The Fight at Hueco Tanks

by Chris Scott Wilson

  “But what if they circle back?”

  Tanner’s head rose and he saw the fear spark in Kate’s eyes. His fist bunched, then his gaze switched to the salesman. His eyes were hard, flinty. “If you don’t shut your mouth and get on that coach I’ll shut it for you. A man like you needs busting in the mouth now and then.”

  Loving backed off and walked shakily away, once again consulting his pocket watch.

  Juan Servada held out his hand, a wide Latin smile showing off his perfect teeth. “Thank you, Señor, for what you have done.”

  Tanner jerked his head. “De nada, Señor, it was nothing.”

  Servada smiled at the Spanish. “Nevertheless, mil gracias, a thousand thanks.”

  Josh arrived, Black Bob McConnell trailing on his heels.

  “She's ready to roll. Be in El Paso before sundown. Horses are good and fresh.”

  “Good. You get going. Me and Zeke have a little matter to attend to.”

  “Sure. See you in El Paso. I'll buy you a drink,” Josh promised.

  “That goes for me too, Sir,” added Black Bob.

  Tanner swung stern eyes on the boy. “I told you before about that.”

  Black Bob paled. “What?”

  “The name's Jim, not Sir.”

  ***

  The Apache Kid gave the sign.

  Chato saw it and turned to watch Tzoe returning along the edge of the cliff, rifle dangling from his right hand. When he arrived he squatted, shaking back his shoulder-length black hair from his bronzed face. He jerked his head in query.

  Chato bared his teeth. “I saw the dust cloud, then the Kid gave the sign they are at the canyon mouth.”

  “We arrived at just the right time.” A muscle jumped in Tzoe's cheek, giving the impression he winked. “Three-Fingers rides with them?”

  “Yudascin, that bastard? Who else led the Americanos here?”

  Tzoe's expression said that was as he had predicted. The plan was working well. “He will die too, the snake.”

  “Yes. Is everything ready?” Chato asked, looking away and over the rim where the small herd of ponies grazed on the floor of the canyon a hundred feet below.

  Tzoe nodded. “I've scouted some places. We will be covered and able to move back and forth. They will not see us.”

  “We've got them then?”

  “With the help of the Great Spirit.”

  Chato looked up at the words, meeting Tzoe's gaze. His eyes seemed diamond-hard, a madness blazing in them. “The plan may be yours, Treacherous Coyote, but you are an instrument delivered to me by Usen, the Great Spirit. He rides at the right hand of his avenging warrior.” He pounded a fist against his breast. “I am that warrior. Me.” With that, Chato looked off down the canyon.

  Tzoe’s eyes crinkled as he looked guardedly at his chief. How could he believe such a thing? He was a man as are all men. He could come no closer to the Great Spirit than any of them…

  His thoughts were rudely broken off as they heard the yell from the mouth of the canyon. It was a Pony Soldier.

  “Charge!”

  CHAPTER 14

  Jim Tanner jabbed his heels into the bay’s flanks. It wasn’t necessary, the horse was giving all it had, straining forward, hooves striking the sand with hollow thuds. The animal was well watered, even if poorly fed. Most of the fodder at Hueco Tanks had been burned in the Indian raid and what little was left had been shared with Josh’s stage line stock.

  Zeke clung to the back of the Apache pony as it wallowed in Tanner’s wake. It was in poor condition having been hard ridden since the reservation breakout, and with its shorter stride it was hard pressed to keep pace with the raw-boned bay. At a gallop the journey was uncomfortable.

  There was no saddle.

  As he rode, the bay striding out beneath him, Tanner leaned out to glance at the trail. It was poor terrain for tracking. Sand and dust do not retain clear hoof prints, so only the general direction could be determined from the marks. He needed to know how old the trail was.

