Apache Canyon

Chapter 1

D ang Kit! Sure lookin’ like you stepped in a big pile of buffalo dung this time, growled Griz Garza. I ain’t never seen so many Injuns in one place before! Least not all a gatherin’ up to get attacked by ‘em. Shit fire! Looks like you got Kiowa, Comanche, ‘n even some of ‘em Plains Apache out there. Must be over a thousand of ‘em.

Yep, looks about, Griz, Kit agreed as he surveyed the menacing gathering, ‘ceptin’ you cain’t hardly count up to a hundred, I’d wager. Neither can I! But there’s a sight bunch of ‘em, I’ll give ya that.

Lookin’ pretty as peaches out there too, Griz grunted back, using his thumb to pull back the hammer on his long rifle. All painted up ‘n got their best war bonnets on ta boot. Bunch of ‘em Comanches a wearin’ their buffalo heads too. Sure ‘nough they’re lookin’ to whoop it up on us!

Welp, sure glad you fellers came along, Kit said as he chambered a round in his carbine, but where in hell’s the rest of ya? General Curry said he’d be sendin’ us some support troopers if’n we didn’t get back to Fort Union by yesterday. Guess you be it, but from the looks of things, we sure could use a bunch more of ya.

Colonel Kit Clayborn, famous scout, frontiersman, and now a United States Cavalry Officer, was beginning to wonder why he had stayed in the army all these years. His expertise and competence, along with his notoriety, had helped him rise to the rank of Colonel of the First New Mexico Volunteers. But the army years had been hard on him. It wasn’t a bad life considering his prospects and he liked the steady pay, so he had stayed with it.

Now he was thinking he had had his fill of fighting Indians altogether, especially with the thousand or so of the ones he was looking out at now looming on the horizon, preparing to attack his small detachment of now dismounted cavalry. Even though they were far outnumbered, Kit took some comfort in their position hunkered down behind the decaying mud walls of a long-ago abandoned trading post. Only a seasoned frontiersman with his knowledge of the region would have known of the old fort’s location. He had used it for his base as his Jicarilla and Ute scouts prowled about in search of the Comanche and Kiowa villages.

We jest busted out here from the wagons down on the Sante Fe Trail yonder, Griz said, referring to himself and the other rangers, Noble Dean, Jo Nambé, and Sam Magolin. The Governor ordered us to come out a lookin’ for ya. He wants us to get the lay of the land’n see what the hostiles are up to out here in this part of the territory. We dang sure didn’t come all this way jest to say howdy. Now look what we got our gizzards into!

Well, now, Kit grinned as he spat out a dark wad of tobacco, that was right kindly of the Governor to send ya, but sure wished he’d sent along those reinforcements I been hopin’ for! Guess you fellers are gonna find out right shortly jest what in hell these ones here are up to. So’s when you report back to the Governor without yor scalps, I reckon he’ll figure it out ‘n hire on a bunch more’n you rangers to protect his precious territory, ‘n his own rump to boot!

Dang! Griz exclaimed, not taking his eyes off the growing mass of warriors swarming and prancing about not more than a few hundred yards off. Somethin’ sure put a bee under their butts. They been raiding the wagons along the trail more’n ever. Never seen ‘em this riled up before, though. Reckon they be feelin’ this here Comancheria country gettin’ smaller on ‘em. They got those wild Apaches further west ‘n got Pawnee ‘n Osage out yonder, ‘n they don’t want to be messin’ with any of ‘em neither. All ‘em be wantin’ ta buffalo ‘n they can all see the herds be gettin’ smaller.

That one out there sure looks right pissed, don’t he? cut in Kit. Must be one of their chiefs, Santana or Satank?

I believe those there are Kiowa, Kit, said Sam Magolin as he lowered his field glasses. He, too, had ridden out with Griz along with their other compatriots, Noble Dean and Jo Nambé, of the recently formed New Mexico Territory Rangers. "He’s a jefe though, a big one. Could be Dohasan."

Damn army. They shoulda given me one of em’ magnifyin’ glass things. My eyes ain’t what they used to be, said Kit.

Bet yor woman could tell us a few other things ‘bout how you ain’t what they used to be, either, Griz chortled.

Well, ain’t you the clever one, Kit quipped back. Look who’s talkin’, you ol’ goat. Least I was what I used to be.

Now, what the hell’s that supposed—

The sudden loud report of the gun next to the men stunned them all for a moment.

Dang, Noble! cried Griz, his ear ringing from the closeness of the big fifty caliber Henry rifle. "You sure are somethin’ with that long rifle! Hee, hee. You parted that big one’s hair! You sure did! Look at ‘im! Reached right up to see if’n he still had his buffalo head on ‘im! He don’t know what to make of that!"

Too bad you missed, boy. Be one less of ‘em to come at us, Kit lamented.

Shit fire! Griz shouted. Kit, that ain’t no boy. This here’s Noble Dean, Captain Dean of our new Territory Rangers, ‘n he didn’t miss! Shit fire! He’s the best damn shot I ever did see, be it with that long-barreled Henry or that big LeMat pistol he’s packin’.

I’ve a heard of you, Captain, Kit acknowledged, noticing for the first time the razor-thin scar that made its way down the left side of the young man’s face. Meant no disrespect, friend. I jest call everybody ‘boy’ nowadays ‘cause I’m a gettin’ so old. Fine piece of shootin’, though. That’ll sure give ‘em pause. Looks like they’re backin’ off a ways now. Cool as my ol’ pappy with a jug of hard cider in his hand, this one, Kit thought, eyeing Noble. Could jest as well been showin’ off at a turkey shoot at the rendezvous instead of trimmin’ the neck hairs off of one of the most feared Injuns north of the Rio Grande.

