The Virgin

It was the soldiers’ tenth day searching for Mescalero-Apaches with no luck.

 First Sergeant Cecil Mackey bent to retrieve the reins he had dropped as he watered his horse in a foothill spring of the desolate, west Texas Guadalupe mountains. At the same time, he and other Buffalo Soldiers heard the familiar crack of a Springfield carbine.

Flinching, his first thought was, “What fool is firing’ his carbine?” The bullet had struck the water about two yards in front of him and would have hit him in the upper back had he not bent to retrieve the reins just before the carbine’s report. Then, he heard multiple crackling gunshots. This time, he realized the shots were too far away to have come from his comrades spread along the meandering spring’s bank. Fear replaced anger, sending a chill down his spine as he realized the shot was from an Apache, not his soldiers.

Already wearing their bandoliers, the men moved quickly, up and down the twisting bank, snatching carbines from their saddle scabbards to return fire while diving for cover near buckboard-sized, squatting boulders along the stream’s bank. The Apaches had the high ground, Mackey realized. With the morning sun at their backs, the only way the soldiers could aim was to shoot at the small clouds discharged from the Apache’s rifle muzzles as they fired down on them.

The cavalrymen’s withering return fire spoke to their fear, anger, and embarrassment. They had no idea how many Indians were shooting, but they would hold their ground, firing until the Mescalero-Apaches backed off. And suddenly, just as it had begun, it ended. Ghost-like, the Indians retreated, and Mackey signaled the men with a closed, raised fist, to “hold position.” The soldiers remained in their positions for more than an hour after the battle, waiting, lest they be lured into gun sights again. Mackey, at the middle of the firing line, finally risked exposure and signaled the men to rise, retrieve their mounts, and remain silent and vigilant.

The soldiers of the 10th Calvary out of Fort Quitman continued their patrol riding their mounts in close formation, well away from the Guadalupes, enduring the unseasonable April heat of the West Texas Salt Flats. They headed southeasterly, toward Fort Quitman. Mackey was the first to speak. “You men showed real good dis moh’nin agin’ the Apache.”

“That mean sum’ oh’ us gon’ get recommended?” Gospel Storey interrupted.

“Recommended fo’ whut boy?” Challenged Mackie. “You git thirteen US dollahs a mont’, three squares a day, a hoss, guns an’ a place to sleep. ‘Whut mo’ you won't? Nah, shut yo’ big young-ass stupid mouth while I’s talking’. Das ah order!” His glare dared Gospel to interrupt again. “Ah’ll be putting’ some oh y'all in fo’ recommendation's.”

The other soldiers, exhausted and numbed from the battle, merely rode on quietly. Mackey’s fifteen years as a Buffalo Soldier told him that they had heard and there was no need to say anything more, as they continued riding the eighty miles back to Fort Quitman. Gospel kept his mouth shut. It took three days to reach the Fort, and fortunately, for the cavalrymen, there were no Apaches this time.

Seventeen-year-old Gospel, an orphan from Tennessee born in 1863, two years before President Lincoln’s assassination, ended up in Texas when Fort Quitman was re-commissioned in 1880. Like most of the soldiers at the Fort, Gospel was transferred in from Fort Selden in Las Cruces, New Mexico. In the early days of the Indian campaigns, the troops were made up mostly of former slaves, but now young men like Gospel joined the army to support the cause, riding the open plains and deserts, chasing and fighting the Comanche and Mescalero-Apache of Southern New Mexico and West Texas.

The army offered a hardscrabble life with no regular recreation, save that made by the troops. There were no tasty meals, and no women. That was life, and some soldiers had “sweetheart heart” duty, which meant riding escort on stage coaches heading west with payrolls to west Texas and Southern New Mexico towns. Buffalo Soldiers who “won” this duty returned to the Fort as best they could. Most of the time it meant a long walk home, but Gospel didn’t mind the rigors of such a life. He thrived on adventure, enjoyed chasing the Indians and warding off attacks.

