Chapter 4: 1872: Fort Davis, Texas

Even a mule’s gentle trot gets bone-jarringly wearisome after a few hours. By mid-afternoon of the first day, our walking breaks to rest the stock became a welcome relief for us riders, too. Lieutenant Calvert suffered the worst, because a trotting horse demands more active response from the rider, unless the rider just wants his brains scrambled and spine collapsed, so he especially appreciated the dismounted walks and periodic water breaks.

We had two strings of four pack mules, mostly loaded with beans, rice, hardtack, jerky, sugar, flour, bacon, and coffee with six hundred pounds of rolled oats for the horses. We took turns leading the mules, switching off every couple hours; even the Lieutenant joined the rotation. The packs also held two crates of cartridges for the Springfield Model 1868 trapdoor breach loader carbines with which the Sixth Cavalry was equipped.

Micah, Jordie, and I were armed with the carbine length, single shot, Model 1866 Springfield trapdoor conversions that were provided to colored cavalry regiments. The available ammunition for the Smith carbines, with which we’d been temporarily equipped, had been exhausted. Colored infantry regiments were once again armed with the muzzle-loading Model 1866 Springfield. But the War Department wanted just one weapon throughout the Army, so there was a gradual conversion to the Model 1869 going on, to eventually include colored units.

Jordie and I both carried percussion cap Army Colts, while Micah and I had brought bows and a dozen arrows each. We wore our bedrolls over our left shoulder and across our chest, with the strap of the carbine over the right shoulder and the carbine itself across our backs, the standard Army gear load. There was a trick to tucking the ends of the bedroll under the carbine to keep the rifle from bouncing on your back. We wore a cartridge box on a belt at our waist. The three of us wore our uniforms, but our buckskins were in our bedrolls.

It was the Lieutenant’s horse that more or less dictated our our travel; horses had to be rested more often than mules. Even so, we likely made sixty miles before we set up a cold camp at which to rest our saddle-weary bodies.

We were in the saddle before sunrise the next morning and by mid afternoon we reached Company B’s camp, at a location known as Manzanita Spring. They were bivouacked at a fair-sized pond on relatively open ground at the mouth of a canyon.

Captain Eggers expressed his pleasure to Lieutenant Calvert for his prompt return, telling him he expected it would be another two days. The Lieutenant, looking pleased, turned to introduced us and told Eggers that Micah was familiar with the Guadalupes.

“Excellent, excellent,” Captain Eggers said in greeting, shaking each of our hands. “Stand at ease men, stand at ease. Find yourselves a spot to bed down. You men look done-in. If you want to wash up, we’re using that spot over there where the creek runs out of the pond.” He pointed to a spot where some men were washing their uniform blouses.

Calvert asked, “Any word on the scouts, sir?”

Eggers sighed and slowly shook his head. “No, Mister Calvert, nothing.”

I said, “Where were they last seen, sir? We’ll follow from there.”

“Not today. I’m not holding out much hope.” He shook his head again and looked down. “Not much hope at all.” Then he looked at me. “Tomorrow morning you can get to work, First Sergeant. But the first order of business will be relocating this camp. That pond water is getting saltier by the day and is near undrinkable now. You know of better water, Corporal?” This last was addressed to Micah.

Micah looked puzzled. “Salty, Cap’n? Mind if I taste it?”

“Oh. Well, go ahead, corporal.”

I said, “Reckon we’ll check it too, with your permission, sir.”

“Suit yourselves, but some of the horses are already getting fussy about it.”

The three of us came to attention then walked off in near quick-step toward the pond.

We knelt at the shore and rinsed the dirt and sweat from our hands, then moved closer to the spring-head, where we knelt again and sipped the water from our cupped hands. Each of us knelt back on our heels.

“Definitely salty,” Jordie said.

“Not too much for mules,” I observed.

Micah said, “This ought ‘a be sweet. It was always sweet.” he looked off toward the burbling spring-head, apparently lost in thought.

I said, “Let’s go check with the Captain, see what else is goin’ on.”

