Devil's Creek Massacre (20 page)

“I'm really disappointed in you,” said Cochrane, seated beside Duane. “I can't remove your gag and let you have a drink of water, because you'd holler at the top of your lungs. I thought you were a friend, but I'm wrong again.” Cochrane shook his head sadly. “I've taken you into my home, we've broken bread together, and you'd give me up to the Yankee bastards? Doesn't the word
honor
mean anything to you?”

Duane tried to answer, but only feeble choked murmurs escaped the gag. He felt suffocation, and his body ached from being wrapped too tightly. He wanted to tell Cochrane that Johnny Pinto had tried to kill the Pecos Kid and doubtless would make another attempt soon.

“You've got an answer for everything,” said Cochrane, “but you were going to betray soldiers who'd saved your life. I can't begin to tell you how disappointed I am, but you're young, you've never been in the war, and it's just a history lesson that you've learned from books written by Yankee professors.”

Sergeant Beasley trudged toward them and saluted. “The Yankees is a-comin', sir. You'd better take yer post.”

“I'll be right there, Sergeant.”

Beasley returned to the bushwhack site while Cochrane lingered a few moments with Duane. “This is a very sad day for me,” muttered Cochrane. “I guess nothing is sacred to some people.”

Cochrane spat into the dirt, then turned and headed for his position. Duane rolled onto his stomach and rested his chin on a clump of grama grass as an ant crawled up his leg. Cochrane hid behind a tangle of
benson cactus while the other outlaws were concealed deftly as Apaches.

On the horizon, the cavalry detachment rode toward doomsday. Duane struggled against his ropes, distorted himself into odd positions, but the binding only became tighter
.
The ant munched a certain tender portion of his anatomy, and all he could do was screech into the gag that stuffed his mouth. God, if you get me out of this, I'll go to Mass every Sunday for the rest of my life.

He tried to think of other subjects, such as the suffering of Jesus on the cross, mocked by his enemies. Meanwhile, the ant crawled up his back while the gag in his mouth upset his stomach. He wished an Apache would appear out of the bush and chop off his head quickly, cleanly, and painlessly.

Instead, Johnny Pinto arose out of the bush, the Smith & Wesson in his hand and a fiendish smile on his face. “Guess who's back?” he said. “It's me, Johnny Pinto, the feller you done took advantage of back in Ceballos Rios. Let me tell you somethin', peck-erhead. Nobody messes with Johnny Pinto and gets away with it.” Johnny holstered his Smith & Wesson, then pulled the bowie knife out of the scabbard at the back of his belt. “I'm a-gonna to cut yer fuckin' throat.”

Thank God, thought Duane. He'd become delirious with pain and strain, and all he wanted was a quick exit. He closed his eyes as Johnny Pinto brought the sharp blade of knife to rest against Duane's throat.

Johnny looked around, and no one was close. His time had come, and a smile creased his face. “This is it, Mr. Pecos Kid. Bye-bye.”

He pressed the blade into Duane's throat, and a thin red line appeared. Duane's eyes were closed, he
appeared at peace, but Johnny had hoped to enjoy Duane squirming for his life. “Hey, wake up,” Johnny said. “It ain't no fun this way.”

Duane was passed out cold, skin waxen, but Johnny thought Duane might've died of fright. Johnny pressed his ear against Duane's shirt, heard his heart beating, but felt something odd. Unbuttoning Duane's shirt, he saw a rosary of crude black beads with a silver crucifix hanging from the bottom. Jesus Christ crowned with thorns, nailed, lanced, and dying on his eternal cross, gazed pleadingly into Johnny Pinto's eyes.

The schoolmaster's son shivered as he held the crucifixion in his hand. He'd been to church during his youth and recalled the sacrificial lamb of God. Duane Braddock lay helpless before his executioner, tiny dots of blood on his throat. Johnny caught a glimpse of himself as a hateful spiteful blood-soaked killer, and something told him to get the hell out of there. He stuffed his knife into its scabbard as he fled toward the horses, leaving Duane Braddock unconscious on the ground.

The pay wagon drew closer, its commanding officer riding stiffly in front of the column, next to a Fourth Cavalry guidon in the hand of Private John Jenkins from County Limerick, Ireland. The detachment neared Devil's Creek, and Jenkins anticipated his evening meal of hardtack, beans, and bacon, while hoping that his name wouldn't appear on the guard roster two nights in a row.

