Handing him the field glasses, Mitch pointed. “Look at that grove of trees at about two o’clock. If you look closely, you can see smoke from a couple of fire pits.”
“Anyone moving yet?”
“Too early to tell for sure. Probably. I’m not sure that Poke knows we’re back, but he knows he’s got a posse after him.”
After almost a full minute, Nebeker handed the glasses back to Mitch. “Pretty quiet,” was all he said. He rolled onto one side and dug beneath his jacket. A moment later he had his pocket watch. He held it up until it caught the moonlight. “It’s quarter past five.”
Mitch raised his head and looked to the east. The light was still faint, but the line of the mountains to the east of them was now distinct, and he could just make out the shape of clumps of sagebrush and some of the larger boulders.
Seeing what he was doing, Nebeker muttered, “We’ll give them seven more minutes, then we’re going in.”
Seven more minutes and there would be enough light behind them to silhouette them clearly to anyone watching from the other side of Cottonwood Wash. Mitch almost said something to that effect but then decided against it. Nebeker had been a marshal for over ten years. You didn’t have to teach a fox how to hunt chickens. So he said nothing and lifted the glasses again and focused them on the trees where Poke and Tse-ne-gat were waiting for them.
Chapter Notes
What came to be known as “The Bluff War” or “Posey’s War of 1915,” or simply “The War,” was one of the last armed conflicts between the U.S. Army and native tribes in the United States. Tse-ne-gat, a renegade Paiute with a vicious reputation, killed a Mexican sheepherder by shooting him in the back, probably from long range with a high-powered hunting rifle. Several months went by before U.S. Marshal Aquilla Nebeker came to Colorado with a warrant. When Tse-ne-gat couldn’t be found, Nebeker formed a posse of locals in Colorado rather than calling on the Mormons to get involved in the war. But he did ask for two backup posses, which Blanding and Monticello provided.
February 25, 1915, 5:25 a.m.—Cottonwood Wash
U.S. Marshal Aquilla Nebeker raised his head and looked up and down the line of men lying on their stomachs in the snow, rifles cradled in their arms. “When I say three, we go. Stay spread out. I want two men to stay back right at the edge of wash to provide us covering fire. Aiken and Cordova. That’ll be you two.”
“Hold on,” Mitch hissed. “We’ve got movement over there.” He peered through the glasses. There was enough light now that he could see a couple of the wickiups clearly. The deerskin cover that served as the entry in and out of the small moveable huts was pulled back on the first hut. But as he peered more closely, it dropped again and no one came out. “What is it?” Nebeker demanded.
“It looked like someone was coming out of that first wickiup, but I guess not.”
Nebeker leaped to his feet. “Then let’s go,” he cried, and he leaped forward. Moments later, nine other men raced after him. Joe Aiken, a rancher from Dolores, leaped up beside Mitch and threw his rifle to his shoulder. José Cordova, a Mexican sheepherder from Cortez, did the same on the other side. The muzzles of their rifles wove back and forth as they covered their running comrades, but both held their fire. The first shot was to be Nebeker’s.
Just then a faint cry was heard. Mitch jerked the glasses up again and trained them on the camp. A single brave, his face smeared with war paint, came bursting out from the trees, a rifle in his hands. He was screaming, and though the cry was faint, Mitch clearly heard the Ute word for white man. And then the Ute threw his rifle to his shoulder and took aim.
Mitch went up on his knees and shouted, “Get down! Get down!”
The crack of the rifle was sharp and clear but obviously far away. Nebeker and his men had already seen the man and dropped to the ground.
BLAM! The sound, which seemed right over his head, caused Mitch to jerk violently. Then he realized that Aiken had fired back.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
Aiken and Cordova were both firing now. They were levering shells into their chambers and blasting them off as fast as they could make their arms work.
“Get down!” Mitch shouted at them. “It’s too far. You can’t hit him from here.” As he yelled, he saw the Indian drop to one knee and take aim.
CRACK!
