Custer and Crockett Page 14

  Mark Kellogg and Micajah Autry were with him. Each had an extra horse in tow, allowing them to switch mounts and keep them fresh. Kellogg was brimming with news, which annoyed me. I had not seen him since leaving San Antonio and hoped not to see him again before returning.

  “Colonel Crockett’s compliments, General,” Autry reported with a salute. “David says he’s a doin’ good on da damn presidio an ’ill be along shortly.”

  “Thank you, Micajah. Get some grub. You, too, Jimmy. We’ll be on the road at sunrise,” I said, letting Kellogg wait his turn.

  “Not curious at all, General?” Kellogg asked.

  The trail was beginning to show on him. Now nearing his mid-forties, standing at my height though a bit thicker in the waist, his curly brown hair was ragged, and his scraggily beard was half gray. He should have been carrying his 1868 Spencer rifle in such dangerous country, but the heavy weapon was secure in its saddle sheath.

  “News from Béjar. Hardly more than three weeks old,” Kellogg said, following me to my campaign tent under a drooping cottonwood. John had already set up my table and chairs, made my cot, and started a cooking fire. The ladies were preparing food.

  “News from you or General Keogh?” I asked.

  “It’s from the San Antonio Gazette, that I was proud to establish just before riding out,” Kellogg said. He had always wanted his own newspaper.

  I found a log to sit on outside the tent, forcing Kellogg to take a blanket on the ground. Morning Star quickly had stew for both of us, giving Mark a warm smile. Slow came to join us, also happy to see Kellogg’s arrival.

  “Santa Anna finally caught up to Houston at a little town called Egypt on the Colorado River,” Kellogg said, swabbing gravy with a corn tortilla. “The Mexicans held the field when it was all over, but they got hurt. Santa Anna is falling back on Victoria. Houston tried to take the dictator by surprise with an afternoon attack, but the plan failed.”

  “Glad to hear Antonio took my advice,” I remarked.

  “You warned him? Warned that dictator?” Kellogg said.

  “Now Houston will need help from the United States, and if those letters we wrote to the Eastern press have any effect, it will be hard for Jackson to intervene,” I explained.

  I opened Tom’s report and saw that events in Santa Fe had been tense but successful. With such a small garrison, and a thousand miles from Mexico City, the alcalde had seen no reason to fight. Tom’s battalion was already on the move.

  Suddenly there was a commotion on the edge of camp. Shouting followed by several gunshots. We jumped to our feet and started running, drawing our sidearms. Clouds had covered the new moon but the glow of our campfires was enough to guide our way. From a low hill above the river, I sensed chaos among our mounts.

  “Butler! Hughes!” I shouted, searching the dark landscape.

  Voss reached me first, followed by Autry and Kellogg, all out of breath.

  “Indians stealing our horses,” I said. “Voss, sound Boots and Saddles. Autry, with me.”

  Autry and I charged down the hill, skirting the mule herd on our right. I struck a cactus with my thigh and cursed, but drove on. We reached a bluff overlooking the river, almost falling off before stopping ourselves. White splashes of water and grunts from the mounts proved a force crossing in the dark below us, probably Apache seeking booty from the Seventh.

  “Micajah, take aim,” I ordered, seeing Autry armed with a Colt. My Bulldog was already drawn.

  “General, don’t shoot!” Butler yelled, lumbering up the dirt slope in front of us.

  “What is it, Jimmy?” I asked.

  “Those are Carson’s boys down there. They’re chasing the Indians who took our horses,” Butler said.

  “Damn redskins,” Autry muttered, still clutching his sidearm.

  I agreed, and in a more reckless time, would have said so. But I was the commander-in-chief now, like George Washington, and with heathen allies to consider. Not to mention the insult my brother’s future wife would feel at such an unseemly comment. Finally, after all these years, the many times Libbie had lectured me on careless remarks began to make sense. She was always the better politician, having learned from her craft from Judge Bacon.

  “These are not the Mimbreños,” I said. “Could be Chiricahua, or Navajo. Organize the command to sweep the ground south of here. We’ll get our horses back.”

