Savage Territory

Chapter One

Fort Bowie, Arizona Territory

It was hot and dry at Fort Bowie, where elements of the Eighth Cavalry were conducting their daily exercises. New recruits, under the watchful eye of sergeants, were at drill, both mounted and dismounted. Older hands were conducting work details, from mucking out stables to rubbing down horses, to making needed repairs on the various buildings of the post.

One hapless soldier, wearing a sign that said I WAS INSUBORDINATE, was walking around the perimeter of the post in uniform, carrying a fully loaded pack and rifle. He would be performing this punishment detail from sunup to sundown, the entire day, taking only a short, five-minute break every two hours.

The U.S. Cavalry, operating under a set of tactics known as Upton’s Tactics, was organized as ten regiments of three battalions each, with four companies to a battalion. Each company had one captain, one first lieutenant, one second lieutenant, and seventy-seven enlisted men.

The mounted trooper carried a light cavalry saber suspended from the waist belt. A pistol was carried on the right side, handle facing forward, in a large, flapped holster. He also carried a single-shot, breech-loading .45-caliber carbine, which hung from a carbine sling that was tucked into a leather socket affixed to the McClellan saddle just behind the trooper’s thigh.

Newly minted officers and new recruits alike were made to learn, and recite, the paragraph in the manual that dealt with horses.

Commanding officers must bear in mind that the efficiency of cavalry depends almost entirely upon the condition of the horse, which alone makes them able to get over long distances in short spaces of time. The horses must, therefore, be nursed with great care, in order that they may endure the utmost fatigue when emergencies demand it.

Elements of the Eighth Cavalry, under the overall command of General Crook, were stationed at Fort Bowie, and were engaged, and had been engaged for some time now, in pursuit of a militant band of Apache Indians led by Geronimo.

The bugle call for Officers’ Call was sounded, and the officers of A Company, First Battalion of the Eighth, assembled in the headquarters building in response.

Matt Jensen was one of those who responded to the bugle call. Although Matt was not an army officer, nor even in the army, he was currently employed as a scout for the army, and as such held the equivalent rank of a first lieutenant. He stood now at the window of the headquarters building, looking out over the quadrangle as he waited for the meeting to begin. Being a cavalry scout in pursuit of Apache Indians was not his permanent occupation. It was just an occupation that had temporarily caught his interest.

Matt was a wanderer, always looking for what was beyond the next line of hills or just over the horizon. When he was on the trail, he traveled light, with a bowie knife, a .44 double-action Colt, a Winchester .44-40 rifle, a rain slicker, an overcoat, two blankets, and a spare shirt, socks, trousers, and underwear.

Escaping from an orphanage when he was twelve, he was found more dead than alive by a man named Smoke Jensen. He learned everything he knew from Smoke, who took him in and raised him until Matt was old enough to go out on his own. It was then that Matt dropped the name Cavanaugh, which was the last name of his biological father, and took the name Jensen.

“Gentlemen, Colonel McKenzie,” someone announced, and all the officers stood respectfully as the post commander came into the headquarters.

“As you were, gentlemen,” McKenzie said. “Captain Trevathan has gone over his plans with me and I have given my approval. I leave you now to discuss your scout. Captain, the floor is yours.”

“Thank you, sir,” Trevathan said as Colonel McKenzie left. “Gentlemen, I call your attention to the Dragoon Mountains,” Trevathan said, pointing out the mountain range on a map that was pinned to the wall. “If every man in this company will follow my plan to the exact detail, I am confident that we will rid this country of the savage Geronimo once and forever. Our Indian scouts tell us he has made his camp here.”

Trevathan pointed to a spot on the map.

“Lieutenant Bristol, you will take your platoon out on scout to locate him. I will establish the rest of the company here. As soon as you locate him, send a heliograph signal informing us of the same. Once we receive your signal, we will launch the attack, smashing Geronimo once and for all.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Bristol said. “You are going to detach an entire platoon for a scout?”

“I am indeed.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if I just took a scout and a couple of signalmen with me?”

“I want the scout to be in strength, Lieutenant,” Trevathan explained. “That way, if Geronimo attempts to escape, you can be in position to block him.”

“Yes, sir,” Bristol replied, though the tone of his voice indicated that he was not happy with his orders.

Trevathan sensed Bristol’s unease. “I am going to be counting on you, Lieutenant. In order for this plan to work, I must be able to depend on you following my orders to the exact detail. You do understand the importance of that, do you not?”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Bristol said.

“Good. I’m glad that we understand each other. Now, gentlemen, I know that Geronimo has eluded the army for so many years that many of our troopers, I fear, have bought into the idea that he possesses mythical powers. But after this operation, that myth will be dispelled once and for all. If you follow my plan of operation to the exact detail, we will cut Geronimo to pieces, and the Eastern press will no longer make a hero of him.”

“Captain,” Lieutenant Bristol said. “With all due respect, sir, you have not encountered Geronimo before. You may find this operation more difficult than you realize.”

“Yes, well, I realize this will be my first scout since arriving out West, but I have taught military tactics at West Point for the last four years, so it isn’t exactly as if I am a novice in the art of warfare.”

Lieutenant Bristol cleared his throat, but said nothing.

“Our civilian scout has not commented,” Captain Trevathan said. He looked pointedly at Matt. “Mr. Jensen, what say you?”

“I’m not that impressed with your plan,” Matt said flatly.

Some of the others who were attending the briefing gasped in surprise.

“Really,” Trevathan said, obviously peeved by Matt’s comment. “And pray tell, Mr. Jensen, if it isn’t too much trouble, what is wrong with my plan?”

