Slaughter of the Aborigines

Ignorance comes in many forms. This is a fictional tale about a cavalry company who fights Indians, though 'fighting' may not be the word to describe it. Inspired by historical events.

Author's Note: For some reason, every story I post that's rated 'Mature' never receives a single view. I can only assume that, for some reason, Mature stories do not appear on this site for other users. Therefore, to give people a chance to read what I have written, I am changing the rating on this story to 'Teen'. Please keep in mind that this story definitely should not be rated Teen; it contains scenes of extreme violence and discretion is advised. I am also doing this for "Cat and Mouse", my other Mature story that has remained at zero views for several days, perhaps over a week. Thank you, and enjoy.

The Apache reservation in New Mexico was supplied almost entirely by the Tutsen & Wilcox Cattle Company. The beef was shipped in by rail and transported almost a hundred miles over wilderness before it was unloaded at the Yuma Post and carried by wagon the rest of the way. The beef itself was packed in salt, so as not to spoil. The company made a tidy profit by taking the government's money to ship this beef and then sending less than they were paid for. The Apaches got on, the owners made money, and life worked for everybody. Then, in '78, the company just played out. A disease ravaged their main herd and they could not sell enough to make back all the money they had lost. Jeffery Tutsen moved to Alabama and became a professional gambler; Henry Wilcox shot himself in the temple in full view of over thirty people on a hot July afternoon. From then on, the Federal government temporarily took the position as the reservation's source of food until a new company could be contracted. This new company was the Lawrence Co.- named after Lawrence, Kansas, where the owner had been born. These people were notorious for being crooked, but the government was eager to give somebody the responsibility and the Lawrence Co. were the first to step up.

The Lawrence Co. sold mostly to private cattlemen; at forty dollars a head, it was good money. All the cows that were too skinny or sick to be sold to any respectable businessman were taken from the herd, butchered, and sent to the Apaches. Nine times out of ten it was rancid, and many of the Indians got a terrible fever. One fabled day, a wagon arrived at the reservation with meat- half the meat they had been promised and all of it spoiled. It had been left to sit in the sun the entire trip without even a cover, and it had turned rapidly. Star Seer, the chief, came out to speak to the white men. What was said in this exchange, nobody knew. The men eventually knifed the chief and left in a hurry while several of the tribe's women rushed to help the dying man. Star Seer did not bleed to death, but he did develop gangrene and passed away nonetheless.

The tribal police reported the horrific murder to the agent at the Yuma Post; the man became nervous and after they left he telegraphed Major John Kelly at the fort and told him of a possible Indian uprising. He had seen the anger in the Apaches' eyes over the murder and was afraid they would come back and cut his throat in the night, "savages as they were." Major Kelly organized a detachment of fifty men and left three days later.

They rode out before the sun rose. In the darkness these men traveled like envoys of death with their arms pressed close to them. Each man in that bristling company no doubt thought himself a hero. Their weapons were as diverse as they were; some held new model Winchesters, single action Colts, old Remington pistols, Spencer rifles, Sharps rifles, rifles that still needed to be loaded methodically with cap, powder, and ball. It was a war party and no doubt about it. They rode as the red sun rose in the east. Some watched the mesas towards the south with longing and wonder as to the land they were a part of. Two men in the rear sang 'Dixie'. Major Kelly remained at the head at all times, his posture as rigid and unchangeable as that of stone. He smoked from a pipe every now and then, puffing at it methodically and casually and releasing clouds of harsh smoke into the air. Most of the men had no formal training; a lot had been signed up on the spot in nameless towns in some of the biggest wastelands of the country by grizzled old sergeants or captains. Some of them were former outlaws seeking a lawful way to kill and steal. Others were young men who had yet to see one man do in another and were eager for the experience. Others yet were just straight up crazy. In all of them was that unifying thirst for violence, and not a man jack of them had sympathy for the red man. They were supposed to just contain the situation without bloodshed but Major Kelly shared the same sentiments as the others and nobody doubted what would happen when they got there.

