Part 16

The scouts formed two companies, under command of First Lieutenant Marion P. Maus, of the First Infantry, and a gallant young “shave tail,” Second Lieutenant William Ewen Shipp, of the Tenth Cavalry, only two years out of West Point.

Another “shave tail,” Second Lieutenant Sam Faison, of the First Infantry, who had graduated in the same class with Lieutenant Shipp, was the adjutant, quarter-master and commissary, all three. Dr. T. B. Davis was the surgeon, Concepcion was the interpreter. Al Sieber, the old war-horse, was retained to look after the reservations, but Tom Horn was to be chief of scouts and had proved first-class.

Altogether, it was an honor to be in pack service with such an expedition, especially as Captain Crawford had volunteered for the Sierra Madre trip because it was the more dangerous of the two.

Lieutenant-General Phil Sheridan, commander of the United States Army, had come out to Bowie from Washington, to see the columns off. He and General Crook inspected the whole outfit, in a parade at the fort.

“Well,” reported Chief of Scouts Horn, after a conference in General Crook’s quarters, “this is the idea: The general says we’re to go down into Mexico and stay six months, if necessary, and when we strike a trail we’re to follow it as long as it shows a single moccasin track or pony track. Savvy? When we’ve killed all the bucks who don’t surrender, and corralled all the women and children, we can come up home with our batch. Then he’ll tell ’em what’ll happen next.”

The march veered west through the Dragoon Mountains, in the hope of striking the up trail and following it down. But heavy rains had washed out the signs, so the course was continued straight south, for the Sierra Madre country again. The Chiricahuas were bound to be there, if at any place.

Throughout the month of December the pack-train job was the same tough job as that when General Crook led on, in 1883: up hill, down hill, sliding, scrambling, falling, barking shins and bruising hoofs and feet, amidst terrific canyons, thorny brush, sharp rocks, towering cliffs, sun and rain, heat and cold. Tom Horn scouted far ahead with a few picked scouts; the captain and his lieutenants and the plucky doctor, and old Concepcion, rode keenly with the eager main body; and Jimmie, assistant chief packer in place of Tom Moore, hustled his toiling pack-trains of fifty mules each, so as to bring them into camp on time every evening.

Now it was the first week in January. There was only one pack-train. Captain Crawford had ordered that the two others be sent back to the border, two hundred miles, with Lieutenant Faison, the commissary and quarter-master, for supplies. So Jimmie had detached the trains of “Chileno John” and Sam Wisser. He had stayed.

Chief Scout Horn had been gone two weeks; but he kept runners out with news from him. He had discovered fresh sign: Indian and cattle trails; cattle carcasses; and a recent camp. Ka-e-ten-na and Chato had just come in. They brought word for Captain Crawford to push on, and join the advance. Tom would be waiting――he knew that the Chiricahuas were yonder before him.

The captain sent for Jimmie.

“We must reduce our packs again,” he said, “for a forced march. You will pack four of your strongest mules with twelve days’ rations for eighty men. The personal outfit will be cut down to one blanket for each man. Take the shoes off the mules, to avoid noise. The rest of the outfit will be left here, under guard of those men who are unable to travel. Which of your packers have you in mind, to go on?”

“Jimmie Dunn, captain,” smiled Jimmie.

“It’s afoot, you know――and probably night marches. Will your leg stand it?”

“Will we strike the hostiles, captain?”

“Sure.”

“That’s all my leg needs, to lengthen it out, then,” laughed Jimmie.

He felt that he was as fit as Captain Crawford. The captain looked badly. So did the doctor; and old Concepcion the interpreter was about done.

The scouts seemed unusually solemn, as if the report by Chato and Ka-e-ten-na had much impressed them. They proceeded to make medicine. In the light of a small fire old No-wa-ze-ta the medicine man unrolled the strip of sacred buckskin that he carried; one by one the scouts kneeled before him; he mumbled over them and held the sacred buckskin to their lips. After that they held a council.

“Some of the soldiers chiefs at Bowie say maybe your Chiricahua will not fight,” said Jimmie, sitting beside Chato, in a blanket, and watching. “They say maybe you will pretend to fight, but all the time you will be sending word to Geronimo to keep away.”

“That is not true,” declared Chato. “We will fight. We are ready.”

About midnight camp was broken. Through the cold and the darkness Chato and Ka-e-ten-na guided. Each officer and man was in moccasins and packed his own blanket. Jimmie drove the four mules.