Jenkins was a slender florid-faced trooper who couldn't wait to get out of the army. He'd enlisted in Boston, hoping for high adventure, but instead found
low hardship and danger. Some of the sergeants were vicious, while many of the officers didn't give a damn about the men. A soldier never knew when an arrow with his name on it was going to pierce his heart.

Jenkins searched the terrain on both sides of the column. The Comanche nation could be out there, aiming their weapons at him, but odds were against it. He prayed that the bacon wasn't rotten, there were no worms in the beans, and a mouse hadn't shit in the flour, for often the army received spoiled rations purchased by dishonest agents who'd bribed important politicians. Jenkins felt lost, forgotten, and despised by most decent Americans as he rode toward his rendezvous with destiny.

Duane opened his eyes, and at first didn't know where he was. He tried to move, realized that he was tightly secured, and remembered dreaming about Johnny Pinto slicing his throat.

He rolled over laboriously, propped his chin on grama grass, and was surprised to see the cavalry detachment straight ahead, approaching Devil's Creek. Duane wanted to jump into the air and shout the warning, but was unable to move. Incredible carnage would ensue, but he couldn't stop the ant crawling across his chest.

He narrowed his Apache eyes and saw Cochrane and his irregulars poised to attack the hapless cavalry detachment. Duane wasn't sure he wanted to watch, but youthful inquisitiveness got the better of him yet again. The cavalry column come to a halt at the edge of Devil's Creek, the commander raised his arm in the air, and hollered, “Detachment—halt!”

In the front rank, Private Jenkins shot the guidon straight up into the air, then brought it down just as speedily. He pulled his horse to a halt, then sat at attention, the guidon fluttering in the breeze.

“Dismount!” ordered the detachment commander.

It was the word Jenkins had been praying for during the past several hours. He took a deep breath, raised his leg, and eased out of the saddle. Lowering himself to the ground, he glanced around for signs of Indians. He thought he saw a portion of a bootprint several feet away, but was certain he was imagining things.

He slammed the bottom of the guidon pole into the ground and made it freestanding. Taking his canteen out of its pouch, he thought he heard a strange buzzing sound, but it had to be insects. He uncorked his canteen as men stretched their legs and slapped alkali off blue pants behind him. A huge cloud of dust arose in the air, and Jenkins felt as if his legs had been permanently bowed from riding the horse so long.

Thank God we're here, he thought as he raised the canteen to his lips. He took a gulp and was about to swallow another when a terrific boom came to his ears, accompanied by an orange flash. A terrible force smashed his body apart, and he went flying into the air, along with other men, horses, and official government equipment.

The explosion caused the ground to heave beneath Duane's stomach, his ears rang with the fierce blast, and the cavalry detachment was shredded before his very eyes. It was the most cataclysmic and gory spectacle
of his life, and then, before the smoke cleared, irregular soldiers charged in a skirmish line, firing rifles at twisting twitching bodies clad in torn blue uniforms. Some of the troopers tried to put up a fight, but they were wounded, dazed, taken by surprise, and cut down.

Cochrane personally dispatched the commander of the detachment, shooting him once in the chest and a second time in the head. Duane closed his eyes and shuddered. He'd read of wars and vast carnage, but no historian's prose could do it justice, as shots reverberated across endless buttes and mesas. It made no sense. Duane couldn't hope to understand; it was the lowest, basest, cruelest, most sinful act imaginable, yet its leader was a noble-minded ex-officer from a family of leading scholars.

The firing stopped, and the irregulars proceeded to gather up the gold. “Whar's the goddamned horses?” bellowed Beasley. “Pinto—git yer ass over hyar.” Beasley waited for a response, but there was no sign of Johnny Pinto. An expression of concern came over Beasley's face as he turned toward Cochrane for his orders.

Cochrane had an unholy glow in his eyes, his face flushed with emotion, a curl of smoke rising from his service revolver. “Take two men and see what happened to Pinto. The rest of you be on your guard.”

Cochrane dropped to one knee amid the wreckage and carnage. He appeared lost in a dream, while Beasley, Walsh, and Cox made their way back to the horses. The massacre clearly disturbed Cochrane; he was uneasy, and his eyes darted about frantically. The Devil's Creek massacre was different from the robbery of a small bank with no casualties.

