The Last Amarillo Raid

Within hours of the raid, the air in Amarillo was clear of smoke, but the heavy stench remained. A few men were still moving about the streets with buckets of water. Occasionally a hiss rose into the air, the result of a man having found and dumped water on a flare-up.

Red embers continued glowing and occasionally popping in burned-out buildings at various places around town, mostly on the west end. The Comanches had always come from the north or east or northeast before. This time they’d spent two extra days working their way through the dry washes north and west of Amarillo. Around 1 a.m. they’d stormed into the town from due west.

They weren’t raiding for food or horses. They were raiding strictly for revenge.

*

By 4 a.m. the Rangers and a few others were gathered in their headquarters.

Captain Wilson was sitting, one hip on the corner of his desk. He looked at Mitch O’Connell, one of the hands from a ranch west of town. “Are you sure?”

Mitch nodded. “Yessir. No mistakin’ that guy with them long legs an’ that long torso. It was Walkin’ Man, for sure. Only other one had that build was Tall Elk, an’ he’s been dead all these past months.”

Walking Man was a former follower and advocate of Four Crows, the infamous Comanche war chief. Apparently he’d taken it on himself to revive an era widely thought to have died with Four Crows at Ranger Wes Crowley’s hands.

Captain Wilson nodded. “Thanks, Mitch.” He looked at his corporal. “This is too personal, Wes. I think you probably should sit this one out. You can stay back here and run things. I’ll lead ‘em out this time.”

Wes shook his head. “All due respect, Cap, I’m goin’, on my own if necessary. I’ve always done my job. No need to stop doin’ it just because of the way it happened this time.”

The captain thought for a moment, but there was no use arguing with Wes. He’s been testy for the past few months anyway... but he’s right. Best man I’ve got. Those days too, he thought, were coming to a close. “All right.” He looked at the floor, then at Wes again. He hesitated, then addressed all of them. “Well, better get mounted up. Take time to check, make sure you have water and ammo. Might be gone awhile.”

As the men started shuffling toward the door, the captain said quietly, “Wes, hang back for a minute, would you?”

“Yessir.”

Rob Corazol, the next senior Ranger to Wes, held the door until the last man was out, then went out himself. With a glance back at Wes and the captain, he closed the door.

The captain said, “You sure about this?” 

“Yessir.”

“I know it’s been a rough few months, what with Mac turning and all. And now that—”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Cap, it ain’t got nothin’ to do with Mac. Not anymore.” He looked at the floor, then back up. “Well, thing is, it hasn’t had anything to do with Mac for awhile now. But now... well, I don’t know. Got some thinkin’ to do for sure.” He glanced at the door, then back. “Anyhow, I do my best thinkin’ on the trail.” He forced a grin. “Gives me somethin’ to do during the borin’ parts.” He looked away and cleared his throat, then nodded in the direction of the captain. “Anyway, guess I’d best go if there’s nothin’ else. Might need to talk some things over when I get back though if that’d be all right.”

The captain nodded. “Good enough.” He stood and offered his hand.

Wes shook it. “Back in a few days, Cap.” He turned to leave.

“Wes?”

The corporal stopped and turned around.

“I know it’s personal. Just don’t go too hard.”

Wes nodded, and for a moment his lips formed a tight, straight line. “I’m gonna run the sonofabitch to ground, Cap. But I’ll bring ‘im in if he lets me.”

*

Dawn was still a couple of hours away when the Rangers rode out, but Wes had a good idea where Walking Man was headed. He and the posse rode hard along a well-worn path to the northeast.

When the eastern sky began to grow light, Wes slowed the pace to a walk. Most of the men had ridden with him before. They trusted him, and knew his routine. They fanned out to the left and right and began looking for sign of the Comanches’ passing.

John McLean, ramrod on the Wiljohn Ranch, was one of the best trackers Wes had ever met. From the group on the front right he raised his hand and whistled.

Wes rode over. “Find ‘em, John?”

McLean nodded. “Got ‘em. You were right. They’re headed northeast, and I’d bet I know where.”

