The Fight at Hueco Tanks

by Chris Scott Wilson

  Slowly he crawled the last few feet, snaking upward in the dust, and topped out. Quickly he slithered over the rim and slid behind the protection of a boulder. It was only after he had broken the skyline that he became aware of the carbine fire coming from the bottom of the canyon. Carefully he leaned out and surveyed the terrain ahead.

  The Apache Kid had chosen a stand which gave him a clear view of the twisting trail, now blocked below him by the avalanche from the first blast. The trail was empty but the soldiers would soon come running, seeking to escape the dynamite blasts. Three-Fingers could see where the bronco had spread his ammunition on a flat rock by his right hand. At that moment he was checking his rifle. When he finished he made himself comfortable, steadily watching the trail.

  Three-Fingers began his stalk.

  He plucked his knife from its sheath and gripped it loosely in his right hand, the blade down-over from his fist. Slowly now he moved forward and down, silent as a hunting cougar. Adrenaline momentarily conquered the weariness that had invaded his bones and his pain was forgotten as he crept toward his kill.

  The Apache Kid never moved.

  Three-Fingers closed the distance between them. When he was in range he faltered for a moment, wondering whether to try for a throw. He discarded the idea. If he missed he was dead. The Apache Kid would make no mistakes. If by chance he was discovered before he could jump, then he would throw. But only as a last resort. He preferred to stab him; just to make certain.

  It was inevitable, for it had been too easy so far. The footing was dangerous and, with his gaze set firmly on the Apache Kid, his toe dislodged a pebble.

  With a rattle it scattered down the slope.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Apache Kid whirled, his rifle coming up.

  Three-Fingers was close enough to jump. As soon as the pebble moved he had tensed his muscles. As the renegade spun round he sprang out from the canyon side, death in his eyes.

  The rifle was up and lining but the speed of the scout’s jump had surprised the Apache Kid. He squeezed the trigger a fraction of a second too soon. The bullet went wild but it was close enough to pass through Three-Fingers’s hair and burn along the edge of his scalp. He saw the muzzle flash but felt nothing. All his concentration was focused on the astonished straddle-legged Apache below him.

  Seeing a collision was imminent, reflex brought up the rifle to protect the Kid’s face. It was into this that Three-Fingers crashed. They both went down in a heap of thrashing arms and legs. The Kid was on the bottom, rifle held across his chest, trying to throw off the scout. With one hand Three-Fingers grabbed the rifle in an attempt to still his quarry long enough to plunge in the knife.

  With a surge of desperate energy the renegade threw off his attacker. There was no time to reload the single shot carbine so he used it as a club, swinging wildly as he came up off the ground. A chance blow caught Three-Fingers and threw him off balance, reeling backwards.

  The Apache Kid was grinning now. He was over the shock and was beginning to enjoy himself. He knew about Three-Fingers’s toes; he had been present when Chato had severed them. He jumped forward and stamped on the scout’s foot. Three-Fingers howled, his mouth a hollow tunnel of agony as his body twisted away.

  When he swung back, the knife flew from his hand like a wild bird freed from a coop. It was his turn to grin. The blade speared the Kid’s throat, stopping him in his tracks. His chuckle turned into a gurgle as the blood began to pump thickly from his jugular vein. He stood rock-still, the rifle still gripped tightly in his hands as the crimson spurted across the barrel and splattered onto the dry earth. He frowned, disbelieving, then his knees sagged, and he buckled to the ground. He lay dying, bemused at the blood ebbing slowly now from his ruptured throat to trickle into the dust.

  Nursing his own pains, Three-Fingers watched him die, then stepped forward to claim the rifle. It was slippery with blood. He used the tail of his calico shirt to wipe it dry, then gathered the ammunition that had been so carefully spread out along the rock where the Kid had chosen to make his stand. Meticulously he threaded the bullets into his cartridge belt, saving the last round to reload the carbine. Ready, he dropped to one knee and spied along the cliff top that ran round the canyon, searching out Chato’s position. Patiently he studied the rim between the dynamite explosions. Most of the dust from the blasts hung directly over the canyon itself, leaving the rim almost clear. After two minutes he caught a glimpse of gun smoke.