We walked back toward Captain Eggers and Lieutenant Calvert. Another lieutenant had joined them, along with a couple sergeants.

Just before we reached them, Micah muttered, “Maybe...”

We came to attention and Captain Eggers said, “At ease, men. Salty, right?”

Micah asked, “Was it sweet when you got here, Cap’n?”

“It was fresh as one might expect of a desert pond, the bare taste of alkali, but no hint of salt. We’ve been careful with it, like I said. We bathe only by the outflow and the horses are watered below, from that runnel. No one’s allowed to go into it elsewhere.”

Micah nodded. “Sir, this spring flow has another spring higher up this canyon.”

“What do you mean, Corporal?”

“There’s a, uh, higher spring,” Micah pointed up the canyon, “then that water flows back into the mountain, and it comes out here.” He pointed to the rock wall where the spring emerged.

“You’re saying that this same water comes to the surface further up this canyon, then flows back underground, and that flow ends up at this spring?”

“Jes’ so, Cap’n.”

The Captain looked puzzled. “You think we should move camp up there?”

“No, Cap’n, that ain’t what I mean. Besides, that spring water only shows for a few feet, and it’s down between the rocks, kinda hard to get to. What I mean, Cap’n, is that maybe the Comanche are saltin’ the water up at the first spring.”

The other lieutenant was skeptical. “That would require bushels of salt. Where would they get that much salt, Corporal?”

“Sir, there’s salt flats about ten miles southwest a’ here.”

Eggers said, “You’re saying that Iron Skin’s having his braves collect salt to sour this pool?”

I said, “It would sure explain why a sweet spring’s turned salty, Captain.”

Eggers looked uncertainly at the pond.

Jordie suggested, “Maybe he needs ya’ll away from this canyon, Captain.”

Eggers looked over toward the canyon mouth.

The other lieutenant as much as sneered at Jordie, “And just why would that be, Sergeant?”

Micah answered, “Because you’re blockin’ his escape, sir.”

The lieutenant said, “We didn’t track him to this canyon. The tracks led to the next canyon over, about two miles south. We keep a platoon on guard there.”

Micah said, “Cap’n, he may need water, but he don’t need this water, else he wouldn’t be saltin’ it. There’s other good springs at the base of the mountains south an’ west a’ here.” Then he looked over at the other lieutenant. “An beggin’ the Lieutenant’s pardon, sir, but if the tracks led up another canyon, then that ain’t where he is.”

“He laid a false trail?” Calvert questioned.

No one said anything for a moment.

“That was some false trail,” the other lieutenant said. “Our scouts followed it up that canyon. Are you sayin’ it fooled our scouts, Corporal?”

Eggers said, “I ordered them up that Canyon, if you’ll recall, Mister Foster.”

Lieutenant Foster argued, “If Iron Skin isn’t up that canyon, then what happened to our scouts, Captain?”

Lieutenant Calvert said, “Iron Skin took them to preserve his false trail, Hector.” Foster returned a disdainful look.

“Most likely, Lieutenant,” Micah agreed, looking toward Calvert and nodding.

I was beginning to see why Captain Eggers had chosen Lieutenant Calvert for the mission to fetch us and the supplies from Fort Davis. The man was a terrier; he was smart and determined.

Captain Eggers looked thoughtfully up the nearby canyon, stepping away from the group and standing with crossed arms. I was struck by how clean his uniform was, for a soldier on campaign, but then I realized every officer and cavalryman I’d seen, other than Calvert’s trail-soiled garb, was fairly neat and clean. Obviously, the Company’s standards of cleanliness were exceptionally high and they had taken full advantage of the water source.

None of the cavalry officers seemed inclined to interrupt Captain Eggers’ ruminations, so I took the opportunity to turn and quietly asked a nearby sergeant, “How is the guard assignment at the other canyon determined?”

“We switch platoons every second day, First Sergeant.” He extended his hand. “I’m Bill Riordan with First Platoon.”

