Hostilities, Chapter One
Perched on a hilltop, Henry Calhern sniffed at ghostly wisps of smoke and gave no thought to mercy.
Below him, an Apache village lay near the banks of the Pecos River in the Mescalero country of southeastern New Mexico territory. A line of conical lodges, their hide walls painted with buffalo, deer, bear, and horse, marked the western edge of the village, beyond which lay the Pecos. Two more rows of tepees were set in twin arcs, bowing out and away from the first line of shelters. In the center of the village, the remains of a large community cook fire, ignited the night before to celebrate a successful hunt, now smoldered and smudged the morning breeze that blew toward a low hill to the north. No one inside the village was awake to smell the pungent mesquite smoke.
The village was well lit by the full moon that peeked through scattered clouds, and Calhern could make out brown strips of drying buffalo meat and freshly-tanned hides hanging on wooden racks. The river, swollen by spring rains and melting snow from distant mountains, swam along banks rich and green with young spring grasses. To the west sprang the scrub-covered hills of the rocky high desert. East lay the desolation of a vast, hostile plateau bristling with needle-armed plants, where nights crawled with predatory reptiles and days shimmered with heat from late spring to early autumn.
Calhern had endured that terrain in search of this village, and from a small clearing shielded by a twisted copse of mesquite trees, he and three other mounted men studied their objective.
"They're ready," said Bill Fitzpatrick, a short, dark-haired white man who sat directly behind Calhern. Fitzpatrick ignored the other two men on the hilltop, both Indians. He had no respect for Indians though he recognized their usefulness. The two Indians - a leathery Tonkawa called Bodaway and a young Comanche named Coyote - felt the same way about Fitzpatrick.
Leaning against the horn of his black Mexican-made saddle, Henry Calhern looked to his left. A group of mounted men - whites and Mexicans - waited behind a wooded area half a mile from the northern end of the village. They were loaded down with weapons: English shotguns, Kentucky rifles, St. Louis pistols, and an array of tomahawks, knives, and machetes.
Calhern glanced to his right at a second group of riders, mostly Indians, who waited at the base of the hill. A few carried firearms but most stuck with the traditional Indian weapons: bow and arrow, lance, and tomahawk. All carried sharpened knives to take trophies.
"Bodaway, get your men in position," he said.
The Tonkawa, a tall, wiry man with a shaved head and war paint on his face, shoulders, and thighs, grunted a reply as he hefted a war club. He turned his brown and white horse, then stopped to stare briefly at the Comanche.
"You follow me, Comanche," Bodaway said in broken English, the common language of Calhern's multi-ethnic outlaw society. "Prove you warrior." Then he turned away and rode down the slope to the waiting group of Indians, who followed him toward the western edge of the village.
Holding a short bow in his left hand, Coyote reached his right hand over his shoulder and pulled three arrows from the quiver on his back, then nudged his horse forward to follow the Tonkawa.
Fitzpatrick checked his guns, a pair of .40-caliber Derringer flintlock pistols and a .50-caliber Hawken rifle, and looked up at the approach of a group of five riders. In the moonlit darkness, their leader appeared as a small, misshapen silhouette rising out of a saddle that seemed too big for the rider.
"Henry?" Fitzpatrick said, stuffing one of the flintlocks into his belt. "Santos is here."
"I know," Calhern said. He could smell Santos Madrazo ten yards away.
The Mexican reined in at Calhern's elbow.
"Cap-i-taaaan?" Santos mocked.
Calhern ignored Santos's scorn. Madrazo's disrespect was blatant but he never actually challenged Calhern's authority, and until then, the outlaw leader would continue to make use of him and his brothers.
"Give me the old man's hair," Calhern said, not looking at the repulsive figure.
Santos's face betrayed no hint of acknowledgement, but Calhern knew the Mexican had heard. Santos was a miserable lump of a man, as were his two brothers, Raul and Joaquin, all three born for bloody work. The three Madrazos and their two companions turned away and headed for the eastern edge of the village.
Calhern waited patiently for all of his forces to reach their positions. This attack was well planned and rehearsed, and Calhern intended to stick to the plan. He had an advantage in firepower, for there would be few, if any, guns in the village. Many of the Apaches would be fatigued from the hunt and the previous night's celebration. Most importantly, Calhern's raiders had the advantage of complete surprise.
Still, there were still nearly a thousand Apaches in the village, including several hundred warriors. He was out-numbered ten to one, and that was reason enough to be nervous.
The men Calhern brought from his hideout in the canyons of the Palo Duro country of northwest Texas were not nervous types. Killing was what they did best. The men who rode with Calhern made their living by taking human life, and most of them found pleasure in the infliction of pain and suffering. They were white and Mexican and Indian. They were murderers and rapists and thieves and kidnappers. They were vicious and vile, feared and hated. And their deeds and dealings had earned them a name being heard for the first time on the frontier, a distinction for men who sold guns and slaves to the Comanche tribes: Comancheros.
In addition to their unusual mix of ethnicity, Calhern's Comancheros were a bizarre blend of morality. Alongside the assassins and butchers was a handful of renegade Indians who rode with Calhern in search of lost honor. Haloke was a Navajo banished from his tribe for indiscretions with the wives of other braves. A Cherokee named Inali had failed in battle and was branded a coward. Buzzard, a Tonkawa, was forced to survive on his own when his father died in battle and his mother took up with another man who had no interest in raising the scrawny, wild-eyed boy. Discarded by a society that treasured honor and glory, they sought to prove themselves by seeking glory with a band of renegades who had no honor.