Beasley's voice traveled over the sage. “Johnny Pinto is
daid!
”

Everyone turned and stared in the direction of Beasley's voice. “Are you sure?” asked Cochrane.

“Looks like he shot his own damned self!”

The company commander leapt to his feet, electrified by the news. His gun in hand, he ran toward Beasley's voice, joined by the rest of his men. The horses were picketed in an arroyo shielded by cottonwood trees. Beasley perched on one knee and looked at a figure sprawled on the ground with blood and brains everywhere. A gun lay near Johnny's right hand, with powder burns on the side of his head where the bullet began its penetration.

Cochrane was aghast; it was the last outcome he'd expected, but he didn't have time to think about it. “Load the gold onto the packhorses,” he said. “Let's get out of here, boys. We don't have time to bury him.”

The outlaws led their horses toward the killing ground while Cochrane headed for Duane. He whipped his knife out of its scabbard on his belt, and Duane thought his throat was going to be severed neatly, as in his dream. Cochrane sliced the knot that bound Duane's legs, then unwrapped the twine. Next he untied the gag and pulled it out of Duane's arid mouth. Duane hacked, spit, coughed, and sucked in huge gulps of air. His legs were numb as he tried to stand, but he lost his balance and fell to the side.

“We'll hold you prisoner until things settle down,” Cochrane said, “and then we'll decide what to do with you. If you behave yourself, maybe we'll let you go.”

Duane drew himself to his feet. “I've never seen—”

Cochrane held out the gag to Duane. “I'm not interested in your platitudes. Do you want this back in your mouth?”

Duane definitely didn't yearn for the gag. Cochrane pushed him toward outlaws picking gold coins off the ground while others were confiscating weapons and ammunition from dead soldiers. The closer Duane came to the scene of destruction, the more horrific it appeared. He felt faint from the gruesome mess, and Johnny Pinto had killed himself at the height of the battle? Events were passing too quickly, and Duane felt swept along by the whirlwind.

“Do you mind if I go somewhere and sit down?” Duane asked Cochrane.

“Suit yourself, but don't go far. You should consider yourself a prisoner of war.”

Duane knew that he should keep his mouth shut, but youthful impetuosity won out yet again. “What war are you talking about, sir?”

“The war against disloyal friends, and if you give me any more lip, I'm going to gag you again, because I'm not in the mood, understand?”

Beasley glanced at Cochrane. “How about that firing squad?”

“I've decided that we'll court-martial him when we return to the canyon.”

“But sir, he'll be nothin' but trouble.”

“I'm getting tired of back talk, Sergeant. Please carry out your orders.”

I'm not in your ragtag lunatic army, Duane wanted to say, but this time managed to keep himself under control. His arms bound tightly behind him, all feeling gone from his fingers, he walked stiffly past the Fourth Cavalry guidon lying on the ground. He wanted a spot
of clear unbloodied desert where he could sit and think through his latest catastrophe.

Private John Jenkins lay in a puddle of blood, only it wasn't his blood. The initial explosion had blown him into the air, and after returning to the ground, one of the other men landed atop him. Then a side of the wagon had fallen across Jenkins's legs, breaking tibia and fibula bones.

Miraculously he was still alive, although he pretended to be dead. A three-inch gash had opened on his forehead, his clothes were torn to rags, and he heard someone approaching. His greatest fear was that they'd find him alive. Why'd I ever join the army? he asked himself dazedly.

A tall man in a black shirt and black jeans approached, his black cowboy hat slanted low over his eyes, and he looked vaguely familiar to Private Jenkins. Jenkins peered intently at the youthful face, and then it hit him. My God!

Private Jenkins had been with the detachment in Shelby on the night the Pecos Kid gunned down Otis Puckett. The man in black walked past the wounded trooper while Jenkins felt a painful rack in his left leg. His bone poked through his skin, blood oozed out the wound, and the young soldier felt faint. A terrific swoosh filled his ears as he passed out cold amid the mass of corpses scattered beside Devil's Creek.

The gold and other booty had been loaded onto packhorses, the gang was ready to depart for Lost Canyon, and the last order of business was Duane
Braddock. The outlaws headed toward him, the moment he'd dreading had arrived, and he didn't know what to expect. His hands still were tied behind his back, but he managed to clamber to his feet and greet them. “Anybody got a taste of water?” he asked.