I shook with him and said, “Judah Becker, Bill. I’m with the Twenty-fourth Infantry Regiment field headquarters at Fort Davis.”

“You chief scout?”

“No, that’s Major Lange. I’m just his herd dog that snaps at everybody’s heels.”

“‘At’s why God created sergeants from the sweat on Adam’s brow.”

I chuckled. “Never heard that one.”

“Sure an’ it means we sergeants got the brains and we know how to use ‘em.” The faint lilt of his Irish ancestry colored his words.

Just then Captain Eggers turned and began speaking as he walked back toward us.

“We need to confirm Iron Skin’s location in--” he looked at Micah, “Do you know if this canyon has a name, Corporal?”

Micah nodded. “I’ve heard it called Smith Canyon, sir, same’s the name for the upper spring.”

“Smith, huh? What about the next canyon south, the one we’re guarding? Has it got a name?”

“Tribes that come through here call it Bear Canyon, Cap’n.”

“Are you familiar with Smith Canyon? Do you know how far it goes, what the ground is like?”

“I been up there, Cap’n, yes.”

“What’s it like, Corporal?”

“Well, Cap’n, it’s broad like this for ‘bout a mile or more, then it closes in, less ‘n half as wide, with steep sides a’ broken rock, good place for a ambush. Then, after another half a mile, jes’ above Smith Spring, it makes a sharp turn to the south an’ opens up even wider than here, an’ where there’s good grass. But it ends there against steep rock slopes and cliffs.”

“But no water?”

“Not ‘bove Smith Spring, Cap’n, but Smith Spring ain’t much more than reachable with a soup ladle, bein’ down in the rocks like it is. It’s too narrow for a bucket but you could put a canteen to fill.”

“How much grass?”

“Not enough to feed fifty Comanche ponies and a few dozen stolen horses for more ‘en a week.”

Foster asked, “Then how are they getting the salt?”

“There’s a track a man can follow an’ climb out, Lieutenant, but not horses. They mus’ be bringin’ salt back in sacks or baskets, maybe in blankets. A man who climbs out a’ Smith Canyon up there, that track leads ‘im down into Bear Canyon, but it’s another climb.”

“Hold on,” Eggers said. “If Iron Skin’s braves are using Bear Canyon to get salt, why haven’t the men on guard seen them?”

“Cap’n, Bear Canyon leads up further to a large open bowl where other canyons come in. A man could go up Bear Canyon to ‘at bowl, then walk out another canyon to get to the salt flats.”

“Sounds like a lot of walking,” Eggers observed.

“Twelve, fifteen miles, all told, an’ the same back, sir,” Micah said.

Foster demanded of Micah, “If Iron Skin’s up this canyon,” he pointed toward the wide mouth of Smith Canyon, “then why haven’t they just busted past us? The canyon’s a half mile wide here. We’d be several minutes at boots and saddles.”

Eggers said, “They can’t run the horses that hard, not if they’re starving and thirsty, and have us chasing them, Mister Foster. Iron Skin and his braves have gone to considerable trouble to collect that herd. He doesn’t want to lose it.”

“Even more, Captain,” I added, “it would say a lot about Iron Skin’s bravado, his ‘medicine,’ if he can pull this off. And it would say the opposite of him if he fails. The men who follow him put a lot of stock in his medicine. If it fails, they’ll abandon him.”

Foster advised, “Sir, we should put the guard platoon at Smith Spring then just camp here and starve them out.”

Eggers looked at us. “What about that idea?”

I said, “The horses will starve, Captain, the Indians won’t. They’ll eat the horses, then they’ll climb out and disappear into the mountains. They might even try to steal your horses.”

“Prob’ly would, sir,” Micah added, nodding. From where we stood, we could see the cavalry horses in a loose herd, grazing in the canyon’s mouth under the watch of mounted pickets. This was late May and the grass, though sparse, was at full growth.

Captain Eggers looked at Jordie, Micah, and me and said, “I believe I said you men should get some rest.”

