by Tony Masero
‘Look here,’ growled Scart to Crome. ‘See it?’
Crome followed his gaze and took in the wagon, now separated from the main body of the column and lying alone at the bottom of a shelving slope. The mule team still survived and fretted wildly in the traces, dragging the fallen wagon in a zigzag pattern as they tried to escape but only managing to lock it deeper in the sand.
‘We can get down there. You see the makeup of the dunes, there’s a pathway between them.’
Crome soon saw he was correct, there was a safe route amongst the lumpy hillocks of sand and scrub that wound towards where the wagon lay and it was mostly out of sight of the fighting troops.
‘You reckon on going down there?’ asked Crome in dismay, instinctively ducking as wild bullets screamed overhead.
‘Listen, we can get in there and hoist out bags of cash. With four of us working, it’ll be a haul worth taking. We can get away from here without the need to hustle the Indians, its an easier alternative than having to fool that murderous son-of-a-bitch Shulki.’
‘Well, that part I like. There’s no way I was looking forward to trying to trick him out of a cash load. That old boy’s likely to follow us clear to China he’s so mean.’
‘Come on, let’s do it.’
Scart beckoned the Mack brothers over and filled them in, then snaking down on his belly he led the way into the labyrinthine maze of dips between the hillocks.
Callum the wounded of the two brothers was still finding it difficult with his stiff shoulder, still not healed it was a continuing problem that left him with a disadvantage and he struggled to worm along with the rest of them. His brother Lew watched him with a worried eye, concerned that his brother’s fumbling might expose them to all the shooting that was going on.
Beyond them the remainder of the central section of cavalry were slowly being cut to pieces and the few left alive and unwounded were bunkered down and using up their little ammunition fast. None of the supply wagons could make it through to get more ammunition to them and only the remaining pay wagon was close by and standing alone and stationery, the team had been cut loose and fled and it stood in isolation with a few men hiding underneath the wagon bed.
The Apaches were moving from the high ground now that they could see the battle was going their way and that the hated white soldiers were on the brink of defeat. They swarmed down through the rock walls, snaking between the craggy outcrops and keeping up a constant barrage of firing as they came.
Worried calls for help came from the desperate men trapped below the rock face as they saw the advancing Indians and those that tried to make a break and run off plunged a slow path through the cloying dust and were soon shot down by the vigilant and merciless Indians.
Scart noted all this as he and the others moved closer to the fallen wagon, their passage unnoticed by the fighters on the far side of the valley. His eyes glittered at the prospect as they neared the wagon and he licked his lips in anticipation.
‘Listen up,’ he said to the others. ‘We get in there and we can use the mules. String the bags of cash together at the neck and hang them over the mule backs. We get the cash loaded then we can set the mules free, we’ll move along beside them out of sight of the Indians, you got it? They’ll give us cover and them redskins will be so hot-fired up with all the killing they’ll only think its loose animals on the run.’
‘What then?’ asked Crome.
‘We head on back to our own ponies and light out of here.’
‘I sure hope to hell its gold in there and not tins of beans,’ grunted Lew Mack.
‘Let’s go find out,’ grinned Scart confidently.
He lunged up to the back flap of the wagon and turned on the others with an excited grin as he saw the small oblong wooden crates tumbled and stenciled with the army’s mark. Some had broken open in the fall and exposed a few of the torn canvas moneybags inside. Scart dug a hand in and pulled out a fistful, throwing a glittering handful of coins at the men.
‘Goddamn!’ he squealed. ‘It’s loaded. We’re rich, boys.’
The others scrabbled forward eagerly and tumbled over the tail of the wagon and under the covering canvas cover.
‘Lord Almighty!’ breathed Crome, sinking to his knees and stroking a hand through the scattered gold coins lying spilt on the wagon bed. ‘It’s an unholy fortune.’
‘You bet,’ grinned Scart, levering open a crate with his knife.
