by J. T. Edson
To prevent this occurring with more serious results, Beaulieu was taking a civilian scout who knew the border and two Arizona Rangers. Waco and Doc had a very special part to play if they should manage to run across Chacon and cut him off from his men. Under a gentleman’s agreement between Captain Mosehan and Don Emilo Kosterliski, the Commander of the Guardia Rurale, members of either organization could disregard the border when in the pursuit of one of their own nationals who slipped across in the hope of gaining immunity. This, however, was a purely unofficial arrangement and did not apply to Chacon, who was a Mexican citizen. But Kosterliski had told Mosehan he would close both eyes to any attempt to take the murdering bandido, even if the said taking was done in Mexico.
That was what brought Waco and Doc to Orejano, to patrol with the Army; giving them a fighting force to match against Chacon’s murderous gang. Then if Chacon got back over the border, to bring him in, dead or alive.
‘When can we start?’ Beaulieu asked.
‘We’ve got us the scout and the soldiers,’ Waco ignored Beaulieu, winking at Doc. ‘So after ole granpappy here gets his tired ole hide into the kitchen and raises us a meal we’ll be all set to go.’
The bardog growled something about the young folks of today having no respect for age or wisdom; spat into the spittoon across the room and walked out into the kitchen. Beaulieu stepped out of the saloon and told his corporal, who was just getting Bartelmo and Davies on to their feet. The young officer gave orders for camp to be broken and the troop ready to move out; then he returned and sat with Waco and Doc. It came as something of a surprise to him that these two southerners would allow Sam Bone to sit at their table with them, for he thought that all men of the deep south treated negroes like dirt, whipping or shooting them at the slightest excuse. He was beginning to realize that the southern man knew more, far more, about Negroes than himself.
‘You know our mission, of course?’ he asked.
‘Sure,’ Waco agreed. ‘Chacon is supposed to be across the border. That means he most likely isn’t. But if he is, then Cap’n Mosehan thinks he’ll head for the border up this way, between here and Sasabe on the California line. That’s why we are patrolling out that way.’
‘One thing, mister,’ Doc warned. ‘We might or might not run into Chacon or one of the other Mexican gangs. If we run into Chacon don’t you go selling him short. He’ll likely have up to fifty men riding with him against your troop of twenty and us three. Happen he gets the idea we’re hunting him, ole Peludo'll just as likely come looking for us.’
‘He’s only a Mexican,’ Beaulieu scoffed.
‘And Sitting Bull was only an Indian.’
Beaulieu’s face flushed deep red. Any mention of the disaster which befell the 7th Cavalry at the Little Bighorn rankled amongst the officers of the regiment, who were trying to live it down.
‘So?’
‘Don’t you go swell up and bust, not while I’m eating,’ Doc’s grin robbed the words of their sting. ‘I was born on the border in Texas and all my life I’ve known Mexicans. They can count real good and likewise know that odds of two or three to one is good medicine. Specially from ambush and with the chance of getting some free Cavalry Peacemakers out of the deal.’
Once more Beaulieu’s inborn sensibility came to his aid and he looked at the two with a friendly smile. He could see a difference in their attitude towards him even now and knew they would do all they could for him.
‘All right, I’ll put myself in your hands; then when the Court Martial convenes I’ll say I was led astray by evil companions and they’ll go light on me.’
After the meal Waco and Doc rode with Beaulieu to the Army camp. The patrol was going to travel light and would be leaving the tents here under guard until they returned. The troopers were waiting by their horses, Bartelmo and Davies looking worse for wear along with the others. They watched the Texans with hate-filled eyes and then turned their attention to where Sam Bone came riding up afork a mule that looked as old as sin and even more wicked.
‘Look there, that black feller’s riding scout for us,’ Bartelmo hissed in a voice which carried all along the line.
‘Yeah,’ Davies agreed, his voice also carrying. ‘I bets he took that on when there was a white man who could have done it.’
