by J. T. Edson
“May I congratulate you on an excellent ruse, senor,” Hernandez went on. “Your Negro must have had much faith in you to take such a chance.”
“He’s not my Negro.”
“But you are a Southern gentleman—”
“I never owned a slave in my life.”
“Then why fight for the South, for I assume you did. There is a military bearing about you.”
“Me? I fought like most Texans did. Because we figured the Federal Government had no right to interfere in the running of a State, and if the State wanted to withdraw from the Union, it should be free to do so.”
“I see. But I am thinking of your man. It was a neat trick, painting the sign on the wagon and sending him around in a circle to come towards us from the west. I might have been suspicious had he come from any other direction. The clothes fooled me, too.”
“Old Coonskin sure is a fancy dresser,” grinned Slaughter. Hernandez led the way down a wide, gentle-sided arroyo. Swinging from his saddle, he let the reins fall. Also dismounting, Slaughter left his night horse, knowing it would not wander away. The two men walked along the valley bottom. Under the light of the moon it was almost as clear as day. Hernandez halted and Slaughter walked on another twenty feet then stopped and turned to face the Mexican. For a moment, Slaughter thought he caught sight of a movement among a clump of scrub mesquite. Yet he guessed, in fact felt sure, that Hernandez did not plan trickery. If there had been a movement, it might only be some desert animal disturbed by their arrival.
“When you’re ready, senor,” Hernandez said.
“Count to three,” Slaughter replied, giving the Mexican a slight edge.
“I will count it so: one—two—three,” Hernandez answered. “One—two—three!”
Two hands snapped down, thumbs curling over the hammers and drawing them back even as fingers closed on the butt and lifted. Slaughter’s Colt glinted dully in the moonlight and Hernandez’s sparkled, its nickel-plating reflecting the moon’s rays. The Mexican was fast, very fast. Only one thing saved Slaughter’s life that night. The Tiffany grips, while looking ornate and attractive, did not make such a fine instinctive pointing grip as the normal butt of the Texan’s Colt. While Slaughter was maybe just a shade the faster man, there would not have been enough in it to save his life, except that Hernandez had to take a split second of a split second to change his aim.
Yet that instant was enough.
The shocking power of the heavy bullet striking Hernandez’s chest was enough to knock him off balance. Not much, for the returning lead came so close to Slaughter’s face that he felt the wind of it. Hernandez spun around and went down, landing on his back, his gun falling from his hand.
Holstering his Colt, Slaughter walked towards the Mexican. Although Hernandez was dying and knew it, he still regarded the Texan with admiration.
“Your man was right, senor,” Hernandez breathed, “This is not Mexico.”
Then his eyes went to the clump of mesquite behind Slaughter. Suddenly Hernandez hooked his legs around Slaughter’s and brought the Texan to the ground. In the same move, the Mexican caught up his fallen gun.
Even as he staggered forward off balance, Slaughter hardly believed such a thing could be happening. He never expected a man of Hernandez’s type to take an unfair advantage. Now it seemed Slaughter’s trust and misjudgment of a man’s character would cost him his life.
A shot cracked out and Slaughter heard the “splat!” of a close passing bullet. Yet the shot did not have the deep bellow of a Colt, but sounding higher and sharper like a rifle, and the bullet came from behind him. The thought had barely struck Slaughter when he heard the sound of Hernandez’s Colt opening fire.
Then Slaughter landed on the ground, but he landed with his gun in his hand. Hernandez was sitting partially erect, firing shot after shot—not at Slaughter but into the mesquite from which rose a scream of pain. A shape lurched upwards, taking form as one of the bandidos who had sided Sanchez on Slaughter’s first visit to Central Springs. Before Slaughter could shoot, the man dropped his rifle and went down, rolled over once and lay still.
Letting his revolver drop, Hernandez looked towards Slaughter.
