APACHE
AMBUSH
Will Cook
© 1955 by Will Cook
TO GEORGE POLLARD
whom I shall always remember
Chapter 1
In one glaring respect, Lieutenant Timothy O’Hagen differed from all other cavalry officers; he did not use a point, which was contrary to the manual. According to that ‘bible’ written by General Philip St. George Cooke, the point was the cavalry’s eye, and without it, the likelihood of ambush was magnified.
Mobility of the charge . . . anything that impeded the charge was faulty . . . these fragments came to O’Hagen as he rode through the slanting drizzle. Behind him, his fifteen-man patrol rode slack-bodied, poncho covered, fatigue hats funneling water.
He supposed he was different from other officers because he considered the ‘book’ too heavy for interesting reading and too stupidly written in spots to be taken seriously. Many commanders gave him the jaundiced eye whenever he presented himself at their posts. They knew how he felt about the book.
O’Hagen smiled as he thought of this.
He did not mind the pestering rain, for his poncho kept him moderately dry and turned away the spring chill. He was inured to a life of discomfort.
The column was now moving along the breast of a ridge. Below, a once-dry wash boiled with run-off water, pushing silt with it, eroding the banks as it tore around the sharp bends. Earlier O’Hagen had twice decided to turn the column back toward Fort Apache, but then he had come upon a slash in a hillside, a troughed gouge that caused him to pause. His eyes had scanned to the crest, and one part of his mind reasoned that a rain-loosened rockslide had caused this.
Or a bunch of Apache ponies had come down here to cross the wash at a shallow spot a hundred yards beyond. There were no tracks. The pelting rain took care of that.
This was the first hunch that kept O’Hagen from turning back.
Then he found the dead fire, a blackened, rain-smeared spot on the earth. Nearby was the half-butchered carcass of a horse, an Apache pony. He dismounted the column for a ten minute rest. The troopers stood in small groups, talking quietly. Snouts of carbines protruded from beneath the ankle length ponchos.
Sergeant Mike Herlihy came up, his boots sloshing in the mud. “Pretty fresh, sor. Th’ rain ain’t had time to wash it out.”
“Two-three hours,” O’Hagen agreed. “That was their sign we cut earlier this mornin’.” He raised his hand and pawed water from his angular face. The patrol had been out a week and a red beard stubble darkened his cheeks. “They must have been in a hurry, Sergeant. Horsemeat is a special dish for Apaches and unless something is pushing them, they’ll remain in one place until it’s all gone.”
At the end of ten minutes, O’Hagen mounted the troop and struck out eastward, across land that was becoming flat and less rocky. Herlihy, riding on the left, said, “Tres Alamos stage stop’s out there, sor. About twelve miles. Fella by th’ name of Lovington and his wife run it. A couple of Mexican hostlers—that’s all.”
“To an Apache, that’s enough,” O’Hagen said.
The rain stopped an hour later and ponchos were rolled and tied over the cantle roll oat issue. In the distance, mountains stood gray-veiled and chopped off at the tops by low-hanging clouds. A gray dreariness lay over the land and a chill wind searched the weave of their shirts.
Alternating the walk and the trot, O’Hagen covered the twelve miles in two hours. Lovington’s adobes were squat shadows in the distance and flitting in and out of the gutted buildings, Apaches waved fired torches.
“At the gallop!” O’Hagen snapped and unflapped his pistol holster even as he spurred his horse. The Apaches saw them and when they were yet a mile away, broke for their horses. They stormed away, screeching and shooting aimlessly. O’Hagen halted the troop by Lovington’s fired house.
Mrs. Lovington was dead, her body huddled sadly in one corner. The place was a shambles, furniture overturned, table and chairs smashed, the curtains ripped from the windows. Mrs. Lovington had been stripped of her clothes; Apaches were like packrats when it came to bright cloth. She had contested this, for a shred of torn blue polkadot was clenched tightly in her fist. O’Hagen put this in his pocket and motioned for one of the troopers to cover her.
The fire had not caught in the rain-soaked timbers and two men succeeded in extinguishing it with whipping blankets.
Lovington was in the barn, still alive, hanging by his wrists from one of the rafters. The Apaches had sliced through the calf muscles and his feet kept twitching. Another had flicked out Lovington’s eyeballs with the point of his knife. They hung on his cheeks like boiled eggs dangling from bloody strings.
The metallic clank of spurs roused Lovington and he croaked, “Shoot me! In th’ name of God—shoot me!”
Corporal Mulvaney, a huge Irishman who could whip any two men in the troop, turned away and vomited. Herlihy’s jaws were locked and a muscle jumped in his cheek. O’Hagen raised his pistol slowly and sighted. The sudden detonation made Herlihy and Mulvaney jump. Lovington jerked once, then was peacefully still.
O’Hagen jammed his cap and ball Colt into the holster and whirled in savage anger. “Mount the troop!”
“Sor, th’ buryin’ detail—” Herlihy began.
“I SAID MOUNT THE TROOP, SERGEANT!” O’Hagen was striding to his horse. He went into the saddle and sat there, his blunt face harsh and chalky in the gray light.
The troop moved out without talk. Even Sergeant Herlihy, who was all the father O’Hagen had, remained silent. O’Hagen’s hate was like a stain across them all. This never varied. O’Hagen could go for many months, an easy officer to serve; then he would see something like this, the bloody remains left by Apaches, and he changed. He would drive them hard now, without letup, without rest, sustaining himself by a hatred that was an inextinguishable fire.
The men recognized this and said nothing.
Corporals Kolwowski and Shannon rode forward as the column moved, giving their reports briefly to a man who never looked at them.
“Typical Apache raid, sir. Nothing of real value taken, just cloth, some airtights, and all the arms and ammunition.”
“We found the Mexicans behind the barn, sor. You know how they like to cut up a Mexican. Picked up a footprint, sor. Choya’s most likely. He left it plain as hell in th’ barn.”
“Thank you,” O’Hagen said and rode for a way stony-faced.
Herlihy maintained his silence for a mile, then edged close. He knew that O’Hagen did not want to talk, but talk was best when a man remembered. He said, “It’s hard for a man to understand why they’ll kill for somethin’ that’s worth nothin’.”
“They’re born thieves,” O’Hagen said, dragging his words out. “Apaches have women trouble, Sergeant. Some say they’re barren; that’s why they like female prisoners. Choya’s woman will be sporting a new dress tomorrow. Polkadots. I’d like to see what she looks like in it.”
O’Hagen did not halt the troop at nightfall, but none of the men were surprised. The rain began again and the column made for the rough country, moving rapidly. In a rocky pocket, O’Hagen gathered his men round him, speaking tersely. “O’Shead, Carmichael, stay here with the horses. We’ll go ahead on foot.”
The troopers looked at each other, but said nothing. Their association with this man had taught them that he knew what he was doing. If he wanted to look for the Apache camp afoot, then they’d walk.
High and hard to find; that was the way Apaches camped and every man in the troop knew it. They followed O’Hagen for better than an hour while he led them along the rocky spine of this short range, driving