  The bay topped out in the saddle of a ridge then went down on its haunches to slither down the other side. As he hit bottom he heard Zeke curse behind him, so he hauled the bay to a halt and twisted. The Apache pony had lost its footing, legs thrashing in a vain effort to right itself. Zeke was grimacing, hands high in front of his chest, pulling the pony’s head straight while his knees squeezed its ribs as he tried to keep his seat. As Tanner watched, the pony slewed round, scrabbled, then gained control before it skittered to a halt beside him. Relieved, he inspected Zeke’s sweating face, streaks running down through the dust on his cheeks.

  “You okay?”

  “Sure,” the old man replied, looking more than relieved himself.

  Satisfied, Tanner peered at the trail again. The ground was firmer in the bottoms and the sign well defined. He stepped down from his saddle to touch one of the hoof-prints, his eye gauging the distance between them.

  “They’re not moving so fast,” he commented idly.

  “Tracks are close together.”

  “How far are we behind them?”

  “Not far.” Looking up, Tanner spotted a straggled heap of pony-droppings, made by a walking animal. Leading the bay, he walked over to them. He shed one of his gloves then stooped and crumbled one of the golden balls in his palm. It was still warm.

  “We’re getting closer.”

  Zeke edged up his pony and passed Tanner a cigarette he had rolled as he waited. “Better be cautious now.”

  Tanner wiped the pony-dropping from his hand and took the smoke. His eyes strayed to the next ridge. “Yeah, I reckon we better had,” he agreed.

  ***

  The moment for Lieutenant William J. Hardcastle’s ride to glory in a bid to have his name entered into the history books that weren’t yet written had finally come. Or that was the way he saw it. His one regret was that his father wasn’t there to see his son, ramrod-straight, saber raised, wearing a face of determined courage as he led his brave troopers into battle against the noble red savage. If only there had been an artist on hand or one of those men with a big black box they called a camera to record the moment for posterity.

  In the face of adversity he was doing his duty.

  Chest almost bursting with pride and eyes shining with eagerness, he called the charge and plunged down toward the canyon mouth without a backward glance. The four ranks of troopers led by the sergeant galloped down behind him. They rushed past the crouching figure of Three-Fingers who watched them go, his face set, grim-jawed, unmoving even when their iron-shod hooves threw up dirt that pattered against his shirt and made his pony shy at the end of the rein he held in his whitened knuckles. He turned slightly to see the rumps of the last five horses, tails flying, as they were swallowed up by the canyon.

  Wearily, the pain from his severed toes making him limp, he came to his feet and laid a quieting hand on his pony’s neck.

  He had done it. He had fulfilled his part of the bargain. He had delivered the Pony Soldiers.

  Now he would do what had to be done.

  Chato and Tzoe obviously meant to pen the cavalry in the canyon and pick them off one by one. If they could hold the canyon mouth they had a good chance. A good rifleman well placed could wreak havoc. That was why no lookout had sounded the alarm. Three-Fingers knew someone was there; he had felt eyes pressing into his back as he’d pretended to read the sign for the sergeant. Now it was a matter of where the lookout was hiding. The right-hand side of the entrance had ample scrub to give cover but the left-hand side had more rocks, better against cavalry carbines. He was sure it would be that side. Three-Fingers had to find him and capture his rifle to replace the one Chato had taken from him. Then he would search out Chato and the Treacherous Coyote, Tzoe, and kill them both.

  As the last cavalry mount vanished into the maw of the canyon Three-Fingers began to move.

  First the scout.

  Leaving his pony he began to lope down to the bottoms, cutting to the left. Now the troope
rs were right in, the lookout would have turned to watch them, his back to the entrance. Ignoring the stabbing pains from his foot, Three-Fingers grimaced as he ran, knife in hand.

  ***

  Lieutenant Hardcastle guided his horse with his knees along the twisting trail that led to the heart of the canyon. As the thunder of hooves behind him pounded into his adrenaline-excited brain his eyes picked out the Indian pony herd scattered among the bushes, grazing on the rich grass. They were here. He began to yell. The Indian ponies froze, heads raised, mouths full of unchewed grass as their eyes swung toward him. Almost at his back Mullaney began to yell too, long and loud before the men picked it up, twenty-two men all screaming war cries in unison as they charged down between the walls.