Coyote was the latest disgraced brave to join the Comancheros, and, because he was a Comanche, he immediately drew the ire of Bodaway and the esteem of Calhern.
Little more than a boy, Coyote was a pure warrior, a fierce fighter with no interest in tribal politics. In battle, he fought with a ravenous fury but was unable to control his bloodlust, even killing prisoners taken by other Comanches without the captor's permission. Worse, he endangered other braves by seeking his own glory and disobeying the orders of the war chief. although Coyote saw things differently. He wasn't too aggressive; the war chiefs were too timid. But repeated disputes with his tribe's chiefs, including his father, forced him to leave. The tribe's elders wanted Coyote banished or killed, so the young warrior departed before a decision was made, drifting northwest to find the Comancheros. He needed battle, and knew Calhern would provide opportunities.
He traveled through the flat, barren stretches of west Texas for days until the ground suddenly buckled and split open in a series of canyons, a maze of rocky gaps and twisting ravines cutting through rust-colored hills. Secret passages and trails hid in the shadows of tall cottonwood and black willow trees, making it difficult to find the renegades' hideout. After a week of wandering, Coyote was found by the Comancheros' Indian scouts and brought before Calhern.
Coyote was astonished to find the Comancheros' hideout was much more than a rough campsite. Calhern had built a small town with half a dozen wooden buildings, including a two-story saloon with rooms upstairs for the community's white whores. The Mexican whores occupied their own separate building, a three-room shack across from the saloon, and the Indian whores were left outside in tents and tepees. The saloon was at the center of town. A stable sat next to it, and across from it were two cabins and a long barracks. At the end of town, tucked against the side of the canyon, sat a large, one-room building which Coyote later learned was called the slave jail, where captives were kept before being sold.
There was no jail for those who broke the community's miniscule list of civic ordinances. Violators were just shot.
For most captives brought to the Comancheros' town, it was death or slavery, and as a male beyond his teenage years, Coyote knew he would be killed if he were not allowed to join.
Two Navajos and two Cherokees led Coyote into the center of the town and ordered him to dismount. A knot of white women looked on from the balcony of the saloon, while other residents began to gather around the newcomer.
Three men, all white, emerged from one of the cabins. In an instant, Coyote knew which was the leader. His commanding presence stood out from the throng. Tall, with a darkly handsome, well-tanned face. Coyote had seen men like him among his own people, men for whom leadership was as natural as eating or sleeping with a woman, for whom leadership was unavoidable.
"What you got, boys?" said a short man with a waxed mustache and blue pants like white soldiers wear.
"He say he want to join," the Navajo named Haloke said. "He Comanche."
Calhern stepped forward. He knew the well-deserved reputation of the Comanches as great horse warriors, fierce and bold, the most feared force in Texas. At first glance, however, this warrior did not fit his idea of a great Plains Indian. He was handsome, better looking than any Indian Calhern had ever seen, with a lean body unmarked by scars. The young Comanche was, Calhern had to admit, beautiful.
"Pretty boy, looks like," Fitzpatrick said.
"He's a Comanche," Calhern said admiringly. "Best horse soldiers in the territory. Maybe the best in the world. You want to join?"
Coyote nodded.
"Find him a tent, Bill."
The crowd had grown, joined by most of the town's Indians, including the Tonkawa called Bodaway, who was preeminent among Calhern's Indian followers. He was the toughest, the meanest, the cruelest. He was undisputed leader of the renegade warriors and had his pick of the Indian squaws who escaped slavery by becoming whores in the service of Calhern's camp. And this young Comanche, who had already caught Calhern's eye, was better looking than Bodaway.
Bodaway stepped close to Coyote and walked around him, rubbing a hand roughly over the Comanche's shoulders and back, then thumped a fist in the middle of Coyote's chest.
"How could he be warrior when he got no scars?" Bodaway cried.
"I think he's jealous," Fitzpatrick whispered to Calhern.
"Warriors got scars. No scars," and he pointed at Coyote. "No warrior. I warrior. I got scars."
He proudly pointed to an ugly knife wound on his left arm and an old bullet hole on his chest below the shoulder, then yanked off his loincloth and slapped a long scar, made by a Mexican sword, that ran from his back, across his buttocks, and down the back of his thigh.
Bodaway whooped and celebrated his scars, slapping his ass and thrusting his hips forward toward the whores, who screeched in delight at the naked Indian. A couple of the whores raised their skirts, and one whore stepped forward and reached for the stiffening Tonkawa.
"Haw! He just don't want this spry young buck gettin' at his whores!" Fitzpatrick cackled.
Coyote stood quietly as Bodaway tried to heap humiliation on him, but now he spoke, in a quiet but strong voice.
"That scar," Coyote said, pointing to Bodaway's backside, "a running-away scar. Running away from Mexican long knife."
The whores stopped their screeching and Bodaway stopped his dancing, spun around, and pulled himself out of the whore's grasp. The Tonkawa stared in disbelief at the insulting, smooth-faced Comanche. Some of the whites laughed as Bodaway's blood rushed to his face and his erection drooped.
"He's callin' you a coward, Bodaway," someone in the crowd yelled.
"Limp dick," someone else called.
Coyote took a step forward.
"Tribe," Coyote demanded.
"Tonkawa," Bodaway barked.
For a long while Coyote said nothing, allowing Bodaway's rage to build.
"Tonkawa!" Bodaway screamed.
Coyote simply crossed his arms and shook his head. The Tonkawas had been driven out of their lands and to the brink of extermination by the Comanches and then the whites.