  It had to be them.

  Now he could do what he had come for. He checked the rifle again and with a last glance at Has-kay-bay-nez-ntayl, Brave-And-Wild-And-Will-Come-To-A-Mysterious-End, otherwise known as the Apache Kid, Three-Fingers suppressed the pain from his mangled foot and set out to hunt down his quarry.

  ***

  Lieutenant William J. Hardcastle cowered behind a boulder where he had sought shelter and gazed with horror across the canyon floor. His beautifully conceived charge, after splitting at the cliff face to search the bushes, had disintegrated into a shambles. How had he been to know the hostiles had dynamite in their possession? Who would have ever thought the Apaches could have had access to it? A man couldn’t think of everything. The plight of his men at that moment was secondary to the dread of what would happen when he reported back to his commanding officer at Fort Bliss. The major would probably have him busted and drummed out of the cavalry. The embarrassment, the degradation of losing his command. His conscience stabbed him as he realized he should have listened to the sergeant. After all, he had the experience of many Indian situations. Suddenly Hardcastle was angry. He should have foreseen this development. A box canyon had to be a trap. And like an eager, green kid he had ridden straight into it. Jesus, how could he be such a fool?

  “Sir!”

  Hardcastle shook his ringing ears free of the dynamite blasts and scowled into the dust that hid cursing men and whinnying horses. The sergeant materialized, his uniform torn, blood trickling from the edge of his scalp. Relief that he had found his superior officer was evident on his face. The two men stared at each other until another explosion made them both flinch, burrowing their heads as far down on their shoulders as possible. If the power of the explosion didn’t get you then the sheer deafening noise of it did, followed by the pressure waves. In back of them, rocks crashed to the canyon floor, momentarily drowning out the troopers’ voices.

  “Sir, we’ve got to get out of here.”

  Hardcastle dredged up a snarl. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He looked away, fearful that Mullaney could read the tenor in his eyes. But all he could see was the hanging dust that closed off the sun as effectively as a thundercloud.

  The sergeant’s anger mounted. This man should be in firm command, rasping out orders and making sure they were carried out. He couldn’t hide the distaste in his voice.

  “Each minute we stay here longer than…”

  The lieutenant watched Mullaney’s mouth moving soundlessly as another blast rocked the earth. He had a sudden urge to shout at Mullaney that now they were here they might as well fight it out, then he realized that’s what they should be doing anyway. He barely restrained himself. He felt the sergeant’s opinion of him was already low enough.

  “Form the men into two skirmish lines. We’ll move down to the trail. If any of the renegades have come down after us we’ll clean them out along the way.”

  Mullaney was startled. It was the nearest thing to a sensible order he’d heard since the sun had risen that morning. Only it had taken a near massacre to hear it. As he looked at Hardcastle he wondered if there would still be a slaughter anyhow. He had already reckoned that the first stick of dynamite had sealed the canyon up tight. If that was so they were going to have a hell of a fight to get out. It would only take a handful of renegades to hold them down here for ever, or at least until they’d picked off every trooper still alive.

  “Yes, Sir.” He crawled away, dodging fallen rocks, bawling out names as he went. There seemed to be dead
horses and bodies everywhere but when he called them all together miraculously there were only six men missing, Corporal Samson among them. He saw that the lethargy of the morning and early afternoon had been erased by the attack. Those dead faces were now almost too alive, emotions scurrying across their twitching cheeks as quickly as muscles could relax or contract. One boy was screaming out his hate while tears rolled down his cheeks. Mullaney slapped him and he fell into stunned silence. Another sat quietly as though he was on a picnic; only the absent stroking of his rifle gave him away. A slap did nothing in the way of a cure.

  But they did what he told them.

  They came into two ragged ranks, eyes distant, hands nervous, heads craning as each blast made the canyon walls tremble. From nowhere a horse loomed out of the gloom to career through them, kicking one man in the head and tossing another aside. He had to get them moving before they froze again. If only they’d had something to shoot at, but there was nothing but thunderous explosions and the screaming fear of being crushed by rock falls.

