✯ Contents ✯
Map
iii
1
Trail of the Apache
1
2
You Never See Apaches . . .
60
3
The Colonel’s Lady
85
4
The Rustlers
107
5
The Big Hunt
132
6
The Boy Who Smiled
155
7
Only Good Ones
176
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Elmore Leonard
Credits
Cover
Copyright
About the Publisher
Map
1
Trail of the Apache
Under the thatched roof ramada that ran the
length of the agency office, Travisin slouched in a
canvas-backed chair, his boots propped against one
of the support posts. His gaze took in the sunbeaten, gray adobe buildings, all one-story structures, that rimmed the vacant quadrangle. It was a
glaring, depressing scene of sun on rock, without a
single shade tree or graceful feature to redeem the
squat ugliness. There was not a living soul in sight.
Earlier that morning, his White Mountain Apache
charges had received their two-weeks’ supply of
beef and flour. By now they were milling about the
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cook fires in front of their wickiups, eating up a
two-weeks’ ration in two days. Most of the Indians
had built their wickiups three miles farther up the
Gila, where the flat, dry land began to buckle into
rock-strewn hills. There the thin, sparse Gila cottonwoods grew taller and closer together and the
mesquite and prickly pear thicker. And there was
the small game that sustained them when their government rations were consumed.
At the agency, Travisin lived alone. By actual
count there were forty-two Coyotero Apache
scouts along with the interpreter, Barney Fry, and
his wife, a Tonto woman, but as the officers at Fort
Thomas looked at it, he was living alone. There is
no question that to most young Eastern gentlemen
on frontier station, such an alien means of existence would have meant nothing more than a very
slow way to die, with boredom reading the services.
But, of course, they were not Travisin.
✯ ✯ ✯
From Whipple Barracks, through San Carlos and
on down to Fort Huachuca, it went without argument that Eric Travisin was the best Apache campaigner in Arizona Territory. There was a time, of
course, when this belief was not shared by all and
the question would pop up often, along the trail, in
the barracks at Fort Thomas, or in a Globe barroom. Barney Fry’s name would always come up
Trail of the Apache
3
then—though most discounted him for his onequarter Apache blood. But that was a time in the
past when Eric Travisin was still new; before the
sweltering sand-rock Apache country had burned
and gouged his features, leaving his gaunt face
deep-chiseled and expressionless. That was while
he was learning that it took an Apache to catch an
Apache. So, for all practical purposes, he became
one. Barney Fry taught him everything he knew
about the Apache; then he began teaching Fry. He
And perhaps they were right. But Travisin understood the steps necessary to survival in an enemy
element. They weren’t included in Cook’s “Cavalry Tactics”: you learned them the hard way, and
your being alive testified that you had learned
well. They said Travisin was more of an Apache
than the Apaches themselves. They said he was
cold-blooded, sometimes cruel. And they were uneasy in his presence; he had discarded his cotillion
demeanor the first year at Fort Thomas, and in its
place was the quiet, pulsing fury of an Apache war
dance.
This was easy enough for the inquisitive to understand. But there was another side to Eric Travisin.
For three years he had been acting as agent at the
Camp Gila subagency, charged with the health and
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welfare of over two hundred White Mountain
Apaches. And in three years he had transformed
nomadic hostiles into peaceful agriculturalists. He
was a dismounted cavalry officer who sometimes
laid it on with the flat of his saber, but he was completely honest. He understood them and took their
side, and they respected him for it. It was better
than San Carlos.
That’s why the conversation at the officers’ mess
at Fort Thomas, thirty miles southwest, so often
dwelled on him: he was a good Samaritan with a
Spencer in his hand. They just didn’t understand
him. They didn’t realize that actually he was following the line of least resistance. He was accepting
the situation as it was and doing the best job with
the means at hand. To Travisin it was that simple;
and fortunately he enjoyed it, both the fighting and
the pacifying. The fact that it made him a better
cavalryman never entered his mind. He had forgotten about promotions. By this time he was too
much a part of the savage everyday existence of
Apache country. He looked at the harsh, rugged
surroundings and liked what he saw.
He shuffled his feet up and down the porch pole
and sank deeper into his camp chair. Suddenly in
his breast he felt the tenseness. His ears seemed to
tingle and strain against an unnatural stillness, and
immediately every muscle tightened. But as quickly
as the strange feeling came over him, he relaxed.
