Come Sundown (30 page)

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Authors: Mike Blakely

BOOK: Come Sundown
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M
y blanket felt good against the cold October air that seared my nostrils and lungs. I had slept an hour and nineteen minutes before waking, knowing I would not go back to sleep. Paddy would rouse us all soon, I knew, and the day—likely a bloody one—would commence. But for now, I was content to hold my body heat under the plain gray woolen blanket of Navaho make, to watch the shoulders of the Sacramentos don the first hint of daybreak, and to listen.
A pack of coyotes jabbered up some lonely canyon, perhaps celebrating a kill. They were cautioned by the deep-throated howl of a Mexican wolf, closer to our camp. The morning was still, and a man could hear things a long way away. The shrill whistle of a bull elk in rut filtered down the mountain slopes, through the alligator juniper and piñon pine, coming to my ears as a whisper I knew no other man heard. They called it bugling. To me, it had always sounded more like someone learning to play a woodwind.
A common yellowthroat fluttered noisily onto the thin, thorny branch of a catclaw acacia, known as
uña de gato
to the Mexicans. The cocky little warbler with the black eye mask of a bandit cheeped out
“witchity-witchity”
as he rode the limber bouncing branch of the catclaw only an arm's length from my motionless body. I blinked, and the yellowthroat fluttered away.
We had reached this place in the night, finding the old Indian trail by moonlight. Paddy had ordered us to unsaddle and dismount. We needed as much rest as we could steal. While the soldiers had spread their blankets and staked their horses, and the guards had taken their unenviable posts, I had stood in the moonlight, my hands raised to the Great Mystery. I had chanted under my breath. The spirits had spoken to me, assuring me that the Mescaleros were the enemy of the True Humans: the Comanches. They had challenged me to be brave in
battle, to seek danger, and win honors. This I knew the spirits demanded, my Comanche brothers expected, my white comrades relied upon, and even my wife understood. I was ready for battle.
Now I lay at the western edge of camp, my back to the troops. The canyons of the Sacramento Mountains soared above the cacti and thorn bushes, their pine-studded rims catching sunlight now. The aromas of leather and horse sweat filled my nostrils from the saddle I used as a pillow. My guns lay under my blanket at my feet, Indian style. Most of the soldiers had retired with their revolvers and carbines beside their heads, thinking that made them handy. But the Indians knew that a predawn attack would likely cause a man to cast off his blankets and spring to his feet, leaving his weapons within reach only if they had rested at his heels as he slept. And I, though white as snow by blood, had absorbed the ways of Indians into my flesh. I lay with my weapons at my feet.
The call to rise came not from a bugle-blowing reveille, but from sergeants walking quietly among the troops, nudging them sternly with the toes of their boots. I was on my feet with my horse saddled by the time the sergeant had reached my edge of camp. I took the time to urinate on a cholla cactus, wondering if the plant would appreciate the moisture or not. I tried to listen for the voice of the plant, but my mind was elsewhere. I mounted and rode to the first ridge to the east. I found a place where I could peek over the ridge and watch the trail to the east, the top of my head barely visible between bushes to anyone approaching from that direction. Only now did I take a drink from my canteen and fish around in my saddle pocket for a hard piece of jerked beef.
As I watched the trail and waited, I also took note of Captain Paddy Graydon's preparations for battle. He had his men form up in a single rank crossing the trail. The men stood four feet apart, facing east, each holding the reins to his mount. The ends of the line curved slightly forward, creating the beginning of a semicircle. Paddy started at the northern end and rode along this line, instructing or motivating his troops. I wished I could hear him, but I could not.
We waited longer than I had expected, but two advance scouts from Manuelito's party of Mescaleros finally came into view on the next ridge, about a half-mile apart, one on either side of the trail. I signaled to Captain Graydon, who ordered his troops to mount. I watched nervously as the scout on my side of the trail approached my ridge. Paddy already had his men moving forward, but the brave was going to discover me before the soldiers could come up to help. I drew my Comanche bow from the bow case, hooked a leg around it to bend it, and fixed the buffalo sinew bow string tightly in place. I took a dogwood arrow from my quiver and notched it on the string. The scout was going to cross the ridge just thirty paces to my left. An easy shot. I knew I had to kill him to prevent him from riding back to the main war party to alert them.
