Little Eagle’s Ride

The Arizona desert sun beat down on the prone figure of Little Eagle as he lay watching the white man’s camp in the bottom of the arroyo. He was an Apache warrior, a brave as some called them, he was returning to his tribe’s village after visiting another encampment near the white man’s settlement of Pumpkin Patch (later the city of Phoenix, Arizona), He had stopped to rest his pony in the shade of a tree while he had eaten some of the dried deer meat that he had been given for his return journey when he had heard the horses at the mouth of the arroyo below him. He moved cautiously to the edge of the arroyo and lying near a tumble weed bush, he looked down into the arroyo. He had lain there for nearly four hours without moving, waiting to see what the white men were going to do. They had arrived just at sunrise and had made a fireless camp. To Little Eagle that meant they did not want to be found and that meant they did not intend to be there long. But the morning had stretched out and the sun had approached its zenith and nothing had happened. Little Eagle had just decided that he would ease back from the edge of the cliff and return to the tribal camp when he heard the unmistakable sound of a metal horseshoe scraping off of a loose stone. It came from the mouth of the arroyo and, by raising his head slightly, Little Eagle spotted six riders approaching the camp. They were holding their horses to a slow walk, and he saw that the leader was picking out the softest ground to follow; he wanted no noise to announce his coming. Little Eagle looked back to the camp and saw that none of the men in the camp had heard the hoof strike; they were sitting on a log and seemed to be in an argument. The largest of them waving his arms and pointing to the south – the same direction as his village. All of them were sitting on an old desiccated log, and they were all facing away from the mouth of the arroyo. They were sitting less than twenty feet from the sharp rock wall that marked the bend in the arroyo that blocked the sight of the approaching men.1

As the riders came around the sharp bend and came upon the camping men, they jumped to their feet and started to draw their weapons, only to find themselves staring down the muzzles of eight pistols. Little Eagle could not hear the words, but the gestures were sufficient to tell him that the riders had meant to scare them, and it was also obvious that the leader of all was the man astride a beautiful palomino. 2

“Clyde,” Brader said with anger in his voice, “if we had been Apaches or a sheriff you four would be either dead or in jail.” He swung down from the saddle and marched to a position in front of Clyde. “I am going to tell you one more time – the last time – when I tell you to do something in a particular way, you do it.” And with speed that astonished Little Eagle, Brader whipped his pistol out of his holster and laid it aside Clyde’s head. Clyde staggered and fell to his knees, blood oozing from a cut made by the barrel of the pistol. Brader leaned down very close to Clyde and grabbed his hair and yanked his face up until they were eye to eye. “Next time I will kill you.” Swinging around and turning his back on Clyde, he shouted at Murphy the bandy-legged red-headed gunslinger that had dismounted and stood well back from Brader, “Murphy, get up on that ridge and keep watch.” He pointed directly at where Little Eagle lay watching. Murphy turned with a nod and mounted his horse pulling the reins to guide the beast toward the mouth of the arroyo and the only path up out of the defile to the cliff. Little Eagle did not wait, he slid back until he was sure he was out of sight of the men in the arroyo and sprinted toward the pony standing in the shade of a small tree. Little Eagle whistled softly and the pony moved toward him. When the Indian reached the pony he grabbed a hand full of mane and swung himself onto the pony’s back. Clucking his tongue Little Eagle urged the pony to a fast trot.3

Murphy was working his way up the steep path with a lot of slipping and rattling of stones. That is why he did not hear the Indian pony’s hooves as they clattered away on the other side of the cliff. Murphy finally made it to the top of the path and turned his horse into the shade of the small tree and dismounted. As he was tying his horse’s reins to one of the lower branches, he noticed the tracks of an unshod pony and the prints of moccasin covered feet. He frowned down at the tracks and wondered if he should tell Brader. But, he thought, I don’t know when these tracks were made. It hasn’t rained here in weeks; they could have been made anytime. He shrugged, no use getting Brader any angrier than he was already. He moved off toward the only place where he could see both the mouth of the arroyo and the camp where the men were. That is when he saw the impression in the sand where a body had lain. From the depth of the depression and the way the sand was formed with some still trickling into the depression, he knew that the person who had lain here had lain here for a long time, and very recently. Again he looked down into the camp and he could see Clyde sitting on the log with his head in his hands and a bandana pressed against the gash on the side of his head. He decided it was not worth the risk of making Brader angrier than he already was. He laid in the same depression that Little Eagle had lain in and watched the approach to the arroyo.4