Trail of the Apache
5
He moved his head no more than two inches, and
from the corner of his eye saw the Apache crouched
on hands and knees at the corner of the ramada.
The Indian crept like an animal across the porch,
slowly and with his back arched. A pistol and a
knife were at his waist, but he carried no weapon in
his hands. Travisin moved his right hand across his
stomach and eased open the holster flap. Now his
arms were folded across his chest, with his right
hand gripping the holstered pistol. He waited until
the Apache was less than six feet away before he
wheeled from his chair and pushed the longbarreled revolving pistol into the astonished
Apache’s face.
Travisin grinned at the Apache and holstered the
handgun. “Maybe someday you’ll do it.”
The Indian grunted angrily. With victory almost
in his grasp he had failed again. Gatito, sergeant of
Travisin’s Apache scouts, was an
old man, the best
tracker in the Army, and it cut his pride deeply that
he was never able to win their wager. Between the
two men was an unusual bet of almost two years’
standing. If at any time, while not officially occupied, the scout was able to steal up to the officer
and place his knife at Travisin’s back, a bottle of
whiskey was his. For such a prize the Indian would
gladly crawl through anything. He tried constantly,
using every trick he knew, but the officer was always ready. The result was a grumbling, thirsty In- 6
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dian, but an officer whose senses were razor-sharp.
Travisin even practiced staying alive.
Gatito gave the report of the morning patrol and
then added, almost as an afterthought, “Chiricahua
come. Two miles away.”
Travisin wheeled from the office doorway.
“Where?”
Gatito spoke impassively. “Chiricahua come. He
come with troop from Fort.”
the wooden bridge across the Gila that was the end
of the trail from Thomas. They would come from
that direction. “Go get Fry immediately. And turn
out your boys.”
✯
Chapter Two
Second Lieutenant William de Both, West Point’s
newest contribution to the “Dandy 5th,” had the
distinct feeling that he was entering a hostile camp
as he led H troop across the wooden bridge and approached Camp Gila. As he drew nearer to the
agency office, the figures in front of it appeared no
friendlier. Good God, were they all Indians? After
guarding the sixteen hostiles the thirty miles from
Trail of the Apache
7
Fort Thomas, Lieutenant de Both had had enough
of Indians for a long time. Even with the H troopers riding four sides, he couldn’t help glancing nervously back to the sixteen hostiles and expecting
trouble to break out at any moment. After thirty
miles of this, he was hardly prepared to face the
gaunt, raw-boned Travisin and his sinister-looking
band of Apache scouts.
His fellow officers back at Fort Thomas had eagerly informed de Both of the character of the formidable Captain Travisin. In fact, they painted a
picture of him with bold, harsh strokes, watching
the young lieutenant’s face intently to enjoy the
mixed emotions that showed so obviously. But even
with the exaggerated tales of the officers’ mess, de
Both could not help learning that this unusual Indian agent was still the best army officer on the
frontier. Three months out of the Point, he was
only too eager to serve under the best.
Leading his troop across the square, he scanned
the ragged line of men in front of the office and on
the ramada. All were armed, and all stared at the
approaching column as if it were bringing cholera
instead of sixteen unarmed Indians. He halted the
column and dismounted in front of the tall, thin
man in the center. The lieutenant inspected the
man’s faded blue chambray shirt and gray trousers,
and unconsciously adjusted his own blue jacket.
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“My man, would you kindly inform the captain
that Lieutenant de Both is reporting? I shall present
my orders to him.” The lieutenant was brushing
trail dust from his sleeve as he spoke.
Travisin stood with hands on hips looking at de
Both. He shook his head faintly, without speaking,
and began to twist one end of his dragoon mustache. Then he nodded to the foremost of the Chiricahuas and turned to Barney Fry.
“Barney, that’s Pillo, isn’t it?”
“Ain’t nobody else,” the scout said matter-offactly. “And the skinny buck on the paint is Asesino, his son-in-law.”
Travisin turned his attention to the bewildered
lieutenant. “Well, mister, ordinarily I’d play games
with you for a while, but under the circumstances,
when you bring along company like that, we’d better get down to the business at hand without the
monkeyshines. Fry, take care of our guests. Lieutenant, you come with me.” He turned abruptly
and entered the office.
