The Man from Pinkertons adn the Gunrunners
Chapter 5
Kyle had had a chilly night of it up at San Angelo Pass, but he’d a notion that his discomfort and lack of a good night’s sleep would pay dividends. Of course, the fact that Stannard and the others were scouting out the pass by no means meant that action was imminent, but there had been a suppressed energy about the men he had watched which indicated to Jethro Kyle that matters were fast moving towards a climax. After four years of war, he had a feel for such things and although he could not have put it into words, the way that those men had conducted themselves while he was secretly observing them, looked to him as though they were on the cusp of some deadly enterprise. For that reason, he had returned to town, picked up a few scant provisions, sufficient only to sustain him for a day and then, just before night fell, had made his way here and lodged himself in the same spot from where he had been able to view the goings on earlier in the day.
False dawn had come and gone and now sunrise could be no more than a half-hour away and there seemed to Kyle little chance of his sleeping any more that night. He had dozed fitfully, but both the cold and the stony ground conspired together to prevent him falling once more into the arms of Morpheus. It was as he stood up to stretch and contemplated breaking his fast with a mouthful or two of the salted bacon which he had brought with him, that he heard the sound that deep inside he had known all along that he would hear that morning; a body of riders heading towards the pass. The only question was, were these soldiers or Stannard and his gang? The mare stood impassively and watched him as he crept up to the ledge from which he had watched the previous day’s activity and waited until the men came into view. They were riding at a fairly sedate trot, by the sound of it, but then so would he if he were to be so foolish as to undertake a five-mile ride over uncertain terrain in the dark. He’d an idea that he would soon be seeing the same half dozen men that he had seen yesterday.
The sky was lightening perceptibly, although as the sun was rising on the other side of the hills, Kyle could not see it. But slowly the stars were being obscured, as the sky turned pale blue. By the time that the riders hove into view, it was light enough for him to see that it was indeed Stannard and his five companions. At a guess, they had arrived bright and early in order to stake out whatever ambuscade they had it in mind to spring against some army patrol heading south to Fort La Cruce. ‘Well,’ murmured Kyle to himself softly, ‘You boys are up bright and early and no mistake, but you needs must be a little brighter than this to beat me to it.’ He felt a profound sense of satisfaction that his once again, his instincts had played him true. Then he recollected the advice in scripture which held that, ‘Pride goeth before destruction’ and tried to suppress the feeling in his heart of pleasure at being one step ahead of the men with whom he had been matching his wits.
Behind him, the horse stirred restlessly and Kyle hoped that she wouldn’t whinny or do anything to betray his position here. He’d an idea that his worth would not count for much in the valuation of those who were now dismounting below him on the valley floor if once they suspected him of spying on their affairs. They were too far away for him to be able to catch their words distinctly, but he could catch the faint sound of their voices as they apparently discussed the best way of achieving whatever aim they had in mind.
Colonel Stannard said, ‘Two of you grub out a hole there for those two jars. Don’t skimp, mind. Make sure there’s room for both to set side by side and with the tops of them barely above the level of the track.’
Once the two of them had began hacking away at the impacted dirt with a trowel acquired for that very purpose in Pilgrim’s Crossing’s hardware store the previous day, Stannard and the other three men climbed up the slope into the limestone crags to find a suitable hiding place. Of paramount importance was the right spot for Jim Howard’s sniper’s nest. The Whitworth by which he set such great store was a single-shot weapon and it was crucial that the first shot should be right on target. If he missed, then whole affair was likely to miscarry and they might all be dead before the sun set that day.
The plan which they had hatched was a simple one, although utterly ruthless and brutal. The likely disposition of the forces accompanying the two wagons carrying the Gatling Guns and ammunition would be four riders at the front and another four bringing up the rear. They would be most unlikely to put out flankers for such a simple expedition in what they must surely assume was friendly territory. It was to be hoped that they would treat the short trip from the arsenal to the fort as though it were a break from their usual duties; no more hazardous than a Sunday School outing. The attack would, or so Stannard and the others hopes, strike them like a thunderbolt falling from a clear sky.
