Читать книгу Ambush at Quitman Pass - Rechey Davidson - Страница 1

The stagecoach rambled up the slight incline and through narrow Quitman Pass in western Texas. The driver cracked his whip over the horses' heads and yelled. Four black horses strained to keep up the pace over the rise. Their coats glistened with sweat. Foam bubbled around their halters and bits. Saliva dripped from their mouths. The dust and heat sweltered up to the driver. The strong odor of sweating horses stuck in his nose. His hair was wet and his forehead beaded sweat. But he couldn't stop. He was already behind schedule.

Inside the coach the three passengers jostled and swayed with the rocking stage. The gambler stared unblinking out the window. The young woman looked sick from the heat and kept wiping her face with her all-too-dainty handkerchief. The sheriff rode backwards with his arms crossed as his stare moved slowly from one to the other passenger.

The horses eased up some as they topped the rise. The driver slapped the reins hard, yelled and eased his foot down on the brake to avoid too swift of a descent. The stage had now reached the halfway point on this leg of the journey and the sun was still high. And hot. It was at least 92 degrees and the baked, dry earth radiated another ten degrees. The stagecoach soon leveled out and gained speed.

Suddenly, the driver lunged forward and fell screaming between the horses, a small circle of blood between his shoulders. The horses bolted to a gallop as the driver fell astraddle the tongue of the stage then rolled off under the galloping horses and the stage. The gunshots and scream startled the passengers. The woman screamed. The sheriff and gambler drew their pistols and gaped out the window. The racing stage bounced over the dead driver's body throwing them all to one side.

Twenty yelping Apaches were riding fast after the stage, shooting. Their heart-stopping cries paralyzed the passengers.

The horses were pulling the stage at full gallop now. The stage bounced wildly over the rough desert road.

The Indians gained on the stage, shooting through the windows of the stage.

The sheriff pushed the woman down to the floor between the seats as he fired at their attackers. The gambler jammed his pistol back in its holster, swung the stage door open and climbed the side of the stage to the top then to the driver's seat. He climbed onto the tongue of the stage and grabbed for the reins flopping between the horses. Bullets zinged overhead or splintered into the stage.

Three Indians were almost even with the stage. Their yells startled the gambler who hadn't realized how close they were. Two fell from the sheriff's shots while the third fell from the gambler's.

More Indians closed in. The stage bounced off a large rock and overturned throwing the gambler hard to the ground, stunning him. The Indians shot into the stage as they rode past whooping and howling their victory cries. The gambler stumbled to his feet as the Indians turned to make another pass. The hot desert sand radiated heat right through his boots. The air was scorching. The dust stung his eyes. The Indians rushed at him to ride him down. He fell behind the stage as they galloped past. One Indian jumped his horse over the broken tongue of the stage.

The sheriff's hand stuck out from under the stage still gripping his .44 even though the stage had crushed the life out of him. The gambler grabbed the gun and fired at the Indians as they turned for another pass. A guttural yell from behind spun the gambler around. The last thing he saw was a war-club crashing between his eyes.

Lieutenant Henley halted his troop of the 10^th Cavalry Buffalo Soldiers to rest their mounts before starting the climb through the Quitman Mountains. He scouted the area with his field glasses for any sign of the elusive Warm Springs Apaches led by Victorio.

He slowly scanned the hillside and peaks a few hundred yards ahead. Something caught his eye. He stared through the glasses. He took them down and squinted across the distance. A thin column of black smoke drifted skyward over the mountain just ahead.

“Mount up, men!” yelled the lieutenant as he swung into the saddle. “We're going over the top.”

Sergeant Riley barked the orders to the men.

The soldiers scrambled to their horses and swung into their saddles.

“Forward --- at the gallop!”

The sergeant repeated the orders.

The cavalry troop raced toward the pass . They rode over the rise and down the other side. As soon as they topped the pass they could see the stagecoach burning little over a mile away. There were no Indians in sight.