  There was no gunfire to welcome them.

  Any second the lieutenant expected the Indians to open fire from the brush. Ahead the grazing ponies shambled into a canter, out of the soldiers’ path. Before he knew it, Hardcastle’s charge had carried him to the sheer rock face that was the end of the canyon. He slowed his horse, wheeling to the right to search the brush.

  “Sergeant! Split the men. You take the left!”

  At the cliff face the men dutifully divided and proceeded to rake fruitlessly through the bushes. Hardcastle frowned. Where were they? Their ponies were here, so they had to be. Where in God’s name were they, the savages?

  Confused, the troopers’ search disintegrated into a milling crowd of men and horses. Heads craned this way and that as the men strained to see their enemies. The Indian ponies shied between the cavalry horses, confusing matters even more.

  The troopers mumbled. Ordered into a charge they had not wanted nor had the heart to make, now that their battle lust had been primed they felt cheated.

  Mullaney was trying to spot Hardcastle when he caught sight of Zeke’s horse among the loose ponies. Just as he was positive it was the scout’s horse the lieutenant came pushing his mount angrily between the churning troops.

  “Sir! That’s Harris’s horse!” He pointed.

  Hardcastle scowled, more important things on his mind. “I don't give a damn, Sergeant. Where are these Apaches?”

  Mullaney looked at him without answering, trying to put the pieces together. No lookout at the canyon mouth. No Indians where they should be. No tracks out of the canyon. Harris’s horse mixed with the Apache ponies. Where was Three-Fingers? Maybe he could answer some of the questions. The only thing he could see it pointed to was an ambush.

  “Well, Sergeant?”

  “Sir…”

  Then the first stick of dynamite exploded.

  CHAPTER 15

  Chato stood legs apart, head thrown back. The dynamite blast drowned out his laughter. That first stick demolished the walls of the narrowest part of the canyon mouth, sending a cascade of rocks tumbling down to block the twisting trail. He had hoped to catch the last rank of the charging Pony Soldiers but the stick had exploded a little later than he expected. But they were bottled up now and at his mercy. He was pleased with that first throw.

  Tzoe peered critically at the shattered walls then used his knife to shorten the rest of the fuses. It took barely a moment. When he was finished he glanced up at Chato's face.

  “I said these would be useful to us.”

  Chato grinned. He had never seen explosives before.

  “They lift my heart, these sticks of thunder.” He looked down over the rim at the cavalry milling helplessly below. “Let us do our work.”

  Tzoe touched the fuse of the next stick into the embers of the tiny fire he had built for the purpose. As it began to splutter he handed it over.

  Chato hefted the sparking black stick, then lobbed it down into the canyon. It arced gracefully across the sky to hit the sheer rock face. It exploded. The sound bounced back and forth as whole sections of rock and a shower of splinters broke away. In a deadly storm they spread out and crashed down onto the confused troopers, bringing down screaming horses and shouting men.

  Chato guffawed again as he eyed his handiwork. “With a bag of these I could rub out every Americano who walks the earth. Another! Another!” He thrust out his hand, then threw them as fast as Tzoe could light them.

  Soon the canyon was a maelstrom of smoke and explosions. Wails and screams of terror could be heard between the reverberating crashes as men and horses uselessly strove to find refuge.

  And Chato laughed like a madman.

  ***

  Tanner reined in, then Zeke pulled up his Apache pony alongside. Tanner frowned, eyes screwed up in concentration.

  “Zeke, you hear that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “D’you figure?”

  “Either a mountain’s fell down or it’s dynamite.”

  Tanner nodded. “I’ll allow that.” He twisted his head as the distant rumbles followed each other, drawing closer together until it was almost like continuous thunder rolling in the clear desert sky. He pointed.

  “From over there.”

  Zeke mumbled his agreement.

  “It’s got to be the column.”

  “But they ain’t got dynamite.”

  Tanner grimaced. “I never paid it much mind, but one of the camps the Apaches wiped out belonged to a prospector. Maybe they got it there.”

