He pushed the map aside, sat at the desk, and picked up a pen. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your valuable assistance. Mr. Kerney, when Sergeant Fletcher returns, he will take you to the paymaster to enroll you as a scout for the duration of the engagement. We’ll leave at first light for Hembrillo and camp overnight at Malpais Spring. With an early start, in three days we should be in position to attack. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have dispatches to write.”
After Kerney finished enrolling and swearing to obey all lawful orders, the two friends headed down the road to Coghlan’s saloon for a drink or maybe two. Along the way, Cal explained in his soft Texas drawl that generally he didn’t care much for darkies, but he sure thought better of those who served as Buffalo Soldiers. “Most are fine fighting men,” he allowed.
“They’ll need all their courage and sand at Hembrillo Basin,” Kerney said.
“That’s a fact sure enough, especially with Victorio,” Cal said, pushing through the saloon doors. “Best we make certain not to get scalped.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Kerney said as he sidled up to the bar and called for whiskey.
13
Early in the morning, four companies of Buffalo Soldiers left Tularosa traveling light. By Kerney’s count there were one hundred troopers and officers under Captain Carroll’s command, nowhere near enough of a fighting force to dislodge Victorio from his stronghold. He voiced his doubts to Carroll, who reminded him that two larger columns were also converging on the Apaches and the combined forces would heavily outnumber even the most optimistic estimate of Victorio’s fighting strength.
While Carroll’s reasoning sounded good, Kerney knew how punishing and unforgiving the Tularosa could be to man and beast, how easy it was to get lost in the twisted canyons and boulder-strewn ravines of the San Andres Mountains, how quickly a lack of water could lay a man low, and how the temperature could go from boiling hot to freezing cold no matter what the season.
Ignacio had insisted on accompanying the column as a volunteer, and he rode with Kerney and Cal Doran as they scouted ahead of the mounted troops for any signs of trouble. They cut the recent trail of two small bands of Apaches headed toward the San Andres and figured another ten or twelve Mescaleros had jumped the reservation to join Victorio.
At Malpais Spring, Carroll called a halt for the night. In the morning, he ordered Kerney and Cal to accompany a detachment of thirty troopers commanded by Lieutenant Conline, an officer who had served as a private in the Civil War before graduating from West Point.
West of the spring, deep inside Sulphur Canyon, they cut a larger trail of at least fifty Indians. The lieutenant sent a courier back to inform Carroll and pressed on in spite of Kerney’s warning that any element of surprise would be lost if they engaged the Indians too early.
They sighted the Apaches with the sun low on the horizon and within the hour the small column was engaged. Under a cloud of dust the Apaches vanished behind a sharp bend in the canyon only to reappear, firing down on the troops from rock outcroppings and low ridgelines. Almost simultaneously, a dozen or more Apache riders led by Victorio feigned a charge in an attempt to draw the column closer. Lieutenant Conline gave chase until the troops came under heavy fire from Apaches in hidden positions behind a rock fall, which forced a retreat to a shallow arroyo at the edge of the canyon wall. Side by side with the Buffalo Soldiers, Kerney, Cal, and Ignacio put their horses on the ground, pulled their rifles, and from the lip of the arroyo, fired on the Apaches bearing down on them. Thirty yards out, several bucks jumped off their ponies, took cover behind two dead cavalry mounts, and laid down a steady barrage, their bullets digging into the sandy rim of the arroyo.
For no apparent reason, suddenly both sides stopped firing and a momentary hush fell over the battlefield, only to be broken by a chorus of Apache war cries that echoed off the canyon walls. All at once, on horseback and by foot, the Indians attacked the troops from three sides. A yell went up from the arroyo as the troops fired into the charging Apaches. The smell of gunpowder hung in the still air, dust rose like puffballs from the hoofs of the Indian ponies, and the percussion of constant rifle fire reverberated like thunder, mixed with the screams of wounded men and animals.
Four bucks fell no more than a dozen feet in front of Ignacio before the rest retreated, some bloodied and wounded.
