The Fight at Hueco Tanks

by Chris Scott Wilson

  “I have a better idea,” Tzoe said quietly.

  Chato paused. “Yes, Treacherous Coyote?”

  “What happens if the Bluecoats catch us?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They will take us back to San Carlos and try and make us into farmers.”

  Chato scowled. “So what?”

  Tzoe tilted his head at Three-Fingers who was now watching him closely. “I know this scout and I know his woman too. Dawn Star. She is very pretty.” He looked to his shoulder where the blood still welled. “She would not be so pretty with her nose cut off.”

  Three-Fingers fought to keep a straight face and disguise his horror. Dawn Star was indeed pretty, much more than that, beautiful. He’d had to compete with all the young bucks in order to take her to his marriage bed. And he hadn’t been disappointed. She was good. She had a warm heart and an even warmer body and she felt good snuggled up to him during the cold winter nights. She lit a fire inside him only she could quench and when she did she had the knack of leaving a few glowing embers she could fan back into raging flame any time she chose. Just a flicker of a teasing smile, a smoldering glance of invitation, a casual flick of her broad hips and he was hers again.

  Chato had been watching the scout’s face, reading what was written in the tight white lips and startled eyes. He broke into an evil chuckle. “Very good, Tzoe. I think our Bluecoat scout will help us now. If we do not go back to San Carlos she will be unharmed.”

  Three-Fingers stared coldly at him.

  “How many Bluecoats?”

  Silence.

  “Dawn Star is a pretty name. It would be a shame if she were not pretty to match it.”

  Three-Fingers’s eyes dulled.

  “Once more I will ask.” Chato dredged up a sneer. “No. No once more. I will not ask again. Tell me now, nan-tan, scout, or there will be no more talking. Your woman will die. I will have my pleasure first, but she will die nonetheless. I shall leave you alive, well, at least until after she is dead, so you know.” He looked down at the knife in his hand, then twisted the blade slowly so that the sun flashed from it.

  Three-Fingers knew Chato would do it, too. He cared for little but to achieve his own ends. “Twenty-two,” he muttered.

  Chato switched his full concentration to Three-Fingers’s face. “How many officers?”

  “One officer, one sergeant, and twenty men.”

  “How long before they get here?”

  “Six hours.”

  “Itna-iltc-’he, tell me no lies. Remember your woman.”

  Three-Fingers looked to the sun. “Two, maybe three hours.”

  “Your woman was beautiful, so Tzoe tells me,” Chato purred, the corner of his mouth curled.

  “I tell no lies, Chato. Two, maybe three hours. They have been on the trail since sunup and the Bluecoat horses do not travel well in the desert.”

  “If you lie to me, Three-Fingers, not only will I disfigure your woman, but I will also, with my own hands, cut off your pico and stuff it in your cheeks. You will be no good to any woman then.”

  “I swear it. It is the truth.”

  Chato grunted and stalked over to where Tzoe was chewing a mouthful of Yerba Santos Mer, a scented herb which when chewed to pulp could be packed into a wound where it would act as a coagulant to staunch the flow of blood. “You are the one who is full of ideas today. Speak your mind.”

  Tzoe snorted. “There are twenty-two of them, plus whoever is still alive down at the relay station. There are only four of us. There is only one thing to do. I say we ride.”

  Chato snarled, madness in his eyes. “You, Treacherous Coyote. You are a coward after all. I knew I was right about you. You make me vomit. Did I not tell you that Usen, the Great Spirit, rides with us in all our doing? He will protect me for I am chosen.”

  “But what about the rest of us?” Tzoe whispered, turning to glance at Copperhead and the Apache Kid who had reeled back from their leader’s outburst. “You think we can fight all the Bluecoats? We don’t even have enough bullets between us.”

  Chato stepped forward again, a nerve jumping in his cheek. “El Cazador, the Hunter Jim Tanner, is down there. I must kill him and carry his scalp back. When our people hear of his death more of them will ride with us, then the whole Apache Nation, Jicarillas, Chiricahuas, Mescaleros, Mimbrenos, will rise up and rid the land of these golinki, skunks, who steal everything that has always been ours.”