Little Eagle had ridden away from the cliff and had intended to go back to his village to tell the Chief what he had seen. But, thinking it over, he decided that he did not know what he had seen. He had to have better information if he was to report about the white men. He was a half mile from the trail that had led down from the cliff on the far side, so he got off his pony and ground tethered it.5

“Stay Shadow Runner,” Little Eagle said softly as he patted the neck of his pony. “I should not be too long. There is water in the basin there.” Little Eagle knew that the pony would not wander far from the water. It was one of the many seeps that only the Apaches knew about. He moved away and began the return to the cliff and the arroyo. It took more than an hour and a half to make it back to an out crop that was thrown up by some primeval convulsion of the land. He crawled to the top, and found that he could see the man that was on watch and the bottom of the arroyo where the camp was. He looked back toward the opening to the arroyo and found that he could see far into the desert. He saw a small dust cloud on the horizon, but it was so far away he could not see the source. He looked back down into the camp below.6

“Farley,” Brader called out and gestured to the rim of the arroyo, “Go up top and send Murphy down here.”7

“O.K.”, Farley grunted and swung into his saddle.8

Farley cursed under his breath as his horse stepped on some loose rocks and nearly fell back into the arroyo. “God damn, Clyde! If he had done it right we would have been out of here by now.” He pulled hard on the reins of the frightened horse. Pulling the beasts head away from the edge and forcing it back onto more solid footing. He soon arrived at the top and spotted where Murphy had tethered his horse; he moved into the shade of the tree and tied his mount to a low branch. He looked around but could not spot Murphy. He mumbled to himself, “If that dumb bastard has wandered off Brader will flay him alive.” Out loud he called out, “Hey, Murphy, where the hell are you?”9

The voice came from somewhere near the rim of the cliff, but Farley still could not see Murphy. “I’m right in front of you.”10

“Yeah, well I can’t see you.”11

With that Murphy stood up. “That is because your blind in one eye and can’t see outta the other.” He walked to where Farley was standing in the shade of the tree. “Well, did Clyde find out where the Indian village is? Or did he screw that up, too?”12

“He found it alright, but the fool didn’t count the horses or the teepees, or anything else. All he reported was ‘I didn’t see many redskins there.’”13

Murphy shook his head, “It’s a wonder that Brader hasn’t killed that damn fool.”14

“Yeah, well one more time and no one will be able to save him from Brader.” Farley took a sip from his canteen and rinsed the dust from his mouth. “I hope that we can hit the village and collect the scalps. My collection,” he raised the blanket tied to the back of his saddle and hanging there were eight scalps, “is getting to a size where this trip will pay off when we collect the bounty.”15

Little Eagle could see the scalps, and he knew what they meant. These were scalpers; they hunted Indians for their scalps. The white settlement far to the south offered fifty dollars in gold for each scalp. He could barely hold his temper. But, he was a warrior and self control was one of the strongest attributes of the Apache warrior. He could without trouble bring both men down with his bow, but that would alert the others that there was someone aware of them. No, he had to get back to the village and warn the chief. The chief would call for warriors to deal with these white men. These murderers of helpless Indians; three of the scalps hanging from Farley’s saddle were too small to be anything but children. Slowly and silently Little Eagle began to move down from the top of the rocks. That is when he noticed that the dust cloud was closer, and that he could see that it was caused by riders that were pushing their horses fast across the desert. He counted ten black specks that had to be riders. Now, he began to be very worried. There were already ten men in the arroyo camp and if they were joined by ten more, they would be a strong fighting force. One that could take many Apache lives. Should he wait? Should he go? Little Eagle hesitated and his gaze kept moving from the two men on the top of the arroyo rim to the men at the camp in the arroyo and then to the riders that were approaching.16

As he watched the red-headed man mounted his horse and started back down the trail to the camp. The new watcher waited until he had dropped from sight and then sat down in the shade of the tree. Little Eagle knew that from that position the man could not see the camp below, could not see the desert and the approaching riders and he could not see Little Eagle even if Little Eagle had stood up and waved his arms. The Indian grunted, “Fool!” He decided to wait a little longer before beginning his ride back to the village.17