"I ride here, and still alive," Coyote said, then pointed east toward the Comancheria, the home of the Comanche people. "You ride east Tonkawa, and you die."
It had been many years since Bodaway had been on the receiving end of humiliation, and his temper exploded. He snatched a lance out of a nearby warrior's hands and charged Coyote, but the boy was far too quick for the older man. Coyote sidestepped out of the path of the lance, lowered his shoulder, and threw a wicked punch into Bodaway's gut that knocked the lance from his hands and doubled him over. Coyote then kicked the gasping Indian as hard as he could on the bare backside, sending Bodaway tumbling into the dirt.
Howls of laughter erupted from the crowd, even from the other Indians who obeyed Bodaway out of fear but disliked him intensely. He kept too many of the whores to himself, and would beat any man who challenged him.
Bodaway was trying to catch his breath and rose to his knees when he felt a hard rap on his head. Not hard enough to injure or knock him unconscious, but still a painful blow. His head ringing, Bodaway turned and tried to rise, but fell back on his sore rump and looked up at his enemy. Standing over him was Coyote, who had picked up the lance and cuffed the Tonkawa with it. The meaning was clear. He had counted coup on Bodaway. He could have easily killed, but instead claimed the greater honor - and the greater shame to Bodaway.
"Get him to his tent," Calhern said, and two of the whores helped the Tonkawa to his feet. He angrily shook the women away and stormed off. When Bodaway had gone, Coyote stepped in front of Calhern.
"I stay?"
"You make friends fast," Calhern said. "Yeah, you stay."
On the hill overlooking the Apache village, Fitzpatrick watched the dim shapes of Bodaway's men reach their starting point. From the edge of the river, an arm waved a white cloth, just visible as the eastern horizon began to glow with the first hint of dawn.
"Bodaway's ready," Fitzpatrick said, carefully smoothing his waxed mustache. "East column's been in position fifteen minutes," he said, checking his pocket watch in the moonlight. "Support fire positioned. Main force," he glanced at the men below at the trees, "is loaded and ready. The southern group and Santos should be in position as well. All forces ready."
Bill Fitzpatrick had been a clerk in the army, and although he tried to sound like a general positioning his units for battle, at moments like this he sounded to Calhern like some demented accountant. Though never blooded in battle during his days in the military, Fitzpatrick considered himself a tactician and a student of conflict. He was a stickler for neatness and organization, and never allowed himself to look disheveled as many of his comrades did. He still wore the pants the army had given him, or rather one of several pair he stole just prior to his dishonorable discharge for his black-market dealings while in the quartermaster corp. His shirt was linen, inexpensive and easily replaced, and his long, gray coat, carefully tucked and buttoned, was effective against the chill of a spring morning. It was a tidy outfit. His value was his ability to stay organized in a fight, and within minutes of the end of this coming battle, Fitzpatrick would be ready with the butcher's bill.
Calhern and Fitzpatrick rode slowly and quietly down a narrow trail to the base of the hill where the main force of twenty riders waited.
"Give the signal."
Fitzpatrick stood in his saddle and waved a red flag - gray in the pre-dawn gloom - over his head. The columns to the east and west could just make out the flash of movement, and with Calhern in the middle, all three groups began to creep out of their hiding places toward the imperiled village.
They approached without yells or screams, riding slowly with their gear tied down to keep noise to a minimum. They waited until they were thirty yards from the village, then spurred their mounts and charged in at the gallop.
Bodaway's men rode in between the riverbank and the western line of lodges. Calhern led his force into the Apache village from the north and the third group entered from the east.
As they hit the first line of lodges, they opened fire, cutting loose with shotgun blasts into the lodges where the sleepy Apaches were beginning to stir. Bitter gun smoke quickly tainted the clean morning air. The Comancheros tore through the village without meeting resistance, slowed as they reached the far end of the village, then turned and plunged in again.
The first wave of gunfire abated, and in the brief silence, the screams of the wounded and the terrified began to rise. Confusion spread rapidly through the Apaches. The first few to emerge were cut down without knowing who was doing the killing while others died in their beds. Renegade Indians launched lances from point-blank range into bleary-eyed warriors. One Apache warrior boldly strode from his home screaming challenges at the attackers, until a gunshot splattered open his throat and tossed him aside. The riders circled again and again through the village, attacking any armed Apache and preventing organized defense.
At the western edge of the village, a barrel-chested Apache named Two Snakes led a dozen braves to the edge of the river and planned a counter-attack against the raiders' backs. If he could disrupt the raiders here then his people would have an escape route across the river.
"Quickly, hide in the brush," Two Snakes said as he slid down the riverbank. "When the enemy rides past we will attack from behind."
"Who are they?" one man asked.
"Indians."
"What tribe?"
"I saw whites, too."
"Quiet," Two Snakes ordered, not caring about the enemy's identity. Two Snakes was a born fighter and relished combat, no matter who the foe or what the cause. He welcomed any fight. Loved it. Couldn't get enough of it. And though this enemy had brought terror and death to his people, deep inside Two Snakes was reveling in the chance for blood. "Get ready," he hissed at the other warriors still trying to rub the sleep and confusion from their eyes.
In a few seconds, a group of riders, led by a bald-headed Indian, approached Two Snakes.
"Wait for them to pass," he whispered to the other Apaches, who were armed with a handful of clubs and tomahawks but only two bows.
The raiders rode past, their eyes fixed on the village and away from Two Snakes.