Waco hurled the big paint stallion back along the line and brought it to a dust raising halt before the two startled troopers as they struggled to control their shying horses. He waited until the two got their horses under control then leaned forward, thrusting his face towards the men: his voice was vibrant with anger as he said:
‘Now listen to me, soldier. I’m saying this but once, so you lay back your ears and listen real good. Leave Sam Bone be. He’s doing a chore that not many men would want to handle, not living down here on the border. Get this into your damned, hawg-stupid Yankee head. Ole Sam, he lives down here in Orejano. If Chacon gets to know he’s riding scout against him, Sam’s life won’t be worth a Yankee’s word to an Injun. And soldier, that’s not worth much. Sam’s not like you, he doesn’t have a regiment of cavalry round to protect him all the time.’
Bartelmo looked back, then his eyes dropped and he snarled. ‘I won’t forget what you did to me in that saloon.’
‘Happen you won’t,’ Waco answered. ‘But remember this. I could just as easy put the bullet into your fool head. Next time I have to draw on you I’ll do just that and think nothing of it.’
The soldier snarled under his breath but kept his mouth shut until Waco turned the paint and rode back to the head of the line were Beaulieu sat watching. Bartelmo’s hand dropped, unfastened the revolver holster and curled round the butt of his gun.
Corporal Machie slammed his horse forward, barking out, ‘Take your hand off that gun, you damned fool. Look there.’
Bartelmo looked and suddenly his stomach went cold: he could see that he was very close to an early grave. Doc Leroy was sitting afork his black horse; in his hands, its bore looking like the mouth of a cannon, was a Winchester Centennial rifle. While it was actually only .45.75 caliber the gun looked far larger when it was pointed in one’s stomach at that range.
‘Happen you’re tired of life in the Seventh, you just lift the gun clear,’ Doc said cheerfully. ‘I don’t reckon the regiment will fold up and fade away without you along.’
Bartelmo let loose of the gun; he could see the eyes of the other troopers on him, for he was known amongst the other recruits who formed his patrol as being a hardcase. They would begin to wonder if he was so hard after all.
Beaulieu watched all this with worried eyes: it was his first assignment on his own and he could see there was going to be trouble unless he kept a firm check on Bartelmo. For a moment he thought of leaving the soldier behind but knew that would be foolish. Bartelmo was not to be trusted with movable property and would probably sell the tents. There was only one thing to do, take him along and watch him all the time.
Raising his hand, the young Lieutenant gave the order to march out.
~*~
For three days the patrol moved through the arid border country, travelling slowly and checking every likely spot for sign of passing Mexican bandits. They found no new sign at all but it made good training for Beaulieu. The Apache wars were over but the conditions they worked under now were almost the same. There was a need for constant vigilance and the men were alert. The first day they’d been inclined to take things easy, but that night around the fire Waco had told them how Chacon and other Mexican bandits treated gringo prisoners. He warned them that the Mexican was an expert at ambush and would lay the patrol given a chance. In graphic words he warned them of the danger and they believed him, knowing that he was telling the truth.
From that time they rode cautiously and acted as if they were working against Apaches. Of all the soldiers only Machie was a veteran; he’d seen service with the Seventh against Apaches and was with Reno’s troops at the Little Bighorn. He, with the help of Sam Bone and the Rangers, taught his m
en the secrets of desert survival and most of them learned well.
Yet over all the patrol was the brooding trouble causing of Bartelmo and his friend. Davies was a mere sycophant, following Bartelmo’s lead, and they worked at turning the others against Sam Bone and the two Texans. They did it on the sly, for neither was willing to tangle with Waco again. For the most part they did not have much success at turning the country boys against Sam Bone. The southern recruits knew Negroes and accepted Sam as a man doing a difficult job. The northern recruits, coming from country villages, rarely, if ever, saw Negroes and treated Sam as an equal without thinking about it. Just a few, city bred like Bartelmo, were willing to follow him and even they would not argue against that tall, slow talking but fast moving Texan.
On the third night Bartelmo watched Sam Bone talking with some of the recruits round one of the fires. He nudged Davies and rose, walking across, listening to the laughter as Sam told the soldiers some story. Bartelmo pushed through and stood, looking down at Sam Bone.
‘Hey, feller, what did you do in the War while us white folks was fighting to set you free?’