As they rode toward the stage, they passed the dead driver lying in the road. The Lieutenant ordered one of the troopers to check on the driver while the rest continued toward the burning stage.

They soon reached the stage and the Sergeant and several of the men raced over and began throwing dirt on the stage to put out the fire.

Lieutenant Henley jerked out his field glasses and began searching for signs of the attackers. Far away to the south a small cloud of dust was barely visible.

“Anyone alive?” asked the Lieutenant.

“None, sir.”

“Leave two men with the pack mules as a burial detail then tell all three of them to follow after us. There goes the Apaches now..” said the Lieutenant pointing to the south.

“Washington! Davis! You two stay with the pack mules, bury these two and help with the driver, then follow us.” yelled the Sergeant.

The Lieutenant and the rest of the troopers started after the Apaches, following at a canter. They had to avoid overworking the horses in this hot weather.

“We're gonna catch 'em this time!” the Lieutenant shouted at the Sergeant.

“But they're headed toward Mexico.”

“But they're still in sight, Sergeant. They're still in sight!”

The small dust cloud was slowly dissipating in the distance as the patrol seemed to fall further and further behind. The Lieutenant didn't want to raise a large dust trail or to tire out the horses too soon, even if it meant letting the Indians pull slightly ahead for the time being. Soon they would be slowing down, thinking they were safely away.

The trail twisted and turned through the mountains at the south end of the small valley. The Indians were still some distance ahead. Soon they came to the Rio Grande. The Indians' trail led right into the river.

“Damn!” said the Lieutenant as he surveyed the area. “I was countin' on them not crossin' yet.”

Lieutenant Henley looked carefully in each direction, stared across the river, then ordered the men across. The Sergeant hesitated, staring at the Lieutenant, then turned and relayed the order.

Looking at the Indian's tracks on the other side of the river, showed they were sure they were safe. They were only moving at a walk.

The troop pressed on, still at a canter. Now they would start gaining on the Apaches.

An hour passed. The Indians were still not in sight. The country was too hilly and rocky to see very far.

Then they noticed the Indian's tracks stop and mill around then take off at a gallop.

“Looks like they seen us, Lieutenant.” said the Sergeant, “We'll never catch 'em now.”

“Maybe so, Sergeant, but I'm not giving up yet.”

Lieutenant Henley stepped up the pace, but not to a full gallop. The heat was almost unbearable. The horses were already breathing hard. The Apaches' trail was still at a gallop.

Before long, the Lieutenant halted his men near some tall creosote bushes to rest the horses. He took his field glasses out again and searched the distance for any signs. It was all quiet. No distant thunder of hoofs. No bird calls. Nothing, but quiet.

“Looks like they got away, sir.” said the Sergeant as he walked up behind the Lieutenant.

The Lieutenant was intent on finding something.

“if we were close at all, we'd hear their galloping mounts.” said the Sergeant trying to get a response from his commanding officer. But nothing worked.

Henley continued his search. His cheeks flexed as he refused to give up.

“I think ---”

“Quiet!” The Lieutenant jerked the field glasses down and listened intently. “There! Hear that?”

The Sergeant strained to see, shading his eyes with his gloved hand, as he listened.

They both froze, ears cocked. The Sergeant hushed the men.

Through the quiet came a distant, muffled scream.

“That sounds like a woman, sir!” yelled Sergeant Riley.

“See if you can tell where it's coming from. Sounds like it's coming from up there.” Henley pointed up the trail they had been following.

“Yes, sir. Still a ways off, though.”

“Mount up! We're moving!” commanded Lieutenant Henley as he leapt into the saddle and swung his mount in the direction of the scream.

The troopers scrambled for their horses, mounted and followed.

A loud scream pierced the air, then silence. Then a thunder of hoofs in the distance.

“Let's go!” shouted Henley slapping reins against his horse's flanks and spurring him at the same time.

“Forward --- at the gallop --- Ho!” barked the Sergeant.

