Crossed Arrows 3 Page 6

  Jesse shrugged. “He’s prob’ly lived along the border his whole life. That’s nothing unusual.”

  “Let’s turn our attention back to the maps,” Patterson suggested. “There are three more towns that Sergeant Buford thinks will be hit next.”

  “Right,” Jesse said. “I’m dang sure them son of a bitches is gonna raid Tobeyville, Rawlings and Sumter Landing. All of ’em are on the river. That’s make ’em easy pickings for the bandidos.”

  “Right,” Hawkins remarked. “I have my lieutenant and six men with me. Along with Sergeant Buford here we’ll number nine guns. Right now I’m gonna concentrate on how to begin this mission. I gotta tell you I’m not sure where to start.”

  “I got an idea,” Jesse said. “We’d prob’ly best go to the town that was raided first. That’d be Rosario ‘bout twenty miles from here.”

  “Okay, we’ll head over there,” Hawkins said. “We’ll get our bearings, then begin doing what we gotta do.” He offered his hand to Captain Patterson. “Nice meeting you.”

  “I wish my two companies could lend a hand,” Patterson said. “But we’re infantry. We have to walk wherever we go. We only have three horses at Fort Duncan. Two are for officers and the third is used by the dispatch rider.”

  Ludlow Dooley remarked, “It looks like we’re going to be pretty much by ourselves along this river.”

  Sergeant Jesse Buford chuckled. “You can count on that, young feller. A man never feels more lonely than when he’s out-numbered, out-gunned and a long way from home.”

  “By the way,” Patterson said. “I have been ordered to emphasize that you will not, under any circumstances, cross the Rio Grande and enter the Mexican Republic. It is strictly forbidden.”

  “Thanks for letting me know,” Hawkins replied in a disinterested tone.

  They walked out on the street and Buford got his horse at the hitching rack in front of the sheriff’s office. Then he, Hawkins, and Ludlow went back to the depot where Sergeant Eagle Heart was waiting. The noncommissioned officer had all the scouts ready to mount up and ride. Hawkins turned to the detachment.

  “We have a twenty mile trip ahead of us. I want you all to mind your fields of fire in the column. I wish I could tell you who we’re fighting, but all the information we have is sketchy.” He turned to Eagle Heart. “Take over, Sergeant.”

  Eagle Heart saluted. “Prepare to mount, mount! In a single column, forward at a walk, march!”

  ~*~

  Captain Mack Hawkins decided to halt for the night after a couple of hours of travel. He didn’t want to arrive at the town of Rosario after sunset. It was a sure thing there would be some itchy trigger fingers among the community after being raided.

  As soon as everyone settled in, Michael Strongbow and Charlie Wolf were assigned to a guard post within some brush on the north bank of the Rio Grande. The pair were good friends having been students at the agency school together. It had become a regular practice among their classmates to change their names to be more like those of whites. They weren’t ashamed of their heritage, it just made it easier to get along when dealing with reservation agents and army officers.

  Charlie’s name had been Big Wolf, the same as his grandfather’s, who was once a respected warrior in the old days. The young man always liked the name “Charlie,” so he chose it, keeping “Wolf” as a surname for the same reason Michael retained “Strongbow.”

  During the recruitment visit at the agency when Hawkins and Ludlow had chosen Michael for the detachment, Charlie had been away stalking antelope. It was something he enjoyed most and he was among the best of both Kiowa and Comanche hunters. He always took an extra horse or two to bring back his kills. As was typical with Indians, he shared the meat with both tribes at the agency.

  Fortunately, he was at home when the latest recruiting effort to replace Corporal Running Cougar was made. The corporal had been killed in an attack by Apaches in the Arizona Territory. Charlie was chosen for the job after a routine interview by Captain Hawkins and Lieutenant Dooley. It was quiet an honor for Charlie as a Comanche, since he was taking the place of a fellow tribesman who died in battle.

  Now, concealed behind a stand of blue sage, the two young Indian men gazed across the waterway of the Rio Grande into Mexico. They were eager for whatever adventures lay ahead for them along this international border.

