The Fight at Hueco Tanks

by Chris Scott Wilson

  Chato rolled over and grabbed a handful of shells to reload.

  Three-Fingers stood up and shouted.

  “Ti-iltoche! Troublemaker! Now it is your turn to die!”

  Chato froze, on his back at the scout’s mercy. One hand held the empty Winchester and the other a handful of bullets. One was no good without the other. His mouth opened in horror. To be caught now and stopped. And by one of his own people. Apache killing Apache.

  Madness.

  He had no chance to say a word. Three-Fingers spoke for him.

  ‘Chato. Hi-dicho, it is finished.’

  Then he pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER 18

  Mullaney cursed.

  Ten feet behind him Hardcastle lay dead. Ten lousy feet. They were pinned down. The erupting terror of the dynamite had been lifted and now they faced repeating rifles. His anger rose at the thought that reservation Indians should be better armed than the army intended to police them. Their single-shot Springfield carbines were no match for Winchesters.

  Even then it wasn’t as if they could hit back at the Apaches. They couldn’t even see them. The Indians moved about on the rim and their cover was so effective none of the men could make a hit. Mingled in with the rifle fire now were the cries of the wounded, singled out by the snipers.

  They had to move.

  “Move out!” He came to his feet for the sixth time, waving them forward. Screaming now, he saw none of the men had stirred, paralyzed into immobility by their unseen assailants. A bullet whanged by so close he felt its wind and he stepped back. His boot caught on a rock and he sat down hard. Damn rookies. When they had first been shocked into advancing he had thought they were going to be all right but seeing the lieutenant cut down so promptly had again unlocked the fear in their hearts. It galled him they had been so ready to follow a man, just because he was an officer, who cared nothing for their lives, but when it came to obeying their sergeant, who had their welfare at heart, they refused point-blank. They didn’t have the sense to realize they could not escape up the sheer canyon walls. The only way out was down the trail and if they had to brave the repeating rifle fire then they had no choice.

  All they could do was minimize the targets they presented.

  A series of doglegs made at irregular intervals. Cut and run. And hope to God the end of the trail wasn’t blocked.

  With another fruitless glance at the rim he shouted at the nearest trooper.

  “Johnston! Make a run for that big boulder over there. As soon as the next man joins you, run for the next one.”

  Johnston was a fair-skinned, blond-haired young man whose wide eyes darted to Mullaney, then to the rim above, his Adam’s apple jerking convulsively in his throat.

  “Move it boy! Now!”

  Johnston was rigid, gulping.

  Mullaney swung his rifle to cover the young trooper. “Run, boy. Now! Or I’ll blow your head off!”

  Johnston looked at the yawning cavern of the sergeant’s rifle then at the expression on Mullaney’s face.

  He ran.

  ***

  Tzoe took aim at a wide-brimmed cavalry hat he had spotted lurking in the dust cloud below. He squeezed the trigger and without waiting to see if he had made a hit he worked the Winchester and fired twice. That would keep their heads down.

  He was thirty or forty feet from Chato’s position, cut off by a rise so that they could not see each other. A few more shots and he would change position again. He cast an eye over his ammunition stolen from a ranch they had hit seven suns ago. It was running low. He had another two boxes on his pony but no doubt Chato would have some to spare.

  If he was honest with himself he couldn’t really see the point of this. They hadn’t a hope of killing all the soldiers trapped below. The odds were too high. And besides, what good would it do them if they did? They would only be free for a short while. The Americanos would send another column of Pony Soldiers after them and another and another until they were either caught or killed.

  But he feared Chato too. The would-be chief had taken the notion he was “chosen” and what could he, Tzoe, do to dispel the illusion? He had the feeling Chato would not stop until the Pony Soldiers cornered him and dispatched him to dah-eh-sah, the big sleep.

  If they were wise they would run now, back to the reservation, and when the agency police visited them they could claim they hadn’t left the reservation at all but had only been out hunting. The Americanos in the canyon didn’t know who they were. They had not been close enough to be identified. Only Three-Fingers knew and he would keep his mouth shut for fear they would kill his wife, Dawn Star. Tzoe had nothing but contempt for the scout, a turncoat with a love for his wife that could always be used as a lever against him.