The warrior was cautious as he approached the ridge. He craned his neck to see over it, into the next draw. The moment his eyes turned toward me, I said, “Huh!” loud enough to startle him. I drew my bow. He had the chance to surrender, but I knew he would not, and I had orders to kill any Mescalero warrior on sight. The Apache reacted quickly and bravely, yanking a factory-made trade hatchet from his waistband. He drew it back to throw it, but my arrow sped true and pierced his chest. He rolled backward from his pony without a sound and lay motionless on the ground.
To my astonishment, the soldiers down the slope behind me raised a cheer. Angered, I wheeled my horse to the right and saw the other advance scout alarmed by what he had heard. He had not seen me kill his compatriot. Paddy was chiding the troops for making so much noise. I dropped lower behind the ridge that separated me and the other scout, and rode hard to the south. The curious brave urged his pony far enough forward that he could peer over the ridge, and he saw me, saw the array of soldiers, saw his friend's riderless pony. Outnumbered and alone, he wheeled to the east.
My Comanche war yell burst from my lungs and my horse lunged his head and neck harder in pursuit. Now my choice of pony made me proud, for that buckskin tore dirt from the desert and crashed recklessly through thorns to catch the fleeing
rider. I dropped the reins across his neck and drew another arrow from my quiver. Before the rider could reach the next ridge, I had pulled within range. I sent my arrow flying with all the force of the bow combined with the charging pony. It sailed a little higher than I had intended and hit the warrior where his right arm joined his shoulder, knocking him forward. He tried valiantly to hold on, but his pony shied left to avoid a cactus patch and the warrior fell hard to the ground.
I charged on. The Mescalero rose, drew a knife with his left hand, and turned to face me, his right arm dripping with blood and hanging uselessly at his side. The arrow was sticking through his shoulder, but he didn't have time to break it off. I wished for a Comanche shield as I closed on him, but all I could do was ride down on my enemy and kick him in the chest to knock him down. He struck with his knife and the razor-sharp blade pierced my left calf so deep that I felt the steel briefly scrape my bone. Pain shot up my leg and forced a yell of agony from my throat.
All the hundreds of races and riding contests I had run with my Comanche friends remembered themselves to me. With reins and leg pressure I sat the buckskin instantly on his haunches and wheeled him all in a second. One more leap put me back over my enemy. I dove from the saddle onto the warrior's chest, this time pinning his good arm. I drew my own knife as he struggled under me. I avoided looking into his eyes, and plunged my blade between his ribs. He lurched, and I withdrew my blade to stab again.
The cheer rose again from the ridge behind me, and again Paddy barked at the troops for breaking the silence. My heart pounded so that I could barely breathe. I knew what a Comanche warrior would do now. I made a quick, brutal slash across the forehead of the dead Mescalero. I grabbed his long hair, spun my body to sit on the ground above his head, placed both feet on his shoulders and pulled hard. I had to take a wrap with the warrior's locks around my palm, for his hair was dressed with bear grease and slipped in my grasp. I was charged with strength by combat and pain from my leg wound, and the scalp peeled away from the skull easily, with the same
sickening sound a snakeskin makes coming away from the writhing body of a headless rattler. I cut the scalp away from the dead man's skull.
I stuffed the horrible trophy in my saddlebag without looking back at my victim. I sheathed my knife, mounted, and rode at a canter to the other Mescalero's body. Some soldiers had gathered around to inspect the trappings of the dead brave. “Step back,” I ordered, knowing I had to finish this quickly. They watched, stunned, as I scalped the corpse the same way I had the other.