  Ten

  The scout detachment column, headed by Captain Mack Hawkins, Lieutenant Ludlow Dooley and Sergeant Jesse Buford came to a halt on a rise in the Texas terrain. They looked downward, scrutinizing the town of Rosario, Texas.

  Hawkins chuckled. “It doesn’t seem like a place that’d attract bandits, does it?”

  Ludlow stood up in his stirrups for a better look. “One must admit the sight of the place doesn’t give an impression of opulence.”

  The community was a hodgepodge of rudimentary structures scattered hither and thither in an asymmetrical manner. It was obvious the inhabitants had simply looked for a convenient spot to establish their dwellings without bothering about establishing orderly neighborhoods. But they did allow enough space between the structures so as not to impose on the privacy of their fellow citizens.

  The only harmonized arrangement of buildings faced the Rio Grande to the south. This consisted of a blacksmith shop, general store, saloon and a combination barbershop and Overland Stage Depot.

  Sergeant Jesse Buford of the Texas Rangers noted that a few shabby people were on the boardwalk that ran across the length of the buildings. “I got to agree with you, Mack. There’d be slim pickings for bandidos in that town.”

  “Well, this place was raided,” Hawkins remarked. “So let’s go down there and find out what we can.”

  When the column rode into the business district—such as it was—the sight of the strangers did not please the townspeople. The three white men didn’t concern them, but the six scouts certainly did. The town and outlying farmers had been raided by Kiowas and Comanches in past decades, and more than twenty years of peace had not given the locals warm fuzzy feelings toward Indians. The fact the scouts wore army uniforms did not allay their uneasiness.

  Hawkins called a halt in front of a building with a weathered sign that read GENERAL STORE. A man in shirt sleeves, wearing a grocer’s apron, stood out on the boardwalk. The captain spoke to him. “You must be the proprietor, sir.”

  “That I am,” the man replied with a frown. “What’s with those Injuns?”

  Ludlow Dooley spoke up as he always did when someone ignorant of the scout’s status asked about them. “They’re enlisted soldiers in the Army. A scout detachment.”

  The man’s frown did not abate. “I see they’re Kiowas and Comanches. We’ve had a lot of trouble with ’em in the past.”

  Ludlow replied, “Not with these particular scouts. Most of them weren’t even born when all that was going on.”

  A dozen men and women had gathered off to the side, glaring at the Indians. Hawkins, who didn’t give a damn what they thought of the detachment, asked, “Have you got a mayor around here?”

  The shopkeeper shook his head. “Nope. I’m the closest thing to a government. I serve as the postmaster.”

  “We’ve been sent here to Texas to deal with bandits out of Mexico,” Hawkins explained. “Since this is a town that was raided we figured we’d start the job here.”

  The postmaster’s frown turned into a smile. “Am I glad to see you! And the other folks around here will feel the same way.”

  Now the small crowd was in a much better mood.

  The postmaster asked, “Why don’t you come into the store for a chat? There’s a couple of other fellers that could prob’ly give you some information.” He stepped down from the boardwalk and offered his hand. “My name’s Hank Claymore.”

  Hawkins turned to Eagle Heart. “Sergeant, take the detachment down to the riverbank. We’ll rejoin you as soon as we can.”

  Ludlow and Jesse dismounted with Hawkins, and the trio followed Claymore int
o the store. Two men sat around a cracker barrel, sipping coffee. They looked up at the visitors. The proprietor indicated them, saying, “This feller here is Dick Morris who manages the stage station for the Overland Line. When he ain’t doing that he barbers.”

  Hawkins asked, “How many times do the stagecoaches pass through here?”

  “Perty reg’lar,” Morris replied. “Once ever’ week. The next’un’s due in tomorrow. I’m glad to see the Army has arrived.” He gazed at Jesse. “You got the look of a Texas ranger, mister.”

  “That’s what I am,” Jesse replied. “Sergeant Jesse Buford.”

  Claymore continued the introductions. “And that smug looking jasper there is Jack Turner.”

