Chapter 6: 1872: Fort Davis, Texas

“Why, I thought you’d be seven feet tall, First Sergeant Becker, from the way Jordie has gone on about you.”

“And I can see why Jordie ended up such a woebegone countenance, Miss Tipton, as obviously all the comeliness in the family was bestowed upon you.”

Jordie burst out laughing and slapped his knee. “Oh, I jes’ knew you two would hit it off.”

Grinning, I said, “Please feel free to call me Judah, Miss Tipton.”

“Not ‘Seneca,’ Sergeant Becker?”

“Please yourself, ma’am, I am called by that name by everyone but myself, though I’m happy to answer to it.”

“Then you must call me Janie, Seneca, and I’ll be privileged to call you by your Army nickname.”

“That’s fine Miss Janie.” I turned to Jordie. “Major Lange knows you’re back. He’s invited you and your sister to dinner this evening. We’re to offer Miss Janie accommodations in the visitors quarters.” Jordie and his sister had arrived at Fort Davis late that morning, Saturday, July twentieth. “He said to tell you you were still on leave until the first, so you can help your sister get settled.”

Jordie frowned, “You gonna be at dinner, too?”

“Sure, who else is gonna translate for you? Oh, by the way, it’s full dress.” Both Jordie and I had formal mess jackets, and we even had ‘sergeant’s swords.’

“Anybody else gonna be there?”

“I don’t think so. It’s being served in Captain Lange’s quarters.”

Janie said, “I’ll have to brush my dress out, then. I’ve no doubt it’s all dusty.”

“Then let’s get you settled in a room, Miss Janie, and I’ll have Sergeant Tipton bring you some water for your wash basin.”

Janie Tipton was, like her brother, dark complected, but there the resemblance ended. While Jordie was tall and stocky, Janie was short and willowy, and with finer features than her brother. Still, there was a resemblance in their eyes and smiles in which could be seen the family tie.

That evening Janie presented herself in a colorful flower-print dress that emphasized her slender form. And though feminine, there was an aura of toughness about her that told of surviving harsh experiences.

Major Lange was a gracious host. He’d managed to conjure up a roast chicken and some buttered parsnips for his table, and even a bottle of Mexican wine.

Janie told us of her time after The War, keeping house for her father while he raised tobacco, not as a sharecropper, but on his own forty acres. When his health deteriorated, he rented out the farm and Janie took a job as housekeeper and cook for the family that rented the land, a large landowner whose holdings adjoined their farm. Meanwhile her father performed some limited duties around the new owner’s stables and they were allowed to live in an apartment above the stable.

At her father’s death, Janie decided to sell the farm and seek out her only remaining family. She wrote Jordie that she was headed west.

Janie told them that she still held the major portion of the cash from the farm’s sale, the inheritance for both her and Jordie. With her share, she intended to purchase or build a home in the town adjoining Fort Davis. With the remainder of his leave, Jordie planned to help her begin that effort.

I was summoned to Lieutenant Colonel Shafter’s office the next morning. There I found Major Merriam, Major Lange, as well as Captain Ethan Evans and Lieutenant Malon Creighton of H Troop of the Ninth Cavalry.

Major Merriam said, “Brigade has ordered a platoon of H Troop of the Ninth to reinforce Fort Bliss. Bliss is currently garrisoned by one platoon of the Tenth Cavalry while the main portion of its infantry contingent is engaged with Apache bands in southern New Mexico Territory. We are also to detach one of our infantry scouts and two Indian scouts as all of their scouts are in the field.” He looked at me. “First Sergeant, this will be your mission. Pick two Indian scouts to go along.” Then he addressed Captain Evans. “I take it Lieutenant Creighton will command the platoon?”

“Yes, Major, if that is acceptable.”

Merriam looked at the Lieutenant Colonel and then at Major Lange. Shafter said, “No reason he shouldn’t.” Major Lange nodded in agreement.

“Good, then. Move out after chow tomorrow morning. Take supplies for a week, double ammunition. Bliss supposedly has supplies, but being prepared won’t hurt.”

