Devil's Creek Massacre Read Online Free Page B

American outlaws, and their leader was Richard Cochrane, formerly of the Confederate Cavalry Corps. He and his men rampaged onward, maintaining steady pistol fire at Apaches fleeing in all directions.
    A half hour earlier, Cochrane had heard gunfire far away and decided to investigate. The Apaches scattered into the desert, but there was no point to dividing his small force and chasing them. Cochrane held up his right gloved hand while pulling back his horse's reins with his left. His men coalesced about him, a ruggeddusty lot, sunlight glinting off steely eyes. They'd expected a small band of embattled Mexican vaqueros, but could locate no hint of the gun battle that they'd just interrupted.
    â€œCould be they was just Apaches a-fightin’ amongst theirselves,” suggested Clement Beasley, second in command, formerly a sergeant in the Ninth Virginia Cavalry.
    â€œLooks that way,” replied Cochrane. He took off his smudged silverbelly cowboy hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. A jagged purple scar worked its way up his right cheek, and he wore a black patch over his right eye. “This is as good a place as any to break for dinner.”
    He climbed down from his horse and let Beasley pass along his orders. Cochrane managed the outlaw band like a line cavalry detachment, with strict discipline and rough punishment for infractions of the rules. They were mostly ex-Confederate soldiers returning from the armed robbery of a west Texas bank, as attested to by packhorses carrying bags filled with loot.
    Cochrane sat in the scant shade of a cottonwood tree as his men performed campsite duties. They traveled light as Apaches, with no tents, only grub and canvas bedrolls. Two men dug a firepit while two others prepared food. Another crew cared for horses, and three were lookouts, because no place is home for desperadoes with prices on their heads.
    Cochrane smoked a cigarette and examined his map as dinner was prepared. Thirty-one years old, five-ten, he was sturdily constructed, with dirty tan jeans and two Colts in crisscrossed gunbelts, a bandolier across his chest, and a bowie knife sticking out his boot. He and his men didn't believe that the Great Cause waslost, and fought on as highly mobile and efficient mounted guerrilla fighters. Cochrane had dubbed them the First Virginia Irregulars, and they were on their way to their hideout in the Sierra Madre Mountains.
    No one sat near Cochrane, who maintained himself remote from the men. It was partially by design, because men won't take orders from a friend, and partially because he genuinely despised small talk. He removed his old brass army compass from his shirt pocket and took an azimuth on mountains on the horizon, then returned to the map. He loved tactics, ordnance, action, and danger. Certain events that had occurred at the Appomattox Courthouse in 1865 didn't change anything as far as he was concerned. The war that broke out at Fort Sumter was still on, and he'd never bow down to the Yankee invader.
    Beasley approached his commanding officer and threw a salute. He was heavyset and wore a walrus mustache. “The camp is secure, sir. Walsh's horse has a loose shoe, but that's the total damage.”
    â€œCarry on,” replied Cochrane. He didn't have to issue more orders; they all knew what to do and functioned like a smooth well-oiled war machine. Beasley sat opposite his commanding officer and rolled a cigarette. “I wonder what them Apaches was up to. They might come back with some of their friends.”
    â€œI don't think so,” replied Cochrane.
    Beasley and the others usually deferred to Cochrane, while the ex-company commander felt no need to explain himself. Who had the Apaches been fighting? he wondered.
    Cochrane had more important concerns, such as his next raid behind enemy lines, and then came the cantinas of Monterrey, with beautiful Mexican girls,gambling tables, horse races, and other pastimes to take his mind