The night of the Buffalo Soldiers’ return to Fort Quitman, the post commander debriefed Mackey. It was evening and the soldiers were finishing their daily military and personal chores, breaking up into groups to talk about home and family, and what they would do when discharged from the army. No one spoke of the latest encounter with the Indians, but kept their emotions and information in check. Gospel gravitated towards the Fort’s young Mexican cook, Paco Sandoval, who, like him, was young, only nineteen. Paco spoke only Spanish, but Gospel had picked up enough Spanish during his first year in New Mexico territory at Fort Selden with the 9th Cavalry to understand most of what he heard. Gospel walked through the mess hall and into the kitchen at the back of the building, where he knew he’d find Paco.

“Hola, Fransisco,” he said loudly so the men in the dining area would hear and embarrass the cook, who preferred being called “Paco.”

“¿Que pas, perro feo?” Replied Paco, good-naturedly. They shook hands heartily.

“You know, Paco, ah been thinkin’, ‘bout God, a lot.”

“Sí. La guerra con los indios hace que las personas piensen mucho en Dios,” said Paco.

“Yeah. But… ahm’ sorta shame to say dis, but I don’ know how ta pray!”

“Pues, oraciones son fácil, Gospel,” said Paco, with mild incredulity.

“Yeah. Das easy fo’ you tah say. You wuz born into a religion.”

“Pero, amigo, no necesitas tener una religion para hablar con Dios, solo fe, Gospel.”

Gospel was uncomfortable with what he was about to ask, and Paco noticed his hesitation. “¿Qué pasa, amigo?”

“Well, uh, Paco, kin you, uh, teach me how to pray?”

“¿Sabes cómo pedir más huevos rancheros en la mañana, verdad?”

“Well, yeah,” Gospel admitted sheepishly. “But dem is jes’ eggs!”

Paco held up his hand. “Haz lo mismo, pidele a Dios más huevos rancheros. ¡Es facil!”

“It’s dat easy?”

“¡Claro que si! Y en caso de que Dios esté muy ocupado, pídele à la Virgen de Guadalupe.”

“Whut you talkin’, Paco?”

“El espíritu de La Virgen vive ne el oeste de las Montañas de Guadalupe. Llámala y ella te contestará, y a la mejor hasta sé ta aparece si lo haces con fe. Ahora, muévete, que tengo que mucho quehacer.”

Gospel stepped toward Paco and hugged him. “Gracias, Francisco,” he blurted out, and Paco faked a punch at Gospel, who caught the intent and ran from the kitchen, as both young men laughed aloud.

The Apaches attacked Fort Quitman three times during the patrol’s week at home base. Five men were killed and the post commander, fuming, ordered Sergeant Mackey to organize a patrol. “The hostiles think we’re just soft, sitting ducks.” Mackey recruited twenty of his best, highly experienced and disciplined men, ready to fight and crack shots. Gospel was among them.

Before the left Fort Quitman, Mackey made a show of walking his mount around the assembled and mounted men. Every now and then, simultaneously, lightly spurring his horse and restraining it.

“If yo’ host is red’ay, you betta be red’s too. We ride out ta’nite. When we reach the Guadalupe’s it’a be well pas’ sundown. When the sun come’ up we’ll be on high groun’ wit’ da sun at ar backs. The Apaches took some fine men away from us las’ week. We go ta honah, they deaths. If day any man who not willin’ to spill blood for his fall’n brothas, you kin jus’ fall out nah,” said Mackey. Then, he spurred his mount to prance around the men several more times, skeptically starring them down. Convinced they were psychologically fortified, he called, “Fo’wad. Ho’oh!”, and the soldiers rode into the night, toward their vengeful mission.

When the patrol entered the foothills of the Guadalupe’s, the horses were sequestered in a makeshift corral near the base of the mountain, at the foothills. One cavalryman was left to guard them. 

“Storey,” barked Mackey, “you and those other five men take a spot fo’wad. Space yo’sefs about thirty ya’ds apart. I want my bes’ shootahs on the high spots.”

“Yas suh, sarjunt,” responded Gospel.