“Goddamn!” one soldier said, as I mounted. I rode away to the place where I had prayed and chanted the night before, trying to calm myself. My lungs and chest hurt from the sheer exertion of battle. I didn't have much in my stomach, but what I had there wanted out. The blood of my enemies covered my hands, and my own blood dripped at a troubling tempo from my left stirrup. I felt a scowl on my face, and I shook my head to rid myself of it.
Paddy came loping to me. “You all right, Greenwood?”
“My leg's wounded. Pretty bad, I think.”
“Get down. Let's see.”
I dismounted and sat on the ground. Paddy unceremoniously sliced open the leg of my trousers.
“Those are good buckskins,” I complained.
“Better to cut it open now. Leg's gonna swell anyway.”
“I'll doctor it. It won't swell.”
“Right,” he said, the skepticism thick in his tone of voice. “I forgot you were part medicine man. Well, you can patch your pants good as new later.” He whistled through his teeth as he pulled back the bloody buckskin.
“How bad is it?”
“You were lucky. It's a hell of a gash, but you won't bleed to death. Must have missed the big veins. Hope you don't get the gangrene.”
“I can make a poultice.”
Paddy grunted. “Out of what?”
“Cedar. Alder. Maybe some milkweed.”
“Well, there's cedar everywhere, but I don't know where you'll find that other.”
“I can hear some up that draw,” I said.
“
Hear
it?”
“Burnt Belly taught me. The plants speak if you listen.”
Paddy Graydon's brow gathered as he regarded me with concern. “You're teched, Greenwood. You're talkin' loco.”
“Just find me something I can use for bandages,” I said. “I'll do the rest.”
I found an alder bush in a dry streambed, as I expected. I hadn't really heard it speak. I just figured I was likely to find some there. Maybe I
had
heard it.
Quién sabe?
Anyway, I peeled some of the inner bark of the alder bush and laid it over the opening of my knife wound. Paddy came with some strips of fairly clean white cloth he had found somewhere and helped me bind the wound.
“We'd best hurry,” he said. “The main party can't be far away now.”
“Yeah.”
“That was a hell of a thing to watch, Greenwood, you killing those two scouts without a gunshot. Now we can surprise Manuelito when he comes over the ridge. The boys are all fired up to fight after watching you.”
“Wasn't much else I could do.”
“There's many a man couldn't have done it at all. What is that name the Comanches call you?”
“Plenty Man.”
He nodded as he made a knot in the bandage to finish it. He had done a nice, neat job of wrapping my aching leg. “Well, I don't have much use for a Comanche, but I'll agree with them on one thing. For a little cuss, you're plenty man.”
I sighed. I felt weary. “Well, it's not over. The real fight's yet to come.”
He pulled my blood-crusted buckskins over the wound and helped me to my feet. “Yeah, I know. I can't hardly wait.”
I mounted on the right, Indian style, so I wouldn't have to use my wounded leg to step up. Paddy and I rode to the ridge to wait for the Indians. He had his men poised just behind the ridge where I had killed the first Mescalero scout. I peeked over the ridge and saw three soldiers on foot using mesquite branches to obliterate the tracks I had made chasing down the
second scout. They had already covered up the blood and any other signs of the struggle. They finished their task hastily, and rejoined the rest of the party behind the protective ridge. Now only Paddy and I remained far enough forward to peer over the ridge. My leg began to ache, and I felt ill, but I tried to emulate a good Comancbe warrior and embrace the pain. We didn't have to wait long. Within ten minutes, Manuelito himself came over the ridge, riding his fine tall claybank, probably stolen from some white man's ranch.
Paddy held his palms toward his soldiers as if to say, “Get ready, boys, but wait …” Manuelito came on down the opposing slope, his best warriors behind him. They could not see us, for Paddy and I barely peeked over our ridge, and even then the tops of our heads were obscured by brush. A cavalry horse snorted behind me, but apparently the Mescaleros did not hear it over the noises of their own party on the move. Now the younger braves were coming over the ridge across the draw from us, followed by women and children. The first woman to ride down sat on a huge red mule pulling a travois. This, I assumed, was Manuelito's wife, as she led all the other women.

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