Apache Gunhawk Read online

The Apaches had kept the southwest in turmoil, now for almost twenty five years, while Bill Noonan’s gang rode rampant over the southwest. Tom and Little Bill had grown to adulthood and now rode with the gang regularly. Bill had taught the boys much and leaned on them heavily for support, now that Sid Denglert was getting old and not quite as sharp or even as capable, physically, as he had once been. Bill still looked to Sid for his advice and Sid always rode on the raids, even if he only stayed in the saddle while the others went into the banks and express offices.

  Tom Noonan had grown to his full height of just below six feet, now at twenty three, and was a capable young man. Very good with a gun and horse, but he lacked the native ruthlessness needed when on a job. Little Bill on the other hand, had grown to be a tall, imposing figure of a man. He excelled with a pistol and he liked using it. He took to bank robbery like a natural. For years now the Noonan gang had continued to ride roughshod over the southwest. Their only real competition seemed to be the marauding Apaches.

  The great Apache leader named Goyathlay, meaning ‘One Who Yawns’ kept the Army at bay with his daring raids. He had hated the whites intensely since his wife, his mother and three young children were murdered by Spanish troops from Mexico in 1858. His hatred was so strong that it spread to all whites, not just the Spanish. He took every opportunity to terrorize settlements, wagon trains, and homesteaders, wreaking havoc on both sides of the border. His name became legend. No longer Goyathlay, but the feared and infamous battle leader, known as Geronimo.

  His exploits kept the southwest ever vigilant. No one knew when Geronimo would strike next. At times the Apache would seem to have settled down and then without warning the war drums and the battle paint would once again begin.

  Geronimo’s exploits were many times a fortunate diversion for Bill Noonan’s gang. At other times, the marauding Indians would be just another obstacle in their way, while trying to elude sheriffs and posses. Over the years, the Noonan gang often returned to the southwest, hitting a town quickly, robbing a bank or express office and escaping quickly, leaving the law at the disadvantage of having to trail them through Apache country. Of course this also posed additional dangers to the gang, but shooting it out with Indians did not damage their reputation as much as if they shot it out with the law.

  The gang had hit Las Cruces early in the morning of May 12, 1878 relieving the bank of an excess of fifty thousand dollars. Bill and Little Bill had simply walked into the bank, while Tom, Sid and Charlie watched the street. And before the town law could be notified, the bandits rode casually out of town before putting their mounts into a gallop and headed northeast into the hills. Bill Noonan was feeling good about this morning’s work and was pleased that it had gone off without a hitch. There had been no need for violence, and except for the banker’s chagrin no one had been hurt.

  His elation soon dissipated as they rode further up into the hills. Near noon, they began to see smoke signals and there was the sound of war drums in the distance. The Apache was once more on the prod.

  Shortly after noon as they rode out of the hills onto the expansive flatness of the New Mexico desert, they spotted a war party of about a dozen warriors. They were silhouetted against the clear blue sky, as they sat atop their horses, spread out in a long line across the mesa to the North.

  Little Bill saw them first, reining his horse up sharply and bumping into his father’s mount with urgency and surprise. “Yeah, I see them,” Bill said almost casually, trying not to show his concern, and failing miserably. The hackles on the back of his neck bristled and he felt like he could smell death in the air. “We keep on riding, steadily, just as we have been. Don’t panic and don’t let on that we see them.”

  He had no sooner uttered these words, when the war party faded back and disappeared behind the skyline of the mesa. “Where’d they go?” Tom asked. “Think they’ve gone?”

  “Wouldn’t count on it,” Sid muttered around his cud of chewing tobacco, then spit to the side with some of the spittle seeping into his already tobacco stained bristly gray beard. “Most likely they’re just taking a back trail down from the mesa. I’m betting we’ll know in about three minutes.”

  It didn’t take that long, however. For as soon as he said it, Sid saw them emerge from the base of the mesa. Wild yells and war hoops filled the air and dust billowed up around the pounding hooves of the warriors’ horses as they kicked them into action and galloped after the small band of outlaws.