The sounds of battle outside were forgotten as the men hastily began cracking open crates and stringing the sacks inside together. It was hot under the canvas cover and they all sweated, their eyes greedily wild as they worked fast, stacking a pile of bound sacks in the rear of the wagon.
‘That’s enough,’ said Scart when they had a substantial pile ready.
‘But there’s a whole bunch more of it,’ complained Cullum, waving at the forward end of the wagon where there still lay a heap of unopened crates.
‘We can’t carry more, hell! We got a lifetime’s worth here already. Come on now, let’s get to them mules.’
As they struggled out and began a chain passing the sacks over to the mules, Scart cast a cautious eye over towards the fighting soldiers who were being fast overrun. Eager braves were rushing in despite the last rounds of desultory firing from the cavalrymen and wild with killing they were finishing off the few remaining soldiers with axe and spear in a crazy lust for blood that brought loud whoops of victory.
‘We got to move it up,’ snarled Scart. ‘They’re almost done over there.’
They festooned the mules with hanging sacks and released them from the harnesses leaving only bridles to hold onto. The mules were quieter and more manageable now, the presence of the men easing their earlier terror. Quickly, Scart began to lead the first mule away, keeping at a steady pace he crossed over towards the distant wall of the valley away from the horde of Apache swarming over their victims and made his way hidden behind the mule as he loped off hanging on with a tight grip to both the bridle and load as he kept pace with the animal.
The others followed behind keeping down but casting the occasional glance over their mule’s backs at the mayhem of slaughter going on down the whole line of cavalry. The ambush had obviously been a complete success for the Apache and only sporadic sounds of resistance marked their journey as they headed for the valley entrance.
Before him as the valley widened, Scart saw the open spread of the desert before him and he breathed a sigh of relief and felt his muscles slacken as the way opened up and it was only then that he realized how tense he had been and his shoulders slumped in relief.
‘We made it, by God!’ he said over his shoulder to the others.
Then he heard Chrome sigh dismally, ‘Oh, no, shit!’
Scart turned back to see the lone figure of Telkashay standing before him blocking his path. The Indian looked at Scart with a hard expression on his grim face, a rifle sitting crooked in his arm.
He jerked an accusing chin at Scart, ‘You leave us?’ he asked.
‘Sure,’ said Scart. ‘We’re going to get our ponies, that’s all.’
‘And what are these mules for?’
‘Aw, you know. We might as well,’ Scart said with a disingenuous smile.
‘And the sacks?’
‘Come on, Telkashay,’ frowned Scart. ‘That’s our portion, you know it.’
‘You think so?’ said Telkashay, lowering his rifle to point it directly at the outlaw. ‘I think you will stay here and we will see what the others say.’
With long practice, Scart innocently half turned away and in one smooth action he drew his pistol, levering back the hammer as he did so and before Telkashay could pull the trigger of his rifle, Scart blasted him with a shot to the chest. With a cry of pain the Apache spun over backwards, his legs kicking as he lay wounded on the ground. Scart looked around but the sound of the shot had been lost amongst the firing still coming from the valley. Without a second glance, he dragged the mule forward and stood as
tride Telkashay’s twitching body. He levered back the hammer again and stared down at the fallen Indian.
‘Pity you felt that way,’ he said, pulling the trigger and shooting the Indian directly through the forehead. Scart hawked and spat, then moved on as the others coming along behind stepped carefully over the grisly splatter of blood and brains that pooled out from the Apache’s shattered skull.
********
By the time Tarfay and the others arrived it was all over.
Smoldering ribbons of smoke rose from the remains of burnt out wagons and the valley floor was littered with scattered bodies. Some had been tortured and their naked remains hung lashed to wagon wheels, the corpses blackened by smoke and spilt blood. Clothing and discarded possessions lay in the dust, scraps of torn uniform and the odd boot and kepi filled the spaces between dead men. Above, in the strip of blue sky visible over the valley, wheeled the slow presence of hungry buzzards waiting for the moment to plunge down and feast.
