Chapter 14

1867: the border

Mid-afternoon, three days following our encounter with the cavalry patrol from Fort Stockton, Private Clay Pipe and I were on point for the water detail, with two more advance scouts about a half mile behind us, and the water wagon a half mile behind them, with the remaining eleven scouts dispersed around it. We were each on opposites sides of the wagon track, advancing under cover, which was becoming steadily more difficult as vegetation continued to diminish in both distribution and size. Countering that decrease was the increasingly broken nature of the land, with shallow arroyos, deep ravines, low hillocks, and rugged uplands becoming more frequent.

I was climbing out of an arroyo when I heard the call of a meadowlark, though somewhat fuller and less sharp of tone. Clay Pipe had been trying to teach me, but I never had been much of a whistler. I recognized his version of that songbird’s call.

With some caution, I lifted my head up over the edge of the arroyo. Another meadowlark call allowed me to locate Clay Pipe, crouching in a clump of tall grass just across the trail, looking around for me. And now having raised my head above the arroyo’s edge, I knew why he had broken cover. The sound of distant gunfire was borne on the westerly breeze.

My climbing out and standing in view allowed him to catch sight of me and he pointed off to the west and then pointed to his ear. I nodded, gave him the “I understand” sign, a circle of thumb and forefinger, then waved him toward me. When he reached me, we both stepped into the shelter of the arroyo.

‘Sounds like that shooting is coming from where we’re headed,” I said. We were a mile or two from Peña Colorado Creek.

“No other place around here for it to be,” he said.

“Reckon the cavalry’s in trouble?”

“No one else around to be in trouble.”

“Okay. I’ll go forward for a look-see. You go back to the wagon and bring everybody, even the drovers. No point in leaving them alone with the wagon. Bring firearms, plenty of reloads, and canteens. And bring my Whitworth and its cartridge bag.” I was carrying a muzzle-loading Springfield carbine, its shorter length more suitable to stealth while scouting.

He said, “I’ll bring your bow and quiver, too.”

“Good idea. Can you think of anything else?”

He shook his head.

“Go get ‘em then.” We both climbed out of the gully and went our separate ways.

The land had developed a slight down-slope in our intended direction of travel, I imagined it was due to drainage toward the creek, the only flowing water for dozens of miles. The vegetation was some heavier and I was able to move in cover, as long as I stayed away from the trail which had more open aspects. My direction of movement was toward a hillock to the north; I suspected the elevation would provide a view of the area.

The gunfire had become sporadic, with sudden bursts of shots that I recognized as coming from Spencer carbines, with the occasional discharge from other weapons that had the deeper boom of larger-bore muzzle-loading long guns.

I moved partway around the base of the hill, toward the north, to keep more of the rising ground between me and whatever was ahead. Reaching what I thought was opposite the scene of action, I began to climb what I estimated to be a hundred foot rise. It presented a steep but not difficult angle, though I wished I’d had my moccasins rather than my brogans. However, to wear them on the march would wear them out faster. The Army supplied brogans bur I had to buy or make my own moccasins. three pair of moccasins. I had tried walking barefoot after we left Camp Smith, until I encountered my first cholla spine. That plant is a nasty piece of work. I added it to m list of puzzling creations, right after horseflies and mosquitoes.

Just before I reached the top of the hill, I dropped to my belly and advanced the last yards at a crawl. I moved forward, careful to not disturb the brush and thus give my movement away. Fortunately, there was little brush to disturb.

Abruptly, I came to a sharp drop-off. Tucking my floppy hat into my belt behind my back, I moved slowly forward until I could get a full view.

Below me, the creek bed curved into the hill I was on, leaving a sheer face of red rock dropping straight to the creek, about eighty feet below. To the north the creek bed was dry, but below me, at the base of the cliff, there must have been a substantial spring, as the water replenished the creek and flowed off to the southwest.

The cavalry contingent had camped within the curve of the creek and they had built a corral downstream, where the inward curve straightened. Further off, across from my position, the land rose again to perhaps thirty or forty feet above the creek.

It was from that higher ground that the Indians were firing down at the troopers. The cavalrymen were sheltered within the higher banks of the creek, but would be exposed if they rose from their positions. Their backs were to the creek and the cliff behind it, the cliff from which I was looking down at them. I wondered why the Indians hadn’t occupied this position.

