White Apache 5 Page 11

  From then on, they knuckled down to the business of riding. In due time they bore to the northwest. It was over two hours later that a band of trees materialized in the distance. And where there were trees, Captain Mora knew, there was usually water.

  “The river,” he said.

  “Look,” Colonel Gonzalez said, pointing.

  A mile or more away glittered a yellowish-orange finger of flame.

  “We have them!” Mora said.

  ~*~

  At that very moment other eyes were on the same fire. Martin Gonzalez reined up on a ridge to the west and pushed his sombrero back on his head. “Could it be? Would they be careless enough to make a fire with us on their trail?”

  “Maybe they think that we have given up,” Captain Filisola said. “Or it might not be them at all.”

  “Maybe we should send Pedro and Sergeant Amat on ahead to scout out the situation,” Martin said. “We don’t want to ride into a trap.”

  “It’s best if we all stick together,” Filisola said. “If it is the Apaches, with a little luck we can surround them. And for that we’ll need every man we have.” He assumed the lead and carefully picked his way downward. Truth to tell, he was elated by the sight of that distant camp. It inspired his flagging hope. As hour after hour had gone by with no sign of the savages or their captive, he’d had to confront the very real prospect that he would never set eyes on the lovely señorita again. A pall of gloom had seized his soul and refused to let go.

  Now, Captain Filisola felt like a man reborn. Perhaps there was a prayer after all. Perhaps he would get to have the wonderful pleasure of Maria Gonzalez’s company, not once but many times. And if she wound up being as enamored of him as he was of her, well, who was to say what might happen?

  Filisola grinned. Maybe it was time he gave serious thought to giving up the bachelor life. His looks and charm would not last forever. And there were much worse fates than marrying into one of the richest families in Mexico.

  Martin Gonzalez was equally elated. He had about given his precious daughter up as lost to him forever, a calamity he did not know if he could endure.

  Martin often thought of a friend whose own daughter had been abducted. Later the friend had learned that she had been made the wife of a notorious Apache. Through intermediaries, the friend had tried to buy her, but the Apache refused. The friend had offered to trade for her, to give as many guns and horses and whatever else the Apache might want. Still the Apache declined.

  In despair the poor father had put the barrel of a cocked pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The very next day a messenger had arrived, sent by the warrior to say that he had changed his mind and was willing to trade. When the Apache found out the father had killed himself, the warrior slew the daughter because he did not want a wife who came from a bloodline of weaklings.

  Many times since Maria had been taken, Martin wondered how well he would hold up if he failed to save her. His grief might tempt him to commit the same act as his friend. But he couldn’t. Theresa would need him more than ever.

  Captain Filisola swung to the northwest to approach the fire through the cottonwoods. He had the men dismount and advance in skirmish order. They had gone fifty yards when he realized the camp was on the other side of the Rio de Bavisque.

  Meanwhile, Colonel José Gonzalez led his own men in a skirmish line from the southeast. He strode at the center of the line, his pistol in one hand, his saber in the other. The fire, he saw, had burned low. Near it, he could just make out the outlines of men asleep.

  The colonel whispered an order to Captain Mora, which was relayed down the line in both directions. The ends turned inward, making a horseshoe formation, which resulted in the camp being ringed on three sides. Advancing silently, their every nerve on edge, the troopers closed in on their age-old enemies.

  On the north bank, Sergeant Amat turned to Captain Filisola and whispered, “I see men moving in the dark beyond the camp, sir. Many men.”

  Filisola squinted and saw figures creeping toward the river. It excited him. His racing mind hit on the obvious conclusion: the White Apache and those with him had joined up with a larger band of renegades, and the savages knew that a small party was trying to sneak up on them.

  “Who are they?” Martin Gonzalez asked. “What do we do?”