About noon the signs mentioned by Tom Horn were found: a trail, and the bodies of butchered cattle. That evening Ka-e-ten-na pointed ahead.

“Espinosa del Diablo,” he said. “Maybe we cross. Very bad country.”

Espinosa del Diablo was Spanish for Devil’s Backbone――a high mass of jagged ridges.

Early in the morning two more of Tom Horn’s scouts came in. The light of Indian camp-fires had been sighted, reflected in the sky, and Chief Scout Horn urged the captain to hurry.

The command made a short march, rested until late afternoon, and started on again, to march by night. The country steadily grew worse, with deep, dark canyons, steep rocky hills, heavy brush, and a river which was constantly being forded. Moccasins were soaked and soon cut to bits.

From now on, the camps were not ordered until midnight. Only small fires of dry wood were permitted; and under one thin blanket apiece nobody was able to sleep, before the sun rose. In fact, it was as miserable a time as Jimmie ever had experienced.

More messages arrived from Tom Horn. He had located the Chiricahuas――had smelled the mescal steam, had seen the fires. “Hurry!” he bade. He had only two scouts with him.

Captain Crawford lengthened the marches, to all night and half-day stretches. Some of the Apache scouts, tough as they were, began to straggle and limp. Doctor Davis and old Concepcion could barely hobble.

At sunset of January 9, “Dutchy,” another of the Horn scouts, appeared. Dutchy said that the Chiricahua camp was but twelve miles away. He and Tom and the other scout had reconnoitered it――had witnessed the Chiricahuas moving about, herding their horses. They did not suspect that any enemies were near.

Tom and the other scout had no blankets, and nothing to eat but a little meat――the three of them had had nothing else for ten days; now he, Dutchy, was to bring the captain on at once, while the two watched the Chiricahua camp.

Hurrah! The news put vim into the command. The end of the marches was at hand. Evidently Geronimo had no idea he could be found away in here.

Captain Crawford issued rapid orders.

“Twenty minutes’ halt. No fires. Let the men eat bread and raw bacon. Examine arms carefully. Pack-mules to remain here, with the packer, Doctor Davis and the interpreter. All available men to be ready for a night march, and attack at daylight.”

That was hard luck for Jimmie――but Doctor Davis and Concepcion were completely exhausted, and somebody had to stay with the mules, to move them on in a jiffy when sent for.

In precisely twenty minutes the command set out, guided by Dutchy. It had been the first halt in six hours! As in the twilight they clambered up a rocky, narrow trail, Jimmie saw that Lieutenant Maus was helping Captain Crawford. Even at that, the captain was obliged to pause, once or twice, and lean upon his carbine. He used his carbine as a staff.

“His indomitable will is all that keeps the captain going,” remarked Doctor Davis.

“Muy hombre (Much man),” groaned old Concepcion.

The darkness closed in quickly. It was a bitter cold night. Concepcion and the mules moaned, the doctor’s teeth chattered, and wrapped in his single blanket Jimmie shivered. The brush stirred with the stealthy tread of prowling animals, a leopard shrieked, at intervals, and the still air stung.

With the first grayness Jimmie was up, to unlimber, and listen. The attack upon the Chiricahua camp was due. The moments dragged. The doctor and Concepcion seemed to have dropped asleep at last, but they, also, shivered in their uneasy slumber. This was the coldest period of the night――just at dawn.

XXVI

FOES OR FRIENDS?

Gradually the shadows upon the rocks and timber paled; and then, suddenly――hark!

Rifle-shots! A spatter――a volley――more and faster, rolling and echoing among the crags! The attack had been made. Throwing aside their blankets, up sprang the doctor and Concepcion, bewildered and staggering, but awake.

“Fighting!” exclaimed the doctor. “They’ve struck the hostiles! Good!”

“Much shooting, much shooting,” stammered old Concepcion.

For fifteen minutes the rapid firing continued. It lessened, to dropping, scattered shots, and in about an hour ceased altogether. The sun rose.

“What’ll we do now?” demanded the doctor, of Jimmie. “Crawford’s licked them, don’t you think?”

“Sounded like it, doctor. But we’d better be watching sharp. Some of the bronc’s are liable to come this way.”

There was another period of anxious waiting. They took turns doing look-out duty from a high rock. With Concepcion’s aid, Jimmie packed the mules. About ten o’clock he could stand the suspense no longer.

“If we moved on we probably would meet the word from the captain, and get there all the sooner with the packs, doctor,” he proposed.