A plume of snow spurted upward somewhere between Nebeker’s men and Mitch. Like Aiken and Cordova, the Indian probably had a 30.30, and like them, he was wasting ammunition.
Up ahead of Mitch, a roar erupted as Nebeker and his men poured volleys of fire at the Indian camp from their prone positions. But they were only fifty or so yards ahead of Mitch, still well out of range with their lighter rifles.
Mitch rose up on one knee and lifted the field glasses again. The camp was full-out bedlam now. Braves were pouring out of wickiups and from the brush and trees. About half had rifles; the rest held only bows and arrows.
A chill shot through Mitch. A woman darted out from somewhere, dragging a young girl by the hand and holding a small child under her other arm. Gratefully, she disappeared into the trees again. A moment later the entrance to the first wickiup was thrown back, and a man in full buckskin appeared. But he didn’t run outside. He knelt down, one knee still in the shelter, one in the snow. He had long, black braids of hair and carried a rifle in one hand. Mitch gasped as he recognized him. It was Old Poke himself. And the rifle he had in his hand was noticeably longer that what the other braves carried.
“Get down!” Mitch screamed at the two men standing above him. “He’s got a hunting rifle.”
BOOM!
The sound of the 30.06 was deeper and louder than the other rifles, and the echo rolled off the surrounding canyon walls.
There was a soft sound to Mitch’s left, and Aiken jerked backward out of his line of sight.
“No!” He was up and scrambling. Aiken was lying on his back, motionless. As Mitch darted toward him, he saw that Aiken’s upper face was a mass of blood. Two more steps and he stopped. The bullet had entered Aiken’s skull just above his left eye and exited out the back of his head.
“Is he dead?”
At Cordova’s scream, Mitch spun around. The Mexican’s face was white, and he was like a statue, frozen in place, gaping at what had been a friend just moments before.
Mitch hurled himself at the man. “Down! Get down!”
BOOM!
The sound of the big rifle came a split second after Cordova’s body jerked violently, spun around, and was flung backward. Scrambling like a crab, keeping his head down, Mitch raced to the Mexican. He too was flat on his back, but his eyes were open and they moved to look up at Mitch as he reached him. “I’m hit,” he said calmly, and then his eyes closed.
“Marshal!” Mitch screamed. “We’ve got two men down.”
But Nebeker and his men were already up and running pell-mell, coming back toward him.
BOOM!
There was a soft snap of sound as the bullet passed over Mitch’s head. He dove forward, burying his face in the snow. He wasn’t sure if that had been meant for him or one of the men running toward him. Either way, it had been close.
One man tripped over Mitch and went sprawling. A moment later the others arrived and frantically took cover.
“Where is he?” Nebeker cried.
“It’s Poke. He’s in the entrance to that wickiup. And he’s got his deer rifle.”
The marshal swore, jerked up, and fired off a shot. Muzzle flashes winked back at them, and a moment later the rumble of rifles reached them.
“He’s too far, Marshal,” Mitch said, picking up the binoculars again.
“Oh yeah?” Nebeker went up one knee, steadied himself, and took careful aim. Mitch quickly put the glasses to his eyes and found Poke. To his amazement, Poke was on his feet, standing like a statue. And it looked like he was smiling.
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CRACK!
Nebeker fired. Poke did not so much as flinch. Then, quick as a cat, he dropped to one knee again and up came the rifle.
“Down!” Mitch yelled just as snow exploded upward into the marshal’s face a second later, followed by that same resounding BOOM.
For a moment, Mitch thought Nebeker had been hit as well, but when the marshal started swearing, Mitch sighed. Keeping his head down, Mitch peered at the camp again. Instantly, he drew in a sharp breath.
“What is it?” Nebeker snapped.
Mitch handed him the glasses without a word. He looked for a second and then began cursing again. He was seeing what Mitch had just seen. Poke had turned his back on them. As they watched, he bent all the way forward until his long braids were brushing the ground, and he was looking back at them between his legs. And he was jeering at them.
“That piece of scum is taunting us?” Nebeker howled in a rage.
