from his obviously Anglo features and fair hair he was beginning to look like any other Apache youth.
He was a quick learner and had picked up sufficient of the language to make himself understood in simple terms and if the Indians spoke slowly enough he generally picked up their meaning. There were no in-depth discussions but it was enough to get by on and his newfound friend Chevato helped him out in this respect and so they were often in each other’s company.
But Tag had not forgotten his sister and every day he listened out for some hint of the possible whereabouts of Eloise. It was a thing that troubled him and despite the steep learning curve he was on, the thought of his sister and the promise he made to his dying mother to protect her kept him awake at night.
It was during one of his language lessons, when the two boys were out doing their spell guarding the horse herd and Tag was struggling to differentiate between the Apache word for dog, ‘góshé’ and the word for bee, ‘gosnih’ when he looked off into the distance and noticed a flash of movement amongst the surrounding hills.
He nudged Chevato and pointed and the Indian at first thought Tag meant for him to describe the Apache name for ‘finger’.
‘Shigan,’ said Chevato, waggling his hand but Tag shook his head savagely and indicated again.
Chevato squinted at the oncoming riders, his sharp eyes soon identifying them. ‘Apache,’ he said with confidence. ‘It is Shulki.’
At that, Tag’s head jerked up and he watched closely as the riders approached.
The small band of four men rode past the two boys and Tag noted the stern face of their leader as he glanced in their direction.
Shulki was a muscle bound figure and rode wearing a cavalry soldier’s jacket with a rifle in his hand and an army handgun and ammunition belt circling his waist. Not a particularly handsome man, his face seemed permanently fixed in a somber frown and his black eyes were ever watchful. His long black hair clung close around his face and streamed out behind him in a long tail, all of it bound in place by a patterned red Mexican bandana tied around his forehead.
As they headed past at speed, Tag was surprised to see that along with the Apaches two white men were a part of the group. Although it was only a glimpse, Tag instantly recognized the riders. They were faces he could not forget. Scart Benjamin and Jed Crome, the men he held responsible for his mother’s death.
It was like a blow to Tag’s heart and he stared after the vanishing riders, his body tense and fists clenched.
‘What is it, white boy?’ asked Chaveto. ‘What has happened? Have you seen a ghost?’
‘Where are they going?’ asked Tag through clenched teeth.
‘He is come to see Telkashay,’ Chevato explained. ‘But why does he bring white men with him, I wonder? Do you know these men?’
‘I know them,’ snarled Tag.
‘I see you do not like them. They have done you some harm?’
Tag nodded silently but did not answer.
‘I think I see blood in your thoughts,’ observed Chevato.
‘Give me your knife,’ Tag begged.
Chevato backed away, ‘That I cannot do. You know weapons are forbidden you except in training. Why do you want it? Are you going to kill these men?’
‘I will see them both in….’ he did not know the Apache word for Hell but his meaning was clear to the other boy.
‘They are guests at the camp and travel with Shulki, you must not harm them, it is Apache law.’
‘They are my enemies,’ growled Tag.
Tag wished he could leave off his guard duty and hurry back to camp and hear what was going on and maybe pick up some indication of Eloise. But if he left the treasured horse herd he knew he would suffer a harsh punishment and so he waited with anxiety until they could return to the camp.
When they finally received leave to go, it was late in the evening and dusk was settling in by the time they got back. Chevato stayed close to him and watched Tag nervously; obviously afraid he would make a gross error of judgment and offend the hospitality rules.
Tag could see that Telkashay was treating Shulki with respect and that a welcoming meal was in progress. The tribal members sat around a central fire and women were serving the men ground mush made from roasted mescal heads and offering pitchers of corn-brewed tiswin to help wash it down.
Tag sidled around the outskirts of the circle, Chevato hard on his heels. The two chiefs sat side by side and on Shulki’s left, Scart and Crome squatted looking ruefully down at their meal and trying to appear as if they were enjoying it.
‘It will be much to make this raid,’ Shulki proclaimed loudly. ‘These white men have told how it will be. When the white soldiers come they will bring wagons of gold, with gold we can buy guns and ammunition. The wagons are guarded by many long knife soldiers, it will be a fight worth making.’ He gave a feverish cry of challenge, expecting an instant answering c
all from the tribe but none came. They were waiting for their chief’s response and all eyes turned to hear Telkashay’s answer.
The tall figure of Telkashay turned and looked across at the two outlaws, his lip curled in distain. ‘Who are these men?’ he asked. ‘Do we know them? Can we trust them?’
‘I know them,’ said Shulki, punching his chest, angry that his word should be doubted. ‘They have raided with me before.’
‘They are greedy only for the gold and betray their own kind,’ noted Telkashay dismissively. ‘Who can trust such men?’
‘What does it matter what they are,’ spat Shulki. ‘They want what we want, that is all we need to know.’
Scart intervened in English at the growing signs of anger, ‘What’s going on, Shulki? What’s this half-breed buck complaining about?’
‘I speak your tongue, white man,’ growled Telkashay in a low warning voice. ‘It is best you watch your mouth.’
Scart swallowed and backed down at that. He was in the middle of a fiery group of Indians and only had Crome alongside to protect him.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘No offense, I just wanted to know what was happening here. We all stand to make a killing in this deal. Lot of goods on that wagon train, there’ll be horses and weapons, not just the gold. What’s the problem?’
Tag had worked his way closer and stood in the shadows not ten feet away from the intense argument. He looked down at the Indian sitting cross-legged before him, the Apache had his back to Tag his attention firmly fixed on the debate and in the belt at the back was couched a scabbarded knife.
Tag tensed himself; he looked up once at the hated face of Scart Benjamin and quivered on the verge of grabbing the knife and lunging forward to stick in his enemy’s chest.
‘No!’ whispered Chevato, clutching his arm.
It was a decisive factor and at the touch Tag took the plunge. He shook off Chevato’s restraining hand, dived forward and slid the knife free. In a bound he was over the men seated in front of him and racing towards Scart with a demented gleam in his eye and the blade raised high.