“All right. But Concepcion and I can’t move fast.”

They toiled on, following the trail. At noon they met Dutchy.

“The soldier-captain says to come, with mules and medicine-man and Concepcion.”

“Did you whip the Chiricahua?” queried Jimmie.

“Yes. We ran them like turkeys. Capture everything――many horses. Chiricahua get away, but they send word they will talk to-morrow.”

The doctor, who had been outstepped by Jimmie and the mules, limped eagerly in, with poor old Concepcion in his wake.

“What’s the news? Have they got Geronimo?”

“Not yet; but they captured the camp. We’re to come on at once, doctor.”

“How far? Any of our men hurt?”

Jimmie asked Dutchy.

“Ten miles. Only Chiricahua hurt.”

“I’ve got to rest,” panted the doctor. “Go ahead with your mules. We’ll follow. Any danger?”

“No danger,” said Dutchy, answering Jimmie. “Chiricahua hide till to-morrow.”

Dutchy plainly was in a great hurry to get back――probably to share in the plunder. Jimmie left the doctor and Concepcion to come as best they could, and again hustled his mules to keep up with Dutchy. But that proved impossible. The trail was a corker! How in the world Captain Crawford and men ever had traveled it in the darkness was a wonder.

Dutchy disappeared. Only the trail remained, as guide. It dipped into canyons, and wound over rocks and steep ridges. Jimmie wheezed and puffed and sweat. He was empty from chin to knees, his legs were leaden, he ached in every muscle. His mules repeatedly halted, and stood heaving and straddled. But he pushed on. The captain had sent for the packs, and orders were orders.

The sun set. He had been half a day covering these few miles! A damp fog was descending, cloaking the mountains. If he missed the trail――――! No! Good! He saw camp-fire light, glowing on the low clouds. At last, in the gathering dark, he labored into the camp, to report.

Everybody there was asleep, utterly worn out. Jimmie peered about, and wakened Chato and got a small chunk of pony meat from him; unpacked his mules and went to sleep himself, in defiance of the cold rain that was falling. He had done his stint. The doctor and Concepcion hardly could arrive before morning.

It seemed to him that he scarcely had closed his throbbing eyes ere he was aroused by excited cries and loud shouts. But he had slept, for dawn was here――a wet, foggy dawn. Amidst the fog the scouts were yelling shrilly; upon every side men were jumping up, grabbing guns, and staring into the mist before.

“Look out! Somebody comes! Many come!” were shouting the scouts.

Tom Horn was up; so was Lieutenant Maus, and Lieutenant Shipp. From where he lay exhausted, by his fire, Captain Crawford directed the defense.

“Be careful! They may be some of Captain Davis’s men,” he warned. “Don’t fire on them till you see who it is.”

“Wait for me to tell you, before you begin shooting,” repeated Tom Horn, to the scouts.

He started to climb higher, for a better view. Lieutenant Maus and Lieutenant Shipp were running to right and left, to take command of their companies. Down below, beyond a little basin, forms were dimly visible. They acted like soldiers.

On a sudden there was a resounding crash――the red flare of a volley lighted the fog, and a storm of bullets pelted the camp. Jimmie, wriggling for cover, leveled his gun, for the scouts were replying.

“Follow me, valientes (braves),” clearly called a voice, in good Spanish, from the basin in front; and a line of figures moved swiftly forward.

“Wait! Wait! Cease that firing! Stop your scouts, Horn!” shouted Captain Crawford, on his feet. “It’s a mistake. Those are Mexicans!”

And so they were.

Captain Crawford leaped upon a rock, to wave a white handkerchief, in signal, and call.

“No tiras! Amigos, amigos! Americanos! (Don’t fire! Friends, friends! Americans!),” chimed in Lieutenant Maus, who spoke Spanish.

He ran down, into the open. The captain followed him. Under the lifting mist they met four of the Mexicans. One was a strapping big officer, evidently the commander; another was a slender young lieutenant; the two others were officers, also. The line of men behind them had halted, and stood uneasily. They looked like a wild lot, too.

Chief of Scouts Horn advanced. Lieutenant Maus talked earnestly with the big officer, and interpreted to Captain Crawford. Tom Horn joined them, to assist.

On either side of Jimmie the scouts were poking their heads above the rocks, and cramming fresh cartridges into their Springfields. The carbine breech-locks snapped briskly.

“Mexicanos!” hissed Chato, with avid face. “Kill them all.”

