The Last Raid

  The Last Raid

  A novella

  A retelling of the Apache Tears Legend. This is the story I wish I had written first.

  Dedicated to my wife Polly, who encourages me through all of this.

  Chapter 1

  The sharp spiny leaves of a yucca cactus served to break up the Apache’s outline as he patiently watched the activity in the settlement below him. His shoulder length black hair was held back out of his face by a wide cloth headband. The sun darkened hue of his skin helped him blend with the colors of the surrounding desert. Nothing moved but his coal black eyes as he squatted, patiently waiting, ignoring the heat of the sun beating down on him. As one who has known the desert since birth, he was accustomed to the heat, the white men he knew were always talking about how hot it was, to him it just was. All the talking in the world would do nothing to change it so why did these silly whites spend so much time complaining about something that they could do nothing about? He took a mental count of the horses in the corral on the north end of town without turning his head. They looked like a good bunch, he gave one big sorrel a second glance impressed by its clean lines. All of them showed signs of being very well cared for. That was one thing he had to admit about the white men, they took good care of their horses. He shifted the rifle that was resting across his knees. Stripped down to just a breech cloth, knee high moccasins, and headband, he was dressed for raiding. A bandoleer of ammunition for the rifle he carried was draped across his shoulder.

  Seventy-five of them had left the hiding place where they had settled deep in the area the whites called the Superstition Mountains. Trying to be helpful when the white men had first come to the area, the Indians had told them about the rough country and how many different things existed in those mountains that could cause injury or death. Mistaking the Indians respect and caution for fear, the whites had begun calling the area ‘the Superstitions’. He almost laughed at the thought of his people being superstitious. Apaches were raised from childhood to ignore fear. His name, Pablito, meant little Pablo to the Spanish who had come before these whites. It was a joke, because at six foot tall he was anything but little. His shoulders were wide and his body was hardened by the life he led surviving the harsh conditions of the desert land he lived in.

  As he waited, others from his band were spreading out to encircle the group of wooden and adobe buildings below. White men moved between the buildings unaware of the danger that lurked behind the cactus and scrub brush of the desert. It had been decided among the band that they would go on one last big raid to get as many horses, guns, and bullets as they could, then disappear into the mountains away, from the whites and their ways. With any luck the band could stay hidden for a long time and stay off of the reservations. Most of them had been on the Reservation, but hated the way that they were expected to live. Leave the farming and raising livestock to the other tribes; they were Apache, the warriors of the desert. None could survive in the desert as well as the Apache. In a deep valley they had found a place with a stream of swift running, cool, sweet tasting water. Cottonwoods lining the banks created pools of shade against the merciless desert sun. Tall mesas protected it on two sides from the storms that could come raging out of the taller mountains, and it was far from the settlements of the white eyes.

  This settlement had been chosen because it was far from where they lived. It had taken them four days to reach it. By alternately running and walking, they had eaten up more distance than most people could cover on horseback in twice the time. It was the yellow metal that brought these white men here to dig deep into the Earth Mother. Much of it must have been found because this settlement was thriving. There were a number of larger buildings; a saloon, a general store, an eating place, and one that looked like it might be a hotel. All of the larger buildings were made with adobe walls. Several smaller clapboard shacks were scattered around the larger buildings, and near the entrance to the hole where they cut deep into Mother Earth’s side. Pablito watched the entrance to the mine that had been dug into the side of a hill on the western edge of the town. The sun was high and he knew that the men working in the hole would soon come out to eat their midday meal. He waited with the patience of a natural predator.

  Members of Pablito’s band had been sent out to look for a good place to raid. His friend Cadete had found this place. His description of it around the council fire had originally brought disbelief. No one believed that there were this many horses to be had at one of the small out lying white man towns. When all of the other scouts had come back and told about what they had been found, this one was chosen because of its location more than because the Apache’s thought that they would find so many horses. By his quick mental count, each man would have to lead at least one horse while riding another. If there were as many guns as horses they would be able to hide from the whites for a long time.

  A flash of light caught Pablito’s attention, It was the signal that all of his men were in place and ready to begin the raid. He waited as the sun moved higher. A bell sounded and the men left the hole in the ground and made their way towards the eating place, a few went on past it and into the saloon. Slowly he raised the rifle to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. One man was walking towards the horse corral just enjoying the day: he never knew what hit him. Pablito put his first shot right through the man’s head. As if they were one man, all of the Apaches began firing at anyone within range of their rifles. With each shot, the Indians dropped another one of their enemies, and then moved in closer to the buildings. dropping to hide in places that looked incapable of hiding a man. The noise in the saloon and the eating place covered up the sound of their shots till they were almost upon the town. When the miners and other townsmen finally heard the shots it was too late. The Apaches waited till there were a large number of men standing just outside the door before opening up on them and killing most of them with the first volley. Those who didn’t die immediately were wounded badly enough that they just lay where they had fallen, unable to run for cover. They tried to return fire on the Indians but couldn’t find where they were hiding. Sounds of their feeble attempt to return fire was what finally penetrated the noise inside the saloon. Men ran to help those lying wounded in the street and that was when they met their deaths in a hail of gunfire. Like a swarm of ants the Indians moved carefully through the buildings killing anyone that was left alive. It was not a matter of being vicious so much as not allowing anyone to escape and raise the alarm. The longer it took for the Army to get the word, the longer it would take them to follow. The battle was over in a matter of minutes.