“Yep... well, a’right.” He turned his horse around, raised his right arm, and moved his hand in a circle. A moment later everyone had gathered around him.

“Me an’ John believe we know where they’re headed. There’s a place up on the Canadian where Four Crows used to lay up. Great cover an’ a wide-open approach so it’s easy to defend and hell to attack. It’s pretty much due northeast of here. But look at those tracks.” He drew out a gesture from the tracks of the Indian ponies toward the horizon. “You’ll notice they’re headed more east than northeast.

“Now unless I miss my bet, ol’ Walkin’ Man’s takin’ a long, roundabout route. He learned that from Four Crows. He believes white men are soft. Longer he keeps us out here, the more he figgers he can wear us down. Thing is, I learned the same thing from the same teacher. So those of you who haven’t been with us before, just trust me. An’ hang on, ‘cause this is gonna be a ride.” He turned his horse, Charley, northeast. “Let’s go.”

McLean grinned and shook his head. He mumbled, “Ain’t another one like Wes anywhere, that’s for damn sure.”

*

Wes urged Charley up to an easy canter. Every three or four miles, he slowed him to a walk. A half-mile or so later, he’d urge him up to a canter again. In this way the posse covered the thirty miles to their target site in a little over three hours.

At the Canadian, Wes reined-in. He leaned forward in the saddle, looking west down the river, then east. Finally he turned Charley back southwest and followed the river a quarter-mile or so to a stable ford where the water was only belly deep on the horses. There he turned into the river. When he and Charley reached the shallows on the far bank, Wes reined-in again and let him drink.

The others did the same.

When they left the river, Wes halted them in a clearing and they all gathered around. “Now, where we’re goin’s not quite a mile up the river. There’ll be a bunch’a big boulders on the left. Just watch me for hand signals. We’ll walk the horses, an’ no more talkin’ from here just in case there are others about. A’right?” He looked about.

Most of the men nodded.

Wes waved his right hand in an arc from back to front and they started up along the river, two and three abreast. The horses made almost no sound in the soft ground, and they were all but invisible in the salt cedars along the river. Twenty-some minutes later, a hill seemed to emerge from the brush.

Wes raised his hand and the men reined the horses to a stop.

Wes turned Charley around and gestured with both palms out, indicating the others should remain where they were. Then he tapped McLean on the shoulder and crooked a finger at Corazol. The three men dismounted and disappeared into the brush. Several minutes later they were back.

Wes looked at the men, mounted and gestured for them to follow him. The men fell in behind him, and he led them around behind the hill. There was another thicket of salt cedars and a small wash off the river. The horses would be hidden and they’d have water.

The men stopped and dismounted, then retrieved their carbines and followed Wes, McLean and Corazol up the back of the hill.

About halfway up they struck a path that led around to the front. They followed it and soon they were among the massive boulders Wes had mentioned earlier.

Wes gathered them a final time. “All right, this here’s what you call an ambush. I don’t wanna strand nobody across the river, so this’n’s gonna have an L shape. Most of you men will lay up right here in these rocks. Me an’ John here and Rob and Wes are gonna move northeast a bit.

“I ‘spect they’re gonna come in from the northeast. They’ll ford the river about three miles up, then ride along the north bank, same as we did but comin’ the other way. Be ready. When you hear me yell, have your carbines trained on ‘em. Don’t fire until you have to. You’ll know when it’s time.

“My goal is to take ‘em alive if we can.” He shrugged. “If we can’t, that’s their call. Any questions?”

Nobody said anything.

“A’right. Good luck.” He gestured and the other three men followed him down toward the river.

*

Wes, Corazol, McLean and Granger set up in a stand of smaller boulders on a low rise about forty yards northeast of the main body. They didn’t have long to wait.

Less than a half-hour later the Indians came riding southwest along the north bank just as Wes had expected. A group of five rode past first, and then there was a delay.

Wes winced. Damn... forgot to warn ‘em there might be an advance party... could blow the whole thing. He didn’t relish the notion of having to try to run Walking Man to ground in the open desert, or worse yet, in Indian Territory.

But the rifles of the main body remained silent. Wes grinned.