It took a week. Three soldiers perished from dehydration, though there was plenty of water to be had if one but asked his fellow man. Another yet took sick from bad food and chose to be left behind in the desert with aught but a horse and a rifle. When these horse soldiers, now exhausted and disgruntled from the long trip, arrived at the Yuma Post, they discovered the agent there very alive and well. He told them that the Apaches had calmed down a notch out of regret for his earlier decision but Major Kelly did not want to tell his men they had to turn back after a week long ride in which three, maybe four men had perished. Instead he came out and addressed them as such: "Gentlemen. Them n*****s is getting some riled up. We must remember what they did to our white brothers and sisters; what they have done to us since Columbus first came to this godforsaken land. These coons have raped, they have pillaged, they have murdered. They have stolen innocent children and they have starved out or burnt out families. They have tortured people for fun. These savages can not be civilized, as recent events have shown us. No. So they may not be allowed to reproduce further and spread their twisted, primitive ways. If we don't kill ever god damned n****r in there then we might as well take off our uniforms and ride on home. If any man present does not feel he can handle this responsibility that God has given us... well, he can get the hell out of here."

The Lawrence Co. had not made another shipment since the knifing and the Apaches were starving. Many of the old and the young had already died as they were too weak to handle the famine. Some had resorted to eating twigs. When the army rode in, they all thought they were finally getting food again. Then the first gunshot sounded and a woman of about twenty turned around slowly and then fell on her face. In an instant the chaos was general. Most of the people either ran into their wickiups or stood stock still, watching this fabled horde of horse soldiers as they charged in. Tents and people alike were trampled under the hooves of their ponies. An old man who had once been a good warrior emerged from his tent naked with a crude spear and jabbed the weapon into the flank of a passing horse. The animal fell and its rider fell with it. The horse remained in the dirt, breathing heavily, bleeding from its side. The man rose to his feet, confused, and the old man slew him before being shot down by a dozen bullets. Already the air had a thick cloud of smoke hanging over the camp and the smell of blood mingled with the stench of burnt gunpowder. Infants were torn screaming from the arms of their wailing mothers and smashed with bootheels. Women were cut down with sabers and bowie knives. The few braves in the camp took up their spears and their knives and their lances and rushed to the defense but they were too weak from hunger and too unprepared for the surprise attack and many were shot down in a single volley of rifle fire. Wounded Apaches yelled in their pain and their agony while the soldiers went to all the wickiups and huts with flaming torches and burned them. The people who fled these infernos were shot by waiting cavalrymen or brained by clubs or stabbed with bayonets and knives and swords. A few survivors ran into the desolate woods with not even a slight chance of survival. Many people bore wounds; Indians laying in the bloody muck or crawling on all fours like beasts, soldiers impaled by lances or pincushioned with arrows.

Major Kelly still sat atop his bloodstreaked and crazed horse, a wild look in his eyes, his breast bearing four long cane arrows. His breathing was ragged and uneven but he was not dead. His rifle had been lost in some previous struggle and in his fist was a massive Walker revolver, smoke still drifting from its long barrel. He looked out over the smoldering reservation as his men went from person to person, dispatching all those that still breathed with a clean shot to the head or dragging women, screaming and kicking though they were, out of tents for a little bit of sport. Some were taken into the bushes and raped, others dispatched on the spot cruelly with blades. It was like the moment had unleashed some primal, brutal nature out of them. They appeared insane, soaked in blood as they were and killing without feeling. They had drawn out some inner trait that none knew they possessed; they were lost in the moment, and some wouldn't even be able to recall what they had done later on. A few even killed themselves in the years to come, filled with guilt over that day. Major Kelly never dealt with the repercussions. He merely dismounted his horse, as smoothly as ever, shot a man who was still barely clinging to life at his feet, and walked into the woods to die alone. Two of the arrows in his chest had pierced a lung and another had gone so deep that its tip rested inside of a kidney. He felt no pain; it was the complete lack of pain that told him he was dying. His body was retrieved the next day. The newspapers first published that he was a hero, who had stopped a reservation uprising in its tracks. A few years later, he was condemned as a monster for his actions while the men who served under him faded quickly from memory. Forty-six men had killed over two hundred Apaches while only losing a dozen of their number. Not one of them served jail time.

The Federal government later gave more land back to the Apaches. They were given their food through consistent and trustworthy means and apart from a few sporadic instances of violence, the tribe and history moved on, past that black, black day.

Author's Note

This was a bit of a heavy read, I know. I may appear insensitive to some- but hey, it's fiction. This was rated mature for a reason. To those who enjoyed this story, I thank you for the read and I hope you have a great day.