at nightfall, but none of the men were surprised. The rain began again and the column made for the rough country, moving rapidly. In a rocky pocket, O’Hagen gathered his men round him, speaking tersely. “O’Shead, Carmichael, stay here with the horses. We’ll go ahead on foot.”
The troopers looked at each other, but said nothing. Their association with this man had taught them that he knew what he was doing. If he wanted to look for the Apache camp afoot, then they’d walk.
High and hard to find; that was the way Apaches camped and every man in the troop knew it. They followed O’Hagen for better than an hour while he led them along the rocky spine of this short range, driving always into wilder country. The rain was a steady drum that masked the sounds of their movement. O’Hagen took advantage of this to make time. The night hid them as well as the enemy, but he did not seem to consider this. Often he paused to search the darkness without reward. Soon a nagging doubt began to form in his mind.
He knew Apaches and how completely unpredictable they could be. It didn’t take much; a quick, erratic flight of a bird could carry an omen. Or a strange, sudden sound. Their lives were governed by omens.
Then he found the camp in a flat pocket. Rock walls closed in on three sides and he placed Herlihy and three troopers near the outlet. Taking the others, he spent a difficult thirty minutes climbing around near the top. A small fire winked below. Around this, Apaches moved, blankets shrouding them from shoulder to ankle. O’Hagen watched and through the pelting rain, caught a glimpse of Contreras, who was really the leader of this band. The Apache was huge and his size gave him away.
Choya, the second in command, hunkered down across the fire. He was a runt, almost a midget compared to Contreras’ six foot plus.
Touching the bugler, O’Hagen whispered, “Sound ‘commence firing’ and make it loud, lad.”
The shocking blare of the bugle was like a bomb thrown into the Apache camp. On the heels of this, carbine fire reached down, plucking two off their feet while the rest dashed for the entrance and their horses. Bending low over the animals’ backs, the Apaches tore toward Herlihy, who raked them in volley. Two more went down, and then Choya’s horse fell, spilling him. O’Hagen saw a warrior wheel and pick up the runty leader. Streaming from Choya’s hand was a banner of cloth. Then they broke through and raced away in the rain-smeared night.
“Sound ‘cease-fire’!”
O’Hagen led his men back to Sergeant Herlihy’s position and a trooper turned one of the Apaches over. When he came up, he was parrying Mrs. Lovington’s kitchen curtains. Trooper Haliotes spat and said, “Some of Osgood Sickles’ damn reservation Apaches, sir. You see Choya with Mrs. Lovington’s dress?”
“See if you can catch up a couple of their horses. We’ll take these bucks back as a present to Sickles.”
“Sorry, sir,” Trooper McPherson said. “They stampeded as soon as the firing began.”
“Very well then,” O’Hagen said. “Sergeant, we’ll regroup with the horse holders and pursue them. I’m going to run Contreras right back to Osgood Sickles’ doorstep. I’ve got that Apache agent where I want him.”
With only a two-hour rest, the troop completed an all night march and when the dawn of another crying day broke, they were on the eastern fringes of the vast San Carlos Reservation.
This was an unfenced area, all open country, and most of it rough. Here and there it was dotted with Apache wickiups. Reservation Indians, O’Hagen thought, finding the gall bitter. Only the bad ones who could not be trusted with freedom lived here, yet there was nothing to confine them except the United States Cavalry patrols. Patrols like this one and the dozen other patrols originating at Camp Bowie and Fort Apache.
Osgood H. Sickles’ policemen; O’Hagen had been called this to his face by irate civilians. Sure, policemen working for a crooked chief, and the thing that galled O’Hagen was that he couldn’t prove it.
Contreras was in a hurry now and O’Hagen pursued him grimly, never more than an hour and a half behind. Once Contreras tried a switchback to ambush the patrol, but O’Hagen outguessed him, and killed another buck in Contreras’ band. After that the trail led straight through the reservation and ended in a filthy cluster of wickiups no more than a mile from reservation headquarters.
O’Hagen halted his dead-beat patrol near the fringe of the Apache camp. “Corporal Shannon, ride into headquarters and bring Mr. Sickles back with you. In the event he is reluctant, I authorize you to bring him back across his horse.”
“Yes, sir,” Shannon said and wheeled his horse, riding off at a gallop.
“Dismount the troop, Sergeant.”
“Troop—dissss-mount!” Men left the saddle stiffly. Weariness was dark on their faces.
“Sergeant, sling carbines to the saddles. Haliotes, Steinbauer, you had your fun in the pocket. Remain here with the horses. We’ll have a look around now.”
Contreras was a big man here, both in stature and importance. His wickiup reflected this prosperity, which, to an Apache, meant an abundance of litter no self-respecting Indian would own. O’Hagen motioned for the troop to fan out. Taking Sergeant Herlihy with him, he brushed aside the flap of Contreras’ wickiup and entered.
Seven Apaches sat around the fire. Three women, one of them Contreras’ wife, huddled against the far side, their dark eyes glittering. Contreras’ face was broad and savage. He was near forty but did not show his age. The runt, Choya, sat on his left, his slightly crossed eyes never leaving O’Hagen’s face.
To watch these three men, one would never guess that at one time they had lived together, had been playmates, a white man and two savage Apaches.
O’Hagen spoke to Contreras, a greeting without friendliness. Leaving Sergeant Herlihy by the wickiup door, O’Hagen walked around the men, the silence so deep it hurt his ears. They wore blankets and he knew they were naked, their wet clothes now hidden. The wickiup was full of Apache stink, unwashed bodies, the fetid odor of hot animal entrails. O’Hagen stopped near the women. Apache women were never pretty like the Sioux. Their faces were broad and heavy-boned. The hair was coarse and ragged, worn parted in the middle. An Apache woman’s habits leave them offensive and even in the earlier years, few mountain men wanted one for a wife.
Choya’s woman sat slightly behind the others. She wore a shapeless sack dress, ballooning away from her body as though she were with child. O’Hagen said, “Hee-kist-see nak-tay nah-lin.”
“Pindah-lickoyee das-ay-go, dee-dah tatsan!” She spat on his boots and O’Hagen flicked his glance toward Herlihy, who remained by the opening. “She said I’ll soon be dead, Sergeant.”
Lazily, O’Hagen turned his glance back to the woman, then his hand darted out, caught the loose neck of her dress and ripped it to her knees. Wadded blue polkadot fell to the dirt floor and he swept this up as Choya surged to his feet, his knife flashing.
Herlihy whipped up his long-barreled pistol and brought it down across the base of Choya’s skull. The other Apaches growled and Herlihy cocked the gun.
“Ink-tah, dee Shis-Inday das-ay-go tatsan!” O’Hagen said and they fell quiet, for they knew he was as good as his word. He would kill them! Stepping away from the women, O’Hagen rolled Choya over with his foot. He brushed the long hair away from the Apache’s neck, exposing vermilion and white streaks of paint.