  Perhaps he would broach the subject of their escape when he went to get some more bullets.

  He emptied his Winchester into the canyon and reloaded. It was time to change positions. Might as well collect the ammunition now. He slid back from the rim and came to his feet, the rifle dangling from his right hand. Give the barrel time to cool too. Light-footed, he stepped out to skirt the flat-topped rise that separated him from Chato.

  He paused in mid-stride. Suddenly he had the feeling something was wrong. Then he heard the voice.

  Three-Fingers. So the scout had broken his word and was out for revenge. So be it.

  Stealthily Tzoe began to circle. When he had a sight line he could see Chato helpless on his back, caught with an empty rifle, and a few yards away Three-Fingers stood, legs apart. He was sneering, his rifle pointed at the chief’s chest. Tzoe raised his Winchester.

  Three-Fingers spoke again. “Chato. Hi-dicho, it is finished.”

  Tzoe squeezed the trigger.

  Both rifles spoke together but Tzoe’s was marginally faster. Three-Fingers squinted, jaw sagging with pain as an evil red flower blossomed from his chest. The .44 bullet flung him backwards, the barrel of his own carbine dropping. The wild bullet meant for Chato’s heart ripped into the calf muscles of the chief’s leg and he twisted away. Three-Fingers crashed to the ground, blood soaking into the dust. Only his leg twitched a little as his life ebbed away, back into mother earth.

  Tzoe glanced at the fallen scout, now still, then ran to Chato. He examined his leg. “You are losing much blood. You can fight no longer.” As he spoke he tore the tail from his shirt and began to bind Chato’s wound. “We have to leave this place.”

  “We fight.”

  Stubborn, Tzoe thought. “If they scale the rock fall at the canyon mouth we will never get away alive.”

  “We fight.”

  Tzoe thought quickly. “Have you not said yourself you are the chosen instrument of the Great Spirit?”

  Chato considered him. “That is so.”

  “Then if you die here you will never lead the Apache Nation to freedom. If not you, who else is worthy?”

  Chato nodded gravely. “You speak straight, Tzoe. Perhaps I misjudged you. It is true, we must escape.”

  Tzoe smothered his relief. “Then come.” He winced as he helped Chato up. His own shoulder, wounded at Hueco Tanks but packed with Yerba Santos Mer, the healing herb, was still extremely sore. When Chato gained his balance Tzoe scooped up what was left of the ammunition. “We will get the ponies, then I will fetch the Apache Kid from the canyon mouth.”

  Chato nodded. “Yes, he will be angry. He has had an easy fight today.”

  “There is always another day to fight.”

  Chato forced a smile. “Yes, and another day to die.”

  ***

  The tails of the three Indian ponies twitched restlessly at the bothersome flies. Across the escarpment the two Apaches moved slowly, Chato limping, leaning most of his weight on Tzoe’s shoulder. They had covered most of the ground between the rim and the tethering place when Tzoe felt uneasy. He led Chato to the cover of some scrub that clung tenaciously to life in the barren soil, and lowered him to the ground.

  “You stay here. I will fetch the ponie
s.”

  Chato grunted, his energy draining away rapidly with the blood that saturated the bandage round his wound. His face showed the strain. Gratefully he sank to the earth, unable to resist the hint of a smile derived from the crackle of carbines still issuing from the canyon. Fools, he thought wearily, they must have so many bullets they are shooting at thin air.

  Tzoe moved off, following a nagging that tugged irresistibly at his conscious. He circled warily, coming towards the ponies from the opposite side to the canyon. Using the clumps of wiry scrub as cover, he crept forward. And when he could see he thanked the Great Spirit for the uneasiness in his gut.

  El Cazador, the Hunter, and the old one, Zeke Harris, were standing off from the ponies a little toward the canyon. They were reading sign and he could hear their low voices.

  “Three-Fingers went this way,” said the Hunter, stooping to touch a track with his fingertips. He scooped some earth and crumbled it to dust. “We’re right behind him.”