  Turner smiled a welcome. “I’m a jack-of-all-trades and master of none.”

  “But he’s one hell of a good shot,” Morris said. “He does most of the hunting around here. That’s how we get our meat.”

  “Glad to know you,” Hawkins said. “I’m Cap’n Hawkins and this is Lieutenant Dooley.”

  Claymore spoke to his two pals. “They got Injun soljers with ’em. In uniforms and ever’thing.”

  “What kinda Injuns?” Turner asked.

  Ludlow answered, “Kiowas and Comanches.”

  “A bunch of murdering bastards!”

  “Oh, hell no, Jack,” Claymore said. “That was a long time ago.”

  Ludlow intoned, “They’re legally enlisted soldiers in the United States Army.”

  Turner’s eyebrows raised. “Now ain’t that some shit!”

  Hawkins was growing weary of all the talk, and turned to Claymore who seemed to be a leader of sorts. “Tell me about the attack.”

  “It was strange, as a matter of fact. They stayed hid in the brush on this side of the river and fired some shots at us. We fired back, but two of our folks was hit. One died.”

  Ludlow was puzzled. “Was that all?”

  “That was bad enough,” Claymore remarked.

  “Don’t misunderstand me, sir,” Ludlow said. “I offer my condolences for the loss of life. What I mean is; didn’t the bandits charge into town?”

  Claymore shook his head. “Nope. After about fifteen or twenty minutes they stopped shooting. We waited a spell, then when we went to where they was, they wasn’t. The water ain’t but three foot deep, so it was easy for ’em to ride back into Mexico.”

  Ludlow glanced at Hawkins. “We should go down there and take a look around.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Claymore led Hawkins, Ludlow and Jesse out of the store and across the open space to the river bank where the scouts were now watering their horses.

  Claymore pointed to a spot. “That’s where they was taking cover. We couldn’t see shit while they was shooting at us.”

  Ludlow walked over to the spot and looked around. He bent down and picked up a few items laying on the ground, then returned to Hawkins. “Take a look at these, sir.”

  “What do you have there, Mr. Dooley?”

  “Shell casings, sir. All indicated as eight-millimeter.”

  Hawkins took one. “Rifle or carbine cartridges, no doubt about that.”

  “I agree, sir. At West Point during international arms and ammunition study we learned that eight-millimeter was a common caliber in several European armies.”

  Jesse Buford picked one out of Ludlow’s hand. “Now where the cotton-picking world are bandidos gonna get European military rifles?” He looked at the lieutenant. “Are these the only kind of brass you found?”

  “That’s all there was.”

  Hawkins pondered the situation for a moment. “Let’s see now. Mexican bandits attack a town. But they only fire a few rounds at it, then withdraw. All their long arms are eight-millimeter and prob’ly European.”

  “It is confusing,” Jesse agreed. “I never knowed of a bandido gang where all them son of a bitches had the same kind of guns. They have to take what they can steal. I find it hard to believe that they could get a whole shitpot full of the same kind of rifles or carbines.”

  “Let’s do some more checking,” Hawkins said. He called over to Sergeant Eagle Heart. “Send a coupla scouts to the other side of the river to look for tracks coming and going out of the water.”

  Eagle Heart detailed Michael Strongbow and Charlie Wolf for the job.

  Now Ludlow Dooley had something else on his mind. He reached into his jacket pocket and walked over to Hank Claymore, pulling out a letter he had written to Beth Spencer. “I’d like to post this.”

  Claymore took it, glancing at the envelope. “It’s got a United States postage stamp on it, so I can send it along tomorrow with the rest of the mail.”

  A half hour later the two youngest scouts galloped back from the Mexican side of the river. Michael Strongbow jumped down from his horse and saluted Captain Hawkins. “Sir, evidently it don’t rain much around here. The trail is easy to see. Me and Charlie figger there was prob’ly ten or so riders all told. They came up from the south and headed back in the same direction.”

  “We’ll have to cross the border to find their hideout, sir,” Ludlow said. “That’s the only way we’re going to stop these raids.”

