Chapter 14

I didn't let Joe wear his guns in camp, yet, for fear that he might be tempted to show off and hurt somebody accidentally. However, that didn't keep him from strutting around the rest of the day and through supper. Of course, after supper, he had to tell in excruciating detail all about his experiences with a "real gun." There were some secret smiles at all of this, but everybody encouraged him to keep up his training so that he could become a hunter and scout that they could depend on. Now, that was the kind of encouragement that any boy would eat up!

The next morning, he borrowed Running Fox's weapons, including the rifle, and joined me for my scouting trip. Joe was scrupulous about following orders and paying attention every time I pointed out some hazard that we had to avoid. We were very lucky that day and saw no signs of hostile Indians, so there was not much danger on his first trip.

When we returned to the wagons, Joe joined me for my report to Abe Jackson, the wagon master. I wanted Joe to know what kind of report Abe was interested in. If he was going to learn to be a scout for the wagon train, I wanted him to know everything about the job.

We ate lunch and went hunting. Joe had been hunting in his former life, but he had been using a Mississippi Rifle, a muzzle loader, at the time, so he was new to the way I hunted with the Remington buffalo gun. The kick from that rifle was way too much for Joe to handle, so he was along strictly for backup with the Winchester. Joe had fired his father's Winchester on occasion, but never enough to become really familiar with the idiosyncrasies of that rifle. We were lucky and found the antelope that Alice wanted early in the hunt, so we had time for more pistol practice after we delivered the meat to her.

Joe really pressed hard on learning how to use the revolver, and he insisted that we stay out long enough to give him two hours of practice time. When it was over, I could see that his wrist was sore, but Joe was getting better at the job. His hand was too small at this stage to be able to handle the large revolver with complete ease, but I could see that he would eventually grow into the size he needed. I hoped by then to have taught Joe everything else he needed to know, including not to try to settle arguments with his gun.

The next day, Joe was thrilled when we finally saw Tucson. The wagon train would get there by late in the afternoon, so we would have a few days layover while we took care of freight business, including that damned salt wagon. We didn't hunt that afternoon, so Joe had plenty of time to get in his pistol practice.

Joe followed Abe and me around as we talked to the various freight customers we had. The salt customers had not expected such a large load for the first shipment, so they were unsure of what to do with all of that salt. We finally decided to leave the wagon with them so that they could use it as a place to store their salt until it was sold. Whatever, we were just happy to be rid of the thing. By this time, none of us were really anxious for the deal to go through, but a contract was a contract, and we were going to honor it, much as we regretted signing the damned thing.

We had now trimmed our wagon train by one wagon and eight oxen, but we still had some freight to unload and some freight to pick up to take back to the east. We did not get anything that needed to go all the way to El Paso, but we were not going to lose money on the trip.

Abe decided to lay over in Tucson for a week to give Running Fox a rest with his broken leg. His driver did his best, but it was still a bumpy ride for a man with a broken leg. Running Fox should have been lying in bed somewhere and not being shifted around on a moving wagon, but we didn't have much choice in the matter. Running Fox tried to put up a good front, we it was possible to see how much strain he was under from the trip. Hopefully, this short rest would help in his recovery. If nothing else, his gun was going to be needed as we moved into Comanche territory. The Comanches were the worst trouble because there were so many of them. We had to expect an attack every few days as we got into New Mexico Territory.

This was the opportunity I needed to pick up the weapons for Joe. Luckily, the local gunsmith had four S&W .44-40s, used, but in good condition. I took those and a .44-40 Winchester for him. We loaded up on ammunition while we were about it, and I asked my friend to make up a set of holsters and a crossdraw rig for Joe. He was proud as a peacock by the time we were ready to leave Tucson. On top of everything else, Joe had graduated to one-hand shooting. By now, his wrist was strong enough to handle the pounding from that .44-40. I found out later that Joe had been practicing some wrist-strengthening exercises taught to him by one of the crew. Joe had kept that a secret to surprise me with how strong his wrist had gotten. I had to admit that I was impressed.

Running Fox was making remarkable progress with his leg. He claimed that he would be able to stand on it in three weeks and ride a horse in four. I kind of doubted his optimism, but certainly hoped that he was right. We were going to need his skills very shortly as we got closer to Las Cruces and El Paso.

Meanwhile, Joe was making excellent progress. By the end of the next week, Joe was an asset in a gunfight. He proved that on his first opportunity. It wasn't so much his accurate shooting as it was his courage. We ran into a small band of four Chiricahua Apaches on our morning scouting trip. It was more luck than anything else that we saw them before they could ambush us, but luck or not, I was glad for it.

As usual with kids his age, Joe was full of piss and beans and wanted to charge the Indians as soon as he saw them. He did let out a whoop which alerted them and spoiled our chance to take them by surprise, and you can bet that I chided him strongly for that bit of childish foolishness.

Anyway, any real choice on our part disappeared when the Apaches turned and charged at us. I am sure that they figured the odds of four to two gave them an insurmountable advantage. The difference was that we dismounted and lay prone to use our rifles. I reminded Joe to aim for the horses, not for the men, and told him to fire when he was sure of a shot. I expected him to fire right away and then be scolded for letting his nerves take him into foolishness. No, he held his fire for a few more seconds and then let go—one Apache was down! I was so impressed that I forgot to shoot.

He took down another charging horse, and the noise of his shot was enough to wake me up. We both fired almost simultaneously, and two more horses fell. Damn, that was three for Joe and only one for me! I congratulated him as we cautiously walked to where the Indians were sprawled on the ground. One was not dead, yet, so I shot him with my revolver.

Joe did not have the usual reaction to taking his first human life. He still vividly remembered his experience with the Navajos. They had killed his mother and father, and seemed to enjoy doing it, so he was just getting his deserved revenge. That attitude scared me a little bit. I was going to have to think about it, because I didn't want him to take the attitude that any strange Indian was automatically his to shoot. I would have a talk with him about it as we rode back to the wagons, but now I let him bask in the glory of his victory.

We took the time to drag the Indians and their horses off the road to clear it for our wagons before continuing our scouting patrol. I held my peace until we were nearly back to the wagons, then I gave Joe a lecture about how not every Indian was an enemy. I cited Running Fox as an example, and that seemed to make an impression on Joe, so I hoped that I had made my point sufficiently well. Only time would tell.

That afternoon was a hunting day, so we did not have as much time for pistol practice as Joe wanted. That attack by the four Chiricahuas had made Joe appreciate even more how important it was for him to be able to shoot well. He did not really need much work with the Winchester, but pistol work was a different story. Even I took out some time for practice, even though I was supposed to be the expert. Between the two of us, we shot up a hell of a lot of ammunition. I am convinced that was the reason for so many poor shots among the general populace, especially Indians. Ammunition was so expensive that few people shot off much simply because they did not have the money to spend on the cartridges. That was further compounded for the hostile Indians because they generally had to steal what few cartridges that they had. Shooting was one place where the axiom about "practice makes perfect" really was exactly on the mark.