Custer and Crockett Page 13

  “Apache. I guess ’bout fifty or so. Men, women and kids,” Bouyer said, spitting tobacco. “Reckon we should attack?”

  “I reckon we should talk with them first,” I said, waving for E Company to halt.

  “Let me come, too,” Tom requested.

  “I’m leaving you in command. We can’t both go,” I said.

  “Then take Slow. They won’t try anything with Slow there,” Tom said.

  “You think they’ll be afraid of an eight-year-old?”

  “You know the answer to that better than anyone,” Tom replied.

  I waved Slow forward and we rode toward a rock ledge where the small camp had been set up, four hide teepees and one straw wikiup. At the last minute, Hughes and Butler appeared at my side, my personal guidon and the Buffalo Flag unfurled. I let the insubordination pass. In my experience, Indians are always impressed by flags.

  We reached the base of the rocks and dismounted, Butler holding the horses while Slow and I went forward. Half a dozen Indians came down to meet us, armed with bows and arrows except for one old Spanish musket. One heathen in particular was impressive, tall and square shouldered with a face to make the ladies swoon.

  “I am General George Custer, Commander of the Seventh Cavalry,” I introduced, offering my hand.

  “I am called Mangas Coloradas of the Mimbreños,” the tall Indian replied in Spanish, accepting the gesture.

  “George Custer has heard of Red Sleeves. Why are his people camped so near the Mexican village?” I asked.

  “The Mexicans are bitter enemies of the Mimbreños. When their soldiers went south, we came to discover why,” Coloradas said.

  “Has San Elizario offended the great Apache?” I asked.

  “They have harbored scalp hunters who slay our women and children,” he said.

  “Perhaps the Mexicans have a grievance against your people? There is much violence in the Gila River country,” I suggested.

  Coloradas looked behind me as B Company came up, dismounting in skirmish formation. A dust cloud showed more troops were on the way.

  “You have many soldiers,” Coloradas observed.

  “Yes,” I replied. “We are making a road from the east to the west. A road my people must travel in safety.”

  “This road must not be through our hunting grounds,” Coloradas warned.

  “It will not be,” Slow said.

  “And if we capture scalp hunters, they will be hanged,” I promised.

  “Come to my camp, General Custer. We will talk,” Coloradas said.

  ____________

  A few days later, Tom, Bouyer and I went up a nearby hill to view our objective only half a mile away. We took turns with the binoculars. The landscape was dry and mountainous, though I understood there was a pass that led to Santa Fe.

  “I expected a large trading center, not another dismal village,” I said. “Looks like most of El Paso is on the south bank. Barely a hundred people on the north side.”

  “No sign of Fort Bliss, though I see an adobe tower. Could be armed with a small cannon,” Tom observed.

  “Kinda thin walls to protect from Indian attacks,” Bouyer said, spitting tobacco. “North side’s only gots hedges of mesquite brush.”

  “The mission is their main fortress. That’s a big church. The biggest I’ve seen since leaving Philadelphia. And the walls surrounding it are thick,” I said.

  “Alamo had thick walls, too, for all the good they did,” Tom said.

  “Alamo weren’t attacked by no In’dins,” Bouyer said, spitting again.

  “We’re dealing with Apache now,” I said, annoyed by Bouyer’s bad habit. “And it’s not just a church. There’s a military plaza behind it, just like San Antonio. Customs House, too. We may encounter a hundred or more Mexican soldiers when we ride in.”

  “We outnumber them, Autie,” Tom said.

  “I don’t want to start a war in New Mexico, little brother. Not until my other objectives are achieved,” I insisted.

  “Thought you wanted to conquer the whole damn world, like Napoleon?” he answered.

  “El Paso isn’t the world, it’s just a flyspeck on the Rio Grande,” I replied.

  We rejoined the command that was now ready to move. Our approach could not be a secret after lingering so long in San Elizario, but so far, no force had sallied out against us.

  “I’ll take the lead with my staff,” I decided. “Sharrow, watch our left flank. Brister, keep an eye on the right. Crockett, you will stay close. Flags and banners, gentlemen. Let’s show the locals what a real fighting force looks like.”

