The band of six scalp hunters, mounted on strong, long-legged mustangs, crossed the yellow sand hills and halted just below the crest of the hill standing above the San Pedro River in the Arizona Territory.
Tattersall, the leader, swung his wiry frame down from his mount. He stretched once, ruffled his thick, black beard with his hand to brush the dust out of it, then shook himself like a wolf flinging off water. The kinks, bent into his muscles from riding fifty miles since daylight, fell away from his tough body. He checked the sun. There was still an hour of daylight remaining, plenty of time to take these last scalps.
He looked at his riders. They were bandits and ruffians hired by him for their toughness. Adkisson was a short, powerfully built redhead. Oakman, a rail-thin man, had fits now and again; still, he was the best marksman with a rifle of the bunch. Crampton, a mean man who just liked to kill, was almost as skinny as Oakman. Butcher was a blond German who like money and probably had most every penny he had earned killing Apaches. Snyder, a small man, spent all his money on whiskey and whores.
The men stared back at Tattersall from lean, hard faces shaded beneath broad-brimmed hats. Each member of his band wore two Colt .44-caliber pistols. On their ponies they carried two Sharps .50-caliber carbines. All were expert gunmen. They were the finest bunch of fighters Tattersall had ever assembled. He believed the heavily armed band could whip a war party of fifty Apaches.
"Adkisson, come with me," Tattersall said "The rest of you take care of the horses and keep out of sight while we take a gander down below."
The two men went quietly to the crest of the hill and looked down on the San Pedro River. The mile-wide valley of the river spread itself before them. The meandering river, lying some three hundred yards distant and a hundred feet lower in elevation, flowed north in a slow green current lined with giant cottonwoods and walnut trees.
"There's the Apache camp we came to find," Tattersall said.
Eight tipis were grouped in an open stand of large trees. The skin lodges were heavily stained with the soot of many fires. Up near the smoke holes they were nearly black. Spring storms had damaged the structures, and the patches that had been used to close the rents and tears showed like white scars.
"So they're still here," Adkisson said.
"They had no reason to move," Tattersall said, scanning the encampment. "It's a good place with water, wood, and game. And fish in the river."
The band had spotted the small village during their scalp hunting earlier in the spring, but had passed it by with the intention of hitting it on the way back south into Mexico. They had hunted first to the west, striking the villages in Gila River country, and then had ridden far to the north up the Pecos River Valley. Now it was time to take the last scalps.
In the camp, a group of squaws knelt around a buffalo hide stretched on the ground and worked on it with sharp flint scrapers. The women wouldn't live long enough to finish the hide.
A group of laughing children romped and played near the river. Men were gathered around a horse and talking and gesturing, obviously discussing the qualities of the animal.
"I count eight bucks," Adkisson said.
"Best we can come up the river through the trees," Tattersall said. "That way we can hit them without being seen until it's too late for any of them to get away."
"Yeah, should be easy," Adkisson agreed.
Tattersall and Adkisson dropped down from the crown of the hill and returned to the other men. They all climbed to their feet and looked at Tattersall for his orders.
"Check the loads in your guns, then mount up," Tattersall ordered. "We'll take them from horseback in case some try to run."
* * *
The band of scalp hunters were gathered in the woods near the river and downstream from the Apache village. The sun had turned red as it floated down to rest on the chain of mountains to the west. The water of the San Pedro River, bathed in the last light of the sun, had become crimson as blood.
Tattersall knew the outcome of the battle to come wasn't something to worry about. The Apaches, though fierce fighters, had no discipline and fought as individuals. An organized group such as he had would kill every one with ease. In a few days he would be in Chihuahua selling a sack of their scalps to Governor Antonio Beremendes. The savage raids of the Apache into the northern Mexican provinces had so angered the governor that he had placed a bounty of one hundred dollars in gold on every Indian man, and fifty dollars on each woman and child. The coarse, long-haired scalps proved their deaths. Tattersall and his gang would make twelve to thirteen thousand dollars in only a few weeks of hunting. Tattersall's cut would be one quarter.
"We'll use rifles first as we close in on them," Tattersall told his men. "Then pistols to finish the job. Shoot the bucks first. Let nobody escape. Now line up on me and go quiet."
The men rode silently, holding their rifles ready to fire. The trees thinned as they drew nearer the encampment. Then the tipis and the people were in sight hardly more than two hundred yards away. The horse that had been under discussion by the men was being led away by one of them. The other men were dispersing, ambling away among the tipis.
Closest to the scalp hunters was a little boy about seven wading in the edge of the river. He saw the strange riders and screamed a warning.
"Shoot them," Tattersall shouted.
He raised his rifle to his shoulder and shot a warrior turning to look at them. The Indian was knocked flat by the heavy bullet.
The other Indian men bolted for their weapons hanging on posts near their tipis. As they raced through the village, they shouted shrill orders at the women and children to run and hide.
The women added their cries for the children to flee. Then screaming with fright, every woman and child began to run in frantic haste, scattering up the riverside.
Beside Tattersall, the snarling cracks of his men's heavily charged rifles were deafening. In the Apache camp two braves were hit with deadly blows and fell to the ground. Another was knocked tumbling. He rose to his feet and hobbled toward the thick stand of trees growing along the foot of the bluff. One warrior had been close to reaching his musket. As he reached for it, a bullet broke his spine and he went down with arms flopping. A sixth warrior was running strongly for his weapon. He suddenly fell face-forward as if tripped, slid along to a stop, and did not move again.
"Keep shooting!" Tattersall shouted. He jammed his empty single-shot Sharps into its scabbard and drew his second one. He knew his men were doing the same.
The two remaining Apache warriors had now gained their weapons, both old muskets. They fired at the white men. The bullets missed, whining past the scalp hunters. The warriors were cut down by multiple bullets.
"Snyder, that wounded buck in the woods is nearest to you, so you go get him," Tattersall said to the man on the far right side of the gang.
"Right," Snyder called back.
"Now ride the squaws and kids down," Tattersall shouted. "Catch every one of them."
The scalp hunters pulled their pistols and spurred their horses up the riverside. Five chased after the fleeing women and children. Snyder veered off into the deeper woods.
As Tattersall gouged his horse ahead, an old grandmother jumped up from some bushes. He killed her, a shot from his pistol through the center of her back. A boy of seven or eight came out of the same bushes and tore off at an angle. He leaped over the trunk of a fallen tree and then straightened out in a flat-out run. The little brown bastard sure could travel, Tattersall thought.
Lashing his horse, Tattersall drew close to the boy. He slashed down with the heavy iron barrel of his revolver, clubbing the child to the earth. Tattersall dragged his mount to a halt, whirled it around, and ran it back to the small, still body of the boy.
The firing of his men dwindled and stopped as Tattersall stepped down from his mount. He deftly cut a circle around the top of the boy's head and ripped away a large segment of scalp and hair. He halted at two other bodies, one the old woman, as he returned to the camp, each time cutting away the victim's scalp.
Adkisson, carrying a handful of bloody scalps, came to meet Tattersall. "Mighty fine target practice we all had," he said.
"Stretch and dry these with those you have, "Tattersall directed, and handed Adkisson the scalps he carried. "Did anyone get away that you saw?"
"Nope, we got them all," Adkisson said, separating the scalps to see how many had been given to him. "That makes twenty-two of them," he added in a pleased tone.
"Pure gold, just pure gold," Tattersall said with a laugh.