The patrol of 22 men galloped up the trail left by the Indians. The Lieutenant scanned the hillside ahead, the boulders, the arroyos for signs of an ambush as he raced on. Even here he rushed ahead only because he had already scanned this brush-free hillside for some time. It was a calculated risk there was no danger until they crossed the top.

Lieutenant Henley reined up as they neared the top of the hill and possible trouble. He looked and listened. He sent a private to the point.

The soldier topped the rise then quickly turned back, sick. He motioned the Lieutenant up.

Henley rushed toward the top. Suddenly, the smell of burning flesh struck him. Just over the rise was the young woman from the stage, nude, tied spread-eagle to four stakes, with glowing coals still burning on her naked stomach. She had died painfully.

Henley closed his eyes, clenched his fist and grit his teeth.

Sergeant Riley halted beside Henley. “It's a warning, sir.”

“Damn it! I know that! They might have others they're itchin' to kill. Turn back unless you want more on your conscience.” He rubbed his forehead, open palmed. “Do something with her, Sergeant.” said the Lieutenant turning to the Sergeant. The pain registered on his face. What to do now?

The Sergeant dismounted and motioned for two of the stronger stomach troopers to help.

Henley was deep in thought. He was not even looking for signs of the Apaches. He knew they were long gone. They had taken off as soon as they set the fire. He looked back down the hill they had just climbed. The Apaches could have seen them coming for a couple of miles. He stared at the valley below.

The Sergeant walked up to the Lieutenant who was still mounted. “Sir, she was, uh ---”

“Yeah, I know. She was raped, too. Probably has knife cuts all over. Maybe even missing a breast.” Henley said without looking at the Sergeant.

Riley turned away.

The rest of the troop were still mounted, awaiting orders. Sergeant Riley mounted and trotted his horse to the Lieutenant.

“Are we goin' back now, sir?”

Henley took a deep, audible breath and exhaled harshly, then swung his mount to the south. “No! I'm still goin' to stop them. Now!”

The column pushed on. Deeper and deeper into Mexico. The sun was slowly nearing the horizon. Less than a couple of hours of daylight left. They would have to stop soon.

The Indians' trail was clear, almost too clear. Up small hills, through dry washes, around large outcrops of rocks, but always deeper south. The trail led across a wide, flat stretch of desert and through a deep, winding dry wash. The wash was some six-foot deep with banks straight up and down except for the cut where the trail led through to the other side. The wash was easily fifteen feet wide.

They crossed carefully, wary of ambush. Once across, Henley halted and studied the rocky outcrop and hill less than a hundred yards ahead.

“I smell ambush, Sergeant. That narrow pass through there is too inviting.”

“I agree, sir.” nodded the Sergeant.

“I think we better ease back down into this gully and rest a spell.”

The troop retreated to the wash.

“Dismount your men and line them along these banks. Warn the end man in each direction to keep an eye down the draw itself.”

Henley carefully looked his men over as they dismounted and lined the banks. “Jackson!” called the Lieutenant upon finding the man he wanted, “Over here.”

Corporal Jackson ran to the Lieutenant. His 15-year hitch in the army had ingrained in him the need to rush when a superior called, especially Lieutenant Henley.

“Jackson, you're a good man. You've had a lot of experience with the Apache. That's why I want you to scout out that hill.” explained Henley pointing out the path he was to take. “Leave your carbine and just take your pistol. If it's clear, wave from up there. If not --- be careful.” Henley smiled as he slapped Jackson on the arm. “Take care, you hear?”

Jackson smiled, saluted, “Yes, sir.” Then started up the draw.

“Sergeant,” called Lieutenant Henley turning to Riley, “I want you to send three or four men down the wash until they're well out of sight, backtrack till they meet the burial detail --- on second thought, tell them not to go over a couple miles --- drag bushes or anything else they find to stir up dust and come a runnin'! I want those Apaches to think we have reinforcements. Send the bugler. Have him sound a loud 'Charge' if we start shootin'.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Sergeant,” Henley thoughtfully rubbed his chin as he studied the pass ahead. Have them leave their carbines and hats scattered along this bank in plain sight. And stay low as they leave.”