Inside, de Both pulled out a folded sheet of paper
and handed it to Travisin. The captain sat back,
propped his boots on the desk and read the orders
slowly. When he was through, he shook his head
and silently cursed the stupidity of men trying to
control a powder-keg situation two thousand miles
from the likely explosion. He read the orders again
Trail of the Apache
9
to be certain that the content was as illogical as it
seemed.
HEADQUARTERS, DEPARTMENT OF ARIZONA
IN THE FIELD, FORT THOMAS, ARIZONA
August 30, 1880
E. M. Travisin. Capt. 5th Cav. Reg.
Camp Gila Subagency
Camp Gila, Arizona
You are hereby directed, by order of the Department of
the Interior, Bureau of Indian Affairs, to place Pillo and
the remnants of his band (numbering fifteen) on the
Camp Gila White Mountain reservation. The Bureau
compliments you on the remarkable job you are doing
and has confidence that the sixteen hostile Chiricahuas,
placed in your charge, will profit by the example of their
White Mountain brothers and become peaceful farmers.
The bearer, Second Lieutenant William de Both, is, as
of this writing, assigned to Camp Gila as second in com-
mand. Take him under your wing, Eric; he’s young, but I
think he will make a good officer.
EMON COLLIER
BRIGADIER GENERAL COMMANDING
He looked up at the lieutenant, who was gazing
about the bare room, taking in the table, the rolltop
desk along the back wall, the rifle rack and three
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straight chairs. De Both looked no more than
twenty-one or -two, pink-cheeked, neat, every inch
a West Point gentleman. But already, after only
three months on the frontier, his face was beginning to lose that expression of anticipated adventure, the young officer’s dream of winning fame
and promotion in the field. The thirty miles from
Fort Thomas alone presented the field as something
he had not bargained for. To Travisin, it wasn’t a
new story. He’d had younger officers serve under
him before, and it always started the same way,
“. . . take him under your wing . . . teach him
about the Apache.” It was always the old campaigner teaching the recruit what it was all about.
To Eric Travisin, at twenty-eight, only seven
years out of the Point, it was bound to be amusing.
The cavalry mustache made him look older, but
that wasn’t it. Travisin had been a veteran his first
year. It was something that he’d had even before he
came West. It was that something that made him
stand out in any group of men. It was the strange
instinct that made him wheel and draw his handgun
when Gatito stol
e up behind him. It was a combination of many things, but not one of them did
Travisin himself understand, even though they
made him the youngest captain in Arizona because
of it.
And now another one to watch him and not understand. He wondered how long de Both would last.
Trail of the Apache
11
He said, “Lieutenant, do you know why you’ve
been sent here?”
“No, sir.” De Both brought himself to attention.
“I do not question my orders.”
Travisin was faintly amused. “I’m sure you
don’t, Lieutenant. I was referring to any rumors
you might have heard. . . . And relax.”
De Both remained at attention. “I don’t make it a
practice to repeat idle rumors that have no basis in
fact.”
Travisin felt his temper rise, but suppressed it
from long practice. It wasn’t the way to get things
done. He circled the desk and drew a chair up behind de Both. “Here, rest your legs.” He placed a
firm hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder and half
forced him into the chair. “Mister, you and I are
going to spend a lot of time together. We’ll be either
in this room or out on the desert with nothing to
think about except what’s in front of us. Conversation gets pretty thin after a while, and you might
even make up things just to hear yourself talk.
You’re the only other Regular Army man here, so
you can see it isn’t going to be a parade-grounds
routine. I’ve been here for three years now, counting White Mountain Indians and making patrols.
Sometimes things get a bit hot; otherwise you just
sit around and watch the desert. I probably don’t
look like much of an officer to you. That doesn’t
matter. You can keep up the spit and polish if you
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want, but I’d advise you to relax and play the game
without keeping the rule book open all the
time. . . . Now, would you mind telling me what in
hell the rumors are at Thomas?”
✯ ✯ ✯
De Both was surprised, and disturbed. He fidgeted
in his chair, trying to feel official. “Well, sir, under
the circumstances . . . Of course, as I said, there is
no basis for its authenticity, but the word is that
Crook is being transferred back to the Department