BESERK! Read online

  Their captors were Apache…dark skinned, squat, brawny men. Dark colored headbands held their ragged long hair in place. Their rag-tag clothes were those scavenged from the corpses of soldiers, ranchers, cowhands. They looked incongruous in their outfits, misplaced heads on misplaced bodies.

  A cruel looking warrior strode forward; Mongoloid eyes, high cheek bones, flattened nose and thin lips. His coal black eyes watched each passenger, coldly reptilian-like. His lips seemed to stretch into a smile but ended into a smirk showing pure disdain.

  “Loco Chita!” He proudly thumped his chest in self introduction.

  Gasps of fear erupted from the passengers. Time seem to stop. Silence dropped. Loco Chita was the most dreaded Apache outlaw in Apacheria. He seemed to petrify everything, even nature.

  Suddenly, all were aware of the struggling wounded horse. In blind fury he drew out a machete and slashed at the neck. Hacking again and again with contempt. As if the injured animal should have not interfered in his proceedings.

  The painful harsh death cries of the horse were amplified by the desert silence. The woman fainted and fell. Nobody moved. The heat and the silence were dense. The other horses snickered nervously. The machete threatened to strike but stopped as fast as it started. A live horse was worth a lot in these parts.

  Loco Chita turned and ordered in a guttural tone. The three male passengers were taken captive. The woman was roughed up and brought to her senses. She would satisfy their carnal pleasures later. The male passengers would quench their blood lust.

  x x x

  Along the western skies the sun had reached its abode. Over El Stringo vultures circled the skies. Ready to land for the abundant flesh-feast spread on the desert floor. Three men lay staked to the desert floor, their skin badly sun burnt, pink and blistered.

  The woman lay naked, her legs bloodied from waist down. Her senses lost from senseless beatings.

  Yards away lay the corpses of four soldiers, two guards and the coach driver. Beyond this lay the roasted half eaten carcass of the horse. Hardly did the Apaches move away than the vultures swooped down in numbers. The sun turned blood red to match its shade with the carnage at El Stringo.

  Chapter 2: Code Among The Apaches

  The bereaved man sat nursing his drink. The candlelight etched the lines of sorrow deeper into his face. He had lost two sons and a daughter-in-law in the El Stringo’s carnage. They were the last of his kin. Now his life and the large amount of wealth he had amassed meant nothing to him. All he wanted was to watch Loco die, slowly and painfully. All he aimed to do was to avenge the death of his family. So he had hired a bounty hunter Jusaz, a half-breed Mexican all the way from Mexico. It was said that the half-breed was no different from the Apaches, even worse.

  The bereaved man had offered him a huge sum of gold for Loco’s corpse. And double if he could get the renegade Apache alive. Now all the man could do was to sit in his lavish hacienda and wait for news from Jusaz and his band.

  x x x

  The old Apache, Jubela, worked alone in his lodge, on a wooden carving. Until he was disturbed by his trusted lieutenant Viegaz. “Guards come to see you Jefe—chief”

  One of the guards peeped in. “Captain Franklin wants to talk to yo’ Chief, come pronto”

  Captain Franklin Canby headed the garrison of Fort Santiago. The captain was an unpleasant man and was disliked by his own men too. People acquainted with him said he was a cross between a coyote and a sidewinder. It was always bad when he summoned someone out of the blue.

  Old Jubela sighed and stood up; it was never good to keep the captain waiting.

  Outside the lodge, the morning heat was just beginning to grow. Residents of the other lodges were busy in their morning chores. They silently greeted Jubela as he passed, heading towards the fort. He was an elder and was revered by every one on the reservation.

  The log and adobe structured Fort Santiago was built on a bluff meant to keep a watch over the Apache reservations on the dry arroyo below. To the already existing cannons a few more howitzers were added. All of them directed to the reservation below.

  “Ah welcome, O Great Chief!” the captain called when he saw Jubela. The mockery in his voice was evident. He remained seated, a half filled whisky glass on his table, and he waved the old man to a crude wooden chair. The loyal Viegaz followed but was rudely waved out by the captain.