I could see what looked to be three dead bodies among the troopers, and several more men that appeared to have wounds. It appeared one of the dead was an officer, another a sergeant.

Just then, a group of a dozen Indians came riding full tilt around the north end of their hill, screaming and yelling, then firing mostly arrows at the troopers, while Indians atop the hill fired rifles down at the camp.

The trooper’s return fire seemed restrained, and it occurred to me they might be low on ammunition. But the repeaters were enough to drive back the riders, with two of them falling from their horses to lie in place, and another slumped over his horse’s neck as they retreated. One of the horses had screamed and run off with its rider clinging to its neck.

The firing fell off and I heard a meadowlark call from behind me. I had made no effort to hide my tracks so that Clay Pipe could find me. I gave him my sad attempt at a response and he and Reeds crawled up next to me. I scooted back, away from the top edge.

Reeds said, “Where are you hit?”

“What? I’m not hit.”

Clay Pipe said Reeds, “That’s the best meadowlark he’s been able to do.”

“Assholes,” I muttered.

Reeds said, “Is it the cavalry? What’s the story?”

“This hill drops off in a cliff down to the creek, which curves into it, maybe eighty feet below.” I was drawing in the sand. “The Indians are across from us on a lower hill, a few dozen feet above the cavalry. They seem to be mostly fighting with bows, though they have some rifles on the hill. A few minutes ago, about a dozen of them on horseback charged the cavalry but were driven off. What I can’t figure is why the Indians aren’t up here.”

Reeds said, “Have you ever tried firing straight down with an arrow?”

I thought for a moment and realized, just like shooting a rifle toward a much higher or much lower target, it requires a completely different application of shooting skills and would need to be practiced. I tried o imagine how I might hold the bow and wasn’t satisfied with anything. Finally, I shook my head.

Clay Pipe shrugged and said, “Let’s take a look.”

They stowed their hats and we all crawled forward.

Just then, the Indians mounted another charge, which was again driven off.

Reeds observed, “If they were up here and the cavalry broke out, then the Comanche would be trapped with the cliff behind them.”

“You figure they’re Comanche?”

Clay Pipe said, “Comanche paint symbols on heir horses. They especially like hand prints. You won’t see that very often on Apache horses.”

Reeds explained, “And there’s another reason they don’t want to be up here. Look over south of that hill, in that arroyo that empties into the creek.”

It took me a few seconds, but then I spotted better than a dozen Comanche in the arroyo, across the creek from the corral.

Reeds said, “They’re after the horses. Those mounted forays are feints to draw attention the other direction.” He handed me the Whitworth rifle. “See that Comanche on top the hill, the one waving the blanket? He’s coordinating their movements. Shoot him. I’ll get the rest of the scouts spread along the this edge to target the riflemen on top the hill and the group trying for the horses. The cavalry can be left to handle the mounted warriors.”

“I figure we have about a minute before they charge again, if they’re sticking to a pattern.”

Clay Pipe said, “We’re all loaded; it only awaits the cap.”

“Remind them they’re shooting downhill and their rifle sights aren’t set for that. They’ll have to make their best estimate, keeping in mind that the ball will fall just as fast, but the ground is dropping, too.” Aiming in a normal manner would result in the ball going high.

Including the drovers, there were twenty-one of us spread along the top of that cliff. The Comanche raiders were likely about forty or fifty men. With the thirty or so able cavalrymen below, we were closely matched in numbers. The Comanche had the advantage of mobility, we now had the advantage of the high ground.

Then we began to take fire on our right flank. Apparently the Comanche had decided to occupy this position, only to find us already in place.

I said to Clay Pipe, “Go over there and you and four others put an angle in our flank.” I added, “I expect they’re delaying their next charge until this group is in place, but that part’s not your worry, anymore. Just hold the flank. It’s prob’ly only a small party that’s come up here. Go.”

I went back to the Whitworth. I estimated the distance to my target on a level line at four hundred thirty yards. I estimated a drop of forty feet. I put the aiming scope on the target, slid right two ticks for the wind, then added ten ticks for distance and took back two for slope, then changed it to three. The blanket-waver must have figured the shooting up here were his flankers firing at the cavalry troopers, because he stood up and began to wave the blanket. I let him get four good waves in, then I fired.