Paradise Sky

8

It was a white man without any drawers, just wearing a red-and-white-striped shirt and a red neckerchief, and he was ru

Behind him, whooping and having as good a time as kids at a birthday party, was Indians. Apache, to be right on the money, dressed in little to nothing but sunshine and headbands. Four of them was on horseback, six of them was on foot, and for a moment I thought that naked man, his johnson slapping about, was going to outrun them horses. Closer he got I saw that the stripes on his shirt was crawling and ru

Them Apaches was so interested in chasing him down they didn’t even see us. He had either escaped them or they had let him go to have a game, cause I guess living out there with nothing but mesquite berries and some bushes you had to find your fun where you could get it.

The white man, though we was still a considerable distance away, had seen us by this time, and he started yelling at us and waving his hands as he run, flicking them left and right like birds taking flight.

“They’re fu

It was then that I remembered we was soldiers. I climbed up in the wagon and pulled that government-issue Spencer out of it, got down, and took me a spot standing, prepared to fire at the Apache that was closing in on the white man.

Rice said, “Hell, you can’t hit them from here, and neither can they bead in on you. We’re out of range, and I heard Indians ain’t good shots at all.”

One of the ru

Rice was wrong about the distance and Apache marksmanship. That Indian had beaded him down good with what appeared to be a Henry rifle. Rice got it right on top of the nose and fell over with his arms spread and thumped against the ground on his back, dead.

The Former House Nigger said, “I reckon they been practicing.”

It was in that moment that I learned a valuable lesson. Don’t never wait on shooting at something if you’re going to shoot. Had I not hesitated my shot would have most likely covered the distance and stopped that Indian from firing.

The Apaches that was on foot came down on that ru

One of the Apaches on horseback rode right at us. Someone in our group fired, and the horse took the shot. The Indian toppled to the ground, rolled, and came up on his feet, his horse having turned completely over on its back with its four legs in the air, like someone had upended a table.

All the other Indians had scampered back behind the rise, and the riding Indians had dismounted and pulled their horses down to the ground, out of sight. But that one Apache, he didn’t go nowhere. You can say what you want about the Apache, but they are about the bravest thing that ever lived—outside of a drunk preacher who thinks God is on his side and when deep in his cups thinks he is God.

This brave come ru

I figure that Apache notioned he had some big medicine, cause not a one of our shots hit him. He run right through that hail of bullets in haint-like fashion. As he got closer, I could see he had some kind of muddy paint on his chest and face, or maybe he was just filthy. He had a big grin, too, like he knew he was beyond the powers of our hot lead. He even paused—and I swear if I’m lying I’m dying—then he started to prance sideways, first to the left, then to the right. Our bullet-bees hummed around him, but none of them landed for the sting. With that big grin still on his face, he stepped in a hole and went down. Even from where we were, we could hear his ankle snap like a yanked suspender. Without meaning to, every one of us troopers went “Ooh.” It was so nasty-sounding it made us hurt.

That fall must have caused that Apache’s magic to fly right out of his ass, cause we all started firing at him again, and this time he collected all our bullets. He was deader than a government promise before the smoke cleared.

The Apache didn’t move from their spot on the hill. I’m sure seeing their partner made into a cheese grater gave them pause, brave or not. We popped off a few shots in their direction, killing one of the horses, whose head had managed to poke over the skyline. But to the best of my knowledge we didn’t hit nary an Apache.

We hustled up on that wagon and clattered it across that little creek. I crouched in the back, looking for Apache. Sure enough, they had come back down the hill, none of them with horses, having hidden them somewhere. There was more of them than before; it was like they had split into other Indians.

Firing commenced from within the trees, and I knew Prickly Pear and the other soldier, who I think was called Dash—though the years have clouded my memory of him, as he was the silent type—heard the commotion and was shooting at the Indians, covering what we would later politely call a retreat.

We come around behind the trees, banged the wagon down a little rise, and fetched up in there among the growth near the creek. Prickly Pear and this other fellow was spread wide of each other on their bellies, aiming their rifles across the creek, firing, reloading, firing. The Apaches was ducking into dips and draws we didn’t know was there until they disappeared into them like rabbits.

I had the horses unhitched quick-like from the wagon and placed with the remuda, which was between the trees. I made a firing line there at the creek. I put Bill to the rear with a tree at his back and one near his front for protection. I told him to watch for creepers and to yell out if he seen any. As it was, I was hoping we just had a front attack to worry about. The hill was long enough they could go wide on us, but even with them being Apache and the land being a confusion of drop-offs and gullies, I took it in my head that it would be hard for them to flank us. This from an old Apache fighter of about fifteen minutes.

I dug into my goods, got my Winchester, and strapped on that holster Mr. Loving had made with the LeMat in it. I stuck my Colt in another holster that slid toward my back, jammed the service pistol under the gun belt, then crouched over to the creek and dropped down on the ground flat as a leaf. There was a bush in front of me, and I hoped it might hide me. Someone among them Apache was a pretty good shot, having picked off Rice like that.

I watched as the Apache come along on their bellies, a head rising now and then to check things out, and then ducking out of sight. They somehow managed to cut the pecker off the dead Apache’s horse without us being any wiser until they shoved it in Hubert’s mouth, then propped him to a sitting position with a stick or something. This was meant to scare us, and it worked.