  I didn’t wait for reactions, turning Traveller toward town with a kick of my heels. Slow was quickly at my side, ready for adventure. Bouyer and Morning Star were close behind. Hughes, Butler and Voss formed up on my flanks, flags unfurled. Voss had his bugle ready to relay orders.

  We had barely gone a quarter mile when a group of twenty men on mules began riding in our direction. They looked like a rough lot, possibly mountain men by their dirty leathers and brushy fur caps decorated with feathers. Leading the riders was a young man with long blond hair, not tall but stout, with an expression of great confidence. I recognized him instantly.

  “General, isn’t that…?” Butler started to say.

  “Sure is, Bobby,” I said. “That there is Kit Carson.”

  Carson had seen us, too, raising his hand in greeting.

  “Gen’ral Custer, I presume?” Carson said.

  “Has my fame preceded me?” I asked, dismounting.

  “Kan’t take ’an army in dese parts ’out folks a knowin’,” he replied, jumping down and offering to shake hands.

  Though Carson couldn’t have known it, we had met before in Washington during one of his visits from the west. He’d been in his early ‘50s then, already gray and growing thin from hard years on the trail. The Kit Carson of 1836 was short but strong boned, with clear blue eyes and tousled sandy hair. He had just turned thirty, about Tom’s age. He was not yet a legend, the man whose daring adventures would thrill every school boy of my generation. He wore the stiffened deerskin that I’d read so much about.

  “I need a guide to California. Are you available?” I asked.

  “That’s a what we come fer,” Carson said. “But we’re a wantin’ real pay, no dreams a gold mines.”

  “No interest in gold?” I said.

  “Folks been diggin’ gold out of them hills for years. Ne’ar found ’nough ta trouble with,” he replied.

  And I knew it to be true. Prior to the gold rush in 1849, small amounts of gold had been found near Los Angeles, but not enough to spark attention.

  “Take us where we need to go. You’ll be paid in coin,” I promised.

  I didn’t actually have much in the way of hard currency, but expected to start my own mint once we had the right equipment. Both Tom and I had spent enough time in my father’s blacksmith shop to get a smelter going. I might even put my face on the first twenty dollar gold piece.

  “Gots good boys here, Gen’ral. We’ll get ya thar,” Carson said.

  Carson waved to his scruffy mountain man army and they whooped up a cheer. Most were trappers, but beaver pelts for men’s hats had gone out of fashion, and the beaver themselves were quickly disappearing. The rough-and-tumble pioneers of the early West were finding themselves unemployed.

  I breathed a secret sigh of relief. The maps I had scavenged from Cooke showed roads into California, but most of the trails did not exist until the late 1840s. Having an experienced scout would make a great difference.

  I waved the command forward and we rode into El Paso in fine fashion, the band playing “Garry Owen”. Sheep herders and farmers greeted us coolly as we approached the old wooden bridge. I saw evidence of extensive irrigation ditches.

  Though the north bank only held a few houses of substance, the town on the south bank was bigger than Galveston. I guessed the population at a thousand.

  “The garrison?” I asked Carson, stoppi
ng at the river’s edge.

  “Pulled out a few days ’go. Some ta Santa Fe, most headin’ back to Mexico,” he said. “Town folk glad to see ya. ’fraid of In’dins with their soldier boys gone.”

  I hadn’t thought to garrison El Paso myself, but now realized the necessity. And I’d need to guard my road. The Apache weren’t likely to respect the Seventh Cavalry if we didn’t maintain a presence.

  By midday, all but E Company had crossed the bridge into town, finding lunch in the plaza. I had appropriated the former commandant’s quarters in the presidio, Tom and Morning Star were in the fanciest hotel. Crockett’s men took over the largest cantina, promising not to tear it apart. Slow had chosen a small room in the Franciscan Mission, called Our Lady of Guadalupe, but I doubted he planned to become a monk. I saw Carson’s men were impressed, not just by the organization of a real army, but by the strange weapons we carried. Even the best muskets of the former garrison were ancient by comparison.

  “I believe the Mexican army is withdrawing from New Mexico,” I announced as my officers took stools underneath a splendid elm tree.

