Stryker's Misfits 2: Jolsanny's Raid

By Chuck Tyrell

The young Apache war chief Jolsanny led fifteen Nedtahe braves on a raid to decimate Fort Lancaster. On the way back to Ojo Caliente, the raiders pretty much wiped the Mexican town of San Basilio off the map, leaving its people dead and its priest nailed to the door of his own church. General George Washington Hunter called for Lieutenant Matthew Stryker, and his orders were simple. “Take your misfits and go after Jolsanny. Get those Apaches back on the reservation, or kill them all.”
Now Stryker’s Misfits must play Jolsanny’s raiders at their own game ... and losing is not an option!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing
• Release date: Mar 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370416639

Chuck Tyrell

Charles T. Whipple, an international prize-winning author, uses the pen name of Chuck Tyrell for his Western novels. Whipple was born and reared in Arizona’s White Mountain country only 19 miles from Fort Apache. He won his first writing award while in high school, and has won several since, including a 4th place in the World Annual Report competition, a 2nd place in the JAXA Naoko Yamazaki Commemorative Haiku competition, the first-place Agave Award in the 2010 Oaxaca International Literature Competition, and the 2011 Global eBook Award in western fiction. Raised on a ranch, Whipple brings his own experience into play when writing about the hardy people of 19th Century Arizona. Although he currently lives in Japan, Whipple main-tains close ties with the West through family, relatives, former schoolmates, and readers of his western fiction. Whipple belongs to Western Fictioneers, Western Writers of America, Arizona Authors Association, American Society of Journalists and Authors, Asian American Journalists Association, and Tauranga Writers Inc.

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CONTENTS

About the Book

Copyright

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Epilogue

The young Apache war chief Jolsanny led fifteen Nedtahe braves on a raid to decimate Fort Lancaster. On the way back to Ojo Caliente, the raiders pretty much wiped the Mexican town of San Basilio off the map, leaving its people dead and its priest nailed to the door of his own church. General George Washington Hunter called for Lieutenant Matthew Stryker, and his orders were simple. Take your misfits and go after Jolsanny. Get those Apaches back on the reservation, or kill them all.

Now Stryker’s Misfits must play Jolsanny’s raiders at their own game … and losing is not an option!

One

The council fire burned bright, shedding light on each of the twenty-three men—leaders of the Tichende Indeh, whose rancherias centered on Ojo Caliente, the place called Warm Springs by the White Eyes. One man stood. The others listened to what he said, for no Indeh leader could order his men to do anything against their will. They listened, but would they follow?

I am Jolsanny, the man who stood said. I am ashamed. How long have we sat here at Ojo Caliente like old women afraid of their own shadows? I rode with the great Mangas Coloradas. I fought at Apache Pass, though just a boy. I saw him go to Fort McLane, carrying a white flag. White Eyes took him. Tied him. Prodded him with white-hot bayonets until he could only run for his life. The White Eye soldiers shot him. Escaping, they said, but they shot him. Dead. And here we sit by Ojo Caliente. Doing nothing. We sit in our wikiups as more and more White Eyes come. We push sticks into Mother Earth to plant seeds in Her as if we were Yaqui. We cower before the White Eye Bluecoats. We are like women. I Jolsanny hear that Kickapoo and Comanche brothers gather south of Pecos river. In two more days, they will attack the place called Fort Lancaster, where walls have fallen down and no buffalo soldiers can be safe behind them. I would join the Kickapoo and Comanche. Let us ride south to the river Pecos. Let us join the fight. Let us strike the hated Bluecoat. I have spoken.

A low babble of voices followed Jolsanny’s statement. Young men leaned toward each other, nodding and talking together. Jolsanny sat, legs crossed and back straight as a forest Ponderosa. He folded his arms and stared straight ahead, listening patiently as others of the Ojo Caliente tribe stood and spoke. Some agreed with Jolsanny. Some did not. But there was no shouting and arguing with upraised voices as was the White Eye way. Each man who wished to speak was given time. Each of those seated around the council fire listened, and each made up his own mind. The discussion, as it were, lasted far into the night. No one stood to oppose him, but none of the older men showed the fight of the younger ones. Jolsanny wondered if White Eye beef had robbed them of courage, or the desire for revenge.

He stood.

Voices quieted.

I ride with the dawn, he said. "Those who would join me, be ready. We are Netdahe. Wild. Wild and free. Netdahe. Netdahe."

"Bil nagonshkaag. Bil nagonshkaag. I will fight with you," young men cried.

Jolsanny strode away, his back straight and his step confident. On the morrow, he knew, Indeh men would right with him to Fort Lancaster to take revenge upon the Buffalo Soldiers that killed so many Apaches.

When the morning came, fifteen warriors on well-trained, hardy ponies gathered in the arroyo that slashed into the mountains east of Ojo Caliente and waited for Jolsanny to lead them to revenge at Lancaster.

Jolsanny sat his own three-color paint pony at the point where the trail from the Ojo Caliente camp entered into the small swale where all who wished to follow were to gather. He watched as they came, mostly young men, some seeking the standing of warrior in their clan. Nzhóó. Those seeking the standing of warrior were often the bravest of all, though they tended to be less careful as well.

The time for departure arrived. Jolsanny said nothing. He signed the one called Nitis, a blood brother, to bring up the rear, and turned his paint onto a dim trail that led along the shoulders of the Guadalupe Range, giving them ample cover and relatively easy travel.

Not all who followed Jolsanny were Indeh. Three were Diné, called Navajo by the White Eyes and Nakaye. One was Mexicano, though his mother was Indio.

