The Last Raid

by Edd Voss

  “Why didn't anyone wake me?” he asked.

  “There was no need and besides I thought you could use the beauty sleep Sir.”

  “While I appreciate the gesture, don't you think that it sets a bad example for the troops?”

  “Not at all Sir, it shows them that you are human just like they are. Did you never hear tell of the night that General Washington was seen prayin before a battle?”

  “I had heard a story something like that,” the Lieutenant replied.

  “Well the men knew then that he was as scared as they were and it gave them the spirit to keep going when they really wanted to turn and run.” O'Connell sat back and sipped on his coffee while watching the two prisoners closely. “Men follow other men that they admire, not tin gods Sir,” he said just before he got up and walked towards the Indians gently swinging the whiskey bottle as he walked.

  Sheridan let the words settle in as he watched the Sergeant stop in front of one of the braves. The big Irishman towered over the seated Apache making the seated man crane his neck to look up at his captor. All the time the whiskey bottle was swinging in front of the seated man's face. Taking the cork out O'Connell squatted down and passed the open bottle under the nose of his captive, smiling a devilish smile. Then putting the bottle to his lips he started to tip it up as if to drink from it. Just before the amber liquid reached his lips he stopped lowered the bottle and smiled again.

  Eyes Turn Red was tired and thirsty, but that was nothing compared to the raging desire for the bottle being held in front of him. He could feel the burn in his stomach; he could taste the whiskey in his mind. When the white man had opened the bottle and started to take a drink he almost thought that he was about to share it with Eyes Turn Red, but instead he just smiled and put the cork back in the bottle. A sour sweat broke out on the Indian's forehead as he licked his lips in hunger for the whiskey.

  “Was it Pablito that lead the raid?” asked O'Connell in his broken Apache. He was nowhere near as good as Jackson but he had learned quite a bit of the language and a lot of Spanish since coming to Arizona.

  At the sound of Pablito's name Eyes Turn Red's face twisted in a scowl of anger, remembering the insult he had endured at the saloon. Just because he wanted to take some of the white man's liquor. He grunted and nodded his head.

  “That's better, now what is your name?” O'Connell said in a friendly voice.

  “Eyes Turn Red” the Apache replied.

  Again taking the cork from the bottle he held it out so that the smell would entice his captive to be more talkative.

  “You know that the woman wants to skin you alive right now, her father was one of the men you killed back there in that settlement,” again in a friendly tone leaning close with the open bottle.

  “I no kill her father. That was Pablito,” Eyes Turn Red said in an almost whine. He could take being beaten or tortured by any man, but he had seen what Apache women could do to a captive and wanted nothing to do with it.

  Chato grunted angrily at his friend, but it did no good, the need for the liquor was growing worse and he could smell the fumes rising from the bottle. Eyes Turn Red leaned forward to better smell the fumes from the bottle, his eyes glazing over with desire. O'Connell had seen that look so many times before and knew it by heart. He had the Indian and it was only a matter of time until he knew everything he wanted to know.

  “Well then what did you do just hold the horses?” O’Connell was taunting the man to see how far gone he was.

  “Only boys hold the horses, I am a warrior,” Eyes Turn Red replied indignantly.

  “So how do you know that it was Pablito that killed the woman’s father?”

  “Because he shot the most.” Eyes Turn Red was uncomfortable with this line of questioning and wanted to shift it away from his actions.

  “Didn’t you do any shooting?” O’Connell leaned in with the bottle and pulled the cork briefly letting the tempting aroma rise.

  “I was gathering the other things like the bullets and guns.” His nostrils flared with the smell.

  “Wasn’t there any whiskey?”

  “Plenty whiskey there but Pablito broke the bottles and burned it all,” there was anger in his voice now.

  “So why would he do that? He destroyed all that good whiskey for no reason?”

  “Pablito said no white man’s drink in his camp.”

  Chato grunted angrily and as loud as he could.

  “Pablito has his own camp now,” O’Connell said conversationally.

  “It is a good camp in the mountains you call Superstitions,” Eyes Turn Red said smugly.

  O’Connell pulled the cork from the bottle and signaled one of the privates to bring him a cup. He poured just a little bit in the cup before handing it to the Apache who drank it greedily.

  “You never find this camp,” smiled the warrior as he held the cup out hoping for more.

  “Only someone like you and your friend here could guide us there I bet.”

  “Why would we do that?” snorted the Indian.

  “For this,” O’Connell said holding out the bottle where the man could smell it.

  “NO!” screamed Chato pulling a knife from the top of his knee high moccasin and plunging towards his friend ready to kill him to stop him from telling the white devil where the camp was.

  A shot rang out and Chato’s body changed direction in midair. The private who had brought the cup stood there with a smoking pistol in his hand. Eyes Turn Red was stunned as he looked at the body of his friend lying dead in the sand, the knife still clutched in his lifeless hand. The dead eyes of his brother mocked Eyes Turn Red. Looking around he saw the bottle and reached for it, this time O’Connell let him have it. If he drank enough this sight would go away and Chato would be there to share the burning whiskey with; he just knew it would be okay after he had enough to drink. But the bottle was taken away before he got a second swig.