  There were fourteen of us, along with a few trusted sergeants and scouts. The sky was clear with a fresh breeze bringing the scent of wild flowers off the prairie. The adobe town was old, having been founded almost two hundred years before, but was maintained with pride. The marketplace was robust, the houses decorated with colorful paints, and the merchants were busy. My first impression of El Paso as a dreary settlement had been wrong.

  “It’s good we have a treaty with the Apache,” Smith said.

  Bouyer laughed under his breath and looked for a place to spit. I ordered him away from the table with a frown.

  “We have a treaty with the Mimbreño,” I pointed out.

  “And there are plenty of Apache who don’t give a damn about that. The locals are without protection now,” Tom said, reading the situation well.

  “I need an officer to garrison El Paso and order patrols from here to Del Rio, and from here to our next post at Yuma,” I said. “No offense to you, Mr. Brister, or to you, Mr. Blazeby, but it has to be someone who understands chain of command. And most important, someone who understands supply.”

  Immediately, all eyes turned to Captain William Sharrow, former sergeant major of the Seventh Cavalry. He’d been born in England and packed a lifetime of experience into his thirty-three years, having served in the 2nd Cavalry at the end of the Civil War before joining the Seventh. My height, lean, strong and broad-shouldered, he had never failed me.

  “Leaving me in the wilderness, sir?” Sharrow asked, staring at me with questioning blue eyes. He ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair, as he often did when perplexed.

  “Temporarily, for now. Governor Sharrow,” I said.

  “Governor?” he said.

  My other officers stirred, wondering at my thoughts.

  “I need to leave a man of authority in charge. Until someone more suitable is available, you are now the military governor of New Mexico,” I answered.

  Now some of the men were jealous, wilderness or not. And El Paso was filled with enough pretty senoritas that the duty would not prove tiresome. I would miss Sharrow on the trail, but I now saw El Paso as the key to uniting Texas and California into a continental empire. It was a post for a thorough organizer, not an ambitious adventurer.

  By early July my advance scout was on the road west toward the Yuma crossing of the Colorado River. Carson showed us the short route to the Gila River Trail, and from there we rode through a parched landscape toward a setting sun.

  Tom was not with me. To insure our claim to New Mexico, I sent C Company to secure Santa Fe, the largest municipality in the territory. Tom would raise the Buffalo Flag in the plaza and then rejoin us. My little brother smiled as he rode off, looking forward to an independent command.

  Riding with Tom was K Company under its new captain, Juan Antonio Badillo. Though tall for a cavalry trooper, Badillo had proved a good junior officer, efficient in his duties and popular with the men. As a Tejano recruit for Jim Bowie at the Alamo, he had a reputation for loyalty. I had initially offered the posting to Almaron Dickenson, but Susanna was with child again and they decided to stay with Sharrow in El Paso. Dickenson would prove a good adjutant.

  “Some of the boys are unhappy ’bout that,” Crockett hinted to me after the announcement.

  “Badillo?” I asked.

  “Promotin’ a Tejano o’er a white man,” Crockett warned. “Don’t git me wrong. Don’t got no objection myself. Jus’ sayin’.”

  “David, this is largely Mexican territory,” I said. “As we ride through, I don’t want the people thinking of the Seventh Cavalry as an occupying army of Anglo-Saxon mercenaries. When in Rome.”

  “Rome?” he said.

  “When in Rome, do as the Romans do. A saying of Saint Ambrose,” I explained.

  “George, I think you read too many books,” Crockett remarked.

  ____________

  The trail west was mostly flat, the vast landscape filled with cactus and sagebrush. Much of our path was an old wagon road that made the ride easier. Rather than the green hills of east Texas, or the brown hills of west Texas, we now saw towering formations of red rock, limestone, sandstone, and piles of gigantic boulders. I could remember nothing in my previous experience to match such scenery, with the possible exception of the Dakota Badlands.

  “Left lots of your boys behind,” Carson grunted, riding next to me on a thick mustang named Apache.

  “I’m not worried,” I said, glad to be on the move again. The sun had barely risen behind us, and already the day was warm.

