“Goddamnit, Jensen, I’m in command here!” Trevathan screamed. “I said dismount!” he ordered again.
“Cap’n, Mr. Jensen is right!” Emerson shouted. “We can’t—unh!” Before he could finish his warning, a large-caliber bullet took off the back of his head, sending out a shower of blood, brains, and bone. Some of the detritus hit Trevathan in the face, and his eyes grew wide in shock as he wiped his face, then looked at his hand and realized what he was seeing.
“Remount,” Trevathan yelled, his voice edged with panic. “We must retreat!”
“No, we need to attack!” Matt shouted.
Trevathan remounted, then swung his mount around. “Retreat!” he ordered, spurring his horse into a gallop even as he gave the order.
As the men watched in shock and alarm the panicked action of their commander, Trevathan was hit in the back by an arrow. He fell from his saddle, but his foot hung up in the stirrup and the panic-stricken horse galloped at full speed up the creek bed, dragging Trevathan behind it. Trevathan’s head slammed against a big rock opening up a huge, gaping hole that left a trail of blood.
“Mount up!” Matt shouted to the soldiers, most of whom were staring at the scene of their commander being dragged through their midst.
“Bristol! Manning! Get your men in the saddle!” Matt said. “We need to attack now!”
“Mount up!” Lieutenants Bristol and Manning shouted, and the troopers, goaded into action, finally reacted.
“Column of twos, forward!” Matt shouted.
Mounted now, the cavalrymen felt a renewed sense of confidence in their leadership as they galloped out of the kill zone.
“Lieutenant Bristol!” Matt shouted.
“Yes, sir!” Bristol responded. Like the enlisted men, both Bristol and Manning had bowed to Matt’s authority.
“The Indians are on both sides of us. You go left, I’ll go right!”
“Yes, sir!” Bristol replied.
The galloping troopers split into two different directions. Very quickly, they came upon the Indians. The troopers had the advantage of superior numbers and mobility, and their surprise counterattack routed the Indians. Some were able to mount and ride away, but most of the others were on foot, and they ran from the attacking troopers, disappearing into the gullies and crevices that traversed the area.
“Company, halt!” Matt ordered, and the troopers, including the two lieutenants, responded to his command without question.
By now, nearly all the Indians had managed to escape. Then Matt saw one of them at some distance. The Indian was sitting on his horse, staring back at the cavalrymen without the slightest indication of fear.
“Trooper Jones, you know a lot of the Indians who left the reservation. Is that Geronimo?”
“No, sir,” Jones said. “That particular Indian goes by the name of Delshay.”
“Delshay?”
“Yes, sir. He isn’t nearly as old as Geronimo, but he’s damn near as smart.”
For a long moment, Matt and Delshay continued to stare at each other. Finally, Delshay turned and rode away, his leisurely movement giving evidence of his disdain for the army troops who had been in pursuit.
“Lieutenant Bristol?” Matt said.
“Yes, sir?”
“It is your command, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Bristol, now being the senior officer present, took command and the company, with twelve killed, including Captain Trevathan and Sergeant Emerson, returned to Fort Bowie. Nine of the returning cavalrymen were wounded, a couple of the wounds severe enough that the soldiers had constructed travois to bring the men back. The bodies of the dead were brought back, draped over their horses. Six horses had been so badly wounded that they had to be destroyed, and that required doubling up some of the bodies on the remaining horses.
Colonel McKenzie met the dispirited company as they rode through the gate.
“Where is Captain Trevathan?” McKenzie asked Matt.
“Belly down on one of the horses,” Matt replied.
“Lieutenant Bristol!” McKenzie called.
“Yes, sir?”
“I want you, Manning, Jensen, and the senior NCOs at headquarters as soon as you dismiss the men.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Bristol gave the report, mercifully not condemning Trevathan for his mistakes.
“Mr. Jensen, you are the senior scout,” McKenzie said. “It was your responsibility to keep Trevathan from riding into an ambush.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Bristol said. “But if it hadn’t been for Mr. Jensen, our losses would have been much higher.”
“Yes, sir,” one of the NCOs said. “Mr. Jensen, he saved our lives, is what he done.”
Matt Jensen tendered his resignation that very day. Two days later, he was on a train heading back up to Colorado, his experiment as an army scout concluded.
Chapter Two
Picket Wire Canyon, Colorado
To many, the metal bit jangling against the horse’s teeth, the hooves clattering on the hard rock, and the creaking leather saddle might be little more than a cacophony of disparate sounds. But to Matt Jensen, it was music, a symphony that defined the life he had chosen to live. In the six months since Matt had resigned his position as scout for General Crook, he had earned his keep in a variety of ways, from riding shotgun for Wells Fargo, to transporting a prisoner for the sheriff of Fremont County, to delivering a string of horses from Higbee, Colorado, to Belle Meade, Kansas. He was just returning to Colorado from the horse-wrangling job now.
Matt wandered from occupation to occupation because he wanted to, not because he had to. In truth, Matt had a rather tidy sum of money earning interest in a bank in Denver, the result of a very successful operation in which he and his friend and mentor, Smoke Jensen, had panned for gold. Smoke now owned a very productive ranch, and if Matt wanted to, he could probably own one as well. But Matt didn’t want to. He enjoyed the idea of being as free as tumbleweed, feeling at home anywhere he happened to be, but putting roots down nowhere.
Dismounting, Matt unhooked his canteen and took a swallow, then poured some water into his hat. He held it in front of his horse and the horse drank thirstily, though Matt knew that the small amount of water would do little to slake the animal’s thirst. Spirit drank all the water, then began nuzzling Matt for more.
“Sorry, boy,” Matt said quietly. “That’s the best I can do for now. But we’ll reach Crocker’s ranch before nightfall, and there will be water there for both of us.”
Before Ian Crocker got married and settled down, he and Matt had wintered together in the mountains. But Crocker married a schoolteacher and started a ranch. It wasn’t a large ranch, but it was successful enough that he was able to make a living at it. Now, Matt planned his trips so as to stop and call on his old friend from time to time.
Unbeknownst to Matt, even as he was approaching the ranch, there were four unwelcome visitors. The four were Burt Philbin, Deermont Cantrell, Abe Oliver, and Percy Morris. They had tried to hold up a bank in Bent Canyon, Colorado, only to run into a time-lock safe that prevented them from getting any money. Leaving the bank empty-handed, they barely escaped with their lives, and were forced to ride out of town under a hail of gunfire from the armed and angry population of the small town.
The four outlaws had happened across the ranch by accident earlier that same afternoon. There, Crocker’s generosity provided water for parched throats, and the promise of food for starving bellies.
“Where is Meechum?” Cantrell asked the others. Leaving the four would-be bank robbers to drink thirstily from his well, Crocker had gone back inside the house to tell his wife that they had unexpected company. Because of that, he was out of earshot and the men could speak freely.