  As soon as the buildings were cleared they began gathering all of the firearms and ammunition into a pile near the corral. They also gathered all of the goods that could be easily carried by the horses. A fight almost broke out when one of the younger braves named Eyes Turn Red tried to gather bottles of whiskey from the storeroom in the saloon. He got his name because of the way his eyes looked when he was drinking. Coyote Dancer, one of the older men threatened to shoot the younger man on the spot, but Pablito intervened.

  “If you want to drink the white man’s poison then go back to the reservation and live with the Tame Indians, if you come with us there will be no more of this poison that makes a man crazy and steals his will to be a man,” Pablito told him as he took the bottles one by one and broke them using the edge of the makeshift bar.

  Eyes Turn Red watched with anger growing as the liquid seeped into the sawdust on the floor. The smell of it fanned the flames of his desire almost to the breaking point, but he knew he could not beat Pablito and that the rest of the band would side against him. When Pablito turned away, only Coyote Dancer saw the hatred in the young man’s eyes as he watched the leader leave the building.

 
The whole encounter bothered Pablito, since Eyes Turn Red’s father had been a good friend. Together he and Pablito had learned the secrets of desert living. Side by side they had learned the skills of an Apache hunter. Over the years Pablito had watched the young man grow and become a leader among the people. That was until he lost his way in the depths of the white man’s firewater. Pablito was beginning to think bringing Eyes Turn Red along might have been a mistake.

  Taking a couple of the most docile horses and two mules that they found, they fashioned bundles of all the things they gathered and tied them on the horses. It didn’t take them long to get organized with the horses and ready to leave. The bodies of the dead laying in the open were drug into one large pile in the middle of the street. Looking around the buildings, Pablito motioned to his braves and said simply, “Burn it.”

  Two of the younger braves went about the job of setting every building on fire. There was a lot of oil for the lanterns that helped the fire to burn hot enough to destroy almost everything. One gathered some unbroken whiskey bottles from the saloon and used it to light the pile of bodies on fire. Soon smoke and the smell of burning flesh filled the air, but the Indians were well on their way by that time. Strung out like a snake they moved through the cacti in a single file, each man riding one horse and leading one or two others. Using the folds and dips in the land they seemed to just disappear as they rode out of the settlement to be swallowed up by the desert that they knew so well. Minutes after the blaze began the tracks of the horses were the only sign that Pablito and his band had been there. Tongues of flame licked hungrily at everything that it touched leaving only ashes and scorched adobe behind. Pablito told two braves to stay behind until the sun went and watch to see if anyone came around. They were to remain hidden and catch up with the rest of the band before daybreak.

  Chapter 2

  Sgt. Patrick James O’Connell used his kerchief to wipe the sweatband of his battered Cavalry Stetson as he silently cursed the heat before placing it back on top of his thatch of fiery red hair. With closed eyes he could almost feel the cool moist breeze of his native Ireland. In the early mornings of his youth he had done his chores watching the sun rise through the fog, big and orange it slowly chased away the morning mists, not like this sun that beat down mercilessly bleaching the color out of everything within sight. Pulling his hat down over his green eyes, he squinted as he scanned the horizon looking for anything that didn’t seem to fit. He had come to this country after the end of the Civil War hoping to get away from the memories of the carnage he had seen on the battlefields of the East and South. Here he had found a different type of warfare. Here the enemy was on land that they had lived on for centuries and they knew it better than he ever would. When people asked him how he had come to this part of the country and how he had managed to survive so well, he would just laugh and answer “Tis the luck o’ the Irish.”

  “Hey Sarge, look at that smoke over there,” a young Corporal named Donaldson said pointing towards the western horizon.

  At this moment the new Lieutenant rode up from checking on the rest of the troop. Like many young officers fresh out of West Point, he followed the book to the letter, which could cause friction with the lower ranks. “What is it Sergeant O’Connell?” he asked in a brisk no-nonsense voice.

  Even though he was a full head shorter than O’Connell’s six feet two inches the younger man carried himself with the confidence of someone much taller. O’Connell wasn’t sure yet how to take this young shave-tailed Lieutenant, but from his bearing he figured the Lt. must have been something of a scrapper at some point. “Not sure just yet, Sir, I was just about to send some scouts out to check it out when you rode up.”

  “Good idea Sergeant, any suggestions on who to send?”

  “Well sir I was thinking it should be Smithers and Jackson, both are good scouts and know the land,” O’Connell said watching the officer closely.

  “Why those two specifically, Sergeant?”