  “Looks like your friend there didn’t want you telling us about the camp,” O’Connell said softly swinging the bottle in a steady arc in front of Eyes Turn Red’s face.

  All that the man could see was the bottle; all he wanted was enough alcohol to burn this memory from his mind. It hit him like a hammer, Pablito was right about the white man’s drink; it had stolen his manhood and the right to claim that he was an Apache warrior. He was weaker than a child or a woman when the liquor took over his mind and now he could see it. It had taken the sight of his friend first trying to kill him, then being killed to stop that killing that made him see how far he had fallen. Slumping in the sand he gave up, his spirit was broken and he was as he had seen others. He was a slave to the evil that was the white man’s drink. His life no longer mattered; the only thing that mattered was the oblivion of the alcohol.

  O’Connell stood there watching him collapse mentally and emotionally. He had seen it before many times but never quite this totally. Some had caved under the pressures of battle, turning to drinking as a way to escape the memories of war; others had begun drinking to forget the loss of a child or wife. Seeing these things happen had made him careful about his own drinking habits. He hated watching others fall, even this Apache who would have gladly killed him given the chance. They were enemies, but he had learned to respect the Apache as a people and seeing them fall just made him sick. Unfortunately he had to find out where they were hiding and the liquor was the best tool he had to get that information. With a snort of disgust he handed the open bottle to Eyes Turn Red, who took a long drink from it.

  The rumble of distant thunder broke the eerie silence that had settled around the troopers and the Indians.

  “Smith and Mueller, get shovels and bury this heathen before the rain starts,” O’Connell yelled in disgust. Two troopers took the body of Chato and carried it out away from the house and spring to bury it.

  Lt. Sheridan watched O’Connell and was surprised at how hard the Sergeant was taking this. He had always seen the big Irishman as a rock that could withstand anyth
ing the world threw at him. Now he was seeing a different side to him; a more human side. The young officer filed that information away and knew that it would help him in the future when dealing with the men he was supposed to be leading. Even the toughest have their moments of weakness he thought to himself. After all, they are just men.

  O’Connell took the bottle away from Eyes Turn Red and took a drink himself. Then he grabbed the man’s arm and lifted him off the ground. The sergeant stood tall looking down on the shorter man with a look of disdain before he turned the prisoner and forced him to follow the body of his dead friend. He knew that it was cruel but he also knew that forcing this man to watch the burying of his friend would lower his spirits even further, and that was what they needed. This proud warrior had to be totally broken for him to give them the information that they needed. It brought him no joy to do it but it had to be done. If this band was allowed to leave the reservation then how many more would follow and how many more raids like the one on the mining settlement would take place? It was the job of the Army to protect the settlers coming west and to keep the Apaches on the reservations.

  Seeing his friend’s body being dumped in a hole then covered with dirt was the final straw, Eyes Turn Red only wanted the mist of intoxication to blur it all away. The storm that came just after the last shovel full of dirt was thrown on the grave only managed to dampen his spirits even more. The troopers put on their slickers and went about the job of getting the horses saddled and ready to go while he stood in the open with no protection from the pounding rain. O’Connell and Sheridan were inside the house with Molly Sullivan deciding how to proceed from this point.

  “Sergeant, pick out a couple of men that we can spare. I think we should send Miss Sullivan here back to the fort with an escort.”

  “We really can’t afford the men if Pablito decides to make a fight of it, Sir,” O’Connell told him. He wanted to do what the officer had suggested for Molly’s safety but he knew how tough it could be if it turned into a fight.

  “And what about what I think?” Molly interjected angrily. “I have had my share of fights with Indians.”

  “But you are a civilian ma’am and I can’t guarantee your safety,” Sheridan shot back.

  “Sir, this isn’t back east where women are more refined, if she has been out here alone like this for a while I am sure that she is tougher than you think she is.” Taking his hat in his big hands he was turning it nervously as he looked at her again. “Trust me I would prefer her to be safely back at the fort myself, Sir.”

  “Well it doesn’t matter what you two think you want, I will be going with you,” Molly said and put her fists on her hips in an act of defiance. “Saints preserve us I got lucky with these two yahoos but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t others around who might not want something besides the whiskey.”

  Looking at each other the two men knew that they had lost this argument and shrugged their shoulders.

  “Well then woman, get ready to travel and I will have one of the men saddle a horse for you,” O’Connell said resignedly. “Bring only what you will need for a couple of days, once we get Pablito and the rest to the reservation we will make arrangements to come back with a wagon for all the rest of your things.”

  Molly disappeared into her bedroom and returned a few minutes later dressed for travel. O’Connell had one of the troopers saddle up the horse Molly pointed out in the small corral next to the shed. It was one of six horses in the corral. Molly explained that after Chato and Eyes Turn Red had passed out she had put the horses that they brought with them in with the two that belonged to her and her father. The storm was over by the time that everyone was saddled up and ready to go. Eyes Turn Red rode between two young privates occasionally taking a drink from the jug of whiskey that he still held. When he got to the point he looked like he was about to fall off his horse the trooper closest to him would grab the jug away until he could again sit up straight in the saddle.