  Tzoe studied Chato thoughtfully. There was a grain of truth to his statement. Killing Tanner would be a great coup. It would wake up all the chiefs who had become old women, sitting quietly round their fires. And there was a way to do it.

  “I know a way,” he said softly.

  Chato’s eyes glittered. “Tell me,” he said.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Que pasa, what happened?” Juan Servada asked, looking up as he emptied the spent casings from his Colt before pushing in fresh shells.

  “One on the roof,” Tanner replied, crossing to the wall from the foot of the ladder. “Won’t be taking no more scalps.”

  “What about my shotgun rider?” Josh asked anxiously. Even though he regarded Black Bob as a bit of a green fool he still felt responsible for him. Fatherly somehow.

  “He’s okay. Bit shaken up.” Tanner grinned. “Lost his breakfast too. Teach him not to eat so much.”

  From the corner where she was still crouching Kate Lantz listened to the men talking. Her initial fear had ebbed away to leave her nervous and the explosion on the roof had made her jump badly. Curious now, she eavesdropped on their conversation. There was something wild and free that appealed to her in Jim Tanner but the way he spoke so matter-of-factly, so insensitively, about death appalled her. She was more inclined to favor Juan Servada although he lacked the power and grace of the Indian scout. He seemed gentle, good-mannered, and gave the impression he was the only ambassador of civilization in this wild place, where men and savages murdered each other as a matter of routine. Try as she may, she could not really believe, after the security of her little house in the comparative quiet of St Louis, that all this was really happening to her.

  “Can I see him, Momma?” Ruth asked, looking up from the protective surround of her mother’s arms.

  “Who, dear?”

  “The Apache on the roof.”

  “No. Certainly not.”

  “But he’s dead, Momma, he can’t hurt me. Please, Momma,” she bleated, realizing she was fighting a losing battle.

  “No.” It was disturbing how children could be so blood-thirsty. How could her own daughter, raised in such a sheltered environment be talking like this? Would life out west in Tucson with her sister Emily be ultimately destructive, undoing all the guidance she had tried to give her daughter? Of course, she reasoned, it was the excitement. A child raised out here would be used to it, although that was no excuse when exposed to violence.

  “Is it over now?” a man’s voice whined.

  Kate turned to William Loving who was still cowering in the corner, his face blanched and his fat fingers nervously skittering across his paunch as if exploring to reassure himself he was all still there.

  “I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “Not that you did much to help.”

  Color rushed back into his cheeks. Indignant, what he imagined as a rather imperious voice emerged as a feeble complaint. “Madam, I am not a gunfighter. I am a respectable civilized man.”

  “If all the men here were as civilized,” she retorted caustically, “we’d all be dead by now. I am sure…” A howl of pain reared up into the desert sky like a hawk bursting into flight. “…Good heavens, what on earth was that?”

  At the wall the two scouts exchanged glances.

  “Came from in back of the ridge,” Zeke said.

  Tanner nodded his confirmation, eyes straying to the skyline.

  Josh grimaced. “I figure there’s somebody in pain.”

  “Yeah,” Tanner drawled, “but who?”

 
***

  The little paint responded to his master’s commands, kicking out in a long stride across the dusty earth. But the pony felt uncomfortable. His master’s scent was right but the way he sat the saddle was all wrong. His weight was all on one side as though he was riding with only one foot in the stirrup, and although he was gripping tight with his knees, his bulk shifted as they traveled, making it awkward to settle into a steady rhythm.

  There was the scent of blood too.

  Ignoring these disturbing influences, the paint pony flared its nostrils and heeded the urging of the reins snapping across its withers and the whip that bit into its rump.

  The Apache language has no swearwords. Those Indians that rode as scouts had inevitably, when they were sorely needed, borrowed them from the white man. As he rode, Three-Fingers’s mouth moved continually, forming the evil words he had acquired from the troopers’ vocabulary, spitting them out at the dry desert air. As time passed he grew more imaginative, adding curses of his own. It was his only weapon against the pain.