  Captain Franklin was a burly and balding man with fuzzy eyebrows and mustache. A squint in his eyes gave him a permanent look of jeering. He greedily gulped the whisky and wiped the dribble on his unshaven jaw with the back of his hand.

  Only then he began to tell Jubela about the atrocities committed by Loco.

  Jubela sat in a mummified stance, listening. His face deeply lined with wrinkles, long steel grey hair parted in the centre. Slowly the stance broke and the old man sighed deeply. This old Indian was the grandfather of Loco Chita and was greatly pained to hear of Loco’s infamous activities. The hot-headed Loco claimed his killings to be a war against the Palefaces or the US citizens who had grabbed all his Apacheria—all Apache land.

  The vast territories of New Mexico, Arizona and some part of Old Mexico across the border comprised to make up Apacheria. The Apache were simple people living off the barren desert land in small communities called rancherias. Often they raided the other Indian tribes like the Hopis or the Navajo. It was their way until the Palefaces arrived in search of the cursed oro—gold. Slowly the newcomers were encroaching their land by guile or by force. Turning the very owners into outcast or outlaws.

  In return they had the Apaches displaced on small lands called reservations. Here they were numbered like cattle and fed on rationed food. Jubela and the last of his tribesmen were on one such reservation, High Shoulder.

  Loco’s activities did not make Jubela and his kin’s lives any better. Though to the world Loco was labeled a rebel, his grandfather knew he was nothing but a blood lusty Indian. As his name suggested Loco—meaning Crazy in crude border land Spanish.

  Every time Loco slaughtered or marauded the US citizens, its dire effects were felt on the inmates in the reservations. The two rationed meals a day was reduced to one. The day before, bread was moldy and a maggot was found in the beef.

  The plight of the tribe mattered much to Jubela for he was their Jefe—Chief. The once strong able-bodied warriors were corrupted by the Paleface guards with tizwin—whisky. Turning them into a silly bunch of idiots. The women were too weak and sick to bear children. The once proud race of the Jicarilla Apache would soon end...disappear like a pebble into a lake without creating a ripple.

  The US Government or Whitefather, as nicknamed by the Apaches, had promised Jubela a piece of land in Apacheria. There, his people would be free, again to hunt deer and desert pigs. Run with the wind. Tread through the mountain paths as their forefathers did.....

  But Loco did not believe in this dream. He never trusted Whitefather. He never trusted any skin other than red. Loco had to be stopped but the paleface soldiers were of no match for him. He was in element with the desert. He could live off the desert like a cactus.

  Seeing Jubela remain silent, the captain raised his voice, “To catch Loco, need someone equal to him. I hear there is only one man equal to Loco, his own half-brother…Cole... Get ready, old man. We‘ll go visit Cole.”

  A queasy look appeared on the old man’s face. He stood up. “No…Cole… not do it. He is true Apache…

  “I know how to bend any of yo’ vermin Injuns. Ifyo’ don’t do it. I will go and find Cole.”

  When Jubela emerged from the quarters, Viegaz could see he was very agitated. “Captain know nothing of Apache.” He grumbled. “Cole will never go after Loco. Cole is stubborn Apache. Cole is learnt the code of Apache well…”

  Chapter 3: Code Among The Apaches

  Their captured Apache lay bloodied and broken, physically, but not in spirit. He had been punched, kicked and belted. His lip was torn, the nose bone and a few teeth broke
n, one eye had probably lost vision and his naked back covered with blood.

  Yet, he was not ready to divulge the whereabouts of Loco. The Apaches were a close knit clan. They knew the doings of each other.

  Jusaz sat atop his mount, running his fingers through his beard, he watched the tortured Indian. The half-breed Mexican was tall for his type. He had a hirsute face, thick eyebrows, mustache and a beard.

  The torture had been going on since morning. The heat was getting to his men. But the Apache had not reached the limit of endurance. He had simply lain there grunting in pain, occasionally. Jusaz knew the Apache and their kind. They were stubborn as mules even worse. Days of torture could not break them.

  These savages were like animals! Jusaz mused. This savage was of no use to him. He was too weak to speak, forget standing. Jusaz cast his sight on the squirming squaw, the Apache’s woman.

