Return to Massacre Mesa - Edge Series 5

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5 • RETURN TO MASSACRE MESA

by

George G. Gilman

Terry Harknett

Spring Acre

Springhead Road

Uplyme

Lyme Regis

Dorset DT7 3RS

01297-445380

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An EDGE Western --• --93,000 Words

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For

KEN BULMER, RICHARD CLIFTON DEY,

JOHN HARVEY, LAURENCE JAMES and ANGUS WELLS

A tragically diminishing band

of one-time young guns who formed

the Bunghole Bunch

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CHAPTER • 1

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THE SCENE of the massacre was in the south west of the Territory of New
Mexico, close to the border with old Mexico. And the time: one blisteringly hot midAugust day in the year of 1866. At something after eleven thirty that morning five grim faced unarmed cavalry officers rode within sight of a small cluster of drab coloured wickiups that comprised the encampment of Burning Fire the Comanche sub-chief they were scheduled to meet with at noon. They advanced in single line abreast, spaced six feet apart, at a measured pace down the long, shallow slope at the end of a high escarpment to the east of the Comanche camp.

To the south was an extensive undulating area scattered with massive boulders and smaller chunks of rocks at the northern fringe of the Cedar Mountains. To the north towered the great slab of rough-hewn, cave-pocked sandstone known as Mesa Desolado. And to the north and west was spread the vast, heat shimmering emptiness of Dead Man’s Desert.

This encircling high ground and desert enclosed a hollow that was maybe three quarters of a mile across at its widest point featured with many clumps of sturdy mesquite and stunted cholla. A thin covering of wind blown sand did little to soften the rock hard ground beneath the hooves of the well-schooled cavalry mounts as they descended inexorably toward the flat bottom of the hollow. An unsullied white flag of truce that hung listlessly from the top of a lance carried by the lieutenant at the centre of the line of riders provided the only splash of lightness among the men and their horses. Because the officers’ blue uniforms with polished brass buttons were coated with the dust that had been raised by the horses during the two days of gruelling travel across the desert from their post at Fort Chance. More dust clung to the horses and equipment and was ingrained in the open pores of the men’s sweat run faces.

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‘I have to say I’m getting to be less and less happy with this situation, colonel,’

Captain Hamilton muttered as he and the detail’s senior officer rode side by side to the right of Lieutenant Montgomery, the man who carried the truce flag. Hamilton fingered his empty holster nervously.

‘I shouldn’t have to remind you that our personal opinions of this assignment are of no consequence, George,’ Colonel Clark McCall replied evenly. He cast a glance over his shoulder to check that they had ridden far enough down the slope for two other officers to be out of sight beyond the hillcrest behind them. McCall and Hamilton were in their mid-forties, tall and broadly built with burnished complexions and greying black moustaches. McCall had glittering green eyes, Hamilton a pointed chin that was a little off centre.

‘Sir, it looks to be deserted.’ Lieutenant Montgomery’s voice was taut with a degree of apprehension that was greater than the captain had allowed to be apparent. He was only just into his twenties: tall and lean with angular features beginning to give notice he would be ruggedly handsome if he filled out a little. He held the lance with his left hand, the wrist of which was twisted at an unnatural angle: the result of a badly set fracture. ‘And I’m not so sure we should trust the Comanche too much just because they promised to – ‘

‘That’s enough of that kind of talk!’ McCall’s scowl showed more anger than his faintly strangled tone conveyed. ‘Like all you men from Fort Chance know this assignment is part of a Washington initiative intended to end just such mistrust between the whites and the Indians!’

Montgomery did not turn to see the rebuking glower on the senior officer’s face as McCall leaned forward and showed his irritable expression to the two other locally based officers riding in the line beyond him. These were Lieutenants Strickland and Mahoney who were both in the mid-thirties. Roy Strickland was a gaunt featured redhead with protruding ears and William Mahoney had blond hair: the former a little overweight with an underplayed moustache that acted to emphasise the bushiness of his eyebrows. 5

Each nodded curtly, able with varying degrees of success to camouflage the kind of unease that sounded in Montgomery’s voice.

‘I know that, sir, but – ‘

‘Hold your tongue, lieutenant!’ Captain Hamilton broke in tersely. Montgomery continued to peer fixedly at the small Indian encampment, as if it was impossible for him to tear his gaze away from the focal point of the brightly sunlit scene that was unnerving all the sweating riders to varying extents.

‘Yes, sir!’ The junior officer’s tone was husky, then abruptly shrill. ‘Hey, look!’

But there was no need to call the attention of the other men to what was happening. For they were all as hypnotically compelled as Montgomery to stare at the wickiups beside the sheer side of the mesa when the entrance flap of one was drawn aside. And a tall and lithe young brave attired in animal skins, his hair adorned with a single black feather in a band above his expressionless face, stepped into view. He placed his arms akimbo, took three fast strides, halted and waited until, thirty yards away, the uniformed men reined in their mounts without need of an order. Then the Comanche raised his right arm high, dropped his left hand to his side and spoke into the silence that descended after the horses were still.