“You and I will kill that big man, first,” answered Ka-e-ten-na.

“See!” bade Dutchy.

A file of other Mexican soldiers were sneaking through a ravine, to flank the camp.

Lieutenant Maus had seen; he pointed, and protested to the big officer.

“Watch those Mexicans, Shipp!” shouted the captain.

“No tiras, no tiras!” again appealed Lieutenant Maus, this time to the scouts.

“No tiras!” boomed the big officer, as if in much alarm.

“Bang!” From the Mexicans at the rear sounded a single shot. Instantly the group in the basin scattered, each man for his own place. The Mexican line came on at a trot, firing, loading and firing. Tom Horn was left for a moment alone, as the captain and the lieutenant scurried for the rocks.

“The captain, is killed!” shrieked Chato, at him. “Come back!” He and Ka-e-ten-na fired together, and the big Mexican officer, running, threw up his arm, and hurling his rifle far, plunged headlong.

“Give it to ’em,” yelled Tom, running also.

“Whang-g-g-g!” Everybody shot. The slender Mexican lieutenant fell riddled. He had been hit thirteen times! The two other Mexicans were behind a tree; the scouts’ bullets cut the tree almost down and the twain crumpled in a heap. The whole Mexican line melted into sprawled figures, some lax and motionless, some squirming for safety.

Lieutenant Maus arrived, panting.

“Head off those fellows on the right,” he rasped, to Lieutenant Shipp. Away darted stripling Shipp, to prevent the flank attack.

“Crawford’s dead――shot in the brain!” gasped the lieutenant to Jimmie. “He’s yonder, behind a rock. Horn’s shot in the arm. Those are Mexican irregulars. What are they up to? But they began it.”

The scouts were still firing rapidly on every moving form. The Mexicans were now hard to see.

“Give me orders to send out my men into the trees and rocks and we will kill every Mexican!” shouted Chato, to Tom Horn.

“Don’t waste bullets,” cautioned Tom, in Apache. “Be careful. We are many miles from more.”

“We will use the Mexicans’ guns,” retorted Chato.

“Give me the dead captain’s gun and belt and I will help you kill Mexicans,” spoke a new voice. “Make me your prisoner and tell me to fight.”

It was old Nana the Chiricahua chief. He had somehow tottered in, from the rear――he was ninety years of age and lame from a broken hip.

“I fight the Americans no more,” he cackled. “But I will fight the Mexicans any time. And so will all my people.”

He nodded backward; they looked, and there were many more of the Chiricahua hostiles, at a short distance, peering and waiting. Geronimo mounted upon a boulder and yelled across.

“If you are fighting the Mexicans, tell us what to do.”

That was an odd situation. If the Chiricahuas had attacked the camp from the one side and the Mexicans from the other――――!

The Mexicans called, where they were concealed.

“Send somebody to talk with us.”

Lieutenant Maus and Tom Horn advanced again. Four of the Mexicans met them half-way. One of the Mexicans was crying. His brother was the slender young lieutenant who had been riddled.

Lieutenant Maus returned and talked with Lieutenant Shipp. The Mexicans claimed that they had made a mistake. They had lost all their officers――among them Major Corredor, who was the big man, and, they declared, “the bravest man that ever lived.” They asked permission to remove their dead.

Lieutenant Maus accompanied each body into the Mexican lines. The Mexicans seemed to be afraid of the scouts.

Now noon was at hand, but instead of withdrawing, the Mexicans had taken a strong position that threatened the camp. Many of them were Tarahumari Indians, a Mexican tribe hostile to all Americans and Apaches.

The camp was short of food and ammunition. Several of the scouts had been wounded, one of them severely. Tom Horn’s arm hung useless. Captain Crawford lay underneath a blanket, with a bandanna handkerchief spread over his face. A piece of his forehead and a portion of his brain had been shot out, but he still breathed.

Jimmie at last reported his arrival to Lieutenant Shipp.

“Yes, I’ve seen you,” answered the lieutenant. “You did well, but,” he frankly added, “we’re all in a bad fix. If there’s war between the United States and Mexico, our pack-trains are likely to be captured; and while we’re fighting our way north, carrying Captain Crawford, there’ll be nothing to prevent the scouts from joining the other Chiricahuas and all together making off to do as they please. Where’s the doctor? Lieutenant Maus has been asking for him.”

Doctor Davis and Concepcion came in, agog to know what had occurred. They had heard the firing, again, and had hidden until it had stopped.