  There was a lull. Before another stick could drop among them he shouted. “Lieutenant! Skirmish ranks ready to move out!”

  Hardcastle jumped to his feet as a bush near him rattled under a scatter of falling debris. He had to salvage some dignity. Scowling, he made a brave face as he took his place at the head of his men. Ready as he would ever be, he waved them forward.

  The blasts ceased, leaving only a curtain of hanging dust. After the echoes of the last explosion died away it became ghostly. Grimy, uniformed men seemed to glide through the eerie landscape, feeling their way toward they knew not what, dazed, wandering horses and bushes materializing out of the gloom to disappear in denser patches of drifting smoke. Hardcastle led them, pistol in one hand, saber in the other, pushing his feet ahead one step at a time. With a rising surge of optimism he reached the conclusion that something could be salvaged here; caution would be his watchword. He hadn’t lost that many men. Only six. With luck he would lose no more.

  He even smiled a grim sort of smile.

  And he was still smiling when Chato and Tzoe began working the actions of their Winchesters. They had seen the shadows moving below them. Chato’s first bullet smacked into the earth ten feet ahead of Hardcastle. The second bullet hit him.

  His feet just stopped moving, then he keeled over onto his back. Mullaney saw him fall and came running. He couldn’t see what was wrong. Then he noticed the little round hole in the crown of the lieutenant’s hat. Carefully he lifted it away from Hardcastle’s head.

  The bullet had entered the top of his skull and blown his brains down his throat.

  Stunned, Mullaney couldn’t help thinking how peaceful the dead man looked. Not a drop of blood. After what he’d done to his men it didn’t seem fair. He had even managed to avoid leading them out of the hole into which he had thoughtlessly thrown them.

  And all for glory.

  Dust devils danced by the sergeant’s feet. Bullets. Now they were trying to put him down. Dynamite wasn’t enough. He glanced at Hardcastle’s immobile face. As he watched, a bullet plucked at the lieutenant’s uniform and blood welled half-heartedly from the wound. It didn’t seem to bother him. How many times can you kill a man?

  Mullaney snarled. “Scatter! Keep moving! Follow me!”

  He made for the canyon mouth.

  CHAPTER 17

  Tanner’s bay horse galloped like the wind.

  Zeke’s Apache pony was struggling. Lather coated its shoulders and foam flecked its sore mouth. Zeke cursed time and time again, Tanner always just in sight in front. A pall of dust hung in the blue sky ahead. The explosions came thick and fast, distant rumbles like giants chewing on granite, teeth grinding rock to shale and spitting it out.

  They were close.

  Tanner was slowing, hauling back on the reins to bring up the bay’s head. He stood in the stirrups, the horse’s rump down as its hooves furrowed the earth. Zeke was panting, snatching at the dry air as he caught up. He let the pony shamble to a halt.

  “What can you see?”

  “Pony. Looks like Three-Fingers’s paint.” Tanner spurred his horse. “Let’s get closer.”

  It was Three-Fingers’s paint, still saddled, head down as it cropped hopefully at a patch of bleached grass. Tanner looked from the pony to the canyon, reading the sign left by the cavalry charge. He pointed it out.

  Zeke’s face showed disbelief. “Even he couldn’t be that stupid. Nobody could.”

  Tanner’s mouth twisted. “The sign don’t lie.”

  “More’s the pity.”

  The dynamite blasts stopped, then were replaced by gunfire.

  “Repeating rifles. We’d better get on up there.”

  “You ain’t going in?”

  Tanner edged his horse forward. “No. They must be up on the top. The best way to use dynamite would be to sit on the rim and just toss it down.”

  “Then they must be up on the rim.”

  “Always knew you were bright,” Tanner said dryly.

  “And you’re too damn clever by far,” Zeke grumbled.

  They rode down the slope and across the bottoms to where the trail to the heart of the canyon began. Listening to the rifle fire, they headed in, using their horses for as much of the work as possible before they had to dismount. When they reached the foot of the rock fall caused by the first blast Tanner spurred the bay and it leapt at the slide. He managed to get twenty feet up before the horse was struggling, skittish as one hoof after another slipped. Iron shoes sparked on rocks as it bunched its shoulders to try again. In disgust Tanner stepped out of the saddle, pulling his Winchester from the scabbard before he slapped the horse’s rump. Tossing its head, the bay turned back and skidded back down on its haunches to the trail.

