Silver City Massacre (2 page)

“I didn't wanna wait too much longer,” Riley said. He nodded back the way he had come. “It looks like about a quarter moon lyin' low on the prairie, and I figured we'd best get our business done before it gets high enough to give out much light.”

“I expect we'd better lead these horses on up the river a ways and tie 'em up in the bushes while we go after the packhorses,” Joel said.

“You plannin' on strikin' that tent?” Riley asked.

“No. The sentry's already passed by here once, and I reckon he'd wonder what was goin' on if it was gone the next time he came around,” Joel replied as he looked hurriedly around him in case he might have overlooked anything. “And it's damn near time he showed up again, so let's get goin'.”

No more time was wasted as the new partners led their horses down a gentle slope toward the line of trees and shrubs that bordered the river, picking their way carefully to avoid any holes that might cause the horses to stumble and create a noise.

“This oughta do,” Riley said when they came to a bunch of tall bushes. “How we gonna do this thing?” he asked when their mounts were secured. “Damn!” It suddenly occurred to him. “I got the packsaddles, but I didn't get no bridle.”

“I didn't get an extra one myself,” Joel replied, unconcerned. “I've got rope, though, so we'll make bridles.”

“Good thing,” Riley said, “'cause I didn't even think about bringin' rope.” He shook his head and joked, “I guess that's why you're an officer and I'm just a sergeant.”

Carrying nothing but the coil of rope, they went back down the river for a hundred yards before leaving it at a spot that put them even with the herd of extra horses standing peacefully in the treeless valley. They paused there waiting to locate the guards, before moving on in toward the horses. The sentries were not obvious against the dark background of the milling horses, but after a few minutes, Joel spotted a solitary figure slowly pacing his post. They continued to watch until the figure met up with another figure near a large clump of sagebrush. The two sentries paused there for a short while to exchange conversation before parting to reverse their steps. “That's where to catch 'em,” Riley said. He turned to Joel. “Who's gonna do the stealin', and who's gonna do the talkin'?”

“I expect I'll steal the horses,” Joel said. “You've got a better chance of distractin' the guards. They're more likely to chew the fat with you. If I did it, they'd be tryin' to act real alert and watch everything goin' on.”

Riley agreed, so they waited until the guards completed another circuit of their posts and met again at the sagebrush, before scurrying out across the narrow valley.

“Hello, the horse guard,” Riley called out as he approached the two soldiers.

“Who goes there?” one of the guards demanded, and both men reacted alertly.

“Nobody but ol' Tarver,” Riley answered, “just takin' a look around the camp—makin' sure everything's all right.”

Both men relaxed when they recognized the stumpy, bowlegged sergeant. “Evening, Sarge,” one of the men greeted him. “What are you doing, wandering around out here in the dark?”

“Like I said, just keepin' an eye on things, makin' sure you boys ain't takin' a little nap out here. Anything goin' on?”

“Nary a thing,” the other guard replied. “Quiet as a whore in church.”

“That's always good, ain't it?” Riley said. “Maybe one of you boys has got a match, so's I can light my pipe.”

The two sentries were content to pass a little time with the sergeant, giving his accomplice ample time to select two stout horses and fashion bridles with his rope. Happily distracted, they took no notice of the lone figure leading two horses away from the herd, even when he was obliged to stop and chase a few horses back when they started to follow. After finishing his smoke, Riley took his leave and the two sentries resumed their responsibility. A little over an hour later, the two horse thieves rode up the bank of the Brazos and set out for Idaho.

Traveling slowly but steadily, so as to get as much distance as possible behind them before having to rest the horses, they followed the course of the river to the northwest. Just after daybreak, they rode through a grove of cottonwoods close by the riverbank and dismounted on a sand flat near the water's edge.

Joel figured that they had gained a reasonable head start on any patrol the general might have sent after them, especially since he felt certain no one had seen them leave. The odds were slim that Shelby would delay his troop movement south to chase them, anyway. With these thoughts in mind, the new partners were comfortable in giving the horses a good rest and cooking a little breakfast for themselves.

“I wanna do a better job of packin' these horses,” Riley said as he pulled the packs from the horse he had been leading. “I was in too much of a hurry when we loaded 'em back yonder. I'll unload yours, too, Lieutenant, soon as I get this'n off.”

“Might as well settle something right now,” Joel said as he pulled the saddle off the chestnut. “We ain't in the army no more, so there ain't no more lieutenant or sergeant. We're equal partners on this deal, and I'll be splittin' the chores with you fifty-fifty. So don't call me ‘Lieutenant' anymore. All right?”

“Yes, sir,
Joel
,” Riley replied, grinning broadly when he emphasized the name. He wouldn't have expected anything different from the broad-shouldered young officer, but he knew he would continue to regard him as his leader. The man had far and away earned his respect with his conduct under fire.

“I know I plan to get outta this uniform first chance I get,” Joel went on, “and find some decent clothes. By the time we get to Idaho, we're gonna be needin' something a helluva lot warmer than these ragged uniforms.”