Riley nodded, “Yes, sir.”

“If they can't get the horses out of the wash, send a runner to the burial detail. A few is better than none.”

Lieutenant Henley turned and hunted Corporal Jackson up in his field glasses. Jackson was now at the base of the rocky outcrop and starting to climb.

The minutes dragged by. Jackson carefully made his way to the top.

“Corp'l Jackson's a good man, sir.” said Riley as he leaned against the bank by the Lieutenant, carbine ready.

“That's why I sent him.”

Soon Jackson disappeared over the ridge.

Henley lower the glasses and rested. “Now the waiting really starts.”

More minutes dragged by. Jackson had been gone a good quarter of an hour and no signs nor gunshots. Henley wiped his face with his neck scarf then wiped the sweat out of his hat. The air was finally beginning to cool some as the sun dropped below the horizon.

Riley pointed to the crest of the hill. “There's Jackson now, sir! Wavin' all clear.”

Henley spun around around and stared at the lone figure waving from the very top of a large boulder. He started to smile, then stopped. Something was wrong. “Damn idiot! Damn it!” He cursed as he grabbed the Sergeant's carbine. “Wave back at him!”

Riley stared at him, bewildered, “What --- “ then shook his head and rose to wave.

The Lieutenant beaded down on the figure and fired. The man twisted and fell from the boulder and rolled down the hill some twenty feet.

Riley was in shock, his mouth wide open, unable to speak. There was a murmur of disbelief from every trooper.

Henley jerked the Sergeant down and shoved the carbine into his hand. “Get ready, here they come!”

“You --- you just shot Corp'l Jackson, sir!” stuttered Sergeant Riley still not believing his eyes.

“Damn it, Riley! Are you blind? Jackson is bald and left-handed! That black-haired Apache was waving with his right hand.”

Riley turned and stared at the dead body in a soldier's uniform on the side of the hill, a little bit of black hair showing under the hat. Riley's mouth was still open.

Henley found Jackson's carbine and prepared for the onslaught, shouting orders to do likewise.

“Damn it, Riley, get down! Jackson's long gone.” Henley stared at the astonished Sergeant who was still trying to figure out what happened. “A South-paw holds a pistol in his left hand. And waves left-handed. Wasn't likely to be a left-handed Apache in that crowd. That's also why I sent Jackson. It pays to know your men, Sergeant.”

Riley slumped back against the embankment and shook his head. “Gotta hand it to you, sir. You're always one up on me. I mighta gone right on ahead.”

Henley raised the carbine as the Apaches came rushing through the pass. Their trap had failed.

“Here they come!”

Riley spun around and aimed at the howling, charging Indians.

“Hold your fire!”

The yelling Apaches rushed the draw firing their rifles at every hat or rifle they saw. They drew closer and closer, yelling their blood-curdling screams.

“Hold it! Hold it!” shouted the Lieutenant. He waited until they were almost on top of the patrol, then, “FIRE!”

Seventeen carbines blasted at fifteen yelling Indians. Two fell dead. Two more fell with their horses shot from under them.

One soldier fell into the ravine, a bullet through his head. Two of the soldierless hats flew into the air.

The remaining Indians pulled up, fired again, then retreated.

“Fire!” yelled the Lieutenant again as he shot one of the Apaches running for cover. “Fire!”

The Indians regrouped and attacked again. Two soldiers were wounded and one more Indian died. Then they retreated once more, this time all the way back up the narrow pass.

Soon it was quiet except for the groans of the wounded. The troop tried to wind down while the wounded were attended to. Riley made a quick check through the ranks. Still plenty of ammunition left.

“Here they come again!” someone shouted.

Each trooper hit the embankment, carbine ready.