  Zeke watched the display and before Tanner had given up he had swung down from the Indian pony and started up on foot. It was a stiff climb. By the time he reached Tanner his chest felt like it was gripped by an iron band that squeezed out what little air he could suck in.

  When Zeke crested the summit and slithered down to where the Apache Kid lay Tanner had already inspected the body and was casting across the hard ground. The Apache’s sightless eyes were covered in flies while an army of ants gorged on the blood crusted throat.

  “You make the sign?” Zeke asked, his interest in the corpse exhausted.

  Tanner was frowning as he knelt to examine the tracks. “Three-Fingers. They’re his tracks but there’s something about them. He’s favoring one foot.”

  Zeke had been staring into the distance, ears sifting the sounds of the cavalry carbines from the repeating rifles. The renegades were most certainly on the rim, laying down fire on the cavalry below. It was obvious the troopers had no positive targets by their random shooting. But which side of the canyon were the broncos on, or were they on both?

  Tanner jerked his head. “Well?”

  “I figure they’re on this side. Can’t be sure for the dust but I thought I saw gun smoke along there.” He made a sweep of the left-hand rim.

  “That’s the way Three-Fingers’s tracks go,” agreed Tanner.

  Zeke grinned mirthlessly. “We can’t all be wrong.”

  ***

  Three-Fingers found the ponies first.

  He reckoned the renegades must have ridden them up the long way round to keep all the tracks out of sight. There were three. The Apache Kid had obviously left his up here too, ready to make a run. They were hidden back from the rim, tethered to a scrub oak, and by the droppings it appeared they had been there some time, two or three hours. He reckoned they had pulled out of Hueco Tanks as soon as he had set out to find the column and lead them here.

  He moved closer and scouted the ground. One set of tracks led back the way he had come. The Apache Kid. Two other sets led toward the rim. Three-Fingers grunted in satisfaction. The trail was growing shorter. A water bag hung from the neck of one of the ponies. Gratefully he tipped it to his mouth. Up on the rim the sun was devastating. He
looked back toward the box canyon, wondering what it was like at the bottom.

  A repeating rifle that had paused, probably to reload, opened up again. Three-Fingers plugged the water bag and hung it back on the saddle. His eye wandered over the pony. It wasn’t bad. Maybe he would take it for himself when this fight was over. It would be little enough recompense for his missing toes. He cocked an ear to the hammering of the Winchester then set out, limping painfully.

  ***

  He could see Chato, but Chato couldn’t see him.

  The leader of the broncos was sprawled on the ground with a good view over the rim. He was working the rifle as though he had an inexhaustible supply of ammunition. Empty brass casings, still smoking, littered the ground all around him and were strewn in patches all along the rim, showing he kept changing positions to make the Americanos think there were more of them up here than just two.

  Three-Fingers had to admire Chato’s courage. Not many men would take on the U.S. Cavalry with such bad odds. For a brief second the scout wondered if Chato had killed Jim Tanner and Zeke Harris before coming to the box canyon. If he had, well, this would repay him for their deaths too.

  Three-Fingers realized as he watched that he was going to extract great pleasure from killing this bad man, this crazy man, this evil man who thought he was blessed by Usen, the Great Spirit, to lead the Apache Nation to freedom. Back to the old trail as their lives had been for hundreds of years. Ride where you will. Move north with the summer and south for the winter. A great wide and empty land where the Nation had lived hand in hand with nature. Did Chato not realize it was all over? It would never be the same again. Nothing could make it so. Crazy stands like this would only wipe the last of the Apaches off the face of the earth for ever.

  Chato would die as he lived.

  Three-Fingers waited. He wanted Chato to finish the magazine of his rifle. When he did Three-Fingers would call out to him and he would see who was going to shoot him down like a dog. As he waited, the scout checked his own weapon, making sure the one bullet was ready in the old single-shot Remington. He would have Chato’s rifle after this. A pretty Winchester.