Next to him a corporal moaned in pain, clutching his side, trying to stem the flow of blood that squirted from a bullet hole.
In a voice that sounded strange to his ears, Ignacio called for help. Sergeant Fletcher crawled over and pulled the corporal away.
Ignacio wiped the sweat from his eyes and took a quick look at the battlefield in the fading light, waiting for the Apaches to attack again. Rifle fire kept them pinned down in the arroyo, but that was it. As he waited for the next volley of shots to ring out, the silence deafened his ears. Every muscle in his body felt like stretched rawhide. His leg twitched uncontrollably, his hands shook, and his mouth was so dry he couldn’t even spit.
During the fighting he’d been afraid, especially when the Apaches charged and he knew he was about to die. He wanted to run away, but instead he pointed his rifle and fired, the bullet from his rifle splattering an Indian’s face into a gruesome mess. The dead Indian was out there lying in a heap, while he was still frozen in place on his belly in the arroyo, staring at it. He was alive, although he wasn’t sure if he ever wanted to kill another man. He rolled over on his back and gazed at the stars in the darkening sky. There would be no moon until after midnight. He listened to the clatter of hooves as a courier rode off to report on the skirmish and wondered how the men around him, now talking in low voices, could sound so calm.
“Is Conline gonna keep us here all night with no water?” Kerney asked, after the lieutenant ordered sentries posted.
“That man has put us in a guaranteed hell of a fix,” Cal said. He sat up and took a swallow from a canteen. “Did you know the army put him in an insane asylum in Washington, DC? I swear on my mother’s grave it’s true. One of Conline’s fellow officers told me.”
Ignacio wondered what an insane asylum was as he greedily watched Cal hand the canteen to Kerney.
“Then we best say our prayers,” Kerney said. He paused and took a drink. “We should vamoose out of here before Carroll rides in rattling his saber and gets us all killed.”
Cal chuckled. “If I recall rightly, the good captain said reinforcements are coming.”
Kerney grunted and passed the canteen to Ignacio.
Ignacio took a long drink of water and licked his cracked lips.
“How are you doing, Ignacio?” Kerney asked.
“Bueno, jefe,” Ignacio replied, his voice thin and wobbly. He coughed to cover his shakiness.
“Are you sure?”
“Sí, good.” He cleared his throat. “We have more fighting mañana?”
“You can bet your boots on that, amigo,” Cal answered.
“You did good today, Ignacio,” Kerney said. “You showed grit.”
Ignacio wasn’t sure what grit meant but was glad he had some of it. “Gracias.”
Cal rolled three cigarettes and the men smoked in silence. It made Ignacio sick and dizzy.
“You’ll get to liking it,” Cal predicted just before Ignacio threw up.
Lieutenant Conline decided spending the night in a cold camp without water with several hundred Apaches nearby wasn’t a good idea after all, so he ordered a march to rejoin Carroll’s column.
“Well, maybe he ain’t completely loco,” Cal said as they headed out, the troopers riding two abreast behind them. “Least he don’t want us to die of thirst.”
Kerney laughed as he spurred his horse into a trot. “I reckon that dying of thirst can wait until tomorrow, then, because unless we trail back to Malpais Spring, the only good water within a day’s ride is smack in the middle of Victorio’s camp at Hembrillo Basin.”
“What a comfort you are to a body,” Cal replied over the braying of a t
hirsty pack mule from the back of the column.
* * *
The report on the skirmish with Victorio convinced Captain Carroll the Apaches were boxed in by the converging forces. In the predawn light with a harsh wind whipping up the Tularosa from the south, he led his Ninth Cavalry Buffalo Soldiers toward Hembrillo Basin.
Sunrise brought a blustery gale that kicked up a sandstorm, turned the sky yellow, and forced the column to halt for an hour, hunkered down in stinging gusts that rolled across the basin. When the storm abated, the march resumed and Carroll divided his troops, sending Lieutenant Conline ahead on a different trail to Hembrillo with orders to choke off any escape routes he might find through the narrow southerly mountain canyons.