‘How long?’ Tarfay asked Jimmy, who was crouched down beside a tilted wagon bed his fingers testing a heap of ash still smoking under the tortured remnants of one unfortunate troopers groin.
‘Not long, they been gone maybe two hours.’
Tarfay dismounted and cast a sad eye along the scene of destruction. ‘Anybody see Link anywhere?’ he asked.
The others dumbly followed his lead and climbed down and began to search along the wide path of cadavers looking for the cowboy amongst the fallen. Bodies were tumbled in all kinds of postures and positions, some gathered in groups and others alone and separate. Many had been mutilated and disfigured, with body parts dissected and faces ruined. Even the cavalrymen’s horses had been slain.
‘Oh, woe,’ cried Mortimer. ‘I am come into a valley of anger and death, let there be eternal peace for these poor lost souls.’
‘Don’t look like they left a single body alive,’ muttered Tag.
‘No,’ spat Tarfay. ‘They really did it to them this time.’
‘He is here!’ cried Jimmy, from a dip below them off the trail.
They all slid down the slope and stared at the corpse of the cowboy, he had been stripped, his limbs and chest split open with long knife gashes, his nose and genitalia cut off and a feathered spear driven through his ribs.
‘Goddamn!’ breathed Tarfay. ‘That’s hellish bad.’
‘Guess he got here too late to give good warning,’ said Cornpone.
‘Such wickedness,’ breathed Mortimer, falling to his knees beside the body his hands clasped together in prayer. ‘How the righteous suffer at the hands of the heathen and are struck down. Let them rise up to their Heavenly Father and receive succor in the blessing of His gracious charity.’
Tarfay raised his eyes to look away at the horizon, then he lowered his head and with one hand resting on his hip between pistol grip and belt as he pondered.
‘What you want to do?’ asked Cornpone quietly.
Before Tarfay could say anything Tag said, ‘Eloise! You promised.’
Tarfay nodded, his stare fixing on Tag’s determined face. He nodded again, ‘Let’s get Link in the ground first.’
Chapter Fourteen
Scart had to make one call before they left and despite what the others thought about it he was going to do it, such were the vagaries of his thinking. What motivated him it would be impossible to decide, it was a part of his nature that a whim would take hold of the unstable gunman and he would gratify it in an instant. For such a normally wily character it was surprising he would behave in this wild manner but he had done it often enough in the past when he would often act rashly and without forethought. It may have been the overwhelming success at getting the fortune they held on the mule’s backs and in such a flood of success he felt he could do no wrong and was filled with an irresistible sense of invincibility. Or it may have been that something stirred deep inside him, some movement of his dark soul that wanted to reach out and protect another living body instead of destroying it. It could even have been a secret lust for the young woman, who had seemed so fresh and innocent to him on that day in the Tamaloosa bank. Whatever it was, Scart moved on with an air of determination ignoring what any of the others might want to do.
His own justification was simple, he had promised Eloise he would come back for her – so he would.
The Mack brothers were restless though, they wanted to move on and spend some of the money and not waste time on what they considered was a dumb move at best. Crome was not far behind them in this, he could see little point in Scart’s desire to return to the Indian camp and pick up the white girl. They could afford to buy as many women as they wanted with the wealth they now owned and with the call of California and all the richness it promised, there awaited the prospect of a paradise compared to another visit to Shulki’s uninviting camp.
But Scart was adamant, they could go their own way if they wanted so he told them but each of them knew that Scart could change such a promise at the drop of a hat and they might find themselves looking down the end of his gun barrel if he perceived their actions as any kind of betrayal.
Dolefully and with dire misgivings they followed on behind him.
But it was with a deep sense of relief that Eloise saw their return. Here was her chance to escape not only the filth and grime of her servile life in the Indian camp but also the cruel treatment she received from Shulki’s jealous wife and the awful prospect of being his future bride and having to suffer his greasy attentions every night.
