Chapter One
“How come we don’t git to fight the Apaches, Sarge?” Levi Haines asked. His smooth black face was drawn into a frown and glistened with sweat in the Arizona heat as he struggled to match his sergeant’s long strides.
“Because we’re assigned here as scouts, Corporal.” Sergeant Daniel Hobbs clomped along the wooden sidewalk that led away from the company commander’s office. “You heard the cap’n. Right now our job’s to find Geronimo, not fight him.”
“I bet if we was white,” Levi persisted, “they’d let us take on them Indians.”
“You’ll get your chance to die soon enough,” Hobbs replied.
Levi’s eyes widened for a moment showing more white than usual, then he said, “Yeah, but don’t it bother ya, Sarge, not gettin’ to fight?”
“Sure it bothers me. That’s why I put in for a transfer.”
“A transfer,” Levi repeated, just as they reached Hobbs’ quarters. “Where?”
“An outfit up north.” Hobbs opened the rough plank door and paused. “Fall the men out. Field packs, weapons, thirty rounds of rifle ammunition per man, rations for ten days.” Then, ignoring Levi’s questioning look, he stepped into the dark opening to his quarters.
The room felt cool compared to the searing heat outside. Hobbs began taking pieces of equipment down from the pegs wedged into the adobe walls: a cloth-covered water canteen, a leather belt with cartridge pouch and holster and a sheathed Bowie knife. He withdrew the single-action Army Colt, checked the cylinder for load, then, with a resounding smack that was loud in the small room, thrust the weapon back into the holster.
He strapped on the gun belt and, with no wasted motion, stripped a blanket from one of the narrow bunks in the corner of the room. With a skill born of years of practice he rolled it into a tight cylinder and secured it with two leather thongs. Then Hobbs exchanged his small, peaked garrison cap for a sandy colored campaign hat with a broad brim turned up in front and a crown stained by years of sweat. He went to a crude stand against one wall and checked his reflection in the jagged sliver of smoky mirror hanging over the tin washbasin. The black eyes peering back at him seemed accusing. Maybe Levi’s right, Hobbs said to himself. It ain’t proper we don’t get to fight. I know what Cap’n Horner said, but we’re the best doggone soldiers in the U.S. Cavalry. I didn’t join the buffalo soldiers to shovel horse dung and let the white troopers do all the fightin’. Then he squared his shoulders, adjusted the campaign hat low across his forehead, and scowled at the mirror. “Forget it, Hobbs,” he said to the image looking back at him, “you’re a soldier. Act like it.”
After a quick look around the room he grabbed the .38-55 Winchester from its rack by the door and strode back out into the glare of the summer afternoon. Outside, astride a stout Army pony, Levi waited at the head of a column of ten mounted riders, all dressed in cavalry blue. Under fresh, near white campaign hats their black faces shone in the desert heat. The man directly behind Levi held a guidon, the flag emblazoned with the insignia of the Ninth Cavalry Regiment. Hobbs walked to where Levi held a waiting mount and rammed the rifle home in its scabbard, secured his bedroll, then took the reins and swung easily up into the saddle.
He glanced at his corporal. “Ready?”
Levi nodded, and they turned their horses and Hobbs raised his hand. “Column of twos – forward – ho!” The troopers wheeled into position and started across the parade square, a small billow of dust rising in their wake.
Hobbs felt a swelling pride as he led his squad through the sandy enclosure, past the twenty foot pole in the center of the square where the stars and stripes hung limp in the merciless heat. As they moved slowly toward the open gate in the high adobe walls, they passed an assortment of civilians and soldiers, nearly all white but with an occasional black or Mexican scattered among them. Hobbs was aware of each glance from the bystanders, and sat a little straighter in his saddle as he enjoyed the admiring looks on some of the upturned faces.
The squad passed a row of squat buildings that housed the sutler store and the officers’ quarters. As they came abreast of the commanding officer’s doorway, Captain Horner came out onto the wooden porch, leaned against a support post and lit his pipe. He watched the passing troopers through a cloud of smoke.
“Eyes right!” Hobbs barked, and rendered a crisp salute.
Horner took the pipe from his mouth, straightened to attention, and returned Hobbs’ salute. He’s a first-rate officer, Hobbs thought, as he stared into the other man’s cold blue eyes, even if I don’t always like what he says. He’s tough but fair, and ya can’t ask for more than that. His mind drifted back to the conversation of two hours before in Horner’s office. The Captain tapped on the territorial map hanging on one wall. “After Cochise died in ‘74,” he said, “the U.S. Government forced about four thousand Apache onto a reservation.” He pointed with his pipe. “Here, at San Carlos.
“Things were fairly peaceful while General Crook was Territorial Commander. But the officers who came after him...” Horner paused, as if giving careful thought to his next words. “Well,” he said at last, “let’s just say it didn’t work out. Some of the Apache got homesick. Others wanted to keep raiding into Mexico. And the Lord knows none of them had enough to eat. So a few of the tribal chiefs like Victorio and Nana started leading raids off the reservation. But now things have really gone to pot.”
“Geronimo?” Hobbs volunteered.
Horner nodded. “And a young buck named Sanchez. He’s wild and hotheaded. Some think he’s about ready to challenge Geronimo for leadership of the tribe.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Hobbs said.
Horner motioned to another section of the map. “I want you to take your squad and scout this area.” He tapped the new location with his pipe. “Near the Dragoon Mountains, Cochise’s old stronghold. See if you can locate Geronimo’s camp. If you do, get word back to me as fast as you can.” He paused, and fixed Hobbs with a firm look. “But your job is to find Geronimo, Sergeant, not engage him. Got that?”
Hobbs had tried to argue that he and his men were eager to fight but Horner would have none of it. “We’ve been all over this before, Sergeant,” he insisted. “That’ll be all.”
The memory of the stinging words jarred Hobbs out of his reverie. “Eyes front!” he snapped as he passed out of Horner’s line of sight. Then he adjusted his hat again and spurred his horse into an easy lope. The squad followed suit, and with the clank of equipment and the squeak of leather they moved through the gate toward the barren, rolling landscape. Hobbs looked back at his men, all riding stiffly and proudly as they passed out of the fort, under a plank with the words “Fort Huachuca, Arizona Terr.” burned into it.
Levi moved to Hobbs’ side. “Who is this Geronimo, Sarge?”
“Chief of the Chiricahua tribe. He took over after Cochise died.”
Levi smiled, his eyes filled with a mixture of excitement and curiosity. “What’s he like?”
“He’s got more guts than an Army mule,“ Hobbs answered. “And twice as ornery. The Mexicans killed his family a few years back so he don’t have too good a outlook on things. But near as I can tell he’s an honorable man. Good as his word. But this Sanchez is another story. Hear tell he likes to kill just for the sake of killin’.”
Levi’s smile faded, and Hobbs turned for a last look at the fort. Already the adobe walls were no more than a shimmering image in the distance, then quickly lost from sight altogether as he and his men dipped into a shallow ravine dotted with prickly pear. Ahead, giant saguaros, arrayed like a random army
of signposts, beckoned the soldiers with upturned arms to theopen desert – and the Apaches.
Hobbs and the Kid by John M. Sharpe will be available from Avalon Books in February, 2012.