"Now, attack!" Two Snakes screamed as the last rider in the group moved past.
The Apaches bolted from their cover. The two braves with bows each launched an arrow and were drawing back a second as the rest of the attackers surged up the bank. They took three steps and just reached the top of the bank, where they were silhouetted against the faint glow of the rising sun, when a volley of gunfire took them from behind. Six rifle bullets plucked five Apaches off the riverbank. Two Snakes's obvious leadership and massive physique drew special attention, and he died instantly with a bullet in his brain and one in the spine.
The survivors instinctively turned toward the new threat, but could see only a few puffs of smoke drifting from the brush that hid the snipers on the far side of the river. The mounted raiders, alerted to the Apaches by the rifle fire, turned, and Bodaway led a charge into the survivors, chasing them down to the river when the hidden rifles, now reloaded, opened up again. Screaming as he came, Bodaway raced toward the last two Apaches, but Coyote suddenly cut in front of him, causing the Tonkawa's horse to rear up and bellow in protest. In an instant the Comanche chased the two fleeing Apaches and hacked one of them down with a tomahawk that dripped red. Coyote dismounted and grabbed the dead man by the hair, then drew a knife and began taking the Apache's scalp.
The second Apache, regaining his courage, turned and ran at Coyote, who simply glared at the charging warrior and continued to claim his trophy. When the Apache was only a few steps away, he yelled his war cry and launched himself at Coyote. Coyote waited until the last moment to avoid the Apache's attack, evading the enraged assault and connecting with his elbow to the back of the warrior's head. The blow stunned the man and sent him sprawling, and Coyote was on top of him in an instant. With a flick of his knife, Coyote skinned the Apache's skull, bringing an agonized shriek from the warrior and approving yells from the renegades. His knee on the wounded Apache's back, Coyote held out both scalps for Bodaway to see. He had fended off an attack, gained the upper hand, and taken a second scalp without dropping the first. The Apache moaned again and Coyote silenced him by slashing open his throat.
Coyote rose slowly off the dead man, then remounted and rode toward the other Indians, who were gathered around Bodaway. Coyote held the bloody trophies out for all to see and let loose a victory whoop, and the Cherokees and Navajos surged past Bodaway to surround their new champion.
Bodaway, glaring white-hot hatred, snapped his horse's head around and galloped up the riverbank.
In the middle of the village's carnage, those few Apaches who managed to grab bows or lances or one of the village's few guns were isolated in small groups in completely defensive positions. With the warriors under control, a handful of the Comancheros drifted away from the fighting to attend to the morning's business.
The Madrazo brothers waited outside the village while the fighting built in intensity. Sitting atop their huge horses, the three looked like freakish children waiting for riding lessons - an image belied by the double-barreled shotgun sitting across Joaquin's lap and the enormous machetes Raul and Santos twirled impatiently.
The Madrazo brothers were dwarfish in appearance, with short arms and legs but large heads covered by long, dirty, brown hair. Their wide faces were dominated by twisted smiles with diminishing populations of stained teeth. All three wore shaggy moustaches, drooping unevenly over the corners of their mouth. In the opinion of the every man they rode with, the Madrazos were appallingly ugly. And very, very dangerous.
In their youth, the Madrazos joined the Mexican army. At the time, there was a fourth brother, Juan, the youngest of the family. Eldest brother Santos convinced his brothers to join the military, where they excelled at the brutal work of fighting Indian incursions and earned reputations for cruelty and thieving.
In a particularly bloody fight with Comanche raiders, a young officer ordered the Madrazos to join a ill-advised charge, and Juan was killed in the melee. The enraged remaining brothers confronted the officer, who in fear of the threesome drew his pistol and shot Raul in the face. Santos and Joaquin tackled the officer, wrested his gun and saber away from him, tied him to a tree, stripped him, and took turns slicing him with machetes.
When they finished, they turned their attention to their injured brother. The bullet had entered Raul's right cheek, mangled the right side of his lips, shattered several teeth, seared across the top of his tongue, and exited the back of his neck. The wounds, though not life threatening, left Raul with a horribly-scarred face and slurred speech. He kept the officer's jacket and saber, and when drunk he sometimes demanded others refer to him as "General," despite the fact that the insignia on the jacket was that of a lieutenant.
With little other choice, the Madrazos deserted the army and entered a life of vice, surviving on theft, armed robbery, murder, and rape, while frequently pursued by Mexican soldiers, Texan volunteers, or Indian warriors. Forced further and further north into Texas, they finally met Calhern's band and joined up. No one in the group trusted the Madrazos in the slightest but Calhern recognized their usefulness and so their presence was tolerated.
They were most useful in jobs like this.
Slipping into the village from the east, they made their way towards an elaborately decorated lodge that had been deliberately avoided by the other attackers. The lodge was taller than the others around it, and beautiful drawings of wolves, eagles, and badgers circled the base. Higher up on one side was a depiction of a buffalo hunt, and on the other side several pictures told the story of a great raid by the Apaches against Mexican soldiers. Near the top of the lodge were painted many different birds, and a robin was painted over the door to the lodge. Poles on either side of the entrance held ornate shields and dozens of feathers.
Two young Apaches spotted the Mexicans and sprinted to guard the entrance. Joaquin calmly drew a pistol and shot one of the braves through the chest, and Santos leveled his shotgun and blasted the other man, flinging his dead body against the lodge. Satisfied there were no more guards, Santos and Raul dismounted at the side of the tent.