By trail, Fort Bliss was about two hundred miles northwest of Fort Davis. Unless on a forced march, the cavalry usually limited its daily travel to about thirty-five miles in order to preserve the horses. The first two-thirds of the route was arid desert before we would have access to the Rio Grande. Even then, that would be by means of coulees feeding down into the rio’s deep canyon so that gaining access to the rio would take us off our track. The plan was that, once we reached the river, we would give the animals a day’s rest. In all, we anticipated a week in transit.

We could have followed the San Antonio-El Paso Road, which had periodic stage stations with water wells, but the road looped south and would have added fifty miles.

Of course, Jordie learned of the trip and wanted to go in my place, or at least to accompany me.

I said, “As much as I’d like to let you go in my stead, the Lieutenant Colonel wanted me, specifically, to scout this mission, Jordie. I guess only the best would do.”

“That’s what I mean,” he rejoined. “I can cut my leave. There’s no reason that Fort Bliss should have to settle for you.”

I patted him on the shoulder. “I reckon you’ll just have to console yourself with that conceit, Sergeant Tipton.” Then I put on a thoughtful look. “Or is your sister such poor company that you look for the first opportunity to flee her side? I have noticed that she seems to have you marching to her tune smartly enough.”

“Ha!” he huffed. “You just wait. You’ll soon find how easy it is to be at her beck and call.”

“Oh, no doubt. You just make sure her house is within sight of our front gate.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

I asked Little Wolf and Many Hands, both Pawnee, to accompany me, and they seemed eager for a chance to go on an extended mission, thus avoiding the routines of patrols and guard duty, and with an opportunity to see some new country.

The colimn included the thirty-two cavalry troopers, a sergeant, and Lieutenant Creighton, there were three hostlers who each led a string of four pack mules, along with a cook, and a cook’s helper, who led another string of four pack mules.

Each man packed two days ration of water for himself and his horse with additional water carried in casks on the pack mules. Each trooper carried a personal canteen along with a second, larger canteen, the latter holding the first day’s ration of water for his mount. All told, we packed only three days of water; the afternoon of the fourth day should see us at the rio.

Each day of march, Many Hands, Little Wolf and I were deployed as advance scouts for the platoon while the troopers rotated the duties of flank and rear outriders. On the afternoon of Thursday, the twenty-fifth of July, we reached the head end of Cañon de Roca Roja, (can-YAWHN day ROW-cah ROW-hah) or Redrock Canyon. The canyon was a break in the plateau that gave access to the Rio Grande in its own deep canyon. It was here that we were intending to take the mules down to the rio for water, to refill the empty casks, and to spend the next day to rest the stock.

I was scouting forward right flank when I intercepted a well-worn trail that led in from the northeast. The broken ground in the narrow trail showed the passage of maybe a half dozen unshod horses. I was immediately suspicious.

I followed the track toward the head of Redrock Canyon where I found Many Hands, who was on center point, on one knee beside a pile of horse dung. He was crumbling one of the “horse apples” between his fingers. He looked up as I reined-in my horse.

He dropped the dung and gestured toward the pile of droppings, saying, “This is not right.”

At that point, Little Wolf, who’d been on left advance, came riding up. He looked at Many Hands, then at me. He said, “This is an Apache trail. It should not be here.”

I nodded. “And it shows about a half dozen riders,” I observed, “so there must be more.”

The platoon’s route had intercepted the San Antonio-El Paso Road as it paralleled the Rio Grabde, heading northwest toward El Paso. Fort Bliss was just north of El Paso. At Fort Davis, the San Antonio-El Paso Road intersected the Rio Grande Military Road, which began at Fort Ringgold and ended at Fort Davis. That military road served the outposts of the former Forty-first Infantry Regiment along the Rio Grande.

What gave us pause, as we reached the Redrock Canyon Trail, was that it was the common practice of Apaches to obscure signs of their passage when intersecting known trails. Yet here were not only the tracks of multiple horses, but a pile of dung practically in the middle of the Road we were now following. Many Hands bent toward the dung pile, selected two of the balls, then stood up and brought them to me.

I dismounted and looked at the two dung balls he now held in his palm. He poked one open and separated the fibers, saying, “Gamagrass.” Then he broke apart the other dung ball and pointed to several stems, but he turned to Little Wolf and said something in Pawnee.

Little Wolf replied, “Blue stem grass.”

Many Hands, still pointing to the second sample, said, “Blue stem grass. These would not be mixed together in one pile, or they would be mixed together in one dung ball. An Apache has collected them to place here.”