“M—my apologies, senor. I forgot that Sanchez had a brother who would not easily forgive you for killing him. He—he must have followed me, seen me examine th—this— place and guessed what I—”
Slaughter sprang forward to drop on to one knee by Hernandez as the man fell back on to the sand. For a moment the Texan thought it was over, then Hernandez opened his eyes.
“T—take the sabino—senor, it is a loyal friend—and I want —it—have—a—worthy mas—master. I apologize—for Sanchez’s brother—senor. I did not kn—”
With a convulsive writhe, Hernandez stiffened and then went limp.
Taking off his hat, Slaughter paid a silent last respect to Hernandez. For all his faults and vices, the Mexican had been a man. He died the way he lived, by the gun. Yet he stayed true to his honor to the end.
Part Four – Tanaka Was a Bad Apache
Tanaka was a bad Apache. Which same means he was a real bad hombre in any man’s language or judged by any nation’s standards. Even other Apaches regarded him as being bad; and they were a nation which produced more than its fair share of tough, able, ruthless and merciless warriors.
When Victorio, old-man chief of the Mogollon came in, broke the arrow and made peace with the white-eye soldier-coats, Tanaka laughed at such foolishness and stayed out on the war trail. Nor did he stay alone. With him rode at least fifty of the toughest, meanest, most dangerous young bucks he could lay his hands on. Every one of them was tried and true, a white-hater from soda-to-hock, loved war and the loot and prestige it brought to a successful warrior.
Yet even the fifty men who rode with him regarded Tanaka as being bad medicine and poison mean.
Tanaka and his men held Western New Mexico and Eastern Arizona in a state of terror. They ranged from the Carne River and the borders of Paradise Basin out to the Dragoon Mountains. When danger threatened, or loot above the border failed them, the band struck south into Mexico and grew rich on the easier pickings open to them. But always they came back over the line. Back to the land the white-eye brother took from their people by war, often-broken treaty and sheer weight of numbers.
One might ask why the U.S. Cavalry did nothing about Tanaka’s depredations. Surely an army which had such great Indian-fighters as Generals Miles and Crook—and a few glory-hunters like Custer—and which had dealt many shrewd blows to the whole Cheyenne, Comanche, Waco and Kaddo nations ought to have been able to handle a mere handful of Apaches, most of whom did not even have rifles.
The answer was that the Army tried, and tried damned hard, to either make Tanaka a good Indian, or bring him and his men on to a reservation where their movements could be checked.
Given a stand-up fight, the soldiers would have ended Tanaka’s badness in minutes, or hours at most, depending on the terrain in which they met. That was the trouble; Tanaka and his men might hate white-eyes, but they were not fools enough to stand and fight the soldiers.
Then, one might inquire, why not catch up with Tanaka and his band?
Take it this way. Arrange a horse-race between a white cavalryman toting all the gear his superiors figured he needed to exist and fight with—heavy McClellan saddle, saddlebags, blanket roll and greatcoat, mess kit, picket pin, eighteen rounds of ammunition for the revolver and a hundred cartridges to use in his carbine, food and water—and mounted on a grain-fed charger used to plenty of good food and water, and a buck Apache, who had the one set of clothes, and them not heavy, carried a rifle, some ammunition and knife for his weapons, mounted on a wiry pony used to running all day and night on a mouthful of saw-grass and a lick of brackish desert water, and somebody is going to come out a bad second. That somebody was not likely to be the Apache.
So the Army did not deal with Tanaka for a simple, but perfectly valid reason—they could not come wi
thin a good country mile of catching him.
Tanaka might have gone on to great things, or at least lived out his life until so old that he would be willing to come off the war trail and accept the white-eye brother’s charity, but he became ambitious.
And his path crossed with a man who had something of a name as a tamer of bad hombres.
Texas John Slaughter had heard of Tanaka. A man could hardly travel across New Mexico Territory and not hear about him. However, Fort McClellan lay beyond the Carne River and through the heart of Tanaka’s pet stamping ground and Slaughter was delivering a herd of cattle to the fort.