  Chato had wanted to cut off two of his fingers to remind him of his promise to the renegades but Tzoe had intervened. Sly as ever, he had reasoned that if Three-Fingers showed up at the Bluecoat column missing another two fingers the officer would know something was wrong. The best method would be to cut off his toes instead. That way the subtle reminder of what would happen to his woman, Dawn Star, if he betrayed them would be hidden inside one of his moccasins.

  But it hurt. He had screamed when they did it and now his foot felt the size of a wagon wheel, throbbing maddeningly, filling every corner of his mind with pain that twisted his thoughts. His concern now was the safety of Dawn Star. So what if twenty troopers died? There were plenty more where they came from. For his woman’s safety he would lie and cheat and endure this unearthly pain without a sign of it crossing his face.

  It kept him going. That and the curses. If only this were all over and he was back at home with her safely in his arms.

  But there was more to come.

  ***

  “Rider coming, Lieutenant,” the sergeant said, squinting from the shade of his hat brim. He stood beside his weary mount, dragging its head in the blistering heat. Absently, he patted the horse’s sweating flank.

  “Where?” Hardcastle demanded, eyes raking the horizon.

  “Northeast. It’s an Indian. Three-Fingers.”

  “How do you know?” Hardcastle pressed, reaching for his field-glass case.

  “He’s digging in his heels and swinging a quirt when he jumps. If it was a white man he’d ride straight-legged.”

  The lieutenant eventually found his field-glass, cursing at the dirty lens. His yellow bandana was too dusty with white alkali to do much good but he gave the glass a cursory wipe anyway, then brought it to his eye.

  “You’re right. It is Three-Fingers and riding hard.” He broke into a grin. “He must have found them, by God.” He clapped Mullaney’s shoulder. “We’re in luck, dammit, we’re in luck.”

  Mullaney was none too pleased. He had hoped they would turn back before noon. Neither the men nor the horses were in any shape for a wild chase across the desert, never mind handling a fight when they eventually caught up with the Apaches. There had to be a chase, there was nothing so sure as Apaches running. They always did. Hardcastle wasn’t usually a bad officer to serve under but when he had the scent of glory in his nostrils he didn’t give a damn for anything but grabbing the chance with both greedy hands. If Three-Fingers had sighted the broncos then the men were in for a bad time.

  “What the hell’s keeping him?” Hardcastle spat impatiently.

  “He’s pushing the pony as hard as he can, Sir,” Mullaney replied, tracking the scout’s progress with a practiced eye. “That pony’s been hard ridden a long way. See the lather on his shoulders.”

  The lieutenant turned on him, snapping, “I don’t need you to point out the obvious. I just wish he’d get here. There’re Indians to catch.”

  “And names to be made,” Mullaney added under his breath.

  Three-Fingers was close now and they stood in silence as they watched him draw nearer. When it appeared he would gallop straight past them the scout straightened his legs and hauled back on the reins. The paint’s head came up, mouth twisted by the pull of the bit while its rump went down, skittering on its haunches. Dust billowed behind. When it came to a standstill the pony began to stamp and blow, lungs expanding to regain breath, sucking oxygen from the stale air. Free of the reins its head tossed, wall-eyed, matted mane shaking.

  Hardcastle glanced up expectantly at the scout. “Well what did you find?”

  Three-Fingers looked down, leathery face expressionless below his battered hat. “Apaches.” He said it tonelessly but his delivery stated that if Apaches were what he had been sent out to find then Apaches he had indeed found.

  “The ones we’re looking for?”

  The scout nodded. “Chato.”

  Hardcastle’s face split into a grin. “Good, good. Where’re Tanner and Harris then?”

  Three-Fingers shook his head. “I tracked them toward the tinajars, rock tanks, but the Apaches had crossed their trail some hours later.”

  “Damn.” Hardcastle’s mouth narrowed to a thin line. “That means they’ll still be cutting for sign in the wrong place.” His eyes roamed over the scout’s lathered pony. “You followed the renegades?”

  “Yes. They have made camp in a box canyon northeast of here.”