As Murphy rode back into the camp, Brader waved him over to where he was sitting. Murphy came over, dismounted, and sat on a rock facing him.18

“Farley said you wanted to see me. What’s up?” Murphy said as he opened his canteen and took a long drink.19

“The others should be here soon. Did you see anyone coming our way?”20

“No. Can’t see too much beyond the mouth of the arroyo from up there. If they enter the arroyo Farley will spot them before they can reach this point.” Murphy put the stopper back in his canteen and moved back to loop the strap over his saddle horn. When he sat back down to face Brader, he saw the frown on his face and felt the penetrating stare from the ice blue eyes. Murphy stared back. He was the only one of the crew that was not afraid to face Brader’s gun. There was no difference in the speed at which either man could draw and fire. But Murphy felt that he was the better marksman, if he moved as he drew, he knew that Brader would miss – he would not.21

“Damn that Clyde!” Brader grunted. “I wish he had done his job right. We have a problem. We don’t know the strength of the Indian village. We are not even sure whether it is a temporary camp or a permanent camp. And all Clyde could say is it was one or two days south of here. Damn him.” 22

The anger in Brader’s voice grew as he spoke and Murphy recognized the signs of a killing rage beginning to form. “Well, I don’t think that it matters much.” Murphy spoke with such an off-handed attitude that Brader’s head snapped around to stare at him. “Really, it does not matter. There will be twenty of us, we will hit the village just at dawn, we have Winchesters and Colts and they have bows and arrows. If we can’t take them, then we deserve to fail.”23

Brader sat for a few seconds and just stared at Murphy. Then he burst out laughing, “Hell! You’re right Murph. If we can’t take this bunch of savages, then we really should fail.” He rose from where he was seated and started to walk back to where his Palomino was tethered. He stopped about half way there and stared at Clyde still sitting on the log with his head in his hands and laughed once again.24

Little Eagle could now make out the men riding toward the arroyo. He kept low and strained his eyes to take in as much detail as he could. He recognized one of the men riding in that group. He was Buffalo Killer, a Sioux Indian. He had joined with the white man’s army as a scout and had scouted for many forays of the army against the Apaches. Little Eagle had heard that the white man’s army had thrown him out after he was caught stealing from them. Little Eagle had never learned what he had been stealing, but there was one thing that a warrior never did; steal from his friends. So, now, the Sioux rode with the scalp hunters. Little Eagle felt the hatred fill him when he stared at the Indian. Slowly he slid down the back of the boulder and made for the seep where he had left his pony. A soft whistle brought the pony to him. Grabbing a hand full of mane he swung onto the horses back and began to ride slowly toward the desert floor. He moved across many rocky outcroppings and through a dried stream bed to hide any sign of his passing. He knew that this would not fool Buffalo Killer, but it would make him more cautious; he would know that an Apache had been very near him.25

When Little Eagle had reached a point three hours distant from the white man’s camp the sun was setting and the land began to grow dark shadows. He had been moving west, away from the arroyo and now he had to turn south, but the lack of a moon would make travel by night dangerous, and he knew that he could not risk having his pony injured by foolishly trying to force his way in the dark. He knew that he was very close to another of the hidden seeps that the Apache used for water when crossing this part of the desert. He would rest there and start his southern ride in the morning.26

The ten men rode in from the desert, and Farley had failed to warn Brader. Once again Brader’s temper flared. “Farley! I thought you would have learned from the lesson I gave Clyde. But, it seems, that you are dumber than he is.” And with that statement his hand flashed to his pistol and the report of the shot echoed throughout the arroyo. Farley’s hand had not even reached his pistol grip before the bullet from Brader’s Colt ripped through his heart. He fell with a surprised look on his face. Brader walked over and kicked the body, “Anyone else feel they do not have to follow orders?” Silence was the answer and it was clear that the message had reached them all. “Good, now we need to find out exactly where the village is,” he cast a glowering look at Clyde, “and exactly how many savages are in it. We also need to know the best way to approach it.” He looked around the gathered men and his gaze fell on Buffalo Killer. “Buffalo, I want you to do a scout. Clyde said the village is two days south of here… somewhere.”27