  “Jesus,” Zeke whispered.

  Tanner was already kicking the bay into a gallop, his face anxious. The horse leapt away from a standing start, muscles bunched. The Indian pony started forward too and Zeke began to whip the reins across its withers, leaning forward to goad it into a gallop.

  They could only hope they could reach the column before it was all over. Either that or they’d be in time to bury them.

  Zeke kicked the pony. He hated shovels.

  Even more than he hated Apaches.

  ***

  Three-Fingers was sure he’d picked the right side of the canyon to begin his search.

  After his race across the bottoms he slid into the shadow of a huge boulder, his chest heaving. He grimaced from the pain in his foot as he scanned the rocks that lay in a tumble up the slope ahead. The lookout had to be up there, no doubt gloating that the cavalry had ridden into the trap.

  Three-Fingers could detect no movement.

  When his breathing settled down to a steady rhythm he began to climb. He was careful not to dislodge any shale. A knife his only weapon; if the lookout caught him in the open then he was a dead man. A knife was no contest for a rifle. He squeezed cautiously past hunks of rock and picked his way upwards.

  Always watching.

  If a leaf on a twig moved then he would see it. The sun blazed down, casting every spur and crag into sharp relief. A wilderness of rock. But he had to be there somewhere.

  One thing puzzled him. Why hadn’t Chato opened fire on the cavalry? They were in the box canyon now. Why? His answer came moments later.

  The first stick of dynamite exploded.

  Ahead of him where the trail narrowed the earth erupted, spewing rocks and shale into the air. Under him the ground shook as though giant fists hammered on it. He clung, fingernails skidding across rock as he slipped downwards. His leg jammed in a crevice between two man-sized boulders. All he could do was shield his face with his arms as debris battered his body. Coughing with the dust, vision swimming, he flinched away from the rock slivers and pebbles that lodged in his hair or bounced over his back and shoulders. The explosion’s force had compressed his eardrums, sending a shriek of pain burrowing madly into his brain.

  When the agony subsided he found himself on his knees, hands pressed to the sides of his head. Somehow his leg had come free but his legging was torn at the knee and a dribble of blood revealed a long scratch down his calf. He shook himself back into reality.

  Above the canyon’s gateway a dust cloud hung suspended in the sky, blanking off the power of the sun. Again he raked the slopes. There was movement to his left but when he swung he realized it was just a flat disc of rock toppling to shudder down the slope. With his head turned he
caught something else in the very edge of his vision.

  He grinned. It was the lookout.

  As the figure above him leapt from outcrop to outcrop like a goat, Three-Fingers could make out who it was. Even from a back view. Has-kay-bay-nez-ntayl, The Apache Kid. Three-Fingers had expected him to be farther up the canyon but he must have stayed well back to escape the explosion, ready to move forward when the canyon mouth was blocked. Now he was climbing to gain a vantage point. The soldiers were bound to make a run back along the trail and when they did The Apache Kid’s rifle would be waiting for them.

  But not if Three-Fingers could get there first.

  He needed that rifle to settle his score. He came up off his knees and began to scale the rock-strewn slope quickly. Keeping an eye on the renegade ahead, he checked his knife was still in its scabbard, then used both hands to assist his climb.

  When he was halfway to the summit the Kid dropped out of sight over the skyline. Now, sure of not being seen, Three-Fingers increased his pace. Another dynamite stick exploded, then another and another. This time they didn’t bother him. His ears were still numb from the first blast and these sticks were falling well away from him into the heart of the canyon. His feet slipped as the earth heaved but he scrambled upwards, avoiding rocks that had again begun to slide.

  Now his foot was screaming with pain and he could feel the blood oozing inside his moccasin. His lungs rasped for breath, dust clogging his nostrils and layering his teeth. Unable to swallow, his mouth was dry.

  A yard below the rim he slumped to the ground, snatching a respite while the explosions continued without rest. The palms of his hands transmitted every tremor of the earth through his weary body. Panting, he thanked the Great Spirit he had not ridden into the canyon. It must be a living hell down there.