  The five gang members whipped their horses with the reins and spurred them into a full gallop. Bill Noonan had wished that they had had the foresight to rest their horses earlier, but fear of a posse being formed and in pursuit of them had precluded them from taking the time. The Indians were still quite aways back and hopefully their horses would tire before they caught up to the bandits. But as they galloped on, the outlaw’s horses began to falter. Lather foamed over their chests and flanks and their breathing became labored.

  The sound of the approaching Indians became louder, indicating that the war party was fast gaining on them. The outlaws’ furtive glances behind them verified it was so, prompting them to punish their horses further; trying to get every ounce of strength and distance out of them.

  As the war party advanced to within rifle range, the warriors that had them, began to fire. Hot lead burned across the rump of Charlie’s horse and he bucked violently, kicking his hind legs out from under him and almost nosing the desert sand as he bent his head downward and between his front legs. Charlie slid in the saddle, almost falling out, but managed to hang on and eventually bring his mount under control. But he had lost ground and was now behind the rest of the gang; the Indians gaining on him rapidly.

  At first none of the others noticed what had happened, but then as Tom Noonan glanced back to see how close their attackers were, he saw Charlie struggling with his horse. “Charlie!” Tom shouted instinctively. He pulled rein hard and his horse wheeled around, all four legs sliding in the loose sand. The scene before him played out in a blur and slow motion all at the same time. The band of Apaches were barreling down on Charlie; the lead warrior, riding without holding reins, hands free to wield a Winchester repeating rifle that was aimed directly at the aging outlaw.

  As Tom came around, he pulled his six gun from its holster and fired without taking time for deliberate aim. The warrior fell backwards, arms out stretched in the air, his rifle flying skyward, as Tom’s bullet hit its mark in the middle of the Indian’s bare chest. His horse seemed to gallop out from under him and the warrior landed on his back in the sand, with his companions trying to avoid his body as they continued their pursuit.

  Charlie, with his horse under control, reined his horse around and sent him racing after his companions, who had now realized what was happening and were pulling at their horses’ reins, slowing down and half turning to face the raging Apaches.

  Bill and Sid had their pistols out and firing into the melee as Tom started to turn back to follow Charlie. Little Bill swung his mount wide of the gang, dragging his Winchester from its scabbard, and taking the reins between his teeth. He raised the weapon to shoulder level, sighting across the gleaming barrel and squeezed the trigger as fast as he could lever shells into the chamber. Methodically from left to right, he pumped bullets into the marauding Indians, felling four of them in as many seconds. The remaining warriors tried to pull up sharply and sent their mounts into a frenzy, stirring up great clouds of dust. Bill and Sid added to the fire with their pistols and two more redskins hit the ground.

  Apaches were fierce warriors and cowardice was not one of their traits. But they were not stupid. They always knew when it was prudent to retreat in the face of defeat. It was always better to fight another time. What was left of the war party, faded back, then turned and rode back the way they came.

  Even though the Apaches had retreated and the gang’s horses were spent, the Noonan’s knew better than to hang around. Without a word to one another, they pushed their mounts onwar
d across the desert as fast as possible.

  The band of outlaws steadily rode northeastward toward Colorado for the rest of the afternoon. That night the Noonan’s found a place to hole up for the night. It was a secluded spot among several large rocks and boulders scattered about at the base of a low bluff that cast early afternoon shade as the setting sun went down behind it. There was water and some grass, though sparse, there. When they had found this spot toward the end of the day, they had decided not to push their luck and to make camp early even though there were still a few hours of daylight left. The men and the horses were beat and they needed the rest. Especially, the horses. It had been a wonder that they had not lost a single mount, given the way the horses had been mistreated.

  The weary band settled down for the night. They took turns keeping one man on watch while the others slept. The war drums in the distance kept up there monotonous beating well into the night before ceasing to a silent, ominous warning of impending danger.

  A few hours before dawn, the party saddled up and rode out of their temporary sanctuary, getting an early start and keeping to shadows and off skylines as well as avoiding open areas as much as possible.

  They rode on through the chill of early morning and into the sweltering heat of mid-morning. The sun having had now risen above the peaks of the Mogollons and exploding into a brilliant orb. So far they had seen nor heard anything of the Apache, but that did not mean the Apache had not seen them for when an apache could not be seen, that was the time one should be most wary.