The Apaches attacked, yelling their unnerving screams.

The soldiers once again held their fire until the Indians were almost on top of them, then let loose another barrage of lead. Two horses and three Indians hit the ground each with one last, loud yell. One of the Indians stumbled to his feet, dazed, only to be thrown backward by the next hail of bullets.

This time it was worse. Two of the Buffalo Soldiers also fell never to fight again.

A bugle sounded in the distance and a dust cloud big enough to cover two companies of cavalry quickly halted the Apaches' assault. They turned and scrambled over the hill and through the pass without taking a second look.

The soldiers hoorayed at the welcome sight and shook their fists at the retreating enemy.

Sergeant Riley laughed, “Look at 'em run, sir! Your idea sure put the fear of the 10^th Cavalry in 'em.”

Lieutenant Henley wasn't laughing. “We ain't through with them yet. Send two men to recover Jackson's body, bury the dead and tend to the wounded. We'll make camp here tonight to rest us and the horses. They're long gone, but we should be able to trail them in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.“ said Riley as he picked two men to find Jackson.

The wounded were attended to and camp made. They had been through a lot today and it would soon be dark. Rest was needed.

The two men sent to recover Corporal Jackson came back to camp empty handed. “There's no sign of him anywhere, sir. The Apaches must still have him as a hostage. There was signs of a fight, but not a death.”

Henley rubbed his forehead. “Oh, no. No tellin' what they'll finally do to him. We've got to get him back.”

Early next morning, after a good rest, the company crossed the ridge and began following the Indians' trail again. Next time, the battle will be more decisive. Next time, they would not escape.

The trail led back across the Rio Grande into Texas. At least now the Mexican Federales wouldn't be able to interfere. The Apaches appeared to have made camp some three miles from the ambush site and left early the next morning.

Lieutenant Henley and the 10th Cavalry followed the Indian's trail some 10 miles with no signs of gaining on them nor any sign they had disposed of Corporal Jackson. Apparently, they were still holding him hostage. They would have to advance cautiously if they hoped to save Corporal Jackson.

Henley halted the troop. "Sergeant! Did you hear that?"

Sergeant Riley listened. "Sounds like gunfire, sir!"

"That's what I thought. To the sound of the guns!"

The troop galloped in the direction of the gunfire. In two miles, they topped a ridge and could see the Apaches attacking a settler's home half a mile away in a small clearing.

Henley studied the layout and devised a plan. He sent five men to the right, told five to wait there with orders to spread out and wait for his attack, then come a runnin'. He led the rest of the troop to the left, going slow so as to not raise a dust trail. Hopefully the Indians would be too busy with the settlers to notice.

Henley sent out two scouts to look for signs of where they might be holding Jackson with orders to rescue him when the attack started.

Lieutenant Henley led his men behind boulders and bushes to get as close as possible before attacking. The settlers were returning less gunfire. They may have lost someone. They had to hurry.

The troop made their way to within a couple hundred yards of the battle. Henley gave the order, "CHARGE!" and they rushed toward the Apaches firing from the saddle. The other ten troopers started toward the Indians from two different directions, looking much bigger than they were because they were so spread out.

The Indians were trapped in the middle from four directions. The settlers in front, five troopers from the right, five from the middle and Henley and the remaining soldiers from the left. The Indians were falling right and left. In no time, the last three survivers threw down their weapons and surrendered.

Henley rode down to the settlers while his men tied up the prisoners. He was greeted by three men and two women.

"Thanks, Lieutenant. You're a life-saver. Weren't sure if we was going to make it through that attack. We lost three already."

"Sorry we couldn't make it sooner. We've been following them a couple days. Lost a few men myself. You're safe now." Henley saluted to the men and turned to return to his men.

"Sergeant, question them as to what they did with Corporal Jackson."

"No need, sir. Look!" he said as he pointed to the two scouts he sent out.

They were proudly leading Corporal Jackson back to the troop.