Good to make your acquaintance, Colonel Clayborn, sir, Noble replied in his native North Carolinian drawl and customary good manners. Griz told me a great deal about you. Said you were—er—are the best scout he’d ever ridden with.

Well, thankee. Right pleased to make yor’n acquaintance too, ‘n call me Kit. Anyone who can shoot like that must be kinfolk of mine from way back. If’n you couldn’t tell, me ‘n Griz go back friendly a long ways. He’s a damn good scout too. Not too bad of a whiskey drinker, either. Taught ‘im everythin’ I knows, huh, Griz?

Yeah, you ‘n yor ol’ granny! Griz chided back.

Well, she’s what taught you to shoot, I bet. Know’d it weren’t me or ya’d be able to shoot like the young Captain here, Kit teased with an exaggerated wink of an eye.

Well, gentlemen, said Sam as he continued to assess their predicament with his field glasses. I hope you learned your skills well, and that shooting Kiowas and Comanches are among your specialties because I believe with certainty that is what we are going to need to do shortly and abundantly. You know any of them, Jo? Speaking of kinfolk, maybe you could extend a welcome to them and see if they would like to smoke some of our tobacco?

I do not think they want to smoke now. They do not look like that is what they have come for, Jo Nambé responded, glibly noting the sarcasm in his long-time friend’s question. They have smoked many times in the past. Now they are being harassed by the American Army, more whites wanting to live on their lands, and all these other tribes scratching at their rumps too. All of them killing the buffalo they need to eat, so it is only practical they are upset. Who would not be? So were the Apache when Comanche moved here and made them move out to the mountains further to the west. But these Comanche and Kiowa have nowhere else to move. They only have the buffalo to eat so they follow them.

Jo paused and took a drink of water from his canteen. So no, I do not think they would accept a Pueblo’s invitation to smoke. They think we are all farmers, which of course we are because we like to eat and so we grow our crops. Plus, the buffalo do not wander so far over our way any longer. But we are good at growing crops and do not mind it. They do not want to, that is their choice. Besides, we have warred for more years than they have had ponies to ride. We were very good at that too. Now we like to farm because we like to eat something other than buffalo hump. Maybe they would not be so upset if they had some beans to eat like we do, which would aid in their digestion. Maybe someday they will like to grow beans too. Who is to say?

Well, Jo, Sam replied still looking through the field glasses. We got about a thousand scalp-hungry ancient enemies of yours out there just chomping on their war feathers to come at us, so I guess now’s as good a time as any for you to talk about eating beans.

It was Griz that brought it up, Jo said. Make me hungry now. Besides, we all know how much you like to eat beans, too, Sam. That is probably why they found us here so easily, they just sniffed you out. Maybe you could offer them a smoke? I’m sure they would be reasonable were you to do so as your people are not as old an enemy of theirs as my people are, give or take a couple thousand years. Or maybe you could just offer to give them all of our wagons, which they want in addition to our scalps. Maybe if we give them both, they will go away and let us go walk back to the fort without our hair. We can take our time and pick up buffalo chips for a campfire along the way. Then they will ride up with the wagons and ask if we want to buy them back from them, except they will keep the guns and livestock, and maybe some cloth and some mirrors for their women. Perhaps if we are fortunate, they will trade our scalps back to us too.

I don’t think they expect us to be so generous, Jo, said Noble, just as an arrow whizzed into the encampment, hitting one of the adobe walls they were standing by.

Several other arrows began to rain in, but the weathered, sunbaked mud walls offered at least some defense for the men to position themselves behind. Fortunately for all, Kit was as familiar with this part of the country as anyone. When General Curry had directed him to scout for Indian camps, he had a good idea where he might find them out along the Canadian River. William Bent had built his first trading post here several years earlier and Kit worked for him as a buffalo hunter back then.

Shit fire! Griz shouted. Look yonder! That’s Black Bear ‘n his Jicarillas, ‘n Tall Elk next to ‘em.

Them’s my Ute scouts with ‘em, said Kit. Talk about bad blood! They hate ‘em Kiowas ‘n Comanches. I know’d they’d want in on this here fandango when I sent word for ‘em to scout for us.

Hell, said Griz, keeping his head down below the low wall. We run into ‘em up in the High Rincona not long ago. Had their paint on then! Black Bear’s almost kinfolk to me ever since I set his broke arm at that Taos rendezvous when he was jest a welp.

Lucky for you it mended well, Kit chortled. He showed it to us. Guess he don’t mind you fixed it a little crooked. Dang! They sure all got good war whoops! Look at ‘em! Ain’t seen such a sight since before the war. They’re fixin’ to light into ‘em!

The men watched intently as the taunting between the tribes commenced. The allied Comanches and Kiowas vastly outnumbered the small contingent of Jicarilla Apaches and mountain Utes. They screamed their war cries and insults at each other.

Despite the odds, the small band of Jicarillas and Utes would not back down. They were warriors. They screamed their death vows as they attacked the Comanches and Kiowas.

At first, the arrows flew from both sides in clusters as thick as rain. Then, as they grew closer, they lowered their lances, and as they clashed into their foe, war hatchets and long knives did their deeds. Horses stumbled and went down. The wild screams and chaos lasted longer than the odds that were stacked against them.

Griz could not restrain himself any longer. He stood up and let out a war whoop of his own that even Dohasan heard above the fray. Distracted, as he looked in Griz’s direction, Dohasan swung