A Wisp of Smoke

By David W. Bailey

Pearce Hanlon and a troop of Cavalry, commanded by Lieutenant Wesley Coleman, left Apache Station who then become harassed, and attacked by a combined force of Yaqui, Tonto, Mescalero, and Chiricahua Apache in the southeastern desert of Arizona. This is a tragedy about the death of so much humanity, Indian and white man is so outstanding, it's frightening. This is a life and death struggle for the troop as they frantically try to make it back to Fort Thomas while under attack of the Apache. There is action inside the action. There is almost constant action and drama, with a little comedy to raise a smile and possibly a chuckle.  
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outlaws Publishing LLC
• Release date: May 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224967414

David W. Bailey

David W. Bailey was born in Parkersburg, West Virginia on February 3 1951. He has traveled across the U.S and back with his family. He is a Navy Vietnam veteran and proudly so.  He now lives in Bakersfield, California with his wife of 40 years He is the middle son of three boys. At an early age, he and his family traveled the U.S., from Parkersburg, West Virginia to Bowie Maryland down to Tampa, Florida. From Wellsville, Ohio west to Casper, Wyoming and all points in between. When his family landed in California in the mid-60s, they set roots in Ventura County. David is a Navy Vietnam veteran. Six years after his discharge, he joined the Army, spending six years with a total of twelve years military service. He and his wife, Sandy, married on July 4, 1981 in Casitas Springs, California and now lives in Bakersfield, California. They have three grown children and three grandchildren. His favorite quotation is, "I'm here 'cause I'm not all there."  

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A WISP OF SMOKE

DAVID W. BAILEY

Copyright © 2022 by David W. Bailey

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

This book may contain views, premises, depictions, and statements by the author that are not necessarily shared or endorsed by Outlaws Publishing LLC.

For information contact: [e-mail]

Cover design by Outlaws Publishing LLC

Published by Outlaws Publishing LLC

April 2021

10987654321 

Chapter One

Apache Station

As day breaks in the east in the year 1882, a lone rider can be seen plodding along in the sun soaked, sand driven, arid desert of Arizona. The sun began to rise higher allotting to another day of unforgiving, unbearable heat and another day of uncovered, blistered skin, with no relief in sight. Very little water, if any, left in his canteen. His horse had his head hung low, nearly touching the ground. The rider had his head hung low with his body bent somewhat forward over the saddle, with his eyes closed. His body moved with the motion of his horse. Then, his horse stumbled a little, causing the rider to straighten himself as best he could and peer around at this land of empty. He again lowered his head and closed his eyes. By this time, the sun was resting high in the sky, causing shimmers of heat waves to lay across the land, creating images of pools of water in the distance, only to disappear in the shimmering heat. With no water, his strength was fading, as well as that of his horse. The heat rays of the sun fell on him like an overcoat with no way to remove it. Their mouths were dry as if sand had been poured in them. The rider’s lips were chapped, cracked and open to all manner of insects. Every so often, the rider would swipe those insects from his lips, but it seemed to be a constant battle and he had very little strength left. How far had he come? He didn’t know. How much farther to go? Again, he didn’t know. He had no idea where he was, or even where he was going. This country was new to him, but it very well could be his final resting place. In this land of empty there was life, but no human life anywhere to be seen, or heard, until - A wisp of smoke. The rider lifted his head wearily, opened his eyes to look out of squinted eyelids. He sniffed again. A faint wisp of smoke came to his nostrils. How could this be, he wondered?