I nodded. “They want us to see their trail and think that only six men have passed through here.”

Little Wolf said, “They know we will seek water. They have set an ambush in the canyon.”

I said, in speculation, “So they know we are coming and likely know how many of us there are.” They both just looked at me. I said, “I’ll report to the Lieutenant. You two wait here and try to look like you don’t have a care in the world.”

As my horse trotted back toward the column, I considered the possibilities. An Apache lookout likely had watched us discover their trail. But did he know we were skeptical, that we suspected an ambush? Or did it look like we were simply taking note of the trail? I reckoned that, if they thought we’d figured it out, they’d likely withdraw on their own. But if they hadn’t, then how could we take advantage?

By the time I reached the column, I had come up with a possible way to reverse the Apache ambush.

I explained what we had had found to Lieutenant Creighton and to his second in command, Sergeant Omar Weinbacher, a former slave from Mississippi.

With a puzzled crease on his forehead, Creighton asked, “Well, we need the water. Any suggestions?

I allowed a moment to see if Sergeant Weinbacher had something, but he just looked at me, so I said, “If they are waiting in ambush, they’re likely on the north side of the canyon, else they’d have been visible to Little Fox as he rode in along the south rim. If they are on the north side, I think we might trap them in a crossfire.” I explained my plan and the Lieutenant nodded immediately.

Sergeant Weibacher called four names and the troopers rode forward. Weinbacher told me these were the platoon’s best shooters.

I explained to the four men that they would accompany me to attack the Apache from the canyon rim. I reminded them that we would have to aim low on a down-angle shot. I would first estimate the angle and tell them the adjusted aim aim for the first sight leaf. Then I’d take the first shot, then shout out any correction to my estimate. They could adjust the sight framing and fire. It would delay their first shots by three or four seconds. One of the hostlers would come with us to hold the horses.

As we approached the canyon from the north, thesix of us stayed well back from the rim to avoid being seen or heard by the Apaches we assumed were waiting down in the canyon. They were almost certainly hidden amid the rocks along the lower slope on the canyon’s north side, waiting to execute their ambush. We rode about a half mile before I took note of a narrowing of the canyon. I dismounted and cautiously approached the rim to see if I could spot the ambush. After only a couple minutes, I saw an Apache move from behind one rock to shelter behind another, likely intending to improve his field of fire. With that reference, I looked further down the canyon until I discovered more men behind cover. The ambush had been set up a bit further down the canyon, just short of a sharp bend.

I crawled back from the rim and led my companions another quarter mile further along, where I once again reconnoitered by crawling up to the rim. Here we were just below the bend, and the Apaches’ ponies were being held by four young men. I counted twenty-five horses in all.

Crawling away from the rim, I rejoined the troopers and reported what I had seen.

“We’ll crawl up there but stay out of sight until we hear shooting or a commotion from below. At that point, we’ll take a look and, if the Apache are coming for their horses or are already mounting, we’ll start shooting. Aim for men if you think you can hit them, or the horses, otherwise. The purpose is to try to trap the Apache against our advancing force. We’ll be shooting down a hundred fifty yard slope, but the vertical distance will only be about ninety yards, so aim about five or six inches low.”

Once the column reached the head of the canyon, the plan was for Little Wolf, Many Hands, and two other men to ride quickly along the north rim to get above the Apache while the remainder of the platoon advanced quickly but cautiously down the canyon floor. We were confident an Apache lookout would see the detachment advancing along the south rim and would know the jig was up. With the enemy in their rear and a force advancing on their front, the Apache would have no choice but to retreat down the canyon. Me and my marksmen were there to shut off or at least disrupt that retreat.

We handed our reins to the hostler, then crawled into position.

We lay on our bellies on the hardpan a few feet from the canyon’s edge, the mid-afternoon sun slanting under the wide brims of our hats. Within five minutes we heard quiet voices and excited horses from down in the canyon. We crawled forward to bring our carbines to bear. I reached into my cartridge box and set four cartridges next to me in easy reach.

Below, the Apache were running individually and by twos and threes around the outcrop of rock that marked the bend in the canyon; the first of them had just reached the ponies, which were stomping about nervously.

With a final reminder to my companions to aim low, I took my first shot and saw a man go down. I shouted “Six inches,” and they began firing.

