It was a miserable country, this New World, filled with heathens, serpents, and savages. An arid, baking landscape that sucked the strength from men, killing the unwary in hours.
Capitano Pablo Alverez climbed from the back of his horse and slipped down the bank of a shallow river until he stood ankle deep in the water. He was a short man, his black hair long and his beard flowing. He wore a silver chest protector, a metal helmet, and leather boots. The armor had been brought from the Old World and the boots had been hand-tooled in the New. Pulling off a glove, he bent, dipped his hand into the water, and tasted it.
“Muddy,” he said.
The caravan halted on the dusty banks behind him. Across the river, a hundred yards away, was a rocky cliff that climbed into the deep blue of the afternoon sky. There were trees, the green leaves fluttering in the breeze, bushes that rattled like the snakes that were everywhere, and a soft sand. The river itself had a reddish color, the dirt washed down by rains the day before looking like the lifeblood of an empire flowing away.
It was as hot as any of them ever remembered. All were sweating under the layers of clothing and armor meant to protect them from the savages that inhabited the hellhole. The long, never-ending ride hadn’t helped, and the burden they guarded didn’t lighten the journey.
“Horses first,” ordered Alverez. Again he dipped his hand, but this time he wiped the water on his face trying to cool his body. “A thoroughly miserable country.”
The horsemen walked their beasts to the river and allowed them to drink. Slaves, taken from the villages that had been plundered in New Spain, carried water to the horses hitched to wagons and carts while the infantry stood guard.
“A month,” said Alverez. “A month and we’ll be on the ships home.”
“With enough treasure to buy anything we desire,” said another. He was younger, taller, and the brother of the first.
“Cortez had the same but fell from grace. Treasure does not assure position.”
The younger Alverez took a deep breath and then dropped to his knees. He washed his face in the stream, standing a moment later. “Cortez was a fool.”
Turning, Alverez looked back at the caravan. A hundred men from Spain and two hundred natives. Horses brought at great expense from the Old World, wagons built in Mexico and driven northward into the desert. Pennants flew from some. Colored flags from others. Food had been found along the trail. Meat taken from the huge herds of antelope that jumped across the prairie. All of that now stopped along the bank of a river ankle deep and a mile across.
“Camp here tonight?”
“No. We have several more hours of sun.”
“The men are tired. The horses are tired. A rest here would make tomorrow easier.”
“If we press on, then we’ll be home that much sooner. There is no reason to stay the night.”
In the distance, at the end of the caravan, a horse reared and whined. A man fought to calm it. Soldiers who had lined the river turned, suddenly nervous. The slaves pulled back toward the wagons.
“What?” asked Alverez.
A soldier ran toward him. He stopped short and wiped a hand over his sweat-covered face. Pointing to the rear, where a cloud of dust was rising, he said, “Something comes.”
“Skirmishers out,” ordered Alverez. “Throw up a line at the end of the column.” Alverez leaped up onto the bank, slipped in the sand, and scrambled up.
“Jose, get the Indians back along the river. Four men to watch them. They move, kill them.”
“Certainly Pablo.”
Two men ran toward the end of the caravan. One climbed up on the rear of a wagon to stare into the distance. The sunlight reflecting off the sand made it difficult to see more than a few feet. Light shrubbery, small plants with only a few leaves, concealed the base of the dust cloud.
Alverez ran toward the right. “Pull the wagons around to form a barricade and then unfasten the horses.”
A half dozen men jumped forward. One grabbed the reins to pull the lead wagon until it was on the bank. The others followed suit forming a half moon using the river as a base.
With his brother, Alverez ran toward the Indian slaves. He leaned down, yanked a man to his feet and demanded, “What is happening?”
The Indian shrugged and in poor Spanish answered, “I know not.”
“Who’s coming?”
“No one.”
Alverez cocked his fist and slammed it forward into the Indian’s face. He heard bones snap as the nose flattened. Blood splattered down the Indian’s bare chest and silently dripped to the sand.
Pointing a finger at the slaves huddled on the bank, he demanded, “What is happening?”
The Indians ignored him.
The lookout leaped from the rear of the wagon and ran toward Alverez. “Horsemen come.”
“How many?”
“I couldn’t tell. Maybe fifty or a hundred.”
Alverez wiped a hand over his face. Sweat dripped and his breathing was now labored. He knew who it had to be. The Indians were coming after them to steal the gold and free the slaves.
“I want the skirmishers to fall back into the defensive perimeter. We do not let the enemy get close. Firearms first and then crossbows.”
The soldier nodded and whirled to obey the order.
“Martinez,” said Alverez, “take three men out as pickets.”
Before he could answer, his neck spurted blood and a shaft grew from it. He reached up to finger his throat and then collapsed forward, falling on his face. Blood spread around him, soaking into the sand.
Alverez dropped to one knee, a flintlock pistol in his hand. He turned toward a copse of trees fifty yards away, but there was no one hiding there. “Anyone see where that came from?”
Before anyone could answer, another arrow flashed, slamming into the side of the wagon with a thud. A second followed the first, and then the air was filled with them. They buried themselves in the hard wood of the wagons, the soft sand under them, and the bodies of the horses which screamed in pain and fear.
“Behind us,” yelled a soldier. He stood and ran to the river bank, sliding down to the edge of the water. “They’re coming up behind us.”