The last comment was without doubt, because at his guess, they would be lucky to get to Silver City before spring, and it would be cold in the high mountains.

“I expect you're right about that,” Riley said, having already thought about the country they were heading for, and the winters he had seen for himself when out there before. “Makes me crave a cup of hot coffee just thinkin' about the way that snow piles up in them mountain passes. I'll make us a fire and we'll cook us some breakfast.”

The morning passed uneventfully, with no sign of pursuit, so after resting the horses, they started out again. They divided their cargo of twelve Sharps carbines and extra ammunition between the two packhorses. That, added to their food supplies, cooking utensils, coffeepot, frying pan, coffee cups, bedrolls, and other useful items, made for a reasonable load for the horses to carry.

As for their personal weapons, both men carried Spencer carbines in their saddle scabbards as well as Navy Colt revolvers holstered on their belts. The Spencers, captured from Union outfits, were favored by both since the weapons were repeaters and designed to take a .54-caliber metal cartridge, while the Sharps took a combustible paper cartridge. The problem during the fighting was the lack of the metal cartridges to fit the Spencer, which the Confederates didn't have. But their unit had been lucky enough to capture a Union supply train, so they now had an ample supply of ammunition. Joel was of the opinion that the Spencer packed a more powerful punch than the Sharps, which he planned to utilize in hunting for big game.

The first full day of travel found them still following the general direction of the twisting and turning Brazos, aided by the existence of a well-worn trail that reminded them that they were riding in Comanche territory. The river managed to maintain its contact with the travelers, although it often took leave to turn away from them before coming back again. The country looked the same, with no indication that it would ever change in appearance, the gently rolling prairie broken only by the occasional line of hills.

On the second day of travel, upon entering a wide valley bordered by a long ridge on their right, they came upon a recent campsite that Riley determined to be Indian.

“Not more'n a day old,” he told Joel as they both tested the ashes of the campfire.

“I agree,” Joel said. “I expect we'd best keep a sharp eye.”

He walked around the clearing among the cottonwoods, inspecting the tracks, seeking to get an idea of the size of the hunting party. It was plain to see that they had come upon a popular camping spot, for there were many older tracks as well as the remains of a couple of other campfires, long dead. He returned to focus his attention on the fresh tracks.

“They're Indians, all right. None of these horses are shod. Doesn't look like a very big party, maybe three or four at the most—may not be that many—could be one or two and extra horses.”

“Maybe they'll take off in some other direction,” Riley speculated. He was not overly concerned about a fight with hostile Indians, if these were indeed hostile. Depending upon how well armed the Indians were, they would most likely be able to ward them off.

“From the looks of these tracks, they left here in the same direction we're headin'.”

“But like we said,” Riley replied, “they're most likely a day ahead of us.”

“We'd best keep an eye on their tracks anyway,” Joel advised. “Maybe they'll turn off in some other direction.” They climbed back into the saddle and continued on. After a few miles, the Comanche's tracks turned back toward the east.

They encountered no more tracks on that day, and no more than an occasional sign of Indians during the next few days. Still they knew better than to relax their caution. There had been word of increased Comanche attacks on the little settlements and ranches in northwest Texas in recent weeks.

•   •   •

For two more days they continued to follow the Brazos until late one afternoon they arrived at a point where the river seemed to change its course back more to the west. Accustomed by then to the many turns and twists of the river, they decided to stick with it, so they made camp there at a wide bend, with plans to start out again in the morning. Weary of the open sameness of the country, they welcomed the nightly fare of bacon and coffee.

“Damned if I ain't ate so much bacon I'm gonna turn into a hog if we don't see somethin' to shoot at before long,” Riley complained. They had occasionally seen sign of deer, but no sightings of the animals themselves. “I swear, I'm about ready to think about butcherin' that packhorse.”

“He looks a mite tough,” Joel teased. “Maybe you'd do better butcherin' Dandy.”

“Couldn't do that,” Riley responded, chuckling. “Ol' Dandy might come back to haunt me.”

“How'd you come up with a name like Dandy for that horse, anyway?”

“On account of the way he acts around the ladies,” Riley informed him. “See, he don't know he's been gelded—acts like a damn stallion every time he gets near a mare. Thinks he's a real dandy when it comes to courtin' the ladies. I feel real sorry for him if he ever finds out he ain't got nothin' to work with.”

The next morning found them in the saddle before sunup, and they continued to follow the drunken course of the river until stopping to rest the horses an hour or so before noon.

“I think we shoulda left this river back yonder where we camped last night,” Joel said.

Coffee cup in hand, he stood by the tiny fire they had built to cook their breakfast and stared thoughtfully off toward the distant hills to the west. He turned then to address Riley, who was poking around in the fire to encourage it to continue to burn.

“How far do you figure we've rode this mornin'?”

“Fifteen, sixteen miles, I'd say,” Riley answered.

“And it's been due west, or maybe a little bit south, the whole time,” Joel complained. “And it doesn't look like it's ever gonna turn back the way we were headin'.”