It was close to daybreak, the sun had not yet sliced the horizon, and the men had been in place for three hours. They lined the low ridge that would be in sunlight when the sun rose. Gospel heard what he thought sounded like someone choking off to his right. He signaled to one of the men closest to him that he was going to leave his position and investigate. 

The men telegraphed with their hands, Gospel’s intentions up and down the jagged firing line. 

Crouching low behind the line of men, Gospel treaded carefully toward the direction of the sound. As he approached the man at the end of the firing line, he noticed the soldier appeared to be sitting in an unnatural bolt, stiff position. Gospel picked up a pebble and tossed it toward him. It hit the soldier, and for a moment, he appeared to start like a frightened animal before falling over to the side. Gospel knew what it meant, but before he could reach the body, a young brave jumped from the dry rivulet bed behind him with his carbine up to fire in the direction of Gospel. Instinctively, Gospel swung the butt of his rifle at the Indian’s head, knocking him down then stabbing him in the chest with his bayonet. Around him, gunshots went off, and he fell back into the rivulet and began firing down the mountain at puffs of gun smoke and sprinting Indians.

The battle wore on for more than two hours. The sun was halfway directly above them. It was clear the Indians would not give up, and they would have to be captured, or be killed. Close to noon, the shooting stopped inexplicably. To Gospel’s dismay, the patrol had only captured seven enemies. They had no idea how many had got away, or how many had been killed. As for Gospel, he had sustained cuts on the palms of both hands, and was bleeding from a bullet that had creased his left thigh.

By the time the soldiers tended their wounds and those of their enemies’ it was mid-afternoon, and they were well on their way to Salt Flat. As they moved southwest, toward Fort Quitman, Gospel looked easterly, over his left shoulder toward the Guadalupe Mountains, and he remembered wha Paco had said about the Virgin. For the first time, he noticed the majestic, imposing Guadalupe Mountains, rising high above the Salt Flat. He was filled with awe and reverence, and suddenly, he felt an urge to pray. The battle, he noticed, had left him vulnerable and weary. It seemed to Gospel like he had been fighting for “the cause” for years, although it had only been one year since he had joined the Buffalo Soldiers.

He looked around, noticing how the waiting horizon accepted the sun in quarter phases. As the patrol and the prisoners rode farther away from the mountains, the Flat consumed and converted the fading light to a welcomed cool until a chilled twilight descended upon them, finally dissolving the burnt orange day to the horizon. 

The soldiers rode on. Gospel could not help but look over his shoulders toward the dark outline of the Guadalupe Mountains, and the further he rode from the mountains, the heavier his weariness. The year’s battles with the Indians had finally taken its toll on him.

He prayed silently, this time with fervor, and it was in the twilight, in that moment as the balance of fading light, heat, and skulking chill embraced the encroaching dusk that Gospel saw her as he turned one last time to look at the mountains. He stiffened in his saddle.

“It’s her! It’s her!” He yelled, reining his horse’s head toward the mountains. Startled, the patrol stopped, turning their horses in the direction of the Guadalupes, they followed Gospel’s mesmerized eyes. At first, no one spoke, then, one by one the soldiers whispered, “Dah she is!” The whispering turned into excited shouts as the soldiers struggled for room, trying not to bump into each other, or lose the prisoners. In the winning light, eight thousand feet above Salt Flat, they saw her in repose, stretched out about a quarter mile, her head to the south, her rounded shoulders, a modest rise of breast, her arm bent at the stomach, with gathered skirts covering a length of thigh, a soft knee and feet.

“What the hell! What foolishness are you talkin’ now? Quit dat noise you spookin’ the hosses,” growled Mackey.

No one seemed to noticed Mackey’s angry snarl, and Gospel felt a weight of mourning leak from his heart as he lifted his head toward the image of the Virgin. His doubt dissolved into sweet tears of recognition, and for the first time in his life, he felt peace washing over him. He knew then life would be different, and breaking away from the patrol, he rode toward the mountains, leaving Mackey shouting behind him.

📁 Chapter One - Wolf

• PART I: The Pollen and the Cloth (up next)