My next hit one of the boys holding some horses and he went down and the horses ran off down the canyon. My companions were also firing regularly and I saw both men and horses falling.

At that point, some the Apache began firing toward us. We pulled back from the rim and I said, “Two of you move down about twenty feet and shoot a few more times; the other two move with me, we’ll move the other way.”

We did that and were able to shoot twice more more before we again came under fire.

I shouted to them, “Split up and move somewhere else. I’m going to stay here.”

As they were moving to new positions, I heard Springfield carbines being fired in the canyon and I knew that meant the troopers had caught up with the Apache. Even with slow handling of our carbine’s trapdoor breach, the rate of fire with the Springfield could be at least four times a minute and a skilled man could manage an aimed round every five seconds.

Then I heard firing from the opposite rim, too.

I poked my head back over the rim and began to fire on a confused melee of Apache men and their horses. I saw two mounted Apache hightailing it down the canyon and I managed to hit the rump of the nearer horse, which fell into the rocks, throwing its rider into them as well. The other man escaped around a bend and I lost sight of him. After that, I couldn’t see any more targets. All the visible Apache were either dead, wounded, or held prisoner by the troopers.

I got up on my knees and, taking note that the troopers with me were uninjured, I waved to Many Hands on the far rim, and then to Lieutenant Creighton down in the canyon.

Three days later, in the heat of a Sunday afternoon, July twenty-eighth, we arrived at Fort Bliss, along with our seven Apache prisoners. Lieutenant Creighton had stopped in El Paso only long enough to cross the rio to have two of our empty water casks filled with Mexican beer. He intended to treat the skeleton garrison at the fort while our men took over guard duties.

And those men -- Second Platoon, J Company, Tenth Cavalry -- looked like they were more than ready for relief. With our platoon’s arrival, there was now a complement equal to a full company in the fort, plus support staff. The main body of the Fort Bliss complement, H Company of the Tenth Cavalry, along with the First Platoon of J Company of the Tenth, were in New Mexico engaged in a running battle with a large Apache band under the Mimbreño war leader, Victorio. J Company of the Twenty-fifth Infantry was guarding the Rio Grande fords from El Paso to Mesilla in sn effort to keep Victorio from coming east.

Our platoon, that is, Second Platoon, H Company, Ninth Cavalry, took over sentry and other duties while the Tenth Cavalry Troopers took a couple days off.

And those couple days were going to be the only break they were going to get.

Late on Wednesday, July thirty-first, what remained of the expeditionary force -- a troop of more than a hundred men, now reduced to a bedraggled seventy-seven troopers, more than a third of whom were wounded -- rode wearily back into Fort Bliss. Lieutenant Creighton, who had temporarily relieved the lieutenant left in command of the fort, stepped forward to exchange salutes with the lieutenant apparently in command of the exhausted patrol. Sergeant Weinbacher and I had gone up on the parapet when the returning troopers were sighted, but now we came down to attend Lieutenant Creighton.

We were in time to hear the newly-arrived lieutenant say to a sergeant, “Have ‘em walked for a half hour, Sergeant Bailey, then a hoof inspection and a good rub-down, by then we should have some chow ready.” The lieutenant dismounted and handed his mount’s reins to a hostler who had come out from the stables. The lieutenant turned to Creighton and said, “Let’s go into the office. Where’s Lieutenant Isaacs?”

Creighton answered, “He and the rest of the platoon are on a two-day stand-down while we took over their duties, Lieutenant.”

That man looked up and blinked at Creighton. “Oh, sorry, I’m Francis Stein.” He held his hand out to Creighton. “And I can’t say I heard what you said your name was, Lieutenant.”

“Creighton, Malon Creighton, Second Platoon, H Company, Ninth Cavalry, out of Fort Davis.” They shook hands. Then Creighton introduced Weinbacher and me, as we were standing at attention.

Stein said, “Let’s go inside. There’s a map of New Mexico Territory on the wall and I can show you where we’ve been. Come on along, you two,” he said to Weinbacher and me.

Fort Bliss had actually relocated from a site much closer to El Paso, nut it had been subject to flooding by the rio there. The post was a well-developed collection of lumber, adobe, and stone masonry buildings and its headquarters featured a number of staff offices -- Officer of the Day, Adjutant, Quartermaster, Commandant, and others -- each door marked with a small, painted sign and opening off a large common area with a half dozen small desks, at which sat two military clerks, amid numerous file cabinets.