  The old one, Harris, was watching, eyes constantly straying to where the canyon lay hidden over the rise.

  “Let’s go.” They started for the rim.

  Anxious, Tzoe saw they were headed exactly towards where Chato lay hidden in the brush. He waited, then went forward to the ponies and their pickets. He vaulted into the saddle, gathering the reins of the two other mounts. Sawing at the pony’s mouth, he wheeled and urged it into the brush, following the circle he had trod during his scout. The other two ponies followed, eager to run.

  He swerved between the clumps of mesquite and sagebrush, out of sight of the two cavalry scouts. Soon he arrived where Chato lay resting, hands pressed to his wound. He swung down from the saddle.

  “Aco tndn-nilgonye? What is the trouble?” Chato asked.

  “El Cazador and the old one, Harris, are here.”

  Chato eyed him warily. “But what of Copperhead? I left him at Hueco Tanks to hold El Cazador there.”

  Tzoe shrugged, leaving the question unanswered. He looked back over his shoulder. “Come, let us ride.”

  “I will kill that yudascin, bastard, El Cazador first.” He was fumbling with his Winchester. Tzoe could see he had no strength left for a fight. Especially against Tanner. He fought like a bear.

  “How is your wound?”

  Chato grunted. “The blood runs in my moccasin. But El Cazador blood will run thickly too. I will wipe him off the face of the earth.”

  “We will fight from the backs of our ponies. The nan-tans, scouts, are on foot. The pony will make amends for your leg.”

  Chato spat. “Shot by an Apache! Bah.” But he let Tzoe help him up, then suffered the indignity of being hoisted into the pony’s back. He gasped with the effort of each movement. Such was Tzoe’s fear of Tanner that at that moment he would have liked to run. The Hunter had an aura about him. Many men had tried to kill him and all had failed. How many promises to do so had Chato made? But Tanner had escaped the ambush and had ridden on to Hueco Tanks. He had also escaped from there. Now he was here.

  Things had gone too far. If they were only on the run from San Carlos, Tanner would just take them back, but they had raided, killing ranchers and their families, and now they had almost massacred a cavalry column. Tanner would kill them both for sure. Tzoe had lost all faith in his own medicine and he did not want to die.

  “Let me kill him now,” Chato muttered, levering a shell into the Winchester’s chamber.

  Tzoe looked at the wounded chief who was white-faced, crazy, barely clinging to his saddle. Between Chato and the Hunter he did not know who he feared the most.

  It happened like a bolt of lightning.

  Tanner and Zeke were following Three-Fingers’s trail to the canyon rim, all the while listening to the gunfire from the heart of the canyon. They were close.

  “Sounds different,” Zeke commented.

  “Uh?”

  “There’s only the carbine fire. The repeating rifles stopped a while…Jesus!”

  Tanner looked up as the three Indian ponies burst out of the brush. They were only yards away, coming at full gallop. He saw Chato, his mouth open and screaming. The other was Tzoe, the third pony riderless.

  Chato’s rifle barked. Tanner saw the muzzle flash as the bullet whipped past his face. His own rifle was up and lined. But even as he completed the movement he knew there was no time. As his finger closed round the trigger Chato’s pony ran him down. For an instant his nostrils were filled with the stink of Apaches and horse sweat, then the pony’s shoulder slammed into his chest. He was flung aside, hands losing the rifle as he cartwheeled.

  When Chato saw he had missed with his bullet he had swung the pony into Tanner. After Tanner was trampled the momentum of the pony carried it on past. Chato worked the Winchester’s action, then yanked on the reins to turn back for another run. Wild-eyed, the pony wheeled, stumbling and jarred Chato in the saddle. Pain exploded in his leg. Reflexes triggered, he grabbed at his bleeding calf where Three-Fingers’s bullet was lodged. In his pain and the excitement the Winchester slipped from his grasp and bounced on the ground. He howled his anger at Tzoe who had hauled up alongside.

  “Give me your rifle!”

  Tzoe shouted back. “No! Ride!”

  “Treacherous Coyote! I said give me your rifle!”