‘Why I fought too.’
‘You fought?’
‘I sure did, white boy. I fought and I fought and I fought. But it weren’t no use at all. They got me in the Army in the end.’
There was a roar of laughter from the men round the fire at this, the laughter bringing Bartelmo’s temper to an uncontrollable pitch and he snarled, ‘Get up, mister, I’m going to kick your face in.’
Waco came to his feet in a lithe bound, coming in between Bartelmo and Sam Bone, his soft easy drawl bringing the other man to a halt.
‘Soldier, you’ve said more than enough. Get yourself back to your own fire or I’ll finish what I started in Orejano.’ Machie was also on his feet. He caught Bartelmo’s arm and spun him round, pushing him hard. ‘Get away from here, you damned, no good goldbrick. I don’t want to see Waco kill you.’
Bartelmo staggered back. He stopped and glared at the others, knowing better than to try and fight Machie. His eyes glowed with hatred and his body was shaking with anger as he snarled:
‘Fine bunch, you lot. Look at you, suckin’ up to that black b like he was your long lost brother,’ he spat at Sam Bone, the saliva hitting the dark face.
Slowly, Sam came to his feet, rubbing the saliva with the back of his hand. His voice was cold, deadly and bitter. ‘Boy, you gone too far. I’ve took all I aims to from you. If you wants to do something make a start.’
Bartelmo lunged forward, his fists driving at the older man’s face. Just what happened next none of the recruits could say, although Waco, Doc and Machie knew what was happening. They all saw Sam Bone avoid the fists, then there was a tangle of arms; two bodies came together. Then Bartelmo was down on his stomach with Sam Bone standing astride his back, pulling his head back with two strong hands locked under his chin. That was an old Apache wrestling trick and a far more dangerous hold than many.
‘Best give up, soldier,’ Waco warned. ‘Happen Sam drops down with his knee he’s going to bust your back. I wouldn’t want to have to tote even you back out of here like that.’ Contemptuously Sam Bone let loose of the soldier and stepped back. Bartelmo rolled on to his back, then sat up, his hand went to his belt, starting to unclip the flap of the holster.
Machie stepped forward, dragged Bartelmo to his feet and hurled him towards the fire where he’d been sitting with his cronies. ‘You get back there and stay there. When we get back to the fort me’n ole Sergy O’Brien’ll teach you some better manners.’
Bartelmo returned to his own fire and sat down. The rest of his bunch, except for Davies, got to their feet and started to drift towards the other fire where the laughter was resumed amongst the men round it. Bartelmo made no attempt to say anything to them: he knew that they would not accept him as their leader any more. They thought he was tough and on two occasions he had been shown up by those two men. For a time he and Davies sat in moody silence.
‘I’m sick of this whole lousy outfit,’ Bartelmo snarled. ‘Look at them, all of them, sucking round that black feller. They make me retch. I’m going over the hill tonight. We ain’t likely to be going any further west; starting to swing north and then east again tomorrow. So I’m going to take my chance and go down over the border and work my way along to California. You coming with me?’
Davies thought this over. He admired Bartelmo, but he also knew that they were more at home in the city. Out here they were lost and would have a hard and hungry time of it. He also remembered what Waco and Doc had told them of Chacon’s way with prisoners.
‘Not me, Vin,’ he answered. ‘We don’t know how to travel in this country and the Mexicans won’t act friendly. You know what that Ranger told us the first night out?’
‘He was lying, that’s what he was doing,’ Bartelmo answered, seeing Davies weakening and not wanting to go alone. ‘You bet that shavetail told him to tell us all them lies to stop us deserting.’
‘I don’t think he was.’
Bartelmo saw that there would be no chance of getting Davies to go along with him so he snarled, ‘All right then. I’ll go it alone. You give me all your ammunition, you won’t need it and I might.’
Without argument Davies emptied his pistol pouch and the bullets for his Springfield carbine, retaining only the bullet in the carbine’s breech and the loads in the revolver. He did not expect to need the ammunition on this patrol as they had seen nothing to shoot at all the time they’d been out.
‘When you going?’ he asked.