The doctor attended to the captain, and reported that he could not live long. The other wounded were patched up. The Mexicans needed a doctor, and he went over to them, as was his duty.

He was gone some time. On his return he said that the Mexicans had many killed and wounded, but that he had been badly treated, with scowls and insulting language.

Some of the Geronimo Chiricahuas were in sight, waiting. The officers did not think it advisable to hold a council with them until the Mexicans had been disposed of. Only old Nana was still tottering about, cackling among the scouts. He was harmless.

“Give us the orders, and we will clean the earth of those Mexicans,” implored Chato and Ka-e-ten-na, of Tom Horn. “Then we will all have plenty of pinole (which was meal) and bullets.”

Another cold, rainy night settled down early. Lieutenant Maus directed that camp be broken at daylight, for the march north. Captain Crawford should be moved at once, and the pack-train that had been left must be protected. After that, the Chiricahuas who did not surrender would be hunted again.

In the morning, while a litter of reeds from the river was being made, for carrying the captain, old Concepcion, who had been rounding up some ponies, called that the Mexicans had him and demanded a talk with the commanding officer.

Lieutenant Maus again met a squad. They led him aside, behind some rocks, as if to get shelter from the rain――and presently a Mexican brought a note from him. The note stated that he, too, was a prisoner, until he could show papers to prove that he had permission to “invade” Mexico. The Mexicans insisted also upon a supply of food, and mules for their wounded.

Lieutenant Shipp and Chief Scout Horn conferred together. The Mexican messenger was told to get four or five men and return for the mules and rations. Lieutenant Shipp slipped around with his company of scouts, to a position where he might pour a deadly fire into the Mexican lines. When the five Mexicans returned to the camp, for the mules and rations, they were suddenly ringed about with carbine muzzles.

“Now,” spoke Chief Scout Horn, “you call to your comrades. Tell them that if our lieutenant is not released immediately, you will all be killed!”

“Hi!” cackled old Nana. “That is good. Yes, you will be killed. But we will not kill you quick. We will shoot you in many places, first.”

Carbine hammers clicked. Young Lieutenant Shipp’s scouts were crouched and aiming, ready. All the scouts were yelling, while the five Mexicans, calling piteously, pleaded that the lieutenant be released.

That, as Tom Horn said, “ended the row.” Here came the lieutenant, angry but safe. The five prisoners were allowed to scuttle back.

“They’re an ugly lot,” announced the lieutenant. “They have over thirty dead and a dozen wounded. Concepcion is still held. I’ve agreed to let them have six mules in exchange, so they can pull out.”

The mules were Mexican mules, but the lieutenant required a receipt for them, and the Mexican government paid the value of them to the United States.

The Mexicans finally withdrew. Scouts were sent out, on their trail, to watch them to a safe distance. The next morning, January 13, camp was broken.

Captain Crawford was living, but unconscious. Four of the scouts carried him in the litter. The trail was too rough and narrow for any other method. The Geronimo Chiricahuas had disappeared, but they stayed near. This evening Geronimo sent an old squaw into the new camp. He requested the talk that had been agreed upon for the day when the Mexicans had interrupted.

In the morning Lieutenant Maus took Tom Horn, Ka-e-ten-na, Dutchy, and two or three other scouts, and, all unarmed, met Geronimo in council.

“Why did you come down in here, where I thought white men could not come?” demanded Geronimo, direct.

“I came down to capture or destroy you and your band,” answered the weary Lieutenant Maus, just as direct.

“I see you speak the truth,” replied Geronimo. He shook hands, sent a long talk, of various complaints, to “Cluke,” and engaged to meet the general at the border when the March moon was full.

“Do you think he will do it, Chato?” queried Jimmie.

“Yes. Ka-e-ten-na has told him what a big people the Americans are. Besides, Geronimo is sending in old Nana, and some women. Chihuahua wants to come in. Juh has been killed by the Mexicans. Pretty soon Geronimo will have no one left.”

Nana arrived, again, and Geronimo’s wife, and one of Nah-che’s wives, and another Chiricahua, and several children. Lieutenant Maus divided his few rations with the Geronimo band, and proceeded. Matters looked better.

But that was a long, sorrowful march, carrying Captain Crawford through the three hundred miles of mountains and rain. He lived, unconscious, for five days――he had an “indomitable will,” as had said Doctor Davis. Without having spoken a word he died on January 17. Of course there was no thought of leaving him behind, in the wilds, so his body was still carried on, in the litter.