But there was no one visible behind them. The opposite bank was two or three feet high and covered with bushes and trees. Behind it the land was flat. No cover for the attacking savages. Yet the arrows kept coming, dropping among the skirmishers. A man was hit and toppled into the water with a large splash. A second fell back, screaming in pain.
“Fire,” ordered Alverez. “Fire!”
There was a rattling of weapons. Clouds of blue-gray smoke billowed outward and then drifted on the light breeze. A quick volley into the trees opposite them and then momentary silence.
From all around them came a whooping. First a single voice and then another and another until it seemed that the woods were alive with beasts. The first of the enemy appeared. Huge men dressed in nothing but paint. They dashed forward toward the wagons, and then suddenly retreated, fleeing for cover.
“Kill them now!” yelled Alverez. “Kill them all.”
Arrows from the crossbows flashed. One of the attackers took a bolt in the back. He fell to the river bank opposite them, and rolled down into the water.
The Spaniards scrambled to reload the rifles. There was shouting along the line. Two of the horses broke from the circle, leaped a gap between the wagons, and galloped away. One of the Indian slaves tried to escape but was shot, sprawling on the sand. No one moved to the body.
“Steady!” yelled Alverez. “Steady.”
And then the Indians attacked. First a few leaping into the river, running in the ankle deep water, followed by more and more until it seemed that the bank was alive with the enemy. A shrieking, screaming horde, rushing forward, threatening to overrun the Spanish line.
“Coming up behind us,” yelled a man. “There are more behind us.” His voice had risen, filled with panic.
Alverez stood and turned, running to a wagon. He reached up, touched the side, and saw another force attacking them, these men mounted on horses. Fifty of them. Maybe more.
As he watched, the pickets deserted their posts, running for the safety of the wagons, but the horsemen caught them. Using clubs and lances and knives, the Indians cut down the fleeing men. Savages leaped from the horses, cutting, slashing, stabbing at the three dying men.
The main body of attackers did not stop. They rode on, whooping and screaming. Alverez glanced to the rear, then forward, and in that moment, didn’t know what to do. The Indians were all around him.
“Fire!” he screamed.
There was a single volley. Smoke from the weapons rolled out over the river. A few of the attackers fell but the others came on, angered. They didn’t slow as the crossbow bolts began to fly. More dropped into the shallow water, blood beginning to stain it.
Alverez held his ground, turning so that his right side was toward the oncoming enemy. He aimed his pistol carefully, bringing his hand down in the classic technique. He squeeze the trigger, saw the spark flash, and heard the weapon fire. The target was lost in a cloud of blue smoke that burst from the barrel.
He whirled at a sound behind him. The riders had reached the wagons. He drew his sword and stepped back, away from the makeshift wall so that he would be able to maneuver. Around him the two forces met with a sound like the surf on a beach. A sudden crash. Steel clanging against the stone of lances and the hardwood of the clubs. Men grunted and screamed and cried out. There were wet slaps and piercing shrieks of agony as both defender and attacker died.
An Indian warrior who was nearly nude and carrying a lance attacked a Spanish soldier in armor and leather and using a sword of the finest Toledo steel. The soldier slashed, hacking an arm from the Indian and then driving the blade into the attacker’s chest. The Indian staggered to the rear, holding his wound as blood poured from it.
The soldier died an instant later, a lance shoved into the small of his back from behind. He screamed in surprise, falling forward onto his sword.
An Indian attacked Alverez. His face was painted in black and white, giving him the look of a skull that grinned. Alverez lunged and the savage leaped rearward. He slashed to the right and the attacker tried to dance away. The tip of the blade cut his bare belly, drawing a bloody line across it. The surprised man dodged in the wrong direction and Alverez killed him with a sudden lunge.
Alverez whirled, his back against the side of a wagon, and realized that his men were dying too fast. Their bodies were scattered along the bank and behind the line of wagons. Most of the horses had been driven off, and the slaves had grabbed weapons dropped by the dead and turned them on the defenders. The war whoops mixed with the cries of the wounded and the dying filled the air.
The attackers were killing the wounded, smashing heads with clubs or cutting throats with stone knives. They set fire to the wagons. Smoke filled the air as they looted the caravan, carrying off the food, the clothes, and the gold that had been taken from the mines to the west.
Alverez knew that all was lost. His brother was dead. The majority of his men were dead and the rest were dying at the hands of the whooping, screaming savages. He whirled, leaped between two wagons, thrust at an Indian, and then ran. Ran as fast as he could, not looking back. Not caring what was happening behind him. He ran away from the scene of the massacre. Away from the celebrating Indians and the burning wagons. He fell once, and then crawled forward into an arroyo, the side sloped and the dirt hard, almost like stone.
Scrambling around, he saw that the Indians were swarming all over the wagon train. They were wearing the armored chest plates and the helmets of dead soldiers. They were dancing with the heads of his soldiers decorating the tips of their lances. They were waving the pennants and flags they captured. And a few of them were carrying the bars of gold across the river and toward the bluffs in the distance.
Having caught his breath, Alverez glanced to the left. The arroyo narrowed, but offered him some protection. He pushed himself away from the sides, slid to the bottom, and began running along it. After a while he could no longer hear the screams of his men or smell the smoke of the burning wagons. A while longer, and he no longer heard the celebration chants of the dancing savages.