“I was thinkin' the same thing,” Riley said. “I reckon you're right. We'd best turn around and head back to the north. I don't know if there's a short route straight up through the mountains in Colorado Territory, but if we keep to the east of the high range we oughta be able to find Denver City. And I've been there before. I can find the old Oregon Trail if we go north from there up to South Pass. Won't be no trick a'tall, maybe a piece farther, that's all.”

That made sense to Joel, so they struck out on a northwestern course, relying solely on the probability that when they had traveled far enough into Colorado Territory, Riley would eventually recognize country he was familiar with.

Joel wasn't concerned by the fact that he was passing through country he had never seen before. He didn't discount the possibility that Riley's memory might have faded a little over the years. Even if it had, he figured they would sooner or later find someone who could head them in the right direction. If that failed, he was confident that they could simply ride due north until they hit the old Oregon Trail and then follow it west. Boone had told him in his letter that the trail west crossed the Snake River at Three Island Crossing. And once he reached that point, someone should be able to tell him how to get to Silver City. So they continued on across a rugged stretch of Texas plains, pushing the horses from one nearly dried-up river to the next. It was on the fourth day after leaving the Brazos that they encountered the first real trouble.

“If I had to guess,” Riley commented when they struck the first sizable river they had seen for a long while, “I'd bet this is the Canadian.”

“Maybe so,” Joel replied, not really caring what river it was. “It's the first river we've seen in a spell that ain't so dried-up you could spit across it.” Even so, it was obvious that this river was suffering the same dry summer as the smaller ones they had crossed, for the water was drawn away from the banks a good ten or twelve feet. “There's still a good three hours of daylight left, but I'm for campin' here for the night. The horses can use the rest, and I wouldn't mind peeling these clothes off and takin' a bath.”

“That sounds good to me,” Riley said. So they picked a spot in the shade of a group of cottonwoods on the bank, pulled the saddles off their horses, and unloaded the packhorses. Once that was done, both men jumped in the river, clothes and all, figuring the uniforms needed washing as well.

After the long ride over the last few days, it was tempting to horse around in the cold water in an effort to keep warm, even for a usually somber man like Joel. Before long a water battle began, with Riley starting the duel, splashing Joel with his hand. In response, Joel fired back with a double-handed blast. Like two schoolboys, they churned up the river water as they battled to drown each other, until Joel became aware that Riley was no longer fighting back. Instead, the grizzled old sergeant was staring at the opposite bank, his face drained of the youthful grin of moments before. Joel turned to see what had captured Riley's eye.

“Where the hell did they come from?” Riley muttered.

Sitting their horses, a line of twelve Comanche warriors stared in silent fascination at the strange actions of the two white men. Startled, Joel could only stare back at them while he speculated on the possibility of retreating. He could only guess at the amount of time it would take to get to his rifle back on the bank before the Indians decided to shoot. He didn't care much for the odds. At least they were on the other side of the river. In the brief seconds he had to size the situation up, he could see that there appeared to be but a few rifles among them. That helped, but there was still the possibility of getting shot full of Comanche arrows. Still the warriors made no move to attack, seeming instead to bide their time, observing the bizarre behavior of the white men. Finally Joel whispered to Riley. “What's the Comanche sign for
friend
?”

“Damned if I know,” Riley murmured in reply.

“I thought you knew something about Indians.”

“I never told you that,” Riley shot back.

“Well, just hold your hands up,” Joel said, “and start backing outta here real slow-like.” He then held up his right hand and waved it slowly back and forth in front of his face, as if making a solemn signal. The gesture caused the Indians to exchange puzzled expressions before returning their stony gaze to the two white men, now stepping carefully back from the knee-deep water. The obvious retreat caused no outward concern to the warriors. They continued to sit patiently on their ponies while Joel and Riley left the water and backed up the bank to reach their weapons.

Having regained some measure of confidence now that he held his Spencer carbine in his hand, Riley wondered aloud.

“Whaddaya s'pose they're waitin' for? Why don't they move?”

His question was answered in the next moment when they heard one of their horses nicker. Reluctant to take his eyes off the menacing line of warriors still sitting silently across the river, he looked quickly back toward the horses.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered softly when he saw an equal number of Comanche warriors slowly walking their ponies through the line of cottonwoods behind them. “Whadda we do now?”

“There ain't a helluva lot we
can
do,” Joel replied. “Just don't act like you're scared.”

He picked up his carbine and cradled it across his arms, then turned and walked boldly toward the line of Indians in the trees. In the center of the line, his face a chiseled mask of open contempt for the two white men, a magnificent specimen of Comanche manhood watched Joel with curiosity, content with the obvious advantage he held. Joel naturally presumed him to be the leader.

“Do you talk white man?” Joel asked.

The Comanche responded with a questioning look before calling to another member of his party in his native tongue, “Black Otter!”

A younger man came up beside the one Joel had addressed. “I talk white man,” he said. “My name is Black Otter.” Before he could say more, the fierce-looking Indian spoke again. His tone was sharp and agitated. When he had finished, Black Otter translated. “He is Little Hawk. He asks what you are doing in Comanche country, and why we should waste time talking to you.”