  Before Filisola could answer, one of the nervous troopers in his patrol spotted the figures, jumped to the same conclusion he had, and did what any other man might have done under the same circumstances. Without thinking, the trooper aimed his carbine and fired. His shot inadvertently served as the signal for all the soldiers and vaqueros on the north bank to open fire. Few had clear targets but they fired anyway. When dealing with Apaches, every man there had learned long ago that those who lived longest were those quickest on the trigger.

  The initial volley tore into the soldiers moving toward the dwindling fire. Colonel Gonzalez and his men were concentrating on the prone forms near it. The first inkling they had that there was anyone else within ten miles of the spot came when slugs tore through the air around them. Two troopers fell, one howling in agony at the burning lead in his gut.

  Colonel Gonzalez reacted as would any seasoned commander. He saw the muzzle flashes on the other side of the Rio de Bavisque and bellowed, “More Apaches! Fire at will!” Then he proceeded to blast away with his pistol.

  All along the line, soldiers crouched or knelt and shot round after round at the north bank while those on the north bank did the same at the south bank.

  Men fell on both sides. Here a trooper toppled over, screaming. There a vaquero went down, cursing Apaches with his dying breath.

  It soon became apparent to Captain Filisola that he was greatly outnumbered. He rose to order a retreat and felt a searing pang in his right shoulder. The impact spun him around, and in the act of spinning, his left boot caught in the bush he had been behind. His leg started to sweep out from under him. Frantically the captain tried to right himself but all he succeeded in doing was throwing himself more off balance, and the next thing he knew, he was tumbling down the bank to the water’s edge.

  Filisola heard bullets thud into the earth beside him. He was completely exposed and lying there helpless in the open. Propping his hands under him, he scrambled for cover.

  On the south bank, Colonel Gonzalez had seen a figure spill from the undergrowth. He couldn’t credit the testimony of his own eyes when he saw that it was someone in uniform. For a few moments he thought it might be an Apache. Then the figure glanced toward the south side of the river, and despite the distance and the dark he knew immediately who it was.

  Striding into the clearing, Colonel Gonzalez raised his saber on high and thundered in the voice that could be heard by everyone, “Cease firing! Cease firing this moment, idiots! Cease firing!”

  Captain Filisola, in the act of clawing up the bank, froze, too stupefied to speak. The awful truth dawned and he wanted to burrow into the ground and cover himself with a ton of dirt so no one would ever find him.

  The sight of the colonel shocked both sides into lowering their weapons. Martin ran down into the river and stood in the shallows, gaping. “Brother! I am so sorry! We thought that you and your men were Apaches.”

  “The same applies to us,” Colonel Gonzalez called out. “Come across and we will tend the wounded.” He turned to issue directions to his own men and noticed the forms that he had assumed were slumbering Apaches. To his consternation, they were dead soldiers, members of the patrol sent out with Corporal Hidalgo.

  Others were soon arranged in rows beside them. The battle had resulted in the deaths of four men, one of them a vaquero, and the wounding of seven others. Most of the wounds were minor.

  Captain Filisola sat glumly while his shoulder was being bandaged. He was convinced that his military career was at an end. The colonel was bound to report the incident. Filisola wouldn’t be surprised if a military tribunal was called and he found himself on trial. Given the nature of his offense
—firing on his superior officer—he’d be lucky if he got off easy with a life sentence.

  Suddenly the moment Filisola dreaded was upon him. The colonel walked over and shooed all those within earshot away. “How bad is it?”

  “I lost very little blood, sir,” Filisola said. “In three weeks I should be as good as new.”

  The colonel sat down on the same log. “Well,” he said softly, “we sure made a mess of things, didn’t we? This is the first blemish on my record. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m recalled to Mexico City to answer an official inquiry.”

  “I will be right there with you,” Captain Filisola said. Impulsively, he gripped his superior’s arm. “Please forgive my stupidity, Colonel. I should have stopped my men from firing until I had determined who we were shooting at.”

  “I made the same blunder,” Colonel Gonzalez said. “And while we were justified to a degree by the circumstances, those fat generals in Mexico City who have never served a day in the field can hardly be expected to appreciate the position we were in.”