There was hardly any breeze and what was, was filled with heat. Again, a faint wisp of smoke. What direction? In his weaken state it was hard to tell. The breeze what did come his way swirled in all directions making it hard to tell which direction. Maybe his moving was the cause of not knowing the direction. He halted his horse and sat still in the heat. Again, a faint wisp of smoke, but this time he knew in what general direction it was coming from. How far away? No idea. White man, or Indian? No idea. At this point he actually didn’t care. If they were white, he’d be welcomed. If Indian, then he would find a way to get what he needed most from them. Water. He urged his horse forwards in the general direction of the wisp of smoke. The closer he got, the stronger the wisp of smoke. He soon lost the wisp of smoke, so he dismounted and with what little strength he did have, he started climbing a sand hill to have a better look of smoke rising in the air. Before he got to the top, he heard voices, but those voices wasn’t speaking American. Indian. He dropped onto his belly and crawled to the top of the sand hill and peered over the top. Below him there were five Indians. Yaqui-Apache. He saw the water skins on each Indian pony and longed for their refreshing taste. He licked his chapped, cracked lips in anticipation of the life-giving liquid. His mind raced at what to do. He was much too weak to fight those Indians alone. He would surely lose that fight. That... he was deftly sure of. He dropped his forehead onto his left arm and began moving it from left to right.

He kept saying to himself, Think. Think.

Then, he realized he had the element of surprise, but how to use it effectively. He looked at

his horse, but he knew his horse was near done in, so riding him amongst those Indians as a surprise, he would be the one to end up getting a surprise.

A dead horse and maybe himself with it. He thought being this was his last chance at getting water for him and his horse, so whether he died of thirst, or an arrow, dead is dead, no matter how it’s done. So, with a little oomph, he stood and took off running down the sand hill towards the Yaqui-Apache Indians, screaming and hollering, waving his arms about like a mad man with a crazed look on his face. The Indians were startled at what was coming at them and they became afraid. They all took off, running in five different directions. The Indian ponies became spooked. He ran to one, grabbing the water skin from it, then took off running back up the sand hill. When he reached the top, he bent over and rolled down the hill to his horse. It saved running down. His horse shied away from him a little. He untied the water skin and took one healthy swallow of water. Then, another. He took the water skin and doused his horse’ mouth with the water. he did this twice. He tied the water skin to his saddle, then mounted his horse as the Yaqui-Apache came screaming over the sand hill. He took off in a desperate flight as arrows began to whiz by. He leaned over the saddle to be less of a target. When he knew he was safely away from those Indians, he stopped and stepped down. Taking the water skin from the saddle, he took another healthy swallow of water. He could feel himself becoming refreshed. Taking his hat, he poured water into it, giving his horse a drink. He did this twice. He knew his horse would need it more than he would, so he drank sparingly from then on. His horse was his only transportation anywhere, other than his own two feet and in this part of the country walking was almost a death sentence.

He could tell his horse was starting to feel rejuvenated by the way he was acting. No more lowering his head. No more just plodding along. He was becoming more sure of himself with each footfall. His pride and spirit was returning. The rider had no idea where he was and had no idea how far it was to anywhere. He stared at the expanse of the Arizona desert, from sand hills to all manner of cacti, shrubs and desert flowers, but no sign of a town, weigh station, or line shack anywhere. He took a wild guess and headed northwest. After a few miles of empty desert, he topped out on a ridge overlooking what was a stage swing station. The swing station was about a half a mile from where he was atop a ridge. He didn’t see any movement of man, nor beast. No smoke from the chimney signifying anyone was there. But there could be a water well. He needed to fill his canteen and refill the water skin. He kneed his horse towards the swing station, moving at a walk not knowing who may be there, not showing themselves, albeit Indian, or white man. When he finally reached the corral, he sat his horse a minute, or two surveying what he could see of the swing station and the land around it. He pulled his saddle gun from the boot, cocked it, then stepped down. He walked slowly to the outside wall of the station, then made his way to the front. He peered around the corner, seeing nothing but desert. But there was a well not far from where he was. Maybe thirty yards away. He looked back in the direction he came making sure no one was coming from behind him. Then, he turned the corner to the right coming to the front of the station. He came to a window. Peering inside, he saw nothing to cause alarm, so he went to the door. He paused in opening it, but he finally took a deep breath and opened the door.