“Ugh.” Buffalo Killer grunted.28

“Get a count of the ponies and the teepees. That will tell us how many braves they have. Leave at dawn and we will follow by afternoon. If you find it return and find us. We will be heading south from here.”29

Without a sound the Sioux rose from where he had squatted and walked to his horse. He swung into the saddle (it was the one he had stole from the army) and left the arroyo at a walk. Near the mouth of the arroyo he spotted the trail to the ridge and turned his pony up it. When he had reached the top, he dismounted and walked back to the edge and waved down into the camp. Brader saw him and waved back.30

“He will leave before first light and we will follow after noon.” He turned to one of the new men and said, “Ride up the arroyo a ways and see if there is any water. Try and gather some logs for a fire, too.”31

Brader waved to another man, a squat heavy-set man with a pock-marked face. “Wilson, I want you to rig up a drag log. In fact make it two of them.” Wilson had served with Brader, then Colonel Brader, in the Confederate Army during the Civil War. They had used the drag log to cause a lot of damage to northern cavalry units. The log was tied at each end with rope and then dragged between two horses. The horses were sent galloping into the enemy’s lines and the log would slam into the legs of the horses causing broken legs or, at the least, thrown riders. They had used the technique twice against the Apaches but not against the horses. The horses were valuable. They would send the galloping horses through the center of the camp and the log would roll down people. Killing or maiming many. 32

“Yes, sir.” Wilson said looking around the barren arroyo, “I just wonder where I am to get the logs.”33

Brader waved his hand toward the direction he had sent the man to hunt for fire wood. “See what you can find up there. If nothing else we can try rigging the rope with rocks.”34

Wilson moved to his horse and mounted. “I’ll see what we can come up with, sir.”35

After riding up the arroyo for nearly two miles, Wilson found a place where some trees had been washed down the arroyo in a long past flood. He dismounted and taking the butt of his pistol began thumping on the logs, listening to the sounds they made. The first one that he hit broke under the impact; it was very rotten. He had worked his way through the pile and had found only two logs that he thought might be strong enough to make into drags. Looping his riata to the logs, he wound a loop around his saddle horn and began to drag them back to camp.36

“Hey, Wilson.” Came the call from the man sent to find water and firewood. “I found only some small branches, I am glad you found some logs for the fire.”37

“These ain’t for the fire.” Wilson called back, “There are some dried out logs about a half mile further up the canyon. I think there may be a small pool of water farther on. The ground had a lot of green stuff growing at the bend.”38

“Thanks! I’ll check it out. Let Brader know. Will ya?”39

“Sure.” Wilson rode on dragging the two long logs behind him. When he came into camp, he told Brader that the other man had gone farther up the canyon to check on water. Then he began trimming the logs so they would drag well. By the time that he had trimmed the logs so that no branches were left to dig into the ground and stop the horses, the man sent to find water and fire wood returned with both. Wilson went to his horse and removed a battered coffee pot from where it was tied behind his saddle. Out of his saddle bags he pulled a bag of coffee and some fatback and a frying pan. Then he built a fire and soon had the coffee boiling and the bacon frying. One of the other men had brought a pot and some flour and salt. He had soon maid some pan biscuits and, using the fat from the bacon, some gravy.40

When the food was ready Wilson fixed up a cup of coffee and a tin plate of food and carried it over to where Brader was sitting. “Well, colonel, it ain’t as good as we et in Georgia, but then there ain’t no blue-bellies shootin’ at us here either.” 41

After they had eaten and the utensils were scrubbed with sand and returned to their pack, all that is but the coffee pot, they set the watch and turned in. 42

The sky was just showing the first gray that heralded the dawn when Little Eagle woke. He when to the seep and drank from the small depression. Taking a piece of dried deer meat from the bag tied to his pony’s mane, he swung up onto the pony’s back and began his ride south. Speed was important but he was more concerned with concealing his passage as much as possible. He did not know if the white men knew exactly where his village was, and he did not want to lead them straight to it if they did not.43

He had been riding for about two hours and the sun was just cresting the tops of the hills to the east and the floor of the desert was taking on light. As he came near the top of a small hill he stopped his pony and dismounted. He moved to a place where he could see a long way down his back-trail. He stared for a long time but he was rewarded for his patience; he saw a movement. It was fleeting, but movement attracts the human eye, and it was the movement that had revealed Buffalo Killer’s position to Little Eagle. He was a long way back, but Little Eagle knew it was the Sioux. The scout was following his trail, and making good time.44