  Chapter 10

  The storm made the horses hard to handle so Pablito and Coyote Dancer took shelter under a rocky ledge that provided enough room for the horses to stand out of the rain and room for the men to sit down comfortably. Had they been on foot without the horses they would have just kept on running, knowing that the storm would pass and the sun would dry them off as they traveled. Horses on the other hand tended to spook at the flash of lightning and thunder. Both men squatted down on their heels and waited patiently for the rain to pass.

  It took less than an hour for the storm to pass over their position and keep traveling eastward. The ground was soft and muddy while the rocky patches were slick and could easily cause a horse to stumble and injure itself, so they had to stay in the softer mud, even though it meant leaving deep easy to read tracks. With the storm filling all of the arroyos with fast moving water the thought of leaving tracks didn’t bother them as much as it once had. Even with the delay of waiting out the storm, they knew that they would make the rendezvous place by sundown of the following day. Since the trail down to the camp was steep and treacherous even in the broad daylight, they would spend one last night away from their families. Their spirits were high as they rode through the rest of the day and they took in all of the harsh beauty of the desert around them. Since they were ahead of where they thought they would be, they took their time and stopped to eat and water the horses more often than they normally would have.

  Coyote Dancer had his bow along and dropped a rabbit for their dinner. They roasted it over a small fire they built just before sundown. Each man ate in the silence shared by men who know each other well and have been on many raids together. They both knew what had to be done and went about the tasks with a minimum of talk. Apaches often joked about how much time the white people spent talking and saying nothing. To the Apache, there was a time for telling the tales of their people and there was a time for quiet. The white men always seemed to be talking about things that they couldn’t change like the weather. What good did it do to talk on and on about the heat, dust, rain, or wind? None of their words made the sun cooler, or the rain to stop falling. If only they could be more like the Apache and just accept that the sun was hot and the rain was wet, their lives would be much better.

  After they finished eating they let the fire die out and settled down for the night as darkness settled around them it was then that Coyote Dancer told Pablito of his dream. Once it was told neither man thought that it needed to be talked about. Instead they listened to the night sounds of the desert. They heard the gentle whish of air overhead as an owl took to wing in search of food. Somewhere off in the distance a coyote was yipping out to its mate, and then it let out a long howl. To these men it was the song of life and they felt as if they were one with it. Without talking they got their sleeping robes from the horses and settled in to sleep. Both men fell asleep thinking about the other groups of men that had been on the raid with them. The image of Eyes Turn Red getting so angry over the whiskey bothered Coyote Dancer more than it did Pablito.

  This night the two friends shared the same dream. They saw themselves leaping out from the cliff top and sailing through the air as their war cries filled the air. With a start both men sat upright at the same moment. In the light of the moon, they could tell by the looks on each other’s face that they had shared the same dream. Talking about it would not change anything so they both lay back down and drifted off to sleep again, their dreams tainted by the sour smell of whiskey. Both men were still asleep when the sun rose, and were still tired when they did finally wake up.

  With little talk they ate the rest of the cooked rabbit from the night before and drank from a depression in the rocks that still held water from the storm. Mounting up they rode out in silence, neither man wanting to talk about the strange dream from the night before. Talking about it would do nothing to solve the problem so they rode on in silence, picking their way through the cacti staying on the rocky ground that would leave the least evidence of their passing. By the tim
e the sun had reached its highest point both men were exhausted but kept on pushing. Something bad lay ahead they both knew, but neither one knew exactly what it was.

  It was just before sundown when they reached the rendezvous point. It was near the point where the trail began that led down to the wickiups below. Others came in as the night grew darker. Being this close to home raised everyone’s spirit and a fire was lit to cook on and to celebrate the end of their journey. Some of the warriors had brought their bows along on the raid as well as their rifles. A few of those with bows had killed fresh game for this last night on the raid. It had been made plain that this was to be the last raid since the whites were coming in more and more searching for the yellow metal they lusted after. They had acquired many horses and guns, so there would be little reason to leave the valley again. With these they could range out and hunt game without encountering any white men.

  Even Pablito and Coyote Dancer forgot their dreams for a while as the warriors enjoyed the food and being with their friends again. The only ones missing when the moon was high overhead were Chato and Eyes Turn Red. It bothered Pablito when he heard that they hadn’t come in yet. His stomach full of good food, he dismissed it thinking that they had been delayed by the storm some way. As the camp settled in for the last night away from their families, Pablito stretched out on his sleeping robe and let himself drift off to sleep.

  As he slept he saw a brilliant light that hurt his eyes as it came closer and closer to him. Finally it stopped almost close enough for him to touch, and the light dimmed just enough that he could look at the entity which now looked like a man with the sun shining through his skin. This was the most beautiful man he had ever seen but it was also the most ferocious being he had ever seen.