“In here,” Stein said, leading us to the door marked Adjutant, which he held open for us. Before he went in, he paused outside the door and said to one of the uniformed men at a desk, “Private, please bring a pitcher of cool water directly from the well.”

The light from the window allowed us to see a large map on the opposite wall, maybe four foot square. It depicted all of New Mexico Territory and some of of west Texas, with some of the bordering Mexican towns. While a number of U.S. towns were marked, the most notable feature were the lines and shading that illustrated mountain ranges and other land forms. I could readily pick out the Guadalupe Mountains where we had pursued Iron Skin, and the mountains north aall but surrounding of Fort Davis. It was one of the most dramatic and beautiful maps I had ever seen.

Behind us, Lieutenant Stein scraped a match and went about lighting a lamp, making the map’s detail even more defined. “A gift from my grandfather,” Stein said, the pride evident in his voice. “He knows the cartographer.”

At that point, Stein held the lamp close to the lower right corner of the map, at which location were marked the various legend scales and details. The three of us moved closer for a clearer view. Immediately below an elaborate compass rose was a penned signature of fine script, “JWPowell.”

“Major Powell?” Creighton asked, obviously impressed.

“My grandfather was in Congress and sponsored the bills that have funded John Wesley Powell’s expeditions in the west.”

Now I was impressed. Major Powell’s expeditions were near legendary.

Noting our awestruck reaction, Lieutenant Stein shrugged. “Well, it’s not as if Major Powell came and hung it here on this wall himself. I’ve never met the man. But, look here.” He pointed to the westernmost corner of Texas. “This is where we are, here at Fort Bliss.” I noticed that his finger hovered just off the map, not making actual contact.

Then he moved his finger north and a little east, to a broad pass at the southern end of a mountain range marked, “Organ Mountains.”

“This is where we were first ambushed by Victorio and maybe a hundred fifty warriors. It’s where Sergeant McCrory and four troopers are buried.”

He continued to indicate places and briefly describe battles as the shadow of his finger continued to move north by northeast to a distance that I estimated to be about eighty miles from the Fort, as the crow flies, finally hovering over a patch with dune symbols inscribed, “White Sands Desert.”

“And this is where we buried Captain Franklin, Corporal Cooper, and five more men.” He turned away from the map, looking defeated, and set the lamp on the desk. “We were low on ammunition and basic supplies, and with so many losses and so many wounded, I decided to break off contact and return here.”

I asked, “Lieutenant, did any of your scouts return with you?”

He shook his head. “We had two Indian scouts and one cavalry scout, that was Corporal Cooper. Our Indian scouts were both Black Seminoles. They were killed in the first ambush. In fact, they were captured and tortured to death.”

“I understand, sir.”

He looked at Creighton. “If you can give us a few days to rest and tend to our wounded, you can probably return to Fort Davis.”

Creighton reached to lay a hand on his shoulder. “Make your report, Lieutenant, and then we’ll see what our regiments decide.”

Stein nodded. “Yeah, you’re right, of course.” Then he stretched and yawned. “But if I sit down at this desk, I’ll fall asleep before I even get started. If you’re still comfortable with garrison duty, I’m going to get some grub and then some sleep.”

“Of course,” Creighton said. “We’ll be happy to manage things until your men are more fit.”

And that’s how we left things for that night.

However, even before reveille the next morning, Lieutenant Creighton sent a messenger to summon me and Sergeant Weinbacher to the headquarters. We arrived at the same time as Sergeant Butch Dempsey, who, like Lieutenant Isaacs, was with First Platoon, J Company, of the 10th Cavalry, the platoon we had relieved for the past two days at Fort Bliss. Inside the headquarters building we found Lieutenants Stein, Isaacs, and Creighton in the adjutants office, looking at the big map.

We came to attention, saluted and, as senior, I said, “Sergeants Becker, Dempsey, and Weinbacher reporting as ordered, sir.”

Stein was now senior officer on the post and he returned our salute and said, “Stand at ease, men. We’ve had a development this morning. Lieutenant Creighton, you want to tell them about it?”