By noon, men and animals were parched, but with water severely rationed, all drank sparingly from their canteens. One pack animal collapsed, never to rise again, and some troopers paused only long enough to load its supplies onto another mule and move the dead beast off the trail. If the column survived to return to Fort Stanton, there would be nothing left of the critter but picked-over bones bleaching in the sun.
Sand and dust from the storm had caked everything a dull alkali gray, and the column of troopers looked vaporous and ghostlike as it plodded toward Sulphur Canyon. Above, a hot sun burned through the yellow haze, and the only sounds on the trail were the squeak of leather, the clink of metal, and the steady, repetitious thump of hoofs in the thick dust carpet left behind by the sandstorm. Not a man spoke until Carroll called a halt and peered through his field glasses to scan the San Andres uplift in front of the column. Talk was hushed among the troopers as they warily faced the gap that marked the funnel pass to Sulphur Canyon.
After a short water break, the troopers, weary and slumped in their saddles, pushed on without complaint. Up ahead, John Kerney, Cal Doran, and Ignacio Chávez rode point, past the shallow arroyo where they had made a stand last night with Conline and his troopers. Windblown sand covered the tracks and footprints, leaving only the rotting partially eaten carcasses of the dead animals and spent cartridges that littered the ground.
They moved ahead cautiously, scanning the mountain guarding the entrance to Hembrillo Basin, looking for any telltale movement, alert to any puffs of black powder smoke, listening for the sound of the pounding hoofs of charging horses. All was quiet.
Accompanied by Sergeant Fletcher, Captain Henry Carroll came abreast of his two American scouts and the Mexican volunteer. “Gentlemen, it appears Victorio has fallen back to Hembrillo after yesterday’s skirmish,” he said, sounding pleased. “If so, we have him fixed in place. I’m recalling Lieutenant Conline to join us to bolster our forces.”
“You may have him fixed in place all right,” Cal replied, “but he’s got fresh water and we ain’t.”
Carroll’s back stiffened. “I’m aware of that, Mr. Doran. However, Colonel Hatch’s plan is an excellent one. Rest assured that we will surround Victorio, close his escape routes, and quickly bring him down.” He pointed ahead. “I mean to enter the basin at once.”
“You might want to wait for Lieutenant Conline,” John Kerney said, glancing at Sergeant Fletcher, who quickly looked away.
Carroll turned in his saddle and motioned for the troopers to move out. “We will not engage the Apaches until Lieutenant Conline arrives.”
“Whatever you say, Captain,” Kerney said. “But don’t drink from the spring up ahead. The water’s no good.”
He spurred his horse forward in a fast trot. Cal and Ignacio quickly joined him.
“Do you think Victorio knows he’s not supposed to attack first?” Cal asked.
John Kerney laughed in spite of himself. “Hell no.”
“Madre de Dios,” Ignacio said, crossing himself.
* * *
In spite of Carroll’s warning, some of his troopers filled their canteens at the spring in Sulphur Canyon. About thirty men were soon so sick they fell behind the column as it entered Hembrillo Basin. Carroll pushed on without them.
At the neck of the basin, Kerney paused to let Carroll take a good look at the broad expanse of land that fell off into a series of crumbled ridges to bowl-shaped tumbled grasslands below. All looked serene in the pale yellow shafts of afternoon light illuminating the sheer, rock-strewn peaks and the web of arroyos that cut around knolls and wrinkled folds.
Kerney pointed out to Carroll some distant breastworks and the far-off rise of the twisted ridge that hid the Apache campground from sight. Carroll nodded and signaled the column to continue. As the troopers began their descent, Victorio and his Apaches attacked from fixed positions. Several soldiers went down immediately and Captain Carroll took a bullet in his arm. With the column in disarray, Kerney and his compadres led the soldiers at a gallop to a rocky ridge near the basin floor that provided the closest possibility for cover. A dozen or more horses and pack mules were shot during the dash, and those soldiers who lost their mounts scrambled on foot to reach the relative safety of the ridge.