Little Deer couldn't begin to understand what was happening. The morning had exploded in noise and smoke. In her short eight-year life, all spent within the confines of the village, she had rarely heard gunfire and she had never experienced the constant booming that echoed outside the lodge of the Ancient One.
"Do not go outside, Little Deer," the Ancient One said. He sat at the back of the lodge, his legs crossed, one arm around Spring Sun, Little Deer's younger sister. Spring Sun, just five years old, was shaking with fear, wide-eyed and unable to comprehend why the thunder had fallen from the sky and was pounding the village.
A young Apache warrior, one of two men assigned to protect the Ancient One's lodge, had poked his head through the entrance moments ago and told everyone to stay inside. But then the thunder fell very close, just outside. Little Deer had never heard such a loud noise, and then something slammed against the lodge.
"Stay with me and your sister, Little Deer," the Ancient One said calmly.
Little Deer suddenly felt a presence at the doorway and heard a voice. It was not Apache. Little Deer inched forward, grabbed a lance that lay near the entrance, struggled with its weight, then stepped back and took up a defensive position the way she saw the warriors do, pointing the lance tip toward the door.
Drawing back the flaps at the entrance, Raul and Santos were met by a lance in the trembling hands of a girl who stood defiantly before them, blocking their passage to the old man behind her. The old man, exhibiting an inhuman calm, sat near the back of the lodge, his arm around another child.
Raul stepped toward the girl with the lance. Little Deer saw the man's mangled face and gasped. Accustomed as he was to the reaction, Raul still bristled at the disgust others felt in his presence. He snatched the lance away before Little Deer could react and as the girl stepped back, the two Mexicans stepped forward.
Less than two minutes later, Raul and Joaquin stepped out of the old man's great lodge as Santos was cutting the scalp off a fresh kill. Raul carried a burlap sack and was covered with blood. One of the two men who rode into village with the Madrazos was dead, facedown with an arrow in his back. The Apache who fired the arrow lay twenty feet away, slumped against the side of a lodge with his face shot away. His scalp already hung from Santos's belt.
"We're finished," Joaquin said.
"Not yet," Santos said.
While his brothers mounted, Santos ducked inside another lodge next to that of the old man, reappearing a second later dragging two squirming Apache children, one in each hand. Both were tightly bound. One of the children was a boy of ten, the other a girl of fourteen, naked from the waist up, and the sight of her young woman's body brought a smile to Raul's twisted mouth.
"Now finished," Santos said.
Bloody Moon peered out cautiously from the entrance of his lodge in the middle of the village. Several bullets had already ripped through the skin of the tent, and the great Apache war chief was forced to hug the ground to avoid the gunfire.
Above him, the decorations on the interior walls of the lodge were spattered and dotted with flecks of blood, while beside him lay the motionless body of his wife, Feather In The Water. One of the first shotgun volleys had crashed through the lodge wall and opened a great wound in the sleeping woman's chest. She lived just long enough to briefly flutter her eyes open and look at her husband before the life left her gaze.
The shock trapped in those eyes in the moment before death stung Bloody Moon as no war wound had ever done. For long seconds Bloody Moon stared at Feather In The Water, then he gently closed the staring eyes, trailed his fingertips across her cheek, and wiped away a drop of blood. She had been a beautiful woman, kind and devoted to Bloody Moon. He stroked her hair, braided with blue and red beads and long, delicate pieces of turquoise.
You have no time for this, warrior.
She loved the turquoise, the lovely blue and green rocks that he brought back from a trip north to trade with the Pueblo people.
Warrior!
"I know," Bloody Moon said to the voice in his head. "I know."
Bloody Moon touched her face again, lowered his head, and allowed himself a moment of grief. He took a deep breath and fought off the tears, then grabbed his bow and a quiver of arrows, rose, and darted out of the lodge without looking back.
Two Apache braves, panicked and running anywhere safe, almost slammed into the massive war chief, who grabbed both men.
"Stand with me," Bloody Moon commanded, and immediately the panic drained out of the two warriors.
"Gather others and arm yourselves."
The two warriors nodded and ran off again, this time with purpose. They returned a few moments later, one with a lance and the other with a war club. Four more braves had gathered around Bloody Moon.
"They're taking our people, there," one of the braves said, pointing to the southern end of the village.
"Then we'll fight our way to them," Bloody Moon said.
Bloody Moon fanned his scant force of six men out and the group hurried off, keeping to any cover they could find while the sun rose to their left.
About forty yards from the position where Bloody Moon was rallying his forces, the Osage war chief called Kills Many brought his horse to a stop near the north end of the village after making another pass. He now had three scalps tied to leather cords on a pack slung over the shoulders of his horse. The pack also held a tomahawk, a bow, a quiver of arrows, and a lance. A long, sharp knife sat in a scabbard thick with blood. Resting on his hip, with its terrible blade hovering in the air, was Kills Many's weapon of choice, a giant war axe. The weapon's prominent feature was a large curved steel blade with a razor-sharp edge and enough weight to slice through a man's neck with one swing. A foot-long spike, suitable for stabbing, was located on top of the blade.
He turned his horse to face the village again, then paused to look for more targets. Kills Many had led Calhern's eastern column in the initial attack, but now most of the men who rode into the village with him were scattered across the battleground. The Osage's group contained some of the most feared killers under Calhern's command, and their job was terror. They were not to worry about taking captives or plunder, they were simply to kill any armed Apache they found, and continue spreading terror through the camp to tie up as much resistance as possible. This would allow the others to take prisoners for sale into slavery.