  Zeke’s pistol cracked behind them and Chato’s pony neighed shrilly as it began to buckle. It went down on its forelegs, then collapsed onto its side. Chato barely had time to free his good leg or he would have been trapped. He staggered away from the fallen pony.

  Tzoe glanced round wildly, looking for the Apache Kid’s mount, but it had scattered when they went through the white men. It would probably follow later. He heeled his own pony over by Chato and leaned down to grab his arm. Chato shook him off, casting about for his Winchester that lay nearby.

  “My rifle, my rifle,” he croaked.

  “Hi-dicho, it is finished, Chato!” Tzoe screamed. He grabbed Chato’s shoulder, looking back to where Tanner was hauling himself up from the ground. Harris was fumbling with his pistol. There was little time. With a strength born of fear he dragged the demented Chato up onto the back of his own pony. As soon as the chief took hold he kicked it into a run. With its fresh burden the little pony skittered sideways. Tanner’s first bullet whistled past. Tzoe half turned and saw both white men with their guns raised. Then they were off and running.

  Chato was weak with loss of blood and fatigue but his anger was a hammer that pounded on the anvil of his heart. He clung to Tzoe’s back, spitting out his hate, but he had no weapon with which to fight. The pony’s dancing rhythm made it impossible to grab Tzoe’s rifle and even if he could he feared he had no strength left to shoot. His eyes closed and he muttered hopelessly.

  Up front Tzoe heard the rifle cracks behind him and felt the bullets narrowly shrieking by. He was in no mood to stay around. The pony shied, side-stepping and he had trouble holding on with Chato’s weight dragging at his back. As Tzoe pulled his mount’s head round so it galloped in a straight line, he realized it had been spooked by the Apache Kid’s pony. From nowhere it veered towards them and began to run alongside. Gradually the two dust clouds merged into one and they were gone into the distance.

  Zeke’s breath rasped in this throat. He had barely missed being ridden down by Tzoe. An agility he thought had long since deserted him had put a spring into his step and he had leapt aside. First on his feet, he had got off the shot which had brought Chato’s pony down.

  Then the Colt had jammed. Cursing, by the time he’d freed the cylinder and looked up, they were already escaping. Now he watched the vanishing dust cloud and lowered his gun.

  “I’ll allow I never thought I’d see the day when Chato ran,” he said.

  Tanner grunted as he ejected the spent casing from his Winchester.

  “No chance of catching them, what with our horses down at the canyon mouth. We’d best find Three-Fingers then go down and see what sort of shape Hardcastle and his men are in.”

&
nbsp; “You think it’s over?”

  “Like the man said. Hi-dicho, it is finished.” El Cazador, the Hunter Jim Tanner, peered off to where the two Apaches had faded into the hard washed-out landscape of the desert that had always been their home.

  “Until the next time,” he added bitterly.

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  No novel based on real-life characters ever ends where the author chooses.

  Tzoe (known also as Treacherous Coyote, Yellow Wolf, and Peaches by the cavalry because of the color of his cheeks) is rumored to have later served as a scout for General “Gray Wolf” Crook on an expedition to bring back renegades from the Sierra Madre in Mexico.

  Chato, after his return to San Carlos, attained the rank of First Sergeant in the agency police. On May l7th, 1885, he warned Geronimo the Americans were going to arrest him, but refused to join the chief and 134 others who fled the reservation. Along with Alchise, Cochise’s younger son, Chato offered to aid General Crook in his search. After Geronimo’s last surrender in 1886, this time to General “Bear Coat” Miles, Chato was shipped to Florida along with other “Undesirables.” He forfeited his land allotment and livestock, and two of his children were taken to the Carlisle Indian School where they died. Later the Florida exiles were moved to Fort Vernon, Alabama, until 1894 when they were invited to share the Kiowa and Comanche reservation at Fort Sill, Oklahoma Territory.

  Frank C. Lockwood: The Apache Indian, Macmillan, New York 1938.

  J. Betzinez & W.S. Nye: I Fought With Geronimo, Stackpole, Harrisburg, PA 1960.

  Eve Ball: In The Days Of Victorio, Corgi Books, London 1973.