Little Eagle debated with himself about laying a trap for the Sioux, but decided that his most important mission was to get back to the village with his warning. He walked his pony over the crest of the hill among some boulders that broke the skyline. He was sure that he had not outlined himself against the sky and when he had dropped far enough down the trail, he mounted and began to ride. This time he spent little effort in hiding his tracks. He had let Buffalo Killer gain too much by being too cautious. Now, speed was his need. Putting his heels to the pony’s withers; he urged the horse to a trot. While he wanted speed, he could not risk his horse having an accident. Near sundown he stopped again to scan his back-trail. This time he saw nothing and that worried him greatly. He didn’t know whether Buffalo Killer had lost his trail or had just began being even more cautious. Either way, Little Eagle did not know where he was, and that meant that he was at a disadvantage. It also meant that he must risk riding through the night. If Buffalo Killer had closed the distance too much, there was a chance that he could find Little Eagle while he was camped. Little Eagle had heard the stories about the abilities of Buffalo Killer, and he had no doubt that the Sioux might be able to sneak up on him in the night. No, he had to ride through the night and trust that Shadow Runner would see any pitfalls and avoid them.45

The long hours of the night seemed to drag slowly by. Every sound carried the portent of discovery. Every gust of wind seemed to carry the smell of the Sioux. Little Eagle rode on, letting Shadow Runner pick the path. He began to notice that the sky was turning that deep purple-black of the pre-dawn. Soon the sky would turn grey and begin to show the land. Little Eagle was tired, but he could not stop now he was only a few miles, three hours ride in day light, from his village; he had to keep going. Shadow Runner had just started down into a small gully when his ears perked up and swiveled. His head came up, but he issued no sound. That told Little Eagle that someone was very, very close and they were trying not to be seen. Buffalo Killer. It could be no one else. Little Eagle slid from the back of his pony and began to work his way toward the place where Shadow Runner’s attention was focused. With a hand gesture he told Shadow Runner to stay where he was.46

Little Eagle knew that it was going to be dangerous; all he had was his bow and a quiver of arrows, and the Sioux had at least a rifle, and possibly a pistol. He had to find the Sioux and kill him before the Sioux knew he was there. Little Eagle was sure of his abilities; he had used them many times in hunting and in battle. He had killed men before, and would do so again to protect his tribe. It would be either the death of Buffalo Killer or his own. Either way it was the way of the Apache warrior.47

“It is a good day to die,” Little Eagle thought to himself, “but a better day for the Sioux to die.” A grim smile crossed his face and he crossed the lip of the gully and approached a small cluster of tall rocks that stuck up like the fingers of his had. Easing close to the base of the rocks where there was an accumulation of blown sand that cushioned his step he moved to the place where he was sure that Buffalo Killer was waiting. As he came to the edge of the rock, he spied the Sioux’s horse tethered to a small creosote bush.48

Buffalo Killer jumped. Buffalo Killer had climbed to the top of the last finger rock and had waited. Buffalo Killer had watched as the Apache had approached and when he was sure that he had the perfect position he had jumped. Whipping his knife from its sheath he had sprung toward Little Eagle. He hit Little Eagle with his feet and knocked him flat and gasping for breath and with two broken ribs.49

Gasping and with a terrible pain in his ribs Little Eagle had rolled to his back and had drawn his own knife. As Buffalo Killer landed Little Eagle thrust with his knife and sliced a long deep gash across the shoulder of Buffalo Killer. As he did he rolled to his right and saved his own life, Buffalo Killers knife rammed into the ground where Little Eagle’s heart would have been if he had not moved. Little Eagle’s left hand had come down on a large stone, and with swift action he had swung it backward. Shear chance brought the stone into contact with Buffalo Killer’s temple. The skull cracked and Buffalo Killer fell… dead.50