  “True, unfortunately, sir,” Filisola said, more depressed than ever.

  “So perhaps it is best if they never have to sit in judgment on us,” Colonel Gonzalez said quietly.

  “What are you saying?”

  “Since we thought we were fighting Apaches, that is how our reports should read,” the colonel said. “We came on an Apache camp we presumed to be deserted and were ambushed.”

  It would not have shocked Vicente Filisola more had the Pope decreed that the Bible was nothing more than a collection of old fables. “You are saying we should lie, sir?” he asked in a stunned whisper.

  “I’m saying that sometimes a soldier must do that which is most expedient, not only on the field of battle, but in dealing with those higher in rank who are not in a position to understand the underlying facts of a particular case.”

  “Yes, sir,” Filisola said, not entirely convinced. A lie by any other name was still a lie in his book.

  Colonel Gonzalez was a shrewd judge of men. He would not have risen so far if he were not. “What would you have us do, my good Captain? Ruin both of our careers over a mutual blunder? Our duty is first and foremost to our country and the people of Mexico, but would either be served by the scandal that would result? No, on all counts. It would be a shame for you to have your head put on the public chopping block so soon after your promotion.” Sighing, the colonel rose and went to leave.

  “What promotion?” Filisola asked.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Colonel Gonzalez said casually. “For being clever enough to figure out that the Apaches were going to attack my brother’s party and the courage you displayed in rushing to his aid, I decided a promotion was in order. Before leaving the fort, I sent a dispatch to Hermosillo. In it, I informed them that you were the recipient of a field promotion to the rank of major.” He stretched, then took another stride.

  “Colonel,” Filisola said, overcome with gratitude.

  “Yes, Major?”

  “I agree that it would ill serve our country for us to be punished for a simple mistake. But what about the men, sir? They will tell stories—”

  “Show me a man with any brains who will stand on a rooftop and shout to the world that he is an idiot,” Colonel Gonzalez said. “As far as we are concerned, the only ears that matter are those in Mexico City. And in my capacity as Commander, I can guarantee that the only reports that will cross their desks are those we submit and that which Major Mora is required to file. But you need not worry about him. We just had a talk, and he is as pleased with his new promotion as you are. Trust me. I have been at this much longer than you have.”

  “I trust you with my life, Colonel.”

  Colonel Gonzalez smiled and walked off. A little adroit maneuvering and he had turned a potential disaster into two promotions and added to his sterling record. The account he planned to submit would make it clear that were it not for his brilliance, the Apaches would have overwhelmed his unit.

  The colonel thought of the shocked look on the captain’s face at the suggestion they should lie. That was always the way with the young ones. They were too idealistic for their own good. They had yet to learn that, in the dog-eat-dog world into which they had been born, the biggest bones went to those dogs willing to fight for what was theirs.

  And Colonel José Gonzalez was too fond of being at the head of the pack to settle for anything less.

  ~*~

  Half a mile to the east, four stocky, bronzed figures stood under the starlit sky waiting to see if the gunfire would resume.

  “We must investigate,” Cuchillo Negro said. “Clay might need our help.”

  “He can take care of himself,” Ponce said.

  They had been traveling fast and hard ever since they had spotted the soldiers earlier. So it had come as a considerable surprise when the sounds of the battle had risen to their ears—sounds that told them more soldiers were to the west of their position.

  “This country crawls with Nakai-yes,” Delgadito said. “If it is not bandits we run into, it is soldiers. The longer we remain, the bigger the risk we run.”

  “Risks are the spice of life,” Fiero said. “For once I agree with Cuchillo Negro. We should go see what all the shooting was about. Even if Lickoyee-shis-inday is not involved, there might be Mexicans to kill, plunder to take.”

  “You never can turn your back on a good fight,” Delgadito said. “And I was only mentioning the risk, not using it as an excuse to keep from doing what must be done. We will go.”