‘You came,’ she sighed, looking up at him gratefully.
‘See here, girl,’ said Scart on noting her amongst the welcoming crowd of the tribeswomen that had gathered thinking their menfolk had returned. ‘Told you I’d be back.’
Most of the crowd around her gradually melted away as they saw the arrivals were alone but some lingered, anxiously watching the trail behind the white men and their loaded mules. Questions were thrown at Scart but he had no understanding of the Apache tongue and ignored them.
‘What they want?’ asked Crome.
‘They want to know how the raid went,’ Eloise answered.
Looking at the sour faces of the lingerers, Scart chose to be diplomatic, ‘Tell them it was good and everything went well.’
Eloise passed on the message in her broken Apache and the rest of the tribeswomen drifted away their solemn faces still expressionless.
‘What’s the matter? They don’t believe us?’ asked Scart.
‘That’s just their way,’ shrugged Eloise. ‘When are we going, mister? Can we leave now?’
‘Sure thing,’ said Scart genially. ‘Get your things and we’ll be off, don’t want to hang on here longer than necessary.’
‘I’m ready,’ she replied. ‘There’s nothing here I want to take with me. I just want to get to see my brother again.’
‘Oho! Like that is it, aim to shake the dust of this place from your feet right quick.’
‘That’s about it,’ Eloise agreed.
‘You got a pony?’
‘They wouldn’t trust me with one; they know I’d run off. I can ride one of those pack mules you got though.’
Scart shook his head, ‘I don’t reckon so, that’s a precious cargo we got there.’
‘That so?’ frowned Eloise curiously. ‘What you got in there?’
‘Never you mind, now tag along behind and we’ll pick you out a pony from one of the Indian string.’
‘What? You mean just take one?’ Eloise asked in disbelief.
Scart smiled a slow amused grin and moved off in the direction of the horse line.
‘Better not, mister,’ warned Eloise, coming up alongside his pony. ‘They treasure their horses real fine, they’re worth more than money to them’
Scart gave her a contemptuous glance, ‘They’s just savages, girl. Ain’t worth a bucket of spit, nary a one of them, and I’m a man who takes what he wants.’
He rode up to the string and reaching over from the saddle began to untie
a strong looking little paint. A slender youngster dressed only in a breechclout and moccasins that had been watching over the animals from a rise above, watched him curiously for a moment. When the pony was untied the boy rose to his feet and shouted a query.
Scart looked up at him, ‘Don’t know what you’re saying, boy,’ he said. ‘But I’m just borrowing this here pony be bringing it back directly, okay?’
The boy shook his fist and shouted angrily, unslinging the bow he carried over his back as he did so.
‘Now don’t you start on so,’ said Scart blandly. ‘It’s only a little fleabag pony. My word, the creature’s kinda sway-backed as it is, ain’t worth more’n a few dollars at best.’
The young boy shouted again, his face full of angry irritation as he nocked an arrow into his bow. Others from the village were gathering at the sound of the altercation and a few of the more forward women began throwing abusive insults at Scart.
Eloise looked from the boy to the crowd with consternation, this was not how she had planned things to go down. She had hoped to make a quiet exit and slip away unseen, leaving some time before her disappearance was noticed. Now this man was not only bringing attention to their departure but also attempting to steal one of the Indian ponies into the bargain, the worst kind of theft in their eyes as they treasured the animals so highly. Dark memories of the bank at Tamaloosa began to fill her mind and she wondered if going with this outlaw was such a good idea after all.
Just then one of the adult braves disturbed by all the ruckus, a man left behind to guard the camp, strode up and stood angrily before Scart his hand catching hold of the pony’s halter rope.
‘Get off that,’ snarled Scart.
The Indian snatched the rope from Scart’s hand and loudly ordered him to leave.
Scart sighed a long breath, ‘Damn me if you assholes ain’t the living end.’