Kills Many's men executed their job brilliantly. As the Apaches tried to rouse themselves against Calhern's and Bodaway's attacks, Kills Many's force slammed into the flank of the badly organized defenders and destroyed the threat of a cohesive large-scale defense. Twenty minutes into the attack, only pockets of resistance remained.
The group killed dozens of armed warriors and quite a few unarmed Apaches as well. Being at the leading edge of the fighting also meant greater risk, and out of the twenty-three men that rode into the village with Kills Many, only eleven were unharmed. Seven were dead, four were wounded but still mounted and fighting, and one was missing. The missing man was a Mexican named Miguel Garcia, and no one had seen him for some time.
Only two riders remained at Kills Many's side, a pair of Osage warriors called Rain Cloud and Going Panther, who followed Kills Many everywhere he went. Either man would not hesitate to step in front of an arrow or bullet intended for their leader.
"Again," Kills Many said, and the two Osage obediently turned their horses for another ride through the village. With every pass, the ride became more hazardous as more and more Apaches found weapons. A handful of warriors had dug in around an old fire pit, and five of Kills Many's men died trying to overrun the position. The attackers gave up on taking the fire pit, avoiding it in favor of searching for stragglers caught in open ground.
A few yards away, Miguel Garcia emerged from an Apache tepee. Going Panther spotted the Mexican who had gone missing and was now struggling to pull up his pants.
Garcia was trying to mount up but he was a little drunk and the effort wore him out. He laughed to himself and muttered an obscenity. He reached for the saddle horn again when he felt a nudge at his back. Startled, he spun around.
"Damn!" he screamed, using one of the few English words he knew. The sight before him was terrifying. Kills Many glared down at the Mexican. The Indian's face was painted white with black circles around the eyes and mouth, and his sunken cheeks made the face look like some grisly, living skull. His long, black hair was greased back and covered by a spectacular feathered headdress that hung down Kills Many's back and touched the rump of his horse. The man's shoulders were painted white, and he had carefully outlined the ribs on his lean chest. The Indian was astride a huge black horse, a powerful animal that was Kills Many's pride. It was rare for Indians to form a strong attachment to a particular horse, but Kills Many found the horse intimidated others, especially Indians, who usually favored smaller, faster mounts.
On either side of Kills Many were two more apparitions, their faces also skull-painted. Kills Many said something in his native Osage tongue but Garcia didn't understand a word. The Mexican smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
"Espanol, por favor," he said.
Kills Many spoke Spanish but he rarely used it. He seldom lowered himself to speak any language other than his own, but could understand Spanish, English, and even a little French learned from French traders.
He nudged a bony heel into his horse's massive flank and the horse walked forward. Kills Many pulled back the flap of the tent. Lying face up was a dead Apache woman, her legs spread and her throat cut. Kills Many tossed the tent flap aside angrily. He didn't care about the woman. He cared only that one of the men in his group left the others in the middle of battle to satisfy his lust.
Reaching across Garcia's gray horse, Kills Many snatched the worn sombrero off the Mexican's head and tossed it away, grabbed Garcia by his hair, and yanked him up onto the horse. The Mexican screamed and cursed, but scrambled up into the saddle, and the Osage released his grip and began to ride back into the village. Going Panther shoved Garcia in the back, and the Rain Cloud poked him in the ribs with a lance. Properly motivated, the Mexican nudged his own horse forward, followed by his Osage guards.
Bloody Moon had counted on his group growing as they headed south, but instead he lost a warrior to the hidden snipers who continued to hold the far side of the river, and their steady fire forced his men to keep low and slowed their progress. They found a brief sanctuary between a tangle of lodges partially trampled by the attacker's horses, and got their first view of the activities at the south end of the village. More than twenty heavily-armed raiders stood guard around a rapidly growing mass of captives and horses that were pouring out of the village. Every few minutes, small groups of Comancheros would appear with more plunder, leaving the unfortunates in the hands of the guards who busied themselves with bullying and binding the prisoners.
"There must be more than a hundred of our people," said a brave kneeling at Bloody Moon's elbow. One of the whites backhanded an Apache boy who struggled against his bonds. Discouraged from further insubordination, the boy was lifted and dumped into the back of one of three wagons the Comancheros had brought. The other two wagons were already full, and now stolen horses were being loaded with more Apaches. Most were children; a few were young women. Any resistance was met with brutality.
As Bloody Moon's men watched, four Mexicans rode into the slave pen and delivered a naked young boy, who was scooped up and heaved onto horseback behind a young woman. The woman, her left eye swollen shut, tried to calm the terrified boy.
The Mexicans held a second captive, but they waved off the men in charge of the horse train and kept the prisoner, a young girl on the verge of womanhood, draped over the horse of a Mexican with a horribly disfigured face. The leader of the foursome motioned for one of the Mexicans in his party to join the men guarding the horse train, and the disfigured Mexican tossed a bag at a burly man who appeared in charge of the captives. Then the remaining three Mexicans rode off while the boy screamed in protest as the young girl was taken away.
The burly man, who Bloody Moon could see was white, ignored the children's pleas, interested only in the contents of the bag. Suddenly he let out a howl of triumph and lifted the bag into the air, and several of the raiders around him joined the brief celebration. The bag was handed to another white man, a small, tidy man with dark hair and a dark mustache, who tied the bag securely to his saddle. The burly white man picked up an enormous shotgun, then removed his hat and wiped his brow.