  Spreading out, the quartet flowed over the ground like living wraiths, making no more noise than the passage of the wind itself. In practically no time they were among cottonwoods, and they slowed down to get their bearings. Through the trees came the murmur of many men and the sound of many horses.

  Fiero, as was his habit, moved into the lead. When battle loomed, he liked to be first into the fray. From cover to cover he flitted until he saw several fires and dozens of soldiers moving about, engaged in various tasks.

  For more years than either side could remember, Apaches and Mexicans had despised one another. The Mexicans claimed it was because Apaches were bloodthirsty demons who thrived on war, which was true to a degree. The Apaches claimed it was because the Mexican government had continued the Spanish practice of enslaving Apaches to work in mines and killing them for bounty. Neither had any compunctions about killing the other.

  So as Fiero sank onto his stomach and made like an eel, he had one idea uppermost on his mind: How many Mexicans could he slay and still get away?

  Cuchillo Negro was only interested in learning whether Clay was safe. He rated Lickoyee-shis-inday as invaluable to the Chiricahuas and did not want anything to happen to him.

  Delgadito was also concerned but his reason was not the same. He needed Clay Taggart to help rebuild his band so that one day he could again rise to a position of leadership.

  Of the four, only Ponce saw no sense in the peril they were courting. The Apache creed was to kill without being killed, and to that end, warriors went to extraordinary lengths when going into battle to make sure there was always a means of retreat if the worst should happen. In this instance, though, they weren’t bothering to scout the area, to check all the avenues of approach, to assess the strength of their enemies. They were rushing blindly in, and Ponce, for one, was most displeased.

  Not Fiero. A rare grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, as it always did when the time came to spill blood. He stopped behind a small bush, pulled his knife, and pried the bush loose at the roots. Replacing the knife, he held the bush in front of his face and went on.

  Every Apache boy had to master the silent stalk. Fiero had been an adept pupil, and among his elders it had long been acknowledged that he was one of the best warriors who had ever worn a Chiricahua breechcloth. His only weakness was his headstrong nature. Too many times he allowed his lust for battle to cloud his judgment.

  In this case, as Fiero inc
hed nearer to the bustling camp, as his keen eyes roved among the soldiers and animals, he pondered how he might inflict the most possible damage. There were too many troopers for a frontal attack, and the horses would be so well guarded that stealing a few or running them all off would be next to impossible.

  Then Fiero saw the officers, three of them. Long ago he had learned to pick out the leaders by the fancy braids—ribbons and insignia, as the Nakai-yes called them—that officers wore. Here were several ripe for the plucking.

  The trio sat on a log beside a fire near the trees. Another man was with them. He had a beard and wore a sombrero, and Fiero remembered him as being with the carriage that day on the road to Janos and again at Adobe Wells, trying to prevent the señorita from being taken captive. He must be her father, Fiero guessed. Which meant the soldiers were there to track them down and rescue the woman.

  Fiero stopped when one of the younger officers idly gazed toward him. He resumed crawling once no one was looking.

  Based on which man wore the most braids and commanded the most attention, Fiero picked the individual in charge. That was the one he decided to kill.

  It took over an hour for Fiero to get within thirty feet of the perimeter. He saw bodies of slain soldiers laid out, then covered with blankets, and he wondered who had killed them. Had Clay been there, as Cuchillo Negro suspected?

  A long time passed before the camp quieted down. The soldiers fixed their supper and sat up late, talking and drinking coffee. Guards were posted, eight of them spaced at regular intervals. Two more were assigned to safeguard the horses.

  Fiero raised his chin from his forearm only after most of the troopers had turned in. The younger officers yawned frequently, but made no move to go to sleep. They appeared content to listen to their commander and the bearded man babble on and on.

  Fiero had no such desire. He was not going to lie there all night. Bracing the bush against a clump of grass, he grasped his rifle in both hands, wedged the stock tight to his shoulder, and trained the barrel on the Mexican with the most insignia. The man was laughing as Fiero touched his finger to the trigger.