“Yes. Because he knows our rifles can’t hit him from here.”
“We’ll see about that,” the Marshal snarled. And, surprising everyone, he jumped up and took off running back toward where they had left the horses.
“Where’s he going?” someone called.
Before Mitch could answer, someone groaned nearby. He spun around. Cordova’s body was just three feet away, and to Mitch’s utter astonishment, it moved. Then, a moment later, one of his legs moved and his eyes opened.
Forgetting Poke and his long rifle and everything else around him, Mitch scrambled across the snow to the Mexican’s side. The snow under his left side was stained a deep red, but his eyes watched Mitch come to him, and there was a wan smile. “What happened?” he croaked.
Almost too astonished to speak, Mitch leaned down. “You’ve been shot. We’re taking fire, but. . . . I’ve got some bandages in my saddlebags.”
Mitch bent closer, not sure where the blood was coming from. Then he saw the hole and understood. Cordova had started to turn around when Aiken was hit, and evidently Poke’s shot hit him just under his right arm, passed entirely through his body, and exited out beneath his other arm. How it had not hit the heart was beyond Mitch’s comprehension. He cupped his hands and shouted. “Marshal!”
Now fifty or sixty yards away and no longer visible to Poke, Nebeker stopped and turned.
“Cordova’s alive. I’ve got some bandages and some laudanum in my saddlebag.”
Nebeker waved and broke into a trot again.
Mitch bent over Cordova. “Hang on. We’re getting help for you.”
Cordova tried to speak, but only a soft mumble came from his lips. Mitch gripped his hand momentarily and then scuttled back to where he had left the binoculars and turned his attention back to the camp. Pandemonium now reigned, and he could see the band was getting ready to abandon camp. He couldn’t spot Poke at first, but then he saw him standing a few feet away from the wickiup. He was next to a tree and had his rifle steadied against the trunk. He was waiting for his next target.
A minute or two later Nebeker came back, huffing and puffing like a winded horse. He stopped and knelt down beside Cordova and handed Mitch’s medical things to the young cowboy who was now helping him. He said a few words and then quickly crawled over and joined Mitch. Mitch’s eyes widened when he saw what he was carrying.
“A Sharps? You have a Sharps?”
“Yes. I always carry it.”
“Then why not—?”
“Because it only takes one shell at a time. A thirty-thirty is much handier in a fight like this.” He peeked his head up briefly and then lowered it again. “Where’s Poke?”
“He’s about ten feet to the left of the wickiup. He’s by a tree, using it for a brace. And he’s waiting for his next shot.”
“You ready to teach that little snake a lesson?”
“I would like that.”
“All right.” Nebeker picked up the Sharps rifle and loaded a single cartridge into it. He checked his gunsight, made a quick adjustment to it, and looked over at Mitch. He motioned to one of the men who was nearby. “When I give the word, I want you to rise up real quick and take a shot at the camp.”
“But, Marshal—” Mitch began.
“I’m not going to kill him. I want him to hang. But first I want that cocky little lizard to start taunting us again.”
Mitch grinned. “You that good with that rifle?”
“Try me,” he shot right back with a wolfish grin of his own. “You just keep the glasses on him and tell me when he assumes that bent-over position again.”
It actually took three shots to goad Poke into it. One man jumped up, fired off a shot, and dove down again. Mitch followed Poke’s movement with the binoculars. He raised his rifle but ultimately lowered it again. Up went the second man. CRACK! Then he was down. Again Poke searched for a target but then lowered his rifle.
“One more time,” Nebeker said, pressing his cheek against the stock of the rifle and peering through the elevated sight. The first man jumped up again, blasted off a round, and then buried his face in the snow.
Thrusting his chest out in utter contempt, Poke set the rifle down and turned his back on them. “Here he goes,” Mitch called to Nebeker.
Walking with an insolent swagger, the Paiute chief moved out into the open and turned his back on them. Again he bent over double, peering out at them from between his legs. Then he thumbed his nose. Mitch could imagine that the gesture was accompanied by a cackling laugh.