Lieutenant Creighton said, “Of course, Lieutenant.” Then he turned to us and said, “We received a telegram a couple hours ago from Fort Stanton. That’s here,” he turned and indicated a location on the map near the town of Lincoln, about sixty miles northeast of the White Sands Desert, where Lieutenant Stein’s troop had broken off contact with Victorio’s raiding party. “There’s a company of the Tenth Cavalry and a company of the Twenty-fifth Infantry garrisoned there. They report that Victorio and his warriors continued north until they encountered a platoon-strength patrol of the Tenth Cavalry from Fort Stanton. Then Victorio retreated here, into the Sacramento Mountains.” Creighton pointed to a mountain range between Fort Stanton and the White Sands Desert. “Stanton reinforced their patrol with another cavalry platoon so that they had a full company pressing Victorio. They estimated they were up against a force of about a hundred warriors, so Lieutenant Stein’s troop must have reduced Victorio’s strength substantially.”

Now he turned back to us. “Major Brown, the commander at Fort Stanton, wants Fort Bliss to field a company-strength troop to catch Victorio’s band in a hammer-and-anvil maneuver. The troop from Fort Stanton will drive Victorio into our ambush.” He smiled grimly. “To meet them in time, we will have to leave immediately. The Tenth’s H Company and First Platoon of their J Company are in no condition to make a fast march of a hundred miles.” Those were the troops who had returned from patrol the prior afternoon. Creighton announced, “We’ll fill in, along side Second Platoon from J Company, with Lieutenant Isaacs and Sergeant Dempsey.”

I asked, “When do we mount up, sir?”

Lieutenants Isaacs chided, “In the cavalry, we call it ‘Boots and Saddles,’ First Sergeant.”

Looking humble I replied, “I know that, Lieutenant Isaacs, but as a lowly foot soldier, I felt unworthy to use the phrase.”

All three officers laughed. Stein said, “You’ll do, Becker, you’ll do. And boots and saddles will be in forty minutes.” At that moment, we heard the first notes of reveille, a half hour before its usual time.

After a hurried breakfast of oatmeal porridge and coffee, we mounted the mules and headed out.

Each man carried seven days rations of rice, beans, hardtack, and beef jerky, along with a rain slicker, a second shirt, extra socks, curry comb, hoof pick, and personal items in a backpack over which a bedroll and shelter half were fastened. We were armed with the Springfield carbine on a leather sling, forty-two cartridges in a case on a cartridge belt which also hosted a bayonet, a Colt Army revolver in a flap-covered holster, and its own cartridge case holding eighteen rounds. Finally, we carried two canteens, a small one for ourselves and a larger one for our mounts along with a canvas water bucket that also served as a feed bag. I had brought my bow and a quiver of a dozen arrows, as had Many Hands and Little Wolf. The three of us were garbed in buckskin but wearing the soft-crowned, wide-brimmed cavalry hats.

The company also included two hostlers, each leading three pack mules loaded with rice, beans, cracked oats for the horses, and empty water casks which we were to fill at a spring at our first bivuac.

Many Hands, Little Wolf, and I again acted as advance scouts, with troopers guarding flanks and rear.

Our route took us along the eastern slopes of the Franklin Mountains, -- known as the Las Sierras de los Mansos, when they belonged to Mexico -- a twenty-five mile long, narrow mountain range of steep pitches and jagged peaks that extended northward of El Paso into southern New Mexico. The weather was hot and we took a long break at about two that afternoon, resting the horses and mules near a spring at the foot of the mountains. At five we got underway again and rode until nearly eight, when we camped at the eastern base of Organ Peak in New Mexico Territory’s Organ Mountains. We had covered more than forty miles by trail, a few less by crow flight.

To avoid the worst of the heat, we were in the saddle before sunup. Our goal that day was some forty miles further north, the southern end of the narrow valley between the White Sands Desert and the Sacramento Mountain. Our assignment was to block the valley’s southern egress, to prevent Victorio’s band from escaping.

While the troop took a two-hour rest break that afternoon, Many Hands, Little Wolf, and I set out after only an hour in order to act as advance reconnaissance rather than as point scouts. Each of us carried a round, hand-held heliograph mirror, the type with an aiming hole in the center. The mirrors were carried in a reinforced, flat, leather case.