  As the riders began to ride up out of the desert into higher country, keeping close to the base of a buttress of shale rock to their right, they made their way through a narrow pass which took them to a precipice where they would be able to see for miles ahead. Once again they would be heading into open territory, but at least they would be able to purvey the area far enough ahead to see what dangers may be lurking there.

  They reined up sharply as they neared the precipice, Bill Noonan raising his hand to signal the rest to a halt. As the sound of their horses’ hoofs on the sliding stone and the sounds of creaking leather and chinking of trappings ceased, they listened intently. Bill had thought he had heard it, but now that they were all sitting silent, it was plain. The sound of guns, were booming in the distance and firing in rapid succession. There seemed to be a lot of them. The outlaw band looked warily to each other. No one said a word, as they shucked rifles from their saddle scabbards.

  Holding the rifles with one hand, stocks propped against the saddle and barrels pointed skyward, the men, carefully and slowly, rode forward, keeping their mounts at a silent steady walk toward the precipice. As they neared the opening, Bill motioned for them the halt and dismounted. The others followed suit, leaving the horses ground hitched with trailing reins. They bent low to keep from being skylined, and crept forward until they could peer over the top and gaze down into the valley below.

  From here they could see a vast rolling expanse of flat land. Sid rolled his tobacco cud and said with disgust and awe, “What the devil are those fools doing out here in Apache country?”

  Down below was a wagon train. There were about twenty wagons and they had formed a circle, creating a barricade and keeping their stock inside. Men lay prone beneath wagons and others crouched with rifle barrels slung over wagon tongues firing at the war party that had attacked them and was riding and shooting as they circled the caravan. This was a much bigger party than the Noonan’s had met up with the day before. More of them had rifles, although many still used only bows and arrows.

  Several of the wagons were on fire from flaming arrows and there were bodies of men women and children strewn about the inside perimeter of the train, with arrows protruding from them.

  The protectors of the train had brought down several warriors as they had openly and blatantly rode close to the wagons, but clearly the settlers were losing the fight as more and more riflemen fell mortally wounded from enemy fire.

  “We going to help them?” Tom asked, looking to Sid and his father.

  “What? And let them know we’re here?” Charlie Noonan rasped. “We’d be fools too, if we horned in.”

  Bill Noonan glared at Charlie with his usual disappointment, then grimaced, turned, levered a round into his Winchester and fired. An Apache with a full headdress fell from his saddle.

  Sid shrugged, “Guess we’re fools,” he said as he slung his rifle forward under him and started firing. The others followed suit and soon the air was totally filled with the sound of booming guns. At first, neither the attacking Apaches nor the defending settlers noticed that a new force had joined into the fray. But, as Indian ponies started dumping bodies in rapid succession, the attackers soon realized they had been caught in a crossfire and started to pull back in retreat. The wagon train men, now realizing that they had help, and the Apaches were now caught at a disadvantage, began to rally with new hope and aggressiveness; levering their weapons and firing even faster than they had before. The force of the war party had suddenly dwindled drastically, with red bodies littering the ground. The remaining warriors, danced their mounts around, falling back, kicking up dust and firing; their attention split between the two forces of returning fire. Then seeing the futility of the situation, they wheeled their ponies and rode off beyond the western horizon.

  The Noonans were on their feet by now, still firing their weapons at the retreating marauders. Charlie laughed gleefully, as he stepped forward, repeatedly pulling the trigger and spilling additional braves from the backs of their horses as they retreated. The men from the wagon train continued to fire, but as the Indians rode farther on, the firing slowed to a sporadic crescendo ,until the sound of rifle fire ceased all together.

  Bill sighed with relief and ceased firing. “That’ll do, Charlie!” He shouted over the booming of his uncle’s firing. Charlie kept on, ignoring Bill, as if he didn’t hear him, which he probably didn’t; so absorbed was he in shooting redskins. Tom reached out and pulled the barrel of Charlie’s rifle downward. A slug buried itself in the dirt just ahead of the old man’s feet. “I said, that’ll do. They’ve had enough.” Bill repeated.

  Charlie glared at him, his eyes glazed over, and then as if returning to a sense of reality, they lightened up and he said. “Dang, I was just getting pumped up.”

  “We’d better get down there to the wagon before those red devils decide to come back,” Sid warned.

  “But we put them on the run, Sid,” Little Bill said.