It was not Slaughter’s way to let any man’s reputation drive him out of his path. To go around the area of Tanaka’s power would take at least two months and the three thousand head of Texas longhorns Slaughter drove were needed urgently at the fort. Some old witch man on the Mogollon Reservation, stewed up with tizwin or tulapai—Apache brews which made raw corn whisky seem mild by comparison—had a vision. The white-eyes had lied, or so he claimed. They did not intend to feed the Mogollon on their “spotted buffalo,” for where were the cattle? A few wiser and more sober heads advised doing nothing, but that they should wait and see what happened before painting for war.
If Slaughter’s herd did not arrive on time, not even the most respected Apache chief could keep the peace. So Slaughter intended to go through with his herd and even the threat of Tanaka’s raiding would not make him turn aside.
Of course Slaughter might have asked for an Army escort. A more prudent man would already have done so. Slaughter made no such request. Although the War Between the States had long ended, and Reconstruction was now only a bitter memory, his men would have been disgusted to think they had to ask the blue-bellies for help and protection. He had twenty-two loyal, hardy and handy men, counting the cook, cook’s louse, nighthawk and day wrangler, at his back and figured they would be a fighting force Tanaka might think twice before attacking.
However, it was not Slaughter’s way to ride blindly into trouble, or take foolish chances when a little forethought and precaution could avoid them. A double guard rode his herd each night and there was always at least one more man out riding wide circle during the dark hours. While Apaches might not fight in the dark, they were not averse to either travelling through it, or sneaking up, cutting a throat or stealing horses in the silent hours of the night. During the daytime, men rode far out on either flank and at the rear of the herd, and Slaughter’s keen-eyed scout kept watch ahead.
So far the precautions had been needless, but not one man of Slaughter’s crew regretted taking them. A man expected hardships and long hours on the trail. In the face of their present conditions, they preferred the choice of extra work to the likelihood of winding up permanently dead.
Towards noon one bright day, Slaughter and his scout, Burt Alvord, rode cautiously towards the waters of the Carne River.
A man did not need to ask where they came from, happen he could read the signs and knew the West. Those low-crowned, wide-brimmed Stetson hats spelled Texas men to eyes which knew the signs.
Slaughter wore range clothes, travel-stained, yet still retaining a hint of their customary neatness. Around his waist hung a well-made gunbelt, an ivory-butted Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker in the contoured fast-draw holster at his right side. He had a strong face, tanned, intelligent and commanding and even on a trail drive kept his black beard and moustache trimmed neatly, even though his gingery colored hair—which matched his eyebrows—looked longer and more shaggy than it would normally be.
If Slaughter looked like a typical cowhand from Texas, Alvord hinted more at his work as scout. He wore a fringed buckskin shirt, faded levis pants and Indian moccasins; while a gunbelt supported a brace of 1860 Army Colts, the right side gun’s butt pointing to the rear, but the left turned forward so either hand could draw it without trouble. His tanned, Indian-dark, high cheekboned face told a touch of Kaddo blood, but the men of the herd thought none the less of his ability as a scout, or company as a person, because of that.
Slouching in his saddle so that his six foot of length did not seem greater than Slaughter’s five foot nine, Alvord threw a glance ahead of them to where, beyond the river, several turkey vultures—misnamed buzzards by the cowhands— swung on planing wings and glided in circles towards the ground.
There must be death across the river. Yet across the river Slaughter’s herd ought to find life. Beyond the Carne lay trees, bushes, deep, fattening buffalo grass; a change from the harsh, poor grazing of the Paradise Basin. Over the Carne, the cattle would eat their fill while walking in the direction of Fort McClellan, putting on weight and building up fat and meat which had been lost crossing the arid, near-desert basin.
“Won’t be sorry to get across,” Alvord remarked, making more conversation in one go than he had in nearly six miles of riding.
“Or me,” replied Slaughter who did not believe in gabbing needlessly himself.
Ahead of them a flock of Gambel’s quail lifted from the ground, swooping off before them and gliding across the river. Watching the birds go, Alvord opened his mouth to make some comment about wishing he had a shotgun. The words were never said. Just as the quail approached the bushes on the western bank of the Carne, they changed direction suddenly and violently, the covey bursting apart and scattering wildly like fragments from an exploding shell.