  All was not lost, she would not know of Loco but they were other ways to make her pay, he reckoned lustfully. Besides, her scalp would fetch a bounty. The Mexican Government and the wealthy landowners paid handsomely for Apache scalps.

  Jusaz felt anger burn in him, all this for nothing. “Throw the pig to the hormiga,” he ordered.

  Two of his men half-lifted…half-dragged the limp Apache some distance away. They stopped before a foot wide circular hole in the desert floor. Stepping delicately they placed the Apache carefully over it

  As he began to land over it, his good eye opened wide in horror. And a single syllable escaped his bloodied mouth. “Nooo…”

  Within moments they were swarming all over the Apache. Tiny creatures, but potent enough to bite that stung like acid. They were Colorado hormiga—the red desert fire ants. In minutes they killed their victims. And within hours they devoured the corpse. In a short time, only the Apache’s bones would be left to be bleached by the sun.

  Chapter 4: Code Among The Apaches

  The Arizonian sun was at its peak. The ground radiated enough heat to fry eggs. Yellow brown sand stretched for miles and miles. The palomino carried his rider without being guided via its reins. The horse began to trot only when the adobe came within sight.

  Its rider, Cole now stirred. Not that he was dozing; brought up among the Apaches he had inherited all their traits. The basic rule was never to relax. Part of his blood he owed to his Apache father and some to his paleface mother whom he had never seen.

  Cole was dressed in a paleface’s attire-jeans, shirt and a Stetson. Under all this clothing he was physically built like an Apache. Stocky, slight built, sun browned skin, lustrous shoulder-length black hair parted in the centre. Only his face betrayed his white inheritance—a pair of light colored eyes. Weather beaten lines clustered at the edge of his eyes making him looked older than he was.

  He reached the corral and dismounted, his eyes sighting the smallish vegetable garden. Corn, peppers and pumpkins grew on it. They were fragile almost at the point of wilting. The tremendous heat and poor sustenance from the soil was the reason. But he knew it would survive with a little water to tide his family through the hot desert summer. He looked up at the cloudless sky, the rains were weeks away.

  Suddenly he stilled and turned his sight to the east. He heard them before he could see them. His hand instinctively went for his Winchester rifle. A man could not relax in this place.

  Over the horizon, a cloud of dust appeared; judging by its size there would be over half a dozen riders. Within moments through the shimmering heat waves, riders materialized. In an instance he recognized their uniform. Soldiers! Six of them!

  He gently eased out the rifle from the saddle. Soldiers were no better than other hostiles. Solidly, he rapped the palomino on its rump sending it scampering away.

  Just outside the corral Captain Franklin stopped his men, eyeing the adobe warily. He gestured his men to spread out. Satisfied, he called out. “Cole…Cole we come in peace.”

  For a few moments nothing moved. “Where are you damn Injun?” The captain hissed. Instantly, the silence was broken by the metallic sound of feeding a cartridge into a rifle.

  “Dismount and put your hands in the air, soldiers!” A voice ordered. It sounded directly behind the captain.

  As the captain dismounted, he called loudly, “Your Abejo—grandfather, sent us. He has sent a message.”

  Very slowly Cole walked before them, a Winchester in his hands.

  “He wants you to kill Loco…” continued the captain.

  There was a smug look on Cole’s face. “Abejo would never want me to kill my brother. Stop lying soldier!” He pointed the Winchester right into the captain’s face.

  “Alright…alright damn Injun!” cried the captain. “The army wants you to kill Loco, in return you‘ll get a reward…a big reward.”

  Cole remained expressionless. The Winchester unwavering.

  “Also land…a good piece of it. With plenty water…Maybe ten to a dozen cattle head…” continued the captain.

  “Tell your army, soldier, we do not break Apache code and kill each other for money. We are Apache not Palefaces.” Cole answered. “Now mount up and leave or I shoot you for trespassing my land.”

  The captain mounted the horse and swung it around to face Cole. “Don’t flatter yo’rself…Cole. Yo’re neither Apache nor Paleface. Yo’re a half-breed…a Pariah. Yo’ don’t belong to either side.”

  Cole remained silent waving him out with the rifle.