Little Eagle lay where he had fallen for a long time. He was barely able to move now that the need of battle was gone. His ribs hurt in his back and he found that Buffalo Killer’s knife had not missed him completely; he had a long cut running down the right side of his chest and it was bleeding heavily. Little Eagle sat up slowly and looked at the body of Buffalo Killer. He no longer hated him. In fact he felt nothing for him either way. He was an enemy, and he was dead. That ended it. Well, not completely. Little Eagle whistled softly and Shadow Runner came to him, he got up and climbed up onto the pony’s back. He rode to Buffalo Killer’s horse a few hundred feet farther behind the finger rocks. He untied it and led it back to the body. Climbing down he used most of his remaining strength to lift the body over the saddle. As Little Eagle was untying the lariat from the back of the saddle near the saddle bags, he found a brace of scalps. Anger flared in him once again. Cinching the body in place, he took the reins of the horse and climbed onto the back of Shadow Runner. “Come. We had sad news for Geronimo. We must get there fast Shadow Runner.” With that he put his heels to the flanks of Shadow Runner and tugged on the reins of the horse.51

When Little Eagle entered the village many of the warriors came to line the path to the chief’s teepee. His posture was that of someone fighting the failure of his body; his shoulders drooped, and his head seemed to be pulled forward and down with every step his pony took. As he approached the center of the encampment he saw that it was not Geronimo that stood there but Cochise his oldest brother. “Greetings Little Eagle.” Cochise said with a neutral face. He had seen the wounds on Little Eagle and the body on the led horse but knew that the warrior would tell him what had happened in his own way.52

“Greetings Cochise,” Little Eagle said as he slid from the back of his pony. His hand remained clasping the pony’s mane; he was too weak to stand without the support. “I bring sad news and a warning.” He turned and walked toward the horse where the body of Buffalo Killer was tied. He staggered slightly as he did. And a young warrior moved to his side. 53

So that it did not seem he was there to help Little Eagle, he put his arm around his shoulder and said, “What is it that you bring us? Are the Sioux dying all over the desert?”54

Little Eagle was grateful for the young warrior’s support, and for the way that he had offered it. “Help me get this dog meat from the horse Wild Crow. I must get something from the pack.” He leaned against the flank of the horse as he opened the saddle bags and removed the scalps. Forcing himself straighter and turning toward Cochise, he held out the brace of scalps. There were twenty of them. A murmur of anger issued from the gathered warriors, and some cries of loss from the women. “This,” He pointed to the body that had fallen at his feet, “was leading a band of scalpers here. They will come with or without him. There are many and they are armed with rifles and pistols. They intend to take scalps here to sell in the white man’s village to the south. They will be here within two to three days.” He told them of discovering the camp in the arroyo, the arrival of the others, the ride he had made to reach the village and the battle with Buffalo Killer. And as the last of his strength ebbed away and with his message delivered, he sank to the ground and fell to his side. He felt the cold hand of death grip him and he knew that it was his time. Yes, it was a good day to die. And he knew that there would be many white men joining him in death soon.55

With rapid strides Cochise had reached Little Eagle’s side and knelt with his hand on the warrior’s head. “Brother, you have done well. The ride of Little Eagle will be sung in many lodges from now to the end of the world.”56

The squaws moved in to prepare the body of Little Eagle for its burial. As they bore him off, Cochise turned to the other warrior’s and his voice rang with a battle cry. ‘Eeeeeelalallaeeeeeha!” The answering roar from the gathered tribe rang across the desert. 57

The scalpers never knew what happened but it was three hours before dawn of the third day and they were just beginning to wake from their night’s sleep when arrows by the hundreds began to rain into their midst. Of the nineteen riders twelve died in that first volley of arrows. The seven that were left gathered in the center of the camp and formed a ring and began firing into the dark. They had no target and spent ammunition uselessly. Not one Apache was so much as scratched. When the second wave of arrows descended six of the last seven died. There was only one man left, Brader. He stood and with a defiant scream began emptying his pistol into the night. No less than twenty arrows hit their mark.58

Cochise rode into the camp as the first light of sunrise illuminated the desert and he sat on his pony’s back as his warriors rifled through the possessions of the white men. As they found the scalps, the warriors took their vengeance out on the bodies of the dead men. Cochise called and the warriors mounted. They rode back to the village with over one hundred Indian scalps, and nineteen white man scalps. The Indian scalps were treated with honor and placed in a burial mound. The white men’s scalps were placed with the body of Little Eagle.59

That night as they gathered around a fire in the main lodge one of the older war chiefs began to chant the ride of Little Eagle.60

The End61