  The sergeant pursed his lips. “Sounds screwy. A box canyon’s a bad place to camp when you know there’s a cavalry column chasing you.”

  Three-Fingers looked away to the desert, then pointedly at the cavalry mounts. “Box canyon’s a safe place to hole up if your ponies badly need water and forage and you figure the cavalry would make straight for Hueco Tanks. There’s grazing for maybe two days and a small sweet-water spring.”

  Hardcastle grinned. “So we’ll catch ’em with their backs against the wall. Just box ’em in and it’ll be all over.”

  Three-Fingers shook his head. “Chato won’t give up easily.”

  The lieutenant’s grin was a mask that left his eyes cold. “I know. How many of them are there?”

  “Ten,” the scout lied.

  “How far from here?”

  Three-Fingers scowled, reading the sky. “Two hours.”

  Hardcastle was already swinging up into his saddle. “Sergeant, give the order to move out.”

  Still standing next to his own horse, Mullaney tracked the lieutenant’s movements with wary eyes, then followed suit, face grim. “Troopers! Mount up!”

  The two lines of men wearily remounted, saddles creaking. Mullaney glanced along their ranks, noting the swollen mouths of the horses and their general poor condition. Unlike Three-Fingers’s paint, they hadn’t been bred for the desert.

  “We riding for Hueco Tanks, Sir?”

  “No, Sergeant.”

  “But the horses need water.”

  Hardcastle compressed his lips into a thin line. “Can’t afford the time. When we’ve rounded up these renegades the horses can be watered at the spring that Three-Fingers says is in the canyon.”

  Mullaney hunched his shoulders, throwing his weight forward in the saddle. It had to be said. “With all due respect, Sir, two hours hard ride in this heat and we won’t have any horses left to water. The men are in bad shape too.”

  Hardcastle bridled, jaw set. When he spoke his tone was icy. “I realize, Sergeant, that you have a responsibility to look after your men. So have I, but I also have a responsibility to make this area of Texas safe for the settlers and their families who these renegades are murdering indiscriminately. My orders come first. The men and horses are in better condition than they appear. And if they aren’t up to a three-day ride in the desert then they have no business being here.”

  “But Sir…”

  “Sergeant! That’s the end of it. I’ll hear no more. We are the guardians of this territory and we wi
ll do our duty to the best of our ability. Now give the order.” Angrily Hardcastle gestured to Three-Fingers to cut the trail. Behind him Mullaney glowered at his back, indecision tearing ragged holes in his thought patterns. After a moment he turned and raised his arm.

  “Troopers! Forward Yo!”

  CHAPTER 11

  Chato squinted over the sights of his captured Winchester and hammered off half a dozen shots at the relay station barn. A smatter of gunfire answered him. He rolled back into cover and glanced across at Tzoe.

  “You think that golinka, skunk, Three-Fingers, will lead the Pony Soldiers to the canyon as we told him?”

  “You can be sure. You saw his face when you threatened to cut up his woman? His toes too, each time his pony takes a step it will remind him of his promise.”

  Chato grunted. “Perhaps. But I still want El Cazador’s scalp before we leave here.”

  Tzoe flashed him a glance. “We do not have long if we are to reach the box canyon in time. The way we have been fighting up to now, starting and stopping, if we leave for the canyon Tanner won’t leave the relay station because he will think we are still out here waiting for him.”

  Chato shook his head. “He is not easily tricked.”

  “Do not forget,” added Tzoe, “that he has an estune, woman, and a child down there as well. He will take no risks.”

  “Perhaps you are right.”

  Tzoe nodded his certainty. “If we do not meet the Pony Soldiers at the canyon, when they find it is empty they will head back here. If this fight is not done they will catch us from behind. Then we would be finished. It would be better to leave Tanner. The only chance we have is to catch them in the canyon. Four of us rubbing out twenty-two of them is a bigger coup than just Tanner’s scalp.”

  Chato smiled. “You are well named, Treacherous Coyote. When you decide to fight you fight well, with your head as well as your hands. You were sent to me by Usen, the Great Spirit. Together we will make this land ours again. We will kill every Bluecoat that crosses the horizon.”