  Hawkins eyes opened wide. “Why, Mr. Dooley! You’re suggesting we do something that we’ve been officially ordered not to do.”

  Ludlow shrugged. “I figured that’d be part of your plan anyway.”

  Hawkins glanced at Jesse Buford. “You Texas rangers don’t worry about crossing into Mexico, do you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good! I’ll let you know when the time is right.”

  The usually brisk winds off the prairie at Fort Lone Wolf, Indian Territory had subsided to gentle breezes that wafted lightly through the garrison. Mrs. Major Francine Berringer and her niece Elizabeth Spencer sat on the front porch of the commanding officer’s quarters, enjoying the unusually refreshing weather.

  The Mrs. Major glanced languidly at the young woman. “Who is your caller for this evening, Beth? I believe it must be Mr. Whitmore’s turn.”

  “I have refused all visitations for awhile,” Beth answered.

  “Oh, dear! You have four very eligible and acceptable suitors seeking your hand in marriage. It’s very important for you to allow them to call on you until you choose the one you like best.”

  Beth frowned. “They are not suitors, Aunt Francine. And I have no interest in any of them becoming my husband.”

  The Mrs. Major’s face took on a decidedly stern expression. “I do hope your fondness for Mr. Dooley has diminished.”

  “I don’t care to discuss Mr. Dooley,” Beth said. “He is a very charming gentleman, and I find that I like his company.”

  The Mrs. Major started to reply, but the appearance of a soldier coming through the gate of the fence interrupted her. She recognized him as the battalion clerk in headquarters. “What can I do for you, soldier?”

  “I have a letter for Miss Spencer,” the clerk explained. “It arrived with the mail delivery from Fort Sill.” He handed it to the younger woman and made a slight bow before leaving the porch.

  “Oh!” Beth happily exclaimed. “It’s from Mr. Dooley!” She stood up. “Excuse me, please, Aunt Francine. I’m going up to my room.”

  Beth went into the house and ascended the stairs, going down the short hallway while impatiently tearing the envelope open. She sat down on her bed, noticing that Ludlow Dooley’s handwriting was neat and readable. The young man, being from the highest of New York society and thoroughly brought up in Victorian manners, had written in the style of his social class.

  My dear Miss Spencer:

  I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. Please excuse the pencil but there is a dearth of ink here in the wilds of the Texas Frontier.

  I am well and quite engrossed in our deployment under the command of Captain Hawkins. There have been incursions into the United States by Mexican bandits. They are the worst sort of scoundrels, showing no mercy toward their inoffensive and virtually he
lpless victims. We, of course, are determined to put an end to their reprehensible depredations against American citizens.

  The country here is bleak and empty except for that which is in the proximity of the Rio Grande River. This large waterway separates the United States of America from the Mexican Republic. The flora in the vicinity of the river is profuse and verdant, which is picturesque indeed, except that it provides hiding places for the craven villains whom we wish to incarcerate or annihilate. We have visited several villages in the area and find the denizens to be simple and contented in their austere existence. Many, however, speak both English and Spanish with equal ease which gives evidence of at least a smattering of intelligence. Of course they are much agitated about the bandit raids, and we in the scout detachment are determined to end that despondency.

  I have no address here in which you could write to me, but I hope you will indulge me and not be offended if I correspond with you whenever I am able.

  Your obedient servant,

  Ludlow Dooley

  Second Lieutenant of U.S. Scouts

  Beth was ecstatic. “Oh, Ludlow! Write me a thousand letters if you wish!”

  She folded the missive and returned it to the envelope, then crossed the room to place it in her jewelry box for safekeeping.

  Eleven

  The final organizational matter to be taken care of by Comandante Karl Jager and Sub-Comandante Santiago Gomez was to select leading vengadores for each team. The two chosen would serve as noncommissioned officers to establish a more convenient chain of command.

  After discussing the candidates and considering their individual advantages and disadvantages of integrity, leadership and reliability, the choices were made. In Jager’s team Roberto Sulivan was chosen while the selection for Gomez’s team was Jaime Rayan. It was also decided to give these two vengadores the rank of sargento.