  “If Carson don’t beat you to it,” Butler said.

  The threat of a raid was nothing new, though this time the thieves had been particularly crafty. Much like Mosby’s Rangers in the Shenandoah. We built up our campfires, lit torches, and secured our supplies before riding out in two companies of fifteen, leaving our teamsters and John behind to guard the camp. We should have had more.

  “Slow, too?” I said in surprise.

  “The boy was with Carson when the Indians attacked,” Hughes reported. “They wounded a guard. Carson and half a dozen others are on their trail.”

  “Seven men against an unknown number of In’dins?” Autry asked.

  “Didn’t seem to bother Carson none,” Butler said.

  We rushed to find horses that remained on the picket line and were mounted within minutes. I found a black sorrel. Kellogg found his trusty old mule named Sarah, who John had brought along to carry our commissary.

  “We’re going south?” Kellogg asked, riding at my side with the Spencer ready.

  “Can’t tell for sure,” I said, able to hear more than I could see.

  Bouyer appeared in the gloom ahead of us.

  “This way, Gen’ral. Headed toward the rocks,” Bouyer said.

  I gave the sorrel a poke with my spurs, the reluctant animal spooked by the commotion. I spotted the churned path between partings of the clouds, the moon suddenly illuminating the prairie. The raiders were moving fast, but would need to control the stolen mounts. They would not outride a determined force for long. We trotted steadily for a mile.

  “To the left. The land falls toward a valley,” Bouyer said, pointing the direction.

  “Scouts to the flanks,” I ordered.

  It should have been Captain Blazeby who gave the command, on my instructions, but I’d grown excited. Blazeby seemed not to notice the slight, or pretended not to.

  I gave the scouts time to probe the flanks before pushing forward. The sound of sporadic musket fire was heard echoing through the shallow hills. And then screaming. And wailing.

  “Voss, sound the Charge!” I shouted, spurring forward.

  The bugle call was like thunder on the desert, crisp and clear in the dry night air. A well-worn trail went through a gap in the hills, leading to a village. I rode at the head of the column, though several soon passed me.

  When we came to a clearing, I quickly reined in. The scene before us confusing. Carson and his small band of frontiersmen were besieged in the center of a village, hiding behind a burning wikiup. Half a dozen women and children lay dead or wounded. Seven or eight half-naked savages were attempting to rescue the noncombatants. Another twenty or thirty warriors were firing arrows, and the occasional musket, from the surrounding darkness. Several of Carson’s men were bleeding, but they were putting up a great fight against long odds. Without thinking, I rode into the middle of the fray, a hand up for attention.

  “Cease fire!” I shouted in English, following with, “Cese del fuego. Cese del fuego!”

  The firing continued. One bullet tore the hat off my head. Another clipped the ear of my horse. It sounded like bees all around me.

  F Company formed a half circle along the north edge of the clearing, some armed with Springfields, others with Baker rifles. There was no shouting. No desperate oaths. Blazeby ordered volley fire into the air, which sounded like cannon, and both sides suddenly stopped shooting.

  I dismounted, slapped my horse’s rump to chase him away, and stood there in the firelight with a sword in one hand and a Bulldog in the other. I should have taken cover, but the idea never occurred to me. I stomped about t
he clearing, waving at Carson’s men to stand down and daring the Indians to shoot me. No doubt they thought me crazy, and as a rule, Indians are reluctant to kill the mentally disturbed.

  Before long, my troops were encroaching on the enemy flanks and the Apaches withdrew. I was glad to see Slow emerge from the shadows safely, his face smudged with powder. I was not happy to see two dead squaws.

  “Mister Carson, what has happened here?” I demanded.

  “Found ya horses, Gener’ral, but theys put up a fight,” Carson said, covered in soot but otherwise unharmed. Two of his men had painful wounds, but I saw nothing serious.

  “You had no orders to attack this village,” I said, for I feared it might compromise my agreement with Mangas Coloradas.

  “Kan’t wait fer no orders, Gener’ral. Not in this country,” Carson defended. “Kill or be kilt. I rather do the killin’.”

