Aborigines
Seconds bleed into minutes, minutes bleed into hours. The blisters on your rear end grow chafed and irritated at the constant rubbing of the saddle and you have to wipe salty sweat from your eyes every few minutes. The sun glints off the rifle barrels alongside each man's horse like individual stars, and it would've been worrisome had the dust cloud from the horses and wagons not already been a clear indication of their presence. With every step forward the threat of attack grew more imminent, and everybody was aware of it, even the recruits. At some indistinguishable point in time the company crossed the invisible line between New Mexico and Arizona, and nothing mattered less than time and place; for desert was desert and the Apaches didn't give much of a damn about borders. By the meridian of the day the worn blue of their uniforms had turned a pale tan and the men had to wipe the dust out of their horses' nostrils so they could breathe.
The day was uneventful, and as the sun began to lean towards the west, the men stopped to make camp. The terrain was flat, with minimal vegetation. About six or seven miles away low, rocky hills blocked the view. If Indians came tonight they would be seen long before the shooting began. You stretch once you dismount, as you are very sore.
Later that night, one of the younger recruits approaches you as you sit near the fire. He sits beside you.
"You're Augustus, right?" he asks.
"Yeah," you say, wondering why he's talking to you.
"I heard about High Bluff. You're real popular, you know."
"Am I?" you ask, looking him in the eye. "I killed one warrior that day. Just one, and I had a gun and he had a knife. He was about your age." You pause, then add: "The rest of the people we killed that day were women, children, elderly. Half of 'em were so sick they couldn't get out of bed to run from us."
This seems to disturb him, but he persists. "Ain't you a seasoned indiankiller? I thought you fought the Apaches for years. You mean you only ever killed women and children?"
You have to give him credit for that. "Yeah, it weren't all bad. We stopped a village from getting burnt down once."
"See? And the others respect you cause you know what you're doing here. We're all pretty excited to get a reputation like yours."
The naivety of the youth. "Wanna know about the Apache?" you ask him.
"Yes." Unchecked eagerness in his eyes.
"Well, first of all they're masters of guerrilla warfare. One minute you're riding in an empty desert and the next you got dozens of 'em rising from the ground like phantoms, all around you. And when that happens? Well, if you're smart you start shooting, and you save one shot for yourself. Because if you freeze up, or you run out of ammo, they'll take you alive." You deliberately leave it there.
"And then what will they do?" he asks, now nervously glancing at the shadows around the camp as if each one might have a warrior hiding there, watching him.
"Depends on the Apaches, I guess. Some of 'em like to cut your scalp off while you're alive, whooping and hollering and laughing while they do it. Some like to tie you to a stake above an anthill and cover you with honey. Some of them will tie you to a cactus with wet rope, which shrinks when it dries. Very creative people, the Apache." You smile now; he is visibly frightened by your tale. "Now quit staring into the fire. Ruins your night vision." With that you stand and leave him sitting there. It was time to retire to your tent.
The day was uneventful, and as the sun began to lean towards the west, the men stopped to make camp. The terrain was flat, with minimal vegetation. About six or seven miles away low, rocky hills blocked the view. If Indians came tonight they would be seen long before the shooting began. You stretch once you dismount, as you are very sore.
Later that night, one of the younger recruits approaches you as you sit near the fire. He sits beside you.
"You're Augustus, right?" he asks.
"Yeah," you say, wondering why he's talking to you.
"I heard about High Bluff. You're real popular, you know."
"Am I?" you ask, looking him in the eye. "I killed one warrior that day. Just one, and I had a gun and he had a knife. He was about your age." You pause, then add: "The rest of the people we killed that day were women, children, elderly. Half of 'em were so sick they couldn't get out of bed to run from us."
This seems to disturb him, but he persists. "Ain't you a seasoned indiankiller? I thought you fought the Apaches for years. You mean you only ever killed women and children?"
You have to give him credit for that. "Yeah, it weren't all bad. We stopped a village from getting burnt down once."
"See? And the others respect you cause you know what you're doing here. We're all pretty excited to get a reputation like yours."
The naivety of the youth. "Wanna know about the Apache?" you ask him.
"Yes." Unchecked eagerness in his eyes.
"Well, first of all they're masters of guerrilla warfare. One minute you're riding in an empty desert and the next you got dozens of 'em rising from the ground like phantoms, all around you. And when that happens? Well, if you're smart you start shooting, and you save one shot for yourself. Because if you freeze up, or you run out of ammo, they'll take you alive." You deliberately leave it there.
"And then what will they do?" he asks, now nervously glancing at the shadows around the camp as if each one might have a warrior hiding there, watching him.
"Depends on the Apaches, I guess. Some of 'em like to cut your scalp off while you're alive, whooping and hollering and laughing while they do it. Some like to tie you to a stake above an anthill and cover you with honey. Some of them will tie you to a cactus with wet rope, which shrinks when it dries. Very creative people, the Apache." You smile now; he is visibly frightened by your tale. "Now quit staring into the fire. Ruins your night vision." With that you stand and leave him sitting there. It was time to retire to your tent.