‘I’m standing guard from midnight, I’m going then,’ Bartelmo answered. He was wondering if there was a chance of his killing either Sam Bone or the Ranger before he went. This idea he gave up as impracticable: the shot would wake up the camp and he would never get away.
The patrol went to sleep, rolled in their blankets and at midnight Bartelmo was shaken awake and told to take his turn of guard duty. He allowed a few minutes to go by before he made for the horse lines and collected his horse. He disturbed the other animals but, working fast, he saddled his horse, mounted and rode out of the camp.
Waco and Doc were sleeping side by side. They both woke at the same moment, rolling from their blankets and sat listening. Each of them held a gun and they came to their feet; across the fire from them Machie was also sitting up and looking round and Sam Bone was out of his blankets, fading into the blackness like a shadow.
Shaking Beaulieu awake, Waco hissed, ‘There’s somebody just pulled out of camp.’
The young officer showed his control over his nerves; he did not make a sound for a moment, then replied, ‘Who is it?’
Machie came to them and supplied the answer. ‘Bartelmo’s gone over the hill.’
Sam Bone arrived back to confirm the statement; he had seen Bartelmo riding out but was too late to do anything about it. However, he’d left his hat to serve as a marker for the detail who would go after the deserter, saving them the time of looking for tracks.
For a moment Beaulieu was silent, then he said, ‘We’ll have to send a detail out after him.’
‘Too dark to do a thing now,’ Waco answered. ‘Comes dawn Doc and me’ll go on after him.’
‘Alone?’
‘No, the two of us,’ then the levity left Waco’s voice. ‘You hold your men on the route we planned out this evening at daylight. Me’n Doc’ll get on his trail and bring him back. If he comes up with either Chacon or any other Mexican bunch we’ll have them down on us.’
‘You don’t think they would attack an Army patrol this size?’
‘Why not, they’re bigger’n us and they’ll know it if they meet Bartelmo.’
‘We don’t know that Bartelmo would tell them anything,’ Beaulieu wanted to look at the best side of a fellow soldier against the civilians if he could.
‘A man’ll talk good and plenty with his feet shoved into a fire and a Yaqui skinning knife working under his hide,’ Doc answered. ‘Which same’ll be
mild to what they’ll do if they don’t get talk out of him and fast.’
‘Then when they know how many men are in the patrol they come alooking for it,’ Waco went on. ‘And they won’t come whooping and yelling like a drunk Comanche headed for a pow-pow. When they come it’ll be from ambush, trying to get as many of you as they can in the first volley.’
‘Ole Peludo can shoot: he’s got him a Sharps Reliable that holds true at a mile and a half and for close work he’s got him one of these Winchester Centennial rifles. Took it from a storekeeper at Morenci. He’ll show you that Mexicans can fight when he’s ready and got his place picked out,’ Doc carried on.
‘When he’s got it picked you’ll get a chance to use that short-growed wall gun there.’ Waco pointed to the weapon which was Beaulieu’s pride and joy.
It was a sixteen inch barreled Colt Peacemaker, the butt cut for an attachable, skeleton stock, making it either a revolver or a carbine. It was a present to the young officer from his mother and he was sure it would do great things although the two Texans scoffed at the idea. They pointed out that Ned Buntline presented five of those long-barreled pistol-carbines to the Dodge City police force and none of that ‘noble’ bunch of lawmen ever amounted to anything with the guns.
‘If we see Chacon I’ll shoot him a couple of times with my gun before he gets into range of your stingy guns,’ Beaulieu replied, although he knew that behind the banter the two young Texans were worried by the desertion. ‘Do you think we’ll get him back?’
‘Mister,’ Waco’s voice lost all its levity and became grim. ‘We’d better get him back one way or another, and do it afore he falls in with the Mexicans.’
~*~
Waco and Doc were in their saddles at the first light of dawn, riding along the line of tracks made by the departing soldier. Riding side by side they followed their usual routine when doing something like this. Waco followed the sign, reading it as easily as a professor would read a child’s first primer. By his side, rifle across his knees ready for instant use, Doc kept his attention on the range ahead of them.