  An Indian walked from the darkness. He held a long bow but was pointing his flint-tipped arrow down. He was an older man with shaggy white hair wearing a colorful blue silk shirt and yellow headband. I glanced back, seeing a dozen of the women and children had failed to escape in the confusion. It was the Washita all over again.

  “I am General Custer, commander of the Seventh Cavalry,” I said to the old Indian, walking over to face him directly. “Your people have stolen horses from my army.”

  “The Chiricahua stole no horses. It was the Ben-et-dine,” the old man said in Spanish. “They came south to raid the Mexicans. When you attacked, they ran away and left the horses.”

  “They are cowards,” a young Apache in red leathers said, standing next to the old man. This brave was six feet tall and straight shouldered, a defiant gaze in his dark brown eyes. Probably in his late twenties or early thirties. I guessed him at a hundred and seventy pounds. A man to be reckoned with.

  “The Ben-et-dine are crazy,” the old man stated.

  “Gener’ral—” Carson started to interrupt.

  “Mister Carson, you will hold your counsel until asked,” I required.

  I did not object to fighting Indians, especially Apache, for their cruelty is well known. But this was not the time or place.

  “My army did not know the Benit Din stole the horses. If you wish battle, there will be battle. If you wish peace, there will be peace. So speaks General Custer.”

  “Our cousin has spoken of you as a friend. What compensation is offered?” the old chief asked.

  I had to admire his nerve, though he wasn’t the first Indian I’d known to ask for gifts after committing a crime. I looked again at the dead squaws, one old and the other aging. Other women were returning to the camp without being told. They sensed the fighting was over. Children were taken into the wikiups for treatment and rest.

  “My adjutant will cut out two horses for you. Not the best. Not the worst. And then we will be friends,” I decided.

  There was no further bargaining. Two horses was a fair price for a supposed misunderstanding. The cagey old chief and I shook hands.

  We stayed near the village until dawn, camping on the outskirts. I did not want to take the recovered horses back in the dark, and I wanted the Chiricahua to see the weapons carried by my soldiers. It would make them think twice about attacking us. Or it could induce them to attack, in an effort to steal our guns. With Indians, you never know.

  “Gener’ral, we should talk,” Carson said, coming to my fire.

  I had been angry with him earlier, especially while being shot at, but managed to cool my temper. I needed Carson to get me to California.

  Carson sat down next to Slow, who was strangely quiet. The boy usually had something enigmatic to say after a fight.

  “I gots yer horses back,” Carson said.

  “Do you think the Seventh Cavalry doesn’t know how to get our horses back?” I said. “We’ve fought the Cheyenne, the Sioux, the Kiowa, the Arapaho, the Comanche, and every other kind of damn Indian there is. When Crazy Horse stole our horses, my brother threw his damn butt in jail. We know our business.”

  “And Apache ’as like fought ’em, too,” Carson said. “They ain’t ’fraid of nothin’. If you show any weakness, they’ll take ya fer a fool.”

  “That will be their mistake, but for now, I don’t need another war,” I answered. “I’ve got one in Texas. I’m about to start another in California. And I have a road to protect. You’re not to shoot any more Apaches without orders. Is that understood?”

  “This ‘ere ain’t a good idea, Gener’ral. Not good a’tall,” Carson warned.

  “Will you obey orders?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. No one ’ere accused Kit Carson of disobeyin’ orders,” he said, going off to find some sleep.

  “What about you, Slow? Are you going to attack Apaches again?”

  “No, General Custer. But you should have killed them,” Slow said.

  “Maybe someday I will,” I answered.

  ____________

  At dawn, I sent the men back to the Gila River camp with orders to start west. I wanted to be on the Colorado without further delay. But Slow and I stayed behind for a final talk with the Apache.

  We likely made a strange pair, walking into their camp dressed in traveling leathers, wide brim hats and modern pistols on our belts. Slow had become adept with a Colt .45 at close range, and I was an expert with my Webley Bulldogs. I doubted we would need to draw our weapons. Coming as we did was a sign of respect, and most Indians are known to extend hospitality on such occasions.