One of the Apaches next to Bloody Moon gasped as the white man turned. The man had been scalped. It was an old wound. The man had almost no hair on his head, only terrible red scar tissue. Bits of dull white skull were visible. None of the Apaches had seen a man still alive after being scalped, and all the warriors - even Bloody Moon - felt a tinge of fear at the power possessed by a man who could have survived such a wound.
"Do we attack?" an eager but frightened young warrior asked.
"Not here," Bloody Moon replied. "They are too strong. We will circle behind them to free our people."
Moving low to the ground, Bloody Moon quietly backed away, keeping the damaged lodges between himself and the enemy.
"There are men with rifles at the river, so we will go east."
The group began to run along a path that ran between lodges but was now choked with debris. The dead lay everywhere and all the braves recognized at least one of the casualties.
Bloody Moon was the first to hear the horses, coming up fast behind them. He looked back but saw nothing, and then a rider appeared through a gap between two lodges that hadn't been trampled. It was a Mexican on a gray horse, who appeared startled at having stumbled upon the Apaches.
"Kill him!" Bloody Moon commanded, and two of his Apaches fired arrows at the stunned Mexican. One arrow hit the horse, the other took the Mexican in the stomach, and both rider and horse reared back and went down. An Apache leapt forward with knife drawn to finish the man, who struggled beneath his horse, when three more riders burst through the gap. Bloody Moon recognized the painted killers as Osage warriors, and he watched as the lead Osage, astride a huge black horse, swung a giant war axe at the knife-wielding Apache and split open the man's throat and face.
Lance held high, Bloody Moon lunged at the lead Osage. The horseman was quick and deflected the attack with his axe, but the tip of Bloody Moon's lance lodged in the neck of the charging black horse, and the animal's momentum drove the lance deep into the horse's throat. The wide-eyed horse lost its balance and slammed into Bloody Moon, knocking him off his feet and sending horse, rider, and the Apache war chief crashing into a lodge, splintering the lodge's wooden supports and collapsing the shelter. The horse kicked spasmodically as blood gushed from its throat and mouth, then it went still.
Kills Many tried to rise but pain washed through his head. He gently touched a rapidly-growing lump on his right temple and was rewarded with a shaft of pain that penetrated his eyes and emerged from his left ear. He blinked, but found his eyelids hurt, too. He looked around for the tall Apache who had attacked but couldn't find him. Good. He was in no condition to fight anyone, least of all that giant. Kills Many was almost certain the Apache was Bloody Moon, the great chief of the Mescaleros. Kills Many had never seen such an Indian, standing well over six feet tall. How he escaped being impaled on that lance…the lance…the lance…Kills Many was sure it hit…something.
Rain Cloud dismounted and hauled Kills Many to his feet while Going Panther chased the remaining four Apaches with a barrage of arrows. The Apaches, shocked at the sudden disappearance of their leader, took cover but they were beginning to return fire.
"We must go!" Rain Cloud implored Kills Many, helping him to stand.
"Where is-" Kills Many stammered and looked around. "Where is my horse? Where is the great black horse?" The axe lay at Kills Many's feet, and he staggered slightly as he picked it up.
"The great horse is dead," Rain Cloud said, pulling Kills Many away from the fallen animal and the Apaches who were now inching their way forward in an organized counter-attack.
"Dead? Where is the tall Apache?"
"He is dead!" Rain Cloud shouted as an arrow scraped his shoulder. "The Apache was crushed by the great horse. We must go!"
"Bloody Moon dead? I must have his scalp," and Kills Many began fumbling for his knife.
"Get back!" Going Panther called as he tried to shield Kills Many from the arrows. The mounted Osage yelped as an Apache arrow hit him in the left leg, but it didn't penetrate deeply, and he slapped the shaft away.
Kills Many's senses rushed back to him.
"Mount!" he ordered.
Rain Cloud leapt onto his horse, reached back for Kills Many, and pulled him onto the stallion, then kicked hard and rode for the south end of the village. Going Panther fired a last arrow and followed.
Coyote was having a very good day. He had taken six scalps, all men and all armed when they died. He had seen others scalping squaws and old men, which was fine if there was nothing else. But plenty of warriors wished to fight, and Coyote rode slowly through the village, making himself clearly available to anyone who wanted to do battle.
He spotted movement at the entrance to a large lodge, and, as he drew closer, he could see Bodaway bending over something. Coyote rode up on the Tonkawa, who was too busy to notice the Comanche. Bodaway was talking to himself, and then Coyote realized he was singing his own praises. Coyote edged closer to the lodge and now could see. The lodge was ornate, decorated with fine skins. A large horsehide shield trimmed with feathers lay near the entrance. Many war charms hung from a lodge pole. It might be the lodge of a chief, and for a moment, Coyote feared that Bodaway had claimed a great victory over a powerful enemy. Coyote had many victories today, but nothing to match this.
Straining to look over Bodaway's shoulder, Coyote could just see the dead body. The Tonkawa was taking the scalp off a woman. Off a woman! Ha! With so many warriors to fight, he was taking trophies from squaws!
The growing daylight flickered through the tepee's open flap, and Coyote could just see the dead woman's face, could see how beautiful she had been, and jealously he wondered if the Tonkawa had raped her. Bodaway leaned to his left and Coyote could see a terrible wound in the woman's chest, clearly caused by the whites' shotguns. The Tonkawa hadn't raped her. He hadn't even killed her.
With so many warriors to fight, the Tonkawa was taking the scalp off a squaw killed by one of the whites' big guns.
"Is this your great victory, today?" Coyote said in English.