Shoving the door a little hard made the it slam against the other outside wall with a clatter. He stood in the doorway with his saddle gun at the ready. He stood listening. Not a sound. Only bees. The sweet sound of bees made him smile a little. Bees buzzing around means there is water in that well. Lowering his saddle gun, he turned from the station going for his horse. He led his horse to the front of the station, tethering him at the hitching rack. He removed the water skin and his canteen, then went to the well and laid them aside. He lowered the bucket and heard a splash as it entered the water. He pulled up the bucket filled to the brim with clean, fresh water. He filled his canteen and the water skin. He turned intending to tie them on his horse, when an arrow whizzed past him and stuck with a thud against the upright of the well. He took off with the water skin, canteen and his saddle gun into the station. He dropped the skin and canteen on the floor and settled under a window on the left side of the door. He peered out of the window and saw nothing and heard nothing. He could only guess the Yaqui-Apache, who he had stolen the water skin from, followed him here. All was quiet for twenty, to thirty minutes. Then, an arrow tore through his shirt sleeve barely missing the skin of his arm and sticking with a thwack on the wall behind him. They were close. Too close, or that arrow would have lost its initiative before hitting the wall behind him. He, then scooted over to the door to shut it when with a thud, an arrow hit the door just as he closed it. He scrambled back over to the window as an Indian took off running from a tree to the corral. He brought his rifle up to aim and fire, but the Indian was too quick. The man scooted over to the wall next to the corral and leaned back against it.

Then, faintly he heard a twig snap, then nothing. A couple of seconds later, the door slowly opened. The man held his fire to get a better shot at his enemy. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his palms were wet. Then, a rifle barrel showed before the Indian stepped further into the room. His eyes fixed on the interior of the room.

Hey! the man yelled loudly.

The Indian turned to fire just in time to catch a bullet in the chest. The impact of the bullet slammed the Indian backwards against the door. The door flew back against the other outside wall and the Indian lay belly down on the floor. Dead. The man scurried back to the window, cocking his rifle. As he went to peer out of the window, an Indian showed his face, scaring the man as he jumped back in the room jarred to the bone. The Indian took advantage of his surprise and ran to the open door, rushing the man. The man quickly brought his rifle up and fired. The bullet struck the Indian in the stomach. The Indian bent over from the impact with an, ‘Oomph’! and fell against the man who shot him. The man pushed the Indian away from him. The Indian rolled over on his back. He too was dead. The man nervously wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Two down, three to go. The man’s eyes seemed to frantically look in all directions at once. The man scooted himself over to the other window to the front, closing the door when he got there. Again, all was quiet for a better part of twenty minutes. The man sat with his back against the wall. While he waited, he listened. He took the time to reload his rifle, stopping after each round inserted to listen, then, he inserted another round. He looked at the rifle the Indian had with him. It was an 1873 lever action 44.40 caliber Winchester.

If he gets out of this fix alive, he’s taking that rifle gun with him. He slowly came to one knee, then peered out of the window just as an arrow whizzed by him. The Indian was down on one knee, fitting another arrow to bow and fairly exposed. The man raised his rifle, aimed and fired. The Indian lurched backwards from the impact. He lay dead. Three down, two to go. Half expecting a final attack from two sides, the man grabbed the water skin and the canteen, then scooted himself farther back into the swing station, standing only to tip over a bookshelf with all manner of books. The books went spilling out onto the floor causing an enormous amount of dust to rise and float like shiny objects in the air. He hunkered down behind it and waited, re-cocking his rifle. From his vantage point, he could clearly see both windows to the front as well as the door. He waited for what seemed like forever to him, but was only fifteen minutes at most. Nervously waiting for what he knew was to come, he removed his hat, tossing it aside. Then, a floorboard creaked ever so faintly to his left. An Indian came through the window corral side. The Indian stopped when the floor creaked. Not another sound for a few seconds. The man waited for the last Indian to make his move. It didn’t take long. The last Indian pushed the door open and stepped inside in clear view. The man aimed and fired. The Indian pitched backwards landing on his back, then turned onto his face in the dirt. A second later, the Indian who came through the window, ran for the door to escape. The man fired again, catching the Indian in the back. The Indian pitched headlong into the dirt. The Yaqui-Apache threat was over. Then, he heard horses’ hooves galloping his way. The man thought he could maybe run to his horse and outrun the danger he thought was coming his way.