At the ridge, men dismounted and dived for cover as company sharpshooters kept the Apaches busy. Squads of troopers hurriedly threw up makeshift earthworks for protection. Before he could dismount, Carroll was shot a second time. Cal and Kerney pulled him to safety behind a large rock where his wounds could be dressed.
Another officer took command and ordered concentrated fire on three entrenched Apache positions to the south and west. At first, the Apaches appeared to retire under the barrage, but it soon became clear that Victorio had simply moved some of his warriors closer and augmented the number of braves directly above the ridge in order to pour scorching fire on the soldiers. A squad tried to move against one of the Apache positions, only to be driven back dragging two wounded soldiers.
“Did you see that collection of squaws and old men over yonder come to watch our destruction?” Cal asked as he reloaded his rifle, his chin pressed against the ground.
“Yep,” Kerney replied as he fired at the spot where he’d seen movement. On the crest that sheltered Victorio’s camp and the clear waters of the spring-fed stream, a cluster of Indians looked down on the battle.
“On top of that, we’re surrounded,” Cal added.
“Think we’re done for?” Kerney called out. All around him troopers were firing blindly at Apache strong points and flinching under the return volley that rained down. The unearthly sound of gunfire reminded Kerney of Chancellorsville, where he’d been convinced he would never see another sunrise. He wondered if this morning had been his last. It sure felt that way.
“We’re finished,” Cal yelled back. A young trooper belly crawled to a dead pack mule for ammunition, and when an Apache rose to drill him, Cal shot him dead. The trooper scrambled back to cover, unharmed, with ammunition he passed down the line.
“Let’s go get some of these sons o’ bitches,” Cal said.
Kerney shook his head. “Not yet, and not just the three of us.”
“First water,” Ignacio said. He was on his belly behind a shrub next to Kerney, dirty from head to toe.
Kerney smacked his lips at the thought. His canteen was bone-dry. “How? Where?”
Ignacio pointed to an arroyo at the bottom of the ridge. “We dig and we find water.”
Kerney nodded. It was a damn good idea. Daylight was fading and already everybody was suffering mightily from lack of water. Without it they’d be useless come sunup when Victorio attacked to wipe them out.
A steep gully of scrub oak dropped down into the sandy arroyo, where a low, slender overhang would give them some cover. After nightfall it would be safe to dig there for water if they could get down without getting shot.
Kerney looked at Cal. “Are you game?”
“Yep.”
Kerney passed the word of Ignacio’s plan down the line. Within minutes two dozen empty tin canteens covered in kersey cloth and three shovels were stacked in front of him. If they found water, troopers would lower the canteens on a rope one by one to be filled and hoisted up.
Nigh
t settled over the ridge with no improvement in the battle, other than a few more casualties. Some Apaches moved to within a hundred feet of the ridge and were firing at any sound troopers or animals made. Another eight horses and two more pack mules were hit, and the pitiful nickers of the dying animals were dreadful to hear.
Sharpshooters kept the Apaches above occupied as Kerney, Cal, and Ignacio rolled into the gully and belly crawled to the arroyo. They kept low to the base of the ridge, scooted to the narrow overhang, and started digging. The sound of their shoveling brought a fury of gunfire in their direction, bullets ricocheting off the rock face inches above their heads.
At two feet down the sand became moist. Another foot yielded a trickle of water. They dug deeper, until water pooled in a small pocket no more than six inches deep. Kerney filled a canteen and took a swallow. The muddy water was gritty with sand and tasted like dirt, but it didn’t matter; it was wet. He passed the canteen along to Cal and Ignacio and called for another to be lowered.
Using Cal’s bandanna as a filter, they strained the muddy water into the canteens and were able to fill twenty of them with drinkable water before the pocket ran dry. The troopers on top whispered down their thanks as each canteen was hoisted up.
In the thin night air, the chants and songs of the Apaches carried from every direction, and high up where the squaws and old men had gathered to watch the fight during daylight, a bonfire now burned brightly.
After digging a dry hole in a search for more water, Cal threw his shovel down in disgust and leaned back against the ridge wall. An Apache bullet dug into the rock above the overhang.
Hard Country Page 13