  Carson’s concern was that I’d left Crockett, Smith and Brister to repair Fort El Paso, but I still had Blazeby’s company. Forty well-armed men, not counting Carson’s frontiersmen, half a dozen Tejano scouts, and my regimental staff. More than enough firepower to turn back a band of nomadic marauders. We also rode with two women, for Morning Star and Carson’s squaw, Singing Grass, had insisted on joining us. Slow rode at my side.

  “Crockett will follow with the main body in a few days, and Colonel Custer will catch up in a week,” I said with confidence. “We only need to blaze the trail.”

  “Gots unfriendly In’dins out ’ere,” Carson warned, looking back over our line of march. I had left the wagons behind, for I wanted to move fast. A string of mules carried our supplies, nearly forty in all.

  Morning Star arrived wearing her fringed tan leather outfit and a black broad brim hat. As the mounts kicked up a good deal of dust, Morning Star was pleased to be riding at the head of the column. Singing Grass went down toward the Gila River with Slow, looking for rare plants.

  “Is the story about how you won Singing Grass true, Mr. Carson?” Voss asked.

  “Name is Kit, and didn’t ’xactly won ’er,” Carson said.

  Carson was a hard man to draw comments from. Not unfriendly, but taciturn. He had heard tales of the ghost riders and largely dismissed them, not realizing what a hero he was to the men he was now guiding.

  “Heard you won her, sir. In a duel,” Voss persisted.

  We all looked toward the river. Singing Grass was seventeen-years-old, an Arapaho, and said to be the daughter of a chief. Between her and Morning Star, it would be difficult to say who was more beautiful. She sat her white mustang like one born to the saddle. When she noticed our stares, she and Slow rode up the embankment to join us.

  “Met Waanibe at the rendezvous,” Carson reluctantly explained. “Prettiest girl west of Saint Louie, bar none. Well, ya gots ta know, these gatherings are momentous. Lots a drinkin’, gamblin’, dancin’, shootin’ and whorin’. For them that take to such. And sure, we trade pelts, powder and swap stories. Most of ’em lies, each taller than the last.

  “Third day of the rendezvous, a French bully named Joe Chouinard was botherin’ Waanibe plenty, and I set out ta put a stoppin’ to it. Mounted our horses and charged each other, exchangin’ shots. Got my hair singed by
a musket ball, but done him worse. Ya always gots to do your enemy worse, so they knows not ta comes back at ya. Me and Waanibe took up a likin’ an’ been ’gether e’er since.”

  “I’ve heard much of these rendezvouses,” I said.

  “Had a big ’in on the Green River just a year ’go,” Carson boasted.

  “It’s true then?” Voss asked. “Hundreds of mountain men from all over the Rockies? Drinking and trading. Indians, too?”

  “Still do,” Carson said.

  “Not much longer,” Slow said, showing interest.

  “Ain’t ’nough civilization ta stop us,” Carson said.

  “Not enough beaver, either,” Slow replied. “Soon the beaver will be gone. Wiped out by the white man. Then you will kill the deer and the buffalo, leaving the People to starve.”

  “You kan’t know that, boy,” Carson said.

  “It has already happened,” Slow answered, giving Vic a kick and riding forward to catch Bouyer.

  “Ah try ta like kids. Hope to have some, but don’t know ’bout that boy,” Carson said with a frown.

  “Slow is right about the beaver,” I felt compelled to say. “A few years from now, the rivers and streams will be played out. The mountain men will move on to new professions, like scouting for the army.”

  “You a mystic, too?” Carson asked.

  “No, not a mystic, Kit,” I said.

  On a moonlit night just a day short of the Colorado River, we made camp on the Gila’s north bank near a stretch of low foothills. The horses were hobbled in a meadow while the men pitched their small canvas tents along a babbling creek. There was plenty of scrub wood for fires.

  Morning Star and Singing Grass had quickly become close friends, as women do when on the trail. I could not recall the relations between the Sioux and Arapaho in my own time, and Slow offered no opinions on them. Maybe he was trying to be polite. Nevertheless, it was nice to have the women around camp. They helped John with the cooking, fetched water, and provided pleasant company. Just before sunset, dispatch riders caught up to us, their horses tired.

  “Sir, Colonel Custer’s compliments,” Sergeant Allen said, handing me a packet of roughly scrawled letters.