AMBUSH AT QUITMAN PASS
The stagecoach rambled up the slight incline and through narrow Quitman Pass in western Texas. The driver cracked his whip over the horses' heads and yelled. Four black horses strained to keep up the pace over the rise. Their coats glistened with sweat. Foam bubbled around their halters and bits. Saliva dripped from their mouths. The dust and heat sweltered up to the driver. The strong odor of sweating horses stuck in his nose. His hair was wet and his forehead beaded sweat. But he couldn't stop. He was already behind schedule.
Inside the coach the three passengers jostled and swayed with the rocking stage. The gambler stared unblinking out the window. The young woman looked sick from the heat and kept wiping her face with her all-too-dainty handkerchief. The sheriff rode backwards with his arms crossed as his stare moved slowly from one to the other passenger.
The horses eased up some as they topped the rise. The driver slapped the reins hard, yelled and eased his foot down on the brake to avoid too swift of a descent. The stage had now reached the halfway point on this leg of the journey and the sun was still high. And hot. It was at least 92 degrees and the baked, dry earth radiated another ten degrees. The stagecoach soon leveled out and gained speed.
Suddenly, the driver lunged forward and fell screaming between the horses, a small circle of blood between his shoulders. The horses bolted to a gallop as the driver fell astraddle the tongue of the stage then rolled off under the galloping horses and the stage. The gunshots and scream startled the passengers. The woman screamed. The sheriff and gambler drew their pistols and gaped out the window. The racing stage bounced over the dead driver's body throwing them all to one side.
Twenty yelping Apaches were riding fast after the stage, shooting. Their heart-stopping cries paralyzed the passengers.
The horses were pulling the stage at full gallop now. The stage bounced wildly over the rough desert road.
The Indians gained on the stage, shooting through the windows of the stage.
The sheriff pushed the woman down to the floor between the seats as he fired at their attackers. The gambler jammed his pistol back in its holster, swung the stage door open and climbed the side of the stage to the top then to the driver's seat. He climbed onto the tongue of the stage and grabbed for the reins flopping between the horses. Bullets zinged overhead or splintered into the stage.
Three Indians were almost even with the stage. Their yells startled the gambler who hadn't realized how close they were. Two fell from the sheriff's shots while the third fell from the gambler's.
More Indians closed in. The stage bounced off a large rock and overturned throwing the gambler hard to the ground, stunning him. The Indians shot into the stage as they rode past whooping and howling their victory cries. The gambler stumbled to his feet as the Indians turned to make another pass. The hot desert sand radiated heat right through his boots. The air was scorching. The dust stung his eyes. The Indians rushed at him to ride him down. He fell behind the stage as they galloped past. One Indian jumped his horse over the broken tongue of the stage.
The sheriff's hand stuck out from under the stage still gripping his .44 even though the stage had crushed the life out of him. The gambler grabbed the gun and fired at the Indians as they turned for another pass. A guttural yell from behind spun the gambler around. The last thing he saw was a war-club crashing between his eyes.
Lieutenant Henley halted his troop of the 10th Cavalry Buffalo Soldiers to rest their mounts before starting the climb through the Quitman Mountains. He scouted the area with his field glasses for any sign of the elusive Warm Springs Apaches led by Victorio.
He slowly scanned the hillside and peaks a few hundred yards ahead. Something caught his eye. He stared through the glasses. He took them down and squinted across the distance. A thin column of black smoke drifted skyward over the mountain just ahead.
“Mount up, men!” yelled the lieutenant as he swung into the saddle. “We're going over the top.”
Sergeant Riley barked the orders to the men.
The soldiers scrambled to their horses and swung into their saddles.
“Forward --- at the gallop!”
The sergeant repeated the orders.
The cavalry troop raced toward the pass . They rode over the rise and down the other side. As soon as they topped the pass they could see the stagecoach burning little over a mile away. There were no Indians in sight.
As they rode toward the stage, they passed the dead driver lying in the road. The Lieutenant ordered one of the troopers to check on the driver while the rest continued toward the burning stage.
They soon reached the stage and the Sergeant and several of the men raced over and began throwing dirt on the stage to put out the fire.
Lieutenant Henley jerked out his field glasses and began searching for signs of the attackers. Far away to the south a small cloud of dust was barely visible.
“Anyone alive?” asked the Lieutenant.
“None, sir.”
“Leave two men with the pack mules as a burial detail then tell all three of them to follow after us. There goes the Apaches now..” said the Lieutenant pointing to the south.
“Washington! Davis! You two stay with the pack mules, bury these two and help with the driver, then follow us.” yelled the Sergeant.
The Lieutenant and the rest of the troopers started after the Apaches, following at a canter. They had to avoid overworking the horses in this hot weather.
“We're gonna catch 'em this time!” the Lieutenant shouted at the Sergeant.
“But they're headed toward Mexico.”
“But they're still in sight, Sergeant. They're still in sight!”
The small dust cloud was slowly dissipating in the distance as the patrol seemed to fall further and further behind. The Lieutenant didn't want to raise a large dust trail or to tire out the horses too soon, even if it meant letting the Indians pull slightly ahead for the time being. Soon they would be slowing down, thinking they were safely away.
The trail twisted and turned through the mountains at the south end of the small valley. The Indians were still some distance ahead. Soon they came to the Rio Grande. The Indians' trail led right into the river.
“Damn!” said the Lieutenant as he surveyed the area. “I was countin' on them not crossin' yet.”
Lieutenant Henley looked carefully in each direction, stared across the river, then ordered the men across. The Sergeant hesitated, staring at the Lieutenant, then turned and relayed the order.
Looking at the Indian's tracks on the other side of the river, showed they were sure they were safe. They were only moving at a walk.
The troop pressed on, still at a canter. Now they would start gaining on the Apaches.
An hour passed. The Indians were still not in sight. The country was too hilly and rocky to see very far.
Then they noticed the Indian's tracks stop and mill around then take off at a gallop.
“Looks like they seen us, Lieutenant.” said the Sergeant, “We'll never catch 'em now.”
“Maybe so, Sergeant, but I'm not giving up yet.”
Lieutenant Henley stepped up the pace, but not to a full gallop. The heat was almost unbearable. The horses were already breathing hard. The Apaches' trail was still at a gallop.
Before long, the Lieutenant halted his men near some tall creosote bushes to rest the horses. He took his field glasses out again and searched the distance for any signs. It was all quiet. No distant thunder of hoofs. No bird calls. Nothing, but quiet.
“Looks like they got away, sir.” said the Sergeant as he walked up behind the Lieutenant.
The Lieutenant was intent on finding something.
“if