  “Well sir, Smithers was a scout for the Rebs out here during the war, and Jackson grew up out here. His granddaddy rode with Carson and Bridger, no white man knows this country better.”

  This was the first patrol with the young West Pointer and it impressed O’Connell that he was trying to learn about the men. Many officers he had served with thought that all privates were interchangeable, instead of trying to find the strengths and weaknesses of each one and using those characteristics when making assignments.

  “Sergeant, I know that most NCOs don’t care for new officers, but you know these men better than I do, so I am going to trust your advice up to a point,” Lieutenant Sheridan told his senior enlisted man. He knew that if he got the respect of the NCOs he would eventually gain the respect of the rest of the troop.

  This guy just might make a good officer, thought the grizzled old sergeant. “Alright, Smithers, Jackson, get your good for nothing hides up here on the double,” O’Connell bellowed.

  From the middle of the formation two riders pulled out and kicked their mounts into a canter.

  “Yes, Sergeant,” they both yelled out in unison.

  Pointing to the thin line of smoke rising from the horizon the big Irishman said in a quiet growl, “take your lazy carcasses over there and see what is going on, recon only, do not engage.”

  “You mean we gotta just go look but we don’t get to whoop up on em iffen we find em?” drawled Smithers a thin man with a face full of freckles and bright blue eyes.

  “No, you just go take a gander then get back here and report to me or the LT.” O’Connell groused trying to hide a smile.

  Jackson just set his horse without saying anything, but there was a glimmer of amusement behind his eyes. With military precision the two men turned their horses and kicked them into a gallop, headed towards the point where the smoke was now barely visible.

  “We might as well head over that way LT,” O'Connell said watching his commanding officer.

  Taking his place at the head of the column, the young man raised his right hand high and gave the command, “Forward Ho.” Like a train pulling out of a station, the Cavalry troop stretched out and made its way slowly towards the spot on the horizon where they could barely make out the smoke raising.

  “Are you thinking that there might be trouble, Sergeant?”

  “Could be sir that is about the area where a mining company was doing some digging. Nothing but a bunch of miners and a few others but it could be a problem. It is getting late in the day. There should be more smoke from cook fires and the such. Instead, the smoke went away when it should have increased.”

  “What are you thinking then, Indians possibly?” Sheridan asked with a concerned look on his face.

  “Anything is possible, but if you want my guess it would be Apaches.”

  “What Apaches? I thought that most of them were settled on reservations, except for Geronimo and he’s supposed to be in Mexico.”

  “Sir there was a bunch of them that just up and disappeared from the reservation in the middle of the night,” O’Connell mused. “No violence, they didn’t steal anything, they just left and haven’t been heard of since. It’s been a little over a year now.” After a moment of silence O’Connell let out a sigh and said, “The leader was a man named Pablito, and he can be a bad one to tangle with.”

  “Come on Sergeant, he is just an Indian,” scoffed Sheridan.

  “Big mistake there, Lieutenant. These Indians are some of the toughest fighters you’ll ever find and they can seem to just disappear into the desert on a whim. They know every water source and how to gather the moisture they need from the plants around them.” Pushing his hat back on his head, the Sergeant continued, “Pablito is a traditionalist who wants to finish out his days living the old way. He has nothing but contempt for the way that we want his people to live nowadays.”

  “Are you saying that he will put up a fight?”

  “Sir, this man will fight you with his final breath. There was a rumor going aro
und the reservation that he promised he would never be taken alive and would never live like a reservation Indian again.”

  “Have you ever fought this man before?” the young Lt. asked.

  “No sir, but I was there the day that he came into the reservation on his own. He told the agent that he was only doing it for his people and he would rather die in battle against the white devils.”

  They rode along in silence for a while, the sound of spurs and saddle leather was all that they heard above the sound of their horse’s hooves. The young officer was thinking through the situation and wondering why he hadn’t learned about any of this while he was at the Academy. They taught him all about the classic battles of every war from the Peloponnesians to the Sherman’s burning of the South during the War Between the States, but never anything about how to fight the enemies he was finding out here in this desolate country. Both men rode on, lost in their own thoughts. Just before the sun dropped below the mountains in the west, they saw two small black objects moving towards them. It didn’t take long until they made out it was the scouts returning, riding full out. Lt. Sheridan called the troop to a halt as the scouts rode up and slid their horses to a halt.

  “Sir, all the buildings are burnt to the ground and there wasn’t a living soul to be found,” Smithers reported smartly. Gone was the cocky grin he had left with.

  “Looks like they stacked all of the bodies in the street and burned them too, sir,” Jackson added.

  “No sign of life anywhere and all the horses are gone too,” Smithers said.

  “Any indication of who did this?” Sheridan asked.

  “We didn’t go into the town, just around the outside sir. Didn’t want to mess up any tracks that might be there,” Jackson explained.

  “Good job men. Fall back in with the troop,” O'Connell said without giving Sheridan a chance say anything more.