  “Yo’ ave made a bad mistake half-breed.” Hissed the captain. “The next time we meet I shall ride down yo’ cattle and yo’r garden and raze down this house. Yo ‘ll beg me forgiveness…”

  Cole let off two rounds in the air, startling the animal. The captain grabbed the reins and broke into a gallop. “I‘ll fix yo’ half-breed! I swear!” he shouted over his shoulder.

  In answer Cole let off another round of bullets. But he knew he had just won the first round, the army could be a very dangerous adversary. Yet, now his thoughts were concern for Jubela and his brethren on the reservation. He wasn’t ignorant of their misery. His refusal to kill Loco would add to their suffering.

  He was taught not to harm an Apache brethren for no reason. It was a law—the strict code all over Apacheria. Loco was his brother. He had a part of his blood in him. He was Apache and so was Cole. Surely he could not harm another Apache for no reason.

  Cole watched the soldiers melt gradually into the shimmering heat waves. He wondered what made them so sure of him of tracking and killing Loco. No doubt, Cole and Loco were the best students of grandfather. The former being a shade better.

  Under grandfather they had learnt the Apachean way of hunting, tracking, stalking and killing. And the vital thing—surviving the most inhospitable terrain in the world.

  It had been years since Cole had practiced his skills while Loco had honed it every second in those years. A settled life dulls such skills.

  Lost in thoughts he was suddenly aware of Isobella beside him. Her eyes tearfully fixed on him. No doubt she had overheard the talks. She was Mexican, brown, delicately built but hardworking, just like her peon ancestors. She was Cole’s wife, ripe with a three month child which was yet to show on her flat belly. Isobella knew border Spanish and sparse words of Apache.

  She was the best thing that happened to him. He pulled her close to him. “I am not going after Loco,” he promised.

  She clung to him and wept. The riders were no longer visible and the desert had settled. Cole lifted her gently and carried her in.

  Chapter 5: Code Among The Apaches

  Captain Franklin entered the reservation with a jubilant look. “Serve everyone with tizwin and beef. Today we celebrate.” He bellowed loudly.

  One of the Apache close by asked, “Why Captain?”

  “Cole accepted the reward to track and kill Loco.” The captain answered triumphantly. “Loco is good as dead. Nobody is better than Cole!”

  Many of the Apaches were sorry, but at least their life would change for the b
etter. And the festivities began in earnest.

  When Jubela heard this news he stormed into the captain’s quarters, Viegaz in tow. The captain was drinking with his officers. “Captain you lie about Cole…Cole never will agree to kill his brother!” The old man accused.

  The officers jeered at the ranting old man.

  The old man suddenly looked composed. “Trust me captain, you die in one of my grandson’s hands.” A silence followed as he walked out.

  When the captain was sure that Jubela was out of hearing he winked at his officers. “Who will know the truth? Sooner than ever the news will reach Loco and he will go after Cole. Such news spreads far and wide. And the half-breed will have to defend himself. Either he will kill Cole or if not the army will be waiting for him…Trust me Loco will never escape alive.” Wild laughter echoed in the quarters.

  x x x

  Out of hearing the old man whispered to Viegaz. “Get Wari, the Tarahumhara to watch over Cole’s adobe, if ever Loco comes I would like to know…”

  The Tarahumara were endurance runners; desert Indians who could travel the narrowest footpaths on the canyon walls with ease. Boulder strewn desert floors and detritus covered canyon walls inaccessible by horses and mules were easily traversed by them. They traveled long distances in a short time.

  x x x

  The cluster of jacals—a meagre shelter of dried brush and timber, signified the presence of Apache.Loco Chita and his men sat in council under one such shelter on the slopes of the Sierra Madre. After the El Stringo’s carnage he had crossed the border into Old Mexico, on the Mexican side of the Rio Grande.

  His half-a-dozen plus renegade broncos could smell worry on him. They all knew the source—Cole. The terrible heat seemed to insulate the tension within the jacal.

  It was only till Loco broke the silence. “We go visit my brother Cole.”His dark face broke into a grin and a deep guttural laughter exploded from his throat.

  The council knew it would be bad....but fun. Soon the Sierra Madre resounded with evil laughter.

  x x x

  The Tarahumhara’s presence was discovered quickly. Cole realized it was Wari, one of those harmless slow-witted reservation Indians.