The two glass jars which were to buried on the track along which the convoy would pass, contained a total weight of five pound of the Black Hercules dynamite made by the chemist who was now cooling his heels in town, wholly unaware of what he had become mixed up in. Only the very top of one of the jars would be left visible and this was unlikely to be spotted by even the most observant of the troopers who would precede the wagons. When they were almost on top of the mine, then Jim Howard would fire a shot into the jars from the Whitworth, in the use of which he had boasted so often of his prowess. It was devoutly hoped by the other men that Howard’s ability with the weapon matched the tales of his exploit at Spotsylvania. If so, then five pounds of high explosive would fell the first four riders, following which Stannard and the others would open fire on the rest of the party, with the intention of killing every man passing along the track. Then, they would descend to the floor of the narrow gorge and stow the munitions from the wagons in the cave hidden behind the bushes and do their best to conceal all traces of their activity. Following which, they would burn the wagons and ride back to town. No doubt the army would be down on the area like a duck on a June bug, and they might well visit Pilgrim’s Crossing, so the boys would need to be back there and behaving as though they were as innocent as newly born babes before that happened.
So often had the men heard Howard talk of his wonderful shot which knocked over a general at a distance of over half a mile that they had more or less taken it for granted that he was a fine shot. Now though, they were literally placing their lives in Jim Howard’s hands. If he missed the top of those jars and the soldiers escorting the wagons were warned that they were under attack, then things could turn very ugly for them all. What if there were not eight or ten, but rather a dozen men involved? They would be outnumbered more than two to one and engaged in a battle with professional soldiers. An awful lot hinged around Howard’s proficiency with that famous rifle of his.
A perfect little eyrie was found for Jim Howard, where he would be able to crouch in a secluded spot with the Whitworth resting on some rocks which should serve to make it as steady as could be. Once up there, he carefully gauged the distance between his vantage-point and the hole which the others were digging. He squinted down the long, narrow brass tube of the telescope, until he was satisfied with the focus. Stannard, usually so cool and collected, was standing nearby and even he had a note of anxiety in his voice when he enquired with forced jocularity, ‘Well, Jim? Think you can manage it first shot? You’ll not have the chance of a second you know. By the time you reload, they’ll be upon us.’
Usually good-natured and affable, Jim Howard looked up coldly and said, ‘I’ll play my part, colonel. Just be sure that you and the others are ready to lay down fire once I spring our mine.’
‘I didn’t mean to doubt you…’
‘If that there Black Hercules will detonate when my ball strikes home, then it’s certain death for those near at hand. How sure are you of that little chemist?’
‘Aye, there’s a point, isn’t it? We’ll have to pray he knows his stuff.’
This brief exchange was indicative of the mood of the gang that early morning, because the truth was that their little venture was far from being a racing certainty as to success or failure. Since failure would almost surely cost them all their lives, it can hardly be wondered at that nerves were getting a little taut and sometimes frayed.
Watching the activity from his own vantage-point, Kyle had been able to piece together the whole scheme. Having talked to the one-time engineer for the railways helped, of course to make sense of what he was now seeing. It wasn’t hard to guess that the hole being excavated in the track would be used for a mine and that this would consist of a charge of the black Hercules about which he had been told. Kyle was not one to miss the significance of the Whitworth, which he had at once recognised from the brass tube above the barrel. He understood immediately that this would most likely be the means to set off the charge. The five others would then presumably pour withering crossfire into the survivors of the explosion, before they even knew what had happened. ‘The murderous rogues!’ he exclaimed under his breath. Even so, he was torn between disgust and admiration for such a neat plan. No wonder Stannard had attempted to recruit him to boost the number of gunmen on his side in the skirmish.
Behind him, Kyle heard the mare pawing restlessly at the ground. This waiting game wasn’t a deal of fun for her. He wriggled down from the rocks and sure that he could not be seen from the valley, walked across to the animal, patting her and whispering in her ear. He hoped that they would not need to wait too long, because it would be all up with him if this creature took it into her head to raise a ruckus. But if he knew the ways of the army, that detail would be setting off soon after first light. He’d be remarkably surprised if they would need to wait more than an hour or two before action commenced. He had no watch with him, but he could gauge the hour well enough from the shadows moving on the hills behind him. It was barely an hour later that he heard the sound of riders approaching the pass from the north.
Jim Howard was first to hear the distant sound of hoofbeats, but then since assuming his position, his whole being had been focused on being ready for that crucial moment when he would initiate the slaughter of a Union patrol. The years since the end of the war rolled away and he was once again the best sniper in his company, ready and waiting for battle to be joined. He squinted through the telescope and made sure that he was aimed at the top of the buried flasks, whose position was indicated by two large stones places atop of them. The timing would be crucial.