“Took with them buzzards,” Alvord said, forgetting thoughts of cooked quail, “I’d say we done got company waiting across there.”
“Might only be a stray steer,” Slaughter replied, although he did not for a moment believe a steer would scare off the birds. Only a predatory animal or human beings would cause the birds to scatter in such a state of panic. “Ride on down easy, like we haven’t noticed anything at all.”
The two men carried on riding calmly towards the river. However, they edged their horses to one side so that they would come down to the water some fifty yards below where the birds showed their fright, and facing an area of much lighter brush than further along. With the inborn instinct of men who had lived long with danger as a companion, both of the Texans instinctively knew they were being watched. Cold human eyes studied their every move and gesture. No cougar or bear would have stood its ground in the face of their approach. Even knowing they were under observation, neither Slaughter nor Alvord gave any hint of being aware of the watchers; but acted as if they believed they were the only human beings within miles of the Carne.
Swinging from their saddles, Slaughter and Alvord allowed their horses to approach the river and drink first. Both men stood apparently relaxed, but tense and ready for instant action. There was no sign of the Apaches, if it had been Apaches who scared the quail covey, so the Texans waited for the Indians to make a move and tip their hand.
Yet for all that happened, the Texans might have been completely alone in the world. Not a sound came from the other side of the river. Even the quail did not call to each other. That was an ominous sign. Usually a separated covey would begin to call, the dominant cock gathering the rest to him. That the birds did not call strengthened the belief in hidden men’s presence among the bushes.
Knowing Apaches, Slaughter doubted if they would make a move while he and Alvord stood on their feet and ready to defend themselves. That the Apaches had to be brought out into the open was certain. They must be a small bunch. Scouts for a bigger party, or maybe a group of young bucks wanting to make their names as bold raiders. Whichever they were, the Apaches must be removed, killed or driven off before any sign of the trail herd could be seen.
Under such conditions it was Slaughter’s way to bring the business to a full boiling point as quickly as possible. It was also Slaughter’s way that he put himself in the position which would be first to meet the danger. So he had halted his horse on the side nearest to the bushes which the quail avoided.
The horses had drunk their fill and moved back. Slaughter nodded to Alvord and said, “Make like we’re both dri
nking, Burt.”
With a grunt which might have meant anything, or nothing, Alvord followed his boss’s example. They went to their knees at the edge of the river and started to scoop up water to their mouths.
It was a chance no properly constituted young Apache could overlook. Nor did the party across the river overlook it.
Suddenly the four braves appeared. Squat built, dark-brown skinned men with slightly Mongolian-looking savage faces, and lank black hair hanging shoulder long from under the brims of their white man style hats. The Apaches did not go in for fancy eagle feather war bonnets, or getting duded up in buckskin and beaded finery when going to war—but that did not make them any the less deadly.
They came into view like a flash of light, their wiry war ponies hitting from silence and statue-like standing to full racing gallop in three strides. Each of the braves carried a single-shot .45.70 Springfield carbine—likely looted off the murdered bodies of ambushed Cavalry men—and with knives at their belts. With but one cartridge in the chamber, and the need to reload after it had been fired, the Apaches did not come shooting.
All in all it was a creditable display of the Apache art of making war. The silent watching and waiting, then the sudden, devastating rush the moment their victims looked unprepared enough to fall easy victims. It was a pity that such skill and enterprise should fail. Or perhaps just retribution for the fatal mistake of underestimating an enemy.
Slaughter’s right hand dipped, bringing out his Colt. In the same move, he kicked back with his feet and fell belly-forward towards the ground. He landed with his elbows in the water, but ignored it; and his left hand supported the right wrist as he took aim and fired.
Something over forty yards away the first of the Apaches went backwards over the rump of his horse as Slaughter’s bullet ripped into him. The other three charged on to the kill.