Then came a second group, with only three braves, then a shorter delay. Then another dozen or so braves rode past, the dirt off their horses’ hooves hovering in a cloud above the trail. Finally Walking Man himself, along with a few other braves, walked his horse into the clearing.

Wes stood up. He yelled, “Walking Man!”

The Indian stopped his horse and turned it to face the voice. A few of the others backed their horses a few steps so they were hidden.

A bit more quietly, Wes yelled, “It is unfortunate to see that the student of Four Crows, my honored enemy, is such a coward.”

Walking Man strained to see who was talking. “Is that the Ranger, Crowley?”

Wes nodded. “It is. And like you, I am not alone. My men have taken your place in the rocks. Others are behind you. Others are across the river. You will surrender, or you will die.”

“All of this is of no consequence to me. On this day, you will join the enemy you ‘honored’ with your bindings and your bullets.”

Wes looked at the ground for a moment and shook his head. Quietly he said, “Maybe... but not at your hand.” He glanced to his left. “John, Rob, watch the left flank. He’ll have some comin’ that way.” He looked down the hill again and yelled, “On this day as well, many good Comanche braves will die for your cowardice. And in the end, you will live to pay for the raid on Amar—”

A shot sounded to his left, then another. Another followed just behind him.

He waited a moment, then looked down the hill again. “Three dead, Walking Man.”

But the Indian had dropped off his horse and disappeared back up the trail. 

Along to the southwest several carbines spoke. A few fired a second time. The battle of Phillips Bend had begun.

Gunfire continued from farther along the river as Wes leapt from the bolder and hit the slope on his heels. Shale and lava rock sheered away and went clattering down the side of the hill. After sliding several feet, he grabbed a creosote bush to catch himself, then angled to the left to continue to the bottom of the hill.

At the base he dodged around some salt cedars and caught a glimpse of Walking Man about twenty yards away. He’s headed for the river. But again Walking Man was taking a more circuitous route, this time in an attempt to avoid the pervasive mesquites.

Wes raced across the path and straight toward the river. When he got to the ledge, he turned and ran along it to the northeast.

Walking Man suddenly burst from the brush to Wes’ left front. He saw Wes and stopped.

Wes lips were pressed tightly together, his Colt in his hand. “It’s over, Walking Worm. It will be my pleasure to watch you hang.”

His hands in the air, the Indian sneered. “That is your weakness, Ranger. That is the weakness of your kind. You must take me back to be tried. But you won’t. Not today.” He turned and flexed his legs to jump into the river.

Wes’ Colt bucked in his hand. The bullet tore into Walking Man just above his right hip and exited through his abdomen just inside his left hip.

Propelled by his own action and the impact of Wes’ bullet, Walking Man leapt. The next sound, a long moment later, was the splash as he hit the water flat on his back.

Wes turned and looked over the bank just as Walking Man hit.

The Indian submerged, then surfaced just as several long, thin shadows flicked away from the reeds at the bank.

The first water moccasin struck, biting Walking Man in the nose and left eye. A second struck, hitting his right jawbone. As the others converged on him, he flailed wildly, screaming and screaming as he was swept around a bend in the river.

Wes turned and walked back toward the trail.

*

By the time he got back, the battle was over.

Rob, John McLean and Will Granger had come down off the hill behind Wes. They’d walked the trail toward the larger hill, forming a pincer arm and completing the ambush.

The Indians who would not be captured were killed in the resulting crossfire.

Wes Granger was grazed along his left rib cage by an Indian’s bullet. John McLean was also grazed, on the inside of his right thigh just above the knee. No other members of the posse were injured.

The three Indians who were captured would be returned to Amarillo.

*

The posse forded the river at the same place they had forded earlier. Walking Man’s body had become snared on a cottonwood root.

Will Granger pointed it out. “Wes, you think we ought’a—”

“Leave ‘im.” Wes’ voice was quiet. “Some’re destined for greatness, some for buzzard food.”

They stopped a few miles down the trail and made camp. At first light they’d ride back to Amarillo.

And Wes Crowley would discuss his future with Captain Wilson.

* * * * * * *