Because he was taking no part in the action, Jethro Kyle was able to function as a perfect observer to what happened that day. He agonised for a brief time over whether or not he had a duty to warn the approaching column of their peril. It would have been easy enough to do so; simply firing a few shots in the air would have been sufficient. Two things dissuaded him from such a course of action. First off was where if he started firing, then Stannard and his men would still try and take on the patrol. If they were overcome, then doubtless the soldiers would then search the pass for any more hostile forces and if he was found crouched here like this, then there was every chance that they would assume him to be a member of Stannard’s band. They might very well execute instant judgement upon him. The second point to bear in mind was that he held only a watching brief from Pinkertons and had already exceeded his instructions by simply ensuring that he was present during the attack which he was sure was about to take place. Watching was one thing, but if he took an active part in the day’s events, then it might very well be that even Alan Pinkerton would wish to get rid of him. It was not a risk which Kyle thought worth taking.
As the small column entered the San Angelo Pass, it could be seen to consist of four cavalrymen, followed by two wagons; with another four horsemen bringing up the rear. Only ten men in total, including those driving the wagons, which was much as Stannard had hoped for. If Howard could really take out the first four riders, then the remaining six would be dead a few seconds later.
The troopers of the US Cavalry were not treating their escort duty like a vacation. They obviously had the pass pegged as a good site for an ambush and their eyes were restlessly scanning the hills and rockfaces which rose on either side. The six men who were planning wholesale slaughter were too experienced though to allow themselves to be visible. They stayed perfectly still; only their eyes flicking from side to side. Stannard and two of the others had Winchester Yellowboys, the remaining two having to make do with their pistols. The chances of their being able to hit any of the soldiers at that range were slender, but they would be able to throw down enough lead to be able to prevent their prey from being able to concentrate calmly on aiming and firing back accurately.
And then everything happened very quickly. Jim Howard left it as late as he could, because he wanted those four riders at the front to be right on top the mine before it went up. For that reason, he very nearly left it too late, because the trotting horses were kicking up a cloud of dust which threatened to obscure the stones which covered the jars of explosive. Howard did not fire until the leading horse was but six feet or so from his target. He held his breath and then squeezed the trigger. The result exceeded his greatest expectations, for there was a flash of light, followed almost instantly by an almighty crash like a clap of thunder. A column of smoke rose towards the sky, but Howard was already reloading. Even before the echo of the explosion had died away, the other five men began firing on the men below. Stannard and the other two with rifles took the other four cavalrymen first, as they were the greatest danger if once they dismounted and sought shelter. Not one of them had a chance to do anything of the kind though. While they were being killed, the two men driving the wagons began fumbling for their pistols, which were secured in unwieldy dragoon holsters, with straps holding them in place. The two men were still trying to prise away the straps when they too fell victim to rifle fire. The other two men fired their pistols in the general direction of the column, simply to add to the sense of overwhelming firepower.
By the time that Howard had reloaded the Whitworth, three of the horses looked to be the only living things down on the track. He swept the telescope over the remains of the four leading horsemen and saw that one of the riders was not yet dead, but although covered in blood was now attempting to get to his feet. Jim Howard despatched him with a ball through his head.
Colonel Stannard stood up and shouted urgently, ‘Let’s stow that gear. Look lively now!’
Leaving their mounts up in the shelter of the defile where they had concealed them, the six men descended to the floor of the valley. As they came on, they scanned the scene carefully for any sign of life. Only the three surviving horses, which had bolted during the shooting but then stopped, were grazing on the sparse grass by the side of the road.
The first wagon was loaded with twelve wooden crates, somewhat larger than tea chests and bound with shiny metal bands. These boxes were heavy, and it took two men to shift each one of them and carry it to the cave. The second cart had boxes of cartridges for the Gatlings. These too were lugged up the slope and stashed in the low cave at the foot of the cliff. All the time, the six of them were keenly aware that time was now running against them. The explosion might have attracted unfavourable attention and it was to be hoped that nobody had heard it and was minded to come and investigate. It had already been decided that in such a case, anybody who turned up while they were at work would have to be killed as well.
By the time the twelve crates containing the dismantled Gatlings had all been placed in the cave, together with the boxes of ammunition, they were all of them sweating freely; despite its being such a cold morning. Then came the tidying up, which meant sweeping away anything which might indicate that stuff had been moved from the wagons to another part of the pass. Flapping their jackets back and forth across the track and then sweeping away from the rocks any traces of dust or dirt which had been carried there on their boots, the six men managed to remove any indication which might lead the curious to start exploring in the direction of the cave. The low, scrubby bushes and plants which shielded the opening from view were carefully restored to their original positions, with Stannard checking the view from the wagons, to make perfectly sure that no sign of the cave could be seen from below. When he was satisfied, they fetched the three remaining horses and led them so that they were facing south, on the road leading towards La Cruce.