Bodaway flinched and his face flushed at the sound of the young Comanche's voice. Slowly, ever so slowly, he rose but his shoulders drooped and the hideous trophy hung accusingly from his hand. Finally he turned to face Coyote but stayed back in the shadows of the lodge.
Bodaway said nothing. Through lowered eyes, he looked at the blood-covered Comanche. Several scalps hung from Coyote's belt. He also carried war charms, tomahawks, and an Apache lance taken from his victims. From fighting victims. From armed victims. From warrior victims. Bodaway had challenged the boy to prove himself, and Coyote had clearly demonstrated that he was the superior warrior.
Coyote snarled in disgust at Bodaway. He lifted three scalps, tied to an Apache tomahawk, over his head and sang a victory song. Bodaway didn't understand the words but the meaning and the tone were clear. Suddenly Coyote stopped, his eyes spat contempt into the Tonkawa's face, and he waited for Bodaway to sing.
Dared him to sing.
Demanded that he sing.
The disgraced warrior swallowed against the rising humiliation, and kept his miserable silence.
"No warrior!" Coyote screamed and pointed at the Tonkawa. He grinned a grin of pure malice, of salt in the wound, then rode off in search of more fighting.
Bodaway stood for long moments in the lodge after Coyote rode away. His stature within Calhern's renegades was about to be stripped from him by a young upstart. It was through fear he commanded the other Indians. His mastery had never been challenged, but now that he had been challenged and defeated, he would face a long line of confrontations by scornful warriors who no longer feared the aging Tonkawa. He would have to leave the Comancheros, or he'd be dead within a month.
But he didn't want to leave. He'd invested too much time and effort to leave it behind. Anywhere else he was just an aging Indian from a weak tribe. In this society, he possessed power.
He would not give it up so easily.
Dismounting in a clearing between the western line of lodges and the riverbank, Coyote yelled a challenge to any who could hear. The Apaches would not understand the Comanche words but the intent was plain enough, and after several seconds of singing, Coyote was rewarded with a pair of Apaches stumbling out of a brushy hiding place. One of them was an older man who carried an old flintlock pistol for which he had no powder or bullet. The other was younger and fitter, but Coyote questioned his fighting ability since the man was hiding only a moment ago.
Singing his challenge again, Coyote threw aside his bow and drew his tomahawk. He tossed the tomahawk aside as well and pulled a knife from a sheath at his hip. The older Apache responded by tossing aside the pistol, a gesture that would have bestowed a great deal more honor on the warrior had the gun been loaded. The younger Apache handed the older man a lance, then drew his own tomahawk, and together the two of them charged the singing Comanche.
Coyote stood still as the two Apaches charged. The Apaches lost their numerical advantage when the younger man out-ran the older so they were going to reach Coyote several seconds apart. Coyote simply held his ground and let the Apaches come to him.
The younger Apache was within two steps of his target when he swung the tomahawk with all his strength across his body in a chopping motion aimed at the Comanche's neck. Coyote was disappointed how easily the attack was to avoid, and he stepped back out of harm and flicked the Apache's rib cage with his knife. The startled Apache cried out as his clumsy assault sent him stumbling past Coyote. The older warrior closed and made a much more polished approach, a spear thrust aimed at the belly. Coyote jumped back and parried the thrust to avoid being impaled, and he whooped in delight at the old man's effort. The old man was slow but he knew how to fight.
The old man attacked again, looking out of the corner of his eye for the young Apache.
"Get behind him!" he yelled, hoping the enemy did not speak his language.
The young Apache, still stinging from the wound to his ribs and pride, tried to sneak in behind the Comanche while the old man engaged him with the lance. Then in one fluid motion, Coyote deflected the lance away and spun on one foot, flashing his knife across the young Apache's neck and cutting his throat. Before the old man could move forward, the Comanche slashed the scalp off the young Apache before he died. Coyote faced the old man again and showed him the trophy.
"I am Coyote!" he bellowed, but the old man didn't understand. The old man thrust forward again, aiming for the Comanche's throat but Coyote dodged the attack.
Hidden by a lodge, Bodaway watched the fight and waited for his chance. He saw the young Apache die, saw Coyote take the scalp, and saw the old man resume his offensive. The old man was tiring and Coyote could take him at any time. The Comanche was simply enjoying the exercise.
Coyote backed away from the old man, urging him on and giving the false hope that the old man might have the slightest possibility of victory. Coyote's back was to Bodaway, and the Tonkawa ordered his horse forward.
The old man was wearing out fast, and Coyote didn't wish to dishonor the man. He'd fought bravely and fought well, and if he'd been ten years younger then the old man might have had a chance. The old man knew he was almost finished, but he continued to press his attack with his last reserves of energy until he could no longer hold the lance up. He finally let the lance fall from his hands, staggered back and slowly dropped to his knees. The old man took a moment to catch his breath, then began singing. Coyote didn't understand the words, but knew it must be a death song. Despite his fatigue, the old man sang loudly of his life, victories, and sorrows.
Coyote stood over the old man and wished he could understand the words of the song. He would wait for the song to end before killing the old man, then he would take his scalp as well. The white man, Calhern, said they would sell the scalps for gold, but Coyote decided he would keep this old Apache's scalp as a trophy of an honorable and brave man.
Captivated by the death song and his ears ringing with his own pounding blood, Coyote didn't hear the horse approaching until it was only a few feet away. He barely had time to turn and look up, and just had enough time to catch a glimpse of a brown and white horse before feeling the cold, hard stone of a war club smash into his temple. Then he fell into blackness.