“I’ll be happy to tell you what is wrong,” Matt said, pointing to the map. “You have drawn this plan up as if you are engaging an organized army on a battlefield. You aren’t attacking an army, Captain, you are attacking smoke. Do you have tactics you can use against smoke?”

“You description is quite colorful, Jensen, but you are making my point. When you compare Geronimo to smoke, you are just perpetuating the myth. I will make allowances for your inability to understand the basic concept of this operation, Mr. Jensen, because you are just a civilian, and I cannot expect you to grasp the intricacies of military tactics. But this mission is one of classic cavalry deployment. And if we stick to our carefully prepared plan, as I fully expect us to do, the Indians will not escape.”

“Captain, I’ve been out here for a couple of years now, and I know the way these Apache devils operate,” Lieutenant Bristol said. “And I must confess that I believe there is something to what Mr. Jensen is saying.”

Trevathan turned his attention away from Matt and looked directly at Bristol. “Lieutenant, if I may ask, how did you get your commission?”

“I got a direct commission from the ranks, sir,” Bristol replied.

“A direct commission from the ranks?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lieutenant, I am not only a graduate of the Military Academy, but, as you well know, I taught military tactics there. Do you really intend to challenge me?”

“No, sir, I would never do that,” Bristol replied.

“I would hope not,” Trevathan said. “Now, gentlemen, by this time tomorrow we will have a victory to celebrate. Return to your men and prepare them for a midnight departure. I expect us to be in position, ready to strike, at dawn’s first light.”

By dawn the next day, in accordance with Trevathan’s operational plan, the company, minus Bristol’s platoon, had reached their debarkation point. Then, from a distant hill, there came a series of mirror flashes from the heliograph Bristol had carried with him.

“Lieutenant Manning,” Trevathan called.

“Yes, sir?”

“You are a signal officer, Lieutenant. What does the message say?”

“Indians spotted, moving north along Bitter Water Creek,” Manning read.

“By Godfrey, we’ve got him!” Trevathan said. “Men!” he shouted to the troopers. “Lieutenant Bristol has spotted the Indians! Get mounted. We are about to carry the fight to the enemy.”

Sergeant Emerson mounted first, then started up the dry creek bed.

“Sergeant Emerson, where do you think you are going?” Trevathan called to him.

“I’m going to take the point, sir,” Emerson replied.

“I want no one at point to give away our position.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but in terrain like this, you have to have someone riding point,” Emerson said.

“Sergeant, you are forgetting your place,” Trevathan said. “One more word from you and I will charge you with insubordination. Now, return to the company at once.”

“Yes, sir,” Emerson said and, as ordered, he returned to the main body as the others started toward their horses.

“Captain, if we are going to be riding up the creek bed without a point, then we should at least have flanker riders on either side,” Matt said.

“Thank you, Mr. Jensen, but you were hired as a scout, not as a tactician. Please refrain from any further suggestions along those lines. Flanker riders will slow us down.”

“It’s your command,” Matt replied.

“Yes, Mr. Jensen, in that you are correct,” Trevathan said. He stood in his stirrups, held his hand over his head, then brought it down.

“Forward, ho!” he ordered, and the company started forward at the trot.

Half an hour later, the dry creek bed narrowed precipitously, and Matt felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’, Mr. Jensen?” Sergeant Emerson asked.

“If you mean do I think it looks like we’re riding into a trap, yes,” Matt said.

“Maybe the cap’n ain’t noticed it,” Emerson suggested. He called up to Trevathan, who was riding at the head of the column. “Captain Trevathan, have you noticed how them walls is closin’ in on us?” Emerson asked. “This ain’t good, Cap’n. This ain’t good at all.”

“Thank you for your concern, Sergeant Emerson,” Trevathan replied. “We will continue according to the operational plan.”

“Captain Trevathan, sir, I agree with Sergeant Emerson,” Trooper Jones said.

“You, Trooper Jones? You agree with Sergeant Emerson? And so now I am to take advice from a private?”

“I haven’t always been a private, sir.”

“I’m well aware of the fact that you were an officer during the Civil War, Trooper Jones. But you are a private now, and I am in command.”

“Yes, sir,” Trooper Jones replied.

“Captain, you are aware of what happened to Custer, aren’t you?” Matt asked.

“That will be enough from you, Mr. Jensen,” Trevathan said. “As soon as we return from this scout, I intend to see Colonel McKenzie and have your service with the U.S. Army terminated.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Matt replied. “As soon as we get back—assuming we do get back—I intend to resign from the scout service.”

“Please do,” Trevathan said. “I think that would be best for you and the army.”

To Matt’s relief, they were not attacked while they were in the narrow ravine, but they made contact with Bristol without ever encountering the Apache.

“Where are they?” Trevathan said, obviously angry that they had not encountered the Indians. “Your signal said you had spotted them and they were coming toward us up Bitter Water Creek.”

“They were between us, sir. I don’t know what happened to them,” Bristol said.

“Are you sure you spotted them?”

“Yes, sir, we all saw them,” Bristol replied.

“Well, they couldn’t have just disappeared like—”

“Smoke, Captain?” Bristol said.

Trevathan glared at Bristol. “That’s enough, Lieutenant. You are bordering on insubordination.”

“Yes, sir,” Bristol said.

“Lieutenant Manning,” Trevathan called to his second lieutenant. “I want you to—”

“Injuns!” someone shouted, interrupting whatever order Bristol was about to give. A veritable cloud of arrows rained down on them, obviously a coordinated attack. The whishing sound of arrows was followed by cries from the horses, many of which had sustained multiple hits. There were also cries of fear and groans of pain from some of the men who had been struck.

“Dismount! Dismount! Form a skirmish line!” Trevathan ordered.

“Trevathan, no! We can’t dismount here! We have to get to more open ground!” Matt shouted.

“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.