When the three horses were positioned with their heads to the south, Stannard gave a signal, at which the rumps of the beasts were slapped hard and pistols fired into the air. The horses had already been pretty well spooked by the events of the morning and it lacked only this impetus for them to gallop off in a fright. They did not travel just a few yards this time, by went haring off along the pass at top speed until the sound of their hoofs faded in the distance. Colonel Stannard said, ‘Mind now that none of you tread on those hoofprints. With luck, those as come to look into this will read it that whoever was here fled south.’
After they had tidied up the scene of the ambush a little and obliterated the footprints of those carrying heavy burdens from the wagons in the direction of the cave, Stannard directed two of the band to fetch the horses and walk them along the rocky outcrops which ran along the side of the pass, so that as few marks of their passing as possible were left. He and the other three then set about burning the wagons. They had been creosoted some time in the past and so when a flask of lamp oil was poured over the litter of bits of rope, fragments of canvas and so on which lay there after the ordnance had been removed, the first one went up like a torch. The second cart took fire in a similarly satisfactory fashion, whereupon the four bandits left the scene, following the men with the horses and walking where they could upon rock, rather than the sandy soil which comprised the track.
Kyle watched all this with an appreciation of the meticulous planning which had gone into the venture. He felt sorry for the ten men who had died, needless to say, but nevertheless, he was overcome with reluctant admiration for a man who could plan and accomplish such a perfect piece of work. There was no doubt that Stannard was, or had once been, a fine tactician.
The mare was getting distinctly restless, but she would have to bide a little while longer by that bristlecone, for Kyle had it in mind to see what it was exactly that ten men had been murdered to obtain. He clambered down the rocks to the floor of the valley and then crossed straight over to the other side of the track. He was no more anxious to leave tracks than those who had lately left the scene of their butchery. So it was that Kyle made his way along rocky outcrops until he came to the cave whose existence he had discovered the previous day. He bent double and shuffled in to see what was worth all that bloodshed. The ammunition boxes were nothing remarkable, but the large wooden chests looked interesting. It was dark and gloomy in the cave, but there was just enough light for him to make out the word ‘Gatling’ stencilled on the side of one of the chests. At this point, everything fell into place and it was as though he had been handed a detailed report on the motives and intentions of Stannard and his five comrades. No doubt they were to furnish the rebels in Mexico with twelve Gatling Guns, together with ammunition for the same. Together with the dynamite which the railroad engineer would be able to cook up, this would make the forces trying to overthrow Juárez, nigh on invincible. No wonder Pinkertons had been engaged to find out what was brewing here.
Although he knew that it would be unwise to linger too long around those burning wagons and piles of corpses, Kyle paused after examining the crates to consider what action, if any he should take. Should he ride to the arsenal and inform them of what had taken place? Or perhaps he ought to render these weapons useless by perhaps blunting the firing pins? Kyle ran his hands over the stout metal bands which encased the wooden crates and knew that he would be unable to break open these containers with his bare hands. In the end, after giving the matter the briefest of considerations, he decided to do nothing. His reasons were simple, although not wholly to his credit.
In the first instance, he had been sent to this town with the sole aim of gathering information, which he had now done. He could, at least going by the strict letter of his instructions, leave Pilgrim’s Crossing with a clear conscience and simply forward his report to head office in Chicago. He sensed though that this would be unlikely enough to bring him any plaudits or advance his career with the agency. He had thought too about clearing away the bushes and undergrowth which obscured the entrance to the cave, so that anybody coming to look into what had happened to the delivery of ordnance would at once see what had become of the weaponry. True, this would prevent the guns from falling into the wrong hands, but it would hardly benefit Jethro Kyle’s interests in the faintest degree. No, he hoped to make some personal capital from this business, in that his actions would redound to his credit and make him an even more noticeable figure in the Pinkertons outfit. Selfish and vainglorious perhaps, but he needed to look to his own interests once in a while.
Before he left the scene though, he had decided upon one course of action which might save a fellow being and would be unlikely to queer his pitch to any great extent. He would warn the railway engineer of the danger in which he stood and try to persuade him not under any circumstances or conditions to cross over the Rio Grande with Stannard and his band of desperados. Having decided that this act of charity would be both meritorious and unlikely to hinder his own plans, Kyle felt a little easier in his mind.
As he went back to fetch the mare and head back to town, Kyle paused amidst the carnage which lay scattered across the pass and bowed his head in prayer. He said, ‘Lord, I hope that you will receive these poor fellows into your house. I know that scripture tells us that vengeance is yours, but I hope that I’ll be acting in accordance with your wishes when I settle accounts with them as done this terrible thing.’ Following which unorthodox petition to the Deity, he collected his horse, mounted up and headed back to Pilgrim’s Crossing.