  In the daylight, I saw this was a temporary camp. Wikiups made of grass and tumbleweeds. A few teepees. A hide lean-to among the rocks where their dead had been placed. Slow and I sat at the central fire with three of the older men and the tall younger Apache we’d seen the night before.

  “Are we enemies?” I asked in Spanish, for none of them seemed familiar with English.

  “We are not,” the oldest chief said.

  “Are you afraid of the white man?” Slow asked.

  “We are Chiricahua. We know no fear,” another chief said, trying not to sound annoyed.

  “Why have you come here?” the younger Apache asked.

  “Cheis, you are invited to sit. Not to speak,” the old chief rebuked.

  Almost Tom’s age, it seemed to me the young man was old enough to have a seat in counsel, but it wasn’t my place to judge.

  “It is a fair question,” I said. “I represent the Buffalo Flag, a league of nations in Texas. My army is now traveling to the great western ocean, there to establish more nations. We are building a road that travelers may go in safety from the east to the west and back again. Mangas Coloradas has agreed to let my people travel freely. I would have the Chiricahua agree also.”

  “Our war is with the Mexicans. We care nothing about your road,” the second chief said.

  “I care about my road. If my people cannot travel in safety, then I will be forced to make enemies. I have enough enemies. I do not want more enemies,” I said.

  “You are not afraid of making enemies,” the oldest chief observed.

  “Custer es un jinete fantasma,” Slow said.

  All four Apache looked at each other with a similar thought, part curiosity and part dread. I was going to say something, but held back. Slow’s statement, and his grim expression, were making an impression. He glanced up, spotted a large black crow, and pointed. The bird appeared to be watching us.

  “We have heard much of these ghost riders,” the second chief said.

  “A meeting will be called for the next moon,” the oldest chief announced. “We will leave the white man’s road in peace, but our hunting lands must not be walked upon. The Mexicans take too much already.”

  “I will tell my people that we are at peace with the Chiricahua. Your lands will be your own,” I promised, hoping it was a promise I could keep. “There are men in the east, and in the west, who value hides and silver rocks. Travelers on my road will want food and shelter. If the Chiricahua wish to trade, they would bring blan
kets and medicines.”

  “And weapons?” Cheis asked.

  “I have told Mangas Coloradas if his people wish to join the Nations, he can trade for weapons. I offer this to the Chiricahua also,” I said, believing it would be many years before such a trade need be established.

  “You know much of our cousin,” the second chief said.

  “We are friends,” I exaggerated.

  “I hope to marry his daughter,” Cheis said.

  “I have met Dostehseh. She is young and spirited. She will make a good wife,” I said, tapping the ground for emphasis.

  Offering the daughter’s name made a good impression on my audience. Libbie had taught me to give attention to the families of friends and opponents, for you never know when a bit of intimate knowledge might prove useful.

  I stood up, having finished my business, and walked to Traveller without looking back. Slow spoke privately with the old chief before following.

  ____________

  The command reached the Colorado River the following afternoon, camping along a broad beach under thick groves of sycamore trees. We found tribes of peaceful Mohave Indians nearby growing crops and gathering mesquite beans. It looked like the Spanish had once attempted to establish a settlement there. We found a broken down presidio on the east bank of the river, and the foundation of a church that was never completed.

  “The town of Yuma doesn’t exist yet, General,” Kellogg said, standing next to me where the river suddenly narrowed. “Going to call it Custer’s Crossing?”

  “Tempting, but Yuma works just as well,” I said. “We’ll build a fort here and run lines to maintain a ferry. That prominence across the river will make a good observation post.”

  “You’ve never been here before, how do you know the lay of the land?” Kellogg asked.

  “I read about Yuma in Harper’s Weekly. So has Tom, Smith, and half of the Seventh’s enlisted men,” I said. “We’re soldiers, Mark. We spend months in barracks, especially during the winter. The men like to read, when they aren’t getting drunk.”

  “Are we getting drunk?” Tom asked, walking up with Morning Star and Slow.