I said, “Captain, we’re not that done in. We can sleep later. I’d like to offer our thoughts for planning for tomorrow.”

Foster said, “I think we’ve got in hand, Sergeant.”

Eggers replied, “All evidence to the contrary, Mister Foster. These men have been here less than an hour and they’ve already brought our attention to different concerns. Besides, the reason we asked for their assistance is because they’re the ones that know Indian fighting best. We’re in this pickle because I made the wrong decisions that may have lost us our scouts. I won’t be so cavalier in the future.” He turned from Foster and said to us, “If you think you’re up to it, then it would be greatly appreciated, First Sergeant. But let’s go over to my tent where we have a map table.”

Eggers led off, with Calvert and Foster by his side; the noncoms followed. Bill Riordan sidled over next to me and he said, sotto voce, “But it was Lieutenant Foster that pressed the idea of sending the scouts up Bear Canyon. Aye, it was the Captain’s decision, but it weren’t his idea.”

An hour later the plan was formed.

Jordie, Micah and I would slip up Bear Canyon the following night. Our goal was to climb from Bear Canyon and get in position above the box end of Smith Canyon. Then with the help of some small “grenades” and some gunfire, we’d try to stampede the Comanche’s horses down the canyon.

The cavalry troopers would divert the horses to the water then one platoon would advance up Smith Canyon while the other platoon would scale the divide from Bear Canyon in an attempt to corral Iron Skin and his men.

There were a couple problems we’d have to deal with.

It would be May twenty-fifth, just three days past the full moon. It wouldn’t rise until about three hours after sunset, so we planned to go in as soon as it was full dark. On the other hand, after the moon had fully risen, its light would aid the cavalry troopers in their missions later that night, but it would reveal us if we were not in position and still moving about.

The other concern was the Comanche we believed must be ferrying the salt. We had no idea of their comings and goings. We’d have to be on the alert for them as well as any lookouts that the raiders may have posted in Ber Canyon or on the trail over the canyon rim.

It took us half the morning just to come up with three jars with tight-fitting lids from which to manufacture grenades. We spent the afternoon opening carbine cartridges to collect enough powder to half-fill the small jars, which were from various products troopers had purchased: mustache wax, shaving soap, and even a jar of our favorite skin salve for new or infrequent horse rides.

We covered the powder with some paper, then poured a layer of paraffin over that, to keep the powder together: we’d melted the paraffin from the coating on the cartridge crates we’d brought. We poked a hole in the center of the paraffin seal, then poked a corresponding hole in the lid. We inserted a fuse, made from a strip of cotton cloth coated with gunpowder-infused paraffin, through the hole and into the powder. We packed the remaining space in the jar with small stones, right up to the rim. The end of the fuse was pushed through the hole in the cap exposing the end, then the cap was screwed on.

We wanted the grenades to explode in the air, above the horses, so we timed the fuses until we knew we had a three-count when the spark went through the lid.

After supper, Micah and I darkened our skin with soot. He then added some yellow bands across his face, using a powdered clay which he dampened with water. He offered me the pouch of clay dust and I asked Jordie to inscribe a three-stripe sergeant’s chevron on my left cheek; he even managed the first sergeant’s diamond. He had to use a twig to make the lines narrow, in keeping with a recent revision in army non-commissioned officers’ insignia, which had made shoulder insignia smaller.

Then he asked me to draw a broken chain across his forehead, and I made a fair job of it, if Micah’s nod of approval was any indication. I was reminded of Uncle Sammie -- he had died in December of eighteen seventy at the age of seventy-five -- who had explained that the ritual of face painting served to help a warrior to be calmed and to concentrate on the upcoming mission. It did seem to have that effect. Conscious of the badge on my face, I looked forward to executing its purpose.

Dressed fully in buckskins, we set out on foot an hour after sunset. Micah and I both had our bows and, besides a grenade and matches, each of us carried a hatchet, and two revolvers, some of them borrowed from troopers, one pistol for scaring the horses, the other for fighting. We each also carried a coil of rope over our right shoulders and across to our waists.