  “For now,” Sid retorted. “They usually attack in waves. If so, they know we’re here this time and will send a separate force after us. It’s best if we hole up with the wagon train. We’ll have better fortification there.”

  “Then we’d better get moving,” Bill Noonan said, turning and heading back for his horse.

  The band of outlaws wasted no time in saddling up and riding down the bank toward the open ground below. They had just ridden out onto the plain into the open, with the train still a distance off, when, both, the southern and western horizons came alive with galloping horses and wildly yelling Apaches. They were back in a larger force this time, attacking from two directions, in order to cover both the wagon train and the interlopers who had spoiled the last attack.

  The gang kicked their horses into a full gallop, spreading out almost single file as they rode hell bent for the wagons. The men from the wagons, were firing again now, shooting over the heads of the oncoming riders and providing some cover.

  The riders drew their six guns, half turned in the saddle and fired haphazardly, hoping to keep the oncoming attacker somewhat at bay. But, it seemed to do no good. The attacking force was swooping down on them too fast. They stopped the return fire and turned their total attention on riding for sanctuary in the confines of the wagon circle.

  Tom Noonan was trailing a bit behind, his mount faltering as an arrow buried itself into the horse’s left flank. Then with a crash, the animal fell, spilling Tom from the saddle. He landed with a
thud on the hard-packed ground, driving wind from his lungs and sending pain up his entire right side. He rolled instinctively, coming up into a half sitting position. A brave was riding down on him, bow and arrow poised to shoot him. Tom brought his pistol up and fired point blank, taking the Indian full in the chest. The warrior fell from horseback just feet away and in front of the young outlaw. Tom skittered aside to miss the oncoming horse, started to rise, and was halfway to his feet when he was thrown backward with tremendous force and pain seared through his upper right shoulder, blood spurting from the hollow just beneath his clavicle and spread into a crimson circle around the arrow embedded there.

  The Apache that had just shot him, was almost on top of him now, his paint pony barreling past him. The warrior leaned from the horse’s back, dropping his bow and diving onto the injured outlaw. It was all a blur to young Tom Noonan as the savage came down violently on him, pushing him flat to the ground while a horde of Indian ponies rushed closely past the rolling duo.

  The warrior’s painted face loomed an inch above Tom’s and the young man could feel his attacker’s hot breath and smell the grease that had been plastered over his body and mixing with his sweat. The Apache’s dark eyes were piercing with savage menace, and as his left arm held the outlaw’s body down, his right hand raised the knife high, arcing it for a swift blow to his captive’s heart.

  Then as if time stood still, the brave seemed to freeze in place, his gleaming weapon held high, as he caught sight of the beaded necklace with a hawk amulet hanging around Tom Noonan’s neck and spilling out of his open shirt. The warrior’s eyes focused on it in surprise; then with a lunge, he brought the knife straight downward. The outlaw cringed, clenching his eyes shut, waiting and ready for the slicing blade to tear the life from him. But, it didn’t come. The blade slashed past his head and drove hilt deep into the dirt.

  As Tom opened his eyes, the savage was ripping the necklace from around his neck. “Don’t move until we are gone. Now we are even,” he heard the Indian growl between clenched teeth. “Next time, we are enemies.” He pushed himself upright and away from the fallen bandit. He caught up his pony, swung aboard and rode away from the war zone and disappeared over the western horizon.

  By now the rest of the gang had made it to the wagons, jumping their horses over the wagon tongues that separated the parked Conestogas. They had leaped to the ground, dragging their rifles from the saddles and letting their mounts run on inside the circle; quickly taking their places beside the wagon train protectors and starting to pour lead into the attacking Indians. It was only now that they had realized that Tom was not with them then. When they finally spotted the young man, they saw that he was in trouble and had gone down, with an attacking warrior on top of him and slashing away with his knife, before jumping to his feet, leaving Tom lying still on the ground while he swung aboard his pony and rode away. They turned their fire toward this one Apache, but he had ridden out of range.

  With red hot anger, Tom’s companions fired rapidly and viciously into the sea of red bodies. Rifle barrels ran hot, as painted savages fell to the ground with their ponies running aimlessly and riderless. By God, these red devils were going to have to pay for what they had done to Tom.

  CHAPTER FIVE