Grabbing up the water skin and the canteen, he ran to the door. Giving a side glance to the 1873, 44.40 caliber Winchester on the floor, he left it behind. He ran to his horse tied the water skin and the canteen to the saddle, then mounted. He went to rein his horse away from what he thought was the coming danger, when he seen the banner and the U.S. flag, flapping in the air. As he sat on a dancing horse, the U.S. Cavalry drew ever closer. The man quieted his horse, then stepped down. In a matter of a minute, or less, the Cavalry had arrived. The troop of Cavalry had their weapons at the ready when they got there. A cloud of dust came barreling in from behind them stirred up by their horse’ hooves.

Yelling, Troop - halt! Sergeant McInnis, search the area for more hostiles.

Aye, sir., replied Master Sergeant Ian McInnis in his distinct Irish brogue.

I’m glad to see you, Lieutenant, but you arrived a little too late.

You seemed to have had your hands full, but it looks like you’ve done well.

The lieutenant stepped down from the saddle.

I’m still breathin’ if that’s what you mean, but they ain’t. This never should’ve happened.

How many were there?

Five all toll. There are two inside. Then, these two and you’ll find the fifth one over by that scrub brush. smiling, He just needed to conceal himself a little better.

Then, Sergeant McInnis reined in beside the lieutenant.

We didn’t find any more hostiles, Lieutenant.

Very well, Sergeant. Dismiss the troops and allow them full use of the well and tend to their mounts.

Aye, sir.

Sergeant McInnis reined his horse away from the lieutenant and began giving commands.

Troop! Dismissed! Every man has full use of the well, but first, tend to your mounts. Any man not doing so will receive my boot to his backsides. boisterous laughter, Minus, of course, the Lieutenant.

Chuckling, He’s colorful, but he’s one of the best sergeants there is.

The lieutenant extended his hand, as both men shook hands vigorously.   

I’m Lieutenant Wesley Coleman, ‘C’ troop, 1st Cavalry out of Fort Thomas. We were on our usual two week patrol when we heard gunfire. We came as quickly as we could, but I see you took care of the situation.

The name’s Pearce Hanlon. Is this a once in a lifetime visit, or did my gunfire cause you to come runnin’ 

In our two-week patrol between Arizona and New Mexico, this is where we come to refill our canteens and water bags. Rest a day, or so, then back on patrol. To be honest I’m quite surprised to see anyone here except for Apache. Apache we have and you.

Uh, huh. And just where is here, Lieutenant? I’m a little lost.

Turning to the swing station, This is the old Wells Fargo swing station, called, ‘Apache Station’ and we are what the Army calls, ‘Apache Station Patrol’. It sits between Tucson and Lordsburg. turning, Uh, Sergeant McInnis?

Aye, sir?

Remove these... dead Apache if you would please.

Aye, sir.

And there are two more inside, Sergeant.

Sergeant McInnis gave Pearce a side glance.

Remove them as well, Sergeant.

Aye, sir., he replied reluctantly.

Excuse me, Lieutenant., Pearce said as he stepped away.

Certainly.

As Pearce went into the swing station, Lieutenant Coleman walked over to the well. As the lieutenant was taking a drink of water, Pearce left the station carrying the 1873 lever action, 44.40 caliber Winchester. The lieutenant turned to watch as he stowed the weapon away.

The lieutenant walked over to him, asking, Yours?

It is now, Lieutenant. One of those Apache in there tried to kill me with it.

As two troopers carried the dead Apache away from in front of the station, four troopers entered the station to carry away those Apache inside. Sergeant McInnis came up to the lieutenant.

Shall I form a burial detail, Lieutenant?

Before the lieutenant could reply, Pearce spoke instead.

Why? They shor’ wouldn’t’ve buried me, Sergeant. They would’ve left me to the wolves, coyotes...

Without turning to the sergeant, Lieutenant Coleman butted in.

Form a burial detail, Sergeant.

Aye, sir.

Scoffing, Seems like a waste of time, Lieutenant.

My time, Mister Hanlon.

Yes, it is. Yes, it is.

These are the so-called savages, Hanlon. We are not savages.

Uh, huh. Well, I know a few white men who would make these so-called savages look like choir boys.

"Well, we are not those men and whether they be