‘Greetings, Washington soldiers. Chief Burning Fire is ready to treaty.’

‘I’m pleased to hear that!’ The smile that lit McCall’s face when he first heard the brave speak became insecure as he realised his own voice was too loud and harsh in tone. He made an adjustment. ‘May we have permission to enter your camp?’

The Comanche’s neutral expression was unchanged as he swept both his arms out to the sides in a gesture of embracing the visitors. ‘You are welcome here. To talk peace and to discuss what the United States government and our people are prepared to trade to achieve this.’

‘Move on ahead, gentlemen,’ the colonel instructed evenly. ‘It seems like this is destined to be a most successful mission.’

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Montgomery muttered something under his breath that he alone understood. Unless the Comanche brave in a position to see his face read the lieutenant’s expression and recognised that this young officer holding aloft the flag of truce continued to mistrust what was happening at Mesa Desolado. The uniformed men heeled their mounts into a walk. And a moment later would have reined in again if McCall had not rasped an order to keep moving. This when the flaps of the other five wickiups were jerked aside and two figures emerged from all but one of them. The braves who showed themselves in pairs were attired much as the spokesman, but unlike him they carried rifles slanted across their chests. The Comanche who stood alone wore a cloak of fur skin instead of hide and a headdress made with many feathers of several colours. He was much older than the rest and there was a suggestion of frailness about the way he advanced to a point slightly apart from the loose group into which the others had formed.

‘This is Chief Burning Fire,’ the spokesman with a fine command of English announced and held up a hand to signal the officers should halt now that they were just some two dozen yards away from where the Indians stood.

‘I am Colonel Clark McCall. From Washington - as are some of my fellow officers. Others are from Fort Chance, the post beyond the desert of which I’m sure you know?’

He wondered, as his words drew no kind of response from the elderly Comanche, if it was advancing age that inhibited Chief Burning Fire from showing why he was so named. Or if he ignited only when enraged: and now was in a tranquil frame of mind, anxious to do as his spokesman claimed - talk peace and the price each side was prepared to pay for such a prize in this corner of the south western territories. Then he alone was tacitly invited to advance and he clucked his horse forward: directed a withering sidelong glance at Montgomery as the young lieutenant with the crippled wrist vented a low toned word of caution.

He reined in ten feet from Burning Fire and his spokesman, executed a textbook salute and accepted an unspoken invitation to swing down from his saddle. The inscrutable chief gave a curt nod of acknowledgement and spoke rapidly to his 7

interpreter who translated:

‘Our chief is concerned that you and your fellow officer seem to doubt Comanche hospitality, colonel?’

McCall peered back at his men and knew his own expression matched the scowl that showed on each of their faces. He did not ease the hard set of his mouth line or dull the cold glint in his green eyes when he returned his gaze to the Comanche to point out: ‘We were requested to come here unarmed. And you can see we have done so. My fellow officers and I are concerned to see that your braves carry rifles?’

While the sentiment was being translated into the native tongue of the Indians, Burning Fire nodded several times. Then he turned, made a brief hand signal and the braves allowed the rifles to fall to their moccasined feet: took a step back from the discarded weapons and placed their arms firmly akimbo. Burning Fire gave a more emphatic nod, his expression as stoic as ever and issued a short command to the brave at his side.

The interpreter spoke at greater length. ‘So many years of mistrust and hostility between our two peoples will not be forgotten in moments, colonel. You seem not to have brought with you the price the Washington government has promised to pay for the peace we all seek?’

McCall made to respond, but a gesture by the brave caused him to remain silent.

‘The braves here have put down their weapons. Many more Comanche will do this when our nation is assured that the White Eyes can be trusted to complete their side of the bargain?’

‘Lieutenant Strickland!’ McCall snapped without turning around.

‘Sir?’

‘Sound the signal, if you please!’

The redheaded, gaunt featured junior officer became the centre of all tense attention as he unhooked a bugle hung from his saddle horn by a tasselled cord. And 8

nervousness caused his movements to be awkward as he half turned in his saddle, raised the highly polished instrument to his lips, took a deep breath and split the hot silence with a single, elongated note that sounded nothing like a regular cavalry call. A brief exchange of suspicious whispers among the Comanche ended abruptly when their apprehensive attention was drawn to the point where the white men were looking. And a buckboard appeared on the crest of the rise to the east then started down the gentle slope at an unhurried pace trailing dust raised from beneath the slow turning wheels and the hooves of the grey gelding in the shafts. Two officers rode on the sprung seat of the approaching rig and two large wooden crates were carried on the bed behind them. Chief Burning Fire said something that triggered a chorus of rasping talk and frenetic hand gestures among his braves. And the interpreter asked:

‘These boxes contain all that the Comanche have asked for, colonel?’

McCall smiled broadly and glanced to where the buckboard driven by a grey bearded major nearing retirement age accompanied by a fresh faced young lieutenant rolled to a halt alongside the mounted men. ‘You can tell the chief that sure enough is right.’