Jolsanny sent riders ahead to look for places to raid. Each Netdahe carried rations of jerked agency beef and acorn meal, but none were armed well enough. Before, bluecoat soldiers carried muskets that had to be loaded from the mouth. Now they shot rifles that could quickly be loaded at the breech. Jolsanny’s Netdahe warriors needed more of the rifles called Springfield and the cartridges they used.

One scout came galloping back as the sun neared the western mountains. He reined his buckskin pony around to walk next to Jolsanny’s three-color. A ranch, he said. Some cattle. Work horses. One man. One boy. One woman.

Well done, Dahana. Jolsanny kept his eyes straight ahead. Pick four men. Those best with arrows. Kill the White Eyes. Bring back food and weapons. Go.

Dahana positioned his buckskin beside the trail and picked four riders as they passed. The four stopped to listen to Dahana’s words, then pulled their mounts aside to plan the raid.

"There is a White Eye place in Solito Canyon near a small spring. Some cows are in the meadow. The house is half carved into the side of a hill like the ancient ones did. It will not burn easily. One log barn. One pen for pigs. I also saw some chickens in the yard. One dog. One man. One woman. One boy. Work horses. We can take food. Take guns. Take a small revenge. We are Nedtahe. We ride.

"Dekai!"

"Dekai, we go," the four riders echoed.

They rode, passing Jolsanny’s column and disappearing over the rise ahead.

The five Nedtahe left their horses with one of their number while four crept close to the ranch house Dahana had spied out. Deep in a V-shaped notch in the Antelopes, the dwellings were carefully placed for defense, assuming attacks would be by horsemen coming up the little valley toward the house and barn. Indeh often attacked with stealth rather than bravado. This was one of those times.

As the four Netdahe crept up to the ranch buildings, the dog growled, then barked. An arrow punctured his throat, skewering him from head to tail. He dropped without another sound.

The Netdahe waited. Would anyone come to investigate the dog’s single bark?

No door opened. No one called the dog’s name.

The sky in the east grew lighter and the land took on shades of blue and gray. A light showed through the greased paper window covering. Muffled sounds came from the house and soon smoke issued from its chimney. A cow lowed from behind the barn. A rooster crowed. The Netdahe warriors found hiding places that gave them a clear path to the house, to the barn, and to the small pasture back of the barn.

The cow lowed again.

Coming, Bossy, coming. A young boy of perhaps ten summers came from the house. He carried a wooden bucket in one hand and rubbed at his eyes with the other. Halfway to the barn, the boy stopped. Lucky? Here, Lucky. Here, Lucky.

No bark. No panting. No nothing.

Lucky?

Donny. Don’t you worry about that mutt. He’s off chasing rabbits or ground squirrels. He’ll be back in time to eat. That dog wouldn’t miss a chance at a meal. The boy’s mother left the house with a heavy bucket in one hand. Chickens seemed to leap from their hiding places, racing toward the woman with wings flapping. She paid them no mind.

She passed the boy. Come on, son. Calling that worthless dog won’t get the cow milked.

Somethin’s wrong, Ma. Lucky’s always here in the morning. He really loves the squirt ort two of milk I squeeze out of Bossy’s teat for him. I called but he didn’t come.

The woman stopped short. She set the bucket down. You cut for the house, son, as fast as you can run. If I don’t get there, you bolt the door. Hear me? Now go!

The boy dropped his bucket and sprinted for the door. The woman followed.

"Dák’ad!" Dahana shouted.

In seconds, four arrows flew toward the running woman and child. One struck the boy just to the right of his backbone and threw him forward to the ground. Mommy. Mommy, he cried, like a little baby.

An arrow took the woman in the left side of her lower back. She still dragged herself to the boy. Hang on, Donny. We’ll get you into the house.

Mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy!

A man jerked the door open and ran toward his wife and son. He carried a sixteen-shot Henry repeating rifle and went to the ground when he was little more than ten paces from the door. His cheek found the Henry’s stock and he squeezed off a shot. A Nedtahe warrior arched to his tiptoes and crumpled face down. His hands and feet twitched, then he lay still.

The man searched for another target. We’ve gotta drag Donny to the house, Suz. Can you help?

I can, she said, and struggled to rise. An arrow pierced the woman’s neck. She went down and lay unnaturally still.

The man triggered another shot, levered in a new round, and shot again.

No more arrows came. Dahana could not afford to lose more men on such a paltry raid. Even though the man fired a Henry rifle.

Dahana’s Nedtahe killed the cow and the two pigs, then rode to catch up with Jolsanny’s band, ashamed of the report they must give. They dragged the body of him who was dead to the gully where their horses waited, tied him to his horse, and left. Still Dahana had confidence his decision was right. Already Indeh warriors grew few in number as the White Eyes and the Buffalo Soldiers returned to the lands of the Indeh. Any of their raiding parties would break off and run from the field of battle if too many warriors died. One of five was too many. Revenge would come another day.

Aaron Willmore saw Dahana’s party ride away. He didn’t try to shoot any of them with the Henry because he didn’t want them to turn around and come back screaming and killing. When he was sure they had gone, he turned to get Donny and Susan into the dugout house.

Donny? He shook the boy’s shoulder. Donny?

Mommy?

She’s not here right now, son, but she will be soon.

The boy didn’t answer. His breathing labored, and specks of blood showed on his lips.

Aaron got to his feet and held the Henry ready. The Apaches had ridden off, but that didn’t mean they were gone. The dugout was the safest place. They had to get to the dugout.

I’m taking Donny to the house, Susan, he said, but his wife made