KABOOM!
The stock of the Sharps rifle knocked Nebeker back as a tongue of flame a foot long leaped from the muzzle. Mitch had expected that, and he kept the glasses focused on Poke. Then he gave a whoop, leaped to his feet, and started doing a little dance.
“Did he kill him?” someone cried as Nebeker got slowly to his feet.
“Of course I didn’t kill him,” the marshal replied.
“No, he didn’t,” Mitch crowed. “But he hit right between his feet, and Old Poke jumped about three feet in the air and dove into his wickiup. I’ll wager that he’s spitting out a mouthful of red dirt about now.”
Mitch strode over to Nebeker and stuck out his hand. “It is a pleasure to ride with you, sir. Any time. Anywhere.”
Chapter Notes
Though the sources do not give many names, one of the posse, Joe Aiken, was killed by a shot from Poke’s high-caliber rifle as described. José Cordova, another posse member, was also hit, and the bullet passed completely through his body, narrowly missing his heart. He was in critical condition for some time, but he eventually recovered from his wounds and lived several more years.
The battle between the shorter-ranged rifles (almost certainly Winchester 30.30s) and Poke’s heavier-caliber hunting rifle is part of the historical record. That includes Poke’s taunting them by looking between his legs at them while their shots fell short. It doesn’t say who had the high-powered rifle, but whoever it was did put a shot between Poke’s feet, which abruptly ended his taunts.
I had Marshal Nebeker split the posse into three groups not because that is what is specifically recorded but to explain some discrepancies in the different accounts. One source talks in great detail about the posse being held at bay by Poke’s long-range rifle. Other sources say that the posse achieved a surprise attack on Poke’s camp and that in the ensuing panic a Paiute woman and two braves were killed. So the three-pronged attack was my device to show one possible way these conflicting accounts might be reconciled (see Albert R. Lyman, Indians and Outlaws, 159–161, and his History of San Juan County, 125–26; see also “Bluff War,” en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bluff_War).
April 4, 1920, 8:48 p.m.—EDW Ranch
Mitch stopped and sat back, putting his arm around Edie’s shoulders and letting Frank finish writing. Once he did, Mitch said, “There’s not much to tell after that, at least not that I had any part of. I stayed back with the h
orses at the marshal’s request while the posse hit Poke’s camp from three directions. By that time, though, all they found were women and children and a few of the old bucks. Poke and his boy and the other braves had disappeared.”
“But the marshal went after them,” Frank said. “Right?”
“No. About that time, we saw another band of Indians coming toward us. Turns out that Posey’s band, which numbered about forty or fifty braves, had been camped down in the flats about two miles away. When they heard the shooting, they came running. Add that number to Poke’s band of sixty, and that left the posse outnumbered about three or four to one. So Marshal Nebeker told me to take off and warn Bluff and to also call our men down from Monticello and Blanding.”
Mitch stopped, seeing that Frank was writing as fast as he could again.
MJ leaned forward. “I just realized something. Wasn’t it that next Christmas that Mom gave you your deer rifle?”
“It was,” Mitch admitted.
Edie was nodding too. “After hearing what a man could do with a long rifle against a thirty-thirty, I decided that my husband would never be caught in that kind of disadvantage again.”
“Okay,” Frank called. “So did the posse get Poke or Tse-ne-gat?”
“No. There was a running gun battle between the two Indian bands and the marshal’s men, which quickly turned really ugly. By that time, Poke had moved his braves up on top of the bluffs, and the marshal was down below taking heavy fire, so he started falling back toward town. Another man was killed, and two or three more were wounded.”
“What about Bluff?” Rena exclaimed. “Did the Indians attack it?”
“No, which was remarkable when you think about it. And Marshal Nebeker gets the credit for that. He dug in just west of town. But Bluff was in a panic by that time, I’ll tell you. The men were arming themselves. Women were frantically getting their children down into cellars. People were putting mattresses up in front of their windows. But the marshal wisely didn’t come any closer, which kept Bluff out of it.